
                               A STUDY IN SCARLET

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

     "And who was the first?" I asked.

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

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

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

     "Why, what is there against him?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

     "Very right too."

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

     "Beating the subjects!"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

     "Indeed!" I murmured.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

     "By no means."

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

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

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

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

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

     "When shall we see them?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

     "To forget it!"

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

     "But the Solar System!" I protested.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

     "What is it?" asked Sherlock Holmes.

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

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

     "You!"

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

     "And how?" I asked involuntarily.

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

     "And these other people?"

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

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

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

     "You were told, no doubt."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


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

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

     "Deduce what?" said he, petulantly.

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

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

     "No, indeed."

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

     "Wonderful!" I ejaculated.

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

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

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

     This is the letter which I read to him--

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

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

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

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

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

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

     "But he begs you to help him."

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

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

     "Get your hat," he said.

     "You wish me to come?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

     "No, sir."

     "Nor Lestrade?"

     "No, sir."

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

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

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

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

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

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

     "There is no clue?" said Gregson.

     "None at all," chimed in Lestrade.

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

     "Positive!" cried both detectives.

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

     "No, sir."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

     "At what address?"

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

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

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

     "Have you sent to Cleveland?"

     "We telegraphed this morning."

     "How did you word your inquiries?"

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

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

     "I asked about Stangerson."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

     "Look at that!" he said, triumphantly.

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

                                     RACHE.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

     Holmes took a note of the address.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

     "And his age?" I asked.

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

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

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

     "And the florid face?" I asked.

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

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

     My companion smiled approvingly.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

     "There was no one in the street?"

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

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

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

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

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

     "Was the street empty then?"

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

     "What do you mean?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

     "How was he dressed?"

     "A brown overcoat."

     "Had he a whip in his hand?"

     "A whip--no."

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

     "No."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

     "No."

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

     "Why?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

     "Would he not consider it as too dangerous?"

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

     "And then?" I asked.

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

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

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

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

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

     "And that is?" I asked eagerly.

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

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

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

     "Who is the printer?"

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

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

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

     "Come in," I cried.

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

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

     "Is that her ring?" I asked.

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

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

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

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

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

     "And your name is--?"

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

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

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

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

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

     "What is it then?" I asked.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

     "That depends on how it turns out."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

     "And his name is?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

     "And how did you get your clue?"

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

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

     Gregson looked quite crest-fallen.

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

     "No."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

     "'Well?'

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

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

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

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

     "'I do not know,' she answered.

     "'Not know?'

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

     "'After you went to bed?'

     "'Yes.'

     "'When did you go to bed?'

     "'About eleven.'

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

     "'Yes.'

     "'Possibly four or five?'

     "'Yes.'

     "'What was he doing during that time?'

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

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

     "Very," said Holmes.

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

     "What is your theory, then?"

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

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

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

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

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

     "The Secretary, Mr. Joseph Stangerson," said Lestrade gravely, "was
     murdered at Halliday's Private Hotel about six o'clock this morning."
     
     The intelligence with which Lestrade greeted us was so momentous and
     so unexpected, that we were all three fairly dumbfounded. Gregson
     sprang out of his chair and upset the remainder of his whiskey and
     water. I stared in silence at Sherlock Holmes, whose lips were
     compressed and his brows drawn down over his eyes.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

     "'Where is he now?' I asked.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

     "And there was nothing else?" Holmes asked.

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

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

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

     The two detectives stared at him in amazement.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

     "Oh, yes."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

     "Yes, you will, dearie."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

     "Amen! Amen!" responded the whole party.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

     "Is she your child?" asked someone.

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

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

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

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

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

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

     "And where are you going?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

     "Neither would I," said her companion.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

     "And how about father?" she asked.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

     "It is so," answered John Ferrier.

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

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

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

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

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

     John Ferrier groaned internally.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

     "Leave Utah!"

     "That's about the size of it."

     "But the farm?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

     "What are we to do?"

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

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

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

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

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

     "What if we are stopped," asked Ferrier.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

     "By whose permission?" he asked.

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

     "Nine from seven," cried the sentinel.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

     "What has become of Lucy Ferrier?"

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

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

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

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

     "Where are you going?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

     "I can drive you," said Lestrade.

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

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

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

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

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

     "Yes; I am," I answered.

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

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

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

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

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

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

     "Most certainly there is," I answered.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

     "'All right, cabby,' said he.

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

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

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

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

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

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

     "'Would you murder me?' he stammered.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

     "Simple!" I ejaculated.

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

     "That is true," said I.

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

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

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

     "I understand," said I.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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






                              THE SIGN OF THE FOUR

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

     "Your works?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

     "But it was not mere guess-work?"

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

     I nodded, to show that I followed his reasoning.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

     I relapsed into my chair.

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

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

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

     "His luggage?"

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

     "Had he any friends in town?"

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

     "A singular case," remarked Holmes.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

     "Nothing could be more unlike."

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

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

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

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

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

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

     "In this case, however--"

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

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

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

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

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

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

     "What! you have solved it already?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

     We had, indeed, reached a questionable and forbidding neighborhood.
     Long lines of dull brick houses were only relieved by the coarse
     glare and tawdry brilliancy of public houses at the corner. Then came
     rows of two-storied villas each with a fronting of miniature garden,
     and then again interminable lines of new staring brick
     buildings,--the monster tentacles which the giant city was throwing
     out into the country. At last the cab drew up at the third house in a
     new terrace. None of the other houses were inhabited, and that at
     which we stopped was as dark as its neighbors, save for a single
     glimmer in the kitchen window. On our knocking, however, the door was
     instantly thrown open by a Hindoo servant clad in a yellow turban,
     white loose-fitting clothes, and a yellow sash. There was something
     strangely incongruous in this Oriental figure framed in the
     commonplace door-way of a third-rate suburban dwelling-house.

     "The Sahib awaits you," said he, and even as he spoke there came a
     high piping voice from some inner room. "Show them in to me,
     khitmutgar," it cried. "Show them straight in to me."

     We followed the Indian down a sordid and common passage, ill lit and
     worse furnished, until he came to a door upon the right, which he
     threw open. A blaze of yellow light streamed out upon us, and in the
     centre of the glare there stood a small man with a very high head, a
     bristle of red hair all round the fringe of it, and a bald, shining
     scalp which shot out from among it like a mountain-peak from
     fir-trees. He writhed his hands together as he stood, and his
     features were in a perpetual jerk, now smiling, now scowling, but
     never for an instant in repose. Nature had given him a pendulous lip,
     and a too visible line of yellow and irregular teeth, which he strove
     feebly to conceal by constantly passing his hand over the lower part
     of his face. In spite of his obtrusive baldness, he gave the
     impression of youth. In point of fact he had just turned his
     thirtieth year.

     "Your servant, Miss Morstan," he kept repeating, in a thin, high
     voice. "Your servant, gentlemen. Pray step into my little sanctum. A
     small place, miss, but furnished to my own liking.  An oasis of art
     in the howling desert of South London."

     We were all astonished by the appearance of the apartment into which
     he invited us. In that sorry house it looked as out of place as a
     diamond of the first water in a setting of brass. The richest and
     glossiest of curtains and tapestries draped the walls, looped back
     here and there to expose some richly-mounted painting or Oriental
     vase. The carpet was of amber-and-black, so soft and so thick that
     the foot sank pleasantly into it, as into a bed of moss. Two great
     tiger-skins thrown athwart it increased the suggestion of Eastern
     luxury, as did a huge hookah which stood upon a mat in the corner. A
     lamp in the fashion of a silver dove was hung from an almost
     invisible golden wire in the centre of the room. As it burned it
     filled the air with a subtle and aromatic odor.

     "Mr. Thaddeus Sholto," said the little man, still jerking and
     smiling. "That is my name. You are Miss Morstan, of course. And these
     gentlemen--"

     "This is Mr. Sherlock Holmes, and this is Dr. Watson."

     "A doctor, eh?" cried he, much excited. "Have you your stethoscope?
     Might I ask you--would you have the kindness? I have grave doubts as
     to my mitral valve, if you would be so very good. The aortic I may
     rely upon, but I should value your opinion upon the mitral."

     I listened to his heart, as requested, but was unable to find
     anything amiss, save indeed that he was in an ecstasy of fear, for he
     shivered from head to foot. "It appears to be normal," I said. "You
     have no cause for uneasiness."

     "You will excuse my anxiety, Miss Morstan," he remarked, airily.  "I
     am a great sufferer, and I have long had suspicions as to that valve.
     I am delighted to hear that they are unwarranted. Had your father,
     Miss Morstan, refrained from throwing a strain upon his heart, he
     might have been alive now."

     I could have struck the man across the face, so hot was I at this
     callous and off-hand reference to so delicate a matter. Miss Morstan
     sat down, and her face grew white to the lips. "I knew in my heart
     that he was dead," said she.

     "I can give you every information," said he, "and, what is more, I
     can do you justice; and I will, too, whatever Brother Bartholomew may
     say. I am so glad to have your friends here, not only as an escort to
     you, but also as witnesses to what I am about to do and say. The
     three of us can show a bold front to Brother Bartholomew. But let us
     have no outsiders,--no police or officials. We can settle everything
     satisfactorily among ourselves, without any interference. Nothing
     would annoy Brother Bartholomew more than any publicity." He sat down
     upon a low settee and blinked at us inquiringly with his weak, watery
     blue eyes.

     "For my part," said Holmes, "whatever you may choose to say will go
     no further."

     I nodded to show my agreement.

     "That is well! That is well!" said he. "May I offer you a glass of
     Chianti, Miss Morstan? Or of Tokay? I keep no other wines. Shall I
     open a flask? No? Well, then, I trust that you have no objection to
     tobacco-smoke, to the mild balsamic odor of the Eastern tobacco. I am
     a little nervous, and I find my hookah an invaluable sedative." He
     applied a taper to the great bowl, and the smoke bubbled merrily
     through the rose-water. We sat all three in a semicircle, with our
     heads advanced, and our chins upon our hands, while the strange,
     jerky little fellow, with his high, shining head, puffed uneasily in
     the centre.

     "When I first determined to make this communication to you," said he,
     "I might have given you my address, but I feared that you might
     disregard my request and bring unpleasant people with you. I took the
     liberty, therefore, of making an appointment in such a way that my
     man Williams might be able to see you first. I have complete
     confidence in his discretion, and he had orders, if he were
     dissatisfied, to proceed no further in the matter. You will excuse
     these precautions, but I am a man of somewhat retiring, and I might
     even say refined, tastes, and there is nothing more unaesthetic than
     a policeman. I have a natural shrinking from all forms of rough
     materialism. I seldom come in contact with the rough crowd. I live,
     as you see, with some little atmosphere of elegance around me. I may
     call myself a patron of the arts. It is my weakness. The landscape is
     a genuine Corot, and, though a connoisseur might perhaps throw a
     doubt upon that Salvator Rosa, there cannot be the least question
     about the Bouguereau. I am partial to the modern French school."

     "You will excuse me, Mr. Sholto," said Miss Morstan, "but I am here
     at your request to learn something which you desire to tell me. It is
     very late, and I should desire the interview to be as short as
     possible."

     "At the best it must take some time," he answered; "for we shall
     certainly have to go to Norwood and see Brother Bartholomew. We shall
     all go and try if we can get the better of Brother Bartholomew. He is
     very angry with me for taking the course which has seemed right to
     me. I had quite high words with him last night. You cannot imagine
     what a terrible fellow he is when he is angry."

     "If we are to go to Norwood it would perhaps be as well to start at
     once," I ventured to remark.

     He laughed until his ears were quite red. "That would hardly do," he
     cried. "I don't know what he would say if I brought you in that
     sudden way. No, I must prepare you by showing you how we all stand to
     each other. In the first place, I must tell you that there are
     several points in the story of which I am myself ignorant. I can only
     lay the facts before you as far as I know them myself.

     "My father was, as you may have guessed, Major John Sholto, once of
     the Indian army. He retired some eleven years ago, and came to live
     at Pondicherry Lodge in Upper Norwood. He had prospered in India, and
     brought back with him a considerable sum of money, a large collection
     of valuable curiosities, and a staff of native servants. With these
     advantages he bought himself a house, and lived in great luxury. My
     twin-brother Bartholomew and I were the only children.

     "I very well remember the sensation which was caused by the
     disappearance of Captain Morstan. We read the details in the papers,
     and, knowing that he had been a friend of our father's, we discussed
     the case freely in his presence. He used to join in our speculations
     as to what could have happened. Never for an instant did we suspect
     that he had the whole secret hidden in his own breast,--that of all
     men he alone knew the fate of Arthur Morstan.

     "We did know, however, that some mystery--some positive
     danger--overhung our father. He was very fearful of going out alone,
     and he always employed two prize-fighters to act as porters at
     Pondicherry Lodge. Williams, who drove you to-night, was one of them.
     He was once light-weight champion of England. Our father would never
     tell us what it was he feared, but he had a most marked aversion to
     men with wooden legs. On one occasion he actually fired his revolver
     at a wooden-legged man, who proved to be a harmless tradesman
     canvassing for orders. We had to pay a large sum to hush the matter
     up. My brother and I used to think this a mere whim of my father's,
     but events have since led us to change our opinion.

     "Early in 1882 my father received a letter from India which was a
     great shock to him. He nearly fainted at the breakfast-table when he
     opened it, and from that day he sickened to his death. What was in
     the letter we could never discover, but I could see as he held it
     that it was short and written in a scrawling hand. He had suffered
     for years from an enlarged spleen, but he now became rapidly worse,
     and towards the end of April we were informed that he was beyond all
     hope, and that he wished to make a last communication to us.

     "When we entered his room he was propped up with pillows and
     breathing heavily. He besought us to lock the door and to come upon
     either side of the bed. Then, grasping our hands, he made a
     remarkable statement to us, in a voice which was broken as much by
     emotion as by pain. I shall try and give it to you in his own very
     words.

     "'I have only one thing,' he said, 'which weighs upon my mind at this
     supreme moment. It is my treatment of poor Morstan's orphan. The
     cursed greed which has been my besetting sin through life has
     withheld from her the treasure, half at least of which should have
     been hers. And yet I have made no use of it myself,--so blind and
     foolish a thing is avarice. The mere feeling of possession has been
     so dear to me that I could not bear to share it with another. See
     that chaplet dipped with pearls beside the quinine-bottle. Even that
     I could not bear to part with, although I had got it out with the
     design of sending it to her. You, my sons, will give her a fair share
     of the Agra treasure. But send her nothing--not even the
     chaplet--until I am gone. After all, men have been as bad as this and
     have recovered.

     "'I will tell you how Morstan died,' he continued. 'He had suffered
     for years from a weak heart, but he concealed it from every one. I
     alone knew it. When in India, he and I, through a remarkable chain of
     circumstances, came into possession of a considerable treasure. I
     brought it over to England, and on the night of Morstan's arrival he
     came straight over here to claim his share. He walked over from the
     station, and was admitted by my faithful Lal Chowdar, who is now
     dead. Morstan and I had a difference of opinion as to the division of
     the treasure, and we came to heated words. Morstan had sprung out of
     his chair in a paroxysm of anger, when he suddenly pressed his hand
     to his side, his face turned a dusky hue, and he fell backwards,
     cutting his head against the corner of the treasure-chest. When I
     stooped over him I found, to my horror, that he was dead.

     "'For a long time I sat half distracted, wondering what I should do.
     My first impulse was, of course, to call for assistance; but I could
     not but recognize that there was every chance that I would be accused
     of his murder. His death at the moment of a quarrel, and the gash in
     his head, would be black against me. Again, an official inquiry could
     not be made without bringing out some facts about the treasure, which
     I was particularly anxious to keep secret. He had told me that no
     soul upon earth knew where he had gone. There seemed to be no
     necessity why any soul ever should know.

     "'I was still pondering over the matter, when, looking up, I saw my
     servant, Lal Chowdar, in the doorway. He stole in and bolted the door
     behind him. "Do not fear, Sahib," he said. "No one need know that you
     have killed him. Let us hide him away, and who is the wiser?" "I did
     not kill him," said I. Lal Chowdar shook his head and smiled. "I
     heard it all, Sahib," said he. "I heard you quarrel, and I heard the
     blow. But my lips are sealed. All are asleep in the house. Let us put
     him away together." That was enough to decide met. If my own servant
     could not believe my innocence, how could I hope to make it good
     before twelve foolish tradesmen in a jury-box? Lal Chowdar and I
     disposed of the body that night, and within a few days the London
     papers were full of the mysterious disappearance of Captain Morstan.
     You will see from what I say that I can hardly be blamed in the
     matter. My fault lies in the fact that we concealed not only the
     body, but also the treasure, and that I have clung to Morstan's share
     as well as to my own. I wish you, therefore, to make restitution. Put
     your ears down to my mouth. The treasure is hidden in--At this
     instant a horrible change came over his expression; his eyes stared
     wildly, his jaw dropped, and he yelled, in a voice which I can never
     forget, 'Keep him out! For Christ's sake keep him out'! We both
     stared round at the window behind us upon which his gaze was fixed. A
     face was looking in at us out of the darkness. We could see the
     whitening of the nose where it was pressed against the glass. It was
     a bearded, hairy face, with wild cruel eyes and an expression of
     concentrated malevolence. My brother and I rushed towards the window,
     but the man was gone. When we returned to my father his head had
     dropped and his pulse had ceased to beat.

     "We searched the garden that night, but found no sign of the
     intruder, save that just under the window a single footmark was
     visible in the flower-bed. But for that one trace, we might have
     thought that our imaginations had conjured up that wild, fierce face.
     We soon, however, had another and a more striking proof that there
     were secret agencies at work all round us. The window of my father's
     room was found open in the morning, his cupboards and boxes had been
     rifled, and upon his chest was fixed a torn piece of paper, with the
     words 'The sign of the four' scrawled across it. What the phrase
     meant, or who our secret visitor may have been, we never knew. As far
     as we can judge, none of my father's property had been actually
     stolen, though everything had been turned out. My brother and I
     naturally associated this peculiar incident with the fear which
     haunted my father during his life; but it is still a complete mystery
     to us."

     The little man stopped to relight his hookah and puffed thoughtfully
     for a few moments. We had all sat absorbed, listening to his
     extraordinary narrative. At the short account of her father's death
     Miss Morstan had turned deadly white, and for a moment I feared that
     she was about to faint. She rallied however, on drinking a glass of
     water which I quietly poured out for her from a Venetian carafe upon
     the side-table. Sherlock Holmes leaned back in his chair with an
     abstracted expression and the lids drawn low over his glittering
     eyes. As I glanced at him I could not but think how on that very day
     he had complained bitterly of the commonplaceness of life. Here at
     least was a problem which would tax his sagacity to the utmost. Mr.
     Thaddeus Sholto looked from one to the other of us with an obvious
     pride at the effect which his story had produced, and then continued
     between the puffs of his overgrown pipe.

     "My brother and I," said he, "were, as you may imagine, much excited
     as to the treasure which my father had spoken of. For weeks and for
     months we dug and delved in every part of the garden, without
     discovering its whereabouts. It was maddening to think that the
     hiding-place was on his very lips at the moment that he died. We
     could judge the splendor of the missing riches by the chaplet which
     he had taken out. Over this chaplet my brother Bartholomew and I had
     some little discussion. The pearls were evidently of great value, and
     he was averse to part with them, for, between friends, my brother was
     himself a little inclined to my father's fault. He thought, too, that
     if we parted with the chaplet it might give rise to gossip and
     finally bring us into trouble. It was all that I could do to persuade
     him to let me find out Miss Morstan's address and send her a detached
     pearl at fixed intervals, so that at least she might never feel
     destitute."

     "It was a kindly thought," said our companion, earnestly. "It was
     extremely good of you."

     The little man waved his hand deprecatingly. "We were your trustees,"
     he said. "That was the view which I took of it, though Brother
     Bartholomew could not altogether see it in that light. We had plenty
     of money ourselves. I desired no more. Besides, it would have been
     such bad taste to have treated a young lady in so scurvy a fashion.
     'Le mauvais goÃ»t mÃ¨ne au crime.' The French have a very neat way of
     putting these things. Our difference of opinion on this subject went
     so far that I thought it best to set up rooms for myself: so I left
     Pondicherry Lodge, taking the old khitmutgar and Williams with me.
     Yesterday, however, I learn that an event of extreme importance has
     occurred. The treasure has been discovered. I instantly communicated
     with Miss Morstan, and it only remains for us to drive out to Norwood
     and demand our share. I explained my views last night to Brother
     Bartholomew: so we shall be expected, if not welcome, visitors."

     Mr. Thaddeus Sholto ceased, and sat twitching on his luxurious
     settee. We all remained silent, with our thoughts upon the new
     development which the mysterious business had taken. Holmes was the
     first to spring to his feet.

     "You have done well, sir, from first to last," said he. "It is
     possible that we may be able to make you some small return by
     throwing some light upon that which is still dark to you. But, as
     Miss Morstan remarked just now, it is late, and we had best put the
     matter through without delay."

     Our new acquaintance very deliberately coiled up the tube of his
     hookah, and produced from behind a curtain a very long befrogged
     topcoat with Astrakhan collar and cuffs. This he buttoned tightly up,
     in spite of the extreme closeness of the night, and finished his
     attire by putting on a rabbit-skin cap with hanging lappets which
     covered the ears, so that no part of him was visible save his mobile
     and peaky face. "My health is somewhat fragile," he remarked, as he
     led the way down the passage. "I am compelled to be a
     valetudinarian."

     Our cab was awaiting us outside, and our programme was evidently
     prearranged, for the driver started off at once at a rapid pace.
     Thaddeus Sholto talked incessantly, in a voice which rose high above
     the rattle of the wheels.

     "Bartholomew is a clever fellow," said he. "How do you think he found
     out where the treasure was? He had come to the conclusion that it was
     somewhere indoors: so he worked out all the cubic space of the house,
     and made measurements everywhere, so that not one inch should be
     unaccounted for. Among other things, he found that the height of the
     building was seventy-four feet, but on adding together the heights of
     all the separate rooms, and making every allowance for the space
     between, which he ascertained by borings, he could not bring the
     total to more than seventy feet. There were four feet unaccounted
     for. These could only be at the top of the building. He knocked a
     hole, therefore, in the lath-and-plaster ceiling of the highest room,
     and there, sure enough, he came upon another little garret above it,
     which had been sealed up and was known to no one. In the centre stood
     the treasure-chest, resting upon two rafters. He lowered it through
     the hole, and there it lies. He computes the value of the jewels at
     not less than half a million sterling."

     At the mention of this gigantic sum we all stared at one another
     open-eyed. Miss Morstan, could we secure her rights, would change
     from a needy governess to the richest heiress in England. Surely it
     was the place of a loyal friend to rejoice at such news; yet I am
     ashamed to say that selfishness took me by the soul, and that my
     heart turned as heavy as lead within me. I stammered out some few
     halting words of congratulation, and then sat downcast, with my head
     drooped, deaf to the babble of our new acquaintance. He was clearly a
     confirmed hypochondriac, and I was dreamily conscious that he was
     pouring forth interminable trains of symptoms, and imploring
     information as to the composition and action of innumerable quack
     nostrums, some of which he bore about in a leather case in his
     pocket. I trust that he may not remember any of the answers which I
     gave him that night. Holmes declares that he overheard me caution him
     against the great danger of taking more than two drops of castor oil,
     while I recommended strychnine in large doses as a sedative. However
     that may be, I was certainly relieved when our cab pulled up with a
     jerk and the coachman sprang down to open the door.

     "This, Miss Morstan, is Pondicherry Lodge," said Mr. Thaddeus Sholto,
     as he handed her out.

     It was nearly eleven o'clock when we reached this final stage of our
     night's adventures. We had left the damp fog of the great city behind
     us, and the night was fairly fine. A warm wind blew from the
     westward, and heavy clouds moved slowly across the sky, with half a
     moon peeping occasionally through the rifts. It was clear enough to
     see for some distance, but Thaddeus Sholto took down one of the
     side-lamps from the carriage to give us a better light upon our way.

     Pondicherry Lodge stood in its own grounds, and was girt round with a
     very high stone wall topped with broken glass. A single narrow
     iron-clamped door formed the only means of entrance. On this our
     guide knocked with a peculiar postman-like rat-tat.

     "Who is there?" cried a gruff voice from within.

     "It is I, McMurdo. You surely know my knock by this time."

     There was a grumbling sound and a clanking and jarring of keys. The
     door swung heavily back, and a short, deep-chested man stood in the
     opening, with the yellow light of the lantern shining upon his
     protruded face and twinkling distrustful eyes.

     "That you, Mr. Thaddeus? But who are the others? I had no orders
     about them from the master."

     "No, McMurdo? You surprise me! I told my brother last night that I
     should bring some friends.

     "He ain't been out o' his room to-day, Mr. Thaddeus, and I have no
     orders. You know very well that I must stick to regulations. I can
     let you in, but your friends must just stop where they are."

     This was an unexpected obstacle. Thaddeus Sholto looked about him in
     a perplexed and helpless manner. "This is too bad of you, McMurdo!"
     he said. "If I guarantee them, that is enough for you. There is the
     young lady, too. She cannot wait on the public road at this hour."

     "Very sorry, Mr. Thaddeus," said the porter, inexorably. "Folk may be
     friends o' yours, and yet no friends o' the master's. He pays me well
     to do my duty, and my duty I'll do. I don't know none o' your
     friends."

     "Oh, yes you do, McMurdo," cried Sherlock Holmes, genially. "I don't
     think you can have forgotten me. Don't you remember the amateur who
     fought three rounds with you at Alison's rooms on the night of your
     benefit four years back?"

     "Not Mr. Sherlock Holmes!" roared the prize-fighter. "God's truth!
     how could I have mistook you? If instead o' standin' there so quiet
     you had just stepped up and given me that cross-hit of yours under
     the jaw, I'd ha' known you without a question. Ah, you're one that
     has wasted your gifts, you have! You might have aimed high, if you
     had joined the fancy."

     "You see, Watson, if all else fails me I have still one of the
     scientific professions open to me," said Holmes, laughing. "Our
     friend won't keep us out in the cold now, I am sure."

     "In you come, sir, in you come,--you and your friends," he answered.
     "Very sorry, Mr. Thaddeus, but orders are very strict. Had to be
     certain of your friends before I let them in."

     Inside, a gravel path wound through desolate grounds to a huge clump
     of a house, square and prosaic, all plunged in shadow save where a
     moonbeam struck one corner and glimmered in a garret window. The vast
     size of the building, with its gloom and its deathly silence, struck
     a chill to the heart. Even Thaddeus Sholto seemed ill at ease, and
     the lantern quivered and rattled in his hand.

     "I cannot understand it," he said. "There must be some mistake. I
     distinctly told Bartholomew that we should be here, and yet there is
     no light in his window. I do not know what to make of it."

     "Does he always guard the premises in this way?" asked Holmes.

     "Yes; he has followed my father's custom. He was the favorite son,
     you know, and I sometimes think that my father may have told him more
     than he ever told me. That is Bartholomew's window up there where the
     moonshine strikes. It is quite bright, but there is no light from
     within, I think."

     "None," said Holmes. "But I see the glint of a light in that little
     window beside the door."

     "Ah, that is the housekeeper's room. That is where old Mrs. Bernstone
     sits. She can tell us all about it. But perhaps you would not mind
     waiting here for a minute or two, for if we all go in together and
     she has no word of our coming she may be alarmed. But hush! what is
     that?"

     He held up the lantern, and his hand shook until the circles of light
     flickered and wavered all round us. Miss Morstan seized my wrist, and
     we all stood with thumping hearts, straining our ears. From the great
     black house there sounded through the silent night the saddest and
     most pitiful of sounds,--the shrill, broken whimpering of a
     frightened woman.

     "It is Mrs. Bernstone," said Sholto. "She is the only woman in the
     house. Wait here. I shall be back in a moment." He hurried for the
     door, and knocked in his peculiar way. We could see a tall old woman
     admit him, and sway with pleasure at the very sight of him.

     "Oh, Mr. Thaddeus, sir, I am so glad you have come! I am so glad you
     have come, Mr. Thaddeus, sir!" We heard her reiterated rejoicings
     until the door was closed and her voice died away into a muffled
     monotone.

     Our guide had left us the lantern. Holmes swung it slowly round, and
     peered keenly at the house, and at the great rubbish-heaps which
     cumbered the grounds. Miss Morstan and I stood together, and her hand
     was in mine. A wondrous subtle thing is love, for here were we two
     who had never seen each other before that day, between whom no word
     or even look of affection had ever passed, and yet now in an hour of
     trouble our hands instinctively sought for each other. I have
     marvelled at it since, but at the time it seemed the most natural
     thing that I should go out to her so, and, as she has often told me,
     there was in her also the instinct to turn to me for comfort and
     protection. So we stood hand in hand, like two children, and there
     was peace in our hearts for all the dark things that surrounded us.

     "What a strange place!" she said, looking round.

     "It looks as though all the moles in England had been let loose in
     it. I have seen something of the sort on the side of a hill near
     Ballarat, where the prospectors had been at work."

     "And from the same cause," said Holmes. "These are the traces of the
     treasure-seekers. You must remember that they were six years looking
     for it. No wonder that the grounds look like a gravel-pit."

     At that moment the door of the house burst open, and Thaddeus Sholto
     came running out, with his hands thrown forward and terror in his
     eyes.

     "There is something amiss with Bartholomew!" he cried. "I am
     frightened! My nerves cannot stand it." He was, indeed, half
     blubbering with fear, and his twitching feeble face peeping out from
     the great Astrakhan collar had the helpless appealing expression of a
     terrified child.

     "Come into the house," said Holmes, in his crisp, firm way.

     "Yes, do!" pleaded Thaddeus Sholto. "I really do not feel equal to
     giving directions."

     We all followed him into the housekeeper's room, which stood upon the
     left-hand side of the passage. The old woman was pacing up and down
     with a scared look and restless picking fingers, but the sight of
     Miss Morstan appeared to have a soothing effect upon her.

     "God bless your sweet calm face!" she cried, with an hysterical sob.
     "It does me good to see you. Oh, but I have been sorely tried this
     day!"

     Our companion patted her thin, work-worn hand, and murmured some few
     words of kindly womanly comfort which brought the color back into the
     others bloodless cheeks.

     "Master has locked himself in and will now answer me," she explained.
     "All day I have waited to hear from him, for he often likes to be
     alone; but an hour ago I feared that something was amiss, so I went
     up and peeped through the key-hole. You must go up, Mr.
     Thaddeus,--you must go up and look for yourself. I have seen Mr.
     Bartholomew Sholto in joy and in sorrow for ten long years, but I
     never saw him with such a face on him as that."

     Sherlock Holmes took the lamp and led the way, for Thaddeus Sholto's
     teeth were chattering in his head. So shaken was he that I had to
     pass my hand under his arm as we went up the stairs, for his knees
     were trembling under him. Twice as we ascended Holmes whipped his
     lens out of his pocket and carefully examined marks which appeared to
     me to be mere shapeless smudges of dust upon the cocoa-nut matting
     which served as a stair-carpet. He walked slowly from step to step,
     holding the lamp, and shooting keen glances to right and left. Miss
     Morstan had remained behind with the frightened housekeeper.

     The third flight of stairs ended in a straight passage of some
     length, with a great picture in Indian tapestry upon the right of it
     and three doors upon the left. Holmes advanced along it in the same
     slow and methodical way, while we kept close at his heels, with our
     long black shadows streaming backwards down the corridor. The third
     door was that which we were seeking. Holmes knocked without receiving
     any answer, and then tried to turn the handle and force it open. It
     was locked on the inside, however, and by a broad and powerful bolt,
     as we could see when we set our lamp up against it. The key being
     turned, however, the hole was not entirely closed. Sherlock Holmes
     bent down to it, and instantly rose again with a sharp intaking of
     the breath.

     "There is something devilish in this, Watson," said he, more moved
     than I had ever before seen him. "What do you make of it?"

     I stooped to the hole, and recoiled in horror. Moonlight was
     streaming into the room, and it was bright with a vague and shifty
     radiance. Looking straight at me, and suspended, as it were, in the
     air, for all beneath was in shadow, there hung a face,--the very face
     of our companion Thaddeus. There was the same high, shining head, the
     same circular bristle of red hair, the same bloodless countenance.
     The features were set, however, in a horrible smile, a fixed and
     unnatural grin, which in that still and moonlit room was more jarring
     to the nerves than any scowl or contortion. So like was the face to
     that of our little friend that I looked round at him to make sure
     that he was indeed with us. Then I recalled to mind that he had
     mentioned to us that his brother and he were twins.

     "This is terrible!" I said to Holmes. "What is to be done?"

     "The door must come down," he answered, and, springing against it, he
     put all his weight upon the lock. It creaked and groaned, but did not
     yield. Together we flung ourselves upon it once more, and this time
     it gave way with a sudden snap, and we found ourselves within
     Bartholomew Sholto's chamber.

     It appeared to have been fitted up as a chemical laboratory. A double
     line of glass-stoppered bottles was drawn up upon the wall opposite
     the door, and the table was littered over with Bunsen burners,
     test-tubes, and retorts. In the corners stood carboys of acid in
     wicker baskets. One of these appeared to leak or to have been broken,
     for a stream of dark-colored liquid had trickled out from it, and the
     air was heavy with a peculiarly pungent, tar-like odor. A set of
     steps stood at one side of the room, in the midst of a litter of lath
     and plaster, and above them there was an opening in the ceiling large
     enough for a man to pass through. At the foot of the steps a long
     coil of rope was thrown carelessly together.

     By the table, in a wooden arm-chair, the master of the house was
     seated all in a heap, with his head sunk upon his left shoulder, and
     that ghastly, inscrutable smile upon his face. He was stiff and cold,
     and had clearly been dead many hours. It seemed to me that not only
     his features but all his limbs were twisted and turned in the most
     fantastic fashion. By his hand upon the table there lay a peculiar
     instrument,--a brown, close-grained stick, with a stone head like a
     hammer, rudely lashed on with coarse twine. Beside it was a torn
     sheet of note-paper with some words scrawled upon it. Holmes glanced
     at it, and then handed it to me.

     "You see," he said, with a significant raising of the eyebrows.

     In the light of the lantern I read, with a thrill of horror, "The
     sign of the four."

     "In God's name, what does it all mean?" I asked.

     "It means murder," said he, stooping over the dead man. "Ah, I
     expected it. Look here!" He pointed to what looked like a long, dark
     thorn stuck in the skin just above the ear.

     "It looks like a thorn," said I.

     "It is a thorn. You may pick it out. But be careful, for it is
     poisoned."

     I took it up between my finger and thumb. It came away from the skin
     so readily that hardly any mark was left behind. One tiny speck of
     blood showed where the puncture had been.

     "This is all an insoluble mystery to me," said I. "It grows darker
     instead of clearer."

     "On the contrary," he answered, "it clears every instant. I only
     require a few missing links to have an entirely connected case."

     We had almost forgotten our companion's presence since we entered the
     chamber. He was still standing in the door-way, the very picture of
     terror, wringing his hands and moaning to himself. Suddenly, however,
     he broke out into a sharp, querulous cry.

     "The treasure is gone!" he said. "They have robbed him of the
     treasure! There is the hole through which we lowered it. I helped him
     to do it! I was the last person who saw him! I left him here last
     night, and I heard him lock the door as I came down-stairs."

     "What time was that?"

     "It was ten o'clock. And now he is dead, and the police will be
     called in, and I shall be suspected of having had a hand in it. Oh,
     yes, I am sure I shall. But you don't think so, gentlemen? Surely you
     don't think that it was I? Is it likely that I would have brought you
     here if it were I? Oh, dear! oh, dear! I know that I shall go mad!"
     He jerked his arms and stamped his feet in a kind of convulsive
     frenzy.

     "You have no reason for fear, Mr. Sholto," said Holmes, kindly,
     putting his hand upon his shoulder. "Take my advice, and drive down
     to the station to report this matter to the police. Offer to assist
     them in every way. We shall wait here until your return."

     The little man obeyed in a half-stupefied fashion, and we heard him
     stumbling down the stairs in the dark.

     "Now, Watson," said Holmes, rubbing his hands, "we have half an hour
     to ourselves. Let us make good use of it. My case is, as I have told
     you, almost complete; but we must not err on the side of
     over-confidence. Simple as the case seems now, there may be something
     deeper underlying it."

     "Simple!" I ejaculated.

     "Surely," said he, with something of the air of a clinical professor
     expounding to his class. "Just sit in the corner there, that your
     footprints may not complicate matters. Now to work! In the first
     place, how did these folk come, and how did they go? The door has not
     been opened since last night. How of the window?" He carried the lamp
     across to it, muttering his observations aloud the while, but
     addressing them to himself rather than to me. "Window is snibbed on
     the inner side. Framework is solid. No hinges at the side. Let us
     open it. No water-pipe near. Roof quite out of reach. Yet a man has
     mounted by the window. It rained a little last night. Here is the
     print of a foot in mould upon the sill. And here is a circular muddy
     mark, and here again upon the floor, and here again by the table. See
     here, Watson! This is really a very pretty demonstration."

     I looked at the round, well-defined muddy discs. "This is not a
     footmark," said I.

     "It is something much more valuable to us. It is the impression of a
     wooden stump. You see here on the sill is the boot-mark, a heavy boot
     with the broad metal heel, and beside it is the mark of the
     timber-toe."

     "It is the wooden-legged man."

     "Quite so. But there has been some one else,--a very able and
     efficient ally. Could you scale that wall, doctor?"

     I looked out of the open window. The moon still shone brightly on
     that angle of the house. We were a good sixty feet from the ground,
     and, look where I would, I could see no foothold, nor as much as a
     crevice in the brick-work.

     "It is absolutely impossible," I answered.

     "Without aid it is so. But suppose you had a friend up here who
     lowered you this good stout rope which I see in the corner, securing
     one end of it to this great hook in the wall. Then, I think, if you
     were an active man, you might swarm up, wooden leg and all. You would
     depart, of course, in the same fashion, and your ally would draw up
     the rope, untie it from the hook, shut the window, snib it on the
     inside, and get away in the way that he originally came. As a minor
     point it may be noted," he continued, fingering the rope, "that our
     wooden-legged friend, though a fair climber, was not a professional
     sailor. His hands were far from horny. My lens discloses more than
     one blood-mark, especially towards the end of the rope, from which I
     gather that he slipped down with such velocity that he took the skin
     off his hand."

     "This is all very well," said I, "but the thing becomes more
     unintelligible than ever. How about this mysterious ally? How came he
     into the room?"

     "Yes, the ally!" repeated Holmes, pensively. "There are features of
     interest about this ally. He lifts the case from the regions of the
     commonplace. I fancy that this ally breaks fresh ground in the annals
     of crime in this country,--though parallel cases suggest themselves
     from India, and, if my memory serves me, from Senegambia."

     "How came he, then?" I reiterated. "The door is locked, the window is
     inaccessible. Was it through the chimney?"

     "The grate is much too small," he answered. "I had already considered
     that possibility."

     "How then?" I persisted.

     "You will not apply my precept," he said, shaking his head. "How
     often have I said to you that when you have eliminated the impossible
     whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth? We know that
     he did not come through the door, the window, or the chimney. We also
     know that he could not have been concealed in the room, as there is
     no concealment possible. Whence, then, did he come?"

     "He came through the hole in the roof," I cried.

     "Of course he did. He must have done so. If you will have the
     kindness to hold the lamp for me, we shall now extend our researches
     to the room above,--the secret room in which the treasure was found."

     He mounted the steps, and, seizing a rafter with either hand, he
     swung himself up into the garret. Then, lying on his face, he reached
     down for the lamp and held it while I followed him.

     The chamber in which we found ourselves was about ten feet one way
     and six the other. The floor was formed by the rafters, with thin
     lath-and-plaster between, so that in walking one had to step from
     beam to beam. The roof ran up to an apex, and was evidently the inner
     shell of the true roof of the house. There was no furniture of any
     sort, and the accumulated dust of years lay thick upon the floor.

     "Here you are, you see," said Sherlock Holmes, putting his hand
     against the sloping wall. "This is a trap-door which leads out on to
     the roof. I can press it back, and here is the roof itself, sloping
     at a gentle angle. This, then, is the way by which Number One
     entered. Let us see if we can find one other traces of his
     individuality."

     He held down the lamp to the floor, and as he did so I saw for the
     second time that night a startled, surprised look come over his face.
     For myself, as I followed his gaze my skin was cold under my clothes.
     The floor was covered thickly with the prints of a naked
     foot,--clear, well defined, perfectly formed, but scarce half the
     size of those of an ordinary man.

     "Holmes," I said, in a whisper, "a child has done the horrid thing."

     He had recovered his self-possession in an instant. "I was staggered
     for the moment," he said, "but the thing is quite natural. My memory
     failed me, or I should have been able to foretell it. There is
     nothing more to be learned here. Let us go down."

     "What is your theory, then, as to those footmarks?" I asked, eagerly,
     when we had regained the lower room once more.

     "My dear Watson, try a little analysis yourself," said he, with a
     touch of impatience. "You know my methods. Apply them, and it will be
     instructive to compare results."

     "I cannot conceive anything which will cover the facts," I answered.

     "It will be clear enough to you soon," he said, in an off-hand way.
     "I think that there is nothing else of importance here, but I will
     look." He whipped out his lens and a tape measure, and hurried about
     the room on his knees, measuring, comparing, examining, with his long
     thin nose only a few inches from the planks, and his beady eyes
     gleaming and deep-set like those of a bird. So swift, silent, and
     furtive were his movements, like those of a trained blood-hound
     picking out a scent, that I could not but think what a terrible
     criminal he would have made had he turned his energy and sagacity
     against the law, instead of exerting them in its defense. As he
     hunted about, he kept muttering to himself, and finally he broke out
     into a loud crow of delight.

     "We are certainly in luck," said he. "We ought to have very little
     trouble now. Number One has had the misfortune to tread in the
     creosote. You can see the outline of the edge of his small foot here
     at the side of this evil-smelling mess. The carboy has been cracked,
     You see, and the stuff has leaked out."

     "What then?" I asked.

     "Why, we have got him, that's all," said he. "I know a dog that would
     follow that scent to the world's end. If a pack can track a trailed
     herring across a shire, how far can a specially-trained hound follow
     so pungent a smell as this? It sounds like a sum in the rule of
     three. The answer should give us the--But halloo! here are the
     accredited representatives of the law."

     Heavy steps and the clamor of loud voices were audible from below,
     and the hall door shut with a loud crash.

     "Before they come," said Holmes, "just put your hand here on this
     poor fellow's arm, and here on his leg. What do you feel?"

     "The muscles are as hard as a board," I answered.

     "Quite so. They are in a state of extreme contraction, far exceeding
     the usual rigor mortis. Coupled with this distortion of the face,
     this Hippocratic smile, or 'risus sardonicus,' as the old writers
     called it, what conclusion would it suggest to your mind?"

     "Death from some powerful vegetable alkaloid," I answered,--"some
     strychnine-like substance which would produce tetanus."

     "That was the idea which occurred to me the instant I saw the drawn
     muscles of the face. On getting into the room I at once looked for
     the means by which the poison had entered the system. As you saw, I
     discovered a thorn which had been driven or shot with no great force
     into the scalp. You observe that the part struck was that which would
     be turned towards the hole in the ceiling if the man were erect in
     his chair. Now examine the thorn."

     I took it up gingerly and held it in the light of the lantern. It was
     long, sharp, and black, with a glazed look near the point as though
     some gummy substance had dried upon it. The blunt end had been
     trimmed and rounded off with a knife.

     "Is that an English thorn?" he asked.

     "No, it certainly is not."

     "With all these data you should be able to draw some just inference.
     But here are the regulars: so the auxiliary forces may beat a
     retreat."

     As he spoke, the steps which had been coming nearer sounded loudly on
     the passage, and a very stout, portly man in a gray suit strode
     heavily into the room. He was red-faced, burly and plethoric, with a
     pair of very small twinkling eyes which looked keenly out from
     between swollen and puffy pouches. He was closely followed by an
     inspector in uniform, and by the still palpitating Thaddeus Sholto.

     "Here's a business!" he cried, in a muffled, husky voice. "Here's a
     pretty business! But who are all these? Why, the house seems to be as
     full as a rabbit-warren!"

     "I think you must recollect me, Mr. Athelney Jones," said Holmes,
     quietly.

     "Why, of course I do!" he wheezed. "It's Mr. Sherlock Holmes, the
     theorist. Remember you! I'll never forget how you lectured us all on
     causes and inferences and effects in the Bishopgate jewel case. It's
     true you set us on the right track; but you'll own now that it was
     more by good luck than good guidance."

     "It was a piece of very simple reasoning."

     "Oh, come, now, come! Never be ashamed to own up. But what is all
     this? Bad business! Bad business! Stern facts here,--no room for
     theories. How lucky that I happened to be out at Norwood over another
     case! I was at the station when the message arrived. What d'you think
     the man died of?"

     "Oh, this is hardly a case for me to theorize over," said Holmes,
     dryly.

     "No, no. Still, we can't deny that you hit the nail on the head
     sometimes. Dear me! Door locked, I understand. Jewels worth half a
     million missing. How was the window?"

     "Fastened; but there are steps on the sill."

     "Well, well, if it was fastened the steps could have nothing to do
     with the matter. That's common sense. Man might have died in a fit;
     but then the jewels are missing. Ha! I have a theory. These flashes
     come upon me at times.--Just step outside, sergeant, and you, Mr.
     Sholto. Your friend can remain.--What do you think of this, Holmes?
     Sholto was, on his own confession, with his brother last night. The
     brother died in a fit, on which Sholto walked off with the treasure.
     How's that?"

     "On which the dead man very considerately got up and locked the door
     on the inside."

     "Hum! There's a flaw there. Let us apply common sense to the matter.
     This Thaddeus Sholto was with his brother; there was a quarrel; so
     much we know. The brother is dead and the jewels are gone. So much
     also we know. No one saw the brother from the time Thaddeus left him.
     His bed had not been slept in. Thaddeus is evidently in a most
     disturbed state of mind. His appearance is--well, not attractive. You
     see that I am weaving my web round Thaddeus. The net begins to close
     upon him."

     "You are not quite in possession of the facts yet," said Holmes.
     "This splinter of wood, which I have every reason to believe to be
     poisoned, was in the man's scalp where you still see the mark; this
     card, inscribed as you see it, was on the table; and beside it lay
     this rather curious stone-headed instrument. How does all that fit
     into your theory?"

     "Confirms it in every respect," said the fat detective, pompously.
     "House is full of Indian curiosities. Thaddeus brought this up, and
     if this splinter be poisonous Thaddeus may as well have made
     murderous use of it as any other man. The card is some
     hocus-pocus,--a blind, as like as not. The only question is, how did
     he depart? Ah, of course, here is a hole in the roof." With great
     activity, considering his bulk, he sprang up the steps and squeezed
     through into the garret, and immediately afterwards we heard his
     exulting voice proclaiming that he had found the trap-door.

     "He can find something," remarked Holmes, shrugging his shoulders.
     "He has occasional glimmerings of reason. Il n'y a pas des sots si
     incommodes que ceux qui ont de l'esprit!"

     "You see!" said Athelney Jones, reappearing down the steps again.
     "Facts are better than mere theories, after all. My view of the case
     is confirmed. There is a trap-door communicating with the roof, and
     it is partly open."

     "It was I who opened it."

     "Oh, indeed! You did notice it, then?" He seemed a little crestfallen
     at the discovery. "Well, whoever noticed it, it shows how our
     gentleman got away. Inspector!"

     "Yes, sir," from the passage.

     "Ask Mr. Sholto to step this way.--Mr. Sholto, it is my duty to
     inform you that anything which you may say will be used against you.
     I arrest you in the Queen's name as being concerned in the death of
     your brother."

     "There, now! Didn't I tell you!" cried the poor little man, throwing
     out his hands, and looking from one to the other of us.

     "Don't trouble yourself about it, Mr. Sholto," said Holmes. "I think
     that I can engage to clear you of the charge."

     "Don't promise too much, Mr. Theorist,--don't promise too much!"
     snapped the detective. "You may find it a harder matter than you
     think."

     "Not only will I clear him, Mr. Jones, but I will make you a free
     present of the name and description of one of the two people who were
     in this room last night. His name, I have every reason to believe, is
     Jonathan Small. He is a poorly-educated man, small, active, with his
     right leg off, and wearing a wooden stump which is worn away upon the
     inner side. His left boot has a coarse, square-toed sole, with an
     iron band round the heel. He is a middle-aged man, much sunburned,
     and has been a convict. These few indications may be of some
     assistance to you, coupled with the fact that there is a good deal of
     skin missing from the palm of his hand. The other man--"

     "Ah! the other man--?" asked Athelney Jones, in a sneering voice, but
     impressed none the less, as I could easily see, by the precision of
     the other's manner.

     "Is a rather curious person," said Sherlock Holmes, turning upon his
     heel. "I hope before very long to be able to introduce you to the
     pair of them. A word with you, Watson."

     He led me out to the head of the stair. "This unexpected occurrence,"
     he said, "has caused us rather to lose sight of the original purpose
     of our journey."

     "I have just been thinking so," I answered. "It is not right that
     Miss Morstan should remain in this stricken house."

     "No. You must escort her home. She lives with Mrs. Cecil Forrester,
     in Lower Camberwell: so it is not very far. I will wait for you here
     if you will drive out again. Or perhaps you are too tired?"

     "By no means. I don't think I could rest until I know more of this
     fantastic business. I have seen something of the rough side of life,
     but I give you my word that this quick succession of strange
     surprises to-night has shaken my nerve completely. I should like,
     however, to see the matter through with you, now that I have got so
     far."

     "Your presence will be of great service to me," he answered. "We
     shall work the case out independently, and leave this fellow Jones to
     exult over any mare's-nest which he may choose to construct. When you
     have dropped Miss Morstan I wish you to go on to No. 3 Pinchin Lane,
     down near the water's edge at Lambeth. The third house on the
     right-hand side is a bird-stuffer's: Sherman is the name. You will
     see a weasel holding a young rabbit in the window. Knock old Sherman
     up, and tell him, with my compliments, that I want Toby at once. You
     will bring Toby back in the cab with you."

     "A dog, I suppose."

     "Yes,--a queer mongrel, with a most amazing power of scent. I would
     rather have Toby's help than that of the whole detective force of
     London."

     "I shall bring him, then," said I. "It is one now. I ought to be back
     before three, if I can get a fresh horse."

     "And I," said Holmes, "shall see what I can learn from Mrs.
     Bernstone, and from the Indian servant, who, Mr. Thaddeus tell me,
     sleeps in the next garret. Then I shall study the great Jones's
     methods and listen to his not too delicate sarcasms. 'Wir sind
     gewohnt, daÃŸ die Menschen verhÃ¶hnen was sie nicht verstehen.' Goethe
     is always pithy."

     The police had brought a cab with them, and in this I escorted Miss
     Morstan back to her home. After the angelic fashion of women, she had
     borne trouble with a calm face as long as there was some one weaker
     than herself to support, and I had found her bright and placid by the
     side of the frightened housekeeper. In the cab, however, she first
     turned faint, and then burst into a passion of weeping,--so sorely
     had she been tried by the adventures of the night. She has told me
     since that she thought me cold and distant upon that journey. She
     little guessed the struggle within my breast, or the effort of
     self-restraint which held me back. My sympathies and my love went out
     to her, even as my hand had in the garden. I felt that years of the
     conventionalities of life could not teach me to know her sweet, brave
     nature as had this one day of strange experiences. Yet there were two
     thoughts which sealed the words of affection upon my lips. She was
     weak and helpless, shaken in mind and nerve. It was to take her at a
     disadvantage to obtrude love upon her at such a time. Worse still,
     she was rich. If Holmes's researches were successful, she would be an
     heiress. Was it fair, was it honorable, that a half-pay surgeon
     should take such advantage of an intimacy which chance had brought
     about? Might she not look upon me as a mere vulgar fortune-seeker? I
     could not bear to risk that such a thought should cross her mind.
     This Agra treasure intervened like an impassable barrier between us.

     It was nearly two o'clock when we reached Mrs. Cecil Forrester's. The
     servants had retired hours ago, but Mrs. Forrester had been so
     interested by the strange message which Miss Morstan had received
     that she had sat up in the hope of her return. She opened the door
     herself, a middle-aged, graceful woman, and it gave me joy to see how
     tenderly her arm stole round the other's waist and how motherly was
     the voice in which she greeted her. She was clearly no mere paid
     dependant, but an honored friend. I was introduced, and Mrs.
     Forrester earnestly begged me to step in and tell her our adventures.
     I explained, however, the importance of my errand, and promised
     faithfully to call and report any progress which we might make with
     the case. As we drove away I stole a glance back, and I still seem to
     see that little group on the step, the two graceful, clinging
     figures, the half-opened door, the hall light shining through stained
     glass, the barometer, and the bright stair-rods. It was soothing to
     catch even that passing glimpse of a tranquil English home in the
     midst of the wild, dark business which had absorbed us.

     And the more I thought of what had happened, the wilder and darker it
     grew. I reviewed the whole extraordinary sequence of events as I
     rattled on through the silent gas-lit streets. There was the original
     problem: that at least was pretty clear now. The death of Captain
     Morstan, the sending of the pearls, the advertisement, the
     letter,--we had had light upon all those events. They had only led
     us, however, to a deeper and far more tragic mystery. The Indian
     treasure, the curious plan found among Morstan's baggage, the strange
     scene at Major Sholto's death, the rediscovery of the treasure
     immediately followed by the murder of the discoverer, the very
     singular accompaniments to the crime, the footsteps, the remarkable
     weapons, the words upon the card, corresponding with those upon
     Captain Morstan's chart,--here was indeed a labyrinth in which a man
     less singularly endowed than my fellow-lodger might well despair of
     ever finding the clue.

     Pinchin Lane was a row of shabby two-storied brick houses in the
     lower quarter of Lambeth. I had to knock for some time at No. 3
     before I could make my impression. At last, however, there was the
     glint of a candle behind the blind, and a face looked out at the
     upper window.

     "Go on, you drunken vagabone," said the face. "If you kick up any
     more row I'll open the kennels and let out forty-three dogs upon
     you."

     "If you'll let one out it's just what I have come for," said I.

     "Go on!" yelled the voice. "So help me gracious, I have a wiper in
     the bag, an' I'll drop it on your 'ead if you don't hook it."

     "But I want a dog," I cried.

     "I won't be argued with!" shouted Mr. Sherman. "Now stand clear, for
     when I say 'three,' down goes the wiper."

     "Mr. Sherlock Holmes--" I began, but the words had a most magical
     effect, for the window instantly slammed down, and within a minute
     the door was unbarred and open. Mr. Sherman was a lanky, lean old
     man, with stooping shoulders, a stringy neck, and blue-tinted
     glasses.

     "A friend of Mr. Sherlock is always welcome," said he.  "Step in,
     sir. Keep clear of the badger; for he bites. Ah, naughty, naughty,
     would you take a nip at the gentleman?" This to a stoat which thrust
     its wicked head and red eyes between the bars of its cage. "Don't
     mind that, sir: it's only a slow-worm. It hain't got no fangs, so I
     gives it the run o' the room, for it keeps the bettles down. You must
     not mind my bein' just a little short wi' you at first, for I'm guyed
     at by the children, and there's many a one just comes down this lane
     to knock me up. What was it that Mr. Sherlock Holmes wanted, sir?"

     "He wanted a dog of yours."

     "Ah! that would be Toby."

     "Yes, Toby was the name."

     "Toby lives at No. 7 on the left here." He moved slowly forward with
     his candle among the queer animal family which he had gathered round
     him. In the uncertain, shadowy light I could see dimly that there
     were glancing, glimmering eyes peeping down at us from every cranny
     and corner. Even the rafters above our heads were lined by solemn
     fowls, who lazily shifted their weight from one leg to the other as
     our voices disturbed their slumbers.

     Toby proved to an ugly, long-haired, lop-eared creature, half spaniel
     and half lurcher, brown-and-white in color, with a very clumsy
     waddling gait. It accepted after some hesitation a lump of sugar
     which the old naturalist handed to me, and, having thus sealed an
     alliance, it followed me to the cab, and made no difficulties about
     accompanying me. It had just struck three on the Palace clock when I
     found myself back once more at Pondicherry Lodge. The
     ex-prize-fighter McMurdo had, I found, been arrested as an accessory,
     and both he and Mr. Sholto had been marched off to the station. Two
     constables guarded the narrow gate, but they allowed me to pass with
     the dog on my mentioning the detective's name.

     Holmes was standing on the door-step, with his hands in his pockets,
     smoking his pipe.

     "Ah, you have him there!" said he. "Good dog, then! Athelney Jones
     has gone. We have had an immense display of energy since you left. He
     has arrested not only friend Thaddeus, but the gatekeeper, the
     housekeeper, and the Indian servant. We have the place to ourselves,
     but for a sergeant up-stairs. Leave the dog here, and come up."

     We tied Toby to the hall table, and reascended the stairs. The room
     was as we had left it, save that a sheet had been draped over the
     central figure. A weary-looking police-sergeant reclined in the
     corner.

     "Lend me your bull's-eye, sergeant," said my companion. "Now tie this
     bit of card round my neck, so as to hang it in front of me. Thank
     you. Now I must kick off my boots and stockings.--Just you carry them
     down with you, Watson. I am going to do a little climbing. And dip my
     handkerchief into the creasote. That will do. Now come up into the
     garret with me for a moment."

     We clambered up through the hole. Holmes turned his light once more
     upon the footsteps in the dust.

     "I wish you particularly to notice these footmarks," he said. "Do you
     observe anything noteworthy about them?"

     "They belong," I said, "to a child or a small woman."

     "Apart from their size, though. Is there nothing else?"

     "They appear to be much as other footmarks."

     "Not at all. Look here! This is the print of a right foot in the
     dust. Now I make one with my naked foot beside it. What is the chief
     difference?"

     "Your toes are all cramped together. The other print has each toe
     distinctly divided."

     "Quite so. That is the point. Bear that in mind. Now, would you
     kindly step over to that flap-window and smell the edge of the
     wood-work? I shall stay here, as I have this handkerchief in my
     hand."

     I did as he directed, and was instantly conscious of a strong tarry
     smell.

     "That is where he put his foot in getting out. If you can trace him,
     I should think that Toby will have no difficulty. Now run
     down-stairs, loose the dog, and look out for Blondin."

     By the time that I got out into the grounds Sherlock Holmes was on
     the roof, and I could see him like an enormous glow-worm crawling
     very slowly along the ridge. I lost sight of him behind a stack of
     chimneys, but he presently reappeared, and then vanished once more
     upon the opposite side. When I made my way round there I found him
     seated at one of the corner eaves.

     "That You, Watson?" he cried.

     "Yes."

     "This is the place. What is that black thing down there?"

     "A water-barrel."

     "Top on it?"

     "Yes."

     "No sign of a ladder?"

     "No."

     "Confound the fellow! It's a most break-neck place. I ought to be
     able to come down where he could climb up. The water-pipe feels
     pretty firm. Here goes, anyhow."

     There was a scuffling of feet, and the lantern began to come steadily
     down the side of the wall. Then with a light spring he came on to the
     barrel, and from there to the earth.

     "It was easy to follow him," he said, drawing on his stockings and
     boots. "Tiles were loosened the whole way along, and in his hurry he
     had dropped this. It confirms my diagnosis, as you doctors express
     it."

     The object which he held up to me was a small pocket or pouch woven
     out of colored grasses and with a few tawdry beads strung round it.
     In shape and size it was not unlike a cigarette-case. Inside were
     half a dozen spines of dark wood, sharp at one end and rounded at the
     other, like that which had struck Bartholomew Sholto.

     "They are hellish things," said he. "Look out that you don't prick
     yourself. I'm delighted to have them, for the chances are that they
     are all he has. There is the less fear of you or me finding one in
     our skin before long. I would sooner face a Martini bullet, myself.
     Are you game for a six-mile trudge, Watson?"

     "Certainly," I answered.

     "Your leg will stand it?"

     "Oh, yes."

     "Here you are, doggy! Good old Toby! Smell it, Toby, smell it!" He
     pushed the creasote handkerchief under the dog's nose, while the
     creature stood with its fluffy legs separated, and with a most
     comical cock to its head, like a connoisseur sniffing the bouquet of
     a famous vintage. Holmes then threw the handkerchief to a distance,
     fastened a stout cord to the mongrel's collar, and let him to the
     foot of the water-barrel. The creature instantly broke into a
     succession of high, tremulous yelps, and, with his nose on the
     ground, and his tail in the air, pattered off upon the trail at a
     pace which strained his leash and kept us at the top of our speed.

     The east had been gradually whitening, and we could now see some
     distance in the cold gray light. The square, massive house, with its
     black, empty windows and high, bare walls, towered up, sad and
     forlorn, behind us. Our course let right across the grounds, in and
     out among the trenches and pits with which they were scarred and
     intersected. The whole place, with its scattered dirt-heaps and
     ill-grown shrubs, had a blighted, ill-omened look which harmonized
     with the black tragedy which hung over it.

     On reaching the boundary wall Toby ran along, whining eagerly,
     underneath its shadow, and stopped finally in a corner screened by a
     young beech. Where the two walls joined, several bricks had been
     loosened, and the crevices left were worn down and rounded upon the
     lower side, as though they had frequently been used as a ladder.
     Holmes clambered up, and, taking the dog from me, he dropped it over
     upon the other side.

     "There's the print of wooden-leg's hand," he remarked, as I mounted
     up beside him. "You see the slight smudge of blood upon the white
     plaster. What a lucky thing it is that we have had no very heavy rain
     since yesterday! The scent will lie upon the road in spite of their
     eight-and-twenty hours' start."

     I confess that I had my doubts myself when I reflected upon the great
     traffic which had passed along the London road in the interval. My
     fears were soon appeased, however. Toby never hesitated or swerved,
     but waddled on in his peculiar rolling fashion. Clearly, the pungent
     smell of the creasote rose high above all other contending scents.

     "Do not imagine," said Holmes, "that I depend for my success in this
     case upon the mere chance of one of these fellows having put his foot
     in the chemical. I have knowledge now which would enable me to trace
     them in many different ways. This, however, is the readiest and,
     since fortune has put it into our hands, I should be culpable if I
     neglected it. It has, however, prevented the case from becoming the
     pretty little intellectual problem which it at one time promised to
     be. There might have been some credit to be gained out of it, but for
     this too palpable clue."

     "There is credit, and to spare," said I. "I assure you, Holmes, that
     I marvel at the means by which you obtain your results in this case,
     even more than I did in the Jefferson Hope Murder. The thing seems to
     me to be deeper and more inexplicable. How, for example, could you
     describe with such confidence the wooden-legged man?"

     "Pshaw, my dear boy! it was simplicity itself. I don't wish to be
     theatrical. It is all patent and above-board. Two officers who are in
     command of a convict-guard learn an important secret as to buried
     treasure. A map is drawn for them by an Englishman named Jonathan
     Small. You remember that we saw the name upon the chart in Captain
     Morstan's possession. He had signed it in behalf of himself and his
     associates,--the sign of the four, as he somewhat dramatically called
     it. Aided by this chart, the officers--or one of them--gets the
     treasure and brings it to England, leaving, we will suppose, some
     condition under which he received it unfulfilled. Now, then, why did
     not Jonathan Small get the treasure himself? The answer is obvious.
     The chart is dated at a time when Morstan was brought into close
     association with convicts. Jonathan Small did not get the treasure
     because he and his associates were themselves convicts and could not
     get away."

     "But that is mere speculation," said I.

     "It is more than that. It is the only hypothesis which covers the
     facts. Let us see how it fits in with the sequel. Major Sholto
     remains at peace for some years, happy in the possession of his
     treasure. Then he receives a letter from India which gives him a
     great fright. What was that?"

     "A letter to say that the men whom he had wronged had been set free."

     "Or had escaped. That is much more likely, for he would have known
     what their term of imprisonment was. It would not have been a
     surprise to him. What does he do then? He guards himself against a
     wooden-legged man,--a white man, mark you, for he mistakes a white
     tradesman for him, and actually fires a pistol at him. Now, only one
     white man's name is on the chart. The others are Hindoos or
     Mohammedans. There is no other white man. Therefore we may say with
     confidence that the wooden-legged man is identical with Jonathan
     Small. Does the reasoning strike yo as being faulty?"

     "No: it is clear and concise."

     "Well, now, let us put ourselves in the place of Jonathan Small. Let
     us look at it from his point of view. He comes to England with the
     double idea of regaining what he would consider to be his rights and
     of having his revenge upon the man who had wronged him. He found out
     where Sholto lived, and very possibly he established communications
     with some one inside the house. There is this butler, Lal Rao, whom
     we have not seen. Mrs. Bernstone gives him far from a good character.
     Small could not find out, however, where the treasure was hid, for no
     one ever knew, save the major and one faithful servant who had died.
     Suddenly Small learns that the major is on his death-bed. In a frenzy
     lest the secret of the treasure die with him, he runs the gauntlet of
     the guards, makes his way to the dying man's window, and is only
     deterred from entering by the presence of his two sons. Mad with
     hate, however, against the dead man, he enters the room that night,
     searches his private papers in the hope of discovering some
     memorandum relating to the treasure, and finally leaves a memento of
     his visit in the short inscription upon the card. He had doubtless
     planned beforehand that should he slay the major he would leave some
     such record upon the body as a sign that it was not a common murder,
     but, from the point of view of the four associates, something in the
     nature of an act of justice. Whimsical and bizarre conceits of this
     kind are common enough in the annals of crime, and usually afford
     valuable indications as to the criminal. Do you follow all this?"

     "Very clearly."

     "Now, what could Jonathan Small do? He could only continue to keep a
     secret watch upon the efforts made to find the treasure. Possibly he
     leaves England and only comes back at intervals. Then comes the
     discovery of the garret, and he is instantly informed of it. We again
     trace the presence of some confederate in the household. Jonathan,
     with his wooden leg, is utterly unable to reach the lofty room of
     Bartholomew Sholto. He takes with him, however, a rather curious
     associate, who gets over this difficulty, but dips his naked foot
     into creasote, whence come Toby, and a six-mile limp for a half-pay
     officer with a damaged tendo Achillis."

     "But it was the associate, and not Jonathan, who committed the
     crime."

     "Quite so. And rather to Jonathan's disgust, to judge by the way the
     stamped about when he got into the room. He bore no grudge against
     Bartholomew Sholto, and would have preferred if he could have been
     simply bound and gagged. He did not wish to put his head in a halter.
     There was no help for it, however: the savage instincts of his
     companion had broken out, and the poison had done its work: so
     Jonathan Small left his record, lowered the treasure-box to the
     ground, and followed it himself. That was the train of events as far
     as I can decipher them. Of course as to his personal appearance he
     must be middle-aged, and must be sunburned after serving his time in
     such an oven as the Andamans. His height is readily calculated from
     the length of his stride, and we know that he was bearded. His
     hairiness was the one point which impressed itself upon Thaddeus
     Sholto when he saw him at the window. I don't know that there is
     anything else."

     "The associate?"

     "Ah, well, there is no great mystery in that. But you will know all
     about it soon enough. How sweet the morning air is! See how that one
     little cloud floats like a pink feather from some gigantic flamingo.
     Now the red rim of the sun pushes itself over the London cloud-bank.
     It shines on a good many folk, but on none, I dare bet, who are on a
     stranger errand than you and I. How small we feel with our petty
     ambitions and strivings in the presence of the great elemental forces
     of nature! Are you well up in your Jean Paul?"

     "Fairly so. I worked back to him through Carlyle."

     "That was like following the brook to the parent lake. He makes one
     curious but profound remark. It is that the chief proof of man's real
     greatness lies in his perception of his own smallness. It argues, you
     see, a power of comparison and of appreciation which is in itself a
     proof of nobility. There is much food for thought in Richter. You
     have not a pistol, have you?"

     "I have my stick."

     "It is just possible that we may need something of the sort if we get
     to their lair. Jonathan I shall leave to you, but if the other turns
     nasty I shall shoot him dead." He took out his revolver as he spoke,
     and, having loaded two of the chambers, he put it back into the
     right-hand pocket of his jacket.

     We had during this time been following the guidance of Toby down the
     half-rural villa-lined roads which lead to the metropolis. Now,
     however, we were beginning to come among continuous streets, where
     laborers and dockmen were already astir, and slatternly women were
     taking down shutters and brushing door-steps. At the square-topped
     corner public houses business was just beginning, and rough-looking
     men were emerging, rubbing their sleeves across their beards after
     their morning wet. Strange dogs sauntered up and stared wonderingly
     at us as we passed, but our inimitable Toby looked neither to the
     right nor to the left, but trotted onwards with his nose to the
     ground and an occasional eager whine which spoke of a hot scent.

     We had traversed Streatham, Brixton, Camberwell, and now found
     ourselves in Kennington Lane, having borne away through the
     side-streets to the east of the Oval. The men whom we pursued seemed
     to have taken a curiously zigzag road, with the idea probably of
     escaping observation. They had never kept to the main road if a
     parallel side-street would serve their turn. At the foot of
     Kennington Lane they had edged away to the left through Bond Street
     and Miles Street. Where the latter street turns into Knight's Place,
     Toby ceased to advance, but began to run backwards and forwards with
     one ear cocked and the other drooping, the very picture of canine
     indecision. Then he waddled round in circles, looking up to us from
     time to time, as if to ask for sympathy in his embarrassment.

     "What the deuce is the matter with the dog?" growled Holmes. "They
     surely would not take a cab, or go off in a balloon."

     "Perhaps they stood here for some time," I suggested.

     "Ah! it's all right. He's off again," said my companion, in a tone of
     relief.

     He was indeed off, for after sniffing round again he suddenly made up
     his mind, and darted away with an energy and determination such as he
     had not yet shown. The scent appeared to be much hotter than before,
     for he had not even to put his nose on the ground, but tugged at his
     leash and tried to break into a run. I cold see by the gleam in
     Holmes's eyes that he thought we were nearing the end of our journey.

     Our course now ran down Nine Elms until we came to Broderick and
     Nelson's large timber-yard, just past the White Eagle tavern. Here
     the dog, frantic with excitement, turned down through the side-gate
     into the enclosure, where the sawyers were already at work. On the
     dog raced through sawdust and shavings, down an alley, round a
     passage, between two wood-piles, and finally, with a triumphant yelp,
     sprang upon a large barrel which still stood upon the hand-trolley on
     which it had been brought. With lolling tongue and blinking eyes,
     Toby stood upon the cask, looking from one to the other of us for
     some sign of appreciation. The staves of the barrel and the wheels of
     the trolley were smeared with a dark liquid, and the whole air was
     heavy with the smell of creasote.

     Sherlock Holmes and I looked blankly at each other, and then burst
     simultaneously into an uncontrollable fit of laughter.

     "What now?" I asked. "Toby has lost his character for infallibility."

     "He acted according to his lights," said Holmes, lifting him down
     from the barrel and walking him out of the timber-yard. "If you
     consider how much creasote is carted about London in one day, it is
     no great wonder that our trail should have been crossed. It is much
     used now, especially for the seasoning of wood. Poor Toby is not to
     blame."

     "We must get on the main scent again, I suppose."

     "Yes. And, fortunately, we have no distance to go. Evidently what
     puzzled the dog at the corner of Knight's Place was that there were
     two different trails running in opposite directions. We took the
     wrong one. It only remains to follow the other."

     There was no difficulty about this. On leading Toby to the place
     where he had committed his fault, he cast about in a wide circle and
     finally dashed off in a fresh direction.

     "We must take care that he does not now bring us to the place where
     the creasote-barrel came from," I observed.

     "I had thought of that. But you notice that he keeps on the pavement,
     whereas the barrel passed down the roadway. No, we are on the true
     scent now."

     It tended down towards the river-side, running through Belmont Place
     and Prince's Street. At the end of Broad Street it ran right down to
     the water's edge, where there was a small wooden wharf. Toby led us
     to the very edge of this, and there stood whining, looking out on the
     dark current beyond.

     "We are out of luck," said Holmes. "They have taken to a boat here."
     Several small punts and skiffs were lying about in the water and on
     the edge of the wharf. We took Toby round to each in turn, but,
     though he sniffed earnestly, he made no sign.

     Close to the rude landing-stage was a small brick house, with a
     wooden placard slung out through the second window. "Mordecai Smith"
     was printed across it in large letters, and, underneath, "Boats to
     hire by the hour or day." A second inscription above the door
     informed us that a steam launch was kept,--a statement which was
     confirmed by a great pile of coke upon the jetty. Sherlock Holmes
     looked slowly round, and his face assumed an ominous expression.

     "This looks bad," said he. "These fellows are sharper than I
     expected. They seem to have covered their tracks. There has, I fear,
     been preconcerted management here."

     He was approaching the door of the house, when it opened, and a
     little, curly-headed lad of six came running out, followed by a
     stoutish, red-faced woman with a large sponge in her hand.

     "You come back and be washed, Jack," she shouted. "Come back, you
     young imp; for if your father comes home and finds you like that,
     he'll let us hear of it."

     "Dear little chap!" said Holmes, strategically. "What a rosy-cheeked
     young rascal! Now, Jack, is there anything you would like?"

     The youth pondered for a moment. "I'd like a shillin'," said he.

     "Nothing you would like better?"

     "I'd like two shillin' better," the prodigy answered, after some
     thought.

     "Here you are, then! Catch!--A fine child, Mrs. Smith!"

     "Lor' bless you, sir, he is that, and forward. He gets a'most too
     much for me to manage, 'specially when my man is away days at a
     time."

     "Away, is he?" said Holmes, in a disappointed voice. "I am sorry for
     that, for I wanted to speak to Mr. Smith."

     "He's been away since yesterday mornin', sir, and, truth to tell, I
     am beginnin' to feel frightened about him. But if it was about a
     boat, sir, maybe I could serve as well."

     "I wanted to hire his steam launch."

     "Why, bless you, sir, it is in the steam launch that he has gone.
     That's what puzzles me; for I know there ain't more coals in her than
     would take her to about Woolwich and back. If he'd been away in the
     barge I'd ha' thought nothin'; for many a time a job has taken him as
     far as Gravesend, and then if there was much doin' there he might ha'
     stayed over. But what good is a steam launch without coals?"

     "He might have bought some at a wharf down the river."

     "He might, sir, but it weren't his way. Many a time I've heard him
     call out at the prices they charge for a few odd bags. Besides, I
     don't like that wooden-legged man, wi' his ugly face and outlandish
     talk. What did he want always knockin' about here for?"

     "A wooden-legged man?" said Holmes, with bland surprise.

     "Yes, sir, a brown, monkey-faced chap that's called more'n once for
     my old man. It was him that roused him up yesternight, and, what's
     more, my man knew he was comin', for he had steam up in the launch. I
     tell you straight, sir, I don't feel easy in my mind about it."

     "But, my dear Mrs. Smith," said Holmes, shrugging his shoulders, "You
     are frightening yourself about nothing. How could you possibly tell
     that it was the wooden-legged man who came in the night? I don't
     quite understand how you can be so sure."

     "His voice, sir. I knew his voice, which is kind o' thick and foggy.
     He tapped at the winder,--about three it would be. 'Show a leg,
     matey,' says he: 'time to turn out guard.' My old man woke up
     Jim,--that's my eldest,--and away they went, without so much as a
     word to me. I could hear the wooden leg clackin' on the stones."

     "And was this wooden-legged man alone?"

     "Couldn't say, I am sure, sir. I didn't hear no one else."

     "I am sorry, Mrs. Smith, for I wanted a steam launch, and I have
     heard good reports of the--Let me see, what is her name?"

     "The Aurora, sir."

     "Ah! She's not that old green launch with a yellow line, very broad
     in the beam?"

     "No, indeed. She's as trim a little thing as any on the river. She's
     been fresh painted, black with two red streaks."

     "Thanks. I hope that you will hear soon from Mr. Smith. I am going
     down the river; and if I should see anything of the Aurora I shall
     let him know that you are uneasy. A black funnel, you say?"

     "No, sir. Black with a white band."

     "Ah, of course. It was the sides which were black. Good-morning, Mrs.
     Smith.--There is a boatman here with a wherry, Watson. We shall take
     it and cross the river.

     "The main thing with people of that sort," said Holmes, as we sat in
     the sheets of the wherry, "is never to let them think that their
     information can be of the slightest importance to you. If you do,
     they will instantly shut up like an oyster. If you listen to them
     under protest, as it were, you are very likely to get what you want."

     "Our course now seems pretty clear," said I.

     "What would you do, then?"

     "I would engage a launch and go down the river on the track of the
     Aurora."

     "My dear fellow, it would be a colossal task. She may have touched at
     any wharf on either side of the stream between here and Greenwich.
     Below the bridge there is a perfect labyrinth of landing-places for
     miles. It would take you days and days to exhaust them, if you set
     about it alone."

     "Employ the police, then."

     "No. I shall probably call Athelney Jones in at the last moment. He
     is not a bad fellow, and I should not like to do anything which would
     injure him professionally. But I have a fancy for working it out
     myself, now that we have gone so far."

     "Could we advertise, then, asking for information from wharfingers?"

     "Worse and worse! Our men would know that the chase was hot at their
     heels, and they would be off out of the country. As it is, they are
     likely enough to leave, but as long as they think they are perfectly
     safe they will be in no hurry. Jones's energy will be of use to us
     there, for his view of the case is sure to push itself into the daily
     press, and the runaways will think that every one is off on the wrong
     scent."

     "What are we to do, then?" I asked, as we landed near Millbank
     Penitentiary.

     "Take this hansom, drive home, have some breakfast, and get an hour's
     sleep. It is quite on the cards that we may be afoot to-night again.
     Stop at a telegraph-office, cabby! We will keep Toby, for he may be
     of use to us yet."

     We pulled up at the Great Peter Street post-office, and Holmes
     despatched his wire. "Whom do you think that is to?" he asked, as we
     resumed our journey.

     "I am sure I don't know."

     "You remember the Baker Street division of the detective police force
     whom I employed in the Jefferson Hope case?"

     "Well," said I, laughing.

     "This is just the case where they might be invaluable. If they fail,
     I have other resources; but I shall try them first. That wire was to
     my dirty little lieutenant, Wiggins, and I expect that he and his
     gang will be with us before we have finished our breakfast."

     It was between eight and nine o'clock now, and I was conscious of a
     strong reaction after the successive excitements of the night. I was
     limp and weary, befogged in mind and fatigued in body. I had not the
     professional enthusiasm which carried my companion on, nor could I
     look at the matter as a mere abstract intellectual problem. As far as
     the death of Bartholomew Sholto went, I had heard little good of him,
     and could feel no intense antipathy to his murderers. The treasure,
     however, was a different matter. That, or part of it, belonged
     rightfully to Miss Morstan. While there was a chance of recovering it
     I was ready to devote my life to the one object. True, if I found it
     it would probably put her forever beyond my reach. Yet it would be a
     petty and selfish love which would be influenced by such a thought as
     that. If Holmes could work to find the criminals, I had a tenfold
     stronger reason to urge me on to find the treasure.

     A bath at Baker Street and a complete change freshened me up
     wonderfully. When I came down to our room I found the breakfast laid
     and Holmes pouring out the coffee.

     "Here it is," said he, laughing, and pointing to an open newspaper.
     "The energetic Jones and the ubiquitous reporter have fixed it up
     between them. But you have had enough of the case. Better have your
     ham and eggs first."

     I took the paper from him and read the short notice, which was headed
     "Mysterious Business at Upper Norwood."

     "About twelve o'clock last night," said the Standard, "Mr.
     Bartholomew Sholto, of Pondicherry Lodge, Upper Norwood, was found
     dead in his room under circumstances which point to foul play. As far
     as we can learn, no actual traces of violence were found upon Mr.
     Sholto's person, but a valuable collection of Indian gems which the
     deceased gentleman had inherited from his father has been carried
     off. The discovery was first made by Mr. Sherlock Holmes and Dr.
     Watson, who had called at the house with Mr. Thaddeus Sholto, brother
     of the deceased. By a singular piece of good fortune, Mr. Athelney
     Jones, the well-known member of the detective police force, happened
     to be at the Norwood Police Station, and was on the ground within
     half an hour of the first alarm. His trained and experienced
     faculties were at once directed towards the detection of the
     criminals, with the gratifying result that the brother, Thaddeus
     Sholto, has already been arrested, together with the housekeeper,
     Mrs. Bernstone, an Indian butler named Lal Rao, and a porter, or
     gatekeeper, named McMurdo. It is quite certain that the thief or
     thieves were well acquainted with the house, for Mr. Jones's
     well-known technical knowledge and his powers of minute observation
     have enabled him to prove conclusively that the miscreants could not
     have entered by the door or by the window, but must have made their
     way across the roof of the building, and so through a trap-door into
     a room which communicated with that in which the body was found. This
     fact, which has been very clearly made out, proves conclusively that
     it was no mere haphazard burglary. The prompt and energetic action of
     the officers of the law shows the great advantage of the presence on
     such occasions of a single vigorous and masterful mind. We cannot but
     think that it supplies an argument to those who would wish to see our
     detectives more decentralized, and so brought into closer and more
     effective touch with the cases which it is their duty to
     investigate."

     "Isn't it gorgeous!" said Holmes, grinning over his coffee-cup. "What
     do you think of it?"

     "I think that we have had a close shave ourselves of being arrested
     for the crime."

     "So do I. I wouldn't answer for our safety now, if he should happen
     to have another of his attacks of energy."

     At this moment there was a loud ring at the bell, and I could hear
     Mrs. Hudson, our landlady, raising her voice in a wail of
     expostulation and dismay.

     "By heaven, Holmes," I said, half rising, "I believe that they are
     really after us."

     "No, it's not quite so bad as that. It is the unofficial force,--the
     Baker Street irregulars."

     As he spoke, there came a swift pattering of naked feet upon the
     stairs, a clatter of high voices, and in rushed a dozen dirty and
     ragged little street-Arabs. There was some show of discipline among
     them, despite their tumultuous entry, for they instantly drew up in
     line and stood facing us with expectant faces. One of their number,
     taller and older than the others, stood forward with an air of
     lounging superiority which was very funny in such a disreputable
     little carecrow.

     "Got your message, sir," said he, "and brought 'em on sharp. Three
     bob and a tanner for tickets."

     "Here you are," said Holmes, producing some silver. "In future they
     can report to you, Wiggins, and you to me. I cannot have the house
     invaded in this way. However, it is just as well that you should all
     hear the instructions. I want to find the whereabouts of a steam
     launch called the Aurora, owner Mordecai Smith, black with two red
     streaks, funnel black with a white band. She is down the river
     somewhere. I want one boy to be at Mordecai Smith's landing-stage
     opposite Millbank to say if the boat comes back. You must divide it
     out among yourselves, and do both banks thoroughly. Let me know the
     moment you have news. Is that all clear?"

     "Yes, guv'nor," said Wiggins.

     "The old scale of pay, and a guinea to the boy who finds the boat.
     Here's a day in advance. Now off you go!" He handed them a shilling
     each, and away they buzzed down the stairs, and I saw them a moment
     later streaming down the street.

     "If the launch is above water they will find her," said Holmes, as he
     rose from the table and lit his pipe. "They can go everywhere, see
     everything, overhear every one. I expect to hear before evening that
     they have spotted her. In the mean while, we can do nothing but await
     results. We cannot pick up the broken trail until we find either the
     Aurora or Mr. Mordecai Smith."

     "Toby could eat these scraps, I dare say. Are you going to bed,
     Holmes?"

     "No: I am not tired. I have a curious constitution. I never remember
     feeling tired by work, though idleness exhausts me completely. I am
     going to smoke and to think over this queer business to which my fair
     client has introduced us. If ever man had an easy task, this of ours
     ought to be. Wooden-legged men are not so common, but the other man
     must, I should think, be absolutely unique."

     "That other man again!"

     "I have no wish to make a mystery of him,--to you, anyway. But you
     must have formed your own opinion. Now, do consider the data.
     Diminutive footmarks, toes never fettered by boots, naked feet,
     stone-headed wooden mace, great agility, small poisoned darts. What
     do you make of all this?"

     "A savage!" I exclaimed. "Perhaps one of those Indians who were the
     associates of Jonathan Small."

     "Hardly that," said he. "When first I saw signs of strange weapons I
     was inclined to think so; but the remarkable character of the
     footmarks caused me to reconsider my views. Some of the inhabitants
     of the Indian Peninsula are small men, but none could have left such
     marks as that. The Hindoo proper has long and thin feet. The
     sandal-wearing Mohammedan has the great toe well separated from the
     others, because the thong is commonly passed between. These little
     darts, too, could only be shot in one way. They are from a blow-pipe.
     Now, then, where are we to find our savage?"

     "South American," I hazarded.

     He stretched his hand up, and took down a bulky volume from the
     shelf. "This is the first volume of a gazetteer which is now being
     published. It may be looked upon as the very latest authority. What
     have we here? 'Andaman Islands, situated 340 miles to the north of
     Sumatra, in the Bay of Bengal.' Hum! hum!  What's all this? Moist
     climate, coral reefs, sharks, Port Blair, convict-barracks, Rutland
     Island, cottonwoods--Ah, here we are. 'The aborigines of the Andaman
     Islands may perhaps claim the distinction of being the smallest race
     upon this earth, though some anthropologists prefer the Bushmen of
     Africa, the Digger Indians of America, and the Terra del Fuegians.
     The average height is rather below four feet, although many
     full-grown adults may be found who are very much smaller than this.
     They are a fierce, morose, and intractable people, though capable of
     forming most devoted friendships when their confidence has once been
     gained.' Mark that, Watson. Now, then, listen to this. 'They are
     naturally hideous, having large, misshapen heads, small, fierce eyes,
     and distorted features. Their feet and hands, however, are remarkably
     small. So intractable and fierce are they that all the efforts of the
     British official have failed to win them over in any degree. They
     have always been a terror to shipwrecked crews, braining the
     survivors with their stone-headed clubs, or shooting them with their
     poisoned arrows. These massacres are invariably concluded by a
     cannibal feast.' Nice, amiable people, Watson! If this fellow had
     been left to his own unaided devices this affair might have taken an
     even more ghastly turn. I fancy that, even as it is, Jonathan Small
     would give a good deal not to have employed him."

     "But how came he to have so singular a companion?"

     "Ah, that is more than I can tell. Since, however, we had already
     determined that Small had come from the Andamans, it is not so very
     wonderful that this islander should be with him. No doubt we shall
     know all about it in time. Look here, Watson; you look regularly
     done. Lie down there on the sofa, and see if I can put you to sleep."

     He took up his violin from the corner, and as I stretched myself out
     he began to play some low, dreamy, melodious air,--his own, no doubt,
     for he had a remarkable gift for improvisation. I have a vague
     remembrance of his gaunt limbs, his earnest face, and the rise and
     fall of his bow. Then I seemed to be floated peacefully away upon a
     soft sea of sound, until I found myself in dream-land, with the sweet
     face of Mary Morstan looking down upon me.

     It was late in the afternoon before I woke, strengthened and
     refreshed. Sherlock Holmes still sat exactly as I had left him, save
     that he had laid aside his violin and was deep in a book. He looked
     across at me, as I stirred, and I noticed that his face was dark and
     troubled.

     "You have slept soundly," he said. "I feared that our talk would wake
     you."

     "I heard nothing," I answered. "Have you had fresh news, then?"

     "Unfortunately, no. I confess that I am surprised and disappointed. I
     expected something definite by this time.  Wiggins has just been up
     to report. He says that no trace can be found of the launch. It is a
     provoking check, for every hour is of importance."

     "Can I do anything? I am perfectly fresh now, and quite ready for
     another night's outing."

     "No, we can do nothing. We can only wait. If we go ourselves, the
     message might come in our absence, and delay be caused. You can do
     what you will, but I must remain on guard."

     "Then I shall run over to Camberwell and call upon Mrs. Cecil
     Forrester. She asked me to, yesterday."

     "On Mrs. Cecil Forrester?" asked Holmes, with the twinkle of a smile
     in his eyes.

     "Well, of course Miss Morstan too. They were anxious to hear what
     happened."

     "I would not tell them too much," said Holmes. "Women are never to be
     entirely trusted,--not the best of them."

     I did not pause to argue over this atrocious sentiment. "I shall be
     back in an hour or two," I remarked.

     "All right! Good luck! But, I say, if you are crossing the river you
     may as well return Toby, for I don't think it is at all likely that
     we shall have any use for him now."

     I took our mongrel accordingly, and left him, together with a
     half-sovereign, at the old naturalist's in Pinchin Lane. At
     Camberwell I found Miss Morstan a little weary after her night's
     adventures, but very eager to hear the news. Mrs. Forrester, too, was
     full of curiosity. I told them all that we had done, suppressing,
     however, the more dreadful parts of the tragedy. Thus, although I
     spoke of Mr. Sholto's death, I said nothing of the exact manner and
     method of it. With all my omissions, however, there was enough to
     startle and amaze them.

     "It is a romance!" cried Mrs. Forrester. "An injured lady, half a
     million in treasure, a black cannibal, and a wooden-legged ruffian.
     They take the place of the conventional dragon or wicked earl."

     "And two knight-errants to the rescue," added Miss Morstan, with a
     bright glance at me.

     "Why, Mary, your fortune depends upon the issue of this search. I
     don't think that you are nearly excited enough. Just imagine what it
     must be to be so rich, and to have the world at your feet!"

     It sent a little thrill of joy to my heart to notice that she showed
     no sign of elation at the prospect. On the contrary, she gave a toss
     of her proud head, as though the matter were one in which she took
     small interest.

     "It is for Mr. Thaddeus Sholto that I am anxious," she said. "Nothing
     else is of any consequence; but I think that he has behaved most
     kindly and honorably throughout. It is our duty to clear him of this
     dreadful and unfounded charge."

     It was evening before I left Camberwell, and quite dark by the time I
     reached home. My companion's book and pipe lay by his chair, but he
     had disappeared. I looked about in the hope of seeing a note, but
     there was none.

     "I suppose that Mr. Sherlock Holmes has gone out," I said to Mrs. 
     Hudson as she came up to lower the blinds.

     "No, sir. He has gone to his room, sir. Do you know, sir," sinking
     her voice into an impressive whisper, "I am afraid for his health?"

     "Why so, Mrs. Hudson?"

     "Well, he's that strange, sir. After you was gone he walked and he
     walked, up and down, and up and down, until I was weary of the sound
     of his footstep. Then I heard him talking to himself and muttering,
     and every time the bell rang out he came on the stairhead, with 'What
     is that, Mrs. Hudson?' And now he has slammed off to his room, but I
     can hear him walking away the same as ever. I hope he's not going to
     be ill, sir. I ventured to say something to him about cooling
     medicine, but he turned on me, sir, with such a look that I don't
     know how ever I got out of the room."

     "I don't think that you have any cause to be uneasy, Mrs. Hudson," I
     answered. "I have seen him like this before. He has some small matter
     upon his mind which makes him restless." I tried to speak lightly to
     our worthy landlady, but I was myself somewhat uneasy when through
     the long night I still from time to time heard the dull sound of his
     tread, and knew how his keen spirit was chafing against this
     involuntary inaction.

     At breakfast-time he looked worn and haggard, with a little fleck of
     feverish color upon either cheek.

     "You are knocking yourself up, old man," I remarked. "I heard you
     marching about in the night."

     "No, I could not sleep," he answered. "This infernal problem is
     consuming me. It is too much to be balked by so petty an obstacle,
     when all else had been overcome. I know the men, the launch,
     everything; and yet I can get no news. I have set other agencies at
     work, and used every means at my disposal. The whole river has been
     searched on either side, but there is no news, nor has Mrs. Smith
     heard of her husband. I shall come to the conclusion soon that they
     have scuttled the craft. But there are objections to that."

     "Or that Mrs. Smith has put us on a wrong scent."

     "No, I think that may be dismissed. I had inquiries made, and there
     is a launch of that description."

     "Could it have gone up the river?"

     "I have considered that possibility too, and there is a search-party
     who will work up as far as Richmond. If no news comes to-day, I shall
     start off myself to-morrow, and go for the men rather than the boat.
     But surely, surely, we shall hear something."

     We did not, however. Not a word came to us either from Wiggins or
     from the other agencies. There were articles in most of the papers
     upon the Norwood tragedy. They all appeared to be rather hostile to
     the unfortunate Thaddeus Sholto. No fresh details were to be found,
     however, in any of them, save that an inquest was to be held upon the
     following day. I walked over to Camberwell in the evening to report
     our ill success to the ladies, and on my return I found Holmes
     dejected and somewhat morose. He would hardly reply to my questions,
     and busied himself all evening in an abstruse chemical analysis which
     involved much heating of retorts and distilling of vapors, ending at
     last in a smell which fairly drove me out of the apartment. Up to the
     small hours of the morning I could hear the clinking of his
     test-tubes which told me that he was still engaged in his malodorous
     experiment.

     In the early dawn I woke with a start, and was surprised to find him
     standing by my bedside, clad in a rude sailor dress with a
     pea-jacket, and a coarse red scarf round his neck.

     "I am off down the river, Watson," said he. "I have been turning it
     over in my mind, and I can see only one way out of it. It is worth
     trying, at all events."

     "Surely I can come with you, then?" said I.

     "No; you can be much more useful if you will remain here as my
     representative. I am loath to go, for it is quite on the cards that
     some message may come during the day, though Wiggins was despondent
     about it last night. I want you to open all notes and telegrams, and
     to act on your own judgment if any news should come. Can I rely upon
     you?"

     "Most certainly."

     "I am afraid that you will not be able to wire to me, for I can
     hardly tell yet where I may find myself. If I am in luck, however, I
     may not be gone so very long. I shall have news of some sort or other
     before I get back."

     I had heard nothing of him by breakfast-time. On opening the
     Standard, however, I found that there was a fresh allusion to the
     business.

     "With reference to the Upper Norwood tragedy," it remarked, "we have
     reason to believe that the matter promises to be even more complex
     and mysterious than was originally supposed. Fresh evidence has shown
     that it is quite impossible that Mr. Thaddeus Sholto could have been
     in any way concerned in the matter. He and the housekeeper, Mrs.
     Bernstone, were both released yesterday evening. It is believed,
     however, that the police have a clue as to the real culprits, and
     that it is being prosecuted by Mr. Athelney Jones, of Scotland Yard,
     with all his well-known energy and sagacity. Further arrests may be
     expected at any moment."

     "That is satisfactory so far as it goes," thought I. "Friend Sholto
     is safe, at any rate. I wonder what the fresh clue may be; though it
     seems to be a stereotyped form whenever the police have made a
     blunder."

     I tossed the paper down upon the table, but at that moment my eye
     caught an advertisement in the agony column. It ran in this way:

     "Lost.--Whereas Mordecai Smith, boatman, and his son, Jim, left
     Smith's Wharf at or about three o'clock last Tuesday morning in the
     steam launch Aurora, black with two red stripes, funnel black with a
     white band, the sum of five pounds will be paid to any one who can
     give information to Mrs. Smith, at Smith's Wharf, or at 221b Baker
     Street, as to the whereabouts of the said Mordecai Smith and the
     launch Aurora."

     This was clearly Holmes's doing. The Baker Street address was enough
     to prove that. It struck me as rather ingenious, because it might be
     read by the fugitives without their seeing in it more than the
     natural anxiety of a wife for her missing husband.

     It was a long day. Every time that a knock came to the door, or a
     sharp step passed in the street, I imagined that it was either Holmes
     returning or an answer to his advertisement. I tried to read, but my
     thoughts would wander off to our strange quest and to the
     ill-assorted and villainous pair whom we were pursuing. Could there
     be, I wondered, some radical flaw in my companion's reasoning. Might
     he be suffering from some huge self-deception? Was it not possible
     that his nimble and speculative mind had built up this wild theory
     upon faulty premises? I had never known him to be wrong; and yet the
     keenest reasoner may occasionally be deceived. He was likely, I
     thought, to fall into error through the over-refinement of his
     logic,--his preference for a subtle and bizarre explanation when a
     plainer and more commonplace one lay ready to his hand. Yet, on the
     other hand, I had myself seen the evidence, and I had heard the
     reasons for his deductions. When I looked back on the long chain of
     curious circumstances, many of them trivial in themselves, but all
     tending in the same direction, I could not disguise from myself that
     even if Holmes's explanation were incorrect the true theory must be
     equally outrÃ© and startling.

     At three o'clock in the afternoon there was a loud peal at the bell,
     an authoritative voice in the hall, and, to my surprise, no less a
     person than Mr. Athelney Jones was shown up to me. Very different was
     he, however, from the brusque and masterful professor of common sense
     who had taken over the case so confidently at Upper Norwood. His
     expression was downcast, and his bearing meek and even apologetic.

     "Good-day, sir; good-day," said he. "Mr. Sherlock Holmes is out, I
     understand."

     "Yes, and I cannot be sure when he will be back. But perhaps you
     would care to wait. Take that chair and try one of these cigars."

     "Thank you; I don't mind if I do," said he, mopping his face with a
     red bandanna handkerchief.

     "And a whiskey-and-soda?"

     "Well, half a glass. It is very hot for the time of year; and I have
     had a good deal to worry and try me. You know my theory about this
     Norwood case?"

     "I remember that you expressed one."

     "Well, I have been obliged to reconsider it. I had my net drawn
     tightly round Mr. Sholto, sir, when pop he went through a hole in the
     middle of it. He was able to prove an alibi which could not be
     shaken. From the time that he left his brother's room he was never
     out of sight of some one or other. So it could not be he who climbed
     over roofs and through trap-doors. It's a very dark case, and my
     professional credit is at stake. I should be very glad of a little
     assistance."

     "We all need help sometimes," said I.

     "Your friend Mr. Sherlock Holmes is a wonderful man, sir," said he,
     in a husky and confidential voice. "He's a man who is not to be beat.
     I have known that young man go into a good many cases, but I never
     saw the case yet that he could not throw a light upon. He is
     irregular in his methods, and a little quick perhaps in jumping at
     theories, but, on the whole, I think he would have made a most
     promising officer, and I don't care who knows it. I have had a wire
     from him this morning, by which I understand that he has got some
     clue to this Sholto business. Here is the message."

     He took the telegram out of his pocket, and handed it to me. It was
     dated from Poplar at twelve o'clock. "Go to Baker Street at once," it
     said. "If I have not returned, wait for me. I am close on the track
     of the Sholto gang. You can come with us to-night if you want to be
     in at the finish."

     "This sounds well. He has evidently picked up the scent again," said
     I.

     "Ah, then he has been at fault too," exclaimed Jones, with evident
     satisfaction. "Even the best of us are thrown off sometimes. Of
     course this may prove to be a false alarm; but it is my duty as an
     officer of the law to allow no chance to slip. But there is some one
     at the door. Perhaps this is he."

     A heavy step was heard ascending the stair, with a great wheezing and
     rattling as from a man who was sorely put to it for breath. Once or
     twice he stopped, as though the climb were too much for him, but at
     last he made his way to our door and entered. His appearance
     corresponded to the sounds which we had heard. He was an aged man,
     clad in seafaring garb, with an old pea-jacket buttoned up to his
     throat. His back was bowed, his knees were shaky, and his breathing
     was painfully asthmatic. As he leaned upon a thick oaken cudgel his
     shoulders heaved in the effort to draw the air into his lungs. He had
     a colored scarf round his chin, and I could see little of his face
     save a pair of keen dark eyes, overhung by bushy white brows, and
     long gray side-whiskers. Altogether he gave me the impression of a
     respectable master mariner who had fallen into years and poverty.

     "What is it, my man?" I asked.

     He looked about him in the slow methodical fashion of old age.

     "Is Mr. Sherlock Holmes here?" said he.

     "No; but I am acting for him. You can tell me any message you have
     for him."

     "It was to him himself I was to tell it," said he.

     "But I tell you that I am acting for him. Was it about Mordecai
     Smith's boat?"

     "Yes. I knows well where it is. An' I knows where the men he is after
     are. An' I knows where the treasure is. I knows all about it."

     "Then tell me, and I shall let him know."

     "It was to him I was to tell it," he repeated, with the petulant
     obstinacy of a very old man.

     "Well, you must wait for him."

     "No, no; I ain't goin' to lose a whole day to please no one. If Mr.
     Holmes ain't here, then Mr. Holmes must find it all out for himself.
     I don't care about the look of either of you, and I won't tell a
     word."

     He shuffled towards the door, but Athelney Jones got in front of him.

     "Wait a bit, my friend," said he. "You have important information,
     and you must not walk off. We shall keep you, whether you like or
     not, until our friend returns."

     The old man made a little run towards the door, but, as Athelney
     Jones put his broad back up against it, he recognized the uselessness
     of resistance.

     "Pretty sort o' treatment this!" he cried, stamping his stick. "I
     come here to see a gentleman, and you two, who I never saw in my
     life, seize me and treat me in this fashion!"

     "You will be none the worse," I said. "We shall recompense you for
     the loss of your time. Sit over here on the sofa, and you will not
     have long to wait."

     He came across sullenly enough, and seated himself with his face
     resting on his hands. Jones and I resumed our cigars and our talk.
     Suddenly, however, Holmes's voice broke in upon us.

     "I think that you might offer me a cigar too," he said.

     We both started in our chairs. There was Holmes sitting close to us
     with an air of quiet amusement.

     "Holmes!" I exclaimed. "You here! But where is the old man?"

     "Here is the old man," said he, holding out a heap of white hair.
     "Here he is,--wig, whiskers, eyebrows, and all. I thought my disguise
     was pretty good, but I hardly expected that it would stand that
     test."

     "Ah, you rogue!" cried Jones, highly delighted. "You would have made
     an actor, and a rare one. You had the proper workhouse cough, and
     those weak legs of yours are worth ten pound a week. I thought I knew
     the glint of your eye, though. You didn't get away from us so easily,
     you see."

     "I have been working in that get-up all day," said he, lighting his
     cigar. "You see, a good many of the criminal classes begin to know
     me,--especially since our friend here took to publishing some of my
     cases: so I can only go on the war-path under some simple disguise
     like this. You got my wire?"

     "Yes; that was what brought me here."

     "How has your case prospered?"

     "It has all come to nothing. I have had to release two of my
     prisoners, and there is no evidence against the other two."

     "Never mind. We shall give you two others in the place of them. But
     you must put yourself under my orders. You are welcome to all the
     official credit, but you must act on the line that I point out. Is
     that agreed?"

     "Entirely, if you will help me to the men."

     "Well, then, in the first place I shall want a fast police-boat--a
     steam launch--to be at the Westminster Stairs at seven o'clock."

     "That is easily managed. There is always one about there; but I can
     step across the road and telephone to make sure."

     "Then I shall want two stanch men, in case of resistance."

     "There will be two or three in the boat. What else?"

     "When we secure the men we shall get the treasure. I think that it
     would be a pleasure to my friend here to take the box round to the
     young lady to whom half of it rightfully belongs. Let her be the
     first to open it.--Eh, Watson?"

     "It would be a great pleasure to me."

     "Rather an irregular proceeding," said Jones, shaking his head.
     "However, the whole thing is irregular, and I suppose we must wink at
     it. The treasure must afterwards be handed over to the authorities
     until after the official investigation."

     "Certainly. That is easily managed. One other point. I should much
     like to have a few details about this matter from the lips of
     Jonathan Small himself. You know I like to work the detail of my
     cases out. There is no objection to my having an unofficial interview
     with him, either here in my rooms or elsewhere, as long as he is
     efficiently guarded?"

     "Well, you are master of the situation. I have had no proof yet of
     the existence of this Jonathan Small. However, if you can catch him I
     don't see how I can refuse you an interview with him."

     "That is understood, then?"

     "Perfectly. Is there anything else?"

     "Only that I insist upon your dining with us. It will be ready in
     half an hour. I have oysters and a brace of grouse, with something a
     little choice in white wines.--Watson, you have never yet recognized
     my merits as a housekeeper."

     Our meal was a merry one. Holmes coud talk exceedingly well when he
     chose, and that night he did choose. He appeared to be in a state of
     nervous exaltation. I have never known him so brilliant. He spoke on
     a quick succession of subjects,--on miracle-plays, on medieval
     pottery, on Stradivarius violins, on the Buddhism of Ceylon, and on
     the war-ships of the future,--handling each as though he had made a
     special study of it. His bright humor marked the reaction from his
     black depression of the preceding days. Athelney Jones proved to be a
     sociable soul in his hours of relaxation, and face his dinner with
     the air of a bon vivant. For myself, I felt elated at the thought
     that we were nearing the end of our task, and I caught something of
     Holmes's gaiety. None of us alluded during dinner to the cause which
     had brought us together.

     When the cloth was cleared, Holmes glanced at this watch, and filled
     up three glasses with port. "One bumper," said he, "to the success of
     our little expedition. And now it is high time we were off. Have you
     a pistol, Watson?"

     "I have my old service-revolver in my desk."

     "You had best take it, then. It is well to be prepared. I see that
     the cab is at the door. I ordered it for half-past six."

     It was a little past seven before we reached the Westminster wharf,
     and found our launch awaiting us. Holmes eyed it critically.

     "Is there anything to mark it as a police-boat?"

     "Yes,--that green lamp at the side."

     "Then take it off."

     The small change was made, we stepped on board, and the ropes were
     cast off. Jones, Holmes, and I sat in the stern. There was one man at
     the rudder, one to tend the engines, and two burly police-inspectors
     forward.

     "Where to?" asked Jones.

     "To the Tower. Tell them to stop opposite Jacobson's Yard."

     Our craft was evidently a very fast one. We shot past the long lines
     of loaded barges as though they were stationary. Holmes smiled with
     satisfaction as we overhauled a river steamer and left her behind us.

     "We ought to be able to catch anything on the river," he said.

     "Well, hardly that. But there are not many launches to beat us."

     "We shall have to catch the Aurora, and she has a name for being a
     clipper. I will tell you how the land lies, Watson. You recollect how
     annoyed I was at being balked by so small a thing?"

     "Yes."

     "Well, I gave my mind a thorough rest by plunging into a chemical
     analysis. One of our greatest statesmen has said that a change of
     work is the best rest. So it is. When I had succeeded in dissolving
     the hydrocarbon which I was at work at, I came back to our problem of
     the Sholtos, and thought the whole matter out again. My boys had been
     up the river and down the river without result. The launch was not at
     any landing-stage or wharf, nor had it returned. Yet it could hardly
     have been scuttled to hide their traces,--though that always remained
     as a possible hypothesis if all else failed. I knew this man Small
     had a certain degree of low cunning, but I did not think him capable
     of anything in the nature of delicate finesse. That is usually a
     product of higher education. I then reflected that since he had
     certainly been in London some time--as we had evidence that he
     maintained a continual watch over Pondicherry Lodge--he could hardly
     leave at a moment's notice, but would need some little time, if it
     were only a day, to arrange his affairs. That was the balance of
     probability, at any rate."

     "It seems to me to be a little weak," said I. "It is more probable
     that he had arranged his affairs before ever he set out upon his
     expedition."

     "No, I hardly think so. This lair of his would be too valuable a
     retreat in case of need for him to give it up until he was sure that
     he could do without it. But a second consideration struck me.
     Jonathan Small must have felt that the peculiar appearance of his
     companion, however much he may have top-coated him, would give rise
     to gossip, and possibly be associated with this Norwood tragedy. He
     was quite sharp enough to see that. They had started from their
     head-quarters under cover of darkness, and he would wish to get back
     before it was broad light. Now, it was past three o'clock, according
     to Mrs. Smith, when they got the boat. It would be quite bright, and
     people would be about in an hour or so. Therefore, I argued, they did
     not go very far. They paid Smith well to hold his tongue, reserved
     his launch for the final escape, and hurried to their lodgings with
     the treasure-box. In a couple of nights, when they had time to see
     what view the papers took, and whether there was any suspicion, they
     would make their way under cover of darkness to some ship at
     Gravesend or in the Downs, where no doubt they had already arranged
     for passages to America or the Colonies."

     "But the launch? They could not have taken that to their lodgings."

     "Quite so. I argued that the launch must be no great way off, in
     spite of its invisibility. I then put myself in the place of Small,
     and looked at it as a man of his capacity would. He would probably
     consider that to send back the launch or to keep it at a wharf would
     make pursuit easy if the police did happen to get on his track. How,
     then, could he conceal the launch and yet have her at hand when
     wanted? I wondered what I should do myself if I were in his shoes. I
     could only think of one way of doing it. I might land the launch over
     to some boat-builder or repairer, with directions to make a trifling
     change in her. She would then be removed to his shed or hard, and so
     be effectually concealed, while at the same time I could have her at
     a few hours' notice."

     "That seems simple enough."

     "It is just these very simple things which are extremely liable to be
     overlooked. However, I determined to act on the idea. I started at
     once in this harmless seaman's rig and inquired at all the yards down
     the river. I drew blank at fifteen, but at the
     sixteenth--Jacobson's--I learned that the Aurora had been handed over
     to them two days ago by a wooden-legged man, with some trivial
     directions as to her rudder. 'There ain't naught amiss with her
     rudder,' said the foreman. 'There she lies, with the red streaks.' At
     that moment who should come down but Mordecai Smith, the missing
     owner? He was rather the worse for liquor. I should not, of course,
     have known him, but he bellowed out his name and the name of his
     launch. 'I want her to-night at eight o'clock,' said he,--'eight
     o'clock sharp, mind, for I have two gentlemen who won't be kept
     waiting.' They had evidently paid him well, for he was very flush of
     money, chucking shillings about to the men. I followed him some
     distance, but he subsided into an ale-house: so I went back to the
     yard, and, happening to pick up one of my boys on the way, I
     stationed him as a sentry over the launch. He is to stand at water's
     edge and wave his handkerchief to us when they start. We shall be
     lying off in the stream, and it will be a strange thing if we do not
     take men, treasure, and all."

     "You have planned it all very neatly, whether they are the right men
     or not," said Jones; "but if the affair were in my hands I should
     have had a body of police in Jacobson's Yard, and arrested them when
     they came down."

     "Which would have been never. This man Small is a pretty shrewd
     fellow. He would send a scout on ahead, and if anything made him
     suspicious lie snug for another week."

     "But you might have stuck to Mordecai Smith, and so been led to their
     hiding-place," said I.

     "In that case I should have wasted my day. I think that it is a
     hundred to one against Smith knowing where they live. As long as he
     has liquor and good pay, why should he ask questions? They send him
     messages what to do. No, I thought over every possible course, and
     this is the best."

     While this conversation had been proceeding, we had been shooting the
     long series of bridges which span the Thames. As we passed the City
     the last rays of the sun were gilding the cross upon the summit of
     St. Paul's. It was twilight before we reached the Tower.

     "That is Jacobson's Yard," said Holmes, pointing to a bristle of
     masts and rigging on the Surrey side. "Cruise gently up and down here
     under cover of this string of lighters." He took a pair of
     night-glasses from his pocket and gazed some time at the shore. "I
     see my sentry at his post," he remarked, "but no sign of a
     handkerchief."

     "Suppose we go down-stream a short way and lie in wait for them,"
     said Jones, eagerly. We were all eager by this time, even the
     policemen and stokers, who had a very vague idea of what was going
     forward.

     "We have no right to take anything for granted," Holmes answered. "It
     is certainly ten to one that they go down-stream, but we cannot be
     certain. From this point we can see the entrance of the yard, and
     they can hardly see us. It will be a clear night and plenty of light.
     We must stay where we are. See how the folk swarm over yonder in the
     gaslight."

     "They are coming from work in the yard."

     "Dirty-looking rascals, but I suppose every one has some little
     immortal spark concealed about him. You would not think it, to look
     at them. There is no a priori probability about it. A strange enigma
     is man!"

     "Some one calls him a soul concealed in an animal," I suggested.

     "Winwood Reade is good upon the subject," said Holmes. "He remarks
     that, while the individual man is an insoluble puzzle, in the
     aggregate he becomes a mathematical certainty. You can, for example,
     never foretell what any one man will do, but you can say with
     precision what an average number will be up to. Individuals vary, but
     percentages remain constant. So says the statistician. But do I see a
     handkerchief? Surely there is a white flutter over yonder."

     "Yes, it is your boy," I cried. "I can see him plainly."

     "And there is the Aurora," exclaimed Holmes, "and going like the
     devil! Full speed ahead, engineer. Make after that launch with the
     yellow light. By heaven, I shall never forgive myself if she proves
     to have the heels of us!"

     She had slipped unseen through the yard-entrance and passed behind
     two or three small craft, so that she had fairly got her speed up
     before we saw her. Now she was flying down the stream, near in to the
     shore, going at a tremendous rate. Jones looked gravely at her and
     shook his head.

     "She is very fast," he said. "I doubt if we shall catch her."

     "We must catch her!" cried Holmes, between his teeth. "Heap it on,
     stokers! Make her do all she can! If we burn the boat we must have
     them!"

     We were fairly after her now. The furnaces roared, and the powerful
     engines whizzed and clanked, like a great metallic heart. Her sharp,
     steep prow cut through the river-water and sent two rolling waves to
     right and to left of us. With every throb of the engines we sprang
     and quivered like a living thing. One great yellow lantern in our
     bows threw a long, flickering funnel of light in front of us. Right
     ahead a dark blur upon the water showed where the Aurora lay, and the
     swirl of white foam behind her spoke of the pace at which she was
     going. We flashed past barges, steamers, merchant-vessels, in and
     out, behind this one and round the other. Voices hailed us out of the
     darkness, but still the Aurora thundered on, and still we followed
     close upon her track.

     "Pile it on, men, pile it on!" cried Holmes, looking down into the
     engine-room, while the fierce glow from below beat upon his eager,
     aquiline face. "Get every pound of steam you can."

     "I think we gain a little," said Jones, with his eyes on the Aurora.

     "I am sure of it," said I. "We shall be up with her in a very few
     minutes."

     At that moment, however, as our evil fate would have it, a tug with
     three barges in tow blundered in between us. It was only by putting
     our helm hard down that we avoided a collision, and before we could
     round them and recover our way the Aurora had gained a good two
     hundred yards. She was still, however, well in view, and the murky
     uncertain twilight was setting into a clear starlit night. Our
     boilers were strained to their utmost, and the frail shell vibrated
     and creaked with the fierce energy which was driving us along. We had
     shot through the Pool, past the West India Docks, down the long
     Deptford Reach, and up again after rounding the Isle of Dogs. The
     dull blur in front of us resolved itself now clearly enough into the
     dainty Aurora. Jones turned our search-light upon her, so that we
     could plainly see the figures upon her deck. One man sat by the
     stern, with something black between his knees over which he stooped.
     Beside him lay a dark mass which looked like a Newfoundland dog. The
     boy held the tiller, while against the red glare of the furnace I
     could see old Smith, stripped to the waist, and shovelling coals for
     dear life. They may have had some doubt at first as to whether we
     were really pursuing them, but now as we followed every winding and
     turning which they took there could no longer be any question about
     it. At Greenwich we were about three hundred paces behind them. At
     Blackwall we could not have been more than two hundred and fifty. I
     have coursed many creatures in many countries during my checkered
     career, but never did sport give me such a wild thrill as this mad,
     flying man-hunt down the Thames. Steadily we drew in upon them, yard
     by yard. In the silence of the night we could hear the panting and
     clanking of their machinery. The man in the stern still crouched upon
     the deck, and his arms were moving as though he were busy, while
     every now and then he would look up and measure with a glance the
     distance which still separated us. Nearer we came and nearer. Jones
     yelled to them to stop. We were not more than four boat's lengths
     behind them, both boats flying at a tremendous pace. It was a clear
     reach of the river, with Barking Level upon one side and the
     melancholy Plumstead Marshes upon the other. At our hail the man in
     the stern sprang up from the deck and shook his two clinched fists at
     us, cursing the while in a high, cracked voice. He was a good-sized,
     powerful man, and as he stood poising himself with legs astride I
     could see that from the thigh downwards there was but a wooden stump
     upon the right side. At the sound of his strident, angry cries there
     was movement in the huddled bundle upon the deck. It straightened
     itself into a little black man--the smallest I have ever seen--with a
     great, misshapen head and a shock of tangled, dishevelled hair.
     Holmes had already drawn his revolver, and I whipped out mine at the
     sight of this savage, distorted creature. He was wrapped in some sort
     of dark ulster or blanket, which left only his face exposed; but that
     face was enough to give a man a sleepless night. Never have I seen
     features so deeply marked with all bestiality and cruelty. His small
     eyes glowed and burned with a sombre light, and his thick lips were
     writhed back from his teeth, which grinned and chattered at us with a
     half animal fury.

     "Fire if he raises his hand," said Holmes, quietly. We were within a
     boat's-length by this time, and almost within touch of our quarry. I
     can see the two of them now as they stood, the white man with his
     legs far apart, shrieking out curses, and the unhallowed dwarf with
     his hideous face, and his strong yellow teeth gnashing at us in the
     light of our lantern.

     It was well that we had so clear a view of him. Even as we looked he
     plucked out from under his covering a short, round piece of wood,
     like a school-ruler, and clapped it to his lips. Our pistols rang out
     together. He whirled round, threw up his arms, and with a kind of
     choking cough fell sideways into the stream. I caught one glimpse of
     his venomous, menacing eyes amid the white swirl of the waters. At
     the same moment the wooden-legged man threw himself upon the rudder
     and put it hard down, so that his boat made straight in for the
     southern bank, while we shot past her stern, only clearing her by a
     few feet. We were round after her in an instant, but she was already
     nearly at the bank. It was a wild and desolate place, where the moon
     glimmered upon a wide expanse of marsh-land, with pools of stagnant
     water and beds of decaying vegetation. The launch with a dull thud
     ran up upon the mud-bank, with her bow in the air and her stern flush
     with the water. The fugitive sprang out, but his stump instantly sank
     its whole length into the sodden soil. In vain he struggled and
     writhed. Not one step could he possibly take either forwards or
     backwards. He yelled in impotent rage, and kicked frantically into
     the mud with his other foot, but his struggles only bored his wooden
     pin the deeper into the sticky bank. When we brought our launch
     alongside he was so firmly anchored that it was only by throwing the
     end of a rope over his shoulders that we were able to haul him out,
     and to drag him, like some evil fish, over our side. The two Smiths,
     father and son, sat sullenly in their launch, but came aboard meekly
     enough when commanded. The Aurora herself we hauled off and made fast
     to our stern. A solid iron chest of Indian workmanship stood upon the
     deck. This, there could be no question, was the same that had
     contained the ill-omened treasure of the Sholtos. There was no key,
     but it was of considerable weight, so we transferred it carefully to
     our own little cabin. As we steamed slowly up-stream again, we
     flashed our search-light in every direction, but there was no sign of
     the Islander. Somewhere in the dark ooze at the bottom of the Thames
     lie the bones of that strange visitor to our shores.

     "See here," said Holmes, pointing to the wooden hatchway. "We were
     hardly quick enough with our pistols." There, sure enough, just
     behind where we had been standing, stuck one of those murderous darts
     which we knew so well. It must have whizzed between us at the instant
     that we fired. Holmes smiled at it and shrugged his shoulders in his
     easy fashion, but I confess that it turned me sick to think of the
     horrible death which had passed so close to us that night.

     Our captive sat in the cabin opposite to the iron box which he had
     done so much and waited so long to gain. He was a sunburned,
     reckless-eyed fellow, with a net-work of lines and wrinkles all over
     his mahogany features, which told of a hard, open-air life. There was
     a singular prominence about his bearded chin which marked a man who
     was not to be easily turned from his purpose. His age may have been
     fifty or thereabouts, for his black, curly hair was thickly shot with
     gray. His face in repose was not an unpleasing one, though his heavy
     brows and aggressive chin gave him, as I had lately seen, a terrible
     expression when moved to anger. He sat now with his handcuffed hands
     upon his lap, and his head sunk upon his breast, while he looked with
     his keen, twinkling eyes at the box which had been the cause of his
     ill-doings. It seemed to me that there was more sorrow than anger in
     his rigid and contained countenance. Once he looked up at me with a
     gleam of something like humour in his eyes.

     "Well, Jonathan Small," said Holmes, lighting a cigar, "I am sorry
     that it has come to this."

     "And so am I, sir," he answered, frankly. "I don't believe that I can
     swing over the job. I give you my word on the book that I never
     raised hand against Mr. Sholto. It was that little hell-hound Tonga
     who shot one of his cursed darts into him. I had no part in it, sir.
     I was as grieved as if it had been my blood-relation. I welted the
     little devil with the slack end of the rope for it, but it was done,
     and I could not undo it again."

     "Have a cigar," said Holmes; "and you had best take a pull out of my
     flask, for you are very wet. How could you expect so small and weak a
     man as this black fellow to overpower Mr. Sholto and hold him while
     you were climbing the rope?"

     "You seem to know as much about it as if you were there, sir. The
     truth is that I hoped to find the room clear. I knew the habits of
     the house pretty well, and it was the time when Mr. Sholto usually
     went down to his supper. I shall make no secret of the business. The
     best defence that I can make is just the simple truth. Now, if it had
     been the old major I would have swung for him with a light heart. I
     would have thought no more of knifing him than of smoking this cigar.
     But it's cursed hard that I should be lagged over this young Sholto,
     with whom I had no quarrel whatever."

     "You are under the charge of Mr. Athelney Jones, of Scotland Yard. He
     is going to bring you up to my rooms, and I shall ask you for a true
     account of the matter. You must make a clean breast of it, for if you
     do I hope that I may be of use to you.  I think I can prove that the
     poison acts so quickly that the man was dead before ever you reached
     the room."

     "That he was, sir. I never got such a turn in my life as when I saw
     him grinning at me with his head on his shoulder as I climbed through
     the window. It fairly shook me, sir. I'd have half killed Tonga for
     it if he had not scrambled off. That was how he came to leave his
     club, and some of his darts too, as he tells me, which I dare say
     helped to put you on our track; though how you kept on it is more
     than I can tell. I don't feel no malice against you for it. But it
     does seem a queer thing," he added, with a bitter smile, "that I who
     have a fair claim to nigh upon half a million of money should spend
     the first half of my life building a breakwater in the Andamans, and
     am like to spend the other half digging drains at Dartmoor. It was an
     evil day for me when first I clapped eyes upon the merchant Achmet
     and had to do with the Agra treasure, which never brought anything
     but a curse yet upon the man who owned it. To him it brought murder,
     to Major Sholto it brought fear and guilt, to me it has meant slavery
     for life."

     At this moment Athelney Jones thrust his broad face and heavy
     shoulders into the tiny cabin. "Quite a family party," he remarked.
     "I think I shall have a pull at that flask, Holmes.  Well, I think we
     may all congratulate each other. Pity we didn't take the other alive;
     but there was no choice. I say, Holmes, you must confess that you cut
     it rather fine. It was all we could do to overhaul her."

     "All is well that ends well," said Holmes. "But I certainly did not
     know that the Aurora was such a clipper."

     "Smith says she is one of the fastest launches on the river, and that
     if he had had another man to help him with the engines we should
     never have caught her. He swears he knew nothing of this Norwood
     business."

     "Neither he did," cried our prisoner,--"not a word. I chose his
     launch because I heard that she was a flier. We told him nothing, but
     we paid him well, and he was to get something handsome if we reached
     our vessel, the Esmeralda, at Gravesend, outward bound for the
     Brazils."

     "Well, if he has done no wrong we shall see that no wrong comes to
     him. If we are pretty quick in catching our men, we are not so quick
     in condemning them." It was amusing to notice how the consequential
     Jones was already beginning to give himself airs on the strength of
     the capture. From the slight smile which played over Sherlock
     Holmes's face, I could see that the speech had not been lost upon
     him.

     "We will be at Vauxhall Bridge presently," said Jones, "and shall
     land you, Dr. Watson, with the treasure-box. I need hardly tell you
     that I am taking a very grave responsibility upon myself in doing
     this. It is most irregular; but of course an agreement is an
     agreement. I must, however, as a matter of duty, send an inspector
     with you, since you have so valuable a charge. You will drive, no
     doubt?"

     "Yes, I shall drive."

     "It is a pity there is no key, that we may make an inventory first.
     You will have to break it open. Where is the key, my man?"

     "At the bottom of the river," said Small, shortly.

     "Hum! There was no use your giving this unnecessary trouble. We have
     had work enough already through you. However, doctor, I need not warn
     you to be careful. Bring the box back with you to the Baker Street
     rooms. You will find us there, on our way to the station."

     They landed me at Vauxhall, with my heavy iron box, and with a bluff,
     genial inspector as my companion. A quarter of an hour's drive
     brought us to Mrs. Cecil Forrester's. The servant seemed surprised at
     so late a visitor. Mrs. Cecil Forrester was out for the evening, she
     explained, and likely to be very late. Miss Morstan, however, was in
     the drawing-room: so to the drawing-room I went, box in hand, leaving
     the obliging inspector in the cab.

     She was seated by the open window, dressed in some sort of white
     diaphanous material, with a little touch of scarlet at the neck and
     waist. The soft light of a shaded lamp fell upon her as she leaned
     back in the basket chair, playing over her sweet, grave face, and
     tinting with a dull, metallic sparkle the rich coils of her luxuriant
     hair. One white arm and hand drooped over the side of the chair, and
     her whole pose and figure spoke of an absorbing melancholy. At the
     sound of my foot-fall she sprang to her feet, however, and a bright
     flush of surprise and of pleasure colored her pale cheeks.

     "I heard a cab drive up," she said. "I thought that Mrs. Forrester
     had come back very early, but I never dreamed that it might be you.
     What news have you brought me?"

     "I have brought something better than news," said I, putting down the
     box upon the table and speaking jovially and boisterously, though my
     heart was heavy within me. "I have brought you something which is
     worth all the news in the world. I have brought you a fortune."

     She glanced at iron box. "Is that the treasure, then?" she asked,
     coolly enough.

     "Yes, this is the great Agra treasure. Half of it is yours and half
     is Thaddeus Sholto's. You will have a couple of hundred thousand
     each. Think of that! An annuity of ten thousand pounds. There will be
     few richer young ladies in England. Is it not glorious?"

     I think that I must have been rather overacting my delight, and that
     she detected a hollow ring in my congratulations, for I saw her
     eyebrows rise a little, and she glanced at me curiously.

     "If I have it," said she, "I owe it to you."

     "No, no," I answered, "not to me, but to my friend Sherlock Holmes.
     With all the will in the world, I could never have followed up a clue
     which has taxed even his analytical genius.  As it was, we very
     nearly lost it at the last moment."

     "Pray sit down and tell me all about it, Dr. Watson," said she.

     I narrated briefly what had occurred since I had seen her
     last,--Holmes's new method of search, the discovery of the Aurora,
     the appearance of Athelney Jones, our expedition in the evening, and
     the wild chase down the Thames. She listened with parted lips and
     shining eyes to my recital of our adventures. When I spoke of the
     dart which had so narrowly missed us, she turned so white that I
     feared that she was about to faint.

     "It is nothing," she said, as I hastened to pour her out some water.
     "I am all right again. It was a shock to me to hear that I had placed
     my friends in such horrible peril."

     "That is all over," I answered. "It was nothing. I will tell you no
     more gloomy details. Let us turn to something brighter. There is the
     treasure. What could be brighter than that? I got leave to bring it
     with me, thinking that it would interest you to be the first to see
     it."

     "It would be of the greatest interest to me," she said. There was no
     eagerness in her voice, however. It had struck her, doubtless, that
     it might seem ungracious upon her part to be indifferent to a prize
     which had cost so much to win.

     "What a pretty box!" she said, stooping over it. "This is Indian
     work, I suppose?"

     "Yes; it is Benares metal-work."

     "And so heavy!" she exclaimed, trying to raise it. "The box alone
     must be of some value. Where is the key?"

     "Small threw it into the Thames," I answered. "I must borrow Mrs.
     Forrester's poker." There was in the front a thick and broad hasp,
     wrought in the image of a sitting Buddha. Under this I thrust the end
     of the poker and twisted it outward as a lever. The hasp sprang open
     with a loud snap. With trembling fingers I flung back the lid. We
     both stood gazing in astonishment. The box was empty!

     No wonder that it was heavy. The iron-work was two-thirds of an inch
     thick all round. It was massive, well made, and solid, like a chest
     constructed to carry things of great price, but not one shred or
     crumb of metal or jewelry lay within it. It was absolutely and
     completely empty.

     "The treasure is lost," said Miss Morstan, calmly.

     As I listened to the words and realized what they meant, a great
     shadow seemed to pass from my soul. I did not know how this Agra
     treasure had weighed me down, until now that it was finally removed.
     It was selfish, no doubt, disloyal, wrong, but I could realize
     nothing save that the golden barrier was gone from between us. "Thank
     God!" I ejaculated from my very heart.

     She looked at me with a quick, questioning smile. "Why do you say
     that?" she asked.

     "Because you are within my reach again," I said, taking her hand. She
     did not withdraw it. "Because I love you, Mary, as truly as ever a
     man loved a woman. Because this treasure, these riches, sealed my
     lips. Now that they are gone I can tell you how I love you. That is
     why I said, 'Thank God.'"

     "Then I say, 'Thank God,' too," she whispered, as I drew her to my
     side. Whoever had lost a treasure, I knew that night that I had
     gained one.

     A very patient man was that inspector in the cab, for it was a weary
     time before I rejoined him. His face clouded over when I showed him
     the empty box.

     "There goes the reward!" said he, gloomily. "Where there is no money
     there is no pay. This night's work would have been worth a tenner
     each to Sam Brown and me if the treasure had been there."

     "Mr. Thaddeus Sholto is a rich man," I said. "He will see that you
     are rewarded, treasure or no."

     The inspector shook his head despondently, however. "It's a bad job,"
     he repeated; "and so Mr. Athelney Jones will think."

     His forecast proved to be correct, for the detective looked blank
     enough when I got to Baker Street and showed him the empty box. They
     had only just arrived, Holmes, the prisoner, and he, for they had
     changed their plans so far as to report themselves at a station upon
     the way. My companion lounged in his arm-chair with his usual
     listless expression, while Small sat stolidly opposite to him with
     his wooden leg cocked over his sound one. As I exhibited the empty
     box he leaned back in his chair and laughed aloud.

     "This is your doing, Small," said Athelney Jones, angrily.

     "Yes, I have put it away where you shall never lay hand upon it," he
     cried, exultantly. "It is my treasure; and if I can't have the loot
     I'll take darned good care that no one else does. I tell you that no
     living man has any right to it, unless it is three men who are in the
     Andaman convict-barracks and myself. I know now that I cannot have
     the use of it, and I know that they cannot. I have acted all through
     for them as much as for myself. It's been the sign of four with us
     always. Well I know that they would have had me do just what I have
     done, and throw the treasure into the Thames rather than let it go to
     kith or kin of Sholto or of Morstan. It was not to make them rich
     that we did for Achmet. You'll find the treasure where the key is,
     and where little Tonga is. When I saw that your launch must catch us,
     I put the loot away in a safe place. There are no rupees for you this
     journey."

     "You are deceiving us, Small," said Athelney Jones, sternly. "If you
     had wished to throw the treasure into the Thames it would have been
     easier for you to have thrown box and all."

     "Easier for me to throw, and easier for you to recover," he answered,
     with a shrewd, sidelong look. "The man that was clever enough to hunt
     me down is clever enough to pick an iron box from the bottom of a
     river. Now that they are scattered over five miles or so, it may be a
     harder job. It went to my heart to do it, though. I was half mad when
     you came up with us. However, there's no good grieving over it. I've
     had ups in my life, and I've had downs, but I've learned not to cry
     over spilled milk."

     "This is a very serious matter, Small," said the detective. "If you
     had helped justice, instead of thwarting it in this way, you would
     have had a better chance at your trial."

     "Justice!" snarled the ex-convict. "A pretty justice! Whose loot is
     this, if it is not ours? Where is the justice that I should give it
     up to those who have never earned it? Look how I have earned it!
     Twenty long years in that fever-ridden swamp, all day at work under
     the mangrove-tree, all night chained up in the filthy convict-huts,
     bitten by mosquitoes, racked with ague, bullied by every cursed
     black-faced policeman who loved to take it out of a white man. That
     was how I earned the Agra treasure; and you talk to me of justice
     because I cannot bear to feel that I have paid this price only that
     another may enjoy it! I would rather swing a score of times, or have
     one of Tonga's darts in my hide, than live in a convict's cell and
     feel that another man is at his ease in a palace with the money that
     should be mine." Small had dropped his mask of stoicism, and all this
     came out in a wild whirl of words, while his eyes blazed, and the
     handcuffs clanked together with the impassioned movement of his
     hands. I could understand, as I saw the fury and the passion of the
     man, that it was no groundless or unnatural terror which had
     possessed Major Sholto when he first learned that the injured convict
     was upon his track.

     "You forget that we know nothing of all this," said Holmes quietly.
     "We have not heard your story, and we cannot tell how far justice may
     originally have been on your side."

     "Well, sir, you have been very fair-spoken to me, though I can see
     that I have you to thank that I have these bracelets upon my wrists.
     Still, I bear no grudge for that. It is all fair and above-board. If
     you want to hear my story I have no wish to hold it back. What I say
     to you is God's truth, every word of it. Thank you; you can put the
     glass beside me here, and I'll put my lips to it if I am dry.

     "I am a Worcestershire man myself,--born near Pershore. I dare say
     you would find a heap of Smalls living there now if you were to look.
     I have often thought of taking a look round there, but the truth is
     that I was never much of a credit to the family, and I doubt if they
     would be so very glad to see me. They were all steady, chapel-going
     folk, small farmers, well known and respected over the country-side,
     while I was always a bit of a rover. At last, however, when I was
     about eighteen, I gave them no more trouble, for I got into a mess
     over a girl, and could only get out of it again by taking the queen's
     shilling and joining the 3d Buffs, which was just starting for India.

     "I wasn't destined to do much soldiering, however. I had just got
     past the goose-step, and learned to handle my musket, when I was fool
     enough to go swimming in the Ganges. Luckily for me, my company
     sergeant, John Holder, was in the water at the same time, and he was
     one of the finest swimmers in the service. A crocodile took me, just
     as I was half-way across, and nipped off my right leg as clean as a
     surgeon could have done it, just above the knee. What with the shock
     and the loss of blood, I fainted, and should have drowned if Holder
     had not caught hold of me and paddled for the bank. I was five months
     in hospital over it, and when at last I was able to limp out of it
     with this timber toe strapped to my stump I found myself invalided
     out of the army and unfitted for any active occupation.

     "I was, as you can imagine, pretty down on my luck at this time, for
     I was a useless cripple though not yet in my twentieth year. However,
     my misfortune soon proved to be a blessing in disguise. A man named
     Abelwhite, who had come out there as an indigo-planter, wanted an
     overseer to look after his coolies and keep them up to their work. He
     happened to be a friend of our colonel's, who had taken an interest
     in me since the accident. To make a long story short, the colonel
     recommended me strongly for the post and, as the work was mostly to
     be done on horseback, my leg was no great obstacle, for I had enough
     knee left to keep good grip on the saddle. What I had to do was to
     ride over the plantation, to keep an eye on the men as they worked,
     and to report the idlers. The pay was fair, I had comfortable
     quarters, and altogether I was content to spend the remainder of my
     life in indigo-planting. Mr. Abelwhite was a kind man, and he would
     often drop into my little shanty and smoke a pipe with me, for white
     folk out there feel their hearts warm to each other as they never do
     here at home.

     "Well, I was never in luck's way long. Suddenly, without a note of
     warning, the great mutiny broke upon us. One month India lay as still
     and peaceful, to all appearance, as Surrey or Kent; the next there
     were two hundred thousand black devils let loose, and the country was
     a perfect hell. Of course you know all about it, gentlemen,--a deal
     more than I do, very like, since reading is not in my line. I only
     know what I saw with my own eyes. Our plantation was at a place
     called Muttra, near the border of the Northwest Provinces. Night
     after night the whole sky was alight with the burning bungalows, and
     day after day we had small companies of Europeans passing through our
     estate with their wives and children, on their way to Agra, where
     were the nearest troops. Mr. Abelwhite was an obstinate man. He had
     it in his head that the affair had been exaggerated, and that it
     would blow over as suddenly as it had sprung up. There he sat on his
     veranda, drinking whiskey-pegs and smoking cheroots, while the
     country was in a blaze about him. Of course we stuck by him, I and
     Dawson, who, with his wife, used to do the book-work and the
     managing. Well, one fine day the crash came. I had been away on a
     distant plantation, and was riding slowly home in the evening, when
     my eye fell upon something all huddled together at the bottom of a
     steep nullah. I rode down to see what it was, and the cold struck
     through my heart when I found it was Dawson's wife, all cut into
     ribbons, and half eaten by jackals and native dogs. A little further
     up the road Dawson himself was lying on his face, quite dead, with an
     empty revolver in his hand and four Sepoys lying across each other in
     front of him. I reined up my horse, wondering which way I should
     turn, but at that moment I saw thick smoke curling up from
     Abelwhite's bungalow and the flames beginning to burst through the
     roof. I knew then that I could do my employer no good, but would only
     throw my own life away if I meddled in the matter. From where I stood
     I could see hundreds of the black fiends, with their red coats still
     on their backs, dancing and howling round the burning house. Some of
     them pointed at me, and a couple of bullets sang past my head; so I
     broke away across the paddy-fields, and found myself late at night
     safe within the walls at Agra.

     "As it proved, however, there was no great safety there, either. The
     whole country was up like a swarm of bees. Wherever the English could
     collect in little bands they held just the ground that their guns
     commanded. Everywhere else they were helpless fugitives. It was a
     fight of the millions against the hundreds; and the cruellest part of
     it was that these men that we fought against, foot, horse, and
     gunners, were our own picked troops, whom we had taught and trained,
     handling our own weapons, and blowing our own bugle-calls. At Agra
     there were the 3d Bengal Fusiliers, some Sikhs, two troops of horse,
     and a battery of artillery. A volunteer corps of clerks and merchants
     had been formed, and this I joined, wooden leg and all. We went out
     to meet the rebels at Shahgunge early in July, and we beat them back
     for a time, but our powder gave out, and we had to fall back upon the
     city. Nothing but the worst news came to us from every side,--which
     is not to be wondered at, for if you look at the map you will see
     that we were right in the heart of it. Lucknow is rather better than
     a hundred miles to the east, and Cawnpore about as far to the south.
     From every point on the compass there was nothing but torture and
     murder and outrage.

     "The city of Agra is a great place, swarming with fanatics and fierce
     devil-worshippers of all sorts. Our handful of men were lost among
     the narrow, winding streets. Our leader moved across the river,
     therefore, and took up his position in the old fort at Agra. I don't
     know if any of you gentlemen have ever read or heard anything of that
     old fort. It is a very queer place,--the queerest that ever I was in,
     and I have been in some rum corners, too. First of all, it is
     enormous in size. I should think that the enclosure must be acres and
     acres. There is a modern part, which took all our garrison, women,
     children, stores, and everything else, with plenty of room over. But
     the modern part is nothing like the size of the old quarter, where
     nobody goes, and which is given over to the scorpions and the
     centipedes. It is all full of great deserted halls, and winding
     passages, and long corridors twisting in and out, so that it is easy
     enough for folk to get lost in it. For this reason it was seldom that
     any one went into it, though now and again a party with torches might
     go exploring.

     "The river washes along the front of the old fort, and so protects
     it, but on the sides and behind there are many doors, and these had
     to be guarded, of course, in the old quarter as well as in that which
     was actually held by our troops. We were short-handed, with hardly
     men enough to man the angles of the building and to serve the guns.
     It was impossible for us, therefore, to station a strong guard at
     every one of the innumerable gates. What we did was to organize a
     central guard-house in the middle of the fort, and to leave each gate
     under the charge of one white man and two or three natives. I was
     selected to take charge during certain hours of the night of a small
     isolated door upon the southwest side of the building. Two Sikh
     troopers were placed under my command, and I was instructed if
     anything went wrong to fire my musket, when I might rely upon help
     coming at once from the central guard. As the guard was a good two
     hundred paces away, however, and as the space between was cut up into
     a labyrinth of passages and corridors, I had great doubts as to
     whether they could arrive in time to be of any use in case of an
     actual attack.

     "Well, I was pretty proud at having this small command given me,
     since I was a raw recruit, and a game-legged one at that. For two
     nights I kept the watch with my Punjaubees. They were tall,
     fierce-looking chaps, Mahomet Singh and Abdullah Khan by name, both
     old fighting-men who had borne arms against us at Chilian-wallah.
     They could talk English pretty well, but I could get little out of
     them. They preferred to stand together and jabber all night in their
     queer Sikh lingo. For myself, I used to stand outside the gate-way,
     looking down on the broad, winding river and on the twinkling lights
     of the great city. The beating of drums, the rattle of tomtoms, and
     the yells and howls of the rebels, drunk with opium and with bang,
     were enough to remind us all night of our dangerous neighbors across
     the stream. Every two hours the officer of the night used to come
     round to all the posts, to make sure that all was well.

     "The third night of my watch was dark and dirty, with a small,
     driving rain. It was dreary work standing in the gate-way hour after
     hour in such weather. I tried again and again to make my Sikhs talk,
     but without much success. At two in the morning the rounds passed,
     and broke for a moment the weariness of the night. Finding that my
     companions would not be led into conversation, I took out my pipe,
     and laid down my musket to strike the match. In an instant the two
     Sikhs were upon me. One of them snatched my firelock up and levelled
     it at my head, while the other held a great knife to my throat and
     swore between his teeth that he would plunge it into me if I moved a
     step.

     "My first thought was that these fellows were in league with the
     rebels, and that this was the beginning of an assault. If our door
     were in the hands of the Sepoys the place must fall, and the women
     and children be treated as they were in Cawnpore. Maybe you gentlemen
     think that I am just making out a case for myself, but I give you my
     word that when I thought of that, though I felt the point of the
     knife at my throat, I opened my mouth with the intention of giving a
     scream, if it was my last one, which might alarm the main guard. The
     man who held me seemed to know my thoughts; for, even as I braced
     myself to it, he whispered, 'Don't make a noise. The fort is safe
     enough. There are no rebel dogs on this side of the river.' There was
     the ring of truth in what he said, and I knew that if I raised my
     voice I was a dead man. I could read it in the fellow's brown eyes. I
     waited, therefore, in silence, to see what it was that they wanted
     from me.

     "'Listen to me, Sahib,' said the taller and fiercer of the pair, the
     one whom they called Abdullah Khan. 'You must either be with us now
     or you must be silenced forever. The thing is too great a one for us
     to hesitate. Either you are heart and soul with us on your oath on
     the cross of the Christians, or your body this night shall be thrown
     into the ditch and we shall pass over to our brothers in the rebel
     army. There is no middle way. Which is it to be, death or life? We
     can only give you three minutes to decide, for the time is passing,
     and all must be done before the rounds come again.'

     "'How can I decide?' said I. 'You have not told me what you want of
     me. But I tell you now that if it is anything against the safety of
     the fort I will have no truck with it, so you can drive home your
     knife and welcome.'

     "'It is nothing against the fort,' said he. 'We only ask you to do
     that which your countrymen come to this land for. We ask you to be
     rich. If you will be one of us this night, we will swear to you upon
     the naked knife, and by the threefold oath which no Sikh was ever
     known to break, that you shall have your fair share of the loot. A
     quarter of the treasure shall be yours. We can say no fairer.'

     "'But what is the treasure, then?' I asked. 'I am as ready to be rich
     as you can be, if you will but show me how it can be done.'

     "'You will swear, then,' said he, 'by the bones of your father, by
     the honor of your mother, by the cross of your faith, to raise no
     hand and speak no word against us, either now or afterwards?'

     "'I will swear it,' I answered, 'provided that the fort is not
     endangered.'

     "'Then my comrade and I will swear that you shall have a quarter of
     the treasure which shall be equally divided among the four of us.'

     "'There are but three,' said I.

     "'No; Dost Akbar must have his share. We can tell the tale to you
     while we await them. Do you stand at the gate, Mahomet Singh, and
     give notice of their coming. The thing stands thus, Sahib, and I tell
     it to you because I know that an oath is binding upon a Feringhee,
     and that we may trust you. Had you been a lying Hindoo, though you
     had sworn by all the gods in their false temples, your blood would
     have been upon the knife, and your body in the water. But the Sikh
     knows the Englishman, and the Englishman knows the Sikh. Hearken,
     then, to what I have to say.

     "'There is a rajah in the northern provinces who has much wealth,
     though his lands are small. Much has come to him from his father, and
     more still he has set by himself, for he is of a low nature and
     hoards his gold rather than spend it. When the troubles broke out he
     would be friends both with the lion and the tiger,--with the Sepoy
     and with the Company's raj. Soon, however, it seemed to him that the
     white men's day was come, for through all the land he could hear of
     nothing but of their death and their overthrow. Yet, being a careful
     man, he made such plans that, come what might, half at least of his
     treasure should be left to him. That which was in gold and silver he
     kept by him in the vaults of his palace, but the most precious stones
     and the choicest pearls that he had he put in an iron box, and sent
     it by a trusty servant who, under the guise of a merchant, should
     take it to the fort at Agra, there to lie until the land is at peace.
     Thus, if the rebels won he would have his money, but if the Company
     conquered his jewels would be saved to him. Having thus divided his
     hoard, he threw himself into the cause of the Sepoys, since they were
     strong upon his borders. By doing this, mark you, Sahib, his property
     becomes the due of those who have been true to their salt.

     "'This pretended merchant, who travels under the name of Achmet, is
     now in the city of Agra, and desires to gain his way into the fort.
     He has with him as travelling-companion my foster-brother Dost Akbar,
     who knows his secret. Dost Akbar has promised this night to lead him
     to a side-postern of the fort, and has chosen this one for his
     purpose. Here he will come presently, and here he will find Mahomet
     Singh and myself awaiting him. The place is lonely, and none shall
     know of his coming. The world shall know of the merchant Achmet no
     more, but the great treasure of the rajah shall be divided among us.
     What say you to it, Sahib?'

     "In Worcestershire the life of a man seems a great and a sacred
     thing; but it is very different when there is fire and blood all
     round you and you have been used to meeting death at every turn.
     Whether Achmet the merchant lived or died was a thing as light as air
     to me, but at the talk about the treasure my heart turned to it, and
     I thought of what I might do in the old country with it, and how my
     folk would stare when they saw their ne'er-do-well coming back with
     his pockets full of gold moidores. I had, therefore, already made up
     my mind. Abdullah Khan, however, thinking that I hesitated, pressed
     the matter more closely.

     "'Consider, Sahib,' said he, 'that if this man is taken by the
     commandant he will be hung or shot, and his jewels taken by the
     government, so that no man will be a rupee the better for them. Now,
     since we do the taking of him, why should we not do the rest as well?
     The jewels will be as well with us as in the Company's coffers. There
     will be enough to make every one of us rich men and great chiefs. No
     one can know about the matter, for here we are cut off from all men.
     What could be better for the purpose?  Say again, then, Sahib,
     whether you are with us, or if we must look upon you as an enemy.'

     "'I am with you heart and soul,' said I.

     "'It is well,' he answered, handing me back my firelock. 'You see
     that we trust you, for your word, like ours, is not to be broken. We
     have now only to wait for my brother and the merchant.'

     "'Does your brother know, then, of what you will do?' I asked.

     "'The plan is his. He has devised it. We will go to the gate and
     share the watch with Mahomet Singh.'

     "The rain was still falling steadily, for it was just the beginning
     of the wet season. Brown, heavy clouds were drifting across the sky,
     and it was hard to see more than a stone-cast. A deep moat lay in
     front of our door, but the water was in places nearly dried up, and
     it could easily be crossed. It was strange to me to be standing there
     with those two wild Punjaubees waiting for the man who was coming to
     his death.

     "Suddenly my eye caught the glint of a shaded lantern at the other
     side of the moat. It vanished among the mound-heaps, and then
     appeared again coming slowly in our direction.

     "'Here they are!' I exclaimed.

     "'You will challenge him, Sahib, as usual,' whispered Abdullah. 'Give
     him no cause for fear. Send us in with him, and we shall do the rest
     while you stay here on guard. Have the lantern ready to uncover, that
     we may be sure that it is indeed the man.'

     "The light had flickered onwards, now stopping and now advancing,
     until I could see two dark figures upon the other side of the moat. I
     let them scramble down the sloping bank, splash through the mire, and
     climb half-way up to the gate, before I challenged them.

     "'Who goes there?' said I, in a subdued voice.

     "'Friends,' came the answer. I uncovered my lantern and threw a flood
     of light upon them. The first was an enormous Sikh, with a black
     beard which swept nearly down to his cummerbund. Outside of a show I
     have never seen so tall a man. The other was a little, fat, round
     fellow, with a great yellow turban, and a bundle in his hand, done up
     in a shawl. He seemed to be all in a quiver with fear, for his hands
     twitched as if he had the ague, and his head kept turning to left and
     right with two bright little twinkling eyes, like a mouse when he
     ventures out from his hole. It gave me the chills to think of killing
     him, but I thought of the treasure, and my heart set as hard as a
     flint within me. When he saw my white face he gave a little chirrup
     of joy and came running up towards me.

     "'Your protection, Sahib,' he panted,--'your protection for the
     unhappy merchant Achmet. I have travelled across Rajpootana that I
     might seek the shelter of the fort at Agra. I have been robbed and
     beaten and abused because I have been the friend of the Company. It
     is a blessed night this when I am once more in safety,--I and my poor
     possessions.'

     "'What have you in the bundle?' I asked.

     "'An iron box,' he answered, 'which contains one or two little family
     matters which are of no value to others, but which I should be sorry
     to lose. Yet I am not a beggar; and I shall reward you, young Sahib,
     and your governor also, if he will give me the shelter I ask.'

     "I could not trust myself to speak longer with the man. The more I
     looked at his fat, frightened face, the harder did it seem that we
     should slay him in cold blood. It was best to get it over.

     "'Take him to the main guard,' said I. The two Sikhs closed in upon
     him on each side, and the giant walked behind, while they marched in
     through the dark gate-way. Never was a man so compassed round with
     death. I remained at the gate-way with the lantern.

     "I could hear the measured tramp of their footsteps sounding through
     the lonely corridors. Suddenly it ceased, and I heard voices, and a
     scuffle, with the sound of blows. A moment later there came, to my
     horror, a rush of footsteps coming in my direction, with the loud
     breathing of a running man. I turned my lantern down the long,
     straight passage, and there was the fat man, running like the wind,
     with a smear of blood across his face, and close at his heels,
     bounding like a tiger, the great black-bearded Sikh, with a knife
     flashing in his hand. I have never seen a man run so fast as that
     little merchant. He was gaining on the Sikh, and I could see that if
     he once passed me and got to the open air he would save himself yet.
     My heart softened to him, but again the thought of his treasure
     turned me hard and bitter. I cast my firelock between his legs as he
     raced past, and he rolled twice over like a shot rabbit. Ere he could
     stagger to his feet the Sikh was upon him, and buried his knife twice
     in his side. The man never uttered moan nor moved muscle, but lay
     were he had fallen. I think myself that he may have broken his neck
     with the fall. You see, gentlemen, that I am keeping my promise. I am
     telling you every work of the business just exactly as it happened,
     whether it is in my favor or not."

     He stopped, and held out his manacled hands for the whiskey-and-water
     which Holmes had brewed for him. For myself, I confess that I had now
     conceived the utmost horror of the man, not only for this
     cold-blooded business in which he had been concerned, but even more
     for the somewhat flippant and careless way in which he narrated it.
     Whatever punishment was in store for him, I felt that he might expect
     no sympathy from me. Sherlock Holmes and Jones sat with their hands
     upon their knees, deeply interested in the story, but with the same
     disgust written upon their faces.  He may have observed it, for there
     was a touch of defiance in his voice and manner as he proceeded.

     "It was all very bad, no doubt," said he. "I should like to know how
     many fellows in my shoes would have refused a share of this loot when
     they knew that they would have their throats cut for their pains.
     Besides, it was my life or his when once he was in the fort. If he
     had got out, the whole business would come to light, and I should
     have been court-martialled and shot as likely as not; for people were
     not very lenient at a time like that."

     "Go on with your story," said Holmes, shortly.

     "Well, we carried him in, Abdullah, Akbar, and I. A fine weight he
     was, too, for all that he was so short. Mahomet Singh was left to
     guard the door. We took him to a place which the Sikhs had already
     prepared. It was some distance off, where a winding passage leads to
     a great empty hall, the brick walls of which were all crumbling to
     pieces. The earth floor had sunk in at one place, making a natural
     grave, so we left Achmet the merchant there, having first covered him
     over with loose bricks. This done, we all went back to the treasure.

     "It lay where he had dropped it when he was first attacked. The box
     was the same which now lies open upon your table. A key was hung by a
     silken cord to that carved handle upon the top. We opened it, and the
     light of the lantern gleamed upon a collection of gems such as I have
     read of and thought about when I was a little lad at Pershore. It was
     blinding to look upon them. When we had feasted our eyes we took them
     all out and made a list of them. There were one hundred and
     forty-three diamonds of the first water, including one which has been
     called, I believe, 'the Great Mogul' and is said to be the second
     largest stone in existence. Then there were ninety-seven very fine
     emeralds, and one hundred and seventy rubies, some of which, however,
     were small. There were forty carbuncles, two hundred and ten
     sapphires, sixty-one agates, and a great quantity of beryls, onyxes,
     cats'-eyes, turquoises, and other stones, the very names of which I
     did not know at the time, though I have become more familiar with
     them since. Besides this, there were nearly three hundred very fine
     pearls, twelve of which were set in a gold coronet. By the way, these
     last had been taken out of the chest and were not there when I
     recovered it.

     "After we had counted our treasures we put them back into the chest
     and carried them to the gate-way to show them to Mahomet Singh. Then
     we solemnly renewed our oath to stand by each other and be true to
     our secret. We agreed to conceal our loot in a safe place until the
     country should be at peace again, and then to divide it equally among
     ourselves. There was no use dividing it at present, for if gems of
     such value were found upon us it would cause suspicion, and there was
     no privacy in the fort nor any place where we could keep them. We
     carried the box, therefore, into the same hall where we had buried
     the body, and there, under certain bricks in the best-preserved wall,
     we made a hollow and put our treasure. We made careful note of the
     place, and next day I drew four plans, one for each of us, and put
     the sign of the four of us at the bottom, for we had sworn that we
     should each always act for all, so that none might take advantage.
     That is an oath that I can put my hand to my heart and swear that I
     have never broken.

     "Well, there's no use my telling you gentlemen what came of the
     Indian mutiny. After Wilson took Delhi and Sir Colin relieved Lucknow
     the back of the business was broken. Fresh troops came pouring in,
     and Nana Sahib made himself scarce over the frontier. A flying column
     under Colonel Greathed came round to Agra and cleared the Pandies
     away from it. Peace seemed to be settling upon the country, and we
     four were beginning to hope that the time was at hand when we might
     safely go off with our shares of the plunder. In a moment, however,
     our hopes were shattered by our being arrested as the murderers of
     Achmet.

     "It came about in this way. When the rajah put his jewels into the
     hands of Achmet he did it because he knew that he was a trusty man.
     They are suspicious folk in the East, however: so what does this
     rajah do but take a second even more trusty servant and set him to
     play the spy upon the first? This second man was ordered never to let
     Achmet out of his sight, and he followed him like his shadow. He went
     after him that night and saw him pass through the doorway. Of course
     he thought he had taken refuge in the fort, and applied for admission
     there himself next day, but could find no trace of Achmet. This
     seemed to him so strange that he spoke about it to a sergeant of
     guides, who brought it to the ears of the commandant. A thorough
     search was quickly made, and the body was discovered. Thus at the
     very moment that we thought that all was safe we were all four seized
     and brought to trial on a charge of murder,--three of us because we
     had held the gate that night, and the fourth because he was known to
     have been in the company of the murdered man. Not a word about the
     jewels came out at the trial, for the rajah had been deposed and
     driven out of India: so no one had any particular interest in them.
     The murder, however, was clearly made out, and it was certain that we
     must all have been concerned in it. The three Sikhs got penal
     servitude for life, and I was condemned to death, though my sentence
     was afterwards commuted into the same as the others.

     "It was rather a queer position that we found ourselves in then.
     There we were all four tied by the leg and with precious little
     chance of ever getting out again, while we each held a secret which
     might have put each of us in a palace if we could only have made use
     of it. It was enough to make a man eat his heart out to have to stand
     the kick and the cuff of every petty jack-in-office, to have rice to
     eat and water to drink, when that gorgeous fortune was ready for him
     outside, just waiting to be picked up. It might have driven me mad;
     but I was always a pretty stubborn one, so I just held on and bided
     my time.

     "At last it seemed to me to have come. I was changed from Agra to
     Madras, and from there to Blair Island in the Andamans. There are
     very few white convicts at this settlement, and, as I had behaved
     well from the first, I soon found myself a sort of privileged person.
     I was given a hut in Hope Town, which is a small place on the slopes
     of Mount Harriet, and I was left pretty much to myself. It is a
     dreary, fever-stricken place, and all beyond our little clearings was
     infested with wild cannibal natives, who were ready enough to blow a
     poisoned dart at us if they saw a chance. There was digging, and
     ditching, and yam-planting, and a dozen other things to be done, so
     we were busy enough all day; though in the evening we had a little
     time to ourselves. Among other things, I learned to dispense drugs
     for the surgeon, and picked up a smattering of his knowledge. All the
     time I was on the lookout for a chance of escape; but it is hundreds
     of miles from any other land, and there is little or no wind in those
     seas: so it was a terribly difficult job to get away.

     "The surgeon, Dr. Somerton, was a fast, sporting young chap, and the
     other young officers would meet in his rooms of an evening and play
     cards. The surgery, where I used to make up my drugs, was next to his
     sitting-room, with a small window between us. Often, if I felt
     lonesome, I used to turn out the lamp in the surgery, and then,
     standing there, I could hear their talk and watch their play. I am
     fond of a hand at cards myself, and it was almost as good as having
     one to watch the others. There was Major Sholto, Captain Morstan, and
     Lieutenant Bromley Brown, who were in command of the native troops,
     and there was the surgeon himself, and two or three prison-officials,
     crafty old hands who played a nice sly safe game. A very snug little
     party they used to make.

     "Well, there was one thing which very soon struck me, and that was
     that the soldiers used always to lose and the civilians to win. Mind,
     I don't say that there was anything unfair, but so it was. These
     prison-chaps had done little else than play cards ever since they had
     been at the Andamans, and they knew each other's game to a point,
     while the others just played to pass the time and threw their cards
     down anyhow. Night after night the soldiers got up poorer men, and
     the poorer they got the more keen they were to play. Major Sholto was
     the hardest hit. He used to pay in notes and gold at first, but soon
     it came to notes of hand and for big sums. He sometimes would win for
     a few deals, just to give him heart, and then the luck would set in
     against him worse than ever. All day he would wander about as black
     as thunder, and he took to drinking a deal more than was good for
     him.

     "One night he lost even more heavily than usual. I was sitting in my
     hut when he and Captain Morstan came stumbling along on the way to
     their quarters. They were bosom friends, those two, and never far
     apart. The major was raving about his losses.

     "'It's all up, Morstan,' he was saying, as they passed my hut. 'I
     shall have to send in my papers. I am a ruined man.'

     "'Nonsense, old chap!' said the other, slapping him upon the
     shoulder. 'I've had a nasty facer myself, but--' That was all I could
     hear, but it was enough to set me thinking.

     A couple of days later Major Sholto was strolling on the beach: so I
     took the chance of speaking to him.

     "'I wish to have your advice, major,' said I.

     "'Well, Small, what is it?' he asked, taking his cheroot from his
     lips.

     "'I wanted to ask you, sir,' said I, 'who is the proper person to
     whom hidden treasure should be handed over. I know where half a
     million worth lies, and, as I cannot use it myself, I thought perhaps
     the best thing that I could do would be to hand it over to the proper
     authorities, and then perhaps they would get my sentence shortened
     for me.'

     "'Half a million, Small?' he gasped, looking hard at me to see if I
     was in earnest.

     "'Quite that, sir,--in jewels and pearls. It lies there ready for
     anyone. And the queer thing about it is that the real owner is
     outlawed and cannot hold property, so that it belongs to the first
     comer.'

     "'To government, Small,' he stammered,--'to government.' But he said
     it in a halting fashion, and I knew in my heart that I had got him.

     "'You think, then, sir, that I should give the information to the
     Governor-General?' said I, quietly.

     "'Well, well, you must not do anything rash, or that you might
     repent. Let me hear all about it, Small. Give me the facts.'

     "I told him the whole story, with small changes so that he could not
     identify the places. When I had finished he stood stock still and
     full of thought. I could see by the twitch of his lip that there was
     a struggle going on within him.

     "'This is a very important matter, Small,' he said, at last. 'You
     must not say a word to any one about it, and I shall see you again
     soon.'

     "Two nights later he and his friend Captain Morstan came to my hut in
     the dead of the night with a lantern.

     "'I want you just to let Captain Morstan hear that story from your
     own lips, Small,' said he.

     "I repeated it as I had told it before.

     "'It rings true, eh?' said he. 'It's good enough to act upon?'

     "Captain Morstan nodded.

     "'Look here, Small,' said the major. 'We have been talking it over,
     my friend here and I, and we have come to the conclusion that this
     secret of yours is hardly a government matter, after all, but is a
     private concern of your own, which of course you have the power of
     disposing of as you think best. Now, the question is, what price
     would you ask for it? We might be inclined to take it up, and at
     least look into it, if we could agree as to terms.' He tried to speak
     in a cool, careless way, but his eyes were shining with excitement
     and greed.

     "'Why, as to that, gentlemen,' I answered, trying also to be cool,
     but feeling as excited as he did, 'there is only one bargain which a
     man in my position can make. I shall want you to help me to my
     freedom, and to help my three companions to theirs.  We shall then
     take yo into partnership, and give you a fifth share to divide
     between you.'

     "'Hum!' said he. 'A fifth share! That is not very tempting.'

     "'It would come to fifty thousand apiece,' said I.

     "'But how can we gain your freedom? You know very well that you ask
     an impossibility.'

     "'Nothing of the sort,' I answered. 'I have thought it all out to the
     last detail. The only bar to our escape is that we can get no boat
     fit for the voyage, and no provisions to last us for so long a time.
     There are plenty of little yachts and yawls at Calcutta or Madras
     which would serve our turn well. Do you bring one over. We shall
     engage to get aboard her by night, and if you will drop us on any
     part of the Indian coast you will have done your part of the
     bargain.'

     "'If there were only one,' he said.

     "'None or all,' I answered. 'We have sworn it. The four of us must
     always act together.'

     "'You see, Morstan,' said he, 'Small is a man of his word. He does
     not flinch from his friend. I think we may very well trust him.'

     "'It's a dirty business,' the other answered. 'Yet, as you say, the
     money would save our commissions handsomely.'

     "'Well, Small,' said the major, 'we must, I suppose, try and meet
     you. We must first, of course, test the truth of your story. Tell me
     where the box is hid, and I shall get leave of absence and go back to
     India in the monthly relief-boat to inquire into the affair.'

     "'Not so fast,' said I, growing colder as he got hot. 'I must have
     the consent of my three comrades. I tell you that it is four or none
     with us.'

     "'Nonsense!' he broke in. 'What have three black fellows to do with
     our agreement?'

     "'Black or blue,' said I, 'they are in with me, and we all go
     together.'

     "Well, the matter ended by a second meeting, at which Mahomet Singh,
     Abdullah Khan, and Dost Akbar were all present. We talked the matter
     over again, and at last we came to an arrangement. We were to provide
     both the officers with charts of the part of the Agra fort and mark
     the place in the wall where the treasure was hid. Major Sholto was to
     go to India to test our story. If he found the box he was to leave it
     there, to send out a small yacht provisioned for a voyage, which was
     to lie off Rutland Island, and to which we were to make our way, and
     finally to return to his duties. Captain Morstan was then to apply
     for leave of absence, to meet us at Agra, and there we were to have a
     final division of the treasure, he taking the major's share as well
     as his own. All this we sealed by the most solemn oaths that the mind
     could think or the lips utter. I sat up all night with paper and ink,
     and by the morning I had the two charts all ready, signed with the
     sign of four,--that is, of Abdullah, Akbar, Mahomet, and myself.

     "Well, gentlemen, I weary you with my long story, and I know that my
     friend Mr. Jones is impatient to get me safely stowed in chokey. I'll
     make it as short as I can. The villain Sholto went off to India, but
     he never came back again. Captain Morstan showed me his name among a
     list of passengers in one of the mail-boats very shortly afterwards.
     His uncle had died, leaving him a fortune, and he had left the army,
     yet he could stoop to treat five men as he had treated us. Morstan
     went over to Agra shortly afterwards, and found, as we expected, that
     the treasure was indeed gone. The scoundrel had stolen it all,
     without carrying out one of the conditions on which we had sold him
     the secret. From that day I lived only for vengeance. I thought of it
     by day and I nursed it by night. It became an overpowering, absorbing
     passion with me. I cared nothing for the law,--nothing for the
     gallows. To escape, to track down Sholto, to have my hand upon his
     throat,--that was my one thought. Even the Agra treasure had come to
     be a smaller thing in my mind than the slaying of Sholto.

     "Well, I have set my mind on many things in this life, and never one
     which I did not carry out. But it was weary years before my time
     came. I have told you that I had picked up something of medicine. One
     day when Dr. Somerton was down with a fever a little Andaman Islander
     was picked up by a convict-gang in the woods. He was sick to death,
     and had gone to a lonely place to die. I took him in hand, though he
     was as venomous as a young snake, and after a couple of months I got
     him all right and able to walk. He took a kind of fancy to me then,
     and would hardly go back to his woods, but was always hanging about
     my hut. I learned a little of his lingo from him, and this made him
     all the fonder of me.

     "Tonga--for that was his name--was a fine boatman, and owned a big,
     roomy canoe of his own. When I found that he was devoted to me and
     would do anything to serve me, I saw my chance of escape. I talked it
     over with him. He was to bring his boat round on a certain night to
     an old wharf which was never guarded, and there he was to pick me up.
     I gave him directions to have several gourds of water and a lot of
     yams, cocoa-nuts, and sweet potatoes.

     "He was stanch and true, was little Tonga. No man ever had a more
     faithful mate. At the night named he had his boat at the wharf. As it
     chanced, however, there was one of the convict-guard down there,--a
     vile Pathan who had never missed a chance of insulting and injuring
     me. I had always vowed vengeance, and now I had my chance. It was as
     if fate had placed him in my way that I might pay my debt before I
     left the island. He stood on the bank with his back to me, and his
     carbine on his shoulder. I looked about for a stone to beat out his
     brains with, but none could I see.

     "Then a queer thought came into my head and showed me where I could
     lay my hand on a weapon. I sat down in the darkness and unstrapped my
     wooden leg. With three long hops I was on him. He put his carbine to
     his shoulder, but I struck him full, and knocked the whole front of
     his skull in. You can see the split in the wood now where I hit him.
     We both went down together, for I could not keep my balance, but when
     I got up I found him still lying quiet enough. I made for the boat,
     and in an hour we were well out at sea. Tonga had brought all his
     earthly possessions with him, his arms and his gods. Among other
     things, he had a long bamboo spear, and some Andaman cocoa-nut
     matting, with which I made a sort of sail. For ten days we were
     beating about, trusting to luck, and on the eleventh we were picked
     up by a trader which was going from Singapore to Jiddah with a cargo
     of Malay pilgrims. They were a rum crowd, and Tonga and I soon
     managed to settle down among them. They had one very good quality:
     they let you alone and asked no questions.

     "Well, if I were to tell you all the adventures that my little chum
     and I went through, you would not thank me, for I would have you here
     until the sun was shining. Here and there we drifted about the world,
     something always turning up to keep us from London. All the time,
     however, I never lost sight of my purpose. I would dream of Sholto at
     night. A hundred times I have killed him in my sleep. At last,
     however, some three or four years ago, we found ourselves in England.
     I had no great difficulty in finding where Sholto lived, and I set to
     work to discover whether he had realized the treasure, or if he still
     had it. I made friends with someone who could help me,--I name no
     names, for I don't want to get any one else in a hole,--and I soon
     found that he still had the jewels. Then I tried to get at him in
     many ways; but he was pretty sly, and had always two prize-fighters,
     besides his sons and his khitmutgar, on guard over him.

     "One day, however, I got word that he was dying. I hurried at once to
     the garden, mad that he should slip out of my clutches like that,
     and, looking through the window, I saw him lying in his bed, with his
     sons on each side of him. I'd have come through and taken my chance
     with the three of them, only even as I looked at him his jaw dropped,
     and I knew that he was gone. I got into his room that same night,
     though, and I searched his papers to see if there was any record of
     where he had hidden our jewels. There was not a line, however: so I
     came away, bitter and savage as a man could be. Before I left I
     bethought me that if I ever met my Sikh friends again it would be a
     satisfaction to know that I had left some mark of our hatred: so I
     scrawled down the sign of the four of us, as it had been on the
     chart, and I pinned it on his bosom. It was too much that he should
     be taken to the grave without some token from the men whom he had
     robbed and befooled.

     "We earned a living at this time by my exhibiting poor Tonga at fairs
     and other such places as the black cannibal. He would eat raw meat
     and dance his war-dance: so we always had a hatful of pennies after a
     day's work. I still heard all the news from Pondicherry Lodge, and
     for some years there was no news to hear, except that they were
     hunting for the treasure. At last, however, came what we had waited
     for so long. The treasure had been found. It was up at the top of the
     house, in Mr. Bartholomew Sholto's chemical laboratory. I came at
     once and had a look at the place, but I could not see how with my
     wooden leg I was to make my way up to it. I learned, however, about a
     trap-door in the roof, and also about Mr. Sholto's supper-hour. It
     seemed to me that I could manage the thing easily through Tonga. I
     brought him out with me with a long rope wound round his waist. He
     could climb like a cat, and he soon made his way through the roof,
     but, as ill luck would have it, Bartholomew Sholto was still in the
     room, to his cost. Tonga thought he had done something very clever in
     killing him, for when I came up by the rope I found him strutting
     about as proud as a peacock. Very much surprised was he when I made
     at him with the rope's end and cursed him for a little blood-thirsty
     imp. I took the treasure-box and let it down, and then slid down
     myself, having first left the sign of the four upon the table, to
     show that the jewels had come back at last to those who had most
     right to them. Tonga then pulled up the rope, closed the window, and
     made off the way that he had come.

     "I don't know that I have anything else to tell you. I had heard a
     waterman speak of the speed of Smith's launch, the Aurora, so I
     thought she would be a handy craft for our escape. I engaged with old
     Smith, and was to give him a big sum if he got us safe to our ship.
     He knew, no doubt, that there was some screw loose, but he was not in
     our secrets. All this is the truth, and if I tell it to you,
     gentlemen, it is not to amuse you,--for you have not done me a very
     good turn,--but it is because I believe the best defence I can make
     is just to hold back nothing, but let all the world know how badly I
     have myself been served by Major Sholto, and how innocent I am of the
     death of his son."

     "A very remarkable account," said Sherlock Holmes. "A fitting wind-up
     to an extremely interesting case. There is nothing at all new to me
     in the latter part of your narrative, except that you brought your
     own rope. That I did not know. By the way, I had hoped that Tonga had
     lost all his darts; yet he managed to shoot one at us in the boat."

     "He had lost them all, sir, except the one which was in his blow-pipe
     at the time."

     "Ah, of course," said Holmes. "I had not thought of that."

     "Is there any other point which you would like to ask about?" asked
     the convict, affably.

     "I think not, thank you," my companion answered.

     "Well, Holmes," said Athelney Jones, "You are a man to be humored,
     and we all know that you are a connoisseur of crime, but duty is
     duty, and I have gone rather far in doing what you and your friend
     asked me. I shall feel more at ease when we have our story-teller
     here safe under lock and key. The cab still waits, and there are two
     inspectors down-stairs. I am much obliged to you both for your
     assistance. Of course you will be wanted at the trial. Good-night to
     you."

     "Good-night, gentlemen both," said Jonathan Small.

     "You first, Small," remarked the wary Jones as they left the room.
     "I'll take particular care that you don't club me with your wooden
     leg, whatever you may have done to the gentleman at the Andaman
     Isles."

     "Well, and there is the end of our little drama," I remarked, after
     we had set some time smoking in silence. "I fear that it may be the
     last investigation in which I shall have the chance of studying your
     methods. Miss Morstan has done me the honor to accept me as a husband
     in prospective."

     He gave a most dismal groan. "I feared as much," said he. "I really
     cannot congratulate you."

     I was a little hurt. "Have you any reason to be dissatisfied with my
     choice?" I asked.

     "Not at all. I think she is one of the most charming young ladies I
     ever met, and might have been most useful in such work as we have
     been doing. She had a decided genius that way: witness the way in
     which she preserved that Agra plan from all the other papers of her
     father. But love is an emotional thing, and whatever is emotional is
     opposed to that true cold reason which I place above all things. I
     should never marry myself, lest I bias my judgment."

     "I trust," said I, laughing, "that my judgment may survive the
     ordeal. But you look weary."

     "Yes, the reaction is already upon me. I shall be as limp as a rag
     for a week."

     "Strange," said I, "how terms of what in another man I should call
     laziness alternate with your fits of splendid energy and vigor."

     "Yes," he answered, "there are in me the makings of a very fine
     loafer and also of a pretty spry sort of fellow. I often think of
     those lines of old Goethe,--

              Schade, daÃŸ die Natur nur einen Mensch aus Dir schuf,
             Denn zum wÃ¼rdigen Mann war und zum Schelmen der Stoff.

     "By the way, a propos of this Norwood business, you see that they
     had, as I surmised, a confederate in the house, who could be none
     other than Lal Rao, the butler: so Jones actually has the undivided
     honor of having caught one fish in his great haul."

     "The division seems rather unfair," I remarked. "You have done all
     the work in this business. I get a wife out of it, Jones gets the
     credit, pray what remains for you?"

     "For me," said Sherlock Holmes, "there still remains the
     cocaine-bottle." And he stretched his long white hand up for it.


                              A SCANDAL IN BOHEMIA


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

     I had seen little of Holmes lately. My marriage had drifted us away
     from each other. My own complete happiness, and the home-centred
     interests which rise up around the man who first finds himself master
     of his own establishment, were sufficient to absorb all my attention,
     while Holmes, who loathed every form of society with his whole
     Bohemian soul, remained in our lodgings in Baker Street, buried among
     his old books, and alternating from week to week between cocaine and
     ambition, the drowsiness of the drug, and the fierce energy of his
     own keen nature. He was still, as ever, deeply attracted by the study
     of crime, and occupied his immense faculties and extraordinary powers
     of observation in following out those clues, and clearing up those
     mysteries which had been abandoned as hopeless by the official
     police. From time to time I heard some vague account of his doings:
     of his summons to Odessa in the case of the Trepoff murder, of his
     clearing up of the singular tragedy of the Atkinson brothers at
     Trincomalee, and finally of the mission which he had accomplished so
     delicately and successfully for the reigning family of Holland.
     Beyond these signs of his activity, however, which I merely shared
     with all the readers of the daily press, I knew little of my former
     friend and companion.

     One night--it was on the twentieth of March, 1888--I was returning
     from a journey to a patient (for I had now returned to civil
     practice), when my way led me through Baker Street. As I passed the
     well-remembered door, which must always be associated in my mind with
     my wooing, and with the dark incidents of the Study in Scarlet, I was
     seized with a keen desire to see Holmes again, and to know how he was
     employing his extraordinary powers. His rooms were brilliantly lit,
     and, even as I looked up, I saw his tall, spare figure pass twice in
     a dark silhouette against the blind. He was pacing the room swiftly,
     eagerly, with his head sunk upon his chest and his hands clasped
     behind him. To me, who knew his every mood and habit, his attitude
     and manner told their own story. He was at work again. He had risen
     out of his drug-created dreams and was hot upon the scent of some new
     problem. I rang the bell and was shown up to the chamber which had
     formerly been in part my own.

     His manner was not effusive. It seldom was; but he was glad, I think,
     to see me. With hardly a word spoken, but with a kindly eye, he waved
     me to an armchair, threw across his case of cigars, and indicated a
     spirit case and a gasogene in the corner. Then he stood before the
     fire and looked me over in his singular introspective fashion.

     "Wedlock suits you," he remarked. "I think, Watson, that you have put
     on seven and a half pounds since I saw you."

     "Seven!" I answered.

     "Indeed, I should have thought a little more. Just a trifle more, I
     fancy, Watson. And in practice again, I observe. You did not tell me
     that you intended to go into harness."

     "Then, how do you know?"

     "I see it, I deduce it. How do I know that you have been getting
     yourself very wet lately, and that you have a most clumsy and
     careless servant girl?"

     "My dear Holmes," said I, "this is too much. You would certainly have
     been burned, had you lived a few centuries ago. It is true that I had
     a country walk on Thursday and came home in a dreadful mess, but as I
     have changed my clothes I can't imagine how you deduce it. As to Mary
     Jane, she is incorrigible, and my wife has given her notice, but
     there, again, I fail to see how you work it out."

     He chuckled to himself and rubbed his long, nervous hands together.

     "It is simplicity itself," said he; "my eyes tell me that on the
     inside of your left shoe, just where the firelight strikes it, the
     leather is scored by six almost parallel cuts. Obviously they have
     been caused by someone who has very carelessly scraped round the
     edges of the sole in order to remove crusted mud from it. Hence, you
     see, my double deduction that you had been out in vile weather, and
     that you had a particularly malignant boot-slitting specimen of the
     London slavey. As to your practice, if a gentleman walks into my
     rooms smelling of iodoform, with a black mark of nitrate of silver
     upon his right forefinger, and a bulge on the right side of his
     top-hat to show where he has secreted his stethoscope, I must be
     dull, indeed, if I do not pronounce him to be an active member of the
     medical profession."

     I could not help laughing at the ease with which he explained his
     process of deduction. "When I hear you give your reasons," I
     remarked, "the thing always appears to me to be so ridiculously
     simple that I could easily do it myself, though at each successive
     instance of your reasoning I am baffled until you explain your
     process. And yet I believe that my eyes are as good as yours."

     "Quite so," he answered, lighting a cigarette, and throwing himself
     down into an armchair. "You see, but you do not observe. The
     distinction is clear. For example, you have frequently seen the steps
     which lead up from the hall to this room."

     "Frequently."

     "How often?"

     "Well, some hundreds of times."

     "Then how many are there?"

     "How many? I don't know."

     "Quite so! You have not observed. And yet you have seen. That is just
     my point. Now, I know that there are seventeen steps, because I have
     both seen and observed. By-the-way, since you are interested in these
     little problems, and since you are good enough to chronicle one or
     two of my trifling experiences, you may be interested in this." He
     threw over a sheet of thick, pink-tinted note-paper which had been
     lying open upon the table. "It came by the last post," said he. "Read
     it aloud."

     The note was undated, and without either signature or address.

     "There will call upon you to-night, at a quarter to eight o'clock,"
     it said, "a gentleman who desires to consult you upon a matter of the
     very deepest moment. Your recent services to one of the royal houses
     of Europe have shown that you are one who may safely be trusted with
     matters which are of an importance which can hardly be exaggerated.
     This account of you we have from all quarters received. Be in your
     chamber then at that hour, and do not take it amiss if your visitor
     wear a mask."

     "This is indeed a mystery," I remarked. "What do you imagine that it
     means?"

     "I have no data yet. It is a capital mistake to theorize before one
     has data. Insensibly one begins to twist facts to suit theories,
     instead of theories to suit facts. But the note itself. What do you
     deduce from it?"

     I carefully examined the writing, and the paper upon which it was
     written.

     "The man who wrote it was presumably well to do," I remarked,
     endeavouring to imitate my companion's processes. "Such paper could
     not be bought under half a crown a packet. It is peculiarly strong
     and stiff."

     "Peculiar--that is the very word," said Holmes. "It is not an English
     paper at all. Hold it up to the light."

     I did so, and saw a large "E" with a small "g," a "P," and a large
     "G" with a small "t" woven into the texture of the paper.

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

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

     "Not at all. The 'G' with the small 't' stands for 'Gesellschaft,'
     which is the German for 'Company.' It is a customary contraction like
     our 'Co.' 'P,' of course, stands for 'Papier.' Now for the 'Eg.' Let
     us glance at our Continental Gazetteer." He took down a heavy brown
     volume from his shelves. "Eglow, Eglonitz--here we are, Egria. It is
     in a German-speaking country--in Bohemia, not far from Carlsbad.
     'Remarkable as being the scene of the death of Wallenstein, and for
     its numerous glass-factories and paper-mills.' Ha, ha, my boy, what
     do you make of that?" His eyes sparkled, and he sent up a great blue
     triumphant cloud from his cigarette.

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

     "Precisely. And the man who wrote the note is a German. Do you note
     the peculiar construction of the sentence--'This account of you we
     have from all quarters received.' A Frenchman or Russian could not
     have written that. It is the German who is so uncourteous to his
     verbs. It only remains, therefore, to discover what is wanted by this
     German who writes upon Bohemian paper and prefers wearing a mask to
     showing his face. And here he comes, if I am not mistaken, to resolve
     all our doubts."

     As he spoke there was the sharp sound of horses' hoofs and grating
     wheels against the curb, followed by a sharp pull at the bell. Holmes
     whistled.

     "A pair, by the sound," said he. "Yes," he continued, glancing out of
     the window. "A nice little brougham and a pair of beauties. A hundred
     and fifty guineas apiece. There's money in this case, Watson, if
     there is nothing else."

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

     "Not a bit, Doctor. Stay where you are. I am lost without my Boswell.
     And this promises to be interesting. It would be a pity to miss it."

     "But your client--"

     "Never mind him. I may want your help, and so may he. Here he comes.
     Sit down in that armchair, Doctor, and give us your best attention."

     A slow and heavy step, which had been heard upon the stairs and in
     the passage, paused immediately outside the door. Then there was a
     loud and authoritative tap.

     "Come in!" said Holmes.

     A man entered who could hardly have been less than six feet six
     inches in height, with the chest and limbs of a Hercules. His dress
     was rich with a richness which would, in England, be looked upon as
     akin to bad taste. Heavy bands of astrakhan were slashed across the
     sleeves and fronts of his double-breasted coat, while the deep blue
     cloak which was thrown over his shoulders was lined with
     flame-coloured silk and secured at the neck with a brooch which
     consisted of a single flaming beryl. Boots which extended halfway up
     his calves, and which were trimmed at the tops with rich brown fur,
     completed the impression of barbaric opulence which was suggested by
     his whole appearance. He carried a broad-brimmed hat in his hand,
     while he wore across the upper part of his face, extending down past
     the cheekbones, a black vizard mask, which he had apparently adjusted
     that very moment, for his hand was still raised to it as he entered.
     From the lower part of the face he appeared to be a man of strong
     character, with a thick, hanging lip, and a long, straight chin
     suggestive of resolution pushed to the length of obstinacy.

     "You had my note?" he asked with a deep harsh voice and a strongly
     marked German accent. "I told you that I would call." He looked from
     one to the other of us, as if uncertain which to address.

     "Pray take a seat," said Holmes. "This is my friend and colleague,
     Dr. Watson, who is occasionally good enough to help me in my cases.
     Whom have I the honour to address?"

     "You may address me as the Count Von Kramm, a Bohemian nobleman. I
     understand that this gentleman, your friend, is a man of honour and
     discretion, whom I may trust with a matter of the most extreme
     importance. If not, I should much prefer to communicate with you
     alone."

     I rose to go, but Holmes caught me by the wrist and pushed me back
     into my chair. "It is both, or none," said he. "You may say before
     this gentleman anything which you may say to me."

     The Count shrugged his broad shoulders. "Then I must begin," said he,
     "by binding you both to absolute secrecy for two years; at the end of
     that time the matter will be of no importance. At present it is not
     too much to say that it is of such weight it may have an influence
     upon European history."

     "I promise," said Holmes.

     "And I."

     "You will excuse this mask," continued our strange visitor. "The
     august person who employs me wishes his agent to be unknown to you,
     and I may confess at once that the title by which I have just called
     myself is not exactly my own."

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

     "The circumstances are of great delicacy, and every precaution has to
     be taken to quench what might grow to be an immense scandal and
     seriously compromise one of the reigning families of Europe. To speak
     plainly, the matter implicates the great House of Ormstein,
     hereditary kings of Bohemia."

     "I was also aware of that," murmured Holmes, settling himself down in
     his armchair and closing his eyes.

     Our visitor glanced with some apparent surprise at the languid,
     lounging figure of the man who had been no doubt depicted to him as
     the most incisive reasoner and most energetic agent in Europe. Holmes
     slowly reopened his eyes and looked impatiently at his gigantic
     client.

     "If your Majesty would condescend to state your case," he remarked,
     "I should be better able to advise you."

     The man sprang from his chair and paced up and down the room in
     uncontrollable agitation. Then, with a gesture of desperation, he
     tore the mask from his face and hurled it upon the ground. "You are
     right," he cried; "I am the King. Why should I attempt to conceal
     it?"

     "Why, indeed?" murmured Holmes. "Your Majesty had not spoken before I
     was aware that I was addressing Wilhelm Gottsreich Sigismond von
     Ormstein, Grand Duke of Cassel-Felstein, and hereditary King of
     Bohemia."

     "But you can understand," said our strange visitor, sitting down once
     more and passing his hand over his high white forehead, "you can
     understand that I am not accustomed to doing such business in my own
     person. Yet the matter was so delicate that I could not confide it to
     an agent without putting myself in his power. I have come incognito
     from Prague for the purpose of consulting you."

     "Then, pray consult," said Holmes, shutting his eyes once more.

     "The facts are briefly these: Some five years ago, during a lengthy
     visit to Warsaw, I made the acquaintance of the well-known
     adventuress, Irene Adler. The name is no doubt familiar to you."

     "Kindly look her up in my index, Doctor," murmured Holmes without
     opening his eyes. For many years he had adopted a system of docketing
     all paragraphs concerning men and things, so that it was difficult to
     name a subject or a person on which he could not at once furnish
     information. In this case I found her biography sandwiched in between
     that of a Hebrew rabbi and that of a staff-commander who had written
     a monograph upon the deep-sea fishes.

     "Let me see!" said Holmes. "Hum! Born in New Jersey in the year 1858.
     Contralto--hum! La Scala, hum! Prima donna Imperial Opera of
     Warsaw--yes! Retired from operatic stage--ha! Living in London--quite
     so! Your Majesty, as I understand, became entangled with this young
     person, wrote her some compromising letters, and is now desirous of
     getting those letters back."

     "Precisely so. But how--"

     "Was there a secret marriage?"

     "None."

     "No legal papers or certificates?"

     "None."

     "Then I fail to follow your Majesty. If this young person should
     produce her letters for blackmailing or other purposes, how is she to
     prove their authenticity?"

     "There is the writing."

     "Pooh, pooh! Forgery."

     "My private note-paper."

     "Stolen."

     "My own seal."

     "Imitated."

     "My photograph."

     "Bought."

     "We were both in the photograph."

     "Oh, dear! That is very bad! Your Majesty has indeed committed an
     indiscretion."

     "I was mad--insane."

     "You have compromised yourself seriously."

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

     "It must be recovered."

     "We have tried and failed."

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

     "She will not sell."

     "Stolen, then."

     "Five attempts have been made. Twice burglars in my pay ransacked her
     house. Once we diverted her luggage when she travelled. Twice she has
     been waylaid. There has been no result."

     "No sign of it?"

     "Absolutely none."

     Holmes laughed. "It is quite a pretty little problem," said he.

     "But a very serious one to me," returned the King reproachfully.

     "Very, indeed. And what does she propose to do with the photograph?"

     "To ruin me."

     "But how?"

     "I am about to be married."

     "So I have heard."

     "To Clotilde Lothman von Saxe-Meningen, second daughter of the King
     of Scandinavia. You may know the strict principles of her family. She
     is herself the very soul of delicacy. A shadow of a doubt as to my
     conduct would bring the matter to an end."

     "And Irene Adler?"

     "Threatens to send them the photograph. And she will do it. I know
     that she will do it. You do not know her, but she has a soul of
     steel. She has the face of the most beautiful of women, and the mind
     of the most resolute of men. Rather than I should marry another
     woman, there are no lengths to which she would not go--none."

     "You are sure that she has not sent it yet?"

     "I am sure."

     "And why?"

     "Because she has said that she would send it on the day when the
     betrothal was publicly proclaimed. That will be next Monday."

     "Oh, then we have three days yet," said Holmes with a yawn. "That is
     very fortunate, as I have one or two matters of importance to look
     into just at present. Your Majesty will, of course, stay in London
     for the present?"

     "Certainly. You will find me at the Langham under the name of the
     Count Von Kramm."

     "Then I shall drop you a line to let you know how we progress."

     "Pray do so. I shall be all anxiety."

     "Then, as to money?"

     "You have carte blanche."

     "Absolutely?"

     "I tell you that I would give one of the provinces of my kingdom to
     have that photograph."

     "And for present expenses?"

     The King took a heavy chamois leather bag from under his cloak and
     laid it on the table.

     "There are three hundred pounds in gold and seven hundred in notes,"
     he said.

     Holmes scribbled a receipt upon a sheet of his note-book and handed
     it to him.

     "And Mademoiselle's address?" he asked.

     "Is Briony Lodge, Serpentine Avenue, St. John's Wood."

     Holmes took a note of it. "One other question," said he. "Was the
     photograph a cabinet?"

     "It was."

     "Then, good-night, your Majesty, and I trust that we shall soon have
     some good news for you. And good-night, Watson," he added, as the
     wheels of the royal brougham rolled down the street. "If you will be
     good enough to call to-morrow afternoon at three o'clock I should
     like to chat this little matter over with you."

     At three o'clock precisely I was at Baker Street, but Holmes had not
     yet returned. The landlady informed me that he had left the house
     shortly after eight o'clock in the morning. I sat down beside the
     fire, however, with the intention of awaiting him, however long he
     might be. I was already deeply interested in his inquiry, for, though
     it was surrounded by none of the grim and strange features which were
     associated with the two crimes which I have already recorded, still,
     the nature of the case and the exalted station of his client gave it
     a character of its own. Indeed, apart from the nature of the
     investigation which my friend had on hand, there was something in his
     masterly grasp of a situation, and his keen, incisive reasoning,
     which made it a pleasure to me to study his system of work, and to
     follow the quick, subtle methods by which he disentangled the most
     inextricable mysteries. So accustomed was I to his invariable success
     that the very possibility of his failing had ceased to enter into my
     head.

     It was close upon four before the door opened, and a drunken-looking
     groom, ill-kempt and side-whiskered, with an inflamed face and
     disreputable clothes, walked into the room. Accustomed as I was to my
     friend's amazing powers in the use of disguises, I had to look three
     times before I was certain that it was indeed he. With a nod he
     vanished into the bedroom, whence he emerged in five minutes
     tweed-suited and respectable, as of old. Putting his hands into his
     pockets, he stretched out his legs in front of the fire and laughed
     heartily for some minutes.

     "Well, really!" he cried, and then he choked and laughed again until
     he was obliged to lie back, limp and helpless, in the chair.

     "What is it?"

     "It's quite too funny. I am sure you could never guess how I employed
     my morning, or what I ended by doing."

     "I can't imagine. I suppose that you have been watching the habits,
     and perhaps the house, of Miss Irene Adler."

     "Quite so; but the sequel was rather unusual. I will tell you,
     however. I left the house a little after eight o'clock this morning
     in the character of a groom out of work. There is a wonderful
     sympathy and freemasonry among horsey men. Be one of them, and you
     will know all that there is to know. I soon found Briony Lodge. It is
     a bijou villa, with a garden at the back, but built out in front
     right up to the road, two stories. Chubb lock to the door. Large
     sitting-room on the right side, well furnished, with long windows
     almost to the floor, and those preposterous English window fasteners
     which a child could open. Behind there was nothing remarkable, save
     that the passage window could be reached from the top of the
     coach-house. I walked round it and examined it closely from every
     point of view, but without noting anything else of interest.

     "I then lounged down the street and found, as I expected, that there
     was a mews in a lane which runs down by one wall of the garden. I
     lent the ostlers a hand in rubbing down their horses, and received in
     exchange twopence, a glass of half and half, two fills of shag
     tobacco, and as much information as I could desire about Miss Adler,
     to say nothing of half a dozen other people in the neighbourhood in
     whom I was not in the least interested, but whose biographies I was
     compelled to listen to."

     "And what of Irene Adler?" I asked.

     "Oh, she has turned all the men's heads down in that part. She is the
     daintiest thing under a bonnet on this planet. So say the
     Serpentine-mews, to a man. She lives quietly, sings at concerts,
     drives out at five every day, and returns at seven sharp for dinner.
     Seldom goes out at other times, except when she sings. Has only one
     male visitor, but a good deal of him. He is dark, handsome, and
     dashing, never calls less than once a day, and often twice. He is a
     Mr. Godfrey Norton, of the Inner Temple. See the advantages of a
     cabman as a confidant. They had driven him home a dozen times from
     Serpentine-mews, and knew all about him. When I had listened to all
     they had to tell, I began to walk up and down near Briony Lodge once
     more, and to think over my plan of campaign.

     "This Godfrey Norton was evidently an important factor in the matter.
     He was a lawyer. That sounded ominous. What was the relation between
     them, and what the object of his repeated visits? Was she his client,
     his friend, or his mistress? If the former, she had probably
     transferred the photograph to his keeping. If the latter, it was less
     likely. On the issue of this question depended whether I should
     continue my work at Briony Lodge, or turn my attention to the
     gentleman's chambers in the Temple. It was a delicate point, and it
     widened the field of my inquiry. I fear that I bore you with these
     details, but I have to let you see my little difficulties, if you are
     to understand the situation."

     "I am following you closely," I answered.

     "I was still balancing the matter in my mind when a hansom cab drove
     up to Briony Lodge, and a gentleman sprang out. He was a remarkably
     handsome man, dark, aquiline, and moustached--evidently the man of
     whom I had heard. He appeared to be in a great hurry, shouted to the
     cabman to wait, and brushed past the maid who opened the door with
     the air of a man who was thoroughly at home.

     "He was in the house about half an hour, and I could catch glimpses
     of him in the windows of the sitting-room, pacing up and down,
     talking excitedly, and waving his arms. Of her I could see nothing.
     Presently he emerged, looking even more flurried than before. As he
     stepped up to the cab, he pulled a gold watch from his pocket and
     looked at it earnestly, 'Drive like the devil,' he shouted, 'first to
     Gross & Hankey's in Regent Street, and then to the Church of St.
     Monica in the Edgeware Road. Half a guinea if you do it in twenty
     minutes!'

     "Away they went, and I was just wondering whether I should not do
     well to follow them when up the lane came a neat little landau, the
     coachman with his coat only half-buttoned, and his tie under his ear,
     while all the tags of his harness were sticking out of the buckles.
     It hadn't pulled up before she shot out of the hall door and into it.
     I only caught a glimpse of her at the moment, but she was a lovely
     woman, with a face that a man might die for.

     "'The Church of St. Monica, John,' she cried, 'and half a sovereign
     if you reach it in twenty minutes.'

     "This was quite too good to lose, Watson. I was just balancing
     whether I should run for it, or whether I should perch behind her
     landau when a cab came through the street. The driver looked twice at
     such a shabby fare, but I jumped in before he could object. 'The
     Church of St. Monica,' said I, 'and half a sovereign if you reach it
     in twenty minutes.' It was twenty-five minutes to twelve, and of
     course it was clear enough what was in the wind.

     "My cabby drove fast. I don't think I ever drove faster, but the
     others were there before us. The cab and the landau with their
     steaming horses were in front of the door when I arrived. I paid the
     man and hurried into the church. There was not a soul there save the
     two whom I had followed and a surpliced clergyman, who seemed to be
     expostulating with them. They were all three standing in a knot in
     front of the altar. I lounged up the side aisle like any other idler
     who has dropped into a church. Suddenly, to my surprise, the three at
     the altar faced round to me, and Godfrey Norton came running as hard
     as he could towards me.

     "'Thank God,' he cried. 'You'll do. Come! Come!'

     "'What then?' I asked.

     "'Come, man, come, only three minutes, or it won't be legal.'

     "I was half-dragged up to the altar, and before I knew where I was I
     found myself mumbling responses which were whispered in my ear, and
     vouching for things of which I knew nothing, and generally assisting
     in the secure tying up of Irene Adler, spinster, to Godfrey Norton,
     bachelor. It was all done in an instant, and there was the gentleman
     thanking me on the one side and the lady on the other, while the
     clergyman beamed on me in front. It was the most preposterous
     position in which I ever found myself in my life, and it was the
     thought of it that started me laughing just now. It seems that there
     had been some informality about their license, that the clergyman
     absolutely refused to marry them without a witness of some sort, and
     that my lucky appearance saved the bridegroom from having to sally
     out into the streets in search of a best man. The bride gave me a
     sovereign, and I mean to wear it on my watch-chain in memory of the
     occasion."

     "This is a very unexpected turn of affairs," said I; "and what then?"

     "Well, I found my plans very seriously menaced. It looked as if the
     pair might take an immediate departure, and so necessitate very
     prompt and energetic measures on my part. At the church door,
     however, they separated, he driving back to the Temple, and she to
     her own house. 'I shall drive out in the park at five as usual,' she
     said as she left him. I heard no more. They drove away in different
     directions, and I went off to make my own arrangements."

     "Which are?"

     "Some cold beef and a glass of beer," he answered, ringing the bell.
     "I have been too busy to think of food, and I am likely to be busier
     still this evening. By the way, Doctor, I shall want your
     co-operation."

     "I shall be delighted."

     "You don't mind breaking the law?"

     "Not in the least."

     "Nor running a chance of arrest?"

     "Not in a good cause."

     "Oh, the cause is excellent!"

     "Then I am your man."

     "I was sure that I might rely on you."

     "But what is it you wish?"

     "When Mrs. Turner has brought in the tray I will make it clear to
     you. Now," he said as he turned hungrily on the simple fare that our
     landlady had provided, "I must discuss it while I eat, for I have not
     much time. It is nearly five now. In two hours we must be on the
     scene of action. Miss Irene, or Madame, rather, returns from her
     drive at seven. We must be at Briony Lodge to meet her."

     "And what then?"

     "You must leave that to me. I have already arranged what is to occur.
     There is only one point on which I must insist. You must not
     interfere, come what may. You understand?"

     "I am to be neutral?"

     "To do nothing whatever. There will probably be some small
     unpleasantness. Do not join in it. It will end in my being conveyed
     into the house. Four or five minutes afterwards the sitting-room
     window will open. You are to station yourself close to that open
     window."

     "Yes."

     "You are to watch me, for I will be visible to you."

     "Yes."

     "And when I raise my hand--so--you will throw into the room what I
     give you to throw, and will, at the same time, raise the cry of fire.
     You quite follow me?"

     "Entirely."

     "It is nothing very formidable," he said, taking a long cigar-shaped
     roll from his pocket. "It is an ordinary plumber's smoke-rocket,
     fitted with a cap at either end to make it self-lighting. Your task
     is confined to that. When you raise your cry of fire, it will be
     taken up by quite a number of people. You may then walk to the end of
     the street, and I will rejoin you in ten minutes. I hope that I have
     made myself clear?"

     "I am to remain neutral, to get near the window, to watch you, and at
     the signal to throw in this object, then to raise the cry of fire,
     and to wait you at the corner of the street."

     "Precisely."

     "Then you may entirely rely on me."

     "That is excellent. I think, perhaps, it is almost time that I
     prepare for the new role I have to play."

     He disappeared into his bedroom and returned in a few minutes in the
     character of an amiable and simple-minded Nonconformist clergyman.
     His broad black hat, his baggy trousers, his white tie, his
     sympathetic smile, and general look of peering and benevolent
     curiosity were such as Mr. John Hare alone could have equalled. It
     was not merely that Holmes changed his costume. His expression, his
     manner, his very soul seemed to vary with every fresh part that he
     assumed. The stage lost a fine actor, even as science lost an acute
     reasoner, when he became a specialist in crime.

     It was a quarter past six when we left Baker Street, and it still
     wanted ten minutes to the hour when we found ourselves in Serpentine
     Avenue. It was already dusk, and the lamps were just being lighted as
     we paced up and down in front of Briony Lodge, waiting for the coming
     of its occupant. The house was just such as I had pictured it from
     Sherlock Holmes' succinct description, but the locality appeared to
     be less private than I expected. On the contrary, for a small street
     in a quiet neighbourhood, it was remarkably animated. There was a
     group of shabbily dressed men smoking and laughing in a corner, a
     scissors-grinder with his wheel, two guardsmen who were flirting with
     a nurse-girl, and several well-dressed young men who were lounging up
     and down with cigars in their mouths.

     "You see," remarked Holmes, as we paced to and fro in front of the
     house, "this marriage rather simplifies matters. The photograph
     becomes a double-edged weapon now. The chances are that she would be
     as averse to its being seen by Mr. Godfrey Norton, as our client is
     to its coming to the eyes of his princess. Now the question is--Where
     are we to find the photograph?"

     "Where, indeed?"

     "It is most unlikely that she carries it about with her. It is
     cabinet size. Too large for easy concealment about a woman's dress.
     She knows that the King is capable of having her waylaid and
     searched. Two attempts of the sort have already been made. We may
     take it, then, that she does not carry it about with her."

     "Where, then?"

     "Her banker or her lawyer. There is that double possibility. But I am
     inclined to think neither. Women are naturally secretive, and they
     like to do their own secreting. Why should she hand it over to anyone
     else? She could trust her own guardianship, but she could not tell
     what indirect or political influence might be brought to bear upon a
     business man. Besides, remember that she had resolved to use it
     within a few days. It must be where she can lay her hands upon it. It
     must be in her own house."

     "But it has twice been burgled."

     "Pshaw! They did not know how to look."

     "But how will you look?"

     "I will not look."

     "What then?"

     "I will get her to show me."

     "But she will refuse."

     "She will not be able to. But I hear the rumble of wheels. It is her
     carriage. Now carry out my orders to the letter."

     As he spoke the gleam of the side-lights of a carriage came round the
     curve of the avenue. It was a smart little landau which rattled up to
     the door of Briony Lodge. As it pulled up, one of the loafing men at
     the corner dashed forward to open the door in the hope of earning a
     copper, but was elbowed away by another loafer, who had rushed up
     with the same intention. A fierce quarrel broke out, which was
     increased by the two guardsmen, who took sides with one of the
     loungers, and by the scissors-grinder, who was equally hot upon the
     other side. A blow was struck, and in an instant the lady, who had
     stepped from her carriage, was the centre of a little knot of flushed
     and struggling men, who struck savagely at each other with their
     fists and sticks. Holmes dashed into the crowd to protect the lady;
     but just as he reached her he gave a cry and dropped to the ground,
     with the blood running freely down his face. At his fall the
     guardsmen took to their heels in one direction and the loungers in
     the other, while a number of better-dressed people, who had watched
     the scuffle without taking part in it, crowded in to help the lady
     and to attend to the injured man. Irene Adler, as I will still call
     her, had hurried up the steps; but she stood at the top with her
     superb figure outlined against the lights of the hall, looking back
     into the street.

     "Is the poor gentleman much hurt?" she asked.

     "He is dead," cried several voices.

     "No, no, there's life in him!" shouted another. "But he'll be gone
     before you can get him to hospital."

     "He's a brave fellow," said a woman. "They would have had the lady's
     purse and watch if it hadn't been for him. They were a gang, and a
     rough one, too. Ah, he's breathing now."

     "He can't lie in the street. May we bring him in, marm?"

     "Surely. Bring him into the sitting-room. There is a comfortable
     sofa. This way, please!"

     Slowly and solemnly he was borne into Briony Lodge and laid out in
     the principal room, while I still observed the proceedings from my
     post by the window. The lamps had been lit, but the blinds had not
     been drawn, so that I could see Holmes as he lay upon the couch. I do
     not know whether he was seized with compunction at that moment for
     the part he was playing, but I know that I never felt more heartily
     ashamed of myself in my life than when I saw the beautiful creature
     against whom I was conspiring, or the grace and kindliness with which
     she waited upon the injured man. And yet it would be the blackest
     treachery to Holmes to draw back now from the part which he had
     intrusted to me. I hardened my heart, and took the smoke-rocket from
     under my ulster. After all, I thought, we are not injuring her. We
     are but preventing her from injuring another.

     Holmes had sat up upon the couch, and I saw him motion like a man who
     is in need of air. A maid rushed across and threw open the window. At
     the same instant I saw him raise his hand and at the signal I tossed
     my rocket into the room with a cry of "Fire!" The word was no sooner
     out of my mouth than the whole crowd of spectators, well dressed and
     ill--gentlemen, ostlers, and servant-maids--joined in a general
     shriek of "Fire!" Thick clouds of smoke curled through the room and
     out at the open window. I caught a glimpse of rushing figures, and a
     moment later the voice of Holmes from within assuring them that it
     was a false alarm. Slipping through the shouting crowd I made my way
     to the corner of the street, and in ten minutes was rejoiced to find
     my friend's arm in mine, and to get away from the scene of uproar. He
     walked swiftly and in silence for some few minutes until we had
     turned down one of the quiet streets which lead towards the Edgeware
     Road.

     "You did it very nicely, Doctor," he remarked. "Nothing could have
     been better. It is all right."

     "You have the photograph?"

     "I know where it is."

     "And how did you find out?"

     "She showed me, as I told you she would."

     "I am still in the dark."

     "I do not wish to make a mystery," said he, laughing. "The matter was
     perfectly simple. You, of course, saw that everyone in the street was
     an accomplice. They were all engaged for the evening."

     "I guessed as much."

     "Then, when the row broke out, I had a little moist red paint in the
     palm of my hand. I rushed forward, fell down, clapped my hand to my
     face, and became a piteous spectacle. It is an old trick."

     "That also I could fathom."

     "Then they carried me in. She was bound to have me in. What else
     could she do? And into her sitting-room, which was the very room
     which I suspected. It lay between that and her bedroom, and I was
     determined to see which. They laid me on a couch, I motioned for air,
     they were compelled to open the window, and you had your chance."

     "How did that help you?"

     "It was all-important. When a woman thinks that her house is on fire,
     her instinct is at once to rush to the thing which she values most.
     It is a perfectly overpowering impulse, and I have more than once
     taken advantage of it. In the case of the Darlington substitution
     scandal it was of use to me, and also in the Arnsworth Castle
     business. A married woman grabs at her baby; an unmarried one reaches
     for her jewel-box. Now it was clear to me that our lady of to-day had
     nothing in the house more precious to her than what we are in quest
     of. She would rush to secure it. The alarm of fire was admirably
     done. The smoke and shouting were enough to shake nerves of steel.
     She responded beautifully. The photograph is in a recess behind a
     sliding panel just above the right bell-pull. She was there in an
     instant, and I caught a glimpse of it as she half-drew it out. When I
     cried out that it was a false alarm, she replaced it, glanced at the
     rocket, rushed from the room, and I have not seen her since. I rose,
     and, making my excuses, escaped from the house. I hesitated whether
     to attempt to secure the photograph at once; but the coachman had
     come in, and as he was watching me narrowly it seemed safer to wait.
     A little over-precipitance may ruin all."

     "And now?" I asked.

     "Our quest is practically finished. I shall call with the King
     to-morrow, and with you, if you care to come with us. We will be
     shown into the sitting-room to wait for the lady, but it is probable
     that when she comes she may find neither us nor the photograph. It
     might be a satisfaction to his Majesty to regain it with his own
     hands."

     "And when will you call?"

     "At eight in the morning. She will not be up, so that we shall have a
     clear field. Besides, we must be prompt, for this marriage may mean a
     complete change in her life and habits. I must wire to the King
     without delay."

     We had reached Baker Street and had stopped at the door. He was
     searching his pockets for the key when someone passing said:

     "Good-night, Mister Sherlock Holmes."

     There were several people on the pavement at the time, but the
     greeting appeared to come from a slim youth in an ulster who had
     hurried by.

     "I've heard that voice before," said Holmes, staring down the dimly
     lit street. "Now, I wonder who the deuce that could have been."

     I slept at Baker Street that night, and we were engaged upon our
     toast and coffee in the morning when the King of Bohemia rushed into
     the room.

     "You have really got it!" he cried, grasping Sherlock Holmes by
     either shoulder and looking eagerly into his face.

     "Not yet."

     "But you have hopes?"

     "I have hopes."

     "Then, come. I am all impatience to be gone."

     "We must have a cab."

     "No, my brougham is waiting."

     "Then that will simplify matters." We descended and started off once
     more for Briony Lodge.

     "Irene Adler is married," remarked Holmes.

     "Married! When?"

     "Yesterday."

     "But to whom?"

     "To an English lawyer named Norton."

     "But she could not love him."

     "I am in hopes that she does."

     "And why in hopes?"

     "Because it would spare your Majesty all fear of future annoyance. If
     the lady loves her husband, she does not love your Majesty. If she
     does not love your Majesty, there is no reason why she should
     interfere with your Majesty's plan."

     "It is true. And yet--Well! I wish she had been of my own station!
     What a queen she would have made!" He relapsed into a moody silence,
     which was not broken until we drew up in Serpentine Avenue.

     The door of Briony Lodge was open, and an elderly woman stood upon
     the steps. She watched us with a sardonic eye as we stepped from the
     brougham.

     "Mr. Sherlock Holmes, I believe?" said she.

     "I am Mr. Holmes," answered my companion, looking at her with a
     questioning and rather startled gaze.

     "Indeed! My mistress told me that you were likely to call. She left
     this morning with her husband by the 5.15 train from Charing Cross
     for the Continent."

     "What!" Sherlock Holmes staggered back, white with chagrin and
     surprise. "Do you mean that she has left England?"

     "Never to return."

     "And the papers?" asked the King hoarsely. "All is lost."

     "We shall see." He pushed past the servant and rushed into the
     drawing-room, followed by the King and myself. The furniture was
     scattered about in every direction, with dismantled shelves and open
     drawers, as if the lady had hurriedly ransacked them before her
     flight. Holmes rushed at the bell-pull, tore back a small sliding
     shutter, and, plunging in his hand, pulled out a photograph and a
     letter. The photograph was of Irene Adler herself in evening dress,
     the letter was superscribed to "Sherlock Holmes, Esq. To be left till
     called for." My friend tore it open and we all three read it
     together. It was dated at midnight of the preceding night and ran in
     this way:

     "My dear Mr. Sherlock Holmes:
     "You really did it very well. You took me in completely. Until after
     the alarm of fire, I had not a suspicion. But then, when I found how
     I had betrayed myself, I began to think. I had been warned against
     you months ago. I had been told that if the King employed an agent it
     would certainly be you. And your address had been given me. Yet, with
     all this, you made me reveal what you wanted to know. Even after I
     became suspicious, I found it hard to think evil of such a dear, kind
     old clergyman. But, you know, I have been trained as an actress
     myself. Male costume is nothing new to me. I often take advantage of
     the freedom which it gives. I sent John, the coachman, to watch you,
     ran up stairs, got into my walking-clothes, as I call them, and came
     down just as you departed.
     "Well, I followed you to your door, and so made sure that I was
     really an object of interest to the celebrated Mr. Sherlock Holmes.
     Then I, rather imprudently, wished you good-night, and started for
     the Temple to see my husband.
     "We both thought the best resource was flight, when pursued by so
     formidable an antagonist; so you will find the nest empty when you
     call to-morrow. As to the photograph, your client may rest in peace.
     I love and am loved by a better man than he. The King may do what he
     will without hindrance from one whom he has cruelly wronged. I keep
     it only to safeguard myself, and to preserve a weapon which will
     always secure me from any steps which he might take in the future. I
     leave a photograph which he might care to possess; and I remain, dear
     Mr. Sherlock Holmes,
     "Very truly yours,
     "Irene Norton, nÃ©e Adler."

     "What a woman--oh, what a woman!" cried the King of Bohemia, when we
     had all three read this epistle. "Did I not tell you how quick and
     resolute she was? Would she not have made an admirable queen? Is it
     not a pity that she was not on my level?" 

     "From what I have seen of the lady she seems indeed to be on a very
     different level to your Majesty," said Holmes coldly. "I am sorry
     that I have not been able to bring your Majesty's business to a more
     successful conclusion."

     "On the contrary, my dear sir," cried the King; "nothing could be
     more successful. I know that her word is inviolate. The photograph is
     now as safe as if it were in the fire."

     "I am glad to hear your Majesty say so."

     "I am immensely indebted to you. Pray tell me in what way I can
     reward you. This ring--" He slipped an emerald snake ring from his
     finger and held it out upon the palm of his hand.

     "Your Majesty has something which I should value even more highly,"
     said Holmes.

     "You have but to name it."

     "This photograph!"

     The King stared at him in amazement.

     "Irene's photograph!" he cried. "Certainly, if you wish it."

     "I thank your Majesty. Then there is no more to be done in the
     matter. I have the honour to wish you a very good-morning." He bowed,
     and, turning away without observing the hand which the King had
     stretched out to him, he set off in my company for his chambers.

     And that was how a great scandal threatened to affect the kingdom of
     Bohemia, and how the best plans of Mr. Sherlock Holmes were beaten by
     a woman's wit. He used to make merry over the cleverness of women,
     but I have not heard him do it of late. And when he speaks of Irene
     Adler, or when he refers to her photograph, it is always under the
     honourable title of the woman.






                              THE RED-HEADED LEAGUE

     I had called upon my friend, Mr. Sherlock Holmes, one day in the
     autumn of last year and found him in deep conversation with a very
     stout, florid-faced, elderly gentleman with fiery red hair. With an
     apology for my intrusion, I was about to withdraw when Holmes pulled
     me abruptly into the room and closed the door behind me.

     "You could not possibly have come at a better time, my dear Watson,"
     he said cordially.

     "I was afraid that you were engaged."

     "So I am. Very much so."

     "Then I can wait in the next room."

     "Not at all. This gentleman, Mr. Wilson, has been my partner and
     helper in many of my most successful cases, and I have no doubt that
     he will be of the utmost use to me in yours also."

     The stout gentleman half rose from his chair and gave a bob of
     greeting, with a quick little questioning glance from his small
     fat-encircled eyes.

     "Try the settee," said Holmes, relapsing into his armchair and
     putting his fingertips together, as was his custom when in judicial
     moods. "I know, my dear Watson, that you share my love of all that is
     bizarre and outside the conventions and humdrum routine of everyday
     life. You have shown your relish for it by the enthusiasm which has
     prompted you to chronicle, and, if you will excuse my saying so,
     somewhat to embellish so many of my own little adventures."

     "Your cases have indeed been of the greatest interest to me," I
     observed.

     "You will remember that I remarked the other day, just before we went
     into the very simple problem presented by Miss Mary Sutherland, that
     for strange effects and extraordinary combinations we must go to life
     itself, which is always far more daring than any effort of the
     imagination."

     "A proposition which I took the liberty of doubting."

     "You did, Doctor, but none the less you must come round to my view,
     for otherwise I shall keep on piling fact upon fact on you until your
     reason breaks down under them and acknowledges me to be right. Now,
     Mr. Jabez Wilson here has been good enough to call upon me this
     morning, and to begin a narrative which promises to be one of the
     most singular which I have listened to for some time. You have heard
     me remark that the strangest and most unique things are very often
     connected not with the larger but with the smaller crimes, and
     occasionally, indeed, where there is room for doubt whether any
     positive crime has been committed. As far as I have heard it is
     impossible for me to say whether the present case is an instance of
     crime or not, but the course of events is certainly among the most
     singular that I have ever listened to. Perhaps, Mr. Wilson, you would
     have the great kindness to recommence your narrative. I ask you not
     merely because my friend Dr. Watson has not heard the opening part
     but also because the peculiar nature of the story makes me anxious to
     have every possible detail from your lips. As a rule, when I have
     heard some slight indication of the course of events, I am able to
     guide myself by the thousands of other similar cases which occur to
     my memory. In the present instance I am forced to admit that the
     facts are, to the best of my belief, unique."

     The portly client puffed out his chest with an appearance of some
     little pride and pulled a dirty and wrinkled newspaper from the
     inside pocket of his greatcoat. As he glanced down the advertisement
     column, with his head thrust forward and the paper flattened out upon
     his knee, I took a good look at the man and endeavoured, after the
     fashion of my companion, to read the indications which might be
     presented by his dress or appearance.

     I did not gain very much, however, by my inspection. Our visitor bore
     every mark of being an average commonplace British tradesman, obese,
     pompous, and slow. He wore rather baggy grey shepherd's check
     trousers, a not over-clean black frock-coat, unbuttoned in the front,
     and a drab waistcoat with a heavy brassy Albert chain, and a square
     pierced bit of metal dangling down as an ornament. A frayed top-hat
     and a faded brown overcoat with a wrinkled velvet collar lay upon a
     chair beside him. Altogether, look as I would, there was nothing
     remarkable about the man save his blazing red head, and the
     expression of extreme chagrin and discontent upon his features.

     Sherlock Holmes' quick eye took in my occupation, and he shook his
     head with a smile as he noticed my questioning glances. "Beyond the
     obvious facts that he has at some time done manual labour, that he
     takes snuff, that he is a Freemason, that he has been in China, and
     that he has done a considerable amount of writing lately, I can
     deduce nothing else."

     Mr. Jabez Wilson started up in his chair, with his forefinger upon
     the paper, but his eyes upon my companion.

     "How, in the name of good-fortune, did you know all that, Mr.
     Holmes?" he asked. "How did you know, for example, that I did manual
     labour. It's as true as gospel, for I began as a ship's carpenter."

     "Your hands, my dear sir. Your right hand is quite a size larger than
     your left. You have worked with it, and the muscles are more
     developed."

     "Well, the snuff, then, and the Freemasonry?"

     "I won't insult your intelligence by telling you how I read that,
     especially as, rather against the strict rules of your order, you use
     an arc-and-compass breastpin."

     "Ah, of course, I forgot that. But the writing?"

     "What else can be indicated by that right cuff so very shiny for five
     inches, and the left one with the smooth patch near the elbow where
     you rest it upon the desk?"

     "Well, but China?"

     "The fish that you have tattooed immediately above your right wrist
     could only have been done in China. I have made a small study of
     tattoo marks and have even contributed to the literature of the
     subject. That trick of staining the fishes' scales of a delicate pink
     is quite peculiar to China. When, in addition, I see a Chinese coin
     hanging from your watch-chain, the matter becomes even more simple."

     Mr. Jabez Wilson laughed heavily. "Well, I never!" said he. "I
     thought at first that you had done something clever, but I see that
     there was nothing in it, after all."

     "I begin to think, Watson," said Holmes, "that I make a mistake in
     explaining. 'Omne ignotum pro magnifico,' you know, and my poor
     little reputation, such as it is, will suffer shipwreck if I am so
     candid. Can you not find the advertisement, Mr. Wilson?"

     "Yes, I have got it now," he answered with his thick red finger
     planted halfway down the column. "Here it is. This is what began it
     all. You just read it for yourself, sir."

     I took the paper from him and read as follows:

     "To the Red-headed League: On account of the bequest of the late
     Ezekiah Hopkins, of Lebanon, Pennsylvania, U. S. A., there is now
     another vacancy open which entitles a member of the League to a
     salary of Â£4 a week for purely nominal services. All red-headed men
     who are sound in body and mind and above the age of twenty-one years,
     are eligible. Apply in person on Monday, at eleven o'clock, to Duncan
     Ross, at the offices of the League, 7 Pope's Court, Fleet Street."

     "What on earth does this mean?" I ejaculated after I had twice read
     over the extraordinary announcement.

     Holmes chuckled and wriggled in his chair, as was his habit when in
     high spirits. "It is a little off the beaten track, isn't it?" said
     he. "And now, Mr. Wilson, off you go at scratch and tell us all about
     yourself, your household, and the effect which this advertisement had
     upon your fortunes. You will first make a note, Doctor, of the paper
     and the date."

     "It is The Morning Chronicle of April 27, 1890. Just two months ago."

     "Very good. Now, Mr. Wilson?"

     "Well, it is just as I have been telling you, Mr. Sherlock Holmes,"
     said Jabez Wilson, mopping his forehead; "I have a small pawnbroker's
     business at Coburg Square, near the City. It's not a very large
     affair, and of late years it has not done more than just give me a
     living. I used to be able to keep two assistants, but now I only keep
     one; and I would have a job to pay him but that he is willing to come
     for half wages so as to learn the business."

     "What is the name of this obliging youth?" asked Sherlock Holmes.

     "His name is Vincent Spaulding, and he's not such a youth, either.
     It's hard to say his age. I should not wish a smarter assistant, Mr.
     Holmes; and I know very well that he could better himself and earn
     twice what I am able to give him. But, after all, if he is satisfied,
     why should I put ideas in his head?"

     "Why, indeed? You seem most fortunate in having an employee who comes
     under the full market price. It is not a common experience among
     employers in this age. I don't know that your assistant is not as
     remarkable as your advertisement."

     "Oh, he has his faults, too," said Mr. Wilson. "Never was such a
     fellow for photography. Snapping away with a camera when he ought to
     be improving his mind, and then diving down into the cellar like a
     rabbit into its hole to develop his pictures. That is his main fault,
     but on the whole he's a good worker. There's no vice in him."

     "He is still with you, I presume?"

     "Yes, sir. He and a girl of fourteen, who does a bit of simple
     cooking and keeps the place clean--that's all I have in the house,
     for I am a widower and never had any family. We live very quietly,
     sir, the three of us; and we keep a roof over our heads and pay our
     debts, if we do nothing more.

     "The first thing that put us out was that advertisement. Spaulding,
     he came down into the office just this day eight weeks, with this
     very paper in his hand, and he says:

     "'I wish to the Lord, Mr. Wilson, that I was a red-headed man.'

     "'Why that?' I asks.

     "'Why,' says he, 'here's another vacancy on the League of the
     Red-headed Men. It's worth quite a little fortune to any man who gets
     it, and I understand that there are more vacancies than there are
     men, so that the trustees are at their wits' end what to do with the
     money. If my hair would only change colour, here's a nice little crib
     all ready for me to step into.'

     "'Why, what is it, then?' I asked. You see, Mr. Holmes, I am a very
     stay-at-home man, and as my business came to me instead of my having
     to go to it, I was often weeks on end without putting my foot over
     the door-mat. In that way I didn't know much of what was going on
     outside, and I was always glad of a bit of news.

     "'Have you never heard of the League of the Red-headed Men?' he asked
     with his eyes open.

     "'Never.'

     "'Why, I wonder at that, for you are eligible yourself for one of the
     vacancies.'

     "'And what are they worth?' I asked.

     "'Oh, merely a couple of hundred a year, but the work is slight, and
     it need not interfere very much with one's other occupations.'

     "Well, you can easily think that that made me prick up my ears, for
     the business has not been over-good for some years, and an extra
     couple of hundred would have been very handy.

     "'Tell me all about it,' said I.

     "'Well,' said he, showing me the advertisement, 'you can see for
     yourself that the League has a vacancy, and there is the address
     where you should apply for particulars. As far as I can make out, the
     League was founded by an American millionaire, Ezekiah Hopkins, who
     was very peculiar in his ways. He was himself red-headed, and he had
     a great sympathy for all red-headed men; so when he died it was found
     that he had left his enormous fortune in the hands of trustees, with
     instructions to apply the interest to the providing of easy berths to
     men whose hair is of that colour. From all I hear it is splendid pay
     and very little to do.'

     "'But,' said I, 'there would be millions of red-headed men who would
     apply.'

     "'Not so many as you might think,' he answered. 'You see it is really
     confined to Londoners, and to grown men. This American had started
     from London when he was young, and he wanted to do the old town a
     good turn. Then, again, I have heard it is no use your applying if
     your hair is light red, or dark red, or anything but real bright,
     blazing, fiery red. Now, if you cared to apply, Mr. Wilson, you would
     just walk in; but perhaps it would hardly be worth your while to put
     yourself out of the way for the sake of a few hundred pounds.'

     "Now, it is a fact, gentlemen, as you may see for yourselves, that my
     hair is of a very full and rich tint, so that it seemed to me that if
     there was to be any competition in the matter I stood as good a
     chance as any man that I had ever met. Vincent Spaulding seemed to
     know so much about it that I thought he might prove useful, so I just
     ordered him to put up the shutters for the day and to come right away
     with me. He was very willing to have a holiday, so we shut the
     business up and started off for the address that was given us in the
     advertisement.

     "I never hope to see such a sight as that again, Mr. Holmes. From
     north, south, east, and west every man who had a shade of red in his
     hair had tramped into the city to answer the advertisement. Fleet
     Street was choked with red-headed folk, and Pope's Court looked like
     a coster's orange barrow. I should not have thought there were so
     many in the whole country as were brought together by that single
     advertisement. Every shade of colour they were--straw, lemon, orange,
     brick, Irish-setter, liver, clay; but, as Spaulding said, there were
     not many who had the real vivid flame-coloured tint. When I saw how
     many were waiting, I would have given it up in despair; but Spaulding
     would not hear of it. How he did it I could not imagine, but he
     pushed and pulled and butted until he got me through the crowd, and
     right up to the steps which led to the office. There was a double
     stream upon the stair, some going up in hope, and some coming back
     dejected; but we wedged in as well as we could and soon found
     ourselves in the office."

     "Your experience has been a most entertaining one," remarked Holmes
     as his client paused and refreshed his memory with a huge pinch of
     snuff. "Pray continue your very interesting statement."

     "There was nothing in the office but a couple of wooden chairs and a
     deal table, behind which sat a small man with a head that was even
     redder than mine. He said a few words to each candidate as he came
     up, and then he always managed to find some fault in them which would
     disqualify them. Getting a vacancy did not seem to be such a very
     easy matter, after all. However, when our turn came the little man
     was much more favourable to me than to any of the others, and he
     closed the door as we entered, so that he might have a private word
     with us.

     "'This is Mr. Jabez Wilson,' said my assistant, 'and he is willing to
     fill a vacancy in the League.'

     "'And he is admirably suited for it,' the other answered. 'He has
     every requirement. I cannot recall when I have seen anything so
     fine.' He took a step backward, cocked his head on one side, and
     gazed at my hair until I felt quite bashful. Then suddenly he plunged
     forward, wrung my hand, and congratulated me warmly on my success.

     "'It would be injustice to hesitate,' said he. 'You will, however, I
     am sure, excuse me for taking an obvious precaution.' With that he
     seized my hair in both his hands, and tugged until I yelled with the
     pain. 'There is water in your eyes,' said he as he released me. 'I
     perceive that all is as it should be. But we have to be careful, for
     we have twice been deceived by wigs and once by paint. I could tell
     you tales of cobbler's wax which would disgust you with human
     nature.' He stepped over to the window and shouted through it at the
     top of his voice that the vacancy was filled. A groan of
     disappointment came up from below, and the folk all trooped away in
     different directions until there was not a red-head to be seen except
     my own and that of the manager.

     "'My name,' said he, 'is Mr. Duncan Ross, and I am myself one of the
     pensioners upon the fund left by our noble benefactor. Are you a
     married man, Mr. Wilson? Have you a family?'

     "I answered that I had not.

     "His face fell immediately.

     "'Dear me!' he said gravely, 'that is very serious indeed! I am sorry
     to hear you say that. The fund was, of course, for the propagation
     and spread of the red-heads as well as for their maintenance. It is
     exceedingly unfortunate that you should be a bachelor.'

     "My face lengthened at this, Mr. Holmes, for I thought that I was not
     to have the vacancy after all; but after thinking it over for a few
     minutes he said that it would be all right.

     "'In the case of another,' said he, 'the objection might be fatal,
     but we must stretch a point in favour of a man with such a head of
     hair as yours. When shall you be able to enter upon your new duties?'

     "'Well, it is a little awkward, for I have a business already,' said
     I.

     "'Oh, never mind about that, Mr. Wilson!' said Vincent Spaulding. 'I
     should be able to look after that for you.'

     "'What would be the hours?' I asked.

     "'Ten to two.'

     "Now a pawnbroker's business is mostly done of an evening, Mr.
     Holmes, especially Thursday and Friday evening, which is just before
     pay-day; so it would suit me very well to earn a little in the
     mornings. Besides, I knew that my assistant was a good man, and that
     he would see to anything that turned up.

     "'That would suit me very well,' said I. 'And the pay?'

     "'Is Â£4 a week.'

     "'And the work?'

     "'Is purely nominal.'

     "'What do you call purely nominal?'

     "'Well, you have to be in the office, or at least in the building,
     the whole time. If you leave, you forfeit your whole position
     forever. The will is very clear upon that point. You don't comply
     with the conditions if you budge from the office during that time.'

     "'It's only four hours a day, and I should not think of leaving,'
     said I.

     "'No excuse will avail,' said Mr. Duncan Ross; 'neither sickness nor
     business nor anything else. There you must stay, or you lose your
     billet.'

     "'And the work?'

     "'Is to copy out the "Encyclopaedia Britannica." There is the first
     volume of it in that press. You must find your own ink, pens, and
     blotting-paper, but we provide this table and chair. Will you be
     ready to-morrow?'

     "'Certainly,' I answered.

     "'Then, good-bye, Mr. Jabez Wilson, and let me congratulate you once
     more on the important position which you have been fortunate enough
     to gain.' He bowed me out of the room and I went home with my
     assistant, hardly knowing what to say or do, I was so pleased at my
     own good fortune.

     "Well, I thought over the matter all day, and by evening I was in low
     spirits again; for I had quite persuaded myself that the whole affair
     must be some great hoax or fraud, though what its object might be I
     could not imagine. It seemed altogether past belief that anyone could
     make such a will, or that they would pay such a sum for doing
     anything so simple as copying out the 'Encyclopaedia Britannica.'
     Vincent Spaulding did what he could to cheer me up, but by bedtime I
     had reasoned myself out of the whole thing. However, in the morning I
     determined to have a look at it anyhow, so I bought a penny bottle of
     ink, and with a quill-pen, and seven sheets of foolscap paper, I
     started off for Pope's Court.

     "Well, to my surprise and delight, everything was as right as
     possible. The table was set out ready for me, and Mr. Duncan Ross was
     there to see that I got fairly to work. He started me off upon the
     letter A, and then he left me; but he would drop in from time to time
     to see that all was right with me. At two o'clock he bade me
     good-day, complimented me upon the amount that I had written, and
     locked the door of the office after me.

     "This went on day after day, Mr. Holmes, and on Saturday the manager
     came in and planked down four golden sovereigns for my week's work.
     It was the same next week, and the same the week after. Every morning
     I was there at ten, and every afternoon I left at two. By degrees Mr.
     Duncan Ross took to coming in only once of a morning, and then, after
     a time, he did not come in at all. Still, of course, I never dared to
     leave the room for an instant, for I was not sure when he might come,
     and the billet was such a good one, and suited me so well, that I
     would not risk the loss of it.

     "Eight weeks passed away like this, and I had written about Abbots
     and Archery and Armour and Architecture and Attica, and hoped with
     diligence that I might get on to the B's before very long. It cost me
     something in foolscap, and I had pretty nearly filled a shelf with my
     writings. And then suddenly the whole business came to an end."

     "To an end?"

     "Yes, sir. And no later than this morning. I went to my work as usual
     at ten o'clock, but the door was shut and locked, with a little
     square of cardboard hammered on to the middle of the panel with a
     tack. Here it is, and you can read for yourself."

     He held up a piece of white cardboard about the size of a sheet of
     note-paper. It read in this fashion:

                              The Red-headed League
                                       is
                                    Dissolved
                                October 9, 1890.

     Sherlock Holmes and I surveyed this curt announcement and the rueful
     face behind it, until the comical side of the affair so completely
     overtopped every other consideration that we both burst out into a
     roar of laughter.

     "I cannot see that there is anything very funny," cried our client,
     flushing up to the roots of his flaming head. "If you can do nothing
     better than laugh at me, I can go elsewhere."

     "No, no," cried Holmes, shoving him back into the chair from which he
     had half risen. "I really wouldn't miss your case for the world. It
     is most refreshingly unusual. But there is, if you will excuse my
     saying so, something just a little funny about it. Pray what steps
     did you take when you found the card upon the door?"

     "I was staggered, sir. I did not know what to do. Then I called at
     the offices round, but none of them seemed to know anything about it.
     Finally, I went to the landlord, who is an accountant living on the
     ground-floor, and I asked him if he could tell me what had become of
     the Red-headed League. He said that he had never heard of any such
     body. Then I asked him who Mr. Duncan Ross was. He answered that the
     name was new to him.

     "'Well,' said I, 'the gentleman at No. 4.'

     "'What, the red-headed man?'

     "'Yes.'

     "'Oh,' said he, 'his name was William Morris. He was a solicitor and
     was using my room as a temporary convenience until his new premises
     were ready. He moved out yesterday.'

     "'Where could I find him?'

     "'Oh, at his new offices. He did tell me the address. Yes, 17 King
     Edward Street, near St. Paul's.'

     "I started off, Mr. Holmes, but when I got to that address it was a
     manufactory of artificial knee-caps, and no one in it had ever heard
     of either Mr. William Morris or Mr. Duncan Ross."

     "And what did you do then?" asked Holmes.

     "I went home to Saxe-Coburg Square, and I took the advice of my
     assistant. But he could not help me in any way. He could only say
     that if I waited I should hear by post. But that was not quite good
     enough, Mr. Holmes. I did not wish to lose such a place without a
     struggle, so, as I had heard that you were good enough to give advice
     to poor folk who were in need of it, I came right away to you."

     "And you did very wisely," said Holmes. "Your case is an exceedingly
     remarkable one, and I shall be happy to look into it. From what you
     have told me I think that it is possible that graver issues hang from
     it than might at first sight appear."

     "Grave enough!" said Mr. Jabez Wilson. "Why, I have lost four pound a
     week."

     "As far as you are personally concerned," remarked Holmes, "I do not
     see that you have any grievance against this extraordinary league. On
     the contrary, you are, as I understand, richer by some Â£30, to say
     nothing of the minute knowledge which you have gained on every
     subject which comes under the letter A. You have lost nothing by
     them."

     "No, sir. But I want to find out about them, and who they are, and
     what their object was in playing this prank--if it was a prank--upon
     me. It was a pretty expensive joke for them, for it cost them two and
     thirty pounds."

     "We shall endeavour to clear up these points for you. And, first, one
     or two questions, Mr. Wilson. This assistant of yours who first
     called your attention to the advertisement--how long had he been with
     you?"

     "About a month then."

     "How did he come?"

     "In answer to an advertisement."

     "Was he the only applicant?"

     "No, I had a dozen."

     "Why did you pick him?"

     "Because he was handy and would come cheap."

     "At half-wages, in fact."

     "Yes."

     "What is he like, this Vincent Spaulding?"

     "Small, stout-built, very quick in his ways, no hair on his face,
     though he's not short of thirty. Has a white splash of acid upon his
     forehead."

     Holmes sat up in his chair in considerable excitement. "I thought as
     much," said he. "Have you ever observed that his ears are pierced for
     earrings?"

     "Yes, sir. He told me that a gipsy had done it for him when he was a
     lad."

     "Hum!" said Holmes, sinking back in deep thought. "He is still with
     you?"

     "Oh, yes, sir; I have only just left him."

     "And has your business been attended to in your absence?"

     "Nothing to complain of, sir. There's never very much to do of a
     morning."

     "That will do, Mr. Wilson. I shall be happy to give you an opinion
     upon the subject in the course of a day or two. To-day is Saturday,
     and I hope that by Monday we may come to a conclusion."

     "Well, Watson," said Holmes when our visitor had left us, "what do
     you make of it all?"

     "I make nothing of it," I answered frankly. "It is a most mysterious
     business."

     "As a rule," said Holmes, "the more bizarre a thing is the less
     mysterious it proves to be. It is your commonplace, featureless
     crimes which are really puzzling, just as a commonplace face is the
     most difficult to identify. But I must be prompt over this matter."

     "What are you going to do, then?" I asked.

     "To smoke," he answered. "It is quite a three pipe problem, and I beg
     that you won't speak to me for fifty minutes." He curled himself up
     in his chair, with his thin knees drawn up to his hawk-like nose, and
     there he sat with his eyes closed and his black clay pipe thrusting
     out like the bill of some strange bird. I had come to the conclusion
     that he had dropped asleep, and indeed was nodding myself, when he
     suddenly sprang out of his chair with the gesture of a man who has
     made up his mind and put his pipe down upon the mantelpiece.

     "Sarasate plays at the St. James's Hall this afternoon," he remarked.
     "What do you think, Watson? Could your patients spare you for a few
     hours?"

     "I have nothing to do to-day. My practice is never very absorbing."

     "Then put on your hat and come. I am going through the City first,
     and we can have some lunch on the way. I observe that there is a good
     deal of German music on the programme, which is rather more to my
     taste than Italian or French. It is introspective, and I want to
     introspect. Come along!"

     We travelled by the Underground as far as Aldersgate; and a short
     walk took us to Saxe-Coburg Square, the scene of the singular story
     which we had listened to in the morning. It was a poky, little,
     shabby-genteel place, where four lines of dingy two-storied brick
     houses looked out into a small railed-in enclosure, where a lawn of
     weedy grass and a few clumps of faded laurel-bushes made a hard fight
     against a smoke-laden and uncongenial atmosphere. Three gilt balls
     and a brown board with "Jabez Wilson" in white letters, upon a corner
     house, announced the place where our red-headed client carried on his
     business. Sherlock Holmes stopped in front of it with his head on one
     side and looked it all over, with his eyes shining brightly between
     puckered lids. Then he walked slowly up the street, and then down
     again to the corner, still looking keenly at the houses. Finally he
     returned to the pawnbroker's, and, having thumped vigorously upon the
     pavement with his stick two or three times, he went up to the door
     and knocked. It was instantly opened by a bright-looking,
     clean-shaven young fellow, who asked him to step in.

     "Thank you," said Holmes, "I only wished to ask you how you would go
     from here to the Strand."

     "Third right, fourth left," answered the assistant promptly, closing
     the door.

     "Smart fellow, that," observed Holmes as we walked away. "He is, in
     my judgment, the fourth smartest man in London, and for daring I am
     not sure that he has not a claim to be third. I have known something
     of him before."

     "Evidently," said I, "Mr. Wilson's assistant counts for a good deal
     in this mystery of the Red-headed League. I am sure that you inquired
     your way merely in order that you might see him."

     "Not him."

     "What then?"

     "The knees of his trousers."

     "And what did you see?"

     "What I expected to see."

     "Why did you beat the pavement?"

     "My dear doctor, this is a time for observation, not for talk. We are
     spies in an enemy's country. We know something of Saxe-Coburg Square.
     Let us now explore the parts which lie behind it."

     The road in which we found ourselves as we turned round the corner
     from the retired Saxe-Coburg Square presented as great a contrast to
     it as the front of a picture does to the back. It was one of the main
     arteries which conveyed the traffic of the City to the north and
     west. The roadway was blocked with the immense stream of commerce
     flowing in a double tide inward and outward, while the footpaths were
     black with the hurrying swarm of pedestrians. It was difficult to
     realise as we looked at the line of fine shops and stately business
     premises that they really abutted on the other side upon the faded
     and stagnant square which we had just quitted.

     "Let me see," said Holmes, standing at the corner and glancing along
     the line, "I should like just to remember the order of the houses
     here. It is a hobby of mine to have an exact knowledge of London.
     There is Mortimer's, the tobacconist, the little newspaper shop, the
     Coburg branch of the City and Suburban Bank, the Vegetarian
     Restaurant, and McFarlane's carriage-building depot. That carries us
     right on to the other block. And now, Doctor, we've done our work, so
     it's time we had some play. A sandwich and a cup of coffee, and then
     off to violin-land, where all is sweetness and delicacy and harmony,
     and there are no red-headed clients to vex us with their conundrums."

     My friend was an enthusiastic musician, being himself not only a very
     capable performer but a composer of no ordinary merit. All the
     afternoon he sat in the stalls wrapped in the most perfect happiness,
     gently waving his long, thin fingers in time to the music, while his
     gently smiling face and his languid, dreamy eyes were as unlike those
     of Holmes the sleuth-hound, Holmes the relentless, keen-witted,
     ready-handed criminal agent, as it was possible to conceive. In his
     singular character the dual nature alternately asserted itself, and
     his extreme exactness and astuteness represented, as I have often
     thought, the reaction against the poetic and contemplative mood which
     occasionally predominated in him. The swing of his nature took him
     from extreme languor to devouring energy; and, as I knew well, he was
     never so truly formidable as when, for days on end, he had been
     lounging in his armchair amid his improvisations and his black-letter
     editions. Then it was that the lust of the chase would suddenly come
     upon him, and that his brilliant reasoning power would rise to the
     level of intuition, until those who were unacquainted with his
     methods would look askance at him as on a man whose knowledge was not
     that of other mortals. When I saw him that afternoon so enwrapped in
     the music at St. James's Hall I felt that an evil time might be
     coming upon those whom he had set himself to hunt down.

     "You want to go home, no doubt, Doctor," he remarked as we emerged.

     "Yes, it would be as well."

     "And I have some business to do which will take some hours. This
     business at Coburg Square is serious."

     "Why serious?"

     "A considerable crime is in contemplation. I have every reason to
     believe that we shall be in time to stop it. But to-day being
     Saturday rather complicates matters. I shall want your help
     to-night."

     "At what time?"

     "Ten will be early enough."

     "I shall be at Baker Street at ten."

     "Very well. And, I say, Doctor, there may be some little danger, so
     kindly put your army revolver in your pocket." He waved his hand,
     turned on his heel, and disappeared in an instant among the crowd.

     I trust that I am not more dense than my neighbours, but I was always
     oppressed with a sense of my own stupidity in my dealings with
     Sherlock Holmes. Here I had heard what he had heard, I had seen what
     he had seen, and yet from his words it was evident that he saw
     clearly not only what had happened but what was about to happen,
     while to me the whole business was still confused and grotesque. As I
     drove home to my house in Kensington I thought over it all, from the
     extraordinary story of the red-headed copier of the "Encyclopaedia"
     down to the visit to Saxe-Coburg Square, and the ominous words with
     which he had parted from me. What was this nocturnal expedition, and
     why should I go armed?  Where were we going, and what were we to do?
     I had the hint from Holmes that this smooth-faced pawnbroker's
     assistant was a formidable man--a man who might play a deep game. I
     tried to puzzle it out, but gave it up in despair and set the matter
     aside until night should bring an explanation.

     It was a quarter-past nine when I started from home and made my way
     across the Park, and so through Oxford Street to Baker Street. Two
     hansoms were standing at the door, and as I entered the passage I
     heard the sound of voices from above. On entering his room I found
     Holmes in animated conversation with two men, one of whom I
     recognised as Peter Jones, the official police agent, while the other
     was a long, thin, sad-faced man, with a very shiny hat and
     oppressively respectable frock-coat.

     "Ha! Our party is complete," said Holmes, buttoning up his pea-jacket
     and taking his heavy hunting crop from the rack. "Watson, I think you
     know Mr. Jones, of Scotland Yard? Let me introduce you to Mr.
     Merryweather, who is to be our companion in to-night's adventure."

     "We're hunting in couples again, Doctor, you see," said Jones in his
     consequential way. "Our friend here is a wonderful man for starting a
     chase. All he wants is an old dog to help him to do the running
     down."

     "I hope a wild goose may not prove to be the end of our chase,"
     observed Mr. Merryweather gloomily.

     "You may place considerable confidence in Mr. Holmes, sir," said the
     police agent loftily. "He has his own little methods, which are, if
     he won't mind my saying so, just a little too theoretical and
     fantastic, but he has the makings of a detective in him. It is not
     too much to say that once or twice, as in that business of the Sholto
     murder and the Agra treasure, he has been more nearly correct than
     the official force."

     "Oh, if you say so, Mr. Jones, it is all right," said the stranger
     with deference. "Still, I confess that I miss my rubber. It is the
     first Saturday night for seven-and-twenty years that I have not had
     my rubber."

     "I think you will find," said Sherlock Holmes, "that you will play
     for a higher stake to-night than you have ever done yet, and that the
     play will be more exciting. For you, Mr. Merryweather, the stake will
     be some Â£30,000; and for you, Jones, it will be the man upon whom you
     wish to lay your hands."

     "John Clay, the murderer, thief, smasher, and forger. He's a young
     man, Mr. Merryweather, but he is at the head of his profession, and I
     would rather have my bracelets on him than on any criminal in London.
     He's a remarkable man, is young John Clay. His grandfather was a
     royal duke, and he himself has been to Eton and Oxford. His brain is
     as cunning as his fingers, and though we meet signs of him at every
     turn, we never know where to find the man himself. He'll crack a crib
     in Scotland one week, and be raising money to build an orphanage in
     Cornwall the next. I've been on his track for years and have never
     set eyes on him yet."

     "I hope that I may have the pleasure of introducing you to-night.
     I've had one or two little turns also with Mr. John Clay, and I agree
     with you that he is at the head of his profession. It is past ten,
     however, and quite time that we started. If you two will take the
     first hansom, Watson and I will follow in the second."

     Sherlock Holmes was not very communicative during the long drive and
     lay back in the cab humming the tunes which he had heard in the
     afternoon. We rattled through an endless labyrinth of gas-lit streets
     until we emerged into Farrington Street.

     "We are close there now," my friend remarked. "This fellow
     Merryweather is a bank director, and personally interested in the
     matter. I thought it as well to have Jones with us also. He is not a
     bad fellow, though an absolute imbecile in his profession. He has one
     positive virtue. He is as brave as a bulldog and as tenacious as a
     lobster if he gets his claws upon anyone. Here we are, and they are
     waiting for us."

     We had reached the same crowded thoroughfare in which we had found
     ourselves in the morning. Our cabs were dismissed, and, following the
     guidance of Mr. Merryweather, we passed down a narrow passage and
     through a side door, which he opened for us. Within there was a small
     corridor, which ended in a very massive iron gate. This also was
     opened, and led down a flight of winding stone steps, which
     terminated at another formidable gate. Mr. Merryweather stopped to
     light a lantern, and then conducted us down a dark, earth-smelling
     passage, and so, after opening a third door, into a huge vault or
     cellar, which was piled all round with crates and massive boxes.

     "You are not very vulnerable from above," Holmes remarked as he held
     up the lantern and gazed about him.

     "Nor from below," said Mr. Merryweather, striking his stick upon the
     flags which lined the floor. "Why, dear me, it sounds quite hollow!"
     he remarked, looking up in surprise.

     "I must really ask you to be a little more quiet!" said Holmes
     severely. "You have already imperilled the whole success of our
     expedition. Might I beg that you would have the goodness to sit down
     upon one of those boxes, and not to interfere?"

     The solemn Mr. Merryweather perched himself upon a crate, with a very
     injured expression upon his face, while Holmes fell upon his knees
     upon the floor and, with the lantern and a magnifying lens, began to
     examine minutely the cracks between the stones. A few seconds
     sufficed to satisfy him, for he sprang to his feet again and put his
     glass in his pocket.

     "We have at least an hour before us," he remarked, "for they can
     hardly take any steps until the good pawnbroker is safely in bed.
     Then they will not lose a minute, for the sooner they do their work
     the longer time they will have for their escape. We are at present,
     Doctor--as no doubt you have divined--in the cellar of the City
     branch of one of the principal London banks. Mr. Merryweather is the
     chairman of directors, and he will explain to you that there are
     reasons why the more daring criminals of London should take a
     considerable interest in this cellar at present."

     "It is our French gold," whispered the director. "We have had several
     warnings that an attempt might be made upon it."

     "Your French gold?"

     "Yes. We had occasion some months ago to strengthen our resources and
     borrowed for that purpose 30,000 napoleons from the Bank of France.
     It has become known that we have never had occasion to unpack the
     money, and that it is still lying in our cellar. The crate upon which
     I sit contains 2,000 napoleons packed between layers of lead foil.
     Our reserve of bullion is much larger at present than is usually kept
     in a single branch office, and the directors have had misgivings upon
     the subject."

     "Which were very well justified," observed Holmes. "And now it is
     time that we arranged our little plans. I expect that within an hour
     matters will come to a head. In the meantime Mr. Merryweather, we
     must put the screen over that dark lantern."

     "And sit in the dark?"

     "I am afraid so. I had brought a pack of cards in my pocket, and I
     thought that, as we were a partie carrÃ©e, you might have your rubber
     after all. But I see that the enemy's preparations have gone so far
     that we cannot risk the presence of a light. And, first of all, we
     must choose our positions. These are daring men, and though we shall
     take them at a disadvantage, they may do us some harm unless we are
     careful. I shall stand behind this crate, and do you conceal
     yourselves behind those. Then, when I flash a light upon them, close
     in swiftly. If they fire, Watson, have no compunction about shooting
     them down."

     I placed my revolver, cocked, upon the top of the wooden case behind
     which I crouched. Holmes shot the slide across the front of his
     lantern and left us in pitch darkness--such an absolute darkness as I
     have never before experienced. The smell of hot metal remained to
     assure us that the light was still there, ready to flash out at a
     moment's notice. To me, with my nerves worked up to a pitch of
     expectancy, there was something depressing and subduing in the sudden
     gloom, and in the cold dank air of the vault.

     "They have but one retreat," whispered Holmes. "That is back through
     the house into Saxe-Coburg Square. I hope that you have done what I
     asked you, Jones?"

     "I have an inspector and two officers waiting at the front door."

     "Then we have stopped all the holes. And now we must be silent and
     wait."

     What a time it seemed! From comparing notes afterwards it was but an
     hour and a quarter, yet it appeared to me that the night must have
     almost gone and the dawn be breaking above us. My limbs were weary
     and stiff, for I feared to change my position; yet my nerves were
     worked up to the highest pitch of tension, and my hearing was so
     acute that I could not only hear the gentle breathing of my
     companions, but I could distinguish the deeper, heavier in-breath of
     the bulky Jones from the thin, sighing note of the bank director.
     From my position I could look over the case in the direction of the
     floor. Suddenly my eyes caught the glint of a light.

     At first it was but a lurid spark upon the stone pavement. Then it
     lengthened out until it became a yellow line, and then, without any
     warning or sound, a gash seemed to open and a hand appeared, a white,
     almost womanly hand, which felt about in the centre of the little
     area of light. For a minute or more the hand, with its writhing
     fingers, protruded out of the floor. Then it was withdrawn as
     suddenly as it appeared, and all was dark again save the single lurid
     spark which marked a chink between the stones.

     Its disappearance, however, was but momentary. With a rending,
     tearing sound, one of the broad, white stones turned over upon its
     side and left a square, gaping hole, through which streamed the light
     of a lantern. Over the edge there peeped a clean-cut, boyish face,
     which looked keenly about it, and then, with a hand on either side of
     the aperture, drew itself shoulder-high and waist-high, until one
     knee rested upon the edge. In another instant he stood at the side of
     the hole and was hauling after him a companion, lithe and small like
     himself, with a pale face and a shock of very red hair.

     "It's all clear," he whispered. "Have you the chisel and the bags?
     Great Scott! Jump, Archie, jump, and I'll swing for it!"

     Sherlock Holmes had sprung out and seized the intruder by the collar.
     The other dived down the hole, and I heard the sound of rending cloth
     as Jones clutched at his skirts. The light flashed upon the barrel of
     a revolver, but Holmes' hunting crop came down on the man's wrist,
     and the pistol clinked upon the stone floor.

     "It's no use, John Clay," said Holmes blandly. "You have no chance at
     all."

     "So I see," the other answered with the utmost coolness. "I fancy
     that my pal is all right, though I see you have got his coat-tails."

     "There are three men waiting for him at the door," said Holmes.

     "Oh, indeed! You seem to have done the thing very completely. I must
     compliment you."

     "And I you," Holmes answered. "Your red-headed idea was very new and
     effective."

     "You'll see your pal again presently," said Jones. "He's quicker at
     climbing down holes than I am. Just hold out while I fix the
     derbies."

     "I beg that you will not touch me with your filthy hands," remarked
     our prisoner as the handcuffs clattered upon his wrists. "You may not
     be aware that I have royal blood in my veins. Have the goodness,
     also, when you address me always to say 'sir' and 'please.'"

     "All right," said Jones with a stare and a snigger. "Well, would you
     please, sir, march upstairs, where we can get a cab to carry your
     Highness to the police-station?"

     "That is better," said John Clay serenely. He made a sweeping bow to
     the three of us and walked quietly off in the custody of the
     detective.

     "Really, Mr. Holmes," said Mr. Merryweather as we followed them from
     the cellar, "I do not know how the bank can thank you or repay you.
     There is no doubt that you have detected and defeated in the most
     complete manner one of the most determined attempts at bank robbery
     that have ever come within my experience."

     "I have had one or two little scores of my own to settle with Mr.
     John Clay," said Holmes. "I have been at some small expense over this
     matter, which I shall expect the bank to refund, but beyond that I am
     amply repaid by having had an experience which is in many ways
     unique, and by hearing the very remarkable narrative of the
     Red-headed League."

     "You see, Watson," he explained in the early hours of the morning as
     we sat over a glass of whisky and soda in Baker Street, "it was
     perfectly obvious from the first that the only possible object of
     this rather fantastic business of the advertisement of the League,
     and the copying of the 'Encyclopaedia,' must be to get this not
     over-bright pawnbroker out of the way for a number of hours every
     day. It was a curious way of managing it, but, really, it would be
     difficult to suggest a better. The method was no doubt suggested to
     Clay's ingenious mind by the colour of his accomplice's hair. The Â£4
     a week was a lure which must draw him, and what was it to them, who
     were playing for thousands? They put in the advertisement, one rogue
     has the temporary office, the other rogue incites the man to apply
     for it, and together they manage to secure his absence every morning
     in the week. From the time that I heard of the assistant having come
     for half wages, it was obvious to me that he had some strong motive
     for securing the situation."

     "But how could you guess what the motive was?"

     "Had there been women in the house, I should have suspected a mere
     vulgar intrigue. That, however, was out of the question. The man's
     business was a small one, and there was nothing in his house which
     could account for such elaborate preparations, and such an
     expenditure as they were at. It must, then, be something out of the
     house. What could it be? I thought of the assistant's fondness for
     photography, and his trick of vanishing into the cellar. The cellar!
     There was the end of this tangled clue. Then I made inquiries as to
     this mysterious assistant and found that I had to deal with one of
     the coolest and most daring criminals in London. He was doing
     something in the cellar--something which took many hours a day for
     months on end. What could it be, once more? I could think of nothing
     save that he was running a tunnel to some other building.

     "So far I had got when we went to visit the scene of action. I
     surprised you by beating upon the pavement with my stick. I was
     ascertaining whether the cellar stretched out in front or behind. It
     was not in front. Then I rang the bell, and, as I hoped, the
     assistant answered it. We have had some skirmishes, but we had never
     set eyes upon each other before. I hardly looked at his face. His
     knees were what I wished to see. You must yourself have remarked how
     worn, wrinkled, and stained they were. They spoke of those hours of
     burrowing. The only remaining point was what they were burrowing for.
     I walked round the corner, saw the City and Suburban Bank abutted on
     our friend's premises, and felt that I had solved my problem. When
     you drove home after the concert I called upon Scotland Yard and upon
     the chairman of the bank directors, with the result that you have
     seen."

     "And how could you tell that they would make their attempt to-night?"
     I asked.

     "Well, when they closed their League offices that was a sign that
     they cared no longer about Mr. Jabez Wilson's presence--in other
     words, that they had completed their tunnel. But it was essential
     that they should use it soon, as it might be discovered, or the
     bullion might be removed. Saturday would suit them better than any
     other day, as it would give them two days for their escape. For all
     these reasons I expected them to come to-night."

     "You reasoned it out beautifully," I exclaimed in unfeigned
     admiration. "It is so long a chain, and yet every link rings true."

     "It saved me from ennui," he answered, yawning. "Alas! I already feel
     it closing in upon me. My life is spent in one long effort to escape
     from the commonplaces of existence. These little problems help me to
     do so."

     "And you are a benefactor of the race," said I.

     He shrugged his shoulders. "Well, perhaps, after all, it is of some
     little use," he remarked. "'L'homme c'est rien--l'oeuvre c'est tout,'
     as Gustave Flaubert wrote to George Sand."






                               A CASE OF IDENTITY

     "My dear fellow," said Sherlock Holmes as we sat on either side of
     the fire in his lodgings at Baker Street, "life is infinitely
     stranger than anything which the mind of man could invent. We would
     not dare to conceive the things which are really mere commonplaces of
     existence. If we could fly out of that window hand in hand, hover
     over this great city, gently remove the roofs, and peep in at the
     queer things which are going on, the strange coincidences, the
     plannings, the cross-purposes, the wonderful chains of events,
     working through generations, and leading to the most outrÃ© results,
     it would make all fiction with its conventionalities and foreseen
     conclusions most stale and unprofitable."

     "And yet I am not convinced of it," I answered. "The cases which come
     to light in the papers are, as a rule, bald enough, and vulgar
     enough. We have in our police reports realism pushed to its extreme
     limits, and yet the result is, it must be confessed, neither
     fascinating nor artistic."

     "A certain selection and discretion must be used in producing a
     realistic effect," remarked Holmes. "This is wanting in the police
     report, where more stress is laid, perhaps, upon the platitudes of
     the magistrate than upon the details, which to an observer contain
     the vital essence of the whole matter. Depend upon it, there is
     nothing so unnatural as the commonplace."

     I smiled and shook my head. "I can quite understand your thinking
     so." I said. "Of course, in your position of unofficial adviser and
     helper to everybody who is absolutely puzzled, throughout three
     continents, you are brought in contact with all that is strange and
     bizarre. But here"--I picked up the morning paper from the
     ground--"let us put it to a practical test. Here is the first heading
     upon which I come. 'A husband's cruelty to his wife.' There is half a
     column of print, but I know without reading it that it is all
     perfectly familiar to me. There is, of course, the other woman, the
     drink, the push, the blow, the bruise, the sympathetic sister or
     landlady. The crudest of writers could invent nothing more crude."

     "Indeed, your example is an unfortunate one for your argument," said
     Holmes, taking the paper and glancing his eye down it. "This is the
     Dundas separation case, and, as it happens, I was engaged in clearing
     up some small points in connection with it. The husband was a
     teetotaler, there was no other woman, and the conduct complained of
     was that he had drifted into the habit of winding up every meal by
     taking out his false teeth and hurling them at his wife, which, you
     will allow, is not an action likely to occur to the imagination of
     the average story-teller. Take a pinch of snuff, Doctor, and
     acknowledge that I have scored over you in your example."

     He held out his snuffbox of old gold, with a great amethyst in the
     centre of the lid. Its splendour was in such contrast to his homely
     ways and simple life that I could not help commenting upon it.

     "Ah," said he, "I forgot that I had not seen you for some weeks. It
     is a little souvenir from the King of Bohemia in return for my
     assistance in the case of the Irene Adler papers."

     "And the ring?" I asked, glancing at a remarkable brilliant which
     sparkled upon his finger.

     "It was from the reigning family of Holland, though the matter in
     which I served them was of such delicacy that I cannot confide it
     even to you, who have been good enough to chronicle one or two of my
     little problems."

     "And have you any on hand just now?" I asked with interest.

     "Some ten or twelve, but none which present any feature of interest.
     They are important, you understand, without being interesting.
     Indeed, I have found that it is usually in unimportant matters that
     there is a field for the observation, and for the quick analysis of
     cause and effect which gives the charm to an investigation. The
     larger crimes are apt to be the simpler, for the bigger the crime the
     more obvious, as a rule, is the motive. In these cases, save for one
     rather intricate matter which has been referred to me from
     Marseilles, there is nothing which presents any features of interest.
     It is possible, however, that I may have something better before very
     many minutes are over, for this is one of my clients, or I am much
     mistaken."

     He had risen from his chair and was standing between the parted
     blinds gazing down into the dull neutral-tinted London street.
     Looking over his shoulder, I saw that on the pavement opposite there
     stood a large woman with a heavy fur boa round her neck, and a large
     curling red feather in a broad-brimmed hat which was tilted in a
     coquettish Duchess of Devonshire fashion over her ear. From under
     this great panoply she peeped up in a nervous, hesitating fashion at
     our windows, while her body oscillated backward and forward, and her
     fingers fidgeted with her glove buttons. Suddenly, with a plunge, as
     of the swimmer who leaves the bank, she hurried across the road, and
     we heard the sharp clang of the bell.

     "I have seen those symptoms before," said Holmes, throwing his
     cigarette into the fire. "Oscillation upon the pavement always means
     an affaire de coeur. She would like advice, but is not sure that the
     matter is not too delicate for communication. And yet even here we
     may discriminate. When a woman has been seriously wronged by a man
     she no longer oscillates, and the usual symptom is a broken bell
     wire. Here we may take it that there is a love matter, but that the
     maiden is not so much angry as perplexed, or grieved. But here she
     comes in person to resolve our doubts."

     As he spoke there was a tap at the door, and the boy in buttons
     entered to announce Miss Mary Sutherland, while the lady herself
     loomed behind his small black figure like a full-sailed merchant-man
     behind a tiny pilot boat. Sherlock Holmes welcomed her with the easy
     courtesy for which he was remarkable, and, having closed the door and
     bowed her into an armchair, he looked her over in the minute and yet
     abstracted fashion which was peculiar to him.

     "Do you not find," he said, "that with your short sight it is a
     little trying to do so much typewriting?"

     "I did at first," she answered, "but now I know where the letters are
     without looking." Then, suddenly realising the full purport of his
     words, she gave a violent start and looked up, with fear and
     astonishment upon her broad, good-humoured face. "You've heard about
     me, Mr. Holmes," she cried, "else how could you know all that?"

     "Never mind," said Holmes, laughing; "it is my business to know
     things. Perhaps I have trained myself to see what others overlook. If
     not, why should you come to consult me?"

     "I came to you, sir, because I heard of you from Mrs. Etherege, whose
     husband you found so easy when the police and everyone had given him
     up for dead. Oh, Mr. Holmes, I wish you would do as much for me. I'm
     not rich, but still I have a hundred a year in my own right, besides
     the little that I make by the machine, and I would give it all to
     know what has become of Mr. Hosmer Angel."

     "Why did you come away to consult me in such a hurry?" asked Sherlock
     Holmes, with his finger-tips together and his eyes to the ceiling.

     Again a startled look came over the somewhat vacuous face of Miss
     Mary Sutherland. "Yes, I did bang out of the house," she said, "for
     it made me angry to see the easy way in which Mr. Windibank--that is,
     my father--took it all. He would not go to the police, and he would
     not go to you, and so at last, as he would do nothing and kept on
     saying that there was no harm done, it made me mad, and I just on
     with my things and came right away to you."

     "Your father," said Holmes, "your stepfather, surely, since the name
     is different."

     "Yes, my stepfather. I call him father, though it sounds funny, too,
     for he is only five years and two months older than myself."

     "And your mother is alive?"

     "Oh, yes, mother is alive and well. I wasn't best pleased, Mr.
     Holmes, when she married again so soon after father's death, and a
     man who was nearly fifteen years younger than herself. Father was a
     plumber in the Tottenham Court Road, and he left a tidy business
     behind him, which mother carried on with Mr. Hardy, the foreman; but
     when Mr. Windibank came he made her sell the business, for he was
     very superior, being a traveller in wines. They got Â£4700 for the
     goodwill and interest, which wasn't near as much as father could have
     got if he had been alive."

     I had expected to see Sherlock Holmes impatient under this rambling
     and inconsequential narrative, but, on the contrary, he had listened
     with the greatest concentration of attention.

     "Your own little income," he asked, "does it come out of the
     business?"

     "Oh, no, sir. It is quite separate and was left me by my uncle Ned in
     Auckland. It is in New Zealand stock, paying 4Â½ per cent. Two
     thousand five hundred pounds was the amount, but I can only touch the
     interest."

     "You interest me extremely," said Holmes. "And since you draw so
     large a sum as a hundred a year, with what you earn into the bargain,
     you no doubt travel a little and indulge yourself in every way. I
     believe that a single lady can get on very nicely upon an income of
     about Â£60."

     "I could do with much less than that, Mr. Holmes, but you understand
     that as long as I live at home I don't wish to be a burden to them,
     and so they have the use of the money just while I am staying with
     them. Of course, that is only just for the time. Mr. Windibank draws
     my interest every quarter and pays it over to mother, and I find that
     I can do pretty well with what I earn at typewriting. It brings me
     twopence a sheet, and I can often do from fifteen to twenty sheets in
     a day."

     "You have made your position very clear to me," said Holmes. "This is
     my friend, Dr. Watson, before whom you can speak as freely as before
     myself. Kindly tell us now all about your connection with Mr. Hosmer
     Angel."

     A flush stole over Miss Sutherland's face, and she picked nervously
     at the fringe of her jacket. "I met him first at the gasfitters'
     ball," she said. "They used to send father tickets when he was alive,
     and then afterwards they remembered us, and sent them to mother. Mr.
     Windibank did not wish us to go. He never did wish us to go anywhere.
     He would get quite mad if I wanted so much as to join a Sunday-school
     treat. But this time I was set on going, and I would go; for what
     right had he to prevent? He said the folk were not fit for us to
     know, when all father's friends were to be there. And he said that I
     had nothing fit to wear, when I had my purple plush that I had never
     so much as taken out of the drawer. At last, when nothing else would
     do, he went off to France upon the business of the firm, but we went,
     mother and I, with Mr. Hardy, who used to be our foreman, and it was
     there I met Mr. Hosmer Angel."

     "I suppose," said Holmes, "that when Mr. Windibank came back from
     France he was very annoyed at your having gone to the ball."

     "Oh, well, he was very good about it. He laughed, I remember, and
     shrugged his shoulders, and said there was no use denying anything to
     a woman, for she would have her way."

     "I see. Then at the gasfitters' ball you met, as I understand, a
     gentleman called Mr. Hosmer Angel."

     "Yes, sir. I met him that night, and he called next day to ask if we
     had got home all safe, and after that we met him--that is to say, Mr.
     Holmes, I met him twice for walks, but after that father came back
     again, and Mr. Hosmer Angel could not come to the house any more."

     "No?"

     "Well, you know father didn't like anything of the sort. He wouldn't
     have any visitors if he could help it, and he used to say that a
     woman should be happy in her own family circle. But then, as I used
     to say to mother, a woman wants her own circle to begin with, and I
     had not got mine yet."

     "But how about Mr. Hosmer Angel? Did he make no attempt to see you?"

     "Well, father was going off to France again in a week, and Hosmer
     wrote and said that it would be safer and better not to see each
     other until he had gone. We could write in the meantime, and he used
     to write every day. I took the letters in in the morning, so there
     was no need for father to know."

     "Were you engaged to the gentleman at this time?"

     "Oh, yes, Mr. Holmes. We were engaged after the first walk that we
     took. Hosmer--Mr. Angel--was a cashier in an office in Leadenhall
     Street--and--"

     "What office?"

     "That's the worst of it, Mr. Holmes, I don't know."

     "Where did he live, then?"

     "He slept on the premises."

     "And you don't know his address?"

     "No--except that it was Leadenhall Street."

     "Where did you address your letters, then?"

     "To the Leadenhall Street Post Office, to be left till called for. He
     said that if they were sent to the office he would be chaffed by all
     the other clerks about having letters from a lady, so I offered to
     typewrite them, like he did his, but he wouldn't have that, for he
     said that when I wrote them they seemed to come from me, but when
     they were typewritten he always felt that the machine had come
     between us. That will just show you how fond he was of me, Mr.
     Holmes, and the little things that he would think of."

     "It was most suggestive," said Holmes. "It has long been an axiom of
     mine that the little things are infinitely the most important.  Can
     you remember any other little things about Mr. Hosmer Angel?"

     "He was a very shy man, Mr. Holmes. He would rather walk with me in
     the evening than in the daylight, for he said that he hated to be
     conspicuous. Very retiring and gentlemanly he was. Even his voice was
     gentle. He'd had the quinsy and swollen glands when he was young, he
     told me, and it had left him with a weak throat, and a hesitating,
     whispering fashion of speech. He was always well dressed, very neat
     and plain, but his eyes were weak, just as mine are, and he wore
     tinted glasses against the glare."

     "Well, and what happened when Mr. Windibank, your stepfather,
     returned to France?"

     "Mr. Hosmer Angel came to the house again and proposed that we should
     marry before father came back. He was in dreadful earnest and made me
     swear, with my hands on the Testament, that whatever happened I would
     always be true to him. Mother said he was quite right to make me
     swear, and that it was a sign of his passion. Mother was all in his
     favour from the first and was even fonder of him than I was. Then,
     when they talked of marrying within the week, I began to ask about
     father; but they both said never to mind about father, but just to
     tell him afterwards, and mother said she would make it all right with
     him. I didn't quite like that, Mr. Holmes. It seemed funny that I
     should ask his leave, as he was only a few years older than me; but I
     didn't want to do anything on the sly, so I wrote to father at
     Bordeaux, where the company has its French offices, but the letter
     came back to me on the very morning of the wedding."

     "It missed him, then?"

     "Yes, sir; for he had started to England just before it arrived."

     "Ha! that was unfortunate. Your wedding was arranged, then, for the
     Friday. Was it to be in church?"

     "Yes, sir, but very quietly. It was to be at St. Saviour's, near
     King's Cross, and we were to have breakfast afterwards at the St.
     Pancras Hotel. Hosmer came for us in a hansom, but as there were two
     of us he put us both into it and stepped himself into a four-wheeler,
     which happened to be the only other cab in the street. We got to the
     church first, and when the four-wheeler drove up we waited for him to
     step out, but he never did, and when the cabman got down from the box
     and looked there was no one there! The cabman said that he could not
     imagine what had become of him, for he had seen him get in with his
     own eyes. That was last Friday, Mr. Holmes, and I have never seen or
     heard anything since then to throw any light upon what became of
     him."

     "It seems to me that you have been very shamefully treated," said
     Holmes.

     "Oh, no, sir! He was too good and kind to leave me so. Why, all the
     morning he was saying to me that, whatever happened, I was to be
     true; and that even if something quite unforeseen occurred to
     separate us, I was always to remember that I was pledged to him, and
     that he would claim his pledge sooner or later. It seemed strange
     talk for a wedding-morning, but what has happened since gives a
     meaning to it."

     "Most certainly it does. Your own opinion is, then, that some
     unforeseen catastrophe has occurred to him?"

     "Yes, sir. I believe that he foresaw some danger, or else he would
     not have talked so. And then I think that what he foresaw happened."

     "But you have no notion as to what it could have been?"

     "None."

     "One more question. How did your mother take the matter?"

     "She was angry, and said that I was never to speak of the matter
     again."

     "And your father? Did you tell him?"

     "Yes; and he seemed to think, with me, that something had happened,
     and that I should hear of Hosmer again. As he said, what interest
     could anyone have in bringing me to the doors of the church, and then
     leaving me? Now, if he had borrowed my money, or if he had married me
     and got my money settled on him, there might be some reason, but
     Hosmer was very independent about money and never would look at a
     shilling of mine. And yet, what could have happened? And why could he
     not write? Oh, it drives me half-mad to think of it, and I can't
     sleep a wink at night." She pulled a little handkerchief out of her
     muff and began to sob heavily into it.

     "I shall glance into the case for you," said Holmes, rising, "and I
     have no doubt that we shall reach some definite result. Let the
     weight of the matter rest upon me now, and do not let your mind dwell
     upon it further. Above all, try to let Mr. Hosmer Angel vanish from
     your memory, as he has done from your life."

     "Then you don't think I'll see him again?"

     "I fear not."

     "Then what has happened to him?"

     "You will leave that question in my hands. I should like an accurate
     description of him and any letters of his which you can spare."

     "I advertised for him in last Saturday's Chronicle," said she. "Here
     is the slip and here are four letters from him."

     "Thank you. And your address?"

     "No. 31 Lyon Place, Camberwell."

     "Mr. Angel's address you never had, I understand. Where is your
     father's place of business?"

     "He travels for Westhouse & Marbank, the great claret importers of
     Fenchurch Street."

     "Thank you. You have made your statement very clearly. You will leave
     the papers here, and remember the advice which I have given you. Let
     the whole incident be a sealed book, and do not allow it to affect
     your life."

     "You are very kind, Mr. Holmes, but I cannot do that. I shall be true
     to Hosmer. He shall find me ready when he comes back."

     For all the preposterous hat and the vacuous face, there was
     something noble in the simple faith of our visitor which compelled
     our respect. She laid her little bundle of papers upon the table and
     went her way, with a promise to come again whenever she might be
     summoned.

     Sherlock Holmes sat silent for a few minutes with his fingertips
     still pressed together, his legs stretched out in front of him, and
     his gaze directed upward to the ceiling. Then he took down from the
     rack the old and oily clay pipe, which was to him as a counsellor,
     and, having lit it, he leaned back in his chair, with the thick blue
     cloud-wreaths spinning up from him, and a look of infinite languor in
     his face.

     "Quite an interesting study, that maiden," he observed. "I found her
     more interesting than her little problem, which, by the way, is
     rather a trite one. You will find parallel cases, if you consult my
     index, in Andover in '77, and there was something of the sort at The
     Hague last year. Old as is the idea, however, there were one or two
     details which were new to me. But the maiden herself was most
     instructive."

     "You appeared to read a good deal upon her which was quite invisible
     to me," I remarked.

     "Not invisible but unnoticed, Watson. You did not know where to look,
     and so you missed all that was important. I can never bring you to
     realise the importance of sleeves, the suggestiveness of thumb-nails,
     or the great issues that may hang from a boot-lace. Now, what did you
     gather from that woman's appearance? Describe it."

     "Well, she had a slate-coloured, broad-brimmed straw hat, with a
     feather of a brickish red. Her jacket was black, with black beads
     sewn upon it, and a fringe of little black jet ornaments. Her dress
     was brown, rather darker than coffee colour, with a little purple
     plush at the neck and sleeves. Her gloves were greyish and were worn
     through at the right forefinger. Her boots I didn't observe. She had
     small round, hanging gold earrings, and a general air of being fairly
     well-to-do in a vulgar, comfortable, easy-going way."

     Sherlock Holmes clapped his hands softly together and chuckled.

     "'Pon my word, Watson, you are coming along wonderfully. You have
     really done very well indeed. It is true that you have missed
     everything of importance, but you have hit upon the method, and you
     have a quick eye for colour. Never trust to general impressions, my
     boy, but concentrate yourself upon details. My first glance is always
     at a woman's sleeve. In a man it is perhaps better first to take the
     knee of the trouser. As you observe, this woman had plush upon her
     sleeves, which is a most useful material for showing traces. The
     double line a little above the wrist, where the typewritist presses
     against the table, was beautifully defined. The sewing-machine, of
     the hand type, leaves a similar mark, but only on the left arm, and
     on the side of it farthest from the thumb, instead of being right
     across the broadest part, as this was. I then glanced at her face,
     and, observing the dint of a pince-nez at either side of her nose, I
     ventured a remark upon short sight and typewriting, which seemed to
     surprise her."

     "It surprised me."

     "But, surely, it was obvious. I was then much surprised and
     interested on glancing down to observe that, though the boots which
     she was wearing were not unlike each other, they were really odd
     ones; the one having a slightly decorated toe-cap, and the other a
     plain one. One was buttoned only in the two lower buttons out of
     five, and the other at the first, third, and fifth. Now, when you see
     that a young lady, otherwise neatly dressed, has come away from home
     with odd boots, half-buttoned, it is no great deduction to say that
     she came away in a hurry."

     "And what else?" I asked, keenly interested, as I always was, by my
     friend's incisive reasoning.

     "I noted, in passing, that she had written a note before leaving home
     but after being fully dressed. You observed that her right glove was
     torn at the forefinger, but you did not apparently see that both
     glove and finger were stained with violet ink. She had written in a
     hurry and dipped her pen too deep. It must have been this morning, or
     the mark would not remain clear upon the finger. All this is amusing,
     though rather elementary, but I must go back to business, Watson.
     Would you mind reading me the advertised description of Mr. Hosmer
     Angel?"

     I held the little printed slip to the light.

     "Missing," it said, "on the morning of the fourteenth, a gentleman
     named Hosmer Angel. About five ft. seven in. in height; strongly
     built, sallow complexion, black hair, a little bald in the centre,
     bushy, black side-whiskers and moustache; tinted glasses, slight
     infirmity of speech. Was dressed, when last seen, in black frock-coat
     faced with silk, black waistcoat, gold Albert chain, and grey Harris
     tweed trousers, with brown gaiters over elastic-sided boots. Known to
     have been employed in an office in Leadenhall Street. Anybody
     bringing--"

     "That will do," said Holmes. "As to the letters," he continued,
     glancing over them, "they are very commonplace. Absolutely no clue in
     them to Mr. Angel, save that he quotes Balzac once. There is one
     remarkable point, however, which will no doubt strike you."

     "They are typewritten," I remarked.

     "Not only that, but the signature is typewritten. Look at the neat
     little 'Hosmer Angel' at the bottom. There is a date, you see, but no
     superscription except Leadenhall Street, which is rather vague. The
     point about the signature is very suggestive--in fact, we may call it
     conclusive."

     "Of what?"

     "My dear fellow, is it possible you do not see how strongly it bears
     upon the case?"

     "I cannot say that I do unless it were that he wished to be able to
     deny his signature if an action for breach of promise were
     instituted."

     "No, that was not the point. However, I shall write two letters,
     which should settle the matter. One is to a firm in the City, the
     other is to the young lady's stepfather, Mr. Windibank, asking him
     whether he could meet us here at six o'clock tomorrow evening. It is
     just as well that we should do business with the male relatives. And
     now, Doctor, we can do nothing until the answers to those letters
     come, so we may put our little problem upon the shelf for the
     interim."

     I had had so many reasons to believe in my friend's subtle powers of
     reasoning and extraordinary energy in action that I felt that he must
     have some solid grounds for the assured and easy demeanour with which
     he treated the singular mystery which he had been called upon to
     fathom. Once only had I known him to fail, in the case of the King of
     Bohemia and of the Irene Adler photograph; but when I looked back to
     the weird business of the Sign of Four, and the extraordinary
     circumstances connected with the Study in Scarlet, I felt that it
     would be a strange tangle indeed which he could not unravel.

     I left him then, still puffing at his black clay pipe, with the
     conviction that when I came again on the next evening I would find
     that he held in his hands all the clues which would lead up to the
     identity of the disappearing bridegroom of Miss Mary Sutherland.

     A professional case of great gravity was engaging my own attention at
     the time, and the whole of next day I was busy at the bedside of the
     sufferer. It was not until close upon six o'clock that I found myself
     free and was able to spring into a hansom and drive to Baker Street,
     half afraid that I might be too late to assist at the dÃ©nouement of
     the little mystery. I found Sherlock Holmes alone, however, half
     asleep, with his long, thin form curled up in the recesses of his
     armchair. A formidable array of bottles and test-tubes, with the
     pungent cleanly smell of hydrochloric acid, told me that he had spent
     his day in the chemical work which was so dear to him.

     "Well, have you solved it?" I asked as I entered.

     "Yes. It was the bisulphate of baryta."

     "No, no, the mystery!" I cried.

     "Oh, that! I thought of the salt that I have been working upon. There
     was never any mystery in the matter, though, as I said yesterday,
     some of the details are of interest. The only drawback is that there
     is no law, I fear, that can touch the scoundrel."

     "Who was he, then, and what was his object in deserting Miss
     Sutherland?"

     The question was hardly out of my mouth, and Holmes had not yet
     opened his lips to reply, when we heard a heavy footfall in the
     passage and a tap at the door.

     "This is the girl's stepfather, Mr. James Windibank," said Holmes.
     "He has written to me to say that he would be here at six. Come in!"

     The man who entered was a sturdy, middle-sized fellow, some thirty
     years of age, clean-shaven, and sallow-skinned, with a bland,
     insinuating manner, and a pair of wonderfully sharp and penetrating
     grey eyes. He shot a questioning glance at each of us, placed his
     shiny top-hat upon the sideboard, and with a slight bow sidled down
     into the nearest chair.

     "Good-evening, Mr. James Windibank," said Holmes. "I think that this
     typewritten letter is from you, in which you made an appointment with
     me for six o'clock?"

     "Yes, sir. I am afraid that I am a little late, but I am not quite my
     own master, you know. I am sorry that Miss Sutherland has troubled
     you about this little matter, for I think it is far better not to
     wash linen of the sort in public. It was quite against my wishes that
     she came, but she is a very excitable, impulsive girl, as you may
     have noticed, and she is not easily controlled when she has made up
     her mind on a point. Of course, I did not mind you so much, as you
     are not connected with the official police, but it is not pleasant to
     have a family misfortune like this noised abroad. Besides, it is a
     useless expense, for how could you possibly find this Hosmer Angel?"

     "On the contrary," said Holmes quietly; "I have every reason to
     believe that I will succeed in discovering Mr. Hosmer Angel."

     Mr. Windibank gave a violent start and dropped his gloves. "I am
     delighted to hear it," he said.

     "It is a curious thing," remarked Holmes, "that a typewriter has
     really quite as much individuality as a man's handwriting. Unless
     they are quite new, no two of them write exactly alike. Some letters
     get more worn than others, and some wear only on one side. Now, you
     remark in this note of yours, Mr. Windibank, that in every case there
     is some little slurring over of the 'e,' and a slight defect in the
     tail of the 'r.' There are fourteen other characteristics, but those
     are the more obvious."

     "We do all our correspondence with this machine at the office, and no
     doubt it is a little worn," our visitor answered, glancing keenly at
     Holmes with his bright little eyes.

     "And now I will show you what is really a very interesting study, Mr.
     Windibank," Holmes continued. "I think of writing another little
     monograph some of these days on the typewriter and its relation to
     crime. It is a subject to which I have devoted some little attention.
     I have here four letters which purport to come from the missing man.
     They are all typewritten. In each case, not only are the 'e's'
     slurred and the 'r's' tailless, but you will observe, if you care to
     use my magnifying lens, that the fourteen other characteristics to
     which I have alluded are there as well."

     Mr. Windibank sprang out of his chair and picked up his hat. "I
     cannot waste time over this sort of fantastic talk, Mr. Holmes," he
     said. "If you can catch the man, catch him, and let me know when you
     have done it."

     "Certainly," said Holmes, stepping over and turning the key in the
     door. "I let you know, then, that I have caught him!"

     "What! where?" shouted Mr. Windibank, turning white to his lips and
     glancing about him like a rat in a trap.

     "Oh, it won't do--really it won't," said Holmes suavely. "There is no
     possible getting out of it, Mr. Windibank. It is quite too
     transparent, and it was a very bad compliment when you said that it
     was impossible for me to solve so simple a question. That's right!
     Sit down and let us talk it over."

     Our visitor collapsed into a chair, with a ghastly face and a glitter
     of moisture on his brow. "It--it's not actionable," he stammered.

     "I am very much afraid that it is not. But between ourselves,
     Windibank, it was as cruel and selfish and heartless a trick in a
     petty way as ever came before me. Now, let me just run over the
     course of events, and you will contradict me if I go wrong."

     The man sat huddled up in his chair, with his head sunk upon his
     breast, like one who is utterly crushed. Holmes stuck his feet up on
     the corner of the mantelpiece and, leaning back with his hands in his
     pockets, began talking, rather to himself, as it seemed, than to us.

     "The man married a woman very much older than himself for her money,"
     said he, "and he enjoyed the use of the money of the daughter as long
     as she lived with them. It was a considerable sum, for people in
     their position, and the loss of it would have made a serious
     difference. It was worth an effort to preserve it. The daughter was
     of a good, amiable disposition, but affectionate and warm-hearted in
     her ways, so that it was evident that with her fair personal
     advantages, and her little income, she would not be allowed to remain
     single long. Now her marriage would mean, of course, the loss of a
     hundred a year, so what does her stepfather do to prevent it? He
     takes the obvious course of keeping her at home and forbidding her to
     seek the company of people of her own age. But soon he found that
     that would not answer forever. She became restive, insisted upon her
     rights, and finally announced her positive intention of going to a
     certain ball. What does her clever stepfather do then? He conceives
     an idea more creditable to his head than to his heart. With the
     connivance and assistance of his wife he disguised himself, covered
     those keen eyes with tinted glasses, masked the face with a moustache
     and a pair of bushy whiskers, sunk that clear voice into an
     insinuating whisper, and doubly secure on account of the girl's short
     sight, he appears as Mr. Hosmer Angel, and keeps off other lovers by
     making love himself."

     "It was only a joke at first," groaned our visitor. "We never thought
     that she would have been so carried away."

     "Very likely not. However that may be, the young lady was very
     decidedly carried away, and, having quite made up her mind that her
     stepfather was in France, the suspicion of treachery never for an
     instant entered her mind. She was flattered by the gentleman's
     attentions, and the effect was increased by the loudly expressed
     admiration of her mother. Then Mr. Angel began to call, for it was
     obvious that the matter should be pushed as far as it would go if a
     real effect were to be produced. There were meetings, and an
     engagement, which would finally secure the girl's affections from
     turning towards anyone else. But the deception could not be kept up
     forever. These pretended journeys to France were rather cumbrous. The
     thing to do was clearly to bring the business to an end in such a
     dramatic manner that it would leave a permanent impression upon the
     young lady's mind and prevent her from looking upon any other suitor
     for some time to come. Hence those vows of fidelity exacted upon a
     Testament, and hence also the allusions to a possibility of something
     happening on the very morning of the wedding. James Windibank wished
     Miss Sutherland to be so bound to Hosmer Angel, and so uncertain as
     to his fate, that for ten years to come, at any rate, she would not
     listen to another man. As far as the church door he brought her, and
     then, as he could go no farther, he conveniently vanished away by the
     old trick of stepping in at one door of a four-wheeler and out at the
     other. I think that was the chain of events, Mr. Windibank!"

     Our visitor had recovered something of his assurance while Holmes had
     been talking, and he rose from his chair now with a cold sneer upon
     his pale face.

     "It may be so, or it may not, Mr. Holmes," said he, "but if you are
     so very sharp you ought to be sharp enough to know that it is you who
     are breaking the law now, and not me. I have done nothing actionable
     from the first, but as long as you keep that door locked you lay
     yourself open to an action for assault and illegal constraint."

     "The law cannot, as you say, touch you," said Holmes, unlocking and
     throwing open the door, "yet there never was a man who deserved
     punishment more. If the young lady has a brother or a friend, he
     ought to lay a whip across your shoulders. By Jove!" he continued,
     flushing up at the sight of the bitter sneer upon the man's face, "it
     is not part of my duties to my client, but here's a hunting crop
     handy, and I think I shall just treat myself to--" He took two swift
     steps to the whip, but before he could grasp it there was a wild
     clatter of steps upon the stairs, the heavy hall door banged, and
     from the window we could see Mr. James Windibank running at the top
     of his speed down the road.

     "There's a cold-blooded scoundrel!" said Holmes, laughing, as he
     threw himself down into his chair once more. "That fellow will rise
     from crime to crime until he does something very bad, and ends on a
     gallows. The case has, in some respects, been not entirely devoid of
     interest."

     "I cannot now entirely see all the steps of your reasoning," I
     remarked.

     "Well, of course it was obvious from the first that this Mr. Hosmer
     Angel must have some strong object for his curious conduct, and it
     was equally clear that the only man who really profited by the
     incident, as far as we could see, was the stepfather. Then the fact
     that the two men were never together, but that the one always
     appeared when the other was away, was suggestive. So were the tinted
     spectacles and the curious voice, which both hinted at a disguise, as
     did the bushy whiskers. My suspicions were all confirmed by his
     peculiar action in typewriting his signature, which, of course,
     inferred that his handwriting was so familiar to her that she would
     recognise even the smallest sample of it. You see all these isolated
     facts, together with many minor ones, all pointed in the same
     direction."

     "And how did you verify them?"

     "Having once spotted my man, it was easy to get corroboration. I knew
     the firm for which this man worked. Having taken the printed
     description, I eliminated everything from it which could be the
     result of a disguise--the whiskers, the glasses, the voice, and I
     sent it to the firm, with a request that they would inform me whether
     it answered to the description of any of their travellers. I had
     already noticed the peculiarities of the typewriter, and I wrote to
     the man himself at his business address asking him if he would come
     here. As I expected, his reply was typewritten and revealed the same
     trivial but characteristic defects. The same post brought me a letter
     from Westhouse & Marbank, of Fenchurch Street, to say that the
     description tallied in every respect with that of their employee,
     James Windibank. VoilÃ  tout!"

     "And Miss Sutherland?"

     "If I tell her she will not believe me. You may remember the old
     Persian saying, 'There is danger for him who taketh the tiger cub,
     and danger also for whoso snatches a delusion from a woman.' There is
     as much sense in Hafiz as in Horace, and as much knowledge of the
     world."






                           THE BOSCOMBE VALLEY MYSTERY

     We were seated at breakfast one morning, my wife and I, when the maid
     brought in a telegram. It was from Sherlock Holmes and ran in this
     way:

     "Have you a couple of days to spare? Have just been wired for from
     the west of England in connection with Boscombe Valley tragedy. Shall
     be glad if you will come with me. Air and scenery perfect. Leave
     Paddington by the 11.15."
     "What do you say, dear?" said my wife, looking across at me. "Will
     you go?" 

     "I really don't know what to say. I have a fairly long list at
     present."

     "Oh, Anstruther would do your work for you. You have been looking a
     little pale lately. I think that the change would do you good, and
     you are always so interested in Mr. Sherlock Holmes' cases."

     "I should be ungrateful if I were not, seeing what I gained through
     one of them," I answered. "But if I am to go, I must pack at once,
     for I have only half an hour."

     My experience of camp life in Afghanistan had at least had the effect
     of making me a prompt and ready traveller. My wants were few and
     simple, so that in less than the time stated I was in a cab with my
     valise, rattling away to Paddington Station. Sherlock Holmes was
     pacing up and down the platform, his tall, gaunt figure made even
     gaunter and taller by his long grey travelling-cloak and
     close-fitting cloth cap.

     "It is really very good of you to come, Watson," said he. "It makes a
     considerable difference to me, having someone with me on whom I can
     thoroughly rely. Local aid is always either worthless or else
     biassed. If you will keep the two corner seats I shall get the
     tickets."

     We had the carriage to ourselves save for an immense litter of papers
     which Holmes had brought with him. Among these he rummaged and read,
     with intervals of note-taking and of meditation, until we were past
     Reading. Then he suddenly rolled them all into a gigantic ball and
     tossed them up onto the rack.

     "Have you heard anything of the case?" he asked.

     "Not a word. I have not seen a paper for some days."

     "The London press has not had very full accounts. I have just been
     looking through all the recent papers in order to master the
     particulars. It seems, from what I gather, to be one of those simple
     cases which are so extremely difficult."

     "That sounds a little paradoxical."

     "But it is profoundly true. Singularity is almost invariably a clue.
     The more featureless and commonplace a crime is, the more difficult
     it is to bring it home. In this case, however, they have established
     a very serious case against the son of the murdered man."

     "It is a murder, then?"

     "Well, it is conjectured to be so. I shall take nothing for granted
     until I have the opportunity of looking personally into it. I will
     explain the state of things to you, as far as I have been able to
     understand it, in a very few words.

     "Boscombe Valley is a country district not very far from Ross, in
     Herefordshire. The largest landed proprietor in that part is a Mr.
     John Turner, who made his money in Australia and returned some years
     ago to the old country. One of the farms which he held, that of
     Hatherley, was let to Mr. Charles McCarthy, who was also an
     ex-Australian. The men had known each other in the colonies, so that
     it was not unnatural that when they came to settle down they should
     do so as near each other as possible. Turner was apparently the
     richer man, so McCarthy became his tenant but still remained, it
     seems, upon terms of perfect equality, as they were frequently
     together. McCarthy had one son, a lad of eighteen, and Turner had an
     only daughter of the same age, but neither of them had wives living.
     They appear to have avoided the society of the neighbouring English
     families and to have led retired lives, though both the McCarthys
     were fond of sport and were frequently seen at the race-meetings of
     the neighbourhood. McCarthy kept two servants--a man and a girl.
     Turner had a considerable household, some half-dozen at the least.
     That is as much as I have been able to gather about the families. Now
     for the facts.

     "On June 3rd, that is, on Monday last, McCarthy left his house at
     Hatherley about three in the afternoon and walked down to the
     Boscombe Pool, which is a small lake formed by the spreading out of
     the stream which runs down the Boscombe Valley. He had been out with
     his serving-man in the morning at Ross, and he had told the man that
     he must hurry, as he had an appointment of importance to keep at
     three. From that appointment he never came back alive.

     "From Hatherley Farm-house to the Boscombe Pool is a quarter of a
     mile, and two people saw him as he passed over this ground. One was
     an old woman, whose name is not mentioned, and the other was William
     Crowder, a game-keeper in the employ of Mr. Turner. Both these
     witnesses depose that Mr. McCarthy was walking alone. The game-keeper
     adds that within a few minutes of his seeing Mr. McCarthy pass he had
     seen his son, Mr. James McCarthy, going the same way with a gun under
     his arm. To the best of his belief, the father was actually in sight
     at the time, and the son was following him. He thought no more of the
     matter until he heard in the evening of the tragedy that had
     occurred.

     "The two McCarthys were seen after the time when William Crowder, the
     game-keeper, lost sight of them. The Boscombe Pool is thickly wooded
     round, with just a fringe of grass and of reeds round the edge. A
     girl of fourteen, Patience Moran, who is the daughter of the
     lodge-keeper of the Boscombe Valley estate, was in one of the woods
     picking flowers. She states that while she was there she saw, at the
     border of the wood and close by the lake, Mr. McCarthy and his son,
     and that they appeared to be having a violent quarrel. She heard Mr.
     McCarthy the elder using very strong language to his son, and she saw
     the latter raise up his hand as if to strike his father. She was so
     frightened by their violence that she ran away and told her mother
     when she reached home that she had left the two McCarthys quarrelling
     near Boscombe Pool, and that she was afraid that they were going to
     fight. She had hardly said the words when young Mr. McCarthy came
     running up to the lodge to say that he had found his father dead in
     the wood, and to ask for the help of the lodge-keeper. He was much
     excited, without either his gun or his hat, and his right hand and
     sleeve were observed to be stained with fresh blood. On following him
     they found the dead body stretched out upon the grass beside the
     pool. The head had been beaten in by repeated blows of some heavy and
     blunt weapon. The injuries were such as might very well have been
     inflicted by the butt-end of his son's gun, which was found lying on
     the grass within a few paces of the body. Under these circumstances
     the young man was instantly arrested, and a verdict of 'wilful
     murder' having been returned at the inquest on Tuesday, he was on
     Wednesday brought before the magistrates at Ross, who have referred
     the case to the next Assizes. Those are the main facts of the case as
     they came out before the coroner and the police-court."

     "I could hardly imagine a more damning case," I remarked. "If ever
     circumstantial evidence pointed to a criminal it does so here."

     "Circumstantial evidence is a very tricky thing," answered Holmes
     thoughtfully. "It may seem to point very straight to one thing, but
     if you shift your own point of view a little, you may find it
     pointing in an equally uncompromising manner to something entirely
     different. It must be confessed, however, that the case looks
     exceedingly grave against the young man, and it is very possible that
     he is indeed the culprit. There are several people in the
     neighbourhood, however, and among them Miss Turner, the daughter of
     the neighbouring landowner, who believe in his innocence, and who
     have retained Lestrade, whom you may recollect in connection with the
     Study in Scarlet, to work out the case in his interest. Lestrade,
     being rather puzzled, has referred the case to me, and hence it is
     that two middle-aged gentlemen are flying westward at fifty miles an
     hour instead of quietly digesting their breakfasts at home."

     "I am afraid," said I, "that the facts are so obvious that you will
     find little credit to be gained out of this case."

     "There is nothing more deceptive than an obvious fact," he answered,
     laughing. "Besides, we may chance to hit upon some other obvious
     facts which may have been by no means obvious to Mr. Lestrade. You
     know me too well to think that I am boasting when I say that I shall
     either confirm or destroy his theory by means which he is quite
     incapable of employing, or even of understanding. To take the first
     example to hand, I very clearly perceive that in your bedroom the
     window is upon the right-hand side, and yet I question whether Mr.
     Lestrade would have noted even so self-evident a thing as that."

     "How on earth--"

     "My dear fellow, I know you well. I know the military neatness which
     characterises you. You shave every morning, and in this season you
     shave by the sunlight; but since your shaving is less and less
     complete as we get farther back on the left side, until it becomes
     positively slovenly as we get round the angle of the jaw, it is
     surely very clear that that side is less illuminated than the other.
     I could not imagine a man of your habits looking at himself in an
     equal light and being satisfied with such a result. I only quote this
     as a trivial example of observation and inference. Therein lies my
     mÃ©tier, and it is just possible that it may be of some service in the
     investigation which lies before us. There are one or two minor points
     which were brought out in the inquest, and which are worth
     considering."

     "What are they?"

     "It appears that his arrest did not take place at once, but after the
     return to Hatherley Farm. On the inspector of constabulary informing
     him that he was a prisoner, he remarked that he was not surprised to
     hear it, and that it was no more than his deserts. This observation
     of his had the natural effect of removing any traces of doubt which
     might have remained in the minds of the coroner's jury."

     "It was a confession," I ejaculated.

     "No, for it was followed by a protestation of innocence."

     "Coming on the top of such a damning series of events, it was at
     least a most suspicious remark."

     "On the contrary," said Holmes, "it is the brightest rift which I can
     at present see in the clouds. However innocent he might be, he could
     not be such an absolute imbecile as not to see that the circumstances
     were very black against him. Had he appeared surprised at his own
     arrest, or feigned indignation at it, I should have looked upon it as
     highly suspicious, because such surprise or anger would not be
     natural under the circumstances, and yet might appear to be the best
     policy to a scheming man. His frank acceptance of the situation marks
     him as either an innocent man, or else as a man of considerable
     self-restraint and firmness. As to his remark about his deserts, it
     was also not unnatural if you consider that he stood beside the dead
     body of his father, and that there is no doubt that he had that very
     day so far forgotten his filial duty as to bandy words with him, and
     even, according to the little girl whose evidence is so important, to
     raise his hand as if to strike him. The self-reproach and contrition
     which are displayed in his remark appear to me to be the signs of a
     healthy mind rather than of a guilty one."

     I shook my head. "Many men have been hanged on far slighter
     evidence," I remarked.

     "So they have. And many men have been wrongfully hanged."

     "What is the young man's own account of the matter?"

     "It is, I am afraid, not very encouraging to his supporters, though
     there are one or two points in it which are suggestive. You will find
     it here, and may read it for yourself."

     He picked out from his bundle a copy of the local Herefordshire
     paper, and having turned down the sheet he pointed out the paragraph
     in which the unfortunate young man had given his own statement of
     what had occurred. I settled myself down in the corner of the
     carriage and read it very carefully. It ran in this way:

     "Mr. James McCarthy, the only son of the deceased, was then called
     and gave evidence as follows: 'I had been away from home for three
     days at Bristol, and had only just returned upon the morning of last
     Monday, the 3rd. My father was absent from home at the time of my
     arrival, and I was informed by the maid that he had driven over to
     Ross with John Cobb, the groom. Shortly after my return I heard the
     wheels of his trap in the yard, and, looking out of my window, I saw
     him get out and walk rapidly out of the yard, though I was not aware
     in which direction he was going. I then took my gun and strolled out
     in the direction of the Boscombe Pool, with the intention of visiting
     the rabbit warren which is upon the other side. On my way I saw
     William Crowder, the game-keeper, as he had stated in his evidence;
     but he is mistaken in thinking that I was following my father. I had
     no idea that he was in front of me. When about a hundred yards from
     the pool I heard a cry of "Cooee!" which was a usual signal between
     my father and myself. I then hurried forward, and found him standing
     by the pool. He appeared to be much surprised at seeing me and asked
     me rather roughly what I was doing there. A conversation ensued which
     led to high words and almost to blows, for my father was a man of a
     very violent temper. Seeing that his passion was becoming
     ungovernable, I left him and returned towards Hatherley Farm. I had
     not gone more than 150 yards, however, when I heard a hideous outcry
     behind me, which caused me to run back again. I found my father
     expiring upon the ground, with his head terribly injured. I dropped
     my gun and held him in my arms, but he almost instantly expired. I
     knelt beside him for some minutes, and then made my way to Mr.
     Turner's lodge-keeper, his house being the nearest, to ask for
     assistance. I saw no one near my father when I returned, and I have
     no idea how he came by his injuries. He was not a popular man, being
     somewhat cold and forbidding in his manners, but he had, as far as I
     know, no active enemies. I know nothing further of the matter.'
     "The Coroner: Did your father make any statement to you before he
     died?
     "Witness: He mumbled a few words, but I could only catch some
     allusion to a rat.
     "The Coroner: What did you understand by that?
     "Witness: It conveyed no meaning to me. I thought that he was
     delirious.
     "The Coroner: What was the point upon which you and your father had
     this final quarrel?
     "Witness: I should prefer not to answer.
     "The Coroner: I am afraid that I must press it.
     "Witness: It is really impossible for me to tell you. I can assure
     you that it has nothing to do with the sad tragedy which followed.
     "The Coroner: That is for the court to decide. I need not point out
     to you that your refusal to answer will prejudice your case
     considerably in any future proceedings which may arise.
     "Witness: I must still refuse.
     "The Coroner: I understand that the cry of 'Cooee' was a common
     signal between you and your father?
     "Witness: It was.
     "The Coroner: How was it, then, that he uttered it before he saw you,
     and before he even knew that you had returned from Bristol?
     "Witness (with considerable confusion): I do not know.
     "A Juryman: Did you see nothing which aroused your suspicions when
     you returned on hearing the cry and found your father fatally
     injured?
     "Witness: Nothing definite.
     "The Coroner: What do you mean?
     "Witness: I was so disturbed and excited as I rushed out into the
     open, that I could think of nothing except of my father. Yet I have a
     vague impression that as I ran forward something lay upon the ground
     to the left of me. It seemed to me to be something grey in colour, a
     coat of some sort, or a plaid perhaps. When I rose from my father I
     looked round for it, but it was gone.
     "'Do you mean that it disappeared before you went for help?'
     "'Yes, it was gone.'
     "'You cannot say what it was?'
     "'No, I had a feeling something was there.'
     "'How far from the body?'
     "'A dozen yards or so.'
     "'And how far from the edge of the wood?'
     "'About the same.'
     "'Then if it was removed it was while you were within a dozen yards
     of it?'
     "'Yes, but with my back towards it.'
     "This concluded the examination of the witness."

     "I see," said I as I glanced down the column, "that the coroner in
     his concluding remarks was rather severe upon young McCarthy. He
     calls attention, and with reason, to the discrepancy about his father
     having signalled to him before seeing him, also to his refusal to
     give details of his conversation with his father, and his singular
     account of his father's dying words. They are all, as he remarks,
     very much against the son."

     Holmes laughed softly to himself and stretched himself out upon the
     cushioned seat. "Both you and the coroner have been at some pains,"
     said he, "to single out the very strongest points in the young man's
     favour. Don't you see that you alternately give him credit for having
     too much imagination and too little? Too little, if he could not
     invent a cause of quarrel which would give him the sympathy of the
     jury; too much, if he evolved from his own inner consciousness
     anything so outrÃ© as a dying reference to a rat, and the incident of
     the vanishing cloth. No, sir, I shall approach this case from the
     point of view that what this young man says is true, and we shall see
     whither that hypothesis will lead us. And now here is my pocket
     Petrarch, and not another word shall I say of this case until we are
     on the scene of action. We lunch at Swindon, and I see that we shall
     be there in twenty minutes."

     It was nearly four o'clock when we at last, after passing through the
     beautiful Stroud Valley, and over the broad gleaming Severn, found
     ourselves at the pretty little country-town of Ross. A lean,
     ferret-like man, furtive and sly-looking, was waiting for us upon the
     platform. In spite of the light brown dustcoat and leather-leggings
     which he wore in deference to his rustic surroundings, I had no
     difficulty in recognising Lestrade, of Scotland Yard. With him we
     drove to the Hereford Arms where a room had already been engaged for
     us.

     "I have ordered a carriage," said Lestrade as we sat over a cup of
     tea. "I knew your energetic nature, and that you would not be happy
     until you had been on the scene of the crime."

     "It was very nice and complimentary of you," Holmes answered. "It is
     entirely a question of barometric pressure."

     Lestrade looked startled. "I do not quite follow," he said.

     "How is the glass? Twenty-nine, I see. No wind, and not a cloud in
     the sky. I have a caseful of cigarettes here which need smoking, and
     the sofa is very much superior to the usual country hotel
     abomination. I do not think that it is probable that I shall use the
     carriage to-night."

     Lestrade laughed indulgently. "You have, no doubt, already formed
     your conclusions from the newspapers," he said. "The case is as plain
     as a pikestaff, and the more one goes into it the plainer it becomes.
     Still, of course, one can't refuse a lady, and such a very positive
     one, too. She has heard of you, and would have your opinion, though I
     repeatedly told her that there was nothing which you could do which I
     had not already done. Why, bless my soul! here is her carriage at the
     door."

     He had hardly spoken before there rushed into the room one of the
     most lovely young women that I have ever seen in my life. Her violet
     eyes shining, her lips parted, a pink flush upon her cheeks, all
     thought of her natural reserve lost in her overpowering excitement
     and concern.

     "Oh, Mr. Sherlock Holmes!" she cried, glancing from one to the other
     of us, and finally, with a woman's quick intuition, fastening upon my
     companion, "I am so glad that you have come. I have driven down to
     tell you so. I know that James didn't do it. I know it, and I want
     you to start upon your work knowing it, too. Never let yourself doubt
     upon that point. We have known each other since we were little
     children, and I know his faults as no one else does; but he is too
     tender-hearted to hurt a fly. Such a charge is absurd to anyone who
     really knows him."

     "I hope we may clear him, Miss Turner," said Sherlock Holmes.  "You
     may rely upon my doing all that I can."

     "But you have read the evidence. You have formed some conclusion? Do
     you not see some loophole, some flaw? Do you not yourself think that
     he is innocent?"

     "I think that it is very probable."

     "There, now!" she cried, throwing back her head and looking defiantly
     at Lestrade. "You hear! He gives me hopes."

     Lestrade shrugged his shoulders. "I am afraid that my colleague has
     been a little quick in forming his conclusions," he said.

     "But he is right. Oh! I know that he is right. James never did it.
     And about his quarrel with his father, I am sure that the reason why
     he would not speak about it to the coroner was because I was
     concerned in it."

     "In what way?" asked Holmes.

     "It is no time for me to hide anything. James and his father had many
     disagreements about me. Mr. McCarthy was very anxious that there
     should be a marriage between us. James and I have always loved each
     other as brother and sister; but of course he is young and has seen
     very little of life yet, and--and--well, he naturally did not wish to
     do anything like that yet. So there were quarrels, and this, I am
     sure, was one of them."

     "And your father?" asked Holmes. "Was he in favour of such a union?"

     "No, he was averse to it also. No one but Mr. McCarthy was in favour
     of it." A quick blush passed over her fresh young face as Holmes shot
     one of his keen, questioning glances at her.

     "Thank you for this information," said he. "May I see your father if
     I call to-morrow?"

     "I am afraid the doctor won't allow it."

     "The doctor?"

     "Yes, have you not heard? Poor father has never been strong for years
     back, but this has broken him down completely. He has taken to his
     bed, and Dr. Willows says that he is a wreck and that his nervous
     system is shattered. Mr. McCarthy was the only man alive who had
     known dad in the old days in Victoria."

     "Ha! In Victoria! That is important."

     "Yes, at the mines."

     "Quite so; at the gold-mines, where, as I understand, Mr. Turner made
     his money."

     "Yes, certainly."

     "Thank you, Miss Turner. You have been of material assistance to me."

     "You will tell me if you have any news to-morrow. No doubt you will
     go to the prison to see James. Oh, if you do, Mr. Holmes, do tell him
     that I know him to be innocent."

     "I will, Miss Turner."

     "I must go home now, for dad is very ill, and he misses me so if I
     leave him. Good-bye, and God help you in your undertaking." She
     hurried from the room as impulsively as she had entered, and we heard
     the wheels of her carriage rattle off down the street.

     "I am ashamed of you, Holmes," said Lestrade with dignity after a few
     minutes' silence. "Why should you raise up hopes which you are bound
     to disappoint? I am not over-tender of heart, but I call it cruel."

     "I think that I see my way to clearing James McCarthy," said Holmes.
     "Have you an order to see him in prison?"

     "Yes, but only for you and me."

     "Then I shall reconsider my resolution about going out. We have still
     time to take a train to Hereford and see him to-night?"

     "Ample."

     "Then let us do so. Watson, I fear that you will find it very slow,
     but I shall only be away a couple of hours."

     I walked down to the station with them, and then wandered through the
     streets of the little town, finally returning to the hotel, where I
     lay upon the sofa and tried to interest myself in a yellow-backed
     novel. The puny plot of the story was so thin, however, when compared
     to the deep mystery through which we were groping, and I found my
     attention wander so continually from the action to the fact, that I
     at last flung it across the room and gave myself up entirely to a
     consideration of the events of the day. Supposing that this unhappy
     young man's story were absolutely true, then what hellish thing, what
     absolutely unforeseen and extraordinary calamity could have occurred
     between the time when he parted from his father, and the moment when,
     drawn back by his screams, he rushed into the glade? It was something
     terrible and deadly. What could it be? Might not the nature of the
     injuries reveal something to my medical instincts? I rang the bell
     and called for the weekly county paper, which contained a verbatim
     account of the inquest. In the surgeon's deposition it was stated
     that the posterior third of the left parietal bone and the left half
     of the occipital bone had been shattered by a heavy blow from a blunt
     weapon. I marked the spot upon my own head. Clearly such a blow must
     have been struck from behind. That was to some extent in favour of
     the accused, as when seen quarrelling he was face to face with his
     father. Still, it did not go for very much, for the older man might
     have turned his back before the blow fell. Still, it might be worth
     while to call Holmes' attention to it. Then there was the peculiar
     dying reference to a rat. What could that mean? It could not be
     delirium. A man dying from a sudden blow does not commonly become
     delirious. No, it was more likely to be an attempt to explain how he
     met his fate. But what could it indicate? I cudgelled my brains to
     find some possible explanation. And then the incident of the grey
     cloth seen by young McCarthy. If that were true the murderer must
     have dropped some part of his dress, presumably his overcoat, in his
     flight, and must have had the hardihood to return and to carry it
     away at the instant when the son was kneeling with his back turned
     not a dozen paces off. What a tissue of mysteries and improbabilities
     the whole thing was! I did not wonder at Lestrade's opinion, and yet
     I had so much faith in Sherlock Holmes' insight that I could not lose
     hope as long as every fresh fact seemed to strengthen his conviction
     of young McCarthy's innocence.

     It was late before Sherlock Holmes returned. He came back alone, for
     Lestrade was staying in lodgings in the town.

     "The glass still keeps very high," he remarked as he sat down. "It is
     of importance that it should not rain before we are able to go over
     the ground. On the other hand, a man should be at his very best and
     keenest for such nice work as that, and I did not wish to do it when
     fagged by a long journey. I have seen young McCarthy."

     "And what did you learn from him?"

     "Nothing."

     "Could he throw no light?"

     "None at all. I was inclined to think at one time that he knew who
     had done it and was screening him or her, but I am convinced now that
     he is as puzzled as everyone else. He is not a very quick-witted
     youth, though comely to look at and, I should think, sound at heart."

     "I cannot admire his taste," I remarked, "if it is indeed a fact that
     he was averse to a marriage with so charming a young lady as this
     Miss Turner."

     "Ah, thereby hangs a rather painful tale. This fellow is madly,
     insanely, in love with her, but some two years ago, when he was only
     a lad, and before he really knew her, for she had been away five
     years at a boarding-school, what does the idiot do but get into the
     clutches of a barmaid in Bristol and marry her at a registry office?
     No one knows a word of the matter, but you can imagine how maddening
     it must be to him to be upbraided for not doing what he would give
     his very eyes to do, but what he knows to be absolutely impossible.
     It was sheer frenzy of this sort which made him throw his hands up
     into the air when his father, at their last interview, was goading
     him on to propose to Miss Turner. On the other hand, he had no means
     of supporting himself, and his father, who was by all accounts a very
     hard man, would have thrown him over utterly had he known the truth.
     It was with his barmaid wife that he had spent the last three days in
     Bristol, and his father did not know where he was. Mark that point.
     It is of importance. Good has come out of evil, however, for the
     barmaid, finding from the papers that he is in serious trouble and
     likely to be hanged, has thrown him over utterly and has written to
     him to say that she has a husband already in the Bermuda Dockyard, so
     that there is really no tie between them. I think that that bit of
     news has consoled young McCarthy for all that he has suffered."

     "But if he is innocent, who has done it?"

     "Ah! who? I would call your attention very particularly to two
     points. One is that the murdered man had an appointment with someone
     at the pool, and that the someone could not have been his son, for
     his son was away, and he did not know when he would return. The
     second is that the murdered man was heard to cry 'Cooee!' before he
     knew that his son had returned. Those are the crucial points upon
     which the case depends. And now let us talk about George Meredith, if
     you please, and we shall leave all minor matters until to-morrow."

     There was no rain, as Holmes had foretold, and the morning broke
     bright and cloudless. At nine o'clock Lestrade called for us with the
     carriage, and we set off for Hatherley Farm and the Boscombe Pool.

     "There is serious news this morning," Lestrade observed. "It is said
     that Mr. Turner, of the Hall, is so ill that his life is despaired
     of."

     "An elderly man, I presume?" said Holmes.

     "About sixty; but his constitution has been shattered by his life
     abroad, and he has been in failing health for some time. This
     business has had a very bad effect upon him. He was an old friend of
     McCarthy's, and, I may add, a great benefactor to him, for I have
     learned that he gave him Hatherley Farm rent free."

     "Indeed! That is interesting," said Holmes.

     "Oh, yes! In a hundred other ways he has helped him. Everybody about
     here speaks of his kindness to him."

     "Really! Does it not strike you as a little singular that this
     McCarthy, who appears to have had little of his own, and to have been
     under such obligations to Turner, should still talk of marrying his
     son to Turner's daughter, who is, presumably, heiress to the estate,
     and that in such a very cocksure manner, as if it were merely a case
     of a proposal and all else would follow? It is the more strange,
     since we know that Turner himself was averse to the idea. The
     daughter told us as much. Do you not deduce something from that?"

     "We have got to the deductions and the inferences," said Lestrade,
     winking at me. "I find it hard enough to tackle facts, Holmes,
     without flying away after theories and fancies."

     "You are right," said Holmes demurely; "you do find it very hard to
     tackle the facts."

     "Anyhow, I have grasped one fact which you seem to find it difficult
     to get hold of," replied Lestrade with some warmth.

     "And that is--"

     "That McCarthy senior met his death from McCarthy junior and that all
     theories to the contrary are the merest moonshine."

     "Well, moonshine is a brighter thing than fog," said Holmes,
     laughing. "But I am very much mistaken if this is not Hatherley Farm
     upon the left."

     "Yes, that is it." It was a widespread, comfortable-looking building,
     two-storied, slate-roofed, with great yellow blotches of lichen upon
     the grey walls. The drawn blinds and the smokeless chimneys, however,
     gave it a stricken look, as though the weight of this horror still
     lay heavy upon it. We called at the door, when the maid, at Holmes'
     request, showed us the boots which her master wore at the time of his
     death, and also a pair of the son's, though not the pair which he had
     then had. Having measured these very carefully from seven or eight
     different points, Holmes desired to be led to the court-yard, from
     which we all followed the winding track which led to Boscombe Pool.

     Sherlock Holmes was transformed when he was hot upon such a scent as
     this. Men who had only known the quiet thinker and logician of Baker
     Street would have failed to recognise him. His face flushed and
     darkened. His brows were drawn into two hard black lines, while his
     eyes shone out from beneath them with a steely glitter. His face was
     bent downward, his shoulders bowed, his lips compressed, and the
     veins stood out like whipcord in his long, sinewy neck. His nostrils
     seemed to dilate with a purely animal lust for the chase, and his
     mind was so absolutely concentrated upon the matter before him that a
     question or remark fell unheeded upon his ears, or, at the most, only
     provoked a quick, impatient snarl in reply. Swiftly and silently he
     made his way along the track which ran through the meadows, and so by
     way of the woods to the Boscombe Pool. It was damp, marshy ground, as
     is all that district, and there were marks of many feet, both upon
     the path and amid the short grass which bounded it on either side.
     Sometimes Holmes would hurry on, sometimes stop dead, and once he
     made quite a little detour into the meadow. Lestrade and I walked
     behind him, the detective indifferent and contemptuous, while I
     watched my friend with the interest which sprang from the conviction
     that every one of his actions was directed towards a definite end.

     The Boscombe Pool, which is a little reed-girt sheet of water some
     fifty yards across, is situated at the boundary between the Hatherley
     Farm and the private park of the wealthy Mr. Turner. Above the woods
     which lined it upon the farther side we could see the red, jutting
     pinnacles which marked the site of the rich landowner's dwelling. On
     the Hatherley side of the pool the woods grew very thick, and there
     was a narrow belt of sodden grass twenty paces across between the
     edge of the trees and the reeds which lined the lake. Lestrade showed
     us the exact spot at which the body had been found, and, indeed, so
     moist was the ground, that I could plainly see the traces which had
     been left by the fall of the stricken man. To Holmes, as I could see
     by his eager face and peering eyes, very many other things were to be
     read upon the trampled grass. He ran round, like a dog who is picking
     up a scent, and then turned upon my companion.

     "What did you go into the pool for?" he asked.

     "I fished about with a rake. I thought there might be some weapon or
     other trace. But how on earth--"

     "Oh, tut, tut! I have no time! That left foot of yours with its
     inward twist is all over the place. A mole could trace it, and there
     it vanishes among the reeds. Oh, how simple it would all have been
     had I been here before they came like a herd of buffalo and wallowed
     all over it. Here is where the party with the lodge-keeper came, and
     they have covered all tracks for six or eight feet round the body.
     But here are three separate tracks of the same feet." He drew out a
     lens and lay down upon his waterproof to have a better view, talking
     all the time rather to himself than to us. "These are young
     McCarthy's feet. Twice he was walking, and once he ran swiftly, so
     that the soles are deeply marked and the heels hardly visible. That
     bears out his story. He ran when he saw his father on the ground.
     Then here are the father's feet as he paced up and down. What is
     this, then? It is the butt-end of the gun as the son stood listening.
     And this? Ha, ha! What have we here? Tiptoes! tiptoes! Square, too,
     quite unusual boots! They come, they go, they come again--of course
     that was for the cloak. Now where did they come from?" He ran up and
     down, sometimes losing, sometimes finding the track until we were
     well within the edge of the wood and under the shadow of a great
     beech, the largest tree in the neighbourhood. Holmes traced his way
     to the farther side of this and lay down once more upon his face with
     a little cry of satisfaction. For a long time he remained there,
     turning over the leaves and dried sticks, gathering up what seemed to
     me to be dust into an envelope and examining with his lens not only
     the ground but even the bark of the tree as far as he could reach. A
     jagged stone was lying among the moss, and this also he carefully
     examined and retained. Then he followed a pathway through the wood
     until he came to the highroad, where all traces were lost.

     "It has been a case of considerable interest," he remarked, returning
     to his natural manner. "I fancy that this grey house on the right
     must be the lodge. I think that I will go in and have a word with
     Moran, and perhaps write a little note. Having done that, we may
     drive back to our luncheon. You may walk to the cab, and I shall be
     with you presently."

     It was about ten minutes before we regained our cab and drove back
     into Ross, Holmes still carrying with him the stone which he had
     picked up in the wood.

     "This may interest you, Lestrade," he remarked, holding it out.  "The
     murder was done with it."

     "I see no marks."

     "There are none."

     "How do you know, then?"

     "The grass was growing under it. It had only lain there a few days.
     There was no sign of a place whence it had been taken. It corresponds
     with the injuries. There is no sign of any other weapon."

     "And the murderer?"

     "Is a tall man, left-handed, limps with the right leg, wears
     thick-soled shooting-boots and a grey cloak, smokes Indian cigars,
     uses a cigar-holder, and carries a blunt pen-knife in his pocket.
     There are several other indications, but these may be enough to aid
     us in our search."

     Lestrade laughed. "I am afraid that I am still a sceptic," he said.
     "Theories are all very well, but we have to deal with a hard-headed
     British jury."

     "Nous verrons," answered Holmes calmly. "You work your own method,
     and I shall work mine. I shall be busy this afternoon, and shall
     probably return to London by the evening train."

     "And leave your case unfinished?"

     "No, finished."

     "But the mystery?"

     "It is solved."

     "Who was the criminal, then?"

     "The gentleman I describe."

     "But who is he?"

     "Surely it would not be difficult to find out. This is not such a
     populous neighbourhood."

     Lestrade shrugged his shoulders. "I am a practical man," he said,
     "and I really cannot undertake to go about the country looking for a
     left-handed gentleman with a game leg. I should become the
     laughing-stock of Scotland Yard."

     "All right," said Holmes quietly. "I have given you the chance. Here
     are your lodgings. Good-bye. I shall drop you a line before I leave."

     Having left Lestrade at his rooms, we drove to our hotel, where we
     found lunch upon the table. Holmes was silent and buried in thought
     with a pained expression upon his face, as one who finds himself in a
     perplexing position.

     "Look here, Watson," he said when the cloth was cleared "just sit
     down in this chair and let me preach to you for a little. I don't
     know quite what to do, and I should value your advice. Light a cigar
     and let me expound."

     "Pray do so."

     "Well, now, in considering this case there are two points about young
     McCarthy's narrative which struck us both instantly, although they
     impressed me in his favour and you against him. One was the fact that
     his father should, according to his account, cry 'Cooee!' before
     seeing him. The other was his singular dying reference to a rat. He
     mumbled several words, you understand, but that was all that caught
     the son's ear. Now from this double point our research must commence,
     and we will begin it by presuming that what the lad says is
     absolutely true."

     "What of this 'Cooee!' then?"

     "Well, obviously it could not have been meant for the son. The son,
     as far as he knew, was in Bristol. It was mere chance that he was
     within earshot. The 'Cooee!' was meant to attract the attention of
     whoever it was that he had the appointment with. But 'Cooee' is a
     distinctly Australian cry, and one which is used between Australians.
     There is a strong presumption that the person whom McCarthy expected
     to meet him at Boscombe Pool was someone who had been in Australia."

     "What of the rat, then?"

     Sherlock Holmes took a folded paper from his pocket and flattened it
     out on the table. "This is a map of the Colony of Victoria," he said.
     "I wired to Bristol for it last night." He put his hand over part of
     the map. "What do you read?"

     "ARAT," I read.

     "And now?" He raised his hand.

     "BALLARAT."

     "Quite so. That was the word the man uttered, and of which his son
     only caught the last two syllables. He was trying to utter the name
     of his murderer. So and so, of Ballarat."

     "It is wonderful!" I exclaimed.

     "It is obvious. And now, you see, I had narrowed the field down
     considerably. The possession of a grey garment was a third point
     which, granting the son's statement to be correct, was a certainty.
     We have come now out of mere vagueness to the definite conception of
     an Australian from Ballarat with a grey cloak."

     "Certainly."

     "And one who was at home in the district, for the pool can only be
     approached by the farm or by the estate, where strangers could hardly
     wander."

     "Quite so."

     "Then comes our expedition of to-day. By an examination of the ground
     I gained the trifling details which I gave to that imbecile Lestrade,
     as to the personality of the criminal."

     "But how did you gain them?"

     "You know my method. It is founded upon the observation of trifles."

     "His height I know that you might roughly judge from the length of
     his stride. His boots, too, might be told from their traces."

     "Yes, they were peculiar boots."

     "But his lameness?"

     "The impression of his right foot was always less distinct than his
     left. He put less weight upon it. Why? Because he limped--he was
     lame."

     "But his left-handedness."

     "You were yourself struck by the nature of the injury as recorded by
     the surgeon at the inquest. The blow was struck from immediately
     behind, and yet was upon the left side. Now, how can that be unless
     it were by a left-handed man? He had stood behind that tree during
     the interview between the father and son. He had even smoked there. I
     found the ash of a cigar, which my special knowledge of tobacco ashes
     enables me to pronounce as an Indian cigar. I have, as you know,
     devoted some attention to this, and written a little monograph on the
     ashes of 140 different varieties of pipe, cigar, and cigarette
     tobacco. Having found the ash, I then looked round and discovered the
     stump among the moss where he had tossed it. It was an Indian cigar,
     of the variety which are rolled in Rotterdam."

     "And the cigar-holder?"

     "I could see that the end had not been in his mouth. Therefore he
     used a holder. The tip had been cut off, not bitten off, but the cut
     was not a clean one, so I deduced a blunt pen-knife."

     "Holmes," I said, "you have drawn a net round this man from which he
     cannot escape, and you have saved an innocent human life as truly as
     if you had cut the cord which was hanging him. I see the direction in
     which all this points. The culprit is--"

     "Mr. John Turner," cried the hotel waiter, opening the door of our
     sitting-room, and ushering in a visitor.

     The man who entered was a strange and impressive figure. His slow,
     limping step and bowed shoulders gave the appearance of decrepitude,
     and yet his hard, deep-lined, craggy features, and his enormous limbs
     showed that he was possessed of unusual strength of body and of
     character. His tangled beard, grizzled hair, and outstanding,
     drooping eyebrows combined to give an air of dignity and power to his
     appearance, but his face was of an ashen white, while his lips and
     the corners of his nostrils were tinged with a shade of blue. It was
     clear to me at a glance that he was in the grip of some deadly and
     chronic disease.

     "Pray sit down on the sofa," said Holmes gently. "You had my note?"

     "Yes, the lodge-keeper brought it up. You said that you wished to see
     me here to avoid scandal."

     "I thought people would talk if I went to the Hall."

     "And why did you wish to see me?" He looked across at my companion
     with despair in his weary eyes, as though his question was already
     answered.

     "Yes," said Holmes, answering the look rather than the words. "It is
     so. I know all about McCarthy."

     The old man sank his face in his hands. "God help me!" he cried. "But
     I would not have let the young man come to harm. I give you my word
     that I would have spoken out if it went against him at the Assizes."

     "I am glad to hear you say so," said Holmes gravely.

     "I would have spoken now had it not been for my dear girl. It would
     break her heart--it will break her heart when she hears that I am
     arrested."

     "It may not come to that," said Holmes.

     "What?"

     "I am no official agent. I understand that it was your daughter who
     required my presence here, and I am acting in her interests. Young
     McCarthy must be got off, however."

     "I am a dying man," said old Turner. "I have had diabetes for years.
     My doctor says it is a question whether I shall live a month. Yet I
     would rather die under my own roof than in a jail."

     Holmes rose and sat down at the table with his pen in his hand and a
     bundle of paper before him. "Just tell us the truth," he said. "I
     shall jot down the facts. You will sign it, and Watson here can
     witness it. Then I could produce your confession at the last
     extremity to save young McCarthy. I promise you that I shall not use
     it unless it is absolutely needed."

     "It's as well," said the old man; "it's a question whether I shall
     live to the Assizes, so it matters little to me, but I should wish to
     spare Alice the shock. And now I will make the thing clear to you; it
     has been a long time in the acting, but will not take me long to
     tell.

     "You didn't know this dead man, McCarthy. He was a devil incarnate. I
     tell you that. God keep you out of the clutches of such a man as he.
     His grip has been upon me these twenty years, and he has blasted my
     life. I'll tell you first how I came to be in his power.

     "It was in the early '60's at the diggings. I was a young chap then,
     hot-blooded and reckless, ready to turn my hand at anything; I got
     among bad companions, took to drink, had no luck with my claim, took
     to the bush, and in a word became what you would call over here a
     highway robber. There were six of us, and we had a wild, free life of
     it, sticking up a station from time to time, or stopping the wagons
     on the road to the diggings. Black Jack of Ballarat was the name I
     went under, and our party is still remembered in the colony as the
     Ballarat Gang.

     "One day a gold convoy came down from Ballarat to Melbourne, and we
     lay in wait for it and attacked it. There were six troopers and six
     of us, so it was a close thing, but we emptied four of their saddles
     at the first volley. Three of our boys were killed, however, before
     we got the swag. I put my pistol to the head of the wagon-driver, who
     was this very man McCarthy. I wish to the Lord that I had shot him
     then, but I spared him, though I saw his wicked little eyes fixed on
     my face, as though to remember every feature. We got away with the
     gold, became wealthy men, and made our way over to England without
     being suspected. There I parted from my old pals and determined to
     settle down to a quiet and respectable life. I bought this estate,
     which chanced to be in the market, and I set myself to do a little
     good with my money, to make up for the way in which I had earned it.
     I married, too, and though my wife died young she left me my dear
     little Alice. Even when she was just a baby her wee hand seemed to
     lead me down the right path as nothing else had ever done. In a word,
     I turned over a new leaf and did my best to make up for the past. All
     was going well when McCarthy laid his grip upon me.

     "I had gone up to town about an investment, and I met him in Regent
     Street with hardly a coat to his back or a boot to his foot.

     "'Here we are, Jack,' says he, touching me on the arm; 'we'll be as
     good as a family to you. There's two of us, me and my son, and you
     can have the keeping of us. If you don't--it's a fine, law-abiding
     country is England, and there's always a policeman within hail.'

     "Well, down they came to the west country, there was no shaking them
     off, and there they have lived rent free on my best land ever since.
     There was no rest for me, no peace, no forgetfulness; turn where I
     would, there was his cunning, grinning face at my elbow. It grew
     worse as Alice grew up, for he soon saw I was more afraid of her
     knowing my past than of the police. Whatever he wanted he must have,
     and whatever it was I gave him without question, land, money, houses,
     until at last he asked a thing which I could not give. He asked for
     Alice.

     "His son, you see, had grown up, and so had my girl, and as I was
     known to be in weak health, it seemed a fine stroke to him that his
     lad should step into the whole property. But there I was firm. I
     would not have his cursed stock mixed with mine; not that I had any
     dislike to the lad, but his blood was in him, and that was enough. I
     stood firm. McCarthy threatened. I braved him to do his worst. We
     were to meet at the pool midway between our houses to talk it over.

     "When I went down there I found him talking with his son, so I smoked
     a cigar and waited behind a tree until he should be alone. But as I
     listened to his talk all that was black and bitter in me seemed to
     come uppermost. He was urging his son to marry my daughter with as
     little regard for what she might think as if she were a slut from off
     the streets. It drove me mad to think that I and all that I held most
     dear should be in the power of such a man as this. Could I not snap
     the bond? I was already a dying and a desperate man. Though clear of
     mind and fairly strong of limb, I knew that my own fate was sealed.
     But my memory and my girl! Both could be saved if I could but silence
     that foul tongue. I did it, Mr. Holmes. I would do it again. Deeply
     as I have sinned, I have led a life of martyrdom to atone for it. But
     that my girl should be entangled in the same meshes which held me was
     more than I could suffer. I struck him down with no more compunction
     than if he had been some foul and venomous beast. His cry brought
     back his son; but I had gained the cover of the wood, though I was
     forced to go back to fetch the cloak which I had dropped in my
     flight. That is the true story, gentlemen, of all that occurred."

     "Well, it is not for me to judge you," said Holmes as the old man
     signed the statement which had been drawn out. "I pray that we may
     never be exposed to such a temptation."

     "I pray not, sir. And what do you intend to do?"

     "In view of your health, nothing. You are yourself aware that you
     will soon have to answer for your deed at a higher court than the
     Assizes. I will keep your confession, and if McCarthy is condemned I
     shall be forced to use it. If not, it shall never be seen by mortal
     eye; and your secret, whether you be alive or dead, shall be safe
     with us."

     "Farewell, then," said the old man solemnly. "Your own deathbeds,
     when they come, will be the easier for the thought of the peace which
     you have given to mine." Tottering and shaking in all his giant
     frame, he stumbled slowly from the room.

     "God help us!" said Holmes after a long silence. "Why does fate play
     such tricks with poor, helpless worms? I never hear of such a case as
     this that I do not think of Baxter's words, and say, 'There, but for
     the grace of God, goes Sherlock Holmes.'"

     James McCarthy was acquitted at the Assizes on the strength of a
     number of objections which had been drawn out by Holmes and submitted
     to the defending counsel. Old Turner lived for seven months after our
     interview, but he is now dead; and there is every prospect that the
     son and daughter may come to live happily together in ignorance of
     the black cloud which rests upon their past.






                              THE FIVE ORANGE PIPS

     When I glance over my notes and records of the Sherlock Holmes cases
     between the years '82 and '90, I am faced by so many which present
     strange and interesting features that it is no easy matter to know
     which to choose and which to leave. Some, however, have already
     gained publicity through the papers, and others have not offered a
     field for those peculiar qualities which my friend possessed in so
     high a degree, and which it is the object of these papers to
     illustrate. Some, too, have baffled his analytical skill, and would
     be, as narratives, beginnings without an ending, while others have
     been but partially cleared up, and have their explanations founded
     rather upon conjecture and surmise than on that absolute logical
     proof which was so dear to him. There is, however, one of these last
     which was so remarkable in its details and so startling in its
     results that I am tempted to give some account of it in spite of the
     fact that there are points in connection with it which never have
     been, and probably never will be, entirely cleared up.

     The year '87 furnished us with a long series of cases of greater or
     less interest, of which I retain the records. Among my headings under
     this one twelve months I find an account of the adventure of the
     Paradol Chamber, of the Amateur Mendicant Society, who held a
     luxurious club in the lower vault of a furniture warehouse, of the
     facts connected with the loss of the British barque "Sophy Anderson",
     of the singular adventures of the Grice Patersons in the island of
     Uffa, and finally of the Camberwell poisoning case. In the latter, as
     may be remembered, Sherlock Holmes was able, by winding up the dead
     man's watch, to prove that it had been wound up two hours before, and
     that therefore the deceased had gone to bed within that time--a
     deduction which was of the greatest importance in clearing up the
     case. All these I may sketch out at some future date, but none of
     them present such singular features as the strange train of
     circumstances which I have now taken up my pen to describe.

     It was in the latter days of September, and the equinoctial gales had
     set in with exceptional violence. All day the wind had screamed and
     the rain had beaten against the windows, so that even here in the
     heart of great, hand-made London we were forced to raise our minds
     for the instant from the routine of life and to recognise the
     presence of those great elemental forces which shriek at mankind
     through the bars of his civilisation, like untamed beasts in a cage.
     As evening drew in, the storm grew higher and louder, and the wind
     cried and sobbed like a child in the chimney. Sherlock Holmes sat
     moodily at one side of the fireplace cross-indexing his records of
     crime, while I at the other was deep in one of Clark Russell's fine
     sea-stories until the howl of the gale from without seemed to blend
     with the text, and the splash of the rain to lengthen out into the
     long swash of the sea waves. My wife was on a visit to her mother's,
     and for a few days I was a dweller once more in my old quarters at
     Baker Street.

     "Why," said I, glancing up at my companion, "that was surely the
     bell. Who could come to-night? Some friend of yours, perhaps?"

     "Except yourself I have none," he answered. "I do not encourage
     visitors."

     "A client, then?"

     "If so, it is a serious case. Nothing less would bring a man out on
     such a day and at such an hour. But I take it that it is more likely
     to be some crony of the landlady's."

     Sherlock Holmes was wrong in his conjecture, however, for there came
     a step in the passage and a tapping at the door. He stretched out his
     long arm to turn the lamp away from himself and towards the vacant
     chair upon which a newcomer must sit.

     "Come in!" said he.

     The man who entered was young, some two-and-twenty at the outside,
     well-groomed and trimly clad, with something of refinement and
     delicacy in his bearing. The streaming umbrella which he held in his
     hand, and his long shining waterproof told of the fierce weather
     through which he had come. He looked about him anxiously in the glare
     of the lamp, and I could see that his face was pale and his eyes
     heavy, like those of a man who is weighed down with some great
     anxiety.

     "I owe you an apology," he said, raising his golden pince-nez to his
     eyes. "I trust that I am not intruding. I fear that I have brought
     some traces of the storm and rain into your snug chamber."

     "Give me your coat and umbrella," said Holmes. "They may rest here on
     the hook and will be dry presently. You have come up from the
     south-west, I see."

     "Yes, from Horsham."

     "That clay and chalk mixture which I see upon your toe caps is quite
     distinctive."

     "I have come for advice."

     "That is easily got."

     "And help."

     "That is not always so easy."

     "I have heard of you, Mr. Holmes. I heard from Major Prendergast how
     you saved him in the Tankerville Club scandal."

     "Ah, of course. He was wrongfully accused of cheating at cards."

     "He said that you could solve anything."

     "He said too much."

     "That you are never beaten."

     "I have been beaten four times--three times by men, and once by a
     woman."

     "But what is that compared with the number of your successes?"

     "It is true that I have been generally successful."

     "Then you may be so with me."

     "I beg that you will draw your chair up to the fire and favour me
     with some details as to your case."

     "It is no ordinary one."

     "None of those which come to me are. I am the last court of appeal."

     "And yet I question, sir, whether, in all your experience, you have
     ever listened to a more mysterious and inexplicable chain of events
     than those which have happened in my own family."

     "You fill me with interest," said Holmes. "Pray give us the essential
     facts from the commencement, and I can afterwards question you as to
     those details which seem to me to be most important."

     The young man pulled his chair up and pushed his wet feet out towards
     the blaze.

     "My name," said he, "is John Openshaw, but my own affairs have, as
     far as I can understand, little to do with this awful business. It is
     a hereditary matter; so in order to give you an idea of the facts, I
     must go back to the commencement of the affair.

     "You must know that my grandfather had two sons--my uncle Elias and
     my father Joseph. My father had a small factory at Coventry, which he
     enlarged at the time of the invention of bicycling. He was a patentee
     of the Openshaw unbreakable tire, and his business met with such
     success that he was able to sell it and to retire upon a handsome
     competence.

     "My uncle Elias emigrated to America when he was a young man and
     became a planter in Florida, where he was reported to have done very
     well. At the time of the war he fought in Jackson's army, and
     afterwards under Hood, where he rose to be a colonel. When Lee laid
     down his arms my uncle returned to his plantation, where he remained
     for three or four years. About 1869 or 1870 he came back to Europe
     and took a small estate in Sussex, near Horsham. He had made a very
     considerable fortune in the States, and his reason for leaving them
     was his aversion to the negroes, and his dislike of the Republican
     policy in extending the franchise to them. He was a singular man,
     fierce and quick-tempered, very foul-mouthed when he was angry, and
     of a most retiring disposition. During all the years that he lived at
     Horsham, I doubt if ever he set foot in the town. He had a garden and
     two or three fields round his house, and there he would take his
     exercise, though very often for weeks on end he would never leave his
     room. He drank a great deal of brandy and smoked very heavily, but he
     would see no society and did not want any friends, not even his own
     brother.

     "He didn't mind me; in fact, he took a fancy to me, for at the time
     when he saw me first I was a youngster of twelve or so. This would be
     in the year 1878, after he had been eight or nine years in England.
     He begged my father to let me live with him and he was very kind to
     me in his way. When he was sober he used to be fond of playing
     backgammon and draughts with me, and he would make me his
     representative both with the servants and with the tradespeople, so
     that by the time that I was sixteen I was quite master of the house.
     I kept all the keys and could go where I liked and do what I liked,
     so long as I did not disturb him in his privacy. There was one
     singular exception, however, for he had a single room, a lumber-room
     up among the attics, which was invariably locked, and which he would
     never permit either me or anyone else to enter. With a boy's
     curiosity I have peeped through the keyhole, but I was never able to
     see more than such a collection of old trunks and bundles as would be
     expected in such a room.

     "One day--it was in March, 1883--a letter with a foreign stamp lay
     upon the table in front of the colonel's plate. It was not a common
     thing for him to receive letters, for his bills were all paid in
     ready money, and he had no friends of any sort. 'From India!' said he
     as he took it up, 'Pondicherry postmark! What can this be?' Opening
     it hurriedly, out there jumped five little dried orange pips, which
     pattered down upon his plate. I began to laugh at this, but the laugh
     was struck from my lips at the sight of his face. His lip had fallen,
     his eyes were protruding, his skin the colour of putty, and he glared
     at the envelope which he still held in his trembling hand, 'K. K.
     K.!' he shrieked, and then, 'My God, my God, my sins have overtaken
     me!'

     "'What is it, uncle?' I cried.

     "'Death,' said he, and rising from the table he retired to his room,
     leaving me palpitating with horror. I took up the envelope and saw
     scrawled in red ink upon the inner flap, just above the gum, the
     letter K three times repeated. There was nothing else save the five
     dried pips. What could be the reason of his overpowering terror? I
     left the breakfast-table, and as I ascended the stair I met him
     coming down with an old rusty key, which must have belonged to the
     attic, in one hand, and a small brass box, like a cashbox, in the
     other.

     "'They may do what they like, but I'll checkmate them still,' said he
     with an oath. 'Tell Mary that I shall want a fire in my room to-day,
     and send down to Fordham, the Horsham lawyer.'

     "I did as he ordered, and when the lawyer arrived I was asked to step
     up to the room. The fire was burning brightly, and in the grate there
     was a mass of black, fluffy ashes, as of burned paper, while the
     brass box stood open and empty beside it. As I glanced at the box I
     noticed, with a start, that upon the lid was printed the treble K
     which I had read in the morning upon the envelope.

     "'I wish you, John,' said my uncle, 'to witness my will. I leave my
     estate, with all its advantages and all its disadvantages, to my
     brother, your father, whence it will, no doubt, descend to you. If
     you can enjoy it in peace, well and good! If you find you cannot,
     take my advice, my boy, and leave it to your deadliest enemy. I am
     sorry to give you such a two-edged thing, but I can't say what turn
     things are going to take. Kindly sign the paper where Mr. Fordham
     shows you.'

     "I signed the paper as directed, and the lawyer took it away with
     him. The singular incident made, as you may think, the deepest
     impression upon me, and I pondered over it and turned it every way in
     my mind without being able to make anything of it. Yet I could not
     shake off the vague feeling of dread which it left behind, though the
     sensation grew less keen as the weeks passed and nothing happened to
     disturb the usual routine of our lives. I could see a change in my
     uncle, however. He drank more than ever, and he was less inclined for
     any sort of society. Most of his time he would spend in his room,
     with the door locked upon the inside, but sometimes he would emerge
     in a sort of drunken frenzy and would burst out of the house and tear
     about the garden with a revolver in his hand, screaming out that he
     was afraid of no man, and that he was not to be cooped up, like a
     sheep in a pen, by man or devil. When these hot fits were over,
     however, he would rush tumultuously in at the door and lock and bar
     it behind him, like a man who can brazen it out no longer against the
     terror which lies at the roots of his soul. At such times I have seen
     his face, even on a cold day, glisten with moisture, as though it
     were new raised from a basin.

     "Well, to come to an end of the matter, Mr. Holmes, and not to abuse
     your patience, there came a night when he made one of those drunken
     sallies from which he never came back. We found him, when we went to
     search for him, face downward in a little green-scummed pool, which
     lay at the foot of the garden. There was no sign of any violence, and
     the water was but two feet deep, so that the jury, having regard to
     his known eccentricity, brought in a verdict of 'suicide.' But I, who
     knew how he winced from the very thought of death, had much ado to
     persuade myself that he had gone out of his way to meet it. The
     matter passed, however, and my father entered into possession of the
     estate, and of some Â£14,000, which lay to his credit at the bank."

     "One moment," Holmes interposed, "your statement is, I foresee, one
     of the most remarkable to which I have ever listened. Let me have the
     date of the reception by your uncle of the letter, and the date of
     his supposed suicide."

     "The letter arrived on March 10, 1883. His death was seven weeks
     later, upon the night of May 2nd."

     "Thank you. Pray proceed."

     "When my father took over the Horsham property, he, at my request,
     made a careful examination of the attic, which had been always locked
     up. We found the brass box there, although its contents had been
     destroyed. On the inside of the cover was a paper label, with the
     initials of K. K. K. repeated upon it, and 'Letters, memoranda,
     receipts, and a register' written beneath. These, we presume,
     indicated the nature of the papers which had been destroyed by
     Colonel Openshaw. For the rest, there was nothing of much importance
     in the attic save a great many scattered papers and note-books
     bearing upon my uncle's life in America. Some of them were of the war
     time and showed that he had done his duty well and had borne the
     repute of a brave soldier. Others were of a date during the
     reconstruction of the Southern states, and were mostly concerned with
     politics, for he had evidently taken a strong part in opposing the
     carpet-bag politicians who had been sent down from the North.

     "Well, it was the beginning of '84 when my father came to live at
     Horsham, and all went as well as possible with us until the January
     of '85. On the fourth day after the new year I heard my father give a
     sharp cry of surprise as we sat together at the breakfast-table.
     There he was, sitting with a newly opened envelope in one hand and
     five dried orange pips in the outstretched palm of the other one. He
     had always laughed at what he called my cock-and-bull story about the
     colonel, but he looked very scared and puzzled now that the same
     thing had come upon himself.

     "'Why, what on earth does this mean, John?' he stammered.

     "My heart had turned to lead. 'It is K. K. K.,' said I.

     "He looked inside the envelope. 'So it is,' he cried. 'Here are the
     very letters. But what is this written above them?'

     "'Put the papers on the sundial,' I read, peeping over his shoulder.

     "'What papers? What sundial?' he asked.

     "'The sundial in the garden. There is no other,' said I; 'but the
     papers must be those that are destroyed.'

     "'Pooh!' said he, gripping hard at his courage. 'We are in a
     civilised land here, and we can't have tomfoolery of this kind. Where
     does the thing come from?'

     "'From Dundee,' I answered, glancing at the postmark.

     "'Some preposterous practical joke,' said he. 'What have I to do with
     sundials and papers? I shall take no notice of such nonsense.'

     "'I should certainly speak to the police,' I said.

     "'And be laughed at for my pains. Nothing of the sort.'

     "'Then let me do so?'

     "'No, I forbid you. I won't have a fuss made about such nonsense.'

     "It was in vain to argue with him, for he was a very obstinate man. I
     went about, however, with a heart which was full of forebodings.

     "On the third day after the coming of the letter my father went from
     home to visit an old friend of his, Major Freebody, who is in command
     of one of the forts upon Portsdown Hill. I was glad that he should
     go, for it seemed to me that he was farther from danger when he was
     away from home. In that, however, I was in error. Upon the second day
     of his absence I received a telegram from the major, imploring me to
     come at once. My father had fallen over one of the deep chalk-pits
     which abound in the neighbourhood, and was lying senseless, with a
     shattered skull. I hurried to him, but he passed away without having
     ever recovered his consciousness. He had, as it appears, been
     returning from Fareham in the twilight, and as the country was
     unknown to him, and the chalk-pit unfenced, the jury had no
     hesitation in bringing in a verdict of 'death from accidental
     causes.' Carefully as I examined every fact connected with his death,
     I was unable to find anything which could suggest the idea of murder.
     There were no signs of violence, no footmarks, no robbery, no record
     of strangers having been seen upon the roads. And yet I need not tell
     you that my mind was far from at ease, and that I was well-nigh
     certain that some foul plot had been woven round him.

     "In this sinister way I came into my inheritance. You will ask me why
     I did not dispose of it? I answer, because I was well convinced that
     our troubles were in some way dependent upon an incident in my
     uncle's life, and that the danger would be as pressing in one house
     as in another.

     "It was in January, '85, that my poor father met his end, and two
     years and eight months have elapsed since then. During that time I
     have lived happily at Horsham, and I had begun to hope that this
     curse had passed away from the family, and that it had ended with the
     last generation. I had begun to take comfort too soon, however;
     yesterday morning the blow fell in the very shape in which it had
     come upon my father."

     The young man took from his waistcoat a crumpled envelope, and
     turning to the table he shook out upon it five little dried orange
     pips.

     "This is the envelope," he continued. "The postmark is
     London--eastern division. Within are the very words which were upon
     my father's last message: 'K. K. K.'; and then 'Put the papers on the
     sundial.'"

     "What have you done?" asked Holmes.

     "Nothing."

     "Nothing?"

     "To tell the truth"--he sank his face into his thin, white hands--"I
     have felt helpless. I have felt like one of those poor rabbits when
     the snake is writhing towards it. I seem to be in the grasp of some
     resistless, inexorable evil, which no foresight and no precautions
     can guard against."

     "Tut! tut!" cried Sherlock Holmes. "You must act, man, or you are
     lost. Nothing but energy can save you. This is no time for despair."

     "I have seen the police."

     "Ah!"

     "But they listened to my story with a smile. I am convinced that the
     inspector has formed the opinion that the letters are all practical
     jokes, and that the deaths of my relations were really accidents, as
     the jury stated, and were not to be connected with the warnings."

     Holmes shook his clenched hands in the air. "Incredible imbecility!"
     he cried.

     "They have, however, allowed me a policeman, who may remain in the
     house with me."

     "Has he come with you to-night?"

     "No. His orders were to stay in the house."

     Again Holmes raved in the air.

     "Why did you come to me," he cried, "and, above all, why did you not
     come at once?"

     "I did not know. It was only to-day that I spoke to Major Prendergast
     about my troubles and was advised by him to come to you."

     "It is really two days since you had the letter. We should have acted
     before this. You have no further evidence, I suppose, than that which
     you have placed before us--no suggestive detail which might help us?"

     "There is one thing," said John Openshaw. He rummaged in his coat
     pocket, and, drawing out a piece of discoloured, blue-tinted paper,
     he laid it out upon the table. "I have some remembrance," said he,
     "that on the day when my uncle burned the papers I observed that the
     small, unburned margins which lay amid the ashes were of this
     particular colour. I found this single sheet upon the floor of his
     room, and I am inclined to think that it may be one of the papers
     which has, perhaps, fluttered out from among the others, and in that
     way has escaped destruction. Beyond the mention of pips, I do not see
     that it helps us much. I think myself that it is a page from some
     private diary. The writing is undoubtedly my uncle's."

     Holmes moved the lamp, and we both bent over the sheet of paper,
     which showed by its ragged edge that it had indeed been torn from a
     book. It was headed, "March, 1869," and beneath were the following
     enigmatical notices:


     4th. Hudson came. Same old platform.
     7th. Set the pips on McCauley, Paramore, and John Swain, of St.
     Augustine.
     9th. McCauley cleared.
     10th. John Swain cleared.
     12th. Visited Paramore. All well.

     "Thank you!" said Holmes, folding up the paper and returning it to
     our visitor. "And now you must on no account lose another instant. We
     cannot spare time even to discuss what you have told me. You must get
     home instantly and act."

     "What shall I do?"

     "There is but one thing to do. It must be done at once. You must put
     this piece of paper which you have shown us into the brass box which
     you have described. You must also put in a note to say that all the
     other papers were burned by your uncle, and that this is the only one
     which remains. You must assert that in such words as will carry
     conviction with them. Having done this, you must at once put the box
     out upon the sundial, as directed. Do you understand?"

     "Entirely."

     "Do not think of revenge, or anything of the sort, at present. I
     think that we may gain that by means of the law; but we have our web
     to weave, while theirs is already woven. The first consideration is
     to remove the pressing danger which threatens you. The second is to
     clear up the mystery and to punish the guilty parties."

     "I thank you," said the young man, rising and pulling on his
     overcoat. "You have given me fresh life and hope. I shall certainly
     do as you advise."

     "Do not lose an instant. And, above all, take care of yourself in the
     meanwhile, for I do not think that there can be a doubt that you are
     threatened by a very real and imminent danger. How do you go back?"

     "By train from Waterloo."

     "It is not yet nine. The streets will be crowded, so I trust that you
     may be in safety. And yet you cannot guard yourself too closely."

     "I am armed."

     "That is well. To-morrow I shall set to work upon your case."

     "I shall see you at Horsham, then?"

     "No, your secret lies in London. It is there that I shall seek it."

     "Then I shall call upon you in a day, or in two days, with news as to
     the box and the papers. I shall take your advice in every
     particular." He shook hands with us and took his leave. Outside the
     wind still screamed and the rain splashed and pattered against the
     windows. This strange, wild story seemed to have come to us from amid
     the mad elements--blown in upon us like a sheet of sea-weed in a
     gale--and now to have been reabsorbed by them once more.

     Sherlock Holmes sat for some time in silence, with his head sunk
     forward and his eyes bent upon the red glow of the fire. Then he lit
     his pipe, and leaning back in his chair he watched the blue
     smoke-rings as they chased each other up to the ceiling.

     "I think, Watson," he remarked at last, "that of all our cases we
     have had none more fantastic than this."

     "Save, perhaps, the Sign of Four."

     "Well, yes. Save, perhaps, that. And yet this John Openshaw seems to
     me to be walking amid even greater perils than did the Sholtos."

     "But have you," I asked, "formed any definite conception as to what
     these perils are?"

     "There can be no question as to their nature," he answered.

     "Then what are they? Who is this K. K. K., and why does he pursue
     this unhappy family?"

     Sherlock Holmes closed his eyes and placed his elbows upon the arms
     of his chair, with his finger-tips together. "The ideal reasoner," he
     remarked, "would, when he had once been shown a single fact in all
     its bearings, deduce from it not only all the chain of events which
     led up to it but also all the results which would follow from it. As
     Cuvier could correctly describe a whole animal by the contemplation
     of a single bone, so the observer who has thoroughly understood one
     link in a series of incidents should be able to accurately state all
     the other ones, both before and after. We have not yet grasped the
     results which the reason alone can attain to. Problems may be solved
     in the study which have baffled all those who have sought a solution
     by the aid of their senses. To carry the art, however, to its highest
     pitch, it is necessary that the reasoner should be able to utilise
     all the facts which have come to his knowledge; and this in itself
     implies, as you will readily see, a possession of all knowledge,
     which, even in these days of free education and encyclopaedias, is a
     somewhat rare accomplishment. It is not so impossible, however, that
     a man should possess all knowledge which is likely to be useful to
     him in his work, and this I have endeavoured in my case to do. If I
     remember rightly, you on one occasion, in the early days of our
     friendship, defined my limits in a very precise fashion."

     "Yes," I answered, laughing. "It was a singular document. Philosophy,
     astronomy, and politics were marked at zero, I remember. Botany
     variable, geology profound as regards the mud-stains from any region
     within fifty miles of town, chemistry eccentric, anatomy
     unsystematic, sensational literature and crime records unique,
     violin-player, boxer, swordsman, lawyer, and self-poisoner by cocaine
     and tobacco. Those, I think, were the main points of my analysis."

     Holmes grinned at the last item. "Well," he said, "I say now, as I
     said then, that a man should keep his little brain-attic stocked with
     all the furniture that he is likely to use, and the rest he can put
     away in the lumber-room of his library, where he can get it if he
     wants it. Now, for such a case as the one which has been submitted to
     us to-night, we need certainly to muster all our resources. Kindly
     hand me down the letter K of the 'American Encyclopaedia' which
     stands upon the shelf beside you. Thank you. Now let us consider the
     situation and see what may be deduced from it. In the first place, we
     may start with a strong presumption that Colonel Openshaw had some
     very strong reason for leaving America. Men at his time of life do
     not change all their habits and exchange willingly the charming
     climate of Florida for the lonely life of an English provincial town.
     His extreme love of solitude in England suggests the idea that he was
     in fear of someone or something, so we may assume as a working
     hypothesis that it was fear of someone or something which drove him
     from America. As to what it was he feared, we can only deduce that by
     considering the formidable letters which were received by himself and
     his successors. Did you remark the postmarks of those letters?"

     "The first was from Pondicherry, the second from Dundee, and the
     third from London."

     "From East London. What do you deduce from that?"

     "They are all seaports. That the writer was on board of a ship."

     "Excellent. We have already a clue. There can be no doubt that the
     probability--the strong probability--is that the writer was on board
     of a ship. And now let us consider another point. In the case of
     Pondicherry, seven weeks elapsed between the threat and its
     fulfilment, in Dundee it was only some three or four days. Does that
     suggest anything?"

     "A greater distance to travel."

     "But the letter had also a greater distance to come."

     "Then I do not see the point."

     "There is at least a presumption that the vessel in which the man or
     men are is a sailing-ship. It looks as if they always send their
     singular warning or token before them when starting upon their
     mission. You see how quickly the deed followed the sign when it came
     from Dundee. If they had come from Pondicherry in a steamer they
     would have arrived almost as soon as their letter. But, as a matter
     of fact, seven weeks elapsed. I think that those seven weeks
     represented the difference between the mail-boat which brought the
     letter and the sailing vessel which brought the writer."

     "It is possible."

     "More than that. It is probable. And now you see the deadly urgency
     of this new case, and why I urged young Openshaw to caution. The blow
     has always fallen at the end of the time which it would take the
     senders to travel the distance. But this one comes from London, and
     therefore we cannot count upon delay."

     "Good God!" I cried. "What can it mean, this relentless persecution?"

     "The papers which Openshaw carried are obviously of vital importance
     to the person or persons in the sailing-ship. I think that it is
     quite clear that there must be more than one of them. A single man
     could not have carried out two deaths in such a way as to deceive a
     coroner's jury. There must have been several in it, and they must
     have been men of resource and determination. Their papers they mean
     to have, be the holder of them who it may. In this way you see K. K.
     K. ceases to be the initials of an individual and becomes the badge
     of a society."

     "But of what society?"

     "Have you never--" said Sherlock Holmes, bending forward and sinking
     his voice--"have you never heard of the Ku Klux Klan?"

     "I never have."

     Holmes turned over the leaves of the book upon his knee. "Here it
     is," said he presently:

     "'Ku Klux Klan. A name derived from the fanciful resemblance to the
     sound produced by cocking a rifle. This terrible secret society was
     formed by some ex-Confederate soldiers in the Southern states after
     the Civil War, and it rapidly formed local branches in different
     parts of the country, notably in Tennessee, Louisiana, the Carolinas,
     Georgia, and Florida. Its power was used for political purposes,
     principally for the terrorising of the negro voters and the murdering
     and driving from the country of those who were opposed to its views.
     Its outrages were usually preceded by a warning sent to the marked
     man in some fantastic but generally recognised shape--a sprig of
     oak-leaves in some parts, melon seeds or orange pips in others. On
     receiving this the victim might either openly abjure his former ways,
     or might fly from the country. If he braved the matter out, death
     would unfailingly come upon him, and usually in some strange and
     unforeseen manner. So perfect was the organisation of the society,
     and so systematic its methods, that there is hardly a case upon
     record where any man succeeded in braving it with impunity, or in
     which any of its outrages were traced home to the perpetrators. For
     some years the organisation flourished in spite of the efforts of the
     United States government and of the better classes of the community
     in the South. Eventually, in the year 1869, the movement rather
     suddenly collapsed, although there have been sporadic outbreaks of
     the same sort since that date.'

     "You will observe," said Holmes, laying down the volume, "that the
     sudden breaking up of the society was coincident with the
     disappearance of Openshaw from America with their papers. It may well
     have been cause and effect. It is no wonder that he and his family
     have some of the more implacable spirits upon their track. You can
     understand that this register and diary may implicate some of the
     first men in the South, and that there may be many who will not sleep
     easy at night until it is recovered."

     "Then the page we have seen--"

     "Is such as we might expect. It ran, if I remember right, 'sent the
     pips to A, B, and C'--that is, sent the society's warning to them.
     Then there are successive entries that A and B cleared, or left the
     country, and finally that C was visited, with, I fear, a sinister
     result for C. Well, I think, Doctor, that we may let some light into
     this dark place, and I believe that the only chance young Openshaw
     has in the meantime is to do what I have told him. There is nothing
     more to be said or to be done to-night, so hand me over my violin and
     let us try to forget for half an hour the miserable weather and the
     still more miserable ways of our fellow-men."

     It had cleared in the morning, and the sun was shining with a subdued
     brightness through the dim veil which hangs over the great city.
     Sherlock Holmes was already at breakfast when I came down.

     "You will excuse me for not waiting for you," said he; "I have, I
     foresee, a very busy day before me in looking into this case of young
     Openshaw's."

     "What steps will you take?" I asked.

     "It will very much depend upon the results of my first inquiries. I
     may have to go down to Horsham, after all."

     "You will not go there first?"

     "No, I shall commence with the City. Just ring the bell and the maid
     will bring up your coffee."

     As I waited, I lifted the unopened newspaper from the table and
     glanced my eye over it. It rested upon a heading which sent a chill
     to my heart.

     "Holmes," I cried, "you are too late."

     "Ah!" said he, laying down his cup, "I feared as much. How was it
     done?" He spoke calmly, but I could see that he was deeply moved.

     "My eye caught the name of Openshaw, and the heading 'Tragedy Near
     Waterloo Bridge.' Here is the account:

     "Between nine and ten last night Police-Constable Cook, of the H
     Division, on duty near Waterloo Bridge, heard a cry for help and a
     splash in the water. The night, however, was extremely dark and
     stormy, so that, in spite of the help of several passers-by, it was
     quite impossible to effect a rescue. The alarm, however, was given,
     and, by the aid of the water-police, the body was eventually
     recovered. It proved to be that of a young gentleman whose name, as
     it appears from an envelope which was found in his pocket, was John
     Openshaw, and whose residence is near Horsham. It is conjectured that
     he may have been hurrying down to catch the last train from Waterloo
     Station, and that in his haste and the extreme darkness he missed his
     path and walked over the edge of one of the small landing-places for
     river steamboats. The body exhibited no traces of violence, and there
     can be no doubt that the deceased had been the victim of an
     unfortunate accident, which should have the effect of calling the
     attention of the authorities to the condition of the riverside
     landing-stages."

     We sat in silence for some minutes, Holmes more depressed and shaken
     than I had ever seen him.

     "That hurts my pride, Watson," he said at last. "It is a petty
     feeling, no doubt, but it hurts my pride. It becomes a personal
     matter with me now, and, if God sends me health, I shall set my hand
     upon this gang. That he should come to me for help, and that I should
     send him away to his death--!" He sprang from his chair and paced
     about the room in uncontrollable agitation, with a flush upon his
     sallow cheeks and a nervous clasping and unclasping of his long thin
     hands.

     "They must be cunning devils," he exclaimed at last. "How could they
     have decoyed him down there? The Embankment is not on the direct line
     to the station. The bridge, no doubt, was too crowded, even on such a
     night, for their purpose. Well, Watson, we shall see who will win in
     the long run. I am going out now!"

     "To the police?"

     "No; I shall be my own police. When I have spun the web they may take
     the flies, but not before."

     All day I was engaged in my professional work, and it was late in the
     evening before I returned to Baker Street. Sherlock Holmes had not
     come back yet. It was nearly ten o'clock before he entered, looking
     pale and worn. He walked up to the sideboard, and tearing a piece
     from the loaf he devoured it voraciously, washing it down with a long
     draught of water.

     "You are hungry," I remarked.

     "Starving. It had escaped my memory. I have had nothing since
     breakfast."

     "Nothing?"

     "Not a bite. I had no time to think of it."

     "And how have you succeeded?"

     "Well."

     "You have a clue?"

     "I have them in the hollow of my hand. Young Openshaw shall not long
     remain unavenged. Why, Watson, let us put their own devilish
     trade-mark upon them. It is well thought of!"

     "What do you mean?"

     He took an orange from the cupboard, and tearing it to pieces he
     squeezed out the pips upon the table. Of these he took five and
     thrust them into an envelope. On the inside of the flap he wrote "S.
     H. for J. O." Then he sealed it and addressed it to "Captain James
     Calhoun, Barque Lone Star, Savannah, Georgia."

     "That will await him when he enters port," said he, chuckling. "It
     may give him a sleepless night. He will find it as sure a precursor
     of his fate as Openshaw did before him."

     "And who is this Captain Calhoun?"

     "The leader of the gang. I shall have the others, but he first."

     "How did you trace it, then?"

     He took a large sheet of paper from his pocket, all covered with
     dates and names.

     "I have spent the whole day," said he, "over Lloyd's registers and
     files of the old papers, following the future career of every vessel
     which touched at Pondicherry in January and February in '83. There
     were thirty-six ships of fair tonnage which were reported there
     during those months. Of these, one, the Lone Star, instantly
     attracted my attention, since, although it was reported as having
     cleared from London, the name is that which is given to one of the
     states of the Union."

     "Texas, I think."

     "I was not and am not sure which; but I knew that the ship must have
     an American origin."

     "What then?"

     "I searched the Dundee records, and when I found that the barque Lone
     Star was there in January, '85, my suspicion became a certainty. I
     then inquired as to the vessels which lay at present in the port of
     London."

     "Yes?"

     "The Lone Star had arrived here last week. I went down to the Albert
     Dock and found that she had been taken down the river by the early
     tide this morning, homeward bound to Savannah. I wired to Gravesend
     and learned that she had passed some time ago, and as the wind is
     easterly I have no doubt that she is now past the Goodwins and not
     very far from the Isle of Wight."

     "What will you do, then?"

     "Oh, I have my hand upon him. He and the two mates, are as I learn,
     the only native-born Americans in the ship. The others are Finns and
     Germans. I know, also, that they were all three away from the ship
     last night. I had it from the stevedore who has been loading their
     cargo. By the time that their sailing-ship reaches Savannah the
     mail-boat will have carried this letter, and the cable will have
     informed the police of Savannah that these three gentlemen are badly
     wanted here upon a charge of murder."

     There is ever a flaw, however, in the best laid of human plans, and
     the murderers of John Openshaw were never to receive the orange pips
     which would show them that another, as cunning and as resolute as
     themselves, was upon their track. Very long and very severe were the
     equinoctial gales that year. We waited long for news of the Lone Star
     of Savannah, but none ever reached us. We did at last hear that
     somewhere far out in the Atlantic a shattered stern-post of a boat
     was seen swinging in the trough of a wave, with the letters "L. S."
     carved upon it, and that is all which we shall ever know of the fate
     of the Lone Star.






                          THE MAN WITH THE TWISTED LIP

     Isa Whitney, brother of the late Elias Whitney, D.D., Principal of
     the Theological College of St. George's, was much addicted to opium.
     The habit grew upon him, as I understand, from some foolish freak
     when he was at college; for having read De Quincey's description of
     his dreams and sensations, he had drenched his tobacco with laudanum
     in an attempt to produce the same effects. He found, as so many more
     have done, that the practice is easier to attain than to get rid of,
     and for many years he continued to be a slave to the drug, an object
     of mingled horror and pity to his friends and relatives. I can see
     him now, with yellow, pasty face, drooping lids, and pin-point
     pupils, all huddled in a chair, the wreck and ruin of a noble man.

     One night--it was in June, '89--there came a ring to my bell, about
     the hour when a man gives his first yawn and glances at the clock. I
     sat up in my chair, and my wife laid her needle-work down in her lap
     and made a little face of disappointment.

     "A patient!" said she. "You'll have to go out."

     I groaned, for I was newly come back from a weary day.

     We heard the door open, a few hurried words, and then quick steps
     upon the linoleum. Our own door flew open, and a lady, clad in some
     dark-coloured stuff, with a black veil, entered the room.

     "You will excuse my calling so late," she began, and then, suddenly
     losing her self-control, she ran forward, threw her arms about my
     wife's neck, and sobbed upon her shoulder. "Oh, I'm in such trouble!"
     she cried; "I do so want a little help."

     "Why," said my wife, pulling up her veil, "it is Kate Whitney.  How
     you startled me, Kate! I had not an idea who you were when you came
     in."

     "I didn't know what to do, so I came straight to you." That was
     always the way. Folk who were in grief came to my wife like birds to
     a light-house.

     "It was very sweet of you to come. Now, you must have some wine and
     water, and sit here comfortably and tell us all about it. Or should
     you rather that I sent James off to bed?"

     "Oh, no, no! I want the doctor's advice and help, too. It's about
     Isa. He has not been home for two days. I am so frightened about
     him!"

     It was not the first time that she had spoken to us of her husband's
     trouble, to me as a doctor, to my wife as an old friend and school
     companion. We soothed and comforted her by such words as we could
     find. Did she know where her husband was? Was it possible that we
     could bring him back to her?

     It seems that it was. She had the surest information that of late he
     had, when the fit was on him, made use of an opium den in the
     farthest east of the City. Hitherto his orgies had always been
     confined to one day, and he had come back, twitching and shattered,
     in the evening. But now the spell had been upon him eight-and-forty
     hours, and he lay there, doubtless among the dregs of the docks,
     breathing in the poison or sleeping off the effects. There he was to
     be found, she was sure of it, at the Bar of Gold, in Upper Swandam
     Lane. But what was she to do? How could she, a young and timid woman,
     make her way into such a place and pluck her husband out from among
     the ruffians who surrounded him?

     There was the case, and of course there was but one way out of it.
     Might I not escort her to this place? And then, as a second thought,
     why should she come at all? I was Isa Whitney's medical adviser, and
     as such I had influence over him. I could manage it better if I were
     alone. I promised her on my word that I would send him home in a cab
     within two hours if he were indeed at the address which she had given
     me. And so in ten minutes I had left my armchair and cheery
     sitting-room behind me, and was speeding eastward in a hansom on a
     strange errand, as it seemed to me at the time, though the future
     only could show how strange it was to be.

     But there was no great difficulty in the first stage of my adventure.
     Upper Swandam Lane is a vile alley lurking behind the high wharves
     which line the north side of the river to the east of London Bridge.
     Between a slop-shop and a gin-shop, approached by a steep flight of
     steps leading down to a black gap like the mouth of a cave, I found
     the den of which I was in search. Ordering my cab to wait, I passed
     down the steps, worn hollow in the centre by the ceaseless tread of
     drunken feet; and by the light of a flickering oil-lamp above the
     door I found the latch and made my way into a long, low room, thick
     and heavy with the brown opium smoke, and terraced with wooden
     berths, like the forecastle of an emigrant ship.

     Through the gloom one could dimly catch a glimpse of bodies lying in
     strange fantastic poses, bowed shoulders, bent knees, heads thrown
     back, and chins pointing upward, with here and there a dark,
     lack-lustre eye turned upon the newcomer. Out of the black shadows
     there glimmered little red circles of light, now bright, now faint,
     as the burning poison waxed or waned in the bowls of the metal pipes.
     The most lay silent, but some muttered to themselves, and others
     talked together in a strange, low, monotonous voice, their
     conversation coming in gushes, and then suddenly tailing off into
     silence, each mumbling out his own thoughts and paying little heed to
     the words of his neighbour. At the farther end was a small brazier of
     burning charcoal, beside which on a three-legged wooden stool there
     sat a tall, thin old man, with his jaw resting upon his two fists,
     and his elbows upon his knees, staring into the fire.

     As I entered, a sallow Malay attendant had hurried up with a pipe for
     me and a supply of the drug, beckoning me to an empty berth.

     "Thank you. I have not come to stay," said I. "There is a friend of
     mine here, Mr. Isa Whitney, and I wish to speak with him."

     There was a movement and an exclamation from my right, and peering
     through the gloom, I saw Whitney, pale, haggard, and unkempt, staring
     out at me.

     "My God! It's Watson," said he. He was in a pitiable state of
     reaction, with every nerve in a twitter. "I say, Watson, what o'clock
     is it?"

     "Nearly eleven."

     "Of what day?"

     "Of Friday, June 19th."

     "Good heavens! I thought it was Wednesday. It is Wednesday. What
     d'you want to frighten a chap for?" He sank his face onto his arms
     and began to sob in a high treble key.

     "I tell you that it is Friday, man. Your wife has been waiting this
     two days for you. You should be ashamed of yourself!"

     "So I am. But you've got mixed, Watson, for I have only been here a
     few hours, three pipes, four pipes--I forget how many. But I'll go
     home with you. I wouldn't frighten Kate--poor little Kate. Give me
     your hand! Have you a cab?"

     "Yes, I have one waiting."

     "Then I shall go in it. But I must owe something. Find what I owe,
     Watson. I am all off colour. I can do nothing for myself."

     I walked down the narrow passage between the double row of sleepers,
     holding my breath to keep out the vile, stupefying fumes of the drug,
     and looking about for the manager. As I passed the tall man who sat
     by the brazier I felt a sudden pluck at my skirt, and a low voice
     whispered, "Walk past me, and then look back at me." The words fell
     quite distinctly upon my ear. I glanced down. They could only have
     come from the old man at my side, and yet he sat now as absorbed as
     ever, very thin, very wrinkled, bent with age, an opium pipe dangling
     down from between his knees, as though it had dropped in sheer
     lassitude from his fingers. I took two steps forward and looked back.
     It took all my self-control to prevent me from breaking out into a
     cry of astonishment. He had turned his back so that none could see
     him but I. His form had filled out, his wrinkles were gone, the dull
     eyes had regained their fire, and there, sitting by the fire and
     grinning at my surprise, was none other than Sherlock Holmes. He made
     a slight motion to me to approach him, and instantly, as he turned
     his face half round to the company once more, subsided into a
     doddering, loose-lipped senility.

     "Holmes!" I whispered, "what on earth are you doing in this den?"

     "As low as you can," he answered; "I have excellent ears. If you
     would have the great kindness to get rid of that sottish friend of
     yours I should be exceedingly glad to have a little talk with you."

     "I have a cab outside."

     "Then pray send him home in it. You may safely trust him, for he
     appears to be too limp to get into any mischief. I should recommend
     you also to send a note by the cabman to your wife to say that you
     have thrown in your lot with me. If you will wait outside, I shall be
     with you in five minutes."

           It was difficult to refuse any of Sherlock Holmes' requests,
     for they were always so exceedingly definite, and put forward with
     such a quiet air of mastery. I felt, however, that when Whitney was
     once confined in the cab my mission was practically accomplished; and
     for the rest, I could not wish anything better than to be associated
     with my friend in one of those singular adventures which were the
     normal condition of his existence. In a few minutes I had written my
     note, paid Whitney's bill, led him out to the cab, and seen him
     driven through the darkness. In a very short time a decrepit figure
     had emerged from the opium den, and I was walking down the street
     with Sherlock Holmes. For two streets he shuffled along with a bent
     back and an uncertain foot. Then, glancing quickly round, he
     straightened himself out and burst into a hearty fit of laughter.

     "I suppose, Watson," said he, "that you imagine that I have added
     opium-smoking to cocaine injections, and all the other little
     weaknesses on which you have favoured me with your medical views."

     "I was certainly surprised to find you there."

     "But not more so than I to find you."

     "I came to find a friend."

     "And I to find an enemy."

     "An enemy?"

     "Yes; one of my natural enemies, or, shall I say, my natural prey.
     Briefly, Watson, I am in the midst of a very remarkable inquiry, and
     I have hoped to find a clue in the incoherent ramblings of these
     sots, as I have done before now. Had I been recognised in that den my
     life would not have been worth an hour's purchase; for I have used it
     before now for my own purposes, and the rascally Lascar who runs it
     has sworn to have vengeance upon me. There is a trap-door at the back
     of that building, near the corner of Paul's Wharf, which could tell
     some strange tales of what has passed through it upon the moonless
     nights."

     "What! You do not mean bodies?"

     "Ay, bodies, Watson. We should be rich men if we had Â£1000 for every
     poor devil who has been done to death in that den. It is the vilest
     murder-trap on the whole riverside, and I fear that Neville St. Clair
     has entered it never to leave it more. But our trap should be here."
     He put his two forefingers between his teeth and whistled shrilly--a
     signal which was answered by a similar whistle from the distance,
     followed shortly by the rattle of wheels and the clink of horses'
     hoofs.

     "Now, Watson," said Holmes, as a tall dog-cart dashed up through the
     gloom, throwing out two golden tunnels of yellow light from its side
     lanterns. "You'll come with me, won't you?"

     "If I can be of use."

     "Oh, a trusty comrade is always of use; and a chronicler still more
     so. My room at The Cedars is a double-bedded one."

     "The Cedars?"

     "Yes; that is Mr. St. Clair's house. I am staying there while I
     conduct the inquiry."

     "Where is it, then?"

     "Near Lee, in Kent. We have a seven-mile drive before us."

     "But I am all in the dark."

     "Of course you are. You'll know all about it presently. Jump up here.
     All right, John; we shall not need you. Here's half a crown. Look out
     for me to-morrow, about eleven. Give her her head. So long, then!"

     He flicked the horse with his whip, and we dashed away through the
     endless succession of sombre and deserted streets, which widened
     gradually, until we were flying across a broad balustraded bridge,
     with the murky river flowing sluggishly beneath us. Beyond lay
     another dull wilderness of bricks and mortar, its silence broken only
     by the heavy, regular footfall of the policeman, or the songs and
     shouts of some belated party of revellers. A dull wrack was drifting
     slowly across the sky, and a star or two twinkled dimly here and
     there through the rifts of the clouds. Holmes drove in silence, with
     his head sunk upon his breast, and the air of a man who is lost in
     thought, while I sat beside him, curious to learn what this new quest
     might be which seemed to tax his powers so sorely, and yet afraid to
     break in upon the current of his thoughts. We had driven several
     miles, and were beginning to get to the fringe of the belt of
     suburban villas, when he shook himself, shrugged his shoulders, and
     lit up his pipe with the air of a man who has satisfied himself that
     he is acting for the best.

     "You have a grand gift of silence, Watson," said he. "It makes you
     quite invaluable as a companion. 'Pon my word, it is a great thing
     for me to have someone to talk to, for my own thoughts are not
     over-pleasant. I was wondering what I should say to this dear little
     woman to-night when she meets me at the door."

     "You forget that I know nothing about it."

     "I shall just have time to tell you the facts of the case before we
     get to Lee. It seems absurdly simple, and yet, somehow I can get
     nothing to go upon. There's plenty of thread, no doubt, but I can't
     get the end of it into my hand. Now, I'll state the case clearly and
     concisely to you, Watson, and maybe you can see a spark where all is
     dark to me."

     "Proceed, then."

     "Some years ago--to be definite, in May, 1884--there came to Lee a
     gentleman, Neville St. Clair by name, who appeared to have plenty of
     money. He took a large villa, laid out the grounds very nicely, and
     lived generally in good style. By degrees he made friends in the
     neighbourhood, and in 1887 he married the daughter of a local brewer,
     by whom he now has two children. He had no occupation, but was
     interested in several companies and went into town as a rule in the
     morning, returning by the 5.14 from Cannon Street every night. Mr.
     St. Clair is now thirty-seven years of age, is a man of temperate
     habits, a good husband, a very affectionate father, and a man who is
     popular with all who know him. I may add that his whole debts at the
     present moment, as far as we have been able to ascertain, amount to
     Â£88 10s., while he has Â£220 standing to his credit in the Capital and
     Counties Bank. There is no reason, therefore, to think that money
     troubles have been weighing upon his mind.

     "Last Monday Mr. Neville St. Clair went into town rather earlier than
     usual, remarking before he started that he had two important
     commissions to perform, and that he would bring his little boy home a
     box of bricks. Now, by the merest chance, his wife received a
     telegram upon this same Monday, very shortly after his departure, to
     the effect that a small parcel of considerable value which she had
     been expecting was waiting for her at the offices of the Aberdeen
     Shipping Company. Now, if you are well up in your London, you will
     know that the office of the company is in Fresno Street, which
     branches out of Upper Swandam Lane, where you found me to-night. Mrs.
     St. Clair had her lunch, started for the City, did some shopping,
     proceeded to the company's office, got her packet, and found herself
     at exactly 4.35 walking through Swandam Lane on her way back to the
     station. Have you followed me so far?"

     "It is very clear."

     "If you remember, Monday was an exceedingly hot day, and Mrs. St.
     Clair walked slowly, glancing about in the hope of seeing a cab, as
     she did not like the neighbourhood in which she found herself. While
     she was walking in this way down Swandam Lane, she suddenly heard an
     ejaculation or cry, and was struck cold to see her husband looking
     down at her and, as it seemed to her, beckoning to her from a
     second-floor window. The window was open, and she distinctly saw his
     face, which she describes as being terribly agitated. He waved his
     hands frantically to her, and then vanished from the window so
     suddenly that it seemed to her that he had been plucked back by some
     irresistible force from behind. One singular point which struck her
     quick feminine eye was that although he wore some dark coat, such as
     he had started to town in, he had on neither collar nor necktie.

     "Convinced that something was amiss with him, she rushed down the
     steps--for the house was none other than the opium den in which you
     found me to-night--and running through the front room she attempted
     to ascend the stairs which led to the first floor. At the foot of the
     stairs, however, she met this Lascar scoundrel of whom I have spoken,
     who thrust her back and, aided by a Dane, who acts as assistant
     there, pushed her out into the street. Filled with the most maddening
     doubts and fears, she rushed down the lane and, by rare good-fortune,
     met in Fresno Street a number of constables with an inspector, all on
     their way to their beat. The inspector and two men accompanied her
     back, and in spite of the continued resistance of the proprietor,
     they made their way to the room in which Mr. St. Clair had last been
     seen. There was no sign of him there. In fact, in the whole of that
     floor there was no one to be found save a crippled wretch of hideous
     aspect, who, it seems, made his home there. Both he and the Lascar
     stoutly swore that no one else had been in the front room during the
     afternoon. So determined was their denial that the inspector was
     staggered, and had almost come to believe that Mrs. St. Clair had
     been deluded when, with a cry, she sprang at a small deal box which
     lay upon the table and tore the lid from it. Out there fell a cascade
     of children's bricks. It was the toy which he had promised to bring
     home.

     "This discovery, and the evident confusion which the cripple showed,
     made the inspector realise that the matter was serious. The rooms
     were carefully examined, and results all pointed to an abominable
     crime. The front room was plainly furnished as a sitting-room and led
     into a small bedroom, which looked out upon the back of one of the
     wharves. Between the wharf and the bedroom window is a narrow strip,
     which is dry at low tide but is covered at high tide with at least
     four and a half feet of water. The bedroom window was a broad one and
     opened from below. On examination traces of blood were to be seen
     upon the windowsill, and several scattered drops were visible upon
     the wooden floor of the bedroom. Thrust away behind a curtain in the
     front room were all the clothes of Mr. Neville St. Clair, with the
     exception of his coat. His boots, his socks, his hat, and his
     watch--all were there. There were no signs of violence upon any of
     these garments, and there were no other traces of Mr. Neville St.
     Clair. Out of the window he must apparently have gone for no other
     exit could be discovered, and the ominous bloodstains upon the sill
     gave little promise that he could save himself by swimming, for the
     tide was at its very highest at the moment of the tragedy.

     "And now as to the villains who seemed to be immediately implicated
     in the matter. The Lascar was known to be a man of the vilest
     antecedents, but as, by Mrs. St. Clair's story, he was known to have
     been at the foot of the stair within a very few seconds of her
     husband's appearance at the window, he could hardly have been more
     than an accessory to the crime. His defence was one of absolute
     ignorance, and he protested that he had no knowledge as to the doings
     of Hugh Boone, his lodger, and that he could not account in any way
     for the presence of the missing gentleman's clothes.

     "So much for the Lascar manager. Now for the sinister cripple who
     lives upon the second floor of the opium den, and who was certainly
     the last human being whose eyes rested upon Neville St. Clair. His
     name is Hugh Boone, and his hideous face is one which is familiar to
     every man who goes much to the City. He is a professional beggar,
     though in order to avoid the police regulations he pretends to a
     small trade in wax vestas. Some little distance down Threadneedle
     Street, upon the left-hand side, there is, as you may have remarked,
     a small angle in the wall. Here it is that this creature takes his
     daily seat, cross-legged with his tiny stock of matches on his lap,
     and as he is a piteous spectacle a small rain of charity descends
     into the greasy leather cap which lies upon the pavement beside him.
     I have watched the fellow more than once before ever I thought of
     making his professional acquaintance, and I have been surprised at
     the harvest which he has reaped in a short time. His appearance, you
     see, is so remarkable that no one can pass him without observing him.
     A shock of orange hair, a pale face disfigured by a horrible scar,
     which, by its contraction, has turned up the outer edge of his upper
     lip, a bulldog chin, and a pair of very penetrating dark eyes, which
     present a singular contrast to the colour of his hair, all mark him
     out from amid the common crowd of mendicants and so, too, does his
     wit, for he is ever ready with a reply to any piece of chaff which
     may be thrown at him by the passers-by. This is the man whom we now
     learn to have been the lodger at the opium den, and to have been the
     last man to see the gentleman of whom we are in quest."

     "But a cripple!" said I. "What could he have done single-handed
     against a man in the prime of life?"

     "He is a cripple in the sense that he walks with a limp; but in other
     respects he appears to be a powerful and well-nurtured man. Surely
     your medical experience would tell you, Watson, that weakness in one
     limb is often compensated for by exceptional strength in the others."

     "Pray continue your narrative."

     "Mrs. St. Clair had fainted at the sight of the blood upon the
     window, and she was escorted home in a cab by the police, as her
     presence could be of no help to them in their investigations.
     Inspector Barton, who had charge of the case, made a very careful
     examination of the premises, but without finding anything which threw
     any light upon the matter. One mistake had been made in not arresting
     Boone instantly, as he was allowed some few minutes during which he
     might have communicated with his friend the Lascar, but this fault
     was soon remedied, and he was seized and searched, without anything
     being found which could incriminate him. There were, it is true, some
     blood-stains upon his right shirt-sleeve, but he pointed to his
     ring-finger, which had been cut near the nail, and explained that the
     bleeding came from there, adding that he had been to the window not
     long before, and that the stains which had been observed there came
     doubtless from the same source. He denied strenuously having ever
     seen Mr. Neville St. Clair and swore that the presence of the clothes
     in his room was as much a mystery to him as to the police. As to Mrs.
     St. Clair's assertion that she had actually seen her husband at the
     window, he declared that she must have been either mad or dreaming.
     He was removed, loudly protesting, to the police-station, while the
     inspector remained upon the premises in the hope that the ebbing tide
     might afford some fresh clue.

     "And it did, though they hardly found upon the mud-bank what they had
     feared to find. It was Neville St. Clair's coat, and not Neville St.
     Clair, which lay uncovered as the tide receded. And what do you think
     they found in the pockets?"

     "I cannot imagine."

     "No, I don't think you would guess. Every pocket stuffed with pennies
     and half-pennies--421 pennies and 270 half-pennies. It was no wonder
     that it had not been swept away by the tide. But a human body is a
     different matter. There is a fierce eddy between the wharf and the
     house. It seemed likely enough that the weighted coat had remained
     when the stripped body had been sucked away into the river."

     "But I understand that all the other clothes were found in the room.
     Would the body be dressed in a coat alone?"

     "No, sir, but the facts might be met speciously enough. Suppose that
     this man Boone had thrust Neville St. Clair through the window, there
     is no human eye which could have seen the deed. What would he do
     then? It would of course instantly strike him that he must get rid of
     the tell-tale garments. He would seize the coat, then, and be in the
     act of throwing it out, when it would occur to him that it would swim
     and not sink. He has little time, for he has heard the scuffle
     downstairs when the wife tried to force her way up, and perhaps he
     has already heard from his Lascar confederate that the police are
     hurrying up the street. There is not an instant to be lost. He rushes
     to some secret hoard, where he has accumulated the fruits of his
     beggary, and he stuffs all the coins upon which he can lay his hands
     into the pockets to make sure of the coat's sinking. He throws it
     out, and would have done the same with the other garments had not he
     heard the rush of steps below, and only just had time to close the
     window when the police appeared."

     "It certainly sounds feasible."

     "Well, we will take it as a working hypothesis for want of a better.
     Boone, as I have told you, was arrested and taken to the station, but
     it could not be shown that there had ever before been anything
     against him. He had for years been known as a professional beggar,
     but his life appeared to have been a very quiet and innocent one.
     There the matter stands at present, and the questions which have to
     be solved--what Neville St. Clair was doing in the opium den, what
     happened to him when there, where is he now, and what Hugh Boone had
     to do with his disappearance--are all as far from a solution as ever.
     I confess that I cannot recall any case within my experience which
     looked at the first glance so simple and yet which presented such
     difficulties."

     While Sherlock Holmes had been detailing this singular series of
     events, we had been whirling through the outskirts of the great town
     until the last straggling houses had been left behind, and we rattled
     along with a country hedge upon either side of us. Just as he
     finished, however, we drove through two scattered villages, where a
     few lights still glimmered in the windows.

     "We are on the outskirts of Lee," said my companion. "We have touched
     on three English counties in our short drive, starting in Middlesex,
     passing over an angle of Surrey, and ending in Kent. See that light
     among the trees? That is The Cedars, and beside that lamp sits a
     woman whose anxious ears have already, I have little doubt, caught
     the clink of our horse's feet."

     "But why are you not conducting the case from Baker Street?" I asked.

     "Because there are many inquiries which must be made out here. Mrs.
     St. Clair has most kindly put two rooms at my disposal, and you may
     rest assured that she will have nothing but a welcome for my friend
     and colleague. I hate to meet her, Watson, when I have no news of her
     husband. Here we are. Whoa, there, whoa!"

     We had pulled up in front of a large villa which stood within its own
     grounds. A stable-boy had run out to the horse's head, and springing
     down, I followed Holmes up the small, winding gravel-drive which led
     to the house. As we approached, the door flew open, and a little
     blonde woman stood in the opening, clad in some sort of light
     mousseline de soie, with a touch of fluffy pink chiffon at her neck
     and wrists. She stood with her figure outlined against the flood of
     light, one hand upon the door, one half-raised in her eagerness, her
     body slightly bent, her head and face protruded, with eager eyes and
     parted lips, a standing question.

     "Well?" she cried, "well?" And then, seeing that there were two of
     us, she gave a cry of hope which sank into a groan as she saw that my
     companion shook his head and shrugged his shoulders.

     "No good news?"

     "None."

     "No bad?"

     "No."

     "Thank God for that. But come in. You must be weary, for you have had
     a long day."

     "This is my friend, Dr. Watson. He has been of most vital use to me
     in several of my cases, and a lucky chance has made it possible for
     me to bring him out and associate him with this investigation."

     "I am delighted to see you," said she, pressing my hand warmly. "You
     will, I am sure, forgive anything that may be wanting in our
     arrangements, when you consider the blow which has come so suddenly
     upon us."

     "My dear madam," said I, "I am an old campaigner, and if I were not I
     can very well see that no apology is needed. If I can be of any
     assistance, either to you or to my friend here, I shall be indeed
     happy."

     "Now, Mr. Sherlock Holmes," said the lady as we entered a well-lit
     dining-room, upon the table of which a cold supper had been laid out,
     "I should very much like to ask you one or two plain questions, to
     which I beg that you will give a plain answer."

     "Certainly, madam."

     "Do not trouble about my feelings. I am not hysterical, nor given to
     fainting. I simply wish to hear your real, real opinion."

     "Upon what point?"

     "In your heart of hearts, do you think that Neville is alive?"

     Sherlock Holmes seemed to be embarrassed by the question. "Frankly,
     now!" she repeated, standing upon the rug and looking keenly down at
     him as he leaned back in a basket-chair.

     "Frankly, then, madam, I do not."

     "You think that he is dead?"

     "I do."

     "Murdered?"

     "I don't say that. Perhaps."

     "And on what day did he meet his death?"

     "On Monday."

     "Then perhaps, Mr. Holmes, you will be good enough to explain how it
     is that I have received a letter from him to-day."

     Sherlock Holmes sprang out of his chair as if he had been galvanised.

     "What!" he roared.

     "Yes, to-day." She stood smiling, holding up a little slip of paper
     in the air.

     "May I see it?"

     "Certainly."

     He snatched it from her in his eagerness, and smoothing it out upon
     the table he drew over the lamp and examined it intently. I had left
     my chair and was gazing at it over his shoulder. The envelope was a
     very coarse one and was stamped with the Gravesend postmark and with
     the date of that very day, or rather of the day before, for it was
     considerably after midnight.

     "Coarse writing," murmured Holmes. "Surely this is not your husband's
     writing, madam."

     "No, but the enclosure is."

     "I perceive also that whoever addressed the envelope had to go and
     inquire as to the address."

     "How can you tell that?"

     "The name, you see, is in perfectly black ink, which has dried
     itself. The rest is of the greyish colour, which shows that
     blotting-paper has been used. If it had been written straight off,
     and then blotted, none would be of a deep black shade. This man has
     written the name, and there has then been a pause before he wrote the
     address, which can only mean that he was not familiar with it. It is,
     of course, a trifle, but there is nothing so important as trifles.
     Let us now see the letter. Ha!  there has been an enclosure here!"

     "Yes, there was a ring. His signet-ring."

     "And you are sure that this is your husband's hand?"

     "One of his hands."

     "One?"

     "His hand when he wrote hurriedly. It is very unlike his usual
     writing, and yet I know it well."

     "Dearest do not be frightened. All will come well. There is a huge
     error which it may take some little time to rectify. Wait in
     patience.
     "Neville.

     Written in pencil upon the fly-leaf of a book, octavo size, no
     water-mark. Hum! Posted to-day in Gravesend by a man with a dirty
     thumb. Ha! And the flap has been gummed, if I am not very much in
     error, by a person who had been chewing tobacco. And you have no
     doubt that it is your husband's hand, madam?"

     "None. Neville wrote those words."

     "And they were posted to-day at Gravesend. Well, Mrs. St. Clair, the
     clouds lighten, though I should not venture to say that the danger is
     over."

     "But he must be alive, Mr. Holmes."

     "Unless this is a clever forgery to put us on the wrong scent. The
     ring, after all, proves nothing. It may have been taken from him."

     "No, no; it is, it is his very own writing!"

     "Very well. It may, however, have been written on Monday and only
     posted to-day."

     "That is possible."

     "If so, much may have happened between."

     "Oh, you must not discourage me, Mr. Holmes. I know that all is well
     with him. There is so keen a sympathy between us that I should know
     if evil came upon him. On the very day that I saw him last he cut
     himself in the bedroom, and yet I in the dining-room rushed upstairs
     instantly with the utmost certainty that something had happened. Do
     you think that I would respond to such a trifle and yet be ignorant
     of his death?"

     "I have seen too much not to know that the impression of a woman may
     be more valuable than the conclusion of an analytical reasoner. And
     in this letter you certainly have a very strong piece of evidence to
     corroborate your view. But if your husband is alive and able to write
     letters, why should he remain away from you?"

     "I cannot imagine. It is unthinkable."

     "And on Monday he made no remarks before leaving you?"

     "No."

     "And you were surprised to see him in Swandam Lane?"

     "Very much so."

     "Was the window open?"

     "Yes."

     "Then he might have called to you?"

     "He might."

     "He only, as I understand, gave an inarticulate cry?"

     "Yes."

     "A call for help, you thought?"

     "Yes. He waved his hands."

     "But it might have been a cry of surprise. Astonishment at the
     unexpected sight of you might cause him to throw up his hands?"

     "It is possible."

     "And you thought he was pulled back?"

     "He disappeared so suddenly."

     "He might have leaped back. You did not see anyone else in the room?"

     "No, but this horrible man confessed to having been there, and the
     Lascar was at the foot of the stairs."

     "Quite so. Your husband, as far as you could see, had his ordinary
     clothes on?"

     "But without his collar or tie. I distinctly saw his bare throat."

     "Had he ever spoken of Swandam Lane?"

     "Never."

     "Had he ever showed any signs of having taken opium?"

     "Never."

     "Thank you, Mrs. St. Clair. Those are the principal points about
     which I wished to be absolutely clear. We shall now have a little
     supper and then retire, for we may have a very busy day to-morrow."

     A large and comfortable double-bedded room had been placed at our
     disposal, and I was quickly between the sheets, for I was weary after
     my night of adventure. Sherlock Holmes was a man, however, who, when
     he had an unsolved problem upon his mind, would go for days, and even
     for a week, without rest, turning it over, rearranging his facts,
     looking at it from every point of view until he had either fathomed
     it or convinced himself that his data were insufficient. It was soon
     evident to me that he was now preparing for an all-night sitting. He
     took off his coat and waistcoat, put on a large blue dressing-gown,
     and then wandered about the room collecting pillows from his bed and
     cushions from the sofa and armchairs. With these he constructed a
     sort of Eastern divan, upon which he perched himself cross-legged,
     with an ounce of shag tobacco and a box of matches laid out in front
     of him. In the dim light of the lamp I saw him sitting there, an old
     briar pipe between his lips, his eyes fixed vacantly upon the corner
     of the ceiling, the blue smoke curling up from him, silent,
     motionless, with the light shining upon his strong-set aquiline
     features. So he sat as I dropped off to sleep, and so he sat when a
     sudden ejaculation caused me to wake up, and I found the summer sun
     shining into the apartment. The pipe was still between his lips, the
     smoke still curled upward, and the room was full of a dense tobacco
     haze, but nothing remained of the heap of shag which I had seen upon
     the previous night.

     "Awake, Watson?" he asked.

     "Yes."

     "Game for a morning drive?"

     "Certainly."

     "Then dress. No one is stirring yet, but I know where the stable-boy
     sleeps, and we shall soon have the trap out." He chuckled to himself
     as he spoke, his eyes twinkled, and he seemed a different man to the
     sombre thinker of the previous night.

     As I dressed I glanced at my watch. It was no wonder that no one was
     stirring. It was twenty-five minutes past four. I had hardly finished
     when Holmes returned with the news that the boy was putting in the
     horse.

     "I want to test a little theory of mine," said he, pulling on his
     boots. "I think, Watson, that you are now standing in the presence of
     one of the most absolute fools in Europe. I deserve to be kicked from
     here to Charing Cross. But I think I have the key of the affair now."

     "And where is it?" I asked, smiling.

     "In the bathroom," he answered. "Oh, yes, I am not joking," he
     continued, seeing my look of incredulity. "I have just been there,
     and I have taken it out, and I have got it in this Gladstone bag.
     Come on, my boy, and we shall see whether it will not fit the lock."

     We made our way downstairs as quietly as possible, and out into the
     bright morning sunshine. In the road stood our horse and trap, with
     the half-clad stable-boy waiting at the head. We both sprang in, and
     away we dashed down the London Road. A few country carts were
     stirring, bearing in vegetables to the metropolis, but the lines of
     villas on either side were as silent and lifeless as some city in a
     dream.

     "It has been in some points a singular case," said Holmes, flicking
     the horse on into a gallop. "I confess that I have been as blind as a
     mole, but it is better to learn wisdom late than never to learn it at
     all."

     In town the earliest risers were just beginning to look sleepily from
     their windows as we drove through the streets of the Surrey side.
     Passing down the Waterloo Bridge Road we crossed over the river, and
     dashing up Wellington Street wheeled sharply to the right and found
     ourselves in Bow Street. Sherlock Holmes was well known to the force,
     and the two constables at the door saluted him. One of them held the
     horse's head while the other led us in.

     "Who is on duty?" asked Holmes.

     "Inspector Bradstreet, sir."

     "Ah, Bradstreet, how are you?" A tall, stout official had come down
     the stone-flagged passage, in a peaked cap and frogged jacket. "I
     wish to have a quiet word with you, Bradstreet." "Certainly, Mr.
     Holmes. Step into my room here." It was a small, office-like room,
     with a huge ledger upon the table, and a telephone projecting from
     the wall. The inspector sat down at his desk.

     "What can I do for you, Mr. Holmes?"

     "I called about that beggarman, Boone--the one who was charged with
     being concerned in the disappearance of Mr. Neville St. Clair, of
     Lee."

     "Yes. He was brought up and remanded for further inquiries."

     "So I heard. You have him here?"

     "In the cells."

     "Is he quiet?"

     "Oh, he gives no trouble. But he is a dirty scoundrel."

     "Dirty?"

     "Yes, it is all we can do to make him wash his hands, and his face is
     as black as a tinker's. Well, when once his case has been settled, he
     will have a regular prison bath; and I think, if you saw him, you
     would agree with me that he needed it."

     "I should like to see him very much."

     "Would you? That is easily done. Come this way. You can leave your
     bag."

     "No, I think that I'll take it."

     "Very good. Come this way, if you please." He led us down a passage,
     opened a barred door, passed down a winding stair, and brought us to
     a whitewashed corridor with a line of doors on each side.

     "The third on the right is his," said the inspector. "Here it is!" He
     quietly shot back a panel in the upper part of the door and glanced
     through.

     "He is asleep," said he. "You can see him very well."

     We both put our eyes to the grating. The prisoner lay with his face
     towards us, in a very deep sleep, breathing slowly and heavily. He
     was a middle-sized man, coarsely clad as became his calling, with a
     coloured shirt protruding through the rent in his tattered coat. He
     was, as the inspector had said, extremely dirty, but the grime which
     covered his face could not conceal its repulsive ugliness. A broad
     wheal from an old scar ran right across it from eye to chin, and by
     its contraction had turned up one side of the upper lip, so that
     three teeth were exposed in a perpetual snarl. A shock of very bright
     red hair grew low over his eyes and forehead.

     "He's a beauty, isn't he?" said the inspector.

     "He certainly needs a wash," remarked Holmes. "I had an idea that he
     might, and I took the liberty of bringing the tools with me." He
     opened the Gladstone bag as he spoke, and took out, to my
     astonishment, a very large bath-sponge.

     "He! he! You are a funny one," chuckled the inspector.

     "Now, if you will have the great goodness to open that door very
     quietly, we will soon make him cut a much more respectable figure."

     "Well, I don't know why not," said the inspector. "He doesn't look a
     credit to the Bow Street cells, does he?" He slipped his key into the
     lock, and we all very quietly entered the cell. The sleeper half
     turned, and then settled down once more into a deep slumber. Holmes
     stooped to the water-jug, moistened his sponge, and then rubbed it
     twice vigorously across and down the prisoner's face.

     "Let me introduce you," he shouted, "to Mr. Neville St. Clair, of
     Lee, in the county of Kent."

     Never in my life have I seen such a sight. The man's face peeled off
     under the sponge like the bark from a tree. Gone was the coarse brown
     tint! Gone, too, was the horrid scar which had seamed it across, and
     the twisted lip which had given the repulsive sneer to the face! A
     twitch brought away the tangled red hair, and there, sitting up in
     his bed, was a pale, sad-faced, refined-looking man, black-haired and
     smooth-skinned, rubbing his eyes and staring about him with sleepy
     bewilderment. Then suddenly realising the exposure, he broke into a
     scream and threw himself down with his face to the pillow.

     "Great heavens!" cried the inspector, "it is, indeed, the missing
     man. I know him from the photograph."

     The prisoner turned with the reckless air of a man who abandons
     himself to his destiny. "Be it so," said he. "And pray what am I
     charged with?"

     "With making away with Mr. Neville St.--Oh, come, you can't be
     charged with that unless they make a case of attempted suicide of
     it," said the inspector with a grin. "Well, I have been twenty-seven
     years in the force, but this really takes the cake."

     "If I am Mr. Neville St. Clair, then it is obvious that no crime has
     been committed, and that, therefore, I am illegally detained."

     "No crime, but a very great error has been committed," said Holmes.
     "You would have done better to have trusted your wife."

     "It was not the wife; it was the children," groaned the prisoner.
     "God help me, I would not have them ashamed of their father. My God!
     What an exposure! What can I do?"

     Sherlock Holmes sat down beside him on the couch and patted him
     kindly on the shoulder.

     "If you leave it to a court of law to clear the matter up," said he,
     "of course you can hardly avoid publicity. On the other hand, if you
     convince the police authorities that there is no possible case
     against you, I do not know that there is any reason that the details
     should find their way into the papers. Inspector Bradstreet would, I
     am sure, make notes upon anything which you might tell us and submit
     it to the proper authorities. The case would then never go into court
     at all."

     "God bless you!" cried the prisoner passionately. "I would have
     endured imprisonment, ay, even execution, rather than have left my
     miserable secret as a family blot to my children.

     "You are the first who have ever heard my story. My father was a
     schoolmaster in Chesterfield, where I received an excellent
     education. I travelled in my youth, took to the stage, and finally
     became a reporter on an evening paper in London. One day my editor
     wished to have a series of articles upon begging in the metropolis,
     and I volunteered to supply them. There was the point from which all
     my adventures started. It was only by trying begging as an amateur
     that I could get the facts upon which to base my articles. When an
     actor I had, of course, learned all the secrets of making up, and had
     been famous in the green-room for my skill. I took advantage now of
     my attainments. I painted my face, and to make myself as pitiable as
     possible I made a good scar and fixed one side of my lip in a twist
     by the aid of a small slip of flesh-coloured plaster. Then with a red
     head of hair, and an appropriate dress, I took my station in the
     business part of the city, ostensibly as a match-seller but really as
     a beggar. For seven hours I plied my trade, and when I returned home
     in the evening I found to my surprise that I had received no less
     than 26s. 4d.

     "I wrote my articles and thought little more of the matter until,
     some time later, I backed a bill for a friend and had a writ served
     upon me for Â£25. I was at my wit's end where to get the money, but a
     sudden idea came to me. I begged a fortnight's grace from the
     creditor, asked for a holiday from my employers, and spent the time
     in begging in the City under my disguise. In ten days I had the money
     and had paid the debt.

     "Well, you can imagine how hard it was to settle down to arduous work
     at Â£2 a week when I knew that I could earn as much in a day by
     smearing my face with a little paint, laying my cap on the ground,
     and sitting still. It was a long fight between my pride and the
     money, but the dollars won at last, and I threw up reporting and sat
     day after day in the corner which I had first chosen, inspiring pity
     by my ghastly face and filling my pockets with coppers. Only one man
     knew my secret. He was the keeper of a low den in which I used to
     lodge in Swandam Lane, where I could every morning emerge as a
     squalid beggar and in the evenings transform myself into a
     well-dressed man about town. This fellow, a Lascar, was well paid by
     me for his rooms, so that I knew that my secret was safe in his
     possession.

     "Well, very soon I found that I was saving considerable sums of
     money. I do not mean that any beggar in the streets of London could
     earn Â£700 a year--which is less than my average takings--but I had
     exceptional advantages in my power of making up, and also in a
     facility of repartee, which improved by practice and made me quite a
     recognised character in the City. All day a stream of pennies, varied
     by silver, poured in upon me, and it was a very bad day in which I
     failed to take Â£2.

     "As I grew richer I grew more ambitious, took a house in the country,
     and eventually married, without anyone having a suspicion as to my
     real occupation. My dear wife knew that I had business in the City.
     She little knew what.

     "Last Monday I had finished for the day and was dressing in my room
     above the opium den when I looked out of my window and saw, to my
     horror and astonishment, that my wife was standing in the street,
     with her eyes fixed full upon me. I gave a cry of surprise, threw up
     my arms to cover my face, and, rushing to my confidant, the Lascar,
     entreated him to prevent anyone from coming up to me. I heard her
     voice downstairs, but I knew that she could not ascend. Swiftly I
     threw off my clothes, pulled on those of a beggar, and put on my
     pigments and wig. Even a wife's eyes could not pierce so complete a
     disguise. But then it occurred to me that there might be a search in
     the room, and that the clothes might betray me. I threw open the
     window, reopening by my violence a small cut which I had inflicted
     upon myself in the bedroom that morning. Then I seized my coat, which
     was weighted by the coppers which I had just transferred to it from
     the leather bag in which I carried my takings. I hurled it out of the
     window, and it disappeared into the Thames. The other clothes would
     have followed, but at that moment there was a rush of constables up
     the stair, and a few minutes after I found, rather, I confess, to my
     relief, that instead of being identified as Mr. Neville St. Clair, I
     was arrested as his murderer.

     "I do not know that there is anything else for me to explain. I was
     determined to preserve my disguise as long as possible, and hence my
     preference for a dirty face. Knowing that my wife would be terribly
     anxious, I slipped off my ring and confided it to the Lascar at a
     moment when no constable was watching me, together with a hurried
     scrawl, telling her that she had no cause to fear."

     "That note only reached her yesterday," said Holmes.

     "Good God! What a week she must have spent!"

     "The police have watched this Lascar," said Inspector Bradstreet,
     "and I can quite understand that he might find it difficult to post a
     letter unobserved. Probably he handed it to some sailor customer of
     his, who forgot all about it for some days."

     "That was it," said Holmes, nodding approvingly; "I have no doubt of
     it. But have you never been prosecuted for begging?"

     "Many times; but what was a fine to me?"

     "It must stop here, however," said Bradstreet. "If the police are to
     hush this thing up, there must be no more of Hugh Boone."

     "I have sworn it by the most solemn oaths which a man can take."

     "In that case I think that it is probable that no further steps may
     be taken. But if you are found again, then all must come out. I am
     sure, Mr. Holmes, that we are very much indebted to you for having
     cleared the matter up. I wish I knew how you reach your results."

     "I reached this one," said my friend, "by sitting upon five pillows
     and consuming an ounce of shag. I think, Watson, that if we drive to
     Baker Street we shall just be in time for breakfast."






                       THE ADVENTURE OF THE BLUE CARBUNCLE

     I had called upon my friend Sherlock Holmes upon the second morning
     after Christmas, with the intention of wishing him the compliments of
     the season. He was lounging upon the sofa in a purple dressing-gown,
     a pipe-rack within his reach upon the right, and a pile of crumpled
     morning papers, evidently newly studied, near at hand. Beside the
     couch was a wooden chair, and on the angle of the back hung a very
     seedy and disreputable hard-felt hat, much the worse for wear, and
     cracked in several places. A lens and a forceps lying upon the seat
     of the chair suggested that the hat had been suspended in this manner
     for the purpose of examination.

     "You are engaged," said I; "perhaps I interrupt you."

     "Not at all. I am glad to have a friend with whom I can discuss my
     results. The matter is a perfectly trivial one"--he jerked his thumb
     in the direction of the old hat--"but there are points in connection
     with it which are not entirely devoid of interest and even of
     instruction."

     I seated myself in his armchair and warmed my hands before his
     crackling fire, for a sharp frost had set in, and the windows were
     thick with the ice crystals. "I suppose," I remarked, "that, homely
     as it looks, this thing has some deadly story linked on to it--that
     it is the clue which will guide you in the solution of some mystery
     and the punishment of some crime."

     "No, no. No crime," said Sherlock Holmes, laughing. "Only one of
     those whimsical little incidents which will happen when you have four
     million human beings all jostling each other within the space of a
     few square miles. Amid the action and reaction of so dense a swarm of
     humanity, every possible combination of events may be expected to
     take place, and many a little problem will be presented which may be
     striking and bizarre without being criminal. We have already had
     experience of such."

     "So much so," I remarked, "that of the last six cases which I have
     added to my notes, three have been entirely free of any legal crime."

     "Precisely. You allude to my attempt to recover the Irene Adler
     papers, to the singular case of Miss Mary Sutherland, and to the
     adventure of the man with the twisted lip. Well, I have no doubt that
     this small matter will fall into the same innocent category. You know
     Peterson, the commissionaire?" 

     "Yes."

     "It is to him that this trophy belongs."

     "It is his hat."

     "No, no, he found it. Its owner is unknown. I beg that you will look
     upon it not as a battered billycock but as an intellectual problem.
     And, first, as to how it came here. It arrived upon Christmas
     morning, in company with a good fat goose, which is, I have no doubt,
     roasting at this moment in front of Peterson's fire. The facts are
     these: about four o'clock on Christmas morning, Peterson, who, as you
     know, is a very honest fellow, was returning from some small
     jollification and was making his way homeward down Tottenham Court
     Road. In front of him he saw, in the gaslight, a tallish man, walking
     with a slight stagger, and carrying a white goose slung over his
     shoulder. As he reached the corner of Goodge Street, a row broke out
     between this stranger and a little knot of roughs. One of the latter
     knocked off the man's hat, on which he raised his stick to defend
     himself and, swinging it over his head, smashed the shop window
     behind him. Peterson had rushed forward to protect the stranger from
     his assailants; but the man, shocked at having broken the window, and
     seeing an official-looking person in uniform rushing towards him,
     dropped his goose, took to his heels, and vanished amid the labyrinth
     of small streets which lie at the back of Tottenham Court Road. The
     roughs had also fled at the appearance of Peterson, so that he was
     left in possession of the field of battle, and also of the spoils of
     victory in the shape of this battered hat and a most unimpeachable
     Christmas goose."

     "Which surely he restored to their owner?"

     "My dear fellow, there lies the problem. It is true that 'For Mrs.
     Henry Baker' was printed upon a small card which was tied to the
     bird's left leg, and it is also true that the initials 'H. B.' are
     legible upon the lining of this hat, but as there are some thousands
     of Bakers, and some hundreds of Henry Bakers in this city of ours, it
     is not easy to restore lost property to any one of them."

     "What, then, did Peterson do?"

     "He brought round both hat and goose to me on Christmas morning,
     knowing that even the smallest problems are of interest to me. The
     goose we retained until this morning, when there were signs that, in
     spite of the slight frost, it would be well that it should be eaten
     without unnecessary delay. Its finder has carried it off, therefore,
     to fulfil the ultimate destiny of a goose, while I continue to retain
     the hat of the unknown gentleman who lost his Christmas dinner."

     "Did he not advertise?"

     "No."

     "Then, what clue could you have as to his identity?"

     "Only as much as we can deduce."

     "From his hat?"

     "Precisely."

     "But you are joking. What can you gather from this old battered
     felt?"

     "Here is my lens. You know my methods. What can you gather yourself
     as to the individuality of the man who has worn this article?"

     I took the tattered object in my hands and turned it over rather
     ruefully. It was a very ordinary black hat of the usual round shape,
     hard and much the worse for wear. The lining had been of red silk,
     but was a good deal discoloured. There was no maker's name; but, as
     Holmes had remarked, the initials "H. B." were scrawled upon one
     side. It was pierced in the brim for a hat-securer, but the elastic
     was missing. For the rest, it was cracked, exceedingly dusty, and
     spotted in several places, although there seemed to have been some
     attempt to hide the discoloured patches by smearing them with ink.

     "I can see nothing," said I, handing it back to my friend.

     "On the contrary, Watson, you can see everything. You fail, however,
     to reason from what you see. You are too timid in drawing your
     inferences."

     "Then, pray tell me what it is that you can infer from this hat?"

     He picked it up and gazed at it in the peculiar introspective fashion
     which was characteristic of him. "It is perhaps less suggestive than
     it might have been," he remarked, "and yet there are a few inferences
     which are very distinct, and a few others which represent at least a
     strong balance of probability. That the man was highly intellectual
     is of course obvious upon the face of it, and also that he was fairly
     well-to-do within the last three years, although he has now fallen
     upon evil days. He had foresight, but has less now than formerly,
     pointing to a moral retrogression, which, when taken with the decline
     of his fortunes, seems to indicate some evil influence, probably
     drink, at work upon him. This may account also for the obvious fact
     that his wife has ceased to love him."

     "My dear Holmes!"

     "He has, however, retained some degree of self-respect," he
     continued, disregarding my remonstrance. "He is a man who leads a
     sedentary life, goes out little, is out of training entirely, is
     middle-aged, has grizzled hair which he has had cut within the last
     few days, and which he anoints with lime-cream. These are the more
     patent facts which are to be deduced from his hat. Also, by the way,
     that it is extremely improbable that he has gas laid on in his
     house."

     "You are certainly joking, Holmes."

     "Not in the least. Is it possible that even now, when I give you
     these results, you are unable to see how they are attained?"

     "I have no doubt that I am very stupid, but I must confess that I am
     unable to follow you. For example, how did you deduce that this man
     was intellectual?"

     For answer Holmes clapped the hat upon his head. It came right over
     the forehead and settled upon the bridge of his nose. "It is a
     question of cubic capacity," said he; "a man with so large a brain
     must have something in it."

     "The decline of his fortunes, then?"

     "This hat is three years old. These flat brims curled at the edge
     came in then. It is a hat of the very best quality. Look at the band
     of ribbed silk and the excellent lining. If this man could afford to
     buy so expensive a hat three years ago, and has had no hat since,
     then he has assuredly gone down in the world."

     "Well, that is clear enough, certainly. But how about the foresight
     and the moral retrogression?"

     Sherlock Holmes laughed. "Here is the foresight," said he putting his
     finger upon the little disc and loop of the hat-securer.  "They are
     never sold upon hats. If this man ordered one, it is a sign of a
     certain amount of foresight, since he went out of his way to take
     this precaution against the wind. But since we see that he has broken
     the elastic and has not troubled to replace it, it is obvious that he
     has less foresight now than formerly, which is a distinct proof of a
     weakening nature. On the other hand, he has endeavoured to conceal
     some of these stains upon the felt by daubing them with ink, which is
     a sign that he has not entirely lost his self-respect."

     "Your reasoning is certainly plausible."

     "The further points, that he is middle-aged, that his hair is
     grizzled, that it has been recently cut, and that he uses lime-cream,
     are all to be gathered from a close examination of the lower part of
     the lining. The lens discloses a large number of hair-ends, clean cut
     by the scissors of the barber. They all appear to be adhesive, and
     there is a distinct odour of lime-cream. This dust, you will observe,
     is not the gritty, grey dust of the street but the fluffy brown dust
     of the house, showing that it has been hung up indoors most of the
     time, while the marks of moisture upon the inside are proof positive
     that the wearer perspired very freely, and could therefore, hardly be
     in the best of training."

     "But his wife--you said that she had ceased to love him."

     "This hat has not been brushed for weeks. When I see you, my dear
     Watson, with a week's accumulation of dust upon your hat, and when
     your wife allows you to go out in such a state, I shall fear that you
     also have been unfortunate enough to lose your wife's affection."

     "But he might be a bachelor."

     "Nay, he was bringing home the goose as a peace-offering to his wife.
     Remember the card upon the bird's leg."

     "You have an answer to everything. But how on earth do you deduce
     that the gas is not laid on in his house?"

     "One tallow stain, or even two, might come by chance; but when I see
     no less than five, I think that there can be little doubt that the
     individual must be brought into frequent contact with burning
     tallow--walks upstairs at night probably with his hat in one hand and
     a guttering candle in the other. Anyhow, he never got tallow-stains
     from a gas-jet. Are you satisfied?"

     "Well, it is very ingenious," said I, laughing; "but since, as you
     said just now, there has been no crime committed, and no harm done
     save the loss of a goose, all this seems to be rather a waste of
     energy."

     Sherlock Holmes had opened his mouth to reply, when the door flew
     open, and Peterson, the commissionaire, rushed into the apartment
     with flushed cheeks and the face of a man who is dazed with
     astonishment.

     "The goose, Mr. Holmes! The goose, sir!" he gasped.

     "Eh? What of it, then? Has it returned to life and flapped off
     through the kitchen window?" Holmes twisted himself round upon the
     sofa to get a fairer view of the man's excited face.

     "See here, sir! See what my wife found in its crop!" He held out his
     hand and displayed upon the centre of the palm a brilliantly
     scintillating blue stone, rather smaller than a bean in size, but of
     such purity and radiance that it twinkled like an electric point in
     the dark hollow of his hand.

     Sherlock Holmes sat up with a whistle. "By Jove, Peterson!" said he,
     "this is treasure trove indeed. I suppose you know what you have
     got?"

     "A diamond, sir? A precious stone. It cuts into glass as though it
     were putty."

     "It's more than a precious stone. It is the precious stone."

     "Not the Countess of Morcar's blue carbuncle!" I ejaculated.

     "Precisely so. I ought to know its size and shape, seeing that I have
     read the advertisement about it in The Times every day lately. It is
     absolutely unique, and its value can only be conjectured, but the
     reward offered of Â£1000 is certainly not within a twentieth part of
     the market price."

     "A thousand pounds! Great Lord of mercy!" The commissionaire plumped
     down into a chair and stared from one to the other of us.

     "That is the reward, and I have reason to know that there are
     sentimental considerations in the background which would induce the
     Countess to part with half her fortune if she could but recover the
     gem."

     "It was lost, if I remember aright, at the Hotel Cosmopolitan," I
     remarked.

     "Precisely so, on December 22nd, just five days ago. John Horner, a
     plumber, was accused of having abstracted it from the lady's
     jewel-case. The evidence against him was so strong that the case has
     been referred to the Assizes. I have some account of the matter here,
     I believe." He rummaged amid his newspapers, glancing over the dates,
     until at last he smoothed one out, doubled it over, and read the
     following paragraph:

     "Hotel Cosmopolitan Jewel Robbery. John Horner, 26, plumber, was
     brought up upon the charge of having upon the 22nd inst. abstracted
     from the jewel-case of the Countess of Morcar the valuable gem known
     as the blue carbuncle. James Ryder, upper-attendant at the hotel,
     gave his evidence to the effect that he had shown Horner up to the
     dressing-room of the Countess of Morcar upon the day of the robbery
     in order that he might solder the second bar of the grate, which was
     loose. He had remained with Horner some little time, but had finally
     been called away. On returning, he found that Horner had disappeared,
     that the bureau had been forced open, and that the small morocco
     casket in which, as it afterwards transpired, the Countess was
     accustomed to keep her jewel, was lying empty upon the
     dressing-table. Ryder instantly gave the alarm, and Horner was
     arrested the same evening; but the stone could not be found either
     upon his person or in his rooms. Catherine Cusack, maid to the
     Countess, deposed to having heard Ryder's cry of dismay on
     discovering the robbery, and to having rushed into the room, where
     she found matters as described by the last witness. Inspector
     Bradstreet, B division, gave evidence as to the arrest of Horner, who
     struggled frantically, and protested his innocence in the strongest
     terms. Evidence of a previous conviction for robbery having been
     given against the prisoner, the magistrate refused to deal summarily
     with the offence, but referred it to the Assizes. Horner, who had
     shown signs of intense emotion during the proceedings, fainted away
     at the conclusion and was carried out of court."

     "Hum! So much for the police-court," said Holmes thoughtfully,
     tossing aside the paper. "The question for us now to solve is the
     sequence of events leading from a rifled jewel-case at one end to the
     crop of a goose in Tottenham Court Road at the other. You see,
     Watson, our little deductions have suddenly assumed a much more
     important and less innocent aspect. Here is the stone; the stone came
     from the goose, and the goose came from Mr. Henry Baker, the
     gentleman with the bad hat and all the other characteristics with
     which I have bored you. So now we must set ourselves very seriously
     to finding this gentleman and ascertaining what part he has played in
     this little mystery. To do this, we must try the simplest means
     first, and these lie undoubtedly in an advertisement in all the
     evening papers. If this fail, I shall have recourse to other
     methods."

     "What will you say?"

     "Give me a pencil and that slip of paper. Now, then: 'Found at the
     corner of Goodge Street, a goose and a black felt hat. Mr. Henry
     Baker can have the same by applying at 6.30 this evening at 221b,
     Baker Street.' That is clear and concise."

     "Very. But will he see it?"

     "Well, he is sure to keep an eye on the papers, since, to a poor man,
     the loss was a heavy one. He was clearly so scared by his mischance
     in breaking the window and by the approach of Peterson that he
     thought of nothing but flight, but since then he must have bitterly
     regretted the impulse which caused him to drop his bird. Then, again,
     the introduction of his name will cause him to see it, for everyone
     who knows him will direct his attention to it. Here you are,
     Peterson, run down to the advertising agency and have this put in the
     evening papers."

     "In which, sir?"

     "Oh, in the Globe, Star, Pall Mall, St. James's, Evening News,
     Standard, Echo, and any others that occur to you."

     "Very well, sir. And this stone?"

     "Ah, yes, I shall keep the stone. Thank you. And, I say, Peterson,
     just buy a goose on your way back and leave it here with me, for we
     must have one to give to this gentleman in place of the one which
     your family is now devouring."

     When the commissionaire had gone, Holmes took up the stone and held
     it against the light. "It's a bonny thing," said he. "Just see how it
     glints and sparkles. Of course it is a nucleus and focus of crime.
     Every good stone is. They are the devil's pet baits. In the larger
     and older jewels every facet may stand for a bloody deed. This stone
     is not yet twenty years old. It was found in the banks of the Amoy
     River in southern China and is remarkable in having every
     characteristic of the carbuncle, save that it is blue in shade
     instead of ruby red. In spite of its youth, it has already a sinister
     history. There have been two murders, a vitriol-throwing, a suicide,
     and several robberies brought about for the sake of this forty-grain
     weight of crystallised charcoal. Who would think that so pretty a toy
     would be a purveyor to the gallows and the prison? I'll lock it up in
     my strong box now and drop a line to the Countess to say that we have
     it."

     "Do you think that this man Horner is innocent?"

     "I cannot tell."

     "Well, then, do you imagine that this other one, Henry Baker, had
     anything to do with the matter?"

     "It is, I think, much more likely that Henry Baker is an absolutely
     innocent man, who had no idea that the bird which he was carrying was
     of considerably more value than if it were made of solid gold. That,
     however, I shall determine by a very simple test if we have an answer
     to our advertisement."

     "And you can do nothing until then?"

     "Nothing."

     "In that case I shall continue my professional round. But I shall
     come back in the evening at the hour you have mentioned, for I should
     like to see the solution of so tangled a business."

     "Very glad to see you. I dine at seven. There is a woodcock, I
     believe. By the way, in view of recent occurrences, perhaps I ought
     to ask Mrs. Hudson to examine its crop."

     I had been delayed at a case, and it was a little after half-past six
     when I found myself in Baker Street once more. As I approached the
     house I saw a tall man in a Scotch bonnet with a coat which was
     buttoned up to his chin waiting outside in the bright semicircle
     which was thrown from the fanlight. Just as I arrived the door was
     opened, and we were shown up together to Holmes' room.

     "Mr. Henry Baker, I believe," said he, rising from his armchair and
     greeting his visitor with the easy air of geniality which he could so
     readily assume. "Pray take this chair by the fire, Mr. Baker. It is a
     cold night, and I observe that your circulation is more adapted for
     summer than for winter. Ah, Watson, you have just come at the right
     time. Is that your hat, Mr. Baker?"

     "Yes, sir, that is undoubtedly my hat."

     He was a large man with rounded shoulders, a massive head, and a
     broad, intelligent face, sloping down to a pointed beard of grizzled
     brown. A touch of red in nose and cheeks, with a slight tremor of his
     extended hand, recalled Holmes' surmise as to his habits. His rusty
     black frock-coat was buttoned right up in front, with the collar
     turned up, and his lank wrists protruded from his sleeves without a
     sign of cuff or shirt. He spoke in a slow staccato fashion, choosing
     his words with care, and gave the impression generally of a man of
     learning and letters who had had ill-usage at the hands of fortune.

     "We have retained these things for some days," said Holmes, "because
     we expected to see an advertisement from you giving your address. I
     am at a loss to know now why you did not advertise."

     Our visitor gave a rather shamefaced laugh. "Shillings have not been
     so plentiful with me as they once were," he remarked. "I had no doubt
     that the gang of roughs who assaulted me had carried off both my hat
     and the bird. I did not care to spend more money in a hopeless
     attempt at recovering them."

     "Very naturally. By the way, about the bird, we were compelled to eat
     it."

     "To eat it!" Our visitor half rose from his chair in his excitement.

     "Yes, it would have been of no use to anyone had we not done so. But
     I presume that this other goose upon the sideboard, which is about
     the same weight and perfectly fresh, will answer your purpose equally
     well?"

     "Oh, certainly, certainly," answered Mr. Baker with a sigh of relief.

     "Of course, we still have the feathers, legs, crop, and so on of your
     own bird, so if you wish--"

     The man burst into a hearty laugh. "They might be useful to me as
     relics of my adventure," said he, "but beyond that I can hardly see
     what use the disjecta membra of my late acquaintance are going to be
     to me. No, sir, I think that, with your permission, I will confine my
     attentions to the excellent bird which I perceive upon the
     sideboard."

     Sherlock Holmes glanced sharply across at me with a slight shrug of
     his shoulders.

     "There is your hat, then, and there your bird," said he. "By the way,
     would it bore you to tell me where you got the other one from? I am
     somewhat of a fowl fancier, and I have seldom seen a better grown
     goose."

     "Certainly, sir," said Baker, who had risen and tucked his newly
     gained property under his arm. "There are a few of us who frequent
     the Alpha Inn, near the Museum--we are to be found in the Museum
     itself during the day, you understand. This year our good host,
     Windigate by name, instituted a goose club, by which, on
     consideration of some few pence every week, we were each to receive a
     bird at Christmas. My pence were duly paid, and the rest is familiar
     to you. I am much indebted to you, sir, for a Scotch bonnet is fitted
     neither to my years nor my gravity." With a comical pomposity of
     manner he bowed solemnly to both of us and strode off upon his way.

     "So much for Mr. Henry Baker," said Holmes when he had closed the
     door behind him. "It is quite certain that he knows nothing whatever
     about the matter. Are you hungry, Watson?"

     "Not particularly."

     "Then I suggest that we turn our dinner into a supper and follow up
     this clue while it is still hot."

     "By all means."

     It was a bitter night, so we drew on our ulsters and wrapped cravats
     about our throats. Outside, the stars were shining coldly in a
     cloudless sky, and the breath of the passers-by blew out into smoke
     like so many pistol shots. Our footfalls rang out crisply and loudly
     as we swung through the doctors' quarter, Wimpole Street, Harley
     Street, and so through Wigmore Street into Oxford Street. In a
     quarter of an hour we were in Bloomsbury at the Alpha Inn, which is a
     small public-house at the corner of one of the streets which runs
     down into Holborn. Holmes pushed open the door of the private bar and
     ordered two glasses of beer from the ruddy-faced, white-aproned
     landlord.

     "Your beer should be excellent if it is as good as your geese," said
     he.

     "My geese!" The man seemed surprised.

     "Yes. I was speaking only half an hour ago to Mr. Henry Baker, who
     was a member of your goose club."

     "Ah! yes, I see. But you see, sir, them's not our geese."

     "Indeed! Whose, then?"

     "Well, I got the two dozen from a salesman in Covent Garden."

     "Indeed? I know some of them. Which was it?"

     "Breckinridge is his name."

     "Ah! I don't know him. Well, here's your good health landlord, and
     prosperity to your house. Good-night."

     "Now for Mr. Breckinridge," he continued, buttoning up his coat as we
     came out into the frosty air. "Remember, Watson that though we have
     so homely a thing as a goose at one end of this chain, we have at the
     other a man who will certainly get seven years' penal servitude
     unless we can establish his innocence. It is possible that our
     inquiry may but confirm his guilt; but, in any case, we have a line
     of investigation which has been missed by the police, and which a
     singular chance has placed in our hands. Let us follow it out to the
     bitter end. Faces to the south, then, and quick march!"

     We passed across Holborn, down Endell Street, and so through a zigzag
     of slums to Covent Garden Market. One of the largest stalls bore the
     name of Breckinridge upon it, and the proprietor a horsey-looking
     man, with a sharp face and trim side-whiskers was helping a boy to
     put up the shutters.

     "Good-evening. It's a cold night," said Holmes.

     The salesman nodded and shot a questioning glance at my companion.

     "Sold out of geese, I see," continued Holmes, pointing at the bare
     slabs of marble.

     "Let you have five hundred to-morrow morning."

     "That's no good."

     "Well, there are some on the stall with the gas-flare."

     "Ah, but I was recommended to you."

     "Who by?"

     "The landlord of the Alpha."

     "Oh, yes; I sent him a couple of dozen."

     "Fine birds they were, too. Now where did you get them from?"

     To my surprise the question provoked a burst of anger from the
     salesman.

     "Now, then, mister," said he, with his head cocked and his arms
     akimbo, "what are you driving at? Let's have it straight, now."

     "It is straight enough. I should like to know who sold you the geese
     which you supplied to the Alpha."

     "Well then, I shan't tell you. So now!"

     "Oh, it is a matter of no importance; but I don't know why you should
     be so warm over such a trifle."

     "Warm! You'd be as warm, maybe, if you were as pestered as I am. When
     I pay good money for a good article there should be an end of the
     business; but it's 'Where are the geese?' and 'Who did you sell the
     geese to?' and 'What will you take for the geese?' One would think
     they were the only geese in the world, to hear the fuss that is made
     over them."

     "Well, I have no connection with any other people who have been
     making inquiries," said Holmes carelessly. "If you won't tell us the
     bet is off, that is all. But I'm always ready to back my opinion on a
     matter of fowls, and I have a fiver on it that the bird I ate is
     country bred."

     "Well, then, you've lost your fiver, for it's town bred," snapped the
     salesman.

     "It's nothing of the kind."

     "I say it is."

     "I don't believe it."

     "D'you think you know more about fowls than I, who have handled them
     ever since I was a nipper? I tell you, all those birds that went to
     the Alpha were town bred."

     "You'll never persuade me to believe that."

     "Will you bet, then?"

     "It's merely taking your money, for I know that I am right. But I'll
     have a sovereign on with you, just to teach you not to be obstinate."

     The salesman chuckled grimly. "Bring me the books, Bill," said he.

     The small boy brought round a small thin volume and a great
     greasy-backed one, laying them out together beneath the hanging lamp.

     "Now then, Mr. Cocksure," said the salesman, "I thought that I was
     out of geese, but before I finish you'll find that there is still one
     left in my shop. You see this little book?"

     "Well?"

     "That's the list of the folk from whom I buy. D'you see? Well, then,
     here on this page are the country folk, and the numbers after their
     names are where their accounts are in the big ledger. Now, then! You
     see this other page in red ink? Well, that is a list of my town
     suppliers. Now, look at that third name. Just read it out to me."

     "Mrs. Oakshott, 117, Brixton Road--249," read Holmes.

     "Quite so. Now turn that up in the ledger."

     Holmes turned to the page indicated. "Here you are, 'Mrs. Oakshott,
     117, Brixton Road, egg and poultry supplier.'"

     "Now, then, what's the last entry?"

     "'December 22nd. Twenty-four geese at 7s. 6d.'"

     "Quite so. There you are. And underneath?"

     "'Sold to Mr. Windigate of the Alpha, at 12s.'"

     "What have you to say now?"

     Sherlock Holmes looked deeply chagrined. He drew a sovereign from his
     pocket and threw it down upon the slab, turning away with the air of
     a man whose disgust is too deep for words. A few yards off he stopped
     under a lamp-post and laughed in the hearty, noiseless fashion which
     was peculiar to him.

     "When you see a man with whiskers of that cut and the 'Pink 'un'
     protruding out of his pocket, you can always draw him by a bet," said
     he. "I daresay that if I had put Â£100 down in front of him, that man
     would not have given me such complete information as was drawn from
     him by the idea that he was doing me on a wager. Well, Watson, we
     are, I fancy, nearing the end of our quest, and the only point which
     remains to be determined is whether we should go on to this Mrs.
     Oakshott to-night, or whether we should reserve it for to-morrow. It
     is clear from what that surly fellow said that there are others
     besides ourselves who are anxious about the matter, and I should--"

     His remarks were suddenly cut short by a loud hubbub which broke out
     from the stall which we had just left. Turning round we saw a little
     rat-faced fellow standing in the centre of the circle of yellow light
     which was thrown by the swinging lamp, while Breckinridge, the
     salesman, framed in the door of his stall, was shaking his fists
     fiercely at the cringing figure.

     "I've had enough of you and your geese," he shouted. "I wish you were
     all at the devil together. If you come pestering me any more with
     your silly talk I'll set the dog at you. You bring Mrs. Oakshott here
     and I'll answer her, but what have you to do with it? Did I buy the
     geese off you?"

     "No; but one of them was mine all the same," whined the little man.

     "Well, then, ask Mrs. Oakshott for it."

     "She told me to ask you."

     "Well, you can ask the King of Proosia, for all I care. I've had
     enough of it. Get out of this!" He rushed fiercely forward, and the
     inquirer flitted away into the darkness.

     "Ha! this may save us a visit to Brixton Road," whispered Holmes.
     "Come with me, and we will see what is to be made of this fellow."
     Striding through the scattered knots of people who lounged round the
     flaring stalls, my companion speedily overtook the little man and
     touched him upon the shoulder. He sprang round, and I could see in
     the gas-light that every vestige of colour had been driven from his
     face.

     "Who are you, then? What do you want?" he asked in a quavering voice.

     "You will excuse me," said Holmes blandly, "but I could not help
     overhearing the questions which you put to the salesman just now. I
     think that I could be of assistance to you."

     "You? Who are you? How could you know anything of the matter?"

     "My name is Sherlock Holmes. It is my business to know what other
     people don't know."

     "But you can know nothing of this?"

     "Excuse me, I know everything of it. You are endeavouring to trace
     some geese which were sold by Mrs. Oakshott, of Brixton Road, to a
     salesman named Breckinridge, by him in turn to Mr. Windigate, of the
     Alpha, and by him to his club, of which Mr. Henry Baker is a member."

     "Oh, sir, you are the very man whom I have longed to meet," cried the
     little fellow with outstretched hands and quivering fingers. "I can
     hardly explain to you how interested I am in this matter."

     Sherlock Holmes hailed a four-wheeler which was passing. "In that
     case we had better discuss it in a cosy room rather than in this
     wind-swept market-place," said he. "But pray tell me, before we go
     farther, who it is that I have the pleasure of assisting."

     The man hesitated for an instant. "My name is John Robinson," he
     answered with a sidelong glance.

     "No, no; the real name," said Holmes sweetly. "It is always awkward
     doing business with an alias."

     A flush sprang to the white cheeks of the stranger. "Well then," said
     he, "my real name is James Ryder."

     "Precisely so. Head attendant at the Hotel Cosmopolitan. Pray step
     into the cab, and I shall soon be able to tell you everything which
     you would wish to know."

     The little man stood glancing from one to the other of us with
     half-frightened, half-hopeful eyes, as one who is not sure whether he
     is on the verge of a windfall or of a catastrophe. Then he stepped
     into the cab, and in half an hour we were back in the sitting-room at
     Baker Street. Nothing had been said during our drive, but the high,
     thin breathing of our new companion, and the claspings and
     unclaspings of his hands, spoke of the nervous tension within him.

     "Here we are!" said Holmes cheerily as we filed into the room. "The
     fire looks very seasonable in this weather. You look cold, Mr. Ryder.
     Pray take the basket-chair. I will just put on my slippers before we
     settle this little matter of yours. Now, then! You want to know what
     became of those geese?"

     "Yes, sir."

     "Or rather, I fancy, of that goose. It was one bird, I imagine in
     which you were interested--white, with a black bar across the tail."

     Ryder quivered with emotion. "Oh, sir," he cried, "can you tell me
     where it went to?"

     "It came here."

     "Here?"

     "Yes, and a most remarkable bird it proved. I don't wonder that you
     should take an interest in it. It laid an egg after it was dead--the
     bonniest, brightest little blue egg that ever was seen. I have it
     here in my museum."

     Our visitor staggered to his feet and clutched the mantelpiece with
     his right hand. Holmes unlocked his strong-box and held up the blue
     carbuncle, which shone out like a star, with a cold, brilliant,
     many-pointed radiance. Ryder stood glaring with a drawn face,
     uncertain whether to claim or to disown it.

     "The game's up, Ryder," said Holmes quietly. "Hold up, man, or you'll
     be into the fire! Give him an arm back into his chair, Watson. He's
     not got blood enough to go in for felony with impunity. Give him a
     dash of brandy. So! Now he looks a little more human. What a shrimp
     it is, to be sure!"

     For a moment he had staggered and nearly fallen, but the brandy
     brought a tinge of colour into his cheeks, and he sat staring with
     frightened eyes at his accuser.

     "I have almost every link in my hands, and all the proofs which I
     could possibly need, so there is little which you need tell me.
     Still, that little may as well be cleared up to make the case
     complete. You had heard, Ryder, of this blue stone of the Countess of
     Morcar's?"

     "It was Catherine Cusack who told me of it," said he in a crackling
     voice.

     "I see--her ladyship's waiting-maid. Well, the temptation of sudden
     wealth so easily acquired was too much for you, as it has been for
     better men before you; but you were not very scrupulous in the means
     you used. It seems to me, Ryder, that there is the making of a very
     pretty villain in you. You knew that this man Horner, the plumber,
     had been concerned in some such matter before, and that suspicion
     would rest the more readily upon him. What did you do, then? You made
     some small job in my lady's room--you and your confederate
     Cusack--and you managed that he should be the man sent for. Then,
     when he had left, you rifled the jewel-case, raised the alarm, and
     had this unfortunate man arrested. You then--"

     Ryder threw himself down suddenly upon the rug and clutched at my
     companion's knees. "For God's sake, have mercy!" he shrieked. "Think
     of my father! Of my mother! It would break their hearts. I never went
     wrong before! I never will again. I swear it. I'll swear it on a
     Bible. Oh, don't bring it into court! For Christ's sake, don't!"

     "Get back into your chair!" said Holmes sternly. "It is very well to
     cringe and crawl now, but you thought little enough of this poor
     Horner in the dock for a crime of which he knew nothing."

     "I will fly, Mr. Holmes. I will leave the country, sir. Then the
     charge against him will break down."

     "Hum! We will talk about that. And now let us hear a true account of
     the next act. How came the stone into the goose, and how came the
     goose into the open market? Tell us the truth, for there lies your
     only hope of safety."

     Ryder passed his tongue over his parched lips. "I will tell you it
     just as it happened, sir," said he. "When Horner had been arrested,
     it seemed to me that it would be best for me to get away with the
     stone at once, for I did not know at what moment the police might not
     take it into their heads to search me and my room. There was no place
     about the hotel where it would be safe. I went out, as if on some
     commission, and I made for my sister's house. She had married a man
     named Oakshott, and lived in Brixton Road, where she fattened fowls
     for the market. All the way there every man I met seemed to me to be
     a policeman or a detective; and, for all that it was a cold night,
     the sweat was pouring down my face before I came to the Brixton Road.
     My sister asked me what was the matter, and why I was so pale; but I
     told her that I had been upset by the jewel robbery at the hotel.
     Then I went into the back yard and smoked a pipe and wondered what it
     would be best to do.

     "I had a friend once called Maudsley, who went to the bad, and has
     just been serving his time in Pentonville. One day he had met me, and
     fell into talk about the ways of thieves, and how they could get rid
     of what they stole. I knew that he would be true to me, for I knew
     one or two things about him; so I made up my mind to go right on to
     Kilburn, where he lived, and take him into my confidence. He would
     show me how to turn the stone into money. But how to get to him in
     safety? I thought of the agonies I had gone through in coming from
     the hotel. I might at any moment be seized and searched, and there
     would be the stone in my waistcoat pocket. I was leaning against the
     wall at the time and looking at the geese which were waddling about
     round my feet, and suddenly an idea came into my head which showed me
     how I could beat the best detective that ever lived.

     "My sister had told me some weeks before that I might have the pick
     of her geese for a Christmas present, and I knew that she was always
     as good as her word. I would take my goose now, and in it I would
     carry my stone to Kilburn. There was a little shed in the yard, and
     behind this I drove one of the birds--a fine big one, white, with a
     barred tail. I caught it, and prying its bill open, I thrust the
     stone down its throat as far as my finger could reach. The bird gave
     a gulp, and I felt the stone pass along its gullet and down into its
     crop. But the creature flapped and struggled, and out came my sister
     to know what was the matter. As I turned to speak to her the brute
     broke loose and fluttered off among the others.

     "'Whatever were you doing with that bird, Jem?' says she.

     "'Well,' said I, 'you said you'd give me one for Christmas, and I was
     feeling which was the fattest.'

     "'Oh,' says she, 'we've set yours aside for you--Jem's bird, we call
     it. It's the big white one over yonder. There's twenty-six of them,
     which makes one for you, and one for us, and two dozen for the
     market.'

     "'Thank you, Maggie,' says I; 'but if it is all the same to you, I'd
     rather have that one I was handling just now.'

     "'The other is a good three pound heavier,' said she, 'and we
     fattened it expressly for you.'

     "'Never mind. I'll have the other, and I'll take it now,' said I.

     "'Oh, just as you like,' said she, a little huffed. 'Which is it you
     want, then?'

     "'That white one with the barred tail, right in the middle of the
     flock.'

     "'Oh, very well. Kill it and take it with you.'

     "Well, I did what she said, Mr. Holmes, and I carried the bird all
     the way to Kilburn. I told my pal what I had done, for he was a man
     that it was easy to tell a thing like that to. He laughed until he
     choked, and we got a knife and opened the goose. My heart turned to
     water, for there was no sign of the stone, and I knew that some
     terrible mistake had occurred. I left the bird, rushed back to my
     sister's, and hurried into the back yard. There was not a bird to be
     seen there.

     "'Where are they all, Maggie?' I cried.

     "'Gone to the dealer's, Jem.'

     "'Which dealer's?'

     "'Breckinridge, of Covent Garden.'

     "'But was there another with a barred tail?' I asked, 'the same as
     the one I chose?'

     "'Yes, Jem; there were two barred-tailed ones, and I could never tell
     them apart.'

     "Well, then, of course I saw it all, and I ran off as hard as my feet
     would carry me to this man Breckinridge; but he had sold the lot at
     once, and not one word would he tell me as to where they had gone.
     You heard him yourselves to-night. Well, he has always answered me
     like that. My sister thinks that I am going mad. Sometimes I think
     that I am myself. And now--and now I am myself a branded thief,
     without ever having touched the wealth for which I sold my character.
     God help me! God help me!" He burst into convulsive sobbing, with his
     face buried in his hands.

     There was a long silence, broken only by his heavy breathing and by
     the measured tapping of Sherlock Holmes' finger-tips upon the edge of
     the table. Then my friend rose and threw open the door.

     "Get out!" said he.

     "What, sir! Oh, Heaven bless you!"

     "No more words. Get out!"

     And no more words were needed. There was a rush, a clatter upon the
     stairs, the bang of a door, and the crisp rattle of running footfalls
     from the street.

     "After all, Watson," said Holmes, reaching up his hand for his clay
     pipe, "I am not retained by the police to supply their deficiencies.
     If Horner were in danger it would be another thing; but this fellow
     will not appear against him, and the case must collapse. I suppose
     that I am commuting a felony, but it is just possible that I am
     saving a soul. This fellow will not go wrong again; he is too
     terribly frightened. Send him to jail now, and you make him a
     jail-bird for life. Besides, it is the season of forgiveness. Chance
     has put in our way a most singular and whimsical problem, and its
     solution is its own reward. If you will have the goodness to touch
     the bell, Doctor, we will begin another investigation, in which, also
     a bird will be the chief feature."






                       THE ADVENTURE OF THE SPECKLED BAND

     On glancing over my notes of the seventy odd cases in which I have
     during the last eight years studied the methods of my friend Sherlock
     Holmes, I find many tragic, some comic, a large number merely
     strange, but none commonplace; for, working as he did rather for the
     love of his art than for the acquirement of wealth, he refused to
     associate himself with any investigation which did not tend towards
     the unusual, and even the fantastic. Of all these varied cases,
     however, I cannot recall any which presented more singular features
     than that which was associated with the well-known Surrey family of
     the Roylotts of Stoke Moran. The events in question occurred in the
     early days of my association with Holmes, when we were sharing rooms
     as bachelors in Baker Street. It is possible that I might have placed
     them upon record before, but a promise of secrecy was made at the
     time, from which I have only been freed during the last month by the
     untimely death of the lady to whom the pledge was given. It is
     perhaps as well that the facts should now come to light, for I have
     reasons to know that there are widespread rumours as to the death of
     Dr. Grimesby Roylott which tend to make the matter even more terrible
     than the truth.

     It was early in April in the year '83 that I woke one morning to find
     Sherlock Holmes standing, fully dressed, by the side of my bed. He
     was a late riser, as a rule, and as the clock on the mantelpiece
     showed me that it was only a quarter-past seven, I blinked up at him
     in some surprise, and perhaps just a little resentment, for I was
     myself regular in my habits.

     "Very sorry to knock you up, Watson," said he, "but it's the common
     lot this morning. Mrs. Hudson has been knocked up, she retorted upon
     me, and I on you."

     "What is it, then--a fire?"

     "No; a client. It seems that a young lady has arrived in a
     considerable state of excitement, who insists upon seeing me. She is
     waiting now in the sitting-room. Now, when young ladies wander about
     the metropolis at this hour of the morning, and knock sleepy people
     up out of their beds, I presume that it is something very pressing
     which they have to communicate. Should it prove to be an interesting
     case, you would, I am sure, wish to follow it from the outset. I
     thought, at any rate, that I should call you and give you the
     chance."

     "My dear fellow, I would not miss it for anything."

     I had no keener pleasure than in following Holmes in his professional
     investigations, and in admiring the rapid deductions, as swift as
     intuitions, and yet always founded on a logical basis with which he
     unravelled the problems which were submitted to him. I rapidly threw
     on my clothes and was ready in a few minutes to accompany my friend
     down to the sitting-room. A lady dressed in black and heavily veiled,
     who had been sitting in the window, rose as we entered.

     "Good-morning, madam," said Holmes cheerily. "My name is Sherlock
     Holmes. This is my intimate friend and associate, Dr. Watson, before
     whom you can speak as freely as before myself. Ha! I am glad to see
     that Mrs. Hudson has had the good sense to light the fire. Pray draw
     up to it, and I shall order you a cup of hot coffee, for I observe
     that you are shivering."

     "It is not cold which makes me shiver," said the woman in a low
     voice, changing her seat as requested.

     "What, then?"

     "It is fear, Mr. Holmes. It is terror." She raised her veil as she
     spoke, and we could see that she was indeed in a pitiable state of
     agitation, her face all drawn and grey, with restless frightened
     eyes, like those of some hunted animal. Her features and figure were
     those of a woman of thirty, but her hair was shot with premature
     grey, and her expression was weary and haggard. Sherlock Holmes ran
     her over with one of his quick, all-comprehensive glances.

     "You must not fear," said he soothingly, bending forward and patting
     her forearm. "We shall soon set matters right, I have no doubt. You
     have come in by train this morning, I see."

     "You know me, then?"

     "No, but I observe the second half of a return ticket in the palm of
     your left glove. You must have started early, and yet you had a good
     drive in a dog-cart, along heavy roads, before you reached the
     station."

     The lady gave a violent start and stared in bewilderment at my
     companion.

     "There is no mystery, my dear madam," said he, smiling. "The left arm
     of your jacket is spattered with mud in no less than seven places.
     The marks are perfectly fresh. There is no vehicle save a dog-cart
     which throws up mud in that way, and then only when you sit on the
     left-hand side of the driver."

     "Whatever your reasons may be, you are perfectly correct," said she.
     "I started from home before six, reached Leatherhead at twenty past,
     and came in by the first train to Waterloo. Sir, I can stand this
     strain no longer; I shall go mad if it continues. I have no one to
     turn to--none, save only one, who cares for me, and he, poor fellow,
     can be of little aid. I have heard of you, Mr. Holmes; I have heard
     of you from Mrs. Farintosh, whom you helped in the hour of her sore
     need. It was from her that I had your address. Oh, sir, do you not
     think that you could help me, too, and at least throw a little light
     through the dense darkness which surrounds me? At present it is out
     of my power to reward you for your services, but in a month or six
     weeks I shall be married, with the control of my own income, and then
     at least you shall not find me ungrateful."

     Holmes turned to his desk and, unlocking it, drew out a small
     case-book, which he consulted.

     "Farintosh," said he. "Ah yes, I recall the case; it was concerned
     with an opal tiara. I think it was before your time, Watson. I can
     only say, madam, that I shall be happy to devote the same care to
     your case as I did to that of your friend. As to reward, my
     profession is its own reward; but you are at liberty to defray
     whatever expenses I may be put to, at the time which suits you best.
     And now I beg that you will lay before us everything that may help us
     in forming an opinion upon the matter."

     "Alas!" replied our visitor, "the very horror of my situation lies in
     the fact that my fears are so vague, and my suspicions depend so
     entirely upon small points, which might seem trivial to another, that
     even he to whom of all others I have a right to look for help and
     advice looks upon all that I tell him about it as the fancies of a
     nervous woman. He does not say so, but I can read it from his
     soothing answers and averted eyes. But I have heard, Mr. Holmes, that
     you can see deeply into the manifold wickedness of the human heart.
     You may advise me how to walk amid the dangers which encompass me."

     "I am all attention, madam."

     "My name is Helen Stoner, and I am living with my stepfather, who is
     the last survivor of one of the oldest Saxon families in England, the
     Roylotts of Stoke Moran, on the western border of Surrey."

     Holmes nodded his head. "The name is familiar to me," said he.

     "The family was at one time among the richest in England, and the
     estates extended over the borders into Berkshire in the north, and
     Hampshire in the west. In the last century, however, four successive
     heirs were of a dissolute and wasteful disposition, and the family
     ruin was eventually completed by a gambler in the days of the
     Regency. Nothing was left save a few acres of ground, and the
     two-hundred-year-old house, which is itself crushed under a heavy
     mortgage. The last squire dragged out his existence there, living the
     horrible life of an aristocratic pauper; but his only son, my
     stepfather, seeing that he must adapt himself to the new conditions,
     obtained an advance from a relative, which enabled him to take a
     medical degree and went out to Calcutta, where, by his professional
     skill and his force of character, he established a large practice. In
     a fit of anger, however, caused by some robberies which had been
     perpetrated in the house, he beat his native butler to death and
     narrowly escaped a capital sentence. As it was, he suffered a long
     term of imprisonment and afterwards returned to England a morose and
     disappointed man.

     "When Dr. Roylott was in India he married my mother, Mrs. Stoner, the
     young widow of Major-General Stoner, of the Bengal Artillery. My
     sister Julia and I were twins, and we were only two years old at the
     time of my mother's re-marriage. She had a considerable sum of
     money--not less than Â£1000 a year--and this she bequeathed to Dr.
     Roylott entirely while we resided with him, with a provision that a
     certain annual sum should be allowed to each of us in the event of
     our marriage. Shortly after our return to England my mother died--she
     was killed eight years ago in a railway accident near Crewe. Dr.
     Roylott then abandoned his attempts to establish himself in practice
     in London and took us to live with him in the old ancestral house at
     Stoke Moran. The money which my mother had left was enough for all
     our wants, and there seemed to be no obstacle to our happiness.

     "But a terrible change came over our stepfather about this time.
     Instead of making friends and exchanging visits with our neighbours,
     who had at first been overjoyed to see a Roylott of Stoke Moran back
     in the old family seat, he shut himself up in his house and seldom
     came out save to indulge in ferocious quarrels with whoever might
     cross his path. Violence of temper approaching to mania has been
     hereditary in the men of the family, and in my stepfather's case it
     had, I believe, been intensified by his long residence in the
     tropics. A series of disgraceful brawls took place, two of which
     ended in the police-court, until at last he became the terror of the
     village, and the folks would fly at his approach, for he is a man of
     immense strength, and absolutely uncontrollable in his anger.

     "Last week he hurled the local blacksmith over a parapet into a
     stream, and it was only by paying over all the money which I could
     gather together that I was able to avert another public exposure. He
     had no friends at all save the wandering gypsies, and he would give
     these vagabonds leave to encamp upon the few acres of bramble-covered
     land which represent the family estate, and would accept in return
     the hospitality of their tents, wandering away with them sometimes
     for weeks on end. He has a passion also for Indian animals, which are
     sent over to him by a correspondent, and he has at this moment a
     cheetah and a baboon, which wander freely over his grounds and are
     feared by the villagers almost as much as their master.

     "You can imagine from what I say that my poor sister Julia and I had
     no great pleasure in our lives. No servant would stay with us, and
     for a long time we did all the work of the house. She was but thirty
     at the time of her death, and yet her hair had already begun to
     whiten, even as mine has."

     "Your sister is dead, then?"

     "She died just two years ago, and it is of her death that I wish to
     speak to you. You can understand that, living the life which I have
     described, we were little likely to see anyone of our own age and
     position. We had, however, an aunt, my mother's maiden sister, Miss
     Honoria Westphail, who lives near Harrow, and we were occasionally
     allowed to pay short visits at this lady's house. Julia went there at
     Christmas two years ago, and met there a half-pay major of marines,
     to whom she became engaged. My stepfather learned of the engagement
     when my sister returned and offered no objection to the marriage; but
     within a fortnight of the day which had been fixed for the wedding,
     the terrible event occurred which has deprived me of my only
     companion."

     Sherlock Holmes had been leaning back in his chair with his eyes
     closed and his head sunk in a cushion, but he half opened his lids
     now and glanced across at his visitor.

     "Pray be precise as to details," said he.

     "It is easy for me to be so, for every event of that dreadful time is
     seared into my memory. The manor-house is, as I have already said,
     very old, and only one wing is now inhabited. The bedrooms in this
     wing are on the ground floor, the sitting-rooms being in the central
     block of the buildings. Of these bedrooms the first is Dr. Roylott's,
     the second my sister's, and the third my own. There is no
     communication between them, but they all open out into the same
     corridor. Do I make myself plain?"

     "Perfectly so."

     "The windows of the three rooms open out upon the lawn. That fatal
     night Dr. Roylott had gone to his room early, though we knew that he
     had not retired to rest, for my sister was troubled by the smell of
     the strong Indian cigars which it was his custom to smoke. She left
     her room, therefore, and came into mine, where she sat for some time,
     chatting about her approaching wedding. At eleven o'clock she rose to
     leave me, but she paused at the door and looked back.

     "'Tell me, Helen,' said she, 'have you ever heard anyone whistle in
     the dead of the night?'

     "'Never,' said I.

     "'I suppose that you could not possibly whistle, yourself, in your
     sleep?'

     "'Certainly not. But why?'

     "'Because during the last few nights I have always, about three in
     the morning, heard a low, clear whistle. I am a light sleeper, and it
     has awakened me. I cannot tell where it came from--perhaps from the
     next room, perhaps from the lawn. I thought that I would just ask you
     whether you had heard it.'

     "'No, I have not. It must be those wretched gipsies in the
     plantation.'

     "'Very likely. And yet if it were on the lawn, I wonder that you did
     not hear it also.'

     "'Ah, but I sleep more heavily than you.'

     "'Well, it is of no great consequence, at any rate.' She smiled back
     at me, closed my door, and a few moments later I heard her key turn
     in the lock."

     "Indeed," said Holmes. "Was it your custom always to lock yourselves
     in at night?"

     "Always."

     "And why?"

     "I think that I mentioned to you that the doctor kept a cheetah and a
     baboon. We had no feeling of security unless our doors were locked."

     "Quite so. Pray proceed with your statement."

     "I could not sleep that night. A vague feeling of impending
     misfortune impressed me. My sister and I, you will recollect, were
     twins, and you know how subtle are the links which bind two souls
     which are so closely allied. It was a wild night. The wind was
     howling outside, and the rain was beating and splashing against the
     windows. Suddenly, amid all the hubbub of the gale, there burst forth
     the wild scream of a terrified woman. I knew that it was my sister's
     voice. I sprang from my bed, wrapped a shawl round me, and rushed
     into the corridor. As I opened my door I seemed to hear a low
     whistle, such as my sister described, and a few moments later a
     clanging sound, as if a mass of metal had fallen. As I ran down the
     passage, my sister's door was unlocked, and revolved slowly upon its
     hinges. I stared at it horror-stricken, not knowing what was about to
     issue from it. By the light of the corridor-lamp I saw my sister
     appear at the opening, her face blanched with terror, her hands
     groping for help, her whole figure swaying to and fro like that of a
     drunkard. I ran to her and threw my arms round her, but at that
     moment her knees seemed to give way and she fell to the ground.  She
     writhed as one who is in terrible pain, and her limbs were dreadfully
     convulsed. At first I thought that she had not recognised me, but as
     I bent over her she suddenly shrieked out in a voice which I shall
     never forget, 'Oh, my God! Helen! It was the band! The speckled
     band!' There was something else which she would fain have said, and
     she stabbed with her finger into the air in the direction of the
     doctor's room, but a fresh convulsion seized her and choked her
     words. I rushed out, calling loudly for my stepfather, and I met him
     hastening from his room in his dressing-gown. When he reached my
     sister's side she was unconscious, and though he poured brandy down
     her throat and sent for medical aid from the village, all efforts
     were in vain, for she slowly sank and died without having recovered
     her consciousness. Such was the dreadful end of my beloved sister."

     "One moment," said Holmes, "are you sure about this whistle and
     metallic sound? Could you swear to it?"

     "That was what the county coroner asked me at the inquiry. It is my
     strong impression that I heard it, and yet, among the crash of the
     gale and the creaking of an old house, I may possibly have been
     deceived."

     "Was your sister dressed?"

     "No, she was in her night-dress. In her right hand was found the
     charred stump of a match, and in her left a match-box."

     "Showing that she had struck a light and looked about her when the
     alarm took place. That is important. And what conclusions did the
     coroner come to?"

     "He investigated the case with great care, for Dr. Roylott's conduct
     had long been notorious in the county, but he was unable to find any
     satisfactory cause of death. My evidence showed that the door had
     been fastened upon the inner side, and the windows were blocked by
     old-fashioned shutters with broad iron bars, which were secured every
     night. The walls were carefully sounded, and were shown to be quite
     solid all round, and the flooring was also thoroughly examined, with
     the same result. The chimney is wide, but is barred up by four large
     staples. It is certain, therefore, that my sister was quite alone
     when she met her end. Besides, there were no marks of any violence
     upon her."

     "How about poison?"

     "The doctors examined her for it, but without success."

     "What do you think that this unfortunate lady died of, then?"

     "It is my belief that she died of pure fear and nervous shock, though
     what it was that frightened her I cannot imagine."

     "Were there gipsies in the plantation at the time?"

     "Yes, there are nearly always some there."

     "Ah, and what did you gather from this allusion to a band--a speckled
     band?"

     "Sometimes I have thought that it was merely the wild talk of
     delirium, sometimes that it may have referred to some band of people,
     perhaps to these very gipsies in the plantation. I do not know
     whether the spotted handkerchiefs which so many of them wear over
     their heads might have suggested the strange adjective which she
     used."

     Holmes shook his head like a man who is far from being satisfied.

     "These are very deep waters," said he; "pray go on with your
     narrative."

     "Two years have passed since then, and my life has been until lately
     lonelier than ever. A month ago, however, a dear friend, whom I have
     known for many years, has done me the honour to ask my hand in
     marriage. His name is Armitage--Percy Armitage--the second son of Mr.
     Armitage, of Crane Water, near Reading. My stepfather has offered no
     opposition to the match, and we are to be married in the course of
     the spring. Two days ago some repairs were started in the west wing
     of the building, and my bedroom wall has been pierced, so that I have
     had to move into the chamber in which my sister died, and to sleep in
     the very bed in which she slept. Imagine, then, my thrill of terror
     when last night, as I lay awake, thinking over her terrible fate, I
     suddenly heard in the silence of the night the low whistle which had
     been the herald of her own death. I sprang up and lit the lamp, but
     nothing was to be seen in the room. I was too shaken to go to bed
     again, however, so I dressed, and as soon as it was daylight I
     slipped down, got a dog-cart at the Crown Inn, which is opposite, and
     drove to Leatherhead, from whence I have come on this morning with
     the one object of seeing you and asking your advice."

     "You have done wisely," said my friend. "But have you told me all?"

     "Yes, all."

     "Miss Roylott, you have not. You are screening your stepfather."

     "Why, what do you mean?"

     For answer Holmes pushed back the frill of black lace which fringed
     the hand that lay upon our visitor's knee. Five little livid spots,
     the marks of four fingers and a thumb, were printed upon the white
     wrist.

     "You have been cruelly used," said Holmes.

     The lady coloured deeply and covered over her injured wrist. "He is a
     hard man," she said, "and perhaps he hardly knows his own strength."

     There was a long silence, during which Holmes leaned his chin upon
     his hands and stared into the crackling fire.

     "This is a very deep business," he said at last. "There are a
     thousand details which I should desire to know before I decide upon
     our course of action. Yet we have not a moment to lose. If we were to
     come to Stoke Moran to-day, would it be possible for us to see over
     these rooms without the knowledge of your stepfather?"

     "As it happens, he spoke of coming into town to-day upon some most
     important business. It is probable that he will be away all day, and
     that there would be nothing to disturb you. We have a housekeeper
     now, but she is old and foolish, and I could easily get her out of
     the way."

     "Excellent. You are not averse to this trip, Watson?"

     "By no means."

     "Then we shall both come. What are you going to do yourself?"

     "I have one or two things which I would wish to do now that I am in
     town. But I shall return by the twelve o'clock train, so as to be
     there in time for your coming."

     "And you may expect us early in the afternoon. I have myself some
     small business matters to attend to. Will you not wait and
     breakfast?"

     "No, I must go. My heart is lightened already since I have confided
     my trouble to you. I shall look forward to seeing you again this
     afternoon." She dropped her thick black veil over her face and glided
     from the room.

     "And what do you think of it all, Watson?" asked Sherlock Holmes,
     leaning back in his chair.

     "It seems to me to be a most dark and sinister business."

     "Dark enough and sinister enough."

     "Yet if the lady is correct in saying that the flooring and walls are
     sound, and that the door, window, and chimney are impassable, then
     her sister must have been undoubtedly alone when she met her
     mysterious end."

     "What becomes, then, of these nocturnal whistles, and what of the
     very peculiar words of the dying woman?"

     "I cannot think."

     "When you combine the ideas of whistles at night, the presence of a
     band of gipsies who are on intimate terms with this old doctor, the
     fact that we have every reason to believe that the doctor has an
     interest in preventing his stepdaughter's marriage, the dying
     allusion to a band, and, finally, the fact that Miss Helen Stoner
     heard a metallic clang, which might have been caused by one of those
     metal bars that secured the shutters falling back into its place, I
     think that there is good ground to think that the mystery may be
     cleared along those lines."

     "But what, then, did the gipsies do?"

     "I cannot imagine."

     "I see many objections to any such theory."

     "And so do I. It is precisely for that reason that we are going to
     Stoke Moran this day. I want to see whether the objections are fatal,
     or if they may be explained away. But what in the name of the devil!"

     The ejaculation had been drawn from my companion by the fact that our
     door had been suddenly dashed open, and that a huge man had framed
     himself in the aperture. His costume was a peculiar mixture of the
     professional and of the agricultural, having a black top-hat, a long
     frock-coat, and a pair of high gaiters, with a hunting-crop swinging
     in his hand. So tall was he that his hat actually brushed the cross
     bar of the doorway, and his breadth seemed to span it across from
     side to side. A large face, seared with a thousand wrinkles, burned
     yellow with the sun, and marked with every evil passion, was turned
     from one to the other of us, while his deep-set, bile-shot eyes, and
     his high, thin, fleshless nose, gave him somewhat the resemblance to
     a fierce old bird of prey.

     "Which of you is Holmes?" asked this apparition.

     "My name, sir; but you have the advantage of me," said my companion
     quietly.

     "I am Dr. Grimesby Roylott, of Stoke Moran."

     "Indeed, Doctor," said Holmes blandly. "Pray take a seat."

     "I will do nothing of the kind. My stepdaughter has been here. I have
     traced her. What has she been saying to you?"

     "It is a little cold for the time of the year," said Holmes.

     "What has she been saying to you?" screamed the old man furiously.

     "But I have heard that the crocuses promise well," continued my
     companion imperturbably.

     "Ha! You put me off, do you?" said our new visitor, taking a step
     forward and shaking his hunting-crop. "I know you, you scoundrel!  I
     have heard of you before. You are Holmes, the meddler."

     My friend smiled.

     "Holmes, the busybody!"

     His smile broadened.

     "Holmes, the Scotland Yard Jack-in-office!"

     Holmes chuckled heartily. "Your conversation is most entertaining,"
     said he. "When you go out close the door, for there is a decided
     draught."

     "I will go when I have said my say. Don't you dare to meddle with my
     affairs. I know that Miss Stoner has been here. I traced her! I am a
     dangerous man to fall foul of! See here." He stepped swiftly forward,
     seized the poker, and bent it into a curve with his huge brown hands.

     "See that you keep yourself out of my grip," he snarled, and hurling
     the twisted poker into the fireplace he strode out of the room.

     "He seems a very amiable person," said Holmes, laughing. "I am not
     quite so bulky, but if he had remained I might have shown him that my
     grip was not much more feeble than his own." As he spoke he picked up
     the steel poker and, with a sudden effort, straightened it out again.

     "Fancy his having the insolence to confound me with the official
     detective force! This incident gives zest to our investigation,
     however, and I only trust that our little friend will not suffer from
     her imprudence in allowing this brute to trace her. And now, Watson,
     we shall order breakfast, and afterwards I shall walk down to
     Doctors' Commons, where I hope to get some data which may help us in
     this matter."

     It was nearly one o'clock when Sherlock Holmes returned from his
     excursion. He held in his hand a sheet of blue paper, scrawled over
     with notes and figures.

     "I have seen the will of the deceased wife," said he. "To determine
     its exact meaning I have been obliged to work out the present prices
     of the investments with which it is concerned. The total income,
     which at the time of the wife's death was little short of Â£1100, is
     now, through the fall in agricultural prices, not more than Â£750.
     Each daughter can claim an income of Â£250, in case of marriage. It is
     evident, therefore, that if both girls had married, this beauty would
     have had a mere pittance, while even one of them would cripple him to
     a very serious extent. My morning's work has not been wasted, since
     it has proved that he has the very strongest motives for standing in
     the way of anything of the sort. And now, Watson, this is too serious
     for dawdling, especially as the old man is aware that we are
     interesting ourselves in his affairs; so if you are ready, we shall
     call a cab and drive to Waterloo. I should be very much obliged if
     you would slip your revolver into your pocket. An Eley's No. 2 is an
     excellent argument with gentlemen who can twist steel pokers into
     knots. That and a tooth-brush are, I think, all that we need."

     At Waterloo we were fortunate in catching a train for Leatherhead,
     where we hired a trap at the station inn and drove for four or five
     miles through the lovely Surrey lanes. It was a perfect day, with a
     bright sun and a few fleecy clouds in the heavens. The trees and
     wayside hedges were just throwing out their first green shoots, and
     the air was full of the pleasant smell of the moist earth. To me at
     least there was a strange contrast between the sweet promise of the
     spring and this sinister quest upon which we were engaged. My
     companion sat in the front of the trap, his arms folded, his hat
     pulled down over his eyes, and his chin sunk upon his breast, buried
     in the deepest thought. Suddenly, however, he started, tapped me on
     the shoulder, and pointed over the meadows.

     "Look there!" said he.

     A heavily timbered park stretched up in a gentle slope, thickening
     into a grove at the highest point. From amid the branches there
     jutted out the grey gables and high roof-tree of a very old mansion.

     "Stoke Moran?" said he.

     "Yes, sir, that be the house of Dr. Grimesby Roylott," remarked the
     driver.

     "There is some building going on there," said Holmes; "that is where
     we are going."

     "There's the village," said the driver, pointing to a cluster of
     roofs some distance to the left; "but if you want to get to the
     house, you'll find it shorter to get over this stile, and so by the
     foot-path over the fields. There it is, where the lady is walking."

     "And the lady, I fancy, is Miss Stoner," observed Holmes, shading his
     eyes. "Yes, I think we had better do as you suggest."

     We got off, paid our fare, and the trap rattled back on its way to
     Leatherhead.

     "I thought it as well," said Holmes as we climbed the stile, "that
     this fellow should think we had come here as architects, or on some
     definite business. It may stop his gossip. Good-afternoon, Miss
     Stoner. You see that we have been as good as our word."

     Our client of the morning had hurried forward to meet us with a face
     which spoke her joy. "I have been waiting so eagerly for you," she
     cried, shaking hands with us warmly. "All has turned out splendidly.
     Dr. Roylott has gone to town, and it is unlikely that he will be back
     before evening."

     "We have had the pleasure of making the doctor's acquaintance," said
     Holmes, and in a few words he sketched out what had occurred. Miss
     Stoner turned white to the lips as she listened.

     "Good heavens!" she cried, "he has followed me, then."

     "So it appears."

     "He is so cunning that I never know when I am safe from him. What
     will he say when he returns?"

     "He must guard himself, for he may find that there is someone more
     cunning than himself upon his track. You must lock yourself up from
     him to-night. If he is violent, we shall take you away to your aunt's
     at Harrow. Now, we must make the best use of our time, so kindly take
     us at once to the rooms which we are to examine."

     The building was of grey, lichen-blotched stone, with a high central
     portion and two curving wings, like the claws of a crab, thrown out
     on each side. In one of these wings the windows were broken and
     blocked with wooden boards, while the roof was partly caved in, a
     picture of ruin. The central portion was in little better repair, but
     the right-hand block was comparatively modern, and the blinds in the
     windows, with the blue smoke curling up from the chimneys, showed
     that this was where the family resided. Some scaffolding had been
     erected against the end wall, and the stone-work had been broken
     into, but there were no signs of any workmen at the moment of our
     visit. Holmes walked slowly up and down the ill-trimmed lawn and
     examined with deep attention the outsides of the windows.

     "This, I take it, belongs to the room in which you used to sleep, the
     centre one to your sister's, and the one next to the main building to
     Dr. Roylott's chamber?"

     "Exactly so. But I am now sleeping in the middle one."

     "Pending the alterations, as I understand. By the way, there does not
     seem to be any very pressing need for repairs at that end wall."

     "There were none. I believe that it was an excuse to move me from my
     room."

     "Ah! that is suggestive. Now, on the other side of this narrow wing
     runs the corridor from which these three rooms open. There are
     windows in it, of course?"

     "Yes, but very small ones. Too narrow for anyone to pass through."

     "As you both locked your doors at night, your rooms were
     unapproachable from that side. Now, would you have the kindness to go
     into your room and bar your shutters?"

     Miss Stoner did so, and Holmes, after a careful examination through
     the open window, endeavoured in every way to force the shutter open,
     but without success. There was no slit through which a knife could be
     passed to raise the bar. Then with his lens he tested the hinges, but
     they were of solid iron, built firmly into the massive masonry.
     "Hum!" said he, scratching his chin in some perplexity, "my theory
     certainly presents some difficulties. No one could pass these
     shutters if they were bolted. Well, we shall see if the inside throws
     any light upon the matter."

     A small side door led into the whitewashed corridor from which the
     three bedrooms opened. Holmes refused to examine the third chamber,
     so we passed at once to the second, that in which Miss Stoner was now
     sleeping, and in which her sister had met with her fate. It was a
     homely little room, with a low ceiling and a gaping fireplace, after
     the fashion of old country-houses. A brown chest of drawers stood in
     one corner, a narrow white-counterpaned bed in another, and a
     dressing-table on the left-hand side of the window. These articles,
     with two small wicker-work chairs, made up all the furniture in the
     room save for a square of Wilton carpet in the centre. The boards
     round and the panelling of the walls were of brown, worm-eaten oak,
     so old and discoloured that it may have dated from the original
     building of the house. Holmes drew one of the chairs into a corner
     and sat silent, while his eyes travelled round and round and up and
     down, taking in every detail of the apartment.

     "Where does that bell communicate with?" he asked at last pointing to
     a thick bell-rope which hung down beside the bed, the tassel actually
     lying upon the pillow.

     "It goes to the housekeeper's room."

     "It looks newer than the other things?"

     "Yes, it was only put there a couple of years ago."

     "Your sister asked for it, I suppose?"

     "No, I never heard of her using it. We used always to get what we
     wanted for ourselves."

     "Indeed, it seemed unnecessary to put so nice a bell-pull there. You
     will excuse me for a few minutes while I satisfy myself as to this
     floor." He threw himself down upon his face with his lens in his hand
     and crawled swiftly backward and forward, examining minutely the
     cracks between the boards. Then he did the same with the wood-work
     with which the chamber was panelled. Finally he walked over to the
     bed and spent some time in staring at it and in running his eye up
     and down the wall. Finally he took the bell-rope in his hand and gave
     it a brisk tug.

     "Why, it's a dummy," said he.

     "Won't it ring?"

     "No, it is not even attached to a wire. This is very interesting. You
     can see now that it is fastened to a hook just above where the little
     opening for the ventilator is."

     "How very absurd! I never noticed that before."

     "Very strange!" muttered Holmes, pulling at the rope. "There are one
     or two very singular points about this room. For example, what a fool
     a builder must be to open a ventilator into another room, when, with
     the same trouble, he might have communicated with the outside air!"

     "That is also quite modern," said the lady.

     "Done about the same time as the bell-rope?" remarked Holmes.

     "Yes, there were several little changes carried out about that time."

     "They seem to have been of a most interesting character--dummy
     bell-ropes, and ventilators which do not ventilate. With your
     permission, Miss Stoner, we shall now carry our researches into the
     inner apartment."

     Dr. Grimesby Roylott's chamber was larger than that of his
     step-daughter, but was as plainly furnished. A camp-bed, a small
     wooden shelf full of books, mostly of a technical character, an
     armchair beside the bed, a plain wooden chair against the wall, a
     round table, and a large iron safe were the principal things which
     met the eye. Holmes walked slowly round and examined each and all of
     them with the keenest interest.

     "What's in here?" he asked, tapping the safe.

     "My stepfather's business papers."

     "Oh! you have seen inside, then?"

     "Only once, some years ago. I remember that it was full of papers."

     "There isn't a cat in it, for example?"

     "No. What a strange idea!"

     "Well, look at this!" He took up a small saucer of milk which stood
     on the top of it.

     "No; we don't keep a cat. But there is a cheetah and a baboon."

     "Ah, yes, of course! Well, a cheetah is just a big cat, and yet a
     saucer of milk does not go very far in satisfying its wants, I
     daresay. There is one point which I should wish to determine." He
     squatted down in front of the wooden chair and examined the seat of
     it with the greatest attention.

     "Thank you. That is quite settled," said he, rising and putting his
     lens in his pocket. "Hullo! Here is something interesting!"

     The object which had caught his eye was a small dog lash hung on one
     corner of the bed. The lash, however, was curled upon itself and tied
     so as to make a loop of whipcord.

     "What do you make of that, Watson?"

     "It's a common enough lash. But I don't know why it should be tied."

     "That is not quite so common, is it? Ah, me! it's a wicked world, and
     when a clever man turns his brains to crime it is the worst of all. I
     think that I have seen enough now, Miss Stoner, and with your
     permission we shall walk out upon the lawn."

     I had never seen my friend's face so grim or his brow so dark as it
     was when we turned from the scene of this investigation. We had
     walked several times up and down the lawn, neither Miss Stoner nor
     myself liking to break in upon his thoughts before he roused himself
     from his reverie.

     "It is very essential, Miss Stoner," said he, "that you should
     absolutely follow my advice in every respect."

     "I shall most certainly do so."

     "The matter is too serious for any hesitation. Your life may depend
     upon your compliance."

     "I assure you that I am in your hands."

     "In the first place, both my friend and I must spend the night in
     your room."

     Both Miss Stoner and I gazed at him in astonishment.

     "Yes, it must be so. Let me explain. I believe that that is the
     village inn over there?"

     "Yes, that is the Crown."

     "Very good. Your windows would be visible from there?"

     "Certainly."

     "You must confine yourself to your room, on pretence of a headache,
     when your stepfather comes back. Then when you hear him retire for
     the night, you must open the shutters of your window, undo the hasp,
     put your lamp there as a signal to us, and then withdraw quietly with
     everything which you are likely to want into the room which you used
     to occupy. I have no doubt that, in spite of the repairs, you could
     manage there for one night."

     "Oh, yes, easily."

     "The rest you will leave in our hands."

     "But what will you do?"

     "We shall spend the night in your room, and we shall investigate the
     cause of this noise which has disturbed you."

     "I believe, Mr. Holmes, that you have already made up your mind,"
     said Miss Stoner, laying her hand upon my companion's sleeve.

     "Perhaps I have."

     "Then, for pity's sake, tell me what was the cause of my sister's
     death."

     "I should prefer to have clearer proofs before I speak."

     "You can at least tell me whether my own thought is correct, and if
     she died from some sudden fright."

     "No, I do not think so. I think that there was probably some more
     tangible cause. And now, Miss Stoner, we must leave you for if Dr.
     Roylott returned and saw us our journey would be in vain.  Good-bye,
     and be brave, for if you will do what I have told you, you may rest
     assured that we shall soon drive away the dangers that threaten you."

     Sherlock Holmes and I had no difficulty in engaging a bedroom and
     sitting-room at the Crown Inn. They were on the upper floor, and from
     our window we could command a view of the avenue gate, and of the
     inhabited wing of Stoke Moran Manor House. At dusk we saw Dr.
     Grimesby Roylott drive past, his huge form looming up beside the
     little figure of the lad who drove him. The boy had some slight
     difficulty in undoing the heavy iron gates, and we heard the hoarse
     roar of the doctor's voice and saw the fury with which he shook his
     clinched fists at him. The trap drove on, and a few minutes later we
     saw a sudden light spring up among the trees as the lamp was lit in
     one of the sitting-rooms.

     "Do you know, Watson," said Holmes as we sat together in the
     gathering darkness, "I have really some scruples as to taking you
     to-night. There is a distinct element of danger."

     "Can I be of assistance?"

     "Your presence might be invaluable."

     "Then I shall certainly come."

     "It is very kind of you."

     "You speak of danger. You have evidently seen more in these rooms
     than was visible to me."

     "No, but I fancy that I may have deduced a little more. I imagine
     that you saw all that I did."

     "I saw nothing remarkable save the bell-rope, and what purpose that
     could answer I confess is more than I can imagine."

     "You saw the ventilator, too?"

     "Yes, but I do not think that it is such a very unusual thing to have
     a small opening between two rooms. It was so small that a rat could
     hardly pass through."

     "I knew that we should find a ventilator before ever we came to Stoke
     Moran."

     "My dear Holmes!"

     "Oh, yes, I did. You remember in her statement she said that her
     sister could smell Dr. Roylott's cigar. Now, of course that suggested
     at once that there must be a communication between the two rooms. It
     could only be a small one, or it would have been remarked upon at the
     coroner's inquiry. I deduced a ventilator."

     "But what harm can there be in that?"

     "Well, there is at least a curious coincidence of dates. A ventilator
     is made, a cord is hung, and a lady who sleeps in the bed dies. Does
     not that strike you?"

     "I cannot as yet see any connection."

     "Did you observe anything very peculiar about that bed?"

     "No."

     "It was clamped to the floor. Did you ever see a bed fastened like
     that before?"

     "I cannot say that I have."

     "The lady could not move her bed. It must always be in the same
     relative position to the ventilator and to the rope--or so we may
     call it, since it was clearly never meant for a bell-pull."

     "Holmes," I cried, "I seem to see dimly what you are hinting at. We
     are only just in time to prevent some subtle and horrible crime."

     "Subtle enough and horrible enough. When a doctor does go wrong he is
     the first of criminals. He has nerve and he has knowledge. Palmer and
     Pritchard were among the heads of their profession. This man strikes
     even deeper, but I think, Watson, that we shall be able to strike
     deeper still. But we shall have horrors enough before the night is
     over; for goodness' sake let us have a quiet pipe and turn our minds
     for a few hours to something more cheerful."

     About nine o'clock the light among the trees was extinguished, and
     all was dark in the direction of the Manor House. Two hours passed
     slowly away, and then, suddenly, just at the stroke of eleven, a
     single bright light shone out right in front of us.

     "That is our signal," said Holmes, springing to his feet; "it comes
     from the middle window."

     As we passed out he exchanged a few words with the landlord,
     explaining that we were going on a late visit to an acquaintance, and
     that it was possible that we might spend the night there. A moment
     later we were out on the dark road, a chill wind blowing in our
     faces, and one yellow light twinkling in front of us through the
     gloom to guide us on our sombre errand.

     There was little difficulty in entering the grounds, for unrepaired
     breaches gaped in the old park wall. Making our way among the trees,
     we reached the lawn, crossed it, and were about to enter through the
     window when out from a clump of laurel bushes there darted what
     seemed to be a hideous and distorted child, who threw itself upon the
     grass with writhing limbs and then ran swiftly across the lawn into
     the darkness.

     "My God!" I whispered; "did you see it?"

     Holmes was for the moment as startled as I. His hand closed like a
     vice upon my wrist in his agitation. Then he broke into a low laugh
     and put his lips to my ear.

     "It is a nice household," he murmured. "That is the baboon."

     I had forgotten the strange pets which the doctor affected. There was
     a cheetah, too; perhaps we might find it upon our shoulders at any
     moment. I confess that I felt easier in my mind when, after following
     Holmes' example and slipping off my shoes, I found myself inside the
     bedroom. My companion noiselessly closed the shutters, moved the lamp
     onto the table, and cast his eyes round the room. All was as we had
     seen it in the daytime. Then creeping up to me and making a trumpet
     of his hand, he whispered into my ear again so gently that it was all
     that I could do to distinguish the words:

     "The least sound would be fatal to our plans."

     I nodded to show that I had heard.

     "We must sit without light. He would see it through the ventilator."

     I nodded again.

     "Do not go asleep; your very life may depend upon it. Have your
     pistol ready in case we should need it. I will sit on the side of the
     bed, and you in that chair."

     I took out my revolver and laid it on the corner of the table.

     Holmes had brought up a long thin cane, and this he placed upon the
     bed beside him. By it he laid the box of matches and the stump of a
     candle. Then he turned down the lamp, and we were left in darkness.

     How shall I ever forget that dreadful vigil? I could not hear a
     sound, not even the drawing of a breath, and yet I knew that my
     companion sat open-eyed, within a few feet of me, in the same state
     of nervous tension in which I was myself. The shutters cut off the
     least ray of light, and we waited in absolute darkness.

     From outside came the occasional cry of a night-bird, and once at our
     very window a long drawn catlike whine, which told us that the
     cheetah was indeed at liberty. Far away we could hear the deep tones
     of the parish clock, which boomed out every quarter of an hour. How
     long they seemed, those quarters! Twelve struck, and one and two and
     three, and still we sat waiting silently for whatever might befall.

     Suddenly there was the momentary gleam of a light up in the direction
     of the ventilator, which vanished immediately, but was succeeded by a
     strong smell of burning oil and heated metal. Someone in the next
     room had lit a dark-lantern. I heard a gentle sound of movement, and
     then all was silent once more, though the smell grew stronger. For
     half an hour I sat with straining ears. Then suddenly another sound
     became audible--a very gentle, soothing sound, like that of a small
     jet of steam escaping continually from a kettle. The instant that we
     heard it, Holmes sprang from the bed, struck a match, and lashed
     furiously with his cane at the bell-pull.

     "You see it, Watson?" he yelled. "You see it?"

     But I saw nothing. At the moment when Holmes struck the light I heard
     a low, clear whistle, but the sudden glare flashing into my weary
     eyes made it impossible for me to tell what it was at which my friend
     lashed so savagely. I could, however, see that his face was deadly
     pale and filled with horror and loathing. He had ceased to strike and
     was gazing up at the ventilator when suddenly there broke from the
     silence of the night the most horrible cry to which I have ever
     listened. It swelled up louder and louder, a hoarse yell of pain and
     fear and anger all mingled in the one dreadful shriek. They say that
     away down in the village, and even in the distant parsonage, that cry
     raised the sleepers from their beds. It struck cold to our hearts,
     and I stood gazing at Holmes, and he at me, until the last echoes of
     it had died away into the silence from which it rose.

     "What can it mean?" I gasped.

     "It means that it is all over," Holmes answered. "And perhaps, after
     all, it is for the best. Take your pistol, and we will enter Dr.
     Roylott's room."

     With a grave face he lit the lamp and led the way down the corridor.
     Twice he struck at the chamber door without any reply from within.
     Then he turned the handle and entered, I at his heels, with the
     cocked pistol in my hand.

     It was a singular sight which met our eyes. On the table stood a
     dark-lantern with the shutter half open, throwing a brilliant beam of
     light upon the iron safe, the door of which was ajar. Beside this
     table, on the wooden chair, sat Dr. Grimesby Roylott clad in a long
     grey dressing-gown, his bare ankles protruding beneath, and his feet
     thrust into red heelless Turkish slippers. Across his lap lay the
     short stock with the long lash which we had noticed during the day.
     His chin was cocked upward and his eyes were fixed in a dreadful,
     rigid stare at the corner of the ceiling. Round his brow he had a
     peculiar yellow band, with brownish speckles, which seemed to be
     bound tightly round his head. As we entered he made neither sound nor
     motion.

     "The band! the speckled band!" whispered Holmes.

     I took a step forward. In an instant his strange headgear began to
     move, and there reared itself from among his hair the squat
     diamond-shaped head and puffed neck of a loathsome serpent.

     "It is a swamp adder!" cried Holmes; "the deadliest snake in India.
     He has died within ten seconds of being bitten. Violence does, in
     truth, recoil upon the violent, and the schemer falls into the pit
     which he digs for another. Let us thrust this creature back into its
     den, and we can then remove Miss Stoner to some place of shelter and
     let the county police know what has happened."

     As he spoke he drew the dog-whip swiftly from the dead man's lap, and
     throwing the noose round the reptile's neck he drew it from its
     horrid perch and, carrying it at arm's length, threw it into the iron
     safe, which he closed upon it.

     Such are the true facts of the death of Dr. Grimesby Roylott, of
     Stoke Moran. It is not necessary that I should prolong a narrative
     which has already run to too great a length by telling how we broke
     the sad news to the terrified girl, how we conveyed her by the
     morning train to the care of her good aunt at Harrow, of how the slow
     process of official inquiry came to the conclusion that the doctor
     met his fate while indiscreetly playing with a dangerous pet. The
     little which I had yet to learn of the case was told me by Sherlock
     Holmes as we travelled back next day.

     "I had," said he, "come to an entirely erroneous conclusion which
     shows, my dear Watson, how dangerous it always is to reason from
     insufficient data. The presence of the gipsies, and the use of the
     word 'band,' which was used by the poor girl, no doubt, to explain
     the appearance which she had caught a hurried glimpse of by the light
     of her match, were sufficient to put me upon an entirely wrong scent.
     I can only claim the merit that I instantly reconsidered my position
     when, however, it became clear to me that whatever danger threatened
     an occupant of the room could not come either from the window or the
     door. My attention was speedily drawn, as I have already remarked to
     you, to this ventilator, and to the bell-rope which hung down to the
     bed. The discovery that this was a dummy, and that the bed was
     clamped to the floor, instantly gave rise to the suspicion that the
     rope was there as a bridge for something passing through the hole and
     coming to the bed. The idea of a snake instantly occurred to me, and
     when I coupled it with my knowledge that the doctor was furnished
     with a supply of creatures from India, I felt that I was probably on
     the right track. The idea of using a form of poison which could not
     possibly be discovered by any chemical test was just such a one as
     would occur to a clever and ruthless man who had had an Eastern
     training. The rapidity with which such a poison would take effect
     would also, from his point of view, be an advantage. It would be a
     sharp-eyed coroner, indeed, who could distinguish the two little dark
     punctures which would show where the poison fangs had done their
     work. Then I thought of the whistle. Of course he must recall the
     snake before the morning light revealed it to the victim. He had
     trained it, probably by the use of the milk which we saw, to return
     to him when summoned. He would put it through this ventilator at the
     hour that he thought best, with the certainty that it would crawl
     down the rope and land on the bed. It might or might not bite the
     occupant, perhaps she might escape every night for a week, but sooner
     or later she must fall a victim.

     "I had come to these conclusions before ever I had entered his room.
     An inspection of his chair showed me that he had been in the habit of
     standing on it, which of course would be necessary in order that he
     should reach the ventilator. The sight of the safe, the saucer of
     milk, and the loop of whipcord were enough to finally dispel any
     doubts which may have remained. The metallic clang heard by Miss
     Stoner was obviously caused by her stepfather hastily closing the
     door of his safe upon its terrible occupant. Having once made up my
     mind, you know the steps which I took in order to put the matter to
     the proof. I heard the creature hiss as I have no doubt that you did
     also, and I instantly lit the light and attacked it."

     "With the result of driving it through the ventilator."

     "And also with the result of causing it to turn upon its master at
     the other side. Some of the blows of my cane came home and roused its
     snakish temper, so that it flew upon the first person it saw. In this
     way I am no doubt indirectly responsible for Dr. Grimesby Roylott's
     death, and I cannot say that it is likely to weigh very heavily upon
     my conscience."






                      THE ADVENTURE OF THE ENGINEER'S THUMB

     Of all the problems which have been submitted to my friend, Mr.
     Sherlock Holmes, for solution during the years of our intimacy, there
     were only two which I was the means of introducing to his
     notice--that of Mr. Hatherley's thumb, and that of Colonel
     Warburton's madness. Of these the latter may have afforded a finer
     field for an acute and original observer, but the other was so
     strange in its inception and so dramatic in its details that it may
     be the more worthy of being placed upon record, even if it gave my
     friend fewer openings for those deductive methods of reasoning by
     which he achieved such remarkable results. The story has, I believe,
     been told more than once in the newspapers, but, like all such
     narratives, its effect is much less striking when set forth en bloc
     in a single half-column of print than when the facts slowly evolve
     before your own eyes, and the mystery clears gradually away as each
     new discovery furnishes a step which leads on to the complete truth.
     At the time the circumstances made a deep impression upon me, and the
     lapse of two years has hardly served to weaken the effect.

     It was in the summer of '89, not long after my marriage, that the
     events occurred which I am now about to summarise. I had returned to
     civil practice and had finally abandoned Holmes in his Baker Street
     rooms, although I continually visited him and occasionally even
     persuaded him to forgo his Bohemian habits so far as to come and
     visit us. My practice had steadily increased, and as I happened to
     live at no very great distance from Paddington Station, I got a few
     patients from among the officials. One of these, whom I had cured of
     a painful and lingering disease, was never weary of advertising my
     virtues and of endeavouring to send me on every sufferer over whom he
     might have any influence.

     One morning, at a little before seven o'clock, I was awakened by the
     maid tapping at the door to announce that two men had come from
     Paddington and were waiting in the consulting-room. I dressed
     hurriedly, for I knew by experience that railway cases were seldom
     trivial, and hastened downstairs. As I descended, my old ally, the
     guard, came out of the room and closed the door tightly behind him.

     "I've got him here," he whispered, jerking his thumb over his
     shoulder; "he's all right."

     "What is it, then?" I asked, for his manner suggested that it was
     some strange creature which he had caged up in my room.

     "It's a new patient," he whispered. "I thought I'd bring him round
     myself; then he couldn't slip away. There he is, all safe and sound.
     I must go now, Doctor; I have my dooties, just the same as you." And
     off he went, this trusty tout, without even giving me time to thank
     him.

     I entered my consulting-room and found a gentleman seated by the
     table. He was quietly dressed in a suit of heather tweed with a soft
     cloth cap which he had laid down upon my books. Round one of his
     hands he had a handkerchief wrapped, which was mottled all over with
     bloodstains. He was young, not more than five-and-twenty, I should
     say, with a strong, masculine face; but he was exceedingly pale and
     gave me the impression of a man who was suffering from some strong
     agitation, which it took all his strength of mind to control.

     "I am sorry to knock you up so early, Doctor," said he, "but I have
     had a very serious accident during the night. I came in by train this
     morning, and on inquiring at Paddington as to where I might find a
     doctor, a worthy fellow very kindly escorted me here. I gave the maid
     a card, but I see that she has left it upon the side-table."

     I took it up and glanced at it. "Mr. Victor Hatherley, hydraulic
     engineer, 16A, Victoria Street (3rd floor)." That was the name,
     style, and abode of my morning visitor. "I regret that I have kept
     you waiting," said I, sitting down in my library-chair. "You are
     fresh from a night journey, I understand, which is in itself a
     monotonous occupation."

     "Oh, my night could not be called monotonous," said he, and laughed.
     He laughed very heartily, with a high, ringing note, leaning back in
     his chair and shaking his sides. All my medical instincts rose up
     against that laugh.

     "Stop it!" I cried; "pull yourself together!" and I poured out some
     water from a caraffe.

     It was useless, however. He was off in one of those hysterical
     outbursts which come upon a strong nature when some great crisis is
     over and gone. Presently he came to himself once more, very weary and
     pale-looking.

     "I have been making a fool of myself," he gasped.

     "Not at all. Drink this." I dashed some brandy into the water, and
     the colour began to come back to his bloodless cheeks.

     "That's better!" said he. "And now, Doctor, perhaps you would kindly
     attend to my thumb, or rather to the place where my thumb used to
     be."

     He unwound the handkerchief and held out his hand. It gave even my
     hardened nerves a shudder to look at it. There were four protruding
     fingers and a horrid red, spongy surface where the thumb should have
     been. It had been hacked or torn right out from the roots.

     "Good heavens!" I cried, "this is a terrible injury. It must have
     bled considerably."

     "Yes, it did. I fainted when it was done, and I think that I must
     have been senseless for a long time. When I came to I found that it
     was still bleeding, so I tied one end of my handkerchief very tightly
     round the wrist and braced it up with a twig."

     "Excellent! You should have been a surgeon."

     "It is a question of hydraulics, you see, and came within my own
     province."

     "This has been done," said I, examining the wound, "by a very heavy
     and sharp instrument."

     "A thing like a cleaver," said he.

     "An accident, I presume?"

     "By no means."

     "What! a murderous attack?"

     "Very murderous indeed."

     "You horrify me."

     I sponged the wound, cleaned it, dressed it, and finally covered it
     over with cotton wadding and carbolised bandages. He lay back without
     wincing, though he bit his lip from time to time.

     "How is that?" I asked when I had finished.

     "Capital! Between your brandy and your bandage, I feel a new man. I
     was very weak, but I have had a good deal to go through."

     "Perhaps you had better not speak of the matter. It is evidently
     trying to your nerves."

     "Oh, no, not now. I shall have to tell my tale to the police; but,
     between ourselves, if it were not for the convincing evidence of this
     wound of mine, I should be surprised if they believed my statement,
     for it is a very extraordinary one, and I have not much in the way of
     proof with which to back it up; and, even if they believe me, the
     clues which I can give them are so vague that it is a question
     whether justice will be done."

     "Ha!" cried I, "if it is anything in the nature of a problem which
     you desire to see solved, I should strongly recommend you to come to
     my friend, Mr. Sherlock Holmes, before you go to the official
     police."

     "Oh, I have heard of that fellow," answered my visitor, "and I should
     be very glad if he would take the matter up, though of course I must
     use the official police as well. Would you give me an introduction to
     him?"

     "I'll do better. I'll take you round to him myself."

     "I should be immensely obliged to you."

     "We'll call a cab and go together. We shall just be in time to have a
     little breakfast with him. Do you feel equal to it?"

     "Yes; I shall not feel easy until I have told my story."

     "Then my servant will call a cab, and I shall be with you in an
     instant." I rushed upstairs, explained the matter shortly to my wife,
     and in five minutes was inside a hansom, driving with my new
     acquaintance to Baker Street.

     Sherlock Holmes was, as I expected, lounging about his sitting-room
     in his dressing-gown, reading the agony column of The Times and
     smoking his before-breakfast pipe, which was composed of all the
     plugs and dottles left from his smokes of the day before, all
     carefully dried and collected on the corner of the mantelpiece. He
     received us in his quietly genial fashion, ordered fresh rashers and
     eggs, and joined us in a hearty meal. When it was concluded he
     settled our new acquaintance upon the sofa, placed a pillow beneath
     his head, and laid a glass of brandy and water within his reach.

     "It is easy to see that your experience has been no common one, Mr.
     Hatherley," said he. "Pray, lie down there and make yourself
     absolutely at home. Tell us what you can, but stop when you are tired
     and keep up your strength with a little stimulant."

     "Thank you," said my patient. "but I have felt another man since the
     doctor bandaged me, and I think that your breakfast has completed the
     cure. I shall take up as little of your valuable time as possible, so
     I shall start at once upon my peculiar experiences."

     Holmes sat in his big armchair with the weary, heavy-lidded
     expression which veiled his keen and eager nature, while I sat
     opposite to him, and we listened in silence to the strange story
     which our visitor detailed to us.

     "You must know," said he, "that I am an orphan and a bachelor,
     residing alone in lodgings in London. By profession I am a hydraulic
     engineer, and I have had considerable experience of my work during
     the seven years that I was apprenticed to Venner & Matheson, the
     well-known firm, of Greenwich. Two years ago, having served my time,
     and having also come into a fair sum of money through my poor
     father's death, I determined to start in business for myself and took
     professional chambers in Victoria Street.

     "I suppose that everyone finds his first independent start in
     business a dreary experience. To me it has been exceptionally so.
     During two years I have had three consultations and one small job,
     and that is absolutely all that my profession has brought me. My
     gross takings amount to Â£27 10s. Every day, from nine in the morning
     until four in the afternoon, I waited in my little den, until at last
     my heart began to sink, and I came to believe that I should never
     have any practice at all.

     "Yesterday, however, just as I was thinking of leaving the office, my
     clerk entered to say there was a gentleman waiting who wished to see
     me upon business. He brought up a card, too, with the name of
     'Colonel Lysander Stark' engraved upon it. Close at his heels came
     the colonel himself, a man rather over the middle size, but of an
     exceeding thinness. I do not think that I have ever seen so thin a
     man. His whole face sharpened away into nose and chin, and the skin
     of his cheeks was drawn quite tense over his outstanding bones. Yet
     this emaciation seemed to be his natural habit, and due to no
     disease, for his eye was bright, his step brisk, and his bearing
     assured. He was plainly but neatly dressed, and his age, I should
     judge, would be nearer forty than thirty.

     "'Mr. Hatherley?' said he, with something of a German accent. 'You
     have been recommended to me, Mr. Hatherley, as being a man who is not
     only proficient in his profession but is also discreet and capable of
     preserving a secret.'

     "I bowed, feeling as flattered as any young man would at such an
     address. 'May I ask who it was who gave me so good a character?' 

     "'Well, perhaps it is better that I should not tell you that just at
     this moment. I have it from the same source that you are both an
     orphan and a bachelor and are residing alone in London.'

     "'That is quite correct,' I answered; 'but you will excuse me if I
     say that I cannot see how all this bears upon my professional
     qualifications. I understand that it was on a professional matter
     that you wished to speak to me?'

     "'Undoubtedly so. But you will find that all I say is really to the
     point. I have a professional commission for you, but absolute secrecy
     is quite essential--absolute secrecy, you understand, and of course
     we may expect that more from a man who is alone than from one who
     lives in the bosom of his family.'

     "'If I promise to keep a secret,' said I, 'you may absolutely depend
     upon my doing so.'

     "He looked very hard at me as I spoke, and it seemed to me that I had
     never seen so suspicious and questioning an eye.

     "'Do you promise, then?' said he at last.

     "'Yes, I promise.'

     "'Absolute and complete silence before, during, and after? No
     reference to the matter at all, either in word or writing?'

     "'I have already given you my word.'

     "'Very good.' He suddenly sprang up, and darting like lightning
     across the room he flung open the door. The passage outside was
     empty.

     "'That's all right,' said he, coming back. 'I know that clerks are
     sometimes curious as to their master's affairs. Now we can talk in
     safety.' He drew up his chair very close to mine and began to stare
     at me again with the same questioning and thoughtful look.

     "A feeling of repulsion, and of something akin to fear had begun to
     rise within me at the strange antics of this fleshless man. Even my
     dread of losing a client could not restrain me from showing my
     impatience.

     "'I beg that you will state your business, sir,' said I; 'my time is
     of value.' Heaven forgive me for that last sentence, but the words
     came to my lips.

     "'How would fifty guineas for a night's work suit you?' he asked.

     "'Most admirably.'

     "'I say a night's work, but an hour's would be nearer the mark. I
     simply want your opinion about a hydraulic stamping machine which has
     got out of gear. If you show us what is wrong we shall soon set it
     right ourselves. What do you think of such a commission as that?'

     "'The work appears to be light and the pay munificent.'

     "'Precisely so. We shall want you to come to-night by the last
     train.'

     "'Where to?'

     "'To Eyford, in Berkshire. It is a little place near the borders of
     Oxfordshire, and within seven miles of Reading. There is a train from
     Paddington which would bring you there at about 11.15.'

     "'Very good.'

     "'I shall come down in a carriage to meet you.'

     "'There is a drive, then?'

     "'Yes, our little place is quite out in the country. It is a good
     seven miles from Eyford Station.'

     "'Then we can hardly get there before midnight. I suppose there would
     be no chance of a train back. I should be compelled to stop the
     night.'

     "'Yes, we could easily give you a shake-down.'

     "'That is very awkward. Could I not come at some more convenient
     hour?'

     "'We have judged it best that you should come late. It is to
     recompense you for any inconvenience that we are paying to you, a
     young and unknown man, a fee which would buy an opinion from the very
     heads of your profession. Still, of course, if you would like to draw
     out of the business, there is plenty of time to do so.'

     "I thought of the fifty guineas, and of how very useful they would be
     to me. 'Not at all,' said I, 'I shall be very happy to accommodate
     myself to your wishes. I should like, however, to understand a little
     more clearly what it is that you wish me to do.'

     "'Quite so. It is very natural that the pledge of secrecy which we
     have exacted from you should have aroused your curiosity. I have no
     wish to commit you to anything without your having it all laid before
     you. I suppose that we are absolutely safe from eavesdroppers?'

     "'Entirely.'

     "'Then the matter stands thus. You are probably aware that
     fuller's-earth is a valuable product, and that it is only found in
     one or two places in England?'

     "'I have heard so.'

     "'Some little time ago I bought a small place--a very small
     place--within ten miles of Reading. I was fortunate enough to
     discover that there was a deposit of fuller's-earth in one of my
     fields. On examining it, however, I found that this deposit was a
     comparatively small one, and that it formed a link between two very
     much larger ones upon the right and left--both of them, however, in
     the grounds of my neighbours. These good people were absolutely
     ignorant that their land contained that which was quite as valuable
     as a gold-mine. Naturally, it was to my interest to buy their land
     before they discovered its true value, but unfortunately I had no
     capital by which I could do this. I took a few of my friends into the
     secret, however, and they suggested that we should quietly and
     secretly work our own little deposit and that in this way we should
     earn the money which would enable us to buy the neighbouring fields.
     This we have now been doing for some time, and in order to help us in
     our operations we erected a hydraulic press. This press, as I have
     already explained, has got out of order, and we wish your advice upon
     the subject. We guard our secret very jealously, however, and if it
     once became known that we had hydraulic engineers coming to our
     little house, it would soon rouse inquiry, and then, if the facts
     came out, it would be good-bye to any chance of getting these fields
     and carrying out our plans. That is why I have made you promise me
     that you will not tell a human being that you are going to Eyford
     to-night. I hope that I make it all plain?'

     "'I quite follow you,' said I. 'The only point which I could not
     quite understand was what use you could make of a hydraulic press in
     excavating fuller's-earth, which, as I understand, is dug out like
     gravel from a pit.'

     "'Ah!' said he carelessly, 'we have our own process. We compress the
     earth into bricks, so as to remove them without revealing what they
     are. But that is a mere detail. I have taken you fully into my
     confidence now, Mr. Hatherley, and I have shown you how I trust you.'
     He rose as he spoke. 'I shall expect you, then, at Eyford at 11.15.'

     "'I shall certainly be there.'

     "'And not a word to a soul.' He looked at me with a last long,
     questioning gaze, and then, pressing my hand in a cold, dank grasp,
     he hurried from the room.

     "Well, when I came to think it all over in cool blood I was very much
     astonished, as you may both think, at this sudden commission which
     had been intrusted to me. On the one hand, of course, I was glad, for
     the fee was at least tenfold what I should have asked had I set a
     price upon my own services, and it was possible that this order might
     lead to other ones. On the other hand, the face and manner of my
     patron had made an unpleasant impression upon me, and I could not
     think that his explanation of the fuller's-earth was sufficient to
     explain the necessity for my coming at midnight, and his extreme
     anxiety lest I should tell anyone of my errand. However, I threw all
     fears to the winds, ate a hearty supper, drove to Paddington, and
     started off, having obeyed to the letter the injunction as to holding
     my tongue.

     "At Reading I had to change not only my carriage but my station.
     However, I was in time for the last train to Eyford, and I reached
     the little dim-lit station after eleven o'clock. I was the only
     passenger who got out there, and there was no one upon the platform
     save a single sleepy porter with a lantern. As I passed out through
     the wicket gate, however, I found my acquaintance of the morning
     waiting in the shadow upon the other side. Without a word he grasped
     my arm and hurried me into a carriage, the door of which was standing
     open. He drew up the windows on either side, tapped on the wood-work,
     and away we went as fast as the horse could go."

     "One horse?" interjected Holmes.

     "Yes, only one."

     "Did you observe the colour?"

     "Yes, I saw it by the side-lights when I was stepping into the
     carriage. It was a chestnut."

     "Tired-looking or fresh?"

     "Oh, fresh and glossy."

     "Thank you. I am sorry to have interrupted you. Pray continue your
     most interesting statement."

     "Away we went then, and we drove for at least an hour. Colonel
     Lysander Stark had said that it was only seven miles, but I should
     think, from the rate that we seemed to go, and from the time that we
     took, that it must have been nearer twelve. He sat at my side in
     silence all the time, and I was aware, more than once when I glanced
     in his direction, that he was looking at me with great intensity. The
     country roads seem to be not very good in that part of the world, for
     we lurched and jolted terribly. I tried to look out of the windows to
     see something of where we were, but they were made of frosted glass,
     and I could make out nothing save the occasional bright blur of a
     passing light. Now and then I hazarded some remark to break the
     monotony of the journey, but the colonel answered only in
     monosyllables, and the conversation soon flagged. At last, however,
     the bumping of the road was exchanged for the crisp smoothness of a
     gravel-drive, and the carriage came to a stand. Colonel Lysander
     Stark sprang out, and, as I followed after him, pulled me swiftly
     into a porch which gaped in front of us. We stepped, as it were,
     right out of the carriage and into the hall, so that I failed to
     catch the most fleeting glance of the front of the house. The instant
     that I had crossed the threshold the door slammed heavily behind us,
     and I heard faintly the rattle of the wheels as the carriage drove
     away.

     "It was pitch dark inside the house, and the colonel fumbled about
     looking for matches and muttering under his breath. Suddenly a door
     opened at the other end of the passage, and a long, golden bar of
     light shot out in our direction. It grew broader, and a woman
     appeared with a lamp in her hand, which she held above her head,
     pushing her face forward and peering at us. I could see that she was
     pretty, and from the gloss with which the light shone upon her dark
     dress I knew that it was a rich material. She spoke a few words in a
     foreign tongue in a tone as though asking a question, and when my
     companion answered in a gruff monosyllable she gave such a start that
     the lamp nearly fell from her hand. Colonel Stark went up to her,
     whispered something in her ear, and then, pushing her back into the
     room from whence she had come, he walked towards me again with the
     lamp in his hand.

     "'Perhaps you will have the kindness to wait in this room for a few
     minutes,' said he, throwing open another door. It was a quiet,
     little, plainly furnished room, with a round table in the centre, on
     which several German books were scattered. Colonel Stark laid down
     the lamp on the top of a harmonium beside the door. 'I shall not keep
     you waiting an instant,' said he, and vanished into the darkness.

     "I glanced at the books upon the table, and in spite of my ignorance
     of German I could see that two of them were treatises on science, the
     others being volumes of poetry. Then I walked across to the window,
     hoping that I might catch some glimpse of the country-side, but an
     oak shutter, heavily barred, was folded across it. It was a
     wonderfully silent house. There was an old clock ticking loudly
     somewhere in the passage, but otherwise everything was deadly still.
     A vague feeling of uneasiness began to steal over me. Who were these
     German people, and what were they doing living in this strange,
     out-of-the-way place? And where was the place? I was ten miles or so
     from Eyford, that was all I knew, but whether north, south, east, or
     west I had no idea. For that matter, Reading, and possibly other
     large towns, were within that radius, so the place might not be so
     secluded, after all. Yet it was quite certain, from the absolute
     stillness, that we were in the country. I paced up and down the room,
     humming a tune under my breath to keep up my spirits and feeling that
     I was thoroughly earning my fifty-guinea fee.

     "Suddenly, without any preliminary sound in the midst of the utter
     stillness, the door of my room swung slowly open. The woman was
     standing in the aperture, the darkness of the hall behind her, the
     yellow light from my lamp beating upon her eager and beautiful face.
     I could see at a glance that she was sick with fear, and the sight
     sent a chill to my own heart. She held up one shaking finger to warn
     me to be silent, and she shot a few whispered words of broken English
     at me, her eyes glancing back, like those of a frightened horse, into
     the gloom behind her.

     "'I would go,' said she, trying hard, as it seemed to me, to speak
     calmly; 'I would go. I should not stay here. There is no good for you
     to do.'

     "'But, madam,' said I, 'I have not yet done what I came for. I cannot
     possibly leave until I have seen the machine.'

     "'It is not worth your while to wait,' she went on. 'You can pass
     through the door; no one hinders.' And then, seeing that I smiled and
     shook my head, she suddenly threw aside her constraint and made a
     step forward, with her hands wrung together. 'For the love of
     Heaven!' she whispered, 'get away from here before it is too late!'

     "But I am somewhat headstrong by nature, and the more ready to engage
     in an affair when there is some obstacle in the way. I thought of my
     fifty-guinea fee, of my wearisome journey, and of the unpleasant
     night which seemed to be before me. Was it all to go for nothing? Why
     should I slink away without having carried out my commission, and
     without the payment which was my due? This woman might, for all I
     knew, be a monomaniac. With a stout bearing, therefore, though her
     manner had shaken me more than I cared to confess, I still shook my
     head and declared my intention of remaining where I was. She was
     about to renew her entreaties when a door slammed overhead, and the
     sound of several footsteps was heard upon the stairs. She listened
     for an instant, threw up her hands with a despairing gesture, and
     vanished as suddenly and as noiselessly as she had come.

     "The newcomers were Colonel Lysander Stark and a short thick man with
     a chinchilla beard growing out of the creases of his double chin, who
     was introduced to me as Mr. Ferguson.

     "'This is my secretary and manager,' said the colonel. 'By the way, I
     was under the impression that I left this door shut just now. I fear
     that you have felt the draught.'

     "'On the contrary,' said I, 'I opened the door myself because I felt
     the room to be a little close.'

     "He shot one of his suspicious looks at me. 'Perhaps we had better
     proceed to business, then,' said he. 'Mr. Ferguson and I will take
     you up to see the machine.'

     "'I had better put my hat on, I suppose.'

     "'Oh, no, it is in the house.'

     "'What, you dig fuller's-earth in the house?'

     "'No, no. This is only where we compress it. But never mind that. All
     we wish you to do is to examine the machine and to let us know what
     is wrong with it.'

     "We went upstairs together, the colonel first with the lamp, the fat
     manager and I behind him. It was a labyrinth of an old house, with
     corridors, passages, narrow winding staircases, and little low doors,
     the thresholds of which were hollowed out by the generations who had
     crossed them. There were no carpets and no signs of any furniture
     above the ground floor, while the plaster was peeling off the walls,
     and the damp was breaking through in green, unhealthy blotches. I
     tried to put on as unconcerned an air as possible, but I had not
     forgotten the warnings of the lady, even though I disregarded them,
     and I kept a keen eye upon my two companions. Ferguson appeared to be
     a morose and silent man, but I could see from the little that he said
     that he was at least a fellow-countryman.

     "Colonel Lysander Stark stopped at last before a low door, which he
     unlocked. Within was a small, square room, in which the three of us
     could hardly get at one time. Ferguson remained outside, and the
     colonel ushered me in.

     "'We are now,' said he, 'actually within the hydraulic press, and it
     would be a particularly unpleasant thing for us if anyone were to
     turn it on. The ceiling of this small chamber is really the end of
     the descending piston, and it comes down with the force of many tons
     upon this metal floor. There are small lateral columns of water
     outside which receive the force, and which transmit and multiply it
     in the manner which is familiar to you. The machine goes readily
     enough, but there is some stiffness in the working of it, and it has
     lost a little of its force. Perhaps you will have the goodness to
     look it over and to show us how we can set it right.'

     "I took the lamp from him, and I examined the machine very
     thoroughly. It was indeed a gigantic one, and capable of exercising
     enormous pressure. When I passed outside, however, and pressed down
     the levers which controlled it, I knew at once by the whishing sound
     that there was a slight leakage, which allowed a regurgitation of
     water through one of the side cylinders. An examination showed that
     one of the india-rubber bands which was round the head of a
     driving-rod had shrunk so as not quite to fill the socket along which
     it worked. This was clearly the cause of the loss of power, and I
     pointed it out to my companions, who followed my remarks very
     carefully and asked several practical questions as to how they should
     proceed to set it right. When I had made it clear to them, I returned
     to the main chamber of the machine and took a good look at it to
     satisfy my own curiosity. It was obvious at a glance that the story
     of the fuller's-earth was the merest fabrication, for it would be
     absurd to suppose that so powerful an engine could be designed for so
     inadequate a purpose. The walls were of wood, but the floor consisted
     of a large iron trough, and when I came to examine it I could see a
     crust of metallic deposit all over it. I had stooped and was scraping
     at this to see exactly what it was when I heard a muttered
     exclamation in German and saw the cadaverous face of the colonel
     looking down at me.

     "'What are you doing there?' he asked.

     "I felt angry at having been tricked by so elaborate a story as that
     which he had told me. 'I was admiring your fuller's-earth,' said I;
     'I think that I should be better able to advise you as to your
     machine if I knew what the exact purpose was for which it was used.'

     "The instant that I uttered the words I regretted the rashness of my
     speech. His face set hard, and a baleful light sprang up in his grey
     eyes.

     "'Very well,' said he, 'you shall know all about the machine.' He
     took a step backward, slammed the little door, and turned the key in
     the lock. I rushed towards it and pulled at the handle, but it was
     quite secure, and did not give in the least to my kicks and shoves.
     'Hullo!' I yelled. 'Hullo! Colonel! Let me out!'

     "And then suddenly in the silence I heard a sound which sent my heart
     into my mouth. It was the clank of the levers and the swish of the
     leaking cylinder. He had set the engine at work. The lamp still stood
     upon the floor where I had placed it when examining the trough. By
     its light I saw that the black ceiling was coming down upon me,
     slowly, jerkily, but, as none knew better than myself, with a force
     which must within a minute grind me to a shapeless pulp. I threw
     myself, screaming, against the door, and dragged with my nails at the
     lock. I implored the colonel to let me out, but the remorseless
     clanking of the levers drowned my cries. The ceiling was only a foot
     or two above my head, and with my hand upraised I could feel its
     hard, rough surface. Then it flashed through my mind that the pain of
     my death would depend very much upon the position in which I met it.
     If I lay on my face the weight would come upon my spine, and I
     shuddered to think of that dreadful snap. Easier the other way,
     perhaps; and yet, had I the nerve to lie and look up at that deadly
     black shadow wavering down upon me? Already I was unable to stand
     erect, when my eye caught something which brought a gush of hope back
     to my heart.

     "I have said that though the floor and ceiling were of iron, the
     walls were of wood. As I gave a last hurried glance around, I saw a
     thin line of yellow light between two of the boards, which broadened
     and broadened as a small panel was pushed backward. For an instant I
     could hardly believe that here was indeed a door which led away from
     death. The next instant I threw myself through, and lay half-fainting
     upon the other side. The panel had closed again behind me, but the
     crash of the lamp, and a few moments afterwards the clang of the two
     slabs of metal, told me how narrow had been my escape.

     "I was recalled to myself by a frantic plucking at my wrist, and I
     found myself lying upon the stone floor of a narrow corridor, while a
     woman bent over me and tugged at me with her left hand, while she
     held a candle in her right. It was the same good friend whose warning
     I had so foolishly rejected.

     "'Come! come!' she cried breathlessly. 'They will be here in a
     moment. They will see that you are not there. Oh, do not waste the
     so-precious time, but come!'

     "This time, at least, I did not scorn her advice. I staggered to my
     feet and ran with her along the corridor and down a winding stair.
     The latter led to another broad passage, and just as we reached it we
     heard the sound of running feet and the shouting of two voices, one
     answering the other from the floor on which  we were and from the one
     beneath. My guide stopped and looked about her like one  who is at
     her wit's end. Then she threw open a door which led into a bedroom,
     through the window of which the moon was shining brightly.

     "'It is your only chance,' said she. 'It is high, but it may be that
     you can jump it.'

     "As she spoke a light sprang into view at the further end of the
     passage, and I saw the lean figure of Colonel Lysander Stark rushing
     forward with a lantern in one hand and a weapon like a butcher's
     cleaver in the other. I rushed across the bedroom, flung open the
     window, and looked out. How quiet and sweet and wholesome the garden
     looked in the moonlight, and it could not be more than thirty feet
     down. I clambered out upon the sill, but I hesitated to jump until I
     should have heard what passed between my saviour and the ruffian who
     pursued me. If she were ill-used, then at any risks I was determined
     to go back to her assistance. The thought had hardly flashed through
     my mind before he was at the door, pushing his way past her; but she
     threw her arms round him and tried to hold him back.

     "'Fritz! Fritz!' she cried in English, 'remember your promise after
     the last time. You said it should not be again. He will be silent!
     Oh, he will be silent!'

     "'You are mad, Elise!' he shouted, struggling to break away from her.
     'You will be the ruin of us. He has seen too much. Let me pass, I
     say!' He dashed her to one side, and, rushing to the window, cut at
     me with his heavy weapon. I had let myself go, and was hanging by the
     hands to the sill, when his blow fell. I was conscious of a dull
     pain, my grip loosened, and I fell into the garden below.

     "I was shaken but not hurt by the fall; so I picked myself up and
     rushed off among the bushes as hard as I could run, for I understood
     that I was far from being out of danger yet. Suddenly, however, as I
     ran, a deadly dizziness and sickness came over me. I glanced down at
     my hand, which was throbbing painfully, and then, for the first time,
     saw that my thumb had been cut off and that the blood was pouring
     from my wound. I endeavoured to tie my handkerchief round it, but
     there came a sudden buzzing in my ears, and next moment I fell in a
     dead faint among the rose-bushes.

     "How long I remained unconscious I cannot tell. It must have been a
     very long time, for the moon had sunk, and a bright morning was
     breaking when I came to myself. My clothes were all sodden with dew,
     and my coat-sleeve was drenched with blood from my wounded thumb. The
     smarting of it recalled in an instant all the particulars of my
     night's adventure, and I sprang to my feet with the feeling that I
     might hardly yet be safe from my pursuers. But to my astonishment,
     when I came to look round me, neither house nor garden were to be
     seen. I had been lying in an angle of the hedge close by the
     highroad, and just a little lower down was a long building, which
     proved, upon my approaching it, to be the very station at which I had
     arrived upon the previous night. Were it not for the ugly wound upon
     my hand, all that had passed during those dreadful hours might have
     been an evil dream.

     "Half dazed, I went into the station and asked about the morning
     train. There would be one to Reading in less than an hour. The same
     porter was on duty, I found, as had been there when I arrived. I
     inquired of him whether he had ever heard of Colonel Lysander Stark.
     The name was strange to him. Had he observed a carriage the night
     before waiting for me? No, he had not. Was there a police-station
     anywhere near? There was one about three miles off.

     "It was too far for me to go, weak and ill as I was. I determined to
     wait until I got back to town before telling my story to the police.
     It was a little past six when I arrived, so I went first to have my
     wound dressed, and then the doctor was kind enough to bring me along
     here. I put the case into your hands and shall do exactly what you
     advise."

     We both sat in silence for some little time after listening to this
     extraordinary narrative. Then Sherlock Holmes pulled down from the
     shelf one of the ponderous commonplace books in which he placed his
     cuttings.

     "Here is an advertisement which will interest you," said he. "It
     appeared in all the papers about a year ago. Listen to this:

     "'Lost, on the 9th inst., Mr. Jeremiah Hayling, aged twenty-six, a
     hydraulic engineer. Left his lodgings at ten o'clock at night, and
     has not been heard of since. Was dressed in--'

     etc., etc. Ha! That represents the last time that the colonel needed
     to have his machine overhauled, I fancy."

     "Good heavens!" cried my patient. "Then that explains what the girl
     said."

     "Undoubtedly. It is quite clear that the colonel was a cool and
     desperate man, who was absolutely determined that nothing should
     stand in the way of his little game, like those out-and-out pirates
     who will leave no survivor from a captured ship. Well, every moment
     now is precious, so if you feel equal to it we shall go down to
     Scotland Yard at once as a preliminary to starting for Eyford."

     Some three hours or so afterwards we were all in the train together,
     bound from Reading to the little Berkshire village. There were
     Sherlock Holmes, the hydraulic engineer, Inspector Bradstreet, of
     Scotland Yard, a plain-clothes man, and myself. Bradstreet had spread
     an ordnance map of the county out upon the seat and was busy with his
     compasses drawing a circle with Eyford for its centre.

     "There you are," said he. "That circle is drawn at a radius of ten
     miles from the village. The place we want must be somewhere near that
     line. You said ten miles, I think, sir."

     "It was an hour's good drive."

     "And you think that they brought you back all that way when you were
     unconscious?"

     "They must have done so. I have a confused memory, too, of having
     been lifted and conveyed somewhere."

     "What I cannot understand," said I, "is why they should have spared
     you when they found you lying fainting in the garden. Perhaps the
     villain was softened by the woman's entreaties."

     "I hardly think that likely. I never saw a more inexorable face in my
     life."

     "Oh, we shall soon clear up all that," said Bradstreet. "Well, I have
     drawn my circle, and I only wish I knew at what point upon it the
     folk that we are in search of are to be found."

     "I think I could lay my finger on it," said Holmes quietly.

     "Really, now!" cried the inspector, "you have formed your opinion!
     Come, now, we shall see who agrees with you. I say it is south, for
     the country is more deserted there."

     "And I say east," said my patient.

     "I am for west," remarked the plain-clothes man. "There are several
     quiet little villages up there."

     "And I am for north," said I, "because there are no hills there, and
     our friend says that he did not notice the carriage go up any."

     "Come," cried the inspector, laughing; "it's a very pretty diversity
     of opinion. We have boxed the compass among us. Who do you give your
     casting vote to?"

     "You are all wrong."

     "But we can't all be."

     "Oh, yes, you can. This is my point." He placed his finger in the
     centre of the circle. "This is where we shall find them."

     "But the twelve-mile drive?" gasped Hatherley.

     "Six out and six back. Nothing simpler. You say yourself that the
     horse was fresh and glossy when you got in. How could it be that if
     it had gone twelve miles over heavy roads?"

     "Indeed, it is a likely ruse enough," observed Bradstreet
     thoughtfully. "Of course there can be no doubt as to the nature of
     this gang."

     "None at all," said Holmes. "They are coiners on a large scale, and
     have used the machine to form the amalgam which has taken the place
     of silver."

     "We have known for some time that a clever gang was at work," said
     the inspector. "They have been turning out half-crowns by the
     thousand. We even traced them as far as Reading, but could get no
     farther, for they had covered their traces in a way that showed that
     they were very old hands. But now, thanks to this lucky chance, I
     think that we have got them right enough."

     But the inspector was mistaken, for those criminals were not destined
     to fall into the hands of justice. As we rolled into Eyford Station
     we saw a gigantic column of smoke which streamed up from behind a
     small clump of trees in the neighbourhood and hung like an immense
     ostrich feather over the landscape.

     "A house on fire?" asked Bradstreet as the train steamed off again on
     its way.

     "Yes, sir!" said the station-master.

     "When did it break out?"

     "I hear that it was during the night, sir, but it has got worse, and
     the whole place is in a blaze."

     "Whose house is it?"

     "Dr. Becher's."

     "Tell me," broke in the engineer, "is Dr. Becher a German, very thin,
     with a long, sharp nose?"

     The station-master laughed heartily. "No, sir, Dr. Becher is an
     Englishman, and there isn't a man in the parish who has a
     better-lined waistcoat. But he has a gentleman staying with him, a
     patient, as I understand, who is a foreigner, and he looks as if a
     little good Berkshire beef would do him no harm."

     The station-master had not finished his speech before we were all
     hastening in the direction of the fire. The road topped a low hill,
     and there was a great widespread whitewashed building in front of us,
     spouting fire at every chink and window, while in the garden in front
     three fire-engines were vainly striving to keep the flames under.

     "That's it!" cried Hatherley, in intense excitement. "There is the
     gravel-drive, and there are the rose-bushes where I lay. That second
     window is the one that I jumped from."

     "Well, at least," said Holmes, "you have had your revenge upon them.
     There can be no question that it was your oil-lamp which, when it was
     crushed in the press, set fire to the wooden walls, though no doubt
     they were too excited in the chase after you to observe it at the
     time. Now keep your eyes open in this crowd for your friends of last
     night, though I very much fear that they are a good hundred miles off
     by now."

     And Holmes' fears came to be realised, for from that day to this no
     word has ever been heard either of the beautiful woman, the sinister
     German, or the morose Englishman. Early that morning a peasant had
     met a cart containing several people and some very bulky boxes
     driving rapidly in the direction of Reading, but there all traces of
     the fugitives disappeared, and even Holmes' ingenuity failed ever to
     discover the least clue as to their whereabouts.

     The firemen had been much perturbed at the strange arrangements which
     they had found within, and still more so by discovering a newly
     severed human thumb upon a window-sill of the second floor. About
     sunset, however, their efforts were at last successful, and they
     subdued the flames, but not before the roof had fallen in, and the
     whole place been reduced to such absolute ruin that, save some
     twisted cylinders and iron piping, not a trace remained of the
     machinery which had cost our unfortunate acquaintance so dearly.
     Large masses of nickel and of tin were discovered stored in an
     out-house, but no coins were to be found, which may have explained
     the presence of those bulky boxes which have been already referred
     to.

     How our hydraulic engineer had been conveyed from the garden to the
     spot where he recovered his senses might have remained forever a
     mystery were it not for the soft mould, which told us a very plain
     tale. He had evidently been carried down by two persons, one of whom
     had remarkably small feet and the other unusually large ones. On the
     whole, it was most probable that the silent Englishman, being less
     bold or less murderous than his companion, had assisted the woman to
     bear the unconscious man out of the way of danger.

     "Well," said our engineer ruefully as we took our seats to return
     once more to London, "it has been a pretty business for me! I have
     lost my thumb and I have lost a fifty-guinea fee, and what have I
     gained?"

     "Experience," said Holmes, laughing. "Indirectly it may be of value,
     you know; you have only to put it into words to gain the reputation
     of being excellent company for the remainder of your existence."






                       THE ADVENTURE OF THE NOBLE BACHELOR

     The Lord St. Simon marriage, and its curious termination, have long
     ceased to be a subject of interest in those exalted circles in which
     the unfortunate bridegroom moves. Fresh scandals have eclipsed it,
     and their more piquant details have drawn the gossips away from this
     four-year-old drama. As I have reason to believe, however, that the
     full facts have never been revealed to the general public, and as my
     friend Sherlock Holmes had a considerable share in clearing the
     matter up, I feel that no memoir of him would be complete without
     some little sketch of this remarkable episode.

     It was a few weeks before my own marriage, during the days when I was
     still sharing rooms with Holmes in Baker Street, that he came home
     from an afternoon stroll to find a letter on the table waiting for
     him. I had remained indoors all day, for the weather had taken a
     sudden turn to rain, with high autumnal winds, and the Jezail bullet
     which I had brought back in one of my limbs as a relic of my Afghan
     campaign throbbed with dull persistence. With my body in one
     easy-chair and my legs upon another, I had surrounded myself with a
     cloud of newspapers until at last, saturated with the news of the
     day, I tossed them all aside and lay listless, watching the huge
     crest and monogram upon the envelope upon the table and wondering
     lazily who my friend's noble correspondent could be.

     "Here is a very fashionable epistle," I remarked as he entered. "Your
     morning letters, if I remember right, were from a fish-monger and a
     tide-waiter."

     "Yes, my correspondence has certainly the charm of variety," he
     answered, smiling, "and the humbler are usually the more interesting.
     This looks like one of those unwelcome social summonses which call
     upon a man either to be bored or to lie."

     He broke the seal and glanced over the contents.

     "Oh, come, it may prove to be something of interest, after all."

     "Not social, then?"

     "No, distinctly professional."

     "And from a noble client?"

     "One of the highest in England."

     "My dear fellow, I congratulate you."

     "I assure you, Watson, without affectation, that the status of my
     client is a matter of less moment to me than the interest of his
     case. It is just possible, however, that that also may not be wanting
     in this new investigation. You have been reading the papers
     diligently of late, have you not?"

     "It looks like it," said I ruefully, pointing to a huge bundle in the
     corner. "I have had nothing else to do."

     "It is fortunate, for you will perhaps be able to post me up. I read
     nothing except the criminal news and the agony column. The latter is
     always instructive. But if you have followed recent events so closely
     you must have read about Lord St. Simon and his wedding?"

     "Oh, yes, with the deepest interest."

     "That is well. The letter which I hold in my hand is from Lord St.
     Simon. I will read it to you, and in return you must turn over these
     papers and let me have whatever bears upon the matter. This is what
     he says:

     "'My dear Mr. Sherlock Holmes:
     "'Lord Backwater tells me that I may place implicit reliance upon
     your judgment and discretion. I have determined, therefore, to call
     upon you and to consult you in reference to the very painful event
     which has occurred in connection with my wedding. Mr. Lestrade, of
     Scotland Yard, is acting already in the matter, but he assures me
     that he sees no objection to your co-operation, and that he even
     thinks that it might be of some assistance. I will call at four
     o'clock in the afternoon, and, should you have any other engagement
     at that time, I hope that you will postpone it, as this matter is of
     paramount importance.
     "'Yours faithfully,
     "'St. Simon.'

     "It is dated from Grosvenor Mansions, written with a quill pen, and
     the noble lord has had the misfortune to get a smear of ink upon the
     outer side of his right little finger," remarked Holmes as he folded
     up the epistle.

     "He says four o'clock. It is three now. He will be here in an hour."

     "Then I have just time, with your assistance, to get clear upon the
     subject. Turn over those papers and arrange the extracts in their
     order of time, while I take a glance as to who our client is." He
     picked a red-covered volume from a line of books of reference beside
     the mantelpiece. "Here he is," said he, sitting down and flattening
     it out upon his knee. "'Lord Robert Walsingham de Vere St. Simon,
     second son of the Duke of Balmoral.' Hum! 'Arms: Azure, three
     caltrops in chief over a fess sable. Born in 1846.' He's forty-one
     years of age, which is mature for marriage. Was Under-Secretary for
     the colonies in a late administration. The Duke, his father, was at
     one time Secretary for Foreign Affairs. They inherit Plantagenet
     blood by direct descent, and Tudor on the distaff side. Ha! Well,
     there is nothing very instructive in all this. I think that I must
     turn to you Watson, for something more solid."

     "I have very little difficulty in finding what I want," said I, "for
     the facts are quite recent, and the matter struck me as remarkable. I
     feared to refer them to you, however, as I knew that you had an
     inquiry on hand and that you disliked the intrusion of other
     matters."

     "Oh, you mean the little problem of the Grosvenor Square furniture
     van. That is quite cleared up now--though, indeed, it was obvious
     from the first. Pray give me the results of your newspaper
     selections."

     "Here is the first notice which I can find. It is in the personal
     column of the Morning Post, and dates, as you see, some weeks back:

     "'A marriage has been arranged [it says] and will, if rumour is
     correct, very shortly take place, between Lord Robert St. Simon,
     second son of the Duke of Balmoral, and Miss Hatty Doran, the only
     daughter of Aloysius Doran. Esq., of San Francisco, Cal., U.S.A.'

     That is all."

     "Terse and to the point," remarked Holmes, stretching his long, thin
     legs towards the fire.

     "There was a paragraph amplifying this in one of the society papers
     of the same week. Ah, here it is:

     "'There will soon be a call for protection in the marriage market,
     for the present free-trade principle appears to tell heavily against
     our home product. One by one the management of the noble houses of
     Great Britain is passing into the hands of our fair cousins from
     across the Atlantic. An important addition has been made during the
     last week to the list of the prizes which have been borne away by
     these charming invaders. Lord St. Simon, who has shown himself for
     over twenty years proof against the little god's arrows, has now
     definitely announced his approaching marriage with Miss Hatty Doran,
     the fascinating daughter of a California millionaire. Miss Doran,
     whose graceful figure and striking face attracted much attention at
     the Westbury House festivities, is an only child, and it is currently
     reported that her dowry will run to considerably over the six
     figures, with expectancies for the future. As it is an open secret
     that the Duke of Balmoral has been compelled to sell his pictures
     within the last few years, and as Lord St. Simon has no property of
     his own save the small estate of Birchmoor, it is obvious that the
     Californian heiress is not the only gainer by an alliance which will
     enable her to make the easy and common transition from a Republican
     lady to a British peeress.'"

     "Anything else?" asked Holmes, yawning.

     "Oh, yes; plenty. Then there is another note in the Morning Post to
     say that the marriage would be an absolutely quiet one, that it would
     be at St. George's, Hanover Square, that only half a dozen intimate
     friends would be invited, and that the party would return to the
     furnished house at Lancaster Gate which has been taken by Mr.
     Aloysius Doran. Two days later--that is, on Wednesday last--there is
     a curt announcement that the wedding had taken place, and that the
     honeymoon would be passed at Lord Backwater's place, near
     Petersfield. Those are all the notices which appeared before the
     disappearance of the bride."

     "Before the what?" asked Holmes with a start.

     "The vanishing of the lady."

     "When did she vanish, then?"

     "At the wedding breakfast."

     "Indeed. This is more interesting than it promised to be; quite
     dramatic, in fact."

     "Yes; it struck me as being a little out of the common."

     "They often vanish before the ceremony, and occasionally during the
     honeymoon; but I cannot call to mind anything quite so prompt as
     this. Pray let me have the details."

     "I warn you that they are very incomplete."

     "Perhaps we may make them less so."

     "Such as they are, they are set forth in a single article of a
     morning paper of yesterday, which I will read to you. It is headed,
     'Singular Occurrence at a Fashionable Wedding':

     "'The family of Lord Robert St. Simon has been thrown into the
     greatest consternation by the strange and painful episodes which have
     taken place in connection with his wedding. The ceremony, as shortly
     announced in the papers of yesterday, occurred on the previous
     morning; but it is only now that it has been possible to confirm the
     strange rumours which have been so persistently floating about. In
     spite of the attempts of the friends to hush the matter up, so much
     public attention has now been drawn to it that no good purpose can be
     served by affecting to disregard what is a common subject for
     conversation.
     "'The ceremony, which was performed at St. George's, Hanover Square,
     was a very quiet one, no one being present save the father of the
     bride, Mr. Aloysius Doran, the Duchess of Balmoral, Lord Backwater,
     Lord Eustace and Lady Clara St. Simon (the younger brother and sister
     of the bridegroom), and Lady Alicia Whittington. The whole party
     proceeded afterwards to the house of Mr. Aloysius Doran, at Lancaster
     Gate, where breakfast had been prepared. It appears that some little
     trouble was caused by a woman, whose name has not been ascertained,
     who endeavoured to force her way into the house after the bridal
     party, alleging that she had some claim upon Lord St. Simon. It was
     only after a painful and prolonged scene that she was ejected by the
     butler and the footman. The bride, who had fortunately entered the
     house before this unpleasant interruption, had sat down to breakfast
     with the rest, when she complained of a sudden indisposition and
     retired to her room. Her prolonged absence having caused some
     comment, her father followed her, but learned from her maid that she
     had only come up to her chamber for an instant, caught up an ulster
     and bonnet, and hurried down to the passage. One of the footmen
     declared that he had seen a lady leave the house thus apparelled, but
     had refused to credit that it was his mistress, believing her to be
     with the company. On ascertaining that his daughter had disappeared,
     Mr. Aloysius Doran, in conjunction with the bridegroom, instantly put
     themselves in communication with the police, and very energetic
     inquiries are being made, which will probably result in a speedy
     clearing up of this very singular business. Up to a late hour last
     night, however, nothing had transpired as to the whereabouts of the
     missing lady. There are rumours of foul play in the matter, and it is
     said that the police have caused the arrest of the woman who had
     caused the original disturbance, in the belief that, from jealousy or
     some other motive, she may have been concerned in the strange
     disappearance of the bride.'"

     "And is that all?"

     "Only one little item in another of the morning papers, but it is a
     suggestive one."

     "And it is--"

     "That Miss Flora Millar, the lady who had caused the disturbance, has
     actually been arrested. It appears that she was formerly a danseuse
     at the Allegro, and that she has known the bridegroom for some years.
     There are no further particulars, and the whole case is in your hands
     now--so far as it has been set forth in the public press."

     "And an exceedingly interesting case it appears to be. I would not
     have missed it for worlds. But there is a ring at the bell, Watson,
     and as the clock makes it a few minutes after four, I have no doubt
     that this will prove to be our noble client. Do not dream of going,
     Watson, for I very much prefer having a witness, if only as a check
     to my own memory."

     "Lord Robert St. Simon," announced our page-boy, throwing open the
     door. A gentleman entered, with a pleasant, cultured face, high-nosed
     and pale, with something perhaps of petulance about the mouth, and
     with the steady, well-opened eye of a man whose pleasant lot it had
     ever been to command and to be obeyed. His manner was brisk, and yet
     his general appearance gave an undue impression of age, for he had a
     slight forward stoop and a little bend of the knees as he walked. His
     hair, too, as he swept off his very curly-brimmed hat, was grizzled
     round the edges and thin upon the top. As to his dress, it was
     careful to the verge of foppishness, with high collar, black
     frock-coat, white waistcoat, yellow gloves, patent-leather shoes, and
     light-coloured gaiters. He advanced slowly into the room, turning his
     head from left to right, and swinging in his right hand the cord
     which held his golden eyeglasses.

     "Good-day, Lord St. Simon," said Holmes, rising and bowing. "Pray
     take the basket-chair. This is my friend and colleague, Dr. Watson.
     Draw up a little to the fire, and we will talk this matter over."

     "A most painful matter to me, as you can most readily imagine, Mr.
     Holmes. I have been cut to the quick. I understand that you have
     already managed several delicate cases of this sort, sir, though I
     presume that they were hardly from the same class of society."

     "No, I am descending."

     "I beg pardon."

     "My last client of the sort was a king."

     "Oh, really! I had no idea. And which king?"

     "The King of Scandinavia."

     "What! Had he lost his wife?"

     "You can understand," said Holmes suavely, "that I extend to the
     affairs of my other clients the same secrecy which I promise to you
     in yours."

     "Of course! Very right! very right! I'm sure I beg pardon. As to my
     own case, I am ready to give you any information which may assist you
     in forming an opinion."

     "Thank you. I have already learned all that is in the public prints,
     nothing more. I presume that I may take it as correct--this article,
     for example, as to the disappearance of the bride."

     Lord St. Simon glanced over it. "Yes, it is correct, as far as it
     goes."

     "But it needs a great deal of supplementing before anyone could offer
     an opinion. I think that I may arrive at my facts most directly by
     questioning you."

     "Pray do so."

     "When did you first meet Miss Hatty Doran?"

     "In San Francisco, a year ago."

     "You were travelling in the States?"

     "Yes."

     "Did you become engaged then?"

     "No."

     "But you were on a friendly footing?"

     "I was amused by her society, and she could see that I was amused."

     "Her father is very rich?"

     "He is said to be the richest man on the Pacific slope."

     "And how did he make his money?"

     "In mining. He had nothing a few years ago. Then he struck gold,
     invested it, and came up by leaps and bounds."

     "Now, what is your own impression as to the young lady's--your wife's
     character?"

     The nobleman swung his glasses a little faster and stared down into
     the fire. "You see, Mr. Holmes," said he, "my wife was twenty before
     her father became a rich man. During that time she ran free in a
     mining camp and wandered through woods or mountains, so that her
     education has come from Nature rather than from the schoolmaster. She
     is what we call in England a tomboy, with a strong nature, wild and
     free, unfettered by any sort of traditions. She is
     impetuous--volcanic, I was about to say. She is swift in making up
     her mind and fearless in carrying out her resolutions. On the other
     hand, I would not have given her the name which I have the honour to
     bear"--he gave a little stately cough--"had not I thought her to be
     at bottom a noble woman. I believe that she is capable of heroic
     self-sacrifice and that anything dishonourable would be repugnant to
     her."

     "Have you her photograph?"

     "I brought this with me." He opened a locket and showed us the full
     face of a very lovely woman. It was not a photograph but an ivory
     miniature, and the artist had brought out the full effect of the
     lustrous black hair, the large dark eyes, and the exquisite mouth.
     Holmes gazed long and earnestly at it. Then he closed the locket and
     handed it back to Lord St. Simon.

     "The young lady came to London, then, and you renewed your
     acquaintance?"

     "Yes, her father brought her over for this last London season. I met
     her several times, became engaged to her, and have now married her."

     "She brought, I understand, a considerable dowry?"

     "A fair dowry. Not more than is usual in my family."

     "And this, of course, remains to you, since the marriage is a fait
     accompli?"

     "I really have made no inquiries on the subject."

     "Very naturally not. Did you see Miss Doran on the day before the
     wedding?"

     "Yes."

     "Was she in good spirits?"

     "Never better. She kept talking of what we should do in our future
     lives."

     "Indeed! That is very interesting. And on the morning of the
     wedding?"

     "She was as bright as possible--at least until after the ceremony."

     "And did you observe any change in her then?"

     "Well, to tell the truth, I saw then the first signs that I had ever
     seen that her temper was just a little sharp. The incident however,
     was too trivial to relate and can have no possible bearing upon the
     case."

     "Pray let us have it, for all that."

     "Oh, it is childish. She dropped her bouquet as we went towards the
     vestry. She was passing the front pew at the time, and it fell over
     into the pew. There was a moment's delay, but the gentleman in the
     pew handed it up to her again, and it did not appear to be the worse
     for the fall. Yet when I spoke to her of the matter, she answered me
     abruptly; and in the carriage, on our way home, she seemed absurdly
     agitated over this trifling cause."

     "Indeed! You say that there was a gentleman in the pew. Some of the
     general public were present, then?"

     "Oh, yes. It is impossible to exclude them when the church is open."

     "This gentleman was not one of your wife's friends?"

     "No, no; I call him a gentleman by courtesy, but he was quite a
     common-looking person. I hardly noticed his appearance. But really I
     think that we are wandering rather far from the point."

     "Lady St. Simon, then, returned from the wedding in a less cheerful
     frame of mind than she had gone to it. What did she do on re-entering
     her father's house?"

     "I saw her in conversation with her maid."

     "And who is her maid?"

     "Alice is her name. She is an American and came from California with
     her."

     "A confidential servant?"

     "A little too much so. It seemed to me that her mistress allowed her
     to take great liberties. Still, of course, in America they look upon
     these things in a different way."

     "How long did she speak to this Alice?"

     "Oh, a few minutes. I had something else to think of."

     "You did not overhear what they said?"

     "Lady St. Simon said something about 'jumping a claim.' She was
     accustomed to use slang of the kind. I have no idea what she meant."

     "American slang is very expressive sometimes. And what did your wife
     do when she finished speaking to her maid?"

     "She walked into the breakfast-room."

     "On your arm?"

     "No, alone. She was very independent in little matters like that.
     Then, after we had sat down for ten minutes or so, she rose
     hurriedly, muttered some words of apology, and left the room. She
     never came back."

     "But this maid, Alice, as I understand, deposes that she went to her
     room, covered her bride's dress with a long ulster, put on a bonnet,
     and went out."

     "Quite so. And she was afterwards seen walking into Hyde Park in
     company with Flora Millar, a woman who is now in custody, and who had
     already made a disturbance at Mr. Doran's house that morning."

     "Ah, yes. I should like a few particulars as to this young lady, and
     your relations to her."

     Lord St. Simon shrugged his shoulders and raised his eyebrows. "We
     have been on a friendly footing for some years--I may say on a very
     friendly footing. She used to be at the Allegro. I have not treated
     her ungenerously, and she had no just cause of complaint against me,
     but you know what women are, Mr. Holmes. Flora was a dear little
     thing, but exceedingly hot-headed and devotedly attached to me. She
     wrote me dreadful letters when she heard that I was about to be
     married, and, to tell the truth, the reason why I had the marriage
     celebrated so quietly was that I feared lest there might be a scandal
     in the church. She came to Mr. Doran's door just after we returned,
     and she endeavoured to push her way in, uttering very abusive
     expressions towards my wife, and even threatening her, but I had
     foreseen the possibility of something of the sort, and I had two
     police fellows there in private clothes, who soon pushed her out
     again. She was quiet when she saw that there was no good in making a
     row."

     "Did your wife hear all this?"

     "No, thank goodness, she did not."

     "And she was seen walking with this very woman afterwards?"

     "Yes. That is what Mr. Lestrade, of Scotland Yard, looks upon as so
     serious. It is thought that Flora decoyed my wife out and laid some
     terrible trap for her."

     "Well, it is a possible supposition."

     "You think so, too?"

     "I did not say a probable one. But you do not yourself look upon this
     as likely?"

     "I do not think Flora would hurt a fly."

     "Still, jealousy is a strange transformer of characters. Pray what is
     your own theory as to what took place?"

     "Well, really, I came to seek a theory, not to propound one. I have
     given you all the facts. Since you ask me, however, I may say that it
     has occurred to me as possible that the excitement of this affair,
     the consciousness that she had made so immense a social stride, had
     the effect of causing some little nervous disturbance in my wife."

     "In short, that she had become suddenly deranged?"

     "Well, really, when I consider that she has turned her back--I will
     not say upon me, but upon so much that many have aspired to without
     success--I can hardly explain it in any other fashion."

     "Well, certainly that is also a conceivable hypothesis," said Holmes,
     smiling. "And now, Lord St. Simon, I think that I have nearly all my
     data. May I ask whether you were seated at the breakfast-table so
     that you could see out of the window?"

     "We could see the other side of the road and the Park."

     "Quite so. Then I do not think that I need to detain you longer. I
     shall communicate with you."

     "Should you be fortunate enough to solve this problem," said our
     client, rising.

     "I have solved it."

     "Eh? What was that?"

     "I say that I have solved it."

     "Where, then, is my wife?"

     "That is a detail which I shall speedily supply."

     Lord St. Simon shook his head. "I am afraid that it will take wiser
     heads than yours or mine," he remarked, and bowing in a stately,
     old-fashioned manner he departed.

     "It is very good of Lord St. Simon to honour my head by putting it on
     a level with his own," said Sherlock Holmes, laughing. "I think that
     I shall have a whisky and soda and a cigar after all this
     cross-questioning. I had formed my conclusions as to the case before
     our client came into the room."

     "My dear Holmes!"

     "I have notes of several similar cases, though none, as I remarked
     before, which were quite as prompt. My whole examination served to
     turn my conjecture into a certainty. Circumstantial evidence is
     occasionally very convincing, as when you find a trout in the milk,
     to quote Thoreau's example."

     "But I have heard all that you have heard."

     "Without, however, the knowledge of pre-existing cases which serves
     me so well. There was a parallel instance in Aberdeen some years
     back, and something on very much the same lines at Munich the year
     after the Franco-Prussian War. It is one of these cases--but, hullo,
     here is Lestrade! Good-afternoon, Lestrade! You will find an extra
     tumbler upon the sideboard, and there are cigars in the box."

     The official detective was attired in a pea-jacket and cravat, which
     gave him a decidedly nautical appearance, and he carried a black
     canvas bag in his hand. With a short greeting he seated himself and
     lit the cigar which had been offered to him.

     "What's up, then?" asked Holmes with a twinkle in his eye. "You look
     dissatisfied."

     "And I feel dissatisfied. It is this infernal St. Simon marriage
     case. I can make neither head nor tail of the business."

     "Really! You surprise me."

     "Who ever heard of such a mixed affair? Every clue seems to slip
     through my fingers. I have been at work upon it all day."

     "And very wet it seems to have made you," said Holmes laying his hand
     upon the arm of the pea-jacket.

     "Yes, I have been dragging the Serpentine."

     "In heaven's name, what for?"

     "In search of the body of Lady St. Simon."

     Sherlock Holmes leaned back in his chair and laughed heartily.

     "Have you dragged the basin of Trafalgar Square fountain?" he asked.

     "Why? What do you mean?"

     "Because you have just as good a chance of finding this lady in the
     one as in the other."

     Lestrade shot an angry glance at my companion. "I suppose you know
     all about it," he snarled.

     "Well, I have only just heard the facts, but my mind is made up."

     "Oh, indeed! Then you think that the Serpentine plays no part in the
     matter?"

     "I think it very unlikely."

     "Then perhaps you will kindly explain how it is that we found this in
     it?" He opened his bag as he spoke, and tumbled onto the floor a
     wedding-dress of watered silk, a pair of white satin shoes and a
     bride's wreath and veil, all discoloured and soaked in water.
     "There," said he, putting a new wedding-ring upon the top of the
     pile. "There is a little nut for you to crack, Master Holmes."

     "Oh, indeed!" said my friend, blowing blue rings into the air.  "You
     dragged them from the Serpentine?"

     "No. They were found floating near the margin by a park-keeper. They
     have been identified as her clothes, and it seemed to me that if the
     clothes were there the body would not be far off."

     "By the same brilliant reasoning, every man's body is to be found in
     the neighbourhood of his wardrobe. And pray what did you hope to
     arrive at through this?"

     "At some evidence implicating Flora Millar in the disappearance."

     "I am afraid that you will find it difficult."

     "Are you, indeed, now?" cried Lestrade with some bitterness. "I am
     afraid, Holmes, that you are not very practical with your deductions
     and your inferences. You have made two blunders in as many minutes.
     This dress does implicate Miss Flora Millar."

     "And how?"

     "In the dress is a pocket. In the pocket is a card-case. In the
     card-case is a note. And here is the very note." He slapped it down
     upon the table in front of him. "Listen to this:

     "'You will see me when all is ready. Come at once.
     "'F.H.M.'

     Now my theory all along has been that Lady St. Simon was decoyed away
     by Flora Millar, and that she, with confederates, no doubt, was
     responsible for her disappearance. Here, signed with her initials, is
     the very note which was no doubt quietly slipped into her hand at the
     door and which lured her within their reach."

     "Very good, Lestrade," said Holmes, laughing. "You really are very
     fine indeed. Let me see it." He took up the paper in a listless way,
     but his attention instantly became riveted, and he gave a little cry
     of satisfaction. "This is indeed important," said he.

     "Ha! you find it so?"

     "Extremely so. I congratulate you warmly."

     Lestrade rose in his triumph and bent his head to look. "Why," he
     shrieked, "you're looking at the wrong side!"

     "On the contrary, this is the right side."

     "The right side? You're mad! Here is the note written in pencil over
     here."

     "And over here is what appears to be the fragment of a hotel bill,
     which interests me deeply."

     "There's nothing in it. I looked at it before," said Lestrade.

     "'Oct. 4th, rooms 8s., breakfast 2s. 6d., cocktail 1s., lunch 2s.
     6d., glass sherry, 8d.' I see nothing in that."

     "Very likely not. It is most important, all the same. As to the note,
     it is important also, or at least the initials are, so I congratulate
     you again."

     "I've wasted time enough," said Lestrade, rising. "I believe in hard
     work and not in sitting by the fire spinning fine theories. Good-day,
     Mr. Holmes, and we shall see which gets to the bottom of the matter
     first." He gathered up the garments, thrust them into the bag, and
     made for the door.

     "Just one hint to you, Lestrade," drawled Holmes before his rival
     vanished; "I will tell you the true solution of the matter. Lady St.
     Simon is a myth. There is not, and there never has been, any such
     person."

     Lestrade looked sadly at my companion. Then he turned to me, tapped
     his forehead three times, shook his head solemnly, and hurried away.

     He had hardly shut the door behind him when Holmes rose to put on his
     overcoat. "There is something in what the fellow says about outdoor
     work," he remarked, "so I think, Watson, that I must leave you to
     your papers for a little."

     It was after five o'clock when Sherlock Holmes left me, but I had no
     time to be lonely, for within an hour there arrived a confectioner's
     man with a very large flat box. This he unpacked with the help of a
     youth whom he had brought with him, and presently, to my very great
     astonishment, a quite epicurean little cold supper began to be laid
     out upon our humble lodging-house mahogany. There were a couple of
     brace of cold woodcock, a pheasant, a pÃ¢tÃ© de foie gras pie with a
     group of ancient and cobwebby bottles. Having laid out all these
     luxuries, my two visitors vanished away, like the genii of the
     Arabian Nights, with no explanation save that the things had been
     paid for and were ordered to this address.

     Just before nine o'clock Sherlock Holmes stepped briskly into the
     room. His features were gravely set, but there was a light in his eye
     which made me think that he had not been disappointed in his
     conclusions.

     "They have laid the supper, then," he said, rubbing his hands.

     "You seem to expect company. They have laid for five."

     "Yes, I fancy we may have some company dropping in," said he. "I am
     surprised that Lord St. Simon has not already arrived. Ha! I fancy
     that I hear his step now upon the stairs."

     It was indeed our visitor of the afternoon who came bustling in,
     dangling his glasses more vigorously than ever, and with a very
     perturbed expression upon his aristocratic features.

     "My messenger reached you, then?" asked Holmes.

     "Yes, and I confess that the contents startled me beyond measure.
     Have you good authority for what you say?" 

     "The best possible."

     Lord St. Simon sank into a chair and passed his hand over his
     forehead.

     "What will the Duke say," he murmured, "when he hears that one of the
     family has been subjected to such humiliation?"

     "It is the purest accident. I cannot allow that there is any
     humiliation."

     "Ah, you look on these things from another standpoint."

     "I fail to see that anyone is to blame. I can hardly see how the lady
     could have acted otherwise, though her abrupt method of doing it was
     undoubtedly to be regretted. Having no mother, she had no one to
     advise her at such a crisis."

     "It was a slight, sir, a public slight," said Lord St. Simon, tapping
     his fingers upon the table.

     "You must make allowance for this poor girl, placed in so
     unprecedented a position."

     "I will make no allowance. I am very angry indeed, and I have been
     shamefully used."

     "I think that I heard a ring," said Holmes. "Yes, there are steps on
     the landing. If I cannot persuade you to take a lenient view of the
     matter, Lord St. Simon, I have brought an advocate here who may be
     more successful." He opened the door and ushered in a lady and
     gentleman. "Lord St. Simon," said he "allow me to introduce you to
     Mr. and Mrs. Francis Hay Moulton. The lady, I think, you have already
     met."

     At the sight of these newcomers our client had sprung from his seat
     and stood very erect, with his eyes cast down and his hand thrust
     into the breast of his frock-coat, a picture of offended dignity. The
     lady had taken a quick step forward and had held out her hand to him,
     but he still refused to raise his eyes. It was as well for his
     resolution, perhaps, for her pleading face was one which it was hard
     to resist.

     "You're angry, Robert," said she. "Well, I guess you have every cause
     to be."

     "Pray make no apology to me," said Lord St. Simon bitterly.

     "Oh, yes, I know that I have treated you real bad and that I should
     have spoken to you before I went; but I was kind of rattled, and from
     the time when I saw Frank here again I just didn't know what I was
     doing or saying. I only wonder I didn't fall down and do a faint
     right there before the altar."

     "Perhaps, Mrs. Moulton, you would like my friend and me to leave the
     room while you explain this matter?"

     "If I may give an opinion," remarked the strange gentleman, "we've
     had just a little too much secrecy over this business already. For my
     part, I should like all Europe and America to hear the rights of it."
     He was a small, wiry, sunburnt man, clean-shaven, with a sharp face
     and alert manner.

     "Then I'll tell our story right away," said the lady. "Frank here and
     I met in '84, in McQuire's camp, near the Rockies, where pa was
     working a claim. We were engaged to each other, Frank and I; but then
     one day father struck a rich pocket and made a pile, while poor Frank
     here had a claim that petered out and came to nothing. The richer pa
     grew the poorer was Frank; so at last pa wouldn't hear of our
     engagement lasting any longer, and he took me away to 'Frisco. Frank
     wouldn't throw up his hand, though; so he followed me there, and he
     saw me without pa knowing anything about it. It would only have made
     him mad to know, so we just fixed it all up for ourselves. Frank said
     that he would go and make his pile, too, and never come back to claim
     me until he had as much as pa. So then I promised to wait for him to
     the end of time and pledged myself not to marry anyone else while he
     lived. 'Why shouldn't we be married right away, then,' said he, 'and
     then I will feel sure of you; and I won't claim to be your husband
     until I come back?' Well, we talked it over, and he had fixed it all
     up so nicely, with a clergyman all ready in waiting, that we just did
     it right there; and then Frank went off to seek his fortune, and I
     went back to pa.

     "The next I heard of Frank was that he was in Montana, and then he
     went prospecting in Arizona, and then I heard of him from New Mexico.
     After that came a long newspaper story about how a miners' camp had
     been attacked by Apache Indians, and there was my Frank's name among
     the killed. I fainted dead away, and I was very sick for months
     after. Pa thought I had a decline and took me to half the doctors in
     'Frisco. Not a word of news came for a year and more, so that I never
     doubted that Frank was really dead. Then Lord St. Simon came to
     'Frisco, and we came to London, and a marriage was arranged, and pa
     was very pleased, but I felt all the time that no man on this earth
     would ever take the place in my heart that had been given to my poor
     Frank.

     "Still, if I had married Lord St. Simon, of course I'd have done my
     duty by him. We can't command our love, but we can our actions. I
     went to the altar with him with the intention to make him just as
     good a wife as it was in me to be. But you may imagine what I felt
     when, just as I came to the altar rails, I glanced back and saw Frank
     standing and looking at me out of the first pew. I thought it was his
     ghost at first; but when I looked again there he was still, with a
     kind of question in his eyes, as if to ask me whether I were glad or
     sorry to see him. I wonder I didn't drop. I know that everything was
     turning round, and the words of the clergyman were just like the buzz
     of a bee in my ear. I didn't know what to do. Should I stop the
     service and make a scene in the church? I glanced at him again, and
     he seemed to know what I was thinking, for he raised his finger to
     his lips to tell me to be still. Then I saw him scribble on a piece
     of paper, and I knew that he was writing me a note. As I passed his
     pew on the way out I dropped my bouquet over to him, and he slipped
     the note into my hand when he returned me the flowers. It was only a
     line asking me to join him when he made the sign to me to do so. Of
     course I never doubted for a moment that my first duty was now to
     him, and I determined to do just whatever he might direct.

     "When I got back I told my maid, who had known him in California, and
     had always been his friend. I ordered her to say nothing, but to get
     a few things packed and my ulster ready. I know I ought to have
     spoken to Lord St. Simon, but it was dreadful hard before his mother
     and all those great people. I just made up my mind to run away and
     explain afterwards. I hadn't been at the table ten minutes before I
     saw Frank out of the window at the other side of the road. He
     beckoned to me and then began walking into the Park. I slipped out,
     put on my things, and followed him. Some woman came talking something
     or other about Lord St. Simon to me--seemed to me from the little I
     heard as if he had a little secret of his own before marriage
     also--but I managed to get away from her and soon overtook Frank. We
     got into a cab together, and away we drove to some lodgings he had
     taken in Gordon Square, and that was my true wedding after all those
     years of waiting. Frank had been a prisoner among the Apaches, had
     escaped, came on to 'Frisco, found that I had given him up for dead
     and had gone to England, followed me there, and had come upon me at
     last on the very morning of my second wedding."

     "I saw it in a paper," explained the American. "It gave the name and
     the church but not where the lady lived."

     "Then we had a talk as to what we should do, and Frank was all for
     openness, but I was so ashamed of it all that I felt as if I should
     like to vanish away and never see any of them again--just sending a
     line to pa, perhaps, to show him that I was alive. It was awful to me
     to think of all those lords and ladies sitting round that
     breakfast-table and waiting for me to come back. So Frank took my
     wedding-clothes and things and made a bundle of them, so that I
     should not be traced, and dropped them away somewhere where no one
     could find them. It is likely that we should have gone on to Paris
     to-morrow, only that this good gentleman, Mr. Holmes, came round to
     us this evening, though how he found us is more than I can think, and
     he showed us very clearly and kindly that I was wrong and that Frank
     was right, and that we should be putting ourselves in the wrong if we
     were so secret. Then he offered to give us a chance of talking to
     Lord St. Simon alone, and so we came right away round to his rooms at
     once. Now, Robert, you have heard it all, and I am very sorry if I
     have given you pain, and I hope that you do not think very meanly of
     me."

     Lord St. Simon had by no means relaxed his rigid attitude, but had
     listened with a frowning brow and a compressed lip to this long
     narrative.

     "Excuse me," he said, "but it is not my custom to discuss my most
     intimate personal affairs in this public manner."

     "Then you won't forgive me? You won't shake hands before I go?"

     "Oh, certainly, if it would give you any pleasure." He put out his
     hand and coldly grasped that which she extended to him.

     "I had hoped," suggested Holmes, "that you would have joined us in a
     friendly supper."

     "I think that there you ask a little too much," responded his
     Lordship. "I may be forced to acquiesce in these recent developments,
     but I can hardly be expected to make merry over them. I think that
     with your permission I will now wish you all a very good-night." He
     included us all in a sweeping bow and stalked out of the room.

     "Then I trust that you at least will honour me with your company,"
     said Sherlock Holmes. "It is always a joy to meet an American, Mr.
     Moulton, for I am one of those who believe that the folly of a
     monarch and the blundering of a minister in far-gone years will not
     prevent our children from being some day citizens of the same
     world-wide country under a flag which shall be a quartering of the
     Union Jack with the Stars and Stripes."

     "The case has been an interesting one," remarked Holmes when our
     visitors had left us, "because it serves to show very clearly how
     simple the explanation may be of an affair which at first sight seems
     to be almost inexplicable. Nothing could be more natural than the
     sequence of events as narrated by this lady, and nothing stranger
     than the result when viewed, for instance, by Mr. Lestrade of
     Scotland Yard."

     "You were not yourself at fault at all, then?"

     "From the first, two facts were very obvious to me, the one that the
     lady had been quite willing to undergo the wedding ceremony, the
     other that she had repented of it within a few minutes of returning
     home. Obviously something had occurred during the morning, then, to
     cause her to change her mind. What could that something be? She could
     not have spoken to anyone when she was out, for she had been in the
     company of the bridegroom. Had she seen someone, then? If she had, it
     must be someone from America because she had spent so short a time in
     this country that she could hardly have allowed anyone to acquire so
     deep an influence over her that the mere sight of him would induce
     her to change her plans so completely. You see we have already
     arrived, by a process of exclusion, at the idea that she might have
     seen an American. Then who could this American be, and why should he
     possess so much influence over her? It might be a lover; it might be
     a husband. Her young womanhood had, I knew, been spent in rough
     scenes and under strange conditions. So far I had got before I ever
     heard Lord St. Simon's narrative. When he told us of a man in a pew,
     of the change in the bride's manner, of so transparent a device for
     obtaining a note as the dropping of a bouquet, of her resort to her
     confidential maid, and of her very significant allusion to
     claim-jumping--which in miners' parlance means taking possession of
     that which another person has a prior claim to--the whole situation
     became absolutely clear. She had gone off with a man, and the man was
     either a lover or was a previous husband--the chances being in favour
     of the latter."

     "And how in the world did you find them?"

     "It might have been difficult, but friend Lestrade held information
     in his hands the value of which he did not himself know. The initials
     were, of course, of the highest importance, but more valuable still
     was it to know that within a week he had settled his bill at one of
     the most select London hotels."

     "How did you deduce the select?"

     "By the select prices. Eight shillings for a bed and eightpence for a
     glass of sherry pointed to one of the most expensive hotels. There
     are not many in London which charge at that rate. In the second one
     which I visited in Northumberland Avenue, I learned by an inspection
     of the book that Francis H. Moulton, an American gentleman, had left
     only the day before, and on looking over the entries against him, I
     came upon the very items which I had seen in the duplicate bill. His
     letters were to be forwarded to 226 Gordon Square; so thither I
     travelled, and being fortunate enough to find the loving couple at
     home, I ventured to give them some paternal advice and to point out
     to them that it would be better in every way that they should make
     their position a little clearer both to the general public and to
     Lord St. Simon in particular. I invited them to meet him here, and,
     as you see, I made him keep the appointment."

     "But with no very good result," I remarked. "His conduct was
     certainly not very gracious."

     "Ah, Watson," said Holmes, smiling, "perhaps you would not be very
     gracious either, if, after all the trouble of wooing and wedding, you
     found yourself deprived in an instant of wife and of fortune. I think
     that we may judge Lord St. Simon very mercifully and thank our stars
     that we are never likely to find ourselves in the same position. Draw
     your chair up and hand me my violin, for the only problem we have
     still to solve is how to while away these bleak autumnal evenings."






                       THE ADVENTURE OF THE BERYL CORONET

     "Holmes," said I as I stood one morning in our bow-window looking
     down the street, "here is a madman coming along. It seems rather sad
     that his relatives should allow him to come out alone."

     My friend rose lazily from his armchair and stood with his hands in
     the pockets of his dressing-gown, looking over my shoulder. It was a
     bright, crisp February morning, and the snow of the day before still
     lay deep upon the ground, shimmering brightly in the wintry sun. Down
     the centre of Baker Street it had been ploughed into a brown crumbly
     band by the traffic, but at either side and on the heaped-up edges of
     the foot-paths it still lay as white as when it fell. The grey
     pavement had been cleaned and scraped, but was still dangerously
     slippery, so that there were fewer passengers than usual. Indeed,
     from the direction of the Metropolitan Station no one was coming save
     the single gentleman whose eccentric conduct had drawn my attention.

     He was a man of about fifty, tall, portly, and imposing, with a
     massive, strongly marked face and a commanding figure. He was dressed
     in a sombre yet rich style, in black frock-coat, shining hat, neat
     brown gaiters, and well-cut pearl-grey trousers. Yet his actions were
     in absurd contrast to the dignity of his dress and features, for he
     was running hard, with occasional little springs, such as a weary man
     gives who is little accustomed to set any tax upon his legs. As he
     ran he jerked his hands up and down, waggled his head, and writhed
     his face into the most extraordinary contortions.

     "What on earth can be the matter with him?" I asked. "He is looking
     up at the numbers of the houses."

     "I believe that he is coming here," said Holmes, rubbing his hands.

     "Here?"

     "Yes; I rather think he is coming to consult me professionally. I
     think that I recognise the symptoms. Ha! did I not tell you?" As he
     spoke, the man, puffing and blowing, rushed at our door and pulled at
     our bell until the whole house resounded with the clanging.

     A few moments later he was in our room, still puffing, still
     gesticulating, but with so fixed a look of grief and despair in his
     eyes that our smiles were turned in an instant to horror and pity.
     For a while he could not get his words out, but swayed his body and
     plucked at his hair like one who has been driven to the extreme
     limits of his reason. Then, suddenly springing to his feet, he beat
     his head against the wall with such force that we both rushed upon
     him and tore him away to the centre of the room. Sherlock Holmes
     pushed him down into the easy-chair and, sitting beside him, patted
     his hand and chatted with him in the easy, soothing tones which he
     knew so well how to employ.

     "You have come to me to tell your story, have you not?" said he. "You
     are fatigued with your haste. Pray wait until you have recovered
     yourself, and then I shall be most happy to look into any little
     problem which you may submit to me."

     The man sat for a minute or more with a heaving chest, fighting
     against his emotion. Then he passed his handkerchief over his brow,
     set his lips tight, and turned his face towards us.

     "No doubt you think me mad?" said he.

     "I see that you have had some great trouble," responded Holmes.

     "God knows I have!--a trouble which is enough to unseat my reason, so
     sudden and so terrible is it. Public disgrace I might have faced,
     although I am a man whose character has never yet borne a stain.
     Private affliction also is the lot of every man; but the two coming
     together, and in so frightful a form, have been enough to shake my
     very soul. Besides, it is not I alone. The very noblest in the land
     may suffer unless some way be found out of this horrible affair."

     "Pray compose yourself, sir," said Holmes, "and let me have a clear
     account of who you are and what it is that has befallen you."

     "My name," answered our visitor, "is probably familiar to your ears.
     I am Alexander Holder, of the banking firm of Holder & Stevenson, of
     Threadneedle Street."

     The name was indeed well known to us as belonging to the senior
     partner in the second largest private banking concern in the City of
     London. What could have happened, then, to bring one of the foremost
     citizens of London to this most pitiable pass? We waited, all
     curiosity, until with another effort he braced himself to tell his
     story.

     "I feel that time is of value," said he; "that is why I hastened here
     when the police inspector suggested that I should secure your
     co-operation. I came to Baker Street by the Underground and hurried
     from there on foot, for the cabs go slowly through this snow. That is
     why I was so out of breath, for I am a man who takes very little
     exercise. I feel better now, and I will put the facts before you as
     shortly and yet as clearly as I can.

     "It is, of course, well known to you that in a successful banking
     business as much depends upon our being able to find remunerative
     investments for our funds as upon our increasing our connection and
     the number of our depositors. One of our most lucrative means of
     laying out money is in the shape of loans, where the security is
     unimpeachable. We have done a good deal in this direction during the
     last few years, and there are many noble families to whom we have
     advanced large sums upon the security of their pictures, libraries,
     or plate.

     "Yesterday morning I was seated in my office at the bank when a card
     was brought in to me by one of the clerks. I started when I saw the
     name, for it was that of none other than--well, perhaps even to you I
     had better say no more than that it was a name which is a household
     word all over the earth--one of the highest, noblest, most exalted
     names in England. I was overwhelmed by the honour and attempted, when
     he entered, to say so, but he plunged at once into business with the
     air of a man who wishes to hurry quickly through a disagreeable task.

     "'Mr. Holder,' said he, 'I have been informed that you are in the
     habit of advancing money.'

     "'The firm does so when the security is good.' I answered.

     "'It is absolutely essential to me,' said he, 'that I should have
     Â£50,000 at once. I could, of course, borrow so trifling a sum ten
     times over from my friends, but I much prefer to make it a matter of
     business and to carry out that business myself. In my position you
     can readily understand that it is unwise to place one's self under
     obligations.'

     "'For how long, may I ask, do you want this sum?' I asked.

     "'Next Monday I have a large sum due to me, and I shall then most
     certainly repay what you advance, with whatever interest you think it
     right to charge. But it is very essential to me that the money should
     be paid at once.'

     "'I should be happy to advance it without further parley from my own
     private purse,' said I, 'were it not that the strain would be rather
     more than it could bear. If, on the other hand, I am to do it in the
     name of the firm, then in justice to my partner I must insist that,
     even in your case, every businesslike precaution should be taken.'

     "'I should much prefer to have it so,' said he, raising up a square,
     black morocco case which he had laid beside his chair.  'You have
     doubtless heard of the Beryl Coronet?'

     "'One of the most precious public possessions of the empire,' said I.

     "'Precisely.' He opened the case, and there, imbedded in soft,
     flesh-coloured velvet, lay the magnificent piece of jewellery which
     he had named. 'There are thirty-nine enormous beryls,' said he, 'and
     the price of the gold chasing is incalculable. The lowest estimate
     would put the worth of the coronet at double the sum which I have
     asked. I am prepared to leave it with you as my security.'

     "I took the precious case into my hands and looked in some perplexity
     from it to my illustrious client.

     "'You doubt its value?' he asked.

     "'Not at all. I only doubt--'

     "'The propriety of my leaving it. You may set your mind at rest about
     that. I should not dream of doing so were it not absolutely certain
     that I should be able in four days to reclaim it. It is a pure matter
     of form. Is the security sufficient?'

     "'Ample.'

     "'You understand, Mr. Holder, that I am giving you a strong proof of
     the confidence which I have in you, founded upon all that I have
     heard of you. I rely upon you not only to be discreet and to refrain
     from all gossip upon the matter but, above all, to preserve this
     coronet with every possible precaution because I need not say that a
     great public scandal would be caused if any harm were to befall it.
     Any injury to it would be almost as serious as its complete loss, for
     there are no beryls in the world to match these, and it would be
     impossible to replace them. I leave it with you, however, with every
     confidence, and I shall call for it in person on Monday morning.'

     "Seeing that my client was anxious to leave, I said no more but,
     calling for my cashier, I ordered him to pay over fifty Â£1000 notes.
     When I was alone once more, however, with the precious case lying
     upon the table in front of me, I could not but think with some
     misgivings of the immense responsibility which it entailed upon me.
     There could be no doubt that, as it was a national possession, a
     horrible scandal would ensue if any misfortune should occur to it. I
     already regretted having ever consented to take charge of it.
     However, it was too late to alter the matter now, so I locked it up
     in my private safe and turned once more to my work.

     "When evening came I felt that it would be an imprudence to leave so
     precious a thing in the office behind me. Bankers' safes had been
     forced before now, and why should not mine be? If so, how terrible
     would be the position in which I should find myself! I determined,
     therefore, that for the next few days I would always carry the case
     backward and forward with me, so that it might never be really out of
     my reach. With this intention, I called a cab and drove out to my
     house at Streatham, carrying the jewel with me. I did not breathe
     freely until I had taken it upstairs and locked it in the bureau of
     my dressing-room.

     "And now a word as to my household, Mr. Holmes, for I wish you to
     thoroughly understand the situation. My groom and my page sleep out
     of the house, and may be set aside altogether. I have three
     maid-servants who have been with me a number of years and whose
     absolute reliability is quite above suspicion. Another, Lucy Parr,
     the second waiting-maid, has only been in my service a few months.
     She came with an excellent character, however, and has always given
     me satisfaction. She is a very pretty girl and has attracted admirers
     who have occasionally hung about the place. That is the only drawback
     which we have found to her, but we believe her to be a thoroughly
     good girl in every way.

     "So much for the servants. My family itself is so small that it will
     not take me long to describe it. I am a widower and have an only son,
     Arthur. He has been a disappointment to me, Mr. Holmes--a grievous
     disappointment. I have no doubt that I am myself to blame. People
     tell me that I have spoiled him. Very likely I have. When my dear
     wife died I felt that he was all I had to love. I could not bear to
     see the smile fade even for a moment from his face. I have never
     denied him a wish. Perhaps it would have been better for both of us
     had I been sterner, but I meant it for the best.

     "It was naturally my intention that he should succeed me in my
     business, but he was not of a business turn. He was wild, wayward,
     and, to speak the truth, I could not trust him in the handling of
     large sums of money. When he was young he became a member of an
     aristocratic club, and there, having charming manners, he was soon
     the intimate of a number of men with long purses and expensive
     habits. He learned to play heavily at cards and to squander money on
     the turf, until he had again and again to come to me and implore me
     to give him an advance upon his allowance, that he might settle his
     debts of honour. He tried more than once to break away from the
     dangerous company which he was keeping, but each time the influence
     of his friend, Sir George Burnwell, was enough to draw him back
     again.

     "And, indeed, I could not wonder that such a man as Sir George
     Burnwell should gain an influence over him, for he has frequently
     brought him to my house, and I have found myself that I could hardly
     resist the fascination of his manner. He is older than Arthur, a man
     of the world to his finger-tips, one who had been everywhere, seen
     everything, a brilliant talker, and a man of great personal beauty.
     Yet when I think of him in cold blood, far away from the glamour of
     his presence, I am convinced from his cynical speech and the look
     which I have caught in his eyes that he is one who should be deeply
     distrusted. So I think, and so, too, thinks my little Mary, who has a
     woman's quick insight into character.

     "And now there is only she to be described. She is my niece; but when
     my brother died five years ago and left her alone in the world I
     adopted her, and have looked upon her ever since as my daughter. She
     is a sunbeam in my house--sweet, loving, beautiful, a wonderful
     manager and housekeeper, yet as tender and quiet and gentle as a
     woman could be. She is my right hand. I do not know what I could do
     without her. In only one matter has she ever gone against my wishes.
     Twice my boy has asked her to marry him, for he loves her devotedly,
     but each time she has refused him. I think that if anyone could have
     drawn him into the right path it would have been she, and that his
     marriage might have changed his whole life; but now, alas! it is too
     late--forever too late!

     "Now, Mr. Holmes, you know the people who live under my roof, and I
     shall continue with my miserable story.

     "When we were taking coffee in the drawing-room that night after
     dinner, I told Arthur and Mary my experience, and of the precious
     treasure which we had under our roof, suppressing only the name of my
     client. Lucy Parr, who had brought in the coffee, had, I am sure,
     left the room; but I cannot swear that the door was closed. Mary and
     Arthur were much interested and wished to see the famous coronet, but
     I thought it better not to disturb it.

     "'Where have you put it?' asked Arthur.

     "'In my own bureau.'

     "'Well, I hope to goodness the house won't be burgled during the
     night.' said he.

     "'It is locked up,' I answered.

     "'Oh, any old key will fit that bureau. When I was a youngster I have
     opened it myself with the key of the box-room cupboard.'

     "He often had a wild way of talking, so that I thought little of what
     he said. He followed me to my room, however, that night with a very
     grave face.

     "'Look here, dad,' said he with his eyes cast down, 'can you let me
     have Â£200?'

     "'No, I cannot!' I answered sharply. 'I have been far too generous
     with you in money matters.'

     "'You have been very kind,' said he, 'but I must have this money, or
     else I can never show my face inside the club again.'

     "'And a very good thing, too!' I cried.

     "'Yes, but you would not have me leave it a dishonoured man,' said
     he. 'I could not bear the disgrace. I must raise the money in some
     way, and if you will not let me have it, then I must try other
     means.'

     "I was very angry, for this was the third demand during the month.
     'You shall not have a farthing from me,' I cried, on which he bowed
     and left the room without another word.

     "When he was gone I unlocked my bureau, made sure that my treasure
     was safe, and locked it again. Then I started to go round the house
     to see that all was secure--a duty which I usually leave to Mary but
     which I thought it well to perform myself that night. As I came down
     the stairs I saw Mary herself at the side window of the hall, which
     she closed and fastened as I approached.

     "'Tell me, dad,' said she, looking, I thought, a little disturbed,
     'did you give Lucy, the maid, leave to go out to-night?'

     "'Certainly not.'

     "'She came in just now by the back door. I have no doubt that she has
     only been to the side gate to see someone, but I think that it is
     hardly safe and should be stopped.'

     "'You must speak to her in the morning, or I will if you prefer it.
     Are you sure that everything is fastened?'

     "'Quite sure, dad.'

     "'Then, good-night.' I kissed her and went up to my bedroom again,
     where I was soon asleep.

     "I am endeavouring to tell you everything, Mr. Holmes, which may have
     any bearing upon the case, but I beg that you will question me upon
     any point which I do not make clear."

     "On the contrary, your statement is singularly lucid."

     "I come to a part of my story now in which I should wish to be
     particularly so. I am not a very heavy sleeper, and the anxiety in my
     mind tended, no doubt, to make me even less so than usual. About two
     in the morning, then, I was awakened by some sound in the house. It
     had ceased ere I was wide awake, but it had left an impression behind
     it as though a window had gently closed somewhere. I lay listening
     with all my ears. Suddenly, to my horror, there was a distinct sound
     of footsteps moving softly in the next room. I slipped out of bed,
     all palpitating with fear, and peeped round the corner of my
     dressing-room door.

     "'Arthur!' I screamed, 'you villain! you thief! How dare you touch
     that coronet?'

     "The gas was half up, as I had left it, and my unhappy boy, dressed
     only in his shirt and trousers, was standing beside the light,
     holding the coronet in his hands. He appeared to be wrenching at it,
     or bending it with all his strength. At my cry he dropped it from his
     grasp and turned as pale as death. I snatched it up and examined it.
     One of the gold corners, with three of the beryls in it, was missing.

     "'You blackguard!' I shouted, beside myself with rage. 'You have
     destroyed it! You have dishonoured me forever! Where are the jewels
     which you have stolen?'

     "'Stolen!' he cried.

     "'Yes, thief!' I roared, shaking him by the shoulder.

     "'There are none missing. There cannot be any missing,' said he.

     "'There are three missing. And you know where they are. Must I call
     you a liar as well as a thief? Did I not see you trying to tear off
     another piece?'

     "'You have called me names enough,' said he, 'I will not stand it any
     longer. I shall not say another word about this business, since you
     have chosen to insult me. I will leave your house in the morning and
     make my own way in the world.'

     "'You shall leave it in the hands of the police!' I cried half-mad
     with grief and rage. 'I shall have this matter probed to the bottom.'

     "'You shall learn nothing from me,' said he with a passion such as I
     should not have thought was in his nature. 'If you choose to call the
     police, let the police find what they can.'

     "By this time the whole house was astir, for I had raised my voice in
     my anger. Mary was the first to rush into my room, and, at the sight
     of the coronet and of Arthur's face, she read the whole story and,
     with a scream, fell down senseless on the ground. I sent the
     house-maid for the police and put the investigation into their hands
     at once. When the inspector and a constable entered the house,
     Arthur, who had stood sullenly with his arms folded, asked me whether
     it was my intention to charge him with theft. I answered that it had
     ceased to be a private matter, but had become a public one, since the
     ruined coronet was national property. I was determined that the law
     should have its way in everything.

     "'At least,' said he, 'you will not have me arrested at once. It
     would be to your advantage as well as mine if I might leave the house
     for five minutes.'

     "'That you may get away, or perhaps that you may conceal what you
     have stolen,' said I. And then, realising the dreadful position in
     which I was placed, I implored him to remember that not only my
     honour but that of one who was far greater than I was at stake; and
     that he threatened to raise a scandal which would convulse the
     nation. He might avert it all if he would but tell me what he had
     done with the three missing stones.

     "'You may as well face the matter,' said I; 'you have been caught in
     the act, and no confession could make your guilt more heinous. If you
     but make such reparation as is in your power, by telling us where the
     beryls are, all shall be forgiven and forgotten.'

     "'Keep your forgiveness for those who ask for it,' he answered,
     turning away from me with a sneer. I saw that he was too hardened for
     any words of mine to influence him. There was but one way for it. I
     called in the inspector and gave him into custody. A search was made
     at once not only of his person but of his room and of every portion
     of the house where he could possibly have concealed the gems; but no
     trace of them could be found, nor would the wretched boy open his
     mouth for all our persuasions and our threats. This morning he was
     removed to a cell, and I, after going through all the police
     formalities, have hurried round to you to implore you to use your
     skill in unravelling the matter. The police have openly confessed
     that they can at present make nothing of it. You may go to any
     expense which you think necessary. I have already offered a reward of
     Â£1000. My God, what shall I do! I have lost my honour, my gems, and
     my son in one night. Oh, what shall I do!"

     He put a hand on either side of his head and rocked himself to and
     fro, droning to himself like a child whose grief has got beyond
     words.

     Sherlock Holmes sat silent for some few minutes, with his brows
     knitted and his eyes fixed upon the fire.

     "Do you receive much company?" he asked.

     "None save my partner with his family and an occasional friend of
     Arthur's. Sir George Burnwell has been several times lately. No one
     else, I think."

     "Do you go out much in society?"

     "Arthur does. Mary and I stay at home. We neither of us care for it."

     "That is unusual in a young girl."

     "She is of a quiet nature. Besides, she is not so very young. She is
     four-and-twenty."

     "This matter, from what you say, seems to have been a shock to her
     also."

     "Terrible! She is even more affected than I."

     "You have neither of you any doubt as to your son's guilt?"

     "How can we have when I saw him with my own eyes with the coronet in
     his hands."

     "I hardly consider that a conclusive proof. Was the remainder of the
     coronet at all injured?"

     "Yes, it was twisted."

     "Do you not think, then, that he might have been trying to straighten
     it?"

     "God bless you! You are doing what you can for him and for me. But it
     is too heavy a task. What was he doing there at all? If his purpose
     were innocent, why did he not say so?"

     "Precisely. And if it were guilty, why did he not invent a lie? His
     silence appears to me to cut both ways. There are several singular
     points about the case. What did the police think of the noise which
     awoke you from your sleep?"

     "They considered that it might be caused by Arthur's closing his
     bedroom door."

     "A likely story! As if a man bent on felony would slam his door so as
     to wake a household. What did they say, then, of the disappearance of
     these gems?"

     "They are still sounding the planking and probing the furniture in
     the hope of finding them."

     "Have they thought of looking outside the house?"

     "Yes, they have shown extraordinary energy. The whole garden has
     already been minutely examined."

     "Now, my dear sir," said Holmes. "is it not obvious to you now that
     this matter really strikes very much deeper than either you or the
     police were at first inclined to think? It appeared to you to be a
     simple case; to me it seems exceedingly complex. Consider what is
     involved by your theory. You suppose that your son came down from his
     bed, went, at great risk, to your dressing-room, opened your bureau,
     took out your coronet, broke off by main force a small portion of it,
     went off to some other place, concealed three gems out of the
     thirty-nine, with such skill that nobody can find them, and then
     returned with the other thirty-six into the room in which he exposed
     himself to the greatest danger of being discovered. I ask you now, is
     such a theory tenable?"

     "But what other is there?" cried the banker with a gesture of
     despair. "If his motives were innocent, why does he not explain
     them?"

     "It is our task to find that out," replied Holmes; "so now, if you
     please, Mr. Holder, we will set off for Streatham together, and
     devote an hour to glancing a little more closely into details."

     My friend insisted upon my accompanying them in their expedition,
     which I was eager enough to do, for my curiosity and sympathy were
     deeply stirred by the story to which we had listened. I confess that
     the guilt of the banker's son appeared to me to be as obvious as it
     did to his unhappy father, but still I had such faith in Holmes'
     judgment that I felt that there must be some grounds for hope as long
     as he was dissatisfied with the accepted explanation. He hardly spoke
     a word the whole way out to the southern suburb, but sat with his
     chin upon his breast and his hat drawn over his eyes, sunk in the
     deepest thought. Our client appeared to have taken fresh heart at the
     little glimpse of hope which had been presented to him, and he even
     broke into a desultory chat with me over his business affairs. A
     short railway journey and a shorter walk brought us to Fairbank, the
     modest residence of the great financier.

     Fairbank was a good-sized square house of white stone, standing back
     a little from the road. A double carriage-sweep, with a snow-clad
     lawn, stretched down in front to two large iron gates which closed
     the entrance. On the right side was a small wooden thicket, which led
     into a narrow path between two neat hedges stretching from the road
     to the kitchen door, and forming the tradesmen's entrance. On the
     left ran a lane which led to the stables, and was not itself within
     the grounds at all, being a public, though little used, thoroughfare.
     Holmes left us standing at the door and walked slowly all round the
     house, across the front, down the tradesmen's path, and so round by
     the garden behind into the stable lane. So long was he that Mr.
     Holder and I went into the dining-room and waited by the fire until
     he should return. We were sitting there in silence when the door
     opened and a young lady came in. She was rather above the middle
     height, slim, with dark hair and eyes, which seemed the darker
     against the absolute pallor of her skin. I do not think that I have
     ever seen such deadly paleness in a woman's face. Her lips, too, were
     bloodless, but her eyes were flushed with crying. As she swept
     silently into the room she impressed me with a greater sense of grief
     than the banker had done in the morning, and it was the more striking
     in her as she was evidently a woman of strong character, with immense
     capacity for self-restraint. Disregarding my presence, she went
     straight to her uncle and passed her hand over his head with a sweet
     womanly caress.

     "You have given orders that Arthur should be liberated, have you not,
     dad?" she asked.

     "No, no, my girl, the matter must be probed to the bottom."

     "But I am so sure that he is innocent. You know what woman's
     instincts are. I know that he has done no harm and that you will be
     sorry for having acted so harshly."

     "Why is he silent, then, if he is innocent?"

     "Who knows? Perhaps because he was so angry that you should suspect
     him."

     "How could I help suspecting him, when I actually saw him with the
     coronet in his hand?"

     "Oh, but he had only picked it up to look at it. Oh, do, do take my
     word for it that he is innocent. Let the matter drop and say no more.
     It is so dreadful to think of our dear Arthur in a prison!"

     "I shall never let it drop until the gems are found--never, Mary!
     Your affection for Arthur blinds you as to the awful consequences to
     me. Far from hushing the thing up, I have brought a gentleman down
     from London to inquire more deeply into it."

     "This gentleman?" she asked, facing round to me.

     "No, his friend. He wished us to leave him alone. He is round in the
     stable lane now."

     "The stable lane?" She raised her dark eyebrows. "What can he hope to
     find there? Ah! this, I suppose, is he. I trust, sir, that you will
     succeed in proving, what I feel sure is the truth, that my cousin
     Arthur is innocent of this crime."

     "I fully share your opinion, and I trust, with you, that we may prove
     it," returned Holmes, going back to the mat to knock the snow from
     his shoes. "I believe I have the honour of addressing Miss Mary
     Holder. Might I ask you a question or two?"

     "Pray do, sir, if it may help to clear this horrible affair up."

     "You heard nothing yourself last night?"

     "Nothing, until my uncle here began to speak loudly. I heard that,
     and I came down."

     "You shut up the windows and doors the night before. Did you fasten
     all the windows?"

     "Yes."

     "Were they all fastened this morning?"

     "Yes."

     "You have a maid who has a sweetheart? I think that you remarked to
     your uncle last night that she had been out to see him?"

     "Yes, and she was the girl who waited in the drawing-room, and who
     may have heard uncle's remarks about the coronet."

     "I see. You infer that she may have gone out to tell her sweetheart,
     and that the two may have planned the robbery."

     "But what is the good of all these vague theories," cried the banker
     impatiently, "when I have told you that I saw Arthur with the coronet
     in his hands?"

     "Wait a little, Mr. Holder. We must come back to that. About this
     girl, Miss Holder. You saw her return by the kitchen door, I
     presume?"

     "Yes; when I went to see if the door was fastened for the night I met
     her slipping in. I saw the man, too, in the gloom."

     "Do you know him?"

     "Oh, yes! he is the green-grocer who brings our vegetables round. 
     His name is Francis Prosper."

     "He stood," said Holmes, "to the left of the door--that is to say,
     farther up the path than is necessary to reach the door?"

     "Yes, he did."

     "And he is a man with a wooden leg?"

     Something like fear sprang up in the young lady's expressive black
     eyes. "Why, you are like a magician," said she. "How do you know
     that?" She smiled, but there was no answering smile in Holmes' thin,
     eager face.

     "I should be very glad now to go upstairs," said he. "I shall
     probably wish to go over the outside of the house again. Perhaps I
     had better take a look at the lower windows before I go up."

     He walked swiftly round from one to the other, pausing only at the
     large one which looked from the hall onto the stable lane. This he
     opened and made a very careful examination of the sill with his
     powerful magnifying lens. "Now we shall go upstairs," said he at
     last.

     The banker's dressing-room was a plainly furnished little chamber,
     with a grey carpet, a large bureau, and a long mirror. Holmes went to
     the bureau first and looked hard at the lock.

     "Which key was used to open it?" he asked.

     "That which my son himself indicated--that of the cupboard of the
     lumber-room."

     "Have you it here?"

     "That is it on the dressing-table."

     Sherlock Holmes took it up and opened the bureau.

     "It is a noiseless lock," said he. "It is no wonder that it did not
     wake you. This case, I presume, contains the coronet. We must have a
     look at it." He opened the case, and taking out the diadem he laid it
     upon the table. It was a magnificent specimen of the jeweller's art,
     and the thirty-six stones were the finest that I have ever seen. At
     one side of the coronet was a cracked edge, where a corner holding
     three gems had been torn away.

     "Now, Mr. Holder," said Holmes, "here is the corner which corresponds
     to that which has been so unfortunately lost. Might I beg that you
     will break it off."

     The banker recoiled in horror. "I should not dream of trying," said
     he.

     "Then I will." Holmes suddenly bent his strength upon it, but without
     result. "I feel it give a little," said he; "but, though I am
     exceptionally strong in the fingers, it would take me all my time to
     break it. An ordinary man could not do it. Now, what do you think
     would happen if I did break it, Mr. Holder? There would be a noise
     like a pistol shot. Do you tell me that all this happened within a
     few yards of your bed and that you heard nothing of it?"

     "I do not know what to think. It is all dark to me."

     "But perhaps it may grow lighter as we go. What do you think, Miss
     Holder?"

     "I confess that I still share my uncle's perplexity."

     "Your son had no shoes or slippers on when you saw him?"

     "He had nothing on save only his trousers and shirt."

     "Thank you. We have certainly been favoured with extraordinary luck
     during this inquiry, and it will be entirely our own fault if we do
     not succeed in clearing the matter up. With your permission, Mr.
     Holder, I shall now continue my investigations outside."

     He went alone, at his own request, for he explained that any
     unnecessary footmarks might make his task more difficult. For an hour
     or more he was at work, returning at last with his feet heavy with
     snow and his features as inscrutable as ever.

     "I think that I have seen now all that there is to see, Mr. Holder,"
     said he; "I can serve you best by returning to my rooms."

     "But the gems, Mr. Holmes. Where are they?"

     "I cannot tell."

     The banker wrung his hands. "I shall never see them again!" he cried.
     "And my son? You give me hopes?"

     "My opinion is in no way altered."

     "Then, for God's sake, what was this dark business which was acted in
     my house last night?"

     "If you can call upon me at my Baker Street rooms to-morrow morning
     between nine and ten I shall be happy to do what I can to make it
     clearer. I understand that you give me carte blanche to act for you,
     provided only that I get back the gems, and that you place no limit
     on the sum I may draw."

     "I would give my fortune to have them back."

     "Very good. I shall look into the matter between this and then. 
     Good-bye; it is just possible that I may have to come over here again
     before evening."

     It was obvious to me that my companion's mind was now made up about
     the case, although what his conclusions were was more than I could
     even dimly imagine. Several times during our homeward journey I
     endeavoured to sound him upon the point, but he always glided away to
     some other topic, until at last I gave it over in despair. It was not
     yet three when we found ourselves in our rooms once more. He hurried
     to his chamber and was down again in a few minutes dressed as a
     common loafer. With his collar turned up, his shiny, seedy coat, his
     red cravat, and his worn boots, he was a perfect sample of the class.

     "I think that this should do," said he, glancing into the glass above
     the fireplace. "I only wish that you could come with me, Watson, but
     I fear that it won't do. I may be on the trail in this matter, or I
     may be following a will-o'-the-wisp, but I shall soon know which it
     is. I hope that I may be back in a few hours." He cut a slice of beef
     from the joint upon the sideboard, sandwiched it between two rounds
     of bread, and thrusting this rude meal into his pocket he started off
     upon his expedition.

     I had just finished my tea when he returned, evidently in excellent
     spirits, swinging an old elastic-sided boot in his hand. He chucked
     it down into a corner and helped himself to a cup of tea.

     "I only looked in as I passed," said he. "I am going right on."

     "Where to?"

     "Oh, to the other side of the West End. It may be some time before I
     get back. Don't wait up for me in case I should be late."

     "How are you getting on?"

     "Oh, so so. Nothing to complain of. I have been out to Streatham
     since I saw you last, but I did not call at the house. It is a very
     sweet little problem, and I would not have missed it for a good deal.
     However, I must not sit gossiping here, but must get these
     disreputable clothes off and return to my highly respectable self."

     I could see by his manner that he had stronger reasons for
     satisfaction than his words alone would imply. His eyes twinkled, and
     there was even a touch of colour upon his sallow cheeks. He hastened
     upstairs, and a few minutes later I heard the slam of the hall door,
     which told me that he was off once more upon his congenial hunt.

     I waited until midnight, but there was no sign of his return, so I
     retired to my room. It was no uncommon thing for him to be away for
     days and nights on end when he was hot upon a scent, so that his
     lateness caused me no surprise. I do not know at what hour he came
     in, but when I came down to breakfast in the morning there he was
     with a cup of coffee in one hand and the paper in the other, as fresh
     and trim as possible.

     "You will excuse my beginning without you, Watson," said he, "but you
     remember that our client has rather an early appointment this
     morning."

     "Why, it is after nine now," I answered. "I should not be surprised
     if that were he. I thought I heard a ring."

     It was, indeed, our friend the financier. I was shocked by the change
     which had come over him, for his face which was naturally of a broad
     and massive mould, was now pinched and fallen in, while his hair
     seemed to me at least a shade whiter. He entered with a weariness and
     lethargy which was even more painful than his violence of the morning
     before, and he dropped heavily into the armchair which I pushed
     forward for him.

     "I do not know what I have done to be so severely tried," said he.
     "Only two days ago I was a happy and prosperous man, without a care
     in the world. Now I am left to a lonely and dishonoured age. One
     sorrow comes close upon the heels of another. My niece, Mary, has
     deserted me."

     "Deserted you?"

     "Yes. Her bed this morning had not been slept in, her room was empty,
     and a note for me lay upon the hall table. I had said to her last
     night, in sorrow and not in anger, that if she had married my boy all
     might have been well with him. Perhaps it was thoughtless of me to
     say so. It is to that remark that she refers in this note:

     "'My dearest Uncle:
     "'I feel that I have brought trouble upon you, and that if I had
     acted differently this terrible misfortune might never have occurred.
     I cannot, with this thought in my mind, ever again be happy under
     your roof, and I feel that I must leave you forever. Do not worry
     about my future, for that is provided for; and, above all, do not
     search for me, for it will be fruitless labour and an ill-service to
     me. In life or in death, I am ever
     "'Your loving
     "'Mary.'

     "What could she mean by that note, Mr. Holmes? Do you think it points
     to suicide?"

     "No, no, nothing of the kind. It is perhaps the best possible
     solution. I trust, Mr. Holder, that you are nearing the end of your
     troubles."

     "Ha! You say so! You have heard something, Mr. Holmes; you have
     learned something! Where are the gems?"

     "You would not think Â£1000 pounds apiece an excessive sum for them?"

     "I would pay ten."

     "That would be unnecessary. Three thousand will cover the matter. And
     there is a little reward, I fancy. Have you your check-book?  Here is
     a pen. Better make it out for Â£4000."

     With a dazed face the banker made out the required check. Holmes
     walked over to his desk, took out a little triangular piece of gold
     with three gems in it, and threw it down upon the table.

     With a shriek of joy our client clutched it up.

     "You have it!" he gasped. "I am saved! I am saved!"

     The reaction of joy was as passionate as his grief had been, and he
     hugged his recovered gems to his bosom.

     "There is one other thing you owe, Mr. Holder," said Sherlock Holmes
     rather sternly.

     "Owe!" He caught up a pen. "Name the sum, and I will pay it."

     "No, the debt is not to me. You owe a very humble apology to that
     noble lad, your son, who has carried himself in this matter as I
     should be proud to see my own son do, should I ever chance to have
     one."

     "Then it was not Arthur who took them?"

     "I told you yesterday, and I repeat to-day, that it was not."

     "You are sure of it! Then let us hurry to him at once to let him know
     that the truth is known."

     "He knows it already. When I had cleared it all up I had an interview
     with him, and finding that he would not tell me the story, I told it
     to him, on which he had to confess that I was right and to add the
     very few details which were not yet quite clear to me. Your news of
     this morning, however, may open his lips."

     "For heaven's sake, tell me, then, what is this extraordinary
     mystery!"

     "I will do so, and I will show you the steps by which I reached it.
     And let me say to you, first, that which it is hardest for me to say
     and for you to hear: there has been an understanding between Sir
     George Burnwell and your niece Mary. They have now fled together."

     "My Mary? Impossible!"

     "It is unfortunately more than possible; it is certain. Neither you
     nor your son knew the true character of this man when you admitted
     him into your family circle. He is one of the most dangerous men in
     England--a ruined gambler, an absolutely desperate villain, a man
     without heart or conscience. Your niece knew nothing of such men.
     When he breathed his vows to her, as he had done to a hundred before
     her, she flattered herself that she alone had touched his heart. The
     devil knows best what he said, but at least she became his tool and
     was in the habit of seeing him nearly every evening."

     "I cannot, and I will not, believe it!" cried the banker with an
     ashen face.

     "I will tell you, then, what occurred in your house last night. Your
     niece, when you had, as she thought, gone to your room, slipped down
     and talked to her lover through the window which leads into the
     stable lane. His footmarks had pressed right through the snow, so
     long had he stood there. She told him of the coronet. His wicked lust
     for gold kindled at the news, and he bent her to his will. I have no
     doubt that she loved you, but there are women in whom the love of a
     lover extinguishes all other loves, and I think that she must have
     been one. She had hardly listened to his instructions when she saw
     you coming downstairs, on which she closed the window rapidly and
     told you about one of the servants' escapade with her wooden-legged
     lover, which was all perfectly true.

     "Your boy, Arthur, went to bed after his interview with you but he
     slept badly on account of his uneasiness about his club debts. In the
     middle of the night he heard a soft tread pass his door, so he rose
     and, looking out, was surprised to see his cousin walking very
     stealthily along the passage until she disappeared into your
     dressing-room. Petrified with astonishment, the lad slipped on some
     clothes and waited there in the dark to see what would come of this
     strange affair. Presently she emerged from the room again, and in the
     light of the passage-lamp your son saw that she carried the precious
     coronet in her hands. She passed down the stairs, and he, thrilling
     with horror, ran along and slipped behind the curtain near your door,
     whence he could see what passed in the hall beneath. He saw her
     stealthily open the window, hand out the coronet to someone in the
     gloom, and then closing it once more hurry back to her room, passing
     quite close to where he stood hid behind the curtain.

     "As long as she was on the scene he could not take any action without
     a horrible exposure of the woman whom he loved. But the instant that
     she was gone he realised how crushing a misfortune this would be for
     you, and how all-important it was to set it right. He rushed down,
     just as he was, in his bare feet, opened the window, sprang out into
     the snow, and ran down the lane, where he could see a dark figure in
     the moonlight. Sir George Burnwell tried to get away, but Arthur
     caught him, and there was a struggle between them, your lad tugging
     at one side of the coronet, and his opponent at the other. In the
     scuffle, your son struck Sir George and cut him over the eye. Then
     something suddenly snapped, and your son, finding that he had the
     coronet in his hands, rushed back, closed the window, ascended to
     your room, and had just observed that the coronet had been twisted in
     the struggle and was endeavouring to straighten it when you appeared
     upon the scene."

     "Is it possible?" gasped the banker.

     "You then roused his anger by calling him names at a moment when he
     felt that he had deserved your warmest thanks. He could not explain
     the true state of affairs without betraying one who certainly
     deserved little enough consideration at his hands. He took the more
     chivalrous view, however, and preserved her secret."

     "And that was why she shrieked and fainted when she saw the coronet,"
     cried Mr. Holder. "Oh, my God! what a blind fool I have been! And his
     asking to be allowed to go out for five minutes! The dear fellow
     wanted to see if the missing piece were at the scene of the struggle.
     How cruelly I have misjudged him!"

     "When I arrived at the house," continued Holmes, "I at once went very
     carefully round it to observe if there were any traces in the snow
     which might help me. I knew that none had fallen since the evening
     before, and also that there had been a strong frost to preserve
     impressions. I passed along the tradesmen's path, but found it all
     trampled down and indistinguishable. Just beyond it, however, at the
     far side of the kitchen door, a woman had stood and talked with a
     man, whose round impressions on one side showed that he had a wooden
     leg. I could even tell that they had been disturbed, for the woman
     had run back swiftly to the door, as was shown by the deep toe and
     light heel marks, while Wooden-leg had waited a little, and then had
     gone away. I thought at the time that this might be the maid and her
     sweetheart, of whom you had already spoken to me, and inquiry showed
     it was so. I passed round the garden without seeing anything more
     than random tracks, which I took to be the police; but when I got
     into the stable lane a very long and complex story was written in the
     snow in front of me.

     "There was a double line of tracks of a booted man, and a second
     double line which I saw with delight belonged to a man with naked
     feet. I was at once convinced from what you had told me that the
     latter was your son. The first had walked both ways, but the other
     had run swiftly, and as his tread was marked in places over the
     depression of the boot, it was obvious that he had passed after the
     other. I followed them up and found they led to the hall window,
     where Boots had worn all the snow away while waiting. Then I walked
     to the other end, which was a hundred yards or more down the lane. I
     saw where Boots had faced round, where the snow was cut up as though
     there had been a struggle, and, finally, where a few drops of blood
     had fallen, to show me that I was not mistaken. Boots had then run
     down the lane, and another little smudge of blood showed that it was
     he who had been hurt. When he came to the highroad at the other end,
     I found that the pavement had been cleared, so there was an end to
     that clue.

     "On entering the house, however, I examined, as you remember, the
     sill and framework of the hall window with my lens, and I could at
     once see that someone had passed out. I could distinguish the outline
     of an instep where the wet foot had been placed in coming in. I was
     then beginning to be able to form an opinion as to what had occurred.
     A man had waited outside the window; someone had brought the gems;
     the deed had been overseen by your son; he had pursued the thief; had
     struggled with him; they had each tugged at the coronet, their united
     strength causing injuries which neither alone could have effected. He
     had returned with the prize, but had left a fragment in the grasp of
     his opponent. So far I was clear. The question now was, who was the
     man and who was it brought him the coronet?

     "It is an old maxim of mine that when you have excluded the
     impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth.
     Now, I knew that it was not you who had brought it down, so there
     only remained your niece and the maids. But if it were the maids, why
     should your son allow himself to be accused in their place? There
     could be no possible reason. As he loved his cousin, however, there
     was an excellent explanation why he should retain her secret--the
     more so as the secret was a disgraceful one. When I remembered that
     you had seen her at that window, and how she had fainted on seeing
     the coronet again, my conjecture became a certainty.

     "And who could it be who was her confederate? A lover evidently, for
     who else could outweigh the love and gratitude which she must feel to
     you? I knew that you went out little, and that your circle of friends
     was a very limited one. But among them was Sir George Burnwell. I had
     heard of him before as being a man of evil reputation among women. It
     must have been he who wore those boots and retained the missing gems.
     Even though he knew that Arthur had discovered him, he might still
     flatter himself that he was safe, for the lad could not say a word
     without compromising his own family.

     "Well, your own good sense will suggest what measures I took next. I
     went in the shape of a loafer to Sir George's house, managed to pick
     up an acquaintance with his valet, learned that his master had cut
     his head the night before, and, finally, at the expense of six
     shillings, made all sure by buying a pair of his cast-off shoes. With
     these I journeyed down to Streatham and saw that they exactly fitted
     the tracks."

     "I saw an ill-dressed vagabond in the lane yesterday evening," said
     Mr. Holder.

     "Precisely. It was I. I found that I had my man, so I came home and
     changed my clothes. It was a delicate part which I had to play then,
     for I saw that a prosecution must be avoided to avert scandal, and I
     knew that so astute a villain would see that our hands were tied in
     the matter. I went and saw him. At first, of course, he denied
     everything. But when I gave him every particular that had occurred,
     he tried to bluster and took down a life-preserver from the wall. I
     knew my man, however, and I clapped a pistol to his head before he
     could strike. Then he became a little more reasonable. I told him
     that we would give him a price for the stones he held--Â£1000 apiece.
     That brought out the first signs of grief that he had shown. 'Why,
     dash it all!' said he, 'I've let them go at six hundred for the
     three!' I soon managed to get the address of the receiver who had
     them, on promising him that there would be no prosecution. Off I set
     to him, and after much chaffering I got our stones at 1000 pounds
     apiece. Then I looked in upon your son, told him that all was right,
     and eventually got to my bed about two o'clock, after what I may call
     a really hard day's work."

     "A day which has saved England from a great public scandal," said the
     banker, rising. "Sir, I cannot find words to thank you, but you shall
     not find me ungrateful for what you have done. Your skill has indeed
     exceeded all that I have heard of it. And now I must fly to my dear
     boy to apologise to him for the wrong which I have done him. As to
     what you tell me of poor Mary, it goes to my very heart. Not even
     your skill can inform me where she is now."

     "I think that we may safely say," returned Holmes, "that she is
     wherever Sir George Burnwell is. It is equally certain, too, that
     whatever her sins are, they will soon receive a more than sufficient
     punishment."






                       THE ADVENTURE OF THE COPPER BEECHES

     "To the man who loves art for its own sake," remarked Sherlock
     Holmes, tossing aside the advertisement sheet of the Daily Telegraph,
     "it is frequently in its least important and lowliest manifestations
     that the keenest pleasure is to be derived. It is pleasant to me to
     observe, Watson, that you have so far grasped this truth that in
     these little records of our cases which you have been good enough to
     draw up, and, I am bound to say, occasionally to embellish, you have
     given prominence not so much to the many causes cÃ©lÃ¨bres and
     sensational trials in which I have figured but rather to those
     incidents which may have been trivial in themselves, but which have
     given room for those faculties of deduction and of logical synthesis
     which I have made my special province."

     "And yet," said I, smiling, "I cannot quite hold myself absolved from
     the charge of sensationalism which has been urged against my
     records."

     "You have erred, perhaps," he observed, taking up a glowing cinder
     with the tongs and lighting with it the long cherry-wood pipe which
     was wont to replace his clay when he was in a disputatious rather
     than a meditative mood--"you have erred perhaps in attempting to put
     colour and life into each of your statements instead of confining
     yourself to the task of placing upon record that severe reasoning
     from cause to effect which is really the only notable feature about
     the thing."

     "It seems to me that I have done you full justice in the matter," I
     remarked with some coldness, for I was repelled by the egotism which
     I had more than once observed to be a strong factor in my friend's
     singular character.

     "No, it is not selfishness or conceit," said he, answering, as was
     his wont, my thoughts rather than my words. "If I claim full justice
     for my art, it is because it is an impersonal thing--a thing beyond
     myself. Crime is common. Logic is rare. Therefore it is upon the
     logic rather than upon the crime that you should dwell. You have
     degraded what should have been a course of lectures into a series of
     tales."

     It was a cold morning of the early spring, and we sat after breakfast
     on either side of a cheery fire in the old room at Baker Street. A
     thick fog rolled down between the lines of dun-coloured houses, and
     the opposing windows loomed like dark, shapeless blurs through the
     heavy yellow wreaths. Our gas was lit and shone on the white cloth
     and glimmer of china and metal, for the table had not been cleared
     yet. Sherlock Holmes had been silent all the morning, dipping
     continuously into the advertisement columns of a succession of papers
     until at last, having apparently given up his search, he had emerged
     in no very sweet temper to lecture me upon my literary shortcomings.

     "At the same time," he remarked after a pause, during which he had
     sat puffing at his long pipe and gazing down into the fire, "you can
     hardly be open to a charge of sensationalism, for out of these cases
     which you have been so kind as to interest yourself in, a fair
     proportion do not treat of crime, in its legal sense, at all. The
     small matter in which I endeavoured to help the King of Bohemia, the
     singular experience of Miss Mary Sutherland, the problem connected
     with the man with the twisted lip, and the incident of the noble
     bachelor, were all matters which are outside the pale of the law. But
     in avoiding the sensational, I fear that you may have bordered on the
     trivial."

     "The end may have been so," I answered, "but the methods I hold to
     have been novel and of interest."

     "Pshaw, my dear fellow, what do the public, the great unobservant
     public, who could hardly tell a weaver by his tooth or a compositor
     by his left thumb, care about the finer shades of analysis and
     deduction! But, indeed, if you are trivial, I cannot blame you, for
     the days of the great cases are past. Man, or at least criminal man,
     has lost all enterprise and originality. As to my own little
     practice, it seems to be degenerating into an agency for recovering
     lost lead pencils and giving advice to young ladies from
     boarding-schools. I think that I have touched bottom at last,
     however. This note I had this morning marks my zero-point, I fancy.
     Read it!" He tossed a crumpled letter across to me.

     It was dated from Montague Place upon the preceding evening, and ran
     thus:

     Dear Mr. Holmes:
     I am very anxious to consult you as to whether I should or should not
     accept a situation which has been offered to me as governess. I shall
     call at half-past ten to-morrow if I do not inconvenience you.
     Yours faithfully,
     Violet Hunter.

     "Do you know the young lady?" I asked.

     "Not I."

     "It is half-past ten now."

     "Yes, and I have no doubt that is her ring."

     "It may turn out to be of more interest than you think. You remember
     that the affair of the blue carbuncle, which appeared to be a mere
     whim at first, developed into a serious investigation. It may be so
     in this case, also."

     "Well, let us hope so. But our doubts will very soon be solved, for
     here, unless I am much mistaken, is the person in question."

     As he spoke the door opened and a young lady entered the room. She
     was plainly but neatly dressed, with a bright, quick face, freckled
     like a plover's egg, and with the brisk manner of a woman who has had
     her own way to make in the world.

     "You will excuse my troubling you, I am sure," said she, as my
     companion rose to greet her, "but I have had a very strange
     experience, and as I have no parents or relations of any sort from
     whom I could ask advice, I thought that perhaps you would be kind
     enough to tell me what I should do."

     "Pray take a seat, Miss Hunter. I shall be happy to do anything that
     I can to serve you."

     I could see that Holmes was favourably impressed by the manner and
     speech of his new client. He looked her over in his searching
     fashion, and then composed himself, with his lids drooping and his
     finger-tips together, to listen to her story.

     "I have been a governess for five years," said she, "in the family of
     Colonel Spence Munro, but two months ago the colonel received an
     appointment at Halifax, in Nova Scotia, and took his children over to
     America with him, so that I found myself without a situation. I
     advertised, and I answered advertisements, but without success. At
     last the little money which I had saved began to run short, and I was
     at my wit's end as to what I should do.

     "There is a well-known agency for governesses in the West End called
     Westaway's, and there I used to call about once a week in order to
     see whether anything had turned up which might suit me. Westaway was
     the name of the founder of the business, but it is really managed by
     Miss Stoper. She sits in her own little office, and the ladies who
     are seeking employment wait in an anteroom, and are then shown in one
     by one, when she consults her ledgers and sees whether she has
     anything which would suit them.

     "Well, when I called last week I was shown into the little office as
     usual, but I found that Miss Stoper was not alone. A prodigiously
     stout man with a very smiling face and a great heavy chin which
     rolled down in fold upon fold over his throat sat at her elbow with a
     pair of glasses on his nose, looking very earnestly at the ladies who
     entered. As I came in he gave quite a jump in his chair and turned
     quickly to Miss Stoper.

     "'That will do,' said he; 'I could not ask for anything better.
     Capital! capital!' He seemed quite enthusiastic and rubbed his hands
     together in the most genial fashion. He was such a
     comfortable-looking man that it was quite a pleasure to look at him.

     "'You are looking for a situation, miss?' he asked.

     "'Yes, sir.'

     "'As governess?'

     "'Yes, sir.'

     "'And what salary do you ask?'

     "'I had Â£4 a month in my last place with Colonel Spence Munro.'

     "'Oh, tut, tut! sweating--rank sweating!' he cried, throwing his fat
     hands out into the air like a man who is in a boiling passion. 'How
     could anyone offer so pitiful a sum to a lady with such attractions
     and accomplishments?'

     "'My accomplishments, sir, may be less than you imagine,' said I. 'A
     little French, a little German, music, and drawing--'

     "'Tut, tut!' he cried. 'This is all quite beside the question. The
     point is, have you or have you not the bearing and deportment of a
     lady? There it is in a nutshell. If you have not, you are not fitted
     for the rearing of a child who may some day play a considerable part
     in the history of the country. But if you have why, then, how could
     any gentleman ask you to condescend to accept anything under the
     three figures? Your salary with me, madam, would commence at Â£100 a
     year.'

     "You may imagine, Mr. Holmes, that to me, destitute as I was, such an
     offer seemed almost too good to be true. The gentleman, however,
     seeing perhaps the look of incredulity upon my face, opened a
     pocket-book and took out a note.

     "'It is also my custom,' said he, smiling in the most pleasant
     fashion until his eyes were just two little shining slits amid the
     white creases of his face, 'to advance to my young ladies half their
     salary beforehand, so that they may meet any little expenses of their
     journey and their wardrobe.'

     "It seemed to me that I had never met so fascinating and so
     thoughtful a man. As I was already in debt to my tradesmen, the
     advance was a great convenience, and yet there was something
     unnatural about the whole transaction which made me wish to know a
     little more before I quite committed myself.

     "'May I ask where you live, sir?' said I.

     "'Hampshire. Charming rural place. The Copper Beeches, five miles on
     the far side of Winchester. It is the most lovely country, my dear
     young lady, and the dearest old country-house.'

     "'And my duties, sir? I should be glad to know what they would be.'

     "'One child--one dear little romper just six years old. Oh, if you
     could see him killing cockroaches with a slipper! Smack! smack!
     smack! Three gone before you could wink!' He leaned back in his chair
     and laughed his eyes into his head again.

     "I was a little startled at the nature of the child's amusement, but
     the father's laughter made me think that perhaps he was joking.

     "'My sole duties, then,' I asked, 'are to take charge of a single
     child?'

     "'No, no, not the sole, not the sole, my dear young lady,' he cried.
     'Your duty would be, as I am sure your good sense would suggest, to
     obey any little commands my wife might give, provided always that
     they were such commands as a lady might with propriety obey. You see
     no difficulty, heh?'

     "'I should be happy to make myself useful.'

     "'Quite so. In dress now, for example. We are faddy people, you
     know--faddy but kind-hearted. If you were asked to wear any dress
     which we might give you, you would not object to our little whim.
     Heh?'

     "'No,' said I, considerably astonished at his words.

     "'Or to sit here, or sit there, that would not be offensive to you?'

     "'Oh, no.'

     "'Or to cut your hair quite short before you come to us?'

     "I could hardly believe my ears. As you may observe, Mr. Holmes, my
     hair is somewhat luxuriant, and of a rather peculiar tint of
     chestnut. It has been considered artistic. I could not dream of
     sacrificing it in this offhand fashion.

     "'I am afraid that that is quite impossible,' said I. He had been
     watching me eagerly out of his small eyes, and I could see a shadow
     pass over his face as I spoke.

     "'I am afraid that it is quite essential,' said he. 'It is a little
     fancy of my wife's, and ladies' fancies, you know, madam, ladies'
     fancies must be consulted. And so you won't cut your hair?'

     "'No, sir, I really could not,' I answered firmly.

     "'Ah, very well; then that quite settles the matter. It is a pity,
     because in other respects you would really have done very nicely. In
     that case, Miss Stoper, I had best inspect a few more of your young
     ladies.'

     "The manageress had sat all this while busy with her papers without a
     word to either of us, but she glanced at me now with so much
     annoyance upon her face that I could not help suspecting that she had
     lost a handsome commission through my refusal.

     "'Do you desire your name to be kept upon the books?' she asked.

     "'If you please, Miss Stoper.'

     "'Well, really, it seems rather useless, since you refuse the most
     excellent offers in this fashion,' said she sharply. 'You can hardly
     expect us to exert ourselves to find another such opening for you.
     Good-day to you, Miss Hunter.' She struck a gong upon the table, and
     I was shown out by the page.

     "Well, Mr. Holmes, when I got back to my lodgings and found little
     enough in the cupboard, and two or three bills upon the table. I
     began to ask myself whether I had not done a very foolish thing.
     After all, if these people had strange fads and expected obedience on
     the most extraordinary matters, they were at least ready to pay for
     their eccentricity. Very few governesses in England are getting Â£100
     a year. Besides, what use was my hair to me? Many people are improved
     by wearing it short and perhaps I should be among the number. Next
     day I was inclined to think that I had made a mistake, and by the day
     after I was sure of it. I had almost overcome my pride so far as to
     go back to the agency and inquire whether the place was still open
     when I received this letter from the gentleman himself. I have it
     here and I will read it to you:

     "'The Copper Beeches, near Winchester.
     "'Dear Miss Hunter:
     "'Miss Stoper has very kindly given me your address, and I write from
     here to ask you whether you have reconsidered your decision. My wife
     is very anxious that you should come, for she has been much attracted
     by my description of you. We are willing to give Â£30 a quarter, or
     Â£120 a year, so as to recompense you for any little inconvenience
     which our fads may cause you. They are not very exacting, after all.
     My wife is fond of a particular shade of electric blue and would like
     you to wear such a dress indoors in the morning. You need not,
     however, go to the expense of purchasing one, as we have one
     belonging to my dear daughter Alice (now in Philadelphia), which
     would, I should think, fit you very well. Then, as to sitting here or
     there, or amusing yourself in any manner indicated, that need cause
     you no inconvenience. As regards your hair, it is no doubt a pity,
     especially as I could not help remarking its beauty during our short
     interview, but I am afraid that I must remain firm upon this point,
     and I only hope that the increased salary may recompense you for the
     loss. Your duties, as far as the child is concerned, are very light.
     Now do try to come, and I shall meet you with the dog-cart at
     Winchester. Let me know your train.
     "'Yours faithfully,
     "'Jephro Rucastle.'

     "That is the letter which I have just received, Mr. Holmes, and my
     mind is made up that I will accept it. I thought, however, that
     before taking the final step I should like to submit the whole matter
     to your consideration."

     "Well, Miss Hunter, if your mind is made up, that settles the
     question," said Holmes, smiling.

     "But you would not advise me to refuse?"

     "I confess that it is not the situation which I should like to see a
     sister of mine apply for."

     "What is the meaning of it all, Mr. Holmes?"

     "Ah, I have no data. I cannot tell. Perhaps you have yourself formed
     some opinion?"

     "Well, there seems to me to be only one possible solution. Mr.
     Rucastle seemed to be a very kind, good-natured man. Is it not
     possible that his wife is a lunatic, that he desires to keep the
     matter quiet for fear she should be taken to an asylum, and that he
     humours her fancies in every way in order to prevent an outbreak?"

     "That is a possible solution--in fact, as matters stand, it is the
     most probable one. But in any case it does not seem to be a nice
     household for a young lady."

     "But the money, Mr. Holmes, the money!"

     "Well, yes, of course the pay is good--too good. That is what makes
     me uneasy. Why should they give you Â£120 a year, when they could have
     their pick for Â£40? There must be some strong reason behind."

     "I thought that if I told you the circumstances you would understand
     afterwards if I wanted your help. I should feel so much stronger if I
     felt that you were at the back of me."

     "Oh, you may carry that feeling away with you. I assure you that your
     little problem promises to be the most interesting which has come my
     way for some months. There is something distinctly novel about some
     of the features. If you should find yourself in doubt or in danger--"

     "Danger! What danger do you foresee?"

     Holmes shook his head gravely. "It would cease to be a danger if we
     could define it," said he. "But at any time, day or night, a telegram
     would bring me down to your help."

     "That is enough." She rose briskly from her chair with the anxiety
     all swept from her face. "I shall go down to Hampshire quite easy in
     my mind now. I shall write to Mr. Rucastle at once, sacrifice my poor
     hair to-night, and start for Winchester to-morrow." With a few
     grateful words to Holmes she bade us both good-night and bustled off
     upon her way.

     "At least," said I as we heard her quick, firm steps descending the
     stairs, "she seems to be a young lady who is very well able to take
     care of herself."

     "And she would need to be," said Holmes gravely. "I am much mistaken
     if we do not hear from her before many days are past."

     It was not very long before my friend's prediction was fulfilled. A
     fortnight went by, during which I frequently found my thoughts
     turning in her direction and wondering what strange side-alley of
     human experience this lonely woman had strayed into. The unusual
     salary, the curious conditions, the light duties, all pointed to
     something abnormal, though whether a fad or a plot, or whether the
     man were a philanthropist or a villain, it was quite beyond my powers
     to determine. As to Holmes, I observed that he sat frequently for
     half an hour on end, with knitted brows and an abstracted air, but he
     swept the matter away with a wave of his hand when I mentioned it.
     "Data! data! data!" he cried impatiently. "I can't make bricks
     without clay." And yet he would always wind up by muttering that no
     sister of his should ever have accepted such a situation.

     The telegram which we eventually received came late one night just as
     I was thinking of turning in and Holmes was settling down to one of
     those all-night chemical researches which he frequently indulged in,
     when I would leave him stooping over a retort and a test-tube at
     night and find him in the same position when I came down to breakfast
     in the morning. He opened the yellow envelope, and then, glancing at
     the message, threw it across to me.

     "Just look up the trains in Bradshaw," said he, and turned back to
     his chemical studies.

     The summons was a brief and urgent one.

     Please be at the Black Swan Hotel at Winchester at midday to-morrow
     [it said]. Do come! I am at my wit's end.
     Hunter.

     "Will you come with me?" asked Holmes, glancing up.

     "I should wish to."

     "Just look it up, then."

     "There is a train at half-past nine," said I, glancing over my
     Bradshaw. "It is due at Winchester at 11.30."

     "That will do very nicely. Then perhaps I had better postpone my
     analysis of the acetones, as we may need to be at our best in the
     morning."

     By eleven o'clock the next day we were well upon our way to the old
     English capital. Holmes had been buried in the morning papers all the
     way down, but after we had passed the Hampshire border he threw them
     down and began to admire the scenery. It was an ideal spring day, a
     light blue sky, flecked with little fleecy white clouds drifting
     across from west to east. The sun was shining very brightly, and yet
     there was an exhilarating nip in the air, which set an edge to a
     man's energy. All over the countryside, away to the rolling hills
     around Aldershot, the little red and grey roofs of the farm-steadings
     peeped out from amid the light green of the new foliage.

     "Are they not fresh and beautiful?" I cried with all the enthusiasm
     of a man fresh from the fogs of Baker Street.

     But Holmes shook his head gravely.

     "Do you know, Watson," said he, "that it is one of the curses of a
     mind with a turn like mine that I must look at everything with
     reference to my own special subject. You look at these scattered
     houses, and you are impressed by their beauty. I look at them, and
     the only thought which comes to me is a feeling of their isolation
     and of the impunity with which crime may be committed there."

     "Good heavens!" I cried. "Who would associate crime with these dear
     old homesteads?"

     "They always fill me with a certain horror. It is my belief, Watson,
     founded upon my experience, that the lowest and vilest alleys in
     London do not present a more dreadful record of sin than does the
     smiling and beautiful countryside."

     "You horrify me!"

     "But the reason is very obvious. The pressure of public opinion can
     do in the town what the law cannot accomplish. There is no lane so
     vile that the scream of a tortured child, or the thud of a drunkard's
     blow, does not beget sympathy and indignation among the neighbours,
     and then the whole machinery of justice is ever so close that a word
     of complaint can set it going, and there is but a step between the
     crime and the dock. But look at these lonely houses, each in its own
     fields, filled for the most part with poor ignorant folk who know
     little of the law. Think of the deeds of hellish cruelty, the hidden
     wickedness which may go on, year in, year out, in such places, and
     none the wiser. Had this lady who appeals to us for help gone to live
     in Winchester, I should never have had a fear for her. It is the five
     miles of country which makes the danger. Still, it is clear that she
     is not personally threatened."

     "No. If she can come to Winchester to meet us she can get away."

     "Quite so. She has her freedom."

     "What can be the matter, then? Can you suggest no explanation?"

     "I have devised seven separate explanations, each of which would
     cover the facts as far as we know them. But which of these is correct
     can only be determined by the fresh information which we shall no
     doubt find waiting for us. Well, there is the tower of the cathedral,
     and we shall soon learn all that Miss Hunter has to tell."

     The Black Swan is an inn of repute in the High Street, at no distance
     from the station, and there we found the young lady waiting for us.
     She had engaged a sitting-room, and our lunch awaited us upon the
     table.

     "I am so delighted that you have come," she said earnestly. "It is so
     very kind of you both; but indeed I do not know what I should do.
     Your advice will be altogether invaluable to me."

     "Pray tell us what has happened to you."

     "I will do so, and I must be quick, for I have promised Mr. Rucastle
     to be back before three. I got his leave to come into town this
     morning, though he little knew for what purpose."

     "Let us have everything in its due order." Holmes thrust his long
     thin legs out towards the fire and composed himself to listen.

     "In the first place, I may say that I have met, on the whole, with no
     actual ill-treatment from Mr. and Mrs. Rucastle. It is only fair to
     them to say that. But I cannot understand them, and I am not easy in
     my mind about them."

     "What can you not understand?"

     "Their reasons for their conduct. But you shall have it all just as
     it occurred. When I came down, Mr. Rucastle met me here and drove me
     in his dog-cart to the Copper Beeches. It is, as he said, beautifully
     situated, but it is not beautiful in itself, for it is a large square
     block of a house, whitewashed, but all stained and streaked with damp
     and bad weather. There are grounds round it, woods on three sides,
     and on the fourth a field which slopes down to the Southampton
     highroad, which curves past about a hundred yards from the front
     door. This ground in front belongs to the house, but the woods all
     round are part of Lord Southerton's preserves. A clump of copper
     beeches immediately in front of the hall door has given its name to
     the place.

     "I was driven over by my employer, who was as amiable as ever, and
     was introduced by him that evening to his wife and the child. There
     was no truth, Mr. Holmes, in the conjecture which seemed to us to be
     probable in your rooms at Baker Street. Mrs. Rucastle is not mad. I
     found her to be a silent, pale-faced woman, much younger than her
     husband, not more than thirty, I should think, while he can hardly be
     less than forty-five. From their conversation I have gathered that
     they have been married about seven years, that he was a widower, and
     that his only child by the first wife was the daughter who has gone
     to Philadelphia. Mr. Rucastle told me in private that the reason why
     she had left them was that she had an unreasoning aversion to her
     stepmother. As the daughter could not have been less than twenty, I
     can quite imagine that her position must have been uncomfortable with
     her father's young wife.

     "Mrs. Rucastle seemed to me to be colourless in mind as well as in
     feature. She impressed me neither favourably nor the reverse. She was
     a nonentity. It was easy to see that she was passionately devoted
     both to her husband and to her little son. Her light grey eyes
     wandered continually from one to the other, noting every little want
     and forestalling it if possible. He was kind to her also in his
     bluff, boisterous fashion, and on the whole they seemed to be a happy
     couple. And yet she had some secret sorrow, this woman. She would
     often be lost in deep thought, with the saddest look upon her face.
     More than once I have surprised her in tears. I have thought
     sometimes that it was the disposition of her child which weighed upon
     her mind, for I have never met so utterly spoiled and so ill-natured
     a little creature. He is small for his age, with a head which is
     quite disproportionately large. His whole life appears to be spent in
     an alternation between savage fits of passion and gloomy intervals of
     sulking. Giving pain to any creature weaker than himself seems to be
     his one idea of amusement, and he shows quite remarkable talent in
     planning the capture of mice, little birds, and insects. But I would
     rather not talk about the creature, Mr. Holmes, and, indeed, he has
     little to do with my story."

     "I am glad of all details," remarked my friend, "whether they seem to
     you to be relevant or not."

     "I shall try not to miss anything of importance. The one unpleasant
     thing about the house, which struck me at once, was the appearance
     and conduct of the servants. There are only two, a man and his wife.
     Toller, for that is his name, is a rough, uncouth man, with grizzled
     hair and whiskers, and a perpetual smell of drink. Twice since I have
     been with them he has been quite drunk, and yet Mr. Rucastle seemed
     to take no notice of it. His wife is a very tall and strong woman
     with a sour face, as silent as Mrs. Rucastle and much less amiable.
     They are a most unpleasant couple, but fortunately I spend most of my
     time in the nursery and my own room, which are next to each other in
     one corner of the building.

     "For two days after my arrival at the Copper Beeches my life was very
     quiet; on the third, Mrs. Rucastle came down just after breakfast and
     whispered something to her husband.

     "'Oh, yes,' said he, turning to me, 'we are very much obliged to you,
     Miss Hunter, for falling in with our whims so far as to cut your
     hair. I assure you that it has not detracted in the tiniest iota from
     your appearance. We shall now see how the electric-blue dress will
     become you. You will find it laid out upon the bed in your room, and
     if you would be so good as to put it on we should both be extremely
     obliged.'

     "The dress which I found waiting for me was of a peculiar shade of
     blue. It was of excellent material, a sort of beige, but it bore
     unmistakable signs of having been worn before. It could not have been
     a better fit if I had been measured for it. Both Mr. and Mrs.
     Rucastle expressed a delight at the look of it, which seemed quite
     exaggerated in its vehemence. They were waiting for me in the
     drawing-room, which is a very large room, stretching along the entire
     front of the house, with three long windows reaching down to the
     floor. A chair had been placed close to the central window, with its
     back turned towards it. In this I was asked to sit, and then Mr.
     Rucastle, walking up and down on the other side of the room, began to
     tell me a series of the funniest stories that I have ever listened
     to. You cannot imagine how comical he was, and I laughed until I was
     quite weary. Mrs. Rucastle, however, who has evidently no sense of
     humour, never so much as smiled, but sat with her hands in her lap,
     and a sad, anxious look upon her face. After an hour or so, Mr.
     Rucastle suddenly remarked that it was time to commence the duties of
     the day, and that I might change my dress and go to little Edward in
     the nursery.

     "Two days later this same performance was gone through under exactly
     similar circumstances. Again I changed my dress, again I sat in the
     window, and again I laughed very heartily at the funny stories of
     which my employer had an immense rÃ©pertoire, and which he told
     inimitably. Then he handed me a yellow-backed novel, and moving my
     chair a little sideways, that my own shadow might not fall upon the
     page, he begged me to read aloud to him. I read for about ten
     minutes, beginning in the heart of a chapter, and then suddenly, in
     the middle of a sentence, he ordered me to cease and to change my
     dress.

     "You can easily imagine, Mr. Holmes, how curious I became as to what
     the meaning of this extraordinary performance could possibly be. They
     were always very careful, I observed, to turn my face away from the
     window, so that I became consumed with the desire to see what was
     going on behind my back. At first it seemed to be impossible, but I
     soon devised a means. My hand-mirror had been broken, so a happy
     thought seized me, and I concealed a piece of the glass in my
     handkerchief. On the next occasion, in the midst of my laughter, I
     put my handkerchief up to my eyes, and was able with a little
     management to see all that there was behind me. I confess that I was
     disappointed. There was nothing. At least that was my first
     impression. At the second glance, however, I perceived that there was
     a man standing in the Southampton Road, a small bearded man in a grey
     suit, who seemed to be looking in my direction. The road is an
     important highway, and there are usually people there. This man,
     however, was leaning against the railings which bordered our field
     and was looking earnestly up. I lowered my handkerchief and glanced
     at Mrs. Rucastle to find her eyes fixed upon me with a most searching
     gaze. She said nothing, but I am convinced that she had divined that
     I had a mirror in my hand and had seen what was behind me. She rose
     at once.

     "'Jephro,' said she, 'there is an impertinent fellow upon the road
     there who stares up at Miss Hunter.'

     "'No friend of yours, Miss Hunter?' he asked.

     "'No, I know no one in these parts.'

     "'Dear me! How very impertinent! Kindly turn round and motion to him
     to go away.'

     "'Surely it would be better to take no notice.'

     "'No, no, we should have him loitering here always. Kindly turn round
     and wave him away like that.'

     "I did as I was told, and at the same instant Mrs. Rucastle drew down
     the blind. That was a week ago, and from that time I have not sat
     again in the window, nor have I worn the blue dress, nor seen the man
     in the road."

     "Pray continue," said Holmes. "Your narrative promises to be a most
     interesting one."

     "You will find it rather disconnected, I fear, and there may prove to
     be little relation between the different incidents of which I speak.
     On the very first day that I was at the Copper Beeches, Mr. Rucastle
     took me to a small outhouse which stands near the kitchen door. As we
     approached it I heard the sharp rattling of a chain, and the sound as
     of a large animal moving about.

     "'Look in here!' said Mr. Rucastle, showing me a slit between two
     planks. 'Is he not a beauty?'

     "I looked through and was conscious of two glowing eyes, and of a
     vague figure huddled up in the darkness.

     "'Don't be frightened,' said my employer, laughing at the start which
     I had given. 'It's only Carlo, my mastiff. I call him mine, but
     really old Toller, my groom, is the only man who can do anything with
     him. We feed him once a day, and not too much then, so that he is
     always as keen as mustard. Toller lets him loose every night, and God
     help the trespasser whom he lays his fangs upon. For goodness' sake
     don't you ever on any pretext set your foot over the threshold at
     night, for it's as much as your life is worth.'

     "The warning was no idle one, for two nights later I happened to look
     out of my bedroom window about two o'clock in the morning. It was a
     beautiful moonlight night, and the lawn in front of the house was
     silvered over and almost as bright as day. I was standing, rapt in
     the peaceful beauty of the scene, when I was aware that something was
     moving under the shadow of the copper beeches. As it emerged into the
     moonshine I saw what it was. It was a giant dog, as large as a calf,
     tawny tinted, with hanging jowl, black muzzle, and huge projecting
     bones. It walked slowly across the lawn and vanished into the shadow
     upon the other side. That dreadful sentinel sent a chill to my heart
     which I do not think that any burglar could have done.

     "And now I have a very strange experience to tell you. I had, as you
     know, cut off my hair in London, and I had placed it in a great coil
     at the bottom of my trunk. One evening, after the child was in bed, I
     began to amuse myself by examining the furniture of my room and by
     rearranging my own little things. There was an old chest of drawers
     in the room, the two upper ones empty and open, the lower one locked.
     I had filled the first two with my linen, and as I had still much to
     pack away I was naturally annoyed at not having the use of the third
     drawer. It struck me that it might have been fastened by a mere
     oversight, so I took out my bunch of keys and tried to open it. The
     very first key fitted to perfection, and I drew the drawer open.
     There was only one thing in it, but I am sure that you would never
     guess what it was. It was my coil of hair.

     "I took it up and examined it. It was of the same peculiar tint, and
     the same thickness. But then the impossibility of the thing obtruded
     itself upon me. How could my hair have been locked in the drawer?
     With trembling hands I undid my trunk, turned out the contents, and
     drew from the bottom my own hair. I laid the two tresses together,
     and I assure you that they were identical. Was it not extraordinary?
     Puzzle as I would, I could make nothing at all of what it meant. I
     returned the strange hair to the drawer, and I said nothing of the
     matter to the Rucastles as I felt that I had put myself in the wrong
     by opening a drawer which they had locked.

     "I am naturally observant, as you may have remarked, Mr. Holmes, and
     I soon had a pretty good plan of the whole house in my head. There
     was one wing, however, which appeared not to be inhabited at all. A
     door which faced that which led into the quarters of the Tollers
     opened into this suite, but it was invariably locked. One day,
     however, as I ascended the stair, I met Mr. Rucastle coming out
     through this door, his keys in his hand, and a look on his face which
     made him a very different person to the round, jovial man to whom I
     was accustomed. His cheeks were red, his brow was all crinkled with
     anger, and the veins stood out at his temples with passion. He locked
     the door and hurried past me without a word or a look.

     "This aroused my curiosity, so when I went out for a walk in the
     grounds with my charge, I strolled round to the side from which I
     could see the windows of this part of the house. There were four of
     them in a row, three of which were simply dirty, while the fourth was
     shuttered up. They were evidently all deserted. As I strolled up and
     down, glancing at them occasionally, Mr. Rucastle came out to me,
     looking as merry and jovial as ever.

     "'Ah!' said he, 'you must not think me rude if I passed you without a
     word, my dear young lady. I was preoccupied with business matters.'

     "I assured him that I was not offended. 'By the way,' said I, 'you
     seem to have quite a suite of spare rooms up there, and one of them
     has the shutters up.'

     "He looked surprised and, as it seemed to me, a little startled at my
     remark.

     "'Photography is one of my hobbies,' said he. 'I have made my dark
     room up there. But, dear me! what an observant young lady we have
     come upon. Who would have believed it? Who would have ever believed
     it?' He spoke in a jesting tone, but there was no jest in his eyes as
     he looked at me. I read suspicion there and annoyance, but no jest.

     "Well, Mr. Holmes, from the moment that I understood that there was
     something about that suite of rooms which I was not to know, I was
     all on fire to go over them. It was not mere curiosity, though I have
     my share of that. It was more a feeling of duty--a feeling that some
     good might come from my penetrating to this place. They talk of
     woman's instinct; perhaps it was woman's instinct which gave me that
     feeling. At any rate, it was there, and I was keenly on the lookout
     for any chance to pass the forbidden door.

     "It was only yesterday that the chance came. I may tell you that,
     besides Mr. Rucastle, both Toller and his wife find something to do
     in these deserted rooms, and I once saw him carrying a large black
     linen bag with him through the door. Recently he has been drinking
     hard, and yesterday evening he was very drunk; and when I came
     upstairs there was the key in the door. I have no doubt at all that
     he had left it there. Mr. and Mrs. Rucastle were both downstairs, and
     the child was with them, so that I had an admirable opportunity. I
     turned the key gently in the lock, opened the door, and slipped
     through.

     "There was a little passage in front of me, unpapered and uncarpeted,
     which turned at a right angle at the farther end. Round this corner
     were three doors in a line, the first and third of which were open.
     They each led into an empty room, dusty and cheerless, with two
     windows in the one and one in the other, so thick with dirt that the
     evening light glimmered dimly through them. The centre door was
     closed, and across the outside of it had been fastened one of the
     broad bars of an iron bed, padlocked at one end to a ring in the
     wall, and fastened at the other with stout cord. The door itself was
     locked as well, and the key was not there. This barricaded door
     corresponded clearly with the shuttered window outside, and yet I
     could see by the glimmer from beneath it that the room was not in
     darkness. Evidently there was a skylight which let in light from
     above. As I stood in the passage gazing at the sinister door and
     wondering what secret it might veil, I suddenly heard the sound of
     steps within the room and saw a shadow pass backward and forward
     against the little slit of dim light which shone out from under the
     door. A mad, unreasoning terror rose up in me at the sight, Mr.
     Holmes. My overstrung nerves failed me suddenly, and I turned and
     ran--ran as though some dreadful hand were behind me clutching at the
     skirt of my dress. I rushed down the passage, through the door, and
     straight into the arms of Mr. Rucastle, who was waiting outside.

     "'So,' said he, smiling, 'it was you, then. I thought that it must be
     when I saw the door open.'

     "'Oh, I am so frightened!' I panted.

     "'My dear young lady! my dear young lady!'--you cannot think how
     caressing and soothing his manner was--'and what has frightened you,
     my dear young lady?'

     "But his voice was just a little too coaxing. He overdid it. I was
     keenly on my guard against him.

     "'I was foolish enough to go into the empty wing,' I answered. 'But
     it is so lonely and eerie in this dim light that I was frightened and
     ran out again. Oh, it is so dreadfully still in there!'

     "'Only that?' said he, looking at me keenly.

     "'Why, what did you think?' I asked.

     "'Why do you think that I lock this door?'

     "'I am sure that I do not know.'

     "'It is to keep people out who have no business there. Do you see?'
     He was still smiling in the most amiable manner.

     "'I am sure if I had known--'

     "'Well, then, you know now. And if you ever put your foot over that
     threshold again'--here in an instant the smile hardened into a grin
     of rage, and he glared down at me with the face of a demon--'I'll
     throw you to the mastiff.'

     "I was so terrified that I do not know what I did. I suppose that I
     must have rushed past him into my room. I remember nothing until I
     found myself lying on my bed trembling all over. Then I thought of
     you, Mr. Holmes. I could not live there longer without some advice. I
     was frightened of the house, of the man, of the woman, of the
     servants, even of the child. They were all horrible to me. If I could
     only bring you down all would be well. Of course I might have fled
     from the house, but my curiosity was almost as strong as my fears. My
     mind was soon made up. I would send you a wire. I put on my hat and
     cloak, went down to the office, which is about half a mile from the
     house, and then returned, feeling very much easier. A horrible doubt
     came into my mind as I approached the door lest the dog might be
     loose, but I remembered that Toller had drunk himself into a state of
     insensibility that evening, and I knew that he was the only one in
     the household who had any influence with the savage creature, or who
     would venture to set him free. I slipped in in safety and lay awake
     half the night in my joy at the thought of seeing you. I had no
     difficulty in getting leave to come into Winchester this morning, but
     I must be back before three o'clock, for Mr. and Mrs. Rucastle are
     going on a visit, and will be away all the evening, so that I must
     look after the child. Now I have told you all my adventures, Mr.
     Holmes, and I should be very glad if you could tell me what it all
     means, and, above all, what I should do."

     Holmes and I had listened spellbound to this extraordinary story. My
     friend rose now and paced up and down the room, his hands in his
     pockets, and an expression of the most profound gravity upon his
     face.

     "Is Toller still drunk?" he asked.

     "Yes. I heard his wife tell Mrs. Rucastle that she could do nothing
     with him."

     "That is well. And the Rucastles go out to-night?"

     "Yes."

     "Is there a cellar with a good strong lock?"

     "Yes, the wine-cellar."

     "You seem to me to have acted all through this matter like a very
     brave and sensible girl, Miss Hunter. Do you think that you could
     perform one more feat? I should not ask it of you if I did not think
     you a quite exceptional woman."

     "I will try. What is it?"

     "We shall be at the Copper Beeches by seven o'clock, my friend and I.
     The Rucastles will be gone by that time, and Toller will, we hope, be
     incapable. There only remains Mrs. Toller, who might give the alarm.
     If you could send her into the cellar on some errand, and then turn
     the key upon her, you would facilitate matters immensely."

     "I will do it."

     "Excellent! We shall then look thoroughly into the affair. Of course
     there is only one feasible explanation. You have been brought there
     to personate someone, and the real person is imprisoned in this
     chamber. That is obvious. As to who this prisoner is, I have no doubt
     that it is the daughter, Miss Alice Rucastle, if I remember right,
     who was said to have gone to America. You were chosen, doubtless, as
     resembling her in height, figure, and the colour of your hair. Hers
     had been cut off, very possibly in some illness through which she has
     passed, and so, of course, yours had to be sacrificed also. By a
     curious chance you came upon her tresses. The man in the road was
     undoubtedly some friend of hers--possibly her fiancÃ©--and no doubt,
     as you wore the girl's dress and were so like her, he was convinced
     from your laughter, whenever he saw you, and afterwards from your
     gesture, that Miss Rucastle was perfectly happy, and that she no
     longer desired his attentions. The dog is let loose at night to
     prevent him from endeavouring to communicate with her. So much is
     fairly clear. The most serious point in the case is the disposition
     of the child."

     "What on earth has that to do with it?" I ejaculated.

     "My dear Watson, you as a medical man are continually gaining light
     as to the tendencies of a child by the study of the parents. Don't
     you see that the converse is equally valid. I have frequently gained
     my first real insight into the character of parents by studying their
     children. This child's disposition is abnormally cruel, merely for
     cruelty's sake, and whether he derives this from his smiling father,
     as I should suspect, or from his mother, it bodes evil for the poor
     girl who is in their power."

     "I am sure that you are right, Mr. Holmes," cried our client. "A
     thousand things come back to me which make me certain that you have
     hit it. Oh, let us lose not an instant in bringing help to this poor
     creature."

     "We must be circumspect, for we are dealing with a very cunning man.
     We can do nothing until seven o'clock. At that hour we shall be with
     you, and it will not be long before we solve the mystery."

     We were as good as our word, for it was just seven when we reached
     the Copper Beeches, having put up our trap at a wayside public-house.
     The group of trees, with their dark leaves shining like burnished
     metal in the light of the setting sun, were sufficient to mark the
     house even had Miss Hunter not been standing smiling on the
     door-step.

     "Have you managed it?" asked Holmes.

     A loud thudding noise came from somewhere downstairs. "That is Mrs.
     Toller in the cellar," said she. "Her husband lies snoring on the
     kitchen rug. Here are his keys, which are the duplicates of Mr.
     Rucastle's."

     "You have done well indeed!" cried Holmes with enthusiasm. "Now lead
     the way, and we shall soon see the end of this black business."

     We passed up the stair, unlocked the door, followed on down a
     passage, and found ourselves in front of the barricade which Miss
     Hunter had described. Holmes cut the cord and removed the transverse
     bar. Then he tried the various keys in the lock, but without success.
     No sound came from within, and at the silence Holmes' face clouded
     over.

     "I trust that we are not too late," said he. "I think, Miss Hunter,
     that we had better go in without you. Now, Watson, put your shoulder
     to it, and we shall see whether we cannot make our way in."

     It was an old rickety door and gave at once before our united
     strength. Together we rushed into the room. It was empty. There was
     no furniture save a little pallet bed, a small table, and a basketful
     of linen. The skylight above was open, and the prisoner gone.

     "There has been some villainy here," said Holmes; "this beauty has
     guessed Miss Hunter's intentions and has carried his victim off."

     "But how?"

     "Through the skylight. We shall soon see how he managed it." He swung
     himself up onto the roof. "Ah, yes," he cried, "here's the end of a
     long light ladder against the eaves. That is how he did it."

     "But it is impossible," said Miss Hunter; "the ladder was not there
     when the Rucastles went away."

     "He has come back and done it. I tell you that he is a clever and
     dangerous man. I should not be very much surprised if this were he
     whose step I hear now upon the stair. I think, Watson, that it would
     be as well for you to have your pistol ready."

     The words were hardly out of his mouth before a man appeared at the
     door of the room, a very fat and burly man, with a heavy stick in his
     hand. Miss Hunter screamed and shrunk against the wall at the sight
     of him, but Sherlock Holmes sprang forward and confronted him.

     "You villain!" said he, "where's your daughter?"

     The fat man cast his eyes round, and then up at the open skylight.

     "It is for me to ask you that," he shrieked, "you thieves! Spies and
     thieves! I have caught you, have I? You are in my power. I'll serve
     you!" He turned and clattered down the stairs as hard as he could go.

     "He's gone for the dog!" cried Miss Hunter.

     "I have my revolver," said I.

     "Better close the front door," cried Holmes, and we all rushed down
     the stairs together. We had hardly reached the hall when we heard the
     baying of a hound, and then a scream of agony, with a horrible
     worrying sound which it was dreadful to listen to. An elderly man
     with a red face and shaking limbs came staggering out at a side door.

     "My God!" he cried. "Someone has loosed the dog. It's not been fed
     for two days. Quick, quick, or it'll be too late!"

     Holmes and I rushed out and round the angle of the house, with Toller
     hurrying behind us. There was the huge famished brute, its black
     muzzle buried in Rucastle's throat, while he writhed and screamed
     upon the ground. Running up, I blew its brains out, and it fell over
     with its keen white teeth still meeting in the great creases of his
     neck. With much labour we separated them and carried him, living but
     horribly mangled, into the house. We laid him upon the drawing-room
     sofa, and having dispatched the sobered Toller to bear the news to
     his wife, I did what I could to relieve his pain. We were all
     assembled round him when the door opened, and a tall, gaunt woman
     entered the room.

     "Mrs. Toller!" cried Miss Hunter.

     "Yes, miss. Mr. Rucastle let me out when he came back before he went
     up to you. Ah, miss, it is a pity you didn't let me know what you
     were planning, for I would have told you that your pains were
     wasted."

     "Ha!" said Holmes, looking keenly at her. "It is clear that Mrs.
     Toller knows more about this matter than anyone else."

     "Yes, sir, I do, and I am ready enough to tell what I know."

     "Then, pray, sit down, and let us hear it for there are several
     points on which I must confess that I am still in the dark."

     "I will soon make it clear to you," said she; "and I'd have done so
     before now if I could ha' got out from the cellar. If there's
     police-court business over this, you'll remember that I was the one
     that stood your friend, and that I was Miss Alice's friend too.

     "She was never happy at home, Miss Alice wasn't, from the time that
     her father married again. She was slighted like and had no say in
     anything, but it never really became bad for her until after she met
     Mr. Fowler at a friend's house. As well as I could learn, Miss Alice
     had rights of her own by will, but she was so quiet and patient, she
     was, that she never said a word about them but just left everything
     in Mr. Rucastle's hands. He knew he was safe with her; but when there
     was a chance of a husband coming forward, who would ask for all that
     the law would give him, then her father thought it time to put a stop
     on it. He wanted her to sign a paper, so that whether she married or
     not, he could use her money. When she wouldn't do it, he kept on
     worrying her until she got brain-fever, and for six weeks was at
     death's door. Then she got better at last, all worn to a shadow, and
     with her beautiful hair cut off; but that didn't make no change in
     her young man, and he stuck to her as true as man could be."

     "Ah," said Holmes, "I think that what you have been good enough to
     tell us makes the matter fairly clear, and that I can deduce all that
     remains. Mr. Rucastle then, I presume, took to this system of
     imprisonment?"

     "Yes, sir."

     "And brought Miss Hunter down from London in order to get rid of the
     disagreeable persistence of Mr. Fowler."

     "That was it, sir."

     "But Mr. Fowler being a persevering man, as a good seaman should be,
     blockaded the house, and having met you succeeded by certain
     arguments, metallic or otherwise, in convincing you that your
     interests were the same as his."

     "Mr. Fowler was a very kind-spoken, free-handed gentleman," said Mrs.
     Toller serenely.

     "And in this way he managed that your good man should have no want of
     drink, and that a ladder should be ready at the moment when your
     master had gone out."

     "You have it, sir, just as it happened."

     "I am sure we owe you an apology, Mrs. Toller," said Holmes, "for you
     have certainly cleared up everything which puzzled us. And here comes
     the country surgeon and Mrs. Rucastle, so I think, Watson, that we
     had best escort Miss Hunter back to Winchester, as it seems to me
     that our locus standi now is rather a questionable one."

     And thus was solved the mystery of the sinister house with the copper
     beeches in front of the door. Mr. Rucastle survived, but was always a
     broken man, kept alive solely through the care of his devoted wife.
     They still live with their old servants, who probably know so much of
     Rucastle's past life that he finds it difficult to part from them.
     Mr. Fowler and Miss Rucastle were married, by special license, in
     Southampton the day after their flight, and he is now the holder of a
     government appointment in the island of Mauritius. As to Miss Violet
     Hunter, my friend Holmes, rather to my disappointment, manifested no
     further interest in her when once she had ceased to be the centre of
     one of his problems, and she is now the head of a private school at
     Walsall, where I believe that she has met with considerable success.






                         THE MEMOIRS OF SHERLOCK HOLMES





                                  SILVER BLAZE

     "I am afraid, Watson, that I shall have to go," said Holmes, as we
     sat down together to our breakfast one morning.

     "Go! Where to?"

     "To Dartmoor; to King's Pyland."

     I was not surprised. Indeed, my only wonder was that he had not
     already been mixed up in this extraordinary case, which was the one
     topic of conversation through the length and breadth of England. For
     a whole day my companion had rambled about the room with his chin
     upon his chest and his brows knitted, charging and recharging his
     pipe with the strongest black tobacco, and absolutely deaf to any of
     my questions or remarks. Fresh editions of every paper had been sent
     up by our news agent, only to be glanced over and tossed down into a
     corner. Yet, silent as he was, I knew perfectly well what it was over
     which he was brooding.  There was but one problem before the public
     which could challenge his powers of analysis, and that was the
     singular disappearance of the favorite for the Wessex Cup, and the
     tragic murder of its trainer. When, therefore, he suddenly announced
     his intention of setting out for the scene of the drama it was only
     what I had both expected and hoped for.

     "I should be most happy to go down with you if I should not be in the
     way," said I.

     "My dear Watson, you would confer a great favour upon me by coming.
     And I think that your time will not be misspent, for there are points
     about the case which promise to make it an absolutely unique one. We
     have, I think, just time to catch our train at Paddington, and I will
     go further into the matter upon our journey. You would oblige me by
     bringing with you your very excellent field-glass."

     And so it happened that an hour or so later I found myself in the
     corner of a first-class carriage flying along en route for Exeter,
     while Sherlock Holmes, with his sharp, eager face framed in his
     ear-flapped travelling-cap, dipped rapidly into the bundle of fresh
     papers which he had procured at Paddington. We had left Reading far
     behind us before he thrust the last one of them under the seat, and
     offered me his cigar-case.

     "We are going well," said he, looking out the window and glancing at
     his watch. "Our rate at present is fifty-three and a half miles an
     hour."

     "I have not observed the quarter-mile posts," said I.

     "Nor have I. But the telegraph posts upon this line are sixty yards
     apart, and the calculation is a simple one. I presume that you have
     looked into this matter of the murder of John Straker and the
     disappearance of Silver Blaze?"

     "I have seen what the Telegraph and the Chronicle have to say."

     "It is one of those cases where the art of the reasoner should be
     used rather for the sifting of details than for the acquiring of
     fresh evidence. The tragedy has been so uncommon, so complete and of
     such personal importance to so many people, that we are suffering
     from a plethora of surmise, conjecture, and hypothesis. The
     difficulty is to detach the framework of fact--of absolute undeniable
     fact--from the embellishments of theorists and reporters. Then,
     having established ourselves upon this sound basis, it is our duty to
     see what inferences may be drawn and what are the special points upon
     which the whole mystery turns. On Tuesday evening I received
     telegrams from both Colonel Ross, the owner of the horse, and from
     Inspector Gregory, who is looking after the case, inviting my
     cooperation.

     "Tuesday evening!" I exclaimed. "And this is Thursday morning. Why
     didn't you go down yesterday?"

     "Because I made a blunder, my dear Watson--which is, I am afraid, a
     more common occurrence than any one would think who only knew me
     through your memoirs. The fact is that I could not believe it
     possible that the most remarkable horse in England could long remain
     concealed, especially in so sparsely inhabited a place as the north
     of Dartmoor. From hour to hour yesterday I expected to hear that he
     had been found, and that his abductor was the murderer of John
     Straker. When, however, another morning had come, and I found that
     beyond the arrest of young Fitzroy Simpson nothing had been done, I
     felt that it was time for me to take action. Yet in some ways I feel
     that yesterday has not been wasted."

     "You have formed a theory, then?"

     "At least I have got a grip of the essential facts of the case. I
     shall enumerate them to you, for nothing clears up a case so much as
     stating it to another person, and I can hardly expect your
     co-operation if I do not show you the position from which we start."

     I lay back against the cushions, puffing at my cigar, while Holmes,
     leaning forward, with his long, thin forefinger checking off the
     points upon the palm of his left hand, gave me a sketch of the events
     which had led to our journey.

     "Silver Blaze," said he, "is from the Somomy stock, and holds as
     brilliant a record as his famous ancestor. He is now in his fifth
     year, and has brought in turn each of the prizes of the turf to
     Colonel Ross, his fortunate owner. Up to the time of the catastrophe
     he was the first favorite for the Wessex Cup, the betting being three
     to one on him. He has always, however, been a prime favorite with the
     racing public, and has never yet disappointed them, so that even at
     those odds enormous sums of money have been laid upon him. It is
     obvious, therefore, that there were many people who had the strongest
     interest in preventing Silver Blaze from being there at the fall of
     the flag next Tuesday.

     "The fact was, of course, appreciated at King's Pyland, where the
     Colonel's training-stable is situated. Every precaution was taken to
     guard the favorite. The trainer, John Straker, is a retired jockey
     who rode in Colonel Ross's colors before he became too heavy for the
     weighing-chair. He has served the Colonel for five years as jockey
     and for seven as trainer, and has always shown himself to be a
     zealous and honest servant. Under him were three lads; for the
     establishment was a small one, containing only four horses in all.
     One of these lads sat up each night in the stable, while the others
     slept in the loft. All three bore excellent characters. John Straker,
     who is a married man, lived in a small villa about two hundred yards
     from the stables. He has no children, keeps one maid-servant, and is
     comfortably off. The country round is very lonely, but about half a
     mile to the north there is a small cluster of villas which have been
     built by a Tavistock contractor for the use of invalids and others
     who may wish to enjoy the pure Dartmoor air. Tavistock itself lies
     two miles to the west, while across the moor, also about two miles
     distant, is the larger training establishment of Mapleton, which
     belongs to Lord Backwater, and is managed by Silas Brown. In every
     other direction the moor is a complete wilderness, inhabited only by
     a few roaming gypsies. Such was the general situation last Monday
     night when the catastrophe occurred.

     "On that evening the horses had been exercised and watered as usual,
     and the stables were locked up at nine o'clock. Two of the lads
     walked up to the trainer's house, where they had supper in the
     kitchen, while the third, Ned Hunter, remained on guard. At a few
     minutes after nine the maid, Edith Baxter, carried down to the
     stables his supper, which consisted of a dish of curried mutton. She
     took no liquid, as there was a water-tap in the stables, and it was
     the rule that the lad on duty should drink nothing else. The maid
     carried a lantern with her, as it was very dark and the path ran
     across the open moor.

     "Edith Baxter was within thirty yards of the stables, when a man
     appeared out of the darkness and called to her to stop. As he stepped
     into the circle of yellow light thrown by the lantern she saw that he
     was a person of gentlemanly bearing, dressed in a gray suit of
     tweeds, with a cloth cap. He wore gaiters, and carried a heavy stick
     with a knob to it. She was most impressed, however, by the extreme
     pallor of his face and by the nervousness of his manner. His age, she
     thought, would be rather over thirty than under it.

     "'Can you tell me where I am?' he asked. 'I had almost made up my
     mind to sleep on the moor, when I saw the light of your lantern.'

     "'You are close to the King's Pyland training-stables,' said she.

     "'Oh, indeed! What a stroke of luck!' he cried. 'I understand that a
     stable-boy sleeps there alone every night. Perhaps that is his supper
     which you are carrying to him. Now I am sure that you would not be
     too proud to earn the price of a new dress, would you?' He took a
     piece of white paper folded up out of his waistcoat pocket. 'See that
     the boy has this to-night, and you shall have the prettiest frock
     that money can buy.'

     "She was frightened by the earnestness of his manner, and ran past
     him to the window through which she was accustomed to hand the meals.
     It was already opened, and Hunter was seated at the small table
     inside. She had begun to tell him of what had happened, when the
     stranger came up again.

     "'Good-evening,' said he, looking through the window. 'I wanted to
     have a word with you.' The girl has sworn that as he spoke she
     noticed the corner of the little paper packet protruding from his
     closed hand.

     "'What business have you here?' asked the lad.

     "'It's business that may put something into your pocket,' said the
     other. 'You've two horses in for the Wessex Cup--Silver Blaze and
     Bayard. Let me have the straight tip and you won't be a loser. Is it
     a fact that at the weights Bayard could give the other a hundred
     yards in five furlongs, and that the stable have put their money on
     him?'

     "'So, you're one of those damned touts!' cried the lad. 'I'll show
     you how we serve them in King's Pyland.' He sprang up and rushed
     across the stable to unloose the dog. The girl fled away to the
     house, but as she ran she looked back and saw that the stranger was
     leaning through the window. A minute later, however, when Hunter
     rushed out with the hound he was gone, and though he ran all round
     the buildings he failed to find any trace of him."

     "One moment," I asked. "Did the stable-boy, when he ran out with the
     dog, leave the door unlocked behind him?"

     "Excellent, Watson, excellent!" murmured my companion. "The
     importance of the point struck me so forcibly that I sent a special
     wire to Dartmoor yesterday to clear the matter up. The boy locked the
     door before he left it. The window, I may add, was not large enough
     for a man to get through.

     "Hunter waited until his fellow-grooms had returned, when he sent a
     message to the trainer and told him what had occurred. Straker was
     excited at hearing the account, although he does not seem to have
     quite realized its true significance. It left him, however, vaguely
     uneasy, and Mrs. Straker, waking at one in the morning, found that he
     was dressing. In reply to her inquiries, he said that he could not
     sleep on account of his anxiety about the horses, and that he
     intended to walk down to the stables to see that all was well. She
     begged him to remain at home, as she could hear the rain pattering
     against the window, but in spite of her entreaties he pulled on his
     large mackintosh and left the house.

     "Mrs. Straker awoke at seven in the morning, to find that her husband
     had not yet returned. She dressed herself hastily, called the maid,
     and set off for the stables. The door was open; inside, huddled
     together upon a chair, Hunter was sunk in a state of absolute stupor,
     the favorite's stall was empty, and there were no signs of his
     trainer.

     "The two lads who slept in the chaff-cutting loft above the
     harness-room were quickly aroused. They had heard nothing during the
     night, for they are both sound sleepers. Hunter was obviously under
     the influence of some powerful drug, and as no sense could be got out
     of him, he was left to sleep it off while the two lads and the two
     women ran out in search of the absentees. They still had hopes that
     the trainer had for some reason taken out the horse for early
     exercise, but on ascending the knoll near the house, from which all
     the neighboring moors were visible, they not only could see no signs
     of the missing favorite, but they perceived something which warned
     them that they were in the presence of a tragedy.

     "About a quarter of a mile from the stables John Straker's overcoat
     was flapping from a furze-bush. Immediately beyond there was a
     bowl-shaped depression in the moor, and at the bottom of this was
     found the dead body of the unfortunate trainer. His head had been
     shattered by a savage blow from some heavy weapon, and he was wounded
     on the thigh, where there was a long, clean cut, inflicted evidently
     by some very sharp instrument. It was clear, however, that Straker
     had defended himself vigorously against his assailants, for in his
     right hand he held a small knife, which was clotted with blood up to
     the handle, while in his left he clasped a red and black silk cravat,
     which was recognized by the maid as having been worn on the preceding
     evening by the stranger who had visited the stables. Hunter, on
     recovering from his stupor, was also quite positive as to the
     ownership of the cravat. He was equally certain that the same
     stranger had, while standing at the window, drugged his curried
     mutton, and so deprived the stables of their watchman. As to the
     missing horse, there were abundant proofs in the mud which lay at the
     bottom of the fatal hollow that he had been there at the time of the
     struggle. But from that morning he has disappeared, and although a
     large reward has been offered, and all the gypsies of Dartmoor are on
     the alert, no news has come of him. Finally, an analysis has shown
     that the remains of his supper left by the stable-lad contain an
     appreciable quantity of powdered opium, while the people at the house
     partook of the same dish on the same night without any ill effect.

     "Those are the main facts of the case, stripped of all surmise, and
     stated as baldly as possible. I shall now recapitulate what the
     police have done in the matter.

     "Inspector Gregory, to whom the case has been committed, is an
     extremely competent officer. Were he but gifted with imagination he
     might rise to great heights in his profession. On his arrival he
     promptly found and arrested the man upon whom suspicion naturally
     rested. There was little difficulty in finding him, for he inhabited
     one of those villas which I have mentioned. His name, it appears, was
     Fitzroy Simpson. He was a man of excellent birth and education, who
     had squandered a fortune upon the turf, and who lived now by doing a
     little quiet and genteel book-making in the sporting clubs of London.
     An examination of his betting-book shows that bets to the amount of
     five thousand pounds had been registered by him against the favorite.
     On being arrested he volunteered the statement that he had come down
     to Dartmoor in the hope of getting some information about the King's
     Pyland horses, and also about Desborough, the second favorite, which
     was in charge of Silas Brown at the Mapleton stables. He did not
     attempt to deny that he had acted as described upon the evening
     before, but declared that he had no sinister designs, and had simply
     wished to obtain first-hand information. When confronted with his
     cravat, he turned very pale, and was utterly unable to account for
     its presence in the hand of the murdered man. His wet clothing showed
     that he had been out in the storm of the night before, and his stick,
     which was a Penang-lawyer weighted with lead, was just such a weapon
     as might, by repeated blows, have inflicted the terrible injuries to
     which the trainer had succumbed. On the other hand, there was no
     wound upon his person, while the state of Straker's knife would show
     that one at least of his assailants must bear his mark upon him.
     There you have it all in a nutshell, Watson, and if you can give me
     any light I shall be infinitely obliged to you."

     I had listened with the greatest interest to the statement which
     Holmes, with characteristic clearness, had laid before me. Though
     most of the facts were familiar to me, I had not sufficiently
     appreciated their relative importance, nor their connection to each
     other.

     "Is in not possible," I suggested, "that the incised wound upon
     Straker may have been caused by his own knife in the convulsive
     struggles which follow any brain injury?"

     "It is more than possible; it is probable," said Holmes. "In that
     case one of the main points in favor of the accused disappears."

     "And yet," said I, "even now I fail to understand what the theory of
     the police can be."

     "I am afraid that whatever theory we state has very grave objections
     to it," returned my companion. "The police imagine, I take it, that
     this Fitzroy Simpson, having drugged the lad, and having in some way
     obtained a duplicate key, opened the stable door and took out the
     horse, with the intention, apparently, of kidnapping him altogether.
     His bridle is missing, so that Simpson must have put this on. Then,
     having left the door open behind him, he was leading the horse away
     over the moor, when he was either met or overtaken by the trainer. A
     row naturally ensued. Simpson beat out the trainer's brains with his
     heavy stick without receiving any injury from the small knife which
     Straker used in self-defence, and then the thief either led the horse
     on to some secret hiding-place, or else it may have bolted during the
     struggle, and be now wandering out on the moors. That is the case as
     it appears to the police, and improbable as it is, all other
     explanations are more improbable still. However, I shall very quickly
     test the matter when I am once upon the spot, and until then I cannot
     really see how we can get much further than our present position."

     It was evening before we reached the little town of Tavistock, which
     lies, like the boss of a shield, in the middle of the huge circle of
     Dartmoor. Two gentlemen were awaiting us in the station--the one a
     tall, fair man with lion-like hair and beard and curiously
     penetrating light blue eyes; the other a small, alert person, very
     neat and dapper, in a frock-coat and gaiters, with trim little
     side-whiskers and an eye-glass. The latter was Colonel Ross, the
     well-known sportsman; the other, Inspector Gregory, a man who was
     rapidly making his name in the English detective service.

     "I am delighted that you have come down, Mr. Holmes," said the
     Colonel. "The Inspector here has done all that could possibly be
     suggested, but I wish to leave no stone unturned in trying to avenge
     poor Straker and in recovering my horse."

     "Have there been any fresh developments?" asked Holmes.

     "I am sorry to say that we have made very little progress," said the
     Inspector. "We have an open carriage outside, and as you would no
     doubt like to see the place before the light fails, we might talk it
     over as we drive."

     A minute later we were all seated in a comfortable landau, and were
     rattling through the quaint old Devonshire city. Inspector Gregory
     was full of his case, and poured out a stream of remarks, while
     Holmes threw in an occasional question or interjection. Colonel Ross
     leaned back with his arms folded and his hat tilted over his eyes,
     while I listened with interest to the dialogue of the two detectives.
     Gregory was formulating his theory, which was almost exactly what
     Holmes had foretold in the train.

     "The net is drawn pretty close round Fitzroy Simpson," he remarked,
     "and I believe myself that he is our man. At the same time I
     recognize that the evidence is purely circumstantial, and that some
     new development may upset it."

     "How about Straker's knife?"

     "We have quite come to the conclusion that he wounded himself in his
     fall."

     "My friend Dr. Watson made that suggestion to me as we came down. If
     so, it would tell against this man Simpson."

     "Undoubtedly. He has neither a knife nor any sign of a wound. The
     evidence against him is certainly very strong. He had a great
     interest in the disappearance of the favorite. He lies under
     suspicion of having poisoned the stable-boy, he was undoubtedly out
     in the storm, he was armed with a heavy stick, and his cravat was
     found in the dead man's hand. I really think we have enough to go
     before a jury."

     Holmes shook his head. "A clever counsel would tear it all to rags,"
     said he. "Why should he take the horse out of the stable? If he
     wished to injure it why could he not do it there? Has a duplicate key
     been found in his possession? What chemist sold him the powdered
     opium? Above all, where could he, a stranger to the district, hide a
     horse, and such a horse as this? What is his own explanation as to
     the paper which he wished the maid to give to the stable-boy?"

     "He says that it was a ten-pound note. One was found in his purse.
     But your other difficulties are not so formidable as they seem. He is
     not a stranger to the district. He has twice lodged at Tavistock in
     the summer. The opium was probably brought from London. The key,
     having served its purpose, would be hurled away. The horse may be at
     the bottom of one of the pits or old mines upon the moor."

     "What does he say about the cravat?"

     "He acknowledges that it is his, and declares that he had lost it.
     But a new element has been introduced into the case which may account
     for his leading the horse from the stable."

     Holmes pricked up his ears.

     "We have found traces which show that a party of gypsies encamped on
     Monday night within a mile of the spot where the murder took place.
     On Tuesday they were gone. Now, presuming that there was some
     understanding between Simpson and these gypsies, might he not have
     been leading the horse to them when he was overtaken, and may they
     not have him now?"

     "It is certainly possible."

     "The moor is being scoured for these gypsies. I have also examined
     every stable and out-house in Tavistock, and for a radius of ten
     miles."

     "There is another training-stable quite close, I understand?"

     "Yes, and that is a factor which we must certainly not neglect. As
     Desborough, their horse, was second in the betting, they had an
     interest in the disappearance of the favorite. Silas Brown, the
     trainer, is known to have had large bets upon the event, and he was
     no friend to poor Straker. We have, however, examined the stables,
     and there is nothing to connect him with the affair."

     "And nothing to connect this man Simpson with the interests of the
     Mapleton stables?"

     "Nothing at all."

     Holmes leaned back in the carriage, and the conversation ceased. A
     few minutes later our driver pulled up at a neat little red-brick
     villa with overhanging eaves which stood by the road. Some distance
     off, across a paddock, lay a long gray-tiled out-building. In every
     other direction the low curves of the moor, bronze-colored from the
     fading ferns, stretched away to the sky-line, broken only by the
     steeples of Tavistock, and by a cluster of houses away to the
     westward which marked the Mapleton stables. We all sprang out with
     the exception of Holmes, who continued to lean back with his eyes
     fixed upon the sky in front of him, entirely absorbed in his own
     thoughts. It was only when I touched his arm that he roused himself
     with a violent start and stepped out of the carriage.

     "Excuse me," said he, turning to Colonel Ross, who had looked at him
     in some surprise. "I was day-dreaming." There was a gleam in his eyes
     and a suppressed excitement in his manner which convinced me, used as
     I was to his ways, that his hand was upon a clue, though I could not
     imagine where he had found it.

     "Perhaps you would prefer at once to go on to the scene of the crime,
     Mr. Holmes?" said Gregory.

     "I think that I should prefer to stay here a little and go into one
     or two questions of detail. Straker was brought back here, I
     presume?"

     "Yes; he lies upstairs. The inquest is to-morrow."

     "He has been in your service some years, Colonel Ross?"

     "I have always found him an excellent servant."

     "I presume that you made an inventory of what he had in this pockets
     at the time of his death, Inspector?"

     "I have the things themselves in the sitting-room, if you would care
     to see them."

     "I should be very glad." We all filed into the front room and sat
     round the central table while the Inspector unlocked a square tin box
     and laid a small heap of things before us. There was a box of vestas,
     two inches of tallow candle, an A D P brier-root pipe, a pouch of
     seal-skin with half an ounce of long-cut Cavendish, a silver watch
     with a gold chain, five sovereigns in gold, an aluminum pencil-case,
     a few papers, and an ivory-handled knife with a very delicate,
     inflexible blade marked Weiss & Co., London.

     "This is a very singular knife," said Holmes, lifting it up and
     examining it minutely. "I presume, as I see blood-stains upon it,
     that it is the one which was found in the dead man's grasp. Watson,
     this knife is surely in your line?"

     "It is what we call a cataract knife," said I.

     "I thought so. A very delicate blade devised for very delicate work.
     A strange thing for a man to carry with him upon a rough expedition,
     especially as it would not shut in his pocket."

     "The tip was guarded by a disk of cork which we found beside his
     body," said the Inspector. "His wife tells us that the knife had lain
     upon the dressing-table, and that he had picked it up as he left the
     room. It was a poor weapon, but perhaps the best that he could lay
     his hands on at the moment."

     "Very possible. How about these papers?"

     "Three of them are receipted hay-dealers' accounts. One of them is a
     letter of instructions from Colonel Ross. This other is a milliner's
     account for thirty-seven pounds fifteen made out by Madame Lesurier,
     of Bond Street, to William Derbyshire. Mrs. Straker tells us that
     Derbyshire was a friend of her husband's and that occasionally his
     letters were addressed here."

     "Madam Derbyshire had somewhat expensive tastes," remarked Holmes,
     glancing down the account. "Twenty-two guineas is rather heavy for a
     single costume. However there appears to be nothing more to learn,
     and we may now go down to the scene of the crime."

     As we emerged from the sitting-room a woman, who had been waiting in
     the passage, took a step forward and laid her hand upon the
     Inspector's sleeve. Her face was haggard and thin and eager, stamped
     with the print of a recent horror.

     "Have you got them? Have you found them?" she panted.

     "No, Mrs. Straker. But Mr. Holmes here has come from London to help
     us, and we shall do all that is possible."

     "Surely I met you in Plymouth at a garden-party some little time ago,
     Mrs. Straker?" said Holmes.

     "No, sir; you are mistaken."

     "Dear me! Why, I could have sworn to it. You wore a costume of
     dove-colored silk with ostrich-feather trimming."

     "I never had such a dress, sir," answered the lady.

     "Ah, that quite settles it," said Holmes. And with an apology he
     followed the Inspector outside. A short walk across the moor took us
     to the hollow in which the body had been found. At the brink of it
     was the furze-bush upon which the coat had been hung.

     "There was no wind that night, I understand," said Holmes.

     "None; but very heavy rain."

     "In that case the overcoat was not blown against the furze-bush, but
     placed there."

     "Yes, it was laid across the bush."

     "You fill me with interest, I perceive that the ground has been
     trampled up a good deal. No doubt many feet have been here since
     Monday night."

     "A piece of matting has been laid here at the side, and we have all
     stood upon that."

     "Excellent."

     "In this bag I have one of the boots which Straker wore, one of
     Fitzroy Simpson's shoes, and a cast horseshoe of Silver Blaze."

     "My dear Inspector, you surpass yourself!" Holmes took the bag, and,
     descending into the hollow, he pushed the matting into a more central
     position. Then stretching himself upon his face and leaning his chin
     upon his hands, he made a careful study of the trampled mud in front
     of him. "Hullo!" said he, suddenly. "What's this?" It was a wax vesta
     half burned, which was so coated with mud that it looked at first
     like a little chip of wood.

     "I cannot think how I came to overlook it," said the Inspector, with
     an expression of annoyance.

     "It was invisible, buried in the mud. I only saw it because I was
     looking for it."

     "What! You expected to find it?"

     "I thought it not unlikely."

     He took the boots from the bag, and compared the impressions of each
     of them with marks upon the ground. Then he clambered up to the rim
     of the hollow, and crawled about among the ferns and bushes.

     "I am afraid that there are no more tracks," said the Inspector. "I
     have examined the ground very carefully for a hundred yards in each
     direction."

     "Indeed!" said Holmes, rising. "I should not have the impertinence to
     do it again after what you say. But I should like to take a little
     walk over the moor before it grows dark, that I may know my ground
     to-morrow, and I think that I shall put this horseshoe into my pocket
     for luck."

     Colonel Ross, who had shown some signs of impatience at my
     companion's quiet and systematic method of work, glanced at his
     watch. "I wish you would come back with me, Inspector," said he.
     "There are several points on which I should like your advice, and
     especially as to whether we do not owe it to the public to remove our
     horse's name from the entries for the Cup."

     "Certainly not," cried Holmes, with decision. "I should let the name
     stand."

     The Colonel bowed. "I am very glad to have had your opinion, sir,"
     said he. "You will find us at poor Straker's house when you have
     finished your walk, and we can drive together into Tavistock."

     He turned back with the Inspector, while Holmes and I walked slowly
     across the moor. The sun was beginning to sink behind the stables of
     Mapleton, and the long, sloping plain in front of us was tinged with
     gold, deepening into rich, ruddy browns where the faded ferns and
     brambles caught the evening light. But the glories of the landscape
     were all wasted upon my companion, who was sunk in the deepest
     thought.

     "It's this way, Watson," said he at last. "We may leave the question
     of who killed John Straker for the instant, and confine ourselves to
     finding out what has become of the horse. Now, supposing that he
     broke away during or after the tragedy, where could he have gone to?
     The horse is a very gregarious creature. If left to himself his
     instincts would have been either to return to King's Pyland or go
     over to Mapleton. Why should he run wild upon the moor? He would
     surely have been seen by now. And why should gypsies kidnap him?
     These people always clear out when they hear of trouble, for they do
     not wish to be pestered by the police. They could not hope to sell
     such a horse. They would run a great risk and gain nothing by taking
     him. Surely that is clear."

     "Where is he, then?"

     "I have already said that he must have gone to King's Pyland or to
     Mapleton. He is not at King's Pyland. Therefore he is at Mapleton.
     Let us take that as a working hypothesis and see what it leads us to.
     This part of the moor, as the Inspector remarked, is very hard and
     dry. But it falls away towards Mapleton, and you can see from here
     that there is a long hollow over yonder, which must have been very
     wet on Monday night. If our supposition is correct, then the horse
     must have crossed that, and there is the point where we should look
     for his tracks."

     We had been walking briskly during this conversation, and a few more
     minutes brought us to the hollow in question. At Holmes' request I
     walked down the bank to the right, and he to the left, but I had not
     taken fifty paces before I heard him give a shout, and saw him waving
     his hand to me. The track of a horse was plainly outlined in the soft
     earth in front of him, and the shoe which he took from his pocket
     exactly fitted the impression.

     "See the value of imagination," said Holmes. "It is the one quality
     which Gregory lacks. We imagined what might have happened, acted upon
     the supposition, and find ourselves justified. Let us proceed."

     We crossed the marshy bottom and passed over a quarter of a mile of
     dry, hard turf. Again the ground sloped, and again we came on the
     tracks. Then we lost them for half a mile, but only to pick them up
     once more quite close to Mapleton. It was Holmes who saw them first,
     and he stood pointing with a look of triumph upon his face. A man's
     track was visible beside the horse's.

     "The horse was alone before," I cried.

     "Quite so. It was alone before. Hullo, what is this?"

     The double track turned sharp off and took the direction of King's
     Pyland. Holmes whistled, and we both followed along after it. His
     eyes were on the trail, but I happened to look a little to one side,
     and saw to my surprise the same tracks coming back again in the
     opposite direction.

     "One for you, Watson," said Holmes, when I pointed it out. "You have
     saved us a long walk, which would have brought us back on our own
     traces. Let us follow the return track."

     We had not to go far. It ended at the paving of asphalt which led up
     to the gates of the Mapleton stables. As we approached, a groom ran
     out from them.

     "We don't want any loiterers about here," said he.

     "I only wished to ask a question," said Holmes, with his finger and
     thumb in his waistcoat pocket. "Should I be too early to see your
     master, Mr. Silas Brown, if I were to call at five o'clock to-morrow
     morning?"

     "Bless you, sir, if any one is about he will be, for he is always the
     first stirring. But here he is, sir, to answer your questions for
     himself. No, sir, no; it is as much as my place is worth to let him
     see me touch your money. Afterwards, if you like."

     As Sherlock Holmes replaced the half-crown which he had drawn from
     his pocket, a fierce-looking elderly man strode out from the gate
     with a hunting-crop swinging in his hand.

     "What's this, Dawson!" he cried. "No gossiping! Go about your
     business! And you, what the devil do you want here?"

     "Ten minutes' talk with you, my good sir," said Holmes in the
     sweetest of voices.

     "I've no time to talk to every gadabout. We want no stranger here. Be
     off, or you may find a dog at your heels."

     Holmes leaned forward and whispered something in the trainer's ear.
     He started violently and flushed to the temples.

     "It's a lie!" he shouted, "an infernal lie!"

     "Very good. Shall we argue about it here in public or talk it over in
     your parlor?"

     "Oh, come in if you wish to."

     Holmes smiled. "I shall not keep you more than a few minutes,
     Watson," said he. "Now, Mr. Brown, I am quite at your disposal."

     It was twenty minutes, and the reds had all faded into grays before
     Holmes and the trainer reappeared. Never have I seen such a change as
     had been brought about in Silas Brown in that short time. His face
     was ashy pale, beads of perspiration shone upon his brow, and his
     hands shook until the hunting-crop wagged like a branch in the wind.
     His bullying, overbearing manner was all gone too, and he cringed
     along at my companion's side like a dog with its master.

     "Your instructions will be done. It shall all be done," said he.

     "There must be no mistake," said Holmes, looking round at him. The
     other winced as he read the menace in his eyes.

     "Oh no, there shall be no mistake. It shall be there. Should I change
     it first or not?"

     Holmes thought a little and then burst out laughing. "No, don't,"
     said he; "I shall write to you about it. No tricks, now, or--"

     "Oh, you can trust me, you can trust me!"

     "Yes, I think I can. Well, you shall hear from me to-morrow." He
     turned upon his heel, disregarding the trembling hand which the other
     held out to him, and we set off for King's Pyland.

     "A more perfect compound of the bully, coward, and sneak than Master
     Silas Brown I have seldom met with," remarked Holmes as we trudged
     along together.

     "He has the horse, then?"

     "He tried to bluster out of it, but I described to him so exactly
     what his actions had been upon that morning that he is convinced that
     I was watching him. Of course you observed the peculiarly square toes
     in the impressions, and that his own boots exactly corresponded to
     them. Again, of course no subordinate would have dared to do such a
     thing. I described to him how, when according to his custom he was
     the first down, he perceived a strange horse wandering over the moor.
     How he went out to it, and his astonishment at recognizing, from the
     white forehead which has given the favorite its name, that chance had
     put in his power the only horse which could beat the one upon which
     he had put his money. Then I described how his first impulse had been
     to lead him back to King's Pyland, and how the devil had shown him
     how he could hide the horse until the race was over, and how he had
     led it back and concealed it at Mapleton. When I told him every
     detail he gave it up and thought only of saving his own skin."

     "But his stables had been searched?"

     "Oh, and old horse-faker like him has many a dodge."

     "But are you not afraid to leave the horse in his power now, since he
     has every interest in injuring it?"

     "My dear fellow, he will guard it as the apple of his eye. He knows
     that his only hope of mercy is to produce it safe."

     "Colonel Ross did not impress me as a man who would be likely to show
     much mercy in any case."

     "The matter does not rest with Colonel Ross. I follow my own methods,
     and tell as much or as little as I choose. That is the advantage of
     being unofficial. I don't know whether you observed it, Watson, but
     the Colonel's manner has been just a trifle cavalier to me. I am
     inclined now to have a little amusement at his expense. Say nothing
     to him about the horse."

     "Certainly not without your permission."

     "And of course this is all quite a minor point compared to the
     question of who killed John Straker."

     "And you will devote yourself to that?"

     "On the contrary, we both go back to London by the night train."

     I was thunderstruck by my friend's words. We had only been a few
     hours in Devonshire, and that he should give up an investigation
     which he had begun so brilliantly was quite incomprehensible to me.
     Not a word more could I draw from him until we were back at the
     trainer's house. The Colonel and the Inspector were awaiting us in
     the parlor.

     "My friend and I return to town by the night-express," said Holmes.
     "We have had a charming little breath of your beautiful Dartmoor
     air."

     The Inspector opened his eyes, and the Colonel's lip curled in a
     sneer.

     "So you despair of arresting the murderer of poor Straker," said he.

     Holmes shrugged his shoulders. "There are certainly grave
     difficulties in the way," said he. "I have every hope, however, that
     your horse will start upon Tuesday, and I beg that you will have your
     jockey in readiness. Might I ask for a photograph of Mr. John
     Straker?"

     The Inspector took one from an envelope and handed it to him.

     "My dear Gregory, you anticipate all my wants. If I might ask you to
     wait here for an instant, I have a question which I should like to
     put to the maid."

     "I must say that I am rather disappointed in our London consultant,"
     said Colonel Ross, bluntly, as my friend left the room. "I do not see
     that we are any further than when he came."

     "At least you have his assurance that your horse will run," said I.

     "Yes, I have his assurance," said the Colonel, with a shrug of his
     shoulders. "I should prefer to have the horse."

     I was about to make some reply in defence of my friend when he
     entered the room again.

     "Now, gentlemen," said he, "I am quite ready for Tavistock."

     As we stepped into the carriage one of the stable-lads held the door
     open for us. A sudden idea seemed to occur to Holmes, for he leaned
     forward and touched the lad upon the sleeve.

     "You have a few sheep in the paddock," he said. "Who attends to
     them?"

     "I do, sir."

     "Have you noticed anything amiss with them of late?"

     "Well, sir, not of much account; but three of them have gone lame,
     sir."

     I could see that Holmes was extremely pleased, for he chuckled and
     rubbed his hands together.

     "A long shot, Watson; a very long shot," said he, pinching my arm.
     "Gregory, let me recommend to your attention this singular epidemic
     among the sheep. Drive on, coachman!"

     Colonel Ross still wore an expression which showed the poor opinion
     which he had formed of my companion's ability, but I saw by the
     Inspector's face that his attention had been keenly aroused.

     "You consider that to be important?" he asked.

     "Exceedingly so."

     "Is there any point to which you would wish to draw my attention?"

     "To the curious incident of the dog in the night-time."

     "The dog did nothing in the night-time."

     "That was the curious incident," remarked Sherlock Holmes.

     Four days later Holmes and I were again in the train, bound for
     Winchester to see the race for the Wessex Cup. Colonel Ross met us by
     appointment outside the station, and we drove in his drag to the
     course beyond the town. His face was grave, and his manner was cold
     in the extreme.

     "I have seen nothing of my horse," said he.

     "I suppose that you would know him when you saw him?" asked Holmes.

     The Colonel was very angry. "I have been on the turf for twenty
     years, and never was asked such a question as that before," said he.
     "A child would know Silver Blaze, with his white forehead and his
     mottled off-foreleg."

     "How is the betting?"

     "Well, that is the curious part of it. You could have got fifteen to
     one yesterday, but the price has become shorter and shorter, until
     you can hardly get three to one now."

     "Hum!" said Holmes. "Somebody knows something, that is clear."

     As the drag drew up in the enclosure near the grand stand I glanced
     at the card to see the entries.

     Wessex Plate [it ran] 50 sovs. each h ft with 1000 sovs. added, for
     four and five year olds. Second, Â£300. Third, Â£200. New course (one
     mile and five furlongs).
     
     1. Mr. Heath Newton's The Negro. Red cap. Cinnamon jacket.
     2. Colonel Wardlaw's Pugilist. Pink cap. Blue and black jacket.
     3. Lord Backwater's Desborough. Yellow cap and sleeves.
     4. Colonel Ross's Silver Blaze. Black cap. Red jacket.
     5. Duke of Balmoral's Iris. Yellow and black stripes.
     6. Lord Singleford's Rasper. Purple cap. Black sleeves.

     "We scratched our other one, and put all hopes on your word," said
     the Colonel. "Why, what is that? Silver Blaze favorite?"

     "Five to four against Silver Blaze!" roared the ring. "Five to four
     against Silver Blaze! Five to fifteen against Desborough! Five to
     four on the field!"

     "There are the numbers up," I cried. "They are all six there."

     "All six there? Then my horse is running," cried the Colonel in great
     agitation. "But I don't see him. My colors have not passed."

     "Only five have passed. This must be he."

     As I spoke a powerful bay horse swept out from the weighting
     enclosure and cantered past us, bearing on its back the well-known
     black and red of the Colonel.

     "That's not my horse," cried the owner. "That beast has not a white
     hair upon its body. What is this that you have done, Mr. Holmes?"

     "Well, well, let us see how he gets on," said my friend,
     imperturbably. For a few minutes he gazed through my field-glass.
     "Capital! An excellent start!" he cried suddenly. "There they are,
     coming round the curve!"

     From our drag we had a superb view as they came up the straight. The
     six horses were so close together that a carpet could have covered
     them, but half way up the yellow of the Mapleton stable showed to the
     front. Before they reached us, however, Desborough's bolt was shot,
     and the Colonel's horse, coming away with a rush, passed the post a
     good six lengths before its rival, the Duke of Balmoral's Iris making
     a bad third.

     "It's my race, anyhow," gasped the Colonel, passing his hand over his
     eyes. "I confess that I can make neither head nor tail of it. Don't
     you think that you have kept up your mystery long enough, Mr.
     Holmes?"

     "Certainly, Colonel, you shall know everything. Let us all go round
     and have a look at the horse together. Here he is," he continued, as
     we made our way into the weighing enclosure, where only owners and
     their friends find admittance. "You have only to wash his face and
     his leg in spirits of wine, and you will find that he is the same old
     Silver Blaze as ever."

     "You take my breath away!"

     "I found him in the hands of a faker, and took the liberty of running
     him just as he was sent over."

     "My dear sir, you have done wonders. The horse looks very fit and
     well. It never went better in its life. I owe you a thousand
     apologies for having doubted your ability. You have done me a great
     service by recovering my horse. You would do me a greater still if
     you could lay your hands on the murderer of John Straker."

     "I have done so," said Holmes quietly.

     The Colonel and I stared at him in amazement. "You have got him!
     Where is he, then?"

     "He is here."

     "Here! Where?"

     "In my company at the present moment."

     The Colonel flushed angrily. "I quite recognize that I am under
     obligations to you, Mr. Holmes," said he, "but I must regard what you
     have just said as either a very bad joke or an insult."

     Sherlock Holmes laughed. "I assure you that I have not associated you
     with the crime, Colonel," said he. "The real murderer is standing
     immediately behind you." He stepped past and laid his hand upon the
     glossy neck of the thoroughbred.

     "The horse!" cried both the Colonel and myself.

     "Yes, the horse. And it may lessen his guilt if I say that it was
     done in self-defence, and that John Straker was a man who was
     entirely unworthy of your confidence. But there goes the bell, and as
     I stand to win a little on this next race, I shall defer a lengthy
     explanation until a more fitting time."

     We had the corner of a Pullman car to ourselves that evening as we
     whirled back to London, and I fancy that the journey was a short one
     to Colonel Ross as well as to myself, as we listened to our
     companion's narrative of the events which had occurred at the
     Dartmoor training-stables upon the Monday night, and the means by
     which he had unravelled them.

     "I confess," said he, "that any theories which I had formed from the
     newspaper reports were entirely erroneous. And yet there were
     indications there, had they not been overlaid by other details which
     concealed their true import. I went to Devonshire with the conviction
     that Fitzroy Simpson was the true culprit, although, of course, I saw
     that the evidence against him was by no means complete. It was while
     I was in the carriage, just as we reached the trainer's house, that
     the immense significance of the curried mutton occurred to me. You
     may remember that I was distrait, and remained sitting after you had
     all alighted. I was marvelling in my own mind how I could possibly
     have overlooked so obvious a clue."

     "I confess," said the Colonel, "that even now I cannot see how it
     helps us."

     "It was the first link in my chain of reasoning. Powdered opium is by
     no means tasteless. The flavor is not disagreeable, but it is
     perceptible. Were it mixed with any ordinary dish the eater would
     undoubtedly detect it, and would probably eat no more. A curry was
     exactly the medium which would disguise this taste. By no possible
     supposition could this stranger, Fitzroy Simpson, have caused curry
     to be served in the trainer's family that night, and it is surely too
     monstrous a coincidence to suppose that he happened to come along
     with powdered opium upon the very night when a dish happened to be
     served which would disguise the flavor. That is unthinkable.
     Therefore Simpson becomes eliminated from the case, and our attention
     centers upon Straker and his wife, the only two people who could have
     chosen curried mutton for supper that night. The opium was added
     after the dish was set aside for the stable-boy, for the others had
     the same for supper with no ill effects. Which of them, then, had
     access to that dish without the maid seeing them?

     "Before deciding that question I had grasped the significance of the
     silence of the dog, for one true inference invariably suggests
     others. The Simpson incident had shown me that a dog was kept in the
     stables, and yet, though some one had been in and had fetched out a
     horse, he had not barked enough to arouse the two lads in the loft.
     Obviously the midnight visitor was some one whom the dog knew well.

     "I was already convinced, or almost convinced, that John Straker went
     down to the stables in the dead of the night and took out Silver
     Blaze. For what purpose? For a dishonest one, obviously, or why
     should he drug his own stable-boy? And yet I was at a loss to know
     why. There have been cases before now where trainers have made sure
     of great sums of money by laying against their own horses, through
     agents, and then preventing them from winning by fraud. Sometimes it
     is a pulling jockey. Sometimes it is some surer and subtler means.
     What was it here? I hoped that the contents of his pockets might help
     me to form a conclusion.

     "And they did so. You cannot have forgotten the singular knife which
     was found in the dead man's hand, a knife which certainly no sane man
     would choose for a weapon. It was, as Dr. Watson told us, a form of
     knife which is used for the most delicate operations known in
     surgery. And it was to be used for a delicate operation that night.
     You must know, with your wide experience of turf matters, Colonel
     Ross, that it is possible to make a slight nick upon the tendons of a
     horse's ham, and to do it subcutaneously, so as to leave absolutely
     no trace. A horse so treated would develop a slight lameness, which
     would be put down to a strain in exercise or a touch of rheumatism,
     but never to foul play."

     "Villain! Scoundrel!" cried the Colonel.

     "We have here the explanation of why John Straker wished to take the
     horse out on to the moor. So spirited a creature would have certainly
     roused the soundest of sleepers when it felt the prick of the knife.
     It was absolutely necessary to do it in the open air."

     "I have been blind!" cried the Colonel. "Of course that was why he
     needed the candle, and struck the match."

     "Undoubtedly. But in examining his belongings I was fortunate enough
     to discover not only the method of the crime, but even its motives.
     As a man of the world, Colonel, you know that men do not carry other
     people's bills about in their pockets. We have most of us quite
     enough to do to settle our own. I at once concluded that Straker was
     leading a double life, and keeping a second establishment. The nature
     of the bill showed that there was a lady in the case, and one who had
     expensive tastes. Liberal as you are with your servants, one can
     hardly expect that they can buy twenty-guinea walking dresses for
     their ladies. I questioned Mrs. Straker as to the dress without her
     knowing it, and having satisfied myself that it had never reached
     her, I made a note of the milliner's address, and felt that by
     calling there with Straker's photograph I could easily dispose of the
     mythical Derbyshire.

     "From that time on all was plain. Straker had led out the horse to a
     hollow where his light would be invisible. Simpson in his flight had
     dropped his cravat, and Straker had picked it up--with some idea,
     perhaps, that he might use it in securing the horse's leg. Once in
     the hollow, he had got behind the horse and had struck a light; but
     the creature frightened at the sudden glare, and with the strange
     instinct of animals feeling that some mischief was intended, had
     lashed out, and the steel shoe had struck Straker full on the
     forehead. He had already, in spite of the rain, taken off his
     overcoat in order to do his delicate task, and so, as he fell, his
     knife gashed his thigh. Do I make it clear?"

     "Wonderful!" cried the Colonel. "Wonderful! You might have been
     there!"

     "My final shot was, I confess a very long one. It struck me that so
     astute a man as Straker would not undertake this delicate
     tendon-nicking without a little practice. What could he practice on?
     My eyes fell upon the sheep, and I asked a question which, rather to
     my surprise, showed that my surmise was correct.

     "When I returned to London I called upon the milliner, who had
     recognized Straker as an excellent customer of the name of
     Derbyshire, who had a very dashing wife, with a strong partiality for
     expensive dresses. I have no doubt that this woman had plunged him
     over head and ears in debt, and so led him into this miserable plot."

     "You have explained all but one thing," cried the Colonel. "Where was
     the horse?"

     "Ah, it bolted, and was cared for by one of your neighbors. We must
     have an amnesty in that direction, I think. This is Clapham Junction,
     if I am not mistaken, and we shall be in Victoria in less than ten
     minutes. If you care to smoke a cigar in our rooms, Colonel, I shall
     be happy to give you any other details which might interest you."






                                 THE YELLOW FACE

     [In publishing these short sketches based upon the numerous cases in
     which my companion's singular gifts have made us the listeners to,
     and eventually the actors in, some strange drama, it is only natural
     that I should dwell rather upon his successes than upon his failures.
     And this not so much for the sake of his reputations--for, indeed, it
     was when he was at his wits' end that his energy and his versatility
     were most admirable--but because where he failed it happened too
     often that no one else succeeded, and that the tale was left forever
     without a conclusion. Now and again, however, it chanced that even
     when he erred, the truth was still discovered. I have noted of some
     half-dozen cases of the kind of which "The Adventure of the Musgrave
     Ritual" and that which I am about to recount are the two which
     present the strongest features of interest.]

     Sherlock Holmes was a man who seldom took exercise for exercise's
     sake. Few men were capable of greater muscular effort, and he was
     undoubtedly one of the finest boxers of his weight that I have ever
     seen; but he looked upon aimless bodily exertion as a waste of
     energy, and he seldom bestirred himself save when there was some
     professional object to be served. Then he was absolutely untiring and
     indefatigable. That he should have kept himself in training under
     such circumstances is remarkable, but his diet was usually of the
     sparest, and his habits were simple to the verge of austerity. Save
     for the occasional use of cocaine, he had no vices, and he only
     turned to the drug as a protest against the monotony of existence
     when cases were scanty and the papers uninteresting.

     One day in early spring he had so far relaxed as to go for a walk
     with me in the Park, where the first faint shoots of green were
     breaking out upon the elms, and the sticky spear-heads of the
     chestnuts were just beginning to burst into their five-fold leaves.
     For two hours we rambled about together, in silence for the most
     part, as befits two men who know each other intimately. It was nearly
     five before we were back in Baker Street once more.

     "Beg pardon, sir," said our page-boy, as he opened the door. "There's
     been a gentleman here asking for you, sir."

     Holmes glanced reproachfully at me. "So much for afternoon walks!"
     said he. "Has this gentleman gone, then?"

     "Yes, sir."

     "Didn't you ask him in?"

     "Yes, sir; he came in."

     "How long did he wait?"

     "Half an hour, sir. He was a very restless gentleman, sir, a-walkin'
     and a-stampin' all the time he was here. I was waitin' outside the
     door, sir, and I could hear him. At last he outs into the passage,
     and he cries, 'Is that man never goin' to come?' Those were his very
     words, sir. 'You'll only need to wait a little longer,' says I. 'Then
     I'll wait in the open air, for I feel half choked,' says he. 'I'll be
     back before long.' And with that he ups and he outs, and all I could
     say wouldn't hold him back."

     "Well, well, you did your best," said Holmes, as we walked into our
     room. "It's very annoying, though, Watson. I was badly in need of a
     case, and this looks, from the man's impatience, as if it were of
     importance. Hullo! That's not your pipe on the table. He must have
     left his behind him. A nice old brier with a good long stem of what
     the tobacconists call amber. I wonder how many real amber mouthpieces
     there are in London? Some people think that a fly in it is a sign.
     Well, he must have been disturbed in his mind to leave a pipe behind
     him which he evidently values highly."

     "How do you know that he values it highly?" I asked.

     "Well, I should put the original cost of the pipe at seven and
     sixpence. Now it has, you see, been twice mended, once in the wooden
     stem and once in the amber. Each of these mends, done, as you
     observe, with silver bands, must have cost more than the pipe did
     originally. The man must value the pipe highly when he prefers to
     patch it up rather than buy a new one with the same money."

     "Anything else?" I asked, for Holmes was turning the pipe about in
     his hand, and staring at it in his peculiar pensive way.

     He held it up and tapped on it with his long, thin fore-finger, as a
     professor might who was lecturing on a bone.

     "Pipes are occasionally of extraordinary interest," said he. "Nothing
     has more individuality, save perhaps watches and bootlaces. The
     indications here, however, are neither very marked nor very
     important. The owner is obviously a muscular man, left-handed, with
     an excellent set of teeth, careless in his habits, and with no need
     to practise economy."

     My friend threw out the information in a very offhand way, but I saw
     that he cocked his eye at me to see if I had followed his reasoning.

     "You think a man must be well-to-do if he smokes a seven-shilling
     pipe," said I.

     "This is Grosvenor mixture at eightpence an ounce," Holmes answered,
     knocking a little out on his palm. "As he might get an excellent
     smoke for half the price, he has no need to practise economy."

     "And the other points?"

     "He has been in the habit of lighting his pipe at lamps and gas-jets.
     You can see that it is quite charred all down one side. Of course a
     match could not have done that. Why should a man hold a match to the
     side of his pipe? But you cannot light it at a lamp without getting
     the bowl charred. And it is all on the right side of the pipe. From
     that I gather that he is a left-handed man. You hold your own pipe to
     the lamp, and see how naturally you, being right-handed, hold the
     left side to the flame. You might do it once the other way, but not
     as a constancy. This has always been held so. Then he has bitten
     through his amber. It takes a muscular, energetic fellow, and one
     with a good set of teeth, to do that. But if I am not mistaken I hear
     him upon the stair, so we shall have something more interesting than
     his pipe to study."

     An instant later our door opened, and a tall young man entered the
     room. He was well but quietly dressed in a dark-gray suit, and
     carried a brown wide-awake in his hand. I should have put him at
     about thirty, though he was really some years older.

     "I beg your pardon," said he, with some embarrassment; "I suppose I
     should have knocked. Yes, of course I should have knocked. The fact
     is that I am a little upset, and you must put it all down to that."
     He passed his hand over his forehead like a man who is half dazed,
     and then fell rather than sat down upon a chair.

     "I can see that you have not slept for a night or two," said Holmes,
     in his easy, genial way. "That tries a man's nerves more than work,
     and more even than pleasure. May I ask how I can help you?"

     "I wanted your advice, sir. I don't know what to do and my whole life
     seems to have gone to pieces."

     "You wish to employ me as a consulting detective?"

     "Not that only. I want your opinion as a judicious man--as a man of
     the world. I want to know what I ought to do next. I hope to God
     you'll be able to tell me."

     He spoke in little, sharp, jerky outbursts, and it seemed to me that
     to speak at all was very painful to him, and that his will all
     through was overriding his inclinations.

     "It's a very delicate thing," said he. "One does not like to speak of
     one's domestic affairs to strangers. It seems dreadful to discuss the
     conduct of one's wife with two men whom I have never seen before.
     It's horrible to have to do it. But I've got to the end of my tether,
     and I must have advice."

     "My dear Mr. Grant Munro--" began Holmes.

     Our visitor sprang from his chair. "What!" he cried, "you know my
     name?"

     "If you wish to preserve your incognito," said Holmes, smiling, "I
     would suggest that you cease to write your name upon the lining of
     your hat, or else that you turn the crown towards the person whom you
     are addressing. I was about to say that my friend and I have listened
     to a good many strange secrets in this room, and that we have had the
     good fortune to bring peace to many troubled souls. I trust that we
     may do as much for you. Might I beg you, as time may prove to be of
     importance, to furnish me with the facts of your case without further
     delay?"

     Our visitor again passed his hand over his forehead, as if he found
     it bitterly hard. From every gesture and expression I could see that
     he was a reserved, self-contained man, with a dash of pride in his
     nature, more likely to hide his wounds than to expose them. Then
     suddenly, with a fierce gesture of his closed hand, like one who
     throws reserve to the winds, he began.

     "The facts are these, Mr. Holmes," said he. "I am a married man, and
     have been so for three years. During that time my wife and I have
     loved each other as fondly and lived as happily as any two that ever
     were joined. We have not had a difference, not one, in thought or
     word or deed. And now, since last Monday, there has suddenly sprung
     up a barrier between us, and I find that there is something in her
     life and in her thought of which I know as little as if she were the
     woman who brushes by me in the street. We are estranged, and I want
     to know why.

     "Now there is one thing that I want to impress upon you before I go
     any further, Mr. Holmes. Effie loves me. Don't let there be any
     mistake about that. She loves me with her whole heart and soul, and
     never more than now. I know it. I feel it. I don't want to argue
     about that. A man can tell easily enough when a woman loves him. But
     there's this secret between us, and we can never be the same until it
     is cleared."

     "Kindly let me have the facts, Mr. Munro," said Holmes, with some
     impatience.

     "I'll tell you what I know about Effie's history. She was a widow
     when I met her first, though quite young--only twenty-five. Her name
     then was Mrs. Hebron. She went out to America when she was young, and
     lived in the town of Atlanta, where she married this Hebron, who was
     a lawyer with a good practice. They had one child, but the yellow
     fever broke out badly in the place, and both husband and child died
     of it. I have seen his death certificate. This sickened her of
     America, and she came back to live with a maiden aunt at Pinner, in
     Middlesex. I may mention that her husband had left her comfortably
     off, and that she had a capital of about four thousand five hundred
     pounds, which had been so well invested by him that it returned an
     average of seven per cent. She had only been six months at Pinner
     when I met her; we fell in love with each other, and we married a few
     weeks afterwards.

     "I am a hop merchant myself, and as I have an income of seven or
     eight hundred, we found ourselves comfortably off, and took a nice
     eighty-pound-a-year villa at Norbury. Our little place was very
     countrified, considering that it is so close to town. We had an inn
     and two houses a little above us, and a single cottage at the other
     side of the field which faces us, and except those there were no
     houses until you got half way to the station. My business took me
     into town at certain seasons, but in summer I had less to do, and
     then in our country home my wife and I were just as happy as could be
     wished. I tell you that there never was a shadow between us until
     this accursed affair began.

     "There's one thing I ought to tell you before I go further. When we
     married, my wife made over all her property to me--rather against my
     will, for I saw how awkward it would be if my business affairs went
     wrong. However, she would have it so, and it was done. Well, about
     six weeks ago she came to me.

     "'Jack,' said she, 'when you took my money you said that if ever I
     wanted any I was to ask you for it.'

     "'Certainly,' said I. 'It's all your own.'

     "'Well,' said she, 'I want a hundred pounds.'

     "I was a bit staggered at this, for I had imagined it was simply a
     new dress or something of the kind that she was after.

     "'What on earth for?' I asked.

     "'Oh,' said she, in her playful way, 'you said that you were only my
     banker, and bankers never ask questions, you know.'

     "'If you really mean it, of course you shall have the money,' said I.

     "'Oh, yes, I really mean it.'

     "'And you won't tell me what you want it for?'

     "'Some day, perhaps, but not just at present, Jack.'

     "So I had to be content with that, though it was the first time that
     there had ever been any secret between us. I gave her a check, and I
     never thought any more of the matter. It may have nothing to do with
     what came afterwards, but I thought it only right to mention it.

     "Well, I told you just now that there is a cottage not far from our
     house. There is just a field between us, but to reach it you have to
     go along the road and then turn down a lane. Just beyond it is a nice
     little grove of Scotch firs, and I used to be very fond of strolling
     down there, for trees are always a neighborly kind of things. The
     cottage had been standing empty this eight months, and it was a pity,
     for it was a pretty two storied place, with an old-fashioned porch
     and honeysuckle about it. I have stood many a time and thought what a
     neat little homestead it would make.

     "Well, last Monday evening I was taking a stroll down that way, when
     I met an empty van coming up the lane, and saw a pile of carpets and
     things lying about on the grass-plot beside the porch. It was clear
     that the cottage had at last been let. I walked past it, and wondered
     what sort of folk they were who had come to live so near us. And as I
     looked I suddenly became aware that a face was watching me out of one
     of the upper windows.

     "I don't know what there was about that face, Mr. Holmes, but it
     seemed to send a chill right down my back. I was some little way off,
     so that I could not make out the features, but there was something
     unnatural and inhuman about the face. That was the impression that I
     had, and I moved quickly forwards to get a nearer view of the person
     who was watching me. But as I did so the face suddenly disappeared,
     so suddenly that it seemed to have been plucked away into the
     darkness of the room. I stood for five minutes thinking the business
     over, and trying to analyze my impressions. I could not tell if the
     face were that of a man or a woman. It had been too far from me for
     that. But its color was what had impressed me most. It was of a livid
     chalky white, and with something set and rigid about it which was
     shockingly unnatural. So disturbed was I that I determined to see a
     little more of the new inmates of the cottage. I approached and
     knocked at the door, which was instantly opened by a tall, gaunt
     woman with a harsh, forbidding face.

     "'What may you be wantin'?' she asked, in a Northern accent.

     "'I am your neighbor over yonder,' said I, nodding towards my house.
     'I see that you have only just moved in, so I thought that if I could
     be of any help to you in any--'

     "'Ay, we'll just ask ye when we want ye,' said she, and shut the door
     in my face. Annoyed at the churlish rebuff, I turned my back and
     walked home. All evening, though I tried to think of other things, my
     mind would still turn to the apparition at the window and the
     rudeness of the woman. I determined to say nothing about the former
     to my wife, for she is a nervous, highly strung woman, and I had no
     wish that she would share the unpleasant impression which had been
     produced upon myself. I remarked to her, however, before I fell
     asleep, that the cottage was now occupied, to which she returned no
     reply.

     "I am usually an extremely sound sleeper. It has been a standing jest
     in the family that nothing could ever wake me during the night. And
     yet somehow on that particular night, whether it may have been the
     slight excitement produced by my little adventure or not I know not,
     but I slept much more lightly than usual. Half in my dreams I was
     dimly conscious that something was going on in the room, and
     gradually became aware that my wife had dressed herself and was
     slipping on her mantle and her bonnet. My lips were parted to murmur
     out some sleepy words of surprise or remonstrance at this untimely
     preparation, when suddenly my half-opened eyes fell upon her face,
     illuminated by the candle-light, and astonishment held me dumb. She
     wore an expression such as I had never seen before--such as I should
     have thought her incapable of assuming. She was deadly pale and
     breathing fast, glancing furtively towards the bed as she fastened
     her mantle, to see if she had disturbed me. Then, thinking that I was
     still asleep, she slipped noiselessly from the room, and an instant
     later I heard a sharp creaking which could only come from the hinges
     of the front door. I sat up in bed and rapped my knuckles against the
     rail to make certain that I was truly awake. Then I took my watch
     from under the pillow. It was three in the morning. What on this
     earth could my wife be doing out on the country road at three in the
     morning?

     "I had sat for about twenty minutes turning the thing over in my mind
     and trying to find some possible explanation. The more I thought, the
     more extraordinary and inexplicable did it appear. I was still
     puzzling over it when I heard the door gently close again, and her
     footsteps coming up the stairs.

     "'Where in the world have you been, Effie?' I asked as she entered.

     "She gave a violent start and a kind of gasping cry when I spoke, and
     that cry and start troubled me more than all the rest, for there was
     something indescribably guilty about them. My wife had always been a
     woman of a frank, open nature, and it gave me a chill to see her
     slinking into her own room, and crying out and wincing when her own
     husband spoke to her.

     "'You awake, Jack!' she cried, with a nervous laugh. 'Why, I thought
     that nothing could awake you.'

     "'Where have you been?' I asked, more sternly.

     "'I don't wonder that you are surprised,' said she, and I could see
     that her fingers were trembling as she undid the fastenings of her
     mantle. 'Why, I never remember having done such a thing in my life
     before. The fact is that I felt as though I were choking, and had a
     perfect longing for a breath of fresh air. I really think that I
     should have fainted if I had not gone out. I stood at the door for a
     few minutes, and now I am quite myself again.'

     "All the time that she was telling me this story she never once
     looked in my direction, and her voice was quite unlike her usual
     tones. It was evident to me that she was saying what was false. I
     said nothing in reply, but turned my face to the wall, sick at heart,
     with my mind filled with a thousand venomous doubts and suspicions.
     What was it that my wife was concealing from me? Where had she been
     during that strange expedition? I felt that I should have no peace
     until I knew, and yet I shrank from asking her again after once she
     had told me what was false. All the rest of the night I tossed and
     tumbled, framing theory after theory, each more unlikely than the
     last.

     "I should have gone to the City that day, but I was too disturbed in
     my mind to be able to pay attention to business matters. My wife
     seemed to be as upset as myself, and I could see from the little
     questioning glances which she kept shooting at me that she understood
     that I disbelieved her statement, and that she was at her wits' end
     what to do. We hardly exchanged a word during breakfast, and
     immediately afterwards I went out for a walk, that I might think the
     matter out in the fresh morning air.

     "I went as far as the Crystal Palace, spent an hour in the grounds,
     and was back in Norbury by one o'clock. It happened that my way took
     me past the cottage, and I stopped for an instant to look at the
     windows, and to see if I could catch a glimpse of the strange face
     which had looked out at me on the day before. As I stood there,
     imagine my surprise, Mr. Holmes, when the door suddenly opened and my
     wife walked out.

     "I was struck dumb with astonishment at the sight of her; but my
     emotions were nothing to those which showed themselves upon her face
     when our eyes met. She seemed for an instant to wish to shrink back
     inside the house again; and then, seeing how useless all concealment
     must be, she came forward, with a very white face and frightened eyes
     which belied the smile upon her lips.

     "'Ah, Jack,' she said, 'I have just been in to see if I can be of any
     assistance to our new neighbors. Why do you look at me like that,
     Jack? You are not angry with me?'

     "'So,' said I, 'this is where you went during the night.'

     "'What do you mean?' she cried.

     "'You came here. I am sure of it. Who are these people, that you
     should visit them at such an hour?'

     "'I have not been here before.'

     "'How can you tell me what you know is false?' I cried. 'Your very
     voice changes as you speak. When have I ever had a secret from you? I
     shall enter that cottage, and I shall probe the matter to the
     bottom.'

     "'No, no, Jack, for God's sake!' she gasped, in uncontrollable
     emotion. Then, as I approached the door, she seized my sleeve and
     pulled me back with convulsive strength.

     "'I implore you not to do this, Jack,' she cried. 'I swear that I
     will tell you everything some day, but nothing but misery can come of
     it if you enter that cottage.' Then, as I tried to shake her off, she
     clung to me in a frenzy of entreaty.

     "'Trust me, Jack!' she cried. 'Trust me only this once. You will
     never have cause to regret it. You know that I would not have a
     secret from you if it were not for your own sake. Our whole lives are
     at stake in this. If you come home with me, all will be well. If you
     force your way into that cottage, all is over between us.'

     "There was such earnestness, such despair, in her manner that her
     words arrested me, and I stood irresolute before the door.

     "'I will trust you on one condition, and on one condition only,' said
     I at last. 'It is that this mystery comes to an end from now. You are
     at liberty to preserve your secret, but you must promise me that
     there shall be no more nightly visits, no more doings which are kept
     from my knowledge. I am willing to forget those which are passed if
     you will promise that there shall be no more in the future.'

     "'I was sure that you would trust me,' she cried, with a great sigh
     of relief. 'It shall be just as you wish. Come away--oh, come away up
     to the house.'

     "Still pulling at my sleeve, she led me away from the cottage. As we
     went I glanced back, and there was that yellow livid face watching us
     out of the upper window. What link could there be between that
     creature and my wife? Or how could the coarse, rough woman whom I had
     seen the day before be connected with her? It was a strange puzzle,
     and yet I knew that my mind could never know ease again until I had
     solved it.

     "For two days after this I stayed at home, and my wife appeared to
     abide loyally by our engagement, for, as far as I know, she never
     stirred out of the house. On the third day, however, I had ample
     evidence that her solemn promise was not enough to hold her back from
     this secret influence which drew her away from her husband and her
     duty.

     "I had gone into town on that day, but I returned by the 2.40 instead
     of the 3.36, which is my usual train. As I entered the house the maid
     ran into the hall with a startled face.

     "'Where is your mistress?' I asked.

     "'I think that she has gone out for a walk,' she answered.

     "My mind was instantly filled with suspicion. I rushed upstairs to
     make sure that she was not in the house. As I did so I happened to
     glance out of one of the upper windows, and saw the maid with whom I
     had just been speaking running across the field in the direction of
     the cottage. Then of course I saw exactly what it all meant. My wife
     had gone over there, and had asked the servant to call her if I
     should return. Tingling with anger, I rushed down and hurried across,
     determined to end the matter once and forever. I saw my wife and the
     maid hurrying back along the lane, but I did not stop to speak with
     them. In the cottage lay the secret which was casting a shadow over
     my life. I vowed that, come what might, it should be a secret no
     longer. I did not even knock when I reached it, but turned the handle
     and rushed into the passage.

     "It was all still and quiet upon the ground floor. In the kitchen a
     kettle was singing on the fire, and a large black cat lay coiled up
     in the basket; but there was no sign of the woman whom I had seen
     before. I ran into the other room, but it was equally deserted. Then
     I rushed up the stairs, only to find two other rooms empty and
     deserted at the top. There was no one at all in the whole house. The
     furniture and pictures were of the most common and vulgar
     description, save in the one chamber at the window of which I had
     seen the strange face. That was comfortable and elegant, and all my
     suspicions rose into a fierce bitter flame when I saw that on the
     mantelpiece stood a copy of a full-length photograph of my wife,
     which had been taken at my request only three months ago.

     "I stayed long enough to make certain that the house was absolutely
     empty. Then I left it, feeling a weight at my heart such as I had
     never had before. My wife came out into the hall as I entered my
     house; but I was too hurt and angry to speak with her, and pushing
     past her, I made my way into my study. She followed me, however,
     before I could close the door.

     "'I am sorry that I broke my promise, Jack,' said she; 'but if you
     knew all the circumstances I am sure that you would forgive me.'

     "'Tell me everything, then,' said I.

     "'I cannot, Jack, I cannot,' she cried.

     "'Until you tell me who it is that has been living in that cottage,
     and who it is to whom you have given that photograph, there can never
     be any confidence between us,' said I, and breaking away from her, I
     left the house. That was yesterday, Mr. Holmes, and I have not seen
     her since, nor do I know anything more about this strange business.
     It is the first shadow that has come between us, and it has so shaken
     me that I do not know what I should do for the best. Suddenly this
     morning it occurred to me that you were the man to advise me, so I
     have hurried to you now, and I place myself unreservedly in your
     hands. If there is any point which I have not made clear, pray
     question me about it. But, above all, tell me quickly what I am to
     do, for this misery is more than I can bear."

     Holmes and I had listened with the utmost interest to this
     extraordinary statement, which had been delivered in the jerky,
     broken fashion of a man who is under the influence of extreme
     emotions. My companion sat silent for some time, with his chin upon
     his hand, lost in thought.

     "Tell me," said he at last, "could you swear that this was a man's
     face which you saw at the window?"

     "Each time that I saw it I was some distance away from it, so that it
     is impossible for me to say."

     "You appear, however, to have been disagreeably impressed by it."

     "It seemed to be of an unnatural color, and to have a strange
     rigidity about the features. When I approached, it vanished with a
     jerk."

     "How long is it since your wife asked you for a hundred pounds?"

     "Nearly two months."

     "Have you ever seen a photograph of her first husband?"

     "No; there was a great fire at Atlanta very shortly after his death,
     and all her papers were destroyed."

     "And yet she had a certificate of death. You say that you saw it."

     "Yes; she got a duplicate after the fire."

     "Did you ever meet any one who knew her in America?"

     "No."

     "Did she ever talk of revisiting the place?"

     "No."

     "Or get letters from it?"

     "No."

     "Thank you. I should like to think over the matter a little now. If
     the cottage is now permanently deserted we may have some difficulty.
     If, on the other hand, as I fancy is more likely, the inmates were
     warned of your coming, and left before you entered yesterday, then
     they may be back now, and we should clear it all up easily. Let me
     advise you, then, to return to Norbury, and to examine the windows of
     the cottage again. If you have reason to believe that is inhabited,
     do not force your way in, but send a wire to my friend and me. We
     shall be with you within an hour of receiving it, and we shall then
     very soon get to the bottom of the business."

     "And if it is still empty?"

     "In that case I shall come out to-morrow and talk it over with you.
     Good-bye, and, above all, do not fret until you know that you really
     have a cause for it."

     "I am afraid that this is a bad business, Watson," said my companion,
     as he returned after accompanying Mr. Grant Munro to the door. "What
     do you make of it?"

     "It had an ugly sound," I answered.

     "Yes. There's blackmail in it, or I am much mistaken."

     "And who is the blackmailer?"

     "Well, it must be the creature who lives in the only comfortable room
     in the place, and has her photograph above his fireplace. Upon my
     word, Watson, there is something very attractive about that livid
     face at the window, and I would not have missed the case for worlds."

     "You have a theory?"

     "Yes, a provisional one. But I shall be surprised if it does not turn
     out to be correct. This woman's first husband is in that cottage."

     "Why do you think so?"

     "How else can we explain her frenzied anxiety that her second one
     should not enter it? The facts, as I read them, are something like
     this: This woman was married in America. Her husband developed some
     hateful qualities; or shall we say that he contracted some loathsome
     disease, and became a leper or an imbecile? She flies from him at
     last, returns to England, changes her name, and starts her life, as
     she thinks, afresh. She has been married three years, and believes
     that her position is quite secure, having shown her husband the death
     certificate of some man whose name she has assumed, when suddenly her
     whereabouts is discovered by her first husband; or, we may suppose,
     by some unscrupulous woman who has attached herself to the invalid.
     They write to the wife, and threaten to come and expose her. She asks
     for a hundred pounds, and endeavors to buy them off. They come in
     spite of it, and when the husband mentions casually to the wife that
     there are new-comers in the cottage, she knows in some way that they
     are her pursuers. She waits until her husband is asleep, and then she
     rushes down to endeavor to persuade them to leave her in peace.
     Having no success, she goes again next morning, and her husband meets
     her, as he has told us, as she comes out. She promises him then not
     to go there again, but two days afterwards the hope of getting rid of
     those dreadful neighbors was too strong for her, and she made another
     attempt, taking down with her the photograph which had probably been
     demanded from her. In the midst of this interview the maid rushed in
     to say that the master had come home, on which the wife, knowing that
     he would come straight down to the cottage, hurried the inmates out
     at the back door, into the grove of fir-trees, probably, which was
     mentioned as standing near. In this way he found the place deserted.
     I shall be very much surprised, however, if it still so when he
     reconnoitres it this evening. What do you think of my theory?"

     "It is all surmise."

     "But at least it covers all the facts. When new facts come to our
     knowledge which cannot be covered by it, it will be time enough to
     reconsider it. We can do nothing more until we have a message from
     our friend at Norbury."

     But we had not a very long time to wait for that. It came just as we
     had finished our tea.

     "The cottage is still tenanted," it said. "Have seen the face again
     at the window. Will meet the seven o'clock train, and will take no
     steps until you arrive."

     He was waiting on the platform when we stepped out, and we could see
     in the light of the station lamps that he was very pale, and
     quivering with agitation.

     "They are still there, Mr. Holmes," said he, laying his hand hard
     upon my friend's sleeve. "I saw lights in the cottage as I came down.
     We shall settle it now once and for all."

     "What is your plan, then?" asked Holmes, as he walked down the dark
     tree-lined road.

     "I am going to force my way in and see for myself who is in the
     house. I wish you both to be there as witnesses."

     "You are quite determined to do this, in spite of your wife's warning
     that it is better that you should not solve the mystery?"

     "Yes, I am determined."

     "Well, I think that you are in the right. Any truth is better than
     indefinite doubt. We had better go up at once. Of course, legally, we
     are putting ourselves hopelessly in the wrong; but I think that it is
     worth it."

     It was a very dark night, and a thin rain began to fall as we turned
     from the high road into a narrow lane, deeply rutted, with hedges on
     either side. Mr. Grant Munro pushed impatiently forward, however, and
     we stumbled after him as best we could.

     "There are the lights of my house," he murmured, pointing to a
     glimmer among the trees. "And here is the cottage which I am going to
     enter."

     We turned a corner in the lane as he spoke, and there was the
     building close beside us. A yellow bar falling across the black
     foreground showed that the door was not quite closed, and one window
     in the upper story was brightly illuminated. As we looked, we saw a
     dark blur moving across the blind.

     "There is that creature!" cried Grant Munro. "You can see for
     yourselves that some one is there. Now follow me, and we shall soon
     know all."

     We approached the door; but suddenly a woman appeared out of the
     shadow and stood in the golden track of the lamp-light. I could not
     see her face in the darkness, but her arms were thrown out in an
     attitude of entreaty.

     "For God's sake, don't Jack!" she cried. "I had a presentiment that
     you would come this evening. Think better of it, dear! Trust me
     again, and you will never have cause to regret it."

     "I have trusted you too long, Effie," he cried, sternly. "Leave go of
     me! I must pass you. My friends and I are going to settle this matter
     once and forever!" He pushed her to one side, and we followed closely
     after him. As he threw the door open an old woman ran out in front of
     him and tried to bar his passage, but he thrust her back, and an
     instant afterwards we were all upon the stairs. Grant Munro rushed
     into the lighted room at the top, and we entered at his heels.

     It was a cosy, well-furnished apartment, with two candles burning
     upon the table and two upon the mantelpiece. In the corner, stooping
     over a desk, there sat what appeared to be a little girl. Her face
     was turned away as we entered, but we could see that she was dressed
     in a red frock, and that she had long white gloves on. As she whisked
     round to us, I gave a cry of surprise and horror. The face which she
     turned towards us was of the strangest livid tint, and the features
     were absolutely devoid of any expression. An instant later the
     mystery was explained. Holmes, with a laugh, passed his hand behind
     the child's ear, a mask peeled off from her countenance, an there was
     a little coal black negress, with all her white teeth flashing in
     amusement at our amazed faces. I burst out laughing, out of sympathy
     with her merriment; but Grant Munro stood staring, with his hand
     clutching his throat.

     "My God!" he cried. "What can be the meaning of this?"

     "I will tell you the meaning of it," cried the lady, sweeping into
     the room with a proud, set face. "You have forced me, against my own
     judgment, to tell you, and now we must both make the best of it. My
     husband died at Atlanta. My child survived."

     "Your child?"

     She drew a large silver locket from her bosom. "You have never seen
     this open."

     "I understood that it did not open."

     She touched a spring, and the front hinged back. There was a portrait
     within of a man strikingly handsome and intelligent-looking, but
     bearing unmistakable signs upon his features of his African descent.

     "That is John Hebron, of Atlanta," said the lady, "and a nobler man
     never walked the earth. I cut myself off from my race in order to wed
     him, but never once while he lived did I for an instant regret it. It
     was our misfortune that our only child took after his people rather
     than mine. It is often so in such matches, and little Lucy is darker
     far than ever her father was. But dark or fair, she is my own dear
     little girlie, and her mother's pet." The little creature ran across
     at the words and nestled up against the lady's dress. "When I left
     her in America," she continued, "it was only because her health was
     weak, and the change might have done her harm. She was given to the
     care of a faithful Scotch woman who had once been our servant. Never
     for an instant did I dream of disowning her as my child. But when
     chance threw you in my way, Jack, and I learned to love you, I feared
     to tell you about my child. God forgive me, I feared that I should
     lose you, and I had not the courage to tell you. I had to choose
     between you, and in my weakness I turned away from my own little
     girl. For three years I have kept her existence a secret from you,
     but I heard from the nurse, and I knew that all was well with her. At
     last, however, there came an overwhelming desire to see the child
     once more. I struggled against it, but in vain. Though I knew the
     danger, I determined to have the child over, if it were but for a few
     weeks. I sent a hundred pounds to the nurse, and I gave her
     instructions about this cottage, so that she might come as a
     neighbor, without my appearing to be in any way connected with her. I
     pushed my precautions so far as to order her to keep the child in the
     house during the daytime, and to cover up her little face and hands
     so that even those who might see her at the window should not gossip
     about there being a black child in the neighborhood. If I had been
     less cautious I might have been more wise, but I was half crazy with
     fear that you should learn the truth.

     "It was you who told me first that the cottage was occupied. I should
     have waited for the morning, but I could not sleep for excitement,
     and so at last I slipped out, knowing how difficult it is to awake
     you. But you saw me go, and that was the beginning of my troubles.
     Next day you had my secret at your mercy, but you nobly refrained
     from pursuing your advantage. Three days later, however, the nurse
     and child only just escaped from the back door as you rushed in at
     the front one. And now to-night you at last know all, and I ask you
     what is to become of us, my child and me?" She clasped her hands and
     waited for an answer.

     It was a long ten minutes before Grant Munro broke the silence, and
     when his answer came it was one of which I love to think. He lifted
     the little child, kissed her, and then, still carrying her, he held
     his other hand out to his wife and turned towards the door.

     "We can talk it over more comfortably at home," said he. "I am not a
     very good man, Effie, but I think that I am a better one than you
     have given me credit for being."

     Holmes and I followed them down the lane, and my friend plucked at my
     sleeve as we came out.

     "I think," said he, "that we shall be of more use in London than in
     Norbury."

     Not another word did he say of the case until late that night, when
     he was turning away, with his lighted candle, for his bedroom.

     "Watson," said he, "if it should ever strike you that I am getting a
     little over-confident in my powers, or giving less pains to a case
     than it deserves, kindly whisper 'Norbury' in my ear, and I shall be
     infinitely obliged to you." 






                            THE STOCK-BROKER'S CLERK

     Shortly after my marriage I had bought a connection in the Paddington
     district. Old Mr. Farquhar, from whom I purchased it, had at one time
     an excellent general practice; but his age, and an affliction of the
     nature of St. Vitus's dance from which he suffered, had very much
     thinned it. The public not unnaturally goes on the principle that he
     who would heal others must himself be whole, and looks askance at the
     curative powers of the man whose own case is beyond the reach of his
     drugs. Thus as my predecessor weakened his practice declined, until
     when I purchased it from him it had sunk from twelve hundred to
     little more than three hundred a year. I had confidence, however, in
     my own youth and energy, and was convinced that in a very few years
     the concern would be as flourishing as ever.

     For three months after taking over the practice I was kept very
     closely at work, and saw little of my friend Sherlock Holmes, for I
     was too busy to visit Baker Street, and he seldom went anywhere
     himself save upon professional business. I was surprised, therefore,
     when, one morning in June, as I sat reading the British Medical
     Journal after breakfast, I heard a ring at the bell, followed by the
     high, somewhat strident tones of my old companion's voice.

     "Ah, my dear Watson," said he, striding into the room, "I am very
     delighted to see you! I trust that Mrs. Watson has entirely recovered
     from all the little excitements connected with our adventure of the
     Sign of Four."

     "Thank you, we are both very well," said I, shaking him warmly by the
     hand.

     "And I hope, also," he continued, sitting down in the rocking-chair,
     "that the cares of medical practice have not entirely obliterated the
     interest which you used to take in our little deductive problems."

     "On the contrary," I answered, "it was only last night that I was
     looking over my old notes, and classifying some of our past results."

     "I trust that you don't consider your collection closed."

     "Not at all. I should wish nothing better than to have some more of
     such experiences."

     "To-day, for example?"

     "Yes, to-day, if you like."

     "And as far off as Birmingham?"

     "Certainly, if you wish it."

     "And the practice?"

     "I do my neighbor's when he goes. He is always ready to work off the
     debt."

     "Ha! Nothing could be better," said Holmes, leaning back in his chair
     and looking keenly at me from under his half closed lids. "I perceive
     that you have been unwell lately. Summer colds are always a little
     trying."

     "I was confined to the house by a severe chill for three days last
     week. I thought, however, that I had cast off every trace of it."

     "So you have. You look remarkably robust."

     "How, then, did you know of it?"

     "My dear fellow, you know my methods."

     "You deduced it, then?"

     "Certainly."

     "And from what?"

     "From your slippers."

     I glanced down at the new patent leathers which I was wearing. "How
     on earth--" I began, but Holmes answered my question before it was
     asked.

     "Your slippers are new," he said. "You could not have had them more
     than a few weeks. The soles which you are at this moment presenting
     to me are slightly scorched. For a moment I thought they might have
     got wet and been burned in the drying. But near the instep there is a
     small circular wafer of paper with the shopman's hieroglyphics upon
     it. Damp would of course have removed this. You had, then, been
     sitting with our feet outstretched to the fire, which a man would
     hardly do even in so wet a June as this if he were in his full
     health."

     Like all Holmes's reasoning the thing seemed simplicity itself when
     it was once explained. He read the thought upon my features, and his
     smile had a tinge of bitterness.

     "I am afraid that I rather give myself away when I explain," said he.
     "Results without causes are much more impressive. You are ready to
     come to Birmingham, then?"

     "Certainly. What is the case?"

     "You shall hear it all in the train. My client is outside in a
     four-wheeler. Can you come at once?"

     "In an instant." I scribbled a note to my neighbor, rushed upstairs
     to explain the matter to my wife, and joined Holmes upon the
     door-step.

     "Your neighbor is a doctor," said he, nodding at the brass plate.

     "Yes; he bought a practice as I did."

     "An old-established one?"

     "Just the same as mine. Both have been ever since the houses were
     built."

     "Ah! Then you got hold of the best of the two."

     "I think I did. But how do you know?"

     "By the steps, my boy. Yours are worn three inches deeper than his.
     But this gentleman in the cab is my client, Mr. Hall Pycroft. Allow
     me to introduce you to him. Whip your horse up, cabby, for we have
     only just time to catch our train."

     The man whom I found myself facing was a well built,
     fresh-complexioned young fellow, with a frank, honest face and a
     slight, crisp, yellow mustache. He wore a very shiny top hat and a
     neat suit of sober black, which made him look what he was--a smart
     young City man, of the class who have been labeled cockneys, but who
     give us our crack volunteer regiments, and who turn out more fine
     athletes and sportsmen than any body of men in these islands. His
     round, ruddy face was naturally full of cheeriness, but the corners
     of his mouth seemed to me to be pulled down in a half-comical
     distress. It was not, however, until we were all in a first-class
     carriage and well started upon our journey to Birmingham that I was
     able to learn what the trouble was which had driven him to Sherlock
     Holmes.

     "We have a clear run here of seventy minutes," Holmes remarked. "I
     want you, Mr. Hall Pycroft, to tell my friend your very interesting
     experience exactly as you have told it to me, or with more detail if
     possible. It will be of use to me to hear the succession of events
     again. It is a case, Watson, which may prove to have something in it,
     or may prove to have nothing, but which, at least, presents those
     unusual and outrÃ© features which are as dear to you as they are to
     me. Now, Mr. Pycroft, I shall not interrupt you again."

     Our young companion looked at me with a twinkle in his eye.

     "The worst of the story is," said he, "that I show myself up as such
     a confounded fool. Of course it may work out all right, and I don't
     see that I could have done otherwise; but if I have lost my crib and
     get nothing in exchange I shall feel what a soft Johnnie I have been.
     I'm not very good at telling a story, Dr. Watson, but it is like this
     with me:

     "I used to have a billet at Coxon & Woodhouse's, of Draper's Gardens,
     but they were let in early in the spring through the Venezuelan loan,
     as no doubt you remember, and came a nasty cropper. I had been with
     them five years, and old Coxon gave me a ripping good testimonial
     when the smash came, but of course we clerks were all turned adrift,
     the twenty-seven of us. I tried here and tried there, but there were
     lots of other chaps on the same lay as myself, and it was a perfect
     frost for a long time. I had been taking three pounds a week at
     Coxon's, and I had saved about seventy of them, but I soon worked my
     way through that and out at the other end. I was fairly at the end of
     my tether at last, and could hardly find the stamps to answer the
     advertisements or the envelopes to stick them to. I had worn out my
     boots paddling up office stairs, and I seemed just as far from
     getting a billet as ever.

     "At last I saw a vacancy at Mawson & Williams's, the great
     stock-broking firm in Lombard Street. I dare say E. C. is not much in
     your line, but I can tell you that this is about the richest house in
     London. The advertisement was to be answered by letter only. I sent
     in my testimonial and application, but without the least hope of
     getting it. Back came an answer by return, saying that if I would
     appear next Monday I might take over my new duties at once, provided
     that my appearance was satisfactory. No one knows how these things
     are worked. Some people say that the manager just plunges his hand
     into the heap and takes the first that comes. Anyhow it was my
     innings that time, and I don't ever wish to feel better pleased. The
     screw was a pound a week rise, and the duties just about the same as
     at Coxon's.

     "And now I come to the queer part of the business. I was in diggings
     out Hampstead way, 17 Potter's Terrace. Well, I was sitting doing a
     smoke that very evening after I had been promised the appointment,
     when up came my landlady with a card which had "Arthur Pinner,
     Financial Agent," printed upon it. I had never heard the name before
     and could not imagine what he wanted with me; but, of course, I asked
     her to show him up. In he walked, a middle-sized, dark-haired,
     dark-eyed, black-bearded man, with a touch of the sheeny about his
     nose. He had a brisk kind of way with him and spoke sharply, like a
     man who knew the value of time.

     "'Mr. Hall Pycroft, I believe?' said he.

     "'Yes, sir,' I answered, pushing a chair towards him.

     "'Lately engaged at Coxon & Woodhouse's?'

     "'Yes, sir.'

     "'And now on the staff of Mawson's.'

     "'Quite so.'

     "'Well,' said he, 'the fact is that I have heard some really
     extraordinary stories about your financial ability. You remember
     Parker, who used to be Coxon's manager? He can never say enough about
     it.'

     "Of course I was pleased to hear this. I had always been pretty sharp
     in the office, but I had never dreamed that I was talked about in the
     City in this fashion.

     "'You have a good memory?' said he.

     "'Pretty fair,' I answered, modestly.

     "'Have you kept in touch with the market while you have been out of
     work?' he asked.

     "'Yes. I read the stock exchange list every morning.'

     "'Now that shows real application!' he cried. 'That is the way to
     prosper! You won't mind my testing you, will you? Let me see. How are
     Ayrshires?'

     "'A hundred and six and a quarter to a hundred and five and
     seven-eighths.'

     "'And New Zealand consolidated?'

     "'A hundred and four.'

     "'And British Broken Hills?'

     "'Seven to seven-and-six.'

     "'Wonderful!' he cried, with his hands up. 'This quite fits in with
     all that I had heard. My boy, my boy, you are very much too good to
     be a clerk at Mawson's!'

     "This outburst rather astonished me, as you can think. 'Well,' said
     I, 'other people don't think quite so much of me as you seem to do,
     Mr. Pinner. I had a hard enough fight to get this berth, and I am
     very glad to have it.'

     "'Pooh, man; you should soar above it. You are not in your true
     sphere. Now, I'll tell you how it stands with me. What I have to
     offer is little enough when measured by your ability, but when
     compared with Mawson's, it's light to dark. Let me see. When do you
     go to Mawson's?'

     "'On Monday.'

     "'Ha, ha! I think I would risk a little sporting flutter that you
     don't go there at all.'

     "'Not go to Mawson's?'

     "'No, sir. By that day you will be the business manager of the
     Franco-Midland Hardware Company, Limited, with a hundred and
     thirty-four branches in the towns and villages of France, not
     counting one in Brussels and one in San Remo.'

     "This took my breath away. 'I never heard of it,' said I.

     "'Very likely not. It has been kept very quiet, for the capital was
     all privately subscribed, and it's too good a thing to let the public
     into. My brother, Harry Pinner, is promoter, and joins the board
     after allotment as managing director. He knew I was in the swim down
     here, and asked me to pick up a good man cheap. A young, pushing man
     with plenty of snap about him. Parker spoke of you, and that brought
     me here tonight. We can only offer you a beggarly five hundred to
     start with.'

     "'Five hundred a year!' I shouted.

     "'Only that at the beginning; but you are to have an overriding
     commission of one per cent on all business done by your agents, and
     you may take my word for it that this will come to more than your
     salary.'

     "'But I know nothing about hardware.'

     "'Tut, my boy; you know about figures.'

     "My head buzzed, and I could hardly sit still in my chair. But
     suddenly a little chill of doubt came upon me.

     "'I must be frank with you,' said I. 'Mawson only gives me two
     hundred, but Mawson is safe. Now, really, I know so little about your
     company that--'

     "'Ah, smart, smart!' he cried, in a kind of ecstasy of delight. 'You
     are the very man for us. You are not to be talked over, and quite
     right, too. Now, here's a note for a hundred pounds, and if you think
     that we can do business you may just slip it into your pocket as an
     advance upon your salary.'

     "'That is very handsome,' said I. 'When should I take over my new
     duties?'

     "'Be in Birmingham to-morrow at one,' said he. 'I have a note in my
     pocket here which you will take to my brother. You will find him at
     126b Corporation Street, where the temporary offices of the company
     are situated. Of course he must confirm your engagement, but between
     ourselves it will be all right.'

     "'Really, I hardly know how to express my gratitude, Mr. Pinner,'
     said I.

     "'Not at all, my boy. You have only got your desserts. There are one
     or two small things--mere formalities--which I must arrange with you.
     You have a bit of paper beside you there. Kindly write upon it "I am
     perfectly willing to act as business manager to the Franco-Midland
     Hardware Company, Limited, at a minimum salary of Â£500."'

     "I did as he asked, and he put the paper in his pocket.

     "'There is one other detail,' said he. 'What do you intend to do
     about Mawson's?'

     "I had forgotten all about Mawson's in my joy. 'I'll write and
     resign,' said I.

     "'Precisely what I don't want you to do. I had a row over you with
     Mawson's manager. I had gone up to ask him about you, and he was very
     offensive; accused me of coaxing you away from the service of the
     firm, and that sort of thing. At last I fairly lost my temper. "If
     you want good men you should pay them a good price," said I.

     "'"He would rather have our small price than your big one," said he.

     "'"I'll lay you a fiver," said I, "that when he has my offer you'll
     never so much as hear from him again."

     "'"Done!" said he. "We picked him out of the gutter, and he won't
     leave us so easily." Those were his very words.'

     "'The impudent scoundrel!' I cried. 'I've never so much as seen him
     in my life. Why should I consider him in any way? I shall certainly
     not write if you would rather I didn't.'

     "'Good! That's a promise,' said he, rising from his chair. 'Well, I'm
     delighted to have got so good a man for my brother. Here's your
     advance of a hundred pounds, and here is the letter. Make a note of
     the address, 126b Corporation Street, and remember that one o'clock
     to-morrow is your appointment. Good-night; and may you have all the
     fortune that you deserve!'

     "That's just about all that passed between us, as near as I can
     remember. You can imagine, Dr. Watson, how pleased I was at such an
     extraordinary bit of good fortune. I sat up half the night hugging
     myself over it, and next day I was off to Birmingham in a train that
     would take me in plenty time for my appointment. I took my things to
     a hotel in New Street, and then I made my way to the address which
     had been given me.

     "It was a quarter of an hour before my time, but I thought that would
     make no difference. 126b was a passage between two large shops, which
     led to a winding stone stair, from which there were many flats, let
     as offices to companies or professional men. The names of the
     occupants were painted at the bottom on the wall, but there was no
     such name as the Franco-Midland Hardware Company, Limited. I stood
     for a few minutes with my heart in my boots, wondering whether the
     whole thing was an elaborate hoax or not, when up came a man and
     addressed me. He was very like the chap I had seen the night before,
     the same figure and voice, but he was clean shaven and his hair was
     lighter.

     "'Are you Mr. Hall Pycroft?' he asked.

     "'Yes,' said I.

     "'Oh! I was expecting you, but you are a trifle before your time. I
     had a note from my brother this morning in which he sang your praises
     very loudly.'

     "'I was just looking for the offices when you came.'

     "'We have not got our name up yet, for we only secured these
     temporary premises last week. Come up with me, and we will talk the
     matter over.'

     "I followed him to the top of a very lofty stair, and there, right
     under the slates, were a couple of empty, dusty little rooms,
     uncarpeted and uncurtained, into which he led me. I had thought of a
     great office with shining tables and rows of clerks, such as I was
     used to, and I dare say I stared rather straight at the two deal
     chairs and one little table, which, with a ledger and a waste paper
     basket, made up the whole furniture.

     "'Don't be disheartened, Mr. Pycroft,' said my new acquaintance,
     seeing the length of my face. 'Rome was not built in a day, and we
     have lots of money at our backs, though we don't cut much dash yet in
     offices. Pray sit down, and let me have your letter.'

     "I gave it to him, and her read it over very carefully.

     "'You seem to have made a vast impression upon my brother Arthur,'
     said he; 'and I know that he is a pretty shrewd judge. He swears by
     London, you know; and I by Birmingham; but this time I shall follow
     his advice. Pray consider yourself definitely engaged.'

     "'What are my duties?' I asked.

     "'You will eventually manage the great depot in Paris, which will
     pour a flood of English crockery into the shops of a hundred and
     thirty-four agents in France. The purchase will be completed in a
     week, and meanwhile you will remain in Birmingham and make yourself
     useful.'

     "'How?'

     "For answer, he took a big red book out of a drawer.

     "'This is a directory of Paris,' said he, 'with the trades after the
     names of the people. I want you to take it home with you, and to mark
     off all the hardware sellers, with their addresses. It would be of
     the greatest use to me to have them.'

     "'Surely there are classified lists?' I suggested.

     "'Not reliable ones. Their system is different from ours. Stick at
     it, and let me have the lists by Monday, at twelve. Good-day, Mr.
     Pycroft. If you continue to show zeal and intelligence you will find
     the company a good master.'

     "I went back to the hotel with the big book under my arm, and with
     very conflicting feelings in my breast. On the one hand, I was
     definitely engaged and had a hundred pounds in my pocket; on the
     other, the look of the offices, the absence of name on the wall, and
     other of the points which would strike a business man had left a bad
     impression as to the position of my employers. However, come what
     might, I had my money, so I settled down to my task. All Sunday I was
     kept hard at work, and yet by Monday I had only got as far as H. I
     went round to my employer, found him in the same dismantled kind of
     room, and was told to keep at it until Wednesday, and then come
     again. On Wednesday it was still unfinished, so I hammered away until
     Friday--that is, yesterday. Then I brought it round to Mr. Harry
     Pinner.

     "'Thank you very much,' said he; 'I fear that I underrated the
     difficulty of the task. This list will be of very material assistance
     to me.'

     "'It took some time,' said I.

     "'And now,' said he, 'I want you to make a list of the furniture
     shops, for they all sell crockery.'

     "'Very good.'

     "'And you can come up to-morrow evening, at seven, and let me know
     how you are getting on. Don't overwork yourself. A couple of hours at
     Day's Music Hall in the evening would do you no harm after your
     labors.' He laughed as he spoke, and I saw with a thrill that his
     second tooth upon the left-hand side had been very badly stuffed with
     gold."

     Sherlock Holmes rubbed his hands with delight, and I stared with
     astonishment at our client.

     "You may well look surprised, Dr. Watson; but it is this way," said
     he: "When I was speaking to the other chap in London, at the time
     that he laughed at my not going to Mawson's, I happened to notice
     that his tooth was stuffed in this very identical fashion. The glint
     of the gold in each case caught my eye, you see. When I put that with
     the voice and figure being the same, and only those things altered
     which might be changed by a razor or a wig, I could not doubt that it
     was the same man. Of course you expect two brothers to be alike, but
     not that they should have the same tooth stuffed in the same way. He
     bowed me out, and I found myself in the street, hardly knowing
     whether I was on my head or my heels. Back I went to my hotel, put my
     head in a basin of cold water, and tried to think it out. Why had he
     sent me from London to Birmingham? Why had he got there before me?
     And why had he written a letter from himself to himself? It was
     altogether too much for me, and I could make no sense of it. And then
     suddenly it struck me that what was dark to me might be very light to
     Mr. Sherlock Holmes. I had just time to get up to town by the night
     train to see him this morning, and to bring you both back with me to
     Birmingham."

     There was a pause after the stock-broker's clerk had concluded his
     surprising experience. Then Sherlock Holmes cocked his eye at me,
     leaning back on the cushions with a pleased and yet critical face,
     like a connoisseur who has just taken his first sip of a comet
     vintage.

     "Rather fine, Watson, is it not?" said he. "There are points in it
     which please me. I think that you will agree with me that an
     interview with Mr. Arthur Harry Pinner in the temporary offices of
     the Franco-Midland Hardware Company, Limited, would be a rather
     interesting experience for both of us."

     "But how can we do it?" I asked.

     "Oh, easily enough," said Hall Pycroft, cheerily. "You are two
     friends of mine who are in want of a billet, and what could be more
     natural than that I should bring you both round to the managing
     director?"

     "Quite so, of course," said Holmes. "I should like to have a look at
     the gentleman, and see if I can make anything of his little game.
     What qualities have you, my friend, which would make your services so
     valuable? Or is it possible that--" He began biting his nails and
     staring blankly out of the window, and we hardly drew another word
     from him until we were in New Street.

     At seven o'clock that evening we were walking, the three of us, down
     Corporation Street to the company's offices.

     "It is no use our being at all before our time," said our client. "He
     only comes there to see me, apparently, for the place is deserted up
     to the very hour he names."

     "That is suggestive," remarked Holmes.

     "By Jove, I told you so!" cried the clerk. "That's he walking ahead
     of us there."

     He pointed to a smallish, dark, well-dressed man who was bustling
     along the other side of the road. As we watched him he looked across
     at a boy who was bawling out the latest edition of the evening paper,
     and running over among the cabs and busses, he bought one from him.
     Then, clutching it in his hand, he vanished through a door-way.

     "There he goes!" cried Hall Pycroft. "These are the company's offices
     into which he has gone. Come with me, and I'll fix it up as easily as
     possible."

     Following his lead, we ascended five stories, until we found
     ourselves outside a half-opened door, at which our client tapped. A
     voice within bade us enter, and we entered a bare, unfurnished room
     such as Hall Pycroft had described. At the single table sat the man
     whom we had seen in the street, with his evening paper spread out in
     front of him, and as he looked up at us it seemed to me that I had
     never looked upon a face which bore such marks of grief, and of
     something beyond grief--of a horror such as comes to few men in a
     lifetime. His brow glistened with perspiration, his cheeks were of
     the dull, dead white of a fish's belly, and his eyes were wild and
     staring. He looked at his clerk as though he failed to recognize him,
     and I could see by the astonishment depicted upon our conductor's
     face that this was by no means the usual appearance of his employer.

     "You look ill, Mr. Pinner!" he exclaimed.

     "Yes, I am not very well," answered the other, making obvious efforts
     to pull himself together, and licking his dry lips before he spoke.
     "Who are these gentlemen whom you have brought with you?"

     "One is Mr. Harris, of Bermondsey, and the other is Mr. Price, of
     this town," said our clerk, glibly. "They are friends of mine and
     gentlemen of experience, but they have been out of a place for some
     little time, and they hoped that perhaps you might find an opening
     for them in the company's employment."

     "Very possibly! Very possibly!" cried Mr. Pinner with a ghastly
     smile. "Yes, I have no doubt that we shall be able to do something
     for you. What is your particular line, Mr. Harris?"

     "I am an accountant," said Holmes.

     "Ah yes, we shall want something of the sort. And you, Mr. Price?"

     "A clerk," said I.

     "I have every hope that the company may accommodate you. I will let
     you know about it as soon as we come to any conclusion. And now I beg
     that you will go. For God's sake leave me to myself!"

     These last words were shot out of him, as though the constraint which
     he was evidently setting upon himself had suddenly and utterly burst
     asunder. Holmes and I glanced at each other, and Hall Pycroft took a
     step towards the table.

     "You forget, Mr. Pinner, that I am here by appointment to receive
     some directions from you," said he.

     "Certainly, Mr. Pycroft, certainly," the other resumed in a calmer
     tone. "You may wait here a moment; and there is no reason why your
     friends should not wait with you. I will be entirely at your service
     in three minutes, if I might trespass upon your patience so far." He
     rose with a very courteous air, and, bowing to us, he passed out
     through a door at the farther end of the room, which he closed behind
     him.

     "What now?" whispered Holmes. "Is he giving us the slip?"

     "Impossible," answered Pycroft.

     "Why so?"

     "That door leads into an inner room."

     "There is no exit?"

     "None."

     "Is it furnished?"

     "It was empty yesterday."

     "Then what on earth can he be doing? There is something which I don't
     understand in his manner. If ever a man was three parts mad with
     terror, that man's name is Pinner. What can have put the shivers on
     him?"

     "He suspects that we are detectives," I suggested.

     "That's it," cried Pycroft.

     Holmes shook his head. "He did not turn pale. He was pale when we
     entered the room," said he. "It is just possible that--"

     His words were interrupted by a sharp rat-tat from the direction of
     the inner door.

     "What the deuce is he knocking at his own door for?" cried the clerk.

     Again and much louder cam the rat-tat-tat. We all gazed expectantly
     at the closed door. Glancing at Holmes, I saw his face turn rigid,
     and he leaned forward in intense excitement. Then suddenly came a low
     guggling, gargling sound, and a brisk drumming upon woodwork. Holmes
     sprang frantically across the room and pushed at the door. It was
     fastened on the inner side. Following his example, we threw ourselves
     upon it with all our weight. One hinge snapped, then the other, and
     down came the door with a crash. Rushing over it, we found ourselves
     in the inner room. It was empty.

     But it was only for a moment that we were at fault. At one corner,
     the corner nearest the room which we had left, there was a second
     door. Holmes sprang to it and pulled it open. A coat and waistcoat
     were lying on the floor, and from a hook behind the door, with his
     own braces round his neck, was hanging the managing director of the
     Franco-Midland Hardware Company. His knees were drawn up, his head
     hung at a dreadful angle to his body, and the clatter of his heels
     against the door made the noise which had broken in upon our
     conversation. In an instant I had caught him round the waist, and
     held him up while Holmes and Pycroft untied the elastic bands which
     had disappeared between the livid creases of skin. Then we carried
     him into the other room, where he lay with a clay-colored face,
     puffing his purple lips in and out with every breath--a dreadful
     wreck of all that he had been but five minutes before.

     "What do you think of him, Watson?" asked Holmes.

     I stooped over him and examined him. His pulse was feeble and
     intermittent, but his breathing grew longer, and there was a little
     shivering of his eyelids, which showed a thin white slit of ball
     beneath.

     "It has been touch and go with him," said I, "but he'll live now.
     Just open that window, and hand me the water carafe." I undid his
     collar, poured the cold water over his face, and raised and sank his
     arms until he drew a long, natural breath. "It's only a question of
     time now," said I, as I turned away from him.

     Holmes stood by the table, with his hands deep in his trouser's
     pockets and his chin upon his breast.

     "I suppose we ought to call the police in now," said he. "And yet I
     confess that I'd like to give them a complete case when they come."

     "It's a blessed mystery to me," cried Pycroft, scratching his head.
     "Whatever they wanted to bring me all the way up here for, and
     then--"

     "Pooh! All that is clear enough," said Holmes impatiently. "It is
     this last sudden move."

     "You understand the rest, then?"

     "I think that it is fairly obvious. What do you say, Watson?"

     I shrugged my shoulders. "I must confess that I am out of my depths,"
     said I.

     "Oh surely if you consider the events at first they can only point to
     one conclusion."

     "What do you make of them?"

     "Well, the whole thing hinges upon two points. The first is the
     making of Pycroft write a declaration by which he entered the service
     of this preposterous company. Do you not see how very suggestive that
     is?"

     "I am afraid I miss the point."

     "Well, why did they want him to do it? Not as a business matter, for
     these arrangements are usually verbal, and there was no earthly
     business reason why this should be an exception. Don't you see, my
     young friend, that they were very anxious to obtain a specimen of
     your handwriting, and had no other way of doing it?"

     "And why?"

     "Quite so. Why? When we answer that we have made some progress with
     our little problem. Why? There can be only one adequate reason.
     Someone wanted to learn to imitate your writing, and had to procure a
     specimen of it first. And now if we pass on to the second point we
     find that each throws light upon the other. That point is the request
     made by Pinner that you should not resign your place, but should
     leave the manager of this important business in the full expectation
     that a Mr. Hall Pycroft, whom he had never seen, was about to enter
     the office upon the Monday morning."

     "My God!" cried our client, "what a blind beetle I have been!"

     "Now you see the point about the handwriting. Suppose that some one
     turned up in your place who wrote a completely different hand from
     that in which you had applied for the vacancy, of course the game
     would have been up. But in the interval the rogue had learned to
     imitate you, and his position was therefore secure, as I presume that
     nobody in the office had ever set eyes upon you."

     "Not a soul," groaned Hall Pycroft.

     "Very good. Of course it was of the utmost importance to prevent you
     from thinking better of it, and also to keep you from coming into
     contact with any one who might tell you that your double was at work
     in Mawson's office. Therefore they gave you a handsome advance on
     your salary, and ran you off to the Midlands, where they gave you
     enough work to do to prevent your going to London, where you might
     have burst their little game up. That is all plain enough."

     "But why should this man pretend to be his own brother?"

     "Well, that is pretty clear also. There are evidently only two of
     them in it. The other is impersonating you at the office. This one
     acted as your engager, and then found that he could not find you an
     employer without admitting a third person into his plot. That he was
     most unwilling to do. He changed his appearance as far as he could,
     and trusted that the likeness, which you could not fail to observe,
     would be put down to a family resemblance. But for the happy chance
     of the gold stuffing, your suspicions would probably never have been
     aroused."

     Hall Pycroft shook his clinched hands in the air. "Good Lord!" he
     cried, "while I have been fooled in this way, what has this other
     Hall Pycroft been doing at Mawson's? What should we do, Mr. Holmes?
     Tell me what to do."

     "We must wire to Mawson's."

     "They shut at twelve on Saturdays."

     "Never mind. There may be some door-keeper or attendant--"

     "Ah yes, they keep a permanent guard there on account of the value of
     the securities that they hold. I remember hearing it talked of in the
     City."

     "Very good; we shall wire to him, and see if all is well, and if a
     clerk of your name is working there. That is clear enough; but what
     is not so clear is why at sight of us one of the rogues should
     instantly walk out of the room and hang himself."

     "The paper!" croaked a voice behind us. The man was sitting up,
     blanched and ghastly, with returning reason in his eyes, and hands
     which rubbed nervously at the broad red band which still encircled
     his throat.

     "The paper! Of course!" yelled Holmes, in a paroxysm of excitement.
     "Idiot that I was! I thought so must of our visit that the paper
     never entered my head for an instant. To be sure, the secret must be
     there." He flattened it out upon the table, and a cry of triumph
     burst from his lips. "Look at this, Watson," he cried. "It is a
     London paper, an early edition of the Evening Standard. Here is what
     we want. Look at the headlines: 'Crime in the City. Murder at Mawson
     & Williams's. Gigantic attempted Robbery. Capture of the Criminal.'
     Here, Watson, we are all equally anxious to hear it, so kindly read
     it aloud to us."

     It appeared from its position in the paper to have been the one event
     of importance in town, and the account of it ran in this way:

     "A desperate attempt at robbery, culminating in the death of one man
     and the capture of the criminal, occurred this afternoon in the City.
     For some time back Mawson & Williams, the famous financial house,
     have been the guardians of securities which amount in the aggregate
     to a sum of considerably over a million sterling. So conscious was
     the manager of the responsibility which devolved upon him in
     consequence of the great interests at stake that safes of the very
     latest construction have been employed, and an armed watchman has
     been left day and night in the building. It appears that last week a
     new clerk named Hall Pycroft was engaged by the firm. This person
     appears to have been none other that Beddington, the famous forger
     and cracksman, who, with his brother, had only recently emerged from
     a five years' spell of penal servitude. By some means, which are not
     yet clear, he succeeded in winning, under a false name, this official
     position in the office, which he utilized in order to obtain moulding
     of various locks, and a thorough knowledge of the position of the
     strong room and the safes.
     "It is customary at Mawson's for the clerks to leave at midday on
     Saturday. Sergeant Tuson, of the City Police, was somewhat surprised,
     therefore to see a gentleman with a carpet bag come down the steps at
     twenty minutes past one. His suspicions being aroused, the sergeant
     followed the man, and with the aid of Constable Pollack succeeded,
     after a most desperate resistance, in arresting him. It was at once
     clear that a daring and gigantic robbery had been committed. Nearly a
     hundred thousand pounds' worth of American railway bonds, with a
     large amount of scrip in mines and other companies, was discovered in
     the bag. On examining the premises the body of the unfortunate
     watchman was found doubled up and thrust into the largest of the
     safes, where it would not have been discovered until Monday morning
     had it not been for the prompt action of Sergeant Tuson. The man's
     skull had been shattered by a blow from a poker delivered from
     behind. There could be no doubt that Beddington had obtained entrance
     by pretending that he had left something behind him, and having
     murdered the watchman, rapidly rifled the large safe, and then made
     off with his booty. His brother, who usually works with him, has not
     appeared in this job as far as can at present be ascertained,
     although the police are making energetic inquiries as to his
     whereabouts."

     "Well, we may save the police some little trouble in that direction,"
     said Holmes, glancing at the haggard figure huddled up by the window.
     "Human nature is a strange mixture, Watson. You see that even a
     villain and murderer can inspire such affection that his brother
     turns to suicide when he learns that his neck is forfeited. However,
     we have no choice as to our action. The doctor and I will remain on
     guard, Mr. Pycroft, if you will have the kindness to step out for the
     police."






                               THE "GLORIA SCOTT"

     "I have some papers here," said my friend Sherlock Holmes, as we sat
     one winter's night on either side of the fire, "which I really think,
     Watson, that it would be worth your while to glance over. These are
     the documents in the extraordinary case of the Gloria Scott, and this
     is the message which struck Justice of the Peace Trevor dead with
     horror when he read it."

     He had picked from a drawer a little tarnished cylinder, and, undoing
     the tape, he handed me a short note scrawled upon a half-sheet of
     slate gray-paper.

     "The supply of game for London is going steadily up," it ran.
     "Head-keeper Hudson, we believe, has been now told to receive all
     orders for fly-paper and for preservation of your hen-pheasant's
     life."

     As I glanced up from reading this enigmatical message, I saw Holmes
     chuckling at the expression upon my face.

     "You look a little bewildered," said he.

     "I cannot see how such a message as this could inspire horror. It
     seems to me to be rather grotesque than otherwise."

     "Very likely. Yet the fact remains that the reader, who was a fine,
     robust old man, was knocked clean down by it as if it had been the
     butt end of a pistol."

     "You arouse my curiosity," said I. "But why did you say just now that
     there were very particular reasons why I should study this case?"

     "Because it was the first in which I was ever engaged."

     I had often endeavored to elicit from my companion what had first
     turned his mind in the direction of criminal research, but had never
     caught him before in a communicative humor. Now he sat forward in his
     arm-chair and spread out the documents upon his knees. Then he lit
     his pipe and sat for some time smoking and turning them over.

     "You never heard me talk of Victor Trevor?" he asked. "He was the
     only friend I made during the two years I was at college. I was never
     a very sociable fellow, Watson, always rather fond of moping in my
     rooms and working out my own little methods of thought, so that I
     never mixed much with the men of my year. Bar fencing and boxing I
     had few athletic tastes, and then my line of study was quite distinct
     from that of the other fellows, so that we had no points of contact
     at all. Trevor was the only man I knew, and that only through the
     accident of his bull terrier freezing on to my ankle one morning as I
     went down to chapel.

     "It was a prosaic way of forming a friendship, but it was effective.
     I was laid by the heels for ten days, but Trevor used to come in to
     inquire after me. At first it was only a minute's chat, but soon his
     visits lengthened, and before the end of the term we were close
     friends. He was a hearty, full-blooded fellow, full of spirits and
     energy, the very opposite to me in most respects, but we had some
     subjects in common, and it was a bond of union when I found that he
     was as friendless as I. Finally, he invited me down to his father's
     place at Donnithorpe, in Norfolk, and I accepted his hospitality for
     a month of the long vacation.

     "Old Trevor was evidently a man of some wealth and consideration, a
     J.P., and a landed proprietor. Donnithorpe is a little hamlet just to
     the north of Langmere, in the country of the Broads. The house was an
     old-fashioned, wide-spread, oak-beamed brick building, with a fine
     lime-lined avenue leading up to it. There was excellent wild-duck
     shooting in the fens, remarkably good fishing, a small but select
     library, taken over, as I understood, from a former occupant, and a
     tolerable cook, so that he would be a fastidious man who could not
     put in a pleasant month there.

     "Trevor senior was a widower, and my friend his only son.

     "There had been a daughter, I heard, but she had died of diphtheria
     while on a visit to Birmingham. The father interested me extremely.
     He was a man of little culture, but with a considerable amount of
     rude strength, both physically and mentally. He knew hardly any
     books, but he had traveled far, had seen much of the world. And had
     remembered all that he had learned. In person he was a thick-set,
     burly man with a shock of grizzled hair, a brown, weather-beaten
     face, and blue eyes which were keen to the verge of fierceness. Yet
     he had a reputation for kindness and charity on the country-side, and
     was noted for the leniency of his sentences from the bench.

     "One evening, shortly after my arrival, we were sitting over a glass
     of port after dinner, when young Trevor began to talk about those
     habits of observation and inference which I had already formed into a
     system, although I had not yet appreciated the part which they were
     to play in my life. The old man evidently thought that his son was
     exaggerating in his description of one or two trivial feats which I
     had performed.

     "'Come, now, Mr. Holmes,' said he, laughing good-humoredly. 'I'm an
     excellent subject, if you can deduce anything from me.'

     "'I fear there is not very much,' I answered; 'I might suggest that
     you have gone about in fear of some personal attack within the last
     twelve months.'

     "The laugh faded from his lips, and he stared at me in great
     surprise.

     "'Well, that's true enough,' said he. 'You know, Victor,' turning to
     his son, 'when we broke up that poaching gang they swore to knife us,
     and Sir Edward Holly has actually been attacked. I've always been on
     my guard since then, though I have no idea how you know it.'

     "'You have a very handsome stick,' I answered. 'By the inscription I
     observed that you had not had it more than a year. But you have taken
     some pains to bore the head of it and pour melted lead into the hole
     so as to make it a formidable weapon. I argued that you would not
     take such precautions unless you had some danger to fear.'

     "'Anything else?' he asked, smiling.

     "'You have boxed a good deal in your youth.'

     "'Right again. How did you know it?  Is my nose knocked a little out
     of the straight?'

     "'No,' said I. 'It is your ears. They have the peculiar flattening
     and thickening which marks the boxing man.'

     "'Anything else?'

     "'You have done a good deal of digging by your callosities.'

     "'Made all my money at the gold fields.'

     "'You have been in New Zealand.'

     "'Right again.'

     "'You have visited Japan.'

     "'Quite true.'

     "'And you have been most intimately associated with some one whose
     initials were J. A., and whom you afterwards were eager to entirely
     forget.'

     "Mr. Trevor stood slowly up, fixed his large blue eyes upon me with a
     strange wild stare, and then pitched forward, with his face among the
     nutshells which strewed the cloth, in a dead faint.

     "You can imagine, Watson, how shocked both his son and I were. His
     attack did not last long, however, for when we undid his collar, and
     sprinkled the water from one of the finger-glasses over his face, he
     gave a gasp or two and sat up.

     "'Ah, boys,' said he, forcing a smile, 'I hope I haven't frightened
     you. Strong as I look, there is a weak place in my heart, and it does
     not take much to knock me over. I don't know how you manage this, Mr.
     Holmes, but it seems to me that all the detectives of fact and of
     fancy would be children in your hands. That's your line of life, sir,
     and you may take the word of a man who has seen something of the
     world.'

     "And that recommendation, with the exaggerated estimate of my ability
     with which he prefaced it, was, if you will believe me, Watson, the
     very first thing which ever made me feel that a profession might be
     made out of what had up to that time been the merest hobby. At the
     moment, however, I was too much concerned at the sudden illness of my
     host to think of anything else.

     "'I hope that I have said nothing to pain you?' said I.

     "'Well, you certainly touched upon rather a tender point. Might I ask
     how you know, and how much you know?' He spoke now in a half-jesting
     fashion, but a look of terror still lurked at the back of his eyes.

     "'It is simplicity itself,' said I. 'When you bared your arm to draw
     that fish into the boat I saw that J. A. had been tattooed in the
     bend of the elbow. The letters were still legible, but it was
     perfectly clear from their blurred appearance, and from the staining
     of the skin round them, that efforts had been made to obliterate
     them. It was obvious, then, that those initials had once been very
     familiar to you, and that you had afterwards wished to forget them.'

     "'What an eye you have!' he cried, with a sigh of relief. 'It is just
     as you say. But we won't talk of it. Of all ghosts the ghosts of our
     old lovers are the worst. Come into the billiard-room and have a
     quiet cigar.'

     "From that day, amid all his cordiality, there was always a touch of
     suspicion in Mr. Trevor's manner towards me. Even his son remarked
     it. 'You've given the governor such a turn,' said he, 'that he'll
     never be sure again of what you know and what you don't know.' He did
     not mean to show it, I am sure, but it was so strongly in his mind
     that it peeped out at every action. At last I became so convinced
     that I was causing him uneasiness that I drew my visit to a close. On
     the very day, however, before I left, an incident occurred which
     proved in the sequel to be of importance.

     "We were sitting out upon the lawn on garden chairs, the three of us,
     basking in the sun and admiring the view across the Broads, when a
     maid came out to say that there was a man at the door who wanted to
     see Mr. Trevor.

     "'What is his name?' asked my host.

     "'He would not give any.'

     "'What does he want, then?'

     "'He says that you know him, and that he only wants a moment's
     conversation.'

     "'Show him round here.' An instant afterwards there appeared a little
     wizened fellow with a cringing manner and a shambling style of
     walking. He wore an open jacket, with a splotch of tar on the sleeve,
     a red-and-black check shirt, dungaree trousers, and heavy boots badly
     worn. His face was thin and brown and crafty, with a perpetual smile
     upon it, which showed an irregular line of yellow teeth, and his
     crinkled hands were half closed in a way that is distinctive of
     sailors. As he came slouching across the lawn I heard Mr. Trevor make
     a sort of hiccoughing noise in his throat, and jumping out of his
     chair, he ran into the house. He was back in a moment, and I smelt a
     strong reek of brandy as he passed me.

     "'Well, my man,' said he. 'What can I do for you?'

     "The sailor stood looking at him with puckered eyes, and with the
     same loose-lipped smile upon his face.

     "'You don't know me?' he asked.

     "'Why, dear me, it is surely Hudson,' said Mr. Trevor in a tone of
     surprise.

     "'Hudson it is, sir,' said the seaman. 'Why, it's thirty year and
     more since I saw you last. Here you are in your house, and me still
     picking my salt meat out of the harness cask.'

     "'Tut, you will find that I have not forgotten old times,' cried Mr.
     Trevor, and, walking towards the sailor, he said something in a low
     voice. 'Go into the kitchen,' he continued out loud, 'and you will
     get food and drink. I have no doubt that I shall find you a
     situation.'

     "'Thank you, sir,' said the seaman, touching his fore-lock. 'I'm just
     off a two-yearer in an eight-knot tramp, short-handed at that, and I
     wants a rest. I thought I'd get it either with Mr. Beddoes or with
     you.'

     "'Ah!' cried Trevor. 'You know where Mr. Beddoes is?'

     "'Bless you, sir, I know where all my old friends are,' said the
     fellow with a sinister smile, and he slouched off after the maid to
     the kitchen. Mr. Trevor mumbled something to us about having been
     shipmate with the man when he was going back to the diggings, and
     then, leaving us on the lawn, he went indoors. An hour later, when we
     entered the house, we found him stretched dead drunk upon the
     dining-room sofa. The whole incident left a most ugly impression upon
     my mind, and I was not sorry next day to leave Donnithorpe behind me,
     for I felt that my presence must be a source of embarrassment to my
     friend.

     "All this occurred during the first month of the long vacation. I
     went up to my London rooms, where I spent seven weeks working out a
     few experiments in organic chemistry. One day, however, when the
     autumn was far advanced and the vacation drawing to a close, I
     received a telegram from my friend imploring me to return to
     Donnithorpe, and saying that he was in great need of my advice and
     assistance. Of course I dropped everything and set out for the North
     once more.

     "He met me with the dog-cart at the station, and I saw at a glance
     that the last two months had been very trying ones for him. He had
     grown thin and careworn, and had lost the loud, cheery manner for
     which he had been remarkable.

     "'The governor is dying,' were the first words he said.

     "'Impossible!' I cried. 'What is the matter?'

     "'Apoplexy. Nervous shock, He's been on the verge all day. I doubt if
     we shall find him alive.'

     "I was, as you may think, Watson, horrified at this unexpected news.

     "'What has caused it?' I asked.

     "'Ah, that is the point. Jump in and we can talk it over while we
     drive. You remember that fellow who came upon the evening before you
     left us?'

     "'Perfectly.'

     "'Do you know who it was that we let into the house that day?'

     "'I have no idea.'

     "'It was the devil, Holmes,' he cried.

     "I stared at him in astonishment.

     "'Yes, it was the devil himself. We have not had a peaceful hour
     since--not one. The governor has never held up his head from that
     evening, and now the life has been crushed out of him and his heart
     broken, all through this accursed Hudson.'

     "'What power had he, then?'

     "'Ah, that is what I would give so much to know. The kindly,
     charitable, good old governor--how could he have fallen into the
     clutches of such a ruffian! But I am so glad that you have come,
     Holmes. I trust very much to your judgment and discretion, and I know
     that you will advise me for the best.'

     "We were dashing along the smooth white country road, with the long
     stretch of the Broads in front of us glimmering in the red light of
     the setting sun. From a grove upon our left I could already see the
     high chimneys and the flag-staff which marked the squire's dwelling.

     "'My father made the fellow gardener,' said my companion, 'and then,
     as that did not satisfy him, he was promoted to be butler. The house
     seemed to be at his mercy, and he wandered about and did what he
     chose in it. The maids complained of his drunken habits and his vile
     language. The dad raised their wages all round to recompense them for
     the annoyance. The fellow would take the boat and my father's best
     gun and treat himself to little shooting trips. And all this with
     such a sneering, leering, insolent face that I would have knocked him
     down twenty times over if he had been a man of my own age. I tell
     you, Holmes, I have had to keep a tight hold upon myself all this
     time; and now I am asking myself whether, if I had let myself go a
     little more, I might not have been a wiser man.

     "'Well, matters went from bad to worse with us, and this animal
     Hudson became more and more intrusive, until at last, on making some
     insolent reply to my father in my presence one day, I took him by the
     shoulders and turned him out of the room. He slunk away with a livid
     face and two venomous eyes which uttered more threats than his tongue
     could do. I don't know what passed between the poor dad and him after
     that, but the dad came to me next day and asked me whether I would
     mind apologizing to Hudson. I refused, as you can imagine, and asked
     my father how he could allow such a wretch to take such liberties
     with himself and his household.

     "'"Ah, my boy," said he, "it is all very well to talk, but you don't
     know how I am placed. But you shall know, Victor. I'll see that you
     shall know, come what may. You wouldn't believe harm of your poor old
     father, would you, lad?" He was very much moved, and shut himself up
     in the study all day, where I could see through the window that he
     was writing busily.

     "'That evening there came what seemed to me to be a grand release,
     for Hudson told us that he was going to leave us. He walked into the
     dining-room as we sat after dinner, and announced his intention in
     the thick voice of a half-drunken man.

     "'"I've had enough of Norfolk," said he. "I'll run down to Mr.
     Beddoes in Hampshire. He'll be as glad to see me as you were, I dare
     say."

     "'"You're not going away in any kind of spirit, Hudson, I hope," said
     my father, with a tameness which mad my blood boil.

     "'"I've not had my 'pology," said he sulkily, glancing in my
     direction.

     "'"Victor, you will acknowledge that you have used this worthy fellow
     rather roughly," said the dad, turning to me.

     "'"On the contrary, I think that we have both shown extraordinary
     patience towards him," I answered.

     "'"Oh, you do, do you?" he snarls. "Very good, mate. We'll see about
     that!"

     "'He slouched out of the room, and half an hour afterwards left the
     house, leaving my father in a state of pitiable nervousness. Night
     after night I heard him pacing his room, and it was just as he was
     recovering his confidence that the blow did at last fall.'

     "'And how?' I asked eagerly.

     "'In a most extraordinary fashion. A letter arrived for my father
     yesterday evening, bearing the Fordingbridge post-mark. My father
     read it, clapped both his hands to his head, and began running round
     the room in little circles like a man who has been driven out of his
     senses. When I at last drew him down on to the sofa, his mouth and
     eyelids were all puckered on one side, and I saw that he had a
     stroke. Dr. Fordham came over at once. We put him to bed; but the
     paralysis has spread, he has shown no sign of returning
     consciousness, and I think that we shall hardly find him alive.'

     "'You horrify me, Trevor!' I cried. 'What then could have been in
     this letter to cause so dreadful a result?'

     "'Nothing. There lies the inexplicable part of it. The message was
     absurd and trivial. Ah, my God, it is as I feared!'

     "As he spoke we came round the curve of the avenue, and saw in the
     fading light that every blind in the house had been drawn down. As we
     dashed up to the door, my friend's face convulsed with grief, a
     gentleman in black emerged from it.

     "'When did it happen, doctor?' asked Trevor.

     "'Almost immediately after you left.'

     "'Did he recover consciousness?'

     "'For an instant before the end.'

     "'Any message for me?'

     "'Only that the papers were in the back drawer of the Japanese
     cabinet.'

     "My friend ascended with the doctor to the chamber of death, while I
     remained in the study, turning the whole matter over and over in my
     head, and feeling as sombre as ever I had done in my life. What was
     the past of this Trevor, pugilist, traveler, and gold-digger, and how
     had he placed himself in the power of this acid-faced seaman?  Why,
     too, should he faint at an allusion to the half-effaced initials upon
     his arm, and die of fright when he had a letter from Fordingham? 
     Then I remembered that Fordingham was in Hampshire, and that this Mr.
     Beddoes, whom the seaman had gone to visit and presumably to
     blackmail, had also been mentioned as living in Hampshire. The
     letter, then, might either come from Hudson, the seaman, saying that
     he had betrayed the guilty secret which appeared to exist, or it
     might come from Beddoes, warning an old confederate that such a
     betrayal was imminent. So far it seemed clear enough. But then how
     could this letter be trivial and grotesque, as described by the son? 
     He must have misread it. If so, it must have been one of those
     ingenious secret codes which mean one thing while they seem to mean
     another. I must see this letter. If there were a hidden meaning in
     it, I was confident that I could pluck it forth. For an hour I sat
     pondering over it in the gloom, until at last a weeping maid brought
     in a lamp, and close at her heels came my friend Trevor, pale but
     composed, with these very papers which lie upon my knee held in his
     grasp. He sat down opposite to me, drew the lamp to the edge of the
     table, and handed me a short note scribbled, as you see, upon a
     single sheet of gray paper. 'The supply of game for London is going
     steadily up,' it ran. 'Head-keeper Hudson, we believe, has been now
     told to receive all orders for fly-paper and for preservation of your
     hen-pheasant's life.'

     "I dare say my face looked as bewildered as yours did just now when
     first I read this message. Then I reread it very carefully. It was
     evidently as I had thought, and some secret meaning must lie buried
     in this strange combination of words. Or could it be that there was a
     prearranged significance to such phrases as 'fly-paper' and
     'hen-pheasant'?  Such a meaning would be arbitrary and could not be
     deduced in any way. And yet I was loath to believe that this was the
     case, and the presence of the word Hudson seemed to show that the
     subject of the message was as I had guessed, and that it was from
     Beddoes rather than the sailor. I tried it backwards, but the
     combination 'life pheasant's hen' was not encouraging. Then I tried
     alternate words, but neither 'the of for' nor 'supply game London'
     promised to throw any light upon it.

     "And then in an instant the key of the riddle was in my hands, and I
     saw that every third word, beginning with the first, would give a
     message which might well drive old Trevor to despair.

     "It was short and terse, the warning, as I now read it to my
     companion:

     "'The game is up. Hudson has told all. Fly for your life.'

     "Victor Trevor sank his face into his shaking hands, 'It must be
     that, I suppose,' said he. "This is worse than death, for it means
     disgrace as well. But what is the meaning of these "head-keepers" and
     "hen-pheasants"?

     "'It means nothing to the message, but it might mean a good deal to
     us if we had no other means of discovering the sender. You see that
     he has begun by writing "The ... game ... is," and so on. Afterwards
     he had, to fulfill the prearranged cipher, to fill in any two words
     in each space. He would naturally use the first words which came to
     his mind, and if there were so many which referred to sport among
     them, you may be tolerably sure that he is either an ardent shot or
     interested in breeding. Do you know anything of this Beddoes?'

     "'Why, now that you mention it,' said he, 'I remember that my poor
     father used to have an invitation from him to shoot over his
     preserves every autumn.'

     "'Then it is undoubtedly from him that the note comes,' said I. 'It
     only remains for us to find out what this secret was which the sailor
     Hudson seems to have held over the heads of these two wealthy and
     respected men.'

     "'Alas, Holmes, I fear that it is one of sin and shame!' cried my
     friend. 'But from you I shall have no secrets. Here is the statement
     which was drawn up by my father when he knew that the danger from
     Hudson had become imminent. I found it in the Japanese cabinet, as he
     told the doctor. Take it and read it to me, for I have neither the
     strength nor the courage to do it myself.'

     "These are the very papers, Watson, which he handed to me, and I will
     read them to you, as I read them in the old study that night to him.
     They are endorsed outside, as you see, 'Some particulars of the
     voyage of the bark Gloria Scott, from her leaving Falmouth on the 8th
     October, 1855, to her destruction in N. Lat. 15Â° 20', W. Long. 25Â°
     14' on Nov. 6th.' It is in the form of a letter, and runs in this
     way:

     "'My dear, dear son, now that approaching disgrace begins to darken
     the closing years of my life, I can write with all truth and honesty
     that it is not the terror of the law, it is not the loss of my
     position in the county, nor is it my fall in the eyes of all who have
     known me, which cuts me to the heart; but it is the thought that you
     should come to blush for me--you who love me and who have seldom, I
     hope, had reason to do other than respect me. But if the blow falls
     which is forever hanging over me, then I should wish you to read
     this, that you may know straight from me how far I have been to
     blame. On the other hand, if all should go well (which may kind God
     Almighty grant!), then if by any chance this paper should be still
     undestroyed and should fall into your hands, I conjure you, by all
     you hold sacred, by the memory of your dear mother, and by the love
     which had been between us, to hurl it into the fire and to never give
     one thought to it again.

     "'If then your eye goes onto read this line, I know that I shall
     already have been exposed and dragged from my home, or as is more
     likely, for you know that my heart is weak, by lying with my tongue
     sealed forever in death. In either case the time for suppression is
     past, and every word which I tell you is the naked truth, and this I
     swear as I hope for mercy.

     "'My name, dear lad, is not Trevor. I was James Armitage in my
     younger days, and you can understand now the shock that it was to me
     a few weeks ago when your college friend addressed me in words which
     seemed to imply that he had surprised my secret. As Armitage it was
     that I entered a London banking-house, and as Armitage I was
     convicted of breaking my country's laws, and was sentenced to
     transportation. Do not think very harshly of me, laddie. It was a
     debt of honor, so called, which I had to pay, and I used money which
     was not my own to do it, in the certainty that I could replace it
     before there could be any possibility of its being missed. But the
     most dreadful ill-luck pursued me. The money which I had reckoned
     upon never came to hand, and a premature examination of accounts
     exposed my deficit. The case might have been dealt leniently with,
     but the laws were more harshly administered thirty years ago than
     now, and on my twenty-third birthday I found myself chained as a
     felon with thirty-seven other convicts in 'tween-decks of the bark
     Gloria Scott, bound for Australia.

     "'It was the year '55 when the Crimean war was at its height, and the
     old convict ships had been largely used as transports in the Black
     Sea. The government was compelled, therefore, to use smaller and less
     suitable vessels for sending out their prisoners. The Gloria Scott
     had been in the Chinese tea-trade, but she was an old-fashioned,
     heavy-bowed, broad-beamed craft, and the new clippers had cut her
     out. She was a five-hundred-ton boat; and besides her thirty-eight
     jail-birds, she carried twenty-six of a crew, eighteen soldiers, a
     captain, three mates, a doctor, a chaplain, and four warders. Nearly
     a hundred souls were in her, all told, when we set sail from
     Falmouth.

     "'The partitions between the cells of the convicts, instead of being
     of thick oak, as is usual in convict-ships, were quite thin and
     frail. The man next to me, upon the aft side, was one whom I had
     particularly noticed when we were led down the quay. He was a young
     man with a clear, hairless face, a long, thin nose, and rather
     nut-cracker jaws. He carried his head very jauntily in the air, had a
     swaggering style of walking, and was, above all else, remarkable for
     his extraordinary height. I don't think any of our heads would have
     come up to his shoulder, and I am sure that he could not have
     measured less than six and a half feet. It was strange among so many
     sad and weary faces to see one which was full of energy and
     resolution. The sight of it was to me like a fire in a snow-storm. I
     was glad, then, to find that he was my neighbor, and gladder still
     when, in the dead of the night, I heard a whisper close to my ear,
     and found that he had managed to cut an opening in the board which
     separated us.

     "'"Hullo, chummy!" said he, "what's your name, and what are you here
     for?"

     "'I answered him, and asked in turn who I was talking with.

     "'"I'm Jack Prendergast," said he, "and by God! You'll learn to bless
     my name before you've done with me."

     "'I remembered hearing of his case, for it was one which had made an
     immense sensation throughout the country some time before my own
     arrest. He was a man of good family and of great ability, but of
     incurably vicious habits, who had, by an ingenious system of fraud,
     obtained huge sums of money from the leading London merchants.

     "'"Ha, ha! You remember my case!" said he proudly.

     "'"Very well, indeed."

     "'"Then maybe you remember something queer about it?"

     "'"What was that, then?"

     "'"I'd had nearly a quarter of a million, hadn't I?"

     "'"So it was said."

     "'"But none was recovered, eh?"

     "'"No."

     "'"Well, where d'ye suppose the balance is?" he asked.

     "'"I have no idea," said I.

     "'"Right between my finger and thumb," he cried. "By God! I've got
     more pounds to my name than you've hairs on your head. And if you've
     money, my son, and know how to handle it and spread it, you can do
     anything. Now, you don't think it likely that a man who could do
     anything is going to wear his breeches out sitting in the stinking
     hold of a rat-gutted, beetle-ridden, mouldy old coffin of a Chin
     China coaster. No, sir, such a man will look after himself and will
     look after his chums. You may lay to that! You hold on to him, and
     you may kiss the book that he'll haul you through."

     "'That was his style of talk, and at first I thought it meant
     nothing; but after a while, when he had tested me and sworn me in
     with all possible solemnity, he let me understand that there really
     was a plot to gain command of the vessel. A dozen of the prisoners
     had hatched it before they came aboard, Prendergast was the leader,
     and his money was the motive power.

     "'"I'd a partner," said he, "a rare good man, as true as a stock to a
     barrel. He's got the dibbs, he has, and where do you think he is at
     this moment?  Why, he's the chaplain of this ship--the chaplain, no
     less! He came aboard with a black coat, and his papers right, and
     money enough in his box to buy the thing right up from keel to
     main-truck. The crew are his, body and soul. He could buy 'em at so
     much a gross with a cash discount, and he did it before ever they
     signed on. He's got two of the warders and Mercer, the second mate,
     and he'd get the captain himself, if he thought him worth it."

     "'"What are we to do, then?" I asked.

     "'"What do you think?" said he. "We'll make the coats of some of
     these soldiers redder than ever the tailor did."

     "'"But they are armed," said I.

     "'"And so shall we be, my boy. There's a brace of pistols for every
     mother's son of us, and if we can't carry this ship, with the crew at
     our back, it's time we were all sent to a young misses'
     boarding-school. You speak to your mate upon the left to-night, and
     see if he is to be trusted."

     "'I did so, and found my other neighbor to be a young fellow in much
     the same position as myself, whose crime had been forgery. His name
     was Evans, but he afterwards changed it, like myself, and he is now a
     rich and prosperous man in the south of England. He was ready enough
     to join the conspiracy, as the only means of saving ourselves, and
     before we had crossed the Bay there were only two of the prisoners
     who were not in the secret. One of these was of weak mind, and we did
     not dare to trust him, and the other was suffering from jaundice, and
     could not be of any use to us.

     "'From the beginning there was really nothing to prevent us from
     taking possession of the ship. The crew were a set of ruffians,
     specially picked for the job. The sham chaplain came into our cells
     to exhort us, carrying a black bag, supposed to be full of tracts,
     and so often did he come that by the third day we had each stowed
     away at the foot of our beds a file, a brace of pistols, a pound of
     powder, and twenty slugs. Two of the warders were agents of
     Prendergast, and the second mate was his right-hand man. The captain,
     the two mates, two warders Lieutenant Martin, his eighteen soldiers,
     and the doctor were all that we had against us. Yet, safe as it was,
     we determined to neglect no precaution, and to make our attack
     suddenly by night. It came, however, more quickly than we expected,
     and in this way.

     "'One evening, about the third week after our start, the doctor had
     come down to see one of the prisoners who was ill, and putting his
     hand down on the bottom of his bunk he felt the outline of the
     pistols. If he had been silent he might have blown the whole thing,
     but he was a nervous little chap, so he gave a cry of surprise and
     turned so pale that the man knew what was up in an instant and seized
     him. He was gagged before he could give the alarm, and tied down upon
     the bed. He had unlocked the door that led to the deck, and we were
     through it in a rush. The two sentries were shot down, and so was a
     corporal who came running to see what was the matter. There were two
     more soldiers at the door of the state-room, and their muskets seemed
     not to be loaded, for they never fired upon us, and they were shot
     while trying to fix their bayonets. Then we rushed on into the
     captain's cabin, but as we pushed open the door there was an
     explosion from within, and there he lay with his brains smeared over
     the chart of the Atlantic which was pinned upon the table, while the
     chaplain stood with a smoking pistol in his hand at his elbow. The
     two mates had both been seized by the crew, and the whole business
     seemed to be settled.

     "'The state-room was next the cabin, and we flocked in there and
     flopped down on the settees, all speaking together, for we were just
     mad with the feeling that we were free once more. There were lockers
     all round, and Wilson, the sham chaplain, knocked one of them in, and
     pulled out a dozen of brown sherry. We cracked off the necks of the
     bottles, poured the stuff out into tumblers, and were just tossing
     them off, when in an instant without warning there came the roar of
     muskets in our ears, and the saloon was so full of smoke that we
     could not see across the table. When it cleared again the place was a
     shambles. Wilson and eight others were wriggling on the top of each
     other on the floor, and the blood and the brown sherry on that table
     turn me sick now when I think of it. We were so cowed by the sight
     that I think we should have given the job up if had not been for
     Prendergast. He bellowed like a bull and rushed for the door with all
     that were left alive at his heels. Out we ran, and there on the poop
     were the lieutenent and ten of his men. The swing skylights above the
     saloon table had been a bit open, and they had fired on us through
     the slit.  We got on them before they could load, and they stood to
     it like men; but we had the upper hand of them, and in five minutes
     it was all over. My God! Was there ever a slaughter-house like that
     ship! Predergast was like a raging devil, and he picked the soldiers
     up as if they had been children and threw them overboard alive or
     dead. There was one sergeant that was horribly wounded and yet kept
     on swimming for a surprising time, until some one in mercy blew out
     his brains. When the fighting was over there was no one left of our
     enemies except just the warders, the mates, and the doctor.

     "'It was over them that the great quarrel arose. There were many of
     us who were glad enough to win back our freedom, and yet who had no
     wish to have murder on our souls. It was one thing to knock the
     soldiers over with their muskets in their hands, and it was another
     to stand by while men were being killed in cold blood. Eight of us,
     five convicts and three sailors, said that we would not see it done.
     But there was no moving Predergast and those who were with him. Our
     only chance of safety lay in making a clean job of it, said he, and
     he would not leave a tongue with power to wag in a witness-box. It
     nearly came to our sharing the fate of the prisoners, but at last he
     said that if we wished we might take a boat and go. We jumped at the
     offer, for we were already sick of these blookthirsty doings, and we
     saw that there would be worse before it was done. We were given a
     suit of sailor togs each, a barrel of water, two casks, one of junk
     and one of biscuits, and a compass. Prendergast threw us over a
     chart, told us that we were shipwrecked mariners whose ship had
     foundered in Lat. 15Â° and Long. 25Â° west, and then cut the painter
     and let us go.

     "'And now I come to the most surprising part of my story, my dear
     son. The seamen had hauled the fore-yard aback during the rising, but
     now as we left them they brought it square again, and as there was a
     light wind from the north and east the bark began to draw slowly away
     from us. Our boat lay, rising and falling, upon the long, smooth
     rollers, and Evans and I, who were the most educated of the party,
     were sitting in the sheets working out our position and planning what
     coast we should make for. It was a nice question, for the Cape de
     Verds were about five hundred miles to the north of us, and the
     African coast about seven hundred to the east. On the whole, as the
     wind was coming round to the north, we thought that Sierra Leone
     might be best, and turned our head in that direction, the bark being
     at that time nearly hull down on our starboard quarter. Suddenly as
     we looked at her we saw a dense black cloud of smoke shoot up from
     her, which hung like a monstrous tree upon the sky line. A few
     seconds later a roar like thunder burst upon our ears, and as the
     smoke thinned away there was no sign left of the Gloria Scott. In an
     instant we swept the boat's head round again and pulled with all our
     strength for the place where the haze still trailing over the water
     marked the scene of this catastrophe.

     "'It was a long hour before we reached it, and at first we feared
     that we had come too late to save any one. A splintered boat and a
     number of crates and fragments of spars rising and falling on the
     waves showed us where the vessel had foundered; but there was no sign
     of life, and we had turned away in despair when we heard a cry for
     help, and saw at some distance a piece of wreckage with a man lying
     stretched across it. When we pulled him aboard the boat he proved to
     be a young seaman of the name of Hudson, who was so burned and
     exhausted that he could give us no account of what had happened until
     the following morning.

     "'It seemed that after we had left, Prendergast and his gang had
     proceeded to put to death the five remaining prisoners. The two
     warders had been shot and thrown overboard, and so also had the third
     mate. Prendergast then descended into the 'tween-decks and with his
     own hands cut the throat of the unfortunate surgeon. There only
     remained the first mate, who was a bold and active man. When he saw
     the convict approaching him with the bloody knife in his hand he
     kicked off his bonds, which he had somehow contrived to loosen, and
     rushing down the deck he plunged into the after-hold. A dozen
     convicts, who descended with their pistols in search of him, found
     him with a match-box in his hand seated beside an open powder-barrel,
     which was one of a hundred carried on board, and swearing that he
     would blow all hands up if he were in any way molested. An instant
     later the explosion occurred, though Hudson thought it was caused by
     the misdirected bullet of one of the convicts rather than the mate's
     match. Be the cause what I may, it was the end of the Gloria Scott
     and of the rabble who held command of her.

     "'Such, in a few words, my dear boy, is the history of this terrible
     business in which I was involved. Next day we were picked up by the
     brig Hotspur, bound for Australia, whose captain found no difficulty
     in believing that we were the survivors of a passenger ship which had
     foundered. The transport ship Gloria Scott was set down by the
     Admiralty as being lost at sea, and no word has ever leaked out as to
     her true fate. After an excellent voyage the Hotspur landed us at
     Sydney, where Evans and I changed our names and made our way to the
     diggings, where, among the crowds who were gathered from all nations,
     we had no difficulty in losing our former identities. The rest I need
     not relate. We prospered, we traveled, we came back as rich colonials
     to England, and we bought country estates. For more than twenty years
     we have led peaceful and useful lives, and we hoped that our past was
     forever buried. Imagine, then, my feelings when in the seaman who
     came to us I recognized instantly the man who had been picked off the
     wreck. He had tracked us down somehow, and had set himself to live
     upon our fears. You will understand now how it was that I strove to
     keep the peace with him, and you will in some measure sympathize with
     me in the fears which fill me, now that he has gone from me to his
     other victim with threats upon his tongue.'

     "Underneath is written in a hand so shaky as to be hardly legible,
     'Beddoes writes in cipher to say H. has told all. Sweet Lord, have
     mercy on our souls!'

     "That was the narrative which I read that night to young Trevor, and
     I think, Watson, that under the circumstances it was a dramatic one.
     The good fellow was heart-broken at it, and went out to the Terai tea
     planting, where I hear that he is doing well. As to the sailor and
     Beddoes, neither of them was ever heard of again after that day on
     which the letter of warning was written. They both disappeared
     utterly and completely. No complaint had been lodged with the police,
     so that Beddoes had mistaken a threat for a deed. Hudson had been
     seen lurking about, and it was believed by the police that he had
     done away with Beddoes and had fled. For myself I believe that the
     truth was exactly the opposite. I think that it is most probable that
     Beddoes, pushed to desperation and believing himself to have been
     already betrayed, had revenged himself upon Hudson, and had fled from
     the country with as much money as he could lay his hands on. Those
     are the facts of the case, Doctor, and if they are of any use to your
     collection, I am sure that they are very heartily at your service."






                               THE MUSGRAVE RITUAL

     An anomaly which often struck me in the character of my friend
     Sherlock Holmes was that, although in his methods of thought he was
     the neatest and most methodical of mankind, and although also he
     affected a certain quiet primness of dress, he was none the less in
     his personal habits one of the most untidy men that ever drove a
     fellow-lodger to distraction. Not that I am in the least conventional
     in that respect myself. The rough-and-tumble work in Afghanistan,
     coming on the top of a natural Bohemianism of disposition, has made
     me rather more lax than befits a medical man. But with me there is a
     limit, and when I find a man who keeps his cigars in the
     coal-scuttle, his tobacco in the toe end of a Persian slipper, and
     his unanswered correspondence transfixed by a jack-knife into the
     very centre of his wooden mantelpiece, then I begin to give myself
     virtuous airs. I have always held, too, that pistol practice should
     be distinctly an open-air pastime; and when Holmes, in one of his
     queer humors, would sit in an arm-chair with his hair-trigger and a
     hundred Boxer cartridges, and proceed to adorn the opposite wall with
     a patriotic V. R. done in bullet-pocks, I felt strongly that neither
     the atmosphere nor the appearance of our room was improved by it.

     Our chambers were always full of chemicals and of criminal relics
     which had a way of wandering into unlikely positions, and of turning
     up in the butter-dish or in even less desirable places. But his
     papers were my great crux. He had a horror of destroying documents,
     especially those which were connected with his past cases, and yet it
     was only once in every year or two that he would muster energy to
     docket and arrange them; for, as I have mentioned somewhere in these
     incoherent memoirs, the outbursts of passionate energy when he
     performed the remarkable feats with which his name is associated were
     followed by reactions of lethargy during which he would lie about
     with his violin and his books, hardly moving save from the sofa to
     the table. Thus month after month his papers accumulated, until every
     corner of the room was stacked with bundles of manuscript which were
     on no account to be burned, and which could not be put away save by
     their owner. One winter's night, as we sat together by the fire, I
     ventured to suggest to him that, as he had finished pasting extracts
     into his common-place book, he might employ the next two hours in
     making our room a little more habitable. He could not deny the
     justice of my request, so with a rather rueful face he went off to
     his bedroom, from which he returned presently pulling a large tin box
     behind him. This he placed in the middle of the floor and, squatting
     down upon a stool in front of it, he threw back the lid. I could see
     that it was already a third full of bundles of paper tied up with red
     tape into separate packages.

     "There are cases enough here, Watson," said he, looking at me with
     mischievous eyes. "I think that if you knew all that I had in this
     box you would ask me to pull some out instead of putting others in."

     "These are the records of your early work, then?" I asked. "I have
     often wished that I had notes of those cases."

     "Yes, my boy, these were all done prematurely before my biographer
     had come to glorify me." He lifted bundle after bundle in a tender,
     caressing sort of way. "They are not all successes, Watson," said he.
     "But there are some pretty little problems among them. Here's the
     record of the Tarleton murders, and the case of Vamberry, the wine
     merchant, and the adventure of the old Russian woman, and the
     singular affair of the aluminium crutch, as well as a full account of
     Ricoletti of the club-foot, and his abominable wife. And here--ah,
     now, this really is something a little recherchÃ©."

     He dived his arm down to the bottom of the chest, and brought up a
     small wooden box with a sliding lid, such as children's toys are kept
     in. From within he produced a crumpled piece of paper, an
     old-fashioned brass key, a peg of wood with a ball of string attached
     to it, and three rusty old disks of metal.

     "Well, my boy, what do you make of this lot?" he asked, smiling at my
     expression.

     "It is a curious collection."

     "Very curious, and the story that hangs round it will strike you as
     being more curious still."

     "These relics have a history then?"

     "So much so that they are history."

     "What do you mean by that?"

     Sherlock Holmes picked them up one by one, and laid them along the
     edge of the table. Then he reseated himself in his chair and looked
     them over with a gleam of satisfaction in his eyes.

     "These," said he, "are all that I have left to remind me of the
     adventure of the Musgrave Ritual."

     I had heard him mention the case more than once, though I had never
     been able to gather the details. "I should be so glad," said I, "if
     you would give me an account of it."

     "And leave the litter as it is?" he cried, mischievously. "Your
     tidiness won't bear much strain after all, Watson. But I should be
     glad that you should add this case to your annals, for there are
     points in it which make it quite unique in the criminal records of
     this or, I believe, of any other country. A collection of my trifling
     achievements would certainly be incomplete which contained no account
     of this very singular business.

     "You may remember how the affair of the Gloria Scott, and my
     conversation with the unhappy man whose fate I told you of, first
     turned my attention in the direction of the profession which has
     become my life's work. You see me now when my name has become known
     far and wide, and when I am generally recognized both by the public
     and by the official force as being a final court of appeal in
     doubtful cases. Even when you knew me first, at the time of the
     affair which you have commemorated in 'A Study in Scarlet,' I had
     already established a considerable, though not a very lucrative,
     connection. You can hardly realize, then, how difficult I found it at
     first, and how long I had to wait before I succeeded in making any
     headway.

     "When I first came up to London I had rooms in Montague Street, just
     round the corner from the British Museum, and there I waited, filling
     in my too abundant leisure time by studying all those branches of
     science which might make me more efficient. Now and again cases came
     in my way, principally through the introduction of old
     fellow-students, for during my last years at the University there was
     a good deal of talk there about myself and my methods. The third of
     these cases was that of the Musgrave Ritual, and it is to the
     interest which was aroused by that singular chain of events, and the
     large issues which proved to be at stake, that I trace my first
     stride towards the position which I now hold.

     "Reginald Musgrave had been in the same college as myself, and I had
     some slight acquaintance with him. He was not generally popular among
     the undergraduates, though it always seemed to me that what was set
     down as pride was really an attempt to cover extreme natural
     diffidence. In appearance he was a man of exceedingly aristocratic
     type, thin, high-nosed, and large-eyed, with languid and yet courtly
     manners. He was indeed a scion of one of the very oldest families in
     the kingdom, though his branch was a cadet one which had separated
     from the northern Musgraves some time in the sixteenth century, and
     had established itself in western Sussex, where the Manor House of
     Hurlstone is perhaps the oldest inhabited building in the county.
     Something of his birth place seemed to cling to the man, and I never
     looked at his pale, keen face or the poise of his head without
     associating him with gray archways and mullioned windows and all the
     venerable wreckage of a feudal keep. Once or twice we drifted into
     talk, and I can remember that more than once he expressed a keen
     interest in my methods of observation and inference.

     "For four years I had seen nothing of him until one morning he walked
     into my room in Montague Street. He had changed little, was dressed
     like a young man of fashion--he was always a bit of a dandy--and
     preserved the same quiet, suave manner which had formerly
     distinguished him.

     "'How has all gone with you Musgrave?' I asked, after we had
     cordially shaken hands.

     "'You probably heard of my poor father's death,' said he; 'he was
     carried off about two years ago. Since then I have of course had the
     Hurlstone estates to manage, and as I am member for my district as
     well, my life has been a busy one. But I understand, Holmes, that you
     are turning to practical ends those powers with which you used to
     amaze us?'

     "'Yes,' said I, 'I have taken to living by my wits.'

     "'I am delighted to hear it, for your advice at present would be
     exceedingly valuable to me. We have had some very strange doings at
     Hurlstone, and the police have been able to throw no light upon the
     matter. It is really the most extraordinary and inexplicable
     business.'

     "You can imagine with what eagerness I listened to him, Watson, for
     the very chance for which I had been panting during all those months
     of inaction seemed to have come within my reach. In my inmost heart I
     believed that I could succeed where others failed, and now I had the
     opportunity to test myself.

     "'Pray, let me have the details,' I cried.

     "Reginald Musgrave sat down opposite to me, and lit the cigarette
     which I had pushed towards him.

     "'You must know,' said he, 'that though I am a bachelor, I have to
     keep up a considerable staff of servants at Hurlstone, for it is a
     rambling old place, and takes a good deal of looking after. I
     preserve, too, and in the pheasant months I usually have a
     house-party, so that it would not do to be short-handed. Altogether
     there are eight maids, the cook, the butler, two footmen, and a boy.
     The garden and the stables of course have a separate staff.

     "'Of these servants the one who had been longest in our service was
     Brunton the butler. He was a young school-master out of place when he
     was first taken up by my father, but he was a man of great energy and
     character, and he soon became quite invaluable in the household. He
     was a well-grown, handsome man, with a splendid forehead, and though
     he has been with us for twenty years he cannot be more than forty
     now. With his personal advantages and his extraordinary gifts--for he
     can speak several languages and play nearly every musical
     instrument--it is wonderful that he should have been satisfied so
     long in such a position, but I suppose that he was comfortable, and
     lacked energy to make any change. The butler of Hurlstone is always a
     thing that is remembered by all who visit us.

     "'But this paragon has one fault. He is a bit of a Don Juan, and you
     can imagine that for a man like him it is not a very difficult part
     to play in a quiet country district. When he was married it was all
     right, but since he has been a widower we have had no end of trouble
     with him. A few months ago we were in hopes that he was about to
     settle down again for he became engaged to Rachel Howells, our second
     house-maid; but he has thrown her over since then and taken up with
     Janet Tregellis, the daughter of the head game-keeper. Rachel--who is
     a very good girl, but of an excitable Welsh temperament--had a sharp
     touch of brain-fever, and goes about the house now--or did until
     yesterday--like a black-eyed shadow of her former self. That was our
     first drama at Hurlstone; but a second one came to drive it from our
     minds, and it was prefaced by the disgrace and dismissal of butler
     Brunton.

     "'This was how it came about. I have said that the man was
     intelligent, and this very intelligence has caused his ruin, for it
     seems to have led to an insatiable curiosity about things which did
     not in the least concern him. I had no idea of the lengths to which
     this would carry him, until the merest accident opened my eyes to it.

     "'I have said that the house is a rambling one. One day last week--on
     Thursday night, to be more exact--I found that I could not sleep,
     having foolishly taken a cup of strong cafÃ© noir after my dinner.
     After struggling against it until two in the morning, I felt that it
     was quite hopeless, so I rose and lit the candle with the intention
     of continuing a novel which I was reading. The book, however, had
     been left in the billiard-room, so I pulled on my dressing-gown and
     started off to get it.

     "'In order to reach the billiard-room I had to descend a flight of
     stairs and then to cross the head of a passage which led to the
     library and the gun-room. You can imagine my surprise when, as I
     looked down this corridor, I saw a glimmer of light coming from the
     open door of the library. I had myself extinguished the lamp and
     closed the door before coming to bed. Naturally my first thought was
     of burglars. The corridors at Hurlstone have their walls largely
     decorated with trophies of old weapons. From one of these I picked a
     battle-axe, and then, leaving my candle behind me, I crept on tiptoe
     down the passage and peeped in at the open door.

     "'Brunton, the butler, was in the library. He was sitting, fully
     dressed, in an easy-chair, with a slip of paper which looked like a
     map upon his knee, and his forehead sunk forward upon his hand in
     deep thought. I stood dumb with astonishment, watching him from the
     darkness. A small taper on the edge of the table shed a feeble light
     which sufficed to show me that he was fully dressed. Suddenly, as I
     looked, he rose from his chair, and walking over to a bureau at the
     side, he unlocked it and drew out one of the drawers. From this he
     took a paper, and returning to his seat he flattened it out beside
     the taper on the edge of the table, and began to study it with minute
     attention. My indignation at this calm examination of our family
     documents overcame me so far that I took a step forward, and Brunton,
     looking up, saw me standing in the doorway. He sprang to his feet,
     his face turned livid with fear, and he thrust into his breast the
     chart-like paper which he had been originally studying.

     "'"So!" said I. "This is how you repay the trust which we have
     reposed in you. You will leave my service to-morrow."

     "'He bowed with the look of a man who is utterly crushed, and slunk
     past me without a word. The taper was still on the table, and by its
     light I glanced to see what the paper was which Brunton had taken
     from the bureau. To my surprise it was nothing of any importance at
     all, but simply a copy of the questions and answers in the singular
     old observance called the Musgrave Ritual. It is a sort of ceremony
     peculiar to our family, which each Musgrave for centuries past has
     gone through on his coming of age--a thing of private interest, and
     perhaps of some little importance to the archaeologist, like our own
     blazonings and charges, but of no practical use whatever.'

     "'We had better come back to the paper afterwards,' said I.

     "'If you think it really necessary,' he answered, with some
     hesitation. 'To continue my statement, however: I relocked the
     bureau, using the key which Brunton had left, and I had turned to go
     when I was surprised to find that the butler had returned, and was
     standing before me.

     "'"Mr. Musgrave, sir," he cried, in a voice which was hoarse with
     emotion, "I can't bear disgrace, sir. I've always been proud above my
     station in life, and disgrace would kill me. My blood will be on your
     head, sir--it will, indeed--if you drive me to despair. If you cannot
     keep me after what has passed, then for God's sake let me give you
     notice and leave in a month, as if of my own free will. I could stand
     that, Mr. Musgrave, but not to be cast out before all the folk that I
     know so well."

     "'"You don't deserve much consideration, Brunton," I answered. "Your
     conduct has been most infamous. However, as you have been a long time
     in the family, I have no wish to bring public disgrace upon you. A
     month, however is too long. Take yourself away in a week, and give
     what reason you like for going."

     "'"Only a week, sir?" he cried, in a despairing voice. "A
     fortnight--say at least a fortnight!"

     "'"A week," I repeated, "and you may consider yourself to have been
     very leniently dealt with."

     "'He crept away, his face sunk upon his breast, like a broken man,
     while I put out the light and returned to my room.

     "'For two days after this Brunton was most assiduous in his attention
     to his duties. I made no allusion to what had passed, and waited with
     some curiosity to see how he would cover his disgrace. On the third
     morning, however he did not appear, as was his custom, after
     breakfast to receive my instructions for the day. As I left the
     dining-room I happened to meet Rachel Howells, the maid. I have told
     you that she had only recently recovered from an illness, and was
     looking so wretchedly pale and wan that I remonstrated with her for
     being at work.

     "'"You should be in bed," I said. "Come back to your duties when you
     are stronger."

     "'She looked at me with so strange an expression that I began to
     suspect that her brain was affected.

     "'"I am strong enough, Mr. Musgrave," said she.

     "'"We will see what the doctor says," I answered. "You must stop work
     now, and when you go downstairs just say that I wish to see Brunton."

     "'"The butler is gone," said she.

     "'"Gone! Gone where?"

     "'"He is gone. No one has seen him. He is not in his room. Oh, yes,
     he is gone, he is gone!" She fell back against the wall with shriek
     after shriek of laughter, while I, horrified at this sudden
     hysterical attack, rushed to the bell to summon help. The girl was
     taken to her room, still screaming and sobbing, while I made
     inquiries about Brunton. There was no doubt about it that he had
     disappeared. His bed had not been slept in, he had been seen by no
     one since he had retired to his room the night before, and yet it was
     difficult to see how he could have left the house, as both windows
     and doors were found to be fastened in the morning. His clothes, his
     watch, and even his money were in his room, but the black suit which
     he usually wore was missing. His slippers, too, were gone, but his
     boots were left behind. Where then could butler Brunton have gone in
     the night, and what could have become of him now?

     "'Of course we searched the house from cellar to garret, but there
     was no trace of him. It is, as I have said, a labyrinth of an old
     house, especially the original wing, which is now practically
     uninhabited; but we ransacked every room and cellar without
     discovering the least sign of the missing man. It was incredible to
     me that he could have gone away leaving all his property behind him,
     and yet where could he be? I called in the local police, but without
     success. Rain had fallen on the night before and we examined the lawn
     and the paths all round the house, but in vain. Matters were in this
     state, when a new development quite drew our attention away from the
     original mystery.

     "'For two days Rachel Howells had been so ill, sometimes delirious,
     sometimes hysterical, that a nurse had been employed to sit up with
     her at night. On the third night after Brunton's disappearance, the
     nurse, finding her patient sleeping nicely, had dropped into a nap in
     the arm-chair, when she woke in the early morning to find the bed
     empty, the window open, and no signs of the invalid. I was instantly
     aroused, and, with the two footmen, started off at once in search of
     the missing girl. It was not difficult to tell the direction which
     she had taken, for, starting from under her window, we could follow
     her footmarks easily across the lawn to the edge of the mere, where
     they vanished close to the gravel path which leads out of the
     grounds. The lake there is eight feet deep, and you can imagine our
     feelings when we saw that the trail of the poor demented girl came to
     an end at the edge of it.

     "'Of course, we had the drags at once, and set to work to recover the
     remains, but no trace of the body could we find. On the other hand,
     we brought to the surface an object of a most unexpected kind. It was
     a linen bag which contained within it a mass of old rusted and
     discolored metal and several dull-colored pieces of pebble or glass.
     This strange find was all that we could get from the mere, and,
     although we made every possible search and inquiry yesterday, we know
     nothing of the fate either of Rachel Howells or of Richard Brunton.
     The county police are at their wits' end, and I have come up to you
     as a last resource.'

     "You can imagine, Watson, with what eagerness I listened to this
     extraordinary sequence of events, and endeavored to piece them
     together, and to devise some common thread upon which they might all
     hang. The butler was gone. The maid was gone. The maid had loved the
     butler, but had afterwards had cause to hate him. She was of Welsh
     blood, fiery and passionate. She had been terribly excited
     immediately after his disappearance. She had flung into the lake a
     bag containing some curious contents. These were all factors which
     had to be taken into consideration, and yet none of them got quite to
     the heart of the matter. What was the starting-point of this chain of
     events? There lay the end of this tangled line.

     "'I must see that paper, Musgrave,' said I, 'which this butler of
     your thought it worth his while to consult, even at the risk of the
     loss of his place.'

     "'It is rather an absurd business, this ritual of ours,' he answered.
     'But it has at least the saving grace of antiquity to excuse it. I
     have a copy of the questions and answers here if you care to run your
     eye over them.'

     "He handed me the very paper which I have here, Watson, and this is
     the strange catechism to which each Musgrave had to submit when he
     came to man's estate. I will read you the questions and answers as
     they stand.

     "'Whose was it?'

     "'His who is gone.'

     "'Who shall have it?'

     "'He who will come.'

     "'What was the month?'

     "'The sixth from the first.'

     "'Where was the sun?'

     "'Over the oak.'

     "'Where was the shadow?'

     "'Under the elm.'

     "'How was it stepped?'

     "'North by ten and by ten, east by five and by five, south by two and
     by two, west by one and by one, and so under.'

     "'What shall we give for it?'

     "'All that is ours.'

     "'Why should we give it?'

     "'For the sake of the trust.'

     "'The original has no date, but is in the spelling of the middle of
     the seventeenth century,' remarked Musgrave. 'I am afraid, however,
     that it can be of little help to you in solving this mystery.'

     "'At least,' said I, 'it gives us another mystery, and one which is
     even more interesting than the first. It may be that the solution of
     the one may prove to be the solution of the other. You will excuse
     me, Musgrave, if I say that your butler appears to me to have been a
     very clever man, and to have had a clearer insight that ten
     generations of his masters.'

     "'I hardly follow you,' said Musgrave. 'The paper seems to me to be
     of no practical importance.'

     "'But to me it seems immensely practical, and I fancy that Brunton
     took the same view. He had probably seen it before that night on
     which you caught him.'

     "'It is very possible. We took no pains to hide it.'

     "'He simply wished, I should imagine, to refresh his memory upon that
     last occasion. He had, as I understand, some sort of map or chart
     which he was comparing with the manuscript, and which he thrust into
     his pocket when you appeared.'

     "'That is true. But what could he have to do with this old family
     custom of ours, and what does this rigmarole mean?'

     "'I don't think that we should have much difficulty in determining
     that,' said I; 'with your permission we will take the first train
     down to Sussex, and go a little more deeply into the matter upon the
     spot.'

     "The same afternoon saw us both at Hurlstone. Possibly you have seen
     pictures and read descriptions of the famous old building, so I will
     confine my account of it to saying that it is built in the shape of
     an L, the long arm being the more modern portion, and the shorter the
     ancient nucleus, from which the other had developed. Over the low,
     heavily-lintelled door, in the centre of this old part, is chiseled
     the date, 1607, but experts are agreed that the beams and stone-work
     are really much older than this. The enormously thick walls and tiny
     windows of this part had in the last century driven the family into
     building the new wing, and the old one was used now as a store-house
     and a cellar, when it was used at all. A splendid park with fine old
     timber surrounds the house, and the lake, to which my client had
     referred, lay close to the avenue, about two hundred yards from the
     building.

     "I was already firmly convinced, Watson, that there were not three
     separate mysteries here, but one only, and that if I could read the
     Musgrave Ritual aright I should hold in my hand the clue which would
     lead me to the truth concerning both the butler Brunton and the maid
     Howells. To that then I turned all my energies. Why should this
     servant be so anxious to master this old formula? Evidently because
     he saw something in it which had escaped all those generations of
     country squires, and from which he expected some personal advantage.
     What was it then, and how had it affected his fate?

     "It was perfectly obvious to me, on reading the ritual, that the
     measurements must refer to some spot to which the rest of the
     document alluded, and that if we could find that spot, we should be
     in a fair way towards finding what the secret was which the old
     Musgraves had thought it necessary to embalm in so curious a fashion.
     There were two guides given us to start with, an oak and an elm. As
     to the oak there could be no question at all. Right in front of the
     house, upon the left-hand side of the drive, there stood a patriarch
     among oaks, one of the most magnificent trees that I have ever seen.

     "'That was there when your ritual was drawn up,' said I, as we drove
     past it.

     "'It was there at the Norman Conquest in all probability,' he
     answered. 'It has a girth of twenty-three feet.'

     "Here was one of my fixed points secured.

     "'Have you any old elms?' I asked.

     "'There used to be a very old one over yonder but it was struck by
     lightning ten years ago, and we cut down the stump,'

     "'You can see where it used to be?'

     "'Oh, yes.'

     "'There are no other elms?'

     "'No old ones, but plenty of beeches.'

     "'I should like to see where it grew.'

     "We had driven up in a dogcart, and my client led me away at once,
     without our entering the house, to the scar on the lawn where the elm
     had stood. It was nearly midway between the oak and the house. My
     investigation seemed to be progressing.

     "'I suppose it is impossible to find out how high the elm was?' I
     asked.

     "'I can give you it at once. It was sixty-four feet.'

     "'How do you come to know it?' I asked, in surprise.

     "'When my old tutor used to give me an exercise in trigonometry, it
     always took the shape of measuring heights. When I was a lad I worked
     out every tree and building in the estate.'

     "This was an unexpected piece of luck. My data were coming more
     quickly than I could have reasonably hoped.

     "'Tell me,' I asked, 'did your butler ever ask you such a question?'

     "Reginald Musgrave looked at me in astonishment. 'Now that you call
     it to my mind,' he answered, 'Brunton did ask me about the height of
     the tree some months ago, in connection with some little argument
     with the groom.'

     "This was excellent news, Watson, for it showed me that I was on the
     right road. I looked up at the sun. It was low in the heavens, and I
     calculated that in less than an hour it would lie just above the
     topmost branches of the old oak. One condition mentioned in the
     Ritual would then be fulfilled. And the shadow of the elm must mean
     the farther end of the shadow, otherwise the trunk would have been
     chosen as the guide. I had, then, to find where the far end of the
     shadow would fall when the sun was just clear of the oak."

     "That must have been difficult, Holmes, when the elm was no longer
     there."

     "Well, at least I knew that if Brunton could do it, I could also.
     Besides, there was no real difficulty. I went with Musgrave to his
     study and whittled myself this peg, to which I tied this long string
     with a knot at each yard. Then I took two lengths of a fishing-rod,
     which came to just six feet, and I went back with my client to where
     the elm had been. The sun was just grazing the top of the oak. I
     fastened the rod on end, marked out the direction of the shadow, and
     measured it. It was nine feet in length.

     "Of course the calculation now was a simple one. If a rod of six feet
     threw a shadow of nine, a tree of sixty-four feet would throw one of
     ninety-six, and the line of the one would of course be the line of
     the other. I measured out the distance, which brought me almost to
     the wall of the house, and I thrust a peg into the spot. You can
     imagine my exultation, Watson, when within two inches of my peg I saw
     a conical depression in the ground. I knew that it was the mark made
     by Brunton in his measurements, and that I was still upon his trail.

     "From this starting-point I proceeded to step, having first taken the
     cardinal points by my pocket-compass. Ten steps with each foot took
     me along parallel with the wall of the house, and again I marked my
     spot with a peg. Then I carefully paced off five to the east and two
     to the south. It brought me to the very threshold of the old door.
     Two steps to the west meant now that I was to go two paces down the
     stone-flagged passage, and this was the place indicated by the
     Ritual.

     "Never have I felt such a cold chill of disappointment, Watson. For a
     moment it seemed to me that there must be some radical mistake in my
     calculations. The setting sun shone full upon the passage floor, and
     I could see that the old, foot-worn gray stones with which it was
     paved were firmly cemented together, and had certainly not been moved
     for many a long year. Brunton had not been at work here. I tapped
     upon the floor, but it sounded the same all over, and there was no
     sign of any crack or crevice. But fortunately, Musgrave, who had
     begun to appreciate the meaning of my proceedings, and who was now as
     excited as myself, took out his manuscript to check my calculation.

     "'And under,' he cried. 'You have omitted the "and under."'

     "I had thought that it meant that we were to dig, but now, of course,
     I saw at once that I was wrong. 'There is a cellar under this then?'
     I cried.

     "'Yes, and as old as the house. Down here, through this door.'

     "We went down a winding stone stair, and my companion, striking a
     match, lit a large lantern which stood on a barrel in the corner. In
     an instant it was obvious that we had at last come upon the true
     place, and that we had not been the only people to visit the spot
     recently.

     "It had been used for the storage of wood, but the billets, which had
     evidently been littered over the floor, were now piled at the sides,
     so as to leave a clear space in the middle. In this space lay a large
     and heavy flagstone with a rusted iron ring in the centre to which a
     thick shepherd's-check muffler was attached.

     "'By Jove!' cried my client. 'That's Brunton's muffler. I have seen
     it on him, and could swear to it. What has the villain been doing
     here?'

     "At my suggestion a couple of the county police were summoned to be
     present, and I then endeavored to raise the stone by pulling on the
     cravat. I could only move it slightly, and it was with the aid of one
     of the constables that I succeeded at last in carrying it to one
     side. A black hole yawned beneath into which we all peered, while
     Musgrave, kneeling at the side, pushed down the lantern.

     "A small chamber about seven feet deep and four feet square lay open
     to us. At one side of this was a squat, brass-bound wooden box, the
     lid of which was hinged upwards, with this curious old-fashioned key
     projecting from the lock. It was furred outside by a thick layer of
     dust, and damp and worms had eaten through the wood, so that a crop
     of livid fungi was growing on the inside of it. Several discs of
     metal, old coins apparently, such as I hold here, were scattered over
     the bottom of the box, but it contained nothing else.

     "At the moment, however, we had no thought for the old chest, for our
     eyes were riveted upon that which crouched beside it. It was the
     figure of a man, clad in a suit of black, who squatted down upon his
     hams with his forehead sunk upon the edge of the box and his two arms
     thrown out on each side of it. The attitude had drawn all the
     stagnant blood to the face, and no man could have recognized that
     distorted liver-colored countenance; but his height, his dress, and
     his hair were all sufficient to show my client, when we had drawn the
     body up, that it was indeed his missing butler. He had been dead some
     days, but there was no wound or bruise upon his person to show how he
     had met his dreadful end. When his body had been carried from the
     cellar we found ourselves still confronted with a problem which was
     almost as formidable as that with which we had started.

     "I confess that so far, Watson, I had been disappointed in my
     investigation. I had reckoned upon solving the matter when once I had
     found the place referred to in the Ritual; but now I was there, and
     was apparently as far as ever from knowing what it was which the
     family had concealed with such elaborate precautions. It is true that
     I had thrown a light upon the fate of Brunton, but now I had to
     ascertain how that fate had come upon him, and what part had been
     played in the matter by the woman who had disappeared. I sat down
     upon a keg in the corner and thought the whole matter carefully over.

     "You know my methods in such cases, Watson. I put myself in the man's
     place and, having first gauged his intelligence, I try to imagine how
     I should myself have proceeded under the same circumstances. In this
     case the matter was simplified by Brunton's intelligence being quite
     first-rate, so that it was unnecessary to make any allowance for the
     personal equation, as the astronomers have dubbed it. He knew that
     something valuable was concealed. He had spotted the place. He found
     that the stone which covered it was just too heavy for a man to move
     unaided. What would he do next? He could not get help from outside,
     even if he had some one whom he could trust, without the unbarring of
     doors and considerable risk of detection. It was better, if he could,
     to have his helpmate inside the house. But whom could he ask? This
     girl had been devoted to him. A man always finds it hard to realize
     that he may have finally lost a woman's love, however badly he may
     have treated her. He would try by a few attentions to make his peace
     with the girl Howells, and then would engage her as his accomplice.
     Together they would come at night to the cellar, and their united
     force would suffice to raise the stone. So far I could follow their
     actions as if I had actually seen them.

     "But for two of them, and one a woman, it must have been heavy work
     the raising of that stone. A burly Sussex policeman and I had found
     it no light job. What would they do to assist them? Probably what I
     should have done myself. I rose and examined carefully the different
     billets of wood which were scattered round the floor. Almost at once
     I came upon what I expected. One piece, about three feet in length,
     had a very marked indentation at one end, while several were
     flattened at the sides as if they had been compressed by some
     considerable weight. Evidently, as they had dragged the stone up they
     had thrust the chunks of wood into the chink, until at last, when the
     opening was large enough to crawl through, they would hold it open by
     a billet placed lengthwise, which might very well become indented at
     the lower end, since the whole weight of the stone would press it
     down on to the edge of this other slab. So far I was still on safe
     ground.

     "And now how was I to proceed to reconstruct this midnight drama?
     Clearly, only one could fit into the hole, and that one was Brunton.
     The girl must have waited above. Brunton then unlocked the box,
     handed up the contents presumably--since they were not to be
     found--and then--and then what happened?

     "What smouldering fire of vengeance had suddenly sprung into flame in
     this passionate Celtic woman's soul when she saw the man who had
     wronged her--wronged her, perhaps, far more than we suspected--in her
     power? Was it a chance that the wood had slipped, and that the stone
     had shut Brunton into what had become his sepulchre? Had she only
     been guilty of silence as to his fate? Or had some sudden blow from
     her hand dashed the support away and sent the slab crashing down into
     its place? Be that as it might, I seemed to see that woman's figure
     still clutching at her treasure trove and flying wildly up the
     winding stair, with her ears ringing perhaps with the muffled screams
     from behind her and with the drumming of frenzied hands against the
     slab of stone which was choking her faithless lover's life out.

     "Here was the secret of her blanched face, her shaken nerves, her
     peals of hysterical laughter on the next morning. But what had been
     in the box? What had she done with that? Of course, it must have been
     the old metal and pebbles which my client had dragged from the mere.
     She had thrown them in there at the first opportunity to remove the
     last trace of her crime.

     "For twenty minutes I had sat motionless, thinking the matter out.
     Musgrave still stood with a very pale face, swinging his lantern and
     peering down into the hole.

     "'These are coins of Charles the First,' said he, holding out the few
     which had been in the box; 'you see we were right in fixing our date
     for the Ritual.'

     "'We may find something else of Charles the First,' I cried, as the
     probable meaning of the first two question of the Ritual broke
     suddenly upon me. 'Let me see the contents of the bag which you
     fished from the mere.'

     "We ascended to his study, and he laid the debris before me. I could
     understand his regarding it as of small importance when I looked at
     it, for the metal was almost black and the stones lustreless and
     dull. I rubbed one of them on my sleeve, however, and it glowed
     afterwards like a spark in the dark hollow of my hand. The metal work
     was in the form of a double ring, but it had been bent and twisted
     out of its original shape.

     "'You must bear in mind,' said I, 'that the royal party made head in
     England even after the death of the King, and that when they at last
     fled they probably left many of their most precious possessions
     buried behind them, with the intention of returning for them in more
     peaceful times.'

     "'My ancestor, Sir Ralph Musgrave, was a prominent Cavalier and the
     right-hand man of Charles the Second in his wanderings,' said my
     friend.

     "'Ah, indeed!' I answered. 'Well now, I think that really should give
     us the last link that we wanted. I must congratulate you on coming
     into the possession, though in rather a tragic manner, of a relic
     which is of great intrinsic value, but of even greater importance as
     an historical curiosity.'

     "'What is it, then?' he gasped in astonishment.

     "'It is nothing less than the ancient crown of the kings of England.'

     "'The crown!'

     "'Precisely. Consider what the Ritual says: How does it run? "Whose
     was it?" "His who is gone." That was after the execution of Charles.
     Then, "Who shall have it?" "He who will come." That was Charles the
     Second, whose advent was already foreseen. There can, I think, be no
     doubt that this battered and shapeless diadem once encircled the
     brows of the royal Stuarts.'

     "'And how came it in the pond?'

     "'Ah, that is a question that will take some time to answer.' And
     with that I sketched out to him the whole long chain of surmise and
     of proof which I had constructed. The twilight had closed in and the
     moon was shining brightly in the sky before my narrative was
     finished.

     "'And how was it then that Charles did not get his crown when he
     returned?' asked Musgrave, pushing back the relic into its linen bag.

     "'Ah, there you lay your finger upon the one point which we shall
     probably never be able to clear up. It is likely that the Musgrave
     who held the secret died in the interval, and by some oversight left
     this guide to his descendant without explaining the meaning of it.
     From that day to this it has been handed down from father to son,
     until at last it came within reach of a man who tore its secret out
     of it and lost his life in the venture.'

     "And that's the story of the Musgrave Ritual, Watson. They have the
     crown down at Hurlstone--though they had some legal bother and a
     considerable sum to pay before they were allowed to retain it. I am
     sure that if you mentioned my name they would be happy to show it to
     you. Of the woman nothing was ever heard, and the probability is that
     she got away out of England and carried herself and the memory of her
     crime to some land beyond the seas."






                               THE REIGATE SQUIRES

     It was some time before the health of my friend Mr. Sherlock Holmes
     recovered from the strain caused by his immense exertions in the
     spring of '87. The whole question of the Netherland-Sumatra Company
     and of the colossal schemes of Baron Maupertuis are too recent in the
     minds of the public, and are too intimately concerned with politics
     and finance to be fitting subjects for this series of sketches. They
     led, however, in an indirect fashion to a singular and complex
     problem which gave my friend an opportunity of demonstrating the
     value of a fresh weapon among the many with which he waged his
     life-long battle against crime.

     On referring to my notes I see that it was upon the 14th of April
     that I received a telegram from Lyons which informed me that Holmes
     was lying ill in the Hotel Dulong. Within twenty-four hours I was in
     his sick-room, and was relieved to find that there was nothing
     formidable in his symptoms. Even his iron constitution, however, had
     broken down under the strain of an investigation which had extended
     over two months, during which period he had never worked less than
     fifteen hours a day, and had more than once, as he assured me, kept
     to his task for five days at a stretch. Even the triumphant issue of
     his labors could not save him from reaction after so terrible an
     exertion, and at a time when Europe was ringing with his name and
     when his room was literally ankle-deep with congratulatory telegrams
     I found him a prey to the blackest depression. Even the knowledge
     that he had succeeded where the police of three countries had failed,
     and that he had outmanoeuvred at every point the most accomplished
     swindler in Europe, was insufficient to rouse him from his nervous
     prostration.

     Three days later we were back in Baker Street together; but it was
     evident that my friend would be much the better for a change, and the
     thought of a week of spring time in the country was full of
     attractions to me also. My old friend, Colonel Hayter, who had come
     under my professional care in Afghanistan, had now taken a house near
     Reigate in Surrey, and had frequently asked me to come down to him
     upon a visit. On the last occasion he had remarked that if my friend
     would only come with me he would be glad to extend his hospitality to
     him also. A little diplomacy was needed, but when Holmes understood
     that the establishment was a bachelor one, and that he would be
     allowed the fullest freedom, he fell in with my plans and a week
     after our return from Lyons we were under the Colonel's roof. Hayter
     was a fine old soldier who had seen much of the world, and he soon
     found, as I had expected, that Holmes and he had much in common.

     On the evening of our arrival we were sitting in the Colonel's
     gun-room after dinner, Holmes stretched upon the sofa, while Hayter
     and I looked over his little armory of Eastern weapons.

     "By the way," said he suddenly, "I think I'll take one of these
     pistols upstairs with me in case we have an alarm."

     "An alarm!" said I.

     "Yes, we've had a scare in this part lately. Old Acton, who is one of
     our county magnates, had his house broken into last Monday. No great
     damage done, but the fellows are still at large."

     "No clue?" asked Holmes, cocking his eye at the Colonel.

     "None as yet. But the affair is a pretty one, one of our little
     country crimes, which must seem too small for your attention, Mr.
     Holmes, after this great international affair."

     Holmes waved away the compliment, though his smile showed that it had
     pleased him.

     "Was there any feature of interest?"

     "I fancy not. The thieves ransacked the library and got very little
     for their pains. The whole place was turned upside down, drawers
     burst open, and presses ransacked, with the result that an odd volume
     of Pope's Homer, two plated candlesticks, an ivory letter-weight, a
     small oak barometer, and a ball of twine are all that have vanished."

     "What an extraordinary assortment!" I exclaimed.

     "Oh, the fellows evidently grabbed hold of everything they could
     get."

     Holmes grunted from the sofa.

     "The county police ought to make something of that," said he; "why,
     it is surely obvious that--"

     But I held up a warning finger.

     "You are here for a rest, my dear fellow. For Heaven's sake don't get
     started on a new problem when your nerves are all in shreds."

     Holmes shrugged his shoulders with a glance of comic resignation
     towards the Colonel, and the talk drifted away into less dangerous
     channels.

     It was destined, however, that all my professional caution should be
     wasted, for next morning the problem obtruded itself upon us in such
     a way that it was impossible to ignore it, and our country visit took
     a turn which neither of us could have anticipated. We were at
     breakfast when the Colonel's butler rushed in with all his propriety
     shaken out of him.

     "Have you heard the news, sir?" he gasped. "At the Cunningham's sir!"

     "Burglary!" cried the Colonel, with his coffee-cup in mid-air.

     "Murder!"

     The Colonel whistled. "By Jove!" said he. "Who's killed, then? The
     J.P. or his son?"

     "Neither, sir. It was William the coachman. Shot through the heart,
     sir, and never spoke again."

     "Who shot him, then?"

     "The burglar, sir. He was off like a shot and got clean away. He'd
     just broke in at the pantry window when William came on him and met
     his end in saving his master's property."

     "What time?"

     "It was last night, sir, somewhere about twelve."

     "Ah, then, we'll step over afterwards," said the Colonel, coolly
     settling down to his breakfast again. "It's a baddish business," he
     added when the butler had gone; "he's our leading man about here, is
     old Cunningham, and a very decent fellow too. He'll be cut up over
     this, for the man has been in his service for years and was a good
     servant. It's evidently the same villains who broke into Acton's."

     "And stole that very singular collection," said Holmes, thoughtfully.

     "Precisely."

     "Hum! It may prove the simplest matter in the world, but all the same
     at first glance this is just a little curious, is it not? A gang of
     burglars acting in the country might be expected to vary the scene of
     their operations, and not to crack two cribs in the same district
     within a few days. When you spoke last night of taking precautions I
     remember that it passed through my mind that this was probably the
     last parish in England to which the thief or thieves would be likely
     to turn their attention--which shows that I have still much to
     learn."

     "I fancy it's some local practitioner," said the Colonel. "In that
     case, of course, Acton's and Cunningham's are just the places he
     would go for, since they are far the largest about here."

     "And richest?"

     "Well, they ought to be, but they've had a lawsuit for some years
     which has sucked the blood out of both of them, I fancy. Old Acton
     has some claim on half Cunningham's estate, and the lawyers have been
     at it with both hands."

     "If it's a local villain there should not be much difficulty in
     running him down," said Holmes with a yawn. "All right, Watson, I
     don't intend to meddle."

     "Inspector Forrester, sir," said the butler, throwing open the door.

     The official, a smart, keen-faced young fellow, stepped into the
     room. "Good-morning, Colonel," said he; "I hope I don't intrude, but
     we hear that Mr. Holmes of Baker Street is here."

     The Colonel waved his hand towards my friend, and the Inspector
     bowed.

     "We thought that perhaps you would care to step across, Mr. Holmes."

     "The fates are against you, Watson," said he, laughing. "We were
     chatting about the matter when you came in, Inspector. Perhaps you
     can let us have a few details." As he leaned back in his chair in the
     familiar attitude I knew that the case was hopeless.

     "We had no clue in the Acton affair. But here we have plenty to go
     on, and there's no doubt it is the same party in each case. The man
     was seen."

     "Ah!"

     "Yes, sir. But he was off like a deer after the shot that killed poor
     William Kirwan was fired. Mr. Cunningham saw him from the bedroom
     window, and Mr. Alec Cunningham saw him from the back passage. It was
     quarter to twelve when the alarm broke out. Mr. Cunningham had just
     got into bed, and Mr. Alec was smoking a pipe in his dressing-gown.
     They both heard William the coachman calling for help, and Mr. Alec
     ran down to see what was the matter. The back door was open, and as
     he came to the foot of the stairs he saw two men wrestling together
     outside. One of them fired a shot, the other dropped, and the
     murderer rushed across the garden and over the hedge. Mr. Cunningham,
     looking out of his bedroom, saw the fellow as he gained the road, but
     lost sight of him at once. Mr. Alec stopped to see if he could help
     the dying man, and so the villain got clean away. Beyond the fact
     that he was a middle-sized man and dressed in some dark stuff, we
     have no personal clue; but we are making energetic inquiries, and if
     he is a stranger we shall soon find him out."

     "What was this William doing there? Did he say anything before he
     died?"

     "Not a word. He lives at the lodge with his mother, and as he was a
     very faithful fellow we imagine that he walked up to the house with
     the intention of seeing that all was right there. Of course this
     Acton business has put every one on their guard. The robber must have
     just burst open the door--the lock has been forced--when William came
     upon him."

     "Did William say anything to his mother before going out?"

     "She is very old and deaf, and we can get no information from her.
     The shock has made her half-witted, but I understand that she was
     never very bright. There is one very important circumstance, however.
     Look at this!"

     He took a small piece of torn paper from a note-book and spread it
     out upon his knee.

     "This was found between the finger and thumb of the dead man. It
     appears to be a fragment torn from a larger sheet. You will observe
     that the hour mentioned upon it is the very time at which the poor
     fellow met his fate. You see that his murderer might have torn the
     rest of the sheet from him or he might have taken this fragment from
     the murderer. It reads almost as though it were an appointment."

     Holmes took up the scrap of paper, a facsimile of which is here
     reproduced.

     [ Picture: Scrap showing the words: At quarter to twelve, learn what,
     may be ]

     "Presuming that it is an appointment," continued the Inspector, "it
     is of course a conceivable theory that this William Kirwan--though he
     had the reputation of being an honest man, may have been in league
     with the thief. He may have met him there, may even have helped him
     to break in the door, and then they may have fallen out between
     themselves."

     "This writing is of extraordinary interest," said Holmes, who had
     been examining it with intense concentration. "These are much deeper
     waters than I had thought." He sank his head upon his hands, while
     the Inspector smiled at the effect which his case had had upon the
     famous London specialist.

     "Your last remark," said Holmes, presently, "as to the possibility of
     there being an understanding between the burglar and the servant, and
     this being a note of appointment from one to the other, is an
     ingenious and not entirely impossible supposition. But this writing
     opens up--" He sank his head into his hands again and remained for
     some minutes in the deepest thought. When he raised his face again, I
     was surprised to see that his cheek was tinged with color, and his
     eyes as bright as before his illness. He sprang to his feet with all
     his old energy.

     "I'll tell you what," said he, "I should like to have a quiet little
     glance into the details of this case. There is something in it which
     fascinates me extremely. If you will permit me, Colonel, I will leave
     my friend Watson and you, and I will step round with the Inspector to
     test the truth of one or two little fancies of mine. I will be with
     you again in half an hour."

     An hour and half had elapsed before the Inspector returned alone.

     "Mr. Holmes is walking up and down in the field outside," said he.
     "He wants us all four to go up to the house together."

     "To Mr. Cunningham's?"

     "Yes, sir."

     "What for?"

     The Inspector shrugged his shoulders. "I don't quite know, sir.
     Between ourselves, I think Mr. Holmes had not quite got over his
     illness yet. He's been behaving very queerly, and he is very much
     excited."

     "I don't think you need alarm yourself," said I. "I have usually
     found that there was method in his madness."

     "Some folks might say there was madness in his method," muttered the
     Inspector. "But he's all on fire to start, Colonel, so we had best go
     out if you are ready."

     We found Holmes pacing up and down in the field, his chin sunk upon
     his breast, and his hands thrust into his trousers pockets.

     "The matter grows in interest," said he. "Watson, your country-trip
     has been a distinct success. I have had a charming morning."

     "You have been up to the scene of the crime, I understand," said the
     Colonel.

     "Yes; the Inspector and I have made quite a little reconnaissance
     together."

     "Any success?"

     "Well, we have seen some very interesting things. I'll tell you what
     we did as we walk. First of all, we saw the body of this unfortunate
     man. He certainly died from a revolver wound as reported."

     "Had you doubted it, then?"

     "Oh, it is as well to test everything. Our inspection was not wasted.
     We then had an interview with Mr. Cunningham and his son, who were
     able to point out the exact spot where the murderer had broken
     through the garden-hedge in his flight. That was of great interest."

     "Naturally."

     "Then we had a look at this poor fellow's mother. We could get no
     information from her, however, as she is very old and feeble."

     "And what is the result of your investigations?"

     "The conviction that the crime is a very peculiar one. Perhaps our
     visit now may do something to make it less obscure. I think that we
     are both agreed, Inspector, that the fragment of paper in the dead
     man's hand, bearing, as it does, the very hour of his death written
     upon it, is of extreme importance."

     "It should give a clue, Mr. Holmes."

     "It does give a clue. Whoever wrote that note was the man who brought
     William Kirwan out of his bed at that hour. But where is the rest of
     that sheet of paper?"

     "I examined the ground carefully in the hope of finding it," said the
     Inspector.

     "It was torn out of the dead man's hand. Why was some one so anxious
     to get possession of it? Because it incriminated him. And what would
     he do with it? Thrust it into his pocket, most likely, never noticing
     that a corner of it had been left in the grip of the corpse. If we
     could get the rest of that sheet it is obvious that we should have
     gone a long way towards solving the mystery."

     "Yes, but how can we get at the criminal's pocket before we catch the
     criminal?"

     "Well, well, it was worth thinking over. Then there is another
     obvious point. The note was sent to William. The man who wrote it
     could not have taken it; otherwise, of course, he might have
     delivered his own message by word of mouth. Who brought the note,
     then? Or did it come through the post?"

     "I have made inquiries," said the Inspector. "William received a
     letter by the afternoon post yesterday. The envelope was destroyed by
     him."

     "Excellent!" cried Holmes, clapping the Inspector on the back.
     "You've seen the postman. It is a pleasure to work with you. Well,
     here is the lodge, and if you will come up, Colonel, I will show you
     the scene of the crime."

     We passed the pretty cottage where the murdered man had lived, and
     walked up an oak-lined avenue to the fine old Queen Anne house, which
     bears the date of Malplaquet upon the lintel of the door. Holmes and
     the Inspector led us round it until we came to the side gate, which
     is separated by a stretch of garden from the hedge which lines the
     road. A constable was standing at the kitchen door.

     "Throw the door open, officer," said Holmes. "Now, it was on those
     stairs that young Mr. Cunningham stood and saw the two men struggling
     just where we are. Old Mr. Cunningham was at that window--the second
     on the left--and he saw the fellow get away just to the left of that
     bush. So did the son. They are both sure of it on account of the
     bush. Then Mr. Alec ran out and knelt beside the wounded man. The
     ground is very hard, you see, and there are no marks to guide us." As
     he spoke two men came down the garden path, from round the angle of
     the house. The one was an elderly man, with a strong, deep-lined,
     heavy-eyed face; the other a dashing young fellow, whose bright,
     smiling expression and showy dress were in strange contrast with the
     business which had brought us there.

     "Still at it, then?" said he to Holmes. "I thought you Londoners were
     never at fault. You don't seem to be so very quick, after all."

     "Ah, you must give us a little time," said Holmes good-humoredly.

     "You'll want it," said young Alec Cunningham. "Why, I don't see that
     we have any clue at all."

     "There's only one," answered the Inspector. "We thought that if we
     could only find--Good heavens, Mr. Holmes! What is the matter?"

     My poor friend's face had suddenly assumed the most dreadful
     expression. His eyes rolled upwards, his features writhed in agony,
     and with a suppressed groan he dropped on his face upon the ground.
     Horrified at the suddenness and severity of the attack, we carried
     him into the kitchen, where he lay back in a large chair, and
     breathed heavily for some minutes. Finally, with a shamefaced apology
     for his weakness, he rose once more.

     "Watson would tell you that I have only just recovered from a severe
     illness," he explained. "I am liable to these sudden nervous
     attacks."

     "Shall I send you home in my trap?" asked old Cunningham.

     "Well, since I am here, there is one point on which I should like to
     feel sure. We can very easily verify it."

     "What was it?"

     "Well, it seems to me that it is just possible that the arrival of
     this poor fellow William was not before, but after, the entrance of
     the burglary into the house. You appear to take it for granted that,
     although the door was forced, the robber never got in."

     "I fancy that is quite obvious," said Mr. Cunningham, gravely. "Why,
     my son Alec had not yet gone to bed, and he would certainly have
     heard any one moving about."

     "Where was he sitting?"

     "I was smoking in my dressing-room."

     "Which window is that?"

     "The last on the left next my father's."

     "Both of your lamps were lit, of course?"

     "Undoubtedly."

     "There are some very singular points here," said Holmes, smiling. "Is
     it not extraordinary that a burglary--and a burglar who had had some
     previous experience--should deliberately break into a house at a time
     when he could see from the lights that two of the family were still
     afoot?"

     "He must have been a cool hand."

     "Well, of course, if the case were not an odd one we should not have
     been driven to ask you for an explanation," said young Mr. Alec. "But
     as to your ideas that the man had robbed the house before William
     tackled him, I think it a most absurd notion. Wouldn't we have found
     the place disarranged, and missed the things which he had taken?"

     "It depends on what the things were," said Holmes. "You must remember
     that we are dealing with a burglar who is a very peculiar fellow, and
     who appears to work on lines of his own. Look, for example, at the
     queer lot of things which he took from Acton's--what was it?--a ball
     of string, a letter-weight, and I don't know what other odds and
     ends."

     "Well, we are quite in your hands, Mr. Holmes," said old Cunningham.
     "Anything which you or the Inspector may suggest will most certainly
     be done."

     "In the first place," said Holmes, "I should like you to offer a
     reward--coming from yourself, for the officials may take a little
     time before they would agree upon the sum, and these things cannot be
     done too promptly. I have jotted down the form here, if you would not
     mind signing it. Fifty pound was quite enough, I thought."

     "I would willingly give five hundred," said the J.P., taking the slip
     of paper and the pencil which Holmes handed to him. "This is not
     quite correct, however," he added, glancing over the document.

     "I wrote it rather hurriedly."

     "You see you begin, 'Whereas, at about a quarter to one on Tuesday
     morning an attempt was made,' and so on. It was at a quarter to
     twelve, as a matter of fact."

     I was pained at the mistake, for I knew how keenly Holmes would feel
     any slip of the kind. It was his specialty to be accurate as to fact,
     but his recent illness had shaken him, and this one little incident
     was enough to show me that he was still far from being himself. He
     was obviously embarrassed for an instant, while the Inspector raised
     his eyebrows, and Alec Cunningham burst into a laugh. The old
     gentleman corrected the mistake, however, and handed the paper back
     to Holmes.

     "Get it printed as soon as possible," he said; "I think your idea is
     an excellent one."

     Holmes put the slip of paper carefully away into his pocket-book.

     "And now," said he, "it really would be a good thing that we should
     all go over the house together and make certain that this rather
     erratic burglar did not, after all, carry anything away with him."

     Before entering, Holmes made an examination of the door which had
     been forced. It was evident that a chisel or strong knife had been
     thrust in, and the lock forced back with it. We could see the marks
     in the wood where it had been pushed in.

     "You don't use bars, then?" he asked.

     "We have never found it necessary."

     "You don't keep a dog?"

     "Yes, but he is chained on the other side of the house."

     "When do the servants go to bed?"

     "About ten."

     "I understand that William was usually in bed also at that hour."

     "Yes."

     "It is singular that on this particular night he should have been up.
     Now, I should be very glad if you would have the kindness to show us
     over the house, Mr. Cunningham."

     A stone-flagged passage, with the kitchens branching away from it,
     led by a wooden staircase directly to the first floor of the house.
     It came out upon the landing opposite to a second more ornamental
     stair which came up from the front hall. Out of this landing opened
     the drawing-room and several bedrooms, including those of Mr.
     Cunningham and his son. Holmes walked slowly, taking keen note of the
     architecture of the house. I could tell from his expression that he
     was on a hot scent, and yet I could not in the least imagine in what
     direction his inferences were leading him.

     "My good sir," said Mr. Cunningham with some impatience, "this is
     surely very unnecessary. That is my room at the end of the stairs,
     and my son's is the one beyond it. I leave it to your judgment
     whether it was possible for the thief to have come up here without
     disturbing us."

     "You must try round and get on a fresh scent, I fancy," said the son
     with a rather malicious smile.

     "Still, I must ask you to humor me a little further. I should like,
     for example, to see how far the windows of the bedrooms command the
     front. This, I understand is your son's room"--he pushed open the
     door--"and that, I presume, is the dressing-room in which he sat
     smoking when the alarm was given. Where does the window of that look
     out to?" He stepped across the bedroom, pushed open the door, and
     glanced round the other chamber.

     "I hope that you are satisfied now?" said Mr. Cunningham, tartly.

     "Thank you, I think I have seen all that I wished."

     "Then if it is really necessary we can go into my room."

     "If it is not too much trouble."

     The J.P. shrugged his shoulders, and led the way into his own
     chamber, which was a plainly furnished and commonplace room. As we
     moved across it in the direction of the window, Holmes fell back
     until he and I were the last of the group. Near the foot of the bed
     stood a dish of oranges and a carafe of water. As we passed it
     Holmes, to my unutterable astonishment, leaned over in front of me
     and deliberately knocked the whole thing over. The glass smashed into
     a thousand pieces and the fruit rolled about into every corner of the
     room.

     "You've done it now, Watson," said he, coolly. "A pretty mess you've
     made of the carpet."

     I stooped in some confusion and began to pick up the fruit,
     understanding for some reason my companion desired me to take the
     blame upon myself. The others did the same, and set the table on its
     legs again.

     "Hullo!" cried the Inspector, "where's he got to?"

     Holmes had disappeared.

     "Wait here an instant," said young Alec Cunningham. "The fellow is
     off his head, in my opinion. Come with me, father, and see where he
     has got to!"

     They rushed out of the room, leaving the Inspector, the Colonel, and
     me staring at each other.

     "'Pon my word, I am inclined to agree with Master Alec," said the
     official. "It may be the effect of this illness, but it seems to me
     that--"

     His words were cut short by a sudden scream of "Help! Help! Murder!"
     With a thrill I recognised the voice as that of my friend. I rushed
     madly from the room on to the landing. The cries, which had sunk down
     into a hoarse, inarticulate shouting, came from the room which we had
     first visited. I dashed in, and on into the dressing-room beyond. The
     two Cunninghams were bending over the prostrate figure of Sherlock
     Holmes, the younger clutching his throat with both hands, while the
     elder seemed to be twisting one of his wrists. In an instant the
     three of us had torn them away from him, and Holmes staggered to his
     feet, very pale and evidently greatly exhausted.

     "Arrest these men, Inspector," he gasped.

     "On what charge?"

     "That of murdering their coachman, William Kirwan."

     The Inspector stared about him in bewilderment. "Oh, come now, Mr.
     Holmes," said he at last, "I'm sure you don't really mean to--"

     "Tut, man, look at their faces!" cried Holmes, curtly.

     Never, certainly, have I seen a plainer confession of guilt upon
     human countenances. The older man seemed numbed and dazed with a
     heavy, sullen expression upon his strongly-marked face. The son, on
     the other hand, had dropped all that jaunty, dashing style which had
     characterized him, and the ferocity of a dangerous wild beast gleamed
     in his dark eyes and distorted his handsome features. The Inspector
     said nothing, but, stepping to the door, he blew his whistle. Two of
     his constables came at the call.

     "I have no alternative, Mr. Cunningham," said he. "I trust that this
     may all prove to be an absurd mistake, but you can see that--Ah,
     would you? Drop it!" He struck out with his hand, and a revolver
     which the younger man was in the act of cocking clattered down upon
     the floor.

     "Keep that," said Holmes, quietly putting his foot upon it; "you will
     find it useful at the trial. But this is what we really wanted." He
     held up a little crumpled piece of paper.

     "The remainder of the sheet!" cried the Inspector.

     "Precisely."

     "And where was it?"

     "Where I was sure it must be. I'll make the whole matter clear to you
     presently. I think, Colonel, that you and Watson might return now,
     and I will be with you again in an hour at the furthest. The
     Inspector and I must have a word with the prisoners, but you will
     certainly see me back at luncheon time."

     Sherlock Holmes was as good as his word, for about one o'clock he
     rejoined us in the Colonel's smoking-room. He was accompanied by a
     little elderly gentleman, who was introduced to me as the Mr. Acton
     whose house had been the scene of the original burglary.

     "I wished Mr. Acton to be present while I demonstrated this small
     matter to you," said Holmes, "for it is natural that he should take a
     keen interest in the details. I am afraid, my dear Colonel, that you
     must regret the hour that you took in such a stormy petrel as I am."

     "On the contrary," answered the Colonel, warmly, "I consider it the
     greatest privilege to have been permitted to study your methods of
     working. I confess that they quite surpass my expectations, and that
     I am utterly unable to account for your result. I have not yet seen
     the vestige of a clue."

     "I am afraid that my explanation may disillusion you but it has
     always been my habit to hide none of my methods, either from my
     friend Watson or from any one who might take an intelligent interest
     in them. But, first, as I am rather shaken by the knocking about
     which I had in the dressing-room, I think that I shall help myself to
     a dash of your brandy, Colonel. My strength had been rather tried of
     late."

     "I trust that you had no more of those nervous attacks."

     Sherlock Holmes laughed heartily. "We will come to that in its turn,"
     said he. "I will lay an account of the case before you in its due
     order, showing you the various points which guided me in my decision.
     Pray interrupt me if there is any inference which is not perfectly
     clear to you.

     "It is of the highest importance in the art of detection to be able
     to recognize, out of a number of facts, which are incidental and
     which vital. Otherwise your energy and attention must be dissipated
     instead of being concentrated. Now, in this case there was not the
     slightest doubt in my mind from the first that the key of the whole
     matter must be looked for in the scrap of paper in the dead man's
     hand.

     "Before going into this, I would draw your attention to the fact
     that, if Alec Cunningham's narrative was correct, and if the
     assailant, after shooting William Kirwan, had instantly fled, then it
     obviously could not be he who tore the paper from the dead man's
     hand. But if it was not he, it must have been Alec Cunningham
     himself, for by the time that the old man had descended several
     servants were upon the scene. The point is a simple one, but the
     Inspector had overlooked it because he had started with the
     supposition that these county magnates had had nothing to do with the
     matter. Now, I make a point of never having any prejudices, and of
     following docilely wherever fact may lead me, and so, in the very
     first stage of the investigation, I found myself looking a little
     askance at the part which had been played by Mr. Alec Cunningham.

     "And now I made a very careful examination of the corner of paper
     which the Inspector had submitted to us. It was at once clear to me
     that it formed part of a very remarkable document. Here it is. Do you
     not now observed something very suggestive about it?"

     "It has a very irregular look," said the Colonel.

     "My dear sir," cried Holmes, "there cannot be the least doubt in the
     world that it has been written by two persons doing alternate words.
     When I draw your attention to the strong t's of 'at' and 'to', and
     ask you to compare them with the weak ones of 'quarter' and 'twelve,'
     you will instantly recognize the fact. A very brief analysis of these
     four words would enable you to say with the utmost confidence that
     the 'learn' and the 'maybe' are written in the stronger hand, and the
     'what' in the weaker."

     "By Jove, it's as clear as day!" cried the Colonel. "Why on earth
     should two men write a letter in such a fashion?"

     "Obviously the business was a bad one, and one of the men who
     distrusted the other was determined that, whatever was done, each
     should have an equal hand in it. Now, of the two men, it is clear
     that the one who wrote the 'at' and 'to' was the ringleader."

     "How do you get at that?"

     "We might deduce it from the mere character of the one hand as
     compared with the other. But we have more assured reasons than that
     for supposing it. If you examine this scrap with attention you will
     come to the conclusion that the man with the stronger hand wrote all
     his words first, leaving blanks for the other to fill up. These
     blanks were not always sufficient, and you can see that the second
     man had a squeeze to fit his 'quarter' in between the 'at' and the
     'to,' showing that the latter were already written. The man who wrote
     all his words first is undoubtedly the man who planned the affair."

     "Excellent!" cried Mr. Acton.

     "But very superficial," said Holmes. "We come now, however, to a
     point which is of importance. You may not be aware that the deduction
     of a man's age from his writing is one which has been brought to
     considerable accuracy by experts. In normal cases one can place a man
     in his true decade with tolerable confidence. I say normal cases,
     because ill-health and physical weakness reproduce the signs of old
     age, even when the invalid is a youth. In this case, looking at the
     bold, strong hand of the one, and the rather broken-backed appearance
     of the other, which still retains its legibility although the t's
     have begun to lose their crossing, we can say that the one was a
     young man and the other was advanced in years without being
     positively decrepit."

     "Excellent!" cried Mr. Acton again.

     "There is a further point, however, which is subtler and of greater
     interest. There is something in common between these hands. They
     belong to men who are blood-relatives. It may be most obvious to you
     in the Greek e's, but to me there are many small points which
     indicate the same thing. I have no doubt at all that a family
     mannerism can be traced in these two specimens of writing. I am only,
     of course, giving you the leading results now of my examination of
     the paper. There were twenty-three other deductions which would be of
     more interest to experts than to you. They all tended to deepen the
     impression upon my mind that the Cunninghams, father and son, had
     written this letter.

     "Having got so far, my next step was, of course, to examine into the
     details of the crime, and to see how far they would help us. I went
     up to the house with the Inspector, and saw all that was to be seen.
     The wound upon the dead man was, as I was able to determine with
     absolute confidence, fired from a revolver at the distance of
     something over four yards. There was no powder-blackening on the
     clothes. Evidently, therefore, Alec Cunningham had lied when he said
     that the two men were struggling when the shot was fired. Again, both
     father and son agreed as to the place where the man escaped into the
     road. At that point, however, as it happens, there is a broadish
     ditch, moist at the bottom. As there were no indications of bootmarks
     about this ditch, I was absolutely sure not only that the Cunninghams
     had again lied, but that there had never been any unknown man upon
     the scene at all.

     "And now I have to consider the motive of this singular crime. To get
     at this, I endeavored first of all to solve the reason of the
     original burglary at Mr. Acton's. I understood, from something which
     the Colonel told us, that a lawsuit had been going on between you,
     Mr. Acton, and the Cunninghams. Of course, it instantly occurred to
     me that they had broken into your library with the intention of
     getting at some document which might be of importance in the case."

     "Precisely so," said Mr. Acton. "There can be no possible doubt as to
     their intentions. I have the clearest claim upon half of their
     present estate, and if they could have found a single paper--which,
     fortunately, was in the strong-box of my solicitors--they would
     undoubtedly have crippled our case."

     "There you are," said Holmes, smiling. "It was a dangerous, reckless
     attempt, in which I seem to trace the influence of young Alec. Having
     found nothing they tried to divert suspicion by making it appear to
     be an ordinary burglary, to which end they carried off whatever they
     could lay their hands upon. That is all clear enough, but there was
     much that was still obscure. What I wanted above all was to get the
     missing part of that note. I was certain that Alec had torn it out of
     the dead man's hand, and almost certain that he must have thrust it
     into the pocket of his dressing-gown. Where else could he have put
     it? The only question was whether it was still there. It was worth an
     effort to find out, and for that object we all went up to the house.

     "The Cunninghams joined us, as you doubtless remember, outside the
     kitchen door. It was, of course, of the very first importance that
     they should not be reminded of the existence of this paper, otherwise
     they would naturally destroy it without delay. The Inspector was
     about to tell them the importance which we attached to it when, by
     the luckiest chance in the world, I tumbled down in a sort of fit and
     so changed the conversation."

     "Good heavens!" cried the Colonel, laughing, "do you mean to say all
     our sympathy was wasted and your fit an imposture?"

     "Speaking professionally, it was admirably done," cried I, looking in
     amazement at this man who was forever confounding me with some new
     phase of his astuteness.

     "It is an art which is often useful," said he. "When I recovered I
     managed, by a device which had perhaps some little merit of
     ingenuity, to get old Cunningham to write the word 'twelve,' so that
     I might compare it with the 'twelve' upon the paper."

     "Oh, what an ass I have been!" I exclaimed.

     "I could see that you were commiserating with me over my weakness,"
     said Holmes, laughing. "I was sorry to cause you the sympathetic pain
     which I know that you felt. We then went upstairs together, and
     having entered the room and seen the dressing-gown hanging up behind
     the door, I contrived, by upsetting a table, to engage their
     attention for the moment, and slipped back to examine the pockets. I
     had hardly got the paper, however--which was, as I had expected, in
     one of them--when the two Cunninghams were on me, and would, I verily
     believe, have murdered me then and there but for your prompt and
     friendly aid. As it is, I feel that young man's grip on my throat
     now, and the father has twisted my wrist round in the effort to get
     the paper out of my hand. They saw that I must know all about it, you
     see, and the sudden change from absolute security to complete despair
     made them perfectly desperate.

     "I had a little talk with old Cunningham afterwards as to the motive
     of the crime. He was tractable enough, though his son was a perfect
     demon, ready to blow out his own or anybody else's brains if he could
     have got to his revolver. When Cunningham saw that the case against
     him was so strong he lost all heart and made a clean breast of
     everything. It seems that William had secretly followed his two
     masters on the night when they made their raid upon Mr. Acton's, and
     having thus got them into his power, proceeded, under threats of
     exposure, to levy black-mail upon them. Mr. Alec, however, was a
     dangerous man to play games of that sort with. It was a stroke of
     positive genius on his part to see in the burglary scare which was
     convulsing the country side an opportunity of plausibly getting rid
     of the man whom he feared. William was decoyed up and shot, and had
     they only got the whole of the note and paid a little more attention
     to detail in the accessories, it is very possible that suspicion
     might never have been aroused."

     "And the note?" I asked.

     Sherlock Holmes placed the subjoined paper before us.

     [ Picture: Paper which reads: If you will only come around at quarter
     to twelve to the east gate you will learn what will very much
     surprise you and may be of the greatest service to you and also to
     Annie Morrison. But say nothing to anyone upon the matter ]

     "It is very much the sort of thing that I expected," said he. "Of
     course, we do not yet know what the relations may have been between
     Alec Cunningham, William Kirwan, and Annie Morrison. The results
     shows that the trap was skillfully baited. I am sure that you cannot
     fail to be delighted with the traces of heredity shown in the p's and
     in the tails of the g's. The absence of the i-dots in the old man's
     writing is also most characteristic. Watson, I think our quiet rest
     in the country has been a distinct success, and I shall certainly
     return much invigorated to Baker Street to-morrow." 






                                 THE CROOKED MAN

     One summer night, a few months after my marriage, I was seated by my
     own hearth smoking a last pipe and nodding over a novel, for my day's
     work had been an exhausting one.  My wife had already gone upstairs,
     and the sound of the locking of the hall door some time before told
     me that the servants had also retired.  I had risen from my seat and
     was knocking out the ashes of my pipe when I suddenly heard the clang
     of the bell.

     I looked at the clock.  It was a quarter to twelve.  This could not
     be a visitor at so late an hour.  A patient, evidently, and possibly
     an all-night sitting.  With a wry face I went out into the hall and
     opened the door.  To my astonishment it was Sherlock Holmes who stood
     upon my step.

     "Ah, Watson," said he, "I hoped that I might not be too late to catch
     you."

     "My dear fellow, pray come in."

     "You look surprised, and no wonder!  Relieved, too, I fancy!  Hum! 
     You still smoke the Arcadia mixture of your bachelor days then! 
     There's no mistaking that fluffy ash upon your coat.  It's easy to
     tell that you have been accustomed to wear a uniform, Watson.  You'll
     never pass as a pure-bred civilian as long as you keep that habit of
     carrying your handkerchief in your sleeve.  Could you put me up
     tonight?"

     "With pleasure."

     "You told me that you had bachelor quarters for one, and I see that
     you have no gentleman visitor at present.  Your hat-stand proclaims
     as much."

     "I shall be delighted if you will stay."

     "Thank you.  I'll fill the vacant peg then.  Sorry to see that you've
     had the British workman in the house.  He's a token of evil.  Not the
     drains, I hope?"

     "No, the gas."

     "Ah!  He has left two nail-marks from his boot upon your linoleum
     just where the light strikes it.  No, thank you, I had some supper at
     Waterloo, but I'll smoke a pipe with you with pleasure."

     I handed him my pouch, and he seated himself opposite to me and
     smoked for some time in silence.  I was well aware that nothing but
     business of importance would have brought him to me at such an hour,
     so I waited patiently until he should come round to it.

     "I see that you are professionally rather busy just now," said he,
     glancing very keenly across at me.

     "Yes, I've had a busy day," I answered.  "It may seem very foolish in
     your eyes," I added, "but really I don't know how you deduced it."

     Holmes chuckled to himself.

     "I have the advantage of knowing your habits, my dear Watson," said
     he.  "When your round is a short one you walk, and when it is a long
     one you use a hansom.  As I perceive that your boots, although used,
     are by no means dirty, I cannot doubt that you are at present busy
     enough to justify the hansom."

     "Excellent!" I cried.

     "Elementary," said he.  "It is one of those instances where the
     reasoner can produce an effect which seems remarkable to his
     neighbor, because the latter has missed the one little point which is
     the basis of the deduction.  The same may be said, my dear fellow,
     for the effect of some of these little sketches of yours, which is
     entirely meretricious, depending as it does upon your retaining in
     your own hands some factors in the problem which are never imparted
     to the reader.  Now, at present I am in the position of these same
     readers, for I hold in this hand several threads of one of the
     strangest cases which ever perplexed a man's brain, and yet I lack
     the one or two which are needful to complete my theory.  But I'll
     have them, Watson, I'll have them!"  His eyes kindled and a slight
     flush sprang into his thin cheeks. For an instant the veil had lifted
     upon his keen, intense nature, but for an instant only. When I
     glanced again his face had resumed that red-Indian composure which
     had made so many regard him as a machine rather than a man.

     "The problem presents features of interest," said he.  "I may even
     say exceptional features of interest.  I have already looked into the
     matter, and have come, as I think, within sight of my solution.  If
     you could accompany me in that last step you might be of considerable
     service to me."

     "I should be delighted."

     "Could you go as far as Aldershot to-morrow?"

     "I have no doubt Jackson would take my practice."

     "Very good.  I want to start by the 11.10 from Waterloo."

     "That would give me time."

     "Then, if you are not too sleepy, I will give you a sketch of what
     has happened, and of what remains to be done."

     "I was sleepy before you came.  I am quite wakeful now."

     "I will compress the story as far as may be done without omitting
     anything vital to the case.  It is conceivable that you may even have
     read some account of the matter.  It is the supposed murder of
     Colonel Barclay, of the Royal Munsters, at Aldershot, which I am
     investigating."

     "I have heard nothing of it."

     "It has not excited much attention yet, except locally.  The facts
     are only two days old.  Briefly they are these:

     "The Royal Munsters is, as you know, one of the most famous Irish
     regiments in the British army.  It did wonders both in the Crimea and
     the Mutiny, and has since that time distinguished itself upon every
     possible occasion.  It was commanded up to Monday night by James
     Barclay, a gallant veteran, who started as a full private, was raised
     to commissioned rank for his bravery at the time of the Mutiny, and
     so lived to command the regiment in which he had once carried a
     musket.

     "Colonel Barclay had married at the time when he was a sergeant, and
     his wife, whose maiden name was Miss Nancy Devoy, was the daughter of
     a former color-sergeant in the same corps.  There was, therefore, as
     can be imagined, some little social friction when the young couple
     (for they were still young) found themselves in their new
     surroundings.  They appear, however, to have quickly adapted
     themselves, and Mrs. Barclay has always, I understand, been as
     popular with the ladies of the regiment as her husband was with his
     brother officers.  I may add that she was a woman of great beauty,
     and that even now, when she has been married for upwards of thirty
     years, she is still of a striking and queenly appearance.

     "Colonel Barclay's family life appears to have been a uniformly happy
     one.  Major Murphy, to whom I owe most of my facts, assures me that
     he has never heard of any misunderstanding between the pair.  On the
     whole, he thinks that Barclay's devotion to his wife was greater than
     his wife's to Barclay.  He was acutely uneasy if he were absent from
     her for a day.  She, on the other hand, though devoted and faithful,
     was less obtrusively affectionate.  But they were regarded in the
     regiment as the very model of a middle-aged couple.  There was
     absolutely nothing in their mutual relations to prepare people for
     the tragedy which was to follow.

     "Colonel Barclay himself seems to have had some singular traits in
     his character.  He was a dashing, jovial old solder in his usual
     mood, but there were occasions on which he seemed to show himself
     capable of considerable violence and vindictiveness.  This side of
     his nature, however, appears never to have been turned towards his
     wife.  Another fact, which had struck Major Murphy and three out of
     five of the other officers with whom I conversed, was the singular
     sort of depression which came upon him at times.  As the major
     expressed it, the smile had often been struck from his mouth, as if
     by some invisible hand, when he has been joining the gaieties and
     chaff of the mess-table.  For days on end, when the mood was on him,
     he has been sunk in the deepest gloom.  This and a certain tinge of
     superstition were the only unusual traits in his character which his
     brother officers had observed.  The latter peculiarity took the form
     of a dislike to being left alone, especially after dark.  This
     puerile feature in a nature which was conspicuously manly had often
     given rise to comment and conjecture.

     "The first battalion of the Royal Munsters (which is the old 117th)
     has been stationed at Aldershot for some years.  The married officers
     live out of barracks, and the Colonel has during all this time
     occupied a villa called Lachine, about half a mile from the north
     camp.  The house stands in its own grounds, but the west side of it
     is not more than thirty yards from the high-road.  A coachman and two
     maids form the staff of servants.  These with their master and
     mistress were the sole occupants of Lachine, for the Barclays had no
     children, nor was it usual for them to have resident visitors.

     "Now for the events at Lachine between nine and ten on the evening of
     last Monday.

     "Mrs. Barclay was, it appears, a member of the Roman Catholic Church,
     and had interested herself very much in the establishment of the
     Guild of St. George, which was formed in connection with the Watt
     Street Chapel for the purpose of supplying the poor with cast-off
     clothing.  A meeting of the Guild had been held that evening at
     eight, and Mrs. Barclay had hurried over her dinner in order to be
     present at it.  When leaving the house she was heard by the coachman
     to make some commonplace remark to her husband, and to assure him
     that she would be back before very long. She then called for Miss
     Morrison, a young lady who lives in the next villa, and the two went
     off together to their meeting.  It lasted forty minutes, and at a
     quarter-past nine Mrs. Barclay returned home, having left Miss
     Morrison at her door as she passed.

     "There is a room which is used as a morning-room at Lachine.  This
     faces the road and opens by a large glass folding-door on to the
     lawn.  The lawn is thirty yards across, and is only divided from the
     highway by a low wall with an iron rail above it.  It was into this
     room that Mrs. Barclay went upon her return.  The blinds were not
     down, for the room was seldom used in the evening, but Mrs. Barclay
     herself lit the lamp and then rang the bell, asking Jane Stewart, the
     house-maid, to bring her a cup of tea, which was quite contrary to
     her usual habits.  The Colonel had been sitting in the dining-room,
     but hearing that his wife had returned he joined her in the
     morning-room.  The coachman saw him cross the hall and enter it.  He
     was never seen again alive.

     "The tea which had been ordered was brought up at the end of ten
     minutes; but the maid, as she approached the door, was surprised to
     hear the voices of her master and mistress in furious altercation. 
     She knocked without receiving any answer, and even turned the handle,
     but only to find that the door was locked upon the inside.  Naturally
     enough she ran down to tell the cook, and the two women with the
     coachman came up into the hall and listened to the dispute which was
     still raging.  They all agreed that only two voices were to be heard,
     those of Barclay and of his wife.  Barclay's remarks were subdued and
     abrupt, so that none of them were audible to the listeners.  The
     lady's, on the other hand, were most bitter, and when she raised her
     voice could be plainly heard.  'You coward!' she repeated over and
     over again.  'What can be done now?  What can be done now?  Give me
     back my life.  I will never so much as breathe the same air with you
     again!  You coward!  You Coward!'  Those were scraps of her
     conversation, ending in a sudden dreadful cry in the man's voice,
     with a crash, and a piercing scream from the woman.  Convinced that
     some tragedy had occurred, the coachman rushed to the door and strove
     to force it, while scream after scream issued from within.  He was
     unable, however, to make his way in, and the maids were too
     distracted with fear to be of any assistance to him.  A sudden
     thought struck him, however, and he ran through the hall door and
     round to the lawn upon which the long French windows open.  One side
     of the window was open, which I understand was quite usual in the
     summer-time, and he passed without difficulty into the room.  His
     mistress had ceased to scream and was stretched insensible upon a
     couch, while with his feet tilted over the side of an arm-chair, and
     his head upon the ground near the corner of the fender, was lying the
     unfortunate soldier stone dead in a pool of his own blood.

     "Naturally, the coachman's first thought, on finding that he could do
     nothing for his master, was to open the door.  But here an unexpected
     and singular difficulty presented itself.  The key was not in the
     inner side of the door, nor could he find it anywhere in the room. 
     He went out again, therefore, through the window, and having obtained
     the help of a policeman and of a medical man, he returned.  The lady,
     against whom naturally the strongest suspicion rested, was removed to
     her room, still in a state of insensibility.  The Colonel's body was
     then placed upon the sofa, and a careful examination made of the
     scene of the tragedy.

     "The injury from which the unfortunate veteran was suffering was
     found to be a jagged cut some two inches long at the back part of his
     head, which had evidently been caused by a violent blow from a blunt
     weapon.  Nor was it difficult to guess what that weapon may have
     been.  Upon the floor, close to the body, was lying a singular club
     of hard carved wood with a bone handle.  The Colonel possessed a
     varied collection of weapons brought from the different countries in
     which he had fought, and it is conjectured by the police that his
     club was among his trophies.  The servants deny having seen it
     before, but among the numerous curiosities in the house it is
     possible that it may have been overlooked.  Nothing else of
     importance was discovered in the room by the police, save the
     inexplicable fact that neither upon Mrs. Barclay's person nor upon
     that of the victim nor in any part of the room was the missing key to
     be found.  The door had eventually to be opened by a locksmith from
     Aldershot.

     "That was the state of things, Watson, when upon the Tuesday morning
     I, at the request of Major Murphy, went down to Aldershot to
     supplement the efforts of the police.  I think that you will
     acknowledge that the problem was already one of interest, but my
     observations soon made me realize that it was in truth much more
     extraordinary than would at first sight appear.

     "Before examining the room I cross-questioned the servants, but only
     succeeded in eliciting the facts which I have already stated.  One
     other detail of interest was remembered by Jane Stewart, the
     housemaid.  You will remember that on hearing the sound of the
     quarrel she descended and returned with the other servants.  On that
     first occasion, when she was alone, she says that the voices of her
     master and mistress were sunk so low that she could hear hardly
     anything, and judged by their tones rather than their words that they
     had fallen out.  On my pressing her, however, she remembered that she
     heard the word David uttered twice by the lady.  The point is of the
     utmost importance as guiding us towards the reason of the sudden
     quarrel.  The Colonel's name, you remember, was James.

     "There was one thing in the case which had made the deepest
     impression both upon the servants and the police.  This was the
     contortion of the Colonel's face.  It had set, according to their
     account, into the most dreadful expression of fear and horror which a
     human countenance is capable of assuming.  More than one person
     fainted at the mere sight of him, so terrible was the effect.  It was
     quite certain that he had foreseen his fate, and that it had caused
     him the utmost horror.  This, of course, fitted in well enough with
     the police theory, if the Colonel could have seen his wife making a
     murderous attack upon him.  Nor was the fact of the wound being on
     the back of his head a fatal objection to this, as he might have
     turned to avoid the blow.  No information could be got from the lady
     herself, who was temporarily insane from an acute attack of
     brain-fever.

     "From the police I learned that Miss Morrison, who you remember went
     out that evening with Mrs. Barclay, denied having any knowledge of
     what it was which had caused the ill-humor in which her companion had
     returned.

     "Having gathered these facts, Watson, I smoked several pipes over
     them, trying to separate those which were crucial from others which
     were merely incidental.  There could be no question that the most
     distinctive and suggestive point in the case was the singular
     disappearance of the door-key.  A most careful search had failed to
     discover it in the room.  Therefore it must have been taken from it. 
     But neither the Colonel nor the Colonel's wife could have taken it. 
     That was perfectly clear.  Therefore a third person must have entered
     the room.  And that third person could only have come in through the
     window.  It seemed to me that a careful examination of the room and
     the lawn might possibly reveal some traces of this mysterious
     individual.  You know my methods, Watson.  There was not one of them
     which I did not apply to the inquiry.  And it ended by my discovering
     traces, but very different ones from those which I had expected. 
     There had been a man in the room, and he had crossed the lawn coming
     from the road.  I was able to obtain five very clear impressions of
     his foot-marks:  one in the roadway itself, at the point where he had
     climbed the low wall, two on the lawn, and two very faint ones upon
     the stained boards near the window where he had entered.  He had
     apparently rushed across the lawn, for his toe-marks were much deeper
     than his heels.  But it was not the man who surprised me.  It was his
     companion."

     "His companion!"

     Holmes pulled a large sheet of tissue-paper out of his pocket and
     carefully unfolded it upon his knee.

     "What do you make of that?" he asked.

     The paper was covered with the tracings of the foot-marks of some
     small animal.  It had five well-marked foot-pads, an indication of
     long nails, and the whole print might be nearly as large as  a
     dessert-spoon.

     "It's a dog," said I.

     "Did you ever hear of a dog running up a curtain?  I found distinct
     traces that this creature had done so."

     "A monkey, then?"

     "But it is not the print of a monkey."

     "What can it be, then?"

     "Neither dog nor cat nor monkey nor any creature that we are familiar
     with.  I have tried to reconstruct it from the measurements.  Here
     are four prints where the beast has been standing motionless.  You
     see that it is no less than fifteen inches from fore-foot to hind. 
     Add to that the length of neck and head, and you get a creature not
     much less than two feet long--probably more if there is any tail. 
     But now observe this other measurement.  The animal has been moving,
     and we have the length of its stride.  In each case it is only about
     three inches.  You have an indication, you see, of a long body with
     very short legs attached to it.  It has not been considerate enough
     to leave any of its hair behind it.  But its general shape must be
     what I have indicated, and it can run up a curtain, and it is
     carnivorous."

     "How do you deduce that?"

     "Because it ran up the curtain.  A canary's cage was hanging in the
     window, and its aim seems to have been to get at the bird."

     "Then what was the beast?"

     "Ah, if I could give it a name it might go a long way towards solving
     the case.  On the whole, it was probably some creature of the weasel
     and stoat tribe--and yet it is larger than any of these that I have
     seen."

     "But what had it to do with the crime?"

     "That, also, is still obscure.  But we have learned a good deal, you
     perceive.  We know that a man stood in the road looking at the
     quarrel between the Barclays--the blinds were up and the room
     lighted.  We know, also, that he ran across the lawn, entered the
     room, accompanied by a strange animal, and that he either struck the
     Colonel or, as is equally possible, that the Colonel fell down from
     sheer fright at the sight of him, and cut his head on the corner of
     the fender.  Finally, we have the curious fact that the intruder
     carried away the key with him when he left."

     "Your discoveries seem to have left the business more obscure that it
     was before," said I.

     "Quite so.  They undoubtedly showed that the affair was much deeper
     than was at first conjectured.  I thought the matter over, and I came
     to the conclusion that I must approach the case from another aspect. 
     But really, Watson, I am keeping you up, and I might just as well
     tell you all this on our way to Aldershot to-morrow."

     "Thank you, you have gone rather too far to stop."

     "It is quite certain that when Mrs. Barclay left the house at
     half-past seven she was on good terms with her husband.  She was
     never, as I think I have said, ostentatiously affectionate, but she
     was heard by the coachman chatting with the Colonel in a friendly
     fashion.  Now, it was equally certain that, immediately on her
     return, she had gone to the room in which she was least likely to see
     her husband, had flown to tea as an agitated woman will, and finally,
     on his coming in to her, had broken into violent recriminations. 
     Therefore something had occurred between seven-thirty and nine
     o'clock which had completely altered her feelings towards him.  But
     Miss Morrison had been with her during the whole of that hour and a
     half.  It was absolutely certain, therefore, in spite of her denial,
     that she must know something of the matter.

     "My first conjecture was, that possibly there had been some passages
     between this young lady and the old soldier, which the former had now
     confessed to the wife.  That would account for the angry return, and
     also for the girl's denial that anything had occurred.  Nor would it
     be entirely incompatible with most of the words overhead.  But there
     was the reference to David, and there was the known affection of the
     Colonel for his wife, to weigh against it, to say nothing of the
     tragic intrusion of this other man, which might, of course, be
     entirely disconnected with what had gone before.  It was not easy to
     pick one's steps, but, on the whole, I was inclined to dismiss the
     idea that there had been anything between the Colonel and Miss
     Morrison, but more than ever convinced that the young lady held the
     clue as to what it was which had turned Mrs. Barclay to hatred of her
     husband.  I took the obvious course, therefore, of calling upon Miss
     M., of explaining to her that I was perfectly certain that she held
     the facts in her possession, and of assuring her that her friend,
     Mrs. Barclay, might find herself in the dock upon a capital charge
     unless the matter were cleared up.

     "Miss Morrison is a little ethereal slip of a girl, with timid eyes
     and blond hair, but I found her by no means wanting in shrewdness and
     common-sense.  She sat thinking for some time after I had spoken, and
     then, turning to me with a brisk air of resolution, she broke into a
     remarkable statement which I will condense for your benefit.

     "'I promised my friend that I would say nothing of the matter, and a
     promise is a promise,' said she; 'but if I can really help her when
     so serious a charge is laid against her, and when her own mouth, poor
     darling, is closed by illness, then I think I am absolved from my
     promise.  I will tell you exactly what happened upon Monday evening.

     "'We were returning from the Watt Street Mission about a quarter to
     nine o'clock.  On our way we had to pass through Hudson Street, which
     is a very quiet thoroughfare.  There is only one lamp in it, upon the
     left-hand side, and as we approached this lamp I saw a man coming
     towards us with is back very bent, and something like a box slung
     over one of his shoulders.  He appeared to be deformed, for he
     carried his head low and walked with his knees bent.  We were passing
     him when he raised his face to look at us in the circle of light
     thrown by the lamp, and as he did so he stopped and screamed out in a
     dreadful voice, "My God, it's Nancy!"  Mrs. Barclay turned as white
     as death, and would have fallen down had the dreadful-looking
     creature not caught hold of her.  I was going to call for the police,
     but she, to my surprise, spoke quite civilly to the fellow.

     "'"I thought you had been dead this thirty years, Henry," said she,
     in a shaking voice.

     "'"So I have," said he, and it was awful to hear the tones that he
     said it in.  He had a very dark, fearsome face, and a gleam in his
     eyes that comes back to me in my dreams.  His hair and whiskers were
     shot with gray, and his face was all crinkled and puckered like a
     withered apple.

     "'"Just walk on a little way, dear," said Mrs. Barclay; "I want to
     have a word with this man.  There is nothing to be afraid of."  She
     tried to speak boldly, but she was still deadly pale and could hardly
     get her words out for the trembling of her lips.

     "'I did as she asked me, and they talked together for a few minutes. 
     Then she came down the street with her eyes blazing, and I saw the
     crippled wretch standing by the lamp-post and shaking his clenched
     fists in the air as if he were mad with rage.  She never said a word
     until we were at the door here, when she took me by the hand and
     begged me to tell no one what had happened.

     "'"It's an old acquaintance of mine who has come down in the world,"
     said she.  When I promised her I would say nothing she kissed me, and
     I have never seen her since.  I have told you now the whole truth,
     and if I withheld it from the police it is because I did not realize
     then the danger in which my dear friend stood.  I know that it can
     only be to her advantage that everything should be known.'

     "There was her statement, Watson, and to me, as you can imagine, it
     was like a light on a dark night.  Everything which had been
     disconnected before began at once to assume its true place, and I had
     a shadowy presentiment of the whole sequence of events.  My next step
     obviously was to find the man who had produced such a remarkable
     impression upon Mrs. Barclay.  If he were still in Aldershot it
     should not be a very difficult matter.  There are not such a very
     great number of civilians, and a deformed man was sure to have
     attracted attention.  I spent a day in the search, and by
     evening--this very evening, Watson--I had run him down.  The man's
     name is Henry Wood, and he lives in lodgings in this same street in
     which the ladies met him.  He has only been five days in the place. 
     In the character of a registration-agent I had a most interesting
     gossip with his landlady.  The man is by trade a conjurer and
     performer, going round the canteens after nightfall, and giving a
     little entertainment at each.  He carries some creature about with
     him in that box; about which the landlady seemed to be in
     considerable trepidation, for she had never seen an animal like it. 
     He uses it in some of his tricks according to her account.  So much
     the woman was able to tell me, and also that it was a wonder the man
     lived, seeing how twisted he was, and that he spoke in a strange
     tongue sometimes, and that for the last two nights she had heard him
     groaning and weeping in his bedroom.  He was all right, as far as
     money went, but in his deposit he had given her what looked like a
     bad florin.  She showed it to me, Watson, and it was an Indian rupee.

     "So now, my dear fellow, you see exactly how we stand and why it is I
     want you.  It is perfectly plain that after the ladies parted from
     this man he followed them at a distance, that he saw the quarrel
     between husband and wife through the window, that he rushed in, and
     that the creature which he carried in his box got loose.  That is all
     very certain.  But he is the only person in this world who can tell
     us exactly what happened in that room."

     "And you intend to ask him?"

     "Most certainly--but in the presence of a witness."

     "And I am the witness?"

     "If you will be so good.  If he can clear the matter up, well and
     good.  If he refuses, we have no alternative but to apply for a
     warrant."

     "But how do you know he'll be there when we return?"

     "You may be sure that I took some precautions.  I have one of my
     Baker Street boys mounting guard over him who would stick to him like
     a burr, go where he might.  We shall find him in Hudson Street
     to-morrow, Watson, and meanwhile I should be the criminal myself if I
     kept you out of bed any longer."

     It was midday when we found ourselves at the scene of the tragedy,
     and, under my companion's guidance, we made our way at once to Hudson
     Street.  In spite of his capacity for concealing his emotions, I
     could easily see that Holmes was in a state of suppressed excitement,
     while I was myself tingling with that half-sporting,
     half-intellectual pleasure which I invariably experienced when I
     associated myself with him in his investigations.

     "This is the street," said he, as we turned into a short thoroughfare
     lined with plain two-storied brick houses.  "Ah, here is Simpson to
     report."

     "He's in all right, Mr. Holmes," cried a small street Arab, running
     up to us.

     "Good, Simpson!" said Holmes, patting him on the head.  "Come along,
     Watson.  This is the house."  He sent in his card with a message that
     he had come on important business, and a moment later we were face to
     face with the man whom we had come to see.  In spite of the warm
     weather he was crouching over a fire, and the little room was like an
     oven.  The man sat all twisted and huddled in his chair in a way
     which gave an indescribably impression of deformity; but the face
     which he turned towards us, though worn and swarthy, must at some
     time have been remarkable for its beauty.  He looked suspiciously at
     us now out of yellow-shot, bilious eyes, and, without speaking or
     rising, he waved towards two chairs.

     "Mr. Henry Wood, late of India, I believe," said Holmes, affably. 
     "I've come over this little matter of Colonel Barclay's death."

     "What should I know about that?"

     "That's what I want to ascertain.  You know, I suppose, that unless
     the matter is cleared up, Mrs. Barclay, who is an old friend of
     yours, will in all probability be tried for murder."

     The man gave a violent start.

     "I don't know who you are," he cried, "nor how you come to know what
     you do know, but will you swear that this is true that you tell me?"

     "Why, they are only waiting for her to come to her senses to arrest
     her."

     "My God!  Are you in the police yourself?"

     "No."

     "What business is it of yours, then?"

     "It's every man's business to see justice done."

     "You can take my word that she is innocent."

     "Then you are guilty."

     "No, I am not."

     "Who killed Colonel James Barclay, then?"

     "It was a just providence that killed him.  But, mind you this, that
     if I had knocked his brains out, as it was in my heart to do, he
     would have had no more than his due from my hands.  If his own guilty
     conscience had not struck him down it is likely enough that I might
     have had his blood upon my soul.  You want me to tell the story. 
     Well, I don't know why I shouldn't, for there's no cause for me to be
     ashamed of it.

     "It was in this way, sir.  You see me now with my back like a camel
     and by ribs all awry, but there was a time when Corporal Henry Wood
     was the smartest man in the 117th foot.  We were in India then, in
     cantonments, at a place we'll call Bhurtee.  Barclay, who died the
     other day, was sergeant in the same company as myself, and the belle
     of the regiment, ay, and the finest girl that ever had the breath of
     life between her lips, was Nancy Devoy, the daughter of the
     color-sergeant.  There were two men that loved her, and one that she
     loved, and you'll smile when you look at this poor thing huddled
     before the fire, and hear me say that it was for my good looks that
     she loved me.

     "Well, though I had her heart, her father was set upon her marrying
     Barclay.  I was a harum-scarum, reckless lad, and he had had an
     education, and was already marked for the sword-belt.  But the girl
     held true to me, and it seemed that I would have had her when the
     Mutiny broke out, and all hell was loose in the country.

     "We were shut up in Bhurtee, the regiment of us with half a battery
     of artillery, a company of Sikhs, and a lot of civilians and
     women-folk.  There were ten thousand rebels round us, and they were
     as keen as a set of terriers round a rat-cage.  About the second week
     of it our water gave out, and it was a question whether we could
     communicate with General Neill's column, which was moving up country.
      It was our only chance, for we could not hope to fight our way out
     with all the women and children, so I volunteered to go out and to
     warn General Neill of our danger.  My offer was accepted, and I
     talked it over with Sergeant Barclay, who was supposed to know the
     ground better than any other man, and who drew up a route by which I
     might get through the rebel lines.  At ten o'clock the same night I
     started off upon my journey.  There were a thousand lives to save,
     but it was of only one that I was thinking when I dropped over the
     wall that night.

     "My way ran down a dried-up watercourse, which we hoped would screen
     me from the enemy's sentries; but as I crept round the corner of it I
     walked right into six of them, who were crouching down in the dark
     waiting for me.  In an instant I was stunned with a blow and bound
     hand and foot.  But the real blow was to my heart and not to my head,
     for as I came to and listened to as much as I could understand of
     their talk, I heard enough to tell me that my comrade, the very man
     who had arranged the way that I was to take, had betrayed me by means
     of a native servant into the hands of the enemy.

     "Well, there's no need for me to dwell on that part of it.  You know
     now what James Barclay was capable of.  Bhurtee was relieved by Neill
     next day, but the rebels took me away with them in their retreat, and
     it was many a long year before ever I saw a white face again.  I was
     tortured and tried to get away, and was captured and tortured again. 
     You can see for yourselves the state in which I was left.  Some of
     them that fled into Nepal took me with them, and then afterwards I
     was up past Darjeeling.  The hill-folk up there murdered the rebels
     who had me, and I became their slave for a time until I escaped; but
     instead of going south I had to go north, until I found myself among
     the Afghans.  There I wandered about for many a year, and at last
     came back to the Punjaub, where I lived mostly among the natives and
     picked up a living by the conjuring tricks that I had learned.  What
     use was it for me, a wretched cripple, to go back to England or to
     make myself known to my old comrades?  Even my wish for revenge would
     not make me do that.  I had rather that Nancy and my old pals should
     think of Harry Wood as having died with a straight back, than see him
     living and crawling with a stick like a chimpanzee.  They never
     doubted that I was dead, and I meant that they never should.  I heard
     that Barclay had married Nancy, and that he was rising rapidly in the
     regiment, but even that did not make me speak.

     "But when one gets old one has a longing for home.  For years I've
     been dreaming of the bright green fields and the hedges of England. 
     At last I determined to see them before I died.  I saved enough to
     bring me across, and then I came here where the soldiers are, for I
     know their ways and how to amuse them and so earn enough to keep me."

     "Your narrative is most interesting," said Sherlock Holmes.  "I have
     already heard of your meeting with Mrs. Barclay, and your mutual
     recognition.  You then, as I understand, followed her home and saw
     through the window an altercation between her husband and her, in
     which she doubtless cast his conduct to you in his teeth.  Your own
     feelings overcame you, and you ran across the lawn and broke in upon
     them."

     "I did, sir, and at the sight of me he looked as I have never seen a
     man look before, and over he went with his head on the fender.  But
     he was dead before he fell.  I read death on his face as plain as I
     can read that text over the fire.  The bare sight of me was like a
     bullet through his guilty heart."

     "And then?"

     "Then Nancy fainted, and I caught up the key of the door from her
     hand, intending to unlock it and get help.  But as I was doing it it
     seemed to me better to leave it alone and get away, for the thing
     might look black against me, and any way my secret would be out if I
     were taken.  In my haste I thrust the key into my pocket, and dropped
     my stick while I was chasing Teddy, who had run up the curtain.  When
     I got him into his box, from which he had slipped, I was off as fast
     as I could run."

     "Who's Teddy?" asked Holmes.

     The man leaned over and pulled up the front of a kind of hutch in the
     corner.  In an instant out there slipped a beautiful reddish-brown
     creature, thin and lithe, with the legs of a stoat, a long, thin
     nose, and a pair of the finest red eyes that ever I saw in an
     animal's head.

     "It's a mongoose," I cried.

     "Well, some call them that, and some call them ichneumon," said the
     man.  "Snake-catcher is what I call them, and Teddy is amazing quick
     on cobras.  I have one here without the fangs, and Teddy catches it
     every night to please the folk in the canteen.

     "Any other point, sir?"

     "Well, we may have to apply to you again if Mrs. Barclay should prove
     to be in serious trouble."

     "In that case, of course, I'd come forward."

     "But if not, there is no object in raking up this scandal against a
     dead man, foully as he has acted.  You have at least the satisfaction
     of knowing that for thirty years of his life his conscience bitterly
     reproached him for this wicked deed.  Ah, there goes Major Murphy on
     the other side of the street.  Good-bye, Wood.  I want to learn if
     anything has happened since yesterday."

     We were in time to overtake the major before he reached the corner.

     "Ah, Holmes," he said:  "I suppose you have heard that all this fuss
     has come to nothing?"

     "What then?"

     "The inquest is just over.  The medical evidence showed conclusively
     that death was due to apoplexy.  You see it was quite a simple case
     after all."

     "Oh, remarkably superficial," said Holmes, smiling.  "Come, Watson, I
     don't think we shall be wanted in Aldershot any more."

     "There's one thing," said I, as we walked down to the station.  "If
     the husband's name was James, and the other was Henry, what was this
     talk about David?"

     "That one word, my dear Watson, should have told me the whole story
     had I been the ideal reasoner which you are so fond of depicting.  It
     was evidently a term of reproach."

     "Of reproach?"

     "Yes; David strayed a little occasionally, you know, and on one
     occasion in the same direction as Sergeant James Barclay.  You
     remember the small affair of Uriah and Bathsheba?  My biblical
     knowledge is a trifle rusty, I fear, but you will find the story in
     the first or second of Samuel."






                              THE RESIDENT PATIENT

     Glancing over the somewhat incoherent series of Memoirs with which I
     have endeavored to illustrate a few of the mental peculiarities of my
     friend Mr. Sherlock Holmes, I have been struck by the difficulty
     which I have experienced in picking out examples which shall in every
     way answer my purpose. For in those cases in which Holmes has
     performed some tour de force of analytical reasoning, and has
     demonstrated the value of his peculiar methods of investigation, the
     facts themselves have often been so slight or so commonplace that I
     could not feel justified in laying them before the public. On the
     other hand, it has frequently happened that he has been concerned in
     some research where the facts have been of the most remarkable and
     dramatic character, but where the share which he has himself taken in
     determining their causes has been less pronounced than I, as his
     biographer, could wish. The small matter which I have chronicled
     under the heading of "A Study in Scarlet," and that other later one
     connected with the loss of the Gloria Scott, may serve as examples of
     this Scylla and Charybdis which are forever threatening the
     historian. It may be that in the business of which I am now about to
     write the part which my friend played is not sufficiently
     accentuated; and yet the whole train of circumstances is so
     remarkable that I cannot bring myself to omit it entirely from this
     series.

     It had been a close, rainy day in October. Our blinds were
     half-drawn, and Holmes lay curled upon the sofa, reading and
     re-reading a letter which he had received by the morning post. For
     myself, my term of service in India had trained me to stand heat
     better than cold, and a thermometer of 90 was no hardship. But the
     paper was uninteresting. Parliament had risen. Everybody was out of
     town, and I yearned for the glades of the New Forest or the shingle
     of Southsea. A depleted bank account had caused me to postpone my
     holiday, and as to my companion, neither the country nor the sea
     presented the slightest attraction to him. He loved to lie in the
     very centre of five millions of people, with his filaments stretching
     out and running through them, responsive to every little rumor or
     suspicion of unsolved crime. Appreciation of Nature found no place
     among his many gifts, and his only change was when he turned his mind
     from the evil-doer of the town to track down his brother of the
     country.

     I cannot be sure of the exact date, for some of my memoranda upon the
     matter have been mislaid, but it must have been towards the end of
     the first year during which Holmes and I shared chambers in Baker
     Street. It was boisterous October weather, and we had both remained
     indoors all day, I because I feared with my shaken health to face the
     keen autumn wind, while he was deep in some of those abstruse
     chemical investigations which absorbed him utterly as long as he was
     engaged upon them. Towards evening, however, the breaking of a
     test-tube brought his research to a premature ending, and he sprang
     up from his chair with an exclamation of impatience and a clouded
     brow.

     "A day's work ruined, Watson," said he, striding across to the
     window. "Ha! The stars are out and he wind has fallen. What do you
     say to a ramble through London?"

     I was weary of our little sitting-room and gladly acquiesced. For
     three hours we strolled about together, watching the ever-changing
     kaleidoscope of life as it ebbs and flows through Fleet Street and
     the Strand. His characteristic talk, with its keen observance of
     detail and subtle power of inference held me amused and enthralled.
     It was ten o'clock before we reached Baker Street again. A brougham
     was waiting at our door.

     "Hum! A doctor's--general practitioner, I perceive," said Holmes.
     "Not been long in practice, but has had a good deal to do. Come to
     consult us, I fancy! Lucky we came back!"

     I was sufficiently conversant with Holmes's methods to be able to
     follow his reasoning, and to see that the nature and state of the
     various medical instruments in the wicker basket which hung in the
     lamplight inside the brougham had given him the data for his swift
     deduction. The light in our window above showed that this late visit
     was indeed intended for us. With some curiosity as to what could have
     sent a brother medico to us at such an hour, I followed Holmes into
     our sanctum.

     A pale, taper-faced man with sandy whiskers rose up from a chair by
     the fire as we entered. His age may not have been more than three or
     four and thirty, but his haggard expression and unhealthy hue told of
     a life which has sapped his strength and robbed him of his youth. His
     manner was nervous and shy, like that of a sensitive gentleman, and
     the thin white hand which he laid on the mantelpiece as he rose was
     that of an artist rather than of a surgeon. His dress was quiet and
     sombre--a black frock-coat, dark trousers, and a touch of color about
     his necktie.

     "Good-evening, doctor," said Holmes, cheerily. "I am glad to see that
     you have only been waiting a very few minutes."

     "You spoke to my coachman, then?"

     "No, it was the candle on the side-table that told me. Pray resume
     your seat and let me know how I can serve you."

     "My name is Doctor Percy Trevelyan," said our visitor, "and I live at
     403 Brook Street."

     "Are you not the author of a monograph upon obscure nervous lesions?"
     I asked.

     His pale cheeks flushed with pleasure at hearing that his work was
     known to me.

     "I so seldom hear of the work that I thought it was quite dead," said
     he. "My publishers gave me a most discouraging account of its sale.
     You are yourself, I presume, a medical man?"

     "A retired army surgeon."

     "My own hobby has always been nervous disease. I should wish to make
     it an absolute specialty, but, of course, a man must take what he can
     get at first. This, however, is beside the question, Mr. Sherlock
     Holmes, and I quite appreciate how valuable your time is. The fact is
     that a very singular train of events has occurred recently at my
     house in Brook Street, and to-night they came to such a head that I
     felt it was quite impossible for me to wait another hour before
     asking for your advice and assistance."

     Sherlock Holmes sat down and lit his pipe. "You are very welcome to
     both," said he. "Pray let me have a detailed account of what the
     circumstances are which have disturbed you."

     "One or two of them are so trivial," said Dr. Trevelyan, "that really
     I am almost ashamed to mention them. But the matter is so
     inexplicable, and the recent turn which it has taken is so elaborate,
     that I shall lay it all before you, and you shall judge what is
     essential and what is not.

     "I am compelled, to begin with, to say something of my own college
     career. I am a London University man, you know, and I am sure that
     you will not think that I am unduly singing my own praises if I say
     that my student career was considered by my professors to be a very
     promising one. After I had graduated I continued to devote myself to
     research, occupying a minor position in King's College Hospital, and
     I was fortunate enough to excite considerable interest by my research
     into the pathology of catalepsy, and finally to win the Bruce
     Pinkerton prize and medal by the monograph on nervous lesions to
     which your friend has just alluded. I should not go too far if I were
     to say that there was a general impression at that time that a
     distinguished career lay before me.

     "But the one great stumbling-block lay in my want of capital. As you
     will readily understand, a specialist who aims high is compelled to
     start in one of a dozen streets in the Cavendish Square quarter, all
     of which entail enormous rents and furnishing expenses. Besides this
     preliminary outlay, he must be prepared to keep himself for some
     years, and to hire a presentable carriage and horse. To do this was
     quite beyond my power, and I could only hope that by economy I might
     in ten years' time save enough to enable me to put up my plate.
     Suddenly, however, an unexpected incident opened up quite a new
     prospect to me.

     "This was a visit from a gentleman of the name of Blessington, who
     was a complete stranger to me. He came up to my room one morning, and
     plunged into business in an instant.

     "'You are the same Percy Trevelyan who has had so distinguished a
     career and won a great prize lately?' said he.

     "I bowed.

     "'Answer me frankly,' he continued, 'for you will find it to your
     interest to do so. You have all the cleverness which makes a
     successful man. Have you the tact?'

     "I could not help smiling at the abruptness of the question.

     "'I trust that I have my share,' I said.

     "'Any bad habits? Not drawn towards drink, eh?'

     "'Really, sir!' I cried.

     "'Quite right! That's all right! But I was bound to ask. With all
     these qualities, why are you not in practice?'

     "I shrugged my shoulders.

     "'Come, come!' said he, in his bustling way. 'It's the old story.
     More in your brains than in your pocket, eh? What would you say if I
     were to start you in Brook Street?'

     "I stared at him in astonishment.

     "'Oh, it's for my sake, not for yours,' he cried.  'I'll be perfectly
     frank with you, and if it suits you it will suit me very well. I have
     a few thousands to invest, d'ye see, and I think I'll sink them in
     you.'

     "'But why?' I gasped.

     "'Well, it's just like any other speculation, and safer than most.'

     "'What am I to do, then?'

     "'I'll tell you. I'll take the house, furnish it, pay the maids, and
     run the whole place. All you have to do is just to wear out your
     chair in the consulting-room. I'll let you have pocket-money and
     everything. Then you hand over to me three quarters of what you earn,
     and you keep the other quarter for yourself.'

     "This was the strange proposal, Mr. Holmes, with which the man
     Blessington approached me. I won't weary you with the account of how
     we bargained and negotiated. It ended in my moving into the house
     next Lady Day, and starting in practice on very much the same
     conditions as he had suggested. He came himself to live with me in
     the character of a resident patient. His heart was weak, it appears,
     and he needed constant medical supervision. He turned the two best
     rooms of the first floor into a sitting-room and bedroom for himself.
     He was a man of singular habits, shunning company and very seldom
     going out. His life was irregular, but in one respect he was
     regularity itself. Every evening, at the same hour, he walked into
     the consulting-room, examined the books, put down five and
     three-pence for every guinea that I had earned, and carried the rest
     off to the strong-box in his own room.

     "I may say with confidence that he never had occasion to regret his
     speculation. From the first it was a success. A few good cases and
     the reputation which I had won in the hospital brought me rapidly to
     the front, and during the last few years I have made him a rich man.

     "So much, Mr. Holmes, for my past history and my relations with Mr.
     Blessington. It only remains for me now to tell you what has occurred
     to bring me here to-night.

     "Some weeks ago Mr. Blessington came down to me in, as it seemed to
     me, a state of considerable agitation. He spoke of some burglary
     which, he said, had been committed in the West End, and he appeared,
     I remember, to be quite unnecessarily excited about it, declaring
     that a day should not pass before we should add stronger bolts to our
     windows and doors. For a week he continued to be in a peculiar state
     of restlessness, peering continually out of the windows, and ceasing
     to take the short walk which had usually been the prelude to his
     dinner. From his manner it struck me that he was in mortal dread of
     something or somebody, but when I questioned him upon the point he
     became so offensive that I was compelled to drop the subject.
     Gradually, as time passed, his fears appeared to die away, and he had
     renewed his former habits, when a fresh event reduced him to the
     pitiable state of prostration in which he now lies.

     "What happened was this. Two days ago I received the letter which I
     now read to you. Neither address nor date is attached to it.

     "'A Russian nobleman who is now resident in England,' it runs, 'would
     be glad to avail himself of the professional assistance of Dr. Percy
     Trevelyan. He has been for some years a victim to cataleptic attacks,
     on which, as is well known, Dr. Trevelyan is an authority. He
     proposes to call at about quarter past six to-morrow evening, if Dr.
     Trevelyan will make it convenient to be at home.'

     "This letter interested me deeply, because the chief difficulty in
     the study of catalepsy is the rareness of the disease. You may
     believe, than, that I was in my consulting-room when, at the
     appointed hour, the page showed in the patient.

     He was an elderly man, thin, demure, and common-place--by no means
     the conception one forms of a Russian nobleman. I was much more
     struck by the appearance of his companion. This was a tall young man,
     surprisingly handsome, with a dark, fierce face, and the limbs and
     chest of a Hercules. He had his hand under the other's arm as they
     entered, and helped him to a chair with a tenderness which one would
     hardly have expected from his appearance.

     "'You will excuse my coming in, doctor,' said he to me, speaking
     English with a slight lisp. 'This is my father, and his health is a
     matter of the most overwhelming importance to me.'

     "I was touched by this filial anxiety. 'You would, perhaps, care to
     remain during the consultation?' said I.

     "'Not for the world,' he cried with a gesture of horror. 'It is more
     painful to me than I can express. If I were to see my father in one
     of these dreadful seizures I am convinced that I should never survive
     it. My own nervous system is an exceptionally sensitive one. With
     your permission, I will remain in the waiting-room while you go into
     my father's case.'

     "To this, of course, I assented, and the young man withdrew. The
     patient and I then plunged into a discussion of his case, of which I
     took exhaustive notes. He was not remarkable for intelligence, and
     his answers were frequently obscure, which I attributed to his
     limited acquaintance with our language. Suddenly, however, as I sat
     writing, he ceased to give any answer at all to my inquiries, and on
     my turning towards him I was shocked to see that he was sitting bolt
     upright in his chair, staring at me with a perfectly blank and rigid
     face. He was again in the grip of his mysterious malady.

     "My first feeling, as I have just said, was one of pity and horror.
     My second, I fear, was rather one of professional satisfaction. I
     made notes of my patient's pulse and temperature, tested the rigidity
     of his muscles, and examined his reflexes. There was nothing markedly
     abnormal in any of these conditions, which harmonized with my former
     experiences. I had obtained good results in such cases by the
     inhalation of nitrite of amyl, and the present seemed an admirable
     opportunity of testing its virtues. The bottle was downstairs in my
     laboratory, so leaving my patient seated in his chair, I ran down to
     get it. There was some little delay in finding it--five minutes, let
     us say--and then I returned. Imagine my amazement to find the room
     empty and the patient gone.

     "Of course, my first act was to run into the waiting-room. The son
     had gone also. The hall door had been closed, but not shut. My page
     who admits patients is a new boy and by no means quick. He waits
     downstairs, and runs up to show patients out when I ring the
     consulting-room bell. He had heard nothing, and the affair remained a
     complete mystery. Mr. Blessington came in from his walk shortly
     afterwards, but I did not say anything to him upon the subject, for,
     to tell the truth, I have got in the way of late of holding as little
     communication with him as possible.

     "Well, I never thought that I should see anything more of the Russian
     and his son, so you can imagine my amazement when, at the very same
     hour this evening, they both came marching into my consulting-room,
     just as they had done before.

     "'I feel that I owe you a great many apologies for my abrupt
     departure yesterday, doctor,' said my patient.

     "'I confess that I was very much surprised at it,' said I.

     "'Well, the fact is,' he remarked, 'that when I recover from these
     attacks my mind is always very clouded as to all that has gone
     before. I woke up in a strange room, as it seemed to me, and made my
     way out into the street in a sort of dazed way when you were absent.'

     "'And I,' said the son, 'seeing my father pass the door of the
     waiting-room, naturally thought that the consultation had come to an
     end. It was not until we had reached home that I began to realize the
     true state of affairs.'

     "'Well,' said I, laughing, 'there is no harm done except that you
     puzzled me terribly; so if you, sir, would kindly step into the
     waiting-room I shall be happy to continue our consultation which was
     brought to so abrupt an ending.'

     "For half an hour or so I discussed that old gentleman's symptoms
     with him, and then, having prescribed for him, I saw him go off upon
     the arm of his son.

     "I have told you that Mr. Blessington generally chose this hour of
     the day for his exercise. He came in shortly afterwards and passed
     upstairs. An instant later I heard him running down, and he burst
     into my consulting-room like a man who is mad with panic.

     "'Who has been in my room?' he cried.

     "'No one,' said I.

     "'It's a lie!' He yelled. 'Come up and look!'

     "I passed over the grossness of his language, as he seemed half out
     of his mind with fear. When I went upstairs with him he pointed to
     several footprints upon the light carpet.

     "'D'you mean to say those are mine?' he cried.

     "They were certainly very much larger than any which he could have
     made, and were evidently quite fresh. It rained hard this afternoon,
     as you know, and my patients were the only people who called. It must
     have been the case, then, that the man in the waiting-room had, for
     some unknown reason, while I was busy with the other, ascended to the
     room of my resident patient. Nothing has been touched or taken, but
     there were the footprints to prove that the intrusion was an
     undoubted fact.

     "Mr. Blessington seemed more excited over the matter than I should
     have thought possible, though of course it was enough to disturb
     anybody's peace of mind. He actually sat crying in an arm-chair, and
     I could hardly get him to speak coherently. It was his suggestion
     that I should come round to you, and of course I at once saw the
     propriety of it, for certainly the incident is a very singular one,
     though he appears to completely overrate its importance. If you would
     only come back with me in my brougham, you would at least be able to
     soothe him, though I can hardly hope that you will be able to explain
     this remarkable occurrence."

     Sherlock Holmes had listened to this long narrative with an
     intentness which showed me that his interest was keenly aroused. His
     face was as impassive as ever, but his lids had drooped more heavily
     over his eyes, and his smoke had curled up more thickly from his pipe
     to emphasize each curious episode in the doctor's tale. As our
     visitor concluded, Holmes sprang up without a word, handed me my hat,
     picked his own from the table, and followed Dr. Trevelyan to the
     door. Within a quarter of an hour we had been dropped at the door of
     the physician's residence in Brook Street, one of those sombre,
     flat-faced houses which one associates with a West-End practice. A
     small page admitted us, and we began at once to ascend the broad,
     well-carpeted stair.

     But a singular interruption brought us to a standstill. The light at
     the top was suddenly whisked out, and from the darkness came a reedy,
     quivering voice.

     "I have a pistol," it cried. "I give you my word that I'll fire if
     you come any nearer."

     "This really grows outrageous, Mr. Blessington," cried Dr. Trevelyan.

     "Oh, then it is you, doctor," said the voice, with a great heave of
     relief. "But those other gentlemen, are they what they pretend to
     be?"

     We were conscious of a long scrutiny out of the darkness.

     "Yes, yes, it's all right," said the voice at last. "You can come up,
     and I am sorry if my precautions have annoyed you."

     He relit the stair gas as he spoke, and we saw before us a
     singular-looking man, whose appearance, as well as his voice,
     testified to his jangled nerves. He was very fat, but had apparently
     at some time been much fatter, so that the skin hung about his face
     in loose pouches, like the cheeks of a blood-hound. He was of a
     sickly color, and his thin, sandy hair seemed to bristle up with the
     intensity of his emotion. In his hand he held a pistol, but he thrust
     it into his pocket as we advanced.

     "Good-evening, Mr. Holmes," said he. "I am sure I am very much
     obliged to you for coming round. No one ever needed your advice more
     than I do. I suppose that Dr. Trevelyan has told you of this most
     unwarrantable intrusion into my rooms."

     "Quite so," said Holmes. "Who are these two men Mr. Blessington, and
     why do they wish to molest you?"

     "Well, well," said the resident patient, in a nervous fashion, "of
     course it is hard to say that. You can hardly expect me to answer
     that, Mr. Holmes."

     "Do you mean that you don't know?"

     "Come in here, if you please. Just have the kindness to step in
     here."

     He led the way into his bedroom, which was large and comfortably
     furnished.

     "You see that," said he, pointing to a big black box at the end of
     his bed. "I have never been a very rich man, Mr. Holmes--never made
     but one investment in my life, as Dr. Trevelyan would tell you. But I
     don't believe in bankers. I would never trust a banker, Mr. Holmes.
     Between ourselves, what little I have is in that box, so you can
     understand what it means to me when unknown people force themselves
     into my rooms."

     Holmes looked at Blessington in his questioning way and shook his
     head.

     "I cannot possibly advise you if you try to deceive me," said he.

     "But I have told you everything."

     Holmes turned on his heel with a gesture of disgust. "Good-night, Dr.
     Trevelyan," said he.

     "And no advice for me?" cried Blessington, in a breaking voice.

     "My advice to your, sir, is to speak the truth."

     A minute later we were in the street and walking for home. We had
     crossed Oxford Street and were half way down Harley Street before I
     could get a word from my companion.

     "Sorry to bring you out on such a fool's errand, Watson," he said at
     last. "It is an interesting case, too, at the bottom of it."

     "I can make little of it," I confessed.

     "Well, it is quite evident that there are two men--more, perhaps, but
     at least two--who are determined for some reason to get at this
     fellow Blessington. I have no doubt in my mind that both on the first
     and on the second occasion that young man penetrated to Blessington's
     room, while his confederate, by an ingenious device, kept the doctor
     from interfering."

     "And the catalepsy?"

     "A fraudulent imitation, Watson, though I should hardly dare to hint
     as much to our specialist. It is a very easy complaint to imitate. I
     have done it myself."

     "And then?"

     "By the purest chance Blessington was out on each occasion. Their
     reason for choosing so unusual an hour for a consultation was
     obviously to insure that there should be no other patient in the
     waiting-room. It just happened, however, that this hour coincided
     with Blessington's constitutional, which seems to show that they were
     not very well acquainted with his daily routine. Of course, if they
     had been merely after plunder they would at least have made some
     attempt to search for it. Besides, I can read in a man's eye when it
     is his own skin that he is frightened for. It is inconceivable that
     this fellow could have made two such vindictive enemies as these
     appear to be without knowing of it. I hold it, therefore, to be
     certain that he does know who these men are, and that for reasons of
     his own he suppresses it. It is just possible that to-morrow may find
     him in a more communicative mood."

     "Is there not one alternative," I suggested, "grotesquely improbably,
     no doubt, but still just conceivable? Might the whole story of the
     cataleptic Russian and his son be a concoction of Dr. Trevelyan's,
     who has, for his own purposes, been in Blessington's rooms?"

     I saw in the gaslight that Holmes wore an amused smile at this
     brilliant departure of mine.

     "My dear fellow," said he, "it was one of the first solutions which
     occurred to me, but I was soon able to corroborate the doctor's tale.
     This young man has left prints upon the stair-carpet which made it
     quite superfluous for me to ask to see those which he had made in the
     room. When I tell you that his shoes were square-toed instead of
     being pointed like Blessington's, and were quite an inch and a third
     longer than the doctor's, you will acknowledge that there can be no
     doubt as to his individuality. But we may sleep on it now, for I
     shall be surprised if we do not hear something further from Brook
     Street in the morning."

     Sherlock Holmes's prophecy was soon fulfilled, and in a dramatic
     fashion. At half-past seven next morning, in the first glimmer of
     daylight, I found him standing by my bedside in his dressing-gown.

     "There's a brougham waiting for us, Watson," said he.

     "What's the matter, then?"

     "The Brook Street business."

     "Any fresh news?"

     "Tragic, but ambiguous," said he, pulling up the blind.  "Look at
     this--a sheet from a note-book, with 'For God's sake come at once--P.
     T.,' scrawled upon it in pencil. Our friend, the doctor, was hard put
     to it when he wrote this. Come along, my dear fellow, for it's an
     urgent call."

     In a quarter of an hour or so we were back at the physician's house. 
     He came running out to meet us with a face of horror.

     "Oh, such a business!" he cried, with his hands to his temples.

     "What then?"

     "Blessington has committed suicide!"

     Holmes whistled.

     "Yes, he hanged himself during the night."

     We had entered, and the doctor had preceded us into what was
     evidently his waiting-room.

     "I really hardly know what I am doing," he cried. "The police are
     already upstairs. It has shaken me most dreadfully."

     "When did you find it out?"

     "He has a cup of tea taken in to him early every morning. When the
     maid entered, about seven, there the unfortunate fellow was hanging
     in the middle of the room. He had tied his cord to the hook on which
     the heavy lamp used to hang, and he had jumped off from the top of
     the very box that he showed us yesterday."

     Holmes stood for a moment in deep thought.

     "With your permission," said he at last, "I should like to go
     upstairs and look into the matter."

     We both ascended, followed by the doctor.

     It was a dreadful sight which met us as we entered the bedroom door.
     I have spoken of the impression of flabbiness which this man
     Blessington conveyed. As he dangled from the hook it was exaggerated
     and intensified until he was scarce human in his appearance. The neck
     was drawn out like a plucked chicken's, making the rest of him seem
     the more obese and unnatural by the contrast. He was clad only in his
     long night-dress, and his swollen ankles and ungainly feet protruded
     starkly from beneath it. Beside him stood a smart-looking
     police-inspector, who was taking notes in a pocket-book.

     "Ah, Mr. Holmes," said he, heartily, as my friend entered, "I am
     delighted to see you."

     "Good-morning, Lanner," answered Holmes; "you won't think me an
     intruder, I am sure. Have you heard of the events which led up to
     this affair?"

     "Yes, I heard something of them."

     "Have you formed any opinion?"

     "As far as I can see, the man has been driven out of his senses by
     fright. The bed has been well slept in, you see. There's his
     impression deep enough. It's about five in the morning, you know,
     that suicides are most common. That would be about his time for
     hanging himself. It seems to have been a very deliberate affair."

     "I should say that he has been dead about three hours, judging by the
     rigidity of the muscles," said I.

     "Noticed anything peculiar about the room?" asked Holmes.

     "Found a screw-driver and some screws on the wash-hand stand. Seems
     to have smoked heavily during the night, too. Here are four
     cigar-ends that I picked out of the fireplace."

     "Hum!" said Holmes, "have you got his cigar-holder?"

     "No, I have seen none."

     "His cigar-case, then?"

     "Yes, it was in his coat-pocket."

     Holmes opened it and smelled the single cigar which it contained.

     "Oh, this is an Havana, and these others are cigars of the peculiar
     sort which are imported by the Dutch from their East Indian colonies.
     They are usually wrapped in straw, you know, and are thinner for
     their length than any other brand." He picked up the four ends and
     examined them with his pocket-lens.

     "Two of these have been smoked from a holder and two without," said
     he. "Two have been cut by a not very sharp knife, and two have had
     the ends bitten off by a set of excellent teeth. This is no suicide,
     Mr. Lanner. It is a very deeply planned and cold-blooded murder."

     "Impossible!" cried the inspector.

     "And why?"

     "Why should any one murder a man in so clumsy a fashion as by hanging
     him?"

     "That is what we have to find out."

     "How could they get in?"

     "Through the front door."

     "It was barred in the morning."

     "Then it was barred after them."

     "How do you know?"

     "I saw their traces. Excuse me a moment, and I may be able to give
     you some further information about it."

     He went over to the door, and turning the lock he examined it in his
     methodical way. Then he took out the key, which was on the inside,
     and inspected that also. The bed, the carpet, the chairs the
     mantelpiece, the dead body, and the rope were each in turn examined,
     until at last he professed himself satisfied, and with my aid and
     that of the inspector cut down the wretched object and laid it
     reverently under a sheet.

     "How about this rope?" he asked.

     "It is cut off this," said Dr. Trevelyan, drawing a large coil from
     under the bed. "He was morbidly nervous of fire, and always kept this
     beside him, so that he might escape by the window in case the stairs
     were burning."

     "That must have saved them trouble," said Holmes, thoughtfully. "Yes,
     the actual facts are very plain, and I shall be surprised if by the
     afternoon I cannot give you the reasons for them as well. I will take
     this photograph of Blessington, which I see upon the mantelpiece, as
     it may help me in my inquiries."

     "But you have told us nothing!" cried the doctor.

     "Oh, there can be no doubt as to the sequence of events," said
     Holmes. "There were three of them in it: the young man, the old man,
     and a third, to whose identity I have no clue. The first two, I need
     hardly remark, are the same who masqueraded as the Russian count and
     his son, so we can give a very full description of them. They were
     admitted by a confederate inside the house. If I might offer you a
     word of advice, Inspector, it would be to arrest the page, who, as I
     understand, has only recently come into your service, Doctor."

     "The young imp cannot be found," said Dr. Trevelyan; "the maid and
     the cook have just been searching for him."

     Holmes shrugged his shoulders.

     "He has played a not unimportant part in this drama," said he. "The
     three men having ascended the stairs, which they did on tiptoe, the
     elder man first, the younger man second, and the unknown man in the
     rear--"

     "My dear Holmes!" I ejaculated.

     "Oh, there could be no question as to the superimposing of the
     footmarks. I had the advantage of learning which was which last
     night. They ascended, then, to Mr. Blessington's room, the door of
     which they found to be locked. With the help of a wire, however, they
     forced round the key. Even without the lens you will perceive, by the
     scratches on this ward, where the pressure was applied.

     "On entering the room their first proceeding must have been to gag
     Mr. Blessington. He may have been asleep, or he may have been so
     paralyzed with terror as to have been unable to cry out. These walls
     are thick, and it is conceivable that his shriek, if he had time to
     utter one, was unheard.

     "Having secured him, it is evident to me that a consultation of some
     sort was held. Probably it was something in the nature of a judicial
     proceeding. It must have lasted for some time, for it was then that
     these cigars were smoked. The older man sat in that wicker chair; it
     was he who used the cigar-holder. The younger man sat over yonder; he
     knocked his ash off against the chest of drawers. The third fellow
     paced up and down. Blessington, I think, sat upright in the bed, but
     of that I cannot be absolutely certain.

     "Well, it ended by their taking Blessington and hanging him. The
     matter was so prearranged that it is my belief that they brought with
     them some sort of block or pulley which might serve as a gallows.
     That screw-driver and those screws were, as I conceive, for fixing it
     up. Seeing the hook, however they naturally saved themselves the
     trouble. Having finished their work they made off, and the door was
     barred behind them by their confederate."

     We had all listened with the deepest interest to this sketch of the
     night's doings, which Holmes had deduced from signs so subtle and
     minute that, even when he had pointed them out to us, we could
     scarcely follow him in his reasoning. The inspector hurried away on
     the instant to make inquiries about the page, while Holmes and I
     returned to Baker Street for breakfast.

     "I'll be back by three," said he, when we had finished our meal.
     "Both the inspector and the doctor will meet me here at that hour,
     and I hope by that time to have cleared up any little obscurity which
     the case may still present."

     Our visitors arrived at the appointed time, but it was a quarter to
     four before my friend put in an appearance. From his expression as he
     entered, however, I could see that all had gone well with him.

     "Any news, Inspector?"

     "We have got the boy, sir."

     "Excellent, and I have got the men."

     "You have got them!" we cried, all three.

     "Well, at least I have got their identity. This so-called Blessington
     is, as I expected, well known at headquarters, and so are his
     assailants. Their names are Biddle, Hayward, and Moffat."

     "The Worthingdon bank gang," cried the inspector.

     "Precisely," said Holmes.

     "Then Blessington must have been Sutton."

     "Exactly," said Holmes.

     "Why, that makes it as clear as crystal," said the inspector.

     But Trevelyan and I looked at each other in bewilderment.

     "You must surely remember the great Worthingdon bank business," said
     Holmes. "Five men were in it--these four and a fifth called
     Cartwright. Tobin, the care-taker, was murdered, and the thieves got
     away with seven thousand pounds. This was in 1875. They were all five
     arrested, but the evidence against them was by no means conclusive.
     This Blessington or Sutton, who was the worst of the gang, turned
     informer. On his evidence Cartwright was hanged and the other three
     got fifteen years apiece. When they got out the other day, which was
     some years before their full term, they set themselves, as you
     perceive, to hunt down the traitor and to avenge the death of their
     comrade upon him. Twice they tried to get at him and failed; a third
     time, you see, it came off. Is there anything further which I can
     explain, Dr. Trevelyan?"

     "I think you have made it all remarkable clear," said the doctor. "No
     doubt the day on which he was perturbed was the day when he had seen
     of their release in the newspapers."

     "Quite so. His talk about a burglary was the merest blind."

     "But why could he not tell you this?"

     "Well, my dear sir, knowing the vindictive character of his old
     associates, he was trying to hide his own identity from everybody as
     long as he could. His secret was a shameful one, and he could not
     bring himself to divulge it. However, wretch as he was, he was still
     living under the shield of British law, and I have no doubt,
     Inspector, that you will see that, though that shield may fail to
     guard, the sword of justice is still there to avenge."

     Such were the singular circumstances in connection with the Resident
     Patient and the Brook Street Doctor. From that night nothing has been
     seen of the three murderers by the police, and it is surmised at
     Scotland Yard that they were among the passengers of the ill-fated
     steamer Norah Creina, which was lost some years ago with all hands
     upon the Portuguese coast, some leagues to the north of Oporto. The
     proceedings against the page broke down for want of evidence, and the
     Brook Street Mystery, as it was called, has never until now been
     fully dealt with in any public print.






                              THE GREEK INTERPRETER

     During my long and intimate acquaintance with Mr. Sherlock Holmes I
     had never heard him refer to his relations, and hardly ever to his
     own early life.  This reticence upon his part had increased the
     somewhat inhuman effect which he produced upon me, until sometimes I
     found myself regarding him as an isolated phenomenon, a brain without
     a heart, as deficient in human sympathy as he was pre-eminent in
     intelligence.  His aversion to women and his disinclination to form
     new friendships were both typical of his unemotional character, but
     not more so than his complete suppression of every reference to his
     own people.  I had come to believe that he was an orphan with no
     relatives living, but one day, to my very great surprise, he began to
     talk to me about his brother.

     It was after tea on a summer evening, and the conversation, which had
     roamed in a desultory, spasmodic fashion from golf clubs to the
     causes of the change in the obliquity of the ecliptic, came round at
     last to the question of atavism and hereditary aptitudes.  The point
     under discussion was, how far any singular gift in an individual was
     due to his ancestry and how far to his own early training.

     "In your own case," said I, "from all that you have told me, it seems
     obvious that your faculty of observation and your peculiar facility
     for deduction are due to your own systematic training."

     "To some extent," he answered, thoughtfully.  "My ancestors were
     country squires, who appear to have led much the same life as is
     natural to their class.  But, none the less, my turn that way is in
     my veins, and may have come with my grandmother, who was the sister
     of Vernet, the French artist.  Art in the blood is liable to take the
     strangest forms."

     "But how do you know that it is hereditary?"

     "Because my brother Mycroft possesses it in a larger degree than I
     do."

     This was news to me indeed.  If there were another man with such
     singular powers in England, how was it that neither police nor public
     had heard of him?  I put the question, with a hint that it was my
     companion's modesty which made him acknowledge his brother as his
     superior.  Holmes laughed at my suggestion.

     "My dear Watson," said he, "I cannot agree with those who rank
     modesty among the virtues.  To the logician all things should be seen
     exactly as they are, and to underestimate one's self is as much a
     departure from truth as to exaggerate one's own powers.  When I say,
     therefore, that Mycroft has better powers of observation than I, you
     may take it that I am speaking the exact and literal truth."

     "Is he your junior?"

     "Seven years my senior."

     "How comes it that he is unknown?"

     "Oh, he is very well known in his own circle."

     "Where, then?"

     "Well, in the Diogenes Club, for example."

     I had never heard of the institution, and my face must have
     proclaimed as much, for Sherlock Holmes pulled out his watch.

     "The Diogenes Club is the queerest club in London, and Mycroft one of
     the queerest men.  He's always there from quarter to five to twenty
     to eight.  It's six now, so if you care for a stroll this beautiful
     evening I shall be very happy to introduce you to two curiosities."

     Five minutes later we were in the street, walking towards Regent's
     Circus.

     "You wonder," said my companion, "why it is that Mycroft does not use
     his powers for detective work.  He is incapable of it."

     "But I thought you said--"

     "I said that he was my superior in observation and deduction.  If the
     art of the detective began and ended in reasoning from an arm-chair,
     my brother would be the greatest criminal agent that ever lived.  But
     he has no ambition and no energy.  He will not even go out of his way
     to verify his own solution, and would rather be considered wrong than
     take the trouble to prove himself right.  Again and again I have
     taken a problem to him, and have received an explanation which has
     afterwards proved to be the correct one.  And yet he was absolutely
     incapable of working out the practical points which must be gone into
     before a case could be laid before a judge or jury."

     "It is not his profession, then?"

     "By no means.  What is to me a means of livelihood is to him the
     merest hobby of a dilettante.  He has an extraordinary faculty for
     figures, and audits the books in some of the government departments. 
     Mycroft lodges in Pall Mall, and he walks round the corner into
     Whitehall every morning and back every evening.  From year's end to
     year's end he takes no other exercise, and is seen nowhere else,
     except only in the Diogenes Club, which is just opposite his rooms."

     "I cannot recall the name."

     "Very likely not.  There are many men in London, you know, who, some
     from shyness, some from misanthropy, have no wish for the company of
     their fellows.  Yet they are not averse to comfortable chairs and the
     latest periodicals.  It is for the convenience of these that the
     Diogenes Club was started, and it now contains the most unsociable
     and unclubable men in town.  No member is permitted to take the least
     notice of any other one.  Save in the Stranger's Room, no talking is,
     under any circumstances, allowed, and three offences, if brought to
     the notice of the committee, render the talker liable to expulsion. 
     My brother was one of the founders, and I have myself found it a very
     soothing atmosphere."

     We had reached Pall Mall as we talked, and were walking down it from
     the St. James's end.  Sherlock Holmes stopped at a door some little
     distance from the Carlton, and, cautioning me not to speak, he led
     the way into the hall.  Through the glass paneling I caught a glimpse
     of a large and luxurious room, in which a considerable number of men
     were sitting about and reading papers, each in his own little nook. 
     Holmes showed me into a small chamber which looked out into Pall
     Mall, and then, leaving me for a minute, he came back with a
     companion whom I knew could only be his brother.

     Mycroft Holmes was a much larger and stouter man than Sherlock.  His
     body was absolutely corpulent, but his face, though massive, had
     preserved something of the sharpness of expression which was so
     remarkable in that of his brother.  His eyes, which were of a
     peculiarly light, watery gray, seemed to always retain that far-away,
     introspective look which I had only observed in Sherlock's when he
     was exerting his full powers.

     "I am glad to meet you, sir," said he, putting out a broad, fat hand
     like the flipper of a seal.  "I hear of Sherlock everywhere since you
     became his chronicler.  By the way, Sherlock, I expected to see you
     round last week, to consult me over that Manor House case.  I thought
     you might be a little out of your depth."

     "No, I solved it," said my friend, smiling.

     "It was Adams, of course."

     "Yes, it was Adams."

     "I was sure of it from the first."  The two sat down together in the
     bow-window of the club.  "To any one who wishes to study mankind this
     is the spot," said Mycroft.  "Look at the magnificent types!  Look at
     these two men who are coming towards us, for example."

     "The billiard-marker and the other?"

     "Precisely.  What do you make of the other?"

     The two men had stopped opposite the window.  Some chalk marks over
     the waistcoat pocket were the only signs of billiards which I could
     see in one of them.  The other was a very small, dark fellow, with
     his hat pushed back and several packages under his arm.

     "An old soldier, I perceive," said Sherlock.

     "And very recently discharged," remarked the brother.

     "Served in India, I see."

     "And a non-commissioned officer."

     "Royal Artillery, I fancy," said Sherlock.

     "And a widower."

     "But with a child."

     "Children, my dear boy, children."

     "Come," said I, laughing, "this is a little too much."

     "Surely," answered Holmes, "it is not hard to say that a man with
     that bearing, expression of authority, and sunbaked skin, is a
     soldier, is more than a private, and is not long from India."

     "That he has not left the service long is shown by his still wearing
     his 'ammunition boots', as they are called," observed Mycroft.

     "He had not the cavalry stride, yet he wore his hat on one side, as
     is shown by the lighter skin of that side of his brow.  His weight is
     against his being a sapper.  He is in the artillery."

     "Then, of course, his complete mourning shows that he has lost some
     one very dear.  The fact that he is doing his own shopping looks as
     though it were his wife.  He has been buying things for children, you
     perceive.  There is a rattle, which shows that one of them is very
     young.  The wife probably died in childbed.  The fact that he has a
     picture-book under his arm shows that there is another child to be
     thought of."

     I began to understand what my friend meant when he said that his
     brother possessed even keener faculties that he did himself.  He
     glanced across at me and smiled.  Mycroft took snuff from a
     tortoise-shell box, and brushed away the wandering grains from his
     coat front with a large, red silk handkerchief.

     "By the way, Sherlock," said he, "I have had something quite after
     your own heart--a most singular problem--submitted to my judgment.  I
     really had not the energy to follow it up save in a very incomplete
     fashion, but it gave me a basis for some pleasing speculation.  If
     you would care to hear the facts--"

     "My dear Mycroft, I should be delighted."

     The brother scribbled a note upon a leaf of his pocket-book, and,
     ringing the bell, he handed it to the waiter.

     "I have asked Mr. Melas to step across," said he.  "He lodges on the
     floor above me, and I have some slight acquaintance with him, which
     led him to come to me in his perplexity.  Mr. Melas is a Greek by
     extraction, as I understand, and he is a remarkable linguist.  He
     earns his living partly as interpreter in the law courts and partly
     by acting as guide to any wealthy Orientals who may visit the
     Northumberland Avenue hotels.  I think I will leave him to tell his
     very remarkable experience in his own fashion."

     A few minutes later we were joined by a short, stout man whose olive
     face and coal-black hair proclaimed his Southern origin, though his
     speech was that of an educated Englishman.  He shook hands eagerly
     with Sherlock Holmes, and his dark eyes sparkled with pleasure when
     he understood that the specialist was anxious to hear his story.

     "I do not believe that the police credit me--on my word, I do not,"
     said he in a wailing voice.  "Just because they have never heard of
     it before, they think that such a thing cannot be.  But I know that I
     shall never be easy in my mind until I know what has become of my
     poor man with the sticking-plaster upon his face."

     "I am all attention," said Sherlock Holmes.

     "This is Wednesday evening," said Mr. Melas.  "Well then, it was
     Monday night--only two days ago, you understand--that all this
     happened.  I am an interpreter, as perhaps my neighbor there has told
     you.  I interpret all languages--or nearly all--but as I am a Greek
     by birth and with a Grecian name, it is with that particular tongue
     that I am principally associated.  For many years I have been the
     chief Greek interpreter in London, and my name is very well known in
     the hotels.

     It happens not unfrequently that I am sent for at strange hours by
     foreigners who get into difficulties, or by travelers who arrive late
     and wish my services.  I was not surprised, therefore, on Monday
     night when a Mr. Latimer, a very fashionably dressed young man, came
     up to my rooms and asked me to accompany him in a cab which was
     waiting at the door.  A Greek friend had come to see him upon
     business, he said, and as he could speak nothing but his own tongue,
     the services of an interpreter were indispensable.  He gave me to
     understand that his house was some little distance off, in
     Kensington, and he seemed to be in a great hurry, bustling me rapidly
     into the cab when we had descended to the street.

     "I say into the cab, but I soon became doubtful as to whether it was
     not a carriage in which I found myself.  It was certainly more roomy
     than the ordinary four-wheeled disgrace to London, and the fittings,
     though frayed, were of rich quality.  Mr. Latimer seated himself
     opposite to me and we started off through Charing Cross and up the
     Shaftesbury Avenue.  We had come out upon Oxford Street and I had
     ventured some remark as to this being a roundabout way to Kensington,
     when my words were arrested by the extraordinary conduct of my
     companion.

     "He began by drawing a most formidable-looking bludgeon loaded with
     lead from his pocket, and switching it backward and forward several
     times, as if to test its weight and strength.  Then he placed it
     without a word upon the seat beside him.  Having done this, he drew
     up the windows on each side, and I found to my astonishment that they
     were covered with paper so as to prevent my seeing through them.

     "'I am sorry to cut off your view, Mr. Melas,' said he.  'The fact is
     that I have no intention that you should see what the place is to
     which we are driving.  It might possibly be inconvenient to me if you
     could find your way there again.'

     "As you can imagine, I was utterly taken aback by such an address. 
     My companion was a powerful, broad-shouldered young fellow, and,
     apart from the weapon, I should not have had the slightest chance in
     a struggle with him.

     "'This is very extraordinary conduct, Mr. Latimer,' I stammered. 
     'You must be aware that what you are doing is quite illegal.'

     "'It is somewhat of a liberty, no doubt,' said he, 'but we'll make it
     up to you.  I must warn you, however, Mr. Melas, that if at any time
     to-night you attempt to raise an alarm or do anything which is
     against my interests, you will find it a very serious thing.  I beg
     you to remember that no one knows where you are, and that, whether
     you are in this carriage or in my house, you are equally in my
     power.'

     "His words were quiet, but he had a rasping way of saying them which
     was very menacing.  I sat in silence wondering what on earth could be
     his reason for kidnapping me in this extraordinary fashion.  Whatever
     it might be, it was perfectly clear that there was no possible use in
     my resisting, and that I could only wait to see what might befall.

     "For nearly two hours we drove without my having the least clue as to
     where we were going.  Sometimes the rattle of the stones told of a
     paved causeway, and at others our smooth, silent course suggested
     asphalt; but, save by this variation in sound, there was nothing at
     all which could in the remotest way help me to form a guess as to
     where we were.  The paper over each window was impenetrable to light,
     and a blue curtain was drawn across the glass work in front.  It was
     a quarter-past seven when we left Pall Mall, and my watch showed me
     that it was ten minutes to nine when we at last came to a standstill.
      My companion let down the window, and I caught a glimpse of a low,
     arched doorway with a lamp burning above it.  As I was hurried from
     the carriage it swung open, and I found myself inside the house, with
     a vague impression of a lawn and trees on each side of me as I
     entered.  Whether these were private grounds, however, or bona-fide
     country was more than I could possibly venture to say.

     "There was a colored gas-lamp inside which was turned so low that I
     could see little save that the hall was of some size and hung with
     pictures.  In the dim light I could make out that the person who had
     opened the door was a small, mean-looking, middle-aged man with
     rounded shoulders.  As he turned towards us the glint of the light
     showed me that he was wearing glasses.

     "'Is this Mr. Melas, Harold?' said he.

     "'Yes.'

     "'Well done, well done!  No ill-will, Mr. Melas, I hope, but we could
     not get on without you.  If you deal fair with us you'll not regret
     it, but if you try any tricks, God help you!'  He spoke in a nervous,
     jerky fashion, and with little giggling laughs in between, but
     somehow he impressed me with fear more than the other.

     "'What do you want with me?' I asked.

     "'Only to ask a few questions of a Greek gentleman who is visiting
     us, and to let us have the answers.  But say no more than you are
     told to say, or--' here came the nervous giggle again--'you had
     better never have been born.'

     "As he spoke he opened a door and showed the way into a room which
     appeared to be very richly furnished, but again the only light was
     afforded by a single lamp half-turned down.  The chamber was
     certainly large, and the way in which my feet sank into the carpet as
     I stepped across it told me of its richness.  I caught glimpses of
     velvet chairs, a high white marble mantel-piece, and what seemed to
     be a suit of Japanese armor at one side of it.  There was a chair
     just under the lamp, and the elderly man motioned that I should sit
     in it.  The younger had left us, but he suddenly returned through
     another door, leading with him a gentleman clad in some sort of loose
     dressing-gown who moved slowly towards us.  As he came into the
     circle of dim light which enabled me to see him more clearly I was
     thrilled with horror at his appearance.  He was deadly pale and
     terribly emaciated, with the protruding, brilliant eyes of a man
     whose spirit was greater than his strength.  But what shocked me more
     than any signs of physical weakness was that his face was grotesquely
     criss-crossed with sticking-plaster, and that one large pad of it was
     fastened over his mouth.

     "'Have you the slate, Harold?' cried the older man, as this strange
     being fell rather than sat down into a chair.  'Are his hands loose? 
     Now, then, give him the pencil.  You are to ask the questions, Mr.
     Melas, and he will write the answers.  Ask him first of all whether
     he is prepared to sign the papers?'

     "The man's eyes flashed fire.

     "'Never!' he wrote in Greek upon the slate.

     "'On no condition?' I asked, at the bidding of our tyrant.

     "'Only if I see her married in my presence by a Greek priest whom I
     know.'

     "The man giggled in his venomous way.

     "'You know what awaits you, then?'

     "'I care nothing for myself.'

     "These are samples of the questions and answers which made up our
     strange half-spoken, half-written conversation.  Again and again I
     had to ask him whether he would give in and sign the documents. 
     Again and again I had the same indignant reply.  But soon a happy
     thought came to me.  I took to adding on little sentences of my own
     to each question, innocent ones at first, to test whether either of
     our companions knew anything of the matter, and then, as I found that
     they showed no signs I played a more dangerous game.  Our
     conversation ran something like this:

     "'You can do no good by this obstinacy. Who are you?'

     "'I care not. I am a stranger in London.'

     "'Your fate will be upon your own head. How long have you been here?'

     "'Let it be so. Three weeks.'

     "'The property can never be yours. What ails you?'

     "'It shall not go to villains. They are starving me.'

     "'You shall go free if you sign. What house is this?'

     "'I will never sign. I do not know.'

     "'You are not doing her any service. What is your name?'

     "'Let me hear her say so. Kratides.'

     "'You shall see her if you sign. Where are you from?'

     "'Then I shall never see her. Athens.'

     "Another five minutes, Mr. Holmes, and I should have wormed out the
     whole story under their very noses.  My very next question might have
     cleared the matter up, but at that instant the door opened and a
     woman stepped into the room.  I could not see her clearly enough to
     know more than that she was tall and graceful, with black hair, and
     clad in some sort of loose white gown.

     "'Harold,' said she, speaking English with a broken accent.  'I could
     not stay away longer.  It is so lonely up there with only--Oh, my
     God, it is Paul!'

     "These last words were in Greek, and at the same instant the man with
     a convulsive effort tore the plaster from his lips, and screaming out
     'Sophy!  Sophy!' rushed into the woman's arms.  Their embrace was but
     for an instant, however, for the younger man seized the woman and
     pushed her out of the room, while the elder easily overpowered his
     emaciated victim, and dragged him away through the other door.  For a
     moment I was left alone in the room, and I sprang to my feet with
     some vague idea that I might in some way get a clue to what this
     house was in which I found myself.  Fortunately, however, I took no
     steps, for looking up I saw that the older man was standing in the
     door-way with his eyes fixed upon me.

     "'That will do, Mr. Melas,' said he.  'You perceive that we have
     taken you into our confidence over some very private business.  We
     should not have troubled you, only that our friend who speaks Greek
     and who began these negotiations has been forced to return to the
     East.  It was quite necessary for us to find some one to take his
     place, and we were fortunate in hearing of your powers.'

     "I bowed.

     "'There are five sovereigns here,' said he, walking up to me, 'which
     will, I hope, be a sufficient fee.  But remember,' he added, tapping
     me lightly on the chest and giggling, 'if you speak to a human soul
     about this--one human soul, mind--well, may God have mercy upon your
     soul!'

     "I cannot tell you the loathing and horror with which this
     insignificant-looking man inspired me.  I could see him better now as
     the lamp-light shone upon him.  His features were peaky and sallow,
     and his little pointed beard was thready and ill-nourished.  He
     pushed his face forward as he spoke and his lips and eyelids were
     continually twitching like a man with St. Vitus's dance.  I could not
     help thinking that his strange, catchy little laugh was also a
     symptom of some nervous malady.  The terror of his face lay in his
     eyes, however, steel gray, and glistening coldly with a malignant,
     inexorable cruelty in their depths.

     "'We shall know if you speak of this,' said he.  'We have our own
     means of information.  Now you will find the carriage waiting, and my
     friend will see you on your way.'

     "I was hurried through the hall and into the vehicle, again obtaining
     that momentary glimpse of trees and a garden.  Mr. Latimer followed
     closely at my heels, and took his place opposite to me without a
     word.  In silence we again drove for an interminable distance with
     the windows raised, until at last, just after midnight, the carriage
     pulled up.

     "'You will get down here, Mr. Melas,' said my companion.  'I am sorry
     to leave you so far from your house, but there is no alternative. 
     Any attempt upon your part to follow the carriage can only end in
     injury to yourself.'

     "He opened the door as he spoke, and I had hardly time to spring out
     when the coachman lashed the horse and the carriage rattled away.  I
     looked around me in astonishment.  I was on some sort of a heathy
     common mottled over with dark clumps of furze-bushes.  Far away
     stretched a line of houses, with a light here and there in the upper
     windows.  On the other side I saw the red signal-lamps of a railway.

     "The carriage which had brought me was already out of sight.  I stood
     gazing round and wondering where on earth I might be, when I saw some
     one coming towards me in the darkness.  As he came up to me I made
     out that he was a railway porter.

     "'Can you tell me what place this is?' I asked.

     "'Wandsworth Common,' said he.

     "'Can I get a train into town?'

     "'If you walk on a mile or so to Clapham Junction,' said he, 'you'll
     just be in time for the last to Victoria.'

     "So that was the end of my adventure, Mr. Holmes.  I do not know
     where I was, nor whom I spoke with, nor anything save what I have
     told you.  But I know that there is foul play going on, and I want to
     help that unhappy man if I can.  I told the whole story to Mr.
     Mycroft Holmes next morning, and subsequently to the police."

     We all sat in silence for some little time after listening to this
     extraordinary narrative.  Then Sherlock looked across at his brother.

     "Any steps?" he asked.

     Mycroft picked up the Daily News, which was lying on the side-table.

     "Anybody supplying any information as to the whereabouts of a Greek
     gentleman named Paul Kratides, from Athens, who is unable to speak
     English, will be rewarded.  A similar reward paid to any one giving
     information about a Greek lady whose first name is Sophy. X 2473.

     "That was in all the dailies.  No answer."

     "How about the Greek Legation?"

     "I have inquired.  They know nothing."

     "A wire to the head of the Athens police, then?"

     "Sherlock has all the energy of the family," said Mycroft, turning to
     me.  "Well, you take the case up by all means, and let me know if you
     do any good."

     "Certainly," answered my friend, rising from his chair.  "I'll let
     you know, and Mr. Melas also.  In the meantime, Mr. Melas, I should
     certainly be on my guard, if I were you, for of course they must know
     through these advertisements that you have betrayed them."

     As we walked home together, Holmes stopped at a telegraph office and
     sent off several wires.

     "You see, Watson," he remarked, "our evening has been by no means
     wasted.  Some of my most interesting cases have come to me in this
     way through Mycroft.  The problem which we have just listened to,
     although it can admit of but one explanation, has still some
     distinguishing features."

     "You have hopes of solving it?"

     "Well, knowing as much as we do, it will be singular indeed if we
     fail to discover the rest.  You must yourself have formed some theory
     which will explain the facts to which we have listened."

     "In a vague way, yes."

     "What was your idea, then?"

     "It seemed to me to be obvious that this Greek girl had been carried
     off by the young Englishman named Harold Latimer."

     "Carried off from where?"

     "Athens, perhaps."

     Sherlock Holmes shook his head.  "This young man could not talk a
     word of Greek.  The lady could talk English fairly well. 
     Inference--that she had been in England some little time, but he had
     not been in Greece."

     "Well, then, we will presume that she had come on a visit to England,
     and that this Harold had persuaded her to fly with him."

     "That is more probable."

     "Then the brother--for that, I fancy, must be the relationship--comes
     over from Greece to interfere.  He imprudently puts himself into the
     power of the young man and his older associate.  They seize him and
     use violence towards him in order to make him sign some papers to
     make over the girl's fortune--of which he may be trustee--to them. 
     This he refuses to do.  In order to negotiate with him they have to
     get an interpreter, and they pitch upon this Mr. Melas, having used
     some other one before.  The girl is not told of the arrival of her
     brother, and finds it out by the merest accident."

     "Excellent, Watson!" cried Holmes.  "I really fancy that you are not
     far from the truth.  You see that we hold all the cards, and we have
     only to fear some sudden act of violence on their part.  If they give
     us time we must have them."

     "But how can we find where this house lies?"

     "Well, if our conjecture is correct and the girl's name is or was
     Sophy Kratides, we should have no difficulty in tracing her.  That
     must be our main hope, for the brother is, of course, a complete
     stranger.  It is clear that some time has elapsed since this Harold
     established these relations with the girl--some weeks, at any
     rate--since the brother in Greece has had time to hear of it and come
     across.  If they have been living in the same place during this time,
     it is probable that we shall have some answer to Mycroft's
     advertisement."

     We had reached our house in Baker Street while we had been talking. 
     Holmes ascended the stair first, and as he opened the door of our
     room he gave a start of surprise.  Looking over his shoulder, I was
     equally astonished.  His brother Mycroft was sitting smoking in the
     arm-chair.

     "Come in, Sherlock!  Come in, sir," said he blandly, smiling at our
     surprised faces.  "You don't expect such energy from me, do you,
     Sherlock?  But somehow this case attracts me."

     "How did you get here?"

     "I passed you in a hansom."

     "There has been some new development?"

     "I had an answer to my advertisement."

     "Ah!"

     "Yes, it came within a few minutes of your leaving."

     "And to what effect?"

     Mycroft Holmes took out a sheet of paper.

     "Here it is," said he, "written with a J pen on royal cream paper by
     a middle-aged man with a weak constitution.

     "Sir [he says]:
     "In answer to your advertisement of to-day's date, I beg to inform
     you that I know the young lady in question very well.  If you should
     care to call upon me I could give you some particulars as to her
     painful history.  She is living at present at The Myrtles, Beckenham.
     "Yours faithfully,
     "J. Davenport.

     "He writes from Lower Brixton," said Mycroft Holmes.  "Do you not
     think that we might drive to him now, Sherlock, and learn these
     particulars?"

     "My dear Mycroft, the brother's life is more valuable than the
     sister's story.  I think we should call at Scotland Yard for
     Inspector Gregson, and go straight out to Beckenham.  We know that a
     man is being done to death, and every hour may be vital."

     "Better pick up Mr. Melas on our way," I suggested.  "We may need an
     interpreter."

     "Excellent," said Sherlock Holmes.  "Send the boy for a four-wheeler,
     and we shall be off at once."  He opened the table-drawer as he
     spoke, and I noticed that he slipped his revolver into his pocket. 
     "Yes," said he, in answer to my glance; "I should say from what we
     have heard, that we are dealing with a particularly dangerous gang."

     It was almost dark before we found ourselves in Pall Mall, at the
     rooms of Mr. Melas.  A gentleman had just called for him, and he was
     gone.

     "Can you tell me where?" asked Mycroft Holmes.

     "I don't know, sir," answered the woman who had opened the door; "I
     only know that he drove away with the gentleman in a carriage."

     "Did the gentleman give a name?"

     "No, sir."

     "He wasn't a tall, handsome, dark young man?"

     "Oh, no, sir.  He was a little gentleman, with glasses, thin in the
     face, but very pleasant in his ways, for he was laughing all the time
     that he was talking."

     "Come along!" cried Sherlock Holmes, abruptly.  "This grows serious,"
     he observed, as we drove to Scotland Yard.  "These men have got hold
     of Melas again.  He is a man of no physical courage, as they are well
     aware from their experience the other night.  This villain was able
     to terrorize him the instant that he got into his presence.  No doubt
     they want his professional services, but, having used him, they may
     be inclined to punish him for what they will regard as his
     treachery."

     Our hope was that, by taking train, we might get to Beckenham as soon
     or sooner than the carriage.  On reaching Scotland Yard, however, it
     was more than an hour before we could get Inspector Gregson and
     comply with the legal formalities which would enable us to enter the
     house.  It was a quarter to ten before we reached London Bridge, and
     half past before the four of us alighted on the Beckenham platform. 
     A drive of half a mile brought us to The Myrtles--a large, dark house
     standing back from the road in its own grounds.  Here we dismissed
     our cab, and made our way up the drive together.

     "The windows are all dark," remarked the inspector.  "The house seems
     deserted."

     "Our birds are flown and the nest empty," said Holmes.

     "Why do you say so?"

     "A carriage heavily loaded with luggage has passed out during the
     last hour."

     The inspector laughed.  "I saw the wheel-tracks in the light of the
     gate-lamp, but where does the luggage come in?"

     "You may have observed the same wheel-tracks going the other way. 
     But the outward-bound ones were very much deeper--so much so that we
     can say for a certainty that there was a very considerable weight on
     the carriage."

     "You get a trifle beyond me there," said the inspector, shrugging his
     shoulder.  "It will not be an easy door to force, but we will try if
     we cannot make some one hear us."

     He hammered loudly at the knocker and pulled at the bell, but without
     any success.  Holmes had slipped away, but he came back in a few
     minutes.

     "I have a window open," said he.

     "It is a mercy that you are on the side of the force, and not against
     it, Mr. Holmes," remarked the inspector, as he noted the clever way
     in which my friend had forced back the catch.  "Well, I think that
     under the circumstances we may enter without an invitation."

     One after the other we made our way into a large apartment, which was
     evidently that in which Mr. Melas had found himself.  The inspector
     had lit his lantern, and by its light we could see the two doors, the
     curtain, the lamp, and the suit of Japanese mail as he had described
     them.  On the table lay two glasses, and empty brandy-bottle, and the
     remains of a meal.

     "What is that?" asked Holmes, suddenly.

     We all stood still and listened.  A low moaning sound was coming from
     somewhere over our heads.  Holmes rushed to the door and out into the
     hall.  The dismal noise came from upstairs.  He dashed up, the
     inspector and I at his heels, while his brother Mycroft followed as
     quickly as his great bulk would permit.

     Three doors faced up upon the second floor, and it was from the
     central of these that the sinister sounds were issuing, sinking
     sometimes into a dull mumble and rising again into a shrill whine. 
     It was locked, but the key had been left on the outside.  Holmes
     flung open the door and rushed in, but he was out again in an
     instant, with his hand to his throat.

     "It's charcoal," he cried.  "Give it time.  It will clear."

     Peering in, we could see that the only light in the room came from a
     dull blue flame which flickered from a small brass tripod in the
     centre.  It threw a livid, unnatural circle upon the floor, while in
     the shadows beyond we saw the vague loom of two figures which
     crouched against the wall.  From the open door there reeked a
     horrible poisonous exhalation which set us gasping and coughing. 
     Holmes rushed to the top of the stairs to draw in the fresh air, and
     then, dashing into the room, he threw up the window and hurled the
     brazen tripod out into the garden.

     "We can enter in a minute," he gasped, darting out again.  "Where is
     a candle?  I doubt if we could strike a match in that atmosphere. 
     Hold the light at the door and we shall get them out, Mycroft. Now!"

     With a rush we got to the poisoned men and dragged them out into the
     well-lit hall.  Both of them were blue-lipped and insensible, with
     swollen, congested faces and protruding eyes.  Indeed, so distorted
     were their features that, save for his black beard and stout figure,
     we might have failed to recognize in one of them the Greek
     interpreter who had parted from us only a few hours before at the
     Diogenes Club.  His hands and feet were securely strapped together,
     and he bore over one eye the marks of a violent blow.  The other, who
     was secured in a similar fashion, was a tall man in the last stage of
     emaciation, with several strips of sticking-plaster arranged in a
     grotesque pattern over his face.  He had ceased to moan as we laid
     him down, and a glance showed me that for him at least our aid had
     come too late.  Mr. Melas, however, still lived, and in less than an
     hour, with the aid of ammonia and brandy I had the satisfaction of
     seeing him open his eyes, and of knowing that my hand had drawn him
     back from that dark valley in which all paths meet.

     It was a simple story which he had to tell, and one which did but
     confirm our own deductions.  His visitor, on entering his rooms, had
     drawn a life-preserver from his sleeve, and had so impressed him with
     the fear of instant and inevitable death that he had kidnapped him
     for the second time.  Indeed, it was almost mesmeric, the effect
     which this giggling ruffian had produced upon the unfortunate
     linguist, for he could not speak of him save with trembling hands and
     a blanched cheek.  He had been taken swiftly to Beckenham, and had
     acted as interpreter in a second interview, even more dramatic than
     the first, in which the two Englishmen had menaced their prisoner
     with instant death if he did not comply with their demands.  Finally,
     finding him proof against every threat, they had hurled him back into
     his prison, and after reproaching Melas with his treachery, which
     appeared from the newspaper advertisement, they had stunned him with
     a blow from a stick, and he remembered nothing more until he found us
     bending over him.

     And this was the singular case of the Grecian Interpreter, the
     explanation of which is still involved in some mystery.  We were able
     to find out, by communicating with the gentleman who had answered the
     advertisement, that the unfortunate young lady came of a wealthy
     Grecian family, and that she had been on a visit to some friends in
     England.  While there she had met a young man named Harold Latimer,
     who had acquired an ascendancy over her and had eventually persuaded
     her to fly with him.  Her friends, shocked at the event, had
     contented themselves with informing her brother at Athens, and had
     then washed their hands of the matter.  The brother, on his arrival
     in England, had imprudently placed himself in the power of Latimer
     and of his associate, whose name was Wilson Kemp--a man of the
     foulest antecedents. These two, finding that  through his ignorance
     of the language he was helpless in their hands, had kept him a
     prisoner, and had endeavored by cruelty and starvation to make him
     sign away his own and his sister's property.  They had kept him in
     the house without the girl's knowledge, and the plaster over the face
     had been for the purpose of making recognition difficult in case she
     should ever catch a glimpse of him.  Her feminine perception,
     however, had instantly seen through the disguise when, on the
     occasion of the interpreter's visit, she had seen him for the first
     time.  The poor girl, however, was herself a prisoner, for there was
     no one about the house except the man who acted as coachman, and his
     wife, both of whom were tools of the conspirators.  Finding that
     their secret was out, and that their prisoner was not to be coerced,
     the two villains with the girl had fled away at a few hours' notice
     from the furnished house which they had hired, having first, as they
     thought, taken vengeance both upon the man who had defied and the one
     who had betrayed them.

     Months afterwards a curious newspaper cutting reached us from
     Buda-Pesth.  It told how two Englishmen who had been traveling with a
     woman had met with a tragic end.  They had each been stabbed, it
     seems, and the Hungarian police were of opinion that they had
     quarreled and had inflicted mortal injuries upon each other.  Holmes,
     however, is, I fancy, of a different way of thinking, and holds to
     this day that, if one could find the Grecian girl, one might learn
     how the wrongs of herself and her brother came to be avenged.






                                THE NAVAL TREATY

     The July which immediately succeeded my marriage was made memorable
     by three cases of interest, in which I had the privilege of being
     associated with Sherlock Holmes and of studying his methods. I find
     them recorded in my notes under the headings of "The Adventure of the
     Second Stain," "The Adventure of the Naval Treaty," and "The
     Adventure of the Tired Captain." The first of these, however, deals
     with interest of such importance and implicates so many of the first
     families in the kingdom that for many years it will be impossible to
     make it public. No case, however, in which Holmes was engaged has
     ever illustrated the value of his analytical methods so clearly or
     has impressed those who were associated with him so deeply. I still
     retain an almost verbatim report of the interview in which he
     demonstrated the true facts of the case to Monsieur Dubugue of the
     Paris police, and Fritz von Waldbaum, the well-known specialist of
     Dantzig, both of whom had wasted their energies upon what proved to
     be side-issues. The new century will have come, however, before the
     story can be safely told. Meanwhile I pass on to the second on my
     list, which promised also at one time to be of national importance,
     and was marked by several incidents which give it a quite unique
     character.

     During my school-days I had been intimately associated with a lad
     named Percy Phelps, who was of much the same age as myself, though he
     was two classes ahead of me. He was a very brilliant boy, and carried
     away every prize which the school had to offer, finishing his
     exploits by winning a scholarship which sent him on to continue his
     triumphant career at Cambridge. He was, I remember, extremely well
     connected, and even when we were all little boys together we knew
     that his mother's brother was Lord Holdhurst, the great conservative
     politician. This gaudy relationship did him little good at school. On
     the contrary, it seemed rather a piquant thing to us to chevy him
     about the playground and hit him over the shins with a wicket. But it
     was another thing when he came out into the world. I heard vaguely
     that his abilities and the influences which he commanded had won him
     a good position at the Foreign Office, and then he passed completely
     out of my mind until the following letter recalled his existence:

     Briarbrae, Woking.
     My dear Watson:
     I have no doubt that you can remember "Tadpole" Phelps, who was in
     the fifth form when you were in the third. It is possible even that
     you may have heard that through my uncle's influence I obtained a
     good appointment at the Foreign Office, and that I was in a situation
     of trust and honor until a horrible misfortune came suddenly to blast
     my career.
     There is no use writing of the details of that dreadful event. In the
     event of your acceding to my request it is probable that I shall have
     to narrate them to you. I have only just recovered from nine weeks of
     brain-fever, and am still exceedingly weak. Do you think that you
     could bring your friend Mr. Holmes down to see me? I should like to
     have his opinion of the case, though the authorities assure me that
     nothing more can be done. Do try to bring him down, and as soon as
     possible. Every minute seems an hour while I live in this state of
     horrible suspense. Assure him that if I have not asked his advice
     sooner it was not because I did not appreciate his talents, but
     because I have been off my head ever since the blow fell. Now I am
     clear again, though I dare not think of it too much for fear of a
     relapse. I am still so weak that I have to write, as you see, by
     dictating. Do try to bring him.
     Your old school-fellow,
     Percy Phelps.

     There was something that touched me as I read this letter, something
     pitiable in the reiterated appeals to bring Holmes. So moved was I
     that even had it been a difficult matter I should have tried it, but
     of course I knew well that Holmes loved his art, so that he was ever
     as ready to bring his aid as his client could be to receive it. My
     wife agreed with me that not a moment should be lost in laying the
     matter before him, and so within an hour of breakfast-time I found
     myself back once more in the old rooms in Baker Street.

     Holmes was seated at his side-table clad in his dressing-gown, and
     working hard over a chemical investigation. A large curved retort was
     boiling furiously in the bluish flame of a Bunsen burner, and the
     distilled drops were condensing into a two-litre measure. My friend
     hardly glanced up as I entered, and I, seeing that his investigation
     must be of importance, seated myself in an arm-chair and waited. He
     dipped into this bottle or that, drawing out a few drops of each with
     his glass pipette, and finally brought a test-tube containing a
     solution over to the table. In his right hand he held a slip of
     litmus-paper.

     "You come at a crisis, Watson," said he. "If this paper remains blue,
     all is well. If it turns red, it means a man's life." He dipped it
     into the test-tube and it flushed at once into a dull, dirty crimson.
     "Hum! I thought as much!" he cried. "I will be at your service in an
     instant, Watson. You will find tobacco in the Persian slipper." He
     turned to his desk and scribbled off several telegrams, which were
     handed over to the page-boy. Then he threw himself down into the
     chair opposite, and drew up his knees until his fingers clasped round
     his long, thin shins.

     "A very commonplace little murder," said he. "You've got something
     better, I fancy. You are the stormy petrel of crime, Watson. What is
     it?"

     I handed him the letter, which he read with the most concentrated
     attention.

     "It does not tell us very much, does it?" he remarked, as he handed
     it back to me.

     "Hardly anything."

     "And yet the writing is of interest."

     "But the writing is not his own."

     "Precisely. It is a woman's."

     "A man's surely," I cried.

     "No, a woman's, and a woman of rare character. You see, at the
     commencement of an investigation it is something to know that your
     client is in close contact with some one who, for good or evil, has
     an exceptional nature. My interest is already awakened in the case.
     If you are ready we will start at once for Woking, and see this
     diplomatist who is in such evil case, and the lady to whom he
     dictates his letters."

     We were fortunate enough to catch an early train at Waterloo, and in
     a little under an hour we found ourselves among the fir-woods and the
     heather of Woking. Briarbrae proved to be a large detached house
     standing in extensive grounds within a few minutes' walk of the
     station. On sending in our cards we were shown into an elegantly
     appointed drawing-room, where we were joined in a few minutes by a
     rather stout man who received us with much hospitality. His age may
     have been nearer forty than thirty, but his cheeks were so ruddy and
     his eyes so merry that he still conveyed the impression of a plump
     and mischievous boy.

     "I am so glad that you have come," said he, shaking our hands with
     effusion. "Percy has been inquiring for you all morning. Ah, poor old
     chap, he clings to any straw! His father and his mother asked me to
     see you, for the mere mention of the subject is very painful to
     them."

     "We have had no details yet," observed Holmes. "I perceive that you
     are not yourself a member of the family."

     Our acquaintance looked surprised, and then, glancing down, he began
     to laugh.

     "Of course you saw the J H monogram on my locket," said he. "For a
     moment I thought you had done something clever. Joseph Harrison is my
     name, and as Percy is to marry my sister Annie I shall at least be a
     relation by marriage. You will find my sister in his room, for she
     has nursed him hand-and-foot this two months back. Perhaps we'd
     better go in at once, for I know how impatient he is."

     The chamber in which we were shown was on the same floor as the
     drawing-room. It was furnished partly as a sitting and partly as a
     bedroom, with flowers arranged daintily in every nook and corner. A
     young man, very pale and worn, was lying upon a sofa near the open
     window, through which came the rich scent of the garden and the balmy
     summer air. A woman was sitting beside him, who rose as we entered.

     "Shall I leave, Percy?" she asked.

     He clutched her hand to detain her. "How are you, Watson?" said he,
     cordially. "I should never have known you under that moustache, and I
     dare say you would not be prepared to swear to me. This I presume is
     your celebrated friend, Mr. Sherlock Holmes?"

     I introduced him in a few words, and we both sat down. The stout
     young man had left us, but his sister still remained with her hand in
     that of the invalid. She was a striking-looking woman, a little short
     and thick for symmetry, but with a beautiful olive complexion, large,
     dark, Italian eyes, and a wealth of deep black hair. Her rich tints
     made the white face of her companion the more worn and haggard by the
     contrast.

     "I won't waste your time," said he, raising himself upon the sofa.
     "I'll plunge into the matter without further preamble. I was a happy
     and successful man, Mr. Holmes, and on the eve of being married, when
     a sudden and dreadful misfortune wrecked all my prospects in life.

     "I was, as Watson may have told you, in the Foreign Office, and
     through the influences of my uncle, Lord Holdhurst, I rose rapidly to
     a responsible position. When my uncle became foreign minister in this
     administration he gave me several missions of trust, and as I always
     brought them to a successful conclusion, he came at last to have the
     utmost confidence in my ability and tact.

     "Nearly ten weeks ago--to be more accurate, on the twenty-third of
     May--he called me into his private room, and, after complimenting me
     on the good work which I had done, he informed me that he had a new
     commission of trust for me to execute.

     "'This,' said he, taking a gray roll of paper from his bureau, 'is
     the original of that secret treaty between England and Italy of
     which, I regret to say, some rumors have already got into the public
     press. It is of enormous importance that nothing further should leak
     out. The French or the Russian embassy would pay an immense sum to
     learn the contents of these papers. They should not leave my bureau
     were it not that it is absolutely necessary to have them copied. You
     have a desk in your office?'

     "'Yes, sir.'

     "'Then take the treaty and lock it up there. I shall give directions
     that you may remain behind when the others go, so that you may copy
     it at your leisure without fear of being overlooked. When you have
     finished, relock both the original and the draft in the desk, and
     hand them over to me personally to-morrow morning.'

     "I took the papers and--"

     "Excuse me an instant," said Holmes. "Were you alone during this
     conversation?"

     "Absolutely."

     "In a large room?"

     "Thirty feet each way."

     "In the centre?"

     "Yes, about it."

     "And speaking low?"

     "My uncle's voice is always remarkably low. I hardly spoke at all."

     "Thank you," said Holmes, shutting his eyes; "pray go on."

     "I did exactly what he indicated, and waited until the other clerks
     had departed. One of them in my room, Charles Gorot, had some arrears
     of work to make up, so I left him there and went out to dine. When I
     returned he was gone. I was anxious to hurry my work, for I knew that
     Joseph--the Mr. Harrison whom you saw just now--was in town, and that
     he would travel down to Woking by the eleven-o'clock train, and I
     wanted if possible to catch it.

     "When I came to examine the treaty I saw at once that it was of such
     importance that my uncle had been guilty of no exaggeration in what
     he had said. Without going into details, I may say that it defined
     the position of Great Britain towards the Triple Alliance, and
     fore-shadowed the policy which this country would pursue in the event
     of the French fleet gaining a complete ascendancy over that of Italy
     in the Mediterranean. The questions treated in it were purely naval.
     At the end were the signatures of the high dignitaries who had signed
     it. I glanced my eyes over it, and then settled down to my task of
     copying.

     "It was a long document, written in the French language, and
     containing twenty-six separate articles. I copied as quickly as I
     could, but at nine o'clock I had only done nine articles, and it
     seemed hopeless for me to attempt to catch my train. I was feeling
     drowsy and stupid, partly from my dinner and also from the effects of
     a long day's work. A cup of coffee would clear my brain. A
     commissionaire remains all night in a little lodge at the foot of the
     stairs, and is in the habit of making coffee at his spirit-lamp for
     any of the officials who may be working over time. I rang the bell,
     therefore, to summon him.

     "To my surprise, it was a woman who answered the summons, a large,
     coarse-faced, elderly woman, in an apron. She explained that she was
     the commissionaire's wife, who did the charing, and I gave her the
     order for the coffee.

     "I wrote two more articles and then, feeling more drowsy than ever, I
     rose and walked up and down the room to stretch my legs. My coffee
     had not yet come, and I wondered what was the cause of the delay
     could be. Opening the door, I started down the corridor to find out.
     There was a straight passage, dimly lighted, which led from the room
     in which I had been working, and was the only exit from it. It ended
     in a curving staircase, with the commissionaire's lodge in the
     passage at the bottom. Half way down this staircase is a small
     landing, with another passage running into it at right angles. This
     second one leads by means of a second small stair to a side door,
     used by servants, and also as a short cut by clerks when coming from
     Charles Street. Here is a rough chart of the place."

     "Thank you. I think that I quite follow you," said Sherlock Holmes.

     "It is of the utmost importance that you should notice this point. I
     went down the stairs and into the hall, where I found the
     commissionaire fast asleep in his box, with the kettle boiling
     furiously upon the spirit-lamp. I took off the kettle and blew out
     the lamp, for the water was spurting over the floor. Then I put out
     my hand and was about to shake the man, who was still sleeping
     soundly, when a bell over his head rang loudly, and he woke with a
     start.

     "'Mr. Phelps, sir!' said he, looking at me in bewilderment.

     "'I came down to see if my coffee was ready.'

     "'I was boiling the kettle when I fell asleep, sir.' He looked at me
     and then up at the still quivering bell with an ever-growing
     astonishment upon his face.

     "'If you was here, sir, then who rang the bell?' he asked.

     "'The bell!' I cried. 'What bell is it?'

     "'It's the bell of the room you were working in.'

     "A cold hand seemed to close round my heart. Some one, then, was in
     that room where my precious treaty lay upon the table. I ran
     frantically up the stair and along the passage. There was no one in
     the corridors, Mr. Holmes. There was no one in the room. All was
     exactly as I left it, save only that the papers which had been
     committed to my care had been taken from the desk on which they lay.
     The copy was there, and the original was gone."

     Holmes sat up in his chair and rubbed his hands. I could see that the
     problem was entirely to his heart. "Pray, what did you do then?" he
     murmured.

     "I recognized in an instant that the thief must have come up the
     stairs from the side door. Of course I must have met him if he had
     come the other way."

     "You were satisfied that he could not have been concealed in the room
     all the time, or in the corridor which you have just described as
     dimly lighted?"

     "It is absolutely impossible. A rat could not conceal himself either
     in the room or the corridor. There is no cover at all."

     "Thank you. Pray proceed."

     "The commissionaire, seeing by my pale face that something was to be
     feared, had followed me upstairs. Now we both rushed along the
     corridor and down the steep steps which led to Charles Street. The
     door at the bottom was closed, but unlocked. We flung it open and
     rushed out. I can distinctly remember that as we did so there came
     three chimes from a neighboring clock. It was quarter to ten."

     "That is of enormous importance," said Holmes, making a note upon his
     shirt-cuff.

     "The night was very dark, and a thin, warm rain was falling. There
     was no one in Charles Street, but a great traffic was going on, as
     usual, in Whitehall, at the extremity. We rushed along the pavement,
     bare-headed as we were, and at the far corner we found a policeman
     standing.

     "'A robbery has been committed,' I gasped. 'A document of immense
     value has been stolen from the Foreign Office. Has any one passed
     this way?'

     "'I have been standing here for a quarter of an hour, sir,' said he;
     'only one person has passed during that time--a woman, tall and
     elderly, with a Paisley shawl.'

     "'Ah, that is only my wife,' cried the commissionaire; 'has no one
     else passed?'

     "'No one.'

     "'Then it must be the other way that the thief took,' cried the
     fellow, tugging at my sleeve.

     "But I was not satisfied, and the attempts which he made to draw me
     away increased my suspicions.

     "'Which way did the woman go?' I cried.

     "'I don't know, sir. I noticed her pass, but I had no special reason
     for watching her. She seemed to be in a hurry.'

     "'How long ago was it?'

     "'Oh, not very many minutes.'

     "'Within the last five?'

     "'Well, it could not be more than five.'

     "'You're only wasting your time, sir, and every minute now is of
     importance,' cried the commissionaire; 'take my word for it that my
     old woman has nothing to do with it, and come down to the other end
     of the street. Well, if you won't, I will.' And with that he rushed
     off in the other direction.

     "But I was after him in an instant and caught him by the sleeve.

     "'Where do you live?' said I.

     "'16 Ivy Lane, Brixton,' he answered. 'But don't let yourself be
     drawn away upon a false scent, Mr. Phelps. Come to the other end of
     the street and let us see if we can hear of anything.'

     "Nothing was to be lost by following his advice. With the policeman
     we both hurried down, but only to find the street full of traffic,
     many people coming and going, but all only too eager to get to a
     place of safety upon so wet a night. There was no lounger who could
     tell us who had passed.

     "Then we returned to the office, and searched the stairs and the
     passage without result. The corridor which led to the room was laid
     down with a kind of creamy linoleum which shows an impression very
     easily. We examined it very carefully, but found no outline of any
     footmark."

     "Had it been raining all evening?"

     "Since about seven."

     "How is it, then, that the woman who came into the room about nine
     left no traces with her muddy boots?"

     "I am glad you raised the point. It occurred to me at the time. The
     charwomen are in the habit of taking off their boots at the
     commissionaire's office, and putting on list slippers."

     "That is very clear. There were no marks, then, though the night was
     a wet one? The chain of events is certainly one of extraordinary
     interest. What did you do next?"

     "We examined the room also. There is no possibility of a secret door,
     and the windows are quite thirty feet from the ground. Both of them
     were fastened on the inside. The carpet prevents any possibility of a
     trap-door, and the ceiling is of the ordinary whitewashed kind. I
     will pledge my life that whoever stole my papers could only have come
     through the door."

     "How about the fireplace?"

     "They use none. There is a stove. The bell-rope hangs from the wire
     just to the right of my desk. Whoever rang it must have come right up
     to the desk to do it. But why should any criminal wish to ring the
     bell? It is a most insoluble mystery."

     "Certainly the incident was unusual. What were your next steps? You
     examined the room, I presume, to see if the intruder had left any
     traces--any cigar-end or dropped glove or hairpin or other trifle?"

     "There was nothing of the sort."

     "No smell?"

     "Well, we never thought of that."

     "Ah, a scent of tobacco would have been worth a great deal to us in
     such an investigation."

     "I never smoke myself, so I think I should have observed it if there
     had been any smell of tobacco. There was absolutely no clue of any
     kind. The only tangible fact was that the commissionaire's wife--Mrs.
     Tangey was the name--had hurried out of the place. He could give no
     explanation save that it was about the time when the woman always
     went home. The policeman and I agreed that our best plan would be to
     seize the woman before she could get rid of the papers, presuming
     that she had them.

     "The alarm had reached Scotland Yard by this time, and Mr. Forbes,
     the detective, came round at once and took up the case with a great
     deal of energy. We hired a hansom, and in half an hour we were at the
     address which had been given to us. A young woman opened the door,
     who proved to be Mrs. Tangey's eldest daughter. Her mother had not
     come back yet, and we were shown into the front room to wait.

     "About ten minutes later a knock came at the door, and here we made
     the one serious mistake for which I blame myself. Instead of opening
     the door ourselves, we allowed the girl to do so. We heard her say,
     'Mother, there are two men in the house waiting to see you,' and an
     instant afterwards we heard the patter of feet rushing down the
     passage. Forbes flung open the door, and we both ran into the back
     room or kitchen, but the woman had got there before us. She stared at
     us with defiant eyes, and then, suddenly recognizing me, an
     expression of absolute astonishment came over her face.

     "'Why, if it isn't Mr. Phelps, of the office!' she cried.

     "'Come, come, who did you think we were when you ran away from us?'
     asked my companion.

     "'I thought you were the brokers,' said she, 'we have had some
     trouble with a tradesman.'

     "'That's not quite good enough,' answered Forbes. 'We have reason to
     believe that you have taken a paper of importance from the Foreign
     Office, and that you ran in here to dispose of it. You must come back
     with us to Scotland Yard to be searched.'

     "It was in vain that she protested and resisted. A four-wheeler was
     brought, and we all three drove back in it. We had first made an
     examination of the kitchen, and especially of the kitchen fire, to
     see whether she might have made away with the papers during the
     instant that she was alone. There were no signs, however, of any
     ashes or scraps. When we reached Scotland Yard she was handed over at
     once to the female searcher. I waited in an agony of suspense until
     she came back with her report. There were no signs of the papers.

     "Then for the first time the horror of my situation came in its full
     force. Hitherto I had been acting, and action had numbed thought. I
     had been so confident of regaining the treaty at once that I had not
     dared to think of what would be the consequence if I failed to do so.
     But now there was nothing more to be done, and I had leisure to
     realize my position. It was horrible. Watson there would tell you
     that I was a nervous, sensitive boy at school. It is my nature. I
     thought of my uncle and of his colleagues in the Cabinet, of the
     shame which I had brought upon him, upon myself, upon every one
     connected with me. What though I was the victim of an extraordinary
     accident? No allowance is made for accidents where diplomatic
     interests are at stake. I was ruined, shamefully, hopelessly ruined.
     I don't know what I did. I fancy I must have made a scene. I have a
     dim recollection of a group of officials who crowded round me,
     endeavoring to soothe me. One of them drove down with me to Waterloo,
     and saw me into the Woking train. I believe that he would have come
     all the way had it not been that Dr. Ferrier, who lives near me, was
     going down by that very train. The doctor most kindly took charge of
     me, and it was well he did so, for I had a fit in the station, and
     before we reached home I was practically a raving maniac.

     "You can imagine the state of things here when they were roused from
     their beds by the doctor's ringing and found me in this condition.
     Poor Annie here and my mother were broken-hearted. Dr. Ferrier had
     just heard enough from the detective at the station to be able to
     give an idea of what had happened, and his story did not mend
     matters. It was evident to all that I was in for a long illness, so
     Joseph was bundled out of this cheery bedroom, and it was turned into
     a sick-room for me. Here I have lain, Mr. Holmes, for over nine
     weeks, unconscious, and raving with brain-fever. If it had not been
     for Miss Harrison here and for the doctor's care I should not be
     speaking to you now. She has nursed me by day and a hired nurse has
     looked after me by night, for in my mad fits I was capable of
     anything. Slowly my reason has cleared, but it is only during the
     last three days that my memory has quite returned. Sometimes I wish
     that it never had. The first thing that I did was to wire to Mr.
     Forbes, who had the case in hand. He came out, and assures me that,
     though everything has been done, no trace of a clue has been
     discovered. The commissionaire and his wife have been examined in
     every way without any light being thrown upon the matter. The
     suspicions of the police then rested upon young Gorot, who, as you
     may remember, stayed over time in the office that night. His
     remaining behind and his French name were really the only two points
     which could suggest suspicion; but, as a matter of fact, I did not
     begin work until he had gone, and his people are of Huguenot
     extraction, but as English in sympathy and tradition as you and I
     are. Nothing was found to implicate him in any way, and there the
     matter dropped. I turn to you, Mr. Holmes, as absolutely my last
     hope. If you fail me, then my honor as well as my position are
     forever forfeited."

     The invalid sank back upon his cushions, tired out by this long
     recital, while his nurse poured him out a glass of some stimulating
     medicine. Holmes sat silently, with his head thrown back and his eyes
     closed, in an attitude which might seem listless to a stranger, but
     which I knew betokened the most intense self-absorption.

     "You statement has been so explicit," said he at last, "that you have
     really left me very few questions to ask. There is one of the very
     utmost importance, however. Did you tell any one that you had this
     special task to perform?"

     "No one."

     "Not Miss Harrison here, for example?"

     "No. I had not been back to Woking between getting the order and
     executing the commission."

     "And none of your people had by chance been to see you?"

     "None."

     "Did any of them know their way about in the office?"

     "Oh, yes, all of them had been shown over it."

     "Still, of course, if you said nothing to any one about the treaty
     these inquiries are irrelevant."

     "I said nothing."

     "Do you know anything of the commissionaire?"

     "Nothing except that he is an old soldier."

     "What regiment?"

     "Oh, I have heard--Coldstream Guards."

     "Thank you. I have no doubt I can get details from Forbes. The
     authorities are excellent at amassing facts, though they do not
     always use them to advantage. What a lovely thing a rose is!"

     He walked past the couch to the open window, and held up the drooping
     stalk of a moss-rose, looking down at the dainty blend of crimson and
     green. It was a new phase of his character to me, for I had never
     before seen him show any keen interest in natural objects.

     "There is nothing in which deduction is so necessary as in religion,"
     said he, leaning with his back against the shutters. "It can be built
     up as an exact science by the reasoner. Our highest assurance of the
     goodness of Providence seems to me to rest in the flowers. All other
     things, our powers our desires, our food, are all really necessary
     for our existence in the first instance. But this rose is an extra.
     Its smell and its color are an embellishment of life, not a condition
     of it. It is only goodness which gives extras, and so I say again
     that we have much to hope from the flowers."

     Percy Phelps and his nurse looked at Holmes during this demonstration
     with surprise and a good deal of disappointment written upon their
     faces. He had fallen into a reverie, with the moss-rose between his
     fingers. It had lasted some minutes before the young lady broke in
     upon it.

     "Do you see any prospect of solving this mystery, Mr. Holmes?" she
     asked, with a touch of asperity in her voice.

     "Oh, the mystery!" he answered, coming back with a start to the
     realities of life. "Well, it would be absurd to deny that the case is
     a very abstruse and complicated one, but I can promise you that I
     will look into the matter and let you know any points which may
     strike me."

     "Do you see any clue?"

     "You have furnished me with seven, but, of course, I must test them
     before I can pronounce upon their value."

     "You suspect some one?"

     "I suspect myself."

     "What!"

     "Of coming to conclusions too rapidly."

     "Then go to London and test your conclusions."

     "Your advice is very excellent, Miss Harrison," said Holmes, rising.
     "I think, Watson, we cannot do better. Do not allow yourself to
     indulge in false hopes, Mr. Phelps. The affair is a very tangled
     one."

     "I shall be in a fever until I see you again," cried the diplomatist.

     "Well, I'll come out by the same train to-morrow, though it's more
     than likely that my report will be a negative one."

     "God bless you for promising to come," cried our client. "It gives me
     fresh life to know that something is being done. By the way, I have
     had a letter from Lord Holdhurst."

     "Ha! What did he say?"

     "He was cold, but not harsh. I dare say my severe illness prevented
     him from being that. He repeated that the matter was of the utmost
     importance, and added that no steps would be taken about my
     future--by which he means, of course, my dismissal--until my health
     was restored and I had an opportunity of repairing my misfortune."

     "Well, that was reasonable and considerate," said Holmes. "Come,
     Watson, for we have a good day's work before us in town."

     Mr. Joseph Harrison drove us down to the station, and we were soon
     whirling up in a Portsmouth train. Holmes was sunk in profound
     thought, and hardly opened his mouth until we had passed Clapham
     Junction.

     "It's a very cheery thing to come into London by any of these lines
     which run high, and allow you to look down upon the houses like
     this."

     I thought he was joking, for the view was sordid enough, but he soon
     explained himself.

     "Look at those big, isolated clumps of building rising up above the
     slates, like brick islands in a lead-colored sea."

     "The board-schools."

     "Light-houses, my boy! Beacons of the future! Capsules with hundreds
     of bright little seeds in each, out of which will spring the wise,
     better England of the future. I suppose that man Phelps does not
     drink?"

     "I should not think so."

     "Nor should I, but we are bound to take every possibility into
     account. The poor devil has certainly got himself into very deep
     water, and it's a question whether we shall ever be able to get him
     ashore. What did you think of Miss Harrison?"

     "A girl of strong character."

     "Yes, but she is a good sort, or I am mistaken. She and her brother
     are the only children of an iron-master somewhere up Northumberland
     way. He got engaged to her when traveling last winter, and she came
     down to be introduced to his people, with her brother as escort. Then
     came the smash, and she stayed on to nurse her lover, while brother
     Joseph, finding himself pretty snug, stayed on too. I've been making
     a few independent inquiries, you see. But to-day must be a day of
     inquiries."

     "My practice--" I began.

     "Oh, if you find your own cases more interesting than mine--" said
     Holmes, with some asperity.

     "I was going to say that my practice could get along very well for a
     day or two, since it is the slackest time in the year."

     "Excellent," said he, recovering his good-humor. "Then we'll look
     into this matter together. I think that we should begin by seeing
     Forbes. He can probably tell us all the details we want until we know
     from what side the case is to be approached."

     "You said you had a clue?"

     "Well, we have several, but we can only test their value by further
     inquiry. The most difficult crime to track is the one which is
     purposeless. Now this is not purposeless. Who is it who profits by
     it? There is the French ambassador, there is the Russian, there is
     who-ever might sell it to either of these, and there is Lord
     Holdhurst."

     "Lord Holdhurst!"

     "Well, it is just conceivable that a statesman might find himself in
     a position where he was not sorry to have such a document
     accidentally destroyed."

     "Not a statesman with the honorable record of Lord Holdhurst?"

     "It is a possibility and we cannot afford to disregard it. We shall
     see the noble lord to-day and find out if he can tell us anything.
     Meanwhile I have already set inquiries on foot."

     "Already?"

     "Yes, I sent wires from Woking station to every evening paper in
     London. This advertisement will appear in each of them."

     He handed over a sheet torn from a note-book. On it was scribbled in
     pencil:

     "Â£10 reward. The number of the cab which dropped a fare at or about
     the door of the Foreign Office in Charles Street at quarter to ten in
     the evening of May 23d. Apply 221b, Baker Street."

     "You are confident that the thief came in a cab?"

     "If not, there is no harm done. But if Mr. Phelps is correct in
     stating that there is no hiding-place either in the room or the
     corridors, then the person must have come from outside. If he came
     from outside on so wet a night, and yet left no trace of damp upon
     the linoleum, which was examined within a few minutes of his passing,
     then it is exceeding probably that he came in a cab. Yes, I think
     that we may safely deduce a cab."

     "It sounds plausible."

     "That is one of the clues of which I spoke. It may lead us to
     something. And then, of course, there is the bell--which is the most
     distinctive feature of the case. Why should the bell ring? Was it the
     thief who did it out of bravado? Or was it some one who was with the
     thief who did it in order to prevent the crime? Or was it an
     accident? Or was it--?" He sank back into the state of intense and
     silent thought from which he had emerged; but it seemed to me,
     accustomed as I was to his every mood, that some new possibility had
     dawned suddenly upon him.

     It was twenty past three when we reached our terminus, and after a
     hasty luncheon at the buffet we pushed on at once to Scotland Yard.
     Holmes had already wired to Forbes, and we found him waiting to
     receive us--a small, foxy man with a sharp but by no means amiable
     expression. He was decidedly frigid in his manner to us, especially
     when he heard the errand upon which we had come.

     "I've heard of your methods before now, Mr. Holmes," said he, tartly.
     "You are ready enough to use all the information that the police can
     lay at your disposal, and then you try to finish the case yourself
     and bring discredit on them."

     "On the contrary," said Holmes, "out of my last fifty-three cases my
     name has only appeared in four, and the police have had all the
     credit in forty-nine. I don't blame you for not knowing this, for you
     are young and inexperienced, but if you wish to get on in your new
     duties you will work with me and not against me."

     "I'd be very glad of a hint or two," said the detective, changing his
     manner. "I've certainly had no credit from the case so far."

     "What steps have you taken?"

     "Tangey, the commissionaire, has been shadowed. He left the Guards
     with a good character and we can find nothing against him. His wife
     is a bad lot, though. I fancy she knows more about this than
     appears."

     "Have you shadowed her?"

     "We have set one of our women on to her. Mrs. Tangey drinks, and our
     woman has been with her twice when she was well on, but she could get
     nothing out of her."

     "I understand that they have had brokers in the house?"

     "Yes, but they were paid off."

     "Where did the money come from?"

     "That was all right. His pension was due. They have not shown any
     sign of being in funds."

     "What explanation did she give of having answered the bell when Mr.
     Phelps rang for the coffee?"

     "She said that he husband was very tired and she wished to relieve
     him."

     "Well, certainly that would agree with his being found a little later
     asleep in his chair. There is nothing against them then but the
     woman's character. Did you ask her why she hurried away that night?
     Her haste attracted the attention of the police constable."

     "She was later than usual and wanted to get home."

     "Did you point out to her that you and Mr. Phelps, who started at
     least twenty minutes after he, got home before her?"

     "She explains that by the difference between a 'bus and a hansom."

     "Did she make it clear why, on reaching her house, she ran into the
     back kitchen?"

     "Because she had the money there with which to pay off the brokers."

     "She has at least an answer for everything. Did you ask her whether
     in leaving she met any one or saw any one loitering about Charles
     Street?"

     "She saw no one but the constable."

     "Well, you seem to have cross-examined her pretty thoroughly. What
     else have you done?"

     "The clerk Gorot has been shadowed all these nine weeks, but without
     result. We can show nothing against him."

     "Anything else?"

     "Well, we have nothing else to go upon--no evidence of any kind."

     "Have you formed a theory about how that bell rang?"

     "Well, I must confess that it beats me. It was a cool hand, whoever
     it was, to go and give the alarm like that."

     "Yes, it was a queer thing to do. Many thanks to you for what you
     have told me. If I can put the man into your hands you shall hear
     from me. Come along, Watson."

     "Where are we going to now?" I asked, as we left the office.

     "We are now going to interview Lord Holdhurst, the cabinet minister
     and future premier of England."

     We were fortunate in finding that Lord Holdhurst was still in his
     chambers in Downing Street, and on Holmes sending in his card we were
     instantly shown up. The statesman received us with that old-fashioned
     courtesy for which he is remarkable, and seated us on the two
     luxuriant lounges on either side of the fireplace. Standing on the
     rug between us, with his slight, tall figure, his sharp features,
     thoughtful face, and curling hair prematurely tinged with gray, he
     seemed to represent that not too common type, a nobleman who is in
     truth noble.

     "Your name is very familiar to me, Mr. Holmes," said he, smiling.
     "And, of course, I cannot pretend to be ignorant of the object of
     your visit. There has only been one occurrence in these offices which
     could call for your attention. In whose interest are you acting, may
     I ask?"

     "In that of Mr. Percy Phelps," answered Holmes.

     "Ah, my unfortunate nephew! You can understand that our kinship makes
     it the more impossible for me to screen him in any way. I fear that
     the incident must have a very prejudicial effect upon his career."

     "But if the document is found?"

     "Ah, that, of course, would be different."

     "I had one or two questions which I wished to ask you, Lord
     Holdhurst."

     "I shall be happy to give you any information in my power."

     "Was it in this room that you gave your instructions as to the
     copying of the document?"

     "It was."

     "Then you could hardly have been overheard?"

     "It is out of the question."

     "Did you ever mention to any one that it was your intention to give
     any one the treaty to be copied?"

     "Never."

     "You are certain of that?"

     "Absolutely."

     "Well, since you never said so, and Mr. Phelps never said so, and
     nobody else knew anything of the matter, then the thief's presence in
     the room was purely accidental. He saw his chance and he took it."

     The statesman smiled. "You take me out of my province there," said
     he.

     Holmes considered for a moment. "There is another very important
     point which I wish to discuss with you," said he. "You feared, as I
     understand, that very grave results might follow from the details of
     this treaty becoming known."

     A shadow passed over the expressive face of the statesman. "Very
     grave results indeed."

     "And have they occurred?"

     "Not yet."

     "If the treaty had reached, let us say, the French or Russian Foreign
     Office, you would expect to hear of it?"

     "I should," said Lord Holdhurst, with a wry face.

     "Since nearly ten weeks have elapsed, then, and nothing has been
     heard, it is not unfair to suppose that for some reason the treaty
     has not reached them."

     Lord Holdhurst shrugged his shoulders.

     "We can hardly suppose, Mr. Holmes, that the thief took the treaty in
     order to frame it and hang it up."

     "Perhaps he is waiting for a better price."

     "If he waits a little longer he will get no price at all. The treaty
     will cease to be secret in a few months."

     "That is most important," said Holmes. "Of course, it is a possible
     supposition that the thief has had a sudden illness--"

     "An attack of brain-fever, for example?" asked the statesman,
     flashing a swift glance at him.

     "I did not say so," said Holmes, imperturbably. "And now, Lord
     Holdhurst, we have already taken up too much of your valuable time,
     and we shall wish you good-day."

     "Every success to your investigation, be the criminal who it may,"
     answered the nobleman, as he bowed us out the door.

     "He's a fine fellow," said Holmes, as we came out into Whitehall.
     "But he has a struggle to keep up his position. He is far from rich
     and has many calls. You noticed, of course, that his boots had been
     re-soled? Now, Watson, I won't detain you from your legitimate work
     any longer. I shall do nothing more to-day, unless I have an answer
     to my cab advertisement. But I should be extremely obliged to you if
     you would come down with me to Woking to-morrow, by the same train
     which we took yesterday."

     I met him accordingly next morning and we traveled down to Woking
     together. He had had no answer to his advertisement, he said, and no
     fresh light had been thrown upon the case. He had, when he so willed
     it, the utter immobility of countenance of a red Indian, and I could
     not gather from his appearance whether he was satisfied or not with
     the position of the case. His conversation, I remember, was about the
     Bertillon system of measurements, and he expressed his enthusiastic
     admiration of the French savant.

     We found our client still under the charge of his devoted nurse, but
     looking considerably better than before. He rose from the sofa and
     greeted us without difficulty when we entered.

     "Any news?" he asked, eagerly.

     "My report, as I expected, is a negative one," said Holmes. "I have
     seen Forbes, and I have seen your uncle, and I have set one or two
     trains of inquiry upon foot which may lead to something."

     "You have not lost heart, then?"

     "By no means."

     "God bless you for saying that!" cried Miss Harrison. "If we keep our
     courage and our patience the truth must come out."

     "We have more to tell you than you have for us," said Phelps,
     reseating himself upon the couch.

     "I hoped you might have something."

     "Yes, we have had an adventure during the night, and one which might
     have proved to be a serious one." His expression grew very grave as
     he spoke, and a look of something akin to fear sprang up in his eyes.
     "Do you know," said he, "that I begin to believe that I am the
     unconscious centre of some monstrous conspiracy, and that my life is
     aimed at as well as my honor?"

     "Ah!" cried Holmes.

     "It sounds incredible, for I have not, as far as I know, an enemy in
     the world. Yet from last night's experience I can come to no other
     conclusion."

     "Pray let me hear it."

     "You must know that last night was the very first night that I have
     ever slept without a nurse in the room. I was so much better that I
     thought I could dispense with one. I had a night-light burning,
     however. Well, about two in the morning I had sunk into a light sleep
     when I was suddenly aroused by a slight noise. It was like the sound
     which a mouse makes when it is gnawing a plank, and I lay listening
     to it for some time under the impression that it must come from that
     cause. Then it grew louder, and suddenly there came from the window a
     sharp metallic snick. I sat up in amazement. There could be no doubt
     what the sounds were now. The first ones had been caused by some one
     forcing an instrument through the slit between the sashes, and the
     second by the catch being pressed back.

     "There was a pause then for about ten minutes, as if the person were
     waiting to see whether the noise had awakened me. Then I heard a
     gentle creaking as the window was very slowly opened. I could stand
     it no longer, for my nerves are not what they used to be. I sprang
     out of bed and flung open the shutters. A man was crouching at the
     window. I could see little of him, for he was gone like a flash. He
     was wrapped in some sort of cloak which came across the lower part of
     his face. One thing only I am sure of, and that is that he had some
     weapon in his hand. It looked to me like a long knife. I distinctly
     saw the gleam of it as he turned to run."

     "This is most interesting," said Holmes. "Pray what did you do then?"

     "I should have followed him through the open window if I had been
     stronger. As it was, I rang the bell and roused the house. It took me
     some little time, for the bell rings in the kitchen and the servants
     all sleep upstairs. I shouted, however, and that brought Joseph down,
     and he roused the others. Joseph and the groom found marks on the bed
     outside the window, but the weather has been so dry lately that they
     found it hopeless to follow the trail across the grass. There's a
     place, however, on the wooden fence which skirts the road which shows
     signs, they tell me, as if some one had got over, and had snapped the
     top of the rail in doing so. I have said nothing to the local police
     yet, for I thought I had best have your opinion first."

     This tale of our client's appeared to have an extraordinary effect
     upon Sherlock Holmes. He rose from his chair and paced about the room
     in uncontrollable excitement.

     "Misfortunes never come single," said Phelps, smiling, though it was
     evident that his adventure had somewhat shaken him.

     "You have certainly had your share," said Holmes. "Do you think you
     could walk round the house with me?"

     "Oh, yes, I should like a little sunshine. Joseph will come, too."

     "And I also," said Miss Harrison.

     "I am afraid not," said Holmes, shaking his head. "I think I must ask
     you to remain sitting exactly where you are."

     The young lady resumed her seat with an air of displeasure. Her
     brother, however, had joined us and we set off all four together. We
     passed round the lawn to the outside of the young diplomatist's
     window. There were, as he had said, marks upon the bed, but they were
     hopelessly blurred and vague. Holmes stopped over them for an
     instant, and then rose shrugging his shoulders.

     "I don't think any one could make much of this," said he. "Let us go
     round the house and see why this particular room was chose by the
     burglar. I should have thought those larger windows of the
     drawing-room and dining-room would have had more attractions for
     him."

     "They are more visible from the road," suggested Mr. Joseph Harrison.

     "Ah, yes, of course. There is a door here which he might have
     attempted. What is it for?"

     "It is the side entrance for trades-people. Of course it is locked at
     night."

     "Have you ever had an alarm like this before?"

     "Never," said our client.

     "Do you keep plate in the house, or anything to attract burglars?"

     "Nothing of value."

     Holmes strolled round the house with his hands in his pockets and a
     negligent air which was unusual with him.

     "By the way," said he to Joseph Harrison, "you found some place, I
     understand, where the fellow scaled the fence. Let us have a look at
     that!"

     The plump young man led us to a spot where the top of one of the
     wooden rails had been cracked. A small fragment of the wood was
     hanging down. Holmes pulled it off and examined it critically.

     "Do you think that was done last night? It looks rather old, does it
     not?"

     "Well, possibly so."

     "There are no marks of any one jumping down upon the other side. No,
     I fancy we shall get no help here. Let us go back to the bedroom and
     talk the matter over."

     Percy Phelps was walking very slowly, leaning upon the arm of his
     future brother-in-law. Holmes walked swiftly across the lawn, and we
     were at the open window of the bedroom long before the others came
     up.

     "Miss Harrison," said Holmes, speaking with the utmost intensity of
     manner, "you must stay where you are all day. Let nothing prevent you
     from staying where you are all day. It is of the utmost importance."

     "Certainly, if you wish it, Mr. Holmes," said the girl in
     astonishment.

     "When you go to bed lock the door of this room on the outside and
     keep the key. Promise to do this."

     "But Percy?"

     "He will come to London with us."

     "And am I to remain here?"

     "It is for his sake. You can serve him. Quick! Promise!"

     She gave a quick nod of assent just as the other two came up.

     "Why do you sit moping there, Annie?" cried her brother. "Come out
     into the sunshine!"

     "No, thank you, Joseph. I have a slight headache and this room is
     deliciously cool and soothing."

     "What do you propose now, Mr. Holmes?" asked our client.

     "Well, in investigating this minor affair we must not lose sight of
     our main inquiry. It would be a very great help to me if you would
     come up to London with us."

     "At once?"

     "Well, as soon as you conveniently can. Say in an hour."

     "I feel quite strong enough, if I can really be of any help."

     "The greatest possible."

     "Perhaps you would like me to stay there to-night?"

     "I was just going to propose it."

     "Then, if my friend of the night comes to revisit me, he will find
     the bird flown. We are all in your hands, Mr. Holmes, and you must
     tell us exactly what you would like done. Perhaps you would prefer
     that Joseph came with us so as to look after me?"

     "Oh, no; my friend Watson is a medical man, you know, and he'll look
     after you. We'll have our lunch here, if you will permit us, and then
     we shall all three set off for town together."

     It was arranged as he suggested, though Miss Harrison excused herself
     from leaving the bedroom, in accordance with Holmes's suggestion.
     What the object of my friend's manoeuvres was I could not conceive,
     unless it were to keep the lady away from Phelps, who, rejoiced by
     his returning health and by the prospect of action, lunched with us
     in the dining-room. Holmes had still more startling surprise for us,
     however, for, after accompanying us down to the station and seeing us
     into our carriage, he calmly announced that he had no intention of
     leaving Woking.

     "There are one or two small points which I should desire to clear up
     before I go," said he. "Your absence, Mr. Phelps, will in some ways
     rather assist me. Watson, when you reach London you would oblige me
     by driving at once to Baker Street with our friend here, and
     remaining with him until I see you again. It is fortunate that you
     are old school-fellows, as you must have much to talk over. Mr.
     Phelps can have the spare bedroom to-night, and I will be with you in
     time for breakfast, for there is a train which will take me into
     Waterloo at eight."

     "But how about our investigation in London?" asked Phelps, ruefully.

     "We can do that to-morrow. I think that just at present I can be of
     more immediate use here."

     "You might tell them at Briarbrae that I hope to be back to-morrow
     night," cried Phelps, as we began to move from the platform.

     "I hardly expect to go back to Briarbrae," answered Holmes, and waved
     his hand to us cheerily as we shot out from the station.

     Phelps and I talked it over on our journey, but neither of us could
     devise a satisfactory reason for this new development.

     "I suppose he wants to find out some clue as to the burglary last
     night, if a burglar it was. For myself, I don't believe it was an
     ordinary thief."

     "What is your own idea, then?"

     "Upon my word, you may put it down to my weak nerves or not, but I
     believe there is some deep political intrigue going on around me, and
     that for some reason that passes my understanding my life is aimed at
     by the conspirators. It sounds high-flown and absurd, but consider
     the facts! Why should a thief try to break in at a bedroom window,
     where there could be no hope of any plunder, and why should he come
     with a long knife in his hand?"

     "You are sure it was not a house-breaker's jimmy?"

     "Oh, no, it was a knife. I saw the flash of the blade quite
     distinctly."

     "But why on earth should you be pursued with such animosity?"

     "Ah, that is the question."

     "Well, if Holmes takes the same view, that would account for his
     action, would it not? Presuming that your theory is correct, if he
     can lay his hands upon the man who threatened you last night he will
     have gone a long way towards finding who took the naval treaty. It is
     absurd to suppose that you have two enemies, one of whom robs you,
     while the other threatens your life."

     "But Holmes said that he was not going to Briarbrae."

     "I have known him for some time," said I, "but I never knew him do
     anything yet without a very good reason," and with that our
     conversation drifted off on to other topics.

     But it was a weary day for me. Phelps was still weak after his long
     illness, and his misfortune made him querulous and nervous. In vain I
     endeavored to interest him in Afghanistan, in India, in social
     questions, in anything which might take his mind out of the groove.
     He would always come back to his lost treaty, wondering, guessing,
     speculating, as to what Holmes was doing, what steps Lord Holdhurst
     was taking, what news we should have in the morning. As the evening
     wore on his excitement became quite painful.

     "You have implicit faith in Holmes?" he asked.

     "I have seen him do some remarkable things."

     "But he never brought light into anything quite so dark as this?"

     "Oh, yes, I have known him solve questions which presented fewer
     clues than yours."

     "But not where such large interests are at stake?"

     "I don't know that. To my certain knowledge he has acted on behalf of
     three of the reigning houses of Europe in very vital matters."

     "But you know him well, Watson. He is such an inscrutable fellow that
     I never quite know what to make of him. Do you think he is hopeful?
     Do you think he expects to make a success of it?"

     "He has said nothing."

     "That is a bad sign."

     "On the contrary, I have noticed that when he is off the trail he
     generally says so. It is when he is on a scent and is not quite
     absolutely sure yet that it is the right one that he is most
     taciturn. Now, my dear fellow, we can't help matters by making
     ourselves nervous about them, so let me implore you to go to bed and
     so be fresh for whatever may await us to-morrow."

     I was able at last to persuade my companion to take my advice, though
     I knew from his excited manner that there was not much hope of sleep
     for him. Indeed, his mood was infectious, for I lay tossing half the
     night myself, brooding over this strange problem, and inventing a
     hundred theories, each of which was more impossible than the last.
     Why had Holmes remained at Woking? Why had he asked Miss Harrison to
     remain in the sick-room all day? Why had he been so careful not to
     inform the people at Briarbrae that he intended to remain near them?
     I cudgelled my brains until I fell asleep in the endeavor to find
     some explanation which would cover all these facts.

     It was seven o'clock when I awoke, and I set off at once for Phelps's
     room, to find him haggard and spent after a sleepless night. His
     first question was whether Holmes had arrived yet.

     "He'll be here when he promised," said I, "and not an instant sooner
     or later."

     And my words were true, for shortly after eight a hansom dashed up to
     the door and our friend got out of it. Standing in the window we saw
     that his left hand was swathed in a bandage and that his face was
     very grim and pale. He entered the house, but it was some little time
     before he came upstairs.

     "He looks like a beaten man," cried Phelps.

     I was forced to confess that he was right. "After all," said I, "the
     clue of the matter lies probably here in town."

     Phelps gave a groan.

     "I don't know how it is," said he, "but I had hoped for so much from
     his return. But surely his hand was not tied up like that yesterday.
     What can be the matter?"

     "You are not wounded, Holmes?" I asked, as my friend entered the
     room.

     "Tut, it is only a scratch through my own clumsiness," he answered,
     nodding his good-mornings to us. "This case of yours, Mr. Phelps, is
     certainly one of the darkest which I have ever investigated."

     "I feared that you would find it beyond you."

     "It has been a most remarkable experience."

     "That bandage tells of adventures," said I. "Won't you tell us what
     has happened?"

     "After breakfast, my dear Watson. Remember that I have breathed
     thirty miles of Surrey air this morning. I suppose that there has
     been no answer from my cabman advertisement? Well, well, we cannot
     expect to score every time."

     The table was all laid, and just as I was about to ring Mrs. Hudson
     entered with the tea and coffee. A few minutes later she brought in
     three covers, and we all drew up to the table, Holmes ravenous, I
     curious, and Phelps in the gloomiest state of depression.

     "Mrs. Hudson has risen to the occasion," said Holmes, uncovering a
     dish of curried chicken. "Her cuisine is a little limited, but she
     has as good an idea of breakfast as a Scotch-woman. What have you
     here, Watson?"

     "Ham and eggs," I answered.

     "Good! What are you going to take, Mr. Phelps--curried fowl or eggs,
     or will you help yourself?"

     "Thank you. I can eat nothing," said Phelps.

     "Oh, come! Try the dish before you."

     "Thank you, I would really rather not."

     "Well, then," said Holmes, with a mischievous twinkle, "I suppose
     that you have no objection to helping me?"

     Phelps raised the cover, and as he did so he uttered a scream, and
     sat there staring with a face as white as the plate upon which he
     looked. Across the centre of it was lying a little cylinder of
     blue-gray paper. He caught it up, devoured it with his eyes, and then
     danced madly about the room, passing it to his bosom and shrieking
     out in his delight. Then he fell back into an arm-chair so limp and
     exhausted with his own emotions that we had to pour brandy down his
     throat to keep him from fainting.

     "There! there!" said Holmes, soothing, patting him upon the shoulder.
     "It was too bad to spring it on you like this, but Watson here will
     tell you that I never can resist a touch of the dramatic."

     Phelps seized his hand and kissed it. "God bless you!" he cried. "You
     have saved my honor."

     "Well, my own was at stake, you know," said Holmes. "I assure you it
     is just as hateful to me to fail in a case as it can be to you to
     blunder over a commission."

     Phelps thrust away the precious document into the innermost pocket of
     his coat.

     "I have not the heart to interrupt your breakfast any further, and
     yet I am dying to know how you got it and where it was."

     Sherlock Holmes swallowed a cup of coffee, and turned his attention
     to the ham and eggs. Then he rose, lit his pipe, and settled himself
     down into his chair.

     "I'll tell you what I did first, and how I came to do it afterwards,"
     said he. "After leaving you at the station I went for a charming walk
     through some admirable Surrey scenery to a pretty little village
     called Ripley, where I had my tea at an inn, and took the precaution
     of filling my flask and of putting a paper of sandwiches in my
     pocket. There I remained until evening, when I set off for Woking
     again, and found myself in the high-road outside Briarbrae just after
     sunset.

     "Well, I waited until the road was clear--it is never a very
     frequented one at any time, I fancy--and then I clambered over the
     fence into the grounds."

     "Surely the gate was open!" ejaculated Phelps.

     "Yes, but I have a peculiar taste in these matters. I chose the place
     where the three fir-trees stand, and behind their screen I got over
     without the least chance of any one in the house being able to see
     me. I crouched down among the bushes on the other side, and crawled
     from one to the other--witness the disreputable state of my trouser
     knees--until I had reached the clump of rhododendrons just opposite
     to your bedroom window. There I squatted down and awaited
     developments.

     "The blind was not down in your room, and I could see Miss Harrison
     sitting there reading by the table. It was quarter-past ten when she
     closed her book, fastened the shutters, and retired.

     "I heard her shut the door, and felt quite sure that she had turned
     the key in the lock."

     "The key!" ejaculated Phelps.

     "Yes, I had given Miss Harrison instructions to lock the door on the
     outside and take the key with her when she went to bed. She carried
     out every one of my injunctions to the letter, and certainly without
     her cooperation you would not have that paper in you coat-pocket. She
     departed then and the lights went out, and I was left squatting in
     the rhododendron-bush.

     "The night was fine, but still it was a very weary vigil. Of course
     it has the sort of excitement about it that the sportsman feels when
     he lies beside the water-course and waits for the big game. It was
     very long, though--almost as long, Watson, as when you and I waited
     in that deadly room when we looked into the little problem of the
     Speckled Band. There was a church-clock down at Woking which struck
     the quarters, and I thought more than once that it had stopped. At
     last however about two in the morning, I suddenly heard the gentle
     sound of a bolt being pushed back and the creaking of a key. A moment
     later the servant's door was opened, and Mr. Joseph Harrison stepped
     out into the moonlight."

     "Joseph!" ejaculated Phelps.

     "He was bare-headed, but he had a black coat thrown over his shoulder
     so that he could conceal his face in an instant if there were any
     alarm. He walked on tiptoe under the shadow of the wall, and when he
     reached the window he worked a long-bladed knife through the sash and
     pushed back the catch. Then he flung open the window, and putting his
     knife through the crack in the shutters, he thrust the bar up and
     swung them open.

     "From where I lay I had a perfect view of the inside of the room and
     of every one of his movements. He lit the two candles which stood
     upon the mantelpiece, and then he proceeded to turn back the corner
     of the carpet in the neighborhood of the door. Presently he stopped
     and picked out a square piece of board, such as is usually left to
     enable plumbers to get at the joints of the gas-pipes. This one
     covered, as a matter of fact, the T joint which gives off the pipe
     which supplies the kitchen underneath. Out of this hiding-place he
     drew that little cylinder of paper, pushed down the board, rearranged
     the carpet, blew out the candles, and walked straight into my arms as
     I stood waiting for him outside the window.

     "Well, he has rather more viciousness than I gave him credit for, has
     Master Joseph. He flew at me with his knife, and I had to grasp him
     twice, and got a cut over the knuckles, before I had the upper hand
     of him. He looked murder out of the only eye he could see with when
     we had finished, but he listened to reason and gave up the papers.
     Having got them I let my man go, but I wired full particulars to
     Forbes this morning. If he is quick enough to catch his bird, well
     and good. But if, as I shrewdly suspect, he finds the nest empty
     before he gets there, why, all the better for the government. I fancy
     that Lord Holdhurst for one, and Mr. Percy Phelps for another, would
     very much rather that the affair never got as far as a police-court.

     "My God!" gasped our client. "Do you tell me that during these long
     ten weeks of agony the stolen papers were within the very room with
     me all the time?"

     "So it was."

     "And Joseph! Joseph a villain and a thief!"

     "Hum! I am afraid Joseph's character is a rather deeper and more
     dangerous one than one might judge from his appearance. From what I
     have heard from him this morning, I gather that he has lost heavily
     in dabbling with stocks, and that he is ready to do anything on earth
     to better his fortunes. Being an absolutely selfish man, when a
     chance presented itself he did not allow either his sister's
     happiness or your reputation to hold his hand."

     Percy Phelps sank back in his chair. "My head whirls," said he. "Your
     words have dazed me."

     "The principal difficulty in your case," remarked Holmes, in his
     didactic fashion, "lay in the fact of there being too much evidence.
     What was vital was overlaid and hidden by what was irrelevant. Of all
     the facts which were presented to us we had to pick just those which
     we deemed to be essential, and then piece them together in their
     order, so as to reconstruct this very remarkable chain of events. I
     had already begun to suspect Joseph, from the fact that you had
     intended to travel home with him that night, and that therefore it
     was a likely enough thing that he should call for you, knowing the
     Foreign Office well, upon his way. When I heard that some one had
     been so anxious to get into the bedroom, in which no one but Joseph
     could have concealed anything--you told us in your narrative how you
     had turned Joseph out when you arrived with the doctor--my suspicions
     all changed to certainties, especially as the attempt was made on the
     first night upon which the nurse was absent, showing that the
     intruder was well acquainted with the ways of the house."

     "How blind I have been!"

     "The facts of the case, as far as I have worked them out, are these:
     this Joseph Harrison entered the office through the Charles Street
     door, and knowing his way he walked straight into your room the
     instant after you left it. Finding no one there he promptly rang the
     bell, and at the instant that he did so his eyes caught the paper
     upon the table. A glance showed him that chance had put in his way a
     State document of immense value, and in an instant he had thrust it
     into his pocket and was gone. A few minutes elapsed, as you remember,
     before the sleepy commissionaire drew your attention to the bell, and
     those were just enough to give the thief time to make his escape.

     "He made his way to Woking by the first train, and having examined
     his booty and assured himself that it really was of immense value, he
     had concealed it in what he thought was a very safe place, with the
     intention of taking it out again in a day or two, and carrying it to
     the French embassy, or wherever he thought that a long price was to
     be had. Then came your sudden return. He, without a moment's warning,
     was bundled out of his room, and from that time onward there were
     always at least two of you there to prevent him from regaining his
     treasure. The situation to him must have been a maddening one. But at
     last he thought he saw his chance. He tried to steal in, but was
     baffled by your wakefulness. You remember that you did not take your
     usual draught that night."

     "I remember."

     "I fancy that he had taken steps to make that draught efficacious,
     and that he quite relied upon your being unconscious. Of course, I
     understood that he would repeat the attempt whenever it could be done
     with safety. Your leaving the room gave him the chance he wanted. I
     kept Miss Harrison in it all day so that he might not anticipate us.
     Then, having given him the idea that the coast was clear, I kept
     guard as I have described. I already knew that the papers were
     probably in the room, but I had no desire to rip up all the planking
     and skirting in search of them. I let him take them, therefore, from
     the hiding-place, and so saved myself an infinity of trouble. Is
     there any other point which I can make clear?"

     "Why did he try the window on the first occasion," I asked, "when he
     might have entered by the door?"

     "In reaching the door he would have to pass seven bedrooms. On the
     other hand, he could get out on to the lawn with ease. Anything
     else?"

     "You do not think," asked Phelps, "that he had any murderous
     intention? The knife was only meant as a tool."

     "It may be so," answered Holmes, shrugging his shoulders. "I can only
     say for certain that Mr. Joseph Harrison is a gentleman to whose
     mercy I should be extremely unwilling to trust."






                                THE FINAL PROBLEM

     It is with a heavy heart that I take up my pen to write these the
     last words in which I shall ever record the singular gifts by which
     my friend Mr. Sherlock Holmes was distinguished.  In an incoherent
     and, as I deeply feel, an entirely inadequate fashion, I have
     endeavored to give some account of my strange experiences in his
     company from the chance which first brought us together at the period
     of the "Study in Scarlet," up to the time of his interference in the
     matter of the "Naval Treaty"--an interference which had the
     unquestionable effect of preventing a serious international
     complication.  It was my intention to have stopped there, and to have
     said nothing of that event which has created a void in my life which
     the lapse of two years has done little to fill.  My hand has been
     forced, however, by the recent letters in which Colonel James
     Moriarty defends the memory of his brother, and I have no choice but
     to lay the facts before the public exactly as they occurred.  I alone
     know the absolute truth of the matter, and I am satisfied that the
     time has come when no good purpose is to be served by its
     suppression.  As far as I know, there have been only three accounts
     in the public press:  that in the Journal de GenÃ¨ve on May 6th, 1891,
     the Reuter's despatch in the English papers on May 7th, and finally
     the recent letters to which I have alluded.  Of these the first and
     second were extremely condensed, while the last is, as I shall now
     show, an absolute perversion of the facts.  It lies with me to tell
     for the first time what really took place between Professor Moriarty
     and Mr. Sherlock Holmes.

     It may be remembered that after my marriage, and my subsequent start
     in private practice, the very intimate relations which had existed
     between Holmes and myself became to some extent modified.  He still
     came to me from time to time when he desired a companion in his
     investigation, but these occasions grew more and more seldom, until I
     find that in the year 1890 there were only three cases of which I
     retain any record.  During the winter of that year and the early
     spring of 1891, I saw in the papers that he had been engaged by the
     French government upon a matter of supreme importance, and I received
     two notes from Holmes, dated from Narbonne and from Nimes, from which
     I gathered that his stay in France was likely to be a long one.  It
     was with some surprise, therefore, that I saw him walk into my
     consulting-room upon the evening of April 24th.  It struck me that he
     was looking even paler and thinner than usual.

     "Yes, I have been using myself up rather too freely," he remarked, in
     answer to my look rather than to my words; "I have been a little
     pressed of late.  Have you any objection to my closing your
     shutters?"

     The only light in the room came from the lamp upon the table at which
     I had been reading.  Holmes edged his way round the wall and flinging
     the shutters together, he bolted them securely.

     "You are afraid of something?" I asked.

     "Well, I am."

     "Of what?"

     "Of air-guns."

     "My dear Holmes, what do you mean?"

     "I think that you know me well enough, Watson, to understand that I
     am by no means a nervous man.  At the same time, it is stupidity
     rather than courage to refuse to recognize danger when it is close
     upon you.  Might I trouble you for a match?"  He drew in the smoke of
     his cigarette as if the soothing influence was grateful to him.

     "I must apologize for calling so late," said he, "and I must further
     beg you to be so unconventional as to allow me to leave your house
     presently by scrambling over your back garden wall."

     "But what does it all mean?" I asked.

     He held out his hand, and I saw in the light of the lamp that two of
     his knuckles were burst and bleeding.

     "It is not an airy nothing, you see," said he, smiling.  "On the
     contrary, it is solid enough for a man to break his hand over.  Is
     Mrs. Watson in?"

     "She is away upon a visit."

     "Indeed!  You are alone?"

     "Quite."

     "Then it makes it the easier for me to propose that you should come
     away with me for a week to the Continent."

     "Where?"

     "Oh, anywhere.  It's all the same to me."

     There was something very strange in all this.  It was not Holmes's
     nature to take an aimless holiday, and something about his pale, worn
     face told me that his nerves were at their highest tension.  He saw
     the question in my eyes, and, putting his finger-tips together and
     his elbows upon his knees, he explained the situation.

     "You have probably never heard of Professor Moriarty?" said he.

     "Never."

     "Aye, there's the genius and the wonder of the thing!" he cried. 
     "The man pervades London, and no one has heard of him.  That's what
     puts him on a pinnacle in the records of crime.  I tell you, Watson,
     in all seriousness, that if I could beat that man, if I could free
     society of him, I should feel that my own career had reached its
     summit, and I should be prepared to turn to some more placid line in
     life.  Between ourselves, the recent cases in which I have been of
     assistance to the royal family of Scandinavia, and to the French
     republic, have left me in such a position that I could continue to
     live in the quiet fashion which is most congenial to me, and to
     concentrate my attention upon my chemical researches.  But I could
     not rest, Watson, I could not sit quiet in my chair, if I thought
     that such a man as Professor Moriarty were walking the streets of
     London unchallenged."

     "What has he done, then?"

     "His career has been an extraordinary one.  He is a man of good birth
     and excellent education, endowed by nature with a phenomenal
     mathematical faculty.  At the age of twenty-one he wrote a treatise
     upon the Binomial Theorem, which has had a European vogue.  On the
     strength of it he won the Mathematical Chair at one of our smaller
     universities, and had, to all appearance, a most brilliant career
     before him.  But the man had hereditary tendencies of the most
     diabolical kind.  A criminal strain ran in his blood, which, instead
     of being modified, was increased and rendered infinitely more
     dangerous by his extraordinary mental powers.  Dark rumors gathered
     round him in the university town, and eventually he was compelled to
     resign his chair and to come down to London, where he set up as an
     army coach.  So much is known to the world, but what I am telling you
     now is what I have myself discovered.

     "As you are aware, Watson, there is no one who knows the higher
     criminal world of London so well as I do.  For years past I have
     continually been conscious of some power behind the malefactor, some
     deep organizing power which forever stands in the way of the law, and
     throws its shield over the wrong-doer.  Again and again in cases of
     the most varying sorts--forgery cases, robberies, murders--I have
     felt the presence of this force, and I have deduced its action in
     many of those undiscovered crimes in which I have not been personally
     consulted.  For years I have endeavored to break through the veil
     which shrouded it, and at last the time came when I seized my thread
     and followed it, until it led me, after a thousand cunning windings,
     to ex-Professor Moriarty of mathematical celebrity.

     "He is the Napoleon of crime, Watson.  He is the organizer of half
     that is evil and of nearly all that is undetected in this great city.
      He is a genius, a philosopher, an abstract thinker.  He has a brain
     of the first order.  He sits motionless, like a spider in the center
     of its web, but that web has a thousand radiations, and he knows well
     every quiver of each of them.  He does little himself.  He only
     plans.  But his agents are numerous and splendidly organized.  Is
     there a crime to be done, a paper to be abstracted, we will say, a
     house to be rifled, a man to be removed--the word is passed to the
     Professor, the matter is organized and carried out.  The agent may be
     caught.  In that case money is found for his bail or his defence. 
     But the central power which uses the agent is never caught--never so
     much as suspected.  This was the organization which I deduced,
     Watson, and which I devoted my whole energy to exposing and breaking
     up.

     "But the Professor was fenced round with safeguards so cunningly
     devised that, do what I would, it seemed impossible to get evidence
     which would convict in a court of law.  You know my powers, my dear
     Watson, and yet at the end of three months I was forced to confess
     that I had at last met an antagonist who was my intellectual equal. 
     My horror at his crimes was lost in my admiration at his skill.  But
     at last he made a trip--only a little, little trip--but it was more
     than he could afford when I was so close upon him.  I had my chance,
     and, starting from that point, I have woven my net round him until
     now it is all ready to close.  In three days--that is to say, on
     Monday next--matters will be ripe, and the Professor, with all the
     principal members of his gang, will be in the hands of the police. 
     Then will come the greatest criminal trial of the century, the
     clearing up of over forty mysteries, and the rope for all of them;
     but if we move at all prematurely, you understand, they may slip out
     of our hands even at the last moment.

     "Now, if I could have done this without the knowledge of Professor
     Moriarty, all would have been well.  But he was too wily for that. 
     He saw every step which I took to draw my toils round him.  Again and
     again he strove to break away, but I as often headed him off.  I tell
     you, my friend, that if a detailed account of that silent contest
     could be written, it would take its place as the most brilliant bit
     of thrust-and-parry work in the history of detection.  Never have I
     risen to such a height, and never have I been so hard pressed by an
     opponent.  He cut deep, and yet I just undercut him.  This morning
     the last steps were taken, and three days only were wanted to
     complete the business.  I was sitting in my room thinking the matter
     over, when the door opened and Professor Moriarty stood before me.

     "My nerves are fairly proof, Watson, but I must confess to a start
     when I saw the very man who had been so much in my thoughts standing
     there on my threshold.  His appearance was quite familiar to me.  He
     is extremely tall and thin, his forehead domes out in a white curve,
     and his two eyes are deeply sunken in his head.  He is clean-shaven,
     pale, and ascetic-looking, retaining something of the professor in
     his features.  His shoulders are rounded from much study, and his
     face protrudes forward, and is forever slowly oscillating from side
     to side in a curiously reptilian fashion.  He peered at me with great
     curiosity in his puckered eyes.

     "'You have less frontal development that I should have expected,'
     said he, at last.  'It is a dangerous habit to finger loaded firearms
     in the pocket of one's dressing-gown.'

     "The fact is that upon his entrance I had instantly recognized the
     extreme personal danger in which I lay.  The only conceivable escape
     for him lay in silencing my tongue.  In an instant I had slipped the
     revolver from the drawer into my pocket, and was covering him through
     the cloth.  At his remark I drew the weapon out and laid it cocked
     upon the table.  He still smiled and blinked, but there was something
     about his eyes which made me feel very glad that I had it there.

     "'You evidently don't know me,' said he.

     "'On the contrary,' I answered, 'I think it is fairly evident that I
     do.  Pray take a chair.  I can spare you five minutes if you have
     anything to say.'

     "'All that I have to say has already crossed your mind,' said he.

     "'Then possibly my answer has crossed yours,' I replied.

     "'You stand fast?'

     "'Absolutely.'

     "He clapped his hand into his pocket, and I raised the pistol from
     the table.  But he merely drew out a memorandum-book in which he had
     scribbled some dates.

     "'You crossed my path on the 4th of January,' said he.  'On the 23d
     you incommoded me; by the middle of February I was seriously
     inconvenienced by you; at the end of March I was absolutely hampered
     in my plans; and now, at the close of April, I find myself placed in
     such a position through your continual persecution that I am in
     positive danger of losing my liberty.  The situation is becoming an
     impossible one.'

     "'Have you any suggestion to make?' I asked.

     "'You must drop it, Mr. Holmes,' said he, swaying his face about. 
     'You really must, you know.'

     "'After Monday,' said I.

     "'Tut, tut,' said he.  'I am quite sure that a man of your
     intelligence will see that there can be but one outcome to this
     affair.  It is necessary that you should withdraw.  You have worked
     things in such a fashion that we have only one resource left.  It has
     been an intellectual treat to me to see the way in which you have
     grappled with this affair, and I say, unaffectedly, that it would be
     a grief to me to be forced to take any extreme measure.  You smile,
     sir, but I assure you that it really would.'

     "'Danger is part of my trade,' I remarked.

     "'That is not danger,' said he.  'It is inevitable destruction.  You
     stand in the way not merely of an individual, but of a mighty
     organization, the full extent of which you, with all your cleverness,
     have been unable to realize.  You must stand clear, Mr. Holmes, or be
     trodden under foot.'

     "'I am afraid,' said I, rising, 'that in the pleasure of this
     conversation I am neglecting business of importance which awaits me
     elsewhere.'

     "He rose also and looked at me in silence, shaking his head sadly.

     "'Well, well,' said he, at last.  'It seems a pity, but I have done
     what I could.  I know every move of your game.  You can do nothing
     before Monday.  It has been a duel between you and me, Mr. Holmes. 
     You hope to place me in the dock.  I tell you that I will never stand
     in the dock.  You hope to beat me.  I tell you that you will never
     beat me.  If you are clever enough to bring destruction upon me, rest
     assured that I shall do as much to you.'

     "'You have paid me several compliments, Mr. Moriarty,' said I.  'Let
     me pay you one in return when I say that if I were assured of the
     former eventuality I would, in the interests of the public,
     cheerfully accept the latter.'

     "'I can promise you the one, but not the other,' he snarled, and so
     turned his rounded back upon me, and went peering and blinking out of
     the room.

     "That was my singular interview with Professor Moriarty.  I confess
     that it left an unpleasant effect upon my mind.  His soft, precise
     fashion of speech leaves a conviction of sincerity which a mere bully
     could not produce.  Of course, you will say:  'Why not take police
     precautions against him?'  the reason is that I am well convinced
     that it is from his agents the blow would fall.  I have the best
     proofs that it would be so."

     "You have already been assaulted?"

     "My dear Watson, Professor Moriarty is not a man who lets the grass
     grow under his feet.  I went out about mid-day to transact some
     business in Oxford Street.  As I passed the corner which leads from
     Bentinck Street on to the Welbeck Street crossing a two-horse van
     furiously driven whizzed round and was on me like a flash.  I sprang
     for the foot-path and saved myself by the fraction of a second.  The
     van dashed round by Marylebone Lane and was gone in an instant.  I
     kept to the pavement after that, Watson, but as I walked down Vere
     Street a brick came down from the roof of one of the houses, and was
     shattered to fragments at my feet.  I called the police and had the
     place examined.  There were slates and bricks piled up on the roof
     preparatory to some repairs, and they would have me believe that the
     wind had toppled over one of these.  Of course I knew better, but I
     could prove nothing.  I took a cab after that and reached my
     brother's rooms in Pall Mall, where I spent the day.  Now I have come
     round to you, and on my way I was attacked by a rough with a
     bludgeon.  I knocked him down, and the police have him in custody;
     but I can tell you with the most absolute confidence that no possible
     connection will ever be traced between the gentleman upon whose front
     teeth I have barked my knuckles and the retiring mathematical coach,
     who is, I dare say, working out problems upon a black-board ten miles
     away.  You will not wonder, Watson, that my first act on entering
     your rooms was to close your shutters, and that I have been compelled
     to ask your permission to leave the house by some less conspicuous
     exit than the front door."

     I had often admired my friend's courage, but never more than now, as
     he sat quietly checking off a series of incidents which must have
     combined to make up a day of horror.

     "You will spend the night here?" I said.

     "No, my friend, you might find me a dangerous guest.  I have my plans
     laid, and all will be well.  Matters have gone so far now that they
     can move without my help as far as the arrest goes, though my
     presence is necessary for a conviction.  It is obvious, therefore,
     that I cannot do better than get away for the few days which remain
     before the police are at liberty to act.  It would be a great
     pleasure to me, therefore, if you could come on to the Continent with
     me."

     "The practice is quiet," said I, "and I have an accommodating
     neighbor.  I should be glad to come."

     "And to start to-morrow morning?"

     "If necessary."

     "Oh yes, it is most necessary.  Then these are your instructions, and
     I beg, my dear Watson, that you will obey them to the letter, for you
     are now playing a double-handed game with me against the cleverest
     rogue and the most powerful syndicate of criminals in Europe.  Now
     listen!  You will dispatch whatever luggage you intend to take by a
     trusty messenger unaddressed to Victoria to-night.  In the morning
     you will send for a hansom, desiring your man to take neither the
     first nor the second which may present itself.  Into this hansom you
     will jump, and you will drive to the Strand end of the Lowther
     Arcade, handing the address to the cabman upon a slip of paper, with
     a request that he will not throw it away.  Have your fare ready, and
     the instant that your cab stops, dash through the Arcade, timing
     yourself to reach the other side at a quarter-past nine.  You will
     find a small brougham waiting close to the curb, driven by a fellow
     with a heavy black cloak tipped at the collar with red.  Into this
     you will step, and you will reach Victoria in time for the
     Continental express."

     "Where shall I meet you?"

     "At the station.  The second first-class carriage from the front will
     be reserved for us."

     "The carriage is our rendezvous, then?"

     "Yes."

     It was in vain that I asked Holmes to remain for the evening.  It was
     evident to me that he thought he might bring trouble to the roof he
     was under, and that that was the motive which impelled him to go. 
     With a few hurried words as to our plans for the morrow he rose and
     came out with me into the garden, clambering over the wall which
     leads into Mortimer Street, and immediately whistling for a hansom,
     in which I heard him drive away.

     In the morning I obeyed Holmes's injunctions to the letter.  A hansom
     was procured with such precaution as would prevent its being one
     which was placed ready for us, and I drove immediately after
     breakfast to the Lowther Arcade, through which I hurried at the top
     of my speed.  A brougham was waiting with a very massive driver
     wrapped in a dark cloak, who, the instant that I had stepped in,
     whipped up the horse and rattled off to Victoria Station.  On my
     alighting there he turned the carriage, and dashed away again without
     so much as a look in my direction.

     So far all had gone admirably.  My luggage was waiting for me, and I
     had no difficulty in finding the carriage which Holmes had indicated,
     the less so as it was the only one in the train which was marked
     "Engaged."  My only source of anxiety now was the non-appearance of
     Holmes.  The station clock marked only seven minutes from the time
     when we were due to start.  In vain I searched among the groups of
     travellers and leave-takers for the lithe figure of my friend.  There
     was no sign of him.  I spent a few minutes in assisting a venerable
     Italian priest, who was endeavoring to make a porter understand, in
     his broken English, that his luggage was to be booked through to
     Paris.  Then, having taken another look round, I returned to my
     carriage, where I found that the porter, in spite of the ticket, had
     given me my decrepit Italian friend as a traveling companion.  It was
     useless for me to explain to him that his presence was an intrusion,
     for my Italian was even more limited than his English, so I shrugged
     my shoulders resignedly, and continued to look out anxiously for my
     friend.  A chill of fear had come over me, as I thought that his
     absence might mean that some blow had fallen during the night. 
     Already the doors had all been shut and the whistle blown, when--

     "My dear Watson," said a voice, "you have not even condescended to
     say good-morning."

     I turned in uncontrollable astonishment.  The aged ecclesiastic had
     turned his face towards me.  For an instant the wrinkles were
     smoothed away, the nose drew away from the chin, the lower lip ceased
     to protrude and the mouth to mumble, the dull eyes regained their
     fire, the drooping figure expanded.  The next the whole frame
     collapsed again, and Holmes had gone as quickly as he had come.

     "Good heavens!" I cried; "how you startled me!"

     "Every precaution is still necessary," he whispered.  "I have reason
     to think that they are hot upon our trail.  Ah, there is Moriarty
     himself."

     The train had already begun to move as Holmes spoke.  Glancing back,
     I saw a tall man pushing his way furiously through the crowd, and
     waving his hand as if he desired to have the train stopped.  It was
     too late, however, for we were rapidly gathering momentum, and an
     instant later had shot clear of the station.

     "With all our precautions, you see that we have cut it rather fine,"
     said Holmes, laughing.  He rose, and throwing off the black cassock
     and hat which had formed his disguise, he packed them away in a
     hand-bag.

     "Have you seen the morning paper, Watson?"

     "No."

     "You haven't seen about Baker Street, then?"

     "Baker Street?"

     "They set fire to our rooms last night.  No great harm was done."

     "Good heavens, Holmes, this is intolerable!"

     "They must have lost my track completely after their bludgeon-man was
     arrested.  Otherwise they could not have imagined that I had returned
     to my rooms.  They have evidently taken the precaution of watching
     you, however, and that is what has brought Moriarty to Victoria.  You
     could not have made any slip in coming?"

     "I did exactly what you advised."

     "Did you find your brougham?"

     "Yes, it was waiting."

     "Did you recognize your coachman?"

     "No."

     "It was my brother Mycroft.  It is an advantage to get about in such
     a case without taking a mercenary into your confidence.  But we must
     plan what we are to do about Moriarty now."

     "As this is an express, and as the boat runs in connection with it, I
     should think we have shaken him off very effectively."

     "My dear Watson, you evidently did not realize my meaning when I said
     that this man may be taken as being quite on the same intellectual
     plane as myself.  You do not imagine that if I were the pursuer I
     should allow myself to be baffled by so slight an obstacle.  Why,
     then, should you think so meanly of him?"

     "What will he do?"

     "What I should do."

     "What would you do, then?"

     "Engage a special."

     "But it must be late."

     "By no means.  This train stops at Canterbury; and there is always at
     least a quarter of an hour's delay at the boat.  He will catch us
     there."

     "One would think that we were the criminals.  Let us have him
     arrested on his arrival."

     "It would be to ruin the work of three months.  We should get the big
     fish, but the smaller would dart right and left out of the net.  On
     Monday we should have them all.  No, an arrest is inadmissible."

     "What then?"

     "We shall get out at Canterbury."

     "And then?"

     "Well, then we must make a cross-country journey to Newhaven, and so
     over to Dieppe.  Moriarty will again do what I should do.  He will
     get on to Paris, mark down our luggage, and wait for two days at the
     depot.  In the meantime we shall treat ourselves to a couple of
     carpet-bags, encourage the manufactures of the countries through
     which we travel, and make our way at our leisure into Switzerland,
     via Luxembourg and Basle."

     At Canterbury, therefore, we alighted, only to find that we should
     have to wait an hour before we could get a train to Newhaven.

     I was still looking rather ruefully after the rapidly disappearing
     luggage-van which contained my wardrobe, when Holmes pulled my sleeve
     and pointed up the line.

     "Already, you see," said he.

     Far away, from among the Kentish woods there rose a thin spray of
     smoke.  A minute later a carriage and engine could be seen flying
     along the open curve which leads to the station.  We had hardly time
     to take our place behind a pile of luggage when it passed with a
     rattle and a roar, beating a blast of hot air into our faces.

     "There he goes," said Holmes, as we watched the carriage swing and
     rock over the point. "There are limits, you see, to our friend's
     intelligence.  It would have been a coup-de-maÃ®tre had he deduced
     what I would deduce and acted accordingly."

     "And what would he have done had he overtaken us?"

     "There cannot be the least doubt that he would have made a murderous
     attack upon me.  It is, however, a game at which two may play.  The
     question now is whether we should take a premature lunch here, or run
     our chance of starving before we reach the buffet at Newhaven."

     We made our way to Brussels that night and spent two days there,
     moving on upon the third day as far as Strasburg.  On the Monday
     morning Holmes had telegraphed to the London police, and in the
     evening we found a reply waiting for us at our hotel.  Holmes tore it
     open, and then with a bitter curse hurled it into the grate.

     "I might have known it!" he groaned.  "He has escaped!"

     "Moriarty?"

     "They have secured the whole gang with the exception of him.  He has
     given them the slip.  Of course, when I had left the country there
     was no one to cope with him.  But I did think that I had put the game
     in their hands.  I think that you had better return to England,
     Watson."

     "Why?"

     "Because you will find me a dangerous companion now.  This man's
     occupation is gone.  He is lost if he returns to London.  If I read
     his character right he will devote his whole energies to revenging
     himself upon me.  He said as much in our short interview, and I fancy
     that he meant it.  I should certainly recommend you to return to your
     practice."

     It was hardly an appeal to be successful with one who was an old
     campaigner as well as an old friend.  We sat in the Strasbourg
     salle-Ã -manger arguing the question for half an hour, but the same
     night we had resumed our journey and were well on our way to Geneva.

     For a charming week we wandered up the Valley of the Rhone, and then,
     branching off at Leuk, we made our way over the Gemmi Pass, still
     deep in snow, and so, by way of Interlaken, to Meiringen.  It was a
     lovely trip, the dainty green of the spring below, the virgin white
     of the winter above; but it was clear to me that never for one
     instant did Holmes forget the shadow which lay across him.  In the
     homely Alpine villages or in the lonely mountain passes, I could tell
     by his quick glancing eyes and his sharp scrutiny of every face that
     passed us, that he was well convinced that, walk where we would, we
     could not walk ourselves clear of the danger which was dogging our
     footsteps.

     Once, I remember, as we passed over the Gemmi, and walked along the
     border of the melancholy Daubensee, a large rock which had been
     dislodged from the ridge upon our right clattered down and roared
     into the lake behind us.  In an instant Holmes had raced up on to the
     ridge, and, standing upon a lofty pinnacle, craned his neck in every
     direction.  It was in vain that our guide assured him that a fall of
     stones was a common chance in the spring-time at that spot.  He said
     nothing, but he smiled at me with the air of a man who sees the
     fulfillment of that which he had expected.

     And yet for all his watchfulness he was never depressed.  On the
     contrary, I can never recollect having seen him in such exuberant
     spirits.  Again and again he recurred to the fact that if he could be
     assured that society was freed from Professor Moriarty he would
     cheerfully bring his own career to a conclusion.

     "I think that I may go so far as to say, Watson, that I have not
     lived wholly in vain," he remarked.  "If my record were closed
     to-night I could still survey it with equanimity.  The air of London
     is the sweeter for my presence.  In over a thousand cases I am not
     aware that I have ever used my powers upon the wrong side.  Of late I
     have been tempted to look into the problems furnished by nature
     rather than those more superficial ones for which our artificial
     state of society is responsible.  Your memoirs will draw to an end,
     Watson, upon the day that I crown my career by the capture or
     extinction of the most dangerous and capable criminal in Europe."

     I shall be brief, and yet exact, in the little which remains for me
     to tell.  It is not a subject on which I would willingly dwell, and
     yet I am conscious that a duty devolves upon me to omit no detail.

     It was on the third of May that we reached the little village of
     Meiringen, where we put up at the Englischer Hof, then kept by Peter
     Steiler the elder.  Our landlord was an intelligent  man, and spoke
     excellent English, having served for three years as waiter at the
     Grosvenor Hotel in London.  At his advice, on the afternoon of the
     fourth we set off together, with the intention of crossing the hills
     and spending the night at the hamlet of Rosenlaui.  We had strict
     injunctions, however, on no account to pass the falls of Reichenbach,
     which are about half-way up the hill, without making a small detour
     to see them.

     It is, indeed, a fearful place.  The torrent, swollen by the melting
     snow, plunges into a tremendous abyss, from which the spray rolls up
     like the smoke from a burning house.  The shaft into which the river
     hurls itself is an immense chasm, lined by glistening coal-black
     rock, and narrowing into a creaming, boiling pit of incalculable
     depth, which brims over and shoots the stream onward over its jagged
     lip.  The long sweep of green water roaring forever down, and the
     thick flickering curtain of spray hissing forever upward, turn a man
     giddy with their constant whirl and clamor.  We stood near the edge
     peering down at the gleam of the breaking water far below us against
     the black rocks, and listening to the half-human shout which came
     booming up with the spray out of the abyss.

     The path has been cut half-way round the fall to afford a complete
     view, but it ends abruptly, and the traveler has to return as he
     came.  We had turned to do so, when we saw a Swiss lad come running
     along it with a letter in his hand.  It bore the mark of the hotel
     which we had just left, and was addressed to me by the landlord.  It
     appeared that within a very few minutes of our leaving, an English
     lady had arrived who was in the last stage of consumption.  She had
     wintered at Davos Platz, and was journeying now to join her friends
     at Lucerne, when a sudden hemorrhage had overtaken her.  It was
     thought that she could hardly live a few hours, but it would be a
     great consolation to her to see an English doctor, and, if I would
     only return, etc.  The good Steiler assured me in a postscript that
     he would himself look upon my compliance as a very great favor, since
     the lady absolutely refused to see a Swiss physician, and he could
     not but feel that he was incurring a great responsibility.

     The appeal was one which could not be ignored.  It was impossible to
     refuse the request of a fellow-countrywoman dying in a strange land. 
     Yet I had my scruples about leaving Holmes.  It was finally agreed,
     however, that he should retain the young Swiss messenger with him as
     guide and companion while I returned to Meiringen.  My friend would
     stay some little time at the fall, he said, and would then walk
     slowly over the hill to Rosenlaui, where I was to rejoin him in the
     evening.  As I turned away I saw Holmes, with his back against a rock
     and his arms folded, gazing down at the rush of the waters.  It was
     the last that I was ever destined to see of him in this world.

     When I was near the bottom of the descent I looked back.  It was
     impossible, from that position, to see the fall, but I could see the
     curving path which winds over the shoulder of the hill and leads to
     it.  Along this a man was, I remember, walking very rapidly.

     I could see his black figure clearly outlined against the green
     behind him.  I noted him, and the energy with which he walked but he
     passed from my mind again as I hurried on upon my errand.

     It may have been a little over an hour before I reached Meiringen. 
     Old Steiler was standing at the porch of his hotel.

     "Well," said I, as I came hurrying up, "I trust that she is no
     worse?"

     A look of surprise passed over his face, and at the first quiver of
     his eyebrows my heart turned to lead in my breast.

     "You did not write this?" I said, pulling the letter from my pocket. 
     "There is no sick Englishwoman in the hotel?"

     "Certainly not!" he cried.  "But it has the hotel mark upon it!  Ha,
     it must have been written by that tall Englishman who came in after
     you had gone.  He said--"

     But I waited for none of the landlord's explanations.  In a tingle of
     fear I was already running down the village street, and making for
     the path which I had so lately descended.  It had taken me an hour to
     come down.  For all my efforts two more had passed before I found
     myself at the fall of Reichenbach once more.  There was Holmes's
     Alpine-stock still leaning against the rock by which I had left him. 
     But there was no sign of him, and it was in vain that I shouted.  My
     only answer was my own voice reverberating in a rolling echo from the
     cliffs around me.

     It was the sight of that Alpine-stock which turned me cold and sick. 
     He had not gone to Rosenlaui, then.  He had remained on that
     three-foot path, with sheer wall on one side and sheer drop on the
     other, until his enemy had overtaken him.  The young Swiss had gone
     too.  He had probably been in the pay of Moriarty, and had left the
     two men together.  And then what had happened?  Who was to tell us
     what had happened then?

     I stood for a minute or two to collect myself, for I was dazed with
     the horror of the thing.  Then I began to think of Holmes's own
     methods and to try to practise them in reading this tragedy.  It was,
     alas, only too easy to do.  During our conversation we had not gone
     to the end of the path, and the Alpine-stock marked the place where
     we had stood.  The blackish soil is kept forever soft by the
     incessant drift of spray, and a bird would leave its tread upon it. 
     Two lines of footmarks were clearly marked along the farther end of
     the path, both leading away from me.  There were none returning.  A
     few yards from the end the soil was all ploughed up into a patch of
     mud, and the branches and ferns which fringed the chasm were torn and
     bedraggled.  I lay upon my face and peered over with the spray
     spouting up all around me.  It had darkened since I left, and now I
     could only see here and there the glistening of moisture upon the
     black walls, and far away down at the end of the shaft the gleam of
     the broken water.  I shouted; but only the same half-human cry of the
     fall was borne back to my ears.

     But it was destined that I should after all have a last word of
     greeting from my friend and comrade.  I have said that his
     Alpine-stock had been left leaning against a rock which jutted on to
     the path.  From the top of this boulder the gleam of something bright
     caught my eye, and, raising my hand, I found that it came from the
     silver cigarette-case which he used to carry.  As I took it up a
     small square of paper upon which it had lain fluttered down on to the
     ground.  Unfolding it, I found that it consisted of three pages torn
     from his note-book and addressed to me.  It was characteristic of the
     man that the direction was as precise, and the writing as firm and
     clear, as though it had been written in his study.

     My dear Watson [it said]:
     I write these few lines through the courtesy of Mr. Moriarty, who
     awaits my convenience for the final discussion of those questions
     which lie between us.  He has been giving me a sketch of the methods
     by which he avoided the English police and kept himself informed of
     our movements.  They certainly confirm the very high opinion which I
     had formed of his abilities.  I am pleased to think that I shall be
     able to free society from any further effects of his presence, though
     I fear that it is at a cost which will give pain to my friends, and
     especially, my dear Watson, to you.  I have already explained to you,
     however, that my career had in any case reached its crisis, and that
     no possible conclusion to it could be more congenial to me than this.
      Indeed, if I may make a full confession to you, I was quite
     convinced that the letter from Meiringen was a hoax, and I allowed
     you to depart on that errand under the persuasion that some
     development of this sort would follow.  Tell Inspector Patterson that
     the papers which he needs to convict the gang are in pigeonhole M.,
     done up in a blue envelope and inscribed "Moriarty."  I made every
     disposition of my property before leaving England, and handed it to
     my brother Mycroft.  Pray give my greetings to Mrs. Watson, and
     believe me to be, my dear fellow,
     Very sincerely yours,
     Sherlock Holmes

     A few words may suffice to tell the little that remains.  An
     examination by experts leaves little doubt that a personal contest
     between the two men ended, as it could hardly fail to end in such a
     situation, in their reeling over, locked in each other's arms.  Any
     attempt at recovering the bodies was absolutely hopeless, and there,
     deep down in that dreadful cauldron of swirling water and seething
     foam, will lie for all time the most dangerous criminal and the
     foremost champion of the law of their generation.  The Swiss youth
     was never found again, and there can be no doubt that he was one of
     the numerous agents whom Moriarty kept in his employ.  As to the
     gang, it will be within the memory of the public how completely the
     evidence which Holmes had accumulated exposed their organization, and
     how heavily the hand of the dead man weighed upon them.  Of their
     terrible chief few details came out during the proceedings, and if I
     have now been compelled to make a clear statement of his career it is
     due to those injudicious champions who have endeavored to clear his
     memory by attacks upon him whom I shall ever regard as the best and
     the wisest man whom I have ever known.






                          THE RETURN OF SHERLOCK HOLMES





                        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 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 jail happy if I knew that you were working
     for me outside."

     "Arrest you!" said Holmes. "This is really most grati--most
     interesting. On what charge do you expect to be arrested?"

     "Upon the charge of murdering Mr. Jonas Oldacre, of Lower Norwood."

     My companion's expressive face showed a sympathy which was not, I am
     afraid, entirely unmixed with satisfaction.

     "Dear me," said he; "it was only this moment at breakfast that I was
     saying to my friend, Dr. Watson, that sensational cases had
     disappeared out of our papers."

     Our visitor stretched forward a quivering hand and picked up the
     Daily Telegraph, which still lay upon Holmes's knee.

     "If you had looked at it, sir, you would have seen at a glance what
     the errand is on which I have come to you this morning. I feel as if
     my name and my misfortune must be in every man's mouth." He turned it
     over to expose the central page. "Here it is, and with your
     permission I will read it to you. Listen to this, Mr. Holmes. The
     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 jail in
     the dead of the night in order to strengthen the evidence against
     himself," said Lestrade. "I leave it to any expert in the world
     whether that is not the mark of his thumb."

     "It is unquestionably the mark of his thumb."

     "There, that's enough," said Lestrade. "I am a practical man, Mr.
     Holmes, and when I have got my evidence I come to my conclusions. If
     you have anything to say you will find me writing my report in the
     sitting-room."

     Holmes had recovered his equanimity, though I still seemed to detect
     gleams of amusement in his expression.

     "Dear me, this is a very sad development, Watson, is it not?" said
     he. "And yet there are singular points about it which hold out some
     hopes for our client."

     "I am delighted to hear it," said I, heartily. "I was afraid it was
     all up with him."

     "I would hardly go so far as to say that, my dear Watson. The fact is
     that there is one really serious flaw in this evidence to which our
     friend attaches so much importance."

     "Indeed, Holmes! What is it?"

     "Only this: that I know that that mark was not there when I examined
     the hall yesterday. And now, Watson, let us have a little stroll
     round in the sunshine."

     With a confused brain, but with a heart into which some warmth of
     hope was returning, I accompanied my friend in a walk round the
     garden. Holmes took each face of the house in turn and examined it
     with great interest. He then led the way inside and went over the
     whole building from basement to 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 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 Ridling 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:--

     [ Picture: Picture of several figures of dancing men, some holding
     flags ]

     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:--

     [ Picture: Picture of a few dancing men ]

     "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":--

     [ Picture: Picture of some more dancing man figures ]

     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:--

     [ Picture: Picture of five dancing men figures ]

     "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:--

     [ Picture: Picture of many dancing men figures ]

     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 jail. The boy who takes this note could no doubt forward your
     telegram. If there is an afternoon train to town, Watson, I think we
     should do well to take it, as I have a chemical analysis of some
     interest to finish, and this investigation draws rapidly to a close."

     When the youth had been dispatched with the note, Sherlock Holmes
     gave his instructions to the servants. If any visitor were to call
     asking for Mrs. Hilton Cubitt no information should be given as to
     her condition, but he was to be shown at once into the drawing-room.
     He impressed these points upon them with the utmost earnestness.
     Finally he led the way into the drawing-room with the remark that the
     business was now out of our hands, and that we must while away the
     time as best we might until we could see what was in store for us.
     The doctor had departed to his patients, and only the inspector and
     myself remained.

     "I think that I can help you to pass an hour in an interesting and
     profitable manner," said Holmes, drawing his chair up to the table
     and spreading out in front of him the various papers upon which were
     recorded the antics of the dancing men. "As to you, friend Watson, I
     owe you every atonement for having allowed your natural curiosity to
     remain so long unsatisfied. To you, inspector, the whole incident may
     appeal as a remarkable professional study. I must tell you first of
     all the interesting circumstances connected with the previous
     consultations which Mr. Hilton Cubitt has had with me in Baker
     Street." He then shortly recapitulated the facts which have already
     been recorded. "I have here in front of me these singular
     productions, at which one might smile had they not proved themselves
     to be the 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

     [ Picture: Picture of a single dancing man ]

     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

     [ Picture: Picture of a single dancing man ]

     "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

     [ Picture: Picture of three dancing men ]

     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:--

     [ Picture: Picture of various dancing men ]

     "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 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 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 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.

     "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."

     [ Picture: Chart of the surrounding area ]

     "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 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 'S.S.. 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 ADVENTURE OF CHARLES AUGUSTUS MILVERTON

     It is years since the incidents of which I speak took place, and yet
     it is with diffidence that I allude to them. For a long time, even
     with the utmost discretion and reticence, it would have been
     impossible to make the facts public; but now the principal person
     concerned is beyond the reach of human law, and with due suppression
     the story may be told in such fashion as to injure no one. It records
     an absolutely unique experience in the career both of Mr. Sherlock
     Holmes and of myself. The reader will excuse me if I conceal the date
     or any other fact by which he might trace the actual occurrence.

     We had been out for one of our evening rambles, Holmes and I, and had
     returned about six o'clock on a cold, frosty winter's evening. As
     Holmes turned up the lamp the light fell upon a card on the table. He
     glanced at it, and then, with an ejaculation of disgust, threw it on
     the floor. I picked it up and read:--

                                        
                             Charles Augustus Milverton,
                                        
                                  Appledore Towers,
                                        
                                     Hampstead.
                                        
                                       Agent.
                                         

     "Who is he?" I asked.

     "The worst man in London," Holmes answered, as he sat down and
     stretched his legs before the fire. "Is anything on the back of the
     card?"

     I turned it over.

     "Will call at 6.30--C.A.M.," I read.

     "Hum! He's about due. Do you feel a creeping, shrinking sensation,
     Watson, when you stand before the serpents in the Zoo and see the
     slithery, gliding, venomous creatures, with their deadly eyes and
     wicked, flattened faces? Well, that's how Milverton impresses me.
     I've had to do with fifty murderers in my career, but the worst of
     them never gave me the repulsion which I have for this fellow. And
     yet I can't get out of doing business with him--indeed, he is here at
     my invitation."

     "But who is he?"

     "I'll tell you, Watson. He is the king of all the blackmailers.
     Heaven help the man, and still more the woman, whose secret and
     reputation come into the power of Milverton. With a smiling face and
     a heart of marble he will squeeze and squeeze until he has drained
     them dry. The fellow is a genius in his way, and would have made his
     mark in some more savoury trade. His method is as follows: He allows
     it to be known that he is prepared to pay very high sums for letters
     which compromise people of wealth 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 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 'idÃ©e 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
     idÃ©e 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 idÃ©e 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 & 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 &
     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 &
     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 jail--once for a petty theft and once, as we
     had already heard, for stabbing a fellow-countryman. He could talk
     English perfectly well. His reasons for destroying the busts were
     still unknown, and he refused to answer any questions upon the
     subject; but the police had discovered that these same busts might
     very well have been made by his own hands, since he was engaged in
     this class of work at the establishment of Gelder & Co. To all this
     information, much of which we already knew, Holmes listened with
     polite attention; but I, who knew him so well, could clearly see that
     his thoughts were elsewhere, and I detected a mixture of mingled
     uneasiness and expectation beneath that mask which he was wont to
     assume. At last he started in his chair and his eyes brightened.
     There had been a ring at the bell. A minute later we heard steps upon
     the stairs, and an elderly, red-faced man with grizzled side-whiskers
     was ushered in. In his right hand he carried an old-fashioned
     carpet-bag, which he placed upon the table.

     "Is Mr. Sherlock Holmes here?"

     My friend bowed and smiled. "Mr. Sandeford, of Reading, I suppose?"
     said he.

     "Yes, sir, I fear that I am a little late; but the trains were
     awkward. You wrote to me about a bust that is in my possession."

     "Exactly."

     "I have your letter here. You said, 'I desire to possess a copy of
     Devine's Napoleon, and am prepared to pay you ten pounds for the one
     which is in your possession.' Is that right?"

     "Certainly."

     "I was very much surprised at your letter, for I could not imagine
     how you knew that I owned such a thing."

     "Of course you must have been surprised, but the explanation is very
     simple. Mr. Harding, of Harding Brothers, said that they had sold you
     their last copy, and he gave me your address."

     "Oh, that was it, was it? Did he tell you what I paid for it?"

     "No, he did not."

     "Well, I am an honest man, though not a very rich one. I only gave
     fifteen shillings for the bust, and I think you ought to know that
     before I take ten pounds from you."

     "I am sure the scruple does you honour, Mr. Sandeford. But I have
     named that price, so I intend to stick to it."

     "Well, it is very handsome of you, Mr. Holmes. I brought the bust up
     with me, as you asked me to do. Here it is!" He opened his bag, and
     at last we saw placed upon our table a complete specimen of that bust
     which we had already seen more than once in fragments.

     Holmes took a paper from his pocket and laid a ten-pound note upon
     the table.

     "You will kindly sign that paper, Mr. Sandeford, in the presence of
     these witnesses. It is simply to say that you transfer every possible
     right that you ever had in the bust to me. I am a methodical man, you
     see, and you never know what turn events might take afterwards. Thank
     you, Mr. Sandeford; here is your money, and I wish you a very good
     evening."

     When our visitor had disappeared Sherlock Holmes's movements were
     such as to rivet our attention. He began by taking a clean white
     cloth from a drawer and laying it over the table. Then he placed his
     newly-acquired bust in the centre of the cloth. Finally, he picked up
     his hunting-crop and struck Napoleon a sharp blow on the top of the
     head. The figure broke into fragments, and Holmes bent eagerly over
     the shattered remains. Next instant, with a loud shout of triumph, he
     held up one splinter, in which a round, dark object was fixed like a
     plum in a pudding.

     "Gentlemen," he cried, "let me introduce you to the famous black
     pearl of the Borgias."

     Lestrade and I sat silent for a moment, and then, with a spontaneous
     impulse, we both broke 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 & Co., of Stepney. You will remember, Lestrade, the
     sensation caused by the disappearance of this valuable jewel, and the
     vain efforts of the London police to recover it. I was myself
     consulted upon the case; but I was unable to throw any light upon it.
     Suspicion fell upon the maid of the Princess, who was an Italian, and
     it was proved that she had a brother in London, but we failed to
     trace any connection between them. The maid's name was Lucretia
     Venucci, and there is no doubt in my mind that this Pietro who was
     murdered two nights ago was the brother. I have been looking up the
     dates in the old files of the paper, and I find that the
     disappearance of the pearl was exactly two days before the arrest of
     Beppo for some crime of violence, an event which took place in the
     factory of Gelder & Co., at the very moment when these busts were
     being made. Now you clearly see the sequence of events, though you
     see them, of course, in the inverse order to the way in which they
     presented themselves to me. Beppo had the pearl in his possession. He
     may have stolen it from Pietro, he may have been Pietro's
     confederate, he may have been the go-between of Pietro and his
     sister. It is of no consequence to us which is the correct solution.

     "The main fact is that he had the pearl, and at that moment, when it
     was on his person, he was pursued by the police. He made for the
     factory in which he worked, and he knew that he had only a few
     minutes in which to conceal this enormously valuable prize, which
     would otherwise be found on him when he was searched. Six plaster
     casts of Napoleon were drying in the passage. One of them was still
     soft. In an instant Beppo, a skilful workman, made a small hole in
     the wet plaster, dropped in the pearl, and with a few touches covered
     over the aperture once more. It was an admirable hiding-place. No one
     could possibly find it. But Beppo was condemned to a year's
     imprisonment, and in the meanwhile his six busts were scattered over
     London. He could not tell which contained his treasure. Only by
     breaking them could he see. Even shaking would tell him nothing, for
     as the plaster was wet it was probable that the pearl would adhere to
     it--as, in fact, it has done. Beppo did not despair, and he conducted
     his search with considerable ingenuity and perseverance. Through a
     cousin who works with Gelder he found out the retail firms who had
     bought the busts. He managed to find employment with Morse Hudson,
     and in that way tracked down three of them. The pearl was not there.
     Then, with the help of some Italian employe, he succeeded in finding
     out where the other three busts had gone. The first was at Harker's.
     There he was dogged by his confederate, who held Beppo responsible
     for the loss of the pearl, and he stabbed him in the scuffle which
     followed."

     "If he was his confederate why should he carry his photograph?" I
     asked.

     "As a means of tracing him if he wished to inquire about him from any
     third person. That was the obvious reason. Well, after the murder I
     calculated that Beppo would probably hurry rather than delay his
     movements. He would fear that the police would read his secret, and
     so he hastened on before they should get ahead of him. Of course, I
     could not say that he had not found the pearl in Harker's bust. I had
     not even concluded for certain that it was the pearl; but it was
     evident to me that he was looking for something, since he carried the
     bust past the other houses in order to break it in the garden which
     had a lamp overlooking it. Since Harker's bust was one in three the
     chances were exactly as I told you, two to one against the pearl
     being inside it. There remained two busts, and it was obvious that he
     would go for the London one first. I warned the inmates of the house,
     so as to avoid a second tragedy, and we went down with the happiest
     results. By that time, of course, I knew for certain that it was the
     Borgia pearl that we were after. The name of the murdered man linked
     the one event with the other. There only remained a single bust--the
     Reading one--and the pearl must be there. I bought it in your
     presence from the owner--and there it lies."

     We sat in silence for a moment.

     "Well," said Lestrade, "I've seen you handle a good many cases, Mr.
     Holmes, but I don't know that I ever knew a more workmanlike one than
     that. We're not jealous of you at Scotland Yard. No, sir, we are very
     proud of you, and if you come down to-morrow there's not a man, from
     the oldest inspector to the youngest constable, who wouldn't be glad
     to shake you by the hand."

     "Thank you!" said Holmes. "Thank you!" and as he turned away it
     seemed to me that he was more nearly moved by the softer human
     emotions than I had ever seen him. A moment later he was the cold and
     practical thinker once more. "Put the pearl in the safe, Watson,"
     said he, "and get out the papers of the Conk-Singleton forgery case.
     Good-bye, Lestrade. If any little problem comes your way I shall be
     happy, if I can, to give you a hint or two as to its solution."






                       THE ADVENTURE OF THE THREE STUDENTS

     It was in the year '95 that a combination of events, into which I
     need not enter, caused Mr. Sherlock Holmes and myself to spend some
     weeks in one of our great University towns, and it was during this
     time that the small but instructive adventure which I am about to
     relate befell us. It will be obvious that any details which would
     help the reader 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 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 galoshes, 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.

     [ Picture: Sketch of the building's room and corridors ]

     "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 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:

     [ Picture: Several unreadable scrawls on paper ]

     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:

     [ Picture: Stand by us for Godâ€™s sake! ]

     "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 dÃ©tour 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 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 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 illtreating 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 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.


                          THE HOUND OF THE BASKERVILLES


     Mr. Sherlock Holmes, who was usually very late in the mornings, save
     upon those not infrequent occasions when he was up all night, was
     seated at the breakfast table. I stood upon the hearth-rug and picked
     up the stick which our visitor had left behind him the night before.
     It was a fine, thick piece of wood, bulbous-headed, of the sort which
     is known as a "Penang lawyer." Just under the head was a broad silver
     band nearly an inch across. "To James Mortimer, M.R.C.S., from his
     friends of the C.C.H.," was engraved upon it, with the date "1884."
     It was just such a stick as the old-fashioned family practitioner
     used to carry--dignified, solid, and reassuring.

     "Well, Watson, what do you make of it?"

     Holmes was sitting with his back to me, and I had given him no sign
     of my occupation.

     "How did you know what I was doing? I believe you have eyes in the
     back of your head."

     "I have, at least, a well-polished, silver-plated coffee-pot in front
     of me," said he. "But, tell me, Watson, what do you make of our
     visitor's stick? Since we have been so unfortunate as to miss him and
     have no notion of his errand, this accidental souvenir becomes of
     importance. Let me hear you reconstruct the man by an examination of
     it."

     "I think," said I, following as far as I could the methods of my
     companion, "that Dr. Mortimer is a successful, elderly medical man,
     well-esteemed since those who know him give him this mark of their
     appreciation."

     "Good!" said Holmes. "Excellent!"

     "I think also that the probability is in favour of his being a
     country practitioner who does a great deal of his visiting on foot."

     "Why so?"

     "Because this stick, though originally a very handsome one has been
     so knocked about that I can hardly imagine a town practitioner
     carrying it. The thick-iron ferrule is worn down, so it is evident
     that he has done a great amount of walking with it."

     "Perfectly sound!" said Holmes.

     "And then again, there is the 'friends of the C.C.H.' I should guess
     that to be the Something Hunt, the local hunt to whose members he has
     possibly given some surgical assistance, and which has made him a
     small presentation in return."

     "Really, Watson, you excel yourself," said Holmes, pushing back his
     chair and lighting a cigarette. "I am bound to say that in all the
     accounts which you have been so good as to give of my own small
     achievements you have habitually underrated your own abilities. It
     may be that you are not yourself luminous, but you are a conductor of
     light. Some people without possessing genius have a remarkable power
     of stimulating it. I confess, my dear fellow, that I am very much in
     your debt."

     He had never said as much before, and I must admit that his words
     gave me keen pleasure, for I had often been piqued by his
     indifference to my admiration and to the attempts which I had made to
     give publicity to his methods. I was proud, too, to think that I had
     so far mastered his system as to apply it in a way which earned his
     approval. He now took the stick from my hands and examined it for a
     few minutes with his naked eyes. Then with an expression of interest
     he laid down his cigarette, and carrying the cane to the window, he
     looked over it again with a convex lens.

     "Interesting, though elementary," said he as he returned to his
     favourite corner of the settee. "There are certainly one or two
     indications upon the stick. It gives us the basis for several
     deductions."

     "Has anything escaped me?" I asked with some self-importance. "I
     trust that there is nothing of consequence which I have overlooked?"

     "I am afraid, my dear Watson, that most of your conclusions were
     erroneous. When I said that you stimulated me I meant, to be frank,
     that in noting your fallacies I was occasionally guided towards the
     truth. Not that you are entirely wrong in this instance. The man is
     certainly a country practitioner. And he walks a good deal."

     "Then I was right."

     "To that extent."

     "But that was all."

     "No, no, my dear Watson, not all--by no means all. I would suggest,
     for example, that a presentation to a doctor is more likely to come
     from a hospital than from a hunt, and that when the initials 'C.C.'
     are placed before that hospital the words 'Charing Cross' very
     naturally suggest themselves."

     "You may be right."

     "The probability lies in that direction. And if we take this as a
     working hypothesis we have a fresh basis from which to start our
     construction of this unknown visitor."

     "Well, then, supposing that 'C.C.H.' does stand for 'Charing Cross
     Hospital,' what further inferences may we draw?"

     "Do none suggest themselves? You know my methods. Apply them!"

     "I can only think of the obvious conclusion that the man has
     practised in town before going to the country."

     "I think that we might venture a little farther than this. Look at it
     in this light. On what occasion would it be most probable that such a
     presentation would be made? When would his friends unite to give him
     a pledge of their good will? Obviously at the moment when Dr.
     Mortimer withdrew from the service of the hospital in order to start
     in practice for himself. We know there has been a presentation. We
     believe there has been a change from a town hospital to a country
     practice. Is it, then, stretching our inference too far to say that
     the presentation was on the occasion of the change?"

     "It certainly seems probable."

     "Now, you will observe that he could not have been on the staff of
     the hospital, since only a man well-established in a London practice
     could hold such a position, and such a one would not drift into the
     country. What was he, then? If he was in the hospital and yet not on
     the staff he could only have been a house-surgeon or a
     house-physician--little more than a senior student. And he left five
     years ago--the date is on the stick. So your grave, middle-aged
     family practitioner vanishes into thin air, my dear Watson, and there
     emerges a young fellow under thirty, amiable, unambitious,
     absent-minded, and the possessor of a favourite dog, which I should
     describe roughly as being larger than a terrier and smaller than a
     mastiff."

     I laughed incredulously as Sherlock Holmes leaned back in his settee
     and blew little wavering rings of smoke up to the ceiling.

     "As to the latter part, I have no means of checking you," said I,
     "but at least it is not difficult to find out a few particulars about
     the man's age and professional career." From my small medical shelf I
     took down the Medical Directory and turned up the name. There were
     several Mortimers, but only one who could be our visitor. I read his
     record aloud.

     "Mortimer, James, M.R.C.S., 1882, Grimpen, Dartmoor, Devon.
     House-surgeon, from 1882 to 1884, at Charing Cross Hospital. Winner
     of the Jackson prize for Comparative Pathology, with essay entitled
     'Is Disease a Reversion?' Corresponding member of the Swedish
     Pathological Society. Author of 'Some Freaks of Atavism' (Lancet
     1882). 'Do We Progress?' (Journal of Psychology, March, 1883).
     Medical Officer for the parishes of Grimpen, Thorsley, and High
     Barrow."

     "No mention of that local hunt, Watson," said Holmes with a
     mischievous smile, "but a country doctor, as you very astutely
     observed. I think that I am fairly justified in my inferences. As to
     the adjectives, I said, if I remember right, amiable, unambitious,
     and absent-minded. It is my experience that it is only an amiable man
     in this world who receives testimonials, only an unambitious one who
     abandons a London career for the country, and only an absent-minded
     one who leaves his stick and not his visiting-card after waiting an
     hour in your room."

     "And the dog?"

     "Has been in the habit of carrying this stick behind his master.
     Being a heavy stick the dog has held it tightly by the middle, and
     the marks of his teeth are very plainly visible. The dog's jaw, as
     shown in the space between these marks, is too broad in my opinion
     for a terrier and not broad enough for a mastiff. It may have
     been--yes, by Jove, it is a curly-haired spaniel."

     He had risen and paced the room as he spoke. Now he halted in the
     recess of the window. There was such a ring of conviction in his
     voice that I glanced up in surprise.

     "My dear fellow, how can you possibly be so sure of that?"

     "For the very simple reason that I see the dog himself on our very
     door-step, and there is the ring of its owner. Don't move, I beg you,
     Watson. He is a professional brother of yours, and your presence may
     be of assistance to me. Now is the dramatic moment of fate, Watson,
     when you hear a step upon the stair which is walking into your life,
     and you know not whether for good or ill. What does Dr. James
     Mortimer, the man of science, ask of Sherlock Holmes, the specialist
     in crime? Come in!"

     The appearance of our visitor was a surprise to me, since I had
     expected a typical country practitioner. He was a very tall, thin
     man, with a long nose like a beak, which jutted out between two keen,
     gray eyes, set closely together and sparkling brightly from behind a
     pair of gold-rimmed glasses. He was clad in a professional but rather
     slovenly fashion, for his frock-coat was dingy and his trousers
     frayed. Though young, his long back was already bowed, and he walked
     with a forward thrust of his head and a general air of peering
     benevolence. As he entered his eyes fell upon the stick in Holmes's
     hand, and he ran towards it with an exclamation of joy. "I am so very
     glad," said he. "I was not sure whether I had left it here or in the
     Shipping Office. I would not lose that stick for the world."

     "A presentation, I see," said Holmes.

     "Yes, sir."

     "From Charing Cross Hospital?"

     "From one or two friends there on the occasion of my marriage."

     "Dear, dear, that's bad!" said Holmes, shaking his head.

     Dr. Mortimer blinked through his glasses in mild astonishment.

     "Why was it bad?"

     "Only that you have disarranged our little deductions. Your marriage,
     you say?"

     "Yes, sir. I married, and so left the hospital, and with it all hopes
     of a consulting practice. It was necessary to make a home of my own."

     "Come, come, we are not so far wrong, after all," said Holmes. "And
     now, Dr. James Mortimer--"

     "Mister, sir, Mister--a humble M.R.C.S."

     "And a man of precise mind, evidently."

     "A dabbler in science, Mr. Holmes, a picker up of shells on the
     shores of the great unknown ocean. I presume that it is Mr. Sherlock
     Holmes whom I am addressing and not--"

     "No, this is my friend Dr. Watson."

     "Glad to meet you, sir. I have heard your name mentioned in
     connection with that of your friend. You interest me very much, Mr.
     Holmes. I had hardly expected so dolichocephalic a skull or such
     well-marked supra-orbital development. Would you have any objection
     to my running my finger along your parietal fissure? A cast of your
     skull, sir, until the original is available, would be an ornament to
     any anthropological museum. It is not my intention to be fulsome, but
     I confess that I covet your skull."

     Sherlock Holmes waved our strange visitor into a chair. "You are an
     enthusiast in your line of thought, I perceive, sir, as I am in
     mine," said he. "I observe from your forefinger that you make your
     own cigarettes. Have no hesitation in lighting one."

     The man drew out paper and tobacco and twirled the one up in the
     other with surprising dexterity. He had long, quivering fingers as
     agile and restless as the antennae of an insect.

     Holmes was silent, but his little darting glances showed me the
     interest which he took in our curious companion.

     "I presume, sir," said he at last, "that it was not merely for the
     purpose of examining my skull that you have done me the honour to
     call here last night and again to-day?"

     "No, sir, no; though I am happy to have had the opportunity of doing
     that as well. I came to you, Mr. Holmes, because I recognized that I
     am myself an unpractical man and because I am suddenly confronted
     with a most serious and extraordinary problem. Recognizing, as I do,
     that you are the second highest expert in Europe--"

     "Indeed, sir! May I inquire who has the honour to be the first?"
     asked Holmes with some asperity.

     "To the man of precisely scientific mind the work of Monsieur
     Bertillon must always appeal strongly."

     "Then had you not better consult him?"

     "I said, sir, to the precisely scientific mind. But as a practical
     man of affairs it is acknowledged that you stand alone. I trust, sir,
     that I have not inadvertently--"

     "Just a little," said Holmes. "I think, Dr. Mortimer, you would do
     wisely if without more ado you would kindly tell me plainly what the
     exact nature of the problem is in which you demand my assistance."

     "I have in my pocket a manuscript," said Dr. James Mortimer.

     "I observed it as you entered the room," said Holmes.

     "It is an old manuscript."

     "Early eighteenth century, unless it is a forgery."

     "How can you say that, sir?"

     "You have presented an inch or two of it to my examination all the
     time that you have been talking. It would be a poor expert who could
     not give the date of a document within a decade or so. You may
     possibly have read my little monograph upon the subject. I put that
     at 1730."

     "The exact date is 1742." Dr. Mortimer drew it from his
     breast-pocket. "This family paper was committed to my care by Sir
     Charles Baskerville, whose sudden and tragic death some three months
     ago created so much excitement in Devonshire. I may say that I was
     his personal friend as well as his medical attendant. He was a
     strong-minded man, sir, shrewd, practical, and as unimaginative as I
     am myself. Yet he took this document very seriously, and his mind was
     prepared for just such an end as did eventually overtake him."

     Holmes stretched out his hand for the manuscript and flattened it
     upon his knee.

     "You will observe, Watson, the alternative use of the long s and the
     short. It is one of several indications which enabled me to fix the
     date."

     I looked over his shoulder at the yellow paper and the faded script.
     At the head was written: "Baskerville Hall," and below in large,
     scrawling figures: "1742."

     "It appears to be a statement of some sort."

     "Yes, it is a statement of a certain legend which runs in the
     Baskerville family."

     "But I understand that it is something more modern and practical upon
     which you wish to consult me?"

     "Most modern. A most practical, pressing matter, which must be
     decided within twenty-four hours. But the manuscript is short and is
     intimately connected with the affair. With your permission I will
     read it to you."

     Holmes leaned back in his chair, placed his finger-tips together, and
     closed his eyes, with an air of resignation. Dr. Mortimer turned the
     manuscript to the light and read in a high, cracking voice the
     following curious, old-world narrative:--

     "Of the origin of the Hound of the Baskervilles there have been many
     statements, yet as I come in a direct line from Hugo Baskerville, and
     as I had the story from my father, who also had it from his, I have
     set it down with all belief that it occurred even as is here set
     forth. And I would have you believe, my sons, that the same Justice
     which punishes sin may also most graciously forgive it, and that no
     ban is so heavy but that by prayer and repentance it may be removed.
     Learn then from this story not to fear the fruits of the past, but
     rather to be circumspect in the future, that those foul passions
     whereby our family has suffered so grievously may not again be loosed
     to our undoing.

     "Know then that in the time of the Great Rebellion (the history of
     which by the learned Lord Clarendon I most earnestly commend to your
     attention) this Manor of Baskerville was held by Hugo of that name,
     nor can it be gainsaid that he was a most wild, profane, and godless
     man. This, in truth, his neighbours might have pardoned, seeing that
     saints have never flourished in those parts, but there was in him a
     certain wanton and cruel humour which made his name a byword through
     the West. It chanced that this Hugo came to love (if, indeed, so dark
     a passion may be known under so bright a name) the daughter of a
     yeoman who held lands near the Baskerville estate. But the young
     maiden, being discreet and of good repute, would ever avoid him, for
     she feared his evil name. So it came to pass that one Michaelmas this
     Hugo, with five or six of his idle and wicked companions, stole down
     upon the farm and carried off the maiden, her father and brothers
     being from home, as he well knew. When they had brought her to the
     Hall the maiden was placed in an upper chamber, while Hugo and his
     friends sat down to a long carouse, as was their nightly custom. Now,
     the poor lass upstairs was like to have her wits turned at the
     singing and shouting and terrible oaths which came up to her from
     below, for they say that the words used by Hugo Baskerville, when he
     was in wine, were such as might blast the man who said them. At last
     in the stress of her fear she did that which might have daunted the
     bravest or most active man, for by the aid of the growth of ivy which
     covered (and still covers) the south wall she came down from under
     the eaves, and so homeward across the moor, there being three leagues
     betwixt the Hall and her father's farm.

     "It chanced that some little time later Hugo left his guests to carry
     food and drink--with other worse things, perchance--to his captive,
     and so found the cage empty and the bird escaped. Then, as it would
     seem, he became as one that hath a devil, for, rushing down the
     stairs into the dining-hall, he sprang upon the great table, flagons
     and trenchers flying before him, and he cried aloud before all the
     company that he would that very night render his body and soul to the
     Powers of Evil if he might but overtake the wench. And while the
     revellers stood aghast at the fury of the man, one more wicked or, it
     may be, more drunken than the rest, cried out that they should put
     the hounds upon her. Whereat Hugo ran from the house, crying to his
     grooms that they should saddle his mare and unkennel the pack, and
     giving the hounds a kerchief of the maid's, he swung them to the
     line, and so off full cry in the moonlight over the moor.

     "Now, for some space the revellers stood agape, unable to understand
     all that had been done in such haste. But anon their bemused wits
     awoke to the nature of the deed which was like to be done upon the
     moorlands. Everything was now in an uproar, some calling for their
     pistols, some for their horses, and some for another flask of wine.
     But at length some sense came back to their crazed minds, and the
     whole of them, thirteen in number, took horse and started in pursuit.
     The moon shone clear above them, and they rode swiftly abreast,
     taking that course which the maid must needs have taken if she were
     to reach her own home.

     "They had gone a mile or two when they passed one of the night
     shepherds upon the moorlands, and they cried to him to know if he had
     seen the hunt. And the man, as the story goes, was so crazed with
     fear that he could scarce speak, but at last he said that he had
     indeed seen the unhappy maiden, with the hounds upon her track. 'But
     I have seen more than that,' said he, 'for Hugo Baskerville passed me
     upon his black mare, and there ran mute behind him such a hound of
     hell as God forbid should ever be at my heels.' So the drunken
     squires cursed the shepherd and rode onward. But soon their skins
     turned cold, for there came a galloping across the moor, and the
     black mare, dabbled with white froth, went past with trailing bridle
     and empty saddle. Then the revellers rode close together, for a great
     fear was on them, but they still followed over the moor, though each,
     had he been alone, would have been right glad to have turned his
     horse's head. Riding slowly in this fashion they came at last upon
     the hounds. These, though known for their valour and their breed,
     were whimpering in a cluster at the head of a deep dip or goyal, as
     we call it, upon the moor, some slinking away and some, with starting
     hackles and staring eyes, gazing down the narrow valley before them.

     "The company had come to a halt, more sober men, as you may guess,
     than when they started. The most of them would by no means advance,
     but three of them, the boldest, or it may be the most drunken, rode
     forward down the goyal. Now, it opened into a broad space in which
     stood two of those great stones, still to be seen there, which were
     set by certain forgotten peoples in the days of old. The moon was
     shining bright upon the clearing, and there in the centre lay the
     unhappy maid where she had fallen, dead of fear and of fatigue. But
     it was not the sight of her body, nor yet was it that of the body of
     Hugo Baskerville lying near her, which raised the hair upon the heads
     of these three daredevil roysterers, but it was that, standing over
     Hugo, and plucking at his throat, there stood a foul thing, a great,
     black beast, shaped like a hound, yet larger than any hound that ever
     mortal eye has rested upon. And even as they looked the thing tore
     the throat out of Hugo Baskerville, on which, as it turned its
     blazing eyes and dripping jaws upon them, the three shrieked with
     fear and rode for dear life, still screaming, across the moor. One,
     it is said, died that very night of what he had seen, and the other
     twain were but broken men for the rest of their days.

     "Such is the tale, my sons, of the coming of the hound which is said
     to have plagued the family so sorely ever since. If I have set it
     down it is because that which is clearly known hath less terror than
     that which is but hinted at and guessed. Nor can it be denied that
     many of the family have been unhappy in their deaths, which have been
     sudden, bloody, and mysterious. Yet may we shelter ourselves in the
     infinite goodness of Providence, which would not forever punish the
     innocent beyond that third or fourth generation which is threatened
     in Holy Writ. To that Providence, my sons, I hereby commend you, and
     I counsel you by way of caution to forbear from crossing the moor in
     those dark hours when the powers of evil are exalted.

     "[This from Hugo Baskerville to his sons Rodger and John, with
     instructions that they say nothing thereof to their sister
     Elizabeth.]"

     When Dr. Mortimer had finished reading this singular narrative he
     pushed his spectacles up on his forehead and stared across at Mr.
     Sherlock Holmes. The latter yawned and tossed the end of his
     cigarette into the fire.

     "Well?" said he.

     "Do you not find it interesting?"

     "To a collector of fairy tales."

     Dr. Mortimer drew a folded newspaper out of his pocket.

     "Now, Mr. Holmes, we will give you something a little more recent.
     This is the Devon County Chronicle of May 14th of this year. It is a
     short account of the facts elicited at the death of Sir Charles
     Baskerville which occurred a few days before that date."

     My friend leaned a little forward and his expression became intent.
     Our visitor readjusted his glasses and began:--

     "The recent sudden death of Sir Charles Baskerville, whose name has
     been mentioned as the probable Liberal candidate for Mid-Devon at the
     next election, has cast a gloom over the county. Though Sir Charles
     had resided at Baskerville Hall for a comparatively short period his
     amiability of character and extreme generosity had won the affection
     and respect of all who had been brought into contact with him. In
     these days of nouveaux riches it is refreshing to find a case where
     the scion of an old county family which has fallen upon evil days is
     able to make his own fortune and to bring it back with him to restore
     the fallen grandeur of his line. Sir Charles, as is well known, made
     large sums of money in South African speculation. More wise than
     those who go on until the wheel turns against them, he realized his
     gains and returned to England with them. It is only two years since
     he took up his residence at Baskerville Hall, and it is common talk
     how large were those schemes of reconstruction and improvement which
     have been interrupted by his death. Being himself childless, it was
     his openly expressed desire that the whole country-side should,
     within his own lifetime, profit by his good fortune, and many will
     have personal reasons for bewailing his untimely end. His generous
     donations to local and county charities have been frequently
     chronicled in these columns.

     "The circumstances connected with the death of Sir Charles cannot be
     said to have been entirely cleared up by the inquest, but at least
     enough has been done to dispose of those rumours to which local
     superstition has given rise. There is no reason whatever to suspect
     foul play, or to imagine that death could be from any but natural
     causes. Sir Charles was a widower, and a man who may be said to have
     been in some ways of an eccentric habit of mind. In spite of his
     considerable wealth he was simple in his personal tastes, and his
     indoor servants at Baskerville Hall consisted of a married couple
     named Barrymore, the husband acting as butler and the wife as
     housekeeper. Their evidence, corroborated by that of several friends,
     tends to show that Sir Charles's health has for some time been
     impaired, and points especially to some affection of the heart,
     manifesting itself in changes of colour, breathlessness, and acute
     attacks of nervous depression. Dr. James Mortimer, the friend and
     medical attendant of the deceased, has given evidence to the same
     effect.

     "The facts of the case are simple. Sir Charles Baskerville was in the
     habit every night before going to bed of walking down the famous Yew
     Alley of Baskerville Hall. The evidence of the Barrymores shows that
     this had been his custom. On the 4th of May Sir Charles had declared
     his intention of starting next day for London, and had ordered
     Barrymore to prepare his luggage. That night he went out as usual for
     his nocturnal walk, in the course of which he was in the habit of
     smoking a cigar. He never returned. At twelve o'clock Barrymore,
     finding the hall door still open, became alarmed, and, lighting a
     lantern, went in search of his master. The day had been wet, and Sir
     Charles's footmarks were easily traced down the Alley. Half-way down
     this walk there is a gate which leads out on to the moor. There were
     indications that Sir Charles had stood for some little time here. He
     then proceeded down the Alley, and it was at the far end of it that
     his body was discovered. One fact which has not been explained is the
     statement of Barrymore that his master's footprints altered their
     character from the time that he passed the moor-gate, and that he
     appeared from thence onward to have been walking upon his toes. One
     Murphy, a gipsy horse-dealer, was on the moor at no great distance at
     the time, but he appears by his own confession to have been the worse
     for drink. He declares that he heard cries, but is unable to state
     from what direction they came. No signs of violence were to be
     discovered upon Sir Charles's person, and though the doctor's
     evidence pointed to an almost incredible facial distortion--so great
     that Dr. Mortimer refused at first to believe that it was indeed his
     friend and patient who lay before him--it was explained that that is
     a symptom which is not unusual in cases of dyspnoea and death from
     cardiac exhaustion. This explanation was borne out by the post-mortem
     examination, which showed long-standing organic disease, and the
     coroner's jury returned a verdict in accordance with the medical
     evidence. It is well that this is so, for it is obviously of the
     utmost importance that Sir Charles's heir should settle at the Hall
     and continue the good work which has been so sadly interrupted. Had
     the prosaic finding of the coroner not finally put an end to the
     romantic stories which have been whispered in connection with the
     affair, it might have been difficult to find a tenant for Baskerville
     Hall. It is understood that the next of kin is Mr. Henry Baskerville,
     if he be still alive, the son of Sir Charles Baskerville's younger
     brother. The young man when last heard of was in America, and
     inquiries are being instituted with a view to informing him of his
     good fortune."

     Dr. Mortimer refolded his paper and replaced it in his pocket.

     "Those are the public facts, Mr. Holmes, in connection with the death
     of Sir Charles Baskerville."

     "I must thank you," said Sherlock Holmes, "for calling my attention
     to a case which certainly presents some features of interest. I had
     observed some newspaper comment at the time, but I was exceedingly
     preoccupied by that little affair of the Vatican cameos, and in my
     anxiety to oblige the Pope I lost touch with several interesting
     English cases. This article, you say, contains all the public facts?"

     "It does."

     "Then let me have the private ones." He leaned back, put his
     finger-tips together, and assumed his most impassive and judicial
     expression.

     "In doing so," said Dr. Mortimer, who had begun to show signs of some
     strong emotion, "I am telling that which I have not confided to
     anyone. My motive for withholding it from the coroner's inquiry is
     that a man of science shrinks from placing himself in the public
     position of seeming to indorse a popular superstition. I had the
     further motive that Baskerville Hall, as the paper says, would
     certainly remain untenanted if anything were done to increase its
     already rather grim reputation. For both these reasons I thought that
     I was justified in telling rather less than I knew, since no
     practical good could result from it, but with you there is no reason
     why I should not be perfectly frank.

     "The moor is very sparsely inhabited, and those who live near each
     other are thrown very much together. For this reason I saw a good
     deal of Sir Charles Baskerville. With the exception of Mr. Frankland,
     of Lafter Hall, and Mr. Stapleton, the naturalist, there are no other
     men of education within many miles. Sir Charles was a retiring man,
     but the chance of his illness brought us together, and a community of
     interests in science kept us so. He had brought back much scientific
     information from South Africa, and many a charming evening we have
     spent together discussing the comparative anatomy of the Bushman and
     the Hottentot.

     "Within the last few months it became increasingly plain to me that
     Sir Charles's nervous system was strained to the breaking point. He
     had taken this legend which I have read you exceedingly to heart--so
     much so that, although he would walk in his own grounds, nothing
     would induce him to go out upon the moor at night. Incredible as it
     may appear to you, Mr. Holmes, he was honestly convinced that a
     dreadful fate overhung his family, and certainly the records which he
     was able to give of his ancestors were not encouraging. The idea of
     some ghastly presence constantly haunted him, and on more than one
     occasion he has asked me whether I had on my medical journeys at
     night ever seen any strange creature or heard the baying of a hound.
     The latter question he put to me several times, and always with a
     voice which vibrated with excitement.

     "I can well remember driving up to his house in the evening some
     three weeks before the fatal event. He chanced to be at his hall
     door. I had descended from my gig and was standing in front of him,
     when I saw his eyes fix themselves over my shoulder, and stare past
     me with an expression of the most dreadful horror. I whisked round
     and had just time to catch a glimpse of something which I took to be
     a large black calf passing at the head of the drive. So excited and
     alarmed was he that I was compelled to go down to the spot where the
     animal had been and look around for it. It was gone, however, and the
     incident appeared to make the worst impression upon his mind. I
     stayed with him all the evening, and it was on that occasion, to
     explain the emotion which he had shown, that he confided to my
     keeping that narrative which I read to you when first I came. I
     mention this small episode because it assumes some importance in view
     of the tragedy which followed, but I was convinced at the time that
     the matter was entirely trivial and that his excitement had no
     justification.

     "It was at my advice that Sir Charles was about to go to London. His
     heart was, I knew, affected, and the constant anxiety in which he
     lived, however chimerical the cause of it might be, was evidently
     having a serious effect upon his health. I thought that a few months
     among the distractions of town would send him back a new man. Mr.
     Stapleton, a mutual friend who was much concerned at his state of
     health, was of the same opinion. At the last instant came this
     terrible catastrophe.

     "On the night of Sir Charles's death Barrymore the butler, who made
     the discovery, sent Perkins the groom on horseback to me, and as I
     was sitting up late I was able to reach Baskerville Hall within an
     hour of the event. I checked and corroborated all the facts which
     were mentioned at the inquest. I followed the footsteps down the Yew
     Alley, I saw the spot at the moor-gate where he seemed to have
     waited, I remarked the change in the shape of the prints after that
     point, I noted that there were no other footsteps save those of
     Barrymore on the soft gravel, and finally I carefully examined the
     body, which had not been touched until my arrival. Sir Charles lay on
     his face, his arms out, his fingers dug into the ground, and his
     features convulsed with some strong emotion to such an extent that I
     could hardly have sworn to his identity. There was certainly no
     physical injury of any kind. But one false statement was made by
     Barrymore at the inquest. He said that there were no traces upon the
     ground round the body. He did not observe any. But I did--some little
     distance off, but fresh and clear."

     "Footprints?"

     "Footprints."

     "A man's or a woman's?"

     Dr. Mortimer looked strangely at us for an instant, and his voice
     sank almost to a whisper as he answered:--

     "Mr. Holmes, they were the footprints of a gigantic hound!"

     I confess at these words a shudder passed through me. There was a
     thrill in the doctor's voice which showed that he was himself deeply
     moved by that which he told us. Holmes leaned forward in his
     excitement and his eyes had the hard, dry glitter which shot from
     them when he was keenly interested.

     "You saw this?"

     "As clearly as I see you."

     "And you said nothing?"

     "What was the use?"

     "How was it that no one else saw it?"

     "The marks were some twenty yards from the body and no one gave them
     a thought. I don't suppose I should have done so had I not known this
     legend."

     "There are many sheep-dogs on the moor?"

     "No doubt, but this was no sheep-dog."

     "You say it was large?"

     "Enormous."

     "But it had not approached the body?"

     "No."

     "What sort of night was it?"

     "Damp and raw."

     "But not actually raining?"

     "No."

     "What is the Alley like?"

     "There are two lines of old yew hedge, twelve feet high and
     impenetrable. The walk in the centre is about eight feet across."

     "Is there anything between the hedges and the walk?"

     "Yes, there is a strip of grass about six feet broad on either side."

     "I understand that the yew hedge is penetrated at one point by a
     gate?"

     "Yes, the wicket-gate which leads on to the moor."

     "Is there any other opening?"

     "None."

     "So that to reach the Yew Alley one either has to come down it from
     the house or else to enter it by the moor-gate?"

     "There is an exit through a summer-house at the far end."

     "Had Sir Charles reached this?"

     "No; he lay about fifty yards from it."

     "Now, tell me, Dr. Mortimer--and this is important--the marks which
     you saw were on the path and not on the grass?"

     "No marks could show on the grass."

     "Were they on the same side of the path as the moor-gate?"

     "Yes; they were on the edge of the path on the same side as the
     moor-gate."

     "You interest me exceedingly. Another point. Was the wicket-gate
     closed?"

     "Closed and padlocked."

     "How high was it?"

     "About four feet high."

     "Then anyone could have got over it?"

     "Yes."

     "And what marks did you see by the wicket-gate?"

     "None in particular."

     "Good heaven! Did no one examine?"

     "Yes, I examined myself."

     "And found nothing?"

     "It was all very confused. Sir Charles had evidently stood there for
     five or ten minutes."

     "How do you know that?"

     "Because the ash had twice dropped from his cigar."

     "Excellent! This is a colleague, Watson, after our own heart. But the
     marks?"

     "He had left his own marks all over that small patch of gravel. I
     could discern no others."

     Sherlock Holmes struck his hand against his knee with an impatient
     gesture.

     "If I had only been there!" he cried. "It is evidently a case of
     extraordinary interest, and one which presented immense opportunities
     to the scientific expert. That gravel page upon which I might have
     read so much has been long ere this smudged by the rain and defaced
     by the clogs of curious peasants. Oh, Dr. Mortimer, Dr. Mortimer, to
     think that you should not have called me in! You have indeed much to
     answer for."

     "I could not call you in, Mr. Holmes, without disclosing these facts
     to the world, and I have already given my reasons for not wishing to
     do so. Besides, besides--"

     "Why do you hesitate?"

     "There is a realm in which the most acute and most experienced of
     detectives is helpless."

     "You mean that the thing is supernatural?"

     "I did not positively say so."

     "No, but you evidently think it."

     "Since the tragedy, Mr. Holmes, there have come to my ears several
     incidents which are hard to reconcile with the settled order of
     Nature."

     "For example?"

     "I find that before the terrible event occurred several people had
     seen a creature upon the moor which corresponds with this Baskerville
     demon, and which could not possibly be any animal known to science.
     They all agreed that it was a huge creature, luminous, ghastly, and
     spectral. I have cross-examined these men, one of them a hard-headed
     countryman, one a farrier, and one a moorland farmer, who all tell
     the same story of this dreadful apparition, exactly corresponding to
     the hell-hound of the legend. I assure you that there is a reign of
     terror in the district, and that it is a hardy man who will cross the
     moor at night."

     "And you, a trained man of science, believe it to be supernatural?"

     "I do not know what to believe."

     Holmes shrugged his shoulders.

     "I have hitherto confined my investigations to this world," said he.
     "In a modest way I have combated evil, but to take on the Father of
     Evil himself would, perhaps, be too ambitious a task. Yet you must
     admit that the footmark is material."

     "The original hound was material enough to tug a man's throat out,
     and yet he was diabolical as well."

     "I see that you have quite gone over to the supernaturalists. But
     now, Dr. Mortimer, tell me this. If you hold these views, why have
     you come to consult me at all? You tell me in the same breath that it
     is useless to investigate Sir Charles's death, and that you desire me
     to do it."

     "I did not say that I desired you to do it."

     "Then, how can I assist you?"

     "By advising me as to what I should do with Sir Henry Baskerville,
     who arrives at Waterloo Station"--Dr. Mortimer looked at his
     watch--"in exactly one hour and a quarter."

     "He being the heir?"

     "Yes. On the death of Sir Charles we inquired for this young
     gentleman and found that he had been farming in Canada. From the
     accounts which have reached us he is an excellent fellow in every
     way. I speak not as a medical man but as a trustee and executor of
     Sir Charles's will."

     "There is no other claimant, I presume?"

     "None. The only other kinsman whom we have been able to trace was
     Rodger Baskerville, the youngest of three brothers of whom poor Sir
     Charles was the elder. The second brother, who died young, is the
     father of this lad Henry. The third, Rodger, was the black sheep of
     the family. He came of the old masterful Baskerville strain, and was
     the very image, they tell me, of the family picture of old Hugo. He
     made England too hot to hold him, fled to Central America, and died
     there in 1876 of yellow fever. Henry is the last of the Baskervilles.
     In one hour and five minutes I meet him at Waterloo Station. I have
     had a wire that he arrived at Southampton this morning. Now, Mr.
     Holmes, what would you advise me to do with him?"

     "Why should he not go to the home of his fathers?"

     "It seems natural, does it not? And yet, consider that every
     Baskerville who goes there meets with an evil fate. I feel sure that
     if Sir Charles could have spoken with me before his death he would
     have warned me against bringing this, the last of the old race, and
     the heir to great wealth, to that deadly place. And yet it cannot be
     denied that the prosperity of the whole poor, bleak country-side
     depends upon his presence. All the good work which has been done by
     Sir Charles will crash to the ground if there is no tenant of the
     Hall. I fear lest I should be swayed too much by my own obvious
     interest in the matter, and that is why I bring the case before you
     and ask for your advice."

     Holmes considered for a little time.

     "Put into plain words, the matter is this," said he. "In your opinion
     there is a diabolical agency which makes Dartmoor an unsafe abode for
     a Baskerville--that is your opinion?"

     "At least I might go the length of saying that there is some evidence
     that this may be so."

     "Exactly. But surely, if your supernatural theory be correct, it
     could work the young man evil in London as easily as in Devonshire. A
     devil with merely local powers like a parish vestry would be too
     inconceivable a thing."

     "You put the matter more flippantly, Mr. Holmes, than you would
     probably do if you were brought into personal contact with these
     things. Your advice, then, as I understand it, is that the young man
     will be as safe in Devonshire as in London. He comes in fifty
     minutes. What would you recommend?"

     "I recommend, sir, that you take a cab, call off your spaniel who is
     scratching at my front door, and proceed to Waterloo to meet Sir
     Henry Baskerville."

     "And then?"

     "And then you will say nothing to him at all until I have made up my
     mind about the matter."

     "How long will it take you to make up your mind?"

     "Twenty-four hours. At ten o'clock to-morrow, Dr. Mortimer, I will be
     much obliged to you if you will call upon me here, and it will be of
     help to me in my plans for the future if you will bring Sir Henry
     Baskerville with you."

     "I will do so, Mr. Holmes." He scribbled the appointment on his
     shirtcuff and hurried off in his strange, peering, absent-minded
     fashion. Holmes stopped him at the head of the stair.

     "Only one more question, Dr. Mortimer. You say that before Sir
     Charles Baskerville's death several people saw this apparition upon
     the moor?"

     "Three people did."

     "Did any see it after?"

     "I have not heard of any."

     "Thank you. Good morning."

     Holmes returned to his seat with that quiet look of inward
     satisfaction which meant that he had a congenial task before him.

     "Going out, Watson?"

     "Unless I can help you."

     "No, my dear fellow, it is at the hour of action that I turn to you
     for aid. But this is splendid, really unique from some points of
     view. When you pass Bradley's, would you ask him to send up a pound
     of the strongest shag tobacco? Thank you. It would be as well if you
     could make it convenient not to return before evening. Then I should
     be very glad to compare impressions as to this most interesting
     problem which has been submitted to us this morning."

     I knew that seclusion and solitude were very necessary for my friend
     in those hours of intense mental concentration during which he
     weighed every particle of evidence, constructed alternative theories,
     balanced one against the other, and made up his mind as to which
     points were essential and which immaterial. I therefore spent the day
     at my club and did not return to Baker Street until evening. It was
     nearly nine o'clock when I found myself in the sitting-room once
     more.

     My first impression as I opened the door was that a fire had broken
     out, for the room was so filled with smoke that the light of the lamp
     upon the table was blurred by it. As I entered, however, my fears
     were set at rest, for it was the acrid fumes of strong coarse tobacco
     which took me by the throat and set me coughing. Through the haze I
     had a vague vision of Holmes in his dressing-gown coiled up in an
     armchair with his black clay pipe between his lips. Several rolls of
     paper lay around him.

     "Caught cold, Watson?" said he.

     "No, it's this poisonous atmosphere."

     "I suppose it is pretty thick, now that you mention it."

     "Thick! It is intolerable."

     "Open the window, then! You have been at your club all day, I
     perceive."

     "My dear Holmes!"

     "Am I right?"

     "Certainly, but how?"

     He laughed at my bewildered expression.

     "There is a delightful freshness about you, Watson, which makes it a
     pleasure to exercise any small powers which I possess at your
     expense. A gentleman goes forth on a showery and miry day. He returns
     immaculate in the evening with the gloss still on his hat and his
     boots. He has been a fixture therefore all day. He is not a man with
     intimate friends. Where, then, could he have been? Is it not
     obvious?"

     "Well, it is rather obvious."

     "The world is full of obvious things which nobody by any chance ever
     observes. Where do you think that I have been?"

     "A fixture also."

     "On the contrary, I have been to Devonshire."

     "In spirit?"

     "Exactly. My body has remained in this arm-chair and has, I regret to
     observe, consumed in my absence two large pots of coffee and an
     incredible amount of tobacco. After you left I sent down to
     Stamford's for the Ordnance map of this portion of the moor, and my
     spirit has hovered over it all day. I flatter myself that I could
     find my way about."

     "A large scale map, I presume?"

     "Very large." He unrolled one section and held it over his knee.
     "Here you have the particular district which concerns us. That is
     Baskerville Hall in the middle."

     "With a wood round it?"

     "Exactly. I fancy the Yew Alley, though not marked under that name,
     must stretch along this line, with the moor, as you perceive, upon
     the right of it. This small clump of buildings here is the hamlet of
     Grimpen, where our friend Dr. Mortimer has his headquarters. Within a
     radius of five miles there are, as you see, only a very few scattered
     dwellings. Here is Lafter Hall, which was mentioned in the narrative.
     There is a house indicated here which may be the residence of the
     naturalist--Stapleton, if I remember right, was his name. Here are
     two moorland farm-houses, High Tor and Foulmire. Then fourteen miles
     away the great convict prison of Princetown. Between and around these
     scattered points extends the desolate, lifeless moor. This, then, is
     the stage upon which tragedy has been played, and upon which we may
     help to play it again."

     "It must be a wild place."

     "Yes, the setting is a worthy one. If the devil did desire to have a
     hand in the affairs of men--"

     "Then you are yourself inclining to the supernatural explanation."

     "The devil's agents may be of flesh and blood, may they not? There
     are two questions waiting for us at the outset. The one is whether
     any crime has been committed at all; the second is, what is the crime
     and how was it committed? Of course, if Dr. Mortimer's surmise should
     be correct, and we are dealing with forces outside the ordinary laws
     of Nature, there is an end of our investigation. But we are bound to
     exhaust all other hypotheses before falling back upon this one. I
     think we'll shut that window again, if you don't mind. It is a
     singular thing, but I find that a concentrated atmosphere helps a
     concentration of thought. I have not pushed it to the length of
     getting into a box to think, but that is the logical outcome of my
     convictions. Have you turned the case over in your mind?"

     "Yes, I have thought a good deal of it in the course of the day."

     "What do you make of it?"

     "It is very bewildering."

     "It has certainly a character of its own. There are points of
     distinction about it. That change in the footprints, for example.
     What do you make of that?"

     "Mortimer said that the man had walked on tiptoe down that portion of
     the alley."

     "He only repeated what some fool had said at the inquest. Why should
     a man walk on tiptoe down the alley?"

     "What then?"

     "He was running, Watson--running desperately, running for his life,
     running until he burst his heart and fell dead upon his face."

     "Running from what?"

     "There lies our problem. There are indications that the man was
     crazed with fear before ever he began to run."

     "How can you say that?"

     "I am presuming that the cause of his fears came to him across the
     moor. If that were so, and it seems most probable, only a man who had
     lost his wits would have run from the house instead of towards it. If
     the gipsy's evidence may be taken as true, he ran with cries for help
     in the direction where help was least likely to be. Then, again, whom
     was he waiting for that night, and why was he waiting for him in the
     Yew Alley rather than in his own house?"

     "You think that he was waiting for someone?"

     "The man was elderly and infirm. We can understand his taking an
     evening stroll, but the ground was damp and the night inclement. Is
     it natural that he should stand for five or ten minutes, as Dr.
     Mortimer, with more practical sense than I should have given him
     credit for, deduced from the cigar ash?"

     "But he went out every evening."

     "I think it unlikely that he waited at the moor-gate every evening.
     On the contrary, the evidence is that he avoided the moor. That night
     he waited there. It was the night before he made his departure for
     London. The thing takes shape, Watson. It becomes coherent. Might I
     ask you to hand me my violin, and we will postpone all further
     thought upon this business until we have had the advantage of meeting
     Dr. Mortimer and Sir Henry Baskerville in the morning."

     Our breakfast-table was cleared early, and Holmes waited in his
     dressing-gown for the promised interview. Our clients were punctual
     to their appointment, for the clock had just struck ten when Dr.
     Mortimer was shown up, followed by the young baronet. The latter was
     a small, alert, dark-eyed man about thirty years of age, very
     sturdily built, with thick black eyebrows and a strong, pugnacious
     face. He wore a ruddy-tinted tweed suit and had the weather-beaten
     appearance of one who has spent most of his time in the open air, and
     yet there was something in his steady eye and the quiet assurance of
     his bearing which indicated the gentleman.

     "This is Sir Henry Baskerville," said Dr. Mortimer.

     "Why, yes," said he, "and the strange thing is, Mr. Sherlock Holmes,
     that if my friend here had not proposed coming round to you this
     morning I should have come on my own account. I understand that you
     think out little puzzles, and I've had one this morning which wants
     more thinking out than I am able to give it."

     "Pray take a seat, Sir Henry. Do I understand you to say that you
     have yourself had some remarkable experience since you arrived in
     London?"

     "Nothing of much importance, Mr. Holmes. Only a joke, as like as not.
     It was this letter, if you can call it a letter, which reached me
     this morning."

     He laid an envelope upon the table, and we all bent over it. It was
     of common quality, grayish in colour. The address, "Sir Henry
     Baskerville, Northumberland Hotel," was printed in rough characters;
     the postmark "Charing Cross," and the date of posting the preceding
     evening.

     "Who knew that you were going to the Northumberland Hotel?" asked
     Holmes, glancing keenly across at our visitor.

     "No one could have known. We only decided after I met Dr. Mortimer."

     "But Dr. Mortimer was no doubt already stopping there?"

     "No, I had been staying with a friend," said the doctor. "There was
     no possible indication that we intended to go to this hotel."

     "Hum! Someone seems to be very deeply interested in your movements."
     Out of the envelope he took a half-sheet of foolscap paper folded
     into four. This he opened and spread flat upon the table. Across the
     middle of it a single sentence had been formed by the expedient of
     pasting printed words upon it. It ran:

     As you value your life or your reason keep away from the moor.

     The word "moor" only was printed in ink.

     "Now," said Sir Henry Baskerville, "perhaps you will tell me, Mr.
     Holmes, what in thunder is the meaning of that, and who it is that
     takes so much interest in my affairs?"

     "What do you make of it, Dr. Mortimer? You must allow that there is
     nothing supernatural about this, at any rate?"

     "No, sir, but it might very well come from someone who was convinced
     that the business is supernatural."

     "What business?" asked Sir Henry sharply. "It seems to me that all
     you gentlemen know a great deal more than I do about my own affairs."

     "You shall share our knowledge before you leave this room, Sir Henry.
     I promise you that," said Sherlock Holmes. "We will confine ourselves
     for the present with your permission to this very interesting
     document, which must have been put together and posted yesterday
     evening. Have you yesterday's Times, Watson?"

     "It is here in the corner."

     "Might I trouble you for it--the inside page, please, with the
     leading articles?" He glanced swiftly over it, running his eyes up
     and down the columns. "Capital article this on free trade. Permit me
     to give you an extract from it.

     "'You may be cajoled into imagining that your own special trade or
     your own industry will be encouraged by a protective tariff, but it
     stands to reason that such legislation must in the long run keep away
     wealth from the country, diminish the value of our imports, and lower
     the general conditions of life in this island.'

     "What do you think of that, Watson?" cried Holmes in high glee,
     rubbing his hands together with satisfaction. "Don't you think that
     is an admirable sentiment?"

     Dr. Mortimer looked at Holmes with an air of professional interest,
     and Sir Henry Baskerville turned a pair of puzzled dark eyes upon me.

     "I don't know much about the tariff and things of that kind," said
     he; "but it seems to me we've got a bit off the trail so far as that
     note is concerned."

     "On the contrary, I think we are particularly hot upon the trail, Sir
     Henry. Watson here knows more about my methods than you do, but I
     fear that even he has not quite grasped the significance of this
     sentence."

     "No, I confess that I see no connection."

     "And yet, my dear Watson, there is so very close a connection that
     the one is extracted out of the other. 'You,' 'your,' 'your,' 'life,'
     'reason,' 'value,' 'keep away,' 'from the.' Don't you see now whence
     these words have been taken?"

     "By thunder, you're right! Well, if that isn't smart!" cried Sir
     Henry.

     "If any possible doubt remained it is settled by the fact that 'keep
     away' and 'from the' are cut out in one piece."

     "Well, now--so it is!"

     "Really, Mr. Holmes, this exceeds anything which I could have
     imagined," said Dr. Mortimer, gazing at my friend in amazement. "I
     could understand anyone saying that the words were from a newspaper;
     but that you should name which, and add that it came from the leading
     article, is really one of the most remarkable things which I have
     ever known. How did you do it?"

     "I presume, Doctor, that you could tell the skull of a negro from
     that of an Esquimau?"

     "Most certainly."

     "But how?"

     "Because that is my special hobby. The differences are obvious. The
     supra-orbital crest, the facial angle, the maxillary curve, the--"

     "But this is my special hobby, and the differences are equally
     obvious. There is as much difference to my eyes between the leaded
     bourgeois type of a Times article and the slovenly print of an
     evening half-penny paper as there could be between your negro and
     your Esquimau. The detection of types is one of the most elementary
     branches of knowledge to the special expert in crime, though I
     confess that once when I was very young I confused the Leeds Mercury
     with the Western Morning News. But a Times leader is entirely
     distinctive, and these words could have been taken from nothing else.
     As it was done yesterday the strong probability was that we should
     find the words in yesterday's issue."

     "So far as I can follow you, then, Mr. Holmes," said Sir Henry
     Baskerville, "someone cut out this message with a scissors--"

     "Nail-scissors," said Holmes. "You can see that it was a very
     short-bladed scissors, since the cutter had to take two snips over
     'keep away.'"

     "That is so. Someone, then, cut out the message with a pair of
     short-bladed scissors, pasted it with paste--"

     "Gum," said Holmes.

     "With gum on to the paper. But I want to know why the word 'moor'
     should have been written?"

     "Because he could not find it in print. The other words were all
     simple and might be found in any issue, but 'moor' would be less
     common."

     "Why, of course, that would explain it. Have you read anything else
     in this message, Mr. Holmes?"

     "There are one or two indications, and yet the utmost pains have been
     taken to remove all clues. The address, you observe is printed in
     rough characters. But the Times is a paper which is seldom found in
     any hands but those of the highly educated. We may take it,
     therefore, that the letter was composed by an educated man who wished
     to pose as an uneducated one, and his effort to conceal his own
     writing suggests that that writing might be known, or come to be
     known, by you. Again, you will observe that the words are not gummed
     on in an accurate line, but that some are much higher than others.
     'Life,' for example is quite out of its proper place. That may point
     to carelessness or it may point to agitation and hurry upon the part
     of the cutter. On the whole I incline to the latter view, since the
     matter was evidently important, and it is unlikely that the composer
     of such a letter would be careless. If he were in a hurry it opens up
     the interesting question why he should be in a hurry, since any
     letter posted up to early morning would reach Sir Henry before he
     would leave his hotel. Did the composer fear an interruption--and
     from whom?"

     "We are coming now rather into the region of guesswork," said Dr.
     Mortimer.

     "Say, rather, into the region where we balance probabilities and
     choose the most likely. It is the scientific use of the imagination,
     but we have always some material basis on which to start our
     speculation. Now, you would call it a guess, no doubt, but I am
     almost certain that this address has been written in a hotel."

     "How in the world can you say that?"

     "If you examine it carefully you will see that both the pen and the
     ink have given the writer trouble. The pen has spluttered twice in a
     single word, and has run dry three times in a short address, showing
     that there was very little ink in the bottle. Now, a private pen or
     ink-bottle is seldom allowed to be in such a state, and the
     combination of the two must be quite rare. But you know the hotel ink
     and the hotel pen, where it is rare to get anything else. Yes, I have
     very little hesitation in saying that could we examine the
     waste-paper baskets of the hotels around Charing Cross until we found
     the remains of the mutilated Times leader we could lay our hands
     straight upon the person who sent this singular message. Halloa!
     Halloa! What's this?"

     He was carefully examining the foolscap, upon which the words were
     pasted, holding it only an inch or two from his eyes.

     "Well?"

     "Nothing," said he, throwing it down. "It is a blank half-sheet of
     paper, without even a water-mark upon it. I think we have drawn as
     much as we can from this curious letter; and now, Sir Henry, has
     anything else of interest happened to you since you have been in
     London?"

     "Why, no, Mr. Holmes. I think not."

     "You have not observed anyone follow or watch you?"

     "I seem to have walked right into the thick of a dime novel," said
     our visitor. "Why in thunder should anyone follow or watch me?"

     "We are coming to that. You have nothing else to report to us before
     we go into this matter?"

     "Well, it depends upon what you think worth reporting."

     "I think anything out of the ordinary routine of life well worth
     reporting."

     Sir Henry smiled.

     "I don't know much of British life yet, for I have spent nearly all
     my time in the States and in Canada. But I hope that to lose one of
     your boots is not part of the ordinary routine of life over here."

     "You have lost one of your boots?"

     "My dear sir," cried Dr. Mortimer, "it is only mislaid. You will find
     it when you return to the hotel. What is the use of troubling Mr.
     Holmes with trifles of this kind?"

     "Well, he asked me for anything outside the ordinary routine."

     "Exactly," said Holmes, "however foolish the incident may seem. You
     have lost one of your boots, you say?"

     "Well, mislaid it, anyhow. I put them both outside my door last
     night, and there was only one in the morning. I could get no sense
     out of the chap who cleans them. The worst of it is that I only
     bought the pair last night in the Strand, and I have never had them
     on."

     "If you have never worn them, why did you put them out to be
     cleaned?"

     "They were tan boots and had never been varnished. That was why I put
     them out."

     "Then I understand that on your arrival in London yesterday you went
     out at once and bought a pair of boots?"

     "I did a good deal of shopping. Dr. Mortimer here went round with me.
     You see, if I am to be squire down there I must dress the part, and
     it may be that I have got a little careless in my ways out West.
     Among other things I bought these brown boots--gave six dollars for
     them--and had one stolen before ever I had them on my feet."

     "It seems a singularly useless thing to steal," said Sherlock Holmes.
     "I confess that I share Dr. Mortimer's belief that it will not be
     long before the missing boot is found."

     "And, now, gentlemen," said the baronet with decision, "it seems to
     me that I have spoken quite enough about the little that I know. It
     is time that you kept your promise and gave me a full account of what
     we are all driving at."

     "Your request is a very reasonable one," Holmes answered. "Dr.
     Mortimer, I think you could not do better than to tell your story as
     you told it to us."

     Thus encouraged, our scientific friend drew his papers from his
     pocket, and presented the whole case as he had done upon the morning
     before. Sir Henry Baskerville listened with the deepest attention,
     and with an occasional exclamation of surprise.

     "Well, I seem to have come into an inheritance with a vengeance,"
     said he when the long narrative was finished. "Of course, I've heard
     of the hound ever since I was in the nursery. It's the pet story of
     the family, though I never thought of taking it seriously before. But
     as to my uncle's death--well, it all seems boiling up in my head, and
     I can't get it clear yet. You don't seem quite to have made up your
     mind whether it's a case for a policeman or a clergyman."

     "Precisely."

     "And now there's this affair of the letter to me at the hotel. I
     suppose that fits into its place."

     "It seems to show that someone knows more than we do about what goes
     on upon the moor," said Dr. Mortimer.

     "And also," said Holmes, "that someone is not ill-disposed towards
     you, since they warn you of danger."

     "Or it may be that they wish, for their own purposes, to scare me
     away."

     "Well, of course, that is possible also. I am very much indebted to
     you, Dr. Mortimer, for introducing me to a problem which presents
     several interesting alternatives. But the practical point which we
     now have to decide, Sir Henry, is whether it is or is not advisable
     for you to go to Baskerville Hall."

     "Why should I not go?"

     "There seems to be danger."

     "Do you mean danger from this family fiend or do you mean danger from
     human beings?"

     "Well, that is what we have to find out."

     "Whichever it is, my answer is fixed. There is no devil in hell, Mr.
     Holmes, and there is no man upon earth who can prevent me from going
     to the home of my own people, and you may take that to be my final
     answer." His dark brows knitted and his face flushed to a dusky red
     as he spoke. It was evident that the fiery temper of the Baskervilles
     was not extinct in this their last representative. "Meanwhile," said
     he, "I have hardly had time to think over all that you have told me.
     It's a big thing for a man to have to understand and to decide at one
     sitting. I should like to have a quiet hour by myself to make up my
     mind. Now, look here, Mr. Holmes, it's half-past eleven now and I am
     going back right away to my hotel. Suppose you and your friend, Dr.
     Watson, come round and lunch with us at two. I'll be able to tell you
     more clearly then how this thing strikes me."

     "Is that convenient to you, Watson?"

     "Perfectly."

     "Then you may expect us. Shall I have a cab called?"

     "I'd prefer to walk, for this affair has flurried me rather."

     "I'll join you in a walk, with pleasure," said his companion.

     "Then we meet again at two o'clock. Au revoir, and good-morning!"

     We heard the steps of our visitors descend the stair and the bang of
     the front door. In an instant Holmes had changed from the languid
     dreamer to the man of action.

     "Your hat and boots, Watson, quick! Not a moment to lose!" He rushed
     into his room in his dressing-gown and was back again in a few
     seconds in a frock-coat. We hurried together down the stairs and into
     the street. Dr. Mortimer and Baskerville were still visible about two
     hundred yards ahead of us in the direction of Oxford Street.

     "Shall I run on and stop them?"

     "Not for the world, my dear Watson. I am perfectly satisfied with
     your company if you will tolerate mine. Our friends are wise, for it
     is certainly a very fine morning for a walk."

     He quickened his pace until we had decreased the distance which
     divided us by about half. Then, still keeping a hundred yards behind,
     we followed into Oxford Street and so down Regent Street. Once our
     friends stopped and stared into a shop window, upon which Holmes did
     the same. An instant afterwards he gave a little cry of satisfaction,
     and, following the direction of his eager eyes, I saw that a hansom
     cab with a man inside which had halted on the other side of the
     street was now proceeding slowly onward again.

     "There's our man, Watson! Come along! We'll have a good look at him,
     if we can do no more."

     At that instant I was aware of a bushy black beard and a pair of
     piercing eyes turned upon us through the side window of the cab.
     Instantly the trapdoor at the top flew up, something was screamed to
     the driver, and the cab flew madly off down Regent Street. Holmes
     looked eagerly round for another, but no empty one was in sight. Then
     he dashed in wild pursuit amid the stream of the traffic, but the
     start was too great, and already the cab was out of sight.

     "There now!" said Holmes bitterly as he emerged panting and white
     with vexation from the tide of vehicles. "Was ever such bad luck and
     such bad management, too? Watson, Watson, if you are an honest man
     you will record this also and set it against my successes!"

     "Who was the man?"

     "I have not an idea."

     "A spy?"

     "Well, it was evident from what we have heard that Baskerville has
     been very closely shadowed by someone since he has been in town. How
     else could it be known so quickly that it was the Northumberland
     Hotel which he had chosen? If they had followed him the first day I
     argued that they would follow him also the second. You may have
     observed that I twice strolled over to the window while Dr. Mortimer
     was reading his legend."

     "Yes, I remember."

     "I was looking out for loiterers in the street, but I saw none. We
     are dealing with a clever man, Watson. This matter cuts very deep,
     and though I have not finally made up my mind whether it is a
     benevolent or a malevolent agency which is in touch with us, I am
     conscious always of power and design. When our friends left I at once
     followed them in the hopes of marking down their invisible attendant.
     So wily was he that he had not trusted himself upon foot, but he had
     availed himself of a cab so that he could loiter behind or dash past
     them and so escape their notice. His method had the additional
     advantage that if they were to take a cab he was all ready to follow
     them. It has, however, one obvious disadvantage."

     "It puts him in the power of the cabman."

     "Exactly."

     "What a pity we did not get the number!"

     "My dear Watson, clumsy as I have been, you surely do not seriously
     imagine that I neglected to get the number? No. 2704 is our man. But
     that is no use to us for the moment."

     "I fail to see how you could have done more."

     "On observing the cab I should have instantly turned and walked in
     the other direction. I should then at my leisure have hired a second
     cab and followed the first at a respectful distance, or, better
     still, have driven to the Northumberland Hotel and waited there. When
     our unknown had followed Baskerville home we should have had the
     opportunity of playing his own game upon himself and seeing where he
     made for. As it is, by an indiscreet eagerness, which was taken
     advantage of with extraordinary quickness and energy by our opponent,
     we have betrayed ourselves and lost our man."

     We had been sauntering slowly down Regent Street during this
     conversation, and Dr. Mortimer, with his companion, had long vanished
     in front of us.

     "There is no object in our following them," said Holmes. "The shadow
     has departed and will not return. We must see what further cards we
     have in our hands and play them with decision. Could you swear to
     that man's face within the cab?"

     "I could swear only to the beard."

     "And so could I--from which I gather that in all probability it was a
     false one. A clever man upon so delicate an errand has no use for a
     beard save to conceal his features. Come in here, Watson!"

     He turned into one of the district messenger offices, where he was
     warmly greeted by the manager.

     "Ah, Wilson, I see you have not forgotten the little case in which I
     had the good fortune to help you?"

     "No, sir, indeed I have not. You saved my good name, and perhaps my
     life."

     "My dear fellow, you exaggerate. I have some recollection, Wilson,
     that you had among your boys a lad named Cartwright, who showed some
     ability during the investigation."

     "Yes, sir, he is still with us."

     "Could you ring him up?--thank you! And I should be glad to have
     change of this five-pound note."

     A lad of fourteen, with a bright, keen face, had obeyed the summons
     of the manager. He stood now gazing with great reverence at the
     famous detective.

     "Let me have the Hotel Directory," said Holmes. "Thank you! Now,
     Cartwright, there are the names of twenty-three hotels here, all in
     the immediate neighbourhood of Charing Cross. Do you see?"

     "Yes, sir."

     "You will visit each of these in turn."

     "Yes, sir."

     "You will begin in each case by giving the outside porter one
     shilling. Here are twenty-three shillings."

     "Yes, sir."

     "You will tell him that you want to see the waste-paper of yesterday.
     You will say that an important telegram has miscarried and that you
     are looking for it. You understand?"

     "Yes, sir."

     "But what you are really looking for is the centre page of the Times
     with some holes cut in it with scissors. Here is a copy of the Times.
     It is this page. You could easily recognize it, could you not?"

     "Yes, sir."

     "In each case the outside porter will send for the hall porter, to
     whom also you will give a shilling. Here are twenty-three shillings.
     You will then learn in possibly twenty cases out of the twenty-three
     that the waste of the day before has been burned or removed. In the
     three other cases you will be shown a heap of paper and you will look
     for this page of the Times among it. The odds are enormously against
     your finding it. There are ten shillings over in case of emergencies.
     Let me have a report by wire at Baker Street before evening. And now,
     Watson, it only remains for us to find out by wire the identity of
     the cabman, No. 2704, and then we will drop into one of the Bond
     Street picture galleries and fill in the time until we are due at the
     hotel."

     Sherlock Holmes had, in a very remarkable degree, the power of
     detaching his mind at will. For two hours the strange business in
     which we had been involved appeared to be forgotten, and he was
     entirely absorbed in the pictures of the modern Belgian masters. He
     would talk of nothing but art, of which he had the crudest ideas,
     from our leaving the gallery until we found ourselves at the
     Northumberland Hotel.

     "Sir Henry Baskerville is upstairs expecting you," said the clerk.
     "He asked me to show you up at once when you came."

     "Have you any objection to my looking at your register?" said Holmes.

     "Not in the least."

     The book showed that two names had been added after that of
     Baskerville. One was Theophilus Johnson and family, of Newcastle; the
     other Mrs. Oldmore and maid, of High Lodge, Alton.

     "Surely that must be the same Johnson whom I used to know," said
     Holmes to the porter. "A lawyer, is he not, gray-headed, and walks
     with a limp?"

     "No, sir; this is Mr. Johnson, the coal-owner, a very active
     gentleman, not older than yourself."

     "Surely you are mistaken about his trade?"

     "No, sir! he has used this hotel for many years, and he is very well
     known to us."

     "Ah, that settles it. Mrs. Oldmore, too; I seem to remember the name.
     Excuse my curiosity, but often in calling upon one friend one finds
     another."

     "She is an invalid lady, sir. Her husband was once mayor of
     Gloucester. She always comes to us when she is in town."

     "Thank you; I am afraid I cannot claim her acquaintance. We have
     established a most important fact by these questions, Watson," he
     continued in a low voice as we went upstairs together. "We know now
     that the people who are so interested in our friend have not settled
     down in his own hotel. That means that while they are, as we have
     seen, very anxious to watch him, they are equally anxious that he
     should not see them. Now, this is a most suggestive fact."

     "What does it suggest?"

     "It suggests--halloa, my dear fellow, what on earth is the matter?"

     As we came round the top of the stairs we had run up against Sir
     Henry Baskerville himself. His face was flushed with anger, and he
     held an old and dusty boot in one of his hands. So furious was he
     that he was hardly articulate, and when he did speak it was in a much
     broader and more Western dialect than any which we had heard from him
     in the morning.

     "Seems to me they are playing me for a sucker in this hotel," he
     cried. "They'll find they've started in to monkey with the wrong man
     unless they are careful. By thunder, if that chap can't find my
     missing boot there will be trouble. I can take a joke with the best,
     Mr. Holmes, but they've got a bit over the mark this time."

     "Still looking for your boot?"

     "Yes, sir, and mean to find it."

     "But, surely, you said that it was a new brown boot?"

     "So it was, sir. And now it's an old black one."

     "What! you don't mean to say--?"

     "That's just what I do mean to say. I only had three pairs in the
     world--the new brown, the old black, and the patent leathers, which I
     am wearing. Last night they took one of my brown ones, and to-day
     they have sneaked one of the black. Well, have you got it? Speak out,
     man, and don't stand staring!"

     An agitated German waiter had appeared upon the scene.

     "No, sir; I have made inquiry all over the hotel, but I can hear no
     word of it."

     "Well, either that boot comes back before sundown or I'll see the
     manager and tell him that I go right straight out of this hotel."

     "It shall be found, sir--I promise you that if you will have a little
     patience it will be found."

     "Mind it is, for it's the last thing of mine that I'll lose in this
     den of thieves. Well, well, Mr. Holmes, you'll excuse my troubling
     you about such a trifle--"

     "I think it's well worth troubling about."

     "Why, you look very serious over it."

     "How do you explain it?"

     "I just don't attempt to explain it. It seems the very maddest,
     queerest thing that ever happened to me."

     "The queerest perhaps--" said Holmes, thoughtfully.

     "What do you make of it yourself?"

     "Well, I don't profess to understand it yet. This case of yours is
     very complex, Sir Henry. When taken in conjunction with your uncle's
     death I am not sure that of all the five hundred cases of capital
     importance which I have handled there is one which cuts so deep. But
     we hold several threads in our hands, and the odds are that one or
     other of them guides us to the truth. We may waste time in following
     the wrong one, but sooner or later we must come upon the right."

     We had a pleasant luncheon in which little was said of the business
     which had brought us together. It was in the private sitting-room to
     which we afterwards repaired that Holmes asked Baskerville what were
     his intentions.

     "To go to Baskerville Hall."

     "And when?"

     "At the end of the week."

     "On the whole," said Holmes, "I think that your decision is a wise
     one. I have ample evidence that you are being dogged in London, and
     amid the millions of this great city it is difficult to discover who
     these people are or what their object can be. If their intentions are
     evil they might do you a mischief, and we should be powerless to
     prevent it. You did not know, Dr. Mortimer, that you were followed
     this morning from my house?"

     Dr. Mortimer started violently.

     "Followed! By whom?"

     "That, unfortunately, is what I cannot tell you. Have you among your
     neighbours or acquaintances on Dartmoor any man with a black, full
     beard?"

     "No--or, let me see--why, yes. Barrymore, Sir Charles's butler, is a
     man with a full, black beard."

     "Ha! Where is Barrymore?"

     "He is in charge of the Hall."

     "We had best ascertain if he is really there, or if by any
     possibility he might be in London."

     "How can you do that?"

     "Give me a telegraph form. 'Is all ready for Sir Henry?' That will
     do. Address to Mr. Barrymore, Baskerville Hall. What is the nearest
     telegraph-office? Grimpen. Very good, we will send a second wire to
     the postmaster, Grimpen: 'Telegram to Mr. Barrymore to be delivered
     into his own hand. If absent, please return wire to Sir Henry
     Baskerville, Northumberland Hotel.' That should let us know before
     evening whether Barrymore is at his post in Devonshire or not."

     "That's so," said Baskerville. "By the way, Dr. Mortimer, who is this
     Barrymore, anyhow?"

     "He is the son of the old caretaker, who is dead. They have looked
     after the Hall for four generations now. So far as I know, he and his
     wife are as respectable a couple as any in the county."

     "At the same time," said Baskerville, "it's clear enough that so long
     as there are none of the family at the Hall these people have a
     mighty fine home and nothing to do."

     "That is true."

     "Did Barrymore profit at all by Sir Charles's will?" asked Holmes.

     "He and his wife had five hundred pounds each."

     "Ha! Did they know that they would receive this?"

     "Yes; Sir Charles was very fond of talking about the provisions of
     his will."

     "That is very interesting."

     "I hope," said Dr. Mortimer, "that you do not look with suspicious
     eyes upon everyone who received a legacy from Sir Charles, for I also
     had a thousand pounds left to me."

     "Indeed! And anyone else?"

     "There were many insignificant sums to individuals, and a large
     number of public charities. The residue all went to Sir Henry."

     "And how much was the residue?"

     "Seven hundred and forty thousand pounds."

     Holmes raised his eyebrows in surprise. "I had no idea that so
     gigantic a sum was involved," said he.

     "Sir Charles had the reputation of being rich, but we did not know
     how very rich he was until we came to examine his securities. The
     total value of the estate was close on to a million."

     "Dear me! It is a stake for which a man might well play a desperate
     game. And one more question, Dr. Mortimer. Supposing that anything
     happened to our young friend here--you will forgive the unpleasant
     hypothesis!--who would inherit the estate?"

     "Since Rodger Baskerville, Sir Charles's younger brother died
     unmarried, the estate would descend to the Desmonds, who are distant
     cousins. James Desmond is an elderly clergyman in Westmoreland."

     "Thank you. These details are all of great interest. Have you met Mr.
     James Desmond?"

     "Yes; he once came down to visit Sir Charles. He is a man of
     venerable appearance and of saintly life. I remember that he refused
     to accept any settlement from Sir Charles, though he pressed it upon
     him."

     "And this man of simple tastes would be the heir to Sir Charles's
     thousands."

     "He would be the heir to the estate because that is entailed. He
     would also be the heir to the money unless it were willed otherwise
     by the present owner, who can, of course, do what he likes with it."

     "And have you made your will, Sir Henry?"

     "No, Mr. Holmes, I have not. I've had no time, for it was only
     yesterday that I learned how matters stood. But in any case I feel
     that the money should go with the title and estate. That was my poor
     uncle's idea. How is the owner going to restore the glories of the
     Baskervilles if he has not money enough to keep up the property?
     House, land, and dollars must go together."

     "Quite so. Well, Sir Henry, I am of one mind with you as to the
     advisability of your going down to Devonshire without delay. There is
     only one provision which I must make. You certainly must not go
     alone."

     "Dr. Mortimer returns with me."

     "But Dr. Mortimer has his practice to attend to, and his house is
     miles away from yours. With all the good will in the world he may be
     unable to help you. No, Sir Henry, you must take with you someone, a
     trusty man, who will be always by your side."

     "Is it possible that you could come yourself, Mr. Holmes?"

     "If matters came to a crisis I should endeavour to be present in
     person; but you can understand that, with my extensive consulting
     practice and with the constant appeals which reach me from many
     quarters, it is impossible for me to be absent from London for an
     indefinite time. At the present instant one of the most revered names
     in England is being besmirched by a blackmailer, and only I can stop
     a disastrous scandal. You will see how impossible it is for me to go
     to Dartmoor."

     "Whom would you recommend, then?"

     Holmes laid his hand upon my arm.

     "If my friend would undertake it there is no man who is better worth
     having at your side when you are in a tight place. No one can say so
     more confidently than I."

     The proposition took me completely by surprise, but before I had time
     to answer, Baskerville seized me by the hand and wrung it heartily.

     "Well, now, that is real kind of you, Dr. Watson," said he. "You see
     how it is with me, and you know just as much about the matter as I
     do. If you will come down to Baskerville Hall and see me through I'll
     never forget it."

     The promise of adventure had always a fascination for me, and I was
     complimented by the words of Holmes and by the eagerness with which
     the baronet hailed me as a companion.

     "I will come, with pleasure," said I. "I do not know how I could
     employ my time better."

     "And you will report very carefully to me," said Holmes. "When a
     crisis comes, as it will do, I will direct how you shall act. I
     suppose that by Saturday all might be ready?"

     "Would that suit Dr. Watson?"

     "Perfectly."

     "Then on Saturday, unless you hear to the contrary, we shall meet at
     the 10.30 train from Paddington."

     We had risen to depart when Baskerville gave a cry, of triumph, and
     diving into one of the corners of the room he drew a brown boot from
     under a cabinet.

     "My missing boot!" he cried.

     "May all our difficulties vanish as easily!" said Sherlock Holmes.

     "But it is a very singular thing," Dr. Mortimer remarked. "I searched
     this room carefully before lunch."

     "And so did I," said Baskerville. "Every inch of it."

     "There was certainly no boot in it then."

     "In that case the waiter must have placed it there while we were
     lunching."

     The German was sent for but professed to know nothing of the matter,
     nor could any inquiry clear it up. Another item had been added to
     that constant and apparently purposeless series of small mysteries
     which had succeeded each other so rapidly. Setting aside the whole
     grim story of Sir Charles's death, we had a line of inexplicable
     incidents all within the limits of two days, which included the
     receipt of the printed letter, the black-bearded spy in the hansom,
     the loss of the new brown boot, the loss of the old black boot, and
     now the return of the new brown boot. Holmes sat in silence in the
     cab as we drove back to Baker Street, and I knew from his drawn brows
     and keen face that his mind, like my own, was busy in endeavouring to
     frame some scheme into which all these strange and apparently
     disconnected episodes could be fitted. All afternoon and late into
     the evening he sat lost in tobacco and thought.

     Just before dinner two telegrams were handed in. The first ran:

     Have just heard that Barrymore is at the Hall.
     Baskerville.

     The second:

     Visited twenty-three hotels as directed, but sorry to report unable
     to trace cut sheet of Times.
     Cartwright.

     "There go two of my threads, Watson. There is nothing more
     stimulating than a case where everything goes against you. We must
     cast round for another scent."

     "We have still the cabman who drove the spy."

     "Exactly. I have wired to get his name and address from the Official
     Registry. I should not be surprised if this were an answer to my
     question."

     The ring at the bell proved to be something even more satisfactory
     than an answer, however, for the door opened and a rough-looking
     fellow entered who was evidently the man himself.

     "I got a message from the head office that a gent at this address had
     been inquiring for 2704," said he. "I've driven my cab this seven
     years and never a word of complaint. I came here straight from the
     Yard to ask you to your face what you had against me."

     "I have nothing in the world against you, my good man," said Holmes.
     "On the contrary, I have half a sovereign for you if you will give me
     a clear answer to my questions."

     "Well, I've had a good day and no mistake," said the cabman, with a
     grin. "What was it you wanted to ask, sir?"

     "First of all your name and address, in case I want you again."

     "John Clayton, 3 Turpey Street, the Borough. My cab is out of
     Shipley's Yard, near Waterloo Station."

     Sherlock Holmes made a note of it.

     "Now, Clayton, tell me all about the fare who came and watched this
     house at ten o'clock this morning and afterwards followed the two
     gentlemen down Regent Street."

     The man looked surprised and a little embarrassed. "Why, there's no
     good my telling you things, for you seem to know as much as I do
     already," said he. "The truth is that the gentleman told me that he
     was a detective and that I was to say nothing about him to anyone."

     "My good fellow, this is a very serious business, and you may find
     yourself in a pretty bad position if you try to hide anything from
     me. You say that your fare told you that he was a detective?"

     "Yes, he did."

     "When did he say this?"

     "When he left me."

     "Did he say anything more?"

     "He mentioned his name."

     Holmes cast a swift glance of triumph at me. "Oh, he mentioned his
     name, did he? That was imprudent. What was the name that he
     mentioned?"

     "His name," said the cabman, "was Mr. Sherlock Holmes."

     Never have I seen my friend more completely taken aback than by the
     cabman's reply. For an instant he sat in silent amazement. Then he
     burst into a hearty laugh.

     "A touch, Watson--an undeniable touch!" said he. "I feel a foil as
     quick and supple as my own. He got home upon me very prettily that
     time. So his name was Sherlock Holmes, was it?"

     "Yes, sir, that was the gentleman's name."

     "Excellent! Tell me where you picked him up and all that occurred."

     "He hailed me at half-past nine in Trafalgar Square. He said that he
     was a detective, and he offered me two guineas if I would do exactly
     what he wanted all day and ask no questions. I was glad enough to
     agree. First we drove down to the Northumberland Hotel and waited
     there until two gentlemen came out and took a cab from the rank. We
     followed their cab until it pulled up somewhere near here."

     "This very door," said Holmes.

     "Well, I couldn't be sure of that, but I dare say my fare knew all
     about it. We pulled up half-way down the street and waited an hour
     and a half. Then the two gentlemen passed us, walking, and we
     followed down Baker Street and along--"

     "I know," said Holmes.

     "Until we got three-quarters down Regent Street. Then my gentleman
     threw up the trap, and he cried that I should drive right away to
     Waterloo Station as hard as I could go. I whipped up the mare and we
     were there under the ten minutes. Then he paid up his two guineas,
     like a good one, and away he went into the station. Only just as he
     was leaving he turned round and he said: 'It might interest you to
     know that you have been driving Mr. Sherlock Holmes.' That's how I
     come to know the name."

     "I see. And you saw no more of him?"

     "Not after he went into the station."

     "And how would you describe Mr. Sherlock Holmes?"

     The cabman scratched his head. "Well, he wasn't altogether such an
     easy gentleman to describe. I'd put him at forty years of age, and he
     was of a middle height, two or three inches shorter than you, sir. He
     was dressed like a toff, and he had a black beard, cut square at the
     end, and a pale face. I don't know as I could say more than that."

     "Colour of his eyes?"

     "No, I can't say that."

     "Nothing more that you can remember?"

     "No, sir; nothing."

     "Well, then, here is your half-sovereign. There's another one waiting
     for you if you can bring any more information. Good night!"

     "Good night, sir, and thank you!"

     John Clayton departed chuckling, and Holmes turned to me with a shrug
     of his shoulders and a rueful smile.

     "Snap goes our third thread, and we end where we began," said he.
     "The cunning rascal! He knew our number, knew that Sir Henry
     Baskerville had consulted me, spotted who I was in Regent Street,
     conjectured that I had got the number of the cab and would lay my
     hands on the driver, and so sent back this audacious message. I tell
     you, Watson, this time we have got a foeman who is worthy of our
     steel. I've been checkmated in London. I can only wish you better
     luck in Devonshire. But I'm not easy in my mind about it."

     "About what?"

     "About sending you. It's an ugly business, Watson, an ugly dangerous
     business, and the more I see of it the less I like it. Yes, my dear
     fellow, you may laugh, but I give you my word that I shall be very
     glad to have you back safe and sound in Baker Street once more."

     Sir Henry Baskerville and Dr. Mortimer were ready upon the appointed
     day, and we started as arranged for Devonshire. Mr. Sherlock Holmes
     drove with me to the station and gave me his last parting injunctions
     and advice.

     "I will not bias your mind by suggesting theories or suspicions,
     Watson," said he; "I wish you simply to report facts in the fullest
     possible manner to me, and you can leave me to do the theorizing."

     "What sort of facts?" I asked.

     "Anything which may seem to have a bearing however indirect upon the
     case, and especially the relations between young Baskerville and his
     neighbours or any fresh particulars concerning the death of Sir
     Charles. I have made some inquiries myself in the last few days, but
     the results have, I fear, been negative. One thing only appears to be
     certain, and that is that Mr. James Desmond, who is the next heir, is
     an elderly gentleman of a very amiable disposition, so that this
     persecution does not arise from him. I really think that we may
     eliminate him entirely from our calculations. There remain the people
     who will actually surround Sir Henry Baskerville upon the moor."

     "Would it not be well in the first place to get rid of this Barrymore
     couple?"

     "By no means. You could not make a greater mistake. If they are
     innocent it would be a cruel injustice, and if they are guilty we
     should be giving up all chance of bringing it home to them. No, no,
     we will preserve them upon our list of suspects. Then there is a
     groom at the Hall, if I remember right. There are two moorland
     farmers. There is our friend Dr. Mortimer, whom I believe to be
     entirely honest, and there is his wife, of whom we know nothing.
     There is this naturalist, Stapleton, and there is his sister, who is
     said to be a young lady of attractions. There is Mr. Frankland, of
     Lafter Hall, who is also an unknown factor, and there are one or two
     other neighbours. These are the folk who must be your very special
     study."

     "I will do my best."

     "You have arms, I suppose?"

     "Yes, I thought it as well to take them."

     "Most certainly. Keep your revolver near you night and day, and never
     relax your precautions."

     Our friends had already secured a first-class carriage and were
     waiting for us upon the platform.

     "No, we have no news of any kind," said Dr. Mortimer in answer to my
     friend's questions. "I can swear to one thing, and that is that we
     have not been shadowed during the last two days. We have never gone
     out without keeping a sharp watch, and no one could have escaped our
     notice."

     "You have always kept together, I presume?"

     "Except yesterday afternoon. I usually give up one day to pure
     amusement when I come to town, so I spent it at the Museum of the
     College of Surgeons."

     "And I went to look at the folk in the park," said Baskerville. "But
     we had no trouble of any kind."

     "It was imprudent, all the same," said Holmes, shaking his head and
     looking very grave. "I beg, Sir Henry, that you will not go about
     alone. Some great misfortune will befall you if you do. Did you get
     your other boot?"

     "No, sir, it is gone forever."

     "Indeed. That is very interesting. Well, good-bye," he added as the
     train began to glide down the platform. "Bear in mind, Sir Henry, one
     of the phrases in that queer old legend which Dr. Mortimer has read
     to us, and avoid the moor in those hours of darkness when the powers
     of evil are exalted."

     I looked back at the platform when we had left it far behind, and saw
     the tall, austere figure of Holmes standing motionless and gazing
     after us.

     The journey was a swift and pleasant one, and I spent it in making
     the more intimate acquaintance of my two companions and in playing
     with Dr. Mortimer's spaniel. In a very few hours the brown earth had
     become ruddy, the brick had changed to granite, and red cows grazed
     in well-hedged fields where the lush grasses and more luxuriant
     vegetation spoke of a richer, if a damper, climate. Young Baskerville
     stared eagerly out of the window, and cried aloud with delight as he
     recognized the familiar features of the Devon scenery.

     "I've been over a good part of the world since I left it, Dr.
     Watson," said he; "but I have never seen a place to compare with it."

     "I never saw a Devonshire man who did not swear by his county," I
     remarked.

     "It depends upon the breed of men quite as much as on the county,"
     said Dr. Mortimer. "A glance at our friend here reveals the rounded
     head of the Celt, which carries inside it the Celtic enthusiasm and
     power of attachment. Poor Sir Charles's head was of a very rare type,
     half Gaelic, half Ivernian in its characteristics. But you were very
     young when you last saw Baskerville Hall, were you not?"

     "I was a boy in my 'teens at the time of my father's death, and had
     never seen the Hall, for he lived in a little cottage on the South
     Coast. Thence I went straight to a friend in America. I tell you it
     is all as new to me as it is to Dr. Watson, and I'm as keen as
     possible to see the moor."

     "Are you? Then your wish is easily granted, for there is your first
     sight of the moor," said Dr. Mortimer, pointing out of the carriage
     window.

     Over the green squares of the fields and the low curve of a wood
     there rose in the distance a gray, melancholy hill, with a strange
     jagged summit, dim and vague in the distance, like some fantastic
     landscape in a dream. Baskerville sat for a long time, his eyes fixed
     upon it, and I read upon his eager face how much it meant to him,
     this first sight of that strange spot where the men of his blood had
     held sway so long and left their mark so deep. There he sat, with his
     tweed suit and his American accent, in the corner of a prosaic
     railway-carriage, and yet as I looked at his dark and expressive face
     I felt more than ever how true a descendant he was of that long line
     of high-blooded, fiery, and masterful men. There were pride, valour,
     and strength in his thick brows, his sensitive nostrils, and his
     large hazel eyes. If on that forbidding moor a difficult and
     dangerous quest should lie before us, this was at least a comrade for
     whom one might venture to take a risk with the certainty that he
     would bravely share it.

     The train pulled up at a small wayside station and we all descended.
     Outside, beyond the low, white fence, a wagonette with a pair of cobs
     was waiting. Our coming was evidently a great event, for
     station-master and porters clustered round us to carry out our
     luggage. It was a sweet, simple country spot, but I was surprised to
     observe that by the gate there stood two soldierly men in dark
     uniforms, who leaned upon their short rifles and glanced keenly at us
     as we passed. The coachman, a hard-faced, gnarled little fellow,
     saluted Sir Henry Baskerville, and in a few minutes we were flying
     swiftly down the broad, white road. Rolling pasture lands curved
     upward on either side of us, and old gabled houses peeped out from
     amid the thick green foliage, but behind the peaceful and sunlit
     country-side there rose ever, dark against the evening sky, the long,
     gloomy curve of the moor, broken by the jagged and sinister hills.

     The wagonette swung round into a side road, and we curved upward
     through deep lanes worn by centuries of wheels, high banks on either
     side, heavy with dripping moss and fleshy hart's-tongue ferns.
     Bronzing bracken and mottled bramble gleamed in the light of the
     sinking sun. Still steadily rising, we passed over a narrow granite
     bridge, and skirted a noisy stream which gushed swiftly down, foaming
     and roaring amid the gray boulders. Both road and stream wound up
     through a valley dense with scrub oak and fir. At every turn
     Baskerville gave an exclamation of delight, looking eagerly about him
     and asking countless questions. To his eyes all seemed beautiful, but
     to me a tinge of melancholy lay upon the country-side, which bore so
     clearly the mark of the waning year. Yellow leaves carpeted the lanes
     and fluttered down upon us as we passed. The rattle of our wheels
     died away as we drove through drifts of rotting vegetation--sad
     gifts, as it seemed to me, for Nature to throw before the carriage of
     the returning heir of the Baskervilles.

     "Halloa!" cried Dr. Mortimer, "what is this?"

     A steep curve of heath-clad land, an outlying spur of the moor, lay
     in front of us. On the summit, hard and clear like an equestrian
     statue upon its pedestal, was a mounted soldier, dark and stern, his
     rifle poised ready over his forearm. He was watching the road along
     which we travelled.

     "What is this, Perkins?" asked Dr. Mortimer.

     Our driver half turned in his seat.

     "There's a convict escaped from Princetown, sir. He's been out three
     days now, and the warders watch every road and every station, but
     they've had no sight of him yet. The farmers about here don't like
     it, sir, and that's a fact."

     "Well, I understand that they get five pounds if they can give
     information."

     "Yes, sir, but the chance of five pounds is but a poor thing compared
     to the chance of having your throat cut. You see, it isn't like any
     ordinary convict. This is a man that would stick at nothing."

     "Who is he, then?"

     "It is Selden, the Notting Hill murderer."

     I remembered the case well, for it was one in which Holmes had taken
     an interest on account of the peculiar ferocity of the crime and the
     wanton brutality which had marked all the actions of the assassin.
     The commutation of his death sentence had been due to some doubts as
     to his complete sanity, so atrocious was his conduct. Our wagonette
     had topped a rise and in front of us rose the huge expanse of the
     moor, mottled with gnarled and craggy cairns and tors. A cold wind
     swept down from it and set us shivering. Somewhere there, on that
     desolate plain, was lurking this fiendish man, hiding in a burrow
     like a wild beast, his heart full of malignancy against the whole
     race which had cast him out. It needed but this to complete the grim
     suggestiveness of the barren waste, the chilling wind, and the
     darkling sky. Even Baskerville fell silent and pulled his overcoat
     more closely around him.

     We had left the fertile country behind and beneath us. We looked back
     on it now, the slanting rays of a low sun turning the streams to
     threads of gold and glowing on the red earth new turned by the plough
     and the broad tangle of the woodlands. The road in front of us grew
     bleaker and wilder over huge russet and olive slopes, sprinkled with
     giant boulders. Now and then we passed a moorland cottage, walled and
     roofed with stone, with no creeper to break its harsh outline.
     Suddenly we looked down into a cup-like depression, patched with
     stunted oaks and firs which had been twisted and bent by the fury of
     years of storm. Two high, narrow towers rose over the trees. The
     driver pointed with his whip.

     "Baskerville Hall," said he.

     Its master had risen and was staring with flushed cheeks and shining
     eyes. A few minutes later we had reached the lodge-gates, a maze of
     fantastic tracery in wrought iron, with weather-bitten pillars on
     either side, blotched with lichens, and surmounted by the boars'
     heads of the Baskervilles. The lodge was a ruin of black granite and
     bared ribs of rafters, but facing it was a new building, half
     constructed, the first fruit of Sir Charles's South African gold.

     Through the gateway we passed into the avenue, where the wheels were
     again hushed amid the leaves, and the old trees shot their branches
     in a sombre tunnel over our heads. Baskerville shuddered as he looked
     up the long, dark drive to where the house glimmered like a ghost at
     the farther end.

     "Was it here?" he asked in a low voice.

     "No, no, the Yew Alley is on the other side."

     The young heir glanced round with a gloomy face.

     "It's no wonder my uncle felt as if trouble were coming on him in
     such a place as this," said he. "It's enough to scare any man. I'll
     have a row of electric lamps up here inside of six months, and you
     won't know it again, with a thousand candle-power Swan and Edison
     right here in front of the hall door."

     The avenue opened into a broad expanse of turf, and the house lay
     before us. In the fading light I could see that the centre was a
     heavy block of building from which a porch projected. The whole front
     was draped in ivy, with a patch clipped bare here and there where a
     window or a coat-of-arms broke through the dark veil. From this
     central block rose the twin towers, ancient, crenelated, and pierced
     with many loopholes. To right and left of the turrets were more
     modern wings of black granite. A dull light shone through heavy
     mullioned windows, and from the high chimneys which rose from the
     steep, high-angled roof there sprang a single black column of smoke.

     "Welcome, Sir Henry! Welcome to Baskerville Hall!"

     A tall man had stepped from the shadow of the porch to open the door
     of the wagonette. The figure of a woman was silhouetted against the
     yellow light of the hall. She came out and helped the man to hand
     down our bags.

     "You don't mind my driving straight home, Sir Henry?" said Dr.
     Mortimer. "My wife is expecting me."

     "Surely you will stay and have some dinner?"

     "No, I must go. I shall probably find some work awaiting me. I would
     stay to show you over the house, but Barrymore will be a better guide
     than I. Good-bye, and never hesitate night or day to send for me if I
     can be of service."

     The wheels died away down the drive while Sir Henry and I turned into
     the hall, and the door clanged heavily behind us. It was a fine
     apartment in which we found ourselves, large, lofty, and heavily
     raftered with huge balks of age-blackened oak. In the great
     old-fashioned fireplace behind the high iron dogs a log-fire crackled
     and snapped. Sir Henry and I held out our hands to it, for we were
     numb from our long drive. Then we gazed round us at the high, thin
     window of old stained glass, the oak panelling, the stags' heads, the
     coats-of-arms upon the walls, all dim and sombre in the subdued light
     of the central lamp.

     "It's just as I imagined it," said Sir Henry. "Is it not the very
     picture of an old family home? To think that this should be the same
     hall in which for five hundred years my people have lived. It strikes
     me solemn to think of it."

     I saw his dark face lit up with a boyish enthusiasm as he gazed about
     him. The light beat upon him where he stood, but long shadows trailed
     down the walls and hung like a black canopy above him. Barrymore had
     returned from taking our luggage to our rooms. He stood in front of
     us now with the subdued manner of a well-trained servant. He was a
     remarkable-looking man, tall, handsome, with a square black beard and
     pale, distinguished features.

     "Would you wish dinner to be served at once, sir?"

     "Is it ready?"

     "In a very few minutes, sir. You will find hot water in your rooms.
     My wife and I will be happy, Sir Henry, to stay with you until you
     have made your fresh arrangements, but you will understand that under
     the new conditions this house will require a considerable staff."

     "What new conditions?"

     "I only meant, sir, that Sir Charles led a very retired life, and we
     were able to look after his wants. You would, naturally, wish to have
     more company, and so you will need changes in your household."

     "Do you mean that your wife and you wish to leave?"

     "Only when it is quite convenient to you, sir."

     "But your family have been with us for several generations, have they
     not? I should be sorry to begin my life here by breaking an old
     family connection."

     I seemed to discern some signs of emotion upon the butler's white
     face.

     "I feel that also, sir, and so does my wife. But to tell the truth,
     sir, we were both very much attached to Sir Charles, and his death
     gave us a shock and made these surroundings very painful to us. I
     fear that we shall never again be easy in our minds at Baskerville
     Hall."

     "But what do you intend to do?"

     "I have no doubt, sir, that we shall succeed in establishing
     ourselves in some business. Sir Charles's generosity has given us the
     means to do so. And now, sir, perhaps I had best show you to your
     rooms."

     A square balustraded gallery ran round the top of the old hall,
     approached by a double stair. From this central point two long
     corridors extended the whole length of the building, from which all
     the bedrooms opened. My own was in the same wing as Baskerville's and
     almost next door to it. These rooms appeared to be much more modern
     than the central part of the house, and the bright paper and numerous
     candles did something to remove the sombre impression which our
     arrival had left upon my mind.

     But the dining-room which opened out of the hall was a place of
     shadow and gloom. It was a long chamber with a step separating the
     dais where the family sat from the lower portion reserved for their
     dependents. At one end a minstrel's gallery overlooked it. Black
     beams shot across above our heads, with a smoke-darkened ceiling
     beyond them. With rows of flaring torches to light it up, and the
     colour and rude hilarity of an old-time banquet, it might have
     softened; but now, when two black-clothed gentlemen sat in the little
     circle of light thrown by a shaded lamp, one's voice became hushed
     and one's spirit subdued. A dim line of ancestors, in every variety
     of dress, from the Elizabethan knight to the buck of the Regency,
     stared down upon us and daunted us by their silent company. We talked
     little, and I for one was glad when the meal was over and we were
     able to retire into the modern billiard-room and smoke a cigarette.

     "My word, it isn't a very cheerful place," said Sir Henry. "I suppose
     one can tone down to it, but I feel a bit out of the picture at
     present. I don't wonder that my uncle got a little jumpy if he lived
     all alone in such a house as this. However, if it suits you, we will
     retire early to-night, and perhaps things may seem more cheerful in
     the morning."

     I drew aside my curtains before I went to bed and looked out from my
     window. It opened upon the grassy space which lay in front of the
     hall door. Beyond, two copses of trees moaned and swung in a rising
     wind. A half moon broke through the rifts of racing clouds. In its
     cold light I saw beyond the trees a broken fringe of rocks, and the
     long, low curve of the melancholy moor. I closed the curtain, feeling
     that my last impression was in keeping with the rest.

     And yet it was not quite the last. I found myself weary and yet
     wakeful, tossing restlessly from side to side, seeking for the sleep
     which would not come. Far away a chiming clock struck out the
     quarters of the hours, but otherwise a deathly silence lay upon the
     old house. And then suddenly, in the very dead of the night, there
     came a sound to my ears, clear, resonant, and unmistakable. It was
     the sob of a woman, the muffled, strangling gasp of one who is torn
     by an uncontrollable sorrow. I sat up in bed and listened intently.
     The noise could not have been far away and was certainly in the
     house. For half an hour I waited with every nerve on the alert, but
     there came no other sound save the chiming clock and the rustle of
     the ivy on the wall.

     The fresh beauty of the following morning did something to efface
     from our minds the grim and gray impression which had been left upon
     both of us by our first experience of Baskerville Hall. As Sir Henry
     and I sat at breakfast the sunlight flooded in through the high
     mullioned windows, throwing watery patches of colour from the coats
     of arms which covered them. The dark panelling glowed like bronze in
     the golden rays, and it was hard to realize that this was indeed the
     chamber which had struck such a gloom into our souls upon the evening
     before.

     "I guess it is ourselves and not the house that we have to blame!"
     said the baronet. "We were tired with our journey and chilled by our
     drive, so we took a gray view of the place. Now we are fresh and
     well, so it is all cheerful once more."

     "And yet it was not entirely a question of imagination," I answered.
     "Did you, for example, happen to hear someone, a woman I think,
     sobbing in the night?"

     "That is curious, for I did when I was half asleep fancy that I heard
     something of the sort. I waited quite a time, but there was no more
     of it, so I concluded that it was all a dream."

     "I heard it distinctly, and I am sure that it was really the sob of a
     woman."

     "We must ask about this right away." He rang the bell and asked
     Barrymore whether he could account for our experience. It seemed to
     me that the pallid features of the butler turned a shade paler still
     as he listened to his master's question.

     "There are only two women in the house, Sir Henry," he answered. "One
     is the scullery-maid, who sleeps in the other wing. The other is my
     wife, and I can answer for it that the sound could not have come from
     her."

     And yet he lied as he said it, for it chanced that after breakfast I
     met Mrs. Barrymore in the long corridor with the sun full upon her
     face. She was a large, impassive, heavy-featured woman with a stern
     set expression of mouth. But her tell-tale eyes were red and glanced
     at me from between swollen lids. It was she, then, who wept in the
     night, and if she did so her husband must know it. Yet he had taken
     the obvious risk of discovery in declaring that it was not so. Why
     had he done this? And why did she weep so bitterly? Already round
     this pale-faced, handsome, black-bearded man there was gathering an
     atmosphere of mystery and of gloom. It was he who had been the first
     to discover the body of Sir Charles, and we had only his word for all
     the circumstances which led up to the old man's death. Was it
     possible that it was Barrymore after all whom we had seen in the cab
     in Regent Street? The beard might well have been the same. The cabman
     had described a somewhat shorter man, but such an impression might
     easily have been erroneous. How could I settle the point forever?
     Obviously the first thing to do was to see the Grimpen postmaster,
     and find whether the test telegram had really been placed in
     Barrymore's own hands. Be the answer what it might, I should at least
     have something to report to Sherlock Holmes.

     Sir Henry had numerous papers to examine after breakfast, so that the
     time was propitious for my excursion. It was a pleasant walk of four
     miles along the edge of the moor, leading me at last to a small gray
     hamlet, in which two larger buildings, which proved to be the inn and
     the house of Dr. Mortimer, stood high above the rest. The postmaster,
     who was also the village grocer, had a clear recollection of the
     telegram.

     "Certainly, sir," said he, "I had the telegram delivered to Mr.
     Barrymore exactly as directed."

     "Who delivered it?"

     "My boy here. James, you delivered that telegram to Mr. Barrymore at
     the Hall last week, did you not?"

     "Yes, father, I delivered it."

     "Into his own hands?" I asked.

     "Well, he was up in the loft at the time, so that I could not put it
     into his own hands, but I gave it into Mrs. Barrymore's hands, and
     she promised to deliver it at once."

     "Did you see Mr. Barrymore?"

     "No, sir; I tell you he was in the loft."

     "If you didn't see him, how do you know he was in the loft?"

     "Well, surely his own wife ought to know where he is," said the
     postmaster testily. "Didn't he get the telegram? If there is any
     mistake it is for Mr. Barrymore himself to complain."

     It seemed hopeless to pursue the inquiry any farther, but it was
     clear that in spite of Holmes's ruse we had no proof that Barrymore
     had not been in London all the time. Suppose that it were so--suppose
     that the same man had been the last who had seen Sir Charles alive,
     and the first to dog the new heir when he returned to England. What
     then? Was he the agent of others or had he some sinister design of
     his own? What interest could he have in persecuting the Baskerville
     family? I thought of the strange warning clipped out of the leading
     article of the Times. Was that his work or was it possibly the doing
     of someone who was bent upon counteracting his schemes? The only
     conceivable motive was that which had been suggested by Sir Henry,
     that if the family could be scared away a comfortable and permanent
     home would be secured for the Barrymores. But surely such an
     explanation as that would be quite inadequate to account for the deep
     and subtle scheming which seemed to be weaving an invisible net round
     the young baronet. Holmes himself had said that no more complex case
     had come to him in all the long series of his sensational
     investigations. I prayed, as I walked back along the gray, lonely
     road, that my friend might soon be freed from his preoccupations and
     able to come down to take this heavy burden of responsibility from my
     shoulders.

     Suddenly my thoughts were interrupted by the sound of running feet
     behind me and by a voice which called me by name. I turned, expecting
     to see Dr. Mortimer, but to my surprise it was a stranger who was
     pursuing me. He was a small, slim, clean-shaven, prim-faced man,
     flaxen-haired and lean-jawed, between thirty and forty years of age,
     dressed in a gray suit and wearing a straw hat. A tin box for
     botanical specimens hung over his shoulder and he carried a green
     butterfly-net in one of his hands.

     "You will, I am sure, excuse my presumption, Dr. Watson," said he, as
     he came panting up to where I stood. "Here on the moor we are homely
     folk and do not wait for formal introductions. You may possibly have
     heard my name from our mutual friend, Mortimer. I am Stapleton, of
     Merripit House."

     "Your net and box would have told me as much," said I, "for I knew
     that Mr. Stapleton was a naturalist. But how did you know me?"

     "I have been calling on Mortimer, and he pointed you out to me from
     the window of his surgery as you passed. As our road lay the same way
     I thought that I would overtake you and introduce myself. I trust
     that Sir Henry is none the worse for his journey?"

     "He is very well, thank you."

     "We were all rather afraid that after the sad death of Sir Charles
     the new baronet might refuse to live here. It is asking much of a
     wealthy man to come down and bury himself in a place of this kind,
     but I need not tell you that it means a very great deal to the
     country-side. Sir Henry has, I suppose, no superstitious fears in the
     matter?"

     "I do not think that it is likely."

     "Of course you know the legend of the fiend dog which haunts the
     family?"

     "I have heard it."

     "It is extraordinary how credulous the peasants are about here! Any
     number of them are ready to swear that they have seen such a creature
     upon the moor." He spoke with a smile, but I seemed to read in his
     eyes that he took the matter more seriously. "The story took a great
     hold upon the imagination of Sir Charles, and I have no doubt that it
     led to his tragic end."

     "But how?"

     "His nerves were so worked up that the appearance of any dog might
     have had a fatal effect upon his diseased heart. I fancy that he
     really did see something of the kind upon that last night in the Yew
     Alley. I feared that some disaster might occur, for I was very fond
     of the old man, and I knew that his heart was weak."

     "How did you know that?"

     "My friend Mortimer told me."

     "You think, then, that some dog pursued Sir Charles, and that he died
     of fright in consequence?"

     "Have you any better explanation?"

     "I have not come to any conclusion."

     "Has Mr. Sherlock Holmes?"

     The words took away my breath for an instant, but a glance at the
     placid face and steadfast eyes of my companion showed that no
     surprise was intended.

     "It is useless for us to pretend that we do not know you, Dr.
     Watson," said he. "The records of your detective have reached us
     here, and you could not celebrate him without being known yourself.
     When Mortimer told me your name he could not deny your identity. If
     you are here, then it follows that Mr. Sherlock Holmes is interesting
     himself in the matter, and I am naturally curious to know what view
     he may take."

     "I am afraid that I cannot answer that question."

     "May I ask if he is going to honour us with a visit himself?"

     "He cannot leave town at present. He has other cases which engage his
     attention."

     "What a pity! He might throw some light on that which is so dark to
     us. But as to your own researches, if there is any possible way in
     which I can be of service to you I trust that you will command me. If
     I had any indication of the nature of your suspicions or how you
     propose to investigate the case, I might perhaps even now give you
     some aid or advice."

     "I assure you that I am simply here upon a visit to my friend, Sir
     Henry, and that I need no help of any kind."

     "Excellent!" said Stapleton. "You are perfectly right to be wary and
     discreet. I am justly reproved for what I feel was an unjustifiable
     intrusion, and I promise you that I will not mention the matter
     again."

     We had come to a point where a narrow grassy path struck off from the
     road and wound away across the moor. A steep, boulder-sprinkled hill
     lay upon the right which had in bygone days been cut into a granite
     quarry. The face which was turned towards us formed a dark cliff,
     with ferns and brambles growing in its niches. From over a distant
     rise there floated a gray plume of smoke.

     "A moderate walk along this moor-path brings us to Merripit House,"
     said he. "Perhaps you will spare an hour that I may have the pleasure
     of introducing you to my sister."

     My first thought was that I should be by Sir Henry's side. But then I
     remembered the pile of papers and bills with which his study table
     was littered. It was certain that I could not help with those. And
     Holmes had expressly said that I should study the neighbours upon the
     moor. I accepted Stapleton's invitation, and we turned together down
     the path.

     "It is a wonderful place, the moor," said he, looking round over the
     undulating downs, long green rollers, with crests of jagged granite
     foaming up into fantastic surges. "You never tire of the moor. You
     cannot think the wonderful secrets which it contains. It is so vast,
     and so barren, and so mysterious."

     "You know it well, then?"

     "I have only been here two years. The residents would call me a
     newcomer. We came shortly after Sir Charles settled. But my tastes
     led me to explore every part of the country round, and I should think
     that there are few men who know it better than I do."

     "Is it hard to know?"

     "Very hard. You see, for example, this great plain to the north here
     with the queer hills breaking out of it. Do you observe anything
     remarkable about that?"

     "It would be a rare place for a gallop."

     "You would naturally think so and the thought has cost several their
     lives before now. You notice those bright green spots scattered
     thickly over it?"

     "Yes, they seem more fertile than the rest."

     Stapleton laughed.

     "That is the great Grimpen Mire," said he. "A false step yonder means
     death to man or beast. Only yesterday I saw one of the moor ponies
     wander into it. He never came out. I saw his head for quite a long
     time craning out of the bog-hole, but it sucked him down at last.
     Even in dry seasons it is a danger to cross it, but after these
     autumn rains it is an awful place. And yet I can find my way to the
     very heart of it and return alive. By George, there is another of
     those miserable ponies!"

     Something brown was rolling and tossing among the green sedges. Then
     a long, agonized, writhing neck shot upward and a dreadful cry echoed
     over the moor. It turned me cold with horror, but my companion's
     nerves seemed to be stronger than mine.

     "It's gone!" said he. "The mire has him. Two in two days, and many
     more, perhaps, for they get in the way of going there in the dry
     weather, and never know the difference until the mire has them in its
     clutches. It's a bad place, the great Grimpen Mire."

     "And you say you can penetrate it?"

     "Yes, there are one or two paths which a very active man can take. I
     have found them out."

     "But why should you wish to go into so horrible a place?"

     "Well, you see the hills beyond? They are really islands cut off on
     all sides by the impassable mire, which has crawled round them in the
     course of years. That is where the rare plants and the butterflies
     are, if you have the wit to reach them."

     "I shall try my luck some day."

     He looked at me with a surprised face.

     "For God's sake put such an idea out of your mind," said he. "Your
     blood would be upon my head. I assure you that there would not be the
     least chance of your coming back alive. It is only by remembering
     certain complex landmarks that I am able to do it."

     "Halloa!" I cried. "What is that?"

     A long, low moan, indescribably sad, swept over the moor. It filled
     the whole air, and yet it was impossible to say whence it came. From
     a dull murmur it swelled into a deep roar, and then sank back into a
     melancholy, throbbing murmur once again. Stapleton looked at me with
     a curious expression in his face.

     "Queer place, the moor!" said he.

     "But what is it?"

     "The peasants say it is the Hound of the Baskervilles calling for its
     prey. I've heard it once or twice before, but never quite so loud."

     I looked round, with a chill of fear in my heart, at the huge
     swelling plain, mottled with the green patches of rushes. Nothing
     stirred over the vast expanse save a pair of ravens, which croaked
     loudly from a tor behind us.

     "You are an educated man. You don't believe such nonsense as that?"
     said I. "What do you think is the cause of so strange a sound?"

     "Bogs make queer noises sometimes. It's the mud settling, or the
     water rising, or something."

     "No, no, that was a living voice."

     "Well, perhaps it was. Did you ever hear a bittern booming?"

     "No, I never did."

     "It's a very rare bird--practically extinct--in England now, but all
     things are possible upon the moor. Yes, I should not be surprised to
     learn that what we have heard is the cry of the last of the
     bitterns."

     "It's the weirdest, strangest thing that ever I heard in my life."

     "Yes, it's rather an uncanny place altogether. Look at the hill-side
     yonder. What do you make of those?"

     The whole steep slope was covered with gray circular rings of stone,
     a score of them at least.

     "What are they? Sheep-pens?"

     "No, they are the homes of our worthy ancestors. Prehistoric man
     lived thickly on the moor, and as no one in particular has lived
     there since, we find all his little arrangements exactly as he left
     them. These are his wigwams with the roofs off. You can even see his
     hearth and his couch if you have the curiosity to go inside."

     "But it is quite a town. When was it inhabited?"

     "Neolithic man--no date."

     "What did he do?"

     "He grazed his cattle on these slopes, and he learned to dig for tin
     when the bronze sword began to supersede the stone axe. Look at the
     great trench in the opposite hill. That is his mark. Yes, you will
     find some very singular points about the moor, Dr. Watson. Oh, excuse
     me an instant! It is surely Cyclopides."

     A small fly or moth had fluttered across our path, and in an instant
     Stapleton was rushing with extraordinary energy and speed in pursuit
     of it. To my dismay the creature flew straight for the great mire,
     and my acquaintance never paused for an instant, bounding from tuft
     to tuft behind it, his green net waving in the air. His gray clothes
     and jerky, zigzag, irregular progress made him not unlike some huge
     moth himself. I was standing watching his pursuit with a mixture of
     admiration for his extraordinary activity and fear lest he should
     lose his footing in the treacherous mire, when I heard the sound of
     steps, and turning round found a woman near me upon the path. She had
     come from the direction in which the plume of smoke indicated the
     position of Merripit House, but the dip of the moor had hid her until
     she was quite close.

     I could not doubt that this was the Miss Stapleton of whom I had been
     told, since ladies of any sort must be few upon the moor, and I
     remembered that I had heard someone describe her as being a beauty.
     The woman who approached me was certainly that, and of a most
     uncommon type. There could not have been a greater contrast between
     brother and sister, for Stapleton was neutral tinted, with light hair
     and gray eyes, while she was darker than any brunette whom I have
     seen in England--slim, elegant, and tall. She had a proud, finely cut
     face, so regular that it might have seemed impassive were it not for
     the sensitive mouth and the beautiful dark, eager eyes. With her
     perfect figure and elegant dress she was, indeed, a strange
     apparition upon a lonely moorland path. Her eyes were on her brother
     as I turned, and then she quickened her pace towards me. I had raised
     my hat and was about to make some explanatory remark, when her own
     words turned all my thoughts into a new channel.

     "Go back!" she said. "Go straight back to London, instantly."

     I could only stare at her in stupid surprise. Her eyes blazed at me,
     and she tapped the ground impatiently with her foot.

     "Why should I go back?" I asked.

     "I cannot explain." She spoke in a low, eager voice, with a curious
     lisp in her utterance. "But for God's sake do what I ask you. Go back
     and never set foot upon the moor again."

     "But I have only just come."

     "Man, man!" she cried. "Can you not tell when a warning is for your
     own good? Go back to London! Start to-night! Get away from this place
     at all costs! Hush, my brother is coming! Not a word of what I have
     said. Would you mind getting that orchid for me among the mares-tails
     yonder? We are very rich in orchids on the moor, though, of course,
     you are rather late to see the beauties of the place."

     Stapleton had abandoned the chase and came back to us breathing hard
     and flushed with his exertions.

     "Halloa, Beryl!" said he, and it seemed to me that the tone of his
     greeting was not altogether a cordial one.

     "Well, Jack, you are very hot."

     "Yes, I was chasing a Cyclopides. He is very rare and seldom found in
     the late autumn. What a pity that I should have missed him!" He spoke
     unconcernedly, but his small light eyes glanced incessantly from the
     girl to me.

     "You have introduced yourselves, I can see."

     "Yes. I was telling Sir Henry that it was rather late for him to see
     the true beauties of the moor."

     "Why, who do you think this is?"

     "I imagine that it must be Sir Henry Baskerville."

     "No, no," said I. "Only a humble commoner, but his friend. My name is
     Dr. Watson."

     A flush of vexation passed over her expressive face. "We have been
     talking at cross purposes," said she.

     "Why, you had not very much time for talk," her brother remarked with
     the same questioning eyes.

     "I talked as if Dr. Watson were a resident instead of being merely a
     visitor," said she. "It cannot much matter to him whether it is early
     or late for the orchids. But you will come on, will you not, and see
     Merripit House?"

     A short walk brought us to it, a bleak moorland house, once the farm
     of some grazier in the old prosperous days, but now put into repair
     and turned into a modern dwelling. An orchard surrounded it, but the
     trees, as is usual upon the moor, were stunted and nipped, and the
     effect of the whole place was mean and melancholy. We were admitted
     by a strange, wizened, rusty-coated old manservant, who seemed in
     keeping with the house. Inside, however, there were large rooms
     furnished with an elegance in which I seemed to recognize the taste
     of the lady. As I looked from their windows at the interminable
     granite-flecked moor rolling unbroken to the farthest horizon I could
     not but marvel at what could have brought this highly educated man
     and this beautiful woman to live in such a place.

     "Queer spot to choose, is it not?" said he as if in answer to my
     thought. "And yet we manage to make ourselves fairly happy, do we
     not, Beryl?"

     "Quite happy," said she, but there was no ring of conviction in her
     words.

     "I had a school," said Stapleton. "It was in the north country. The
     work to a man of my temperament was mechanical and uninteresting, but
     the privilege of living with youth, of helping to mould those young
     minds, and of impressing them with one's own character and ideals,
     was very dear to me. However, the fates were against us. A serious
     epidemic broke out in the school and three of the boys died. It never
     recovered from the blow, and much of my capital was irretrievably
     swallowed up. And yet, if it were not for the loss of the charming
     companionship of the boys, I could rejoice over my own misfortune,
     for, with my strong tastes for botany and zoology, I find an
     unlimited field of work here, and my sister is as devoted to Nature
     as I am. All this, Dr. Watson, has been brought upon your head by
     your expression as you surveyed the moor out of our window."

     "It certainly did cross my mind that it might be a little dull--less
     for you, perhaps, than for your sister."

     "No, no, I am never dull," said she, quickly.

     "We have books, we have our studies, and we have interesting
     neighbours. Dr. Mortimer is a most learned man in his own line. Poor
     Sir Charles was also an admirable companion. We knew him well, and
     miss him more than I can tell. Do you think that I should intrude if
     I were to call this afternoon and make the acquaintance of Sir
     Henry?"

     "I am sure that he would be delighted."

     "Then perhaps you would mention that I propose to do so. We may in
     our humble way do something to make things more easy for him until he
     becomes accustomed to his new surroundings. Will you come upstairs,
     Dr. Watson, and inspect my collection of Lepidoptera? I think it is
     the most complete one in the south-west of England. By the time that
     you have looked through them lunch will be almost ready."

     But I was eager to get back to my charge. The melancholy of the moor,
     the death of the unfortunate pony, the weird sound which had been
     associated with the grim legend of the Baskervilles, all these things
     tinged my thoughts with sadness. Then on the top of these more or
     less vague impressions there had come the definite and distinct
     warning of Miss Stapleton, delivered with such intense earnestness
     that I could not doubt that some grave and deep reason lay behind it.
     I resisted all pressure to stay for lunch, and I set off at once upon
     my return journey, taking the grass-grown path by which we had come.

     It seems, however, that there must have been some short cut for those
     who knew it, for before I had reached the road I was astounded to see
     Miss Stapleton sitting upon a rock by the side of the track. Her face
     was beautifully flushed with her exertions, and she held her hand to
     her side.

     "I have run all the way in order to cut you off, Dr. Watson," said
     she. "I had not even time to put on my hat. I must not stop, or my
     brother may miss me. I wanted to say to you how sorry I am about the
     stupid mistake I made in thinking that you were Sir Henry. Please
     forget the words I said, which have no application whatever to you."

     "But I can't forget them, Miss Stapleton," said I. "I am Sir Henry's
     friend, and his welfare is a very close concern of mine. Tell me why
     it was that you were so eager that Sir Henry should return to
     London."

     "A woman's whim, Dr. Watson. When you know me better you will
     understand that I cannot always give reasons for what I say or do."

     "No, no. I remember the thrill in your voice. I remember the look in
     your eyes. Please, please, be frank with me, Miss Stapleton, for ever
     since I have been here I have been conscious of shadows all round me.
     Life has become like that great Grimpen Mire, with little green
     patches everywhere into which one may sink and with no guide to point
     the track. Tell me then what it was that you meant, and I will
     promise to convey your warning to Sir Henry."

     An expression of irresolution passed for an instant over her face,
     but her eyes had hardened again when she answered me.

     "You make too much of it, Dr. Watson," said she. "My brother and I
     were very much shocked by the death of Sir Charles. We knew him very
     intimately, for his favourite walk was over the moor to our house. He
     was deeply impressed with the curse which hung over the family, and
     when this tragedy came I naturally felt that there must be some
     grounds for the fears which he had expressed. I was distressed
     therefore when another member of the family came down to live here,
     and I felt that he should be warned of the danger which he will run.
     That was all which I intended to convey.

     "But what is the danger?"

     "You know the story of the hound?"

     "I do not believe in such nonsense."

     "But I do. If you have any influence with Sir Henry, take him away
     from a place which has always been fatal to his family. The world is
     wide. Why should he wish to live at the place of danger?"

     "Because it is the place of danger. That is Sir Henry's nature. I
     fear that unless you can give me some more definite information than
     this it would be impossible to get him to move."

     "I cannot say anything definite, for I do not know anything
     definite."

     "I would ask you one more question, Miss Stapleton. If you meant no
     more than this when you first spoke to me, why should you not wish
     your brother to overhear what you said? There is nothing to which he,
     or anyone else, could object."

     "My brother is very anxious to have the Hall inhabited, for he thinks
     it is for the good of the poor folk upon the moor. He would be very
     angry if he knew that I have said anything which might induce Sir
     Henry to go away. But I have done my duty now and I will say no more.
     I must get back, or he will miss me and suspect that I have seen you.
     Good-bye!" She turned and had disappeared in a few minutes among the
     scattered boulders, while I, with my soul full of vague fears,
     pursued my way to Baskerville Hall.

     From this point onward I will follow the course of events by
     transcribing my own letters to Mr. Sherlock Holmes which lie before
     me on the table. One page is missing, but otherwise they are exactly
     as written and show my feelings and suspicions of the moment more
     accurately than my memory, clear as it is upon these tragic events,
     can possibly do.

     Baskerville Hall, October 13th.

     My dear Holmes:
     My previous letters and telegrams have kept you pretty well up to
     date as to all that has occurred in this most God-forsaken corner of
     the world. The longer one stays here the more does the spirit of the
     moor sink into one's soul, its vastness, and also its grim charm.
     When you are once out upon its bosom you have left all traces of
     modern England behind you, but on the other hand you are conscious
     everywhere of the homes and the work of the prehistoric people. On
     all sides of you as you walk are the houses of these forgotten folk,
     with their graves and the huge monoliths which are supposed to have
     marked their temples. As you look at their gray stone huts against
     the scarred hill-sides you leave your own age behind you, and if you
     were to see a skin-clad, hairy man crawl out from the low door
     fitting a flint-tipped arrow on to the string of his bow, you would
     feel that his presence there was more natural than your own. The
     strange thing is that they should have lived so thickly on what must
     always have been most unfruitful soil. I am no antiquarian, but I
     could imagine that they were some unwarlike and harried race who were
     forced to accept that which none other would occupy.

     All this, however, is foreign to the mission on which you sent me and
     will probably be very uninteresting to your severely practical mind.
     I can still remember your complete indifference as to whether the sun
     moved round the earth or the earth round the sun. Let me, therefore,
     return to the facts concerning Sir Henry Baskerville.

     If you have not had any report within the last few days it is because
     up to to-day there was nothing of importance to relate. Then a very
     surprising circumstance occurred, which I shall tell you in due
     course. But, first of all, I must keep you in touch with some of the
     other factors in the situation.

     One of these, concerning which I have said little, is the escaped
     convict upon the moor. There is strong reason now to believe that he
     has got right away, which is a considerable relief to the lonely
     householders of this district. A fortnight has passed since his
     flight, during which he has not been seen and nothing has been heard
     of him. It is surely inconceivable that he could have held out upon
     the moor during all that time. Of course, so far as his concealment
     goes there is no difficulty at all. Any one of these stone huts would
     give him a hiding-place. But there is nothing to eat unless he were
     to catch and slaughter one of the moor sheep. We think, therefore,
     that he has gone, and the outlying farmers sleep the better in
     consequence.

     We are four able-bodied men in this household, so that we could take
     good care of ourselves, but I confess that I have had uneasy moments
     when I have thought of the Stapletons. They live miles from any help.
     There are one maid, an old manservant, the sister, and the brother,
     the latter not a very strong man. They would be helpless in the hands
     of a desperate fellow like this Notting Hill criminal, if he could
     once effect an entrance. Both Sir Henry and I were concerned at their
     situation, and it was suggested that Perkins the groom should go over
     to sleep there, but Stapleton would not hear of it.

     The fact is that our friend, the baronet, begins to display a
     considerable interest in our fair neighbour. It is not to be wondered
     at, for time hangs heavily in this lonely spot to an active man like
     him, and she is a very fascinating and beautiful woman. There is
     something tropical and exotic about her which forms a singular
     contrast to her cool and unemotional brother. Yet he also gives the
     idea of hidden fires. He has certainly a very marked influence over
     her, for I have seen her continually glance at him as she talked as
     if seeking approbation for what she said. I trust that he is kind to
     her. There is a dry glitter in his eyes, and a firm set of his thin
     lips, which goes with a positive and possibly a harsh nature. You
     would find him an interesting study.

     He came over to call upon Baskerville on that first day, and the very
     next morning he took us both to show us the spot where the legend of
     the wicked Hugo is supposed to have had its origin. It was an
     excursion of some miles across the moor to a place which is so dismal
     that it might have suggested the story. We found a short valley
     between rugged tors which led to an open, grassy space flecked over
     with the white cotton grass. In the middle of it rose two great
     stones, worn and sharpened at the upper end, until they looked like
     the huge corroding fangs of some monstrous beast. In every way it
     corresponded with the scene of the old tragedy. Sir Henry was much
     interested and asked Stapleton more than once whether he did really
     believe in the possibility of the interference of the supernatural in
     the affairs of men. He spoke lightly, but it was evident that he was
     very much in earnest. Stapleton was guarded in his replies, but it
     was easy to see that he said less than he might, and that he would
     not express his whole opinion out of consideration for the feelings
     of the baronet. He told us of similar cases, where families had
     suffered from some evil influence, and he left us with the impression
     that he shared the popular view upon the matter.

     On our way back we stayed for lunch at Merripit House, and it was
     there that Sir Henry made the acquaintance of Miss Stapleton. From
     the first moment that he saw her he appeared to be strongly attracted
     by her, and I am much mistaken if the feeling was not mutual. He
     referred to her again and again on our walk home, and since then
     hardly a day has passed that we have not seen something of the
     brother and sister. They dine here to-night, and there is some talk
     of our going to them next week. One would imagine that such a match
     would be very welcome to Stapleton, and yet I have more than once
     caught a look of the strongest disapprobation in his face when Sir
     Henry has been paying some attention to his sister. He is much
     attached to her, no doubt, and would lead a lonely life without her,
     but it would seem the height of selfishness if he were to stand in
     the way of her making so brilliant a marriage. Yet I am certain that
     he does not wish their intimacy to ripen into love, and I have
     several times observed that he has taken pains to prevent them from
     being tÃªte-Ã -tÃªte. By the way, your instructions to me never to allow
     Sir Henry to go out alone will become very much more onerous if a
     love affair were to be added to our other difficulties. My popularity
     would soon suffer if I were to carry out your orders to the letter.

     The other day--Thursday, to be more exact--Dr. Mortimer lunched with
     us. He has been excavating a barrow at Long Down, and has got a
     prehistoric skull which fills him with great joy. Never was there
     such a single-minded enthusiast as he! The Stapletons came in
     afterwards, and the good doctor took us all to the Yew Alley, at Sir
     Henry's request, to show us exactly how everything occurred upon that
     fatal night. It is a long, dismal walk, the Yew Alley, between two
     high walls of clipped hedge, with a narrow band of grass upon either
     side. At the far end is an old tumble-down summer-house. Half-way
     down is the moor-gate, where the old gentleman left his cigar-ash. It
     is a white wooden gate with a latch. Beyond it lies the wide moor. I
     remembered your theory of the affair and tried to picture all that
     had occurred. As the old man stood there he saw something coming
     across the moor, something which terrified him so that he lost his
     wits, and ran and ran until he died of sheer horror and exhaustion.
     There was the long, gloomy tunnel down which he fled. And from what?
     A sheep-dog of the moor? Or a spectral hound, black, silent, and
     monstrous? Was there a human agency in the matter? Did the pale,
     watchful Barrymore know more than he cared to say? It was all dim and
     vague, but always there is the dark shadow of crime behind it.

     One other neighbour I have met since I wrote last. This is Mr.
     Frankland, of Lafter Hall, who lives some four miles to the south of
     us. He is an elderly man, red-faced, white-haired, and choleric. His
     passion is for the British law, and he has spent a large fortune in
     litigation. He fights for the mere pleasure of fighting and is
     equally ready to take up either side of a question, so that it is no
     wonder that he has found it a costly amusement. Sometimes he will
     shut up a right of way and defy the parish to make him open it. At
     others he will with his own hands tear down some other man's gate and
     declare that a path has existed there from time immemorial, defying
     the owner to prosecute him for trespass. He is learned in old
     manorial and communal rights, and he applies his knowledge sometimes
     in favour of the villagers of Fernworthy and sometimes against them,
     so that he is periodically either carried in triumph down the village
     street or else burned in effigy, according to his latest exploit. He
     is said to have about seven lawsuits upon his hands at present, which
     will probably swallow up the remainder of his fortune and so draw his
     sting and leave him harmless for the future. Apart from the law he
     seems a kindly, good-natured person, and I only mention him because
     you were particular that I should send some description of the people
     who surround us. He is curiously employed at present, for, being an
     amateur astronomer, he has an excellent telescope, with which he lies
     upon the roof of his own house and sweeps the moor all day in the
     hope of catching a glimpse of the escaped convict. If he would
     confine his energies to this all would be well, but there are rumours
     that he intends to prosecute Dr. Mortimer for opening a grave without
     the consent of the next-of-kin, because he dug up the Neolithic skull
     in the barrow on Long Down. He helps to keep our lives from being
     monotonous and gives a little comic relief where it is badly needed.

     And now, having brought you up to date in the escaped convict, the
     Stapletons, Dr. Mortimer, and Frankland, of Lafter Hall, let me end
     on that which is most important and tell you more about the
     Barrymores, and especially about the surprising development of last
     night.

     First of all about the test telegram, which you sent from London in
     order to make sure that Barrymore was really here. I have already
     explained that the testimony of the postmaster shows that the test
     was worthless and that we have no proof one way or the other. I told
     Sir Henry how the matter stood, and he at once, in his downright
     fashion, had Barrymore up and asked him whether he had received the
     telegram himself. Barrymore said that he had.

     "Did the boy deliver it into your own hands?" asked Sir Henry.

     Barrymore looked surprised, and considered for a little time.

     "No," said he, "I was in the box-room at the time, and my wife
     brought it up to me."

     "Did you answer it yourself?"

     "No; I told my wife what to answer and she went down to write it."

     In the evening he recurred to the subject of his own accord.

     "I could not quite understand the object of your questions this
     morning, Sir Henry," said he. "I trust that they do not mean that I
     have done anything to forfeit your confidence?"

     Sir Henry had to assure him that it was not so and pacify him by
     giving him a considerable part of his old wardrobe, the London outfit
     having now all arrived.

     Mrs. Barrymore is of interest to me. She is a heavy, solid person,
     very limited, intensely respectable, and inclined to be puritanical.
     You could hardly conceive a less emotional subject. Yet I have told
     you how, on the first night here, I heard her sobbing bitterly, and
     since then I have more than once observed traces of tears upon her
     face. Some deep sorrow gnaws ever at her heart. Sometimes I wonder if
     she has a guilty memory which haunts her, and sometimes I suspect
     Barrymore of being a domestic tyrant. I have always felt that there
     was something singular and questionable in this man's character, but
     the adventure of last night brings all my suspicions to a head.

     And yet it may seem a small matter in itself. You are aware that I am
     not a very sound sleeper, and since I have been on guard in this
     house my slumbers have been lighter than ever. Last night, about two
     in the morning, I was aroused by a stealthy step passing my room. I
     rose, opened my door, and peeped out. A long black shadow was
     trailing down the corridor. It was thrown by a man who walked softly
     down the passage with a candle held in his hand. He was in shirt and
     trousers, with no covering to his feet. I could merely see the
     outline, but his height told me that it was Barrymore. He walked very
     slowly and circumspectly, and there was something indescribably
     guilty and furtive in his whole appearance.

     I have told you that the corridor is broken by the balcony which runs
     round the hall, but that it is resumed upon the farther side. I
     waited until he had passed out of sight and then I followed him. When
     I came round the balcony he had reached the end of the farther
     corridor, and I could see from the glimmer of light through an open
     door that he had entered one of the rooms. Now, all these rooms are
     unfurnished and unoccupied, so that his expedition became more
     mysterious than ever. The light shone steadily as if he were standing
     motionless. I crept down the passage as noiselessly as I could and
     peeped round the corner of the door.

     Barrymore was crouching at the window with the candle held against
     the glass. His profile was half turned towards me, and his face
     seemed to be rigid with expectation as he stared out into the
     blackness of the moor. For some minutes he stood watching intently.
     Then he gave a deep groan and with an impatient gesture he put out
     the light. Instantly I made my way back to my room, and very shortly
     came the stealthy steps passing once more upon their return journey.
     Long afterwards when I had fallen into a light sleep I heard a key
     turn somewhere in a lock, but I could not tell whence the sound came.
     What it all means I cannot guess, but there is some secret business
     going on in this house of gloom which sooner or later we shall get to
     the bottom of. I do not trouble you with my theories, for you asked
     me to furnish you only with facts. I have had a long talk with Sir
     Henry this morning, and we have made a plan of campaign founded upon
     my observations of last night. I will not speak about it just now,
     but it should make my next report interesting reading.

     Baskerville Hall, Oct. 15th.

     My dear Holmes:
     If I was compelled to leave you without much news during the early
     days of my mission you must acknowledge that I am making up for lost
     time, and that events are now crowding thick and fast upon us. In my
     last report I ended upon my top note with Barrymore at the window,
     and now I have quite a budget already which will, unless I am much
     mistaken, considerably surprise you. Things have taken a turn which I
     could not have anticipated. In some ways they have within the last
     forty-eight hours become much clearer and in some ways they have
     become more complicated. But I will tell you all and you shall judge
     for yourself.

     Before breakfast on the morning following my adventure I went down
     the corridor and examined the room in which Barrymore had been on the
     night before. The western window through which he had stared so
     intently has, I noticed, one peculiarity above all other windows in
     the house--it commands the nearest outlook on the moor. There is an
     opening between two trees which enables one from this point of view
     to look right down upon it, while from all the other windows it is
     only a distant glimpse which can be obtained. It follows, therefore,
     that Barrymore, since only this window would serve the purpose, must
     have been looking out for something or somebody upon the moor. The
     night was very dark, so that I can hardly imagine how he could have
     hoped to see anyone. It had struck me that it was possible that some
     love intrigue was on foot. That would have accounted for his stealthy
     movements and also for the uneasiness of his wife. The man is a
     striking-looking fellow, very well equipped to steal the heart of a
     country girl, so that this theory seemed to have something to support
     it. That opening of the door which I had heard after I had returned
     to my room might mean that he had gone out to keep some clandestine
     appointment. So I reasoned with myself in the morning, and I tell you
     the direction of my suspicions, however much the result may have
     shown that they were unfounded.

     But whatever the true explanation of Barrymore's movements might be,
     I felt that the responsibility of keeping them to myself until I
     could explain them was more than I could bear. I had an interview
     with the baronet in his study after breakfast, and I told him all
     that I had seen. He was less surprised than I had expected.

     "I knew that Barrymore walked about nights, and I had a mind to speak
     to him about it," said he. "Two or three times I have heard his steps
     in the passage, coming and going, just about the hour you name."

     "Perhaps then he pays a visit every night to that particular window,"
     I suggested.

     "Perhaps he does. If so, we should be able to shadow him, and see
     what it is that he is after. I wonder what your friend Holmes would
     do, if he were here."

     "I believe that he would do exactly what you now suggest," said I.
     "He would follow Barrymore and see what he did."

     "Then we shall do it together."

     "But surely he would hear us."

     "The man is rather deaf, and in any case we must take our chance of
     that. We'll sit up in my room to-night and wait until he passes." Sir
     Henry rubbed his hands with pleasure, and it was evident that he
     hailed the adventure as a relief to his somewhat quiet life upon the
     moor.

     The baronet has been in communication with the architect who prepared
     the plans for Sir Charles, and with a contractor from London, so that
     we may expect great changes to begin here soon. There have been
     decorators and furnishers up from Plymouth, and it is evident that
     our friend has large ideas, and means to spare no pains or expense to
     restore the grandeur of his family. When the house is renovated and
     refurnished, all that he will need will be a wife to make it
     complete. Between ourselves there are pretty clear signs that this
     will not be wanting if the lady is willing, for I have seldom seen a
     man more infatuated with a woman than he is with our beautiful
     neighbour, Miss Stapleton. And yet the course of true love does not
     run quite as smoothly as one would under the circumstances expect.
     To-day, for example, its surface was broken by a very unexpected
     ripple, which has caused our friend considerable perplexity and
     annoyance.

     After the conversation which I have quoted about Barrymore, Sir Henry
     put on his hat and prepared to go out. As a matter of course I did
     the same.

     "What, are you coming, Watson?" he asked, looking at me in a curious
     way.

     "That depends on whether you are going on the moor," said I.

     "Yes, I am."

     "Well, you know what my instructions are. I am sorry to intrude, but
     you heard how earnestly Holmes insisted that I should not leave you,
     and especially that you should not go alone upon the moor."

     Sir Henry put his hand upon my shoulder with a pleasant smile.

     "My dear fellow," said he, "Holmes, with all his wisdom, did not
     foresee some things which have happened since I have been on the
     moor. You understand me? I am sure that you are the last man in the
     world who would wish to be a spoil-sport. I must go out alone."

     It put me in a most awkward position. I was at a loss what to say or
     what to do, and before I had made up my mind he picked up his cane
     and was gone.

     But when I came to think the matter over my conscience reproached me
     bitterly for having on any pretext allowed him to go out of my sight.
     I imagined what my feelings would be if I had to return to you and to
     confess that some misfortune had occurred through my disregard for
     your instructions. I assure you my cheeks flushed at the very
     thought. It might not even now be too late to overtake him, so I set
     off at once in the direction of Merripit House.

     I hurried along the road at the top of my speed without seeing
     anything of Sir Henry, until I came to the point where the moor path
     branches off. There, fearing that perhaps I had come in the wrong
     direction after all, I mounted a hill from which I could command a
     view--the same hill which is cut into the dark quarry. Thence I saw
     him at once. He was on the moor path, about a quarter of a mile off,
     and a lady was by his side who could only be Miss Stapleton. It was
     clear that there was already an understanding between them and that
     they had met by appointment. They were walking slowly along in deep
     conversation, and I saw her making quick little movements of her
     hands as if she were very earnest in what she was saying, while he
     listened intently, and once or twice shook his head in strong
     dissent. I stood among the rocks watching them, very much puzzled as
     to what I should do next. To follow them and break into their
     intimate conversation seemed to be an outrage, and yet my clear duty
     was never for an instant to let him out of my sight. To act the spy
     upon a friend was a hateful task. Still, I could see no better course
     than to observe him from the hill, and to clear my conscience by
     confessing to him afterwards what I had done. It is true that if any
     sudden danger had threatened him I was too far away to be of use, and
     yet I am sure that you will agree with me that the position was very
     difficult, and that there was nothing more which I could do.

     Our friend, Sir Henry, and the lady had halted on the path and were
     standing deeply absorbed in their conversation, when I was suddenly
     aware that I was not the only witness of their interview. A wisp of
     green floating in the air caught my eye, and another glance showed me
     that it was carried on a stick by a man who was moving among the
     broken ground. It was Stapleton with his butterfly-net. He was very
     much closer to the pair than I was, and he appeared to be moving in
     their direction. At this instant Sir Henry suddenly drew Miss
     Stapleton to his side. His arm was round her, but it seemed to me
     that she was straining away from him with her face averted. He
     stooped his head to hers, and she raised one hand as if in protest.
     Next moment I saw them spring apart and turn hurriedly round.
     Stapleton was the cause of the interruption. He was running wildly
     towards them, his absurd net dangling behind him. He gesticulated and
     almost danced with excitement in front of the lovers. What the scene
     meant I could not imagine, but it seemed to me that Stapleton was
     abusing Sir Henry, who offered explanations, which became more angry
     as the other refused to accept them. The lady stood by in haughty
     silence. Finally Stapleton turned upon his heel and beckoned in a
     peremptory way to his sister, who, after an irresolute glance at Sir
     Henry, walked off by the side of her brother. The naturalist's angry
     gestures showed that the lady was included in his displeasure. The
     baronet stood for a minute looking after them, and then he walked
     slowly back the way that he had come, his head hanging, the very
     picture of dejection.

     What all this meant I could not imagine, but I was deeply ashamed to
     have witnessed so intimate a scene without my friend's knowledge. I
     ran down the hill therefore and met the baronet at the bottom. His
     face was flushed with anger and his brows were wrinkled, like one who
     is at his wit's ends what to do.

     "Halloa, Watson! Where have you dropped from?" said he. "You don't
     mean to say that you came after me in spite of all?"

     I explained everything to him: how I had found it impossible to
     remain behind, how I had followed him, and how I had witnessed all
     that had occurred. For an instant his eyes blazed at me, but my
     frankness disarmed his anger, and he broke at last into a rather
     rueful laugh.

     "You would have thought the middle of that prairie a fairly safe
     place for a man to be private," said he, "but, by thunder, the whole
     country-side seems to have been out to see me do my wooing--and a
     mighty poor wooing at that! Where had you engaged a seat?"

     "I was on that hill."

     "Quite in the back row, eh? But her brother was well up to the front.
     Did you see him come out on us?"

     "Yes, I did."

     "Did he ever strike you as being crazy--this brother of hers?"

     "I can't say that he ever did."

     "I dare say not. I always thought him sane enough until to-day, but
     you can take it from me that either he or I ought to be in a
     strait-jacket. What's the matter with me, anyhow? You've lived near
     me for some weeks, Watson. Tell me straight, now! Is there anything
     that would prevent me from making a good husband to a woman that I
     loved?"

     "I should say not."

     "He can't object to my worldly position, so it must be myself that he
     has this down on. What has he against me? I never hurt man or woman
     in my life that I know of. And yet he would not so much as let me
     touch the tips of her fingers."

     "Did he say so?"

     "That, and a deal more. I tell you, Watson, I've only known her these
     few weeks, but from the first I just felt that she was made for me,
     and she, too--she was happy when she was with me, and that I'll
     swear. There's a light in a woman's eyes that speaks louder than
     words. But he has never let us get together, and it was only to-day
     for the first time that I saw a chance of having a few words with her
     alone. She was glad to meet me, but when she did it was not love that
     she would talk about, and she wouldn't have let me talk about it
     either if she could have stopped it. She kept coming back to it that
     this was a place of danger, and that she would never be happy until I
     had left it. I told her that since I had seen her I was in no hurry
     to leave it, and that if she really wanted me to go, the only way to
     work it was for her to arrange to go with me. With that I offered in
     as many words to marry her, but before she could answer, down came
     this brother of hers, running at us with a face on him like a madman.
     He was just white with rage, and those light eyes of his were blazing
     with fury. What was I doing with the lady? How dared I offer her
     attentions which were distasteful to her? Did I think that because I
     was a baronet I could do what I liked? If he had not been her brother
     I should have known better how to answer him. As it was I told him
     that my feelings towards his sister were such as I was not ashamed
     of, and that I hoped that she might honour me by becoming my wife.
     That seemed to make the matter no better, so then I lost my temper
     too, and I answered him rather more hotly than I should perhaps,
     considering that she was standing by. So it ended by his going off
     with her, as you saw, and here am I as badly puzzled a man as any in
     this county. Just tell me what it all means, Watson, and I'll owe you
     more than ever I can hope to pay."

     I tried one or two explanations, but, indeed, I was completely
     puzzled myself. Our friend's title, his fortune, his age, his
     character, and his appearance are all in his favour, and I know
     nothing against him unless it be this dark fate which runs in his
     family. That his advances should be rejected so brusquely without any
     reference to the lady's own wishes, and that the lady should accept
     the situation without protest, is very amazing. However, our
     conjectures were set at rest by a visit from Stapleton himself that
     very afternoon. He had come to offer apologies for his rudeness of
     the morning, and after a long private interview with Sir Henry in his
     study, the upshot of their conversation was that the breach is quite
     healed, and that we are to dine at Merripit House next Friday as a
     sign of it.

     "I don't say now that he isn't a crazy man," said Sir Henry; "I can't
     forget the look in his eyes when he ran at me this morning, but I
     must allow that no man could make a more handsome apology than he has
     done."

     "Did he give any explanation of his conduct?"

     "His sister is everything in his life, he says. That is natural
     enough, and I am glad that he should understand her value. They have
     always been together, and according to his account he has been a very
     lonely man with only her as a companion, so that the thought of
     losing her was really terrible to him. He had not understood, he
     said, that I was becoming attached to her, but when he saw with his
     own eyes that it was really so, and that she might be taken away from
     him, it gave him such a shock that for a time he was not responsible
     for what he said or did. He was very sorry for all that had passed,
     and he recognized how foolish and how selfish it was that he should
     imagine that he could hold a beautiful woman like his sister to
     himself for her whole life. If she had to leave him he had rather it
     was to a neighbour like myself than to anyone else. But in any case
     it was a blow to him, and it would take him some time before he could
     prepare himself to meet it. He would withdraw all opposition upon his
     part if I would promise for three months to let the matter rest and
     to be content with cultivating the lady's friendship during that time
     without claiming her love. This I promised, and so the matter rests."

     So there is one of our small mysteries cleared up. It is something to
     have touched bottom anywhere in this bog in which we are floundering.
     We know now why Stapleton looked with disfavour upon his sister's
     suitor--even when that suitor was so eligible a one as Sir Henry. And
     now I pass on to another thread which I have extricated out of the
     tangled skein, the mystery of the sobs in the night, of the
     tear-stained face of Mrs. Barrymore, of the secret journey of the
     butler to the western lattice window. Congratulate me, my dear
     Holmes, and tell me that I have not disappointed you as an
     agent--that you do not regret the confidence which you showed in me
     when you sent me down. All these things have by one night's work been
     thoroughly cleared.

     I have said "by one night's work," but, in truth, it was by two
     nights' work, for on the first we drew entirely blank. I sat up with
     Sir Henry in his rooms until nearly three o'clock in the morning, but
     no sound of any sort did we hear except the chiming clock upon the
     stairs. It was a most melancholy vigil, and ended by each of us
     falling asleep in our chairs. Fortunately we were not discouraged,
     and we determined to try again. The next night we lowered the lamp,
     and sat smoking cigarettes without making the least sound. It was
     incredible how slowly the hours crawled by, and yet we were helped
     through it by the same sort of patient interest which the hunter must
     feel as he watches the trap into which he hopes the game may wander.
     One struck, and two, and we had almost for the second time given it
     up in despair, when in an instant we both sat bolt upright in our
     chairs, with all our weary senses keenly on the alert once more. We
     had heard the creak of a step in the passage.

     Very stealthily we heard it pass along until it died away in the
     distance. Then the baronet gently opened his door and we set out in
     pursuit. Already our man had gone round the gallery, and the corridor
     was all in darkness. Softly we stole along until we had come into the
     other wing. We were just in time to catch a glimpse of the tall,
     black-bearded figure, his shoulders rounded, as he tip-toed down the
     passage. Then he passed through the same door as before, and the
     light of the candle framed it in the darkness and shot one single
     yellow beam across the gloom of the corridor. We shuffled cautiously
     towards it, trying every plank before we dared to put our whole
     weight upon it. We had taken the precaution of leaving our boots
     behind us, but, even so, the old boards snapped and creaked beneath
     our tread. Sometimes it seemed impossible that he should fail to hear
     our approach. However, the man is fortunately rather deaf, and he was
     entirely preoccupied in that which he was doing. When at last we
     reached the door and peeped through we found him crouching at the
     window, candle in hand, his white, intent face pressed against the
     pane, exactly as I had seen him two nights before.

     We had arranged no plan of campaign, but the baronet is a man to whom
     the most direct way is always the most natural. He walked into the
     room, and as he did so Barrymore sprang up from the window with a
     sharp hiss of his breath and stood, livid and trembling, before us.
     His dark eyes, glaring out of the white mask of his face, were full
     of horror and astonishment as he gazed from Sir Henry to me.

     "What are you doing here, Barrymore?"

     "Nothing, sir." His agitation was so great that he could hardly
     speak, and the shadows sprang up and down from the shaking of his
     candle. "It was the window, sir. I go round at night to see that they
     are fastened."

     "On the second floor?"

     "Yes, sir, all the windows."

     "Look here, Barrymore," said Sir Henry, sternly; "we have made up our
     minds to have the truth out of you, so it will save you trouble to
     tell it sooner rather than later. Come, now! No lies! What were you
     doing at that window?"

     The fellow looked at us in a helpless way, and he wrung his hands
     together like one who is in the last extremity of doubt and misery.

     "I was doing no harm, sir. I was holding a candle to the window."

     "And why were you holding a candle to the window?"

     "Don't ask me, Sir Henry--don't ask me! I give you my word, sir, that
     it is not my secret, and that I cannot tell it. If it concerned no
     one but myself I would not try to keep it from you."

     A sudden idea occurred to me, and I took the candle from the
     trembling hand of the butler.

     "He must have been holding it as a signal," said I. "Let us see if
     there is any answer." I held it as he had done, and stared out into
     the darkness of the night. Vaguely I could discern the black bank of
     the trees and the lighter expanse of the moor, for the moon was
     behind the clouds. And then I gave a cry of exultation, for a tiny
     pin-point of yellow light had suddenly transfixed the dark veil, and
     glowed steadily in the centre of the black square framed by the
     window.

     "There it is!" I cried.

     "No, no, sir, it is nothing--nothing at all!" the butler broke in; "I
     assure you, sir--"

     "Move your light across the window, Watson!" cried the baronet. "See,
     the other moves also! Now, you rascal, do you deny that it is a
     signal? Come, speak up! Who is your confederate out yonder, and what
     is this conspiracy that is going on?"

     The man's face became openly defiant.

     "It is my business, and not yours. I will not tell."

     "Then you leave my employment right away."

     "Very good, sir. If I must I must."

     "And you go in disgrace. By thunder, you may well be ashamed of
     yourself. Your family has lived with mine for over a hundred years
     under this roof, and here I find you deep in some dark plot against
     me."

     "No, no, sir; no, not against you!" It was a woman's voice, and Mrs.
     Barrymore, paler and more horror-struck than her husband, was
     standing at the door. Her bulky figure in a shawl and skirt might
     have been comic were it not for the intensity of feeling upon her
     face.

     "We have to go, Eliza. This is the end of it. You can pack our
     things," said the butler.

     "Oh, John, John, have I brought you to this? It is my doing, Sir
     Henry--all mine. He has done nothing except for my sake and because I
     asked him."

     "Speak out, then! What does it mean?"

     "My unhappy brother is starving on the moor. We cannot let him perish
     at our very gates. The light is a signal to him that food is ready
     for him, and his light out yonder is to show the spot to which to
     bring it."

     "Then your brother is--"

     "The escaped convict, sir--Selden, the criminal."

     "That's the truth, sir," said Barrymore. "I said that it was not my
     secret and that I could not tell it to you. But now you have heard
     it, and you will see that if there was a plot it was not against
     you."

     This, then, was the explanation of the stealthy expeditions at night
     and the light at the window. Sir Henry and I both stared at the woman
     in amazement. Was it possible that this stolidly respectable person
     was of the same blood as one of the most notorious criminals in the
     country?

     "Yes, sir, my name was Selden, and he is my younger brother. We
     humoured him too much when he was a lad, and gave him his own way in
     everything until he came to think that the world was made for his
     pleasure, and that he could do what he liked in it. Then as he grew
     older he met wicked companions, and the devil entered into him until
     he broke my mother's heart and dragged our name in the dirt. From
     crime to crime he sank lower and lower, until it is only the mercy of
     God which has snatched him from the scaffold; but to me, sir, he was
     always the little curly-headed boy that I had nursed and played with,
     as an elder sister would. That was why he broke prison, sir. He knew
     that I was here and that we could not refuse to help him. When he
     dragged himself here one night, weary and starving, with the warders
     hard at his heels, what could we do? We took him in and fed him and
     cared for him. Then you returned, sir, and my brother thought he
     would be safer on the moor than anywhere else until the hue and cry
     was over, so he lay in hiding there. But every second night we made
     sure if he was still there by putting a light in the window, and if
     there was an answer my husband took out some bread and meat to him.
     Every day we hoped that he was gone, but as long as he was there we
     could not desert him. That is the whole truth, as I am an honest
     Christian woman, and you will see that if there is blame in the
     matter it does not lie with my husband, but with me, for whose sake
     he has done all that he has."

     The woman's words came with an intense earnestness which carried
     conviction with them.

     "Is this true, Barrymore?"

     "Yes, Sir Henry. Every word of it."

     "Well, I cannot blame you for standing by your own wife. Forget what
     I have said. Go to your room, you two, and we shall talk further
     about this matter in the morning."

     When they were gone we looked out of the window again. Sir Henry had
     flung it open, and the cold night wind beat in upon our faces. Far
     away in the black distance there still glowed that one tiny point of
     yellow light.

     "I wonder he dares," said Sir Henry.

     "It may be so placed as to be only visible from here."

     "Very likely. How far do you think it is?"

     "Out by the Cleft Tor, I think."

     "Not more than a mile or two off."

     "Hardly that."

     "Well, it cannot be far if Barrymore had to carry out the food to it.
     And he is waiting, this villain, beside that candle. By thunder,
     Watson, I am going out to take that man!"

     The same thought had crossed my own mind. It was not as if the
     Barrymores had taken us into their confidence. Their secret had been
     forced from them. The man was a danger to the community, an
     unmitigated scoundrel for whom there was neither pity nor excuse. We
     were only doing our duty in taking this chance of putting him back
     where he could do no harm. With his brutal and violent nature, others
     would have to pay the price if we held our hands. Any night, for
     example, our neighbours the Stapletons might be attacked by him, and
     it may have been the thought of this which made Sir Henry so keen
     upon the adventure.

     "I will come," said I.

     "Then get your revolver and put on your boots. The sooner we start
     the better, as the fellow may put out his light and be off."

     In five minutes we were outside the door, starting upon our
     expedition. We hurried through the dark shrubbery, amid the dull
     moaning of the autumn wind and the rustle of the falling leaves. The
     night air was heavy with the smell of damp and decay. Now and again
     the moon peeped out for an instant, but clouds were driving over the
     face of the sky, and just as we came out on the moor a thin rain
     began to fall. The light still burned steadily in front.

     "Are you armed?" I asked.

     "I have a hunting-crop."

     "We must close in on him rapidly, for he is said to be a desperate
     fellow. We shall take him by surprise and have him at our mercy
     before he can resist."

     "I say, Watson," said the baronet, "what would Holmes say to this?
     How about that hour of darkness in which the power of evil is
     exalted?"

     As if in answer to his words there rose suddenly out of the vast
     gloom of the moor that strange cry which I had already heard upon the
     borders of the great Grimpen Mire. It came with the wind through the
     silence of the night, a long, deep mutter, then a rising howl, and
     then the sad moan in which it died away. Again and again it sounded,
     the whole air throbbing with it, strident, wild, and menacing. The
     baronet caught my sleeve and his face glimmered white through the
     darkness.

     "My God, what's that, Watson?"

     "I don't know. It's a sound they have on the moor. I heard it once
     before."

     It died away, and an absolute silence closed in upon us. We stood
     straining our ears, but nothing came.

     "Watson," said the baronet, "it was the cry of a hound."

     My blood ran cold in my veins, for there was a break in his voice
     which told of the sudden horror which had seized him.

     "What do they call this sound?" he asked.

     "Who?"

     "The folk on the country-side."

     "Oh, they are ignorant people. Why should you mind what they call
     it?"

     "Tell me, Watson. What do they say of it?"

     I hesitated but could not escape the question.

     "They say it is the cry of the Hound of the Baskervilles."

     He groaned and was silent for a few moments.

     "A hound it was," he said, at last, "but it seemed to come from miles
     away, over yonder, I think."

     "It was hard to say whence it came."

     "It rose and fell with the wind. Isn't that the direction of the
     great Grimpen Mire?"

     "Yes, it is."

     "Well, it was up there. Come now, Watson, didn't you think yourself
     that it was the cry of a hound? I am not a child. You need not fear
     to speak the truth."

     "Stapleton was with me when I heard it last. He said that it might be
     the calling of a strange bird."

     "No, no, it was a hound. My God, can there be some truth in all these
     stories? Is it possible that I am really in danger from so dark a
     cause? You don't believe it, do you, Watson?"

     "No, no."

     "And yet it was one thing to laugh about it in London, and it is
     another to stand out here in the darkness of the moor and to hear
     such a cry as that. And my uncle! There was the footprint of the
     hound beside him as he lay. It all fits together. I don't think that
     I am a coward, Watson, but that sound seemed to freeze my very blood.
     Feel my hand!"

     It was as cold as a block of marble.

     "You'll be all right to-morrow."

     "I don't think I'll get that cry out of my head. What do you advise
     that we do now?"

     "Shall we turn back?"

     "No, by thunder; we have come out to get our man, and we will do it.
     We after the convict, and a hell-hound, as likely as not, after us.
     Come on! We'll see it through if all the fiends of the pit were loose
     upon the moor."

     We stumbled slowly along in the darkness, with the black loom of the
     craggy hills around us, and the yellow speck of light burning
     steadily in front. There is nothing so deceptive as the distance of a
     light upon a pitch-dark night, and sometimes the glimmer seemed to be
     far away upon the horizon and sometimes it might have been within a
     few yards of us. But at last we could see whence it came, and then we
     knew that we were indeed very close. A guttering candle was stuck in
     a crevice of the rocks which flanked it on each side so as to keep
     the wind from it and also to prevent it from being visible, save in
     the direction of Baskerville Hall. A boulder of granite concealed our
     approach, and crouching behind it we gazed over it at the signal
     light. It was strange to see this single candle burning there in the
     middle of the moor, with no sign of life near it--just the one
     straight yellow flame and the gleam of the rock on each side of it.

     "What shall we do now?" whispered Sir Henry.

     "Wait here. He must be near his light. Let us see if we can get a
     glimpse of him."

     The words were hardly out of my mouth when we both saw him. Over the
     rocks, in the crevice of which the candle burned, there was thrust
     out an evil yellow face, a terrible animal face, all seamed and
     scored with vile passions. Foul with mire, with a bristling beard,
     and hung with matted hair, it might well have belonged to one of
     those old savages who dwelt in the burrows on the hillsides. The
     light beneath him was reflected in his small, cunning eyes which
     peered fiercely to right and left through the darkness, like a crafty
     and savage animal who has heard the steps of the hunters.

     Something had evidently aroused his suspicions. It may have been that
     Barrymore had some private signal which we had neglected to give, or
     the fellow may have had some other reason for thinking that all was
     not well, but I could read his fears upon his wicked face. Any
     instant he might dash out the light and vanish in the darkness. I
     sprang forward therefore, and Sir Henry did the same. At the same
     moment the convict screamed out a curse at us and hurled a rock which
     splintered up against the boulder which had sheltered us. I caught
     one glimpse of his short, squat, strongly-built figure as he sprang
     to his feet and turned to run. At the same moment by a lucky chance
     the moon broke through the clouds. We rushed over the brow of the
     hill, and there was our man running with great speed down the other
     side, springing over the stones in his way with the activity of a
     mountain goat. A lucky long shot of my revolver might have crippled
     him, but I had brought it only to defend myself if attacked, and not
     to shoot an unarmed man who was running away.

     We were both swift runners and in fairly good training, but we soon
     found that we had no chance of overtaking him. We saw him for a long
     time in the moonlight until he was only a small speck moving swiftly
     among the boulders upon the side of a distant hill. We ran and ran
     until we were completely blown, but the space between us grew ever
     wider. Finally we stopped and sat panting on two rocks, while we
     watched him disappearing in the distance.

     And it was at this moment that there occurred a most strange and
     unexpected thing. We had risen from our rocks and were turning to go
     home, having abandoned the hopeless chase. The moon was low upon the
     right, and the jagged pinnacle of a granite tor stood up against the
     lower curve of its silver disc. There, outlined as black as an ebony
     statue on that shining back-ground, I saw the figure of a man upon
     the tor. Do not think that it was a delusion, Holmes. I assure you
     that I have never in my life seen anything more clearly. As far as I
     could judge, the figure was that of a tall, thin man. He stood with
     his legs a little separated, his arms folded, his head bowed, as if
     he were brooding over that enormous wilderness of peat and granite
     which lay before him. He might have been the very spirit of that
     terrible place. It was not the convict. This man was far from the
     place where the latter had disappeared. Besides, he was a much taller
     man. With a cry of surprise I pointed him out to the baronet, but in
     the instant during which I had turned to grasp his arm the man was
     gone. There was the sharp pinnacle of granite still cutting the lower
     edge of the moon, but its peak bore no trace of that silent and
     motionless figure.

     I wished to go in that direction and to search the tor, but it was
     some distance away. The baronet's nerves were still quivering from
     that cry, which recalled the dark story of his family, and he was not
     in the mood for fresh adventures. He had not seen this lonely man
     upon the tor and could not feel the thrill which his strange presence
     and his commanding attitude had given to me. "A warder, no doubt,"
     said he. "The moor has been thick with them since this fellow
     escaped." Well, perhaps his explanation may be the right one, but I
     should like to have some further proof of it. To-day we mean to
     communicate to the Princetown people where they should look for their
     missing man, but it is hard lines that we have not actually had the
     triumph of bringing him back as our own prisoner. Such are the
     adventures of last night, and you must acknowledge, my dear Holmes,
     that I have done you very well in the matter of a report. Much of
     what I tell you is no doubt quite irrelevant, but still I feel that
     it is best that I should let you have all the facts and leave you to
     select for yourself those which will be of most service to you in
     helping you to your conclusions. We are certainly making some
     progress. So far as the Barrymores go we have found the motive of
     their actions, and that has cleared up the situation very much. But
     the moor with its mysteries and its strange inhabitants remains as
     inscrutable as ever. Perhaps in my next I may be able to throw some
     light upon this also. Best of all would it be if you could come down
     to us. In any case you will hear from me again in the course of the
     next few days.

     So far I have been able to quote from the reports which I have
     forwarded during these early days to Sherlock Holmes. Now, however, I
     have arrived at a point in my narrative where I am compelled to
     abandon this method and to trust once more to my recollections, aided
     by the diary which I kept at the time. A few extracts from the latter
     will carry me on to those scenes which are indelibly fixed in every
     detail upon my memory. I proceed, then, from the morning which
     followed our abortive chase of the convict and our other strange
     experiences upon the moor.

     October 16th.--A dull and foggy day with a drizzle of rain. The house
     is banked in with rolling clouds, which rise now and then to show the
     dreary curves of the moor, with thin, silver veins upon the sides of
     the hills, and the distant boulders gleaming where the light strikes
     upon their wet faces. It is melancholy outside and in. The baronet is
     in a black reaction after the excitements of the night. I am
     conscious myself of a weight at my heart and a feeling of impending
     danger--ever present danger, which is the more terrible because I am
     unable to define it.

     And have I not cause for such a feeling? Consider the long sequence
     of incidents which have all pointed to some sinister influence which
     is at work around us. There is the death of the last occupant of the
     Hall, fulfilling so exactly the conditions of the family legend, and
     there are the repeated reports from peasants of the appearance of a
     strange creature upon the moor. Twice I have with my own ears heard
     the sound which resembled the distant baying of a hound. It is
     incredible, impossible, that it should really be outside the ordinary
     laws of nature. A spectral hound which leaves material footmarks and
     fills the air with its howling is surely not to be thought of.
     Stapleton may fall in with such a superstition, and Mortimer also;
     but if I have one quality upon earth it is common-sense, and nothing
     will persuade me to believe in such a thing. To do so would be to
     descend to the level of these poor peasants, who are not content with
     a mere fiend dog but must needs describe him with hell-fire shooting
     from his mouth and eyes. Holmes would not listen to such fancies, and
     I am his agent. But facts are facts, and I have twice heard this
     crying upon the moor. Suppose that there were really some huge hound
     loose upon it; that would go far to explain everything. But where
     could such a hound lie concealed, where did it get its food, where
     did it come from, how was it that no one saw it by day? It must be
     confessed that the natural explanation offers almost as many
     difficulties as the other. And always, apart from the hound, there is
     the fact of the human agency in London, the man in the cab, and the
     letter which warned Sir Henry against the moor. This at least was
     real, but it might have been the work of a protecting friend as
     easily as of an enemy. Where is that friend or enemy now? Has he
     remained in London, or has he followed us down here? Could he--could
     he be the stranger whom I saw upon the tor?

     It is true that I have had only the one glance at him, and yet there
     are some things to which I am ready to swear. He is no one whom I
     have seen down here, and I have now met all the neighbours. The
     figure was far taller than that of Stapleton, far thinner than that
     of Frankland. Barrymore it might possibly have been, but we had left
     him behind us, and I am certain that he could not have followed us. A
     stranger then is still dogging us, just as a stranger dogged us in
     London. We have never shaken him off. If I could lay my hands upon
     that man, then at last we might find ourselves at the end of all our
     difficulties. To this one purpose I must now devote all my energies.

     My first impulse was to tell Sir Henry all my plans. My second and
     wisest one is to play my own game and speak as little as possible to
     anyone. He is silent and distrait. His nerves have been strangely
     shaken by that sound upon the moor. I will say nothing to add to his
     anxieties, but I will take my own steps to attain my own end.

     We had a small scene this morning after breakfast. Barrymore asked
     leave to speak with Sir Henry, and they were closeted in his study
     some little time. Sitting in the billiard-room I more than once heard
     the sound of voices raised, and I had a pretty good idea what the
     point was which was under discussion. After a time the baronet opened
     his door and called for me.

     "Barrymore considers that he has a grievance," he said. "He thinks
     that it was unfair on our part to hunt his brother-in-law down when
     he, of his own free will, had told us the secret."

     The butler was standing very pale but very collected before us.

     "I may have spoken too warmly, sir," said he, "and if I have, I am
     sure that I beg your pardon. At the same time, I was very much
     surprised when I heard you two gentlemen come back this morning and
     learned that you had been chasing Selden. The poor fellow has enough
     to fight against without my putting more upon his track."

     "If you had told us of your own free will it would have been a
     different thing," said the baronet, "you only told us, or rather your
     wife only told us, when it was forced from you and you could not help
     yourself."

     "I didn't think you would have taken advantage of it, Sir
     Henry--indeed I didn't."

     "The man is a public danger. There are lonely houses scattered over
     the moor, and he is a fellow who would stick at nothing. You only
     want to get a glimpse of his face to see that. Look at Mr.
     Stapleton's house, for example, with no one but himself to defend it.
     There's no safety for anyone until he is under lock and key."

     "He'll break into no house, sir. I give you my solemn word upon that.
     But he will never trouble anyone in this country again. I assure you,
     Sir Henry, that in a very few days the necessary arrangements will
     have been made and he will be on his way to South America. For God's
     sake, sir, I beg of you not to let the police know that he is still
     on the moor. They have given up the chase there, and he can lie quiet
     until the ship is ready for him. You can't tell on him without
     getting my wife and me into trouble. I beg you, sir, to say nothing
     to the police."

     "What do you say, Watson?"

     I shrugged my shoulders. "If he were safely out of the country it
     would relieve the tax-payer of a burden."

     "But how about the chance of his holding someone up before he goes?"

     "He would not do anything so mad, sir. We have provided him with all
     that he can want. To commit a crime would be to show where he was
     hiding."

     "That is true," said Sir Henry. "Well, Barrymore--"

     "God bless you, sir, and thank you from my heart! It would have
     killed my poor wife had he been taken again."

     "I guess we are aiding and abetting a felony, Watson? But, after what
     we have heard I don't feel as if I could give the man up, so there is
     an end of it. All right, Barrymore, you can go."

     With a few broken words of gratitude the man turned, but he hesitated
     and then came back.

     "You've been so kind to us, sir, that I should like to do the best I
     can for you in return. I know something, Sir Henry, and perhaps I
     should have said it before, but it was long after the inquest that I
     found it out. I've never breathed a word about it yet to mortal man.
     It's about poor Sir Charles's death."

     The baronet and I were both upon our feet. "Do you know how he died?"

     "No, sir, I don't know that."

     "What then?"

     "I know why he was at the gate at that hour. It was to meet a woman."

     "To meet a woman! He?"

     "Yes, sir."

     "And the woman's name?"

     "I can't give you the name, sir, but I can give you the initials. Her
     initials were L. L."

     "How do you know this, Barrymore?"

     "Well, Sir Henry, your uncle had a letter that morning. He had
     usually a great many letters, for he was a public man and well known
     for his kind heart, so that everyone who was in trouble was glad to
     turn to him. But that morning, as it chanced, there was only this one
     letter, so I took the more notice of it. It was from Coombe Tracey,
     and it was addressed in a woman's hand."

     "Well?"

     "Well, sir, I thought no more of the matter, and never would have
     done had it not been for my wife. Only a few weeks ago she was
     cleaning out Sir Charles's study--it had never been touched since his
     death--and she found the ashes of a burned letter in the back of the
     grate. The greater part of it was charred to pieces, but one little
     slip, the end of a page, hung together, and the writing could still
     be read, though it was gray on a black ground. It seemed to us to be
     a postscript at the end of the letter, and it said: 'Please, please,
     as you are a gentleman, burn this letter, and be at the gate by ten
     o'clock'. Beneath it were signed the initials L. L."

     "Have you got that slip?"

     "No, sir, it crumbled all to bits after we moved it."

     "Had Sir Charles received any other letters in the same writing?"

     "Well, sir, I took no particular notice of his letters. I should not
     have noticed this one, only it happened to come alone."

     "And you have no idea who L. L. is?"

     "No, sir. No more than you have. But I expect if we could lay our
     hands upon that lady we should know more about Sir Charles's death."

     "I cannot understand, Barrymore, how you came to conceal this
     important information."

     "Well, sir, it was immediately after that our own trouble came to us.
     And then again, sir, we were both of us very fond of Sir Charles, as
     we well might be considering all that he has done for us. To rake
     this up couldn't help our poor master, and it's well to go carefully
     when there's a lady in the case. Even the best of us--"

     "You thought it might injure his reputation?"

     "Well, sir, I thought no good could come of it. But now you have been
     kind to us, and I feel as if it would be treating you unfairly not to
     tell you all that I know about the matter."

     "Very good, Barrymore; you can go." When the butler had left us Sir
     Henry turned to me. "Well, Watson, what do you think of this new
     light?"

     "It seems to leave the darkness rather blacker than before."

     "So I think. But if we can only trace L. L. it should clear up the
     whole business. We have gained that much. We know that there is
     someone who has the facts if we can only find her. What do you think
     we should do?"

     "Let Holmes know all about it at once. It will give him the clue for
     which he has been seeking. I am much mistaken if it does not bring
     him down."

     I went at once to my room and drew up my report of the morning's
     conversation for Holmes. It was evident to me that he had been very
     busy of late, for the notes which I had from Baker Street were few
     and short, with no comments upon the information which I had supplied
     and hardly any reference to my mission. No doubt his blackmailing
     case is absorbing all his faculties. And yet this new factor must
     surely arrest his attention and renew his interest. I wish that he
     were here.

     October 17th.--All day to-day the rain poured down, rustling on the
     ivy and dripping from the eaves. I thought of the convict out upon
     the bleak, cold, shelterless moor. Poor devil! Whatever his crimes,
     he has suffered something to atone for them. And then I thought of
     that other one--the face in the cab, the figure against the moon. Was
     he also out in that deluged--the unseen watcher, the man of darkness?
     In the evening I put on my waterproof and I walked far upon the
     sodden moor, full of dark imaginings, the rain beating upon my face
     and the wind whistling about my ears. God help those who wander into
     the great mire now, for even the firm uplands are becoming a morass.
     I found the black tor upon which I had seen the solitary watcher, and
     from its craggy summit I looked out myself across the melancholy
     downs. Rain squalls drifted across their russet face, and the heavy,
     slate-coloured clouds hung low over the landscape, trailing in gray
     wreaths down the sides of the fantastic hills. In the distant hollow
     on the left, half hidden by the mist, the two thin towers of
     Baskerville Hall rose above the trees. They were the only signs of
     human life which I could see, save only those prehistoric huts which
     lay thickly upon the slopes of the hills. Nowhere was there any trace
     of that lonely man whom I had seen on the same spot two nights
     before.

     As I walked back I was overtaken by Dr. Mortimer driving in his
     dog-cart over a rough moorland track which led from the outlying
     farmhouse of Foulmire. He has been very attentive to us, and hardly a
     day has passed that he has not called at the Hall to see how we were
     getting on. He insisted upon my climbing into his dog-cart, and he
     gave me a lift homeward. I found him much troubled over the
     disappearance of his little spaniel. It had wandered on to the moor
     and had never come back. I gave him such consolation as I might, but
     I thought of the pony on the Grimpen Mire, and I do not fancy that he
     will see his little dog again.

     "By the way, Mortimer," said I as we jolted along the rough road, "I
     suppose there are few people living within driving distance of this
     whom you do not know?"

     "Hardly any, I think."

     "Can you, then, tell me the name of any woman whose initials are L.
     L.?"

     He thought for a few minutes.

     "No," said he. "There are a few gipsies and labouring folk for whom I
     can't answer, but among the farmers or gentry there is no one whose
     initials are those. Wait a bit though," he added after a pause.
     "There is Laura Lyons--her initials are L. L.--but she lives in
     Coombe Tracey."

     "Who is she?" I asked.

     "She is Frankland's daughter."

     "What! Old Frankland the crank?"

     "Exactly. She married an artist named Lyons, who came sketching on
     the moor. He proved to be a blackguard and deserted her. The fault
     from what I hear may not have been entirely on one side. Her father
     refused to have anything to do with her because she had married
     without his consent, and perhaps for one or two other reasons as
     well. So, between the old sinner and the young one the girl has had a
     pretty bad time."

     "How does she live?"

     "I fancy old Frankland allows her a pittance, but it cannot be more,
     for his own affairs are considerably involved. Whatever she may have
     deserved one could not allow her to go hopelessly to the bad. Her
     story got about, and several of the people here did something to
     enable her to earn an honest living. Stapleton did for one, and Sir
     Charles for another. I gave a trifle myself. It was to set her up in
     a typewriting business."

     He wanted to know the object of my inquiries, but I managed to
     satisfy his curiosity without telling him too much, for there is no
     reason why we should take anyone into our confidence. To-morrow
     morning I shall find my way to Coombe Tracey, and if I can see this
     Mrs. Laura Lyons, of equivocal reputation, a long step will have been
     made towards clearing one incident in this chain of mysteries. I am
     certainly developing the wisdom of the serpent, for when Mortimer
     pressed his questions to an inconvenient extent I asked him casually
     to what type Frankland's skull belonged, and so heard nothing but
     craniology for the rest of our drive. I have not lived for years with
     Sherlock Holmes for nothing.

     I have only one other incident to record upon this tempestuous and
     melancholy day. This was my conversation with Barrymore just now,
     which gives me one more strong card which I can play in due time.

     Mortimer had stayed to dinner, and he and the baronet played Ã©cartÃ©
     afterwards. The butler brought me my coffee into the library, and I
     took the chance to ask him a few questions.

     "Well," said I, "has this precious relation of yours departed, or is
     he still lurking out yonder?"

     "I don't know, sir. I hope to heaven that he has gone, for he has
     brought nothing but trouble here! I've not heard of him since I left
     out food for him last, and that was three days ago."

     "Did you see him then?"

     "No, sir, but the food was gone when next I went that way."

     "Then he was certainly there?"

     "So you would think, sir, unless it was the other man who took it."

     I sat with my coffee-cup halfway to my lips and stared at Barrymore.

     "You know that there is another man then?"

     "Yes, sir; there is another man upon the moor."

     "Have you seen him?"

     "No, sir."

     "How do you know of him then?"

     "Selden told me of him, sir, a week ago or more. He's in hiding, too,
     but he's not a convict as far as I can make out. I don't like it, Dr.
     Watson--I tell you straight, sir, that I don't like it." He spoke
     with a sudden passion of earnestness.

     "Now, listen to me, Barrymore! I have no interest in this matter but
     that of your master. I have come here with no object except to help
     him. Tell me, frankly, what it is that you don't like."

     Barrymore hesitated for a moment, as if he regretted his outburst, or
     found it difficult to express his own feelings in words.

     "It's all these goings-on, sir," he cried at last, waving his hand
     towards the rain-lashed window which faced the moor. "There's foul
     play somewhere, and there's black villainy brewing, to that I'll
     swear! Very glad I should be, sir, to see Sir Henry on his way back
     to London again!"

     "But what is it that alarms you?"

     "Look at Sir Charles's death! That was bad enough, for all that the
     coroner said. Look at the noises on the moor at night. There's not a
     man would cross it after sundown if he was paid for it. Look at this
     stranger hiding out yonder, and watching and waiting! What's he
     waiting for? What does it mean? It means no good to anyone of the
     name of Baskerville, and very glad I shall be to be quit of it all on
     the day that Sir Henry's new servants are ready to take over the
     Hall."

     "But about this stranger," said I. "Can you tell me anything about
     him? What did Selden say? Did he find out where he hid, or what he
     was doing?"

     "He saw him once or twice, but he is a deep one, and gives nothing
     away. At first he thought that he was the police, but soon he found
     that he had some lay of his own. A kind of gentleman he was, as far
     as he could see, but what he was doing he could not make out."

     "And where did he say that he lived?"

     "Among the old houses on the hillside--the stone huts where the old
     folk used to live."

     "But how about his food?"

     "Selden found out that he has got a lad who works for him and brings
     him all he needs. I dare say he goes to Coombe Tracey for what he
     wants."

     "Very good, Barrymore. We may talk further of this some other time."
     When the butler had gone I walked over to the black window, and I
     looked through a blurred pane at the driving clouds and at the
     tossing outline of the wind-swept trees. It is a wild night indoors,
     and what must it be in a stone hut upon the moor. What passion of
     hatred can it be which leads a man to lurk in such a place at such a
     time! And what deep and earnest purpose can he have which calls for
     such a trial! There, in that hut upon the moor, seems to lie the very
     centre of that problem which has vexed me so sorely. I swear that
     another day shall not have passed before I have done all that man can
     do to reach the heart of the mystery.

     The extract from my private diary which forms the last chapter has
     brought my narrative up to the 18th of October, a time when these
     strange events began to move swiftly towards their terrible
     conclusion. The incidents of the next few days are indelibly graven
     upon my recollection, and I can tell them without reference to the
     notes made at the time. I start then from the day which succeeded
     that upon which I had established two facts of great importance, the
     one that Mrs. Laura Lyons of Coombe Tracey had written to Sir Charles
     Baskerville and made an appointment with him at the very place and
     hour that he met his death, the other that the lurking man upon the
     moor was to be found among the stone huts upon the hill-side. With
     these two facts in my possession I felt that either my intelligence
     or my courage must be deficient if I could not throw some further
     light upon these dark places.

     I had no opportunity to tell the baronet what I had learned about
     Mrs. Lyons upon the evening before, for Dr. Mortimer remained with
     him at cards until it was very late. At breakfast, however, I
     informed him about my discovery, and asked him whether he would care
     to accompany me to Coombe Tracey. At first he was very eager to come,
     but on second thoughts it seemed to both of us that if I went alone
     the results might be better. The more formal we made the visit the
     less information we might obtain. I left Sir Henry behind, therefore,
     not without some prickings of conscience, and drove off upon my new
     quest.

     When I reached Coombe Tracey I told Perkins to put up the horses, and
     I made inquiries for the lady whom I had come to interrogate. I had
     no difficulty in finding her rooms, which were central and well
     appointed. A maid showed me in without ceremony, and as I entered the
     sitting-room a lady, who was sitting before a Remington typewriter,
     sprang up with a pleasant smile of welcome. Her face fell, however,
     when she saw that I was a stranger, and she sat down again and asked
     me the object of my visit.

     The first impression left by Mrs. Lyons was one of extreme beauty.
     Her eyes and hair were of the same rich hazel colour, and her cheeks,
     though considerably freckled, were flushed with the exquisite bloom
     of the brunette, the dainty pink which lurks at the heart of the
     sulphur rose. Admiration was, I repeat, the first impression. But the
     second was criticism. There was something subtly wrong with the face,
     some coarseness of expression, some hardness, perhaps, of eye, some
     looseness of lip which marred its perfect beauty. But these, of
     course, are after-thoughts. At the moment I was simply conscious that
     I was in the presence of a very handsome woman, and that she was
     asking me the reasons for my visit. I had not quite understood until
     that instant how delicate my mission was.

     "I have the pleasure," said I, "of knowing your father." It was a
     clumsy introduction, and the lady made me feel it.

     "There is nothing in common between my father and me," she said. "I
     owe him nothing, and his friends are not mine. If it were not for the
     late Sir Charles Baskerville and some other kind hearts I might have
     starved for all that my father cared."

     "It was about the late Sir Charles Baskerville that I have come here
     to see you."

     The freckles started out on the lady's face.

     "What can I tell you about him?" she asked, and her fingers played
     nervously over the stops of her typewriter.

     "You knew him, did you not?"

     "I have already said that I owe a great deal to his kindness. If I am
     able to support myself it is largely due to the interest which he
     took in my unhappy situation."

     "Did you correspond with him?"

     The lady looked quickly up with an angry gleam in her hazel eyes.

     "What is the object of these questions?" she asked sharply.

     "The object is to avoid a public scandal. It is better that I should
     ask them here than that the matter should pass outside our control."

     She was silent and her face was still very pale. At last she looked
     up with something reckless and defiant in her manner.

     "Well, I'll answer," she said. "What are your questions?"

     "Did you correspond with Sir Charles?"

     "I certainly wrote to him once or twice to acknowledge his delicacy
     and his generosity."

     "Have you the dates of those letters?"

     "No."

     "Have you ever met him?"

     "Yes, once or twice, when he came into Coombe Tracey. He was a very
     retiring man, and he preferred to do good by stealth."

     "But if you saw him so seldom and wrote so seldom, how did he know
     enough about your affairs to be able to help you, as you say that he
     has done?"

     She met my difficulty with the utmost readiness.

     "There were several gentlemen who knew my sad history and united to
     help me. One was Mr. Stapleton, a neighbour and intimate friend of
     Sir Charles's. He was exceedingly kind, and it was through him that
     Sir Charles learned about my affairs."

     I knew already that Sir Charles Baskerville had made Stapleton his
     almoner upon several occasions, so the lady's statement bore the
     impress of truth upon it.

     "Did you ever write to Sir Charles asking him to meet you?" I
     continued.

     Mrs. Lyons flushed with anger again.

     "Really, sir, this is a very extraordinary question."

     "I am sorry, madam, but I must repeat it."

     "Then I answer, certainly not."

     "Not on the very day of Sir Charles's death?"

     The flush had faded in an instant, and a deathly face was before me.
     Her dry lips could not speak the "No" which I saw rather than heard.

     "Surely your memory deceives you," said I. "I could even quote a
     passage of your letter. It ran 'Please, please, as you are a
     gentleman, burn this letter, and be at the gate by ten o'clock.'"

     I thought that she had fainted, but she recovered herself by a
     supreme effort.

     "Is there no such thing as a gentleman?" she gasped.

     "You do Sir Charles an injustice. He did burn the letter. But
     sometimes a letter may be legible even when burned. You acknowledge
     now that you wrote it?"

     "Yes, I did write it," she cried, pouring out her soul in a torrent
     of words. "I did write it. Why should I deny it? I have no reason to
     be ashamed of it. I wished him to help me. I believed that if I had
     an interview I could gain his help, so I asked him to meet me."

     "But why at such an hour?"

     "Because I had only just learned that he was going to London next day
     and might be away for months. There were reasons why I could not get
     there earlier."

     "But why a rendezvous in the garden instead of a visit to the house?"

     "Do you think a woman could go alone at that hour to a bachelor's
     house?"

     "Well, what happened when you did get there?"

     "I never went."

     "Mrs. Lyons!"

     "No, I swear it to you on all I hold sacred. I never went. Something
     intervened to prevent my going."

     "What was that?"

     "That is a private matter. I cannot tell it."

     "You acknowledge then that you made an appointment with Sir Charles
     at the very hour and place at which he met his death, but you deny
     that you kept the appointment."

     "That is the truth."

     Again and again I cross-questioned her, but I could never get past
     that point.

     "Mrs. Lyons," said I, as I rose from this long and inconclusive
     interview, "you are taking a very great responsibility and putting
     yourself in a very false position by not making an absolutely clean
     breast of all that you know. If I have to call in the aid of the
     police you will find how seriously you are compromised. If your
     position is innocent, why did you in the first instance deny having
     written to Sir Charles upon that date?"

     "Because I feared that some false conclusion might be drawn from it
     and that I might find myself involved in a scandal."

     "And why were you so pressing that Sir Charles should destroy your
     letter?"

     "If you have read the letter you will know."

     "I did not say that I had read all the letter."

     "You quoted some of it."

     "I quoted the postscript. The letter had, as I said, been burned and
     it was not all legible. I ask you once again why it was that you were
     so pressing that Sir Charles should destroy this letter which he
     received on the day of his death."

     "The matter is a very private one."

     "The more reason why you should avoid a public investigation."

     "I will tell you, then. If you have heard anything of my unhappy
     history you will know that I made a rash marriage and had reason to
     regret it."

     "I have heard so much."

     "My life has been one incessant persecution from a husband whom I
     abhor. The law is upon his side, and every day I am faced by the
     possibility that he may force me to live with him. At the time that I
     wrote this letter to Sir Charles I had learned that there was a
     prospect of my regaining my freedom if certain expenses could be met.
     It meant everything to me--peace of mind, happiness,
     self-respect--everything. I knew Sir Charles's generosity, and I
     thought that if he heard the story from my own lips he would help
     me."

     "Then how is it that you did not go?"

     "Because I received help in the interval from another source."

     "Why then, did you not write to Sir Charles and explain this?"

     "So I should have done had I not seen his death in the paper next
     morning."

     The woman's story hung coherently together, and all my questions were
     unable to shake it. I could only check it by finding if she had,
     indeed, instituted divorce proceedings against her husband at or
     about the time of the tragedy.

     It was unlikely that she would dare to say that she had not been to
     Baskerville Hall if she really had been, for a trap would be
     necessary to take her there, and could not have returned to Coombe
     Tracey until the early hours of the morning. Such an excursion could
     not be kept secret. The probability was, therefore, that she was
     telling the truth, or, at least, a part of the truth. I came away
     baffled and disheartened. Once again I had reached that dead wall
     which seemed to be built across every path by which I tried to get at
     the object of my mission. And yet the more I thought of the lady's
     face and of her manner the more I felt that something was being held
     back from me. Why should she turn so pale? Why should she fight
     against every admission until it was forced from her? Why should she
     have been so reticent at the time of the tragedy? Surely the
     explanation of all this could not be as innocent as she would have me
     believe. For the moment I could proceed no farther in that direction,
     but must turn back to that other clue which was to be sought for
     among the stone huts upon the moor.

     And that was a most vague direction. I realized it as I drove back
     and noted how hill after hill showed traces of the ancient people.
     Barrymore's only indication had been that the stranger lived in one
     of these abandoned huts, and many hundreds of them are scattered
     throughout the length and breadth of the moor. But I had my own
     experience for a guide since it had shown me the man himself standing
     upon the summit of the Black Tor. That then should be the centre of
     my search. From there I should explore every hut upon the moor until
     I lighted upon the right one. If this man were inside it I should
     find out from his own lips, at the point of my revolver if necessary,
     who he was and why he had dogged us so long. He might slip away from
     us in the crowd of Regent Street, but it would puzzle him to do so
     upon the lonely moor. On the other hand, if I should find the hut and
     its tenant should not be within it I must remain there, however long
     the vigil, until he returned. Holmes had missed him in London. It
     would indeed be a triumph for me if I could run him to earth, where
     my master had failed.

     Luck had been against us again and again in this inquiry, but now at
     last it came to my aid. And the messenger of good fortune was none
     other than Mr. Frankland, who was standing, gray-whiskered and
     red-faced, outside the gate of his garden, which opened on to the
     high road along which I travelled.

     "Good-day, Dr. Watson," cried he with unwonted good humour, "you must
     really give your horses a rest, and come in to have a glass of wine
     and to congratulate me."

     My feelings towards him were very far from being friendly after what
     I had heard of his treatment of his daughter, but I was anxious to
     send Perkins and the wagonette home, and the opportunity was a good
     one. I alighted and sent a message to Sir Henry that I should walk
     over in time for dinner. Then I followed Frankland into his
     dining-room.

     "It is a great day for me, sir--one of the red-letter days of my
     life," he cried with many chuckles. "I have brought off a double
     event. I mean to teach them in these parts that law is law, and that
     there is a man here who does not fear to invoke it. I have
     established a right of way through the centre of old Middleton's
     park, slap across it, sir, within a hundred yards of his own front
     door. What do you think of that? We'll teach these magnates that they
     cannot ride roughshod over the rights of the commoners, confound
     them! And I've closed the wood where the Fernworthy folk used to
     picnic. These infernal people seem to think that there are no rights
     of property, and that they can swarm where they like with their
     papers and their bottles. Both cases decided, Dr. Watson, and both in
     my favour. I haven't had such a day since I had Sir John Morland for
     trespass, because he shot in his own warren."

     "How on earth did you do that?"

     "Look it up in the books, sir. It will repay reading--Frankland v.
     Morland, Court of Queen's Bench. It cost me 200 pounds, but I got my
     verdict."

     "Did it do you any good?"

     "None, sir, none. I am proud to say that I had no interest in the
     matter. I act entirely from a sense of public duty. I have no doubt,
     for example, that the Fernworthy people will burn me in effigy
     to-night. I told the police last time they did it that they should
     stop these disgraceful exhibitions. The County Constabulary is in a
     scandalous state, sir, and it has not afforded me the protection to
     which I am entitled. The case of Frankland v. Regina will bring the
     matter before the attention of the public. I told them that they
     would have occasion to regret their treatment of me, and already my
     words have come true."

     "How so?" I asked.

     The old man put on a very knowing expression.

     "Because I could tell them what they are dying to know; but nothing
     would induce me to help the rascals in any way."

     I had been casting round for some excuse by which I could get away
     from his gossip, but now I began to wish to hear more of it. I had
     seen enough of the contrary nature of the old sinner to understand
     that any strong sign of interest would be the surest way to stop his
     confidences.

     "Some poaching case, no doubt?" said I, with an indifferent manner.

     "Ha, ha, my boy, a very much more important matter than that! What
     about the convict on the moor?"

     I started. "You don't mean that you know where he is?" said I.

     "I may not know exactly where he is, but I am quite sure that I could
     help the police to lay their hands on him. Has it never struck you
     that the way to catch that man was to find out where he got his food,
     and so trace it to him?"

     He certainly seemed to be getting uncomfortably near the truth. "No
     doubt," said I; "but how do you know that he is anywhere upon the
     moor?"

     "I know it because I have seen with my own eyes the messenger who
     takes him his food."

     My heart sank for Barrymore. It was a serious thing to be in the
     power of this spiteful old busybody. But his next remark took a
     weight from my mind.

     "You'll be surprised to hear that his food is taken to him by a
     child. I see him every day through my telescope upon the roof. He
     passes along the same path at the same hour, and to whom should he be
     going except to the convict?"

     Here was luck indeed! And yet I suppressed all appearance of
     interest. A child! Barrymore had said that our unknown was supplied
     by a boy. It was on his track, and not upon the convict's, that
     Frankland had stumbled. If I could get his knowledge it might save me
     a long and weary hunt. But incredulity and indifference were
     evidently my strongest cards.

     "I should say that it was much more likely that it was the son of one
     of the moorland shepherds taking out his father's dinner."

     The least appearance of opposition struck fire out of the old
     autocrat. His eyes looked malignantly at me, and his gray whiskers
     bristled like those of an angry cat.

     "Indeed, sir!" said he, pointing out over the wide-stretching moor.
     "Do you see that Black Tor over yonder? Well, do you see the low hill
     beyond with the thornbush upon it? It is the stoniest part of the
     whole moor. Is that a place where a shepherd would be likely to take
     his station? Your suggestion, sir, is a most absurd one."

     I meekly answered that I had spoken without knowing all the facts. My
     submission pleased him and led him to further confidences.

     "You may be sure, sir, that I have very good grounds before I come to
     an opinion. I have seen the boy again and again with his bundle.
     Every day, and sometimes twice a day, I have been able--but wait a
     moment, Dr. Watson. Do my eyes deceive me, or is there at the present
     moment something moving upon that hill-side?"

     It was several miles off, but I could distinctly see a small dark dot
     against the dull green and gray.

     "Come, sir, come!" cried Frankland, rushing upstairs. "You will see
     with your own eyes and judge for yourself."

     The telescope, a formidable instrument mounted upon a tripod, stood
     upon the flat leads of the house. Frankland clapped his eye to it and
     gave a cry of satisfaction.

     "Quick, Dr. Watson, quick, before he passes over the hill!"

     There he was, sure enough, a small urchin with a little bundle upon
     his shoulder, toiling slowly up the hill. When he reached the crest I
     saw the ragged uncouth figure outlined for an instant against the
     cold blue sky. He looked round him with a furtive and stealthy air,
     as one who dreads pursuit. Then he vanished over the hill.

     "Well! Am I right?"

     "Certainly, there is a boy who seems to have some secret errand."

     "And what the errand is even a county constable could guess. But not
     one word shall they have from me, and I bind you to secrecy also, Dr.
     Watson. Not a word! You understand!"

     "Just as you wish."

     "They have treated me shamefully--shamefully. When the facts come out
     in Frankland v. Regina I venture to think that a thrill of
     indignation will run through the country. Nothing would induce me to
     help the police in any way. For all they cared it might have been me,
     instead of my effigy, which these rascals burned at the stake. Surely
     you are not going! You will help me to empty the decanter in honour
     of this great occasion!"

     But I resisted all his solicitations and succeeded in dissuading him
     from his announced intention of walking home with me. I kept the road
     as long as his eye was on me, and then I struck off across the moor
     and made for the stony hill over which the boy had disappeared.
     Everything was working in my favour, and I swore that it should not
     be through lack of energy or perseverance that I should miss the
     chance which fortune had thrown in my way.

     The sun was already sinking when I reached the summit of the hill,
     and the long slopes beneath me were all golden-green on one side and
     gray shadow on the other. A haze lay low upon the farthest sky-line,
     out of which jutted the fantastic shapes of Belliver and Vixen Tor.
     Over the wide expanse there was no sound and no movement. One great
     gray bird, a gull or curlew, soared aloft in the blue heaven. He and
     I seemed to be the only living things between the huge arch of the
     sky and the desert beneath it. The barren scene, the sense of
     loneliness, and the mystery and urgency of my task all struck a chill
     into my heart. The boy was nowhere to be seen. But down beneath me in
     a cleft of the hills there was a circle of the old stone huts, and in
     the middle of them there was one which retained sufficient roof to
     act as a screen against the weather. My heart leaped within me as I
     saw it. This must be the burrow where the stranger lurked. At last my
     foot was on the threshold of his hiding place--his secret was within
     my grasp.

     As I approached the hut, walking as warily as Stapleton would do when
     with poised net he drew near the settled butterfly, I satisfied
     myself that the place had indeed been used as a habitation. A vague
     pathway among the boulders led to the dilapidated opening which
     served as a door. All was silent within. The unknown might be lurking
     there, or he might be prowling on the moor. My nerves tingled with
     the sense of adventure. Throwing aside my cigarette, I closed my hand
     upon the butt of my revolver and, walking swiftly up to the door, I
     looked in. The place was empty.

     But there were ample signs that I had not come upon a false scent.
     This was certainly where the man lived. Some blankets rolled in a
     waterproof lay upon that very stone slab upon which Neolithic man had
     once slumbered. The ashes of a fire were heaped in a rude grate.
     Beside it lay some cooking utensils and a bucket half-full of water.
     A litter of empty tins showed that the place had been occupied for
     some time, and I saw, as my eyes became accustomed to the checkered
     light, a pannikin and a half-full bottle of spirits standing in the
     corner. In the middle of the hut a flat stone served the purpose of a
     table, and upon this stood a small cloth bundle--the same, no doubt,
     which I had seen through the telescope upon the shoulder of the boy.
     It contained a loaf of bread, a tinned tongue, and two tins of
     preserved peaches. As I set it down again, after having examined it,
     my heart leaped to see that beneath it there lay a sheet of paper
     with writing upon it. I raised it, and this was what I read, roughly
     scrawled in pencil:--

     Dr. Watson has gone to Coombe Tracey.

     For a minute I stood there with the paper in my hands thinking out
     the meaning of this curt message. It was I, then, and not Sir Henry,
     who was being dogged by this secret man. He had not followed me
     himself, but he had set an agent--the boy, perhaps--upon my track,
     and this was his report. Possibly I had taken no step since I had
     been upon the moor which had not been observed and reported. Always
     there was this feeling of an unseen force, a fine net drawn round us
     with infinite skill and delicacy, holding us so lightly that it was
     only at some supreme moment that one realized that one was indeed
     entangled in its meshes.

     If there was one report there might be others, so I looked round the
     hut in search of them. There was no trace, however, of anything of
     the kind, nor could I discover any sign which might indicate the
     character or intentions of the man who lived in this singular place,
     save that he must be of Spartan habits and cared little for the
     comforts of life. When I thought of the heavy rains and looked at the
     gaping roof I understood how strong and immutable must be the purpose
     which had kept him in that inhospitable abode. Was he our malignant
     enemy, or was he by chance our guardian angel? I swore that I would
     not leave the hut until I knew.

     Outside the sun was sinking low and the west was blazing with scarlet
     and gold. Its reflection was shot back in ruddy patches by the
     distant pools which lay amid the great Grimpen Mire. There were the
     two towers of Baskerville Hall, and there a distant blur of smoke
     which marked the village of Grimpen. Between the two, behind the
     hill, was the house of the Stapletons. All was sweet and mellow and
     peaceful in the golden evening light, and yet as I looked at them my
     soul shared none of the peace of nature but quivered at the vagueness
     and the terror of that interview which every instant was bringing
     nearer. With tingling nerves, but a fixed purpose, I sat in the dark
     recess of the hut and waited with sombre patience for the coming of
     its tenant.

     And then at last I heard him. Far away came the sharp clink of a boot
     striking upon a stone. Then another and yet another, coming nearer
     and nearer. I shrank back into the darkest corner, and cocked the
     pistol in my pocket, determined not to discover myself until I had an
     opportunity of seeing something of the stranger. There was a long
     pause which showed that he had stopped. Then once more the footsteps
     approached and a shadow fell across the opening of the hut.

     "It is a lovely evening, my dear Watson," said a well-known voice. "I
     really think that you will be more comfortable outside than in."

     For a moment or two I sat breathless, hardly able to believe my ears.
     Then my senses and my voice came back to me, while a crushing weight
     of responsibility seemed in an instant to be lifted from my soul.
     That cold, incisive, ironical voice could belong to but one man in
     all the world.

     "Holmes!" I cried--"Holmes!"

     "Come out," said he, "and please be careful with the revolver."

     I stooped under the rude lintel, and there he sat upon a stone
     outside, his gray eyes dancing with amusement as they fell upon my
     astonished features. He was thin and worn, but clear and alert, his
     keen face bronzed by the sun and roughened by the wind. In his tweed
     suit and cloth cap he looked like any other tourist upon the moor,
     and he had contrived, with that cat-like love of personal cleanliness
     which was one of his characteristics, that his chin should be as
     smooth and his linen as perfect as if he were in Baker Street.

     "I never was more glad to see anyone in my life," said I, as I wrung
     him by the hand.

     "Or more astonished, eh?"

     "Well, I must confess to it."

     "The surprise was not all on one side, I assure you. I had no idea
     that you had found my occasional retreat, still less that you were
     inside it, until I was within twenty paces of the door."

     "My footprint, I presume?"

     "No, Watson; I fear that I could not undertake to recognize your
     footprint amid all the footprints of the world. If you seriously
     desire to deceive me you must change your tobacconist; for when I see
     the stub of a cigarette marked Bradley, Oxford Street, I know that my
     friend Watson is in the neighbourhood. You will see it there beside
     the path. You threw it down, no doubt, at that supreme moment when
     you charged into the empty hut."

     "Exactly."

     "I thought as much--and knowing your admirable tenacity I was
     convinced that you were sitting in ambush, a weapon within reach,
     waiting for the tenant to return. So you actually thought that I was
     the criminal?"

     "I did not know who you were, but I was determined to find out."

     "Excellent, Watson! And how did you localize me? You saw me, perhaps,
     on the night of the convict hunt, when I was so imprudent as to allow
     the moon to rise behind me?"

     "Yes, I saw you then."

     "And have no doubt searched all the huts until you came to this one?"

     "No, your boy had been observed, and that gave me a guide where to
     look."

     "The old gentleman with the telescope, no doubt. I could not make it
     out when first I saw the light flashing upon the lens." He rose and
     peeped into the hut. "Ha, I see that Cartwright has brought up some
     supplies. What's this paper? So you have been to Coombe Tracey, have
     you?"

     "Yes."

     "To see Mrs. Laura Lyons?"

     "Exactly."

     "Well done! Our researches have evidently been running on parallel
     lines, and when we unite our results I expect we shall have a fairly
     full knowledge of the case."

     "Well, I am glad from my heart that you are here, for indeed the
     responsibility and the mystery were both becoming too much for my
     nerves. But how in the name of wonder did you come here, and what
     have you been doing? I thought that you were in Baker Street working
     out that case of blackmailing."

     "That was what I wished you to think."

     "Then you use me, and yet do not trust me!" I cried with some
     bitterness. "I think that I have deserved better at your hands,
     Holmes."

     "My dear fellow, you have been invaluable to me in this as in many
     other cases, and I beg that you will forgive me if I have seemed to
     play a trick upon you. In truth, it was partly for your own sake that
     I did it, and it was my appreciation of the danger which you ran
     which led me to come down and examine the matter for myself. Had I
     been with Sir Henry and you it is confident that my point of view
     would have been the same as yours, and my presence would have warned
     our very formidable opponents to be on their guard. As it is, I have
     been able to get about as I could not possibly have done had I been
     living in the Hall, and I remain an unknown factor in the business,
     ready to throw in all my weight at a critical moment."

     "But why keep me in the dark?"

     "For you to know could not have helped us, and might possibly have
     led to my discovery. You would have wished to tell me something, or
     in your kindness you would have brought me out some comfort or other,
     and so an unnecessary risk would be run. I brought Cartwright down
     with me--you remember the little chap at the express office--and he
     has seen after my simple wants: a loaf of bread and a clean collar.
     What does man want more? He has given me an extra pair of eyes upon a
     very active pair of feet, and both have been invaluable."

     "Then my reports have all been wasted!"--My voice trembled as I
     recalled the pains and the pride with which I had composed them.

     Holmes took a bundle of papers from his pocket.

     "Here are your reports, my dear fellow, and very well thumbed, I
     assure you. I made excellent arrangements, and they are only delayed
     one day upon their way. I must compliment you exceedingly upon the
     zeal and the intelligence which you have shown over an
     extraordinarily difficult case."

     I was still rather raw over the deception which had been practised
     upon me, but the warmth of Holmes's praise drove my anger from my
     mind. I felt also in my heart that he was right in what he said and
     that it was really best for our purpose that I should not have known
     that he was upon the moor.

     "That's better," said he, seeing the shadow rise from my face. "And
     now tell me the result of your visit to Mrs. Laura Lyons--it was not
     difficult for me to guess that it was to see her that you had gone,
     for I am already aware that she is the one person in Coombe Tracey
     who might be of service to us in the matter. In fact, if you had not
     gone to-day it is exceedingly probable that I should have gone
     to-morrow."

     The sun had set and dusk was settling over the moor. The air had
     turned chill and we withdrew into the hut for warmth. There, sitting
     together in the twilight, I told Holmes of my conversation with the
     lady. So interested was he that I had to repeat some of it twice
     before he was satisfied.

     "This is most important," said he when I had concluded. "It fills up
     a gap which I had been unable to bridge, in this most complex affair.
     You are aware, perhaps, that a close intimacy exists between this
     lady and the man Stapleton?"

     "I did not know of a close intimacy."

     "There can be no doubt about the matter. They meet, they write, there
     is a complete understanding between them. Now, this puts a very
     powerful weapon into our hands. If I could only use it to detach his
     wife--"

     "His wife?"

     "I am giving you some information now, in return for all that you
     have given me. The lady who has passed here as Miss Stapleton is in
     reality his wife."

     "Good heavens, Holmes! Are you sure of what you say? How could he
     have permitted Sir Henry to fall in love with her?"

     "Sir Henry's falling in love could do no harm to anyone except Sir
     Henry. He took particular care that Sir Henry did not make love to
     her, as you have yourself observed. I repeat that the lady is his
     wife and not his sister."

     "But why this elaborate deception?"

     "Because he foresaw that she would be very much more useful to him in
     the character of a free woman."

     All my unspoken instincts, my vague suspicions, suddenly took shape
     and centred upon the naturalist. In that impassive, colourless man,
     with his straw hat and his butterfly-net, I seemed to see something
     terrible--a creature of infinite patience and craft, with a smiling
     face and a murderous heart.

     "It is he, then, who is our enemy--it is he who dogged us in London?"

     "So I read the riddle."

     "And the warning--it must have come from her!"

     "Exactly."

     The shape of some monstrous villainy, half seen, half guessed, loomed
     through the darkness which had girt me so long.

     "But are you sure of this, Holmes? How do you know that the woman is
     his wife?"

     "Because he so far forgot himself as to tell you a true piece of
     autobiography upon the occasion when he first met you, and I dare say
     he has many a time regretted it since. He was once a schoolmaster in
     the north of England. Now, there is no one more easy to trace than a
     schoolmaster. There are scholastic agencies by which one may identify
     any man who has been in the profession. A little investigation showed
     me that a school had come to grief under atrocious circumstances, and
     that the man who had owned it--the name was different--had
     disappeared with his wife. The descriptions agreed. When I learned
     that the missing man was devoted to entomology the identification was
     complete."

     The darkness was rising, but much was still hidden by the shadows.

     "If this woman is in truth his wife, where does Mrs. Laura Lyons come
     in?" I asked.

     "That is one of the points upon which your own researches have shed a
     light. Your interview with the lady has cleared the situation very
     much. I did not know about a projected divorce between herself and
     her husband. In that case, regarding Stapleton as an unmarried man,
     she counted no doubt upon becoming his wife."

     "And when she is undeceived?"

     "Why, then we may find the lady of service. It must be our first duty
     to see her--both of us--to-morrow. Don't you think, Watson, that you
     are away from your charge rather long? Your place should be at
     Baskerville Hall."

     The last red streaks had faded away in the west and night had settled
     upon the moor. A few faint stars were gleaming in a violet sky.

     "One last question, Holmes," I said, as I rose. "Surely there is no
     need of secrecy between you and me. What is the meaning of it all?
     What is he after?"

     Holmes's voice sank as he answered:--

     "It is murder, Watson--refined, cold-blooded, deliberate murder. Do
     not ask me for particulars. My nets are closing upon him, even as his
     are upon Sir Henry, and with your help he is already almost at my
     mercy. There is but one danger which can threaten us. It is that he
     should strike before we are ready to do so. Another day--two at the
     most--and I have my case complete, but until then guard your charge
     as closely as ever a fond mother watched her ailing child. Your
     mission to-day has justified itself, and yet I could almost wish that
     you had not left his side. Hark!"

     A terrible scream--a prolonged yell of horror and anguish--burst out
     of the silence of the moor. That frightful cry turned the blood to
     ice in my veins.

     "Oh, my God!" I gasped. "What is it? What does it mean?"

     Holmes had sprung to his feet, and I saw his dark, athletic outline
     at the door of the hut, his shoulders stooping, his head thrust
     forward, his face peering into the darkness.

     "Hush!" he whispered. "Hush!"

     The cry had been loud on account of its vehemence, but it had pealed
     out from somewhere far off on the shadowy plain. Now it burst upon
     our ears, nearer, louder, more urgent than before.

     "Where is it?" Holmes whispered; and I knew from the thrill of his
     voice that he, the man of iron, was shaken to the soul. "Where is it,
     Watson?"

     "There, I think." I pointed into the darkness.

     "No, there!"

     Again the agonized cry swept through the silent night, louder and
     much nearer than ever. And a new sound mingled with it, a deep,
     muttered rumble, musical and yet menacing, rising and falling like
     the low, constant murmur of the sea.

     "The hound!" cried Holmes. "Come, Watson, come! Great heavens, if we
     are too late!"

     He had started running swiftly over the moor, and I had followed at
     his heels. But now from somewhere among the broken ground immediately
     in front of us there came one last despairing yell, and then a dull,
     heavy thud. We halted and listened. Not another sound broke the heavy
     silence of the windless night.

     I saw Holmes put his hand to his forehead like a man distracted. He
     stamped his feet upon the ground.

     "He has beaten us, Watson. We are too late."

     "No, no, surely not!"

     "Fool that I was to hold my hand. And you, Watson, see what comes of
     abandoning your charge! But, by Heaven, if the worst has happened,
     we'll avenge him!"

     Blindly we ran through the gloom, blundering against boulders,
     forcing our way through gorse bushes, panting up hills and rushing
     down slopes, heading always in the direction whence those dreadful
     sounds had come. At every rise Holmes looked eagerly round him, but
     the shadows were thick upon the moor, and nothing moved upon its
     dreary face.

     "Can you see anything?"

     "Nothing."

     "But, hark, what is that?"

     A low moan had fallen upon our ears. There it was again upon our
     left! On that side a ridge of rocks ended in a sheer cliff which
     overlooked a stone-strewn slope. On its jagged face was spread-eagled
     some dark, irregular object. As we ran towards it the vague outline
     hardened into a definite shape. It was a prostrate man face downward
     upon the ground, the head doubled under him at a horrible angle, the
     shoulders rounded and the body hunched together as if in the act of
     throwing a somersault. So grotesque was the attitude that I could not
     for the instant realize that that moan had been the passing of his
     soul. Not a whisper, not a rustle, rose now from the dark figure over
     which we stooped. Holmes laid his hand upon him, and held it up
     again, with an exclamation of horror. The gleam of the match which he
     struck shone upon his clotted fingers and upon the ghastly pool which
     widened slowly from the crushed skull of the victim. And it shone
     upon something else which turned our hearts sick and faint within
     us--the body of Sir Henry Baskerville!

     There was no chance of either of us forgetting that peculiar ruddy
     tweed suit--the very one which he had worn on the first morning that
     we had seen him in Baker Street. We caught the one clear glimpse of
     it, and then the match flickered and went out, even as the hope had
     gone out of our souls. Holmes groaned, and his face glimmered white
     through the darkness.

     "The brute! the brute!" I cried with clenched hands. "Oh Holmes, I
     shall never forgive myself for having left him to his fate."

     "I am more to blame than you, Watson. In order to have my case well
     rounded and complete, I have thrown away the life of my client. It is
     the greatest blow which has befallen me in my career. But how could I
     know--how could l know--that he would risk his life alone upon the
     moor in the face of all my warnings?"

     "That we should have heard his screams--my God, those screams!--and
     yet have been unable to save him! Where is this brute of a hound
     which drove him to his death? It may be lurking among these rocks at
     this instant. And Stapleton, where is he? He shall answer for this
     deed."

     "He shall. I will see to that. Uncle and nephew have been
     murdered--the one frightened to death by the very sight of a beast
     which he thought to be supernatural, the other driven to his end in
     his wild flight to escape from it. But now we have to prove the
     connection between the man and the beast. Save from what we heard, we
     cannot even swear to the existence of the latter, since Sir Henry has
     evidently died from the fall. But, by heavens, cunning as he is, the
     fellow shall be in my power before another day is past!"

     We stood with bitter hearts on either side of the mangled body,
     overwhelmed by this sudden and irrevocable disaster which had brought
     all our long and weary labours to so piteous an end. Then, as the
     moon rose we climbed to the top of the rocks over which our poor
     friend had fallen, and from the summit we gazed out over the shadowy
     moor, half silver and half gloom. Far away, miles off, in the
     direction of Grimpen, a single steady yellow light was shining. It
     could only come from the lonely abode of the Stapletons. With a
     bitter curse I shook my fist at it as I gazed.

     "Why should we not seize him at once?"

     "Our case is not complete. The fellow is wary and cunning to the last
     degree. It is not what we know, but what we can prove. If we make one
     false move the villain may escape us yet."

     "What can we do?"

     "There will be plenty for us to do to-morrow. To-night we can only
     perform the last offices to our poor friend."

     Together we made our way down the precipitous slope and approached
     the body, black and clear against the silvered stones. The agony of
     those contorted limbs struck me with a spasm of pain and blurred my
     eyes with tears.

     "We must send for help, Holmes! We cannot carry him all the way to
     the Hall. Good heavens, are you mad?"

     He had uttered a cry and bent over the body. Now he was dancing and
     laughing and wringing my hand. Could this be my stern, self-contained
     friend? These were hidden fires, indeed!

     "A beard! A beard! The man has a beard!"

     "A beard?"

     "It is not the baronet--it is--why, it is my neighbour, the convict!"

     With feverish haste we had turned the body over, and that dripping
     beard was pointing up to the cold, clear moon. There could be no
     doubt about the beetling forehead, the sunken animal eyes. It was
     indeed the same face which had glared upon me in the light of the
     candle from over the rock--the face of Selden, the criminal.

     Then in an instant it was all clear to me. I remembered how the
     baronet had told me that he had handed his old wardrobe to Barrymore.
     Barrymore had passed it on in order to help Selden in his escape.
     Boots, shirt, cap--it was all Sir Henry's. The tragedy was still
     black enough, but this man had at least deserved death by the laws of
     his country. I told Holmes how the matter stood, my heart bubbling
     over with thankfulness and joy.

     "Then the clothes have been the poor devil's death," said he. "It is
     clear enough that the hound has been laid on from some article of Sir
     Henry's--the boot which was abstracted in the hotel, in all
     probability--and so ran this man down. There is one very singular
     thing, however: How came Selden, in the darkness, to know that the
     hound was on his trail?"

     "He heard him."

     "To hear a hound upon the moor would not work a hard man like this
     convict into such a paroxysm of terror that he would risk recapture
     by screaming wildly for help. By his cries he must have run a long
     way after he knew the animal was on his track. How did he know?"

     "A greater mystery to me is why this hound, presuming that all our
     conjectures are correct--"

     "I presume nothing."

     "Well, then, why this hound should be loose to-night. I suppose that
     it does not always run loose upon the moor. Stapleton would not let
     it go unless he had reason to think that Sir Henry would be there."

     "My difficulty is the more formidable of the two, for I think that we
     shall very shortly get an explanation of yours, while mine may remain
     forever a mystery. The question now is, what shall we do with this
     poor wretch's body? We cannot leave it here to the foxes and the
     ravens."

     "I suggest that we put it in one of the huts until we can communicate
     with the police."

     "Exactly. I have no doubt that you and I could carry it so far.
     Halloa, Watson, what's this? It's the man himself, by all that's
     wonderful and audacious! Not a word to show your suspicions--not a
     word, or my plans crumble to the ground."

     A figure was approaching us over the moor, and I saw the dull red
     glow of a cigar. The moon shone upon him, and I could distinguish the
     dapper shape and jaunty walk of the naturalist. He stopped when he
     saw us, and then came on again.

     "Why, Dr. Watson, that's not you, is it? You are the last man that I
     should have expected to see out on the moor at this time of night.
     But, dear me, what's this? Somebody hurt? Not--don't tell me that it
     is our friend Sir Henry!" He hurried past me and stooped over the
     dead man. I heard a sharp intake of his breath and the cigar fell
     from his fingers.

     "Who--who's this?" he stammered.

     "It is Selden, the man who escaped from Princetown."

     Stapleton turned a ghastly face upon us, but by a supreme effort he
     had overcome his amazement and his disappointment. He looked sharply
     from Holmes to me.

     "Dear me! What a very shocking affair! How did he die?"

     "He appears to have broken his neck by falling over these rocks. My
     friend and I were strolling on the moor when we heard a cry."

     "I heard a cry also. That was what brought me out. I was uneasy about
     Sir Henry."

     "Why about Sir Henry in particular?" I could not help asking.

     "Because I had suggested that he should come over. When he did not
     come I was surprised, and I naturally became alarmed for his safety
     when I heard cries upon the moor. By the way"--his eyes darted again
     from my face to Holmes's--"did you hear anything else besides a cry?"

     "No," said Holmes; "did you?"

     "No."

     "What do you mean, then?"

     "Oh, you know the stories that the peasants tell about a phantom
     hound, and so on. It is said to be heard at night upon the moor. I
     was wondering if there were any evidence of such a sound to-night."

     "We heard nothing of the kind," said I.

     "And what is your theory of this poor fellow's death?"

     "I have no doubt that anxiety and exposure have driven him off his
     head. He has rushed about the moor in a crazy state and eventually
     fallen over here and broken his neck."

     "That seems the most reasonable theory," said Stapleton, and he gave
     a sigh which I took to indicate his relief. "What do you think about
     it, Mr. Sherlock Holmes?"

     My friend bowed his compliments.

     "You are quick at identification," said he.

     "We have been expecting you in these parts since Dr. Watson came
     down. You are in time to see a tragedy."

     "Yes, indeed. I have no doubt that my friend's explanation will cover
     the facts. I will take an unpleasant remembrance back to London with
     me to-morrow."

     "Oh, you return to-morrow?"

     "That is my intention."

     "I hope your visit has cast some light upon those occurrences which
     have puzzled us?"

     Holmes shrugged his shoulders.

     "One cannot always have the success for which one hopes. An
     investigator needs facts, and not legends or rumours. It has not been
     a satisfactory case."

     My friend spoke in his frankest and most unconcerned manner.
     Stapleton still looked hard at him. Then he turned to me.

     "I would suggest carrying this poor fellow to my house, but it would
     give my sister such a fright that I do not feel justified in doing
     it. I think that if we put something over his face he will be safe
     until morning."

     And so it was arranged. Resisting Stapleton's offer of hospitality,
     Holmes and I set off to Baskerville Hall, leaving the naturalist to
     return alone. Looking back we saw the figure moving slowly away over
     the broad moor, and behind him that one black smudge on the silvered
     slope which showed where the man was lying who had come so horribly
     to his end.

     "We're at close grips at last," said Holmes as we walked together
     across the moor. "What a nerve the fellow has! How he pulled himself
     together in the face of what must have been a paralyzing shock when
     he found that the wrong man had fallen a victim to his plot. I told
     you in London, Watson, and I tell you now again, that we have never
     had a foeman more worthy of our steel."

     "I am sorry that he has seen you."

     "And so was I at first. But there was no getting out of it."

     "What effect do you think it will have upon his plans now that he
     knows you are here?"

     "It may cause him to be more cautious, or it may drive him to
     desperate measures at once. Like most clever criminals, he may be too
     confident in his own cleverness and imagine that he has completely
     deceived us."

     "Why should we not arrest him at once?"

     "My dear Watson, you were born to be a man of action. Your instinct
     is always to do something energetic. But supposing, for argument's
     sake, that we had him arrested to-night, what on earth the better off
     should we be for that? We could prove nothing against him. There's
     the devilish cunning of it! If he were acting through a human agent
     we could get some evidence, but if we were to drag this great dog to
     the light of day it would not help us in putting a rope round the
     neck of its master."

     "Surely we have a case."

     "Not a shadow of one--only surmise and conjecture. We should be
     laughed out of court if we came with such a story and such evidence."

     "There is Sir Charles's death."

     "Found dead without a mark upon him. You and I know that he died of
     sheer fright, and we know also what frightened him; but how are we to
     get twelve stolid jurymen to know it? What signs are there of a
     hound? Where are the marks of its fangs? Of course we know that a
     hound does not bite a dead body and that Sir Charles was dead before
     ever the brute overtook him. But we have to prove all this, and we
     are not in a position to do it."

     "Well, then, to-night?"

     "We are not much better off to-night. Again, there was no direct
     connection between the hound and the man's death. We never saw the
     hound. We heard it; but we could not prove that it was running upon
     this man's trail. There is a complete absence of motive. No, my dear
     fellow; we must reconcile ourselves to the fact that we have no case
     at present, and that it is worth our while to run any risk in order
     to establish one."

     "And how do you propose to do so?"

     "I have great hopes of what Mrs. Laura Lyons may do for us when the
     position of affairs is made clear to her. And I have my own plan as
     well. Sufficient for to-morrow is the evil thereof; but I hope before
     the day is past to have the upper hand at last."

     I could draw nothing further from him, and he walked, lost in
     thought, as far as the Baskerville gates.

     "Are you coming up?"

     "Yes; I see no reason for further concealment. But one last word,
     Watson. Say nothing of the hound to Sir Henry. Let him think that
     Selden's death was as Stapleton would have us believe. He will have a
     better nerve for the ordeal which he will have to undergo to-morrow,
     when he is engaged, if I remember your report aright, to dine with
     these people."

     "And so am I."

     "Then you must excuse yourself and he must go alone. That will be
     easily arranged. And now, if we are too late for dinner, I think that
     we are both ready for our suppers."

     Sir Henry was more pleased than surprised to see Sherlock Holmes, for
     he had for some days been expecting that recent events would bring
     him down from London. He did raise his eyebrows, however, when he
     found that my friend had neither any luggage nor any explanations for
     its absence. Between us we soon supplied his wants, and then over a
     belated supper we explained to the baronet as much of our experience
     as it seemed desirable that he should know. But first I had the
     unpleasant duty of breaking the news to Barrymore and his wife. To
     him it may have been an unmitigated relief, but she wept bitterly in
     her apron. To all the world he was the man of violence, half animal
     and half demon; but to her he always remained the little wilful boy
     of her own girlhood, the child who had clung to her hand. Evil indeed
     is the man who has not one woman to mourn him.

     "I've been moping in the house all day since Watson went off in the
     morning," said the baronet. "I guess I should have some credit, for I
     have kept my promise. If I hadn't sworn not to go about alone I might
     have had a more lively evening, for I had a message from Stapleton
     asking me over there."

     "I have no doubt that you would have had a more lively evening," said
     Holmes drily. "By the way, I don't suppose you appreciate that we
     have been mourning over you as having broken your neck?"

     Sir Henry opened his eyes. "How was that?"

     "This poor wretch was dressed in your clothes. I fear your servant
     who gave them to him may get into trouble with the police."

     "That is unlikely. There was no mark on any of them, as far as I
     know."

     "That's lucky for him--in fact, it's lucky for all of you, since you
     are all on the wrong side of the law in this matter. I am not sure
     that as a conscientious detective my first duty is not to arrest the
     whole household. Watson's reports are most incriminating documents."

     "But how about the case?" asked the baronet. "Have you made anything
     out of the tangle? I don't know that Watson and I are much the wiser
     since we came down."

     "I think that I shall be in a position to make the situation rather
     more clear to you before long. It has been an exceedingly difficult
     and most complicated business. There are several points upon which we
     still want light--but it is coming all the same."

     "We've had one experience, as Watson has no doubt told you. We heard
     the hound on the moor, so I can swear that it is not all empty
     superstition. I had something to do with dogs when I was out West,
     and I know one when I hear one. If you can muzzle that one and put
     him on a chain I'll be ready to swear you are the greatest detective
     of all time."

     "I think I will muzzle him and chain him all right if you will give
     me your help."

     "Whatever you tell me to do I will do."

     "Very good; and I will ask you also to do it blindly, without always
     asking the reason."

     "Just as you like."

     "If you will do this I think the chances are that our little problem
     will soon be solved. I have no doubt--"

     He stopped suddenly and stared fixedly up over my head into the air.
     The lamp beat upon his face, and so intent was it and so still that
     it might have been that of a clear-cut classical statue, a
     personification of alertness and expectation.

     "What is it?" we both cried.

     I could see as he looked down that he was repressing some internal
     emotion. His features were still composed, but his eyes shone with
     amused exultation.

     "Excuse the admiration of a connoisseur," said he as he waved his
     hand towards the line of portraits which covered the opposite wall.
     "Watson won't allow that I know anything of art, but that is mere
     jealousy, because our views upon the subject differ. Now, these are a
     really very fine series of portraits."

     "Well, I'm glad to hear you say so," said Sir Henry, glancing with
     some surprise at my friend. "I don't pretend to know much about these
     things, and I'd be a better judge of a horse or a steer than of a
     picture. I didn't know that you found time for such things."

     "I know what is good when I see it, and I see it now. That's a
     Kneller, I'll swear, that lady in the blue silk over yonder, and the
     stout gentleman with the wig ought to be a Reynolds. They are all
     family portraits, I presume?"

     "Every one."

     "Do you know the names?"

     "Barrymore has been coaching me in them, and I think I can say my
     lessons fairly well."

     "Who is the gentleman with the telescope?"

     "That is Rear-Admiral Baskerville, who served under Rodney in the
     West Indies. The man with the blue coat and the roll of paper is Sir
     William Baskerville, who was Chairman of Committees of the House of
     Commons under Pitt."

     "And this Cavalier opposite to me--the one with the black velvet and
     the lace?"

     "Ah, you have a right to know about him. That is the cause of all the
     mischief, the wicked Hugo, who started the Hound of the Baskervilles.
     We're not likely to forget him."

     I gazed with interest and some surprise upon the portrait.

     "Dear me!" said Holmes, "he seems a quiet, meek-mannered man enough,
     but I dare say that there was a lurking devil in his eyes. I had
     pictured him as a more robust and ruffianly person."

     "There's no doubt about the authenticity, for the name and the date,
     1647, are on the back of the canvas."

     Holmes said little more, but the picture of the old roysterer seemed
     to have a fascination for him, and his eyes were continually fixed
     upon it during supper. It was not until later, when Sir Henry had
     gone to his room, that I was able to follow the trend of his
     thoughts. He led me back into the banqueting-hall, his bedroom candle
     in his hand, and he held it up against the time-stained portrait on
     the wall.

     "Do you see anything there?"

     I looked at the broad plumed hat, the curling love-locks, the white
     lace collar, and the straight, severe face which was framed between
     them. It was not a brutal countenance, but it was prim, hard, and
     stern, with a firm-set, thin-lipped mouth, and a coldly intolerant
     eye.

     "Is it like anyone you know?"

     "There is something of Sir Henry about the jaw."

     "Just a suggestion, perhaps. But wait an instant!" He stood upon a
     chair, and, holding up the light in his left hand, he curved his
     right arm over the broad hat and round the long ringlets.

     "Good heavens!" I cried, in amazement.

     The face of Stapleton had sprung out of the canvas.

     "Ha, you see it now. My eyes have been trained to examine faces and
     not their trimmings. It is the first quality of a criminal
     investigator that he should see through a disguise."

     "But this is marvellous. It might be his portrait."

     "Yes, it is an interesting instance of a throwback, which appears to
     be both physical and spiritual. A study of family portraits is enough
     to convert a man to the doctrine of reincarnation. The fellow is a
     Baskerville--that is evident."

     "With designs upon the succession."

     "Exactly. This chance of the picture has supplied us with one of our
     most obvious missing links. We have him, Watson, we have him, and I
     dare swear that before to-morrow night he will be fluttering in our
     net as helpless as one of his own butterflies. A pin, a cork, and a
     card, and we add him to the Baker Street collection!" He burst into
     one of his rare fits of laughter as he turned away from the picture.
     I have not heard him laugh often, and it has always boded ill to
     somebody.

     I was up betimes in the morning, but Holmes was afoot earlier still,
     for I saw him as I dressed, coming up the drive.

     "Yes, we should have a full day to-day," he remarked, and he rubbed
     his hands with the joy of action. "The nets are all in place, and the
     drag is about to begin. We'll know before the day is out whether we
     have caught our big, lean-jawed pike, or whether he has got through
     the meshes."

     "Have you been on the moor already?"

     "I have sent a report from Grimpen to Princetown as to the death of
     Selden. I think I can promise that none of you will be troubled in
     the matter. And I have also communicated with my faithful Cartwright,
     who would certainly have pined away at the door of my hut, as a dog
     does at his master's grave, if I had not set his mind at rest about
     my safety."

     "What is the next move?"

     "To see Sir Henry. Ah, here he is!"

     "Good morning, Holmes," said the baronet. "You look like a general
     who is planning a battle with his chief of the staff."

     "That is the exact situation. Watson was asking for orders."

     "And so do I."

     "Very good. You are engaged, as I understand, to dine with our
     friends the Stapletons to-night."

     "I hope that you will come also. They are very hospitable people, and
     I am sure that they would be very glad to see you."

     "I fear that Watson and I must go to London."

     "To London?"

     "Yes, I think that we should be more useful there at the present
     juncture."

     The baronet's face perceptibly lengthened.

     "I hoped that you were going to see me through this business. The
     Hall and the moor are not very pleasant places when one is alone."

     "My dear fellow, you must trust me implicitly and do exactly what I
     tell you. You can tell your friends that we should have been happy to
     have come with you, but that urgent business required us to be in
     town. We hope very soon to return to Devonshire. Will you remember to
     give them that message?"

     "If you insist upon it."

     "There is no alternative, I assure you."

     I saw by the baronet's clouded brow that he was deeply hurt by what
     he regarded as our desertion.

     "When do you desire to go?" he asked coldly.

     "Immediately after breakfast. We will drive in to Coombe Tracey, but
     Watson will leave his things as a pledge that he will come back to
     you. Watson, you will send a note to Stapleton to tell him that you
     regret that you cannot come."

     "I have a good mind to go to London with you," said the baronet. "Why
     should I stay here alone?"

     "Because it is your post of duty. Because you gave me your word that
     you would do as you were told, and I tell you to stay."

     "All right, then, I'll stay."

     "One more direction! I wish you to drive to Merripit House. Send back
     your trap, however, and let them know that you intend to walk home."

     "To walk across the moor?"

     "Yes."

     "But that is the very thing which you have so often cautioned me not
     to do."

     "This time you may do it with safety. If I had not every confidence
     in your nerve and courage I would not suggest it, but it is essential
     that you should do it."

     "Then I will do it."

     "And as you value your life do not go across the moor in any
     direction save along the straight path which leads from Merripit
     House to the Grimpen Road, and is your natural way home."

     "I will do just what you say."

     "Very good. I should be glad to get away as soon after breakfast as
     possible, so as to reach London in the afternoon."

     I was much astounded by this programme, though I remembered that
     Holmes had said to Stapleton on the night before that his visit would
     terminate next day. It had not crossed my mind, however, that he
     would wish me to go with him, nor could I understand how we could
     both be absent at a moment which he himself declared to be critical.
     There was nothing for it, however, but implicit obedience; so we bade
     good-bye to our rueful friend, and a couple of hours afterwards we
     were at the station of Coombe Tracey and had dispatched the trap upon
     its return journey. A small boy was waiting upon the platform.

     "Any orders, sir?"

     "You will take this train to town, Cartwright. The moment you arrive
     you will send a wire to Sir Henry Baskerville, in my name, to say
     that if he finds the pocket-book which I have dropped he is to send
     it by registered post to Baker Street."

     "Yes, sir."

     "And ask at the station office if there is a message for me."

     The boy returned with a telegram, which Holmes handed to me. It ran:

     Wire received. Coming down with unsigned warrant. Arrive five-forty.
     Lestrade.

     "That is in answer to mine of this morning. He is the best of the
     professionals, I think, and we may need his assistance. Now, Watson,
     I think that we cannot employ our time better than by calling upon
     your acquaintance, Mrs. Laura Lyons."

     His plan of campaign was beginning to be evident. He would use the
     baronet in order to convince the Stapletons that we were really gone,
     while we should actually return at the instant when we were likely to
     be needed. That telegram from London, if mentioned by Sir Henry to
     the Stapletons, must remove the last suspicions from their minds.
     Already I seemed to see our nets drawing closer around that
     lean-jawed pike.

     Mrs. Laura Lyons was in her office, and Sherlock Holmes opened his
     interview with a frankness and directness which considerably amazed
     her.

     "I am investigating the circumstances which attended the death of the
     late Sir Charles Baskerville," said he. "My friend here, Dr. Watson,
     has informed me of what you have communicated, and also of what you
     have withheld in connection with that matter."

     "What have I withheld?" she asked defiantly.

     "You have confessed that you asked Sir Charles to be at the gate at
     ten o'clock. We know that that was the place and hour of his death.
     You have withheld what the connection is between these events."

     "There is no connection."

     "In that case the coincidence must indeed be an extraordinary one.
     But I think that we shall succeed in establishing a connection after
     all. I wish to be perfectly frank with you, Mrs. Lyons. We regard
     this case as one of murder, and the evidence may implicate not only
     your friend Mr. Stapleton, but his wife as well."

     The lady sprang from her chair.

     "His wife!" she cried.

     "The fact is no longer a secret. The person who has passed for his
     sister is really his wife."

     Mrs. Lyons had resumed her seat. Her hands were grasping the arms of
     her chair, and I saw that the pink nails had turned white with the
     pressure of her grip.

     "His wife!" she said again. "His wife! He is not a married man."

     Sherlock Holmes shrugged his shoulders.

     "Prove it to me! Prove it to me! And if you can do so--!" The fierce
     flash of her eyes said more than any words.

     "I have come prepared to do so," said Holmes, drawing several papers
     from his pocket. "Here is a photograph of the couple taken in York
     four years ago. It is indorsed 'Mr. and Mrs. Vandeleur,' but you will
     have no difficulty in recognizing him, and her also, if you know her
     by sight. Here are three written descriptions by trustworthy
     witnesses of Mr. and Mrs. Vandeleur, who at that time kept St.
     Oliver's private school. Read them and see if you can doubt the
     identity of these people."

     She glanced at them, and then looked up at us with the set, rigid
     face of a desperate woman.

     "Mr. Holmes," she said, "this man had offered me marriage on
     condition that I could get a divorce from my husband. He has lied to
     me, the villain, in every conceivable way. Not one word of truth has
     he ever told me. And why--why? I imagined that all was for my own
     sake. But now I see that I was never anything but a tool in his
     hands. Why should I preserve faith with him who never kept any with
     me? Why should I try to shield him from the consequences of his own
     wicked acts? Ask me what you like, and there is nothing which I shall
     hold back. One thing I swear to you, and that is that when I wrote
     the letter I never dreamed of any harm to the old gentleman, who had
     been my kindest friend."

     "I entirely believe you, madam," said Sherlock Holmes. "The recital
     of these events must be very painful to you, and perhaps it will make
     it easier if I tell you what occurred, and you can check me if I make
     any material mistake. The sending of this letter was suggested to you
     by Stapleton?"

     "He dictated it."

     "I presume that the reason he gave was that you would receive help
     from Sir Charles for the legal expenses connected with your divorce?"

     "Exactly."

     "And then after you had sent the letter he dissuaded you from keeping
     the appointment?"

     "He told me that it would hurt his self-respect that any other man
     should find the money for such an object, and that though he was a
     poor man himself he would devote his last penny to removing the
     obstacles which divided us."

     "He appears to be a very consistent character. And then you heard
     nothing until you read the reports of the death in the paper?"

     "No."

     "And he made you swear to say nothing about your appointment with Sir
     Charles?"

     "He did. He said that the death was a very mysterious one, and that I
     should certainly be suspected if the facts came out. He frightened me
     into remaining silent."

     "Quite so. But you had your suspicions?"

     She hesitated and looked down.

     "I knew him," she said. "But if he had kept faith with me I should
     always have done so with him."

     "I think that on the whole you have had a fortunate escape," said
     Sherlock Holmes. "You have had him in your power and he knew it, and
     yet you are alive. You have been walking for some months very near to
     the edge of a precipice. We must wish you good-morning now, Mrs.
     Lyons, and it is probable that you will very shortly hear from us
     again."

     "Our case becomes rounded off, and difficulty after difficulty thins
     away in front of us," said Holmes as we stood waiting for the arrival
     of the express from town. "I shall soon be in the position of being
     able to put into a single connected narrative one of the most
     singular and sensational crimes of modern times. Students of
     criminology will remember the analogous incidents in Godno, in Little
     Russia, in the year '66, and of course there are the Anderson murders
     in North Carolina, but this case possesses some features which are
     entirely its own. Even now we have no clear case against this very
     wily man. But I shall be very much surprised if it is not clear
     enough before we go to bed this night."

     The London express came roaring into the station, and a small, wiry
     bulldog of a man had sprung from a first-class carriage. We all three
     shook hands, and I saw at once from the reverential way in which
     Lestrade gazed at my companion that he had learned a good deal since
     the days when they had first worked together. I could well remember
     the scorn which the theories of the reasoner used then to excite in
     the practical man.

     "Anything good?" he asked.

     "The biggest thing for years," said Holmes. "We have two hours before
     we need think of starting. I think we might employ it in getting some
     dinner and then, Lestrade, we will take the London fog out of your
     throat by giving you a breath of the pure night air of Dartmoor.
     Never been there? Ah, well, I don't suppose you will forget your
     first visit."

     One of Sherlock Holmes's defects--if, indeed, one may call it a
     defect--was that he was exceedingly loath to communicate his full
     plans to any other person until the instant of their fulfilment.
     Partly it came no doubt from his own masterful nature, which loved to
     dominate and surprise those who were around him. Partly also from his
     professional caution, which urged him never to take any chances. The
     result, however, was very trying for those who were acting as his
     agents and assistants. I had often suffered under it, but never more
     so than during that long drive in the darkness. The great ordeal was
     in front of us; at last we were about to make our final effort, and
     yet Holmes had said nothing, and I could only surmise what his course
     of action would be. My nerves thrilled with anticipation when at last
     the cold wind upon our faces and the dark, void spaces on either side
     of the narrow road told me that we were back upon the moor once
     again. Every stride of the horses and every turn of the wheels was
     taking us nearer to our supreme adventure.

     Our conversation was hampered by the presence of the driver of the
     hired wagonette, so that we were forced to talk of trivial matters
     when our nerves were tense with emotion and anticipation. It was a
     relief to me, after that unnatural restraint, when we at last passed
     Frankland's house and knew that we were drawing near to the Hall and
     to the scene of action. We did not drive up to the door but got down
     near the gate of the avenue. The wagonette was paid off and ordered
     to return to Coombe Tracey forthwith, while we started to walk to
     Merripit House.

     "Are you armed, Lestrade?"

     The little detective smiled.

     "As long as I have my trousers I have a hip-pocket, and as long as I
     have my hip-pocket I have something in it."

     "Good! My friend and I are also ready for emergencies."

     "You're mighty close about this affair, Mr. Holmes. What's the game
     now?"

     "A waiting game."

     "My word, it does not seem a very cheerful place," said the detective
     with a shiver, glancing round him at the gloomy slopes of the hill
     and at the huge lake of fog which lay over the Grimpen Mire. "I see
     the lights of a house ahead of us."

     "That is Merripit House and the end of our journey. I must request
     you to walk on tiptoe and not to talk above a whisper."

     We moved cautiously along the track as if we were bound for the
     house, but Holmes halted us when we were about two hundred yards from
     it.

     "This will do," said he. "These rocks upon the right make an
     admirable screen."

     "We are to wait here?"

     "Yes, we shall make our little ambush here. Get into this hollow,
     Lestrade. You have been inside the house, have you not, Watson? Can
     you tell the position of the rooms? What are those latticed windows
     at this end?"

     "I think they are the kitchen windows."

     "And the one beyond, which shines so brightly?"

     "That is certainly the dining-room."

     "The blinds are up. You know the lie of the land best. Creep forward
     quietly and see what they are doing--but for heaven's sake don't let
     them know that they are watched!"

     I tiptoed down the path and stooped behind the low wall which
     surrounded the stunted orchard. Creeping in its shadow I reached a
     point whence I could look straight through the uncurtained window.

     There were only two men in the room, Sir Henry and Stapleton. They
     sat with their profiles towards me on either side of the round table.
     Both of them were smoking cigars, and coffee and wine were in front
     of them. Stapleton was talking with animation, but the baronet looked
     pale and distrait. Perhaps the thought of that lonely walk across the
     ill-omened moor was weighing heavily upon his mind.

     As I watched them Stapleton rose and left the room, while Sir Henry
     filled his glass again and leaned back in his chair, puffing at his
     cigar. I heard the creak of a door and the crisp sound of boots upon
     gravel. The steps passed along the path on the other side of the wall
     under which I crouched. Looking over, I saw the naturalist pause at
     the door of an out-house in the corner of the orchard. A key turned
     in a lock, and as he passed in there was a curious scuffling noise
     from within. He was only a minute or so inside, and then I heard the
     key turn once more and he passed me and re-entered the house. I saw
     him rejoin his guest, and I crept quietly back to where my companions
     were waiting to tell them what I had seen.

     "You say, Watson, that the lady is not there?" Holmes asked, when I
     had finished my report.

     "No."

     "Where can she be, then, since there is no light in any other room
     except the kitchen?"

     "I cannot think where she is."

     I have said that over the great Grimpen Mire there hung a dense,
     white fog. It was drifting slowly in our direction, and banked itself
     up like a wall on that side of us, low, but thick and well defined.
     The moon shone on it, and it looked like a great shimmering
     ice-field, with the heads of the distant tors as rocks borne upon its
     surface. Holmes's face was turned towards it, and he muttered
     impatiently as he watched its sluggish drift.

     "It's moving towards us, Watson."

     "Is that serious?"

     "Very serious, indeed--the one thing upon earth which could have
     disarranged my plans. He can't be very long, now. It is already ten
     o'clock. Our success and even his life may depend upon his coming out
     before the fog is over the path."

     The night was clear and fine above us. The stars shone cold and
     bright, while a half-moon bathed the whole scene in a soft, uncertain
     light. Before us lay the dark bulk of the house, its serrated roof
     and bristling chimneys hard outlined against the silver-spangled sky.
     Broad bars of golden light from the lower windows stretched across
     the orchard and the moor. One of them was suddenly shut off. The
     servants had left the kitchen. There only remained the lamp in the
     dining-room where the two men, the murderous host and the unconscious
     guest, still chatted over their cigars.

     Every minute that white woolly plain which covered one half of the
     moor was drifting closer and closer to the house. Already the first
     thin wisps of it were curling across the golden square of the lighted
     window. The farther wall of the orchard was already invisible, and
     the trees were standing out of a swirl of white vapour. As we watched
     it the fog-wreaths came crawling round both corners of the house and
     rolled slowly into one dense bank, on which the upper floor and the
     roof floated like a strange ship upon a shadowy sea. Holmes struck
     his hand passionately upon the rock in front of us and stamped his
     feet in his impatience.

     "If he isn't out in a quarter of an hour the path will be covered. In
     half an hour we won't be able to see our hands in front of us."

     "Shall we move farther back upon higher ground?"

     "Yes, I think it would be as well."

     So as the fog-bank flowed onward we fell back before it until we were
     half a mile from the house, and still that dense white sea, with the
     moon silvering its upper edge, swept slowly and inexorably on.

     "We are going too far," said Holmes. "We dare not take the chance of
     his being overtaken before he can reach us. At all costs we must hold
     our ground where we are." He dropped on his knees and clapped his ear
     to the ground. "Thank God, I think that I hear him coming."

     A sound of quick steps broke the silence of the moor. Crouching among
     the stones we stared intently at the silver-tipped bank in front of
     us. The steps grew louder, and through the fog, as through a curtain,
     there stepped the man whom we were awaiting. He looked round him in
     surprise as he emerged into the clear, starlit night. Then he came
     swiftly along the path, passed close to where we lay, and went on up
     the long slope behind us. As he walked he glanced continually over
     either shoulder, like a man who is ill at ease.

     "Hist!" cried Holmes, and I heard the sharp click of a cocking
     pistol. "Look out! It's coming!"

     There was a thin, crisp, continuous patter from somewhere in the
     heart of that crawling bank. The cloud was within fifty yards of
     where we lay, and we glared at it, all three, uncertain what horror
     was about to break from the heart of it. I was at Holmes's elbow, and
     I glanced for an instant at his face. It was pale and exultant, his
     eyes shining brightly in the moonlight. But suddenly they started
     forward in a rigid, fixed stare, and his lips parted in amazement. At
     the same instant Lestrade gave a yell of terror and threw himself
     face downward upon the ground. I sprang to my feet, my inert hand
     grasping my pistol, my mind paralyzed by the dreadful shape which had
     sprung out upon us from the shadows of the fog. A hound it was, an
     enormous coal-black hound, but not such a hound as mortal eyes have
     ever seen. Fire burst from its open mouth, its eyes glowed with a
     smouldering glare, its muzzle and hackles and dewlap were outlined in
     flickering flame. Never in the delirious dream of a disordered brain
     could anything more savage, more appalling, more hellish be conceived
     than that dark form and savage face which broke upon us out of the
     wall of fog.

     With long bounds the huge black creature was leaping down the track,
     following hard upon the footsteps of our friend. So paralyzed were we
     by the apparition that we allowed him to pass before we had recovered
     our nerve. Then Holmes and I both fired together, and the creature
     gave a hideous howl, which showed that one at least had hit him. He
     did not pause, however, but bounded onward. Far away on the path we
     saw Sir Henry looking back, his face white in the moonlight, his
     hands raised in horror, glaring helplessly at the frightful thing
     which was hunting him down.

     But that cry of pain from the hound had blown all our fears to the
     winds. If he was vulnerable he was mortal, and if we could wound him
     we could kill him. Never have I seen a man run as Holmes ran that
     night. I am reckoned fleet of foot, but he outpaced me as much as I
     outpaced the little professional. In front of us as we flew up the
     track we heard scream after scream from Sir Henry and the deep roar
     of the hound. I was in time to see the beast spring upon its victim,
     hurl him to the ground, and worry at his throat. But the next instant
     Holmes had emptied five barrels of his revolver into the creature's
     flank. With a last howl of agony and a vicious snap in the air, it
     rolled upon its back, four feet pawing furiously, and then fell limp
     upon its side. I stooped, panting, and pressed my pistol to the
     dreadful, shimmering head, but it was useless to press the trigger.
     The giant hound was dead.

     Sir Henry lay insensible where he had fallen. We tore away his
     collar, and Holmes breathed a prayer of gratitude when we saw that
     there was no sign of a wound and that the rescue had been in time.
     Already our friend's eyelids shivered and he made a feeble effort to
     move. Lestrade thrust his brandy-flask between the baronet's teeth,
     and two frightened eyes were looking up at us.

     "My God!" he whispered. "What was it? What, in heaven's name, was
     it?"

     "It's dead, whatever it is," said Holmes. "We've laid the family
     ghost once and forever."

     In mere size and strength it was a terrible creature which was lying
     stretched before us. It was not a pure bloodhound and it was not a
     pure mastiff; but it appeared to be a combination of the two--gaunt,
     savage, and as large as a small lioness. Even now, in the stillness
     of death, the huge jaws seemed to be dripping with a bluish flame and
     the small, deep-set, cruel eyes were ringed with fire. I placed my
     hand upon the glowing muzzle, and as I held them up my own fingers
     smouldered and gleamed in the darkness.

     "Phosphorus," I said.

     "A cunning preparation of it," said Holmes, sniffing at the dead
     animal. "There is no smell which might have interfered with his power
     of scent. We owe you a deep apology, Sir Henry, for having exposed
     you to this fright. I was prepared for a hound, but not for such a
     creature as this. And the fog gave us little time to receive him."

     "You have saved my life."

     "Having first endangered it. Are you strong enough to stand?"

     "Give me another mouthful of that brandy and I shall be ready for
     anything. So! Now, if you will help me up. What do you propose to
     do?"

     "To leave you here. You are not fit for further adventures to-night.
     If you will wait, one or other of us will go back with you to the
     Hall."

     He tried to stagger to his feet; but he was still ghastly pale and
     trembling in every limb. We helped him to a rock, where he sat
     shivering with his face buried in his hands.

     "We must leave you now," said Holmes. "The rest of our work must be
     done, and every moment is of importance. We have our case, and now we
     only want our man.

     "It's a thousand to one against our finding him at the house," he
     continued as we retraced our steps swiftly down the path. "Those
     shots must have told him that the game was up."

     "We were some distance off, and this fog may have deadened them."

     "He followed the hound to call him off--of that you may be certain.
     No, no, he's gone by this time! But we'll search the house and make
     sure."

     The front door was open, so we rushed in and hurried from room to
     room to the amazement of a doddering old manservant, who met us in
     the passage. There was no light save in the dining-room, but Holmes
     caught up the lamp and left no corner of the house unexplored. No
     sign could we see of the man whom we were chasing. On the upper
     floor, however, one of the bedroom doors was locked.

     "There's someone in here," cried Lestrade. "I can hear a movement.
     Open this door!"

     A faint moaning and rustling came from within. Holmes struck the door
     just over the lock with the flat of his foot and it flew open. Pistol
     in hand, we all three rushed into the room.

     But there was no sign within it of that desperate and defiant villain
     whom we expected to see. Instead we were faced by an object so
     strange and so unexpected that we stood for a moment staring at it in
     amazement.

     The room had been fashioned into a small museum, and the walls were
     lined by a number of glass-topped cases full of that collection of
     butterflies and moths the formation of which had been the relaxation
     of this complex and dangerous man. In the centre of this room there
     was an upright beam, which had been placed at some period as a
     support for the old worm-eaten baulk of timber which spanned the
     roof. To this post a figure was tied, so swathed and muffled in the
     sheets which had been used to secure it that one could not for the
     moment tell whether it was that of a man or a woman. One towel passed
     round the throat and was secured at the back of the pillar. Another
     covered the lower part of the face, and over it two dark eyes--eyes
     full of grief and shame and a dreadful questioning--stared back at
     us. In a minute we had torn off the gag, unswathed the bonds, and
     Mrs. Stapleton sank upon the floor in front of us. As her beautiful
     head fell upon her chest I saw the clear red weal of a whiplash
     across her neck.

     "The brute!" cried Holmes. "Here, Lestrade, your brandy-bottle! Put
     her in the chair! She has fainted from ill-usage and exhaustion."

     She opened her eyes again.

     "Is he safe?" she asked. "Has he escaped?"

     "He cannot escape us, madam."

     "No, no, I did not mean my husband. Sir Henry? Is he safe?"

     "Yes."

     "And the hound?"

     "It is dead."

     She gave a long sigh of satisfaction.

     "Thank God! Thank God! Oh, this villain! See how he has treated me!"
     She shot her arms out from her sleeves, and we saw with horror that
     they were all mottled with bruises. "But this is nothing--nothing! It
     is my mind and soul that he has tortured and defiled. I could endure
     it all, ill-usage, solitude, a life of deception, everything, as long
     as I could still cling to the hope that I had his love, but now I
     know that in this also I have been his dupe and his tool." She broke
     into passionate sobbing as she spoke.

     "You bear him no good will, madam," said Holmes. "Tell us then where
     we shall find him. If you have ever aided him in evil, help us now
     and so atone."

     "There is but one place where he can have fled," she answered. "There
     is an old tin mine on an island in the heart of the mire. It was
     there that he kept his hound and there also he had made preparations
     so that he might have a refuge. That is where he would fly."

     The fog-bank lay like white wool against the window. Holmes held the
     lamp towards it.

     "See," said he. "No one could find his way into the Grimpen Mire
     to-night."

     She laughed and clapped her hands. Her eyes and teeth gleamed with
     fierce merriment.

     "He may find his way in, but never out," she cried. "How can he see
     the guiding wands to-night? We planted them together, he and I, to
     mark the pathway through the mire. Oh, if I could only have plucked
     them out to-day. Then indeed you would have had him at your mercy!"

     It was evident to us that all pursuit was in vain until the fog had
     lifted. Meanwhile we left Lestrade in possession of the house while
     Holmes and I went back with the baronet to Baskerville Hall. The
     story of the Stapletons could no longer be withheld from him, but he
     took the blow bravely when he learned the truth about the woman whom
     he had loved. But the shock of the night's adventures had shattered
     his nerves, and before morning he lay delirious in a high fever,
     under the care of Dr. Mortimer. The two of them were destined to
     travel together round the world before Sir Henry had become once more
     the hale, hearty man that he had been before he became master of that
     ill-omened estate.

     And now I come rapidly to the conclusion of this singular narrative,
     in which I have tried to make the reader share those dark fears and
     vague surmises which clouded our lives so long and ended in so tragic
     a manner. On the morning after the death of the hound the fog had
     lifted and we were guided by Mrs. Stapleton to the point where they
     had found a pathway through the bog. It helped us to realize the
     horror of this woman's life when we saw the eagerness and joy with
     which she laid us on her husband's track. We left her standing upon
     the thin peninsula of firm, peaty soil which tapered out into the
     widespread bog. From the end of it a small wand planted here and
     there showed where the path zigzagged from tuft to tuft of rushes
     among those green-scummed pits and foul quagmires which barred the
     way to the stranger. Rank reeds and lush, slimy water-plants sent an
     odour of decay and a heavy miasmatic vapour onto our faces, while a
     false step plunged us more than once thigh-deep into the dark,
     quivering mire, which shook for yards in soft undulations around our
     feet. Its tenacious grip plucked at our heels as we walked, and when
     we sank into it it was as if some malignant hand was tugging us down
     into those obscene depths, so grim and purposeful was the clutch in
     which it held us. Once only we saw a trace that someone had passed
     that perilous way before us. From amid a tuft of cotton grass which
     bore it up out of the slime some dark thing was projecting. Holmes
     sank to his waist as he stepped from the path to seize it, and had we
     not been there to drag him out he could never have set his foot upon
     firm land again. He held an old black boot in the air. "Meyers,
     Toronto," was printed on the leather inside.

     "It is worth a mud bath," said he. "It is our friend Sir Henry's
     missing boot."

     "Thrown there by Stapleton in his flight."

     "Exactly. He retained it in his hand after using it to set the hound
     upon the track. He fled when he knew the game was up, still clutching
     it. And he hurled it away at this point of his flight. We know at
     least that he came so far in safety."

     But more than that we were never destined to know, though there was
     much which we might surmise. There was no chance of finding footsteps
     in the mire, for the rising mud oozed swiftly in upon them, but as we
     at last reached firmer ground beyond the morass we all looked eagerly
     for them. But no slightest sign of them ever met our eyes. If the
     earth told a true story, then Stapleton never reached that island of
     refuge towards which he struggled through the fog upon that last
     night. Somewhere in the heart of the great Grimpen Mire, down in the
     foul slime of the huge morass which had sucked him in, this cold and
     cruel-hearted man is forever buried.

     Many traces we found of him in the bog-girt island where he had hid
     his savage ally. A huge driving-wheel and a shaft half-filled with
     rubbish showed the position of an abandoned mine. Beside it were the
     crumbling remains of the cottages of the miners, driven away no doubt
     by the foul reek of the surrounding swamp. In one of these a staple
     and chain with a quantity of gnawed bones showed where the animal had
     been confined. A skeleton with a tangle of brown hair adhering to it
     lay among the debris.

     "A dog!" said Holmes. "By Jove, a curly-haired spaniel. Poor Mortimer
     will never see his pet again. Well, I do not know that this place
     contains any secret which we have not already fathomed. He could hide
     his hound, but he could not hush its voice, and hence came those
     cries which even in daylight were not pleasant to hear. On an
     emergency he could keep the hound in the out-house at Merripit, but
     it was always a risk, and it was only on the supreme day, which he
     regarded as the end of all his efforts, that he dared do it. This
     paste in the tin is no doubt the luminous mixture with which the
     creature was daubed. It was suggested, of course, by the story of the
     family hell-hound, and by the desire to frighten old Sir Charles to
     death. No wonder the poor devil of a convict ran and screamed, even
     as our friend did, and as we ourselves might have done, when he saw
     such a creature bounding through the darkness of the moor upon his
     track. It was a cunning device, for, apart from the chance of driving
     your victim to his death, what peasant would venture to inquire too
     closely into such a creature should he get sight of it, as many have
     done, upon the moor? I said it in London, Watson, and I say it again
     now, that never yet have we helped to hunt down a more dangerous man
     than he who is lying yonder"--he swept his long arm towards the huge
     mottled expanse of green-splotched bog which stretched away until it
     merged into the russet slopes of the moor.

     It was the end of November and Holmes and I sat, upon a raw and foggy
     night, on either side of a blazing fire in our sitting-room in Baker
     Street. Since the tragic upshot of our visit to Devonshire he had
     been engaged in two affairs of the utmost importance, in the first of
     which he had exposed the atrocious conduct of Colonel Upwood in
     connection with the famous card scandal of the Nonpareil Club, while
     in the second he had defended the unfortunate Mme. Montpensier from
     the charge of murder which hung over her in connection with the death
     of her step-daughter, Mlle. Carere, the young lady who, as it will be
     remembered, was found six months later alive and married in New York.
     My friend was in excellent spirits over the success which had
     attended a succession of difficult and important cases, so that I was
     able to induce him to discuss the details of the Baskerville mystery.
     I had waited patiently for the opportunity, for I was aware that he
     would never permit cases to overlap, and that his clear and logical
     mind would not be drawn from its present work to dwell upon memories
     of the past. Sir Henry and Dr. Mortimer were, however, in London, on
     their way to that long voyage which had been recommended for the
     restoration of his shattered nerves. They had called upon us that
     very afternoon, so that it was natural that the subject should come
     up for discussion.

     "The whole course of events," said Holmes, "from the point of view of
     the man who called himself Stapleton was simple and direct, although
     to us, who had no means in the beginning of knowing the motives of
     his actions and could only learn part of the facts, it all appeared
     exceedingly complex. I have had the advantage of two conversations
     with Mrs. Stapleton, and the case has now been so entirely cleared up
     that I am not aware that there is anything which has remained a
     secret to us. You will find a few notes upon the matter under the
     heading B in my indexed list of cases."

     "Perhaps you would kindly give me a sketch of the course of events
     from memory."

     "Certainly, though I cannot guarantee that I carry all the facts in
     my mind. Intense mental concentration has a curious way of blotting
     out what has passed. The barrister who has his case at his fingers'
     ends, and is able to argue with an expert upon his own subject finds
     that a week or two of the courts will drive it all out of his head
     once more. So each of my cases displaces the last, and Mlle. Carere
     has blurred my recollection of Baskerville Hall. To-morrow some other
     little problem may be submitted to my notice which will in turn
     dispossess the fair French lady and the infamous Upwood. So far as
     the case of the Hound goes, however, I will give you the course of
     events as nearly as I can, and you will suggest anything which I may
     have forgotten.

     "My inquiries show beyond all question that the family portrait did
     not lie, and that this fellow was indeed a Baskerville. He was a son
     of that Rodger Baskerville, the younger brother of Sir Charles, who
     fled with a sinister reputation to South America, where he was said
     to have died unmarried. He did, as a matter of fact, marry, and had
     one child, this fellow, whose real name is the same as his father's.
     He married Beryl Garcia, one of the beauties of Costa Rica, and,
     having purloined a considerable sum of public money, he changed his
     name to Vandeleur and fled to England, where he established a school
     in the east of Yorkshire. His reason for attempting this special line
     of business was that he had struck up an acquaintance with a
     consumptive tutor upon the voyage home, and that he had used this
     man's ability to make the undertaking a success. Fraser, the tutor,
     died however, and the school which had begun well sank from disrepute
     into infamy. The Vandeleurs found it convenient to change their name
     to Stapleton, and he brought the remains of his fortune, his schemes
     for the future, and his taste for entomology to the south of England.
     I learned at the British Museum that he was a recognized authority
     upon the subject, and that the name of Vandeleur has been permanently
     attached to a certain moth which he had, in his Yorkshire days, been
     the first to describe.

     "We now come to that portion of his life which has proved to be of
     such intense interest to us. The fellow had evidently made inquiry
     and found that only two lives intervened between him and a valuable
     estate. When he went to Devonshire his plans were, I believe,
     exceedingly hazy, but that he meant mischief from the first is
     evident from the way in which he took his wife with him in the
     character of his sister. The idea of using her as a decoy was clearly
     already in his mind, though he may not have been certain how the
     details of his plot were to be arranged. He meant in the end to have
     the estate, and he was ready to use any tool or run any risk for that
     end. His first act was to establish himself as near to his ancestral
     home as he could, and his second was to cultivate a friendship with
     Sir Charles Baskerville and with the neighbours.

     "The baronet himself told him about the family hound, and so prepared
     the way for his own death. Stapleton, as I will continue to call him,
     knew that the old man's heart was weak and that a shock would kill
     him. So much he had learned from Dr. Mortimer. He had heard also that
     Sir Charles was superstitious and had taken this grim legend very
     seriously. His ingenious mind instantly suggested a way by which the
     baronet could be done to death, and yet it would be hardly possible
     to bring home the guilt to the real murderer.

     "Having conceived the idea he proceeded to carry it out with
     considerable finesse. An ordinary schemer would have been content to
     work with a savage hound. The use of artificial means to make the
     creature diabolical was a flash of genius upon his part. The dog he
     bought in London from Ross and Mangles, the dealers in Fulham Road.
     It was the strongest and most savage in their possession. He brought
     it down by the North Devon line and walked a great distance over the
     moor so as to get it home without exciting any remarks. He had
     already on his insect hunts learned to penetrate the Grimpen Mire,
     and so had found a safe hiding-place for the creature. Here he
     kennelled it and waited his chance.

     "But it was some time coming. The old gentleman could not be decoyed
     outside of his grounds at night. Several times Stapleton lurked about
     with his hound, but without avail. It was during these fruitless
     quests that he, or rather his ally, was seen by peasants, and that
     the legend of the demon dog received a new confirmation. He had hoped
     that his wife might lure Sir Charles to his ruin, but here she proved
     unexpectedly independent. She would not endeavour to entangle the old
     gentleman in a sentimental attachment which might deliver him over to
     his enemy. Threats and even, I am sorry to say, blows refused to move
     her. She would have nothing to do with it, and for a time Stapleton
     was at a deadlock.

     "He found a way out of his difficulties through the chance that Sir
     Charles, who had conceived a friendship for him, made him the
     minister of his charity in the case of this unfortunate woman, Mrs.
     Laura Lyons. By representing himself as a single man he acquired
     complete influence over her, and he gave her to understand that in
     the event of her obtaining a divorce from her husband he would marry
     her. His plans were suddenly brought to a head by his knowledge that
     Sir Charles was about to leave the Hall on the advice of Dr.
     Mortimer, with whose opinion he himself pretended to coincide. He
     must act at once, or his victim might get beyond his power. He
     therefore put pressure upon Mrs. Lyons to write this letter,
     imploring the old man to give her an interview on the evening before
     his departure for London. He then, by a specious argument, prevented
     her from going, and so had the chance for which he had waited.

     "Driving back in the evening from Coombe Tracey he was in time to get
     his hound, to treat it with his infernal paint, and to bring the
     beast round to the gate at which he had reason to expect that he
     would find the old gentleman waiting. The dog, incited by its master,
     sprang over the wicket-gate and pursued the unfortunate baronet, who
     fled screaming down the Yew Alley. In that gloomy tunnel it must
     indeed have been a dreadful sight to see that huge black creature,
     with its flaming jaws and blazing eyes, bounding after its victim. He
     fell dead at the end of the alley from heart disease and terror. The
     hound had kept upon the grassy border while the baronet had run down
     the path, so that no track but the man's was visible. On seeing him
     lying still the creature had probably approached to sniff at him, but
     finding him dead had turned away again. It was then that it left the
     print which was actually observed by Dr. Mortimer. The hound was
     called off and hurried away to its lair in the Grimpen Mire, and a
     mystery was left which puzzled the authorities, alarmed the
     country-side, and finally brought the case within the scope of our
     observation.

     "So much for the death of Sir Charles Baskerville. You perceive the
     devilish cunning of it, for really it would be almost impossible to
     make a case against the real murderer. His only accomplice was one
     who could never give him away, and the grotesque, inconceivable
     nature of the device only served to make it more effective. Both of
     the women concerned in the case, Mrs. Stapleton and Mrs. Laura Lyons,
     were left with a strong suspicion against Stapleton. Mrs. Stapleton
     knew that he had designs upon the old man, and also of the existence
     of the hound. Mrs. Lyons knew neither of these things, but had been
     impressed by the death occurring at the time of an uncancelled
     appointment which was only known to him. However, both of them were
     under his influence, and he had nothing to fear from them. The first
     half of his task was successfully accomplished but the more difficult
     still remained.

     "It is possible that Stapleton did not know of the existence of an
     heir in Canada. In any case he would very soon learn it from his
     friend Dr. Mortimer, and he was told by the latter all details about
     the arrival of Henry Baskerville. Stapleton's first idea was that
     this young stranger from Canada might possibly be done to death in
     London without coming down to Devonshire at all. He distrusted his
     wife ever since she had refused to help him in laying a trap for the
     old man, and he dared not leave her long out of his sight for fear he
     should lose his influence over her. It was for this reason that he
     took her to London with him. They lodged, I find, at the Mexborough
     Private Hotel, in Craven Street, which was actually one of those
     called upon by my agent in search of evidence. Here he kept his wife
     imprisoned in her room while he, disguised in a beard, followed Dr.
     Mortimer to Baker Street and afterwards to the station and to the
     Northumberland Hotel. His wife had some inkling of his plans; but she
     had such a fear of her husband--a fear founded upon brutal
     ill-treatment--that she dare not write to warn the man whom she knew
     to be in danger. If the letter should fall into Stapleton's hands her
     own life would not be safe. Eventually, as we know, she adopted the
     expedient of cutting out the words which would form the message, and
     addressing the letter in a disguised hand. It reached the baronet,
     and gave him the first warning of his danger.

     "It was very essential for Stapleton to get some article of Sir
     Henry's attire so that, in case he was driven to use the dog, he
     might always have the means of setting him upon his track. With
     characteristic promptness and audacity he set about this at once, and
     we cannot doubt that the boots or chamber-maid of the hotel was well
     bribed to help him in his design. By chance, however, the first boot
     which was procured for him was a new one and, therefore, useless for
     his purpose. He then had it returned and obtained another--a most
     instructive incident, since it proved conclusively to my mind that we
     were dealing with a real hound, as no other supposition could explain
     this anxiety to obtain an old boot and this indifference to a new
     one. The more outrÃ© and grotesque an incident is the more carefully
     it deserves to be examined, and the very point which appears to
     complicate a case is, when duly considered and scientifically
     handled, the one which is most likely to elucidate it.

     "Then we had the visit from our friends next morning, shadowed always
     by Stapleton in the cab. From his knowledge of our rooms and of my
     appearance, as well as from his general conduct, I am inclined to
     think that Stapleton's career of crime has been by no means limited
     to this single Baskerville affair. It is suggestive that during the
     last three years there have been four considerable burglaries in the
     West Country, for none of which was any criminal ever arrested. The
     last of these, at Folkestone Court, in May, was remarkable for the
     cold-blooded pistoling of the page, who surprised the masked and
     solitary burglar. I cannot doubt that Stapleton recruited his waning
     resources in this fashion, and that for years he has been a desperate
     and dangerous man.

     "We had an example of his readiness of resource that morning when he
     got away from us so successfully, and also of his audacity in sending
     back my own name to me through the cabman. From that moment he
     understood that I had taken over the case in London, and that
     therefore there was no chance for him there. He returned to Dartmoor
     and awaited the arrival of the baronet."

     "One moment!" said I. "You have, no doubt, described the sequence of
     events correctly, but there is one point which you have left
     unexplained. What became of the hound when its master was in London?"

     "I have given some attention to this matter and it is undoubtedly of
     importance. There can be no question that Stapleton had a confidant,
     though it is unlikely that he ever placed himself in his power by
     sharing all his plans with him. There was an old manservant at
     Merripit House, whose name was Anthony. His connection with the
     Stapletons can be traced for several years, as far back as the
     schoolmastering days, so that he must have been aware that his master
     and mistress were really husband and wife. This man has disappeared
     and has escaped from the country. It is suggestive that Anthony is
     not a common name in England, while Antonio is so in all Spanish or
     Spanish-American countries. The man, like Mrs. Stapleton herself,
     spoke good English, but with a curious lisping accent. I have myself
     seen this old man cross the Grimpen Mire by the path which Stapleton
     had marked out. It is very probable, therefore, that in the absence
     of his master it was he who cared for the hound, though he may never
     have known the purpose for which the beast was used.

     "The Stapletons then went down to Devonshire, whither they were soon
     followed by Sir Henry and you. One word now as to how I stood myself
     at that time. It may possibly recur to your memory that when I
     examined the paper upon which the printed words were fastened I made
     a close inspection for the water-mark. In doing so I held it within a
     few inches of my eyes, and was conscious of a faint smell of the
     scent known as white jessamine. There are seventy-five perfumes,
     which it is very necessary that a criminal expert should be able to
     distinguish from each other, and cases have more than once within my
     own experience depended upon their prompt recognition. The scent
     suggested the presence of a lady, and already my thoughts began to
     turn towards the Stapletons. Thus I had made certain of the hound,
     and had guessed at the criminal before ever we went to the west
     country.

     "It was my game to watch Stapleton. It was evident, however, that I
     could not do this if I were with you, since he would be keenly on his
     guard. I deceived everybody, therefore, yourself included, and I came
     down secretly when I was supposed to be in London. My hardships were
     not so great as you imagined, though such trifling details must never
     interfere with the investigation of a case. I stayed for the most
     part at Coombe Tracey, and only used the hut upon the moor when it
     was necessary to be near the scene of action. Cartwright had come
     down with me, and in his disguise as a country boy he was of great
     assistance to me. I was dependent upon him for food and clean linen.
     When I was watching Stapleton, Cartwright was frequently watching
     you, so that I was able to keep my hand upon all the strings.

     "I have already told you that your reports reached me rapidly, being
     forwarded instantly from Baker Street to Coombe Tracey. They were of
     great service to me, and especially that one incidentally truthful
     piece of biography of Stapleton's. I was able to establish the
     identity of the man and the woman and knew at last exactly how I
     stood. The case had been considerably complicated through the
     incident of the escaped convict and the relations between him and the
     Barrymores. This also you cleared up in a very effective way, though
     I had already come to the same conclusions from my own observations.

     "By the time that you discovered me upon the moor I had a complete
     knowledge of the whole business, but I had not a case which could go
     to a jury. Even Stapleton's attempt upon Sir Henry that night which
     ended in the death of the unfortunate convict did not help us much in
     proving murder against our man. There seemed to be no alternative but
     to catch him red-handed, and to do so we had to use Sir Henry, alone
     and apparently unprotected, as a bait. We did so, and at the cost of
     a severe shock to our client we succeeded in completing our case and
     driving Stapleton to his destruction. That Sir Henry should have been
     exposed to this is, I must confess, a reproach to my management of
     the case, but we had no means of foreseeing the terrible and
     paralyzing spectacle which the beast presented, nor could we predict
     the fog which enabled him to burst upon us at such short notice. We
     succeeded in our object at a cost which both the specialist and Dr.
     Mortimer assure me will be a temporary one. A long journey may enable
     our friend to recover not only from his shattered nerves but also
     from his wounded feelings. His love for the lady was deep and
     sincere, and to him the saddest part of all this black business was
     that he should have been deceived by her.

     "It only remains to indicate the part which she had played
     throughout. There can be no doubt that Stapleton exercised an
     influence over her which may have been love or may have been fear, or
     very possibly both, since they are by no means incompatible emotions.
     It was, at least, absolutely effective. At his command she consented
     to pass as his sister, though he found the limits of his power over
     her when he endeavoured to make her the direct accessory to murder.
     She was ready to warn Sir Henry so far as she could without
     implicating her husband, and again and again she tried to do so.
     Stapleton himself seems to have been capable of jealousy, and when he
     saw the baronet paying court to the lady, even though it was part of
     his own plan, still he could not help interrupting with a passionate
     outburst which revealed the fiery soul which his self-contained
     manner so cleverly concealed. By encouraging the intimacy he made it
     certain that Sir Henry would frequently come to Merripit House and
     that he would sooner or later get the opportunity which he desired.
     On the day of the crisis, however, his wife turned suddenly against
     him. She had learned something of the death of the convict, and she
     knew that the hound was being kept in the out-house on the evening
     that Sir Henry was coming to dinner. She taxed her husband with his
     intended crime, and a furious scene followed, in which he showed her
     for the first time that she had a rival in his love. Her fidelity
     turned in an instant to bitter hatred and he saw that she would
     betray him. He tied her up, therefore, that she might have no chance
     of warning Sir Henry, and he hoped, no doubt, that when the whole
     country-side put down the baronet's death to the curse of his family,
     as they certainly would do, he could win his wife back to accept an
     accomplished fact and to keep silent upon what she knew. In this I
     fancy that in any case he made a miscalculation, and that, if we had
     not been there, his doom would none the less have been sealed. A
     woman of Spanish blood does not condone such an injury so lightly.
     And now, my dear Watson, without referring to my notes, I cannot give
     you a more detailed account of this curious case. I do not know that
     anything essential has been left unexplained."

     "He could not hope to frighten Sir Henry to death as he had done the
     old uncle with his bogie hound."

     "The beast was savage and half-starved. If its appearance did not
     frighten its victim to death, at least it would paralyze the
     resistance which might be offered."

     "No doubt. There only remains one difficulty. If Stapleton came into
     the succession, how could he explain the fact that he, the heir, had
     been living unannounced under another name so close to the property?
     How could he claim it without causing suspicion and inquiry?"

     "It is a formidable difficulty, and I fear that you ask too much when
     you expect me to solve it. The past and the present are within the
     field of my inquiry, but what a man may do in the future is a hard
     question to answer. Mrs. Stapleton has heard her husband discuss the
     problem on several occasions. There were three possible courses. He
     might claim the property from South America, establish his identity
     before the British authorities there and so obtain the fortune
     without ever coming to England at all; or he might adopt an elaborate
     disguise during the short time that he need be in London; or, again,
     he might furnish an accomplice with the proofs and papers, putting
     him in as heir, and retaining a claim upon some proportion of his
     income. We cannot doubt from what we know of him that he would have
     found some way out of the difficulty. And now, my dear Watson, we
     have had some weeks of severe work, and for one evening, I think, we
     may turn our thoughts into more pleasant channels. I have a box for
     'Les Huguenots.' Have you heard the De Reszkes? Might I trouble you
     then to be ready in half an hour, and we can stop at Marcini's for a
     little dinner on the way?"


                               THE VALLEY OF FEAR


     "I am inclined to think--" said I.

     "I should do so," Sherlock Holmes remarked impatiently.

     I believe that I am one of the most long-suffering of mortals; but
     I'll admit that I was annoyed at the sardonic interruption.

     "Really, Holmes," said I severely, "you are a little trying at
     times."

     He was too much absorbed with his own thoughts to give any immediate
     answer to my remonstrance. He leaned upon his hand, with his untasted
     breakfast before him, and he stared at the slip of paper which he had
     just drawn from its envelope. Then he took the envelope itself, held
     it up to the light, and very carefully studied both the exterior and
     the flap.

     "It is Porlock's writing," said he thoughtfully. "I can hardly doubt
     that it is Porlock's writing, though I have seen it only twice
     before. The Greek e with the peculiar top flourish is distinctive.
     But if it is Porlock, then it must be something of the very first
     importance."

     He was speaking to himself rather than to me; but my vexation
     disappeared in the interest which the words awakened.

     "Who then is Porlock?" I asked.

     "Porlock, Watson, is a nom-de-plume, a mere identification mark; but
     behind it lies a shifty and evasive personality. In a former letter
     he frankly informed me that the name was not his own, and defied me
     ever to trace him among the teeming millions of this great city.
     Porlock is important, not for himself, but for the great man with
     whom he is in touch. Picture to yourself the pilot fish with the
     shark, the jackal with the lion--anything that is insignificant in
     companionship with what is formidable: not only formidable, Watson,
     but sinister--in the highest degree sinister. That is where he comes
     within my purview. You have heard me speak of Professor Moriarty?"

     "The famous scientific criminal, as famous among crooks as--"

     "My blushes, Watson!" Holmes murmured in a deprecating voice.

     "I was about to say, as he is unknown to the public."

     "A touch! A distinct touch!" cried Holmes. "You are developing a
     certain unexpected vein of pawky humour, Watson, against which I must
     learn to guard myself. But in calling Moriarty a criminal you are
     uttering libel in the eyes of the law--and there lie the glory and
     the wonder of it! The greatest schemer of all time, the organizer of
     every deviltry, the controlling brain of the underworld, a brain
     which might have made or marred the destiny of nations--that's the
     man! But so aloof is he from general suspicion, so immune from
     criticism, so admirable in his management and self-effacement, that
     for those very words that you have uttered he could hale you to a
     court and emerge with your year's pension as a solatium for his
     wounded character. Is he not the celebrated author of The Dynamics of
     an Asteroid, a book which ascends to such rarefied heights of pure
     mathematics that it is said that there was no man in the scientific
     press capable of criticizing it? Is this a man to traduce?
     Foul-mouthed doctor and slandered professor--such would be your
     respective roles! That's genius, Watson. But if I am spared by lesser
     men, our day will surely come."

     "May I be there to see!" I exclaimed devoutly. "But you were speaking
     of this man Porlock."

     "Ah, yes--the so-called Porlock is a link in the chain some little
     way from its great attachment. Porlock is not quite a sound
     link--between ourselves. He is the only flaw in that chain so far as
     I have been able to test it."

     "But no chain is stronger than its weakest link."

     "Exactly, my dear Watson! Hence the extreme importance of Porlock.
     Led on by some rudimentary aspirations towards right, and encouraged
     by the judicious stimulation of an occasional ten-pound note sent to
     him by devious methods, he has once or twice given me advance
     information which has been of value--that highest value which
     anticipates and prevents rather than avenges crime. I cannot doubt
     that, if we had the cipher, we should find that this communication is
     of the nature that I indicate."

     Again Holmes flattened out the paper upon his unused plate. I rose
     and, leaning over him, stared down at the curious inscription, which
     ran as follows:

                         534 C2 13 127 36 31 4 17 21 41
                         DOUGLAS 109 293 5 37 BIRLSTONE
                              26 BIRLSTONE 9 47 171

     "What do you make of it, Holmes?"

     "It is obviously an attempt to convey secret information."

     "But what is the use of a cipher message without the cipher?"

     "In this instance, none at all."

     "Why do you say 'in this instance'?"

     "Because there are many ciphers which I would read as easily as I do
     the apocrypha of the agony column: such crude devices amuse the
     intelligence without fatiguing it. But this is different. It is
     clearly a reference to the words in a page of some book. Until I am
     told which page and which book I am powerless."

     "But why 'Douglas' and 'Birlstone'?"

     "Clearly because those are words which were not contained in the page
     in question."

     "Then why has he not indicated the book?"

     "Your native shrewdness, my dear Watson, that innate cunning which is
     the delight of your friends, would surely prevent you from inclosing
     cipher and message in the same envelope. Should it miscarry, you are
     undone. As it is, both have to go wrong before any harm comes from
     it. Our second post is now overdue, and I shall be surprised if it
     does not bring us either a further letter of explanation, or, as is
     more probable, the very volume to which these figures refer."

     Holmes's calculation was fulfilled within a very few minutes by the
     appearance of Billy, the page, with the very letter which we were
     expecting.

     "The same writing," remarked Holmes, as he opened the envelope, "and
     actually signed," he added in an exultant voice as he unfolded the
     epistle. "Come, we are getting on, Watson." His brow clouded,
     however, as he glanced over the contents.

     "Dear me, this is very disappointing! I fear, Watson, that all our
     expectations come to nothing. I trust that the man Porlock will come
     to no harm.

     "Dear Mr. Holmes [he says]:
     "I will go no further in this matter. It is too dangerous--he
     suspects me. I can see that he suspects me. He came to me quite
     unexpectedly after I had actually addressed this envelope with the
     intention of sending you the key to the cipher. I was able to cover
     it up. If he had seen it, it would have gone hard with me. But I read
     suspicion in his eyes. Please burn the cipher message, which can now
     be of no use to you.
     "Fred Porlock."

     Holmes sat for some little time twisting this letter between his
     fingers, and frowning, as he stared into the fire.

     "After all," he said at last, "there may be nothing in it. It may be
     only his guilty conscience. Knowing himself to be a traitor, he may
     have read the accusation in the other's eyes."

     "The other being, I presume, Professor Moriarty."

     "No less! When any of that party talk about 'He' you know whom they
     mean. There is one predominant 'He' for all of them."

     "But what can he do?"

     "Hum! That's a large question. When you have one of the first brains
     of Europe up against you, and all the powers of darkness at his back,
     there are infinite possibilities. Anyhow, Friend Porlock is evidently
     scared out of his senses--kindly compare the writing in the note to
     that upon its envelope; which was done, he tells us, before this
     ill-omened visit. The one is clear and firm. The other hardly
     legible."

     "Why did he write at all? Why did he not simply drop it?"

     "Because he feared I would make some inquiry after him in that case,
     and possibly bring trouble on him."

     "No doubt," said I. "Of course." I had picked up the original cipher
     message and was bending my brows over it. "It's pretty maddening to
     think that an important secret may lie here on this slip of paper,
     and that it is beyond human power to penetrate it."

     Sherlock Holmes had pushed away his untasted breakfast and lit the
     unsavoury pipe which was the companion of his deepest meditations. "I
     wonder!" said he, leaning back and staring at the ceiling. "Perhaps
     there are points which have escaped your Machiavellian intellect. Let
     us consider the problem in the light of pure reason. This man's
     reference is to a book. That is our point of departure."

     "A somewhat vague one."

     "Let us see then if we can narrow it down. As I focus my mind upon
     it, it seems rather less impenetrable. What indications have we as to
     this book?"

     "None."

     "Well, well, it is surely not quite so bad as that. The cipher
     message begins with a large 534, does it not? We may take it as a
     working hypothesis that 534 is the particular page to which the
     cipher refers. So our book has already become a large book which is
     surely something gained. What other indications have we as to the
     nature of this large book? The next sign is C2. What do you make of
     that, Watson?"

     "Chapter the second, no doubt."

     "Hardly that, Watson. You will, I am sure, agree with me that if the
     page be given, the number of the chapter is immaterial. Also that if
     page 534 finds us only in the second chapter, the length of the first
     one must have been really intolerable."

     "Column!" I cried.

     "Brilliant, Watson. You are scintillating this morning. If it is not
     column, then I am very much deceived. So now, you see, we begin to
     visualize a large book printed in double columns which are each of a
     considerable length, since one of the words is numbered in the
     document as the two hundred and ninety-third. Have we reached the
     limits of what reason can supply?"

     "I fear that we have."

     "Surely you do yourself an injustice. One more coruscation, my dear
     Watson--yet another brain-wave! Had the volume been an unusual one,
     he would have sent it to me. Instead of that, he had intended, before
     his plans were nipped, to send me the clue in this envelope. He says
     so in his note. This would seem to indicate that the book is one
     which he thought I would have no difficulty in finding for myself. He
     had it--and he imagined that I would have it, too. In short, Watson,
     it is a very common book."

     "What you say certainly sounds plausible."

     "So we have contracted our field of search to a large book, printed
     in double columns and in common use."

     "The Bible!" I cried triumphantly.

     "Good, Watson, good! But not, if I may say so, quite good enough!
     Even if I accepted the compliment for myself I could hardly name any
     volume which would be less likely to lie at the elbow of one of
     Moriarty's associates. Besides, the editions of Holy Writ are so
     numerous that he could hardly suppose that two copies would have the
     same pagination. This is clearly a book which is standardized. He
     knows for certain that his page 534 will exactly agree with my page
     534."

     "But very few books would correspond with that."

     "Exactly. Therein lies our salvation. Our search is narrowed down to
     standardized books which anyone may be supposed to possess."

     "Bradshaw!"

     "There are difficulties, Watson. The vocabulary of Bradshaw is
     nervous and terse, but limited. The selection of words would hardly
     lend itself to the sending of general messages. We will eliminate
     Bradshaw. The dictionary is, I fear, inadmissible for the same
     reason. What then is left?"

     "An almanac!"

     "Excellent, Watson! I am very much mistaken if you have not touched
     the spot. An almanac! Let us consider the claims of Whitaker's
     Almanac. It is in common use. It has the requisite number of pages.
     It is in double column. Though reserved in its earlier vocabulary, it
     becomes, if I remember right, quite garrulous towards the end." He
     picked the volume from his desk. "Here is page 534, column two, a
     substantial block of print dealing, I perceive, with the trade and
     resources of British India. Jot down the words, Watson! Number
     thirteen is 'Mahratta.' Not, I fear, a very auspicious beginning.
     Number one hundred and twenty-seven is 'Government'; which at least
     makes sense, though somewhat irrelevant to ourselves and Professor
     Moriarty. Now let us try again. What does the Mahratta government do?
     Alas! the next word is 'pig's-bristles.' We are undone, my good
     Watson! It is finished!"

     He had spoken in jesting vein, but the twitching of his bushy
     eyebrows bespoke his disappointment and irritation. I sat helpless
     and unhappy, staring into the fire. A long silence was broken by a
     sudden exclamation from Holmes, who dashed at a cupboard, from which
     he emerged with a second yellow-covered volume in his hand.

     "We pay the price, Watson, for being too up-to-date!" he cried. "We
     are before our time, and suffer the usual penalties. Being the
     seventh of January, we have very properly laid in the new almanac. It
     is more than likely that Porlock took his message from the old one.
     No doubt he would have told us so had his letter of explanation been
     written. Now let us see what page 534 has in store for us. Number
     thirteen is 'There,' which is much more promising. Number one hundred
     and twenty-seven is 'is'--'There is'"--Holmes's eyes were gleaming
     with excitement, and his thin, nervous fingers twitched as he counted
     the words--"'danger.' Ha! Ha! Capital! Put that down, Watson. 'There
     is danger-- may-- come-- very-- soon-- one.' Then we have the name
     'Douglas' --'rich-- country-- now-- at-- Birlstone-- House--
     Birlstone-- confidence-- is-- pressing.' There, Watson! What do you
     think of pure reason and its fruit? If the greengrocer had such a
     thing as a laurel wreath, I should send Billy round for it."

     I was staring at the strange message which I had scrawled, as he
     deciphered it, upon a sheet of foolscap on my knee.

     "What a queer, scrambling way of expressing his meaning!" said I.

     "On the contrary, he has done quite remarkably well," said Holmes.
     "When you search a single column for words with which to express your
     meaning, you can hardly expect to get everything you want. You are
     bound to leave something to the intelligence of your correspondent.
     The purport is perfectly clear. Some deviltry is intended against one
     Douglas, whoever he may be, residing as stated, a rich country
     gentleman. He is sure--'confidence' was as near as he could get to
     'confident'--that it is pressing. There is our result--and a very
     workmanlike little bit of analysis it was!"

     Holmes had the impersonal joy of the true artist in his better work,
     even as he mourned darkly when it fell below the high level to which
     he aspired. He was still chuckling over his success when Billy swung
     open the door and Inspector MacDonald of Scotland Yard was ushered
     into the room.

     Those were the early days at the end of the '80's, when Alec
     MacDonald was far from having attained the national fame which he has
     now achieved. He was a young but trusted member of the detective
     force, who had distinguished himself in several cases which had been
     entrusted to him. His tall, bony figure gave promise of exceptional
     physical strength, while his great cranium and deep-set, lustrous
     eyes spoke no less clearly of the keen intelligence which twinkled
     out from behind his bushy eyebrows. He was a silent, precise man with
     a dour nature and a hard Aberdonian accent.

     Twice already in his career had Holmes helped him to attain success,
     his own sole reward being the intellectual joy of the problem. For
     this reason the affection and respect of the Scotchman for his
     amateur colleague were profound, and he showed them by the frankness
     with which he consulted Holmes in every difficulty. Mediocrity knows
     nothing higher than itself; but talent instantly recognizes genius,
     and MacDonald had talent enough for his profession to enable him to
     perceive that there was no humiliation in seeking the assistance of
     one who already stood alone in Europe, both in his gifts and in his
     experience. Holmes was not prone to friendship, but he was tolerant
     of the big Scotchman, and smiled at the sight of him.

     "You are an early bird, Mr. Mac," said he. "I wish you luck with your
     worm. I fear this means that there is some mischief afoot."

     "If you said 'hope' instead of 'fear,' it would be nearer the truth,
     I'm thinking, Mr. Holmes," the inspector answered, with a knowing
     grin. "Well, maybe a wee nip would keep out the raw morning chill.
     No, I won't smoke, I thank you. I'll have to be pushing on my way;
     for the early hours of a case are the precious ones, as no man knows
     better than your own self. But--but--"

     The inspector had stopped suddenly, and was staring with a look of
     absolute amazement at a paper upon the table. It was the sheet upon
     which I had scrawled the enigmatic message.

     "Douglas!" he stammered. "Birlstone! What's this, Mr. Holmes? Man,
     it's witchcraft! Where in the name of all that is wonderful did you
     get those names?"

     "It is a cipher that Dr. Watson and I have had occasion to solve. But
     why--what's amiss with the names?"

     The inspector looked from one to the other of us in dazed
     astonishment. "Just this," said he, "that Mr. Douglas of Birlstone
     Manor House was horribly murdered last night!"

     It was one of those dramatic moments for which my friend existed. It
     would be an overstatement to say that he was shocked or even excited
     by the amazing announcement. Without having a tinge of cruelty in his
     singular composition, he was undoubtedly callous from long
     over-stimulation. Yet, if his emotions were dulled, his intellectual
     perceptions were exceedingly active. There was no trace then of the
     horror which I had myself felt at this curt declaration; but his face
     showed rather the quiet and interested composure of the chemist who
     sees the crystals falling into position from his oversaturated
     solution.

     "Remarkable!" said he. "Remarkable!"

     "You don't seem surprised."

     "Interested, Mr. Mac, but hardly surprised. Why should I be
     surprised? I receive an anonymous communication from a quarter which
     I know to be important, warning me that danger threatens a certain
     person. Within an hour I learn that this danger has actually
     materialized and that the person is dead. I am interested; but, as
     you observe, I am not surprised."

     In a few short sentences he explained to the inspector the facts
     about the letter and the cipher. MacDonald sat with his chin on his
     hands and his great sandy eyebrows bunched into a yellow tangle.

     "I was going down to Birlstone this morning," said he. "I had come to
     ask you if you cared to come with me--you and your friend here. But
     from what you say we might perhaps be doing better work in London."

     "I rather think not," said Holmes.

     "Hang it all, Mr. Holmes!" cried the inspector. "The papers will be
     full of the Birlstone mystery in a day or two; but where's the
     mystery if there is a man in London who prophesied the crime before
     ever it occurred? We have only to lay our hands on that man, and the
     rest will follow."

     "No doubt, Mr. Mac. But how do you propose to lay your hands on the
     so-called Porlock?"

     MacDonald turned over the letter which Holmes had handed him. "Posted
     in Camberwell--that doesn't help us much. Name, you say, is assumed.
     Not much to go on, certainly. Didn't you say that you have sent him
     money?"

     "Twice."

     "And how?"

     "In notes to Camberwell post-office."

     "Did you ever trouble to see who called for them?"

     "No."

     The inspector looked surprised and a little shocked. "Why not?"

     "Because I always keep faith. I had promised when he first wrote that
     I would not try to trace him."

     "You think there is someone behind him?"

     "I know there is."

     "This professor that I've heard you mention?"

     "Exactly!"

     Inspector MacDonald smiled, and his eyelid quivered as he glanced
     towards me. "I won't conceal from you, Mr. Holmes, that we think in
     the C. I. D. that you have a wee bit of a bee in your bonnet over
     this professor. I made some inquiries myself about the matter. He
     seems to be a very respectable, learned, and talented sort of man."

     "I'm glad you've got so far as to recognize the talent."

     "Man, you can't but recognize it! After I heard your view I made it
     my business to see him. I had a chat with him on eclipses. How the
     talk got that way I canna think; but he had out a reflector lantern
     and a globe, and made it all clear in a minute. He lent me a book;
     but I don't mind saying that it was a bit above my head, though I had
     a good Aberdeen upbringing. He'd have made a grand meenister with his
     thin face and gray hair and solemn-like way of talking. When he put
     his hand on my shoulder as we were parting, it was like a father's
     blessing before you go out into the cold, cruel world."

     Holmes chuckled and rubbed his hands. "Great!" he said. "Great! Tell
     me, Friend MacDonald, this pleasing and touching interview was, I
     suppose, in the professor's study?"

     "That's so."

     "A fine room, is it not?"

     "Very fine--very handsome indeed, Mr. Holmes."

     "You sat in front of his writing desk?"

     "Just so."

     "Sun in your eyes and his face in the shadow?"

     "Well, it was evening; but I mind that the lamp was turned on my
     face."

     "It would be. Did you happen to observe a picture over the
     professor's head?"

     "I don't miss much, Mr. Holmes. Maybe I learned that from you. Yes, I
     saw the picture--a young woman with her head on her hands, peeping at
     you sideways."

     "That painting was by Jean Baptiste Greuze."

     The inspector endeavoured to look interested.

     "Jean Baptiste Greuze," Holmes continued, joining his finger tips and
     leaning well back in his chair, "was a French artist who flourished
     between the years 1750 and 1800. I allude, of course to his working
     career. Modern criticism has more than indorsed the high opinion
     formed of him by his contemporaries."

     The inspector's eyes grew abstracted. "Hadn't we better--" he said.

     "We are doing so," Holmes interrupted. "All that I am saying has a
     very direct and vital bearing upon what you have called the Birlstone
     Mystery. In fact, it may in a sense be called the very centre of it."

     MacDonald smiled feebly, and looked appealingly to me. "Your thoughts
     move a bit too quick for me, Mr. Holmes. You leave out a link or two,
     and I can't get over the gap. What in the whole wide world can be the
     connection between this dead painting man and the affair at
     Birlstone?"

     "All knowledge comes useful to the detective," remarked Holmes. "Even
     the trivial fact that in the year 1865 a picture by Greuze entitled
     La Jeune Fille a l'Agneau fetched one million two hundred thousand
     francs--more than forty thousand pounds--at the Portalis sale may
     start a train of reflection in your mind."

     It was clear that it did. The inspector looked honestly interested.

     "I may remind you," Holmes continued, "that the professor's salary
     can be ascertained in several trustworthy books of reference. It is
     seven hundred a year."

     "Then how could he buy--"

     "Quite so! How could he?"

     "Ay, that's remarkable," said the inspector thoughtfully. "Talk away,
     Mr. Holmes. I'm just loving it. It's fine!"

     Holmes smiled. He was always warmed by genuine admiration--the
     characteristic of the real artist. "What about Birlstone?" he asked.

     "We've time yet," said the inspector, glancing at his watch. "I've a
     cab at the door, and it won't take us twenty minutes to Victoria. But
     about this picture: I thought you told me once, Mr. Holmes, that you
     had never met Professor Moriarty."

     "No, I never have."

     "Then how do you know about his rooms?"

     "Ah, that's another matter. I have been three times in his rooms,
     twice waiting for him under different pretexts and leaving before he
     came. Once--well, I can hardly tell about the once to an official
     detective. It was on the last occasion that I took the liberty of
     running over his papers--with the most unexpected results."

     "You found something compromising?"

     "Absolutely nothing. That was what amazed me. However, you have now
     seen the point of the picture. It shows him to be a very wealthy man.
     How did he acquire wealth? He is unmarried. His younger brother is a
     station master in the west of England. His chair is worth seven
     hundred a year. And he owns a Greuze."

     "Well?"

     "Surely the inference is plain."

     "You mean that he has a great income and that he must earn it in an
     illegal fashion?"

     "Exactly. Of course I have other reasons for thinking so--dozens of
     exiguous threads which lead vaguely up towards the centre of the web
     where the poisonous, motionless creature is lurking. I only mention
     the Greuze because it brings the matter within the range of your own
     observation."

     "Well, Mr. Holmes, I admit that what you say is interesting: it's
     more than interesting--it's just wonderful. But let us have it a
     little clearer if you can. Is it forgery, coining, burglary--where
     does the money come from?"

     "Have you ever read of Jonathan Wild?"

     "Well, the name has a familiar sound. Someone in a novel, was he not?
     I don't take much stock of detectives in novels--chaps that do things
     and never let you see how they do them. That's just inspiration: not
     business."

     "Jonathan Wild wasn't a detective, and he wasn't in a novel. He was a
     master criminal, and he lived last century--1750 or thereabouts."

     "Then he's no use to me. I'm a practical man."

     "Mr. Mac, the most practical thing that you ever did in your life
     would be to shut yourself up for three months and read twelve hours a
     day at the annals of crime. Everything comes in circles--even
     Professor Moriarty. Jonathan Wild was the hidden force of the London
     criminals, to whom he sold his brains and his organization on a
     fifteen per cent commission. The old wheel turns, and the same spoke
     comes up. It's all been done before, and will be again. I'll tell you
     one or two things about Moriarty which may interest you."

     "You'll interest me, right enough."

     "I happen to know who is the first link in his chain--a chain with
     this Napoleon-gone-wrong at one end, and a hundred broken fighting
     men, pickpockets, blackmailers, and card sharpers at the other, with
     every sort of crime in between. His chief of staff is Colonel
     Sebastian Moran, as aloof and guarded and inaccessible to the law as
     himself. What do you think he pays him?"

     "I'd like to hear."

     "Six thousand a year. That's paying for brains, you see--the American
     business principle. I learned that detail quite by chance. It's more
     than the Prime Minister gets. That gives you an idea of Moriarty's
     gains and of the scale on which he works. Another point: I made it my
     business to hunt down some of Moriarty's checks lately--just common
     innocent checks that he pays his household bills with. They were
     drawn on six different banks. Does that make any impression on your
     mind?"

     "Queer, certainly! But what do you gather from it?"

     "That he wanted no gossip about his wealth. No single man should know
     what he had. I have no doubt that he has twenty banking accounts; the
     bulk of his fortune abroad in the Deutsche Bank or the Credit
     Lyonnais as likely as not. Sometime when you have a year or two to
     spare I commend to you the study of Professor Moriarty."

     Inspector MacDonald had grown steadily more impressed as the
     conversation proceeded. He had lost himself in his interest. Now his
     practical Scotch intelligence brought him back with a snap to the
     matter in hand.

     "He can keep, anyhow," said he. "You've got us side-tracked with your
     interesting anecdotes, Mr. Holmes. What really counts is your remark
     that there is some connection between the professor and the crime.
     That you get from the warning received through the man Porlock. Can
     we for our present practical needs get any further than that?"

     "We may form some conception as to the motives of the crime. It is,
     as I gather from your original remarks, an inexplicable, or at least
     an unexplained, murder. Now, presuming that the source of the crime
     is as we suspect it to be, there might be two different motives. In
     the first place, I may tell you that Moriarty rules with a rod of
     iron over his people. His discipline is tremendous. There is only one
     punishment in his code. It is death. Now we might suppose that this
     murdered man--this Douglas whose approaching fate was known by one of
     the arch-criminal's subordinates--had in some way betrayed the chief.
     His punishment followed, and would be known to all--if only to put
     the fear of death into them."

     "Well, that is one suggestion, Mr. Holmes."

     "The other is that it has been engineered by Moriarty in the ordinary
     course of business. Was there any robbery?"

     "I have not heard."

     "If so, it would, of course, be against the first hypothesis and in
     favour of the second. Moriarty may have been engaged to engineer it
     on a promise of part spoils, or he may have been paid so much down to
     manage it. Either is possible. But whichever it may be, or if it is
     some third combination, it is down at Birlstone that we must seek the
     solution. I know our man too well to suppose that he has left
     anything up here which may lead us to him."

     "Then to Birlstone we must go!" cried MacDonald, jumping from his
     chair. "My word! it's later than I thought. I can give you,
     gentlemen, five minutes for preparation, and that is all."

     "And ample for us both," said Holmes, as he sprang up and hastened to
     change from his dressing gown to his coat. "While we are on our way,
     Mr. Mac, I will ask you to be good enough to tell me all about it."

     "All about it" proved to be disappointingly little, and yet there was
     enough to assure us that the case before us might well be worthy of
     the expert's closest attention. He brightened and rubbed his thin
     hands together as he listened to the meagre but remarkable details. A
     long series of sterile weeks lay behind us, and here at last there
     was a fitting object for those remarkable powers which, like all
     special gifts, become irksome to their owner when they are not in
     use. That razor brain blunted and rusted with inaction.

     Sherlock Holmes's eyes glistened, his pale cheeks took a warmer hue,
     and his whole eager face shone with an inward light when the call for
     work reached him. Leaning forward in the cab, he listened intently to
     MacDonald's short sketch of the problem which awaited us in Sussex.
     The inspector was himself dependent, as he explained to us, upon a
     scribbled account forwarded to him by the milk train in the early
     hours of the morning. White Mason, the local officer, was a personal
     friend, and hence MacDonald had been notified much more promptly than
     is usual at Scotland Yard when provincials need their assistance. It
     is a very cold scent upon which the Metropolitan expert is generally
     asked to run.

     "Dear Inspector MacDonald [said the letter which he read to us]:
     "Official requisition for your services is in separate envelope. This
     is for your private eye. Wire me what train in the morning you can
     get for Birlstone, and I will meet it--or have it met if I am too
     occupied. This case is a snorter. Don't waste a moment in getting
     started. If you can bring Mr. Holmes, please do so; for he will find
     something after his own heart. We would think the whole thing had
     been fixed up for theatrical effect if there wasn't a dead man in the
     middle of it. My word! it is a snorter."

      "Your friend seems to be no fool," remarked Holmes.

     "No, sir, White Mason is a very live man, if I am any judge."

     "Well, have you anything more?"

     "Only that he will give us every detail when we meet."

     "Then how did you get at Mr. Douglas and the fact that he had been
     horribly murdered?"

     "That was in the enclosed official report. It didn't say 'horrible':
     that's not a recognized official term. It gave the name John Douglas.
     It mentioned that his injuries had been in the head, from the
     discharge of a shotgun. It also mentioned the hour of the alarm,
     which was close on to midnight last night. It added that the case was
     undoubtedly one of murder, but that no arrest had been made, and that
     the case was one which presented some very perplexing and
     extraordinary features. That's absolutely all we have at present, Mr.
     Holmes."

     "Then, with your permission, we will leave it at that, Mr. Mac. The
     temptation to form premature theories upon insufficient data is the
     bane of our profession. I can see only two things for certain at
     present--a great brain in London, and a dead man in Sussex. It's the
     chain between that we are going to trace."

     Now for a moment I will ask leave to remove my own insignificant
     personality and to describe events which occurred before we arrived
     upon the scene by the light of knowledge which came to us afterwards.
     Only in this way can I make the reader appreciate the people
     concerned and the strange setting in which their fate was cast.

     The village of Birlstone is a small and very ancient cluster of
     half-timbered cottages on the northern border of the county of
     Sussex. For centuries it had remained unchanged; but within the last
     few years its picturesque appearance and situation have attracted a
     number of well-to-do residents, whose villas peep out from the woods
     around. These woods are locally supposed to be the extreme fringe of
     the great Weald forest, which thins away until it reaches the
     northern chalk downs. A number of small shops have come into being to
     meet the wants of the increased population; so there seems some
     prospect that Birlstone may soon grow from an ancient village into a
     modern town. It is the centre for a considerable area of country,
     since Tunbridge Wells, the nearest place of importance, is ten or
     twelve miles to the eastward, over the borders of Kent.

     About half a mile from the town, standing in an old park famous for
     its huge beech trees, is the ancient Manor House of Birlstone. Part
     of this venerable building dates back to the time of the first
     crusade, when Hugo de Capus built a fortalice in the centre of the
     estate, which had been granted to him by the Red King. This was
     destroyed by fire in 1543, and some of its smoke-blackened corner
     stones were used when, in Jacobean times, a brick country house rose
     upon the ruins of the feudal castle.

     The Manor House, with its many gables and its small diamond-paned
     windows, was still much as the builder had left it in the early
     seventeenth century. Of the double moats which had guarded its more
     warlike predecessor, the outer had been allowed to dry up, and served
     the humble function of a kitchen garden. The inner one was still
     there, and lay forty feet in breadth, though now only a few feet in
     depth, round the whole house. A small stream fed it and continued
     beyond it, so that the sheet of water, though turbid, was never
     ditch-like or unhealthy. The ground floor windows were within a foot
     of the surface of the water.

     The only approach to the house was over a drawbridge, the chains and
     windlass of which had long been rusted and broken. The latest tenants
     of the Manor House had, however, with characteristic energy, set this
     right, and the drawbridge was not only capable of being raised, but
     actually was raised every evening and lowered every morning. By thus
     renewing the custom of the old feudal days the Manor House was
     converted into an island during the night--a fact which had a very
     direct bearing upon the mystery which was soon to engage the
     attention of all England.

     The house had been untenanted for some years and was threatening to
     moulder into a picturesque decay when the Douglases took possession
     of it. This family consisted of only two individuals--John Douglas
     and his wife. Douglas was a remarkable man, both in character and in
     person. In age he may have been about fifty, with a strong-jawed,
     rugged face, a grizzling moustache, peculiarly keen gray eyes, and a
     wiry, vigorous figure which had lost nothing of the strength and
     activity of youth. He was cheery and genial to all, but somewhat
     offhand in his manners, giving the impression that he had seen life
     in social strata on some far lower horizon than the county society of
     Sussex.

     Yet, though looked at with some curiosity and reserve by his more
     cultivated neighbours, he soon acquired a great popularity among the
     villagers, subscribing handsomely to all local objects, and attending
     their smoking concerts and other functions, where, having a
     remarkably rich tenor voice, he was always ready to oblige with an
     excellent song. He appeared to have plenty of money, which was said
     to have been gained in the California gold fields, and it was clear
     from his own talk and that of his wife that he had spent a part of
     his life in America.

     The good impression which had been produced by his generosity and by
     his democratic manners was increased by a reputation gained for utter
     indifference to danger. Though a wretched rider, he turned out at
     every meet, and took the most amazing falls in his determination to
     hold his own with the best. When the vicarage caught fire he
     distinguished himself also by the fearlessness with which he
     reentered the building to save property, after the local fire brigade
     had given it up as impossible. Thus it came about that John Douglas
     of the Manor House had within five years won himself quite a
     reputation in Birlstone.

     His wife, too, was popular with those who had made her acquaintance;
     though, after the English fashion, the callers upon a stranger who
     settled in the county without introductions were few and far between.
     This mattered the less to her, as she was retiring by disposition,
     and very much absorbed, to all appearance, in her husband and her
     domestic duties. It was known that she was an English lady who had
     met Mr. Douglas in London, he being at that time a widower. She was a
     beautiful woman, tall, dark, and slender, some twenty years younger
     than her husband, a disparity which seemed in no wise to mar the
     contentment of their family life.

     It was remarked sometimes, however, by those who knew them best, that
     the confidence between the two did not appear to be complete, since
     the wife was either very reticent about her husband's past life, or
     else, as seemed more likely, was imperfectly informed about it. It
     had also been noted and commented upon by a few observant people that
     there were signs sometimes of some nerve-strain upon the part of Mrs.
     Douglas, and that she would display acute uneasiness if her absent
     husband should ever be particularly late in his return. On a quiet
     countryside, where all gossip is welcome, this weakness of the lady
     of the Manor House did not pass without remark, and it bulked larger
     upon people's memory when the events arose which gave it a very
     special significance.

     There was yet another individual whose residence under that roof was,
     it is true, only an intermittent one, but whose presence at the time
     of the strange happenings which will now be narrated brought his name
     prominently before the public. This was Cecil James Barker, of Hales
     Lodge, Hampstead.

     Cecil Barker's tall, loose-jointed figure was a familiar one in the
     main street of Birlstone village; for he was a frequent and welcome
     visitor at the Manor House. He was the more noticed as being the only
     friend of the past unknown life of Mr. Douglas who was ever seen in
     his new English surroundings. Barker was himself an undoubted
     Englishman; but by his remarks it was clear that he had first known
     Douglas in America and had there lived on intimate terms with him. He
     appeared to be a man of considerable wealth, and was reputed to be a
     bachelor.

     In age he was rather younger than Douglas--forty-five at the most--a
     tall, straight, broad-chested fellow with a clean-shaved,
     prize-fighter face, thick, strong, black eyebrows, and a pair of
     masterful black eyes which might, even without the aid of his very
     capable hands, clear a way for him through a hostile crowd. He
     neither rode nor shot, but spent his days in wandering round the old
     village with his pipe in his mouth, or in driving with his host, or
     in his absence with his hostess, over the beautiful countryside. "An
     easy-going, free-handed gentleman," said Ames, the butler. "But, my
     word! I had rather not be the man that crossed him!" He was cordial
     and intimate with Douglas, and he was no less friendly with his
     wife--a friendship which more than once seemed to cause some
     irritation to the husband, so that even the servants were able to
     perceive his annoyance. Such was the third person who was one of the
     family when the catastrophe occurred.

     As to the other denizens of the old building, it will suffice out of
     a large household to mention the prim, respectable, and capable Ames,
     and Mrs. Allen, a buxom and cheerful person, who relieved the lady of
     some of her household cares. The other six servants in the house bear
     no relation to the events of the night of January 6th.

     It was at eleven forty-five that the first alarm reached the small
     local police station, in charge of Sergeant Wilson of the Sussex
     Constabulary. Cecil Barker, much excited, had rushed up to the door
     and pealed furiously upon the bell. A terrible tragedy had occurred
     at the Manor House, and John Douglas had been murdered. That was the
     breathless burden of his message. He had hurried back to the house,
     followed within a few minutes by the police sergeant, who arrived at
     the scene of the crime a little after twelve o'clock, after taking
     prompt steps to warn the county authorities that something serious
     was afoot.

     On reaching the Manor House, the sergeant had found the drawbridge
     down, the windows lighted up, and the whole household in a state of
     wild confusion and alarm. The white-faced servants were huddling
     together in the hall, with the frightened butler wringing his hands
     in the doorway. Only Cecil Barker seemed to be master of himself and
     his emotions; he had opened the door which was nearest to the
     entrance and he had beckoned to the sergeant to follow him. At that
     moment there arrived Dr. Wood, a brisk and capable general
     practitioner from the village. The three men entered the fatal room
     together, while the horror-stricken butler followed at their heels,
     closing the door behind him to shut out the terrible scene from the
     maid servants.

     The dead man lay on his back, sprawling with outstretched limbs in
     the centre of the room. He was clad only in a pink dressing gown,
     which covered his night clothes. There were carpet slippers on his
     bare feet. The doctor knelt beside him and held down the hand lamp
     which had stood on the table. One glance at the victim was enough to
     show the healer that his presence could be dispensed with. The man
     had been horribly injured. Lying across his chest was a curious
     weapon, a shotgun with the barrel sawed off a foot in front of the
     triggers. It was clear that this had been fired at close range and
     that he had received the whole charge in the face, blowing his head
     almost to pieces. The triggers had been wired together, so as to make
     the simultaneous discharge more destructive.

     The country policeman was unnerved and troubled by the tremendous
     responsibility which had come so suddenly upon him. "We will touch
     nothing until my superiors arrive," he said in a hushed voice,
     staring in horror at the dreadful head.

     "Nothing has been touched up to now," said Cecil Barker. "I'll answer
     for that. You see it all exactly as I found it."

     "When was that?" The sergeant had drawn out his notebook.

     "It was just half-past eleven. I had not begun to undress, and I was
     sitting by the fire in my bedroom when I heard the report. It was not
     very loud--it seemed to be muffled. I rushed down--I don't suppose it
     was thirty seconds before I was in the room."

     "Was the door open?"

     "Yes, it was open. Poor Douglas was lying as you see him. His bedroom
     candle was burning on the table. It was I who lit the lamp some
     minutes afterward."

     "Did you see no one?"

     "No. I heard Mrs. Douglas coming down the stair behind me, and I
     rushed out to prevent her from seeing this dreadful sight. Mrs.
     Allen, the housekeeper, came and took her away. Ames had arrived, and
     we ran back into the room once more."

     "But surely I have heard that the drawbridge is kept up all night."

     "Yes, it was up until I lowered it."

     "Then how could any murderer have got away? It is out of the
     question! Mr. Douglas must have shot himself."

     "That was our first idea. But see!" Barker drew aside the curtain,
     and showed that the long, diamond-paned window was open to its full
     extent. "And look at this!" He held the lamp down and illuminated a
     smudge of blood like the mark of a boot-sole upon the wooden sill.
     "Someone has stood there in getting out."

     "You mean that someone waded across the moat?"

     "Exactly!"

     "Then if you were in the room within half a minute of the crime, he
     must have been in the water at that very moment."

     "I have not a doubt of it. I wish to heaven that I had rushed to the
     window! But the curtain screened it, as you can see, and so it never
     occurred to me. Then I heard the step of Mrs. Douglas, and I could
     not let her enter the room. It would have been too horrible."

     "Horrible enough!" said the doctor, looking at the shattered head and
     the terrible marks which surrounded it. "I've never seen such
     injuries since the Birlstone railway smash."

     "But, I say," remarked the police sergeant, whose slow, bucolic
     common sense was still pondering the open window. "It's all very well
     your saying that a man escaped by wading this moat, but what I ask
     you is, how did he ever get into the house at all if the bridge was
     up?"

     "Ah, that's the question," said Barker.

     "At what o'clock was it raised?"

     "It was nearly six o'clock," said Ames, the butler.

     "I've heard," said the sergeant, "that it was usually raised at
     sunset. That would be nearer half-past four than six at this time of
     year."

     "Mrs. Douglas had visitors to tea," said Ames. "I couldn't raise it
     until they went. Then I wound it up myself."

     "Then it comes to this," said the sergeant: "If anyone came from
     outside--if they did--they must have got in across the bridge before
     six and been in hiding ever since, until Mr. Douglas came into the
     room after eleven."

     "That is so! Mr. Douglas went round the house every night the last
     thing before he turned in to see that the lights were right. That
     brought him in here. The man was waiting and shot him. Then he got
     away through the window and left his gun behind him. That's how I
     read it; for nothing else will fit the facts."

     The sergeant picked up a card which lay beside the dead man on the
     floor. The initials V. V. and under them the number 341 were rudely
     scrawled in ink upon it.

     "What's this?" he asked, holding it up.

     Barker looked at it with curiosity. "I never noticed it before," he
     said. "The murderer must have left it behind him."

     "V. V.--341. I can make no sense of that."

     The sergeant kept turning it over in his big fingers. "What's V. V.?
     Somebody's initials, maybe. What have you got there, Dr. Wood?"

     It was a good-sized hammer which had been lying on the rug in front
     of the fireplace--a substantial, workmanlike hammer. Cecil Barker
     pointed to a box of brass-headed nails upon the mantelpiece.

     "Mr. Douglas was altering the pictures yesterday," he said. "I saw
     him myself, standing upon that chair and fixing the big picture above
     it. That accounts for the hammer."

     "We'd best put it back on the rug where we found it," said the
     sergeant, scratching his puzzled head in his perplexity. "It will
     want the best brains in the force to get to the bottom of this thing.
     It will be a London job before it is finished." He raised the hand
     lamp and walked slowly round the room. "Hullo!" he cried, excitedly,
     drawing the window curtain to one side. "What o'clock were those
     curtains drawn?"

     "When the lamps were lit," said the butler. "It would be shortly
     after four."

     "Someone had been hiding here, sure enough." He held down the light,
     and the marks of muddy boots were very visible in the corner. "I'm
     bound to say this bears out your theory, Mr. Barker. It looks as if
     the man got into the house after four when the curtains were drawn
     and before six when the bridge was raised. He slipped into this room,
     because it was the first that he saw. There was no other place where
     he could hide, so he popped in behind this curtain. That all seems
     clear enough. It is likely that his main idea was to burgle the
     house; but Mr. Douglas chanced to come upon him, so he murdered him
     and escaped."

     "That's how I read it," said Barker. "But, I say, aren't we wasting
     precious time? Couldn't we start out and scour the country before the
     fellow gets away?"

     The sergeant considered for a moment.

     "There are no trains before six in the morning; so he can't get away
     by rail. If he goes by road with his legs all dripping, it's odds
     that someone will notice him. Anyhow, I can't leave here myself until
     I am relieved. But I think none of you should go until we see more
     clearly how we all stand."

     The doctor had taken the lamp and was narrowly scrutinizing the body.
     "What's this mark?" he asked. "Could this have any connection with
     the crime?"

     The dead man's right arm was thrust out from his dressing gown, and
     exposed as high as the elbow. About halfway up the forearm was a
     curious brown design, a triangle inside a circle, standing out in
     vivid relief upon the lard-coloured skin.

     "It's not tattooed," said the doctor, peering through his glasses. "I
     never saw anything like it. The man has been branded at some time as
     they brand cattle. What is the meaning of this?"

     "I don't profess to know the meaning of it," said Cecil Barker; "but
     I have seen the mark on Douglas many times this last ten years."

     "And so have I," said the butler. "Many a time when the master has
     rolled up his sleeves I have noticed that very mark. I've often
     wondered what it could be."

     "Then it has nothing to do with the crime, anyhow," said the
     sergeant. "But it's a rum thing all the same. Everything about this
     case is rum. Well, what is it now?"

     The butler had given an exclamation of astonishment and was pointing
     at the dead man's outstretched hand.

     "They've taken his wedding ring!" he gasped.

     "What!"

     "Yes, indeed. Master always wore his plain gold wedding ring on the
     little finger of his left hand. That ring with the rough nugget on it
     was above it, and the twisted snake ring on the third finger. There's
     the nugget and there's the snake, but the wedding ring is gone."

     "He's right," said Barker.

     "Do you tell me," said the sergeant, "that the wedding ring was below
     the other?"

     "Always!"

     "Then the murderer, or whoever it was, first took off this ring you
     call the nugget ring, then the wedding ring, and afterwards put the
     nugget ring back again."

     "That is so!"

     The worthy country policeman shook his head. "Seems to me the sooner
     we get London on to this case the better," said he. "White Mason is a
     smart man. No local job has ever been too much for White Mason. It
     won't be long now before he is here to help us. But I expect we'll
     have to look to London before we are through. Anyhow, I'm not ashamed
     to say that it is a deal too thick for the likes of me."

     At three in the morning the chief Sussex detective, obeying the
     urgent call from Sergeant Wilson of Birlstone, arrived from
     headquarters in a light dog-cart behind a breathless trotter. By the
     five-forty train in the morning he had sent his message to Scotland
     Yard, and he was at the Birlstone station at twelve o'clock to
     welcome us. White Mason was a quiet, comfortable-looking person in a
     loose tweed suit, with a clean-shaved, ruddy face, a stoutish body,
     and powerful bandy legs adorned with gaiters, looking like a small
     farmer, a retired gamekeeper, or anything upon earth except a very
     favourable specimen of the provincial criminal officer.

     "A real downright snorter, Mr. MacDonald!" he kept repeating. "We'll
     have the pressmen down like flies when they understand it. I'm hoping
     we will get our work done before they get poking their noses into it
     and messing up all the trails. There has been nothing like this that
     I can remember. There are some bits that will come home to you, Mr.
     Holmes, or I am mistaken. And you also, Dr. Watson; for the medicos
     will have a word to say before we finish. Your room is at the
     Westville Arms. There's no other place; but I hear that it is clean
     and good. The man will carry your bags. This way, gentlemen, if you
     please."

     He was a very bustling and genial person, this Sussex detective. In
     ten minutes we had all found our quarters. In ten more we were seated
     in the parlour of the inn and being treated to a rapid sketch of
     those events which have been outlined in the previous chapter.
     MacDonald made an occasional note, while Holmes sat absorbed, with
     the expression of surprised and reverent admiration with which the
     botanist surveys the rare and precious bloom.

     "Remarkable!" he said, when the story was unfolded, "most remarkable!
     I can hardly recall any case where the features have been more
     peculiar."

     "I thought you would say so, Mr. Holmes," said White Mason in great
     delight. "We're well up with the times in Sussex. I've told you now
     how matters were, up to the time when I took over from Sergeant
     Wilson between three and four this morning. My word! I made the old
     mare go! But I need not have been in such a hurry, as it turned out;
     for there was nothing immediate that I could do. Sergeant Wilson had
     all the facts. I checked them and considered them and maybe added a
     few of my own."

     "What were they?" asked Holmes eagerly.

     "Well, I first had the hammer examined. There was Dr. Wood there to
     help me. We found no signs of violence upon it. I was hoping that if
     Mr. Douglas defended himself with the hammer, he might have left his
     mark upon the murderer before he dropped it on the mat. But there was
     no stain."

     "That, of course, proves nothing at all," remarked Inspector
     MacDonald. "There has been many a hammer murder and no trace on the
     hammer."

     "Quite so. It doesn't prove it wasn't used. But there might have been
     stains, and that would have helped us. As a matter of fact there were
     none. Then I examined the gun. They were buckshot cartridges, and, as
     Sergeant Wilson pointed out, the triggers were wired together so
     that, if you pulled on the hinder one, both barrels were discharged.
     Whoever fixed that up had made up his mind that he was going to take
     no chances of missing his man. The sawed gun was not more than two
     foot long--one could carry it easily under one's coat. There was no
     complete maker's name; but the printed letters P-E-N were on the
     fluting between the barrels, and the rest of the name had been cut
     off by the saw."

     "A big P with a flourish above it, E and N smaller?" asked Holmes.

     "Exactly."

     "Pennsylvania Small Arms Company--well-known American firm," said
     Holmes.

     White Mason gazed at my friend as the little village practitioner
     looks at the Harley Street specialist who by a word can solve the
     difficulties that perplex him.

     "That is very helpful, Mr. Holmes. No doubt you are right. Wonderful!
     Wonderful! Do you carry the names of all the gun makers in the world
     in your memory?"

     Holmes dismissed the subject with a wave.

     "No doubt it is an American shotgun," White Mason continued. "I seem
     to have read that a sawed-off shotgun is a weapon used in some parts
     of America. Apart from the name upon the barrel, the idea had
     occurred to me. There is some evidence then, that this man who
     entered the house and killed its master was an American."

     MacDonald shook his head. "Man, you are surely travelling overfast,"
     said he. "I have heard no evidence yet that any stranger was ever in
     the house at all."

     "The open window, the blood on the sill, the queer card, the marks of
     boots in the corner, the gun!"

     "Nothing there that could not have been arranged. Mr. Douglas was an
     American, or had lived long in America. So had Mr. Barker. You don't
     need to import an American from outside in order to account for
     American doings."

     "Ames, the butler--"

     "What about him? Is he reliable?"

     "Ten years with Sir Charles Chandos--as solid as a rock. He has been
     with Douglas ever since he took the Manor House five years ago. He
     has never seen a gun of this sort in the house."

     "The gun was made to conceal. That's why the barrels were sawed. It
     would fit into any box. How could he swear there was no such gun in
     the house?"

     "Well, anyhow, he had never seen one."

     MacDonald shook his obstinate Scotch head. "I'm not convinced yet
     that there was ever anyone in the house," said he. "I'm asking you to
     conseedar" (his accent became more Aberdonian as he lost himself in
     his argument) "I'm asking you to conseedar what it involves if you
     suppose that this gun was ever brought into the house, and that all
     these strange things were done by a person from outside. Oh, man,
     it's just inconceivable! It's clean against common sense! I put it to
     you, Mr. Holmes, judging it by what we have heard."

     "Well, state your case, Mr. Mac," said Holmes in his most judicial
     style.

     "The man is not a burglar, supposing that he ever existed. The ring
     business and the card point to premeditated murder for some private
     reason. Very good. Here is a man who slips into a house with the
     deliberate intention of committing murder. He knows, if he knows
     anything, that he will have a deeficulty in making his escape, as the
     house is surrounded with water. What weapon would he choose? You
     would say the most silent in the world. Then he could hope when the
     deed was done to slip quickly from the window, to wade the moat, and
     to get away at his leisure. That's understandable. But is it
     understandable that he should go out of his way to bring with him the
     most noisy weapon he could select, knowing well that it will fetch
     every human being in the house to the spot as quick as they can run,
     and that it is all odds that he will be seen before he can get across
     the moat? Is that credible, Mr. Holmes?"

     "Well, you put the case strongly," my friend replied thoughtfully.
     "It certainly needs a good deal of justification. May I ask, Mr.
     White Mason, whether you examined the farther side of the moat at
     once to see if there were any signs of the man having climbed out
     from the water?"

     "There were no signs, Mr. Holmes. But it is a stone ledge, and one
     could hardly expect them."

     "No tracks or marks?"

     "None."

     "Ha! Would there be any objection, Mr. White Mason, to our going down
     to the house at once? There may possibly be some small point which
     might be suggestive."

     "I was going to propose it, Mr. Holmes; but I thought it well to put
     you in touch with all the facts before we go. I suppose if anything
     should strike you--" White Mason looked doubtfully at the amateur.

     "I have worked with Mr. Holmes before," said Inspector MacDonald. "He
     plays the game."

     "My own idea of the game, at any rate," said Holmes, with a smile. "I
     go into a case to help the ends of justice and the work of the
     police. If I have ever separated myself from the official force, it
     is because they have first separated themselves from me. I have no
     wish ever to score at their expense. At the same time, Mr. White
     Mason, I claim the right to work in my own way and give my results at
     my own time--complete rather than in stages."

     "I am sure we are honoured by your presence and to show you all we
     know," said White Mason cordially. "Come along, Dr. Watson, and when
     the time comes we'll all hope for a place in your book."

     We walked down the quaint village street with a row of pollarded elms
     on each side of it. Just beyond were two ancient stone pillars,
     weather-stained and lichen-blotched bearing upon their summits a
     shapeless something which had once been the rampant lion of Capus of
     Birlstone. A short walk along the winding drive with such sward and
     oaks around it as one only sees in rural England, then a sudden turn,
     and the long, low Jacobean house of dingy, liver-coloured brick lay
     before us, with an old-fashioned garden of cut yews on each side of
     it. As we approached it, there was the wooden drawbridge and the
     beautiful broad moat as still and luminous as quicksilver in the
     cold, winter sunshine.

     Three centuries had flowed past the old Manor House, centuries of
     births and of homecomings, of country dances and of the meetings of
     fox hunters. Strange that now in its old age this dark business
     should have cast its shadow upon the venerable walls! And yet those
     strange, peaked roofs and quaint, overhung gables were a fitting
     covering to grim and terrible intrigue. As I looked at the deep-set
     windows and the long sweep of the dull-coloured, water-lapped front,
     I felt that no more fitting scene could be set for such a tragedy.

     "That's the window," said White Mason, "that one on the immediate
     right of the drawbridge. It's open just as it was found last night."

     "It looks rather narrow for a man to pass."

     "Well, it wasn't a fat man, anyhow. We don't need your deductions,
     Mr. Holmes, to tell us that. But you or I could squeeze through all
     right."

     Holmes walked to the edge of the moat and looked across. Then he
     examined the stone ledge and the grass border beyond it.

     "I've had a good look, Mr. Holmes," said White Mason. "There is
     nothing there, no sign that anyone has landed--but why should he
     leave any sign?"

     "Exactly. Why should he? Is the water always turbid?"

     "Generally about this colour. The stream brings down the clay."

     "How deep is it?"

     "About two feet at each side and three in the middle."

     "So we can put aside all idea of the man having been drowned in
     crossing."

     "No, a child could not be drowned in it."

     We walked across the drawbridge, and were admitted by a quaint,
     gnarled, dried-up person, who was the butler, Ames. The poor old
     fellow was white and quivering from the shock. The village sergeant,
     a tall, formal, melancholy man, still held his vigil in the room of
     Fate. The doctor had departed.

     "Anything fresh, Sergeant Wilson?" asked White Mason.

     "No, sir."

     "Then you can go home. You've had enough. We can send for you if we
     want you. The butler had better wait outside. Tell him to warn Mr.
     Cecil Barker, Mrs. Douglas, and the housekeeper that we may want a
     word with them presently. Now, gentlemen, perhaps you will allow me
     to give you the views I have formed first, and then you will be able
     to arrive at your own."

     He impressed me, this country specialist. He had a solid grip of fact
     and a cool, clear, common-sense brain, which should take him some way
     in his profession. Holmes listened to him intently, with no sign of
     that impatience which the official exponent too often produced.

     "Is it suicide, or is it murder--that's our first question,
     gentlemen, is it not? If it were suicide, then we have to believe
     that this man began by taking off his wedding ring and concealing it;
     that he then came down here in his dressing gown, trampled mud into a
     corner behind the curtain in order to give the idea someone had
     waited for him, opened the window, put blood on the--"

     "We can surely dismiss that," said MacDonald.

     "So I think. Suicide is out of the question. Then a murder has been
     done. What we have to determine is, whether it was done by someone
     outside or inside the house."

     "Well, let's hear the argument."

     "There are considerable difficulties both ways, and yet one or the
     other it must be. We will suppose first that some person or persons
     inside the house did the crime. They got this man down here at a time
     when everything was still and yet no one was asleep. They then did
     the deed with the queerest and noisiest weapon in the world so as to
     tell everyone what had happened--a weapon that was never seen in the
     house before. That does not seem a very likely start, does it?"

     "No, it does not."

     "Well, then, everyone is agreed that after the alarm was given only a
     minute at the most had passed before the whole household--not Mr.
     Cecil Barker alone, though he claims to have been the first, but Ames
     and all of them were on the spot. Do you tell me that in that time
     the guilty person managed to make footmarks in the corner, open the
     window, mark the sill with blood, take the wedding ring off the dead
     man's finger, and all the rest of it? It's impossible!"

     "You put it very clearly," said Holmes. "I am inclined to agree with
     you."

     "Well, then, we are driven back to the theory that it was done by
     someone from outside. We are still faced with some big difficulties;
     but anyhow they have ceased to be impossibilities. The man got into
     the house between four-thirty and six; that is to say, between dusk
     and the time when the bridge was raised. There had been some
     visitors, and the door was open; so there was nothing to prevent him.
     He may have been a common burglar, or he may have had some private
     grudge against Mr. Douglas. Since Mr. Douglas has spent most of his
     life in America, and this shotgun seems to be an American weapon, it
     would seem that the private grudge is the more likely theory. He
     slipped into this room because it was the first he came to, and he
     hid behind the curtain. There he remained until past eleven at night.
     At that time Mr. Douglas entered the room. It was a short interview,
     if there were any interview at all; for Mrs. Douglas declares that
     her husband had not left her more than a few minutes when she heard
     the shot."

     "The candle shows that," said Holmes.

     "Exactly. The candle, which was a new one, is not burned more than
     half an inch. He must have placed it on the table before he was
     attacked; otherwise, of course, it would have fallen when he fell.
     This shows that he was not attacked the instant that he entered the
     room. When Mr. Barker arrived the candle was lit and the lamp was
     out."

     "That's all clear enough."

     "Well, now, we can reconstruct things on those lines. Mr. Douglas
     enters the room. He puts down the candle. A man appears from behind
     the curtain. He is armed with this gun. He demands the wedding
     ring--Heaven only knows why, but so it must have been. Mr. Douglas
     gave it up. Then either in cold blood or in the course of a
     struggle--Douglas may have gripped the hammer that was found upon the
     mat--he shot Douglas in this horrible way. He dropped his gun and
     also it would seem this queer card--V. V. 341, whatever that may
     mean--and he made his escape through the window and across the moat
     at the very moment when Cecil Barker was discovering the crime. How's
     that, Mr. Holmes?"

     "Very interesting, but just a little unconvincing."

     "Man, it would be absolute nonsense if it wasn't that anything else
     is even worse!" cried MacDonald. "Somebody killed the man, and
     whoever it was I could clearly prove to you that he should have done
     it some other way. What does he mean by allowing his retreat to be
     cut off like that? What does he mean by using a shotgun when silence
     was his one chance of escape? Come, Mr. Holmes, it's up to you to
     give us a lead, since you say Mr. White Mason's theory is
     unconvincing."

     Holmes had sat intently observant during this long discussion,
     missing no word that was said, with his keen eyes darting to right
     and to left, and his forehead wrinkled with speculation.

     "I should like a few more facts before I get so far as a theory, Mr.
     Mac," said he, kneeling down beside the body. "Dear me! these
     injuries are really appalling. Can we have the butler in for a
     moment? ... Ames, I understand that you have often seen this very
     unusual mark--a branded triangle inside a circle--upon Mr. Douglas's
     forearm?"

     "Frequently, sir."

     "You never heard any speculation as to what it meant?"

     "No, sir."

     "It must have caused great pain when it was inflicted. It is
     undoubtedly a burn. Now, I observe, Ames, that there is a small piece
     of plaster at the angle of Mr. Douglas's jaw. Did you observe that in
     life?"

     "Yes, sir, he cut himself in shaving yesterday morning."

     "Did you ever know him to cut himself in shaving before?"

     "Not for a very long time, sir."

     "Suggestive!" said Holmes. "It may, of course, be a mere coincidence,
     or it may point to some nervousness which would indicate that he had
     reason to apprehend danger. Had you noticed anything unusual in his
     conduct, yesterday, Ames?"

     "It struck me that he was a little restless and excited, sir."

     "Ha! The attack may not have been entirely unexpected. We do seem to
     make a little progress, do we not? Perhaps you would rather do the
     questioning, Mr. Mac?"

     "No, Mr. Holmes, it's in better hands than mine."

     "Well, then, we will pass to this card--V. V. 341. It is rough
     cardboard. Have you any of the sort in the house?"

     "I don't think so."

     Holmes walked across to the desk and dabbed a little ink from each
     bottle on to the blotting paper. "It was not printed in this room,"
     he said; "this is black ink and the other purplish. It was done by a
     thick pen, and these are fine. No, it was done elsewhere, I should
     say. Can you make anything of the inscription, Ames?"

     "No, sir, nothing."

     "What do you think, Mr. Mac?"

     "It gives me the impression of a secret society of some sort; the
     same with his badge upon the forearm."

     "That's my idea, too," said White Mason.

     "Well, we can adopt it as a working hypothesis and then see how far
     our difficulties disappear. An agent from such a society makes his
     way into the house, waits for Mr. Douglas, blows his head nearly off
     with this weapon, and escapes by wading the moat, after leaving a
     card beside the dead man, which will when mentioned in the papers,
     tell other members of the society that vengeance has been done. That
     all hangs together. But why this gun, of all weapons?"

     "Exactly."

     "And why the missing ring?"

     "Quite so."

     "And why no arrest? It's past two now. I take it for granted that
     since dawn every constable within forty miles has been looking out
     for a wet stranger?"

     "That is so, Mr. Holmes."

     "Well, unless he has a burrow close by or a change of clothes ready,
     they can hardly miss him. And yet they have missed him up to now!"
     Holmes had gone to the window and was examining with his lens the
     blood mark on the sill. "It is clearly the tread of a shoe. It is
     remarkably broad; a splay-foot, one would say. Curious, because, so
     far as one can trace any footmark in this mud-stained corner, one
     would say it was a more shapely sole. However, they are certainly
     very indistinct. What's this under the side table?"

     "Mr. Douglas's dumb-bells," said Ames.

     "Dumb-bell--there's only one. Where's the other?"

     "I don't know, Mr. Holmes. There may have been only one. I have not
     noticed them for months."

     "One dumb-bell--" Holmes said seriously; but his remarks were
     interrupted by a sharp knock at the door.

     A tall, sunburned, capable-looking, clean-shaved man looked in at us.
     I had no difficulty in guessing that it was the Cecil Barker of whom
     I had heard. His masterful eyes travelled quickly with a questioning
     glance from face to face.

     "Sorry to interrupt your consultation," said he, "but you should hear
     the latest news."

     "An arrest?"

     "No such luck. But they've found his bicycle. The fellow left his
     bicycle behind him. Come and have a look. It is within a hundred
     yards of the hall door."

     We found three or four grooms and idlers standing in the drive
     inspecting a bicycle which had been drawn out from a clump of
     evergreens in which it had been concealed. It was a well used
     Rudge-Whitworth, splashed as from a considerable journey. There was a
     saddlebag with spanner and oilcan, but no clue as to the owner.

     "It would be a grand help to the police," said the inspector, "if
     these things were numbered and registered. But we must be thankful
     for what we've got. If we can't find where he went to, at least we
     are likely to get where he came from. But what in the name of all
     that is wonderful made the fellow leave it behind? And how in the
     world has he got away without it? We don't seem to get a gleam of
     light in the case, Mr. Holmes."

     "Don't we?" my friend answered thoughtfully. "I wonder!"

     "Have you seen all you want of the study?" asked White Mason as we
     reentered the house.

     "For the time," said the inspector, and Holmes nodded.

     "Then perhaps you would now like to hear the evidence of some of the
     people in the house. We could use the dining-room, Ames. Please come
     yourself first and tell us what you know."

     The butler's account was a simple and a clear one, and he gave a
     convincing impression of sincerity. He had been engaged five years
     before, when Douglas first came to Birlstone. He understood that Mr.
     Douglas was a rich gentleman who had made his money in America. He
     had been a kind and considerate employer--not quite what Ames was
     used to, perhaps; but one can't have everything. He never saw any
     signs of apprehension in Mr. Douglas: on the contrary, he was the
     most fearless man he had ever known. He ordered the drawbridge to be
     pulled up every night because it was the ancient custom of the old
     house, and he liked to keep the old ways up.

     Mr. Douglas seldom went to London or left the village; but on the day
     before the crime he had been shopping at Tunbridge Wells. He (Ames)
     had observed some restlessness and excitement on the part of Mr.
     Douglas that day; for he had seemed impatient and irritable, which
     was unusual with him. He had not gone to bed that night; but was in
     the pantry at the back of the house, putting away the silver, when he
     heard the bell ring violently. He heard no shot; but it was hardly
     possible he would, as the pantry and kitchens were at the very back
     of the house and there were several closed doors and a long passage
     between. The housekeeper had come out of her room, attracted by the
     violent ringing of the bell. They had gone to the front of the house
     together.

     As they reached the bottom of the stair he had seen Mrs. Douglas
     coming down it. No, she was not hurrying; it did not seem to him that
     she was particularly agitated. Just as she reached the bottom of the
     stair Mr. Barker had rushed out of the study. He had stopped Mrs.
     Douglas and begged her to go back.

     "For God's sake, go back to your room!" he cried. "Poor Jack is dead!
     You can do nothing. For God's sake, go back!"

     After some persuasion upon the stairs Mrs. Douglas had gone back. She
     did not scream. She made no outcry whatever. Mrs. Allen, the
     housekeeper, had taken her upstairs and stayed with her in the
     bedroom. Ames and Mr. Barker had then returned to the study, where
     they had found everything exactly as the police had seen it. The
     candle was not lit at that time; but the lamp was burning. They had
     looked out of the window; but the night was very dark and nothing
     could be seen or heard. They had then rushed out into the hall, where
     Ames had turned the windlass which lowered the drawbridge. Mr. Barker
     had then hurried off to get the police.

     Such, in its essentials, was the evidence of the butler.

     The account of Mrs. Allen, the housekeeper, was, so far as it went, a
     corroboration of that of her fellow servant. The housekeeper's room
     was rather nearer to the front of the house than the pantry in which
     Ames had been working. She was preparing to go to bed when the loud
     ringing of the bell had attracted her attention. She was a little
     hard of hearing. Perhaps that was why she had not heard the shot; but
     in any case the study was a long way off. She remembered hearing some
     sound which she imagined to be the slamming of a door. That was a
     good deal earlier--half an hour at least before the ringing of the
     bell. When Mr. Ames ran to the front she went with him. She saw Mr.
     Barker, very pale and excited, come out of the study. He intercepted
     Mrs. Douglas, who was coming down the stairs. He entreated her to go
     back, and she answered him, but what she said could not be heard.

     "Take her up! Stay with her!" he had said to Mrs. Allen.

     She had therefore taken her to the bedroom, and endeavoured to soothe
     her. She was greatly excited, trembling all over, but made no other
     attempt to go downstairs. She just sat in her dressing gown by her
     bedroom fire, with her head sunk in her hands. Mrs. Allen stayed with
     her most of the night. As to the other servants, they had all gone to
     bed, and the alarm did not reach them until just before the police
     arrived. They slept at the extreme back of the house, and could not
     possibly have heard anything.

     So far the housekeeper could add nothing on cross-examination save
     lamentations and expressions of amazement.

     Cecil Barker succeeded Mrs. Allen as a witness. As to the occurrences
     of the night before, he had very little to add to what he had already
     told the police. Personally, he was convinced that the murderer had
     escaped by the window. The bloodstain was conclusive, in his opinion,
     on that point. Besides, as the bridge was up, there was no other
     possible way of escaping. He could not explain what had become of the
     assassin or why he had not taken his bicycle, if it were indeed his.
     He could not possibly have been drowned in the moat, which was at no
     place more than three feet deep.

     In his own mind he had a very definite theory about the murder.
     Douglas was a reticent man, and there were some chapters in his life
     of which he never spoke. He had emigrated to America when he was a
     very young man. He had prospered well, and Barker had first met him
     in California, where they had become partners in a successful mining
     claim at a place called Benito Canyon. They had done very well; but
     Douglas had suddenly sold out and started for England. He was a
     widower at that time. Barker had afterwards realized his money and
     come to live in London. Thus they had renewed their friendship.

     Douglas had given him the impression that some danger was hanging
     over his head, and he had always looked upon his sudden departure
     from California, and also his renting a house in so quiet a place in
     England, as being connected with this peril. He imagined that some
     secret society, some implacable organization, was on Douglas's track,
     which would never rest until it killed him. Some remarks of his had
     given him this idea; though he had never told him what the society
     was, nor how he had come to offend it. He could only suppose that the
     legend upon the placard had some reference to this secret society.

     "How long were you with Douglas in California?" asked Inspector
     MacDonald.

     "Five years altogether."

     "He was a bachelor, you say?"

     "A widower."

     "Have you ever heard where his first wife came from?"

     "No, I remember his saying that she was of German extraction, and I
     have seen her portrait. She was a very beautiful woman. She died of
     typhoid the year before I met him."

     "You don't associate his past with any particular part of America?"

     "I have heard him talk of Chicago. He knew that city well and had
     worked there. I have heard him talk of the coal and iron districts.
     He had travelled a good deal in his time."

     "Was he a politician? Had this secret society to do with politics?"

     "No, he cared nothing about politics."

     "You have no reason to think it was criminal?"

     "On the contrary, I never met a straighter man in my life."

     "Was there anything curious about his life in California?"

     "He liked best to stay and to work at our claim in the mountains. He
     would never go where other men were if he could help it. That's why I
     first thought that someone was after him. Then when he left so
     suddenly for Europe I made sure that it was so. I believe that he had
     a warning of some sort. Within a week of his leaving half a dozen men
     were inquiring for him."

     "What sort of men?"

     "Well, they were a mighty hard-looking crowd. They came up to the
     claim and wanted to know where he was. I told them that he was gone
     to Europe and that I did not know where to find him. They meant him
     no good--it was easy to see that."

     "Were these men Americans--Californians?"

     "Well, I don't know about Californians. They were Americans, all
     right. But they were not miners. I don't know what they were, and was
     very glad to see their backs."

     "That was six years ago?"

     "Nearer seven."

     "And then you were together five years in California, so that this
     business dates back not less than eleven years at the least?"

     "That is so."

     "It must be a very serious feud that would be kept up with such
     earnestness for as long as that. It would be no light thing that
     would give rise to it."

     "I think it shadowed his whole life. It was never quite out of his
     mind."

     "But if a man had a danger hanging over him, and knew what it was,
     don't you think he would turn to the police for protection?"

     "Maybe it was some danger that he could not be protected against.
     There's one thing you should know. He always went about armed. His
     revolver was never out of his pocket. But, by bad luck, he was in his
     dressing gown and had left it in the bedroom last night. Once the
     bridge was up, I guess he thought he was safe."

     "I should like these dates a little clearer," said MacDonald. "It is
     quite six years since Douglas left California. You followed him next
     year, did you not?"

     "That is so."

     "And he had been married five years. You must have returned about the
     time of his marriage."

     "About a month before. I was his best man."

     "Did you know Mrs. Douglas before her marriage?"

     "No, I did not. I had been away from England for ten years."

     "But you have seen a good deal of her since."

     Barker looked sternly at the detective. "I have seen a good deal of
     him since," he answered. "If I have seen her, it is because you
     cannot visit a man without knowing his wife. If you imagine there is
     any connection--"

     "I imagine nothing, Mr. Barker. I am bound to make every inquiry
     which can bear upon the case. But I mean no offense."

     "Some inquiries are offensive," Barker answered angrily.

     "It's only the facts that we want. It is in your interest and
     everyone's interest that they should be cleared up. Did Mr. Douglas
     entirely approve your friendship with his wife?"

     Barker grew paler, and his great, strong hands were clasped
     convulsively together. "You have no right to ask such questions!" he
     cried. "What has this to do with the matter you are investigating?"

     "I must repeat the question."

     "Well, I refuse to answer."

     "You can refuse to answer; but you must be aware that your refusal is
     in itself an answer, for you would not refuse if you had not
     something to conceal."

     Barker stood for a moment with his face set grimly and his strong
     black eyebrows drawn low in intense thought. Then he looked up with a
     smile. "Well, I guess you gentlemen are only doing your clear duty
     after all, and I have no right to stand in the way of it. I'd only
     ask you not to worry Mrs. Douglas over this matter; for she has
     enough upon her just now. I may tell you that poor Douglas had just
     one fault in the world, and that was his jealousy. He was fond of
     me--no man could be fonder of a friend. And he was devoted to his
     wife. He loved me to come here, and was forever sending for me. And
     yet if his wife and I talked together or there seemed any sympathy
     between us, a kind of wave of jealousy would pass over him, and he
     would be off the handle and saying the wildest things in a moment.
     More than once I've sworn off coming for that reason, and then he
     would write me such penitent, imploring letters that I just had to.
     But you can take it from me, gentlemen, if it was my last word, that
     no man ever had a more loving, faithful wife--and I can say also no
     friend could be more loyal than I!"

     It was spoken with fervour and feeling, and yet Inspector MacDonald
     could not dismiss the subject.

     "You are aware," said he, "that the dead man's wedding ring has been
     taken from his finger?"

     "So it appears," said Barker.

     "What do you mean by 'appears'? You know it as a fact."

     The man seemed confused and undecided. "When I said 'appears' I meant
     that it was conceivable that he had himself taken off the ring."

     "The mere fact that the ring should be absent, whoever may have
     removed it, would suggest to anyone's mind, would it not, that the
     marriage and the tragedy were connected?"

     Barker shrugged his broad shoulders. "I can't profess to say what it
     means." he answered. "But if you mean to hint that it could reflect
     in any way upon this lady's honour"--his eyes blazed for an instant,
     and then with an evident effort he got a grip upon his own
     emotions--"well, you are on the wrong track, that's all."

     "I don't know that I've anything else to ask you at present," said
     MacDonald, coldly.

     "There was one small point," remarked Sherlock Holmes. "When you
     entered the room there was only a candle lighted on the table, was
     there not?"

     "Yes, that was so."

     "By its light you saw that some terrible incident had occurred?"

     "Exactly."

     "You at once rang for help?"

     "Yes."

     "And it arrived very speedily?"

     "Within a minute or so."

     "And yet when they arrived they found that the candle was out and
     that the lamp had been lighted. That seems very remarkable."

     Again Barker showed some signs of indecision. "I don't see that it
     was remarkable, Mr. Holmes," he answered after a pause. "The candle
     threw a very bad light. My first thought was to get a better one. The
     lamp was on the table; so I lit it."

     "And blew out the candle?"

     "Exactly."

     Holmes asked no further question, and Barker, with a deliberate look
     from one to the other of us, which had, as it seemed to me, something
     of defiance in it, turned and left the room.

     Inspector MacDonald had sent up a note to the effect that he would
     wait upon Mrs. Douglas in her room; but she had replied that she
     would meet us in the dining room. She entered now, a tall and
     beautiful woman of thirty, reserved and self-possessed to a
     remarkable degree, very different from the tragic and distracted
     figure I had pictured. It is true that her face was pale and drawn,
     like that of one who has endured a great shock; but her manner was
     composed, and the finely moulded hand which she rested upon the edge
     of the table was as steady as my own. Her sad, appealing eyes
     travelled from one to the other of us with a curiously inquisitive
     expression. That questioning gaze transformed itself suddenly into
     abrupt speech.

     "Have you found anything out yet?" she asked.

     Was it my imagination that there was an undertone of fear rather than
     of hope in the question?

     "We have taken every possible step, Mrs. Douglas," said the
     inspector. "You may rest assured that nothing will be neglected."

     "Spare no money," she said in a dead, even tone. "It is my desire
     that every possible effort should be made."

     "Perhaps you can tell us something which may throw some light upon
     the matter."

     "I fear not; but all I know is at your service."

     "We have heard from Mr. Cecil Barker that you did not actually
     see--that you were never in the room where the tragedy occurred?"

     "No, he turned me back upon the stairs. He begged me to return to my
     room."

     "Quite so. You had heard the shot, and you had at once come down."

     "I put on my dressing gown and then came down."

     "How long was it after hearing the shot that you were stopped on the
     stair by Mr. Barker?"

     "It may have been a couple of minutes. It is so hard to reckon time
     at such a moment. He implored me not to go on. He assured me that I
     could do nothing. Then Mrs. Allen, the housekeeper, led me upstairs
     again. It was all like some dreadful dream."

     "Can you give us any idea how long your husband had been downstairs
     before you heard the shot?"

     "No, I cannot say. He went from his dressing room, and I did not hear
     him go. He did the round of the house every night, for he was nervous
     of fire. It is the only thing that I have ever known him nervous of."

     "That is just the point which I want to come to, Mrs. Douglas. You
     have known your husband only in England, have you not?"

     "Yes, we have been married five years."

     "Have you heard him speak of anything which occurred in America and
     might bring some danger upon him?"

     Mrs. Douglas thought earnestly before she answered. "Yes." she said
     at last, "I have always felt that there was a danger hanging over
     him. He refused to discuss it with me. It was not from want of
     confidence in me--there was the most complete love and confidence
     between us--but it was out of his desire to keep all alarm away from
     me. He thought I should brood over it if I knew all, and so he was
     silent."

     "How did you know it, then?"

     Mrs. Douglas's face lit with a quick smile. "Can a husband ever carry
     about a secret all his life and a woman who loves him have no
     suspicion of it? I knew it by his refusal to talk about some episodes
     in his American life. I knew it by certain precautions he took. I
     knew it by certain words he let fall. I knew it by the way he looked
     at unexpected strangers. I was perfectly certain that he had some
     powerful enemies, that he believed they were on his track, and that
     he was always on his guard against them. I was so sure of it that for
     years I have been terrified if ever he came home later than was
     expected."

     "Might I ask," asked Holmes, "what the words were which attracted
     your attention?"

     "The Valley of Fear," the lady answered. "That was an expression he
     has used when I questioned him. 'I have been in the Valley of Fear. I
     am not out of it yet.'--'Are we never to get out of the Valley of
     Fear?' I have asked him when I have seen him more serious than usual.
     'Sometimes I think that we never shall,' he has answered."

     "Surely you asked him what he meant by the Valley of Fear?"

     "I did; but his face would become very grave and he would shake his
     head. 'It is bad enough that one of us should have been in its
     shadow,' he said. 'Please God it shall never fall upon you!' It was
     some real valley in which he had lived and in which something
     terrible had occurred to him, of that I am certain; but I can tell
     you no more."

     "And he never mentioned any names?"

     "Yes, he was delirious with fever once when he had his hunting
     accident three years ago. Then I remember that there was a name that
     came continually to his lips. He spoke it with anger and a sort of
     horror. McGinty was the name--Bodymaster McGinty. I asked him when he
     recovered who Bodymaster McGinty was, and whose body he was master
     of. 'Never of mine, thank God!' he answered with a laugh, and that
     was all I could get from him. But there is a connection between
     Bodymaster McGinty and the Valley of Fear."

     "There is one other point," said Inspector MacDonald. "You met Mr.
     Douglas in a boarding house in London, did you not, and became
     engaged to him there? Was there any romance, anything secret or
     mysterious, about the wedding?"

     "There was romance. There is always romance. There was nothing
     mysterious."

     "He had no rival?"

     "No, I was quite free."

     "You have heard, no doubt, that his wedding ring has been taken. Does
     that suggest anything to you? Suppose that some enemy of his old life
     had tracked him down and committed this crime, what possible reason
     could he have for taking his wedding ring?"

     For an instant I could have sworn that the faintest shadow of a smile
     flickered over the woman's lips.

     "I really cannot tell," she answered. "It is certainly a most
     extraordinary thing."

     "Well, we will not detain you any longer, and we are sorry to have
     put you to this trouble at such a time," said the inspector. "There
     are some other points, no doubt; but we can refer to you as they
     arise."

     She rose, and I was again conscious of that quick, questioning glance
     with which she had just surveyed us. "What impression has my evidence
     made upon you?" The question might as well have been spoken. Then,
     with a bow, she swept from the room.

     "She's a beautiful woman--a very beautiful woman," said MacDonald
     thoughtfully, after the door had closed behind her. "This man Barker
     has certainly been down here a good deal. He is a man who might be
     attractive to a woman. He admits that the dead man was jealous, and
     maybe he knew best himself what cause he had for jealousy. Then
     there's that wedding ring. You can't get past that. The man who tears
     a wedding ring off a dead man's--What do you say to it, Mr. Holmes?"

     My friend had sat with his head upon his hands, sunk in the deepest
     thought. Now he rose and rang the bell. "Ames," he said, when the
     butler entered, "where is Mr. Cecil Barker now?"

     "I'll see, sir."

     He came back in a moment to say that Barker was in the garden.

     "Can you remember, Ames, what Mr. Barker had on his feet last night
     when you joined him in the study?"

     "Yes, Mr. Holmes. He had a pair of bedroom slippers. I brought him
     his boots when he went for the police."

     "Where are the slippers now?"

     "They are still under the chair in the hall."

     "Very good, Ames. It is, of course, important for us to know which
     tracks may be Mr. Barker's and which from outside."

     "Yes, sir. I may say that I noticed that the slippers were stained
     with blood--so indeed were my own."

     "That is natural enough, considering the condition of the room. Very
     good, Ames. We will ring if we want you."

     A few minutes later we were in the study. Holmes had brought with him
     the carpet slippers from the hall. As Ames had observed, the soles of
     both were dark with blood.

     "Strange!" murmured Holmes, as he stood in the light of the window
     and examined them minutely. "Very strange indeed!"

     Stooping with one of his quick feline pounces, he placed the slipper
     upon the blood mark on the sill. It exactly corresponded. He smiled
     in silence at his colleagues.

     The inspector was transfigured with excitement. His native accent
     rattled like a stick upon railings.

     "Man," he cried, "there's not a doubt of it! Barker has just marked
     the window himself. It's a good deal broader than any bootmark. I
     mind that you said it was a splay-foot, and here's the explanation.
     But what's the game, Mr. Holmes--what's the game?"

     "Ay, what's the game?" my friend repeated thoughtfully.

     White Mason chuckled and rubbed his fat hands together in his
     professional satisfaction. "I said it was a snorter!" he cried. "And
     a real snorter it is!"

     The three detectives had many matters of detail into which to
     inquire; so I returned alone to our modest quarters at the village
     inn. But before doing so I took a stroll in the curious old-world
     garden which flanked the house. Rows of very ancient yew trees cut
     into strange designs girded it round. Inside was a beautiful stretch
     of lawn with an old sundial in the middle, the whole effect so
     soothing and restful that it was welcome to my somewhat jangled
     nerves.

     In that deeply peaceful atmosphere one could forget, or remember only
     as some fantastic nightmare, that darkened study with the sprawling,
     bloodstained figure on the floor. And yet, as I strolled round it and
     tried to steep my soul in its gentle balm, a strange incident
     occurred, which brought me back to the tragedy and left a sinister
     impression in my mind.

     I have said that a decoration of yew trees circled the garden. At the
     end farthest from the house they thickened into a continuous hedge.
     On the other side of this hedge, concealed from the eyes of anyone
     approaching from the direction of the house, there was a stone seat.
     As I approached the spot I was aware of voices, some remark in the
     deep tones of a man, answered by a little ripple of feminine
     laughter.

     An instant later I had come round the end of the hedge and my eyes
     lit upon Mrs. Douglas and the man Barker before they were aware of my
     presence. Her appearance gave me a shock. In the dining-room she had
     been demure and discreet. Now all pretense of grief had passed away
     from her. Her eyes shone with the joy of living, and her face still
     quivered with amusement at some remark of her companion. He sat
     forward, his hands clasped and his forearms on his knees, with an
     answering smile upon his bold, handsome face. In an instant--but it
     was just one instant too late--they resumed their solemn masks as my
     figure came into view. A hurried word or two passed between them, and
     then Barker rose and came towards me.

     "Excuse me, sir," said he, "but am I addressing Dr. Watson?"

     I bowed with a coldness which showed, I dare say, very plainly the
     impression which had been produced upon my mind.

     "We thought that it was probably you, as your friendship with Mr.
     Sherlock Holmes is so well known. Would you mind coming over and
     speaking to Mrs. Douglas for one instant?"

     I followed him with a dour face. Very clearly I could see in my
     mind's eye that shattered figure on the floor. Here within a few
     hours of the tragedy were his wife and his nearest friend laughing
     together behind a bush in the garden which had been his. I greeted
     the lady with reserve. I had grieved with her grief in the
     dining-room. Now I met her appealing gaze with an unresponsive eye.

     "I fear that you think me callous and hard-hearted," said she.

     I shrugged my shoulders. "It is no business of mine," said I.

     "Perhaps some day you will do me justice. If you only realized--"

     "There is no need why Dr. Watson should realize," said Barker
     quickly. "As he has himself said, it is no possible business of his."

     "Exactly," said I, "and so I will beg leave to resume my walk."

     "One moment, Dr. Watson," cried the woman in a pleading voice. "There
     is one question which you can answer with more authority than anyone
     else in the world, and it may make a very great difference to me. You
     know Mr. Holmes and his relations with the police better than anyone
     else can. Supposing that a matter were brought confidentially to his
     knowledge, is it absolutely necessary that he should pass it on to
     the detectives?"

     "Yes, that's it," said Barker eagerly. "Is he on his own or is he
     entirely in with them?"

     "I really don't know that I should be justified in discussing such a
     point."

     "I beg--I implore that you will, Dr. Watson! I assure you that you
     will be helping us--helping me greatly if you will guide us on that
     point."

     There was such a ring of sincerity in the woman's voice that for the
     instant I forgot all about her levity and was moved only to do her
     will.

     "Mr. Holmes is an independent investigator," I said. "He is his own
     master, and would act as his own judgment directed. At the same time,
     he would naturally feel loyalty towards the officials who were
     working on the same case, and he would not conceal from them anything
     which would help them in bringing a criminal to justice. Beyond this
     I can say nothing, and I would refer you to Mr. Holmes himself if you
     wanted fuller information."

     So saying I raised my hat and went upon my way, leaving them still
     seated behind that concealing hedge. I looked back as I rounded the
     far end of it, and saw that they were still talking very earnestly
     together, and, as they were gazing after me, it was clear that it was
     our interview that was the subject of their debate.

     "I wish none of their confidences," said Holmes, when I reported to
     him what had occurred. He had spent the whole afternoon at the Manor
     House in consultation with his two colleagues, and returned about
     five with a ravenous appetite for a high tea which I had ordered for
     him. "No confidences, Watson; for they are mighty awkward if it comes
     to an arrest for conspiracy and murder."

     "You think it will come to that?"

     He was in his most cheerful and debonair humour. "My dear Watson,
     when I have exterminated that fourth egg I shall be ready to put you
     in touch with the whole situation. I don't say that we have fathomed
     it--far from it--but when we have traced the missing dumb-bell--"

     "The dumb-bell!"

     "Dear me, Watson, is it possible that you have not penetrated the
     fact that the case hangs upon the missing dumb-bell? Well, well, you
     need not be downcast; for between ourselves I don't think that either
     Inspector Mac or the excellent local practitioner has grasped the
     overwhelming importance of this incident. One dumb-bell, Watson!
     Consider an athlete with one dumb-bell! Picture to yourself the
     unilateral development, the imminent danger of a spinal curvature.
     Shocking, Watson, shocking!"

     He sat with his mouth full of toast and his eyes sparkling with
     mischief, watching my intellectual entanglement. The mere sight of
     his excellent appetite was an assurance of success, for I had very
     clear recollections of days and nights without a thought of food,
     when his baffled mind had chafed before some problem while his thin,
     eager features became more attenuated with the asceticism of complete
     mental concentration. Finally he lit his pipe, and sitting in the
     inglenook of the old village inn he talked slowly and at random about
     his case, rather as one who thinks aloud than as one who makes a
     considered statement.

     "A lie, Watson--a great, big, thumping, obtrusive, uncompromising
     lie--that's what meets us on the threshold! There is our starting
     point. The whole story told by Barker is a lie. But Barker's story is
     corroborated by Mrs. Douglas. Therefore she is lying also. They are
     both lying, and in a conspiracy. So now we have the clear problem.
     Why are they lying, and what is the truth which they are trying so
     hard to conceal? Let us try, Watson, you and I, if we can get behind
     the lie and reconstruct the truth.

     "How do I know that they are lying? Because it is a clumsy
     fabrication which simply could not be true. Consider! According to
     the story given to us, the assassin had less than a minute after the
     murder had been committed to take that ring, which was under another
     ring, from the dead man's finger, to replace the other ring--a thing
     which he would surely never have done--and to put that singular card
     beside his victim. I say that this was obviously impossible.

     "You may argue--but I have too much respect for your judgment,
     Watson, to think that you will do so--that the ring may have been
     taken before the man was killed. The fact that the candle had been
     lit only a short time shows that there had been no lengthy interview.
     Was Douglas, from what we hear of his fearless character, a man who
     would be likely to give up his wedding ring at such short notice, or
     could we conceive of his giving it up at all? No, no, Watson, the
     assassin was alone with the dead man for some time with the lamp lit.
     Of that I have no doubt at all.

     "But the gunshot was apparently the cause of death. Therefore the
     shot must have been fired some time earlier than we are told. But
     there could be no mistake about such a matter as that. We are in the
     presence, therefore, of a deliberate conspiracy upon the part of the
     two people who heard the gunshot--of the man Barker and of the woman
     Douglas. When on the top of this I am able to show that the blood
     mark on the windowsill was deliberately placed there by Barker, in
     order to give a false clue to the police, you will admit that the
     case grows dark against him.

     "Now we have to ask ourselves at what hour the murder actually did
     occur. Up to half-past ten the servants were moving about the house;
     so it was certainly not before that time. At a quarter to eleven they
     had all gone to their rooms with the exception of Ames, who was in
     the pantry. I have been trying some experiments after you left us
     this afternoon, and I find that no noise which MacDonald can make in
     the study can penetrate to me in the pantry when the doors are all
     shut.

     "It is otherwise, however, from the housekeeper's room. It is not so
     far down the corridor, and from it I could vaguely hear a voice when
     it was very loudly raised. The sound from a shotgun is to some extent
     muffled when the discharge is at very close range, as it undoubtedly
     was in this instance. It would not be very loud, and yet in the
     silence of the night it should have easily penetrated to Mrs. Allen's
     room. She is, as she has told us, somewhat deaf; but none the less
     she mentioned in her evidence that she did hear something like a door
     slamming half an hour before the alarm was given. Half an hour before
     the alarm was given would be a quarter to eleven. I have no doubt
     that what she heard was the report of the gun, and that this was the
     real instant of the murder.

     "If this is so, we have now to determine what Barker and Mrs.
     Douglas, presuming that they are not the actual murderers, could have
     been doing from quarter to eleven, when the sound of the shot brought
     them down, until quarter past eleven, when they rang the bell and
     summoned the servants. What were they doing, and why did they not
     instantly give the alarm? That is the question which faces us, and
     when it has been answered we shall surely have gone some way to solve
     our problem."

     "I am convinced myself," said I, "that there is an understanding
     between those two people. She must be a heartless creature to sit
     laughing at some jest within a few hours of her husband's murder."

     "Exactly. She does not shine as a wife even in her own account of
     what occurred. I am not a whole-souled admirer of womankind, as you
     are aware, Watson, but my experience of life has taught me that there
     are few wives, having any regard for their husbands, who would let
     any man's spoken word stand between them and that husband's dead
     body. Should I ever marry, Watson, I should hope to inspire my wife
     with some feeling which would prevent her from being walked off by a
     housekeeper when my corpse was lying within a few yards of her. It
     was badly stage-managed; for even the rawest investigators must be
     struck by the absence of the usual feminine ululation. If there had
     been nothing else, this incident alone would have suggested a
     prearranged conspiracy to my mind."

     "You think then, definitely, that Barker and Mrs. Douglas are guilty
     of the murder?"

     "There is an appalling directness about your questions, Watson," said
     Holmes, shaking his pipe at me. "They come at me like bullets. If you
     put it that Mrs. Douglas and Barker know the truth about the murder,
     and are conspiring to conceal it, then I can give you a whole-souled
     answer. I am sure they do. But your more deadly proposition is not so
     clear. Let us for a moment consider the difficulties which stand in
     the way.

     "We will suppose that this couple are united by the bonds of a guilty
     love, and that they have determined to get rid of the man who stands
     between them. It is a large supposition; for discreet inquiry among
     servants and others has failed to corroborate it in any way. On the
     contrary, there is a good deal of evidence that the Douglases were
     very attached to each other."

     "That, I am sure, cannot he true." said I, thinking of the beautiful
     smiling face in the garden.

     "Well at least they gave that impression. However, we will suppose
     that they are an extraordinarily astute couple, who deceive everyone
     upon this point, and conspire to murder the husband. He happens to be
     a man over whose head some danger hangs--"

     "We have only their word for that."

     Holmes looked thoughtful. "I see, Watson. You are sketching out a
     theory by which everything they say from the beginning is false.
     According to your idea, there was never any hidden menace, or secret
     society, or Valley of Fear, or Boss MacSomebody, or anything else.
     Well, that is a good sweeping generalization. Let us see what that
     brings us to. They invent this theory to account for the crime. They
     then play up to the idea by leaving this bicycle in the park as proof
     of the existence of some outsider. The stain on the windowsill
     conveys the same idea. So does the card on the body, which might have
     been prepared in the house. That all fits into your hypothesis,
     Watson. But now we come on the nasty, angular, uncompromising bits
     which won't slip into their places. Why a cut-off shotgun of all
     weapons--and an American one at that? How could they be so sure that
     the sound of it would not bring someone on to them? It's a mere
     chance as it is that Mrs. Allen did not start out to inquire for the
     slamming door. Why did your guilty couple do all this, Watson?"

     "I confess that I can't explain it."

     "Then again, if a woman and her lover conspire to murder a husband,
     are they going to advertise their guilt by ostentatiously removing
     his wedding ring after his death? Does that strike you as very
     probable, Watson?"

     "No, it does not."

     "And once again, if the thought of leaving a bicycle concealed
     outside had occurred to you, would it really have seemed worth doing
     when the dullest detective would naturally say this is an obvious
     blind, as the bicycle is the first thing which the fugitive needed in
     order to make his escape."

     "I can conceive of no explanation."

     "And yet there should be no combination of events for which the wit
     of man cannot conceive an explanation. Simply as a mental exercise,
     without any assertion that it is true, let me indicate a possible
     line of thought. It is, I admit, mere imagination; but how often is
     imagination the mother of truth?

     "We will suppose that there was a guilty secret, a really shameful
     secret in the life of this man Douglas. This leads to his murder by
     someone who is, we will suppose, an avenger, someone from outside.
     This avenger, for some reason which I confess I am still at a loss to
     explain, took the dead man's wedding ring. The vendetta might
     conceivably date back to the man's first marriage, and the ring be
     taken for some such reason.

     "Before this avenger got away, Barker and the wife had reached the
     room. The assassin convinced them that any attempt to arrest him
     would lead to the publication of some hideous scandal. They were
     converted to this idea, and preferred to let him go. For this purpose
     they probably lowered the bridge, which can be done quite
     noiselessly, and then raised it again. He made his escape, and for
     some reason thought that he could do so more safely on foot than on
     the bicycle. He therefore left his machine where it would not be
     discovered until he had got safely away. So far we are within the
     bounds of possibility, are we not?"

     "Well, it is possible, no doubt," said I, with some reserve.

     "We have to remember, Watson, that whatever occurred is certainly
     something very extraordinary. Well, now, to continue our
     supposititious case, the couple--not necessarily a guilty
     couple--realize after the murderer is gone that they have placed
     themselves in a position in which it may be difficult for them to
     prove that they did not themselves either do the deed or connive at
     it. They rapidly and rather clumsily met the situation. The mark was
     put by Barker's bloodstained slipper upon the window-sill to suggest
     how the fugitive got away. They obviously were the two who must have
     heard the sound of the gun; so they gave the alarm exactly as they
     would have done, but a good half hour after the event."

     "And how do you propose to prove all this?"

     "Well, if there were an outsider, he may be traced and taken. That
     would be the most effective of all proofs. But if not--well, the
     resources of science are far from being exhausted. I think that an
     evening alone in that study would help me much."

     "An evening alone!"

     "I propose to go up there presently. I have arranged it with the
     estimable Ames, who is by no means whole-hearted about Barker. I
     shall sit in that room and see if its atmosphere brings me
     inspiration. I'm a believer in the genius loci. You smile, Friend
     Watson. Well, we shall see. By the way, you have that big umbrella of
     yours, have you not?"

     "It is here."

     "Well, I'll borrow that if I may."

     "Certainly--but what a wretched weapon! If there is danger--"

     "Nothing serious, my dear Watson, or I should certainly ask for your
     assistance. But I'll take the umbrella. At present I am only awaiting
     the return of our colleagues from Tunbridge Wells, where they are at
     present engaged in trying for a likely owner to the bicycle."

     It was nightfall before Inspector MacDonald and White Mason came back
     from their expedition, and they arrived exultant, reporting a great
     advance in our investigation.

     "Man, I'll admeet that I had my doubts if there was ever an
     outsider," said MacDonald, "but that's all past now. We've had the
     bicycle identified, and we have a description of our man; so that's a
     long step on our journey."

     "It sounds to me like the beginning of the end," said Holmes. "I'm
     sure I congratulate you both with all my heart."

     "Well, I started from the fact that Mr. Douglas had seemed disturbed
     since the day before, when he had been at Tunbridge Wells. It was at
     Tunbridge Wells then that he had become conscious of some danger. It
     was clear, therefore, that if a man had come over with a bicycle it
     was from Tunbridge Wells that he might be expected to have come. We
     took the bicycle over with us and showed it at the hotels. It was
     identified at once by the manager of the Eagle Commercial as
     belonging to a man named Hargrave, who had taken a room there two
     days before. This bicycle and a small valise were his whole
     belongings. He had registered his name as coming from London, but had
     given no address. The valise was London made, and the contents were
     British; but the man himself was undoubtedly an American."

     "Well, well," said Holmes gleefully, "you have indeed done some solid
     work while I have been sitting spinning theories with my friend! It's
     a lesson in being practical, Mr. Mac."

     "Ay, it's just that, Mr. Holmes," said the inspector with
     satisfaction.

     "But this may all fit in with your theories," I remarked.

     "That may or may not be. But let us hear the end, Mr. Mac. Was there
     nothing to identify this man?"

     "So little that it was evident that he had carefully guarded himself
     against identification. There were no papers or letters, and no
     marking upon the clothes. A cycle map of the county lay on his
     bedroom table. He had left the hotel after breakfast yesterday
     morning on his bicycle, and no more was heard of him until our
     inquiries."

     "That's what puzzles me, Mr. Holmes," said White Mason. "If the
     fellow did not want the hue and cry raised over him, one would
     imagine that he would have returned and remained at the hotel as an
     inoffensive tourist. As it is, he must know that he will be reported
     to the police by the hotel manager and that his disappearance will be
     connected with the murder."

     "So one would imagine. Still, he has been justified of his wisdom up
     to date, at any rate, since he has not been taken. But his
     description--what of that?"

     MacDonald referred to his notebook. "Here we have it so far as they
     could give it. They don't seem to have taken any very particular
     stock of him; but still the porter, the clerk, and the chambermaid
     are all agreed that this about covers the points. He was a man about
     five foot nine in height, fifty or so years of age, his hair slightly
     grizzled, a grayish moustache, a curved nose, and a face which all of
     them described as fierce and forbidding."

     "Well, bar the expression, that might almost be a description of
     Douglas himself," said Holmes. "He is just over fifty, with grizzled
     hair and moustache, and about the same height. Did you get anything
     else?"

     "He was dressed in a heavy gray suit with a reefer jacket, and he
     wore a short yellow overcoat and a soft cap."

     "What about the shotgun?"

     "It is less than two feet long. It could very well have fitted into
     his valise. He could have carried it inside his overcoat without
     difficulty."

     "And how do you consider that all this bears upon the general case?"

     "Well, Mr. Holmes," said MacDonald, "when we have got our man--and
     you may be sure that I had his description on the wires within five
     minutes of hearing it--we shall be better able to judge. But, even as
     it stands, we have surely gone a long way. We know that an American
     calling himself Hargrave came to Tunbridge Wells two days ago with
     bicycle and valise. In the latter was a sawed-off shotgun; so he came
     with the deliberate purpose of crime. Yesterday morning he set off
     for this place on his bicycle, with his gun concealed in his
     overcoat. No one saw him arrive, so far as we can learn; but he need
     not pass through the village to reach the park gates, and there are
     many cyclists upon the road. Presumably he at once concealed his
     cycle among the laurels where it was found, and possibly lurked there
     himself, with his eye on the house, waiting for Mr. Douglas to come
     out. The shotgun is a strange weapon to use inside a house; but he
     had intended to use it outside, and there it has very obvious
     advantages, as it would be impossible to miss with it, and the sound
     of shots is so common in an English sporting neighbourhood that no
     particular notice would be taken."

     "That is all very clear," said Holmes.

     "Well, Mr. Douglas did not appear. What was he to do next? He left
     his bicycle and approached the house in the twilight. He found the
     bridge down and no one about. He took his chance, intending, no
     doubt, to make some excuse if he met anyone. He met no one. He
     slipped into the first room that he saw, and concealed himself behind
     the curtain. Thence he could see the drawbridge go up, and he knew
     that his only escape was through the moat. He waited until
     quarter-past eleven, when Mr. Douglas upon his usual nightly round
     came into the room. He shot him and escaped, as arranged. He was
     aware that the bicycle would be described by the hotel people and be
     a clue against him; so he left it there and made his way by some
     other means to London or to some safe hiding place which he had
     already arranged. How is that, Mr. Holmes?"

     "Well, Mr. Mac, it is very good and very clear so far as it goes.
     That is your end of the story. My end is that the crime was committed
     half an hour earlier than reported; that Mrs. Douglas and Barker are
     both in a conspiracy to conceal something; that they aided the
     murderer's escape--or at least that they reached the room before he
     escaped--and that they fabricated evidence of his escape through the
     window, whereas in all probability they had themselves let him go by
     lowering the bridge. That's my reading of the first half."

     The two detectives shook their heads.

     "Well, Mr. Holmes, if this is true, we only tumble out of one mystery
     into another," said the London inspector.

     "And in some ways a worse one," added White Mason. "The lady has
     never been in America in all her life. What possible connection could
     she have with an American assassin which would cause her to shelter
     him?"

     "I freely admit the difficulties," said Holmes. "I propose to make a
     little investigation of my own to-night, and it is just possible that
     it may contribute something to the common cause."

     "Can we help you, Mr. Holmes?"

     "No, no! Darkness and Dr. Watson's umbrella--my wants are simple. And
     Ames, the faithful Ames, no doubt he will stretch a point for me. All
     my lines of thought lead me back invariably to the one basic
     question--why should an athletic man develop his frame upon so
     unnatural an instrument as a single dumb-bell?"

     It was late that night when Holmes returned from his solitary
     excursion. We slept in a double-bedded room, which was the best that
     the little country inn could do for us. I was already asleep when I
     was partly awakened by his entrance.

     "Well, Holmes," I murmured, "have you found anything out?"

     He stood beside me in silence, his candle in his hand. Then the tall,
     lean figure inclined towards me. "I say, Watson," he whispered,
     "would you be afraid to sleep in the same room with a lunatic, a man
     with softening of the brain, an idiot whose mind has lost its grip?"

     "Not in the least," I answered in astonishment.

     "Ah, that's lucky," he said, and not another word would he utter that
     night.

     Next morning, after breakfast, we found Inspector MacDonald and White
     Mason seated in close consultation in the small parlour of the local
     police sergeant. On the table in front of them were piled a number of
     letters and telegrams, which they were carefully sorting and
     docketing. Three had been placed on one side.

     "Still on the track of the elusive bicyclist?" Holmes asked
     cheerfully. "What is the latest news of the ruffian?"

     MacDonald pointed ruefully to his heap of correspondence.

     "He is at present reported from Leicester, Nottingham, Southampton,
     Derby, East Ham, Richmond, and fourteen other places. In three of
     them--East Ham, Leicester, and Liverpool--there is a clear case
     against him, and he has actually been arrested. The country seems to
     be full of the fugitives with yellow coats."

     "Dear me!" said Holmes sympathetically. "Now, Mr. Mac and you, Mr.
     White Mason, I wish to give you a very earnest piece of advice. When
     I went into this case with you I bargained, as you will no doubt
     remember, that I should not present you with half-proved theories,
     but that I should retain and work out my own ideas until I had
     satisfied myself that they were correct. For this reason I am not at
     the present moment telling you all that is in my mind. On the other
     hand, I said that I would play the game fairly by you, and I do not
     think it is a fair game to allow you for one unnecessary moment to
     waste your energies upon a profitless task. Therefore I am here to
     advise you this morning, and my advice to you is summed up in three
     words--abandon the case."

     MacDonald and White Mason stared in amazement at their celebrated
     colleague.

     "You consider it hopeless!" cried the inspector.

     "I consider your case to be hopeless. I do not consider that it is
     hopeless to arrive at the truth."

     "But this cyclist. He is not an invention. We have his description,
     his valise, his bicycle. The fellow must be somewhere. Why should we
     not get him?"

     "Yes, yes, no doubt he is somewhere, and no doubt we shall get him;
     but I would not have you waste your energies in East Ham or
     Liverpool. I am sure that we can find some shorter cut to a result."

     "You are holding something back. It's hardly fair of you, Mr.
     Holmes." The inspector was annoyed.

     "You know my methods of work, Mr. Mac. But I will hold it back for
     the shortest time possible. I only wish to verify my details in one
     way, which can very readily be done, and then I make my bow and
     return to London, leaving my results entirely at your service. I owe
     you too much to act otherwise; for in all my experience I cannot
     recall any more singular and interesting study."

     "This is clean beyond me, Mr. Holmes. We saw you when we returned
     from Tunbridge Wells last night, and you were in general agreement
     with our results. What has happened since then to give you a
     completely new idea of the case?"

     "Well, since you ask me, I spent, as I told you that I would, some
     hours last night at the Manor House."

     "Well, what happened?"

     "Ah, I can only give you a very general answer to that for the
     moment. By the way, I have been reading a short but clear and
     interesting account of the old building, purchasable at the modest
     sum of one penny from the local tobacconist."

     Here Holmes drew a small tract, embellished with a rude engraving of
     the ancient Manor House, from his waistcoat pocket.

     "It immensely adds to the zest of an investigation, my dear Mr. Mac,
     when one is in conscious sympathy with the historical atmosphere of
     one's surroundings. Don't look so impatient; for I assure you that
     even so bald an account as this raises some sort of picture of the
     past in one's mind. Permit me to give you a sample. 'Erected in the
     fifth year of the reign of James I, and standing upon the site of a
     much older building, the Manor House of Birlstone presents one of the
     finest surviving examples of the moated Jacobean residence--' "

     "You are making fools of us, Mr. Holmes!"

     "Tut, tut, Mr. Mac!--the first sign of temper I have detected in you.
     Well, I won't read it verbatim, since you feel so strongly upon the
     subject. But when I tell you that there is some account of the taking
     of the place by a parliamentary colonel in 1644, of the concealment
     of Charles for several days in the course of the Civil War, and
     finally of a visit there by the second George, you will admit that
     there are various associations of interest connected with this
     ancient house."

     "I don't doubt it, Mr. Holmes; but that is no business of ours."

     "Is it not? Is it not? Breadth of view, my dear Mr. Mac, is one of
     the essentials of our profession. The interplay of ideas and the
     oblique uses of knowledge are often of extraordinary interest. You
     will excuse these remarks from one who, though a mere connoisseur of
     crime, is still rather older and perhaps more experienced than
     yourself."

     "I'm the first to admit that," said the detective heartily. "You get
     to your point, I admit; but you have such a deuced round-the-corner
     way of doing it."

     "Well, well, I'll drop past history and get down to present-day
     facts. I called last night, as I have already said, at the Manor
     House. I did not see either Barker or Mrs. Douglas. I saw no
     necessity to disturb them; but I was pleased to hear that the lady
     was not visibly pining and that she had partaken of an excellent
     dinner. My visit was specially made to the good Mr. Ames, with whom I
     exchanged some amiabilities, which culminated in his allowing me,
     without reference to anyone else, to sit alone for a time in the
     study."

     "What! With that?" I ejaculated.

     "No, no, everything is now in order. You gave permission for that,
     Mr. Mac, as I am informed. The room was in its normal state, and in
     it I passed an instructive quarter of an hour."

     "What were you doing?"

     "Well, not to make a mystery of so simple a matter, I was looking for
     the missing dumb-bell. It has always bulked rather large in my
     estimate of the case. I ended by finding it."

     "Where?"

     "Ah, there we come to the edge of the unexplored. Let me go a little
     further, a very little further, and I will promise that you shall
     share everything that I know."

     "Well, we're bound to take you on your own terms," said the
     inspector; "but when it comes to telling us to abandon the case--why
     in the name of goodness should we abandon the case?"

     "For the simple reason, my dear Mr. Mac, that you have not got the
     first idea what it is that you are investigating."

     "We are investigating the murder of Mr. John Douglas of Birlstone
     Manor."

     "Yes, yes, so you are. But don't trouble to trace the mysterious
     gentleman upon the bicycle. I assure you that it won't help you."

     "Then what do you suggest that we do?"

     "I will tell you exactly what to do, if you will do it."

     "Well, I'm bound to say I've always found you had reason behind all
     your queer ways. I'll do what you advise."

     "And you, Mr. White Mason?"

     The country detective looked helplessly from one to the other. Holmes
     and his methods were new to him. "Well, if it is good enough for the
     inspector, it is good enough for me," he said at last.

     "Capital!" said Holmes. "Well, then, I should recommend a nice,
     cheery country walk for both of you. They tell me that the views from
     Birlstone Ridge over the Weald are very remarkable. No doubt lunch
     could be got at some suitable hostelry; though my ignorance of the
     country prevents me from recommending one. In the evening, tired but
     happy--"

     "Man, this is getting past a joke!" cried MacDonald, rising angrily
     from his chair.

     "Well, well, spend the day as you like," said Holmes, patting him
     cheerfully upon the shoulder. "Do what you like and go where you
     will, but meet me here before dusk without fail--without fail, Mr.
     Mac."

     "That sounds more like sanity."

     "All of it was excellent advice; but I don't insist, so long as you
     are here when I need you. But now, before we part, I want you to
     write a note to Mr. Barker."

     "Well?"

     "I'll dictate it, if you like. Ready?

     "Dear Sir:
     "It has struck me that it is our duty to drain the moat, in the hope
     that we may find some--"

     "It's impossible," said the inspector. "I've made inquiry."

     "Tut, tut! My dear sir, please do what I ask you."

     "Well, go on."

     "--in the hope that we may find something which may bear upon our
     investigation. I have made arrangements, and the workmen will be at
     work early to-morrow morning diverting the stream--"

     "Impossible!"

     "--diverting the stream; so I thought it best to explain matters
     beforehand.

     "Now sign that, and send it by hand about four o'clock. At that hour
     we shall meet again in this room. Until then we may each do what we
     like; for I can assure you that this inquiry has come to a definite
     pause."

     Evening was drawing in when we reassembled. Holmes was very serious
     in his manner, myself curious, and the detectives obviously critical
     and annoyed.

     "Well, gentlemen," said my friend gravely, "I am asking you now to
     put everything to the test with me, and you will judge for yourselves
     whether the observations I have made justify the conclusions to which
     I have come. It is a chill evening, and I do not know how long our
     expedition may last; so I beg that you will wear your warmest coats.
     It is of the first importance that we should be in our places before
     it grows dark; so with your permission we shall get started at once."

     We passed along the outer bounds of the Manor House park until we
     came to a place where there was a gap in the rails which fenced it.
     Through this we slipped, and then in the gathering gloom we followed
     Holmes until we had reached a shrubbery which lies nearly opposite to
     the main door and the drawbridge. The latter had not been raised.
     Holmes crouched down behind the screen of laurels, and we all three
     followed his example.

     "Well, what are we to do now?" asked MacDonald with some gruffness.

     "Possess our souls in patience and make as little noise as possible,"
     Holmes answered.

     "What are we here for at all? I really think that you might treat us
     with more frankness."

     Holmes laughed. "Watson insists that I am the dramatist in real
     life," said he. "Some touch of the artist wells up within me, and
     calls insistently for a well-staged performance. Surely our
     profession, Mr. Mac, would be a drab and sordid one if we did not
     sometimes set the scene so as to glorify our results. The blunt
     accusation, the brutal tap upon the shoulder--what can one make of
     such a dÃ©nouement? But the quick inference, the subtle trap, the
     clever forecast of coming events, the triumphant vindication of bold
     theories--are these not the pride and the justification of our life's
     work? At the present moment you thrill with the glamour of the
     situation and the anticipation of the hunt. Where would be that
     thrill if I had been as definite as a timetable? I only ask a little
     patience, Mr. Mac, and all will be clear to you."

     "Well, I hope the pride and justification and the rest of it will
     come before we all get our death of cold," said the London detective
     with comic resignation.

     We all had good reason to join in the aspiration; for our vigil was a
     long and bitter one. Slowly the shadows darkened over the long,
     sombre face of the old house. A cold, damp reek from the moat chilled
     us to the bones and set our teeth chattering. There was a single lamp
     over the gateway and a steady globe of light in the fatal study.
     Everything else was dark and still.

     "How long is this to last?" asked the inspector finally. "And what is
     it we are watching for?"

     "I have no more notion than you how long it is to last," Holmes
     answered with some asperity. "If criminals would always schedule
     their movements like railway trains, it would certainly be more
     convenient for all of us. As to what it is we--Well, that's what we
     are watching for!"

     As he spoke the bright, yellow light in the study was obscured by
     somebody passing to and fro before it. The laurels among which we lay
     were immediately opposite the window and not more than a hundred feet
     from it. Presently it was thrown open with a whining of hinges, and
     we could dimly see the dark outline of a man's head and shoulders
     looking out into the gloom. For some minutes he peered forth in
     furtive, stealthy fashion, as one who wishes to be assured that he is
     unobserved. Then he leaned forward, and in the intense silence we
     were aware of the soft lapping of agitated water. He seemed to be
     stirring up the moat with something which he held in his hand. Then
     suddenly he hauled something in as a fisherman lands a fish--some
     large, round object which obscured the light as it was dragged
     through the open casement.

     "Now!" cried Holmes. "Now!"

     We were all upon our feet, staggering after him with our stiffened
     limbs, while he ran swiftly across the bridge and rang violently at
     the bell. There was the rasping of bolts from the other side, and the
     amazed Ames stood in the entrance. Holmes brushed him aside without a
     word and, followed by all of us, rushed into the room which had been
     occupied by the man whom we had been watching.

     The oil lamp on the table represented the glow which we had seen from
     outside. It was now in the hand of Cecil Barker, who held it towards
     us as we entered. Its light shone upon his strong, resolute,
     clean-shaved face and his menacing eyes.

     "What the devil is the meaning of all this?" he cried. "What are you
     after, anyhow?"

     Holmes took a swift glance round, and then pounced upon a sodden
     bundle tied together with cord which lay where it had been thrust
     under the writing table.

     "This is what we are after, Mr. Barker--this bundle, weighted with a
     dumb-bell, which you have just raised from the bottom of the moat."

     Barker stared at Holmes with amazement in his face. "How in thunder
     came you to know anything about it?" he asked.

     "Simply that I put it there."

     "You put it there! You!"

     "Perhaps I should have said 'replaced it there,'" said Holmes. "You
     will remember, Inspector MacDonald, that I was somewhat struck by the
     absence of a dumb-bell. I drew your attention to it; but with the
     pressure of other events you had hardly the time to give it the
     consideration which would have enabled you to draw deductions from
     it. When water is near and a weight is missing it is not a very
     far-fetched supposition that something has been sunk in the water.
     The idea was at least worth testing; so with the help of Ames, who
     admitted me to the room, and the crook of Dr. Watson's umbrella, I
     was able last night to fish up and inspect this bundle.

     "It was of the first importance, however, that we should be able to
     prove who placed it there. This we accomplished by the very obvious
     device of announcing that the moat would be dried to-morrow, which
     had, of course, the effect that whoever had hidden the bundle would
     most certainly withdraw it the moment that darkness enabled him to do
     so. We have no less than four witnesses as to who it was who took
     advantage of the opportunity, and so, Mr. Barker, I think the word
     lies now with you."

     Sherlock Holmes put the sopping bundle upon the table beside the lamp
     and undid the cord which bound it. From within he extracted a
     dumb-bell, which he tossed down to its fellow in the corner. Next he
     drew forth a pair of boots. "American, as you perceive," he remarked,
     pointing to the toes. Then he laid upon the table a long, deadly,
     sheathed knife. Finally he unravelled a bundle of clothing,
     comprising a complete set of underclothes, socks, a gray tweed suit,
     and a short yellow overcoat.

     "The clothes are commonplace," remarked Holmes, "save only the
     overcoat, which is full of suggestive touches." He held it tenderly
     towards the light. "Here, as you perceive, is the inner pocket
     prolonged into the lining in such fashion as to give ample space for
     the truncated fowling piece. The tailor's tab is on the neck--'Neal,
     Outfitter, Vermissa, U. S. A.' I have spent an instructive afternoon
     in the rector's library, and have enlarged my knowledge by adding the
     fact that Vermissa is a flourishing little town at the head of one of
     the best known coal and iron valleys in the United States. I have
     some recollection, Mr. Barker, that you associated the coal districts
     with Mr. Douglas's first wife, and it would surely not be too
     far-fetched an inference that the V. V. upon the card by the dead
     body might stand for Vermissa Valley, or that this very valley which
     sends forth emissaries of murder may be that Valley of Fear of which
     we have heard. So much is fairly clear. And now, Mr. Barker, I seem
     to be standing rather in the way of your explanation."

     It was a sight to see Cecil Barker's expressive face during this
     exposition of the great detective. Anger, amazement, consternation,
     and indecision swept over it in turn. Finally he took refuge in a
     somewhat acrid irony.

     "You know such a lot, Mr. Holmes, perhaps you had better tell us some
     more," he sneered.

     "I have no doubt that I could tell you a great deal more, Mr. Barker;
     but it would come with a better grace from you."

     "Oh, you think so, do you? Well, all I can say is that if there's any
     secret here it is not my secret, and I am not the man to give it
     away."

     "Well, if you take that line, Mr. Barker," said the inspector
     quietly, "we must just keep you in sight until we have the warrant
     and can hold you."

     "You can do what you damn please about that," said Barker defiantly.

     The proceedings seemed to have come to a definite end so far as he
     was concerned; for one had only to look at that granite face to
     realize that no peine forte et dure would ever force him to plead
     against his will. The deadlock was broken, however, by a woman's
     voice. Mrs. Douglas had been standing listening at the half opened
     door, and now she entered the room.

     "You have done enough for now, Cecil," said she. "Whatever comes of
     it in the future, you have done enough."

     "Enough and more than enough," remarked Sherlock Holmes gravely. "I
     have every sympathy with you, madam, and should strongly urge you to
     have some confidence in the common sense of our jurisdiction and to
     take the police voluntarily into your complete confidence. It may be
     that I am myself at fault for not following up the hint which you
     conveyed to me through my friend, Dr. Watson; but, at that time I had
     every reason to believe that you were directly concerned in the
     crime. Now I am assured that this is not so. At the same time, there
     is much that is unexplained, and I should strongly recommend that you
     ask Mr. Douglas to tell us his own story."

     Mrs. Douglas gave a cry of astonishment at Holmes's words. The
     detectives and I must have echoed it, when we were aware of a man who
     seemed to have emerged from the wall, who advanced now from the gloom
     of the corner in which he had appeared. Mrs. Douglas turned, and in
     an instant her arms were round him. Barker had seized his
     outstretched hand.

     "It's best this way, Jack," his wife repeated; "I am sure that it is
     best."

     "Indeed, yes, Mr. Douglas," said Sherlock Holmes, "I am sure that you
     will find it best."

     The man stood blinking at us with the dazed look of one who comes
     from the dark into the light. It was a remarkable face, bold gray
     eyes, a strong, short-clipped, grizzled moustache, a square,
     projecting chin, and a humorous mouth. He took a good look at us all,
     and then to my amazement he advanced to me and handed me a bundle of
     paper.

     "I've heard of you," said he in a voice which was not quite English
     and not quite American, but was altogether mellow and pleasing. "You
     are the historian of this bunch. Well, Dr. Watson, you've never had
     such a story as that pass through your hands before, and I'll lay my
     last dollar on that. Tell it your own way; but there are the facts,
     and you can't miss the public so long as you have those. I've been
     cooped up two days, and I've spent the daylight hours--as much
     daylight as I could get in that rat trap--in putting the thing into
     words. You're welcome to them--you and your public. There's the story
     of the Valley of Fear."

     "That's the past, Mr. Douglas," said Sherlock Holmes quietly. "What
     we desire now is to hear your story of the present."

     "You'll have it, sir," said Douglas. "May I smoke as I talk? Well,
     thank you, Mr. Holmes. You're a smoker yourself, if I remember right,
     and you'll guess what it is to be sitting for two days with tobacco
     in your pocket and afraid that the smell will give you away." He
     leaned against the mantelpiece and sucked at the cigar which Holmes
     had handed him. "I've heard of you, Mr. Holmes. I never guessed that
     I should meet you. But before you are through with that," he nodded
     at my papers, "you will say I've brought you something fresh."

     Inspector MacDonald had been staring at the newcomer with the
     greatest amazement. "Well, this fairly beats me!" he cried at last.
     "If you are Mr. John Douglas of Birlstone Manor, then whose death
     have we been investigating for these two days, and where in the world
     have you sprung from now? You seemed to me to come out of the floor
     like a jack-in-a-box."

     "Ah, Mr. Mac," said Holmes, shaking a reproving forefinger, "you
     would not read that excellent local compilation which described the
     concealment of King Charles. People did not hide in those days
     without excellent hiding places, and the hiding place that has once
     been used may be again. I had persuaded myself that we should find
     Mr. Douglas under this roof."

     "And how long have you been playing this trick upon us, Mr. Holmes?"
     said the inspector angrily. "How long have you allowed us to waste
     ourselves upon a search that you knew to be an absurd one?"

     "Not one instant, my dear Mr. Mac. Only last night did I form my
     views of the case. As they could not be put to the proof until this
     evening, I invited you and your colleague to take a holiday for the
     day. Pray what more could I do? When I found the suit of clothes in
     the moat, it at once became apparent to me that the body we had found
     could not have been the body of Mr. John Douglas at all, but must be
     that of the bicyclist from Tunbridge Wells. No other conclusion was
     possible. Therefore I had to determine where Mr. John Douglas himself
     could be, and the balance of probability was that with the connivance
     of his wife and his friend he was concealed in a house which had such
     conveniences for a fugitive, and awaiting quieter times when he could
     make his final escape."

     "Well, you figured it out about right," said Douglas approvingly. "I
     thought I'd dodge your British law; for I was not sure how I stood
     under it, and also I saw my chance to throw these hounds once for all
     off my track. Mind you, from first to last I have done nothing to be
     ashamed of, and nothing that I would not do again; but you'll judge
     that for yourselves when I tell you my story. Never mind warning me,
     Inspector: I'm ready to stand pat upon the truth.

     "I'm not going to begin at the beginning. That's all there," he
     indicated my bundle of papers, "and a mighty queer yarn you'll find
     it. It all comes down to this: That there are some men that have good
     cause to hate me and would give their last dollar to know that they
     had got me. So long as I am alive and they are alive, there is no
     safety in this world for me. They hunted me from Chicago to
     California, then they chased me out of America; but when I married
     and settled down in this quiet spot I thought my last years were
     going to be peaceable.

     "I never explained to my wife how things were. Why should I pull her
     into it? She would never have a quiet moment again; but would always
     be imagining trouble. I fancy she knew something, for I may have
     dropped a word here or a word there; but until yesterday, after you
     gentlemen had seen her, she never knew the rights of the matter. She
     told you all she knew, and so did Barker here; for on the night when
     this thing happened there was mighty little time for explanations.
     She knows everything now, and I would have been a wiser man if I had
     told her sooner. But it was a hard question, dear," he took her hand
     for an instant in his own, "and I acted for the best.

     "Well, gentlemen, the day before these happenings I was over in
     Tunbridge Wells, and I got a glimpse of a man in the street. It was
     only a glimpse; but I have a quick eye for these things, and I never
     doubted who it was. It was the worst enemy I had among them all--one
     who has been after me like a hungry wolf after a caribou all these
     years. I knew there was trouble coming, and I came home and made
     ready for it. I guessed I'd fight through it all right on my own, my
     luck was a proverb in the States about '76. I never doubted that it
     would be with me still.

     "I was on my guard all that next day, and never went out into the
     park. It's as well, or he'd have had the drop on me with that
     buckshot gun of his before ever I could draw on him. After the bridge
     was up--my mind was always more restful when that bridge was up in
     the evenings--I put the thing clear out of my head. I never dreamed
     of his getting into the house and waiting for me. But when I made my
     round in my dressing gown, as was my habit, I had no sooner entered
     the study than I scented danger. I guess when a man has had dangers
     in his life--and I've had more than most in my time--there is a kind
     of sixth sense that waves the red flag. I saw the signal clear
     enough, and yet I couldn't tell you why. Next instant I spotted a
     boot under the window curtain, and then I saw why plain enough.

     "I'd just the one candle that was in my hand; but there was a good
     light from the hall lamp through the open door. I put down the candle
     and jumped for a hammer that I'd left on the mantel. At the same
     moment he sprang at me. I saw the glint of a knife, and I lashed at
     him with the hammer. I got him somewhere; for the knife tinkled down
     on the floor. He dodged round the table as quick as an eel, and a
     moment later he'd got his gun from under his coat. I heard him cock
     it; but I had got hold of it before he could fire. I had it by the
     barrel, and we wrestled for it all ends up for a minute or more. It
     was death to the man that lost his grip.

     "He never lost his grip; but he got it butt downward for a moment too
     long. Maybe it was I that pulled the trigger. Maybe we just jolted it
     off between us. Anyhow, he got both barrels in the face, and there I
     was, staring down at all that was left of Ted Baldwin. I'd recognized
     him in the township, and again when he sprang for me; but his own
     mother wouldn't recognize him as I saw him then. I'm used to rough
     work; but I fairly turned sick at the sight of him.

     "I was hanging on the side of the table when Barker came hurrying
     down. I heard my wife coming, and I ran to the door and stopped her.
     It was no sight for a woman. I promised I'd come to her soon. I said
     a word or two to Barker--he took it all in at a glance--and we waited
     for the rest to come along. But there was no sign of them. Then we
     understood that they could hear nothing, and that all that had
     happened was known only to ourselves.

     "It was at that instant that the idea came to me. I was fairly
     dazzled by the brilliance of it. The man's sleeve had slipped up and
     there was the branded mark of the lodge upon his forearm. See here!"

     The man whom we had known as Douglas turned up his own coat and cuff
     to show a brown triangle within a circle exactly like that which we
     had seen upon the dead man.

     "It was the sight of that which started me on it. I seemed to see it
     all clear at a glance. There were his height and hair and figure,
     about the same as my own. No one could swear to his face, poor devil!
     I brought down this suit of clothes, and in a quarter of an hour
     Barker and I had put my dressing gown on him and he lay as you found
     him. We tied all his things into a bundle, and I weighted them with
     the only weight I could find and put them through the window. The
     card he had meant to lay upon my body was lying beside his own.

     "My rings were put on his finger; but when it came to the wedding
     ring," he held out his muscular hand, "you can see for yourselves
     that I had struck the limit. I have not moved it since the day I was
     married, and it would have taken a file to get it off. I don't know,
     anyhow, that I should have cared to part with it; but if I had wanted
     to I couldn't. So we just had to leave that detail to take care of
     itself. On the other hand, I brought a bit of plaster down and put it
     where I am wearing one myself at this instant. You slipped up there,
     Mr. Holmes, clever as you are; for if you had chanced to take off
     that plaster you would have found no cut underneath it.

     "Well, that was the situation. If I could lie low for a while and
     then get away where I could be joined by my 'widow' we should have a
     chance at last of living in peace for the rest of our lives. These
     devils would give me no rest so long as I was above ground; but if
     they saw in the papers that Baldwin had got his man, there would be
     an end of all my troubles. I hadn't much time to make it all clear to
     Barker and to my wife; but they understood enough to be able to help
     me. I knew all about this hiding place, so did Ames; but it never
     entered his head to connect it with the matter. I retired into it,
     and it was up to Barker to do the rest.

     "I guess you can fill in for yourselves what he did. He opened the
     window and made the mark on the sill to give an idea of how the
     murderer escaped. It was a tall order, that; but as the bridge was up
     there was no other way. Then, when everything was fixed, he rang the
     bell for all he was worth. What happened afterward you know. And so,
     gentlemen, you can do what you please; but I've told you the truth
     and the whole truth, so help me God! What I ask you now is how do I
     stand by the English law?"

     There was a silence which was broken by Sherlock Holmes.

     "The English law is in the main a just law. You will get no worse
     than your deserts from that, Mr. Douglas. But I would ask you how did
     this man know that you lived here, or how to get into your house, or
     where to hide to get you?"

     "I know nothing of this."

     Holmes's face was very white and grave. "The story is not over yet, I
     fear," said he. "You may find worse dangers than the English law, or
     even than your enemies from America. I see trouble before you, Mr.
     Douglas. You'll take my advice and still be on your guard."

     And now, my long-suffering readers, I will ask you to come away with
     me for a time, far from the Sussex Manor House of Birlstone, and far
     also from the year of grace in which we made our eventful journey
     which ended with the strange story of the man who had been known as
     John Douglas. I wish you to journey back some twenty years in time,
     and westward some thousands of miles in space, that I may lay before
     you a singular and terrible narrative--so singular and so terrible
     that you may find it hard to believe that even as I tell it, even so
     did it occur.

     Do not think that I intrude one story before another is finished. As
     you read on you will find that this is not so. And when I have
     detailed those distant events and you have solved this mystery of the
     past, we shall meet once more in those rooms on Baker Street, where
     this, like so many other wonderful happenings, will find its end.

     It was the fourth of February in the year 1875. It had been a severe
     winter, and the snow lay deep in the gorges of the Gilmerton
     Mountains. The steam ploughs had, however, kept the railroad open,
     and the evening train which connects the long line of coal-mining and
     iron-working settlements was slowly groaning its way up the steep
     gradients which lead from Stagville on the plain to Vermissa, the
     central township which lies at the head of Vermissa Valley. From this
     point the track sweeps downward to Bartons Crossing, Helmdale, and
     the purely agricultural county of Merton. It was a single-track
     railroad; but at every siding--and they were numerous--long lines of
     trucks piled with coal and iron ore told of the hidden wealth which
     had brought a rude population and a bustling life to this most
     desolate corner of the United States of America.

     For desolate it was! Little could the first pioneer who had traversed
     it have ever imagined that the fairest prairies and the most lush
     water pastures were valueless compared to this gloomy land of black
     crag and tangled forest. Above the dark and often scarcely penetrable
     woods upon their flanks, the high, bare crowns of the mountains,
     white snow, and jagged rock towered upon each flank, leaving a long,
     winding, tortuous valley in the centre. Up this the little train was
     slowly crawling.

     The oil lamps had just been lit in the leading passenger car, a long,
     bare carriage in which some twenty or thirty people were seated. The
     greater number of these were workmen returning from their day's toil
     in the lower part of the valley. At least a dozen, by their grimed
     faces and the safety lanterns which they carried, proclaimed
     themselves miners. These sat smoking in a group and conversed in low
     voices, glancing occasionally at two men on the opposite side of the
     car, whose uniforms and badges showed them to be policemen.

     Several women of the labouring class and one or two travellers who
     might have been small local storekeepers made up the rest of the
     company, with the exception of one young man in a corner by himself.
     It is with this man that we are concerned. Take a good look at him,
     for he is worth it.

     He is a fresh-complexioned, middle-sized young man, not far, one
     would guess, from his thirtieth year. He has large, shrewd, humorous
     gray eyes which twinkle inquiringly from time to time as he looks
     round through his spectacles at the people about him. It is easy to
     see that he is of a sociable and possibly simple disposition, anxious
     to be friendly to all men. Anyone could pick him at once as
     gregarious in his habits and communicative in his nature, with a
     quick wit and a ready smile. And yet the man who studied him more
     closely might discern a certain firmness of jaw and grim tightness
     about the lips which would warn him that there were depths beyond,
     and that this pleasant, brown-haired young Irishman might conceivably
     leave his mark for good or evil upon any society to which he was
     introduced.

     Having made one or two tentative remarks to the nearest miner, and
     receiving only short, gruff replies, the traveller resigned himself
     to uncongenial silence, staring moodily out of the window at the
     fading landscape.

     It was not a cheering prospect. Through the growing gloom there
     pulsed the red glow of the furnaces on the sides of the hills. Great
     heaps of slag and dumps of cinders loomed up on each side, with the
     high shafts of the collieries towering above them. Huddled groups of
     mean, wooden houses, the windows of which were beginning to outline
     themselves in light, were scattered here and there along the line,
     and the frequent halting places were crowded with their swarthy
     inhabitants.

     The iron and coal valleys of the Vermissa district were no resorts
     for the leisured or the cultured. Everywhere there were stern signs
     of the crudest battle of life, the rude work to be done, and the
     rude, strong workers who did it.

     The young traveller gazed out into this dismal country with a face of
     mingled repulsion and interest, which showed that the scene was new
     to him. At intervals he drew from his pocket a bulky letter to which
     he referred, and on the margins of which he scribbled some notes.
     Once from the back of his waist he produced something which one would
     hardly have expected to find in the possession of so mild-mannered a
     man. It was a navy revolver of the largest size. As he turned it
     slantwise to the light, the glint upon the rims of the copper shells
     within the drum showed that it was fully loaded. He quickly restored
     it to his secret pocket, but not before it had been observed by a
     working man who had seated himself upon the adjoining bench.

     "Hullo, mate!" said he. "You seem heeled and ready."

     The young man smiled with an air of embarrassment.

     "Yes," said he, "we need them sometimes in the place I come from."

     "And where may that be?"

     "I'm last from Chicago."

     "A stranger in these parts?"

     "Yes."

     "You may find you need it here," said the workman.

     "Ah! is that so?" The young man seemed interested.

     "Have you heard nothing of doings hereabouts?"

     "Nothing out of the way."

     "Why, I thought the country was full of it. You'll hear quick enough.
     What made you come here?"

     "I heard there was always work for a willing man."

     "Are you a member of the union?"

     "Sure."

     "Then you'll get your job, I guess. Have you any friends?"

     "Not yet; but I have the means of making them."

     "How's that, then?"

     "I am one of the Eminent Order of Freemen. There's no town without a
     lodge, and where there is a lodge I'll find my friends."

     The remark had a singular effect upon his companion. He glanced round
     suspiciously at the others in the car. The miners were still
     whispering among themselves. The two police officers were dozing. He
     came across, seated himself close to the young traveller, and held
     out his hand.

     "Put it there," he said.

     A hand-grip passed between the two.

     "I see you speak the truth," said the workman. "But it's well to make
     certain." He raised his right hand to his right eyebrow. The
     traveller at once raised his left hand to his left eyebrow.

     "Dark nights are unpleasant," said the workman.

     "Yes, for strangers to travel," the other answered.

     "That's good enough. I'm Brother Scanlan, Lodge 341, Vermissa Valley.
     Glad to see you in these parts."

     "Thank you. I'm Brother John McMurdo, Lodge 29, Chicago. Bodymaster
     J. H. Scott. But I am in luck to meet a brother so early."

     "Well, there are plenty of us about. You won't find the order more
     flourishing anywhere in the States than right here in Vermissa
     Valley. But we could do with some lads like you. I can't understand a
     spry man of the union finding no work to do in Chicago."

     "I found plenty of work to do," said McMurdo.

     "Then why did you leave?"

     McMurdo nodded towards the policemen and smiled. "I guess those chaps
     would be glad to know," he said.

     Scanlan groaned sympathetically. "In trouble?" he asked in a whisper.

     "Deep."

     "A penitentiary job?"

     "And the rest."

     "Not a killing!"

     "It's early days to talk of such things," said McMurdo with the air
     of a man who had been surprised into saying more than he intended.
     "I've my own good reasons for leaving Chicago, and let that be enough
     for you. Who are you that you should take it on yourself to ask such
     things?" His gray eyes gleamed with sudden and dangerous anger from
     behind his glasses.

     "All right, mate, no offense meant. The boys will think none the
     worse of you, whatever you may have done. Where are you bound for
     now?"

     "Vermissa."

     "That's the third halt down the line. Where are you staying?"

     McMurdo took out an envelope and held it close to the murky oil lamp.
     "Here is the address--Jacob Shafter, Sheridan Street. It's a boarding
     house that was recommended by a man I knew in Chicago."

     "Well, I don't know it; but Vermissa is out of my beat. I live at
     Hobson's Patch, and that's here where we are drawing up. But, say,
     there's one bit of advice I'll give you before we part: If you're in
     trouble in Vermissa, go straight to the Union House and see Boss
     McGinty. He is the Bodymaster of Vermissa Lodge, and nothing can
     happen in these parts unless Black Jack McGinty wants it. So long,
     mate! Maybe we'll meet in lodge one of these evenings. But mind my
     words: If you are in trouble, go to Boss McGinty."

     Scanlan descended, and McMurdo was left once again to his thoughts.
     Night had now fallen, and the flames of the frequent furnaces were
     roaring and leaping in the darkness. Against their lurid background
     dark figures were bending and straining, twisting and turning, with
     the motion of winch or of windlass, to the rhythm of an eternal clank
     and roar.

     "I guess hell must look something like that," said a voice.

     McMurdo turned and saw that one of the policemen had shifted in his
     seat and was staring out into the fiery waste.

     "For that matter," said the other policeman, "I allow that hell must
     be something like that. If there are worse devils down yonder than
     some we could name, it's more than I'd expect. I guess you are new to
     this part, young man?"

     "Well, what if I am?" McMurdo answered in a surly voice.

     "Just this, mister, that I should advise you to be careful in
     choosing your friends. I don't think I'd begin with Mike Scanlan or
     his gang if I were you."

     "What the hell is it to you who are my friends?" roared McMurdo in a
     voice which brought every head in the carriage round to witness the
     altercation. "Did I ask you for your advice, or did you think me such
     a sucker that I couldn't move without it? You speak when you are
     spoken to, and by the Lord you'd have to wait a long time if it was
     me!" He thrust out his face and grinned at the patrolmen like a
     snarling dog.

     The two policemen, heavy, good-natured men, were taken aback by the
     extraordinary vehemence with which their friendly advances had been
     rejected.

     "No offense, stranger," said one. "It was a warning for your own
     good, seeing that you are, by your own showing, new to the place."

     "I'm new to the place; but I'm not new to you and your kind!" cried
     McMurdo in cold fury. "I guess you're the same in all places, shoving
     your advice in when nobody asks for it."

     "Maybe we'll see more of you before very long," said one of the
     patrolmen with a grin. "You're a real hand-picked one, if I am a
     judge."

     "I was thinking the same," remarked the other. "I guess we may meet
     again."

     "I'm not afraid of you, and don't you think it!" cried McMurdo. "My
     name's Jack McMurdo--see? If you want me, you'll find me at Jacob
     Shafter's on Sheridan Street, Vermissa; so I'm not hiding from you,
     am I? Day or night I dare to look the like of you in the face--don't
     make any mistake about that!"

     There was a murmur of sympathy and admiration from the miners at the
     dauntless demeanour of the newcomer, while the two policemen shrugged
     their shoulders and renewed a conversation between themselves.

     A few minutes later the train ran into the ill-lit station, and there
     was a general clearing; for Vermissa was by far the largest town on
     the line. McMurdo picked up his leather gripsack and was about to
     start off into the darkness, when one of the miners accosted him.

     "By Gar, mate! you know how to speak to the cops," he said in a voice
     of awe. "It was grand to hear you. Let me carry your grip and show
     you the road. I'm passing Shafter's on the way to my own shack."

     There was a chorus of friendly "Good-nights" from the other miners as
     they passed from the platform. Before ever he had set foot in it,
     McMurdo the turbulent had become a character in Vermissa.

     The country had been a place of terror; but the town was in its way
     even more depressing. Down that long valley there was at least a
     certain gloomy grandeur in the huge fires and the clouds of drifting
     smoke, while the strength and industry of man found fitting monuments
     in the hills which he had spilled by the side of his monstrous
     excavations. But the town showed a dead level of mean ugliness and
     squalor. The broad street was churned up by the traffic into a
     horrible rutted paste of muddy snow. The sidewalks were narrow and
     uneven. The numerous gas-lamps served only to show more clearly a
     long line of wooden houses, each with its veranda facing the street,
     unkempt and dirty.

     As they approached the centre of the town the scene was brightened by
     a row of well-lit stores, and even more by a cluster of saloons and
     gaming houses, in which the miners spent their hard-earned but
     generous wages.

     "That's the Union House," said the guide, pointing to one saloon
     which rose almost to the dignity of being a hotel. "Jack McGinty is
     the boss there."

     "What sort of a man is he?" McMurdo asked.

     "What! have you never heard of the boss?"

     "How could I have heard of him when you know that I am a stranger in
     these parts?"

     "Well, I thought his name was known clear across the country. It's
     been in the papers often enough."

     "What for?"

     "Well," the miner lowered his voice--"over the affairs."

     "What affairs?"

     "Good Lord, mister! you are queer, if I must say it without offense.
     There's only one set of affairs that you'll hear of in these parts,
     and that's the affairs of the Scowrers."

     "Why, I seem to have read of the Scowrers in Chicago. A gang of
     murderers, are they not?"

     "Hush, on your life!" cried the miner, standing still in alarm, and
     gazing in amazement at his companion. "Man, you won't live long in
     these parts if you speak in the open street like that. Many a man has
     had the life beaten out of him for less."

     "Well, I know nothing about them. It's only what I have read."

     "And I'm not saying that you have not read the truth." The man looked
     nervously round him as he spoke, peering into the shadows as if he
     feared to see some lurking danger. "If killing is murder, then God
     knows there is murder and to spare. But don't you dare to breathe the
     name of Jack McGinty in connection with it, stranger; for every
     whisper goes back to him, and he is not one that is likely to let it
     pass. Now, that's the house you're after, that one standing back from
     the street. You'll find old Jacob Shafter that runs it as honest a
     man as lives in this township."

     "I thank you," said McMurdo, and shaking hands with his new
     acquaintance he plodded, gripsack in hand, up the path which led to
     the dwelling house, at the door of which he gave a resounding knock.

     It was opened at once by someone very different from what he had
     expected. It was a woman, young and singularly beautiful. She was of
     the German type, blonde and fair-haired, with the piquant contrast of
     a pair of beautiful dark eyes with which she surveyed the stranger
     with surprise and a pleasing embarrassment which brought a wave of
     colour over her pale face. Framed in the bright light of the open
     doorway, it seemed to McMurdo that he had never seen a more beautiful
     picture; the more attractive for its contrast with the sordid and
     gloomy surroundings. A lovely violet growing upon one of those black
     slag-heaps of the mines would not have seemed more surprising. So
     entranced was he that he stood staring without a word, and it was she
     who broke the silence.

     "I thought it was father," said she with a pleasing little touch of a
     German accent. "Did you come to see him? He is downtown. I expect him
     back every minute."

     McMurdo continued to gaze at her in open admiration until her eyes
     dropped in confusion before this masterful visitor.

     "No, miss," he said at last, "I'm in no hurry to see him. But your
     house was recommended to me for board. I thought it might suit
     me--and now I know it will."

     "You are quick to make up your mind," said she with a smile.

     "Anyone but a blind man could do as much," the other answered.

     She laughed at the compliment. "Come right in, sir," she said. "I'm
     Miss Ettie Shafter, Mr. Shafter's daughter. My mother's dead, and I
     run the house. You can sit down by the stove in the front room until
     father comes along--Ah, here he is! So you can fix things with him
     right away."

     A heavy, elderly man came plodding up the path. In a few words
     McMurdo explained his business. A man of the name of Murphy had given
     him the address in Chicago. He in turn had had it from someone else.
     Old Shafter was quite ready. The stranger made no bones about terms,
     agreed at once to every condition, and was apparently fairly flush of
     money. For seven dollars a week paid in advance he was to have board
     and lodging.

     So it was that McMurdo, the self-confessed fugitive from justice,
     took up his abode under the roof of the Shafters, the first step
     which was to lead to so long and dark a train of events, ending in a
     far distant land.

     McMurdo was a man who made his mark quickly. Wherever he was the folk
     around soon knew it. Within a week he had become infinitely the most
     important person at Shafter's. There were ten or a dozen boarders
     there; but they were honest foremen or commonplace clerks from the
     stores, of a very different calibre from the young Irishman. Of an
     evening when they gathered together his joke was always the readiest,
     his conversation the brightest, and his song the best. He was a born
     boon companion, with a magnetism which drew good humour from all
     around him.

     And yet he showed again and again, as he had shown in the railway
     carriage, a capacity for sudden, fierce anger, which compelled the
     respect and even the fear of those who met him. For the law, too, and
     all who were connected with it, he exhibited a bitter contempt which
     delighted some and alarmed others of his fellow boarders.

     From the first he made it evident, by his open admiration, that the
     daughter of the house had won his heart from the instant that he had
     set eyes upon her beauty and her grace. He was no backward suitor. On
     the second day he told her that he loved her, and from then onward he
     repeated the same story with an absolute disregard of what she might
     say to discourage him.

     "Someone else?" he would cry. "Well, the worse luck for someone else!
     Let him look out for himself! Am I to lose my life's chance and all
     my heart's desire for someone else? You can keep on saying no, Ettie:
     the day will come when you will say yes, and I'm young enough to
     wait."

     He was a dangerous suitor, with his glib Irish tongue, and his
     pretty, coaxing ways. There was about him also that glamour of
     experience and of mystery which attracts a woman's interest, and
     finally her love. He could talk of the sweet valleys of County
     Monaghan from which he came, of the lovely, distant island, the low
     hills and green meadows of which seemed the more beautiful when
     imagination viewed them from this place of grime and snow.

     Then he was versed in the life of the cities of the North, of
     Detroit, and the lumber camps of Michigan, and finally of Chicago,
     where he had worked in a planing mill. And afterwards came the hint
     of romance, the feeling that strange things had happened to him in
     that great city, so strange and so intimate that they might not be
     spoken of. He spoke wistfully of a sudden leaving, a breaking of old
     ties, a flight into a strange world, ending in this dreary valley,
     and Ettie listened, her dark eyes gleaming with pity and with
     sympathy--those two qualities which may turn so rapidly and so
     naturally to love.

     McMurdo had obtained a temporary job as bookkeeper; for he was a
     well-educated man. This kept him out most of the day, and he had not
     found occasion yet to report himself to the head of the lodge of the
     Eminent Order of Freemen. He was reminded of his omission, however,
     by a visit one evening from Mike Scanlan, the fellow member whom he
     had met in the train. Scanlan, the small, sharp-faced, nervous,
     black-eyed man, seemed glad to see him once more. After a glass or
     two of whisky he broached the object of his visit.

     "Say, McMurdo," said he, "I remembered your address, so l made bold
     to call. I'm surprised that you've not reported to the Bodymaster.
     Why haven't you seen Boss McGinty yet?"

     "Well, I had to find a job. I have been busy."

     "You must find time for him if you have none for anything else. Good
     Lord, man! you're a fool not to have been down to the Union House and
     registered your name the first morning after you came here! If you
     run against him--well, you mustn't, that's all!"

     McMurdo showed mild surprise. "I've been a member of the lodge for
     over two years, Scanlan, but I never heard that duties were so
     pressing as all that."

     "Maybe not in Chicago."

     "Well, it's the same society here."

     "Is it?"

     Scanlan looked at him long and fixedly. There was something sinister
     in his eyes.

     "Isn't it?"

     "You'll tell me that in a month's time. I hear you had a talk with
     the patrolmen after I left the train."

     "How did you know that?"

     "Oh, it got about--things do get about for good and for bad in this
     district."

     "Well, yes. I told the hounds what I thought of them."

     "By the Lord, you'll be a man after McGinty's heart!"

     "What, does he hate the police too?"

     Scanlan burst out laughing. "You go and see him, my lad," said he as
     he took his leave. "It's not the police but you that he'll hate if
     you don't! Now, take a friend's advice and go at once!"

     It chanced that on the same evening McMurdo had another more pressing
     interview which urged him in the same direction. It may have been
     that his attentions to Ettie had been more evident than before, or
     that they had gradually obtruded themselves into the slow mind of his
     good German host; but, whatever the cause, the boarding-house keeper
     beckoned the young man into his private room and started on the
     subject without any circumlocution.

     "It seems to me, mister," said he, "that you are gettin' set on my
     Ettie. Ain't that so, or am I wrong?"

     "Yes, that is so," the young man answered.

     "Vell, I vant to tell you right now that it ain't no manner of use.
     There's someone slipped in afore you."

     "She told me so."

     "Vell, you can lay that she told you truth. But did she tell you who
     it vas?"

     "No, I asked her; but she wouldn't tell."

     "I dare say not, the leetle baggage! Perhaps she did not vish to
     frighten you avay."

     "Frighten!" McMurdo was on fire in a moment.

     "Ah, yes, my friend! You need not be ashamed to be frightened of him.
     It is Teddy Baldwin."

     "And who the devil is he?"

     "He is a boss of Scowrers."

     "Scowrers! I've heard of them before. It's Scowrers here and Scowrers
     there, and always in a whisper! What are you all afraid of? Who are
     the Scowrers?"

     The boarding-house keeper instinctively sank his voice, as everyone
     did who talked about that terrible society. "The Scowrers," said he,
     "are the Eminent Order of Freemen!"

     The young man stared. "Why, I am a member of that order myself."

     "You! I vould never have had you in my house if I had known it--not
     if you vere to pay me a hundred dollar a week."

     "What's wrong with the order? It's for charity and good fellowship.
     The rules say so."

     "Maybe in some places. Not here!"

     "What is it here?"

     "It's a murder society, that's vat it is."

     McMurdo laughed incredulously. "How can you prove that?" he asked.

     "Prove it! Are there not fifty murders to prove it? Vat about Milman
     and Van Shorst, and the Nicholson family, and old Mr. Hyam, and
     little Billy James, and the others? Prove it! Is there a man or a
     voman in this valley vat does not know it?"

     "See here!" said McMurdo earnestly. "I want you to take back what
     you've said, or else make it good. One or the other you must do
     before I quit this room. Put yourself in my place. Here am I, a
     stranger in the town. I belong to a society that I know only as an
     innocent one. You'll find it through the length and breadth of the
     States, but always as an innocent one. Now, when I am counting upon
     joining it here, you tell me that it is the same as a murder society
     called the Scowrers. I guess you owe me either an apology or else an
     explanation, Mr. Shafter."

     "I can but tell you vat the whole vorld knows, mister. The bosses of
     the one are the bosses of the other. If you offend the one, it is the
     other vat vill strike you. We have proved it too often."

     "That's just gossip--I want proof!" said McMurdo.

     "If you live here long you vill get your proof. But I forget that you
     are yourself one of them. You vill soon be as bad as the rest. But
     you vill find other lodgings, mister. I cannot have you here. Is it
     not bad enough that one of these people come courting my Ettie, and
     that I dare not turn him down, but that I should have another for my
     boarder? Yes, indeed, you shall not sleep here after to-night!"

     McMurdo found himself under sentence of banishment both from his
     comfortable quarters and from the girl whom he loved. He found her
     alone in the sitting-room that same evening, and he poured his
     troubles into her ear.

     "Sure, your father is after giving me notice," he said. "It's little
     I would care if it was just my room, but indeed, Ettie, though it's
     only a week that I've known you, you are the very breath of life to
     me, and I can't live without you!"

     "Oh, hush, Mr. McMurdo, don't speak so!" said the girl. "I have told
     you, have I not, that you are too late? There is another, and if I
     have not promised to marry him at once, at least I can promise no one
     else."

     "Suppose I had been first, Ettie, would I have had a chance?"

     The girl sank her face into her hands. "I wish to heaven that you had
     been first!" she sobbed.

     McMurdo was down on his knees before her in an instant. "For God's
     sake, Ettie, let it stand at that!" he cried. "Will you ruin your
     life and my own for the sake of this promise? Follow your heart,
     acushla! 'Tis a safer guide than any promise before you knew what it
     was that you were saying."

     He had seized Ettie's white hand between his own strong brown ones.

     "Say that you will be mine, and we will face it out together!"

     "Not here?"

     "Yes, here."

     "No, no, Jack!" His arms were round her now. "It could not be here.
     Could you take me away?"

     A struggle passed for a moment over McMurdo's face; but it ended by
     setting like granite. "No, here," he said. "I'll hold you against the
     world, Ettie, right here where we are!"

     "Why should we not leave together?"

     "No, Ettie, I can't leave here."

     "But why?"

     "I'd never hold my head up again if I felt that I had been driven
     out. Besides, what is there to be afraid of? Are we not free folks in
     a free country? If you love me, and I you, who will dare to come
     between?"

     "You don't know, Jack. You've been here too short a time. You don't
     know this Baldwin. You don't know McGinty and his Scowrers."

     "No, I don't know them, and I don't fear them, and I don't believe in
     them!" said McMurdo. "I've lived among rough men, my darling, and
     instead of fearing them it has always ended that they have feared
     me--always, Ettie. It's mad on the face of it! If these men, as your
     father says, have done crime after crime in the valley, and if
     everyone knows them by name, how comes it that none are brought to
     justice? You answer me that, Ettie!"

     "Because no witness dares to appear against them. He would not live a
     month if he did. Also because they have always their own men to swear
     that the accused one was far from the scene of the crime. But surely,
     Jack, you must have read all this. I had understood that every paper
     in the United States was writing about it."

     "Well, I have read something, it is true; but I had thought it was a
     story. Maybe these men have some reason in what they do. Maybe they
     are wronged and have no other way to help themselves."

     "Oh, Jack, don't let me hear you speak so! That is how he speaks--the
     other one!"

     "Baldwin--he speaks like that, does he?"

     "And that is why I loathe him so. Oh, Jack, now I can tell you the
     truth. I loathe him with all my heart; but I fear him also. I fear
     him for myself; but above all I fear him for father. I know that some
     great sorrow would come upon us if I dared to say what I really felt.
     That is why I have put him off with half-promises. It was in real
     truth our only hope. But if you would fly with me, Jack, we could
     take father with us and live forever far from the power of these
     wicked men."

     Again there was the struggle upon McMurdo's face, and again it set
     like granite. "No harm shall come to you, Ettie--nor to your father
     either. As to wicked men, I expect you may find that I am as bad as
     the worst of them before we're through."

     "No, no, Jack! I would trust you anywhere."

     McMurdo laughed bitterly. "Good Lord! how little you know of me! Your
     innocent soul, my darling, could not even guess what is passing in
     mine. But, hullo, who's the visitor?"

     The door had opened suddenly, and a young fellow came swaggering in
     with the air of one who is the master. He was a handsome, dashing
     young man of about the same age and build as McMurdo himself. Under
     his broad-brimmed black felt hat, which he had not troubled to
     remove, a handsome face with fierce, domineering eyes and a curved
     hawk-bill of a nose looked savagely at the pair who sat by the stove.

     Ettie had jumped to her feet full of confusion and alarm. "I'm glad
     to see you, Mr. Baldwin," said she. "You're earlier than I had
     thought. Come and sit down."

     Baldwin stood with his hands on his hips looking at McMurdo. "Who is
     this?" he asked curtly.

     "It's a friend of mine, Mr. Baldwin, a new boarder here. Mr. McMurdo,
     may I introduce you to Mr. Baldwin?"

     The young men nodded in surly fashion to each other.

     "Maybe Miss Ettie has told you how it is with us?" said Baldwin.

     "I didn't understand that there was any relation between you."

     "Didn't you? Well, you can understand it now. You can take it from me
     that this young lady is mine, and you'll find it a very fine evening
     for a walk."

     "Thank you, I am in no humour for a walk."

     "Aren't you?" The man's savage eyes were blazing with anger. "Maybe
     you are in a humour for a fight, Mr. Boarder!"

     "That I am!" cried McMurdo, springing to his feet. "You never said a
     more welcome word."

     "For God's sake, Jack! Oh, for God's sake!" cried poor, distracted
     Ettie. "Oh, Jack, Jack, he will hurt you!"

     "Oh, it's Jack, is it?" said Baldwin with an oath. "You've come to
     that already, have you?"

     "Oh, Ted, be reasonable--be kind! For my sake, Ted, if ever you loved
     me, be big-hearted and forgiving!"

     "I think, Ettie, that if you were to leave us alone we could get this
     thing settled," said McMurdo quietly. "Or maybe, Mr. Baldwin, you
     will take a turn down the street with me. It's a fine evening, and
     there's some open ground beyond the next block."

     "I'll get even with you without needing to dirty my hands," said his
     enemy. "You'll wish you had never set foot in this house before I am
     through with you!"

     "No time like the present," cried McMurdo.

     "I'll choose my own time, mister. You can leave the time to me. See
     here!" He suddenly rolled up his sleeve and showed upon his forearm a
     peculiar sign which appeared to have been branded there. It was a
     circle with a triangle within it. "D'you know what that means?"

     "I neither know nor care!"

     "Well, you will know, I'll promise you that. You won't be much older,
     either. Perhaps Miss Ettie can tell you something about it. As to
     you, Ettie, you'll come back to me on your knees--d'ye hear,
     girl?--on your knees--and then I'll tell you what your punishment may
     be. You've sowed--and by the Lord, I'll see that you reap!" He
     glanced at them both in fury. Then he turned upon his heel, and an
     instant later the outer door had banged behind him.

     For a few moments McMurdo and the girl stood in silence. Then she
     threw her arms around him.

     "Oh, Jack, how brave you were! But it is no use, you must fly!
     To-night--Jack--to-night! It's your only hope. He will have your
     life. I read it in his horrible eyes. What chance have you against a
     dozen of them, with Boss McGinty and all the power of the lodge
     behind them?"

     McMurdo disengaged her hands, kissed her, and gently pushed her back
     into a chair. "There, acushla, there! Don't be disturbed or fear for
     me. I'm a Freeman myself. I'm after telling your father about it.
     Maybe I am no better than the others; so don't make a saint of me.
     Perhaps you hate me too, now that I've told you as much?"

     "Hate you, Jack? While life lasts I could never do that! I've heard
     that there is no harm in being a Freeman anywhere but here; so why
     should I think the worse of you for that? But if you are a Freeman,
     Jack, why should you not go down and make a friend of Boss McGinty?
     Oh, hurry, Jack, hurry! Get your word in first, or the hounds will be
     on your trail."

     "I was thinking the same thing," said McMurdo. "I'll go right now and
     fix it. You can tell your father that I'll sleep here to-night and
     find some other quarters in the morning."

     The bar of McGinty's saloon was crowded as usual, for it was the
     favourite loafing place of all the rougher elements of the town. The
     man was popular; for he had a rough, jovial disposition which formed
     a mask, covering a great deal which lay behind it. But apart from
     this popularity, the fear in which he was held throughout the
     township, and indeed down the whole thirty miles of the valley and
     past the mountains on each side of it, was enough in itself to fill
     his bar; for none could afford to neglect his good will.

     Besides those secret powers which it was universally believed that he
     exercised in so pitiless a fashion, he was a high public official, a
     municipal councillor, and a commissioner of roads, elected to the
     office through the votes of the ruffians who in turn expected to
     receive favours at his hands. Assessments and taxes were enormous;
     the public works were notoriously neglected, the accounts were
     slurred over by bribed auditors, and the decent citizen was
     terrorized into paying public blackmail, and holding his tongue lest
     some worse thing befall him.

     Thus it was that, year by year, Boss McGinty's diamond pins became
     more obtrusive, his gold chains more weighty across a more gorgeous
     vest, and his saloon stretched farther and farther, until it
     threatened to absorb one whole side of the Market Square.

     McMurdo pushed open the swinging door of the saloon and made his way
     amid the crowd of men within, through an atmosphere blurred with
     tobacco smoke and heavy with the smell of spirits. The place was
     brilliantly lighted, and the huge, heavily gilt mirrors upon every
     wall reflected and multiplied the garish illumination. There were
     several bartenders in their shirt sleeves, hard at work mixing drinks
     for the loungers who fringed the broad, brass-trimmed counter.

     At the far end, with his body resting upon the bar and a cigar stuck
     at an acute angle from the corner of his mouth, stood a tall, strong,
     heavily built man who could be none other than the famous McGinty
     himself. He was a black-maned giant, bearded to the cheek-bones, and
     with a shock of raven hair which fell to his collar. His complexion
     was as swarthy as that of an Italian, and his eyes were of a strange
     dead black, which, combined with a slight squint, gave them a
     particularly sinister appearance.

     All else in the man--his noble proportions, his fine features, and
     his frank bearing--fitted in with that jovial, man-to-man manner
     which he affected. Here, one would say, is a bluff, honest fellow,
     whose heart would be sound however rude his outspoken words might
     seem. It was only when those dead, dark eyes, deep and remorseless,
     were turned upon a man that he shrank within himself, feeling that he
     was face to face with an infinite possibility of latent evil, with a
     strength and courage and cunning behind it which made it a thousand
     times more deadly.

     Having had a good look at his man, McMurdo elbowed his way forward
     with his usual careless audacity, and pushed himself through the
     little group of courtiers who were fawning upon the powerful boss,
     laughing uproariously at the smallest of his jokes. The young
     stranger's bold gray eyes looked back fearlessly through their
     glasses at the deadly black ones which turned sharply upon him.

     "Well, young man, I can't call your face to mind."

     "I'm new here, Mr. McGinty."

     "You are not so new that you can't give a gentleman his proper
     title."

     "He's Councillor McGinty, young man," said a voice from the group.

     "I'm sorry, Councillor. I'm strange to the ways of the place. But I
     was advised to see you."

     "Well, you see me. This is all there is. What d'you think of me?"

     "Well, it's early days. If your heart is as big as your body, and
     your soul as fine as your face, then I'd ask for nothing better,"
     said McMurdo.

     "By Gar! you've got an Irish tongue in your head anyhow," cried the
     saloon-keeper, not quite certain whether to humour this audacious
     visitor or to stand upon his dignity.

     "So you are good enough to pass my appearance?"

     "Sure," said McMurdo.

     "And you were told to see me?"

     "I was."

     "And who told you?"

     "Brother Scanlan of Lodge 341, Vermissa. I drink your health
     Councillor, and to our better acquaintance." He raised a glass with
     which he had been served to his lips and elevated his little finger
     as he drank it.

     McGinty, who had been watching him narrowly, raised his thick black
     eyebrows. "Oh, it's like that, is it?" said he. "I'll have to look a
     bit closer into this, Mister--"

     "McMurdo."

     "A bit closer, Mr. McMurdo; for we don't take folk on trust in these
     parts, nor believe all we're told neither. Come in here for a moment,
     behind the bar."

     There was a small room there, lined with barrels. McGinty carefully
     closed the door, and then seated himself on one of them, biting
     thoughtfully on his cigar and surveying his companion with those
     disquieting eyes. For a couple of minutes he sat in complete silence.
     McMurdo bore the inspection cheerfully, one hand in his coat pocket,
     the other twisting his brown moustache. Suddenly McGinty stooped and
     produced a wicked-looking revolver.

     "See here, my joker," said he, "if I thought you were playing any
     game on us, it would be short work for you."

     "This is a strange welcome," McMurdo answered with some dignity, "for
     the Bodymaster of a lodge of Freemen to give to a stranger brother."

     "Ay, but it's just that same that you have to prove," said McGinty,
     "and God help you if you fail! Where were you made?"

     "Lodge 29, Chicago."

     "When?"

     "June 24, 1872."

     "What Bodymaster?"

     "James H. Scott."

     "Who is your district ruler?"

     "Bartholomew Wilson."

     "Hum! You seem glib enough in your tests. What are you doing here?"

     "Working, the same as you--but a poorer job."

     "You have your back answer quick enough."

     "Yes, I was always quick of speech."

     "Are you quick of action?"

     "I have had that name among those that knew me best."

     "Well, we may try you sooner than you think. Have you heard anything
     of the lodge in these parts?"

     "I've heard that it takes a man to be a brother."

     "True for you, Mr. McMurdo. Why did you leave Chicago?"

     "I'm damned if I tell you that!"

     McGinty opened his eyes. He was not used to being answered in such
     fashion, and it amused him. "Why won't you tell me?"

     "Because no brother may tell another a lie."

     "Then the truth is too bad to tell?"

     "You can put it that way if you like."

     "See here, mister, you can't expect me, as Bodymaster, to pass into
     the lodge a man for whose past he can't answer."

     McMurdo looked puzzled. Then he took a worn newspaper cutting from an
     inner pocket.

     "You wouldn't squeal on a fellow?" said he.

     "I'll wipe my hand across your face if you say such words to me!"
     cried McGinty hotly.

     "You are right, Councillor," said McMurdo meekly. "I should
     apologize. I spoke without thought. Well, I know that I am safe in
     your hands. Look at that clipping."

     McGinty glanced his eyes over the account of the shooting of one
     Jonas Pinto, in the Lake Saloon, Market Street, Chicago, in the New
     Year week of 1874.

     "Your work?" he asked, as he handed back the paper.

     McMurdo nodded.

     "Why did you shoot him?"

     "I was helping Uncle Sam to make dollars. Maybe mine were not as good
     gold as his, but they looked as well and were cheaper to make. This
     man Pinto helped me to shove the queer--"

     "To do what?"

     "Well, it means to pass the dollars out into circulation. Then he
     said he would split. Maybe he did split. I didn't wait to see. I just
     killed him and lighted out for the coal country."

     "Why the coal country?"

     "'Cause I'd read in the papers that they weren't too particular in
     those parts."

     McGinty laughed. "You were first a coiner and then a murderer, and
     you came to these parts because you thought you'd be welcome."

     "That's about the size of it," McMurdo answered.

     "Well, I guess you'll go far. Say, can you make those dollars yet?"

     McMurdo took half a dozen from his pocket. "Those never passed the
     Philadelphia mint," said he.

     "You don't say!" McGinty held them to the light in his enormous hand,
     which was hairy as a gorilla's. "I can see no difference. Gar! you'll
     be a mighty useful brother, I'm thinking! We can do with a bad man or
     two among us, Friend McMurdo: for there are times when we have to
     take our own part. We'd soon be against the wall if we didn't shove
     back at those that were pushing us."

     "Well, I guess I'll do my share of shoving with the rest of the
     boys."

     "You seem to have a good nerve. You didn't squirm when I shoved this
     gun at you."

     "It was not me that was in danger."

     "Who then?"

     "It was you, Councillor." McMurdo drew a cocked pistol from the side
     pocket of his peajacket. "I was covering you all the time. I guess my
     shot would have been as quick as yours."

     "By Gar!" McGinty flushed an angry red and then burst into a roar of
     laughter. "Say, we've had no such holy terror come to hand this many
     a year. I reckon the lodge will learn to be proud of you ... Well,
     what the hell do you want? And can't I speak alone with a gentleman
     for five minutes but you must butt in on us?"

     The bartender stood abashed. "I'm sorry, Councillor, but it's Ted
     Baldwin. He says he must see you this very minute."

     The message was unnecessary; for the set, cruel face of the man
     himself was looking over the servant's shoulder. He pushed the
     bartender out and closed the door on him.

     "So," said he with a furious glance at McMurdo, "you got here first,
     did you? I've a word to say to you, Councillor, about this man."

     "Then say it here and now before my face," cried McMurdo.

     "I'll say it at my own time, in my own way."

     "Tut! Tut!" said McGinty, getting off his barrel. "This will never
     do. We have a new brother here, Baldwin, and it's not for us to greet
     him in such fashion. Hold out your hand, man, and make it up!"

     "Never!" cried Baldwin in a fury.

     "I've offered to fight him if he thinks I have wronged him," said
     McMurdo. "I'll fight him with fists, or, if that won't satisfy him,
     I'll fight him any other way he chooses. Now, I'll leave it to you,
     Councillor, to judge between us as a Bodymaster should."

     "What is it, then?"

     "A young lady. She's free to choose for herself."

     "Is she?" cried Baldwin.

     "As between two brothers of the lodge I should say that she was,"
     said the Boss.

     "Oh, that's your ruling, is it?"

     "Yes, it is, Ted Baldwin," said McGinty, with a wicked stare. "Is it
     you that would dispute it?"

     "You would throw over one that has stood by you this five years in
     favour of a man that you never saw before in your life? You're not
     Bodymaster for life, Jack McGinty, and by God! when next it comes to
     a vote--"

     The Councillor sprang at him like a tiger. His hand closed round the
     other's neck, and he hurled him back across one of the barrels. In
     his mad fury he would have squeezed the life out of him if McMurdo
     had not interfered.

     "Easy, Councillor! For heaven's sake, go easy!" he cried, as he
     dragged him back.

     McGinty released his hold, and Baldwin, cowed and shaken gasping for
     breath, and shivering in every limb, as one who has looked over the
     very edge of death, sat up on the barrel over which he had been
     hurled.

     "You've been asking for it this many a day, Ted Baldwin--now you've
     got it!" cried McGinty, his huge chest rising and falling. "Maybe you
     think if I was voted down from Bodymaster you would find yourself in
     my shoes. It's for the lodge to say that. But so long as I am the
     chief I'll have no man lift his voice against me or my rulings."

     "I have nothing against you," mumbled Baldwin, feeling his throat.

     "Well, then," cried the other, relapsing in a moment into a bluff
     joviality, "we are all good friends again and there's an end of the
     matter."

     He took a bottle of champagne down from the shelf and twisted out the
     cork.

     "See now," he continued, as he filled three high glasses. "Let us
     drink the quarrelling toast of the lodge. After that, as you know,
     there can be no bad blood between us. Now, then the left hand on the
     apple of my throat. I say to you, Ted Baldwin, what is the offense,
     sir?"

     "The clouds are heavy," answered Baldwin.

     "But they will forever brighten."

     "And this I swear!"

     The men drank their glasses, and the same ceremony was performed
     between Baldwin and McMurdo

     "There!" cried McGinty, rubbing his hands. "That's the end of the
     black blood. You come under lodge discipline if it goes further, and
     that's a heavy hand in these parts, as Brother Baldwin knows--and as
     you will damn soon find out, Brother McMurdo, if you ask for
     trouble!"

     "Faith, I'd be slow to do that," said McMurdo. He held out his hand
     to Baldwin. "I'm quick to quarrel and quick to forgive. It's my hot
     Irish blood, they tell me. But it's over for me, and I bear no
     grudge."

     Baldwin had to take the proffered hand, for the baleful eye of the
     terrible Boss was upon him. But his sullen face showed how little the
     words of the other had moved him.

     McGinty clapped them both on the shoulders. "Tut! These girls! These
     girls!" he cried. "To think that the same petticoats should come
     between two of my boys! It's the devil's own luck! Well, it's the
     colleen inside of them that must settle the question for it's outside
     the jurisdiction of a Bodymaster--and the Lord be praised for that!
     We have enough on us, without the women as well. You'll have to be
     affiliated to Lodge 341, Brother McMurdo. We have our own ways and
     methods, different from Chicago. Saturday night is our meeting, and
     if you come then, we'll make you free forever of the Vermissa
     Valley."

     On the day following the evening which had contained so many exciting
     events, McMurdo moved his lodgings from old Jacob Shafter's and took
     up his quarters at the Widow MacNamara's on the extreme outskirts of
     the town. Scanlan, his original acquaintance aboard the train, had
     occasion shortly afterwards to move into Vermissa, and the two lodged
     together. There was no other boarder, and the hostess was an
     easy-going old Irishwoman who left them to themselves; so that they
     had a freedom for speech and action welcome to men who had secrets in
     common.

     Shafter had relented to the extent of letting McMurdo come to his
     meals there when he liked; so that his intercourse with Ettie was by
     no means broken. On the contrary, it drew closer and more intimate as
     the weeks went by.

     In his bedroom at his new abode McMurdo felt it safe to take out the
     coining moulds, and under many a pledge of secrecy a number of
     brothers from the lodge were allowed to come in and see them, each
     carrying away in his pocket some examples of the false money, so
     cunningly struck that there was never the slightest difficulty or
     danger in passing it. Why, with such a wonderful art at his command,
     McMurdo should condescend to work at all was a perpetual mystery to
     his companions; though he made it clear to anyone who asked him that
     if he lived without any visible means it would very quickly bring the
     police upon his track.

     One policeman was indeed after him already; but the incident, as luck
     would have it, did the adventurer a great deal more good than harm.
     After the first introduction there were few evenings when he did not
     find his way to McGinty's saloon, there to make closer acquaintance
     with "the boys," which was the jovial title by which the dangerous
     gang who infested the place were known to one another. His dashing
     manner and fearlessness of speech made him a favourite with them all;
     while the rapid and scientific way in which he polished off his
     antagonist in an "all in" bar-room scrap earned the respect of that
     rough community. Another incident, however, raised him even higher in
     their estimation.

     Just at the crowded hour one night, the door opened and a man entered
     with the quiet blue uniform and peaked cap of the mine police. This
     was a special body raised by the railways and colliery owners to
     supplement the efforts of the ordinary civil police, who were
     perfectly helpless in the face of the organized ruffianism which
     terrorized the district. There was a hush as he entered, and many a
     curious glance was cast at him; but the relations between policemen
     and criminals are peculiar in some parts of the States, and McGinty
     himself standing behind his counter, showed no surprise when the
     policeman enrolled himself among his customers.

     "A straight whisky, for the night is bitter," said the police
     officer. "I don't think we have met before, Councillor?"

     "You'll be the new captain?" said McGinty.

     "That's so. We're looking to you, Councillor, and to the other
     leading citizens, to help us in upholding law and order in this
     township. Captain Marvin is my name."

     "We'd do better without you, Captain Marvin," said McGinty coldly;
     "for we have our own police of the township, and no need for any
     imported goods. What are you but the paid tool of the capitalists,
     hired by them to club or shoot your poorer fellow citizen?"

     "Well, well, we won't argue about that," said the police officer
     good-humouredly. "I expect we all do our duty same as we see it; but
     we can't all see it the same." He had drunk off his glass and had
     turned to go, when his eyes fell upon the face of Jack McMurdo, who
     was scowling at his elbow. "Hullo! Hullo!" he cried, looking him up
     and down. "Here's an old acquaintance!"

     McMurdo shrank away from him. "I was never a friend to you nor any
     other cursed copper in my life," said he.

     "An acquaintance isn't always a friend," said the police captain,
     grinning. "You're Jack McMurdo of Chicago, right enough, and don't
     you deny it!"

     McMurdo shrugged his shoulders. "I'm not denying it," said he. "D'ye
     think I'm ashamed of my own name?"

     "You've got good cause to be, anyhow."

     "What the devil d'you mean by that?" he roared with his fists
     clenched.

     "No, no, Jack, bluster won't do with me. I was an officer in Chicago
     before ever I came to this darned coal bunker, and I know a Chicago
     crook when I see one."

     McMurdo's face fell. "Don't tell me that you're Marvin of the Chicago
     Central!" he cried.

     "Just the same old Teddy Marvin, at your service. We haven't
     forgotten the shooting of Jonas Pinto up there."

     "I never shot him."

     "Did you not? That's good impartial evidence, ain't it? Well, his
     death came in uncommon handy for you, or they would have had you for
     shoving the queer. Well, we can let that be bygones; for, between you
     and me--and perhaps I'm going further than my duty in saying it--they
     could get no clear case against you, and Chicago's open to you
     to-morrow."

     "I'm very well where I am."

     "Well, I've given you the pointer, and you're a sulky dog not to
     thank me for it."

     "Well, I suppose you mean well, and I do thank you," said McMurdo in
     no very gracious manner.

     "It's mum with me so long as I see you living on the straight," said
     the captain. "But, by the Lord! if you get off after this, it's
     another story! So good-night to you--and goodnight, Councillor."

     He left the bar-room; but not before he had created a local hero.
     McMurdo's deeds in far Chicago had been whispered before. He had put
     off all questions with a smile, as one who did not wish to have
     greatness thrust upon him. But now the thing was officially
     confirmed. The bar loafers crowded round him and shook him heartily
     by the hand. He was free of the community from that time on. He could
     drink hard and show little trace of it; but that evening, had his
     mate Scanlan not been at hand to lead him home, the feted hero would
     surely have spent his night under the bar.

     On a Saturday night McMurdo was introduced to the lodge. He had
     thought to pass in without ceremony as being an initiate of Chicago;
     but there were particular rites in Vermissa of which they were proud,
     and these had to be undergone by every postulant. The assembly met in
     a large room reserved for such purposes at the Union House. Some
     sixty members assembled at Vermissa; but that by no means represented
     the full strength of the organization, for there were several other
     lodges in the valley, and others across the mountains on each side,
     who exchanged members when any serious business was afoot, so that a
     crime might be done by men who were strangers to the locality.
     Altogether there were not less than five hundred scattered over the
     coal district.

     In the bare assembly room the men were gathered round a long table.
     At the side was a second one laden with bottles and glasses, on which
     some members of the company were already turning their eyes. McGinty
     sat at the head with a flat black velvet cap upon his shock of
     tangled black hair, and a coloured purple stole round his neck, so
     that he seemed to be a priest presiding over some diabolical ritual.
     To right and left of him were the higher lodge officials, the cruel,
     handsome face of Ted Baldwin among them. Each of these wore some
     scarf or medallion as emblem of his office.

     They were, for the most part, men of mature age; but the rest of the
     company consisted of young fellows from eighteen to twenty-five, the
     ready and capable agents who carried out the commands of their
     seniors. Among the older men were many whose features showed the
     tigerish, lawless souls within; but looking at the rank and file it
     was difficult to believe that these eager and open-faced young
     fellows were in very truth a dangerous gang of murderers, whose minds
     had suffered such complete moral perversion that they took a horrible
     pride in their proficiency at the business, and looked with deepest
     respect at the man who had the reputation of making what they called
     "a clean job."

     To their contorted natures it had become a spirited and chivalrous
     thing to volunteer for service against some man who had never injured
     them, and whom in many cases they had never seen in their lives. The
     crime committed, they quarrelled as to who had actually struck the
     fatal blow, and amused one another and the company by describing the
     cries and contortions of the murdered man.

     At first they had shown some secrecy in their arrangements; but at
     the time which this narrative describes their proceedings were
     extraordinarily open, for the repeated failures of the law had proved
     to them that, on the one hand, no one would dare to witness against
     them, and on the other they had an unlimited number of stanch
     witnesses upon whom they could call, and a well-filled treasure chest
     from which they could draw the funds to engage the best legal talent
     in the state. In ten long years of outrage there had been no single
     conviction, and the only danger that ever threatened the Scowrers lay
     in the victim himself--who, however outnumbered and taken by
     surprise, might and occasionally did leave his mark upon his
     assailants.

     McMurdo had been warned that some ordeal lay before him; but no one
     would tell him in what it consisted. He was led now into an outer
     room by two solemn brothers. Through the plank partition he could
     hear the murmur of many voices from the assembly within. Once or
     twice he caught the sound of his own name, and he knew that they were
     discussing his candidacy. Then there entered an inner guard with a
     green and gold sash across his chest.

     "The Bodymaster orders that he shall be trussed, blinded, and
     entered," said he.

     The three of them removed his coat, turned up the sleeve of his right
     arm, and finally passed a rope round above the elbows and made it
     fast. They next placed a thick black cap right over his head and the
     upper part of his face, so that he could see nothing. He was then led
     into the assembly hall.

     It was pitch dark and very oppressive under his hood. He heard the
     rustle and murmur of the people round him, and then the voice of
     McGinty sounded dull and distant through the covering of his ears.

     "John McMurdo," said the voice, "are you already a member of the
     Ancient Order of Freemen?"

     He bowed in assent.

     "Is your lodge No. 29, Chicago?"

     He bowed again.

     "Dark nights are unpleasant," said the voice.

     "Yes, for strangers to travel," he answered.

     "The clouds are heavy."

     "Yes, a storm is approaching."

     "Are the brethren satisfied?" asked the Bodymaster.

     There was a general murmur of assent.

     "We know, Brother, by your sign and by your countersign that you are
     indeed one of us," said McGinty. "We would have you know, however,
     that in this county and in other counties of these parts we have
     certain rites, and also certain duties of our own which call for good
     men. Are you ready to be tested?"

     "I am."

     "Are you of stout heart?"

     "I am."

     "Take a stride forward to prove it."

     As the words were said he felt two hard points in front of his eyes,
     pressing upon them so that it appeared as if he could not move
     forward without a danger of losing them. None the less, he nerved
     himself to step resolutely out, and as he did so the pressure melted
     away. There was a low murmur of applause.

     "He is of stout heart," said the voice. "Can you bear pain?"

     "As well as another," he answered.

     "Test him!"

     It was all he could do to keep himself from screaming out, for an
     agonizing pain shot through his forearm. He nearly fainted at the
     sudden shock of it; but he bit his lip and clenched his hands to hide
     his agony.

     "I can take more than that," said he.

     This time there was loud applause. A finer first appearance had never
     been made in the lodge. Hands clapped him on the back, and the hood
     was plucked from his head. He stood blinking and smiling amid the
     congratulations of the brothers.

     "One last word, Brother McMurdo," said McGinty. "You have already
     sworn the oath of secrecy and fidelity, and you are aware that the
     punishment for any breach of it is instant and inevitable death?"

     "I am," said McMurdo.

     "And you accept the rule of the Bodymaster for the time being under
     all circumstances?"

     "I do."

     "Then in the name of Lodge 341, Vermissa, I welcome you to its
     privileges and debates. You will put the liquor on the table, Brother
     Scanlan, and we will drink to our worthy brother."

     McMurdo's coat had been brought to him; but before putting it on he
     examined his right arm, which still smarted heavily. There on the
     flesh of the forearm was a circle with a triangle within it, deep and
     red, as the branding iron had left it. One or two of his neighbours
     pulled up their sleeves and showed their own lodge marks.

     "We've all had it," said one; "but not all as brave as you over it."

     "Tut! It was nothing," said he; but it burned and ached all the same.

     When the drinks which followed the ceremony of initiation had all
     been disposed of, the business of the lodge proceeded. McMurdo,
     accustomed only to the prosaic performances of Chicago, listened with
     open ears and more surprise than he ventured to show to what
     followed.

     "The first business on the agenda paper," said McGinty, "is to read
     the following letter from Division Master Windle of Merton County
     Lodge 249. He says:

     "Dear Sir:
     "There is a job to be done on Andrew Rae of Rae & Sturmash, coal
     owners near this place. You will remember that your lodge owes us a
     return, having had the service of two brethren in the matter of the
     patrolman last fall. You will send two good men, they will be taken
     charge of by Treasurer Higgins of this lodge, whose address you know.
     He will show them when to act and where. Yours in freedom,
     "J. W. Windle D. M. A. O. F.

     "Windle has never refused us when we have had occasion to ask for the
     loan of a man or two, and it is not for us to refuse him." McGinty
     paused and looked round the room with his dull, malevolent eyes. "Who
     will volunteer for the job?"

     Several young fellows held up their hands. The Bodymaster looked at
     them with an approving smile.

     "You'll do, Tiger Cormac. If you handle it as well as you did the
     last, you won't be wrong. And you, Wilson."

     "I've no pistol," said the volunteer, a mere boy in his teens.

     "It's your first, is it not? Well, you have to be blooded some time.
     It will be a great start for you. As to the pistol, you'll find it
     waiting for you, or I'm mistaken. If you report yourselves on Monday,
     it will be time enough. You'll get a great welcome when you return."

     "Any reward this time?" asked Cormac, a thick-set, dark-faced,
     brutal-looking young man, whose ferocity had earned him the nickname
     of "Tiger."

     "Never mind the reward. You just do it for the honour of the thing.
     Maybe when it is done there will be a few odd dollars at the bottom
     of the box."

     "What has the man done?" asked young Wilson.

     "Sure, it's not for the likes of you to ask what the man has done. He
     has been judged over there. That's no business of ours. All we have
     to do is to carry it out for them, same as they would for us.
     Speaking of that, two brothers from the Merton lodge are coming over
     to us next week to do some business in this quarter."

     "Who are they?" asked someone.

     "Faith, it is wiser not to ask. If you know nothing, you can testify
     nothing, and no trouble can come of it. But they are men who will
     make a clean job when they are about it."

     "And time, too!" cried Ted Baldwin. "Folk are gettin' out of hand in
     these parts. It was only last week that three of our men were turned
     off by Foreman Blaker. It's been owing him a long time, and he'll get
     it full and proper."

     "Get what?" McMurdo whispered to his neighbour.

     "The business end of a buckshot cartridge!" cried the man with a loud
     laugh. "What think you of our ways, Brother?"

     McMurdo's criminal soul seemed to have already absorbed the spirit of
     the vile association of which he was now a member. "I like it well,"
     said he. "'Tis a proper place for a lad of mettle."

     Several of those who sat around heard his words and applauded them.

     "What's that?" cried the black-maned Bodymaster from the end of the
     table.

     "'Tis our new brother, sir, who finds our ways to his taste."

     McMurdo rose to his feet for an instant. "I would say, Eminent
     Bodymaster, that if a man should be wanted I should take it as an
     honour to be chosen to help the lodge."

     There was great applause at this. It was felt that a new sun was
     pushing its rim above the horizon. To some of the elders it seemed
     that the progress was a little too rapid.

     "I would move," said the secretary, Harraway, a vulture-faced old
     graybeard who sat near the chairman, "that Brother McMurdo should
     wait until it is the good pleasure of the lodge to employ him."

     "Sure, that was what I meant; I'm in your hands," said McMurdo.

     "Your time will come, Brother," said the chairman. "We have marked
     you down as a willing man, and we believe that you will do good work
     in these parts. There is a small matter to-night in which you may
     take a hand if it so please you."

     "I will wait for something that is worth while."

     "You can come to-night, anyhow, and it will help you to know what we
     stand for in this community. I will make the announcement later.
     Meanwhile," he glanced at his agenda paper, "I have one or two more
     points to bring before the meeting. First of all, I will ask the
     treasurer as to our bank balance. There is the pension to Jim
     Carnaway's widow. He was struck down doing the work of the lodge, and
     it is for us to see that she is not the loser."

     "Jim was shot last month when they tried to kill Chester Wilcox of
     Marley Creek," McMurdo's neighbour informed him.

     "The funds are good at the moment," said the treasurer, with the
     bankbook in front of him. "The firms have been generous of late. Max
     Linder & Co. paid five hundred to be left alone. Walker Brothers sent
     in a hundred; but I took it on myself to return it and ask for five.
     If I do not hear by Wednesday, their winding gear may get out of
     order. We had to burn their breaker last year before they became
     reasonable. Then the West Section Coaling Company has paid its annual
     contribution. We have enough on hand to meet any obligations."

     "What about Archie Swindon?" asked a brother.

     "He has sold out and left the district. The old devil left a note for
     us to say that he had rather be a free crossing sweeper in New York
     than a large mine owner under the power of a ring of blackmailers. By
     Gar! it was as well that he made a break for it before the note
     reached us! I guess he won't show his face in this valley again."

     An elderly, clean-shaved man with a kindly face and a good brow rose
     from the end of the table which faced the chairman. "Mr. Treasurer,"
     he asked, "may I ask who has bought the property of this man that we
     have driven out of the district?"

     "Yes, Brother Morris. It has been bought by the State & Merton County
     Railroad Company."

     "And who bought the mines of Todman and of Lee that came into the
     market in the same way last year?"

     "The same company, Brother Morris."

     "And who bought the ironworks of Manson and of Shuman and of Van
     Deher and of Atwood, which have all been given up of late?"

     "They were all bought by the West Gilmerton General Mining Company."

     "I don't see, Brother Morris," said the chairman, "that it matters to
     us who buys them, since they can't carry them out of the district."

     "With all respect to you, Eminent Bodymaster, I think it may matter
     very much to us. This process has been going on now for ten long
     years. We are gradually driving all the small men out of trade. What
     is the result? We find in their places great companies like the
     Railroad or the General Iron, who have their directors in New York or
     Philadelphia, and care nothing for our threats. We can take it out of
     their local bosses, but it only means that others will be sent in
     their stead. And we are making it dangerous for ourselves. The small
     men could not harm us. They had not the money nor the power. So long
     as we did not squeeze them too dry, they would stay on under our
     power. But if these big companies find that we stand between them and
     their profits, they will spare no pains and no expense to hunt us
     down and bring us to court."

     There was a hush at these ominous words, and every face darkened as
     gloomy looks were exchanged. So omnipotent and unchallenged had they
     been that the very thought that there was possible retribution in the
     background had been banished from their minds. And yet the idea
     struck a chill to the most reckless of them.

     "It is my advice," the speaker continued, "that we go easier upon the
     small men. On the day that they have all been driven out the power of
     this society will have been broken."

     Unwelcome truths are not popular. There were angry cries as the
     speaker resumed his seat. McGinty rose with gloom upon his brow.

     "Brother Morris," said he, "you were always a croaker. So long as the
     members of this lodge stand together there is no power in the United
     States that can touch them. Sure, have we not tried it often enough
     in the law courts? I expect the big companies will find it easier to
     pay than to fight, same as the little companies do. And now,
     Brethren," McGinty took off his black velvet cap and his stole as he
     spoke, "this lodge has finished its business for the evening, save
     for one small matter which may be mentioned when we are parting. The
     time has now come for fraternal refreshment and for harmony."

     Strange indeed is human nature. Here were these men, to whom murder
     was familiar, who again and again had struck down the father of the
     family, some man against whom they had no personal feeling, without
     one thought of compunction or of compassion for his weeping wife or
     helpless children, and yet the tender or pathetic in music could move
     them to tears. McMurdo had a fine tenor voice, and if he had failed
     to gain the good will of the lodge before, it could no longer have
     been withheld after he had thrilled them with "I'm Sitting on the
     Stile, Mary," and "On the Banks of Allan Water."

     In his very first night the new recruit had made himself one of the
     most popular of the brethren, marked already for advancement and high
     office. There were other qualities needed, however, besides those of
     good fellowship, to make a worthy Freeman, and of these he was given
     an example before the evening was over. The whisky bottle had passed
     round many times, and the men were flushed and ripe for mischief when
     their Bodymaster rose once more to address them.

     "Boys," said he, "there's one man in this town that wants trimming
     up, and it's for you to see that he gets it. I'm speaking of James
     Stanger of the Herald. You've seen how he's been opening his mouth
     against us again?"

     There was a murmur of assent, with many a muttered oath. McGinty took
     a slip of paper from his waistcoat pocket.

                                 Law and Order!

     That's how he heads it.

                 "Reign of terror in the coal and iron district
     "Twelve years have now elapsed since the first assassinations which
     proved the existence of a criminal organization in our midst. From
     that day these outrages have never ceased, until now they have
     reached a pitch which makes us the opprobrium of the civilized world.
     Is it for such results as this that our great country welcomes to its
     bosom the alien who flies from the despotisms of Europe? Is it that
     they shall themselves become tyrants over the very men who have given
     them shelter, and that a state of terrorism and lawlessness should be
     established under the very shadow of the sacred folds of the starry
     Flag of Freedom which would raise horror in our minds if we read of
     it as existing under the most effete monarchy of the East? The men
     are known. The organization is patent and public. How long are we to
     endure it? Can we forever live--

     Sure, I've read enough of the slush!" cried the chairman, tossing the
     paper down upon the table. "That's what he says of us. The question
     I'm asking you is what shall we say to him?"

     "Kill him!" cried a dozen fierce voices.

     "I protest against that," said Brother Morris, the man of the good
     brow and shaved face. "I tell you, Brethren, that our hand is too
     heavy in this valley, and that there will come a point where in
     self-defense every man will unite to crush us out. James Stanger is
     an old man. He is respected in the township and the district. His
     paper stands for all that is solid in the valley. If that man is
     struck down, there will be a stir through this state that will only
     end with our destruction."

     "And how would they bring about our destruction, Mr. Standback?"
     cried McGinty. "Is it by the police? Sure, half of them are in our
     pay and half of them afraid of us. Or is it by the law courts and the
     judge? Haven't we tried that before now, and what ever came of it?"

     "There is a Judge Lynch that might try the case," said Brother
     Morris.

     A general shout of anger greeted the suggestion.

     "I have but to raise my finger," cried McGinty, "and I could put two
     hundred men into this town that would clear it out from end to end."
     Then suddenly raising his voice and bending his huge black brows into
     a terrible frown, "See here, Brother Morris, I have my eye on you,
     and have had for some time! You've no heart yourself, and you try to
     take the heart out of others. It will be an ill day for you, Brother
     Morris, when your own name comes on our agenda paper, and I'm
     thinking that it's just there that I ought to place it."

     Morris had turned deadly pale, and his knees seemed to give way under
     him as he fell back into his chair. He raised his glass in his
     trembling hand and drank before he could answer. "I apologize,
     Eminent Bodymaster, to you and to every brother in this lodge if I
     have said more than I should. I am a faithful member--you all know
     that--and it is my fear lest evil come to the lodge which makes me
     speak in anxious words. But I have greater trust in your judgment
     than in my own, Eminent Bodymaster, and I promise you that I will not
     offend again."

     The Bodymaster's scowl relaxed as he listened to the humble words.
     "Very good, Brother Morris. It's myself that would be sorry if it
     were needful to give you a lesson. But so long as I am in this chair
     we shall be a united lodge in word and in deed. And now, boys," he
     continued, looking round at the company, "I'll say this much, that if
     Stanger got his full deserts there would be more trouble than we need
     ask for. These editors hang together, and every journal in the state
     would be crying out for police and troops. But I guess you can give
     him a pretty severe warning. Will you fix it, Brother Baldwin?"

     "Sure!" said the young man eagerly.

     "How many will you take?"

     "Half a dozen, and two to guard the door. You'll come, Gower, and
     you, Mansel, and you, Scanlan, and the two Willabys."

     "I promised the new brother he should go," said the chairman.

     Ted Baldwin looked at McMurdo with eyes which showed that he had not
     forgotten nor forgiven. "Well, he can come if he wants," he said in a
     surly voice. "That's enough. The sooner we get to work the better."

     The company broke up with shouts and yells and snatches of drunken
     song. The bar was still crowded with revellers, and many of the
     brethren remained there. The little band who had been told off for
     duty passed out into the street, proceeding in twos and threes along
     the sidewalk so as not to provoke attention. It was a bitterly cold
     night, with a half-moon shining brilliantly in a frosty,
     star-spangled sky. The men stopped and gathered in a yard which faced
     a high building. The words "Vermissa Herald" were printed in gold
     lettering between the brightly lit windows. From within came the
     clanking of the printing press.

     "Here, you," said Baldwin to McMurdo, "you can stand below at the
     door and see that the road is kept open for us. Arthur Willaby can
     stay with you. You others come with me. Have no fears, boys; for we
     have a dozen witnesses that we are in the Union Bar at this very
     moment."

     It was nearly midnight, and the street was deserted save for one or
     two revellers upon their way home. The party crossed the road, and,
     pushing open the door of the newspaper office, Baldwin and his men
     rushed in and up the stair which faced them. McMurdo and another
     remained below. From the room above came a shout, a cry for help, and
     then the sound of trampling feet and of falling chairs. An instant
     later a gray-haired man rushed out on the landing.

     He was seized before he could get farther, and his spectacles came
     tinkling down to McMurdo's feet. There was a thud and a groan. He was
     on his face, and half a dozen sticks were clattering together as they
     fell upon him. He writhed, and his long, thin limbs quivered under
     the blows. The others ceased at last; but Baldwin, his cruel face set
     in an infernal smile, was hacking at the man's head, which he vainly
     endeavoured to defend with his arms. His white hair was dabbled with
     patches of blood. Baldwin was still stooping over his victim, putting
     in a short, vicious blow whenever he could see a part exposed, when
     McMurdo dashed up the stair and pushed him back.

     "You'll kill the man," said he. "Drop it!"

     Baldwin looked at him in amazement. "Curse you!" he cried. "Who are
     you to interfere--you that are new to the lodge? Stand back!" He
     raised his stick; but McMurdo had whipped his pistol out of his hip
     pocket.

     "Stand back yourself!" he cried. "I'll blow your face in if you lay a
     hand on me. As to the lodge, wasn't it the order of the Bodymaster
     that the man was not to be killed--and what are you doing but killing
     him?"

     "It's truth he says," remarked one of the men.

     "By Gar! you'd best hurry yourselves!" cried the man below. "The
     windows are all lighting up, and you'll have the whole town here
     inside of five minutes."

     There was indeed the sound of shouting in the street, and a little
     group of compositors and pressmen was forming in the hall below and
     nerving itself to action. Leaving the limp and motionless body of the
     editor at the head of the stair, the criminals rushed down and made
     their way swiftly along the street. Having reached the Union House,
     some of them mixed with the crowd in McGinty's saloon, whispering
     across the bar to the Boss that the job had been well carried
     through. Others, and among them McMurdo, broke away into side
     streets, and so by devious paths to their own homes.

     When McMurdo awoke next morning he had good reason to remember his
     initiation into the lodge. His head ached with the effect of the
     drink, and his arm, where he had been branded, was hot and swollen.
     Having his own peculiar source of income, he was irregular in his
     attendance at his work; so he had a late breakfast, and remained at
     home for the morning writing a long letter to a friend. Afterwards he
     read the Daily Herald. In a special column put in at the last moment
     he read:

            Outrage at the herald office -- Editor seriously injured

     It was a short account of the facts with which he was himself more
     familiar than the writer could have been. It ended with the
     statement:

     The matter is now in the hands of the police; but it can hardly be
     hoped that their exertions will be attended by any better results
     than in the past. Some of the men were recognized, and there is hope
     that a conviction may be obtained. The source of the outrage was, it
     need hardly be said, that infamous society which has held this
     community in bondage for so long a period, and against which the
     Herald has taken so uncompromising a stand. Mr. Stanger's many
     friends will rejoice to hear that, though he has been cruelly and
     brutally beaten, and though he has sustained severe injuries about
     the head, there is no immediate danger to his life.

     Below it stated that a guard of police, armed with Winchester rifles,
     had been requisitioned for the defense of the office.

     McMurdo had laid down the paper, and was lighting his pipe with a
     hand which was shaky from the excesses of the previous evening, when
     there was a knock outside, and his landlady brought to him a note
     which had just been handed in by a lad. It was unsigned, and ran
     thus:

     I should wish to speak to you, but would rather not do so in your
     house. You will find me beside the flagstaff upon Miller Hill. If you
     will come there now, I have something which it is important for you
     to hear and for me to say.

     McMurdo read the note twice with the utmost surprise; for he could
     not imagine what it meant or who was the author of it. Had it been in
     a feminine hand, he might have imagined that it was the beginning of
     one of those adventures which had been familiar enough in his past
     life. But it was the writing of a man, and of a well educated one,
     too. Finally, after some hesitation, he determined to see the matter
     through.

     Miller Hill is an ill-kept public park in the very centre of the
     town. In summer it is a favourite resort of the people; but in winter
     it is desolate enough. From the top of it one has a view not only of
     the whole straggling, grimy town, but of the winding valley beneath,
     with its scattered mines and factories blackening the snow on each
     side of it, and of the wooded and white-capped ranges flanking it.

     McMurdo strolled up the winding path hedged in with evergreens until
     he reached the deserted restaurant which forms the centre of summer
     gaiety. Beside it was a bare flagstaff, and underneath it a man, his
     hat drawn down and the collar of his overcoat turned up. When he
     turned his face McMurdo saw that it was Brother Morris, he who had
     incurred the anger of the Bodymaster the night before. The lodge sign
     was given and exchanged as they met.

     "I wanted to have a word with you, Mr. McMurdo," said the older man,
     speaking with a hesitation which showed that he was on delicate
     ground. "It was kind of you to come."

     "Why did you not put your name to the note?"

     "One has to be cautious, mister. One never knows in times like these
     how a thing may come back to one. One never knows either who to trust
     or who not to trust."

     "Surely one may trust brothers of the lodge."

     "No, no, not always," cried Morris with vehemence. "Whatever we say,
     even what we think, seems to go back to that man McGinty."

     "Look here!" said McMurdo sternly. "It was only last night, as you
     know well, that I swore good faith to our Bodymaster. Would you be
     asking me to break my oath?"

     "If that is the view you take," said Morris sadly, "I can only say
     that I am sorry I gave you the trouble to come and meet me. Things
     have come to a bad pass when two free citizens cannot speak their
     thoughts to each other."

     McMurdo, who had been watching his companion very narrowly, relaxed
     somewhat in his bearing. "Sure I spoke for myself only," said he. "I
     am a newcomer, as you know, and I am strange to it all. It is not for
     me to open my mouth, Mr. Morris, and if you think well to say
     anything to me I am here to hear it."

     "And to take it back to Boss McGinty!" said Morris bitterly.

     "Indeed, then, you do me injustice there," cried McMurdo. "For myself
     I am loyal to the lodge, and so I tell you straight; but I would be a
     poor creature if I were to repeat to any other what you might say to
     me in confidence. It will go no further than me; though I warn you
     that you may get neither help nor sympathy."

     "I have given up looking for either the one or the other," said
     Morris. "I may be putting my very life in your hands by what I say;
     but, bad as you are--and it seemed to me last night that you were
     shaping to be as bad as the worst--still you are new to it, and your
     conscience cannot yet be as hardened as theirs. That was why I
     thought to speak with you."

     "Well, what have you to say?"

     "If you give me away, may a curse be on you!"

     "Sure, I said I would not."

     "I would ask you, then, when you joined the Freeman's society in
     Chicago and swore vows of charity and fidelity, did ever it cross
     your mind that you might find it would lead you to crime?"

     "If you call it crime," McMurdo answered.

     "Call it crime!" cried Morris, his voice vibrating with passion. "You
     have seen little of it if you can call it anything else. Was it crime
     last night when a man old enough to be your father was beaten till
     the blood dripped from his white hairs? Was that crime--or what else
     would you call it?"

     "There are some would say it was war," said McMurdo, "a war of two
     classes with all in, so that each struck as best it could."

     "Well, did you think of such a thing when you joined the Freeman's
     society at Chicago?"

     "No, I'm bound to say I did not."

     "Nor did I when I joined it at Philadelphia. It was just a benefit
     club and a meeting place for one's fellows. Then I heard of this
     place--curse the hour that the name first fell upon my ears!--and I
     came to better myself! My God! to better myself! My wife and three
     children came with me. I started a dry goods store on Market Square,
     and I prospered well. The word had gone round that I was a Freeman,
     and I was forced to join the local lodge, same as you did last night.
     I've the badge of shame on my forearm and something worse branded on
     my heart. I found that I was under the orders of a black villain and
     caught in a meshwork of crime. What could I do? Every word I said to
     make things better was taken as treason, same as it was last night. I
     can't get away; for all I have in the world is in my store. If I
     leave the society, I know well that it means murder to me, and God
     knows what to my wife and children. Oh, man, it is awful--awful!" He
     put his hands to his face, and his body shook with convulsive sobs.

     McMurdo shrugged his shoulders. "You were too soft for the job," said
     he. "You are the wrong sort for such work."

     "I had a conscience and a religion; but they made me a criminal among
     them. I was chosen for a job. If I backed down I knew well what would
     come to me. Maybe I'm a coward. Maybe it's the thought of my poor
     little woman and the children that makes me one. Anyhow I went. I
     guess it will haunt me forever.

     "It was a lonely house, twenty miles from here, over the range
     yonder. I was told off for the door, same as you were last night.
     They could not trust me with the job. The others went in. When they
     came out their hands were crimson to the wrists. As we turned away a
     child was screaming out of the house behind us. It was a boy of five
     who had seen his father murdered. I nearly fainted with the horror of
     it, and yet I had to keep a bold and smiling face; for well I knew
     that if I did not it would be out of my house that they would come
     next with their bloody hands and it would be my little Fred that
     would be screaming for his father.

     "But I was a criminal then, part sharer in a murder, lost forever in
     this world, and lost also in the next. I am a good Catholic; but the
     priest would have no word with me when he heard I was a Scowrer, and
     I am excommunicated from my faith. That's how it stands with me. And
     I see you going down the same road, and I ask you what the end is to
     be. Are you ready to be a cold-blooded murderer also, or can we do
     anything to stop it?"

     "What would you do?" asked McMurdo abruptly. "You would not inform?"

     "God forbid!" cried Morris. "Sure, the very thought would cost me my
     life."

     "That's well," said McMurdo. "I'm thinking that you are a weak man
     and that you make too much of the matter."

     "Too much! Wait till you have lived here longer. Look down the
     valley! See the cloud of a hundred chimneys that overshadows it! I
     tell you that the cloud of murder hangs thicker and lower than that
     over the heads of the people. It is the Valley of Fear, the Valley of
     Death. The terror is in the hearts of the people from the dusk to the
     dawn. Wait, young man, and you will learn for yourself."

     "Well, I'll let you know what I think when I have seen more," said
     McMurdo carelessly. "What is very clear is that you are not the man
     for the place, and that the sooner you sell out--if you only get a
     dime a dollar for what the business is worth--the better it will be
     for you. What you have said is safe with me; but, by Gar! if I
     thought you were an informer--"

     "No, no!" cried Morris piteously.

     "Well, let it rest at that. I'll bear what you have said in mind, and
     maybe some day I'll come back to it. I expect you meant kindly by
     speaking to me like this. Now I'll be getting home."

     "One word before you go," said Morris. "We may have been seen
     together. They may want to know what we have spoken about."

     "Ah! that's well thought of."

     "I offer you a clerkship in my store."

     "And I refuse it. That's our business. Well, so long, Brother Morris,
     and may you find things go better with you in the future."

     That same afternoon, as McMurdo sat smoking, lost in thought beside
     the stove of his sitting-room, the door swung open and its framework
     was filled with the huge figure of Boss McGinty. He passed the sign,
     and then seating himself opposite to the young man he looked at him
     steadily for some time, a look which was as steadily returned.

     "I'm not much of a visitor, Brother McMurdo," he said at last. "I
     guess I am too busy over the folk that visit me. But I thought I'd
     stretch a point and drop down to see you in your own house."

     "I'm proud to see you here, Councillor," McMurdo answered heartily,
     bringing his whisky bottle out of the cupboard. "It's an honour that
     I had not expected."

     "How's the arm?" asked the Boss.

     McMurdo made a wry face. "Well, I'm not forgetting it," he said; "but
     it's worth it."

     "Yes, it's worth it," the other answered, "to those that are loyal
     and go through with it and are a help to the lodge. What were you
     speaking to Brother Morris about on Miller Hill this morning?"

     The question came so suddenly that it was well that he had his answer
     prepared. He burst into a hearty laugh. "Morris didn't know I could
     earn a living here at home. He shan't know either; for he has got too
     much conscience for the likes of me. But he's a good-hearted old
     chap. It was his idea that I was at a loose end, and that he would do
     me a good turn by offering me a clerkship in a dry goods store."

     "Oh, that was it?"

     "Yes, that was it."

     "And you refused it?"

     "Sure. Couldn't I earn ten times as much in my own bedroom with four
     hours' work?"

     "That's so. But I wouldn't get about too much with Morris."

     "Why not?"

     "Well, I guess because I tell you not. That's enough for most folk in
     these parts."

     "It may be enough for most folk; but it ain't enough for me,
     Councillor," said McMurdo boldly. "If you are a judge of men, you'll
     know that."

     The swarthy giant glared at him, and his hairy paw closed for an
     instant round the glass as though he would hurl it at the head of his
     companion. Then he laughed in his loud, boisterous, insincere
     fashion.

     "You're a queer card, for sure," said he. "Well, if you want reasons,
     I'll give them. Did Morris say nothing to you against the lodge?"

     "No."

     "Nor against me?"

     "No."

     "Well, that's because he daren't trust you. But in his heart he is
     not a loyal brother. We know that well. So we watch him and we wait
     for the time to admonish him. I'm thinking that the time is drawing
     near. There's no room for scabby sheep in our pen. But if you keep
     company with a disloyal man, we might think that you were disloyal,
     too. See?"

     "There's no chance of my keeping company with him; for I dislike the
     man," McMurdo answered. "As to being disloyal, if it was any man but
     you he would not use the word to me twice."

     "Well, that's enough," said McGinty, draining off his glass. "I came
     down to give you a word in season, and you've had it."

     "I'd like to know," said McMurdo, "how you ever came to learn that I
     had spoken with Morris at all?"

     McGinty laughed. "It's my business to know what goes on in this
     township," said he. "I guess you'd best reckon on my hearing all that
     passes. Well, time's up, and I'll just say--"

     But his leavetaking was cut short in a very unexpected fashion. With
     a sudden crash the door flew open, and three frowning, intent faces
     glared in at them from under the peaks of police caps. McMurdo sprang
     to his feet and half drew his revolver; but his arm stopped midway as
     he became conscious that two Winchester rifles were levelled at his
     head. A man in uniform advanced into the room, a six-shooter in his
     hand. It was Captain Marvin, once of Chicago, and now of the Mine
     Constabulary. He shook his head with a half-smile at McMurdo.

     "I thought you'd be getting into trouble, Mr. Crooked McMurdo of
     Chicago," said he. "Can't keep out of it, can you? Take your hat and
     come along with us."

     "I guess you'll pay for this, Captain Marvin," said McGinty. "Who are
     you, I'd like to know, to break into a house in this fashion and
     molest honest, law-abiding men?"

     "You're standing out in this deal, Councillor McGinty," said the
     police captain. "We are not out after you, but after this man
     McMurdo. It is for you to help, not to hinder us in our duty,"

     "He is a friend of mine, and I'll answer for his conduct," said the
     Boss.

     "By all accounts, Mr. McGinty, you may have to answer for your own
     conduct some of these days," the captain answered. "This man McMurdo
     was a crook before ever he came here, and he's a crook still. Cover
     him, Patrolman, while I disarm him."

     "There's my pistol," said McMurdo coolly. "Maybe, Captain Marvin, if
     you and I were alone and face to face you would not take me so
     easily."

     "Where's your warrant?" asked McGinty. "By Gar! a man might as well
     live in Russia as in Vermissa while folk like you are running the
     police. It's a capitalist outrage, and you'll hear more of it, I
     reckon."

     "You do what you think is your duty the best way you can, Councillor.
     We'll look after ours."

     "What am I accused of?" asked McMurdo.

     "Of being concerned in the beating of old Editor Stanger at the
     Herald office. It wasn't your fault that it isn't a murder charge."

     "Well, if that's all you have against him," cried McGinty with a
     laugh, "you can save yourself a deal of trouble by dropping it right
     now. This man was with me in my saloon playing poker up to midnight,
     and I can bring a dozen to prove it."

     "That's your affair, and I guess you can settle it in court
     to-morrow. Meanwhile, come on, McMurdo, and come quietly if you don't
     want a gun across your head. You stand wide, Mr. McGinty; for I warn
     you I will stand no resistance when I am on duty!"

     So determined was the appearance of the captain that both McMurdo and
     his boss were forced to accept the situation. The latter managed to
     have a few whispered words with the prisoner before they parted.

     "What about--" he jerked his thumb upward to signify the coining
     plant.

     "All right," whispered McMurdo, who had devised a safe hiding place
     under the floor.

     "I'll bid you good-bye," said the Boss, shaking hands. "I'll see
     Reilly the lawyer and take the defense upon myself. Take my word for
     it that they won't be able to hold you."

     "I wouldn't bet on that. Guard the prisoner, you two, and shoot him
     if he tries any games. I'll search the house before I leave."

     He did so; but apparently found no trace of the concealed plant. When
     he had descended he and his men escorted McMurdo to headquarters.
     Darkness had fallen, and a keen blizzard was blowing so that the
     streets were nearly deserted; but a few loiterers followed the group,
     and emboldened by invisibility shouted imprecations at the prisoner.

     "Lynch the cursed Scowrer!" they cried. "Lynch him!" They laughed and
     jeered as he was pushed into the police station. After a short,
     formal examination from the inspector in charge he was put into the
     common cell. Here he found Baldwin and three other criminals of the
     night before, all arrested that afternoon and waiting their trial
     next morning.

     But even within this inner fortress of the law the long arm of the
     Freemen was able to extend. Late at night there came a jailer with a
     straw bundle for their bedding, out of which he extracted two bottles
     of whisky, some glasses, and a pack of cards. They spent a hilarious
     night, without an anxious thought as to the ordeal of the morning.

     Nor had they cause, as the result was to show. The magistrate could
     not possibly, on the evidence, have held them for a higher court. On
     the one hand the compositors and pressmen were forced to admit that
     the light was uncertain, that they were themselves much perturbed,
     and that it was difficult for them to swear to the identity of the
     assailants; although they believed that the accused were among them.
     Cross examined by the clever attorney who had been engaged by
     McGinty, they were even more nebulous in their evidence.

     The injured man had already deposed that he was so taken by surprise
     by the suddenness of the attack that he could state nothing beyond
     the fact that the first man who struck him wore a moustache. He added
     that he knew them to be Scowrers, since no one else in the community
     could possibly have any enmity to him, and he had long been
     threatened on account of his outspoken editorials. On the other hand,
     it was clearly shown by the united and unfaltering evidence of six
     citizens, including that high municipal official, Councillor McGinty,
     that the men had been at a card party at the Union House until an
     hour very much later than the commission of the outrage.

     Needless to say that they were discharged with something very near to
     an apology from the bench for the inconvenience to which they had
     been put, together with an implied censure of Captain Marvin and the
     police for their officious zeal.

     The verdict was greeted with loud applause by a court in which
     McMurdo saw many familiar faces. Brothers of the lodge smiled and
     waved. But there were others who sat with compressed lips and
     brooding eyes as the men filed out of the dock. One of them, a
     little, dark-bearded, resolute fellow, put the thoughts of himself
     and comrades into words as the ex-prisoners passed him.

     "You damned murderers!" he said. "We'll fix you yet!"

     If anything had been needed to give an impetus to Jack McMurdo's
     popularity among his fellows it would have been his arrest and
     acquittal. That a man on the very night of joining the lodge should
     have done something which brought him before the magistrate was a new
     record in the annals of the society. Already he had earned the
     reputation of a good boon companion, a cheery reveller, and withal a
     man of high temper, who would not take an insult even from the
     all-powerful Boss himself. But in addition to this he impressed his
     comrades with the idea that among them all there was not one whose
     brain was so ready to devise a bloodthirsty scheme, or whose hand
     would be more capable of carrying it out. "He'll be the boy for the
     clean job," said the oldsters to one another, and waited their time
     until they could set him to his work.

     McGinty had instruments enough already; but he recognized that this
     was a supremely able one. He felt like a man holding a fierce
     bloodhound in leash. There were curs to do the smaller work; but some
     day he would slip this creature upon its prey. A few members of the
     lodge, Ted Baldwin among them, resented the rapid rise of the
     stranger and hated him for it; but they kept clear of him, for he was
     as ready to fight as to laugh.

     But if he gained favour with his fellows, there was another quarter,
     one which had become even more vital to him, in which he lost it.
     Ettie Shafter's father would have nothing more to do with him, nor
     would he allow him to enter the house. Ettie herself was too deeply
     in love to give him up altogether, and yet her own good sense warned
     her of what would come from a marriage with a man who was regarded as
     a criminal.

     One morning after a sleepless night she determined to see him,
     possibly for the last time, and make one strong endeavour to draw him
     from those evil influences which were sucking him down. She went to
     his house, as he had often begged her to do, and made her way into
     the room which he used as his sitting-room. He was seated at a table,
     with his back turned and a letter in front of him. A sudden spirit of
     girlish mischief came over her--she was still only nineteen. He had
     not heard her when she pushed open the door. Now she tiptoed forward
     and laid her hand lightly upon his bended shoulders.

     If she had expected to startle him, she certainly succeeded; but only
     in turn to be startled herself. With a tiger spring he turned on her,
     and his right hand was feeling for her throat. At the same instant
     with the other hand he crumpled up the paper that lay before him. For
     an instant he stood glaring. Then astonishment and joy took the place
     of the ferocity which had convulsed his features--a ferocity which
     had sent her shrinking back in horror as from something which had
     never before intruded into her gentle life.

     "It's you!" said he, mopping his brow. "And to think that you should
     come to me, heart of my heart, and I should find nothing better to do
     than to want to strangle you! Come then, darling," and he held out
     his arms, "let me make it up to you."

     But she had not recovered from that sudden glimpse of guilty fear
     which she had read in the man's face. All her woman's instinct told
     her that it was not the mere fright of a man who is startled.
     Guilt--that was it--guilt and fear!

     "What's come over you, Jack?" she cried. "Why were you so scared of
     me? Oh, Jack, if your conscience was at ease, you would not have
     looked at me like that!"

     "Sure, I was thinking of other things, and when you came tripping so
     lightly on those fairy feet of yours--"

     "No, no, it was more than that, Jack." Then a sudden suspicion seized
     her. "Let me see that letter you were writing."

     "Ah, Ettie, I couldn't do that."

     Her suspicions became certainties. "It's to another woman," she
     cried. "I know it! Why else should you hold it from me? Was it to
     your wife that you were writing? How am I to know that you are not a
     married man--you, a stranger, that nobody knows?"

     "I am not married, Ettie. See now, I swear it! You're the only one
     woman on earth to me. By the cross of Christ I swear it!"

     He was so white with passionate earnestness that she could not but
     believe him.

     "Well, then," she cried, "why will you not show me the letter?"

     "I'll tell you, acushla," said he. "I'm under oath not to show it,
     and just as I wouldn't break my word to you so I would keep it to
     those who hold my promise. It's the business of the lodge, and even
     to you it's secret. And if I was scared when a hand fell on me, can't
     you understand it when it might have been the hand of a detective?"

     She felt that he was telling the truth. He gathered her into his arms
     and kissed away her fears and doubts.

     "Sit here by me, then. It's a queer throne for such a queen; but it's
     the best your poor lover can find. He'll do better for you some of
     these days, I'm thinking. Now your mind is easy once again, is it
     not?"

     "How can it ever be at ease, Jack, when I know that you are a
     criminal among criminals, when I never know the day that I may hear
     you are in court for murder? 'McMurdo the Scowrer,' that's what one
     of our boarders called you yesterday. It went through my heart like a
     knife."

     "Sure, hard words break no bones."

     "But they were true."

     "Well, dear, it's not so bad as you think. We are but poor men that
     are trying in our own way to get our rights."

     Ettie threw her arms round her lover's neck. "Give it up, Jack! For
     my sake, for God's sake, give it up! It was to ask you that I came
     here to-day. Oh, Jack, see--I beg it of you on my bended knees!
     Kneeling here before you I implore you to give it up!"

     He raised her and soothed her with her head against his breast.

     "Sure, my darlin', you don't know what it is you are asking. How
     could I give it up when it would be to break my oath and to desert my
     comrades? If you could see how things stand with me you could never
     ask it of me. Besides, if I wanted to, how could I do it? You don't
     suppose that the lodge would let a man go free with all its secrets?"

     "I've thought of that, Jack. I've planned it all. Father has saved
     some money. He is weary of this place where the fear of these people
     darkens our lives. He is ready to go. We would fly together to
     Philadelphia or New York, where we would be safe from them."

     McMurdo laughed. "The lodge has a long arm. Do you think it could not
     stretch from here to Philadelphia or New York?"

     "Well, then, to the West, or to England, or to Germany, where father
     came from--anywhere to get away from this Valley of Fear!"

     McMurdo thought of old Brother Morris. "Sure, it is the second time I
     have heard the valley so named," said he. "The shadow does indeed
     seem to lie heavy on some of you."

     "It darkens every moment of our lives. Do you suppose that Ted
     Baldwin has ever forgiven us? If it were not that he fears you, what
     do you suppose our chances would be? If you saw the look in those
     dark, hungry eyes of his when they fall on me!"

     "By Gar! I'd teach him better manners if I caught him at it! But see
     here, little girl. I can't leave here. I can't--take that from me
     once and for all. But if you will leave me to find my own way, I will
     try to prepare a way of getting honourably out of it."

     "There is no honour in such a matter."

     "Well, well, it's just how you look at it. But if you'll give me six
     months, I'll work it so that I can leave without being ashamed to
     look others in the face."

     The girl laughed with joy. "Six months!" she cried. "Is it a
     promise?"

     "Well, it may be seven or eight. But within a year at the furthest we
     will leave the valley behind us."

     It was the most that Ettie could obtain, and yet it was something.
     There was this distant light to illuminate the gloom of the immediate
     future. She returned to her father's house more light-hearted than
     she had ever been since Jack McMurdo had come into her life.

     It might be thought that as a member, all the doings of the society
     would be told to him; but he was soon to discover that the
     organization was wider and more complex than the simple lodge. Even
     Boss McGinty was ignorant as to many things; for there was an
     official named the County Delegate, living at Hobson's Patch farther
     down the line, who had power over several different lodges which he
     wielded in a sudden and arbitrary way. Only once did McMurdo see him,
     a sly, little gray-haired rat of a man, with a slinking gait and a
     sidelong glance which was charged with malice. Evans Pott was his
     name, and even the great Boss of Vermissa felt towards him something
     of the repulsion and fear which the huge Danton may have felt for the
     puny but dangerous Robespierre.

     One day Scanlan, who was McMurdo's fellow boarder, received a note
     from McGinty inclosing one from Evans Pott, which informed him that
     he was sending over two good men, Lawler and Andrews, who had
     instructions to act in the neighbourhood; though it was best for the
     cause that no particulars as to their objects should be given. Would
     the Bodymaster see to it that suitable arrangements be made for their
     lodgings and comfort until the time for action should arrive? McGinty
     added that it was impossible for anyone to remain secret at the Union
     House, and that, therefore, he would be obliged if McMurdo and
     Scanlan would put the strangers up for a few days in their boarding
     house.

     The same evening the two men arrived, each carrying his gripsack.
     Lawler was an elderly man, shrewd, silent, and self-contained, clad
     in an old black frock coat, which with his soft felt hat and ragged,
     grizzled beard gave him a general resemblance to an itinerant
     preacher. His companion Andrews was little more than a boy,
     frank-faced and cheerful, with the breezy manner of one who is out
     for a holiday and means to enjoy every minute of it. Both men were
     total abstainers, and behaved in all ways as exemplary members of the
     society, with the one simple exception that they were assassins who
     had often proved themselves to be most capable instruments for this
     association of murder. Lawler had already carried out fourteen
     commissions of the kind, and Andrews three.

     They were, as McMurdo found, quite ready to converse about their
     deeds in the past, which they recounted with the half-bashful pride
     of men who had done good and unselfish service for the community.
     They were reticent, however, as to the immediate job in hand.

     "They chose us because neither I nor the boy here drink," Lawler
     explained. "They can count on us saying no more than we should. You
     must not take it amiss, but it is the orders of the County Delegate
     that we obey."

     "Sure, we are all in it together," said Scanlan, McMurdo's mate, as
     the four sat together at supper.

     "That's true enough, and we'll talk till the cows come home of the
     killing of Charlie Williams or of Simon Bird, or any other job in the
     past. But till the work is done we say nothing."

     "There are half a dozen about here that I have a word to say to,"
     said McMurdo, with an oath. "I suppose it isn't Jack Knox of Ironhill
     that you are after. I'd go some way to see him get his deserts."

     "No, it's not him yet."

     "Or Herman Strauss?"

     "No, nor him either."

     "Well, if you won't tell us we can't make you; but I'd be glad to
     know."

     Lawler smiled and shook his head. He was not to be drawn.

     In spite of the reticence of their guests, Scanlan and McMurdo were
     quite determined to be present at what they called "the fun." When,
     therefore, at an early hour one morning McMurdo heard them creeping
     down the stairs he awakened Scanlan, and the two hurried on their
     clothes. When they were dressed they found that the others had stolen
     out, leaving the door open behind them. It was not yet dawn, and by
     the light of the lamps they could see the two men some distance down
     the street. They followed them warily, treading noiselessly in the
     deep snow.

     The boarding house was near the edge of the town, and soon they were
     at the crossroads which is beyond its boundary. Here three men were
     waiting, with whom Lawler and Andrews held a short, eager
     conversation. Then they all moved on together. It was clearly some
     notable job which needed numbers. At this point there are several
     trails which lead to various mines. The strangers took that which led
     to the Crow Hill, a huge business which was in strong hands which had
     been able, thanks to their energetic and fearless New England
     manager, Josiah H. Dunn, to keep some order and discipline during the
     long reign of terror.

     Day was breaking now, and a line of workmen were slowly making their
     way, singly and in groups, along the blackened path.

     McMurdo and Scanlan strolled on with the others, keeping in sight of
     the men whom they followed. A thick mist lay over them, and from the
     heart of it there came the sudden scream of a steam whistle. It was
     the ten-minute signal before the cages descended and the day's labour
     began.

     When they reached the open space round the mine shaft there were a
     hundred miners waiting, stamping their feet and blowing on their
     fingers; for it was bitterly cold. The strangers stood in a little
     group under the shadow of the engine house. Scanlan and McMurdo
     climbed a heap of slag from which the whole scene lay before them.
     They saw the mine engineer, a great bearded Scotchman named Menzies,
     come out of the engine house and blow his whistle for the cages to be
     lowered.

     At the same instant a tall, loose-framed young man with a
     clean-shaved, earnest face advanced eagerly towards the pit head. As
     he came forward his eyes fell upon the group, silent and motionless,
     under the engine house. The men had drawn down their hats and turned
     up their collars to screen their faces. For a moment the presentiment
     of Death laid its cold hand upon the manager's heart. At the next he
     had shaken it off and saw only his duty towards intrusive strangers.

     "Who are you?" he asked as he advanced. "What are you loitering there
     for?"

     There was no answer; but the lad Andrews stepped forward and shot him
     in the stomach. The hundred waiting miners stood as motionless and
     helpless as if they were paralyzed. The manager clapped his two hands
     to the wound and doubled himself up. Then he staggered away; but
     another of the assassins fired, and he went down sidewise, kicking
     and clawing among a heap of clinkers. Menzies, the Scotchman, gave a
     roar of rage at the sight and rushed with an iron spanner at the
     murderers; but was met by two balls in the face which dropped him
     dead at their very feet.

     There was a surge forward of some of the miners, and an inarticulate
     cry of pity and of anger; but a couple of the strangers emptied their
     six-shooters over the heads of the crowd, and they broke and
     scattered, some of them rushing wildly back to their homes in
     Vermissa.

     When a few of the bravest had rallied, and there was a return to the
     mine, the murderous gang had vanished in the mists of morning,
     without a single witness being able to swear to the identity of these
     men who in front of a hundred spectators had wrought this double
     crime.

     Scanlan and McMurdo made their way back; Scanlan somewhat subdued,
     for it was the first murder job that he had seen with his own eyes,
     and it appeared less funny than he had been led to believe. The
     horrible screams of the dead manager's wife pursued them as they
     hurried to the town. McMurdo was absorbed and silent; but he showed
     no sympathy for the weakening of his companion.

     "Sure, it is like a war," he repeated. "What is it but a war between
     us and them, and we hit back where we best can."

     There was high revel in the lodge room at the Union House that night,
     not only over the killing of the manager and engineer of the Crow
     Hill mine, which would bring this organization into line with the
     other blackmailed and terror-stricken companies of the district, but
     also over a distant triumph which had been wrought by the hands of
     the lodge itself.

     It would appear that when the County Delegate had sent over five good
     men to strike a blow in Vermissa, he had demanded that in return
     three Vermissa men should be secretly selected and sent across to
     kill William Hales of Stake Royal, one of the best known and most
     popular mine owners in the Gilmerton district, a man who was believed
     not to have an enemy in the world; for he was in all ways a model
     employer. He had insisted, however, upon efficiency in the work, and
     had, therefore, paid off certain drunken and idle employees who were
     members of the all-powerful society. Coffin notices hung outside his
     door had not weakened his resolution, and so in a free, civilized
     country he found himself condemned to death.

     The execution had now been duly carried out. Ted Baldwin, who
     sprawled now in the seat of honour beside the Bodymaster, had been
     chief of the party. His flushed face and glazed, blood-shot eyes told
     of sleeplessness and drink. He and his two comrades had spent the
     night before among the mountains. They were unkempt and
     weather-stained. But no heroes, returning from a forlorn hope, could
     have had a warmer welcome from their comrades.

     The story was told and retold amid cries of delight and shouts of
     laughter. They had waited for their man as he drove home at
     nightfall, taking their station at the top of a steep hill, where his
     horse must be at a walk. He was so furred to keep out the cold that
     he could not lay his hand on his pistol. They had pulled him out and
     shot him again and again. He had screamed for mercy. The screams were
     repeated for the amusement of the lodge.

     "Let's hear again how he squealed," they cried.

     None of them knew the man; but there is eternal drama in a killing,
     and they had shown the Scowrers of Gilmerton that the Vermissa men
     were to be relied upon.

     There had been one contretemps; for a man and his wife had driven up
     while they were still emptying their revolvers into the silent body.
     It had been suggested that they should shoot them both; but they were
     harmless folk who were not connected with the mines, so they were
     sternly bidden to drive on and keep silent, lest a worse thing befall
     them. And so the blood-mottled figure had been left as a warning to
     all such hard-hearted employers, and the three noble avengers had
     hurried off into the mountains where unbroken nature comes down to
     the very edge of the furnaces and the slag heaps. Here they were,
     safe and sound, their work well done, and the plaudits of their
     companions in their ears.

     It had been a great day for the Scowrers. The shadow had fallen even
     darker over the valley. But as the wise general chooses the moment of
     victory in which to redouble his efforts, so that his foes may have
     no time to steady themselves after disaster, so Boss McGinty, looking
     out upon the scene of his operations with his brooding and malicious
     eyes, had devised a new attack upon those who opposed him. That very
     night, as the half-drunken company broke up, he touched McMurdo on
     the arm and led him aside into that inner room where they had their
     first interview.

     "See here, my lad," said he, "I've got a job that's worthy of you at
     last. You'll have the doing of it in your own hands."

     "Proud I am to hear it," McMurdo answered.

     "You can take two men with you--Manders and Reilly. They have been
     warned for service. We'll never be right in this district until
     Chester Wilcox has been settled, and you'll have the thanks of every
     lodge in the coal fields if you can down him."

     "I'll do my best, anyhow. Who is he, and where shall I find him?"

     McGinty took his eternal half-chewed, half-smoked cigar from the
     corner of his mouth, and proceeded to draw a rough diagram on a page
     torn from his notebook.

     "He's the chief foreman of the Iron Dike Company. He's a hard
     citizen, an old colour sergeant of the war, all scars and grizzle.
     We've had two tries at him; but had no luck, and Jim Carnaway lost
     his life over it. Now it's for you to take it over. That's the
     house--all alone at the Iron Dike crossroad, same as you see here on
     the map--without another within earshot. It's no good by day. He's
     armed and shoots quick and straight, with no questions asked. But at
     night--well, there he is with his wife, three children, and a hired
     help. You can't pick or choose. It's all or none. If you could get a
     bag of blasting powder at the front door with a slow match to it--"

     "What's the man done?"

     "Didn't I tell you he shot Jim Carnaway?"

     "Why did he shoot him?"

     "What in thunder has that to do with you? Carnaway was about his
     house at night, and he shot him. That's enough for me and you. You've
     got to settle the thing right."

     "There's these two women and the children. Do they go up too?"

     "They have to--else how can we get him?"

     "It seems hard on them; for they've done nothing."

     "What sort of fool's talk is this? Do you back out?"

     "Easy, Councillor, easy! What have I ever said or done that you
     should think I would be after standing back from an order of the
     Bodymaster of my own lodge? If it's right or if it's wrong, it's for
     you to decide."

     "You'll do it, then?"

     "Of course I will do it."

     "When?"

     "Well, you had best give me a night or two that I may see the house
     and make my plans. Then--"

     "Very good," said McGinty, shaking him by the hand. "I leave it with
     you. It will be a great day when you bring us the news. It's just the
     last stroke that will bring them all to their knees."

     McMurdo thought long and deeply over the commission which had been so
     suddenly placed in his hands. The isolated house in which Chester
     Wilcox lived was about five miles off in an adjacent valley. That
     very night he started off all alone to prepare for the attempt. It
     was daylight before he returned from his reconnaissance. Next day he
     interviewed his two subordinates, Manders and Reilly, reckless
     youngsters who were as elated as if it were a deer-hunt.

     Two nights later they met outside the town, all three armed, and one
     of them carrying a sack stuffed with the powder which was used in the
     quarries. It was two in the morning before they came to the lonely
     house. The night was a windy one, with broken clouds drifting swiftly
     across the face of a three-quarter moon. They had been warned to be
     on their guard against bloodhounds; so they moved forward cautiously,
     with their pistols cocked in their hands. But there was no sound save
     the howling of the wind, and no movement but the swaying branches
     above them.

     McMurdo listened at the door of the lonely house; but all was still
     within. Then he leaned the powder bag against it, ripped a hole in it
     with his knife, and attached the fuse. When it was well alight he and
     his two companions took to their heels, and were some distance off,
     safe and snug in a sheltering ditch, before the shattering roar of
     the explosion, with the low, deep rumble of the collapsing building,
     told them that their work was done. No cleaner job had ever been
     carried out in the bloodstained annals of the society.

     But alas that work so well organized and boldly carried out should
     all have gone for nothing! Warned by the fate of the various victims,
     and knowing that he was marked down for destruction, Chester Wilcox
     had moved himself and his family only the day before to some safer
     and less known quarters, where a guard of police should watch over
     them. It was an empty house which had been torn down by the
     gunpowder, and the grim old colour sergeant of the war was still
     teaching discipline to the miners of Iron Dike.

     "Leave him to me," said McMurdo. "He's my man, and I'll get him sure
     if I have to wait a year for him."

     A vote of thanks and confidence was passed in full lodge, and so for
     the time the matter ended. When a few weeks later it was reported in
     the papers that Wilcox had been shot at from an ambuscade, it was an
     open secret that McMurdo was still at work upon his unfinished job.

     Such were the methods of the Society of Freemen, and such were the
     deeds of the Scowrers by which they spread their rule of fear over
     the great and rich district which was for so long a period haunted by
     their terrible presence. Why should these pages be stained by further
     crimes? Have I not said enough to show the men and their methods?

     These deeds are written in history, and there are records wherein one
     may read the details of them. There one may learn of the shooting of
     Policemen Hunt and Evans because they had ventured to arrest two
     members of the society--a double outrage planned at the Vermissa
     lodge and carried out in cold blood upon two helpless and disarmed
     men. There also one may read of the shooting of Mrs. Larbey when she
     was nursing her husband, who had been beaten almost to death by
     orders of Boss McGinty. The killing of the elder Jenkins, shortly
     followed by that of his brother, the mutilation of James Murdoch, the
     blowing up of the Staphouse family, and the murder of the Stendals
     all followed hard upon one another in the same terrible winter.

     Darkly the shadow lay upon the Valley of Fear. The spring had come
     with running brooks and blossoming trees. There was hope for all
     Nature bound so long in an iron grip; but nowhere was there any hope
     for the men and women who lived under the yoke of the terror. Never
     had the cloud above them been so dark and hopeless as in the early
     summer of the year 1875.

     It was the height of the reign of terror. McMurdo, who had already
     been appointed Inner Deacon, with every prospect of some day
     succeeding McGinty as Bodymaster, was now so necessary to the
     councils of his comrades that nothing was done without his help and
     advice. The more popular he became, however, with the Freemen, the
     blacker were the scowls which greeted him as he passed along the
     streets of Vermissa. In spite of their terror the citizens were
     taking heart to band themselves together against their oppressors.
     Rumours had reached the lodge of secret gatherings in the Herald
     office and of distribution of firearms among the law-abiding people.
     But McGinty and his men were undisturbed by such reports. They were
     numerous, resolute, and well armed. Their opponents were scattered
     and powerless. It would all end, as it had done in the past, in
     aimless talk and possibly in impotent arrests. So said McGinty,
     McMurdo, and all the bolder spirits.

     It was a Saturday evening in May. Saturday was always the lodge
     night, and McMurdo was leaving his house to attend it when Morris,
     the weaker brother of the order, came to see him. His brow was
     creased with care, and his kindly face was drawn and haggard.

     "Can I speak with you freely, Mr. McMurdo?"

     "Sure."

     "I can't forget that I spoke my heart to you once, and that you kept
     it to yourself, even though the Boss himself came to ask you about
     it."

     "What else could I do if you trusted me? It wasn't that I agreed with
     what you said."

     "I know that well. But you are the one that I can speak to and be
     safe. I've a secret here," he put his hand to his breast, "and it is
     just burning the life out of me. I wish it had come to any one of you
     but me. If I tell it, it will mean murder, for sure. If I don't, it
     may bring the end of us all. God help me, but I am near out of my
     wits over it!"

     McMurdo looked at the man earnestly. He was trembling in every limb.
     He poured some whisky into a glass and handed it to him. "That's the
     physic for the likes of you," said he. "Now let me hear of it."

     Morris drank, and his white face took a tinge of colour. "I can tell
     it to you all in one sentence," said he. "There's a detective on our
     trail."

     McMurdo stared at him in astonishment. "Why, man, you're crazy," he
     said. "Isn't the place full of police and detectives and what harm
     did they ever do us?"

     "No, no, it's no man of the district. As you say, we know them, and
     it is little that they can do. But you've heard of Pinkerton's?"

     "I've read of some folk of that name."

     "Well, you can take it from me you've no show when they are on your
     trail. It's not a take-it-or-miss-it government concern. It's a dead
     earnest business proposition that's out for results and keeps out
     till by hook or crook it gets them. If a Pinkerton man is deep in
     this business, we are all destroyed."

     "We must kill him."

     "Ah, it's the first thought that came to you! So it will be up at the
     lodge. Didn't I say to you that it would end in murder?"

     "Sure, what is murder? Isn't it common enough in these parts?"

     "It is, indeed; but it's not for me to point out the man that is to
     be murdered. I'd never rest easy again. And yet it's our own necks
     that may be at stake. In God's name what shall I do?" He rocked to
     and fro in his agony of indecision.

     But his words had moved McMurdo deeply. It was easy to see that he
     shared the other's opinion as to the danger, and the need for meeting
     it. He gripped Morris's shoulder and shook him in his earnestness.

     "See here, man," he cried, and he almost screeched the words in his
     excitement, "you won't gain anything by sitting keening like an old
     wife at a wake. Let's have the facts. Who is the fellow? Where is he?
     How did you hear of him? Why did you come to me?"

     "I came to you; for you are the one man that would advise me. I told
     you that I had a store in the East before I came here. I left good
     friends behind me, and one of them is in the telegraph service.
     Here's a letter that I had from him yesterday. It's this part from
     the top of the page. You can read it yourself."

     This was what McMurdo read:

     How are the Scowrers getting on in your parts? We read plenty of them
     in the papers. Between you and me I expect to hear news from you
     before long. Five big corporations and the two railroads have taken
     the thing up in dead earnest. They mean it, and you can bet they'll
     get there! They are right deep down into it. Pinkerton has taken hold
     under their orders, and his best man, Birdy Edwards, is operating.
     The thing has got to be stopped right now.

     "Now read the postscript."

     Of course, what I give you is what I learned in business; so it goes
     no further. It's a queer cipher that you handle by the yard every day
     and can get no meaning from.

     McMurdo sat in silence for some time, with the letter in his listless
     hands. The mist had lifted for a moment, and there was the abyss
     before him.

     "Does anyone else know of this?" he asked.

     "I have told no one else."

     "But this man--your friend--has he any other person that he would be
     likely to write to?"

     "Well, I dare say he knows one or two more."

     "Of the lodge?"

     "It's likely enough."

     "I was asking because it is likely that he may have given some
     description of this fellow Birdy Edwards--then we could get on his
     trail."

     "Well, it's possible. But I should not think he knew him. He is just
     telling me the news that came to him by way of business. How would he
     know this Pinkerton man?"

     McMurdo gave a violent start.

     "By Gar!" he cried, "I've got him. What a fool I was not to know it.
     Lord! but we're in luck! We will fix him before he can do any harm.
     See here, Morris, will you leave this thing in my hands?"

     "Sure, if you will only take it off mine."

     "I'll do that. You can stand right back and let me run it. Even your
     name need not be mentioned. I'll take it all on myself, as if it were
     to me that this letter has come. Will that content you?"

     "It's just what I would ask."

     "Then leave it at that and keep your head shut. Now I'll get down to
     the lodge, and we'll soon make old man Pinkerton sorry for himself."

     "You wouldn't kill this man?"

     "The less you know, Friend Morris, the easier your conscience will
     be, and the better you will sleep. Ask no questions, and let these
     things settle themselves. I have hold of it now."

     Morris shook his head sadly as he left. "I feel that his blood is on
     my hands," he groaned.

     "Self-protection is no murder, anyhow," said McMurdo, smiling grimly.
     "It's him or us. I guess this man would destroy us all if we left him
     long in the valley. Why, Brother Morris, we'll have to elect you
     Bodymaster yet; for you've surely saved the lodge."

     And yet it was clear from his actions that he thought more seriously
     of this new intrusion than his words would show. It may have been his
     guilty conscience, it may have been the reputation of the Pinkerton
     organization, it may have been the knowledge that great, rich
     corporations had set themselves the task of clearing out the
     Scowrers; but, whatever his reason, his actions were those of a man
     who is preparing for the worst. Every paper which would incriminate
     him was destroyed before he left the house. After that he gave a long
     sigh of satisfaction; for it seemed to him that he was safe. And yet
     the danger must still have pressed somewhat upon him; for on his way
     to the lodge he stopped at old man Shafter's. The house was forbidden
     him; but when he tapped at the window Ettie came out to him. The
     dancing Irish deviltry had gone from her lover's eyes. She read his
     danger in his earnest face.

     "Something has happened!" she cried. "Oh, Jack, you are in danger!"

     "Sure, it is not very bad, my sweetheart. And yet it may be wise that
     we make a move before it is worse."

     "Make a move?"

     "I promised you once that I would go some day. I think the time is
     coming. I had news to-night, bad news, and I see trouble coming."

     "The police?"

     "Well, a Pinkerton. But, sure, you wouldn't know what that is,
     acushla, nor what it may mean to the likes of me. I'm too deep in
     this thing, and I may have to get out of it quick. You said you would
     come with me if I went."

     "Oh, Jack, it would be the saving of you!"

     "I'm an honest man in some things, Ettie. I wouldn't hurt a hair of
     your bonny head for all that the world can give, nor ever pull you
     down one inch from the golden throne above the clouds where I always
     see you. Would you trust me?"

     She put her hand in his without a word. "Well, then, listen to what I
     say, and do as I order you, for indeed it's the only way for us.
     Things are going to happen in this valley. I feel it in my bones.
     There may be many of us that will have to look out for ourselves. I'm
     one, anyhow. If I go, by day or night, it's you that must come with
     me!"

     "I'd come after you, Jack."

     "No, no, you shall come with me. If this valley is closed to me and I
     can never come back, how can I leave you behind, and me perhaps in
     hiding from the police with never a chance of a message? It's with me
     you must come. I know a good woman in the place I come from, and it's
     there I'd leave you till we can get married. Will you come?"

     "Yes, Jack, I will come."

     "God bless you for your trust in me! It's a fiend out of hell that I
     should be if I abused it. Now, mark you, Ettie, it will be just a
     word to you, and when it reaches you, you will drop everything and
     come right down to the waiting room at the depot and stay there till
     I come for you."

     "Day or night, I'll come at the word, Jack."

     Somewhat eased in mind, now that his own preparations for escape had
     been begun, McMurdo went on to the lodge. It had already assembled,
     and only by complicated signs and counter-signs could he pass through
     the outer guard and inner guard who close-tiled it. A buzz of
     pleasure and welcome greeted him as he entered. The long room was
     crowded, and through the haze of tobacco smoke he saw the tangled
     black mane of the Bodymaster, the cruel, unfriendly features of
     Baldwin, the vulture face of Harraway, the secretary, and a dozen
     more who were among the leaders of the lodge. He rejoiced that they
     should all be there to take counsel over his news.

     "Indeed, it's glad we are to see you, Brother!" cried the chairman.
     "There's business here that wants a Solomon in judgment to set it
     right."

     "It's Lander and Egan," explained his neighbour as he took his seat.
     "They both claim the head money given by the lodge for the shooting
     of old man Crabbe over at Stylestown, and who's to say which fired
     the bullet?"

     McMurdo rose in his place and raised his hand. The expression of his
     face froze the attention of the audience. There was a dead hush of
     expectation.

     "Eminent Bodymaster," he said, in a solemn voice, "I claim urgency!"

     "Brother McMurdo claims urgency," said McGinty. "It's a claim that by
     the rules of this lodge takes precedence. Now Brother, we attend
     you."

     McMurdo took the letter from his pocket.

     "Eminent Bodymaster and Brethren," he said, "I am the bearer of ill
     news this day; but it is better that it should be known and
     discussed, than that a blow should fall upon us without warning which
     would destroy us all. I have information that the most powerful and
     richest organizations in this state have bound themselves together
     for our destruction, and that at this very moment there is a
     Pinkerton detective, one Birdy Edwards, at work in the valley
     collecting the evidence which may put a rope round the necks of many
     of us, and send every man in this room into a felon's cell. That is
     the situation for the discussion of which I have made a claim of
     urgency."

     There was a dead silence in the room. It was broken by the chairman.

     "What is your evidence for this, Brother McMurdo?" he asked.

     "It is in this letter which has come into my hands," said McMurdo. He
     read the passage aloud. "It is a matter of honour with me that I can
     give no further particulars about the letter, nor put it into your
     hands; but I assure you that there is nothing else in it which can
     affect the interests of the lodge. I put the case before you as it
     has reached me."

     "Let me say, Mr. Chairman," said one of the older brethren, "that I
     have heard of Birdy Edwards, and that he has the name of being the
     best man in the Pinkerton service."

     "Does anyone know him by sight?" asked McGinty.

     "Yes," said McMurdo, "I do."

     There was a murmur of astonishment through the hall.

     "I believe we hold him in the hollow of our hands," he continued with
     an exulting smile upon his face. "If we act quickly and wisely, we
     can cut this thing short. If I have your confidence and your help, it
     is little that we have to fear."

     "What have we to fear, anyhow? What can he know of our affairs?"

     "You might say so if all were as stanch as you, Councillor. But this
     man has all the millions of the capitalists at his back. Do you think
     there is no weaker brother among all our lodges that could not be
     bought? He will get at our secrets--maybe has got them already.
     There's only one sure cure."

     "That he never leaves the valley," said Baldwin.

     McMurdo nodded. "Good for you, Brother Baldwin," he said. "You and I
     have had our differences, but you have said the true word to-night."

     "Where is he, then? Where shall we know him?"

     "Eminent Bodymaster," said McMurdo, earnestly, "I would put it to you
     that this is too vital a thing for us to discuss in open lodge. God
     forbid that I should throw a doubt on anyone here; but if so much as
     a word of gossip got to the ears of this man, there would be an end
     of any chance of our getting him. I would ask the lodge to choose a
     trusty committee, Mr. Chairman--yourself, if I might suggest it, and
     Brother Baldwin here, and five more. Then I can talk freely of what I
     know and of what I advise should be done."

     The proposition was at once adopted, and the committee chosen.
     Besides the chairman and Baldwin there were the vulture-faced
     secretary, Harraway, Tiger Cormac, the brutal young assassin, Carter,
     the treasurer, and the brothers Willaby, fearless and desperate men
     who would stick at nothing.

     The usual revelry of the lodge was short and subdued: for there was a
     cloud upon the men's spirits, and many there for the first time began
     to see the cloud of avenging Law drifting up in that serene sky under
     which they had dwelt so long. The horrors they had dealt out to
     others had been so much a part of their settled lives that the
     thought of retribution had become a remote one, and so seemed the
     more startling now that it came so closely upon them. They broke up
     early and left their leaders to their council.

     "Now, McMurdo!" said McGinty when they were alone. The seven men sat
     frozen in their seats.

     "I said just now that I knew Birdy Edwards," McMurdo explained. "I
     need not tell you that he is not here under that name. He's a brave
     man, but not a crazy one. He passes under the name of Steve Wilson,
     and he is lodging at Hobson's Patch."

     "How do you know this?"

     "Because I fell into talk with him. I thought little of it at the
     time, nor would have given it a second thought but for this letter;
     but now I'm sure it's the man. I met him on the cars when I went down
     the line on Wednesday--a hard case if ever there was one. He said he
     was a reporter. I believed it for the moment. Wanted to know all he
     could about the Scowrers and what he called 'the outrages' for a New
     York paper. Asked me every kind of question so as to get something.
     You bet I was giving nothing away. 'I'd pay for it and pay well,'
     said he, 'if I could get some stuff that would suit my editor.' I
     said what I thought would please him best, and he handed me a
     twenty-dollar bill for my information. 'There's ten times that for
     you,' said he, 'if you can find me all that I want.'"

     "What did you tell him, then?"

     "Any stuff I could make up."

     "How do you know he wasn't a newspaper man?"

     "I'll tell you. He got out at Hobson's Patch, and so did I. I chanced
     into the telegraph bureau, and he was leaving it.

     "'See here,' said the operator after he'd gone out, 'I guess we
     should charge double rates for this.'--'I guess you should,' said I.
     He had filled the form with stuff that might have been Chinese, for
     all we could make of it. 'He fires a sheet of this off every day,'
     said the clerk. 'Yes,' said I; 'it's special news for his paper, and
     he's scared that the others should tap it.' That was what the
     operator thought and what I thought at the time; but I think
     differently now."

     "By Gar! I believe you are right," said McGinty. "But what do you
     allow that we should do about it?"

     "Why not go right down now and fix him?" someone suggested.

     "Ay, the sooner the better."

     "I'd start this next minute if I knew where we could find him," said
     McMurdo. "He's in Hobson's Patch; but I don't know the house. I've
     got a plan, though, if you'll only take my advice."

     "Well, what is it?"

     "I'll go to the Patch to-morrow morning. I'll find him through the
     operator. He can locate him, I guess. Well, then I'll tell him that
     I'm a Freeman myself. I'll offer him all the secrets of the lodge for
     a price. You bet he'll tumble to it. I'll tell him the papers are at
     my house, and that it's as much as my life would be worth to let him
     come while folk were about. He'll see that that's horse sense. Let
     him come at ten o'clock at night, and he shall see everything. That
     will fetch him sure."

     "Well?"

     "You can plan the rest for yourselves. Widow MacNamara's is a lonely
     house. She's as true as steel and as deaf as a post. There's only
     Scanlan and me in the house. If I get his promise--and I'll let you
     know if I do--I'd have the whole seven of you come to me by nine
     o'clock. We'll get him in. If ever he gets out alive--well, he can
     talk of Birdy Edwards's luck for the rest of his days!"

     "There's going to be a vacancy at Pinkerton's or I'm mistaken. Leave
     it at that, McMurdo. At nine to-morrow we'll be with you. You once
     get the door shut behind him, and you can leave the rest with us."





          CHAPTER VII
          The Trapping of Birdy Edwards


     As McMurdo had said, the house in which he lived was a lonely one and
     very well suited for such a crime as they had planned. It was on the
     extreme fringe of the town and stood well back from the road. In any
     other case the conspirators would have simply called out their man,
     as they had many a time before, and emptied their pistols into his
     body; but in this instance it was very necessary to find out how much
     he knew, how he knew it, and what had been passed on to his
     employers.

     It was possible that they were already too late and that the work had
     been done. If that was indeed so, they could at least have their
     revenge upon the man who had done it. But they were hopeful that
     nothing of great importance had yet come to the detective's
     knowledge, as otherwise, they argued, he would not have troubled to
     write down and forward such trivial information as McMurdo claimed to
     have given him. However, all this they would learn from his own lips.
     Once in their power, they would find a way to make him speak. It was
     not the first time that they had handled an unwilling witness.

     McMurdo went to Hobson's Patch as agreed. The police seemed to take
     particular interest in him that morning, and Captain Marvin--he who
     had claimed the old acquaintance with him at Chicago--actually
     addressed him as he waited at the station. McMurdo turned away and
     refused to speak with him. He was back from his mission in the
     afternoon, and saw McGinty at the Union House.

     "He is coming," he said.

     "Good!" said McGinty. The giant was in his shirt sleeves, with chains
     and seals gleaming athwart his ample waistcoat and a diamond
     twinkling through the fringe of his bristling beard. Drink and
     politics had made the Boss a very rich as well as powerful man. The
     more terrible, therefore, seemed that glimpse of the prison or the
     gallows which had risen before him the night before.

     "Do you reckon he knows much?" he asked anxiously.

     McMurdo shook his head gloomily. "He's been here some time--six weeks
     at the least. I guess he didn't come into these parts to look at the
     prospect. If he has been working among us all that time with the
     railroad money at his back, I should expect that he has got results,
     and that he has passed them on."

     "There's not a weak man in the lodge," cried McGinty. "True as steel,
     every man of them. And yet, by the Lord! there is that skunk Morris.
     What about him? If any man gives us away, it would be he. I've a mind
     to send a couple of the boys round before evening to give him a
     beating up and see what they can get from him."

     "Well, there would be no harm in that," McMurdo answered. "I won't
     deny that I have a liking for Morris and would be sorry to see him
     come to harm. He has spoken to me once or twice over lodge matters,
     and though he may not see them the same as you or I, he never seemed
     the sort that squeals. But still it is not for me to stand between
     him and you."

     "I'll fix the old devil!" said McGinty with an oath. "I've had my eye
     on him this year past."

     "Well, you know best about that," McMurdo answered. "But whatever you
     do must be to-morrow; for we must lie low until the Pinkerton affair
     is settled up. We can't afford to set the police buzzing, to-day of
     all days."

     "True for you," said McGinty. "And we'll learn from Birdy Edwards
     himself where he got his news if we have to cut his heart out first.
     Did he seem to scent a trap?"

     McMurdo laughed. "I guess I took him on his weak point," he said. "If
     he could get on a good trail of the Scowrers, he's ready to follow it
     into hell. I took his money," McMurdo grinned as he produced a wad of
     dollar notes, "and as much more when he has seen all my papers."

     "What papers?"

     "Well, there are no papers. But I filled him up about constitutions
     and books of rules and forms of membership. He expects to get right
     down to the end of everything before he leaves."

     "Faith, he's right there," said McGinty grimly. "Didn't he ask you
     why you didn't bring him the papers?"

     "As if I would carry such things, and me a suspected man, and Captain
     Marvin after speaking to me this very day at the depot!"

     "Ay, I heard of that," said McGinty. "I guess the heavy end of this
     business is coming on to you. We could put him down an old shaft when
     we've done with him; but however we work it we can't get past the man
     living at Hobson's Patch and you being there to-day."

     McMurdo shrugged his shoulders. "If we handle it right, they can
     never prove the killing," said he. "No one can see him come to the
     house after dark, and I'll lay to it that no one will see him go. Now
     see here, Councillor, I'll show you my plan and I'll ask you to fit
     the others into it. You will all come in good time. Very well. He
     comes at ten. He is to tap three times, and me to open the door for
     him. Then I'll get behind him and shut it. He's our man then."

     "That's all easy and plain."

     "Yes; but the next step wants considering. He's a hard proposition.
     He's heavily armed. I've fooled him proper, and yet he is likely to
     be on his guard. Suppose I show him right into a room with seven men
     in it where he expected to find me alone. There is going to be
     shooting, and somebody is going to be hurt."

     "That's so."

     "And the noise is going to bring every damned copper in the township
     on top of it."

     "I guess you are right."

     "This is how I should work it. You will all be in the big room--same
     as you saw when you had a chat with me. I'll open the door for him,
     show him into the parlour beside the door, and leave him there while
     I get the papers. That will give me the chance of telling you how
     things are shaping. Then I will go back to him with some faked
     papers. As he is reading them I will jump for him and get my grip on
     his pistol arm. You'll hear me call and in you will rush. The quicker
     the better; for he is as strong a man as I, and I may have more than
     I can manage. But I allow that I can hold him till you come."

     "It's a good plan," said McGinty. "The lodge will owe you a debt for
     this. I guess when I move out of the chair I can put a name to the
     man that's coming after me."

     "Sure, Councillor, I am little more than a recruit," said McMurdo;
     but his face showed what he thought of the great man's compliment.

     When he had returned home he made his own preparations for the grim
     evening in front of him. First he cleaned, oiled, and loaded his
     Smith & Wesson revolver. Then he surveyed the room in which the
     detective was to be trapped. It was a large apartment, with a long
     deal table in the centre, and the big stove at one side. At each of
     the other sides were windows. There were no shutters on these: only
     light curtains which drew across. McMurdo examined these attentively.
     No doubt it must have struck him that the apartment was very exposed
     for so secret a meeting. Yet its distance from the road made it of
     less consequence. Finally he discussed the matter with his fellow
     lodger. Scanlan, though a Scowrer, was an inoffensive little man who
     was too weak to stand against the opinion of his comrades, but was
     secretly horrified by the deeds of blood at which he had sometimes
     been forced to assist. McMurdo told him shortly what was intended.

     "And if I were you, Mike Scanlan, I would take a night off and keep
     clear of it. There will be bloody work here before morning."

     "Well, indeed then, Mac," Scanlan answered. "It's not the will but
     the nerve that is wanting in me. When I saw Manager Dunn go down at
     the colliery yonder it was just more than I could stand. I'm not made
     for it, same as you or McGinty. If the lodge will think none the
     worse of me, I'll just do as you advise and leave you to yourselves
     for the evening."

     The men came in good time as arranged. They were outwardly
     respectable citizens, well clad and cleanly; but a judge of faces
     would have read little hope for Birdy Edwards in those hard mouths
     and remorseless eyes. There was not a man in the room whose hands had
     not been reddened a dozen times before. They were as hardened to
     human murder as a butcher to sheep.

     Foremost, of course, both in appearance and in guilt, was the
     formidable Boss. Harraway, the secretary, was a lean, bitter man with
     a long, scraggy neck and nervous, jerky limbs, a man of incorruptible
     fidelity where the finances of the order were concerned, and with no
     notion of justice or honesty to anyone beyond. The treasurer, Carter,
     was a middle-aged man, with an impassive, rather sulky expression,
     and a yellow parchment skin. He was a capable organizer, and the
     actual details of nearly every outrage had sprung from his plotting
     brain. The two Willabys were men of action, tall, lithe young fellows
     with determined faces, while their companion, Tiger Cormac, a heavy,
     dark youth, was feared even by his own comrades for the ferocity of
     his disposition. These were the men who assembled that night under
     the roof of McMurdo for the killing of the Pinkerton detective.

     Their host had placed whisky upon the table, and they had hastened to
     prime themselves for the work before them. Baldwin and Cormac were
     already half-drunk, and the liquor had brought out all their
     ferocity. Cormac placed his hands on the stove for an instant--it had
     been lighted, for the nights were still cold.

     "That will do," said he, with an oath.

     "Ay," said Baldwin, catching his meaning. "If he is strapped to that,
     we will have the truth out of him."

     "We'll have the truth out of him, never fear," said McMurdo. He had
     nerves of steel, this man; for though the whole weight of the affair
     was on him his manner was as cool and unconcerned as ever. The others
     marked it and applauded.

     "You are the one to handle him," said the Boss approvingly. "Not a
     warning will he get till your hand is on his throat. It's a pity
     there are no shutters to your windows."

     McMurdo went from one to the other and drew the curtains tighter.
     "Sure no one can spy upon us now. It's close upon the hour."

     "Maybe he won't come. Maybe he'll get a sniff of danger," said the
     secretary.

     "He'll come, never fear," McMurdo answered. "He is as eager to come
     as you can be to see him. Hark to that!"

     They all sat like wax figures, some with their glasses arrested
     halfway to their lips. Three loud knocks had sounded at the door.

     "Hush!" McMurdo raised his hand in caution. An exulting glance went
     round the circle, and hands were laid upon hidden weapons.

     "Not a sound, for your lives!" McMurdo whispered, as he went from the
     room, closing the door carefully behind him.

     With strained ears the murderers waited. They counted the steps of
     their comrade down the passage. Then they heard him open the outer
     door. There were a few words as of greeting. Then they were aware of
     a strange step inside and of an unfamiliar voice. An instant later
     came the slam of the door and the turning of the key in the lock.
     Their prey was safe within the trap. Tiger Cormac laughed horribly,
     and Boss McGinty clapped his great hand across his mouth.

     "Be quiet, you fool!" he whispered. "You'll be the undoing of us
     yet!"

     There was a mutter of conversation from the next room. It seemed
     interminable. Then the door opened, and McMurdo appeared, his finger
     upon his lip.

     He came to the end of the table and looked round at them. A subtle
     change had come over him. His manner was as of one who has great work
     to do. His face had set into granite firmness. His eyes shone with a
     fierce excitement behind his spectacles. He had become a visible
     leader of men. They stared at him with eager interest; but he said
     nothing. Still with the same singular gaze he looked from man to man.

     "Well!" cried Boss McGinty at last. "Is he here? Is Birdy Edwards
     here?"

     "Yes," McMurdo answered slowly. "Birdy Edwards is here. I am Birdy
     Edwards!"

     There were ten seconds after that brief speech during which the room
     might have been empty, so profound was the silence. The hissing of a
     kettle upon the stove rose sharp and strident to the ear. Seven white
     faces, all turned upward to this man who dominated them, were set
     motionless with utter terror. Then, with a sudden shivering of glass,
     a bristle of glistening rifle barrels broke through each window,
     while the curtains were torn from their hangings.

     At the sight Boss McGinty gave the roar of a wounded bear and plunged
     for the half-opened door. A levelled revolver met him there with the
     stern blue eyes of Captain Marvin of the Mine Police gleaming behind
     the sights. The Boss recoiled and fell back into his chair.

     "You're safer there, Councillor," said the man whom they had known as
     McMurdo. "And you, Baldwin, if you don't take your hand off your
     pistol, you'll cheat the hangman yet. Pull it out, or by the Lord
     that made me--There, that will do. There are forty armed men round
     this house, and you can figure it out for yourself what chance you
     have. Take their pistols, Marvin!"

     There was no possible resistance under the menace of those rifles.
     The men were disarmed. Sulky, sheepish, and amazed, they still sat
     round the table.

     "I'd like to say a word to you before we separate," said the man who
     had trapped them. "I guess we may not meet again until you see me on
     the stand in the courthouse. I'll give you something to think over
     between now and then. You know me now for what I am. At last I can
     put my cards on the table. I am Birdy Edwards of Pinkerton's. I was
     chosen to break up your gang. I had a hard and dangerous game to
     play. Not a soul, not one soul, not my nearest and dearest, knew that
     I was playing it. Only Captain Marvin here and my employers knew
     that. But it's over to-night, thank God, and I am the winner!"

     The seven pale, rigid faces looked up at him. There was unappeasable
     hatred in their eyes. He read the relentless threat.

     "Maybe you think that the game is not over yet. Well, I take my
     chance of that. Anyhow, some of you will take no further hand, and
     there are sixty more besides yourselves that will see a jail this
     night. I'll tell you this, that when I was put upon this job I never
     believed there was such a society as yours. I thought it was paper
     talk, and that I would prove it so. They told me it was to do with
     the Freemen; so I went to Chicago and was made one. Then I was surer
     than ever that it was just paper talk; for I found no harm in the
     society, but a deal of good.

     "Still, I had to carry out my job, and I came to the coal valleys.
     When I reached this place I learned that I was wrong and that it
     wasn't a dime novel after all. So I stayed to look after it. I never
     killed a man in Chicago. I never minted a dollar in my life. Those I
     gave you were as good as any others; but I never spent money better.
     But I knew the way into your good wishes and so I pretended to you
     that the law was after me. It all worked just as I thought.

     "So I joined your infernal lodge, and I took my share in your
     councils. Maybe they will say that I was as bad as you. They can say
     what they like, so long as I get you. But what is the truth? The
     night I joined you beat up old man Stanger. I could not warn him, for
     there was no time; but I held your hand, Baldwin, when you would have
     killed him. If ever I have suggested things, so as to keep my place
     among you, they were things which I knew I could prevent. I could not
     save Dunn and Menzies, for I did not know enough; but I will see that
     their murderers are hanged. I gave Chester Wilcox warning, so that
     when I blew his house in he and his folk were in hiding. There was
     many a crime that I could not stop; but if you look back and think
     how often your man came home the other road, or was down in town when
     you went for him, or stayed indoors when you thought he would come
     out, you'll see my work."

     "You blasted traitor!" hissed McGinty through his closed teeth.

     "Ay, John McGinty, you may call me that if it eases your smart. You
     and your like have been the enemy of God and man in these parts. It
     took a man to get between you and the poor devils of men and women
     that you held under your grip. There was just one way of doing it,
     and I did it. You call me a traitor; but I guess there's many a
     thousand will call me a deliverer that went down into hell to save
     them. I've had three months of it. I wouldn't have three such months
     again if they let me loose in the treasury at Washington for it. I
     had to stay till I had it all, every man and every secret right here
     in this hand. I'd have waited a little longer if it hadn't come to my
     knowledge that my secret was coming out. A letter had come into the
     town that would have set you wise to it all. Then I had to act and
     act quickly.

     "I've nothing more to say to you, except that when my time comes I'll
     die the easier when I think of the work I have done in this valley.
     Now, Marvin, I'll keep you no more. Take them in and get it over."

     There is little more to tell. Scanlan had been given a sealed note to
     be left at the address of Miss Ettie Shafter, a mission which he had
     accepted with a wink and a knowing smile. In the early hours of the
     morning a beautiful woman and a much muffled man boarded a special
     train which had been sent by the railroad company, and made a swift,
     unbroken journey out of the land of danger. It was the last time that
     ever either Ettie or her lover set foot in the Valley of Fear. Ten
     days later they were married in Chicago, with old Jacob Shafter as
     witness of the wedding.

     The trial of the Scowrers was held far from the place where their
     adherents might have terrified the guardians of the law. In vain they
     struggled. In vain the money of the lodge--money squeezed by
     blackmail out of the whole countryside--was spent like water in the
     attempt to save them. That cold, clear, unimpassioned statement from
     one who knew every detail of their lives, their organization, and
     their crimes was unshaken by all the wiles of their defenders. At
     last after so many years they were broken and scattered. The cloud
     was lifted forever from the valley.

     McGinty met his fate upon the scaffold, cringing and whining when the
     last hour came. Eight of his chief followers shared his fate.
     Fifty-odd had various degrees of imprisonment. The work of Birdy
     Edwards was complete.

     And yet, as he had guessed, the game was not over yet. There was
     another hand to be played, and yet another and another. Ted Baldwin,
     for one, had escaped the scaffold; so had the Willabys; so had
     several others of the fiercest spirits of the gang. For ten years
     they were out of the world, and then came a day when they were free
     once more--a day which Edwards, who knew his men, was very sure would
     be an end of his life of peace. They had sworn an oath on all that
     they thought holy to have his blood as a vengeance for their
     comrades. And well they strove to keep their vow!

     From Chicago he was chased, after two attempts so near success that
     it was sure that the third would get him. From Chicago he went under
     a changed name to California, and it was there that the light went
     for a time out of his life when Ettie Edwards died. Once again he was
     nearly killed, and once again under the name of Douglas he worked in
     a lonely canyon, where with an English partner named Barker he
     amassed a fortune. At last there came a warning to him that the
     bloodhounds were on his track once more, and he cleared--only just in
     time--for England. And thence came the John Douglas who for a second
     time married a worthy mate, and lived for five years as a Sussex
     county gentleman, a life which ended with the strange happenings of
     which we have heard.





          CHAPTER VIII
          Epilogue


     The police trial had passed, in which the case of John Douglas was
     referred to a higher court. So had the Quarter Sessions, at which he
     was acquitted as having acted in self-defense.

     "Get him out of England at any cost," wrote Holmes to the wife.
     "There are forces here which may be more dangerous than those he has
     escaped. There is no safety for your husband in England."

     Two months had gone by, and the case had to some extent passed from
     our minds. Then one morning there came an enigmatic note slipped into
     our letter box. "Dear me, Mr. Holmes. Dear me!" said this singular
     epistle. There was neither superscription nor signature. I laughed at
     the quaint message; but Holmes showed unwonted seriousness.

     "Deviltry, Watson!" he remarked, and sat long with a clouded brow.

     Late last night Mrs. Hudson, our landlady, brought up a message that
     a gentleman wished to see Holmes, and that the matter was of the
     utmost importance. Close at the heels of his messenger came Cecil
     Barker, our friend of the moated Manor House. His face was drawn and
     haggard.

     "I've had bad news--terrible news, Mr. Holmes," said he.

     "I feared as much," said Holmes.

     "You have not had a cable, have you?"

     "I have had a note from someone who has."

     "It's poor Douglas. They tell me his name is Edwards; but he will
     always be Jack Douglas of Benito Canyon to me. I told you that they
     started together for South Africa in the Palmyra three weeks ago."

     "Exactly."

     "The ship reached Cape Town last night. I received this cable from
     Mrs. Douglas this morning:--

     "Jack has been lost overboard in gale off St. Helena. No one knows
     how accident occurred.
     "Ivy Douglas."

     "Ha! It came like that, did it?" said Holmes, thoughtfully. "Well,
     I've no doubt it was well stage-managed."

     "You mean that you think there was no accident?"

     "None in the world."

     "He was murdered?"

     "Surely!"

     "So I think also. These infernal Scowrers, this cursed vindictive
     nest of criminals--"

     "No, no, my good sir," said Holmes. "There is a master hand here. It
     is no case of sawed-off shot-guns and clumsy six-shooters. You can
     tell an old master by the sweep of his brush. I can tell a Moriarty
     when I see one. This crime is from London, not from America."

     "But for what motive?"

     "Because it is done by a man who cannot afford to fail--one whose
     whole unique position depends upon the fact that all he does must
     succeed. A great brain and a huge organization have been turned to
     the extinction of one man. It is crushing the nut with the hammer--an
     absurd extravagance of energy--but the nut is very effectually
     crushed all the same."

     "How came this man to have anything to do with it?"

     "I can only say that the first word that ever came to us of the
     business was from one of his lieutenants. These Americans were well
     advised. Having an English job to do, they took into partnership, as
     any foreign criminal could do, this great consultant in crime. From
     that moment their man was doomed. At first he would content himself
     by using his machinery in order to find their victim. Then he would
     indicate how the matter might be treated. Finally, when he read in
     the reports of the failure of this agent, he would step in himself
     with a master touch. You heard me warn this man at Birlstone Manor
     House that the coming danger was greater than the past. Was I right?"

     Barker beat his head with his clenched fist in his impotent anger.

     "Do you tell me that we have to sit down under this? Do you say that
     no one can ever get level with this king-devil?"

     "No, I don't say that," said Holmes, and his eyes seemed to be
     looking far into the future. "I don't say that he can't be beat. But
     you must give me time--you must give me time!"

     We all sat in silence for some minutes, while those fateful eyes
     still strained to pierce the veil.

                         THE ADVENTURE OF WISTERIA LODGE

     I find it recorded in my notebook that it was a bleak and windy day
     towards the end of March in the year 1892.  Holmes had received a
     telegram while we sat at our lunch, and he had scribbled a reply.  He
     made no remark, but the matter remained in his thoughts, for he stood
     in front of the fire afterwards with a thoughtful face, smoking his
     pipe, and casting an occasional glance at the message. Suddenly he
     turned upon me with a mischievous twinkle in his eyes.

     "I suppose, Watson, we must look upon you as a man of letters," said
     he. "How do you define the word 'grotesque'?"

     "Strange--remarkable," I suggested.

     He shook his head at my definition.

     "There is surely something more than that," said he; "some underlying
     suggestion of the tragic and the terrible.  If you cast your mind
     back to some of those narratives with which you have afflicted a
     long-suffering public, you will recognize how often the grotesque has
     deepened into the criminal.  Think of that little affair of the
     red-headed men.  That was grotesque enough in the outset, and yet it
     ended in a desperate attempt at robbery.  Or, again, there was that
     most grotesque affair of the five orange pips, which let straight to
     a murderous conspiracy. The word puts me on the alert."

     "Have you it there?" I asked.

     He read the telegram aloud.

     "Have just had most incredible and grotesque experience. May I
     consult you?
     "Scott Eccles,
     "Post Office, Charing Cross."

     "Man or woman?" I asked.

     "Oh, man, of course. No woman would ever send a reply-paid telegram.
     She would have come."

     "Will you see him?"

     "My dear Watson, you know how bored I have been since we locked up
     Colonel Carruthers. My mind is like a racing engine, tearing itself
     to pieces because it is not connected up with the work for which it
     was built. Life is commonplace, the papers are sterile; audacity and
     romance seem to have passed forever from the criminal world. Can you
     ask me, then, whether I am ready to look into any new problem,
     however trivial it may prove? But here, unless I am mistaken, is our
     client."

     A measured step was heard upon the stairs, and a moment later a
     stout, tall, gray-whiskered and solemnly respectable person was
     ushered into the room.  His life history was written in his heavy
     features and pompous manner.  From his spats to his gold-rimmed
     spectacles he was a Conservative, a churchman, a good citizen,
     orthodox and conventional to the last degree. But some amazing
     experience had disturbed his native composure and left its traces in
     his bristling hair, his flushed, angry cheeks, and his flurried,
     excited manner. He plunged instantly into his business.

     "I have had a most singular and unpleasant experience, Mr. Holmes,"
     said he. "Never in my life have I been placed in such a situation. It
     is most improper--most outrageous. I must insist upon some
     explanation." He swelled and puffed in his anger.

     "Pray sit down, Mr. Scott Eccles," said Holmes in a soothing voice.
     "May I ask, in the first place, why you came to me at all?"

     "Well, sir, it did not appear to be a matter which concerned the
     police, and yet, when you have heard the facts, you must admit that I
     could not leave it where it was. Private detectives are a class with
     whom I have absolutely no sympathy, but none the less, having heard
     your name--"

     "Quite so.  But, in the second place, why did you not come at once?"

     "What do you mean?"

     Holmes glanced at his watch.

     "It is a quarter-past two," he said. "Your telegram was dispatched
     about one. But no one can glance at your toilet and attire without
     seeing that your disturbance dates from the moment of your waking."

     Our client smoothed down his unbrushed hair and felt his unshaven
     chin.

     "You are right, Mr. Holmes. I never gave a thought to my toilet. I
     was only too glad to get out of such a house. But I have been running
     round making inquiries before I came to you. I went to the house
     agents, you know, and they said that Mr. Garcia's rent was paid up
     all right and that everything was in order at Wisteria Lodge."

     "Come, come, sir," said Holmes, laughing. "You are like my friend,
     Dr. Watson, who has a bad habit of telling his stories wrong end
     foremost. Please arrange your thoughts and let me know, in their due
     sequence, exactly what those events are which have sent you out
     unbrushed and unkempt, with dress boots and waistcoat buttoned awry,
     in search of advice and assistance."

     Our client looked down with a rueful face at his own unconventional
     appearance.

     "I'm sure it must look very bad, Mr. Holmes, and I am not aware that
     in my whole life such a thing has ever happened before. But will tell
     you the whole queer business, and when I have done so you will admit,
     I am sure, that there has been enough to excuse me."

     But his narrative was nipped in the bud. There was a bustle outside,
     and Mrs. Hudson opened the door to usher in two robust and
     official-looking individuals, one of whom was well known to us as
     Inspector Gregson of Scotland Yard, an energetic, gallant, and,
     within his limitations, a capable officer. He shook hands with Holmes
     and introduced his comrade as Inspector Baynes, of the Surrey
     Constabulary.

     "We are hunting together, Mr. Holmes, and our trail lay in this
     direction." He turned his bulldog eyes upon our visitor. "Are you Mr.
     John Scott Eccles, of Popham House, Lee?"

     "I am."

     "We have been following you about all the morning."

     "You traced him through the telegram, no doubt," said Holmes. 

     "Exactly, Mr. Holmes. We picked up the scent at Charing Cross
     Post-Office and came on here."

     "But why do you follow me? What do you want?"

     "We wish a statement, Mr. Scott Eccles, as to the events which let up
     to the death last night of Mr. Aloysius Garcia, of Wisteria Lodge,
     near Esher."

     Our client had sat up with staring eyes and every tinge of colour
     struck from his astonished face.

     "Dead?  Did you say he was dead?"

     "Yes, sir, he is dead."

     "But how?  An accident?"

     "Murder, if ever there was one upon earth."

     "Good God! This is awful! You don't mean--you don't mean that I am
     suspected?"

     "A letter of yours was found in the dead man's pocket, and we know by
     it that you had planned to pass last night at his house."

     "So I did."

     "Oh, you did, did you?"

     Out came the official notebook.

     "Wait a bit, Gregson," said Sherlock Holmes. "All you desire is a
     plain statement, is it not?"

     "And it is my duty to warn Mr. Scott Eccles that it may be used
     against him."

     "Mr. Eccles was going to tell us about it when you entered the room.
     I think, Watson, a brandy and soda would do him no harm. Now, sir, I
     suggest that you take no notice of this addition to your audience,
     and that you proceed with your narrative exactly as you would have
     done had you never been interrupted."

     Our visitor had gulped off the brandy and the colour had returned to
     his face.  With a dubious glance at the inspector's notebook, he
     plunged at once into his extraordinary statement.

     "I am a bachelor," said he, "and being of a sociable turn I cultivate
     a large number of friends. Among these are the family of a retired
     brewer called Melville, living at Abermarle Mansion, Kensington. It
     was at his table that I met some weeks ago a young fellow named
     Garcia. He was, I understood, of Spanish descent and connected in
     some way with the embassy. He spoke perfect English, was pleasing in
     his manners, and as good-looking a man as ever I saw in my life.

     "In some way we struck up quite a friendship, this young fellow and
     I. He seemed to take a fancy to me from the first, and within two
     days of our meeting he came to see me at Lee. One thing led to
     another, and it ended in his inviting me out to spend a few days at
     his house, Wisteria Lodge, between Esher and Oxshott. Yesterday
     evening I went to Esher to fulfil this engagement.

     "He had described his household to me before I went there. He lived
     with a faithful servant, a countryman of his own, who looked after
     all his needs. This fellow could speak English and did his
     housekeeping for him. Then there was a wonderful cook, he said, a
     half-breed whom he had picked up in his travels, who could serve an
     excellent dinner. I remember that he remarked what a queer household
     it was to find in the heart of Surrey, and that I agreed with him,
     though it has proved a good deal queerer than I thought.

     "I drove to the place--about two miles on the south side of Esher.
     The house was a fair-sized one, standing back from the road, with a
     curving drive which was banked with high evergreen shrubs. It was an
     old, tumbledown building in a crazy state of disrepair. When the trap
     pulled up on the grass-grown drive in front of the blotched and
     weather-stained door, I had doubts as to my wisdom in visiting a man
     whom I knew so slightly. He opened the door himself, however, and
     greeted me with a great show of cordiality. I was handed over to the
     manservant, a melancholy, swarthy individual, who led the way, my bag
     in his hand, to my bedroom. The whole place was depressing. Our
     dinner was tÃªte-Ã -tÃªte, and though my host did his best to be
     entertaining, his thoughts seemed to continually wander, and he
     talked so vaguely and wildly that I could hardly understand him. He
     continually drummed his fingers on the table, gnawed his nails, and
     gave other signs of nervous impatience. The dinner itself was neither
     well served nor well cooked, and the gloomy presence of the taciturn
     servant did not help to enliven us. I can assure you that many times
     in the course of the evening I wished that I could invent some excuse
     which would take me back to Lee.

     "One thing comes back to my memory which may have a bearing upon the
     business that you two gentlemen are investigating. I thought nothing
     of it at the time. Near the end of dinner a note was handed in by the
     servant. I noticed that after my host had read it he seemed even more
     distrait and strange than before. He gave up all pretence at
     conversation and sat, smoking endless cigarettes, lost in his own
     thoughts, but he made no remark as to the contents. About eleven I
     was glad to go to bed. Some time later Garcia looked in at my
     door--the room was dark at the time--and asked me if I had rung. I
     said that I had not. He apologized for having disturbed me so late,
     saying that it was nearly one o'clock. I dropped off after this and
     slept soundly all night.

     "And now I come to the amazing part of my tale. When I woke it was
     broad daylight. I glanced at my watch, and the time was nearly nine.
     I had particularly asked to be called at eight, so I was very much
     astonished at this forgetfulness. I sprang up and rang for the
     servant. There was no response. I rang again and again, with the same
     result. Then I came to the conclusion that the bell was out of order.
     I huddled on my clothes and hurried downstairs in an exceedingly bad
     temper to order some hot water. You can imagine my surprise when I
     found that there was no one there. I shouted in the hall. There was
     no answer. Then I ran from room to room. All were deserted. My host
     had shown me which was his bedroom the night before, so I knocked at
     the door. No reply. I turned the handle and walked in. The room was
     empty, and the bed had never been slept in. He had gone with the
     rest. The foreign host, the foreign footman, the foreign cook, all
     had vanished in the night! That was the end of my visit to Wisteria
     Lodge."

     Sherlock Holmes was rubbing his hands and chuckling as he added this
     bizarre incident to his collection of strange episodes.

     "Your experience is, so far as I know, perfectly unique," said he.
     "May I ask, sir, what you did then?"

     "I was furious. My first idea was that I had been the victim of some
     absurd practical joke. I packed my things, banged the hall door
     behind me, and set off for Esher, with my bag in my hand. I called at
     Allan Brothers', the chief land agents in the village, and found that
     it was from this firm that the villa had been rented. It struck me
     that the whole proceeding could hardly be for the purpose of making a
     fool of me, and that the main objet must be to get out of the rent.
     It is late in March, so quarter-day is at hand. But this theory would
     not work. The agent was obliged to me for my warning, but told me
     that the rent had been paid in advance. Then I made my way to town
     and called at the Spanish embassy. The man was unknown there. After
     this I went to see Melville, at whose house I had first met Garcia,
     but I found that he really knew rather less about him than I did.
     Finally when I got your reply to my wire I came out to you, since I
     gather that you are a person who gives advice in difficult cases. But
     now, Mr. Inspector, I understand, from what you said when you entered
     the room, that you can carry the story on, and that some tragedy had
     occurred. I can assure you that every word I have said is the truth,
     and that, outside of what I have told you, I know absolutely nothing
     about the fate of this man. My only desire is to help the law in
     every possible way."

     "I am sure of it, Mr. Scott Eccles--I am sure of it," said Inspector
     Gregson in a very amiable tone. "I am bound to say that everything
     which you have said agrees very closely with the facts as they have
     come to our notice. For example, there was that note which arrived
     during dinner. Did you chance to observe what became of it?"

     "Yes, I did. Garcia rolled it up and threw it into the fire."

     "What do you say to that, Mr. Baynes?"

     The country detective was a stout, puffy, red man, whose face was
     only redeemed from grossness by two extraordinarily bright eyes,
     almost hidden behind the heavy creases of cheek and brow. With a slow
     smile he drew a folded and discoloured scrap of paper from his
     pocket.

     "It was a dog-grate, Mr. Holmes, and he overpitched it. I picked this
     out unburned from the back of it."

     Holmes smiled his appreciation.

     "You must have examined the house very carefully to find a single
     pellet of paper."

     "I did, Mr. Holmes. It's my way. Shall I read it, Mr. Gregson?"

     The Londoner nodded.

     "The note is written upon ordinary cream-laid paper without
     watermark. It is a quarter-sheet. The paper is cut off in two snips
     with a short-bladed scissors. It has been folded over three times and
     sealed with purple wax, put on hurriedly and pressed down with some
     flat oval object. It is addressed to Mr. Garcia, Wisteria Lodge. It
     says:

     "Our own colours, green and white. Green open, white shut. Main
     stair, first corridor, seventh right, green baize. Godspeed.
     D.

     "It is a woman's writing, done with a sharp-pointed pen, but the
     address is either done with another pen or by someone else. It is
     thicker and bolder, as you see."

     "A very remarkable note," said Holmes, glancing it over. "I must
     compliment you, Mr. Baynes, upon your attention to detail in your
     examination of it. A few trifling points might perhaps be added. The
     oval seal is undoubtedly a plain sleeve-link--what else is of such a
     shape? The scissors were bent nail scissors. Short as the two snips
     are, you can distinctly see the same slight curve in each."

     The country detective chuckled.

     "I thought I had squeezed all the juice out of it, but I see there
     was a little over," he said. "I'm bound to say that I make nothing of
     the note except that there was something on hand, and that a woman,
     as usual, was at the bottom of it."

     Mr. Scott Eccles had fidgeted in his seat during this conversation.

     "I am glad you found the note, since it corroborates my story," said
     he. "But I beg to point out that I have not yet heard what has
     happened to Mr. Garcia, nor what has become of his household."

     "As to Garcia," said Gregson, "that is easily answered. He was found
     dead this morning upon Oxshott Common, nearly a mile from his home.
     His head had been smashed to pulp by heavy blows of a sandbag or some
     such instrument, which had crushed rather than wounded. It is a
     lonely corner, and there is no house within a quarter of a mile of
     the spot. He had apparently been struck down first from behind, but
     his assailant had gone on beating him long after he was dead. It was
     a most furious assault. There are no footsteps nor any clue to the
     criminals."

     "Robbed?"

     "No, there was no attempt at robbery."

     "This is very painful--very painful and terrible," said Mr. Scott
     Eccles in a querulous voice, "but it is really uncommonly hard on me.
     I had nothing to do with my host going off upon a nocturnal excursion
     and meeting so sad an end. How do I come to be mixed up with the
     case?"

     "Very simply, sir," Inspector Baynes answered. "The only document
     found in the pocket of the deceased was a letter from you saying that
     you would be with him on the night of his death. It was the envelope
     of this letter which gave us the dead man's name and address. It was
     after nine this morning when we reached his house and found neither
     you nor anyone else inside it. I wired to Mr. Gregson to run you down
     in London while I examined Wisteria Lodge. Then I came into town,
     joined Mr. Gregson, and here we are."

     "I think now," said Gregson, rising, "we had best put this matter
     into an official shape. You will come round with us to the station,
     Mr. Scott Eccles, and let us have your statement in writing."

     "Certainly, I will come at once. But I retain your services, Mr.
     Holmes. I desire you to spare no expense and no pains to get at the
     truth."

     My friend turned to the country inspector.

     "I suppose that you have no objection to my collaborating with you,
     Mr. Baynes?"

     "Highly honoured, sir, I am sure."

     "You appear to have been very prompt and businesslike in all that you
     have done. Was there any clue, may I ask, as to the exact hour that
     the man met his death?"

     "He had been there since one o'clock. There was rain about that time,
     and his death had certainly been before the rain."

     "But that is perfectly impossible, Mr. Baynes," cried our client.
     "His voice is unmistakable. I could swear to it that it was he who
     addressed me in my bedroom at that very hour."

     "Remarkable, but by no means impossible," said Holmes, smiling.

     "You have a clue?" asked Gregson.

     "On the face of it the case is not a very complex one, though it
     certainly presents some novel and interesting features. A further
     knowledge of facts is necessary before I would venture to give a
     final and definite opinion. By the way, Mr. Baynes, did you find
     anything remarkable besides this note in your examination of the
     house?"

     The detective looked at my friend in a singular way.

     "There were," said he, "one or two very remarkable things. Perhaps
     when I have finished at the police-station you would care to come out
     and give me your opinion of them."

     "In am entirely at your service," said Sherlock Holmes, ringing the
     bell. "You will show these gentlemen out, Mrs. Hudson, and kindly
     send the boy with this telegram. He is to pay a five-shilling reply."

     We sat for some time in silence after our visitors had left. Holmes
     smoked hard, with his browns drawn down over his keen eyes, and his
     head thrust forward in the eager way characteristic of the man.

     "Well, Watson," he asked, turning suddenly upon me, "what do you make
     of it?"

     "I can make nothing of this mystification of Scott Eccles."

     "But the crime?"

     "Well, taken with the disappearance of the man's companions, I should
     say that they were in some way concerned in the murder and had fled
     from justice."

     "That is certainly a possible point of view. On the face of it you
     must admit, however, that it is very strange that his two servants
     should have been in a conspiracy against him and should have attacked
     him on the one night when he had a guest. They had him alone at their
     mercy every other night in the week."

     "Then why did they fly?"

     "Quite so. Why did they fly? There is a big fact. Another big fact is
     the remarkable experience of our client, Scott Eccles. Now, my dear
     Watson, is it beyond the limits of human ingenuity to furnish an
     explanation which would cover both of these big facts? If it were one
     which would also admit of the mysterious note with its very curious
     phraseology, why, then it would be worth accepting as a temporary
     hypothesis. If the fresh facts which come to our knowledge all fit
     themselves into the scheme, then our hypothesis may gradually become
     a solution."

     "But what is our hypothesis?"

     Holmes leaned back in his chair with half-closed eyes.

     "You must admit, my dear Watson, that the idea of a joke is
     impossible. There were grave events afoot, as the sequel showed, and
     the coaxing of Scott Eccles to Wisteria Lodge had some connection
     with them."

     "But what possible connection?"

     "Let us take it link by link. There is, on the face of it, something
     unnatural about this strange and sudden friendship between the young
     Spaniard and Scott Eccles. It was the former who forced the pace. He
     called upon Eccles at the other end of London on the very day after
     he first met him, and he kept in close touch with him until he got
     him down to Esher. Now, what did he want with Eccles? What could
     Eccles supply? I see no charm in the man. He is not particulary
     intelligent--not a man likely to be congenial to a quick-witted
     Latin. Why, then, was he picked out from all the other people whom
     Garcia met as particularly suited to his purpose? Has he any one
     outstanding quality? I say that he has. He is the very type of
     conventional British respectability, and the very man as a witness to
     impress another Briton. You saw yourself how neither of the
     inspectors dreamed of questioning his statement, extraordinary as it
     was."

     "But what was he to witness?"

     "Nothing, as things turned out, but everything had they gone another
     way. That is how I read the matter."

     "I see, he might have proved an alibi."

     "Exactly, my dear Watson; he might have proved an alibi. We will
     suppose, for argument's sake, that the household of Wisteria Lodge
     are confederates in some design. The attempt, whatever it may be, is
     to come off, we will say, before one o'clock. By some juggling of the
     clocks it is quite possible that they may have got Scott Eccles to
     bed earlier than he thought, but in any case it is likely that when
     Garcia went out of his way to tell him that it was one it was really
     not more than twelve. If Garcia could do whatever he had to do and be
     back by the hour mentioned he had evidently a powerful reply to any
     accusation. Here was this irreproachable Englishman ready to swear in
     any court of law that the accused was in the house all the time. It
     was an insurance against the worst."

     "Yes, yes, I see that. But how about the disappearance of the
     others?"

     "I have not all my facts yet, but I do not think there are any
     insuperable difficulties. Still, it is an error to argue in front of
     your data. You find yourself insensibly twisting them round to fit
     your theories."

     "And the message?"

     "How did it run? 'Our own colours, green and white.' Sounds like
     racing. 'Green open, white shut.' That is clearly a signal. 'Main
     stair, first corridor, seventh right, green baize.' This is an
     assignation. We may find a jealous husband at the bottom of it all.
     It was clearly a dangerous quest. She would not have said 'Godspeed'
     had it not been so. 'D'--that should be a guide."

     "The man was a Spaniard. I suggest that 'D' stands for Dolores, a
     common female name in Spain."

     "Good, Watson, very good--but quite inadmissable. A Spaniard would
     write to a Spaniard in Spanish. The writer of this note is certainly
     English. Well, we can only possess our soul in patience until this
     excellent inspector come back for us. Meanwhile we can thank our
     lucky fate which has rescued us for a few short hours from the
     insufferable fatigues of idleness."

     An answer had arrived to Holmes's telegram before our Surrey officer
     had returned. Holmes read it and was about to place it in his
     notebook when he caught a glimpse of my expectant face. He tossed it
     across with a laugh.

     "We are moving in exalted circles," said he.

     The telegram was a list of names and addresses:

     Lord Harringby, The Dingle; Sir George Ffolliott, Oxshott Towers; Mr.
     Hynes Hynes, J.P., Purdley Place; Mr. James Baker Williams, Forton
     Old Hall; Mr. Henderson, High Gable; Rev. Joshua Stone, Nether
     Walsling.
     "This is a very obvious way of limiting our field of operations,"
     said Holmes. "No doubt Baynes, with his methodical mind, has already
     adopted some similar plan."

     "I don't quite understand."

     "Well, my dear fellow, we have already arrived at the conclusion that
     the massage received by Garcia at dinner was an appointment or an
     assignation. Now, if the obvious reading of it is correct, and in
     order to keep the tryst one has to ascend a main stair and seek the
     seventh door in a corridor, it is perfectly clear that the house is a
     very large one. It is equally certain that this house cannot be more
     than a mile or two from Oxshott, since Garcia was walking in that
     direction and hoped, according to my reading of the facts, to be back
     in Wisteria Lodge in time to avail himself of an alibi, which would
     only be valid up to one o'clock. As the number of large houses close
     to Oxshott must be limited, I adopted the obvious method of sending
     to the agents mentioned by Scott Eccles and obtaining a list of them.
     Here they are in this telegram, and the other end of our tangled
     skein must lie among them."

     It was nearly six o'clock before we found ourselves in the pretty
     Surrey village of Esher, with Inspector Baynes as our companion.

     Holmes and I had taken things for the night, and found comfortable
     quarters at the Bull. Finally we set out in the company of the
     detective on our visit to Wisteria Lodge. It was a cold, dark March
     evening, with a sharp wind and a fine rain beating upon our faces, a
     fit setting for the wild common over which our road passed and the
     tragic goal to which it led us.





          CHAPTER II
          The Tiger of San Pedro


     A cold and melancholy walk of a couple of miles brought us to a high
     wooden gate, which opened into a gloomy avenue of chestnuts. The
     curved and shadowed drive led us to a low, dark house, pitch-black
     against a slate-coloured sky. From the front window upon the left of
     the door there peeped a glimmer of a feeble light.

     "There's a constable in possession," said Baynes. "I'll knock at the
     window." He stepped across the grass plot and tapped with his hand on
     the pane. Through the fogged glass I dimly saw a man spring up from a
     chair beside the fire, and heard a sharp cry from within the room. An
     instant later a white-faced, hard-breathing policeman had opened the
     door, the candle wavering in his trembling hand.

     "What's the matter, Walters?" asked Baynes sharply.

     The man mopped his forehead with his handkerchief and agave a long
     sigh of relief.

     "I am glad you have come, sir. It has been a long evening, and I
     don't think my nerve is as good as it was."

     "Your nerve, Walters? I should not have thought you had a nerve in
     your body."

     "Well, sir, it's this lonely, silent house and the queer thing in the
     kitchen. Then when you tapped at the window I thought it had come
     again."

     "That what had come again?"

     "The devil, sir, for all I know. It was at the window."

     "What was at the window, and when?"

     "It was just about two hours ago. The light was just fading. I was
     sitting reading in the chair. I don't know what made me look up, but
     there was a face looking in at me through the lower pane. Lord, sir,
     what a face it was! I'll see it in my dreams."

     "Tut, tut, Walters. This is not talk for a police-constable."

     "I know, sir, I know; but it shook me, sir, and there's no use to
     deny it. It wasn't black, sir, nor was it white, nor any colour that
     I know but a kind of queer shade like clay with a splash of milk in
     it. Then there was the size of it--it was twice yours, sir. And the
     look of it--the great staring goggle eyes, and the line of white
     teeth like a hungry beast. I tell you, sir, I couldn't move a finger,
     nor get my breath, till it whisked away and was gone. Out I ran and
     through the shrubbery, but thank God there was no one there."

     "If I didn't know you were a good man, Walters, I should put a black
     mark against you for this. If it were the devil himself a constable
     on duty should never thank God that he could not lay his hands upon
     him. I suppose the whole thing is not a vision and a touch of
     nerves?"

     "That, at least, is very easily settled," said Holmes, lighting his
     little pocket lantern. "Yes," he reported, after a short examination
     of the grass bed, "a number twelve shoe, I should say. If he was all
     on the same scale as his foot he must certainly have been a giant."

     "What became of him?"

     "He seems to have broken through the shrubbery and made for the
     road."

     "Well," said the inspector with a grave and thoughtful face, "whoever
     he may have been, and whatever he may have wanted, he's gone for the
     present, and we have more immediate things to attend to. Now, Mr.
     Holmes, with your permission, I will show you round the house."

     The various bedrooms and sitting-rooms had yielded nothing to a
     careful search. Apparently the tenants had brought little or nothing
     with them, and all the furniture down to the smallest details had
     been taken over with the house. A good deal of clothing with the
     stamp of Marx and Co., High Holborn, had been left behind.
     Telegraphic inquiries had been already made which showed that Marx
     knew nothing of his customer save that he was a good payer. Odds and
     ends, some pipes, a few novels, two of them in Spanish, and
     old-fashioned pinfire revolver, and a guitar were among the personal
     property.

     "Nothing in all this," said Baynes, stalking, candle in hand, from
     room to room. "But now, Mr. Holmes, I invite your attention to the
     kitchen."

     It was a gloomy, high-ceilinged room at the back of the house, with a
     straw litter in one corner, which served apparently as a bed for the
     cook. The table was piled with half-eaten dishes and dirty plates,
     the debris of last night's dinner.

     "Look at this," said Baynes. "What do you make of it?"

     He held up his candle before an extraordinary object which stood at
     the back of the dresser. It was so wrinkled and shrunken and withered
     that it was difficult to say what it might have been. One could but
     say that it was black and leathery and that it bore some resemblance
     to a dwarfish, human figure. At first, as I examined it, I thought
     that it was a mummified negro baby, and then it seemed a very twisted
     and ancient monkey. Finally I was left in doubt as to whether it was
     animal or human. A double band of white shells were strung round the
     centre of it.

     "Very interesting--very interesting, indeed!" said Holmes, peering at
     this sinister relic. "Anything more?"

     In silence Baynes led the way to the sink and held forward his
     candle. The limbs and body of some large, white bird, torn savagely
     to pieces with the feathers still on, were littered all over it.
     Holmes pointed to the wattles on the severed head.

     "A white cock," said he. "Most interesting! It is really a very
     curious case."

     But Mr. Baynes had kept his most sinister exhibit to the last. From
     under the sink he drew a zinc pail which contained a quantity of
     blood. Then from the table he took a platter heaped with small pieces
     of charred bone.

     "Something has been killed and something has been burned. We raked
     all these out of the fire. We had a doctor in this morning. He says
     that they are not human."

     Holmes smiled and rubbed his hands.

     "I must congratulate you, Inspector, on handling so distinctive and
     instructive a case. Your powers, if I may say so without offence,
     seem superior to your opportunities."

     Inspector Baynes's small eyes twinkled with pleasure.

     "You're right, Mr. Holmes. We stagnate in the provinces. A case of
     this sort gives a man a chance, and I hope that I shall take it. What
     do you make of these bones?"

     "A lamb, I should say, or a kid."

     "And the white cock?"

     "Curious, Mr. Baynes, very curious. I should say almost unique."

     "Yes, sir, there must have been some very strange people with some
     very strange ways in this house. One of them is dead. Did his
     companions follow him and kill him? If they did we should have them,
     for every port is watched. But my own views are different. Yes, sir,
     my own views are very different."

     "You have a theory then?"

     "And I'll work it myself, Mr. Holmes. It's only due to my own credit
     to do so. Your name is made, but I have still to make mine. I should
     be glad to be able to say afterwards that I had solved it without
     your help."

     Holmes laughed good-humoredly.

     "Well, well, Inspector," said he. "Do you follow your path and I will
     follow mine. My results are always very much at your service if you
     care to apply to me for them. I think that I have seen all that I
     wish in this house, and that my time may be more profitably employed
     elsewhere. Au revoir and good luck!"

     I could tell by numerous subtle signs, which might have been lost
     upon anyone but myself, that Holmes was on a hot scent. As impassive
     as ever to the casual observer, there were none the less a subdued
     eagerness and suggestion of tension in his brightened eyes and
     brisker manner which assured me that the game was afoot. After his
     habit he said nothing, and after mine I asked no questions.
     Sufficient for me to share the sport and lend my humble help to the
     capture without distracting that intent brain with needless
     interruption. All would come round to me in due time.

     I waited, therefore--but to my ever-deepening disappointment I waited
     in vain. Day succeeded day, and my friend took no step forward. One
     morning he spent in town, and I learned from a casual reference that
     he had visited the British Museum. Save for this one excursion, he
     spent his days in long and often solitary walks, or in chatting with
     a number of village gossips whose acquaintance he had cultivated.

     "I'm sure, Watson, a week in the country will be invaluable to you,"
     he remarked. "It is very pleasant to see the first green shoots upon
     the hedges and the catkins on the hazels once again. With a spud, a
     tin box, and an elementary book on botany, there are instructive days
     to be spent." He prowled about with this equipment himself, but it
     was a poor show of plants which he would bring back of an evening.

     Occasionally in our rambles we came across Inspector Baynes. His fat,
     red face wreathed itself in smiles and his small eyes glittered as he
     greeted my companion. He said little about the case, but from that
     little we gathered that he also was not dissatisfied at the course of
     events. I must admit, however, that I was somewhat surprised when,
     some five days after the crime, I opened my morning paper to find in
     large letters:

                               The Oxshott Mystery
                                   a solution
                           Arrest of Supposed Assassin

     Holmes sprang in his chair as if he had been stung when I read the
     headlines.

     "By Jove!" he cried. "You don't mean that Baynes has got him?"

     "Apparently," said I as I read the following report:

     "Great excitement was caused in Esher and the neighbouring district
     when it was learned late last night that an arrest had been effected
     in connection with the Oxshott murder. It will be remembered that Mr.
     Garcia, of Wisteria Lodge, was found dead on Oxshott Common, his body
     showing signs of extreme violence, and that on the same night his
     servant and his cook fled, which appeared to show their participation
     in the crime. It was suggested, but never proved, that the deceased
     gentleman may have had valuables in the house, and that their
     abstraction was the motive of the crime. Every effort was made by
     Inspector Baynes, who has the case in hand, to ascertain the hiding
     place of the fugitives, and he had good reason to believe that they
     had not gone far but were lurking in some retreat which had been
     already prepared. It was certain from the first, however, that they
     would eventually be detected, as the cook, from the evidence of one
     or two tradespeople who have caught a glimpse of him through the
     window, was a man of most remarkable appearance--being a huge and
     hideous mulatto, with yellowish features of a pronounced negroid
     type. This man has been seen since the crime, for he was detected and
     pursued by Constable Walters on the same evening, when he had the
     audacity to revisit Wisteria Lodge. Inspector Baynes, considering
     that such a visit must have some purpose in view and was likely,
     therefore, to be repeated, abandoned the house but left an ambuscade
     in the shrubbery. The man walked into the trap and was captured last
     night after a struggle in which Constable Downing was badly bitten by
     the savage. We understand that when the prison is brought before the
     magistrates a remand will be applied for by the police, and that
     great developments are hoped from his capture."

     "Really we must see Baynes at once," cried Holmes, picking up his
     hat. "We will just catch him before he starts." We hurried down the
     village street and found, as we had expected, that the inspector was
     just leaving his lodgings.

     "You've seen the paper, Mr. Holmes?" he asked, holding one out to us.

     "Yes, Baynes, I've seen it. Pray don't think it a liberty if I give
     you a word of friendly warning."

     "Of warning, Mr. Holmes?"

     "I have looked into this case with some care, and I am not convinced
     that you are on the right lines. I don't want you to commit yourself
     too far unless you are sure."

     "You're very kind, Mr. Holmes."

     "I assure you I speak for your good."

     It seemed to me that something like a wink quivered for an instant
     over one of Mr. Baynes's tiny eyes.

     "We agreed to work on our own lines, Mr. Holmes. That's what I am
     doing."

     "Oh, very good," said Holmes. "Don't blame me."

     "No, sir; I believe you mean well by me. But we all have our own
     systems, Mr. Holmes. You have yours, and maybe I have mine."

     "Let us say no more about it."

     "You're welcome always to my news. This fellow is a perfect savage,
     as strong as a cart-horse and as fierce as the devil. He chewed
     Downing's thumb nearly off before they could master him. He hardly
     speaks a word of English, and we can get nothing out of him but
     grunts."

     "And you think you have evidence that he murdered his late master?"

     "I didn't say so, Mr. Holmes; I didn't say so. We all have our little
     ways. You try yours and I will try mine. That's the agreement."

     Holmes shrugged his shoulders as we walked away together. "I can't
     make the man out. He seems to be riding for a fall. Well, as he says,
     we must each try our own way and see what comes of it. But there's
     something in Inspector Baynes which I can't quite understand."

     "Just sit down in that chair, Watson," said Sherlock Holmes when we
     had returned to our apartment at the Bull. "I want to put you in
     touch with the situation, as I may need your help to-night. Let me
     show you the evolution of this case so far as I have been able to
     follow it. Simple as it has been in its leading features, it has none
     the less presented surprising difficulties in the way of an arrest.
     There are gaps in that direction which we have still to fill.

     "We will go back to the note which was handed in to Garcia upon the
     evening of his death. We may put aside this idea of Baynes's that
     Garcia's servants were concerned in the matter. The proof of this
     lies in the fact that it was he who had arranged for the presence of
     Scott Eccles, which could only have been done for the purpose of an
     alibi. It was Garcia, then, who had an enterprise, and apparently a
     criminal enterprise, in hand that night in the course of which he met
     his death. I say 'criminal' because only a man with a criminal
     enterprise desires to establish an alibi. Who, then, is most likely
     to have taken his life? Surely the person against whom the criminal
     enterprise was directed. So far it seems to me that we are on safe
     ground.

     "We can now see a reason for the disappearance of Garcia's household.
     They were all confederates in the same unknown crime. If it came off
     when Garcia returned, any possible suspicion would be warded off by
     the Englishman's evidence, and all would be well. But the attempt was
     a dangerous one, and if Garcia did not return by a certain hour it
     was probable that his own life had been sacrificed. It had been
     arranged, therefore, that in such a case his two subordinates were to
     make for some prearranged spot where they could escape investigation
     and be in a position afterwards to renew their attempt. That would
     fully explain the facts, would it not?"

     The whole inexplicable tangle seemed to straighten out before me. I
     wondered, as I always did, how it had not been obvious to me before.

     "But why should one servant return?"

     "We can imagine that in the confusion of flight something precious,
     something which he could not bear to part with, had been left behind.
     That would explain his persistence, would it not?"

     "Well, what is the next step?"

     "The next step is the note received by Garcia at the dinner. It
     indicates a confederate at the other end. Now, where was the other
     end? I have already shown you that it could only lie in some large
     house, and that the number of large houses is limited. My first days
     in this village were devoted to a series of walks in which in the
     intervals of my botanical researches I made a reconnaissance of all
     the large houses and an examination of the family history of the
     occupants. One house, and only one, riveted my attention. It is the
     famous old Jacobean grange of High Gable, one mile on the farther
     side of Oxshott, and less than half a mile from the scene of the
     tragedy. The other mansions belonged to prosaic and respectable
     people who live far aloof from romance. But Mr. Henderson, of High
     Gable, was by all accounts a curious man to whom curious adventures
     might befall. I concentrated my attention, therefore, upon him and
     his household.

     "A singular set of people, Watson--the man himself the most singular
     of them all. I managed to see him on a plausible pretext, but I
     seemed to read in his dark, deepset, brooding eyes that he was
     perfectly aware of my true business. He is a man of fifty, strong,
     active, with iron-gray hair, great bunched black eyebrows, the step
     of a deer and the air of an emperor--a fierce, masterful man, with a
     red-hot spirit behind his parchment face. He is either a foreigner or
     has lived long in the tropics, for he is yellow and sapless, but
     tough as whipcord. His friend and secretary, Mr. Lucas, is
     undoubtedly a foreigner, chocolate brown, wily, suave, and catlike,
     with a poisonous gentleness of speech. You see, Watson, we have come
     already upon two sets of foreigners--one at Wisteria Lodge and one at
     High Gable--so our gaps are beginning to close.

     "These two men, close and confidential friends, are the centre of the
     household; but there is one other person who for our immediate
     purpose may be even more important. Henderson has two children--girls
     of eleven and thirteen. Their governess is a Miss Burnet, an
     Englishwoman of forty or thereabouts. There is also one confidential
     manservant. This little group forms the real family, for their travel
     about together, and Henderson is a great traveller, always on the
     move. It is only within the last weeks that he has returned, after a
     year's absence, to High Gable. I may add that he is enormously rich,
     and whatever his whims may be he can very easily satisfy them. For
     the rest, his house is full of butlers, footmen, maidservants, and
     the usual overfed, underworked staff of a large English country
     house.

     "So much I learned partly from village gossip and partly from my own
     observation. There are no better instruments than discharged servants
     with a grievance, and I was lucky enough to find one. I call it luck,
     but it would not have come my way had I not been looking out for it.
     As Baynes remarks, we all have our systems. It was my system which
     enabled me to find John Warner, late gardener of High Gable, sacked
     in a moment of temper by his imperious employer. He in turn had
     friends among the indoor servants who unite in their fear and dislike
     of their master. So I had my key to the secrets of the establishment.

     "Curious people, Watson! I don't pretend to understand it all yet,
     but very curious people anyway. It's a double-winged house, and the
     servants live on one side, the family on the other. There's no link
     between the two save for Henderson's own servant, who serves the
     family's meals. Everything is carried to a certain door, which forms
     the one connection. Governess and children hardly go out at all,
     except into the garden. Henderson never by any chance walks alone.
     His dark secretary is like his shadow. The gossip among the servants
     is that their master is terribly afraid of something. 'Sold his soul
     to the devil in exchange for money,' says Warner, 'and expects his
     creditor to come up and claim his own.' Where they came from, or who
     they are, nobody has an idea. They are very violent. Twice Henderson
     has lashed at folk with his dog-whip, and only his long purse and
     heavy compensation have kept him out of the courts.

     "Well, now, Watson, let us judge the situation by this new
     information. We may take it that the letter came out of this strange
     household and was an invitation to Garcia to carry out some attempt
     which had already been planned. Who wrote the note? It was someone
     within the citadel, and it was a woman. Who then but Miss Burnet, the
     governess? All our reasoning seems to point that way. At any rate, we
     may take it as a hypothesis and see what consequences it would
     entail. I may add that Miss Burnet's age and character make it
     certain that my first idea that there might be a love interest in our
     story is out of the question.

     "If she wrote the note she was presumably the friend and confederate
     of Garcia. What, then, might she be expected to do if she heard of
     his death? If he met it in some nefarious enterprise her lips might
     be sealed. Still, in her heart, she must retain bitterness and hatred
     against those who had killed him and would presumably help so far as
     she could to have revenge upon them. Could we see her, then and try
     to use her? That was my first thought. But now we come to a sinister
     fact. Miss Burnet has not been seen by any human eye since the night
     of the murder. From that evening she has utterly vanished. Is she
     alive? Has she perhaps met her end on the same night as the friend
     whom she had summoned? Or is she merely a prisoner? There is the
     point which we still have to decide.

     "You will appreciate the difficulty of the situation, Watson. There
     is nothing upon which we can apply for a warrant. Our whole scheme
     might seem fantastic if laid before a magistrate. The woman's
     disappearance counts for nothing, since in that extraordinary
     household any member of it might be invisible for a week. And yet she
     may at the present moment be in danger of her life. All I can do is
     to watch the house and leave my agent, Warner, on guard at the gates.
     We can't let such a situation continue. If the law can do nothing we
     must take the risk ourselves."

     "What do you suggest?"

     "I know which is her room.  It is accessible from the top of an
     outhouse.  My suggestion is that you and I go to-night and see if we
     can strike at the very heart of the mystery."

     It was not, I must confess, a very alluring prospect. The old house
     with its atmosphere of murder, the singular and formidable
     inhabitants, the unknown dangers of the approach, and the fact that
     we were putting ourselves legally in a false position all combined to
     damp my ardour. But there was something in the ice-cold reasoning of
     Holmes which made it impossible to shrink from any adventure which he
     might recommend. One knew that thus, and only thus, could a solution
     be found. I clasped his hand in silence, and the die was cast.

     But it was not destined that our investigation should have so
     adventurous an ending. It was about five o'clock, and the shadows of
     the March evening were beginning to fall, when an excited rustic
     rushed into our room.

     "They've gone, Mr. Holmes. They went by the last train. The lady
     broke away, and I've got her in a cab downstairs."

     "Excellent, Warner!" cried Holmes, springing to his feet. "Watson,
     the gaps are closing rapidly."

     In the cab was a woman, half-collapsed from nervous exhaustion. She
     bore upon her aquiline and emaciated face the traces of some recent
     tragedy. Her head hung listlessly upon her breast, but as she raised
     it and turned her dull eyes upon us I saw that her pupils were dark
     dots in the centre of the broad gray iris. She was drugged with
     opium.

     "I watched at the gate, same as you advised, Mr. Holmes," said our
     emissary, the discharged gardener. "When the carriage came out I
     followed it to the station. She was like one walking in her sleep,
     but when they tried to get her into the train she came to life and
     struggled. They pushed her into the carriage. She fought her way out
     again. I took her part, got her into a cab, and here we are. I shan't
     forget the face at the carriage window as I led her away. I'd have a
     short life if he had his way--the black-eyed, scowling, yellow
     devil."

     We carried her upstairs, laid her on the sofa, and a couple of cups
     of the strongest coffee soon cleared her brain from the mists of the
     drug. Baynes had been summoned by Holmes, and the situation rapidly
     explained to him.

     "Why, sir, you've got me the very evidence I want," said the
     inspector warmly, shaking my friend by the hand. "I was on the same
     scent as you from the first."

     "What! You were after Henderson?"

     "Why, Mr. Holmes, when you were crawling in the shrubbery at High
     Gable I was up one of the trees in the plantation and saw you down
     below. It was just who would get his evidence first."

     "Then why did you arrest the mulatto?"

     Baynes chuckled.

     "I was sure Henderson, as he calls himself, felt that he was
     suspected, and that he would lie low and make no move so long as he
     thought he was in any danger. I arrested the wrong man to make him
     believe that our eyes were off him. I knew he would be likely to
     clear off then and give us a chance of getting at Miss Burnet."

     Holmes laid his hand upon the inspector's shoulder.

     "You will rise high in your profession. You have instinct and
     intuition," said he.

     Baynes flushed with pleasure.

     "I've had a plain-clothes man waiting at the station all the week.
     Wherever the High Gable folk go he will keep them in sight. But he
     must have been hard put to it when Miss Burnet broke away. However,
     your man picked her up, and it all ends well. We can't arrest without
     her evidence, that is clear, so the sooner we get a statement the
     better."

     "Every minute she gets stronger," said Holmes, glancing at the
     governess. "But tell me, Baynes, who is this man Henderson?"

     "Henderson," the inspector answered, "is Don Murillo, once called the
     Tiger of San Pedro."

     The Tiger of San Pedro! The whole history of the man came back to me
     in a flash. He had made his name as the most lewd and bloodthirsty
     tyrant that had ever governed any country with a pretence to
     civilization. Strong, fearless, and energetic, he had sufficient
     virtue to enable him to impose his odious vices upon a cowering
     people for ten or twelve years. His name was a terror through all
     Central America. At the end of that time there was a universal rising
     against him. But he was as cunning as he was cruel, and at the first
     whisper of coming trouble he had secretly conveyed his treasures
     aboard a ship which was manned by devoted adherents. It was an empty
     palace which was stormed by the insurgents next day. The dictator,
     his two children, his secretary, and his wealth had all escaped them.
     From that moment he had vanished from the world, and his identity had
     been a frequent subject for comment in the European press.

     "Yes, sir, Don Murillo, the Tiger of San Pedro," said Baynes. "If you
     look it up you will find that the San Pedro colours are green and
     white, same as in the note, Mr. Holmes. Henderson he called himself,
     but I traced him back, Paris and Rome and Madrid to Barcelona, where
     his ship came in in '86. They've been looking for him all the time
     for their revenge, but it is only now that they have begun to find
     him out."

     "They discovered him a year ago," said Miss Burnet, who had sat up
     and was now intently following the conversation. "Once already his
     life has been attempted, but some evil spirit shielded him. Now,
     again, it is the noble, chivalrous Garcia who has fallen, while the
     monster goes safe. But another will come, and yet another, until some
     day justice will be done; that is as certain as the rise of
     to-morrow's sun." Her thin hands clenched, and her worn face blanched
     with the passion of her hatred.

     "But how come you into this matter, Miss Burnet?" asked Holmes. "How
     can an English lady join in such a murderous affair?"

     "I join in it because there is no other way in the world by which
     justice can be gained. What does the law of England care for the
     rivers of blood shed years ago in San Pedro, or for the shipload of
     treasure which this man has stolen? To you they are like crimes
     committed in some other planet. But we know. We have learned the
     truth in sorrow and in suffering. To us there is no fiend in hell
     like Juan Murillo, and no peace in life while his victims still cry
     for vengeance."

     "No doubt," said Holmes, "he was as you say. I have heard that he was
     atrocious. But how are you affected?"

     "I will tell you it all. This villain's policy was to murder, on one
     pretext or another, every man who showed such promise that he might
     in time come to be a dangerous rival. My husband--yes, my real name
     is Signora Victor Durando--was the San Pedro minister in London. He
     met me and married me there. A nobler man never lived upon earth.
     Unhappily, Murillo heard of his excellence, recalled him on some
     pretext, and had him shot. With a premonition of his fate he had
     refused to take me with him. His estates were confiscated, and I was
     left with a pittance and a broken heart.

     "Then came the downfall of the tyrant. He escaped as you have just
     described. But the many whose lives he had ruined, whose nearest and
     dearest had suffered torture and death at his hands, would not let
     the matter rest. They banded themselves into a society which should
     never be dissolved until the work was done. It was my part after we
     had discovered in the transformed Henderson the fallen despot, to
     attach myself to his household and keep the others in touch with his
     movements. This I was able to do by securing the position of
     governess in his family. He little knew that the woman who faced him
     at every meal was the woman whose husband he had hurried at an hour's
     notice into eternity. I smiled on him, did my duty to his children,
     and bided my time. An attempt was made in Paris and failed. We
     zig-zagged swiftly here and there over Europe to throw off the
     pursuers and finally returned to this house, which he had taken upon
     his first arrival in England.

     "But here also the ministers of justice were waiting. Knowing that he
     would return there, Garcia, who is the son of the former highest
     dignitary in San Pedro, was waiting with two trusty companions of
     humble station, all three fired with the same reasons for revenge. He
     could do little during the day, for Murillo took every precaution and
     never went out save with his satellite Lucas, or Lopez as he was
     known in the days of his greatness. At night, however, he slept
     alone, and the avenger might find him. On a certain evening, which
     had been prearranged, I sent my friend final instructions, for the
     man was forever on the alert and continually changed his room. I was
     to see that the doors were open and the signal of a green or white
     light in a window which faced the drive was to give notice if all was
     safe or if the attempt had better be postponed.

     "But everything went wrong with us. In some way I had excited the
     suspicion of Lopez, the secretary. He crept up behind me and sprang
     upon me just as I had finished the note. He and his master dragged me
     to my room and held judgment upon me as a convicted traitress. Then
     and there they would have plunged their knives into me could they
     have seen how to escape the consequences of the deed. Finally, after
     much debate, they concluded that my murder was too dangerous. But
     they determined to get rid forever of Garcia. They had gagged me, and
     Murillo twisted my arm round until I gave him the address. I swear
     that he might have twisted it off had I understood what it would mean
     to Garcia. Lopez addressed the note which I had written, sealed it
     with his sleeve-link, and sent it by the hand of the servant, Jose.
     How they murdered him I do not know, save that it was Murillo's hand
     who struck him down, for Lopez had remained to guard me. I believe he
     must have waited among the gorse bushes through which the path winds
     and struck him down as he passed. At first they were of a mind to let
     him enter the house and to kill him as a detected burglar; but they
     argued that if they were mixed up in an inquiry their own identity
     would at once be publicly disclosed and they would be open to further
     attacks. With the death of Garcia, the pursuit might cease, since
     such a death might frighten others from the task.

     "All would now have been well for them had it not been for my
     knowledge of what they had done. I have no doubt that there were
     times when my life hung in the balance. I was confined to my room,
     terrorized by the most horrible threats, cruelly ill-used to break my
     spirit--see this stab on my shoulder and the bruises from end to end
     of my arms--and a gag was thrust into my mouth on the one occasion
     when I tried to call from the window. For five days this cruel
     imprisonment continued, with hardly enough food to hold body and soul
     together. This afternoon a good lunch was brought me, but the moment
     after I took it I knew that I had been drugged. In a sort of dream I
     remember being half-led, half-carried to the carriage; in the same
     state I was conveyed to the train. Only then, when the wheels were
     almost moving, did I suddenly realize that my liberty lay in my own
     hands. I sprang out, they tried to drag me back, and had it not been
     for the help of this good man, who led me to the cab, I should never
     had broken away. Now, thank God, I am beyond their power forever."

     We had all listened intently to this remarkable statement. It was
     Holmes who broke the silence.

     "Our difficulties are not over," he remarked, shaking his head. "Our
     police work ends, but our legal work begins."

     "Exactly," said I. "A plausible lawyer could make it out as an act of
     self-defence. There may be a hundred crimes in the background, but it
     is only on this one that they can be tried."

     "Come, come," said Baynes cheerily, "I think better of the law than
     that. Self-defence is one thing. To entice a man in cold blood with
     the object of murdering him is another, whatever danger you may fear
     from him. No, no, we shall all be justified when we see the tenants
     of High Gable at the next Guildford Assizes."

     It is a matter of history, however, that a little time was still to
     elapse before the Tiger of San Pedro should meet with his deserts.
     Wily and bold, he and his companion threw their pursuer off their
     track by entering a lodging-house in Edmonton Street and leaving by
     the back-gate into Curzon Square. From that day they were seen no
     more in England. Some six months afterwards the Marquess of Montalva
     and Signor Rulli, his secretary, were both murdered in their rooms at
     the Hotel Escurial at Madrid. The crime was ascribed to Nihilism, and
     the murderers were never arrested. Inspector Baynes visited us at
     Baker Street with a printed description of the dark face of the
     secretary, and of the masterful features, the magnetic black eyes,
     and the tufted brows of his master. We could not doubt that justice,
     if belated, had come at last.

     "A chaotic case, my dear Watson," said Holmes over an evening pipe.
     "It will not be possible for you to present in that compact form
     which is dear to your heart. It covers two continents, concerns two
     groups of mysterious persons, and is further complicated by the
     highly respectable presence of our friend, Scott Eccles, whose
     inclusion shows me that the deceased Garcia had a scheming mind and a
     well-developed instinct of self-preservation. It is remarkable only
     for the fact that amid a perfect jungle of possibilities we, with our
     worthy collaborator, the inspector, have kept our close hold on the
     essentials and so been guided along the crooked and winding path. Is
     there any point which is not quite clear to you?"

     "The object of the mulatto cook's return?"

     "I think that the strange creature in the kitchen may account for it.
     The man was a primitive savage from the backwoods of San Pedro, and
     this was his fetish. When his companion and he had fled to some
     prearranged retreat--already occupied, no doubt by a confederate--the
     companion had persuaded him to leave so compromising an article of
     furniture. But the mulatto's heart was with it, and he was driven
     back to it next day, when, on reconnoitering through the window, he
     found policeman Walters in possession. He waited three days longer,
     and then his piety or his superstition drove him to try once more.
     Inspector Baynes, who, with his usual astuteness, had minimized the
     incident before me, had really recognized its importance and had left
     a trap into which the creature walked. Any other point, Watson?"

     "The torn bird, the pail of blood, the charred bones, all the mystery
     of that weird kitchen?"

     Holmes smiled as he turned up an entry in his note-book.

     "I spent a morning in the British Museum reading up on that and other
     points. Here is a quotation from Eckermann's Voodooism and the
     Negroid Religions:

     "'The true voodoo-worshipper attempts nothing of importance without
     certain sacrifices which are intended to propitiate his unclean gods.
     In extreme cases these rites take the form of human sacrifices
     followed by cannibalism. The more usual victims are a white cock,
     which is plucked in pieces alive, or a black goat, whose throat is
     cut and body burned.'

     "So you see our savage friend was very orthodox in his ritual. It is
     grotesque, Watson," Holmes added, as he slowly fastened his notebook,
     "but, as I have had occasion to remark, there is but one step from
     the grotesque to the horrible."


                       THE ADVENTURE OF THE CARDBOARD BOX

     It was a blazing hot day in August. Baker Street was like an oven,
     and the glare of the sunlight upon the yellow brickwork of the house
     across the road was painful to the eye. It was hard to believe that
     these were the same walls which loomed so gloomily through the fogs
     of winter. Our blinds were half-drawn, and Holmes lay curled upon the
     sofa, reading and re-reading a letter which he had received by the
     morning post. For myself, my term of service in India had trained me
     to stand heat better than cold, and a thermometer at ninety was no
     hardship. But the morning paper was uninteresting. Parliament had
     risen. Everybody was out of town, and I yearned for the glades of the
     New Forest or the shingle of Southsea. A depleted bank account had
     caused me to postpone my holiday, and as to my companion, neither the
     country nor the sea presented the slightest attraction to him. He
     loved to lie in the very center of five millions of people, with his
     filaments stretching out and running through them, responsive to
     every little rumour or suspicion of unsolved crime. Appreciation of
     nature found no place among his many gifts, and his only change was
     when he turned his mind from the evil-doer of the town to track down
     his brother of the country.

     Finding that Holmes was too absorbed for conversation I had tossed
     side the barren paper, and leaning back in my chair I fell into a
     brown study. Suddenly my companion's voice broke in upon my thoughts:

     "You are right, Watson," said he. "It does seem a most preposterous
     way of settling a dispute."

     "Most preposterous!" I exclaimed, and then suddenly realizing how he
     had echoed the inmost thought of my soul, I sat up in my chair and
     stared at him in blank amazement.

     "What is this, Holmes?" I cried. "This is beyond anything which I
     could have imagined."

     He laughed heartily at my perplexity.

     "You remember," said he, "that some little time ago when I read you
     the passage in one of Poe's sketches in which a close reasoner
     follows the unspoken thoughts of his companion, you were inclined to
     treat the matter as a mere tour-de-force of the author. On my
     remarking that I was constantly in the habit of doing the same thing
     you expressed incredulity."

     "Oh, no!"

     "Perhaps not with your tongue, my dear Watson, but certainly with
     your eyebrows. So when I saw you throw down your paper and enter upon
     a train of thought, I was very happy to have the opportunity of
     reading it off, and eventually of breaking into it, as a proof that I
     had been in rapport with you."

     But I was still far from satisfied. "In the example which you read to
     me," said I, "the reasoner drew his conclusions from the actions of
     the man whom he observed. If I remember right, he stumbled over a
     heap of stones, looked up at the stars, and so on. But I have been
     seated quietly in my chair, and what clues can I have given you?"

     "You do yourself an injustice. The features are given to man as the
     means by which he shall express his emotions, and yours are faithful
     servants."

     "Do you mean to say that you read my train of thoughts from my
     features?"

     "Your features and especially your eyes. Perhaps you cannot yourself
     recall how your reverie commenced?"

     "No, I cannot."

     "Then I will tell you. After throwing down your paper, which was the
     action which drew my attention to you, you sat for half a minute with
     a vacant expression. Then your eyes fixed themselves upon your newly
     framed picture of General Gordon, and I saw by the alteration in your
     face that a train of thought had been started. But it did not lead
     very far. Your eyes flashed across to the unframed portrait of Henry
     Ward Beecher which stands upon the top of your books. Then you
     glanced up at the wall, and of course your meaning was obvious. You
     were thinking that if the portrait were framed it would just cover
     that bare space and correspond with Gordon's picture there."

     "You have followed me wonderfully!" I exclaimed.

     "So far I could hardly have gone astray. But now your thoughts went
     back to Beecher, and you looked hard across as if you were studying
     the character in his features. Then your eyes ceased to pucker, but
     you continued to look across, and your face was thoughtful. You were
     recalling the incidents of Beecher's career. I was well aware that
     you could not do this without thinking of the mission which he
     undertook on behalf of the North at the time of the Civil War, for I
     remember your expressing your passionate indignation at the way in
     which he was received by the more turbulent of our people. You felt
     so strongly about it that I knew you could not think of Beecher
     without thinking of that also. When a moment later I saw your eyes
     wander away from the picture, I suspected that your mind had now
     turned to the Civil War, and when I observed that your lips set, your
     eyes sparkled, and your hands clenched I was positive that you were
     indeed thinking of the gallantry which was shown by both sides in
     that desperate struggle. But then, again, your face grew sadder, you
     shook your head. You were dwelling upon the sadness and horror and
     useless waste of life. Your hand stole towards your own old wound and
     a smile quivered on your lips, which showed me that the ridiculous
     side of this method of settling international questions had forced
     itself upon your mind. At this point I agreed with you that it was
     preposterous and was glad to find that all my deductions had been
     correct."

     "Absolutely!" said I. "And now that you have explained it, I confess
     that I am as amazed as before."

     "It was very superficial, my dear Watson, I assure you. I should not
     have intruded it upon your attention had you not shown some
     incredulity the other day. But I have in my hands here a little
     problem which may prove to be more difficult of solution than my
     small essay in thought reading. Have you observed in the paper a
     short paragraph referring to the remarkable contents of a packet sent
     through the post to Miss Cushing, of Cross Street, Croydon?"

     "No, I saw nothing."

     "Ah! then you must have overlooked it. Just toss it over to me. Here
     it is, under the financial column. Perhaps you would be good enough
     to read it aloud."

     I picked up the paper which he had thrown back to me and read the
     paragraph indicated. It was headed, "A Gruesome Packet."

     "Miss Susan Cushing, living at Cross Street, Croydon, has been made
     the victim of what must be regarded as a peculiarly revolting
     practical joke unless some more sinister meaning should prove to be
     attached to the incident. At two o'clock yesterday afternoon a small
     packet, wrapped in brown paper, was handed in by the postman. A
     cardboard box was inside, which was filled with coarse salt. On
     emptying this, Miss Cushing was horrified to find two human ears,
     apparently quite freshly severed. The box had been sent by parcel
     post from Belfast upon the morning before. There is no indication as
     to the sender, and the matter is the more mysterious as Miss Cushing,
     who is a maiden lady of fifty, has led a most retired life, and has
     so few acquaintances or correspondents that it is a rare event for
     her to receive anything through the post. Some years ago, however,
     when she resided at Penge, she let apartments in her house to three
     young medical students, whom she was obliged to get rid of on account
     of their noisy and irregular habits. The police are of opinion that
     this outrage may have been perpetrated upon Miss Cushing by these
     youths, who owed her a grudge and who hoped to frighten her by
     sending her these relics of the dissecting-rooms. Some probability is
     lent to the theory by the fact that one of these students came from
     the north of Ireland, and, to the best of Miss Cushing's belief, from
     Belfast. In the meantime, the matter is being actively investigated,
     Mr. Lestrade, one of the very smartest of our detective officers,
     being in charge of the case."

     "So much for the Daily Chronicle," said Holmes as I finished reading.
     "Now for our friend Lestrade. I had a note from him this morning, in
     which he says:

     "I think that this case is very much in your line. We have every hope
     of clearing the matter up, but we find a little difficulty in getting
     anything to work upon. We have, of course, wired to the Belfast
     post-office, but a large number of parcels were handed in upon that
     day, and they have no means of identifying this particular one, or of
     remembering the sender. The box is a half-pound box of honeydew
     tobacco and does not help us in any way. The medical student theory
     still appears to me to be the most feasible, but if you should have a
     few hours to spare I should be very happy to see you out here. I
     shall be either at the house or in the police-station all day.

     "What say you, Watson? Can you rise superior to the heat and run down
     to Croydon with me on the off chance of a case for your annals?"

     "I was longing for something to do."

     "You shall have it then. Ring for our boots and tell them to order a
     cab. I'll be back in a moment when I have changed my dressing-gown
     and filled my cigar-case."

     A shower of rain fell while we were in the train, and the heat was
     far less oppressive in Croydon than in town. Holmes had sent on a
     wire, so that Lestrade, as wiry, as dapper, and as ferret-like as
     ever, was waiting for us at the station. A walk of five minutes took
     us to Cross Street, where Miss Cushing resided.

     It was a very long street of two-story brick houses, neat and prim,
     with whitened stone steps and little groups of aproned women
     gossiping at the doors. Halfway down, Lestrade stopped and tapped at
     a door, which was opened by a small servant girl. Miss Cushing was
     sitting in the front room, into which we were ushered. She was a
     placid-faced woman, with large, gentle eyes, and grizzled hair
     curving down over her temples on each side. A worked antimacassar lay
     upon her lap and a basket of coloured silks stood upon a stool beside
     her.

     "They are in the outhouse, those dreadful things," said she as
     Lestrade entered. "I wish that you would take them away altogether."

     "So I shall, Miss Cushing. I only kept them here until my friend, Mr.
     Holmes, should have seen them in your presence."

     "Why in my presence, sir?"

     "In case he wished to ask any questions."

     "What is the use of asking me questions when I tell you I know
     nothing whatever about it?"

     "Quite so, madam," said Holmes in his soothing way. "I have no doubt
     that you have been annoyed more than enough already over this
     business."

     "Indeed I have, sir. I am a quiet woman and live a retired life. It
     is something new for me to see my name in the papers and to find the
     police in my house. I won't have those things in here, Mr. Lestrade.
     If you wish to see them you must go to the outhouse."

     It was a small shed in the narrow garden which ran behind the house.
     Lestrade went in and brought out a yellow cardboard box, with a piece
     of brown paper and some string. There was a bench at the end of the
     path, and we all sat down while Homes examined one by one, the
     articles which Lestrade had handed to him.

     "The string is exceedingly interesting," he remarked, holding it up
     to the light and sniffing at it. "What do you make of this string,
     Lestrade?"

     "It has been tarred."

     "Precisely. It is a piece of tarred twine. You have also, no doubt,
     remarked that Miss Cushing has cut the cord with a scissors, as can
     be seen by the double fray on each side. This is of importance."

     "I cannot see the importance," said Lestrade.

     "The importance lies in the fact that the knot is left intact, and
     that this knot is of a peculiar character."

     "It is very neatly tied. I had already made a note of that effect,"
     said Lestrade complacently.

     "So much for the string, then," said Holmes, smiling, "now for the
     box wrapper. Brown paper, with a distinct smell of coffee. What, did
     you not observe it? I think there can be no doubt of it. Address
     printed in rather straggling characters: 'Miss S. Cushing, Cross
     Street, Croydon.' Done with a broad-pointed pen, probably a J, and
     with very inferior ink. The word 'Croydon' has been originally
     spelled with an 'i', which has been changed to 'y'. The parcel was
     directed, then, by a man--the printing is distinctly masculine--of
     limited education and unacquainted with the town of Croydon. So far,
     so good! The box is a yellow, half-pound honeydew box, with nothing
     distinctive save two thumb marks at the left bottom corner. It is
     filled with rough salt of the quality used for preserving hides and
     other of the coarser commercial purposes. And embedded in it are
     these very singular enclosures."

     He took out the two ears as he spoke, and laying a board across his
     knee he examined them minutely, while Lestrade and I, bending forward
     on each side of him, glanced alternately at these dreadful relics and
     at the thoughtful, eager face of our companion. Finally he returned
     them to the box once more and sat for a while in deep meditation.

     "You have observed, of course," said he at last, "that the ears are
     not a pair."

     "Yes, I have noticed that. But if this were the practical joke of
     some students from the dissecting-rooms, it would be as easy for them
     to send two odd ears as a pair."

     "Precisely. But this is not a practical joke."

     "You are sure of it?"

     "The presumption is strongly against it. Bodies in the
     dissecting-rooms are injected with preservative fluid. These ears
     bear no signs of this. They are fresh, too. They have been cut off
     with a blunt instrument, which would hardly happen if a student had
     done it. Again, carbolic or rectified spirits would be the
     preservatives which would suggest themselves to the medical mind,
     certainly not rough salt. I repeat that there is no practical joke
     here, but that we are investigating a serious crime."

     A vague thrill ran through me as I listened to my companion's words
     and saw the stern gravity which had hardened his features. This
     brutal preliminary seemed to shadow forth some strange and
     inexplicable horror in the background. Lestrade, however, shook his
     head like a man who is only half convinced.

     "There are objections to the joke theory, no doubt," said he, "but
     there are much stronger reasons against the other. We know that this
     woman has led a most quiet and respectable life at Penge and here for
     the last twenty years. She has hardly been away from her home for a
     day during that time. Why on earth, then, should any criminal send
     her the proofs of his guilt, especially as, unless she is a most
     consummate actress, she understands quite as little of the matter as
     we do?"

     "That is the problem which we have to solve," Holmes answered, "and
     for my part I shall set about it by presuming that my reasoning is
     correct, and that a double murder has been committed. One of these
     ears is a woman's, small, finely formed, and pierced for an earring.
     The other is a man's, sun-burned, discoloured, and also pierced for
     an earring. These two people are presumably dead, or we should have
     heard their story before now. To-day is Friday. The packet was posted
     on Thursday morning. The tragedy, then, occurred on Wednesday or
     Tuesday, or earlier. If the two people were murdered, who but their
     murderer would have sent this sign of his work to Miss Cushing? We
     may take it that the sender of the packet is the man whom we want.
     But he must have some strong reason for sending Miss Cushing this
     packet. What reason then? It must have been to tell her that the deed
     was done; or to pain her, perhaps. But in that case she knows who it
     is. Does she know? I doubt it. If she knew, why should she call the
     police in? She might have buried the ears, and no one would have been
     the wiser. That is what she would have done if she had wished to
     shield the criminal. But if she does not wish to shield him she would
     give his name. There is a tangle here which needs straightening out."
     He had been talking in a high, quick voice, staring blankly up over
     the garden fence, but now he sprang briskly to his feet and walked
     towards the house.

     "I have a few questions to ask Miss Cushing," said he.

     "In that case I may leave you here," said Lestrade, "for I have
     another small business on hand. I think that I have nothing further
     to learn from Miss Cushing. You will find me at the police-station."

     "We shall look in on our way to the train," answered Holmes. A moment
     later he and I were back in the front room, where the impassive lady
     was still quietly working away at her antimacassar. She put it down
     on her lap as we entered and looked at us with her frank, searching
     blue eyes.

     "I am convinced, sir," she said, "that this matter is a mistake, and
     that the parcel was never meant for me at all. I have said this
     several times to the gentlemen from Scotland Yard, but he simply
     laughs at me. I have not an enemy in the world, as far as I know, so
     why should anyone play me such a trick?"

     "I am coming to be of the same opinion, Miss Cushing," said Holmes,
     taking a seat beside her. "I think that it is more than probable--"
     He paused, and I was surprised, on glancing round to see that he was
     staring with singular intentness at the lady's profile. Surprise and
     satisfaction were both for an instant to be read upon his eager face,
     though when she glanced round to find out the cause of his silence he
     had become as demure as ever. I stared hard myself at her flat,
     grizzled hair, her trim cap, her little gilt earrings, her placid
     features; but I could see nothing which could account for my
     companion's evident excitement.

     "There were one or two questions--"

     "Oh, I am weary of questions!" cried Miss Cushing impatiently.

     "You have two sisters, I believe."

     "How could you know that?"

     "I observed the very instant that I entered the room that you have a
     portrait group of three ladies upon the mantelpiece, one of whom is
     undoubtedly yourself, while the others are so exceedingly like you
     that there could be no doubt of the relationship."

     "Yes, you are quite right. Those are my sisters, Sarah and Mary."

     "And here at my elbow is another portrait, taken at Liverpool, of
     your younger sister, in the company of a man who appears to be a
     steward by his uniform. I observe that she was unmarried at the
     time."

     "You are very quick at observing."

     "That is my trade."

     "Well, you are quite right.  But she was married to Mr. Browner a few
     days afterwards. He was on the South American line when that was
     taken, but he was so fond of her that he couldn't abide to leave her
     for so long, and he got into the Liverpool and London boats."

     "Ah, the Conqueror, perhaps?"

     "No, the May Day, when last I heard. Jim came down here to see me
     once. That was before he broke the pledge; but afterwards he would
     always take drink when he was ashore, and a little drink would send
     him stark, staring mad. Ah! it was a bad day that ever he took a
     glass in his hand again. First he dropped me, then he quarrelled with
     Sarah, and now that Mary has stopped writing we don't know how things
     are going with them."

     It was evident that Miss Cushing had come upon a subject on which she
     felt very deeply. Like most people who lead a lonely life, she was
     shy at first, but ended by becoming extremely communicative. She told
     us many details about her brother-in-law the steward, and then
     wandering off on the subject of her former lodgers, the medical
     students, she gave us a long account of their delinquencies, with
     their names and those of their hospitals. Holmes listened attentively
     to everything, throwing in a question from time to time.

     "About your second sister, Sarah," said he. "I wonder, since you are
     both maiden ladies, that you do not keep house together."

     "Ah! you don't know Sarah's temper or you would wonder no more. I
     tried it when I came to Croydon, and we kept on until about two
     months ago, when we had to part. I don't want to say a word against
     my own sister, but she was always meddlesome and hard to please, was
     Sarah."

     "You say that she quarrelled with your Liverpool relations."

     "Yes, and they were the best of friends at one time. Why, she went up
     there to live in order to be near them. And now she has no word hard
     enough for Jim Browner. The last six months that she was here she
     would speak of nothing but his drinking and his ways. He had caught
     her meddling, I suspect, and given her a bit of his mind, and that
     was the start of it."

     "Thank you, Miss Cushing," said Holmes, rising and bowing. "Your
     sister Sarah lives, I think you said, at New Street, Wallington?
     Good-bye, and I am very sorry that you should have been troubled over
     a case with which, as you say, you have nothing whatever to do."

     There was a cab passing as we came out, and Holmes hailed it.

     "How far to Wallington?" he asked.

     "Only about a mile, sir."

     "Very good. Jump in, Watson. We must strike while the iron is hot.
     Simple as the case is, there have been one or two very instructive
     details in connection with it. Just pull up at a telegraph office as
     you pass, cabby."

     Holmes sent off a short wire and for the rest of the drive lay back
     in the cab, with his hat tilted over his nose to keep the sun from
     his face. Our drive pulled up at a house which was not unlike the one
     which we had just quitted. My companion ordered him to wait, and had
     his hand upon the knocker, when the door opened and a grave young
     gentleman in black, with a very shiny hat, appeared on the step.

     "Is Miss Cushing at home?" asked Holmes.

     "Miss Sarah Cushing is extremely ill," said he. "She has been
     suffering since yesterday from brain symptoms of great severity. As
     her medical adviser, I cannot possibly take the responsibility of
     allowing anyone to see her. I should recommend you to call again in
     ten days." He drew on his gloves, closed the door, and marched off
     down the street.

     "Well, if we can't we can't," said Holmes, cheerfully.

     "Perhaps she could not or would not have told you much."

     "I did not wish her to tell me anything. I only wanted to look at
     her. However, I think that I have got all that I want. Drive us to
     some decent hotel, cabby, where we may have some lunch, and
     afterwards we shall drop down upon friend Lestrade at the
     police-station."

     We had a pleasant little meal together, during which Holmes would
     talk about nothing but violins, narrating with great exultation how
     he had purchased his own Stradivarius, which was worth at least five
     hundred guineas, at a Jew broker's in Tottenham Court Road for
     fifty-five shillings. This led him to Paganini, and we sat for an
     hour over a bottle of claret while he told me anecdote after anecdote
     of that extraordinary man. The afternoon was far advanced and the hot
     glare had softened into a mellow glow before we found ourselves at
     the police-station. Lestrade was waiting for us at the door.

     "A telegram for you, Mr. Holmes," said he.

     "Ha! It is the answer!" He tore it open, glanced his eyes over it,
     and crumpled it into his pocket. "That's all right," said he.

     "Have you found out anything?"

     "I have found out everything!"

     "What!" Lestrade stared at him in amazement. "You are joking."

     "I was never more serious in my life. A shocking crime has been
     committed, and I think I have now laid bare every detail of it."

     "And the criminal?"

     Holmes scribbled a few words upon the back of one of his visiting
     cards and threw it over to Lestrade.

     "That is the name," he said. "You cannot effect an arrest until
     to-morrow night at the earliest. I should prefer that you do not
     mention my name at all in connection with the case, as I choose to be
     only associated with those crimes which present some difficulty in
     their solution. Come on, Watson." We strode off together to the
     station, leaving Lestrade still staring with a delighted face at the
     card which Holmes had thrown him.

     "The case," said Sherlock Holmes as we chatted over or cigars that
     night in our rooms at Baker Street, "is one where, as in the
     investigations which you have chronicled under the names of 'A Study
     in Scarlet' and of 'The Sign of Four,' we have been compelled to
     reason backward from effects to causes. I have written to Lestrade
     asking him to supply us with the details which are now wanting, and
     which he will only get after he had secured his man. That he may be
     safely trusted to do, for although he is absolutely devoid of reason,
     he is as tenacious as a bulldog when he once understands what he has
     to do, and indeed, it is just this tenacity which has brought him to
     the top at Scotland Yard."

     "Your case is not complete, then?" I asked.

     "It is fairly complete in essentials. We know who the author of the
     revolting business is, although one of the victims still escapes us.
     Of course, you have formed your own conclusions."

     "I presume that this Jim Browner, the steward of a Liverpool boat, is
     the man whom you suspect?"

     "Oh! it is more than a suspicion."

     "And yet I cannot see anything save very vague indications."

     "On the contrary, to my mind nothing could be more clear. Let me run
     over the principal steps. We approached the case, you remember, with
     an absolutely blank mind, which is always an advantage. We had formed
     no theories. We were simply there to observe and to draw inferences
     from our observations. What did we see first? A very placid and
     respectable lady, who seemed quite innocent of any secret, and a
     portrait which showed me that she had two younger sisters. It
     instantly flashed across my mind that the box might have been meant
     for one of these. I set the idea aside as one which could be
     disproved or confirmed at our leisure. Then we went to the garden, as
     you remember, and we saw the very singular contents of the little
     yellow box.

     "The string was of the quality which is used by sail-makers aboard
     ship, and at once a whiff of the sea was perceptible in our
     investigation. When I observed that the knot was one which is popular
     with sailors, that the parcel had been posted at a port, and that the
     male ear was pierced for an earring which is so much more common
     among sailors than landsmen, I was quite certain that all the actors
     in the tragedy were to be found among our seafaring classes.

     "When I came to examine the address of the packet I observed that it
     was to Miss S. Cushing. Now, the oldest sister would, of course, be
     Miss Cushing, and although her initial was 'S' it might belong to one
     of the others as well. In that case we should have to commence our
     investigation from a fresh basis altogether. I therefore went into
     the house with the intention of clearing up this point. I was about
     to assure Miss Cushing that I was convinced that a mistake had been
     made when you may remember that I came suddenly to a stop. The fact
     was that I had just seen something which filled me with surprise and
     at the same time narrowed the field of our inquiry immensely.

     "As a medical man, you are aware, Watson, that there is no part of
     the body which varies so much as the human ear. Each ear is as a rule
     quite distinctive and differs from all other ones. In last year's
     Anthropological Journal you will find two short monographs from my
     pen upon the subject. I had, therefore, examined the ears in the box
     with the eyes of an expert and had carefully noted their anatomical
     peculiarities. Imagine my surprise, then, when on looking at Miss
     Cushing I perceived that her ear corresponded exactly with the female
     ear which I had just inspected. The matter was entirely beyond
     coincidence. There was the same shortening of the pinna, the same
     broad curve of the upper lobe, the same convolution of the inner
     cartilage. In all essentials it was the same ear.

     "In the first place, her sister's name was Sarah, and her address had
     until recently been the same, so that it was quite obvious how the
     mistake had occurred and for whom the packet was meant. Then we heard
     of this steward, married to the third sister, and learned that he had
     at one time been so intimate with Miss Sarah that she had actually
     gone up to Liverpool to be near the Browners, but a quarrel had
     afterwards divided them. This quarrel had put a stop to all
     communications for some months, so that if Browner had occasion to
     address a packet to Miss Sarah, he would undoubtedly have done so to
     her old address.

     "And now the matter had begun to straighten itself out wonderfully.
     We had learned of the existence of this steward, an impulsive man, of
     strong passions--you remember that he threw up what must have been a
     very superior berth in order to be nearer to his wife--subject, too,
     to occasional fits of hard drinking. We had reason to believe that
     his wife had been murdered, and that a man--presumably a seafaring
     man--had been murdered at the same time. Jealousy, of course, at once
     suggests itself as the motive for the crime. And why should these
     proofs of the deed be sent to Miss Sarah Cushing? Probably because
     during her residence in Liverpool she had some hand in bringing about
     the events which led to the tragedy. You will observe that this line
     of boats call at Belfast, Dublin, and Waterford; so that, presuming
     that Browner had committed the deed and had embarked at once upon his
     steamer, the May Day, Belfast would be the first place at which he
     could post his terrible packet.

     "A second solution was at this stage obviously possible, and although
     I thought it exceedingly unlikely, I was determined to elucidate it
     before going further. An unsuccessful lover might have killed Mr. and
     Mrs. Browner, and the male ear might have belonged to the husband.
     There were many grave objections to this theory, but it was
     conceivable. I therefore sent off a telegram to my friend Algar, of
     the Liverpool force, and asked him to find out if Mrs. Browner were
     at home, and if Browner had departed in the May Day. Then we went on
     to Wallington to visit Miss Sarah.

     "I was curious, in the first place, to see how far the family ear had
     been reproduced in her. Then, of course, she might give us very
     important information, but I was not sanguine that she would. She
     must have heard of the business the day before, since all Croydon was
     ringing with it, and she alone could have understood for whom the
     packet was meant. If she had been willing to help justice she would
     probably have communicated with the police already. However, it was
     clearly our duty to see her, so we went. We found that the news of
     the arrival of the packet--for her illness dated from that time--had
     such an effect upon her as to bring on brain fever. It was clearer
     than ever that she understood its full significance, but equally
     clear that we should have to wait some time for any assistance from
     her.

     "However, we were really independent of her help. Our answers were
     waiting for us at the police-station, where I had directed Algar to
     send them. Nothing could be more conclusive. Mrs. Browner's house had
     been closed for more than three days, and the neighbours were of
     opinion that she had gone south to see her relatives. It had been
     ascertained at the shipping offices that Browner had left aboard of
     the May Day, and I calculate that she is due in the Thames tomorrow
     night. When he arrives he will be met by the obtuse but resolute
     Lestrade, and I have no doubt that we shall have all our details
     filled in."

     Sherlock Holmes was not disappointed in his expectations. Two days
     later he received a bulky envelope, which contained a short note from
     the detective, and a typewritten document, which covered several
     pages of foolscap.

     "Lestrade has got him all right," said Holmes, glancing up at me.
     "Perhaps it would interest you to hear what he says.

     "My dear Mr. Holmes:
     "In accordance with the scheme which we had formed in order to test
     our theories" ["the 'we' is rather fine, Watson, is it not?"] "I went
     down to the Albert Dock yesterday at 6 p.m., and boarded the S.S. May
     Day, belonging to the Liverpool, Dublin, and London Steam Packet
     Company. On inquiry, I found that there was a steward on board of the
     name of James Browner and that he had acted during the voyage in such
     an extraordinary manner that the captain had been compelled to
     relieve him of his duties. On descending to his berth, I found him
     seated upon a chest with his head sunk upon his hands, rocking
     himself to and fro. He is a big, powerful chap, clean-shaven, and
     very swarthy--something like Aldrige, who helped us in the bogus
     laundry affair. He jumped up when he heard my business, and I had my
     whistle to my lips to call a couple of river police, who were round
     the corner, but he seemed to have no heart in him, and he held out
     his hands quietly enough for the darbies. We brought him along to the
     cells, and his box as well, for we thought there might be something
     incriminating; but, bar a big sharp knife such as most sailors have,
     we got nothing for our trouble. However, we find that we shall want
     no more evidence, for on being brought before the inspector at the
     station he asked leave to make a statement, which was, of course,
     taken down, just as he made it, by our shorthand man. We had three
     copies typewritten, one of which I enclose. The affair proves, as I
     always thought it would, to be an extremely simple one, but I am
     obliged to you for assisting me in my investigation. With kind
     regards,
     "Yours very truly,
     "G. Lestrade.

     "Hum! The investigation really was a very simple one," remarked
     Holmes, "but I don't think it struck him in that light when he first
     called us in. However, let us see what Jim Browner has to say for
     himself. This is his statement as made before Inspector Montgomery at
     the Shadwell Police Station, and it has the advantage of being
     verbatim."

     "'Have I anything to say? Yes, I have a deal to say. I have to make a
     clean breast of it all. You can hang me, or you can leave me alone. I
     don't care a plug which you do. I tell you I've not shut an eye in
     sleep since I did it, and I don't believe I ever will again until I
     get past all waking. Sometimes it's his face, but most generally it's
     hers. I'm never without one or the other before me. He looks frowning
     and black-like, but she has a kind o' surprise upon her face. Ay, the
     white lamb, she might well be surprised when she read death on a face
     that had seldom looked anything but love upon her before.

     "'But it was Sarah's fault, and may the curse of a broken man put a
     blight on her and set the blood rotting in her veins! It's not that I
     want to clear myself. I know that I went back to drink, like the
     beast that I was. But she would have forgiven me; she would have
     stuck as close to me as a rope to a block if that woman had never
     darkened our door. For Sarah Cushing loved me--that's the root of the
     business--she loved me until all her love turned to poisonous hate
     when she knew that I thought more of my wife's footmark in the mud
     than I did of her whole body and soul.

     "'There were three sisters altogether. The old one was just a good
     woman, the second was a devil, and the third was an angel. Sarah was
     thirty-three, and Mary was twenty-nine when I married. We were just
     as happy as the day was long when we set up house together, and in
     all Liverpool there was no better woman than my Mary. And then we
     asked Sarah up for a week, and the week grew into a month, and one
     thing led to another, until she was just one of ourselves.

     "'I was blue ribbon at that time, and we were putting a little money
     by, and all was as bright as a new dollar. My God, whoever would have
     thought that it could have come to this? Whoever would have dreamed
     it?

     "'I used to be home for the week-ends very often, and sometimes if
     the ship were held back for cargo I would have a whole week at a
     time, and in this way I saw a deal of my sister-in-law, Sarah. She
     was a fine tall woman, black and quick and fierce, with a proud way
     of carrying her head, and a glint from her eye like a spark from a
     flint. But when little Mary was there I had never a thought of her,
     and that I swear as I hope for God's mercy.

     "'It had seemed to me sometimes that she liked to be alone with me,
     or to coax me out for a walk with her, but I had never thought
     anything of that. But one evening my eyes were opened. I had come up
     from the ship and found my wife out, but Sarah at home. "Where's
     Mary?" I asked. "Oh, she has gone to pay some accounts." I was
     impatient and paced up and down the room. "Can't you be happy for
     five minutes without Mary, Jim?" says she. "It's a bad compliment to
     me that you can't be contented with my society for so short a time."
     "That's all right, my lass," said I, putting out my hand towards her
     in a kindly way, but she had it in both hers in an instant, and they
     burned as if they were in a fever. I looked into her eyes and I read
     it all there. There was no need for her to speak, nor for me either.
     I frowned and drew my hand away. Then she stood by my side in silence
     for a bit, and then put up her hand and patted me on the shoulder.
     "Steady old Jim!" said she, and with a kind o' mocking laugh, she ran
     out of the room.

     "'Well, from that time Sarah hated me with her whole heart and soul,
     and she is a woman who can hate, too. I was a fool to let her go on
     biding with us--a besotted fool--but I never said a word to Mary, for
     I knew it would grieve her. Things went on much as before, but after
     a time I began to find that there was a bit of a change in Mary
     herself. She had always been so trusting and so innocent, but now she
     became queer and suspicious, wanting to know where I had been and
     what I had been doing, and whom my letters were from, and what I had
     in my pockets, and a thousand such follies. Day by day she grew
     queerer and more irritable, and we had ceaseless rows about nothing.
     I was fairly puzzled by it all. Sarah avoided me now, but she and
     Mary were just inseparable. I can see now how she was plotting and
     scheming and poisoning my wife's mind against me, but I was such a
     blind beetle that I could not understand it at the time. Then I broke
     my blue ribbon and began to drink again, but I think I should not
     have done it if Mary had been the same as ever. She had some reason
     to be disgusted with me now, and the gap between us began to be wider
     and wider. And then this Alec Fairbairn chipped in, and things became
     a thousand times blacker.

     "'It was to see Sarah that he came to my house first, but soon it was
     to see us, for he was a man with winning ways, and he made friends
     wherever he went. He was a dashing, swaggering chap, smart and
     curled, who had seen half the world and could talk of what he had
     seen. He was good company, I won't deny it, and he had wonderful
     polite ways with him for a sailor man, so that I think there must
     have been a time when he knew more of the poop than the forecastle.
     For a month he was in and out of my house, and never once did it
     cross my mind that harm might come of his soft, tricky ways. And then
     at last something made me suspect, and from that day my peace was
     gone forever.

     "'It was only a little thing, too. I had come into the parlour
     unexpected, and as I walked in at the door I saw a light of welcome
     on my wife's face. But as she saw who it was it faded again, and she
     turned away with a look of disappointment. That was enough for me.
     There was no one but Alec Fairbairn whose step she could have
     mistaken for mine. If I could have seen him then I should have killed
     him, for I have always been like a madman when my temper gets loose.
     Mary saw the devil's light in my eyes, and she ran forward with her
     hands on my sleeve. "Don't, Jim, don't!" says she. "Where's Sarah?" I
     asked. "In the kitchen," says she. "Sarah," says I as I went in,
     "this man Fairbairn is never to darken my door again." "Why not?"
     says she. "Because I order it." "Oh!" says she, "if my friends are
     not good enough for this house, then I am not good enough for it
     either." "You can do what you like," says I, "but if Fairbairn shows
     his face here again I'll send you one of his ears for a keepsake."
     She was frightened by my face, I think, for she never answered a
     word, and the same evening she left my house.

     "'Well, I don't know now whether it was pure devilry on the part of
     this woman, or whether she thought that she could turn me against my
     wife by encouraging her to misbehave. Anyway, she took a house just
     two streets off and let lodgings to sailors. Fairbairn used to stay
     there, and Mary would go round to have tea with her sister and him.
     How often she went I don't know, but I followed her one day, and as I
     broke in at the door Fairbairn got away over the back garden wall,
     like the cowardly skunk that he was. I swore to my wife that I would
     kill her if I found her in his company again, and I led her back with
     me, sobbing and trembling, and as white as a piece of paper. There
     was no trace of love between us any longer. I could see that she
     hated me and feared me, and when the thought of it drove me to drink,
     then she despised me as well.

     "'Well, Sarah found that she could not make a living in Liverpool, so
     she went back, as I understand, to live with her sister in Croydon,
     and things jogged on much the same as ever at home. And then came
     this week and all the misery and ruin.

     "'It was in this way. We had gone on the May Day for a round voyage
     of seven days, but a hogshead got loose and started one of our
     plates, so that we had to put back into port for twelve hours. I left
     the ship and came home, thinking what a surprise it would be for my
     wife, and hoping that maybe she would be glad to see me so soon. The
     thought was in my head as I turned into my own street, and at that
     moment a cab passed me, and there she was, sitting by the side of
     Fairbairn, the two chatting and laughing, with never a thought for me
     as I stood watching them from the footpath.

     "'I tell you, and I give you my word for it, that from that moment I
     was not my own master, and it is all like a dim dream when I look
     back on it. I had been drinking hard of late, and the two things
     together fairly turned my brain. There's something throbbing in my
     head now, like a docker's hammer, but that morning I seemed to have
     all Niagara whizzing and buzzing in my ears.

     "'Well, I took to my heels, and I ran after the cab. I had a heavy
     oak stick in my hand, and I tell you I saw red from the first; but as
     I ran I got cunning, too, and hung back a little to see them without
     being seen. They pulled up soon at the railway station. There was a
     good crowd round the booking-office, so I got quite close to them
     without being seen. They took tickets for New Brighton. So did I, but
     I got in three carriages behind them. When we reached it they walked
     along the Parade, and I was never more than a hundred yards from
     them. At last I saw them hire a boat and start for a row, for it was
     a very hot day, and they thought, no doubt, that it would be cooler
     on the water.

     "'It was just as if they had been given into my hands. There was a
     bit of a haze, and you could not see more than a few hundred yards. I
     hired a boat for myself, and I pulled after them. I could see the
     blur of their craft, but they were going nearly as fast as I, and
     they must have been a long mile from the shore before I caught them
     up. The haze was like a curtain all round us, and there were we three
     in the middle of it. My God, shall I ever forget their faces when
     they saw who was in the boat that was closing in upon them? She
     screamed out. He swore like a madman and jabbed at me with an oar,
     for he must have seen death in my eyes. I got past it and got one in
     with my stick that crushed his head like an egg. I would have spared
     her, perhaps, for all my madness, but she threw her arms round him,
     crying out to him, and calling him "Alec." I struck again, and she
     lay stretched beside him. I was like a wild beast then that had
     tasted blood. If Sarah had been there, by the Lord, she should have
     joined them. I pulled out my knife, and--well, there! I've said
     enough. It gave me a kind of savage joy when I thought how Sarah
     would feel when she had such signs as these of what her meddling had
     brought about. Then I tied the bodies into the boat, stove a plank,
     and stood by until they had sunk. I knew very well that the owner
     would think that they had lost their bearings in the haze, and had
     drifted off out to sea. I cleaned myself up, got back to land, and
     joined my ship without a soul having a suspicion of what had passed.
     That night I made up the packet for Sarah Cushing, and next day I
     sent it from Belfast.

     "'There you have the whole truth of it. You can hang me, or do what
     you like with me, but you cannot punish me as I have been punished
     already. I cannot shut my eyes but I see those two faces staring at
     me--staring at me as they stared when my boat broke through the haze.
     I killed them quick, but they are killing me slow; and if I have
     another night of it I shall be either mad or dead before morning. You
     won't put me alone into a cell, sir?  For pity's sake don't, and may
     you be treated in your day of agony as you treat me now.'

     "What is the meaning of it, Watson?" said Holmes solemnly as he laid
     down the paper. "What object is served by this circle of misery and
     violence and fear? It must tend to some end, or else our universe is
     ruled by chance, which is unthinkable. But what end? There is the
     great standing perennial problem to which human reason is as far from
     an answer as ever."

                         THE ADVENTURE OF THE RED CIRCLE

     "Well, Mrs. Warren, I cannot see that you have any particular cause
     for uneasiness, nor do I understand why I, whose time is of some
     value, should interfere in the matter. I really have other things to
     engage me." So spoke Sherlock Holmes and turned back to the great
     scrapbook in which he was arranging and indexing some of his recent
     material.

     But the landlady had the pertinacity and also the cunning of her sex.
      She held her ground firmly.

     "You arranged an affair for a lodger of mine last year," she
     said--"Mr. Fairdale Hobbs."

     "Ah, yes--a simple matter."

     "But he would never cease talking of it--your kindness, sir, and the
     way in which you brought light into the darkness. I remembered his
     words when I was in doubt and darkness myself. I know you could if
     you only would."

     Holmes was accessible upon the side of flattery, and also, to do him
     justice, upon the side of kindliness. The two forces made him lay
     down his gum-brush with a sigh of resignation and push back his
     chair.

     "Well, well, Mrs. Warren, let us hear about it, then.  You don't
     object to tobacco, I take it? Thank you, Watson--the matches! You are
     uneasy, as I understand, because your new lodger remains in his rooms
     and you cannot see him. Why, bless you, Mrs. Warren, if I were your
     lodger you often would not see me for weeks on end."

     "No doubt, sir; but this is different. It frightens me, Mr. Holmes. I
     can't sleep for fright. To hear his quick step moving here and moving
     there from early morning to late at night, and yet never to catch so
     much as a glimpse of him--it's more than I can stand. My husband is
     as nervous over it as I am, but he is out at his work all day, while
     I get no rest from it. What is he hiding for? What has he done?
     Except for the girl, I am all alone in the house with him, and it's
     more than my nerves can stand."

     Holmes leaned forward and laid his long, thin fingers upon the
     woman's shoulder. He had an almost hypnotic power of soothing when he
     wished. The scared look faded from her eyes, and her agitated
     features smoothed into their usual commonplace. She sat down in the
     chair which he had indicated.

     "If I take it up I must understand every detail," said he. "Take time
     to consider. The smallest point may be the most essential. You say
     that the man came ten days ago and paid you for a fortnight's board
     and lodging?"

     "He asked my terms, sir. I said fifty shillings a week. There is a
     small sitting-room and bedroom, and all complete, at the top of the
     house."

     "Well?"

     "He said, 'I'll pay you five pounds a week if I can have it on my own
     terms.' I'm a poor woman, sir, and Mr. Warren earns little, and the
     money meant much to me. He took out a ten-pound note, and he held it
     out to me then and there. 'You can have the same every fortnight for
     a long time to come if you keep the terms,' he said. 'If not, I'll
     have no more to do with you.'

     "What were the terms?"

     "Well, sir, they were that he was to have a key of the house. That
     was all right. Lodgers often have them. Also, that he was to be left
     entirely to himself and never, upon any excuse, to be disturbed."

     "Nothing wonderful in that, surely?"

     "Not in reason, sir. But this is out of all reason. He has been there
     for ten days, and neither Mr. Warren, nor I, nor the girl has once
     set eyes upon him. We can hear that quick step of his pacing up and
     down, up and down, night, morning, and noon; but except on that first
     night he had never once gone out of the house."

     "Oh, he went out the first night, did he?"

     "Yes, sir, and returned very late--after we were all in bed. He told
     me after he had taken the rooms that he would do so and asked me not
     to bar the door. I heard him come up the stair after midnight."

     "But his meals?"

     "It was his particular direction that we should always, when he rang,
     leave his meal upon a chair, outside his door. Then he rings again
     when he has finished, and we take it down from the same chair. If he
     wants anything else he prints it on a slip of paper and leaves it."

     "Prints it?"

     "Yes, sir; prints it in pencil. Just the word, nothing more. Here's
     the one I brought to show you--soap. Here's another--match. This is
     one he left the first morning--daily gazette. I leave that paper with
     his breakfast every morning."

     "Dear me, Watson," said Homes, staring with great curiosity at the
     slips of foolscap which the landlady had handed to him, "this is
     certainly a little unusual. Seclusion I can understand; but why
     print? Printing is a clumsy process. Why not write? What would it
     suggest, Watson?"

     "That he desired to conceal his handwriting."

     "But why? What can it matter to him that his landlady should have a
     word of his writing? Still, it may be as you say. Then, again, why
     such laconic messages?"

     "I cannot imagine."

     "It opens a pleasing field for intelligent speculation. The words are
     written with a broad-pointed, violet-tinted pencil of a not unusual
     pattern. You will observe that the paper is torn away at the side
     here after the printing was done, so that the 's' of 'soap' is partly
     gone. Suggestive, Watson, is it not?"

     "Of caution?"

     "Exactly. There was evidently some mark, some thumbprint, something
     which might give a clue to the person's identity. Now. Mrs. Warren,
     you say that the man was of middle size, dark, and bearded. What age
     would he be?"

     "Youngish, sir--not over thirty."

     "Well, can you give me no further indications?"

     "He spoke good English, sir, and yet I thought he was a foreigner by
     his accent."

     "And he was well dressed?"

     "Very smartly dressed, sir--quite the gentleman. Dark
     clothes--nothing you would note."

     "He gave no name?"

     "No, sir."

     "And has had no letters or callers?"

     "None."

     "But surely you or the girl enter his room of a morning?"

     "No, sir; he looks after himself entirely."

     "Dear me! that is certainly remarkable. What about his luggage?"

     "He had one big brown bag with him--nothing else."

     "Well, we don't seem to have much material to help us. Do you say
     nothing has come out of that room--absolutely nothing?"

     The landlady drew an envelope from her bag; from it she shook out two
     burnt matches and a cigarette-end upon the table.

     "They were on his tray this morning. I brought them because I had
     heard that you can read great things out of small ones."

     Holmes shrugged his shoulders.

     "There is nothing here," said he. "The matches have, of course, been
     used to light cigarettes. That is obvious from the shortness of the
     burnt end. Half the match is consumed in lighting a pipe or cigar.
     But, dear me! this cigarette stub is certainly remarkable. The
     gentleman was bearded and moustached, you say?"

     "Yes, sir."

     "I don't understand that. I should say that only a clean-shaven man
     could have smoked this. Why, Watson, even your modest moustache would
     have been singed."

     "A holder?" I suggested.

     "No, no; the end is matted. I suppose there could not be two people
     in your rooms, Mrs. Warren?"

     "No, sir. He eats so little that I often wonder it can keep life in
     one."

     "Well, I think we must wait for a little more material. After all,
     you have nothing to complain of. You have received your rent, and he
     is not a troublesome lodger, though he is certainly an unusual one.
     He pays you well, and if he chooses to lie concealed it is no direct
     business of yours. We have no excuse for an intrusion upon his
     privacy until we have some reason to think that there is a guilty
     reason for it. I've taken up the matter, and I won't lose sight of
     it. Report to me if anything fresh occurs, and rely upon my
     assistance if it should be needed.

     "There are certainly some points of interest in this case, Watson,"
     he remarked when the landlady had left us. "It may, of course, be
     trivial--individual eccentricity; or it may be very much deeper than
     appears on the surface. The first thing that strike one is the
     obvious possibility that the person now in the rooms may be entirely
     different from the one who engaged them."

     "Why should you think so?"

     "Well, apart form this cigarette-end, was it not suggestive that the
     only time the lodger went out was immediately after his taking the
     rooms? He came back--or someone came back--when all witnesses were
     out of the way. We have no proof that the person who came back was
     the person who went out. Then, again, the man who took the rooms
     spoke English well. This other, however, prints 'match' when it
     should have been 'matches.' I can imagine that the word was taken out
     of a dictionary, which would give the noun but not the plural. The
     laconic style may be to conceal the absence of knowledge of English.
     Yes, Watson, there are good reasons to suspect that there has been a
     substitution of lodgers."

     "But for what possible end?"

     "Ah! there lies our problem. There is one rather obvious line of
     investigation." He took down the great book in which, day by day, he
     filed the agony columns of the various London journals. "Dear me!"
     said he, turning over the pages, "what a chorus of groans, cries, and
     bleatings! What a rag-bag of singular happenings! But surely the most
     valuable hunting-ground that ever was given to a student of the
     unusual! This person is alone and cannot be approached by letter
     without a breach of that absolute secrecy which is desired. How is
     any news or any message to reach him from without? Obviously by
     advertisement through a newspaper. There seems no other way, and
     fortunately we need concern ourselves with the one paper only. Here
     are the Daily Gazette extracts of the last fortnight. 'Lady with a
     black boa at Prince's Skating Club'--that we may pass. 'Surely Jimmy
     will not break his mother's heart'--that appears to be irrelevant.
     'If the lady who fainted on Brixton bus'--she does not interest me.
     'Every day my heart longs--' Bleat, Watson--unmitigated bleat! Ah,
     this is a little more possible. Listen to this: 'Be patient. Will
     find some sure means of communications. Meanwhile, this column. G.'
     That is two days after Mrs. Warren's lodger arrived. It sounds
     plausible, does it not? The mysterious one could understand English,
     even if he could not print it. Let us see if we can pick up the trace
     again. Yes, here we are--three days later. 'Am making successful
     arrangements. Patience and prudence. The clouds will pass. G.'
     Nothing for a week after that. Then comes something much more
     definite: 'The path is clearing. If I find chance signal message
     remember code agreed--One A, two B, and so on. You will hear soon.
     G.' That was in yesterday's paper, and there is nothing in to-day's.
     It's all very appropriate to Mrs. Warren's lodger. If we wait a
     little, Watson, I don't doubt that the affair will grow more
     intelligible."

     So it proved; for in the morning I found my friend standing on the
     hearthrug with his back to the fire and a smile of complete
     satisfaction upon his face.

     "How's this, Watson?" he cried, picking up the paper from the table.
     "'High red house with white stone facings. Third floor. Second window
     left. After dusk. G.' That is definite enough. I think after
     breakfast we must make a little reconnaissance of Mrs. Warren's
     neighbourhood. Ah, Mrs. Warren! what news do you bring us this
     morning?"

     Our client had suddenly burst into the room with an explosive energy
     which told of some new and momentous development.

     "It's a police matter, Mr. Holmes!" she cried. "I'll have no more of
     it! He shall pack out of there with his baggage. I would have gone
     straight up and told him so, only I thought it was but fair to you to
     take your opinion first. But I'm at the end of my patience, and when
     it comes to knocking my old man about--"

     "Knocking Mr. Warren about?"

     "Using him roughly, anyway."

     "But who used him roughly?"

     "Ah! that's what we want to know! It was this morning, sir. Mr.
     Warren is a timekeeper at Morton and Waylight's, in Tottenham Court
     Road. He has to be out of the house before seven. Well, this morning
     he had not gone ten paces down the road when two men came up behind
     him, threw a coat over his head, and bundled him into a cab that was
     beside the curb. They drove him an hour, and then opened the door and
     shot him out. He lay in the roadway so shaken in his wits that he
     never saw what became of the cab. When he picked himself up he found
     he was on Hampstead Heath; so he took a bus home, and there he lies
     now on his sofa, while I came straight round to tell you what had
     happened."

     "Most interesting," said Holmes. "Did he observe the appearance of
     these men--did he hear them talk?"

     "No; he is clean dazed. He just knows that he was lifted up as if by
     magic and dropped as if by magic. Two a least were in it, and maybe
     three."

     "And you connect this attack with your lodger?"

     "Well, we've lived there fifteen years and no such happenings ever
     came before. I've had enough of him. Money's not everything. I'll
     have him out of my house before the day is done."

     "Wait a bit, Mrs. Warren. Do nothing rash. I begin to think that this
     affair may be very much more important than appeared at first sight.
     It is clear now that some danger is threatening your lodger. It is
     equally clear that his enemies, lying in wait for him near your door,
     mistook your husband for him in the foggy morning light. On
     discovering their mistake they released him. What they would have
     done had it not been a mistake, we can only conjecture."

     "Well, what am I to do, Mr. Holmes?"

     "I have a great fancy to see this lodger of yours, Mrs. Warren."

     "I don't see how that is to be managed, unless you break in the door.
     I always hear him unlock it as I go down the stair after I leave the
     tray."

     "He has to take the tray in. Surely we could conceal ourselves and
     see him do it."

     The landlady thought for a moment.

     "Well, sir, there's the box-room opposite. I could arrange a
     looking-glass, maybe, and if you were behind the door--"

     "Excellent!" said Holmes. "When does he lunch?"

     "About one, sir."

     "Then Dr. Watson and I will come round in time. For the present, Mrs.
     Warren, good-bye."

     At half-past twelve we found ourselves upon the steps of Mrs.
     Warren's house--a high, thin, yellow-brick edifice in Great Orme
     Street, a narrow thoroughfare at the northeast side of the British
     Museum. Standing as it does near the corner of the street, it
     commands a view down Howe Street, with its ore pretentious houses.
     Holmes pointed with a chuckle to one of these, a row of residential
     flats, which projected so that they could not fail to catch the eye.

     "See, Watson!" said he. "'High red house with stone facings.' There
     is the signal station all right. We know the place, and we know the
     code; so surely our task should be simple. There's a 'to let' card in
     that window. It is evidently an empty flat to which the confederate
     has access. Well, Mrs. Warren, what now?"

     "I have it all ready for you. If you will both come up and leave your
     boots below on the landing, I'll put you there now."

     It was an excellent hiding-place which she had arranged. The mirror
     was so placed that, seated in the dark, we could very plainly see the
     door opposite. We had hardly settled down in it, and Mrs. Warren left
     us, when a distant tinkle announced that our mysterious neighbour had
     rung. Presently the landlady appeared with the tray, laid it down
     upon a chair beside the closed door, and then, treading heavily,
     departed. Crouching together in the angle of the door, we kept our
     eyes fixed upon the mirror. Suddenly, as the landlady's footsteps
     died away, there was the creak of a turning key, the handle revolved,
     and two thin hands darted out and lifted the tray form the chair. An
     instant later it was hurriedly replaced, and I caught a glimpse of a
     dark, beautiful, horrified face glaring at the narrow opening of the
     box-room. Then the door crashed to, the key turned once more, and all
     was silence. Holmes twitched my sleeve, and together we stole down
     the stair.

     "I will call again in the evening," said he to the expectant
     landlady. "I think, Watson, we can discuss this business better in
     our own quarters."

     "My surmise, as you saw, proved to be correct," said he, speaking
     from the depths of his easy-chair. "There has been a substitution of
     lodgers. What I did not foresee is that we should find a woman, and
     no ordinary woman, Watson."

     "She saw us."

     "Well, she saw something to alarm her. That is certain. The general
     sequence of events is pretty clear, is it not? A couple seek refuge
     in London from a very terrible and instant danger. The measure of
     that danger is the rigour of their precautions. The man, who has some
     work which he must do, desires to leave the woman in absolute safety
     while he does it. It is not an easy problem, but he solved it in an
     original fashion, and so effectively that her presence was not even
     known to the landlady who supplies her with food. The printed
     messages, as is now evident, were to prevent her sex being discovered
     by her writing. The man cannot come near the woman, or he will guide
     their enemies to her. Since he cannot communicate with her direct, he
     has recourse to the agony column of a paper. So far all is clear."

     "But what is at the root of it?"

     "Ah, yes, Watson--severely practical, as usual! What is at the root
     of it all? Mrs. Warren's whimsical problem enlarges somewhat and
     assumes a more sinister aspect as we proceed. This much we can say:
     that it is no ordinary love escapade. You saw the woman's face at the
     sign of danger. We have heard, too, of the attack upon the landlord,
     which was undoubtedly meant for the lodger. These alarms, and the
     desperate need for secrecy, argue that the matter is one of life or
     death. The attack upon Mr. Warren further shows that the enemy,
     whoever they are, are themselves not aware of the substitution of the
     female lodger for the male. It is very curious and complex, Watson."

     "Why should you go further in it? What have you to gain from it?"

     "What, indeed? It is art for art's sake, Watson. I suppose when you
     doctored you found yourself studying cases without thought of a fee?"

     "For my education, Holmes."

     "Education never ends, Watson. It is a series of lessons with the
     greatest for the last. This is an instructive case. There is neither
     money nor credit in it, and yet one would wish to tidy it up. When
     dusk comes we should find ourselves one stage advanced in our
     investigation."

     When we returned to Mrs. Warren's rooms, the gloom of a London winter
     evening had thickened into one gray curtain, a dead monotone of
     colour, broken only by the sharp yellow squares of the windows and
     the blurred haloes of the gas-lamps. As we peered from the darkened
     sitting-room of the lodging-house, one more dim light glimmered high
     up through the obscurity.

     "Someone is moving in that room," said Holmes in a whisper, his gaunt
     and eager face thrust forward to the window-pane. "Yes, I can see his
     shadow. There he is again! He has a candle in his hand. Now he is
     peering across. He wants to be sure that she is on the lookout. Now
     he begins to flash. Take the message also, Watson, that we may check
     each other. A single flash--that is A, surely. Now, then. How many
     did you make it? Twenty. Do did In. That should mean T. AT--that's
     intelligible enough. Another T. Surely this is the beginning of a
     second word. Now, then--TENTA. Dead stop. That can't be all, Watson?
     ATTENTA gives no sense. Nor is it any better as three words AT, TEN,
     TA, unless T. A. are a person's initials. There it goes again! What's
     that? ATTE--why, it is the same message over again. Curious, Watson,
     very curious. Now he is off once more! AT--why he is repeating it for
     the third time. ATTENTA three times! How often will he repeat it? No,
     that seems to be the finish. He has withdrawn form the window. What
     do you make of it, Watson?"

     "A cipher message, Holmes."

     My companion gave a sudden chuckle of comprehension. "And not a very
     obscure cipher, Watson," said he. "Why, of course, it is Italian! The
     A means that it is addressed to a woman. 'Beware! Beware! Beware!'
     How's that, Watson?

     "I believe you have hit it."

     "Not a doubt of it. It is a very urgent message, thrice repeated to
     make it more so. But beware of what? Wait a bit, he is coming to the
     window once more."

     Again we saw the dim silhouette of a crouching man and the whisk of
     the small flame across the window as the signals were renewed. They
     came more rapidly than before--so rapid that it was hard to follow
     them.

     "PERICOLO--pericolo--eh, what's that, Watson? 'Danger,' isn't it?
     Yes, by Jove, it's a danger signal. There he goes again! PERI.
     Halloa, what on earth--"

     The light had suddenly gone out, the glimmering square of window had
     disappeared, and the third floor formed a dark band round the lofty
     building, with its tiers of shining casements. That last warning cry
     had been suddenly cut short. How, and by whom? The same thought
     occurred on the instant to us both. Holmes sprang up from where he
     crouched by the window.

     "This is serious, Watson," he cried. "There is some devilry going
     forward! Why should such a message stop in such a way? I should put
     Scotland Yard in touch with this business--and yet, it is too
     pressing for us to leave."

     "Shall I go for the police?"

     "We must define the situation a little more clearly. It may bear some
     more innocent interpretation. Come, Watson, let us go across
     ourselves and see what we can make of it."

     As we walked rapidly down Howe Street I glanced back at the building
     which we had left. There, dimly outlined at the top window, I could
     see the shadow of a head, a woman's head, gazing tensely, rigidly,
     out into the night, waiting with breathless suspense for the renewal
     of that interrupted message. At the doorway of the Howe Street flats
     a man, muffled in a cravat and greatcoat, was leaning against the
     railing. He started as the hall-light fell upon our faces.

     "Holmes!" he cried.

     "Why, Gregson!" said my companion as he shook hands with the Scotland
     Yard detective. "Journeys end with lovers' meetings. What brings you
     here?"

     "The same reasons that bring you, I expect," said Gregson. "How you
     got on to it I can't imagine."

     "Different threads, but leading up to the same tangle. I've been
     taking the signals."

     "Signals?"

     "Yes, from that window. They broke off in the middle. We came over to
     see the reason. But since it is safe in your hands I see no object in
     continuing this business."

     "Wait a bit!" cried Gregson eagerly. "I'll do you this justice, Mr.
     Holmes, that I was never in a case yet that I didn't feel stronger
     for having you on my side. There's only the one exit to these flats,
     so we have him safe."

     "Who is he?"

     "Well, well, we score over you for once, Mr. Holmes. You must give us
     best this time." He struck his stick sharply upon the ground, on
     which a cabman, his whip in his hand, sauntered over from a
     four-wheeler which stood on the far side of the street. "May I
     introduce you to Mr. Sherlock Holmes?" he said to the cabman. "This
     is Mr. Leverton, of Pinkerton's American Agency."

     "The hero of the Long Island cave mystery?" said Holmes. "Sir, I am
     pleased to meet you."

     The American, a quiet, businesslike young man, with a clean-shaven,
     hatchet face, flushed up at the words of commendation. "I am on the
     trail of my life now, Mr. Holmes," said he. "If I can get Gorgiano--"

     "What! Gorgiano of the Red Circle?"

     "Oh, he has a European fame, has he? Well, we've learned all about
     him in America. We know he is at the bottom of fifty murders, and yet
     we have nothing positive we can take him on. I tracked him over from
     New York, and I've been close to him for a week in London, waiting
     some excuse to get my hand on his collar. Mr. Gregson and I ran him
     to ground in that big tenement house, and there's only one door, so
     he can't slip us. There's three folk come out since he went in, but
     I'll swear he wasn't one of them."

     "Mr. Holmes talks of signals," said Gregson. "I expect, as usual, he
     knows a good deal that we don't."

     In a few clear words Holmes explained the situation as it had
     appeared to us. The American struck his hands together with vexation.

     "He's on to us!" he cried.

     "Why do you think so?"

     "Well, it figures out that way, does it not? Here he is, sending out
     messages to an accomplice--there are several of his gang in London.
     Then suddenly, just as by your own account he was telling them that
     there was danger, he broke short off. What could it mean except that
     from the window he had suddenly either caught sight of us in the
     street, or in some way come to understand how close the danger was,
     and that he must act right away if he was to avoid it? What do you
     suggest, Mr. Holmes?"

     "That we go up at once and see for ourselves."

     "But we have no warrant for his arrest."

     "He is in unoccupied premises under suspicious circumstances," said
     Gregson. "That is good enough for the moment. When we have him by the
     heels we can see if New York can't help us to keep him. I'll take the
     responsibility of arresting him now."

     Our official detectives may blunder in the matter of intelligence,
     but never in that of courage. Gregson climbed the stair to arrest
     this desperate murderer with the same absolutely quiet and
     businesslike bearing with which he would have ascended the official
     staircase of Scotland Yard. The Pinkerton man had tried to push past
     him, but Gregson had firmly elbowed him back. London dangers were the
     privilege of the London force.

     The door of the left-hand flat upon the third landing was standing
     ajar. Gregson pushed it open. Within all was absolute silence and
     darkness. I struck a match and lit the detective's lantern. As I did
     so, and as the flicker steadied into a flame, we all gave a gasp of
     surprise. On the deal boards of the carpetless floor there was
     outlined a fresh track of blood. The red steps pointed towards us and
     led away from an inner room, the door of which was closed. Gregson
     flung it open and held his light full blaze in front of him, while we
     all peered eagerly over his shoulders.

     In the middle of the floor of the empty room was huddled the figure
     of an enormous man, his clean-shaven, swarthy face grotesquely
     horrible in its contortion and his head encircled by a ghastly
     crimson halo of blood, lying in a broad wet circle upon the white
     woodwork. His knees were drawn up, his hands thrown out in agony, and
     from the centre of his broad, brown, upturned throat there projected
     the white haft of a knife driven blade-deep into his body. Giant as
     he was, the man must have gone down like a pole-axed ox before that
     terrific blow. Beside his right hand a most formidable horn-handled,
     two-edged dagger lay upon the floor, and near it a black kid glove.

     "By George! it's Black Gorgiano himself!" cried the American
     detective. "Someone has got ahead of us this time."

     "Here is the candle in the window, Mr. Holmes," said Gregson. "Why,
     whatever are you doing?"

     Holmes had stepped across, had lit the candle, and was passing it
     backward and forward across the window-panes. Then he peered into the
     darkness, blew the candle out, and threw it on the floor.

     "I rather think that will be helpful," said he. He came over and
     stood in deep thought while the two professionals were examining the
     body. "You say that three people came out form the flat while you
     were waiting downstairs," said he at last. "Did you observe them
     closely?"

     "Yes, I did."

     "Was there a fellow about thirty, black-bearded, dark, of middle
     size?"

     "Yes; he was the last to pass me."

     "That is your man, I fancy. I can give you his description, and we
     have a very excellent outline of his footmark. That should be enough
     for you."

     "Not much, Mr. Holmes, among the millions of London."

     "Perhaps not. That is why I thought it best to summon this lady to
     your aid."

     We all turned round at the words. There, framed in the doorway, was a
     tall and beautiful woman--the mysterious lodger of Bloomsbury. Slowly
     she advanced, her face pale and drawn with a frightful apprehension,
     her eyes fixed and staring, her terrified gaze riveted upon the dark
     figure on the floor.

     "You have killed him!" she muttered. "Oh, Dio mio, you have killed
     him!" Then I heard a sudden sharp intake of her breath, and she
     sprang into the air with a cry of joy. Round and round the room she
     danced, her hands clapping, her dark eyes gleaming with delighted
     wonder, and a thousand pretty Italian exclamations pouring from her
     lips. It was terrible and amazing to see such a woman so convulsed
     with joy at such a sight. Suddenly she stopped and gazed at us all
     with a questioning stare.

     "But you! You are police, are you not? You have killed Giuseppe
     Gorgiano. Is it not so?"

     "We are police, madam."

     She looked round into the shadows of the room.

     "But where, then, is Gennaro?" she asked. "He is my husband, Gennaro
     Lucca. I am Emilia Lucca, and we are both from New York. Where is
     Gennaro? He called me this moment from this window, and I ran with
     all my speed."

     "It was I who called," said Holmes.

     "You! How could you call?"

     "Your cipher was not difficult, madam. Your presence here was
     desirable. I knew that I had only to flash 'Vieni' and you would
     surely come."

     The beautiful Italian looked with awe at my companion.

     "I do not understand how you know these things," she said. "Giuseppe
     Gorgiano--how did he--" She paused, and then suddenly her face lit up
     with pride and delight. "Now I see it! My Gennaro! My splendid,
     beautiful Gennaro, who has guarded me safe from all harm, he did it,
     with his own strong hand he killed the monster! Oh, Gennaro, how
     wonderful you are! What woman could every be worthy of such a man?"

     "Well, Mrs. Lucca," said the prosaic Gregson, laying his hand upon
     the lady's sleeve with as little sentiment as if she were a Notting
     Hill hooligan, "I am not very clear yet who you are or what you are;
     but you've said enough to make it very clear that we shall want you
     at the Yard."

     "One moment, Gregson," said Holmes. "I rather fancy that this lady
     may be as anxious to give us information as we can be to get it. You
     understand, madam, that your husband will be arrested and tried for
     the death of the man who lies before us? What you say may be used in
     evidence. But if you think that he has acted from motives which are
     not criminal, and which he would wish to have known, then you cannot
     serve him better than by telling us the whole story."

     "Now that Gorgiano is dead we fear nothing," said the lady. "He was a
     devil and a monster, and there can be no judge in the world who would
     punish my husband for having killed him."

     "In that case," said Holmes, "my suggestion is that we lock this
     door, leave things as we found them, go with this lady to her room,
     and form our opinion after we have heard what it is that she has to
     say to us."

     Half an hour later we were seated, all four, in the small
     sitting-room of Signora Lucca, listening to her remarkable narrative
     of those sinister events, the ending of which we had chanced to
     witness. She spoke in rapid and fluent but very unconventional
     English, which, for the sake of clearness, I will make grammatical.

     "I was born in Posilippo, near Naples," said she, "and was the
     daughter of Augusto Barelli, who was the chief lawyer and once the
     deputy of that part. Gennaro was in my father's employment, and I
     came to love him, as any woman must. He had neither money nor
     position--nothing but his beauty and strength and energy--so my
     father forbade the match. We fled together, were married at Bari, and
     sold my jewels to gain the money which would take us to America. This
     was four years ago, and we have been in New York ever since.

     "Fortune was very good to us at first. Gennaro was able to do a
     service to an Italian gentleman--he saved him from some ruffians in
     the place called the Bowery, and so made a powerful friend. His name
     was Tito Castalotte, and he was the senior partner of the great firm
     of Castalotte and Zamba, who are the chief fruit importers of New
     York. Signor Zamba is an invalid, and our new friend Castalotte has
     all power within the firm, which employs more than three hundred men.
     He took my husband into his employment, made him head of a
     department, and showed his good-will towards him in every way. Signor
     Castalotte was a bachelor, and I believe that he felt as if Gennaro
     was his son, and both my husband and I loved him as if he were our
     father. We had taken and furnished a little house in Brooklyn, and
     our whole future seemed assured when that black cloud appeared which
     was soon to overspread our sky.

     "One night, when Gennaro returned from his work, he brought a
     fellow-countryman back with him. His name was Gorgiano, and he had
     come also from Posilippo. He was a huge man, as you can testify, for
     you have looked upon his corpse. Not only was his body that of a
     giant but everything about him was grotesque, gigantic, and
     terrifying. His voice was like thunder in our little house. There was
     scarce room for the whirl of his great arms as he talked. His
     thoughts, his emotions, his passions, all were exaggerated and
     monstrous. He talked, or rather roared, with such energy that others
     could but sit and listen, cowed with the mighty stream of words. His
     eyes blazed at you and held you at his mercy. He was a terrible and
     wonderful man. I thank God that he is dead!

     "He came again and again. Yet I was aware that Gennaro was no more
     happy than I was in his presence. My poor husband would sit pale and
     listless, listening to the endless raving upon politics and upon
     social questions which made up or visitor's conversation. Gennaro
     said nothing, but I, who knew him so well, could read in his face
     some emotion which I had never seen there before. At first I thought
     that it was dislike. And then, gradually, I understood that it was
     more than dislike. It was fear--a deep, secret, shrinking fear. That
     night--the night that I read his terror--I put my arms round him and
     I implored him by his love for me and by all that he held dear to
     hold nothing from me, and to tell me why this huge man overshadowed
     him so.

     "He told me, and my own heart grew cold as ice as I listened. My poor
     Gennaro, in his wild and fiery days, when all the world seemed
     against him and his mind was driven half mad by the injustices of
     life, had joined a Neapolitan society, the Red Circle, which was
     allied to the old Carbonari. The oaths and secrets of this
     brotherhood were frightful, but once within its rule no escape was
     possible. When we had fled to America Gennaro thought that he had
     cast it all off forever. What was his horror one evening to meet in
     the streets the very man who had initiated him in Naples, the giant
     Gorgiano, a man who had earned the name of 'Death' in the south of
     Italy, for he was red to the elbow in murder! He had come to New York
     to avoid the Italian police, and he had already planted a branch of
     this dreadful society in his new home. All this Gennaro told me and
     showed me a summons which he had received that very day, a Red Circle
     drawn upon the head of it telling him that a lodge would be held upon
     a certain date, and that his presence at it was required and ordered.

     "That was bad enough, but worse was to come. I had noticed for some
     time that when Gorgiano came to us, as he constantly did, in the
     evening, he spoke much to me; and even when his words were to my
     husband those terrible, glaring, wild-beast eyes of his were always
     turned upon me. One night his secret came out. I had awakened what he
     called 'love' within him--the love of a brute--a savage. Gennaro had
     not yet returned when he came. He pushed his way in, seized me in his
     mighty arms, hugged me in his bear's embrace, covered me with kisses,
     and implored me to come away with him. I was struggling and screaming
     when Gennaro entered and attacked him. He struck Gennaro senseless
     and fled from the house which he was never more to enter. It was a
     deadly enemy that we made that night.

     "A few days later came the meeting. Gennaro returned from it with a
     face which told me that something dreadful had occurred. It was worse
     than we could have imagined possible. The funds of the society were
     raised by blackmailing rich Italians and threatening them with
     violence should they refuse the money. It seems that Castalotte, our
     dear friend and benefactor, had been approached. He had refused to
     yield to threats, and he had handed the notices to the police. It was
     resolved now that such an example should be made of them as would
     prevent any other victim from rebelling. At the meeting it was
     arranged that he and his house should be blown up with dynamite.
     There was a drawing of lots as to who should carry out the deed.
     Gennaro saw our enemy's cruel face smiling at him as he dipped his
     hand in the bag. No doubt it had been prearranged in some fashion,
     for it was the fatal disc with the Red Circle upon it, the mandate
     for murder, which lay upon his palm. He was to kill his best friend,
     or he was to expose himself and me to the vengeance of his comrades.
     It was part of their fiendish system to punish those whom they feared
     or hated by injuring not only their own persons but those whom they
     loved, and it was the knowledge of this which hung as a terror over
     my poor Gennaro's head and drove him nearly crazy with apprehension.

     "All that night we sat together, our arms round each other, each
     strengthening each for the troubles that lay before us. The very next
     evening had been fixed for the attempt. By midday my husband and I
     were on our way to London, but not before he had given our benefactor
     full warning of this danger, and had also left such information for
     the police as would safeguard his life for the future.

     "The rest, gentlemen, you know for yourselves. We were sure that our
     enemies would be behind us like our own shadows. Gorgiano had his
     private reasons for vengeance, but in any case we knew how ruthless,
     cunning, and untiring he could be. Both Italy and America are full of
     stories of his dreadful powers. If ever they were exerted it would be
     now. My darling made use of the few clear days which our start had
     given us in arranging for a refuge for me in such a fashion that no
     possible danger could reach me. For his own part, he wished to be
     free that he might communicate both with the American and with the
     Italian police. I do not myself know where he lived, or how. All that
     I learned was through the columns of a newspaper. But once as I
     looked through my window, I saw two Italians watching the house, and
     I understood that in some way Gorgiano had found our retreat. Finally
     Gennaro told me, through the paper, that he would signal to me from a
     certain window, but when the signals came they were nothing but
     warnings, which were suddenly interrupted. It is very clear to me now
     that he knew Gorgiano to be close upon him, and that, thank God! he
     was ready for him when he came. And now, gentleman, I would ask you
     whether we have anything to fear from the law, or whether any judge
     upon earth would condemn my Gennaro for what he has done?"

     "Well, Mr. Gregson," said the American, looking across at the
     official, "I don't know what your British point of view may be, but I
     guess that in New York this lady's husband will receive a pretty
     general vote of thanks."

     "She will have to come with me and see the chief," Gregson answered. 
     "If what she says is corroborated, I do not think she or her husband
     has much to fear.  But what I can't make head or tail of, Mr. Holmes,
     is how on earth you got yourself mixed up in the matter."

     "Education, Gregson, education.  Still seeking knowledge at the old
     university.  Well, Watson, you have one more specimen of the tragic
     and grotesque to add to your collection.  By the way, it is not eight
     o'clock, and a Wagner night at Covent Garden!  If we hurry, we might
     be in time for the second act."






                   THE ADVENTURE OF THE BRUCE-PARTINGTON PLANS

     In the third week of November, in the year 1895, a dense yellow fog
     settled down upon London. From the Monday to the Thursday I doubt
     whether it was ever possible from our windows in Baker Street to see
     the loom of the opposite houses. The first day Holmes had spent in
     cross-indexing his huge book of references. The second and third had
     been patiently occupied upon a subject which he hand recently made
     his hobby--the music of the Middle Ages. But when, for the fourth
     time, after pushing back our chairs from breakfast we saw the greasy,
     heavy brown swirl still drifting past us and condensing in oily drops
     upon the window-panes, my comrade's impatient and active nature could
     endure this drab existence no longer. He paced restlessly about our
     sitting-room in a fever of suppressed energy, biting his nails,
     tapping the furniture, and chafing against inaction.

     "Nothing of interest in the paper, Watson?" he said.

     In was aware that by anything of interest, Holmes meant anything of
     criminal interest. There was the news of a revolution, of a possible
     war, and of an impending change of government; but these did not come
     within the horizon of my companion. I could see nothing recorded in
     the shape of crime which was not commonplace and futile. Holmes
     groaned and resumed hs restless meanderings.

     "The London criminal is certainly a dull fellow," said he in the
     querulous voice of the sportsman whose game has failed him. "Look out
     this window, Watson. See how the figures loom up, are dimly seen, and
     then blend once more into the cloud-bank. The thief or the murderer
     could roam London on such a day as the tiger does the jungle, unseen
     until he pounces, and then evident only to his victim."

     "There have," said I, "been numerous petty thefts."

     Holmes snorted his contempt.

     "This great and sombre stage is set for something more worthy than
     that," said he. "It is fortunate for this community that I am not a
     criminal."

     "It is, indeed!" said I heartily.

     "Suppose that I were Brooks or Woodhouse, or any of the fifty men who
     have good reason for taking my life, how long could I survive against
     my own pursuit? A summons, a bogus appointment, and all would be
     over. It is well they don't have days of fog in the Latin
     countries--the countries of assassination. By Jove! here comes
     something at last to break our dead monotony."

     It was the maid with a telegram. Holmes tore it open and burst out
     laughing.

     "Well, well! What next?" said he. "Brother Mycroft is coming round."

     "Why not?" I asked.

     "Why not? It is as if you met a tram-car coming down a country lane.
     Mycroft has his rails and he runs on them. His Pall Mall lodgings,
     the Diogenes Club, Whitehall--that is his cycle. Once, and only once,
     he has been here. What upheaval can possibly have derailed him?"

     "Does he not explain?"

     Holmes handed me his brother's telegram.

     Must see you over Cadogen West. Coming at once.
     Mycroft.

     "Cadogen West? I have heard the name."

     "It recalls nothing to my mind. But that Mycroft should break out in
     this erratic fashion! A planet might as well leave its orbit. By the
     way, do you know what Mycroft is?"

     I had some vague recollection of an explanation at the time of the
     Adventure of the Greek Interpreter.

     "You told me that he had some small office under the British
     government."

     Holmes chuckled.

     "I did not know you quite so well in those days. One has to be
     discreet when one talks of high matters of state. You are right in
     thinking that he under the British government. You would also be
     right in a sense if you said that occasionally he is the British
     government."

     "My dear Holmes!"

     "I thought I might surprise you. Mycroft draws four hundred and fifty
     pounds a year, remains a subordinate, has no ambitions of any kind,
     will receive neither honour nor title, but remains the most
     indispensable man in the country."

     "But how?"

     "Well, his position is unique. He has made it for himself. There has
     never been anything like it before, nor will be again. He has the
     tidiest and most orderly brain, with the greatest capacity for
     storing facts, of any man living. The same great powers which I have
     turned to the detection of crime he has used for this particular
     business. The conclusions of every department are passed to him, and
     he is the central exchange, the clearinghouse, which makes out the
     balance. All other men are specialists, but his specialism is
     omniscience. We will suppose that a minister needs information as to
     a point which involves the Navy, India, Canada and the bimetallic
     question; he could get his separate advices from various departments
     upon each, but only Mycroft can focus them all, and say offhand how
     each factor would affect the other. They began by using him as a
     short-cut, a convenience; now he has made himself an essential. In
     that great brain of his everything is pigeon-holed and can be handed
     out in an instant. Again and again his word has decided the national
     policy. He lives in it. He thinks of nothing else save when, as an
     intellectual exercise, he unbends if I call upon him and ask him to
     advise me on one of my little problems. But Jupiter is descending
     to-day. What on earth can it mean? Who is Cadogan West, and what is
     he to Mycroft?"

     "I have it," I cried, and plunged among the litter of papers upon the
     sofa. "Yes, yes, here he is, sure enough! Cadogen West was the young
     man who was found dead on the Underground on Tuesday morning."

     Holmes sat up at attention, his pipe halfway to his lips.

     "This must be serious, Watson. A death which has caused my brother to
     alter his habits can be no ordinary one. What in the world can he
     have to do with it? The case was featureless as I remember it. The
     young man had apparently fallen out of the train and killed himself.
     He had not been robbed, and there was no particular reason to suspect
     violence. Is that not so?"

     "There has been an inquest," said I, "and a good many fresh facts
     have come out. Looked at more closely, I should certainly say that it
     was a curious case."

     "Judging by its effect upon my brother, I should think it must be a
     most extraordinary one." He snuggled down in his armchair. "Now,
     Watson, let us have the facts."

     "The man's name was Arthur Cadogan West. He was twenty-seven years of
     age, unmarried, and a clerk at Woolwich Arsenal."

     "Government employ. Behold the link with Brother Mycroft!"

     "He left Woolwich suddenly on Monday night. Was last seen by his
     fiancee, Miss Violet Westbury, whom he left abruptly in the fog about
     7.30 that evening. There was no quarrel between them and she can give
     no motive for his action. The next thing heard of him was when his
     dead body was discovered by a plate-layer named Mason, just outside
     Aldgate Station on the Underground system in London."

     "When?"

     "The body was found at six on Tuesday morning. It was lying wide of
     the metals upon the left hand of the track as one goes eastward, at a
     point close to the station, where the line emerges from the tunnel in
     which it runs. The head was badly crushed--an injury which might well
     have been caused by a fall from the train. The body could only have
     come on the line in that way. Had it been carried down from any
     neighbouring street, it must have passed the station barriers, where
     a collector is always standing. This point seems absolutely certain."

     "Very good. The case is definite enough. The man, dead or alive,
     either fell or was precipitated from a train. So much is clear to me.
     Continue."

     "The trains which traverse the lines of rail beside which the body
     was found are those which run from west to east, some being purely
     Metropolitan, and some from Willesden and outlying junctions. It can
     be stated for certain that this young man, when he met his death, was
     travelling in this direction at some late hour of the night, but at
     what point he entered the train it is impossible to state."

     "His ticket, of course, would show that."

     "There was no ticket in his pockets."

     "No ticket! Dear me, Watson, this is really very singular. According
     to my experience it is not possible to reach the platform of a
     Metropolitan train without exhibiting one's ticket. Presumably, then,
     the young man had one. Was it taken from him in order to conceal the
     station from which he came? It is possible. Or did he drop it in the
     carriage? That is also possible. But the point is of curious
     interest. I understand that there was no sign of robbery?"

     "Apparently not. There is a list here of his possessions. His purse
     contained two pounds fifteen. He had also a check-book on the
     Woolwich branch of the Capital and Counties Bank. Through this his
     identity was established. There were also two dress-circle tickets
     for the Woolwich Theatre, dated for that very evening. Also a small
     packet of technical papers."

     Holmes gave an exclamation of satisfaction.

     "There we have it at last, Watson! British government--Woolwich.
     Arsenal--technical papers--Brother Mycroft, the chain is complete.
     But here he comes, if I am not mistaken, to speak for himself."

     A moment later the tall and portly form of Mycroft Holmes was ushered
     into the room. Heavily built and massive, there was a suggestion of
     uncouth physical inertia in the figure, but above this unwieldy frame
     there was perched a head so masterful in its brow, so alert in its
     steel-gray, deep-set eyes, so firm in its lips, and so subtle in its
     play of expression, that after the first glance one forgot the gross
     body and remembered only the dominant mind.

     At his heels came our old friend Lestrade, of Scotland Yard--thin and
     austere. The gravity of both their faces foretold some weighty quest.
     The detective shook hands without a word. Mycroft Holmes struggled
     out of his overcoat and subsided into an armchair.

     "A most annoying business, Sherlock," said he. "I extremely dislike
     altering my habits, but the powers that be would take no denial. In
     the present state of Siam it is most awkward that I should be away
     from the office. But it is a real crisis. I have never seen the Prime
     Minister so upset. As to the Admiralty--it is buzzing like an
     overturned bee-hive. Have you read up the case?"

     "We have just done so. What were the technical papers?"

     "Ah, there's the point! Fortunately, it has not come out. The press
     would be furious if it did. The papers which this wretched youth had
     in his pocket were the plans of the Bruce-Partington submarine."

     Mycroft Holmes spoke with a solemnity which showed his sense of the
     importance of the subject. His brother and I sat expectant.

     "Surely you have heard of it? I thought everyone had heard of it."

     "Only as a name."

     "Its importance can hardly be exaggerated. It has been the most
     jealously guarded of all government secrets. You may take it from me
     that naval warfare becomes impossible within the radius of a
     Bruce-Partington's operation. Two years ago a very large sum was
     smuggled through the Estimates and was expended in acquiring a
     monopoly of the invention. Every effort has been made to keep the
     secret. The plans, which are exceedingly intricate, comprising some
     thirty separate patents, each essential to the working of the whole,
     are kept in an elaborate safe in a confidential office adjoining the
     arsenal, with burglar-proof doors and windows. Under no conceivable
     circumstances were the plans to be taken from the office. If the
     chief constructor of the Navy desired to consult them, even he was
     forced to go to the Woolwich office for the purpose. And yet here we
     find them in the pocket of a dead junior clerk in the heart of
     London. From an official point of view it's simply awful."

     "But you have recovered them?"

     "No, Sherlock, no! That's the pinch. We have not. Ten papers were
     taken from Woolwich. There were seven in the pocket of Cadogan West.
     The three most essential are gone--stolen, vanished. You must drop
     everything, Sherlock. Never mind your usual petty puzzles of the
     police-court. It's a vital international problem that you have to
     solve. Why did Cadogan West take the papers, where are the missing
     ones, how did he die, how came his body where it was found, how can
     the evil be set right? Find an answer to all these questions, and you
     will have done good service for your country."

     "Why do you not solve it yourself, Mycroft? You can see as far as I."

     "Possibly, Sherlock. But it is a question of getting details. Give me
     your details, and from an armchair I will return you an excellent
     expert opinion. But to run here and run there, to cross-question
     railway guards, and lie on my face with a lens to my eye--it is not
     my mÃ©tier. No, you are the one man who can clear the matter up. If
     you have a fancy to see your name in the next honours list--"

     My friend smiled and shook his head.

     "I play the game for the game's own sake," said he. "But the problem
     certainly presents some points of interest, and I shall be very
     pleased to look into it. Some more facts, please."

     "I have jotted down the more essential ones upon this sheet of paper,
     together with a few addresses which you will find of service. The
     actual official guardian of the papers is the famous government
     expert, Sir James Walter, whose decorations and sub-titles fill two
     lines of a book of reference. He has grown gray in the service, is a
     gentleman, a favoured guest in the most exalted houses, and, above
     all, a man whose patriotism is beyond suspicion. He is one of two who
     have a key of the safe. I may add that the papers were undoubtedly in
     the office during working hours on Monday, and that Sir James left
     for London about three o'clock taking his key with him. He was at the
     house of Admiral Sinclair at Barclay Square during the whole of the
     evening when this incident occurred."

     "Has the fact been verified?"

     "Yes; his brother, Colonel Valentine Walter, has testified to his
     departure from Woolwich, and Admiral Sinclair to his arrival in
     London; so Sir James is no longer a direct factor in the problem."

     "Who was the other man with a key?"

     "The senior clerk and draughtsman, Mr. Sidney Johnson. He is a man of
     forty, married, with five children. He is a silent, morose man, but
     he has, on the whole, an excellent record in the public service. He
     is unpopular with his colleagues, but a hard worker. According to his
     own account, corroborated only by the word of his wife, he was at
     home the whole of Monday evening after office hours, and his key has
     never left the watch-chain upon which it hangs."

     "Tell us about Cadogan West."

     "He has been ten years in the service and has done good work. He has
     the reputation of being hot-headed and imperious, but a straight,
     honest man. We have nothing against him. He was next Sidney Johnson
     in the office. His duties brought him into daily, personal contact
     with the plans. No one else had the handling of them."

     "Who locked up the plans that night?"

     "Mr. Sidney Johnson, the senior clerk."

     "Well, it is surely perfectly clear who took them away. They are
     actually found upon the person of this junior clerk, Cadogan West.
     That seems final, does it not?"

     "It does, Sherlock, and yet it leaves so much unexplained. In the
     first place, why did he take them?"

     "I presume they were of value?"

     "He could have got several thousands for them very easily."

     "Can you suggest any possible motive for taking the papers to London
     except to sell them?"

     "No, I cannot."

     "Then we must take that as our working hypothesis. Young West took
     the papers. Now this could only be done by having a false key--"

     "Several false keys. He had to open the building and the room."

     "He had, then, several false keys. He took the papers to London to
     sell the secret, intending, no doubt, to have the plans themselves
     back in the safe next morning before they were missed. While in
     London on this treasonable mission he met his end."

     "How?"

     "We will suppose that he was travelling back to Woolwich when he was
     killed and thrown out of the compartment."

     "Aldgate, where the body was found, is considerably past the station
     London Bridge, which would be his route to Woolwich."

     "Many circumstances could be imagined under which he would pass
     London Bridge. There was someone in the carriage, for example, with
     whom he was having an absorbing interview. This interview led to a
     violent scene in which he lost his life. Possibly he tried to leave
     the carriage, fell out on the line, and so met his end. The other
     closed the door. There was a thick fog, and nothing could be seen."

     "No better explanation can be given with our present knowledge; and
     yet consider, Sherlock, how much you leave untouched. We will
     suppose, for argument's sake, that young Cadogan West had determined
     to convey these papers to London. He would naturally have made an
     appointment with the foreign agent and kept his evening clear.
     Instead of that he took two tickets for the theatre, escorted his
     fiancee halfway there, and then suddenly disappeared."

     "A blind," said Lestrade, who had sat listening with some impatience
     to the conversation.

     "A very singular one. That is objection No. 1. Objection No. 2: We
     will suppose that he reaches London and sees the foreign agent. He
     must bring back the papers before morning or the loss will be
     discovered. He took away ten. Only seven were in his pocket. What had
     become of the other three? He certainly would not leave them of his
     own free will. Then, again, where is the price of his treason? Once
     would have expected to find a large sum of money in his pocket."

     "It seems to me perfectly clear," said Lestrade. "I have no doubt at
     all as to what occurred. He took the papers to sell them. He saw the
     agent. They could not agree as to price. He started home again, but
     the agent went with him. In the train the agent murdered him, took
     the more essential papers, and threw his body from the carriage. That
     would account for everything, would it not?"

     "Why had he no ticket?"

     "The ticket would have shown which station was nearest the agent's
     house. Therefore he took it from the murdered man's pocket."

     "Good, Lestrade, very good," said Holmes. "Your theory holds
     together. But if this is true, then the case is at an end. On the one
     hand, the traitor is dead. On the other, the plans of the
     Bruce-Partington submarine are presumably already on the Continent.
     What is there for us to do?"

     "To act, Sherlock--to act!" cried Mycroft, springing to his feet.
     "All my instincts are against this explanation. Use your powers! Go
     to the scene of the crime! See the people concerned! Leave no stone
     unturned! In all your career you have never had so great a chance of
     serving your country."

     "Well, well!" said Holmes, shrugging his shoulders. "Come, Watson!
     And you, Lestrade, could you favour us with your company for an hour
     or two? We will begin our investigation by a visit to Aldgate
     Station. Good-bye, Mycroft. I shall let you have a report before
     evening, but I warn you in advance that you have little to expect."

     An hour later Holmes, Lestrade and I stood upon the Underground
     railroad at the point where it emerges from the tunnel immediately
     before Aldgate Station. A courteous red-faced old gentleman
     represented the railway company.

     "This is where the young man's body lay," said he, indicating a spot
     about three feet from the metals. "It could not have fallen from
     above, for these, as you see, are all blank walls. Therefore, it
     could only have come from a train, and that train, so far as we can
     trace it, must have passed about midnight on Monday."

     "Have the carriages been examined for any sign of violence?"

     "There are no such signs, and no ticket has been found."

     "No record of a door being found open?"

     "None."

     "We have had some fresh evidence this morning," said Lestrade. "A
     passenger who passed Aldgate in an ordinary Metropolitan train about
     11.40 on Monday night declares that he heard a heavy thud, as of a
     body striking the line, just before the train reached the station.
     There was dense fog, however, and nothing could be seen. He made no
     report of it at the time. Why, whatever is the matter with Mr.
     Holmes?"

     My friend was standing with an expression of strained intensity upon
     his face, staring at the railway metals where they curved out of the
     tunnel. Aldgate is a junction, and there was a network of points. On
     these his eager, questioning eyes were fixed, and I saw on his keen,
     alert face that tightening of the lips, that quiver of the nostrils,
     and concentration of the heavy, tufted brows which I knew so well.

     "Points," he muttered; "the points."

     "What of it? What do you mean?"

     "I suppose there are no great number of points on a system such as
     this?"

     "No; they are very few."

     "And a curve, too. Points, and a curve. By Jove! if it were only so."

     "What is it, Mr. Holmes? Have you a clue?"

     "An idea--an indication, no more. But the case certainly grows in
     interest. Unique, perfectly unique, and yet why not? I do not see any
     indications of bleeding on the line."

     "There were hardly any."

     "But I understand that there was a considerable wound."

     "The bone was crushed, but there was no great external injury."

     "And yet one would have expected some bleeding. Would it be possible
     for me to inspect the train which contained the passenger who heard
     the thud of a fall in the fog?"

     "I fear not, Mr. Holmes. The train has been broken up before now, and
     the carriages redistributed."

     "I can assure you, Mr. Holmes," said Lestrade, "that every carriage
     has been carefully examined. I saw to it myself."

     It was one of my friend's most obvious weaknesses that he was
     impatient with less alert intelligences than his own.

     "Very likely," said he, turning away. "As it happens, it was not the
     carriages which I desired to examine. Watson, we have done all we can
     here. We need not trouble you any further, Mr. Lestrade. I think our
     investigations must now carry us to Woolwich."

     At London Bridge, Holmes wrote a telegram to his brother, which he
     handed to me before dispatching it. It ran thus:

     See some light in the darkness, but it may possibly flicker out.
     Meanwhile, please send by messenger, to await return at Baker Street,
     a complete list of all foreign spies or international agents known to
     be in England, with full address.
     Sherlock.

     "That should be helpful, Watson," he remarked as we took our seats in
     the Woolwich train.  "We certainly owe Brother Mycroft a debt for
     having introduced us to what promises to be a really very remarkable
     case."

     His eager face still wore that expression of intense and high-strung
     energy, which showed me that some novel and suggestive circumstance
     had opened up a stimulating line of thought. See the foxhound with
     hanging ears and drooping tail as it lolls about the kennels, and
     compare it with the same hound as, with gleaming eyes and straining
     muscles, it runs upon a breast-high scent--such was the change in
     Holmes since the morning. He was a different man from the limp and
     lounging figure in the mouse-coloured dressing-gown who had prowled
     so restlessly only a few hours before round the fog-girt room.

     "There is material here. There is scope," said he. "I am dull indeed
     not to have understood its possibilities."

     "Even now they are dark to me."

     "The end is dark to me also, but I have hold of one idea which may
     lead us far. The man met his death elsewhere, and his body was on the
     roof of a carriage."

     "On the roof!"

     "Remarkable, is it not? But consider the facts. Is it a coincidence
     that it is found at the very point where the train pitches and sways
     as it comes round on the points? Is not that the place where an
     object upon the roof might be expected to fall off? The points would
     affect no object inside the train. Either the body fell from the
     roof, or a very curious coincidence has occurred. But now consider
     the question of the blood. Of course, there was no bleeding on the
     line if the body had bled elsewhere. Each fact is suggestive in
     itself. Together they have a cumulative force."

     "And the ticket, too!" I cried.

     "Exactly.  We could not explain the absence of a ticket. This would
     explain it. Everything fits together."

     "But suppose it were so, we are still as far as ever from unravelling
     the mystery of his death. Indeed, it becomes not simpler but
     stranger."

     "Perhaps," said Holmes, thoughtfully, "perhaps." He relapsed into a
     silent reverie, which lasted until the slow train drew up at last in
     Woolwich Station. There he called a cab and drew Mycroft's paper from
     his pocket.

     "We have quite a little round of afternoon calls to make," said he.
     "I think that Sir James Walter claims our first attention."

     The house of the famous official was a fine villa with green lawns
     stretching down to the Thames. As we reached it the fog was lifting,
     and a thin, watery sunshine was breaking through. A butler answered
     our ring.

     "Sir James, sir!" said he with solemn face. "Sir James died this
     morning."

     "Good heavens!" cried Holmes in amazement. "How did he die?"

     "Perhaps you would care to step in, sir, and see his brother, Colonel
     Valentine?"

     "Yes, we had best do so."

     We were ushered into a dim-lit drawing-room, where an instant later
     we were joined by a very tall, handsome, light-beared man of fifty,
     the younger brother of the dead scientist. His wild eyes, stained
     cheeks, and unkempt hair all spoke of the sudden blow which had
     fallen upon the household. He was hardly articulate as he spoke of
     it.

     "It was this horrible scandal," said he. "My brother, Sir James, was
     a man of very sensitive honour, and he could not survive such an
     affair. It broke his heart. He was always so proud of the efficiency
     of his department, and this was a crushing blow."

     "We had hoped that he might have given us some indications which
     would have helped us to clear the matter up."

     "I assure you that it was all a mystery to him as it is to you and to
     all of us. He had already put all his knowledge at the disposal of
     the police. Naturally he had no doubt that Cadogan West was guilty.
     But all the rest was inconceivable."

     "You cannot throw any new light upon the affair?"

     "I know nothing myself save what I have read or heard. I have no
     desire to be discourteous, but you can understand, Mr. Holmes, that
     we are much disturbed at present, and I must ask you to hasten this
     interview to an end."

     "This is indeed an unexpected development," said my friend when we
     had regained the cab. "I wonder if the death was natural, or whether
     the poor old fellow killed himself! If the latter, may it be taken as
     some sign of self-reproach for duty neglected? We must leave that
     question to the future. Now we shall turn to the Cadogan Wests."

     A small but well-kept house in the outskirts of the town sheltered
     the bereaved mother. The old lady was too dazed with grief to be of
     any use to us, but at her side was a white-faced young lady, who
     introduced herself as Miss Violet Westbury, the fiancee of the dead
     man, and the last to see him upon that fatal night.

     "I cannot explain it, Mr. Holmes," she said. "I have not shut an eye
     since the tragedy, thinking, thinking, thinking, night and day, what
     the true meaning of it can be. Arthur was the most single-minded,
     chivalrous, patriotic man upon earth. He would have cut his right
     hand off before he would sell a State secret confided to his keeping.
     It is absurd, impossible, preposterous to anyone who knew him."

     "But the facts, Miss Westbury?"

     "Yes, yes; I admit I cannot explain them."

     "Was he in any want of money?"

     "No; his needs were very simple and his salary ample. He had saved a
     few hundreds, and we were to marry at the New Year."

     "No signs of any mental excitement? Come, Miss Westbury, be
     absolutely frank with us."

     The quick eye of my companion had noted some change in her manner.
     She coloured and hesitated.

     "Yes," she said at last, "I had a feeling that there was something on
     his mind."

     "For long?"

     "Only for the last week or so. He was thoughtful and worried. Once I
     pressed him about it. He admitted that there was something, and that
     it was concerned with his official life. 'It is too serious for me to
     speak about, even to you,' said he. I could get nothing more."

     Holmes looked grave.

     "Go on, Miss Westbury. Even if it seems to tell against him, go on.
     We cannot say what it may lead to."

     "Indeed, I have nothing more to tell. Once or twice it seemed to me
     that he was on the point of telling me something. He spoke one
     evening of the importance of the secret, and I have some recollection
     that he said that no doubt foreign spies would pay a great deal to
     have it."

     My friend's face grew graver still.

     "Anything else?"

     "He said that we were slack about such matters--that it would be easy
     for a traitor to get the plans."

     "Was it only recently that he made such remarks?"

     "Yes, quite recently."

     "Now tell us of that last evening."

     "We were to go to the theatre. The fog was so thick that a cab was
     useless. We walked, and our way took us close to the office. Suddenly
     he darted away into the fog."

     "Without a word?"

     "He gave an exclamation; that was all. I waited but he never
     returned. Then I walked home. Next morning, after the office opened,
     they came to inquire. About twelve o'clock we heard the terrible
     news. Oh, Mr. Holmes, if you could only, only save his honour! It was
     so much to him."

     Holmes shook his head sadly.

     "Come, Watson," said he, "our ways lie elsewhere. Our next station
     must be the office from which the papers were taken.

     "It was black enough before against this young man, but our inquiries
     make it blacker," he remarked as the cab lumbered off. "His coming
     marriage gives a motive for the crime. He naturally wanted money. The
     idea was in his head, since he spoke about it. He nearly made the
     girl an accomplice in the treason by telling her his plans. It is all
     very bad."

     "But surely, Holmes, character goes for something? Then, again, why
     should he leave the girl in the street and dart away to commit a
     felony?"

     "Exactly! There are certainly objections. But it is a formidable case
     which they have to meet."

     Mr. Sidney Johnson, the senior clerk, met us at the office and
     received us with that respect which my companion's card always
     commanded. He was a thin, gruff, bespectacled man of middle age, his
     cheeks haggard, and his hands twitching from the nervous strain to
     which he had been subjected.

     "It is bad, Mr. Holmes, very bad! Have you heard of the death of the
     chief?"

     "We have just come from his house."

     "The place is disorganized. The chief dead, Cadogan West dead, our
     papers stolen. And yet, when we closed our door on Monday evening, we
     were as efficient an office as any in the government service. Good
     God, it's dreadful to think of! That West, of all men, should have
     done such a thing!"

     "You are sure of his guilt, then?"

     "I can see no other way out of it. And yet I would have trusted him
     as I trust myself."

     "At what hour was the office closed on Monday?"

     "At five."

     "Did you close it?"

     "I am always the last man out."

     "Where were the plans?"

     "In that safe. I put them there myself."

     "Is there no watchman to the building?"

     "There is, but he has other departments to look after as well. He is
     an old soldier and a most trustworthy man. He saw nothing that
     evening. Of course the fog was very thick."

     "Suppose that Cadogan West wished to make his way into the building
     after hours; he would need three keys, would he not, before the could
     reach the papers?"

     "Yes, he would. The key of the outer door, the key of the office, and
     the key of the safe."

     "Only Sir James Walter and you had those keys?"

     "I had no keys of the doors--only of the safe."

     "Was Sir James a man who was orderly in his habits?"

     "Yes, I think he was. I know that so far as those three keys are
     concerned he kept them on the same ring. I have often seen them
     there."

     "And that ring went with him to London?"

     "He said so."

     "And your key never left your possession?"

     "Never."

     "Then West, if he is the culprit, must have had a duplicate. And yet
     none was found upon his body. One other point: if a clerk in this
     office desired to sell the plans, would it not be simply to copy the
     plans for himself than to take the originals, as was actually done?"

     "It would take considerable technical knowledge to copy the plans in
     an effective way."

     "But I suppose either Sir James, or you, or West has that technical
     knowledge?"

     "No doubt we had, but I beg you won't try to drag me into the matter,
     Mr. Holmes. What is the use of our speculating in this way when the
     original plans were actually found on West?"

     "Well, it is certainly singular that he should run the risk of taking
     originals if he could safely have taken copies, which would have
     equally served his turn."

     "Singular, no doubt--and yet he did so."

     "Every inquiry in this case reveals something inexplicable. Now there
     are three papers still missing. They are, as I understand, the vital
     ones."

     "Yes, that is so."

     "Do you mean to say that anyone holding these three papers, and
     without the seven others, could construct a Bruce-Partington
     submarine?"

     "I reported to that effect to the Admiralty. But to-day I have been
     over the drawings again, and I am not so sure of it. The double
     valves with the automatic self-adjusting slots are drawn in one of
     the papers which have been returned. Until the foreigners had
     invented that for themselves they could not make the boat. Of course
     they might soon get over the difficulty."

     "But the three missing drawings are the most important?"

     "Undoubtedly."

     "I think, with your permission, I will now take a stroll round the
     premises. I do not recall any other question which I desired to ask."

     He examined the lock of the safe, the door of the room, and finally
     the iron shutters of the window. It was only when we were on the lawn
     outside that his interest was strongly excited. There was a laurel
     bush outside the window, and several of the branches bore signs of
     having been twisted or snapped. He examined them carefully with his
     lens, and then some dim and vague marks upon the earth beneath.
     Finally he asked the chief clerk to close the iron shutters, and he
     pointed out to me that they hardly met in the centre, and that it
     would be possible for anyone outside to see what was going on within
     the room.

     "The indications are ruined by three days' delay. They may mean
     something or nothing. Well, Watson, I do not think that Woolwich can
     help us further. It is a small crop which we have gathered. Let us
     see if we can do better in London."

     Yet we added one more sheaf to our harvest before we left Woolwich
     Station. The clerk in the ticket office was able to say with
     confidence that he saw Cadogan West--whom he knew well by sight--upon
     the Monday night, and that he went to London by the 8.15 to London
     Bridge. He was alone and took a single third-class ticket. The clerk
     was struck at the time by his excited and nervous manner. So shaky
     was he that he could hardly pick up his change, and the clerk had
     helped him with it. A reference to the timetable showed that the 8.15
     was the first train which it was possible for West to take after he
     had left the lady about 7.30.

     "Let us reconstruct, Watson," said Holmes after half an hour of
     silence. "I am not aware that in all our joint researches we have
     ever had a case which was more difficult to get at. Every fresh
     advance which we make only reveals a fresh ridge beyond. And yet we
     have surely made some appreciable progress.

     "The effect of our inquiries at Woolwich has in the main been against
     young Cadogan West; but the indications at the window would lend
     themselves to a more favourable hypothesis. Let us suppose, for
     example, that he had been approached by some foreign agent. It might
     have been done under such pledges as would have prevented him from
     speaking of it, and yet would have affected his thoughts in the
     direction indicated by his remarks to his fiancee. Very good. We will
     now suppose that as he went to the theatre with the young lady he
     suddenly, in the fog, caught a glimpse of this same agent going in
     the direction of the office. He was an impetuous man, quick in his
     decisions. Everything gave way to his duty. He followed the man,
     reached the window, saw the abstraction of the documents, and pursued
     the thief. In this way we get over the objection that no one would
     take originals when he could make copies. This outsider had to take
     originals. So far it holds together."

     "What is the next step?"

     "Then we come into difficulties. One would imagine that under such
     circumstances the first act of young Cadogan West would be to seize
     the villain and raise the alarm. Why did he not do so? Could it have
     been an official superior who took the papers? That would explain
     West's conduct. Or could the chief have given West the slip in the
     fog, and West started at once to London to head him off from his own
     rooms, presuming that he knew where the rooms were? The call must
     have been very pressing, since he left his girl standing in the fog
     and made no effort to communicate with her. Our scent runs cold here,
     and there is a vast gap between either hypothesis and the laying of
     West's body, with seven papers in his pocket, on the roof of a
     Metropolitan train. My instinct now is to work form the other end. If
     Mycroft has given us the list of addresses we may be able to pick our
     man and follow two tracks instead of one."

     Surely enough, a note awaited us at Baker Street. A government
     messenger had brought it post-haste. Holmes glanced at it and threw
     it over to me.

     There are numerous small fry, but few who would handle so big an
     affair. The only men worth considering are Adolph Mayer, of 13 Great
     George Street, Westminster; Louis La Rothiere, of Campden Mansions,
     Notting Hill; and Hugo Oberstein, 13 Caulfield Gardens, Kensington.
     The latter was known to be in town on Monday and is now reported as
     having left. Glad to hear you have seen some light. The Cabinet
     awaits your final report with the utmost anxiety. Urgent
     representations have arrived from the very highest quarter. The whole
     force of the State is at your back if you should need it.
     Mycroft.

     "I'm afraid," said Holmes, smiling, "that all the queen's horses and
     all the queen's men cannot avail in this matter." He had spread out
     his big map of London and leaned eagerly over it. "Well, well," said
     he presently with an exclamation of satisfaction, "things are turning
     a little in our direction at last. Why, Watson, I do honestly believe
     that we are going to pull it off, after all." He slapped me on the
     shoulder with a sudden burst of hilarity. "I am going out now. It is
     only a reconnaissance. I will do nothing serious without my trusted
     comrade and biographer at my elbow. Do you stay here, and the odds
     are that you will see me again in an hour or two. If time hangs heavy
     get foolscap and a pen, and begin your narrative of how we saved the
     State."

     I felt some reflection of his elation in my own mind, for I knew well
     that he would not depart so far from his usual austerity of demeanour
     unless there was good cause for exultation. All the long November
     evening I waited, filled with impatience for his return. At last,
     shortly after nine o'clock, there arrived a messenger with a note:

     Am dining at Goldini's Restaurant, Gloucester Road, Kensington.
     Please come at once and join me there. Bring with you a jemmy, a dark
     lantern, a chisel, and a revolver.
     S.H.

     It was a nice equipment for a respectable citizen to carry through
     the dim, fog-draped streets. I stowed them all discreetly away in my
     overcoat and drove straight to the address given. There sat my friend
     at a little round table near the door of the garish Italian
     restaurant.

     "Have you had something to eat? Then join me in a coffee and curacao.
     Try one of the proprietor's cigars. They are less poisonous than one
     would expect. Have you the tools?"

     "They are here, in my overcoat."

     "Excellent. Let me give you a short sketch of what I have done, with
     some indication of what we are about to do. Now it must be evident to
     you, Watson, that this young man's body was placed on the roof of the
     train. That was clear from the instant that I determined the fact
     that it was from the roof, and not from a carriage, that he had
     fallen."

     "Could it not have been dropped from a bridge?"

     "I should say it was impossible. If you examine the roofs you will
     find that they are slightly rounded, and there is no railing round
     them. Therefore, we can say for certain that young Cadogan West was
     placed on it."

     "How could he be placed there?"

     "That was the question which we had to answer. There is only one
     possible way. You are aware that the Underground runs clear of
     tunnels at some points in the West End. I had a vague memory that as
     I have travelled by it I have occasionally seen windows just above my
     head. Now, suppose that a train halted under such a window, would
     there be any difficulty in laying a body upon the roof?"

     "It seems most improbable."

     "We must fall back upon the old axiom that when all other
     contingencies fail, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the
     truth. Here all other contingencies have failed. When I found that
     the leading international agent, who had just left London, lived in a
     row of houses which abutted upon the Underground, I was so pleased
     that you were a little astonished at my sudden frivolity."

     "Oh, that was it, was it?"

     "Yes, that was it. Mr. Hugo Oberstein, of 13 Caulfield Gardens, had
     become my objective. I began my operations at Gloucester Road
     Station, where a very helpful official walked with me along the track
     and allowed me to satisfy myself not only that the back-stair windows
     of Caulfield Gardens open on the line but the even more essential
     fact that, owing to the intersection of one of the larger railways,
     the Underground trains are frequently held motionless for some
     minutes at that very spot."

     "Splendid, Holmes! You have got it!"

     "So far--so far, Watson. We advance, but the goal is afar. Well,
     having seen the back of Caulfield Gardens, I visited the front and
     satisfied myself that the bird was indeed flown. It is a considerable
     house, unfurnished, so far as I could judge, in the upper rooms.
     Oberstein lived there with a single valet, who was probably a
     confederate entirely in his confidence. We must bear in mind that
     Oberstein has gone to the Continent to dispose of his booty, but not
     with any idea of flight; for he had no reason to fear a warrant, and
     the idea of an amateur domiciliary visit would certainly never occur
     to him. Yet that is precisely what we are about to make."

     "Could we not get a warrant and legalize it?"

     "Hardly on the evidence."

     "What can we hope to do?"

     "We cannot tell what correspondence may be there."

     "I don't like it, Holmes."

     "My dear fellow, you shall keep watch in the street. I'll do the
     criminal part. It's not a time to stick at trifles. Think of
     Mycroft's note, of the Admiralty, the Cabinet, the exalted person who
     waits for news. We are bound to go."

     My answer was to rise from the table.

     "You are right, Holmes. We are bound to go."

     He sprang up and shook me by the hand.

     "I knew you would not shrink at the last," said he, and for a moment
     I saw something in his eyes which was nearer to tenderness than I had
     ever seen. The next instant he was his masterful, practical self once
     more.

     "It is nearly half a mile, but there is no hurry. Let us walk," said
     he. "Don't drop the instruments, I beg. Your arrest as a suspicious
     character would be a most unfortunate complication."

     Caulfield Gardens was one of those lines of flat-faced pillared, and
     porticoed houses which are so prominent a product of the middle
     Victorian epoch in the West End of London. Next door there appeared
     to be a children's party, for the merry buzz of young voices and the
     clatter of a piano resounded through the night. The fog still hung
     about and screened us with its friendly shade. Holmes had lit his
     lantern and flashed it upon the massive door.

     "This is a serious proposition," said he. "It is certainly bolted as
     well as locked. We would do better in the area. There is an excellent
     archway down yonder in case a too zealous policeman should intrude.
     Give me a hand, Watson, and I'll do the same for you."

     A minute later we were both in the area. Hardly had we reached the
     dark shadows before the step of the policeman was heard in the fog
     above. As its soft rhythm died away, Holmes set to work upon the
     lower door. I saw him stoop and strain until with a sharp crash it
     flew open. We sprang through into the dark passage, closing the area
     door behind us. Holmes let the way up the curving, uncarpeted stair.
     His little fan of yellow light shone upon a low window.

     "Here we are, Watson--this must be the one." He threw it open, and as
     he did so there was a low, harsh murmur, growing steadily into a loud
     roar as a train dashed past us in the darkness. Holmes swept his
     light along the window-sill. It was thickly coated with soot from the
     passing engines, but the black surface was blurred and rubbed in
     places.

     "You can see where they rested the body. Halloa, Watson! what is
     this? There can be no doubt that it is a blood mark." He was pointing
     to faint discolourations along the woodwork of the window. "Here it
     is on the stone of the stair also. The demonstration is complete. Let
     us stay here until a train stops."

     We had not long to wait. The very next train roared from the tunnel
     as before, but slowed in the open, and then, with a creaking of
     brakes, pulled up immediately beneath us. It was not four feet from
     the window-ledge to the roof of the carriages. Holmes softly closed
     the window.

     "So far we are justified," said he. "What do you think of it,
     Watson?"

     "A masterpiece. You have never risen to a greater height."

     "I cannot agree with you there. From the moment that I conceived the
     idea of the body being upon the roof, which surely was not a very
     abstruse one, all the rest was inevitable. If it were not for the
     grave interests involved the affair up to this point would be
     insignificant. Our difficulties are still before us. But perhaps we
     may find something here which may help us."

     We had ascended the kitchen stair and entered the suite of rooms upon
     the first floor. One was a dining-room, severely furnished and
     containing nothing of interest. A second was a bedroom, which also
     drew blank. The remaining room appeared more promising, and my
     companion settled down to a systematic examination. It was littered
     with books and papers, and was evidently used as a study. Swiftly and
     methodically Holmes turned over the contents of drawer after drawer
     and cupboard after cupboard, but no gleam of success came to brighten
     his austere face. At the end of an hour he was no further than when
     he started.

     "The cunning dog has covered his tracks," said he. "He has left
     nothing to incriminate him. His dangerous correspondence has been
     destroyed or removed. This is our last chance."

     It was a small tin cash-box which stood upon the writing-desk. Holmes
     pried it open with his chisel. Several rolls of paper were within,
     covered with figures and calculations, without any note to show to
     what they referred. The recurring words, "water pressure" and
     "pressure to the square inch" suggested some possible relation to a
     submarine. Holmes tossed them all impatiently aside. There only
     remained an envelope with some small newspaper slips inside it. He
     shook them out on the table, and at once I saw by his eager face that
     his hopes had been raised.

     "What's this, Watson? Eh? What's this? Record of a series of messages
     in the advertisements of a paper. Daily Telegraph agony column by the
     print and paper. Right-hand top corner of a page. No dates--but
     messages arrange themselves. This must be the first:

     "Hoped to hear sooner. Terms agreed to. Write fully to address given
     on card.
     Pierrot.

     "Next comes:

     "Too complex for description. Must have full report, Stuff awaits you
     when goods delivered.
     Pierrot.

     "Then comes:

     "Matter presses. Must withdraw offer unless contract completed. Make
     appointment by letter. Will confirm by advertisement.
     Pierrot.

     "Finally:

     "Monday night after nine. Two taps. Only ourselves. Do not be so
     suspicious. Payment in hard cash when goods delivered.
     Pierrot.

     "A fairly complete record, Watson! If we could only get at the man at
     the other end!" He sat lost in thought, tapping his fingers on the
     table. Finally he sprang to his feet.

     "Well, perhaps it won't be so difficult, after all. There is nothing
     more to be done here, Watson. I think we might drive round to the
     offices of the Daily Telegraph, and so bring a good day's work to a
     conclusion."

     Mycroft Holmes and Lestrade had come round by appointment after
     breakfast next day and Sherlock Holmes had recounted to them our
     proceedings of the day before. The professional shook his head over
     our confessed burglary.

     "We can't do these things in the force, Mr. Holmes," said he. "No
     wonder you get results that are beyond us. But some of these days
     you'll go too far, and you'll find yourself and your friend in
     trouble."

     "For England, home and beauty--eh, Watson? Martyrs on the altar of
     our country. But what do you think of it, Mycroft?"

     "Excellent, Sherlock! Admirable! But what use will you make of it?"

     Holmes picked up the Daily Telegraph which lay upon the table.

     "Have you seen Pierrot's advertisement to-day?"

     "What? Another one?"

     "Yes, here it is:

     "To-night. Same hour. Same place. Two taps. Most vitally important.
     Your own safety at stake.
     Pierrot.

     "By George!" cried Lestrade. "If he answers that we've got him!"

     "That was my idea when I put it in. I think if you could both make it
     convenient to come with us about eight o'clock to Caulfield Gardens
     we might possibly get a little nearer to a solution."

     One of the most remarkable characteristics of Sherlock Holmes was his
     power of throwing his brain out of action and switching all his
     thoughts on to lighter things whenever he had convinced himself that
     he could no longer work to advantage. I remember that during the
     whole of that memorable day he lost himself in a monograph which he
     had undertaken upon the Polyphonic Motets of Lassus. For my own part
     I had none of this power of detachment, and the day, in consequence,
     appeared to be interminable. The great national importance of the
     issue, the suspense in high quarters, the direct nature of the
     experiment which we were trying--all combined to work upon my nerve.
     It was a relief to me when at last, after a light dinner, we set out
     upon our expedition. Lestrade and Mycroft met us by appointment at
     the outside of Gloucester Road Station. The area door of Oberstein's
     house had been left open the night before, and it was necessary for
     me, as Mycroft Holmes absolutely and indignantly declined to climb
     the railings, to pass in and open the hall door. By nine o'clock we
     were all seated in the study, waiting patently for our man.

     An hour passed and yet another. When eleven struck, the measured beat
     of the great church clock seemed to sound the dirge of our hopes.
     Lestrade and Mycroft were fidgeting in their seats and looking twice
     a minute at their watches. Holmes sat silent and composed, his
     eyelids half shut, but every sense on the alert. He raised his head
     with a sudden jerk.

     "He is coming," said he.

     There had been a furtive step past the door. Now it returned. We
     heard a shuffling sound outside, and then two sharp taps with the
     knocker. Holmes rose, motioning us to remain seated. The gas in the
     hall was a mere point of light. He opened the outer door, and then as
     a dark figure slipped past him he closed and fastened it. "This way!"
     we heard him say, and a moment later our man stood before us. Holmes
     had followed him closely, and as the man turned with a cry of
     surprise and alarm he caught him by the collar and threw him back
     into the room. Before our prisoner had recovered his balance the door
     was shut and Holmes standing with his back against it. The man glared
     round him, staggered, and fell senseless upon the floor. With the
     shock, his broad-brimmed hat flew from his head, his cravat slipped
     sown from his lips, and there were the long light beard and the soft,
     handsome delicate features of Colonel Valentine Walter.

     Holmes gave a whistle of surprise.

     "You can write me down an ass this time, Watson," said he. "This was
     not the bird that I was looking for."

     "Who is he?" asked Mycroft eagerly.

     "The younger brother of the late Sir James Walter, the head of the
     Submarine Department. Yes, yes; I see the fall of the cards. He is
     coming to. I think that you had best leave his examination to me."

     We had carried the prostrate body to the sofa. Now our prisoner sat
     up, looked round him with a horror-stricken face, and passed his hand
     over his forehead, like one who cannot believe his own senses.

     "What is this?" he asked. "I came here to visit Mr. Oberstein."

     "Everything is known, Colonel Walter," said Holmes. "How an English
     gentleman could behave in such a manner is beyond my comprehension.
     But your whole correspondence and relations with Oberstein are within
     our knowledge. So also are the circumstances connected with the death
     of young Cadogan West. Let me advise you to gain at least the small
     credit for repentance and confession, since there are still some
     details which we can only learn from your lips."

     The man groaned and sank his face in his hands. We waited, but he was
     silent.

     "I can assure you," said Holmes, "that every essential is already
     known. We know that you were pressed for money; that you took an
     impress of the keys which your brother held; and that you entered
     into a correspondence with Oberstein, who answered your letters
     through the advertisement columns of the Daily Telegraph. We are
     aware that you went down to the office in the fog on Monday night,
     but that you were seen and followed by young Cadogan West, who had
     probably some previous reason to suspect you. He saw your theft, but
     could not give the alarm, as it was just possible that you were
     taking the papers to your brother in London. Leaving all his private
     concerns, like the good citizen that he was, he followed you closely
     in the fog and kept at your heels until you reached this very house.
     There he intervened, and then it was, Colonel Walter, that to treason
     you added the more terrible crime of murder."

     "I did not! I did not! Before God I swear that I did not!" cried our
     wretched prisoner.

     "Tell us, then, how Cadogan West met his end before you laid him upon
     the roof of a railway carriage."

     "I will. I swear to you that I will. I did the rest. I confess it. It
     was just as you say. A Stock Exchange debt had to be paid. I needed
     the money badly. Oberstein offered me five thousand. It was to save
     myself from ruin. But as to murder, I am as innocent as you."

     "What happened, then?"

     "He had his suspicions before, and he followed me as you describe. I
     never knew it until I was at the very door. It was thick fog, and one
     could not see three yards. I had given two taps and Oberstein had
     come to the door. The young man rushed up and demanded to know what
     we were about to do with the papers. Oberstein had a short
     life-preserver. He always carried it with him. As West forced his way
     after us into the house Oberstein struck him on the head. The blow
     was a fatal one. He was dead within five minutes. There he lay in the
     hall, and we were at our wit's end what to do. Then Oberstein had
     this idea about the trains which halted under his back window. But
     first he examined the papers which I had brought. He said that three
     of them were essential, and that he must keep them. 'You cannot keep
     them,' said I. 'There will be a dreadful row at Woolwich if they are
     not returned.' 'I must keep them,' said he, 'for they are so
     technical that it is impossible in the time to make copies.' 'Then
     they must all go back together to-night,' said I. He thought for a
     little, and then he cried out that he had it. 'Three I will keep,'
     said he. 'The others we will stuff into the pocket of this young man.
     When he is found the whole business will assuredly be put to his
     account.' I could see no other way out of it, so we did as he
     suggested. We waited half an hour at the window before a train
     stopped. It was so thick that nothing could be seen, and we had no
     difficulty in lowering West's body on to the train. That was the end
     of the matter so far as I was concerned."

     "And your brother?"

     "He said nothing, but he had caught me once with his keys, and I
     think that he suspected. I read in his eyes that he suspected. As you
     know, he never held up his head again."

     There was silence in the room. It was broken by Mycroft Holmes.

     "Can you not make reparation? It would ease your conscience, and
     possibly your punishment."

     "What reparation can I make?"

     "Where is Oberstein with the papers?"

     "I do not know."

     "Did he give you no address?"

     "He said that letters to the HÃ´tel du Louvre, Paris, would eventually
     reach him."

     "Then reparation is still within your power," said Sherlock Holmes.

     "I will do anything I can. I owe this fellow no particular good-will.
     He has been my ruin and my downfall."

     "Here are paper and pen. Sit at this desk and write to my dictation.
     Direct the envelope to the address given. That is right. Now the
     letter:

     "Dear Sir:
     "With regard to our transaction, you will no doubt have observed by
     now that one essential detail is missing. I have a tracing which will
     make it complete. This has involved me in extra trouble, however, and
     I must ask you for a further advance of five hundred pounds. I will
     not trust it to the post, nor will I take anything but gold or notes.
     I would come to you abroad, but it would excite remark if I left the
     country at present. Therefore I shall expect to meet you in the
     smoking-room of the Charing Cross Hotel at noon on Saturday. Remember
     that only English notes, or gold, will be taken.

     "That will do very well. I shall be very much surprised if it does
     not fetch our man."

     And it did! It is a matter of history--that secret history of a
     nation which is often so much more intimate and interesting than its
     public chronicles--that Oberstein, eager to complete the coup of his
     lifetime, came to the lure and was safely engulfed for fifteen years
     in a British prison. In his trunk were found the invaluable
     Bruce-Partington plans, which he had put up for auction in all the
     naval centres of Europe.

     Colonel Walter died in prison towards the end of the second year of
     his sentence. As to Holmes, he returned refreshed to his monograph
     upon the Polyphonic Motets of Lassus, which has since been printed
     for private circulation, and is said by experts to be the last word
     upon the subject. Some weeks afterwards I learned incidentally that
     my friend spent a day at Windsor, whence be returned with a
     remarkably fine emerald tie-pin. When I asked him if he had bought
     it, he answered that it was a present from a certain gracious lady in
     whose interests he had once been fortunate enough to carry out a
     small commission. He said no more; but I fancy that I could guess at
     that lady's august name, and I have little doubt that the emerald pin
     will forever recall to my friend's memory the adventure of the
     Bruce-Partington plans.






                      THE ADVENTURE OF THE DYING DETECTIVE

     Mrs. Hudson, the landlady of Sherlock Holmes, was a long-suffering
     woman. Not only was her first-floor flat invaded at all hours by
     throngs of singular and often undesirable characters but her
     remarkable lodger showed an eccentricity and irregularity in his life
     which must have sorely tried her patience. His incredible untidiness,
     his addiction to music at strange hours, his occasional revolver
     practice within doors, his weird and often malodorous scientific
     experiments, and the atmosphere of violence and danger which hung
     around him made him the very worst tenant in London. On the other
     hand, his payments were princely. I have no doubt that the house
     might have been purchased at the price which Holmes paid for his
     rooms during the years that I was with him.

     The landlady stood in the deepest awe of him and never dared to
     interfere with him, however outrageous his proceedings might seem.
     She was fond of him, too, for he had a remarkable gentleness and
     courtesy in his dealings with women. He disliked and distrusted the
     sex, but he was always a chivalrous opponent. Knowing how genuine was
     her regard for him, I listened earnestly to her story when she came
     to my rooms in the second year of my married life and told me of the
     sad condition to which my poor friend was reduced.

     "He's dying, Dr. Watson," said she. "For three days he has been
     sinking, and I doubt if he will last the day. He would not let me get
     a doctor. This morning when I saw his bones sticking out of his face
     and his great bright eyes looking at me I could stand no more of it.
     'With your leave or without it, Mr. Holmes, I am going for a doctor
     this very hour,' said I. 'Let it be Watson, then,' said he. I
     wouldn't waste an hour in coming to him, sir, or you may not see him
     alive."

     I was horrified for I had heard nothing of his illness. I need not
     say that I rushed for my coat and my hat. As we drove back I asked
     for the details.

     "There is little I can tell you, sir. He has been working at a case
     down at Rotherhithe, in an alley near the river, and he has brought
     this illness back with him. He took to his bed on Wednesday afternoon
     and has never moved since. For these three days neither food nor
     drink has passed his lips."

     "Good God! Why did you not call in a doctor?"

     "He wouldn't have it, sir. You know how masterful he is. I didn't
     dare to disobey him. But he's not long for this world, as you'll see
     for yourself the moment that you set eyes on him."

     He was indeed a deplorable spectacle. In the dim light of a foggy
     November day the sick room was a gloomy spot, but it was that gaunt,
     wasted face staring at me from the bed which sent a chill to my
     heart. His eyes had the brightness of fever, there was a hectic flush
     upon either cheek, and dark crusts clung to his lips; the thin hands
     upon the coverlet twitched incessantly, his voice was croaking and
     spasmodic. He lay listlessly as I entered the room, but the sight of
     me brought a gleam of recognition to his eyes.

     "Well, Watson, we seem to have fallen upon evil days," said he in a
     feeble voice, but with something of his old carelessness of manner.

     "My dear fellow!" I cried, approaching him.

     "Stand back! Stand right back!" said he with the sharp imperiousness
     which I had associated only with moments of crisis. "If you approach
     me, Watson, I shall order you out of the house."

     "But why?"

     "Because it is my desire. Is that not enough?"

     Yes, Mrs. Hudson was right. He was more masterful than ever. It was
     pitiful, however, to see his exhaustion.

     "I only wished to help," I explained.

     "Exactly! You will help best by doing what you are told."

     "Certainly, Holmes."

     He relaxed the austerity of his manner.

     "You are not angry?" he asked, gasping for breath.

     Poor devil, how could I be angry when I saw him lying in such a
     plight before me?

     "It's for your own sake, Watson," he croaked.

     "For my sake?"

     "I know what is the matter with me. It is a coolie disease from
     Sumatra--a thing that the Dutch know more about than we, though they
     have made little of it up to date. One thing only is certain. It is
     infallibly deadly, and it is horribly contagious."

     He spoke now with a feverish energy, the long hands twitching and
     jerking as he motioned me away.

     "Contagious by touch, Watson--that's it, by touch. Keep your distance
     and all is well."

     "Good heavens, Holmes! Do you suppose that such a consideration
     weighs with me of an instant? It would not affect me in the case of a
     stranger. Do you imagine it would prevent me from doing my duty to so
     old a friend?"

     Again I advanced, but he repulsed me with a look of furious anger.

     "If you will stand there I will talk. If you do not you must leave
     the room."

     I have so deep a respect for the extraordinary qualities of Holmes
     that I have always deferred to his wishes, even when I least
     understood them. But now all my professional instincts were aroused.
     Let him be my master elsewhere, I at least was his in a sick room.

     "Holmes," said I, "you are not yourself. A sick man is but a child,
     and so I will treat you. Whether you like it or not, I will examine
     your symptoms and treat you for them."

     He looked at me with venomous eyes.

     "If I am to have a doctor whether I will or not, let me at least have
     someone in whom I have confidence," said he.

     "Then you have none in me?"

     "In your friendship, certainly. But facts are facts, Watson, and,
     after all, you are only a general practitioner with very limited
     experience and mediocre qualifications. It is painful to have to say
     these things, but you leave me no choice."

     I was bitterly hurt.

     "Such a remark is unworthy of you, Holmes. It shows me very clearly
     the state of your own nerves. But if you have no confidence in me I
     would not intrude my services. Let me bring Sir Jasper Meek or
     Penrose Fisher, or any of the best men in London. But someone you
     must have, and that is final. If you think that I am going to stand
     here and see you die without either helping you myself or bringing
     anyone else to help you, then you have mistaken your man."

     "You mean well, Watson," said the sick man with something between a
     sob and a groan. "Shall I demonstrate your own ignorance? What do you
     know, pray, of Tapanuli fever? What do you know of the black Formosa
     corruption?"

     "I have never heard of either."

     "There are many problems of disease, many strange pathological
     possibilities, in the East, Watson." He paused after each sentence to
     collect his failing strength. "I have learned so much during some
     recent researches which have a medico-criminal aspect. It was in the
     course of them that I contracted this complaint. You can do nothing."

     "Possibly not. But I happen to know that Dr. Ainstree, the greatest
     living authority upon tropical disease, is now in London. All
     remonstrance is useless, Holmes, I am going this instant to fetch
     him." I turned resolutely to the door.

     Never have I had such a shock! In an instant, with a tiger-spring,
     the dying man had intercepted me. I heard the sharp snap of a twisted
     key. The next moment he had staggered back to his bed, exhausted and
     panting after his one tremendous outflame of energy.

     "You won't take the key from be by force, Watson, I've got you, my
     friend. Here you are, and here you will stay until I will otherwise.
     But I'll humour you." (All this in little gasps, with terrible
     struggles for breath between.) "You've only my own good at heart. Of
     course I know that very well. You shall have your way, but give me
     time to get my strength. Not now, Watson, not now. It's four o'clock.
     At six you can go."

     "This is insanity, Holmes."

     "Only two hours, Watson. I promise you will go at six. Are you
     content to wait?"

     "I seem to have no choice."

     "None in the world, Watson. Thank you, I need no help in arranging
     the clothes. You will please keep your distance. Now, Watson, there
     is one other condition that I would make. You will seek help, not
     from the man you mention, but from the one that I choose."

     "By all means."

     "The first three sensible words that you have uttered since you
     entered this room, Watson. You will find some books over there. I am
     somewhat exhausted; I wonder how a battery feels when it pours
     electricity into a non-conductor? At six, Watson, we resume our
     conversation."

     But it was destined to be resumed long before that hour, and in
     circumstances which gave me a shock hardly second to that caused by
     his spring to the door. I had stood for some minutes looking at the
     silent figure in the bed. His face was almost covered by the clothes
     and he appeared to be asleep. Then, unable to settle down to reading,
     I walked slowly round the room, examining the pictures of celebrated
     criminals with which every wall was adorned. Finally, in my aimless
     perambulation, I came to the mantelpiece. A litter of pipes,
     tobacco-pouches, syringes, penknives, revolver-cartridges, and other
     debris was scattered over it. In the midst of these was a small black
     and white ivory box with a sliding lid. It was a neat little thing,
     and I had stretched out my hand to examine it more closely when--

     It was a dreadful cry that he gave--a yell which might have been
     heard down the street. My skin went cold and my hair bristled at that
     horrible scream. As I turned I caught a glimpse of a convulsed face
     and frantic eyes. I stood paralyzed, with the little box in my hand.

     "Put it down! Down, this instant, Watson--this instant, I say!" His
     head sank back upon the pillow and he gave a deep sigh of relief as I
     replaced the box upon the mantelpiece. "I hate to have my things
     touched, Watson. You know that I hate it. You fidget me beyond
     endurance. You, a doctor--you are enough to drive a patient into an
     asylum. Sit down, man, and let me have my rest!"

     The incident left a most unpleasant impression upon my mind. The
     violent and causeless excitement, followed by this brutality of
     speech, so far removed from his usual suavity, showed me how deep was
     the disorganization of his mind. Of all ruins, that of a noble mind
     is the most deplorable. I sat in silent dejection until the
     stipulated time had passed. He seemed to have been watching the clock
     as well as I, for it was hardly six before he began to talk with the
     same feverish animation as before.

     "Now, Watson," said he. "Have you any change in your pocket?"

     "Yes."

     "Any silver?"

     "A good deal."

     "How many half-crowns?"

     "I have five."

     "Ah, too few! Too few! How very unfortunate, Watson! However, such as
     they are you can put them in your watchpocket. And all the rest of
     your money in your left trouser pocket. Thank you. It will balance
     you so much better like that."

     This was raving insanity. He shuddered, and again made a sound
     between a cough and a sob.

     "You will now light the gas, Watson, but you will be very careful
     that not for one instant shall it be more than half on. I implore you
     to be careful, Watson. Thank you, that is excellent. No, you need not
     draw the blind. Now you will have the kindness to place some letters
     and papers upon this table within my reach. Thank you. Now some of
     that litter from the mantelpiece. Excellent, Watson! There is a
     sugar-tongs there. Kindly raise that small ivory box with its
     assistance.  Place it here among the papers. Good! You can now go and
     fetch Mr. Culverton Smith, of 13 Lower Burke Street."

     To tell the truth, my desire to fetch a doctor had somewhat weakened,
     for poor Holmes was so obviously delirious that it seemed dangerous
     to leave him. However, he was as eager now to consult the person
     named as he had been obstinate in refusing.

     "I never heard the name," said I.

     "Possibly not, my good Watson. It may surprise you to know that the
     man upon earth who is best versed in this disease is not a medical
     man, but a planter. Mr. Culverton Smith is a well-known resident of
     Sumatra, now visiting London. An outbreak of the disease upon his
     plantation, which was distant from medical aid, caused him to study
     it himself, with some rather far-reaching consequences. He is a very
     methodical person, and I did not desire you to start before six,
     because I was well aware that you would not find him in his study. If
     you could persuade him to come here and give us the benefit of his
     unique experience of this disease, the investigation of which has
     been his dearest hobby, I cannot doubt that he could help me."

     I gave Holmes's remarks as a consecutive whole and will not attempt
     to indicate how they were interrupted by gaspings for breath and
     those clutchings of his hands which indicated the pain from which he
     was suffering. His appearance had changed for the worse during the
     few hours that I had been with him. Those hectic spots were more
     pronounced, the eyes shone more brightly out of darker hollows, and a
     cold sweat glimmered upon his brow. He still retained, however, the
     jaunty gallantry of his speech. To the last gasp he would always be
     the master.

     "You will tell him exactly how you have left me," said he. "You will
     convey the very impression which is in your own mind--a dying man--a
     dying and delirious man. Indeed, I cannot think why the whole bed of
     the ocean is not one solid mass of oysters, so prolific the creatures
     seem. Ah, I am wondering! Strange how the brain controls the brain!
     What was I saying, Watson?"

     "My directions for Mr. Culverton Smith."

     "Ah, yes, I remember. My life depends upon it. Plead with him,
     Watson. There is no good feeling between us. His nephew, Watson--I
     had suspicions of foul play and I allowed him to see it. The boy died
     horribly. He has a grudge against me. You will soften him, Watson.
     Beg him, pray him, get him here by any means. He can save me--only
     he!"

     "I will bring him in a cab, if I have to carry him down to it."

     "You will do nothing of the sort. You will persuade him to come. And
     then you will return in front of him. Make any excuse so as not to
     come with him. Don't forget, Watson. You won't fail me. You never did
     fail me. No doubt there are natural enemies which limit the increase
     of the creatures. You and I, Watson, we have done our part. Shall the
     world, then, be overrun by oysters? No, no; horrible! You'll convey
     all that is in your mind."

     I left him full of the image of this magnificent intellect babbling
     like a foolish child. He had handed me the key, and with a happy
     thought I took it with me lest he should lock himself in. Mrs. Hudson
     was waiting, trembling and weeping, in the passage. Behind me as I
     passed from the flat I heard Holmes's high, thin voice in some
     delirious chant. Below, as I stood whistling for a cab, a man came on
     me through the fog.

     "How is Mr. Holmes, sir?" he asked.

     It was an old acquaintance, Inspector Morton, of Scotland Yard,
     dressed in unofficial tweeds.

     "He is very ill," I answered.

     He looked at me in a most singular fashion. Had it not been too
     fiendish, I could have imagined that the gleam of the fanlight showed
     exultation in his face.

     "I heard some rumour of it," said he.

     The cab had driven up, and I left him.

     Lower Burke Street proved to be a line of fine houses lying in the
     vague borderland between Notting Hill and Kensington. The particular
     one at which my cabman pulled up had an air of smug and demure
     respectability in its old-fashioned iron railings, its massive
     folding-door, and its shining brasswork. All was in keeping with a
     solemn butler who appeared framed in the pink radiance of a tinted
     electrical light behind him.

     "Yes, Mr. Culverton Smith is in. Dr. Watson! Very good, sir, I will
     take up your card."

     My humble name and title did not appear to impress Mr. Culverton
     Smith. Through the half-open door I heard a high, petulant,
     penetrating voice.

     "Who is this person? What does he want? Dear me, Staples, how often
     have I said that I am not to be disturbed in my hours of study?"

     There came a gentle flow of soothing explanation from the butler.

     "Well, I won't see him, Staples. I can't have my work interrupted
     like this. I am not at home. Say so. Tell him to come in the morning
     if he really must see me."

     Again the gentle murmur.

     "Well, well, give him that message. He can come in the morning, or he
     can stay away. My work must not be hindered."

     I thought of Holmes tossing upon his bed of sickness and counting the
     minutes, perhaps, until I could bring help to him. It was not a time
     to stand upon ceremony. His life depended upon my promptness. Before
     the apologetic butler had delivered his message I had pushed past him
     and was in the room.

     With a shrill cry of anger a man rose from a reclining chair beside
     the fire. I saw a great yellow face, coarse-grained and greasy, with
     heavy, double-chin, and two sullen, menacing gray eyes which glared
     at me from under tufted and sandy brows. A high bald head had a small
     velvet smoking-cap poised coquettishly upon one side of its pink
     curve. The skull was of enormous capacity, and yet as I looked down I
     saw to my amazement that the figure of the man was small and frail,
     twisted in the shoulders and back like one who has suffered from
     rickets in his childhood.

     "What's this?" he cried in a high, screaming voice. "What is the
     meaning of this intrusion? Didn't I send you word that I would see
     you to-morrow morning?"

     "I am sorry," said I, "but the matter cannot be delayed. Mr. Sherlock
     Holmes--"

     The mention of my friend's name had an extraordinary effect upon the
     little man. The look of anger passed in an instant from his face. His
     features became tense and alert.

     "Have you come from Holmes?" he asked.

     "I have just left him."

     "What about Holmes? How is he?"

     "He is desperately ill. That is why I have come."

     The man motioned me to a chair, and turned to resume his own. As he
     did so I caught a glimpse of his face in the mirror over the
     mantelpiece. I could have sworn that it was set in a malicious and
     abominable smile. Yet I persuaded myself that it must have been some
     nervous contraction which I had surprised, for he turned to me an
     instant later with genuine concern upon his features.

     "I am sorry to hear this," said he. "I only know Mr. Holmes through
     some business dealings which we have had, but I have every respect
     for his talents and his character. He is an amateur of crime, as I am
     of disease. For him the villain, for me the microbe. There are my
     prisons," he continued, pointing to a row of bottles and jars which
     stood upon a side table. "Among those gelatine cultivations some of
     the very worst offenders in the world are now doing time."

     "It was on account of your special knowledge that Mr. Holmes desired
     to see you. He has a high opinion of you and thought that you were
     the one man in London who could help him."

     The little man started, and the jaunty smoking-cap slid to the floor.

     "Why?" he asked. "Why should Mr. Homes think that I could help him in
     his trouble?"

     "Because of your knowledge of Eastern diseases."

     "But why should he think that this disease which he has contracted is
     Eastern?"

     "Because, in some professional inquiry, he has been working among
     Chinese sailors down in the docks."

     Mr. Culverton Smith smiled pleasantly and picked up his smoking-cap.

     "Oh, that's it--is it?" said he. "I trust the matter is not so grave
     as you suppose. How long has he been ill?"

     "About three days."

     "Is he delirious?"

     "Occasionally."

     "Tut, tut! This sounds serious. It would be inhuman not to answer his
     call. I very much resent any interruption to my work, Dr. Watson, but
     this case is certainly exceptional. I will come with you at once."

     I remembered Holmes's injunction.

     "I have another appointment," said I.

     "Very good. I will go alone. I have a note of Mr. Holmes's address.
     You can rely upon my being there within half an hour at most."

     It was with a sinking heart that I reentered Holmes's bedroom. For
     all that I knew the worst might have happened in my absence. To my
     enormous relief, he had improved greatly in the interval. His
     appearance was as ghastly as ever, but all trace of delirium had left
     him and he spoke in a feeble voice, it is true, but with even more
     than his usual crispness and lucidity.

     "Well, did you see him, Watson?"

     "Yes; he is coming."

     "Admirable, Watson! Admirable! You are the best of messengers."

     "He wished to return with me."

     "That would never do, Watson. That would be obviously impossible. Did
     he ask what ailed me?"

     "I told him about the Chinese in the East End."

     "Exactly! Well, Watson, you have done all that a good friend could.
     You can now disappear from the scene."

     "I must wait and hear his opinion, Holmes."

     "Of course you must. But I have reasons to suppose that this opinion
     would be very much more frank and valuable if he imagines that we are
     alone. There is just room behind the head of my bed, Watson."

     "My dear Holmes!"

     "I fear there is no alternative, Watson. The room does not lend
     itself to concealment, which is as well, as it is the less likely to
     arouse suspicion. But just there, Watson, I fancy that it could be
     done." Suddenly he sat up with a rigid intentness upon his haggard
     face. "There are the wheels, Watson. Quick, man, if you love me! And
     don't budge, whatever happens--whatever happens, do you hear? Don't
     speak! Don't move! Just listen with all your ears." Then in an
     instant his sudden access of strength departed, and his masterful,
     purposeful talk droned away into the low, vague murmurings of a
     semi-delirious man.

     From the hiding-place into which I had been so swiftly hustled I
     heard the footfalls upon the stair, with the opening and the closing
     of the bedroom door. Then, to my surprise, there came a long silence,
     broken only by the heavy breathings and gaspings of the sick man. I
     could imagine that our visitor was standing by the bedside and
     looking down at the sufferer. At last that strange hush was broken.

     "Holmes!" he cried. "Holmes!" in the insistent tone of one who
     awakens a sleeper. "Can't you hear me, Holmes?" There was a rustling,
     as if he had shaken the sick man roughly by the shoulder.

     "Is that you, Mr. Smith?" Holmes whispered. "I hardly dared hope that
     you would come."

     The other laughed.

     "I should imagine not," he said. "And yet, you see, I am here. Coals
     of fire, Holmes--coals of fire!"

     "It is very good of you--very noble of you. I appreciate your special
     knowledge."

     Our visitor sniggered.

     "You do.  You are, fortunately, the only man in London who does. Do
     you know what is the matter with you?"

     "The same," said Holmes.

     "Ah! You recognize the symptoms?"

     "Only too well."

     "Well, I shouldn't be surprised, Holmes. I shouldn't be surprised if
     it were the same. A bad lookout for you if it is. Poor Victor was a
     dead man on the fourth day--a strong, hearty young fellow. It was
     certainly, as you said, very surprising that he should have
     contracted and out-of-the-way Asiatic disease in the heart of
     London--a disease, too, of which I had made such a very special
     study. Singular coincidence, Holmes. Very smart of you to notice it,
     but rather uncharitable to suggest that it was cause and effect."

     "I knew that you did it."

     "Oh, you did, did you? Well, you couldn't prove it, anyhow. But what
     do you think of yourself spreading reports about me like that, and
     then crawling to me for help the moment you are in trouble? What sort
     of a game is that--eh?"

     I heard the rasping, laboured breathing of the sick man. "Give me the
     water!" he gasped.

     "You're precious near your end, my friend, but I don't want you to go
     till I have had a word with you. That's why I give you water. There,
     don't slop it about! That's right. Can you understand what I say?"

     Holmes groaned.

     "Do what you can for me. Let bygones be bygones," he whispered. "I'll
     put the words out of my head--I swear I will. Only cure me, and I'll
     forget it."

     "Forget what?"

     "Well, about Victor Savage's death. You as good as admitted just now
     that you had done it. I'll forget it."

     "You can forget it or remember it, just as you like. I don't see you
     in the witnessbox. Quite another shaped box, my good Holmes, I assure
     you. It matters nothing to me that you should know how my nephew
     died. It's not him we are talking about. It's you."

     "Yes, yes."

     "The fellow who came for me--I've forgotten his name--said that you
     contracted it down in the East End among the sailors."

     "I could only account for it so."

     "You are proud of your brains, Holmes, are you not? Think yourself
     smart, don't you? You came across someone who was smarter this time.
     Now cast your mind back, Holmes. Can you think of no other way you
     could have got this thing?"

     "I can't think. My mind is gone. For heaven's sake help me!"

     "Yes, I will help you. I'll help you to understand just where you are
     and how you got there. I'd like you to know before you die."

     "Give me something to ease my pain."

     "Painful, is it? Yes, the coolies used to do some squealing towards
     the end. Takes you as cramp, I fancy."

     "Yes, yes; it is cramp."

     "Well, you can hear what I say, anyhow. Listen now! Can you remember
     any unusual incident in your life just about the time your symptoms
     began?"

     "No, no; nothing."

     "Think again."

     "I'm too ill to think."

     "Well, then, I'll help you.  Did anything come by post?"

     "By post?"

     "A box by chance?"

     "I'm fainting--I'm gone!"

     "Listen, Holmes!" There was a sound as if he was shaking the dying
     man, and it was all that I could do to hold myself quiet in my
     hiding-place. "You must hear me. You shall hear me. Do you remember a
     box--an ivory box? It came on Wednesday. You opened it--do you
     remember?"

     "Yes, yes, I opened it. There was a sharp spring inside it. Some
     joke--"

     "It was no joke, as you will find to your cost. You fool, you would
     have it and you have got it. Who asked you to cross my path? If you
     had left me alone I would not have hurt you."

     "I remember," Holmes gasped. "The spring! It drew blood. This
     box--this on the table."

     "The very one, by George! And it may as well leave the room in my
     pocket. There goes your last shred of evidence. But you have the
     truth now, Holmes, and you can die with the knowledge that I killed
     you. You knew too much of the fate of Victor Savage, so I have sent
     you to share it. You are very near your end, Holmes. I will sit here
     and I will watch you die."

     Holmes's voice had sunk to an almost inaudible whisper.

     "What is that?" said Smith. "Turn up the gas? Ah, the shadows begin
     to fall, do they? Yes, I will turn it up, that I may see you the
     better." He crossed the room and the light suddenly brightened. "Is
     there any other little service that I can do you, my friend?"

     "A match and a cigarette."

     I nearly called out in my joy and my amazement. He was speaking in
     his natural voice--a little weak, perhaps, but the very voice I knew.
     There was a long pause, and I felt that Culverton Smith was standing
     in silent amazement looking down at his companion.

     "What's the meaning of this?" I heard him say at last in a dry,
     rasping tone.

     "The best way of successfully acting a part is to be it," said
     Holmes. "I give you my word that for three days I have tasted neither
     food nor drink until you were good enough to pour me out that glass
     of water. But it is the tobacco which I find most irksome. Ah, here
     are some cigarettes." I heard the striking of a match. "That is very
     much better. Halloa! halloa! Do I hear the step of a friend?"

     There were footfalls outside, the door opened, and Inspector Morton
     appeared.

     "All is in order and this is your man," said Holmes.

     The officer gave the usual cautions.

     "I arrest you on the charge of the murder of one Victor Savage," he
     concluded.

     "And you might add of the attempted murder of one Sherlock Holmes,"
     remarked my friend with a chuckle. "To save an invalid trouble,
     Inspector, Mr. Culverton Smith was good enough to give our signal by
     turning up the gas. By the way, the prisoner has a small box in the
     right-hand pocket of his coat which it would be as well to remove.
     Thank you. I would handle it gingerly if I were you. Put it down
     here. It may play its part in the trial."

     There was a sudden rush and a scuffle, followed by the clash of iron
     and a cry of pain.

     "You'll only get yourself hurt," said the inspector. "Stand still,
     will you?" There was the click of the closing handcuffs.

     "A nice trap!" cried the high, snarling voice. "It will bring you
     into the dock, Holmes, not me. He asked me to come here to cure him.
     I was sorry for him and I came. Now he will pretend, no doubt, that I
     have said anything which he may invent which will corroborate his
     insane suspicions. You can lie as you like, Holmes.  My word is
     always as good as yours."

     "Good heavens!" cried Holmes. "I had totally forgotten him. My dear
     Watson, I owe you a thousand apologies. To think that I should have
     overlooked you! I need not introduce you to Mr. Culverton Smith,
     since I understand that you met somewhat earlier in the evening. Have
     you the cab below? I will follow you when I am dressed, for I may be
     of some use at the station.

     "I never needed it more," said Holmes as he refreshed himself with a
     glass of claret and some biscuits in the intervals of his toilet.
     "However, as you know, my habits are irregular, and such a feat means
     less to me than to most men. It was very essential that I should
     impress Mrs. Hudson with the reality of my condition, since she was
     to convey it to you, and you in turn to him. You won't be offended,
     Watson? You will realize that among your many talents dissimulation
     finds no place, and that if you had shared my secret you would never
     have been able to impress Smith with the urgent necessity of his
     presence, which was the vital point of the whole scheme. Knowing his
     vindictive nature, I was perfectly certain that he would come to look
     upon his handiwork."

     "But your appearance, Holmes--your ghastly face?"

     "Three days of absolute fast does not improve one's beauty, Watson.
     For the rest, there is nothing which a sponge may not cure. With
     vaseline upon one's forehead, belladonna in one's eyes, rouge over
     the cheek-bones, and crusts of beeswax round one's lips, a very
     satisfying effect can be produced. Malingering is a subject upon
     which I have sometimes thought of writing a monograph. A little
     occasional talk about half-crowns, oysters, or any other extraneous
     subject produces a pleasing effect of delirium."

     "But why would you not let me near you, since there was in truth no
     infection?"

     "Can you ask, my dear Watson? Do you imagine that I have no respect
     for your medical talents? Could I fancy that your astute judgment
     would pass a dying man who, however weak, had no rise of pulse or
     temperature? At four yards, I could deceive you. If I failed to do
     so, who would bring my Smith within my grasp? No, Watson, I would not
     touch that box. You can just see if you look at it sideways where the
     sharp spring like a viper's tooth emerges as you open it. I dare say
     it was by some such device that poor Savage, who stood between this
     monster and a reversion, was done to death. My correspondence,
     however, is, as you know, a varied one, and I am somewhat upon my
     guard against any packages which reach me. It was clear to me,
     however, that by pretending that he had really succeeded in his
     design I might surprise a confession. That pretence I have carried
     out with the thoroughness of the true artist. Thank you, Watson, you
     must help me on with my coat. When we have finished at the
     police-station I think that something nutritious at Simpson's would
     not be out of place."






                    THE DISAPPEARANCE OF LADY FRANCES CARFAX

     "But why Turkish?" asked Mr. Sherlock Holmes, gazing fixedly at my
     boots. I was reclining in a cane-backed chair at the moment, and my
     protruded feet had attracted his ever-active attention.

     "English," I answered in some surprise. "I got them at Latimer's, in
     Oxford Street."

     Holmes smiled with an expression of weary patience.

     "The bath!" he said; "the bath! Why the relaxing and expensive
     Turkish rather than the invigorating home-made article?"

     "Because for the last few days I have been feeling rheumatic and old.
     A Turkish bath is what we call an alterative in medicine--a fresh
     starting-point, a cleanser of the system.

     "By the way, Holmes," I added, "I have no doubt the connection
     between my boots and a Turkish bath is a perfectly self-evident one
     to a logical mind, and yet I should be obliged to you if you would
     indicate it."

     "The train of reasoning is not very obscure, Watson," said Holmes
     with a mischievous twinkle. "It belongs to the same elementary class
     of deduction which I should illustrate if I were to ask you who
     shared your cab in your drive this morning."

     "I don't admit that a fresh illustration is an explanation," said I
     with some asperity.

     "Bravo, Watson! A very dignified and logical remonstrance. Let me
     see, what were the points? Take the last one first--the cab. You
     observe that you have some splashes on the left sleeve and shoulder
     of your coat. Had you sat in the centre of a hansom you would
     probably have had no splashes, and if you had they would certainly
     have been symmetrical. Therefore it is clear that you sat at the
     side. Therefore it is equally clear that you had a companion."

     "That is very evident."

     "Absurdly commonplace, is it not?"

     "But the boots and the bath?"

     "Equally childish. You are in the habit of doing up your boots in a
     certain way. I see them on this occasion fastened with an elaborate
     double bow, which is not your usual method of tying them. You have,
     therefore, had them off. Who has tied them? A bootmaker--or the boy
     at the bath. It is unlikely that it is the bootmaker, since your
     boots are nearly new. Well, what remains? The bath. Absurd, is it
     not? But, for all that, the Turkish bath has served a purpose."

     "What is that?"

     "You say that you have had it because you need a change. Let me
     suggest that you take one. How would Lausanne do, my dear
     Watson--first-class tickets and all expenses paid on a princely
     scale?"

     "Splendid! But why?"

     Holmes leaned back in his armchair and took his notebook from his
     pocket.

     "One of the most dangerous classes in the world," said he, "is the
     drifting and friendless woman. She is the most harmless and often the
     most useful of mortals, but she is the inevitable inciter of crime in
     others. She is helpless. She is migratory. She has sufficient means
     to take her from country to country and from hotel to hotel. She is
     lost, as often as not, in a maze of obscure pensions and
     boardinghouses. She is a stray chicken in a world of foxes. When she
     is gobbled up she is hardly missed. I much fear that some evil has
     come to the Lady Frances Carfax."

     I was relieved at this sudden descent from the general to the
     particular. Holmes consulted his notes.

     "Lady Frances," he continued, "is the sole survivor of the direct
     family of the late Earl of Rufton. The estates went, as you may
     remember, in the male line. She was left with limited means, but with
     some very remarkable old Spanish jewellery of silver and curiously
     cut diamonds to which she was fondly attached--too attached, for she
     refused to leave them with her banker and always carried them about
     with her. A rather pathetic figure, the Lady Frances, a beautiful
     woman, still in fresh middle age, and yet, by a strange change, the
     last derelict of what only twenty years ago was a goodly fleet."

     "What has happened to her, then?"

     "Ah, what has happened to the Lady Frances? Is she alive or dead?
     There is our problem. She is a lady of precise habits, and for four
     years it has been her invariable custom to write every second week to
     Miss Dobney, her old governess, who has long retired and lives in
     Camberwell. It is this Miss Dobney who has consulted me. Nearly five
     weeks have passed without a word. The last letter was from the Hotel
     National at Lausanne. Lady Frances seems to have left there and given
     no address. The family are anxious, and as they are exceedingly
     wealthy no sum will be spared if we can clear the matter up."

     "Is Miss Dobney the only source of information? Surely she had other
     correspondents?"

     "There is one correspondent who is a sure draw, Watson. That is the
     bank. Single ladies must live, and their passbooks are compressed
     diaries. She banks at Silvester's. I have glanced over her account.
     The last check but one paid her bill at Lausanne, but it was a large
     one and probably left her with cash in hand. Only one check has been
     drawn since."

     "To whom, and where?"

     "To Miss Marie Devine. There is nothing to show where the check was
     drawn. It was cashed at the Credit Lyonnais at Montpellier less than
     three weeks ago. The sum was fifty pounds."

     "And who is Miss Marie Devine?"

     "That also I have been able to discover. Miss Marie Devine was the
     maid of Lady Frances Carfax. Why she should have paid her this check
     we have not yet determined. I have no doubt, however, that your
     researches will soon clear the matter up."

     "My researches!"

     "Hence the health-giving expedition to Lausanne. You know that I
     cannot possibly leave London while old Abrahams is in such mortal
     terror of his life. Besides, on general principles it is best that I
     should not leave the country. Scotland Yard feels lonely without me,
     and it causes an unhealthy excitement among the criminal classes. Go,
     then, my dear Watson, and if my humble counsel can ever be valued at
     so extravagant a rate as two pence a word, it waits your disposal
     night and day at the end of the Continental wire."

     Two days later found me at the Hotel National at Lausanne, where I
     received every courtesy at the hands of M. Moser, the well-known
     manager. Lady Frances, as he informed me, had stayed there for
     several weeks. She had been much liked by all who met her. Her age
     was not more than forty. She was still handsome and bore every sign
     of having in her youth been a very lovely woman. M. Moser knew
     nothing of any valuable jewellery, but it had been remarked by the
     servants that the heavy trunk in the lady's bedroom was always
     scrupulously locked. Marie Devine, the maid, was as popular as her
     mistress. She was actually engaged to one of the head waiters in the
     hotel, and there was no difficulty in getting her address. It was 11
     Rue de Trajan, Montpellier. All this I jotted down and felt that
     Holmes himself could not have been more adroit in collecting his
     facts.

     Only one corner still remained in the shadow. No light which I
     possessed could clear up the cause for the lady's sudden departure.
     She was very happy at Lausanne. There was every reason to believe
     that she intended to remain for the season in her luxurious rooms
     overlooking the lake. And yet she had left at a single day's notice,
     which involved her in the useless payment of a week's rent. Only
     Jules Vibart, the lover of the maid, had any suggestion to offer. He
     connected the sudden departure with the visit to the hotel a day or
     two before of a tall, dark, bearded man. "Un sauvage--un vÃ©ritable
     sauvage!" cried Jules Vibart. The man had rooms somewhere in the
     town. He had been seen talking earnestly to Madame on the promenade
     by the lake. Then he had called. She had refused to see him. He was
     English, but of his name there was no record. Madame had left the
     place immediately afterwards. Jules Vibart, and, what was of more
     importance, Jules Vibart's sweetheart, thought that this call and the
     departure were cause and effect. Only one thing Jules would not
     discuss. That was the reason why Marie had left her mistress. Of that
     he could or would say nothing. If I wished to know, I must go to
     Montpellier and ask her.

     So ended the first chapter of my inquiry. The second was devoted to
     the place which Lady Frances Carfax had sought when she left
     Lausanne. Concerning this there had been some secrecy, which
     confirmed the idea that she had gone with the intention of throwing
     someone off her track. Otherwise why should not her luggage have been
     openly labelled for Baden? Both she and it reached the Rhenish spa by
     some circuitous route. This much I gathered from the manager of
     Cook's local office. So to Baden I went, after dispatching to Holmes
     an account of all my proceedings and receiving in reply a telegram of
     half-humorous commendation.

     At Baden the track was not difficult to follow. Lady Frances had
     stayed at the Englischer Hof for a fortnight. While there she had
     made the acquaintance of a Dr. Shlessinger and his wife, a missionary
     from South America. Like most lonely ladies, Lady Frances found her
     comfort and occupation in religion. Dr. Shlessinger's remarkable
     personality, his whole hearted devotion, and the fact that he was
     recovering from a disease contracted in the exercise of his apostolic
     duties affected her deeply. She had helped Mrs. Shlessinger in the
     nursing of the convalescent saint. He spent his day, as the manager
     described it to me, upon a lounge-chair on the veranda, with an
     attendant lady upon either side of him. He was preparing a map of the
     Holy Land, with special reference to the kingdom of the Midianites,
     upon which he was writing a monograph. Finally, having improved much
     in health, he and his wife had returned to London, and Lady Frances
     had started thither in their company. This was just three weeks
     before, and the manager had heard nothing since. As to the maid,
     Marie, she had gone off some days beforehand in floods of tears,
     after informing the other maids that she was leaving service forever.
     Dr. Shlessinger had paid the bill of the whole party before his
     departure.

     "By the way," said the landlord in conclusion, "you are not the only
     friend of Lady Frances Carfax who is inquiring after her just now.
     Only a week or so ago we had a man here upon the same errand."

     "Did he give a name?" I asked.

     "None; but he was an Englishman, though of an unusual type."

     "A savage?" said I, linking my facts after the fashion of my
     illustrious friend.

     "Exactly. That describes him very well. He is a bulky, bearded,
     sunburned fellow, who looks as if he would be more at home in a
     farmers' inn than in a fashionable hotel. A hard, fierce man, I
     should think, and one whom I should be sorry to offend."

     Already the mystery began to define itself, as figures grow clearer
     with the lifting of a fog. Here was this good and pious lady pursued
     from place to place by a sinister and unrelenting figure. She feared
     him, or she would not have fled from Lausanne. He had still followed.
     Sooner or later he would overtake her. Had he already overtaken her?
     Was that the secret of her continued silence? Could the good people
     who were her companions not screen her from his violence or his
     blackmail? What horrible purpose, what deep design, lay behind this
     long pursuit? There was the problem which I had to solve.

     To Holmes I wrote showing how rapidly and surely I had got down to
     the roots of the matter. In reply I had a telegram asking for a
     description of Dr. Shlessinger's left ear. Holmes's ideas of humour
     are strange and occasionally offensive, so I took no notice of his
     ill-timed jest--indeed, I had already reached Montpellier in my
     pursuit of the maid, Marie, before his message came.

     I had no difficulty in finding the ex-servant and in learning all
     that she could tell me. She was a devoted creature, who had only left
     her mistress because she was sure that she was in good hands, and
     because her own approaching marriage made a separation inevitable in
     any case. Her mistress had, as she confessed with distress, shown
     some irritability of temper towards her during their stay in Baden,
     and had even questioned her once as if she had suspicions of her
     honesty, and this had made the parting easier than it would otherwise
     have been. Lady Frances had given her fifty pounds as a
     wedding-present. Like me, Marie viewed with deep distrust the
     stranger who had driven her mistress from Lausanne. With her own eyes
     she had seen him seize the lady's wrist with great violence on the
     public promenade by the lake. He was a fierce and terrible man. She
     believed that it was out of dread of him that Lady Frances had
     accepted the escort of the Shlessingers to London. She had never
     spoken to Marie about it, but many little signs had convinced the
     maid that her mistress lived in a state of continual nervous
     apprehension. So far she had got in her narrative, when suddenly she
     sprang from her chair and her face was convulsed with surprise and
     fear. "See!" she cried. "The miscreant follows still! There is the
     very man of whom I speak."

     Through the open sitting-room window I saw a huge, swarthy man with a
     bristling black beard walking slowly down the centre of the street
     and staring eagerly at he numbers of the houses. It was clear that,
     like myself, he was on the track of the maid. Acting upon the impulse
     of the moment, I rushed out and accosted him.

     "You are an Englishman," I said.

     "What if I am?" he asked with a most villainous scowl.

     "May I ask what your name is?"

     "No, you may not," said he with decision.

     The situation was awkward, but the most direct way is often the best.

     "Where is the Lady Frances Carfax?" I asked.

     He stared at me with amazement.

     "What have you done with her? Why have you pursued her? I insist upon
     an answer!" said I.

     The fellow gave a below of anger and sprang upon me like a tiger. I
     have held my own in many a struggle, but the man had a grip of iron
     and the fury of a fiend. His hand was on my throat and my senses were
     nearly gone before an unshaven French ouvrier in a blue blouse darted
     out from a cabaret opposite, with a cudgel in his hand, and struck my
     assailant a sharp crack over the forearm, which made him leave go his
     hold. He stood for an instant fuming with rage and uncertain whether
     he should not renew his attack. Then, with a snarl of anger, he left
     me and entered the cottage from which I had just come. I turned to
     thank my preserver, who stood beside me in the roadway.

     "Well, Watson," said he, "a very pretty hash you have made of it! I
     rather think you had better come back with me to London by the night
     express."

     An hour afterwards, Sherlock Holmes, in his usual garb and style, was
     seated in my private room at the hotel. His explanation of his sudden
     and opportune appearance was simplicity itself, for, finding that he
     could get away from London, he determined to head me off at the next
     obvious point of my travels. In the disguise of a workingman he had
     sat in the cabaret waiting for my appearance.

     "And a singularly consistent investigation you have made, my dear
     Watson," said he. "I cannot at the moment recall any possible blunder
     which you have omitted. The total effect of your proceeding has been
     to give the alarm everywhere and yet to discover nothing."

     "Perhaps you would have done no better," I answered bitterly.

     "There is no 'perhaps' about it. I have done better. Here is the Hon.
     Philip Green, who is a fellow-lodger with you in this hotel, and we
     may find him the starting-point for a more successful investigation."

     A card had come up on a salver, and it was followed by the same
     bearded ruffian who had attacked me in the street. He started when he
     saw me.

     "What is this, Mr. Holmes?" he asked. "I had your note and I have
     come. But what has this man to do with the matter?"

     "This is my old friend and associate, Dr. Watson, who is helping us
     in this affair."

     The stranger held out a huge, sunburned hand, with a few words of
     apology.

     "I hope I didn't harm you. When you accused me of hurting her I lost
     my grip of myself. Indeed, I'm not responsible in these days. My
     nerves are like live wires. But this situation is beyond me. What I
     want to know, in the first place, Mr. Holmes, is, how in the world
     you came to hear of my existence at all."

     "I am in touch with Miss Dobney, Lady Frances's governess."

     "Old Susan Dobney with the mob cap! I remember her well."

     "And she remembers you. It was in the days before--before you found
     it better to go to South Africa."

     "Ah, I see you know my whole story. I need hide nothing from you. I
     swear to you, Mr. Holmes, that there never was in this world a man
     who loved a woman with a more wholehearted love than I had for
     Frances. I was a wild youngster, I know--not worse than others of my
     class. But her mind was pure as snow. She could not bear a shadow of
     coarseness. So, when she came to hear of things that I had done, she
     would have no more to say to me. And yet she loved me--that is the
     wonder of it!--loved me well enough to remain single all her sainted
     days just for my sake alone. When the years had passed and I had made
     my money at Barberton I thought perhaps I could seek her out and
     soften her. I had heard that she was still unmarried, I found her at
     Lausanne and tried all I knew. She weakened, I think, but her will
     was strong, and when next I called she had left the town. I traced
     her to Baden, and then after a time heard that her maid was here. I'm
     a rough fellow, fresh from a rough life, and when Dr. Watson spoke to
     me as he did I lost hold of myself for a moment. But for God's sake
     tell me what has become of the Lady Frances."

     "That is for us to find out," said Sherlock Holmes with peculiar
     gravity. "What is your London address, Mr. Green?"

     "The Langham Hotel will find me."

     "Then may I recommend that you return there and be on hand in case I
     should want you? I have no desire to encourage false hopes, but you
     may rest assured that all that can be done will be done for the
     safety of Lady Frances. I can say no more for the instant. I will
     leave you this card so that you may be able to keep in touch with us.
     Now, Watson, if you will pack your bag I will cable to Mrs. Hudson to
     make one of her best efforts for two hungry travellers at 7.30
     to-morrow."

     A telegram was awaiting us when we reached our Baker Street rooms,
     which Holmes read with an exclamation of interest and threw across to
     me. "Jagged or torn," was the message, and the place of origin,
     Baden.

     "What is this?" I asked.

     "It is everything," Holmes answered. "You may remember my seemingly
     irrelevant question as to this clerical gentleman's left ear. You did
     not answer it."

     "I had left Baden and could not inquire."

     "Exactly. For this reason I sent a duplicate to the manager of the
     Englischer Hof, whose answer lies here."

     "What does it show?"

     "It shows, my dear Watson, that we are dealing with an exceptionally
     astute and dangerous man. The Rev. Dr. Shlessinger, missionary from
     South America, is none other than Holy Peters, one of the most
     unscrupulous rascals that Australia has ever evolved--and for a young
     country it has turned out some very finished types. His particular
     specialty is the beguiling of lonely ladies by playing upon their
     religious feelings, and his so-called wife, an Englishwoman named
     Fraser, is a worthy helpmate. The nature of his tactics suggested his
     identity to me, and this physical peculiarity--he was badly bitten in
     a saloon-fight at Adelaide in '89--confirmed my suspicion. This poor
     lady is in the hands of a most infernal couple, who will stick at
     nothing, Watson. That she is already dead is a very likely
     supposition. If not, she is undoubtedly in some sort of confinement
     and unable to write to Miss Dobney or her other friends. It is always
     possible that she never reached London, or that she has passed
     through it, but the former is improbable, as, with their system of
     registration, it is not easy for foreigners to play tricks with the
     Continental police; and the latter is also unlikely, as these rouges
     could not hope to find any other place where it would be as easy to
     keep a person under restraint. All my instincts tell me that she is
     in London, but as we have at present no possible means of telling
     where, we can only take the obvious steps, eat our dinner, and
     possess our souls in patience. Later in the evening I will stroll
     down and have a word with friend Lestrade at Scotland Yard."

     But neither the official police nor Holmes's own small but very
     efficient organization sufficed to clear away the mystery. Amid the
     crowded millions of London the three persons we sought were as
     completely obliterated as if they had never lived. Advertisements
     were tried, and failed. Clues were followed, and led to nothing.
     Every criminal resort which Shlessinger might frequent was drawn in
     vain. His old associates were watched, but they kept clear of him.
     And then suddenly, after a week of helpless suspense there came a
     flash of light. A silver-and-brilliant pendant of old Spanish design
     had been pawned at Bovington's, in Westminster Road. The pawner was a
     large, clean-shaven man of clerical appearance. His name and address
     were demonstrably false. The ear had escaped notice, but the
     description was surely that of Shlessinger.

     Three times had our bearded friend from the Langham called for
     news--the third time within an hour of this fresh development. His
     clothes were getting looser on his great body. He seemed to be
     wilting away in his anxiety. "If you will only give me something to
     do!" was his constant wail. At last Holmes could oblige him.

     "He has begun to pawn the jewels. We should get him now."

     "But does this mean that any harm has befallen the Lady Frances?"

     Holmes shook his head very gravely.

     "Supposing that they have held her prisoner up to now, it is clear
     that they cannot let her loose without their own destruction. We must
     prepare for the worst."

     "What can I do?"

     "These people do not know you by sight?"

     "No."

     "It is possible that he will go to some other pawnbroker in the
     future. in that case, we must begin again. On the other hand, he has
     had a fair price and no questions asked, so if he is in need of
     ready-money he will probably come back to Bovington's. I will give
     you a note to them, and they will let you wait in the shop. If the
     fellow comes you will follow him home. But no indiscretion, and,
     above all, no violence. I put you on your honour that you will take
     no step without my knowledge and consent."

     For two days the Hon. Philip Green (he was, I may mention, the son of
     the famous admiral of that name who commanded the Sea of Azof fleet
     in the Crimean War) brought us no news. On the evening of the third
     he rushed into our sitting-room, pale, trembling, with every muscle
     of his powerful frame quivering with excitement.

     "We have him! We have him!" he cried.

     He was incoherent in his agitation. Holmes soothed him with a few
     words and thrust him into an armchair.

     "Come, now, give us the order of events," said he.

     "She came only an hour ago. It was the wife, this time, but the
     pendant she brought was the fellow of the other. She is a tall, pale
     woman, with ferret eyes."

     "That is the lady," said Holmes.

     "She left the office and I followed her. She walked up the Kennington
     Road, and I kept behind her. Presently she went into a shop. Mr.
     Holmes, it was an undertaker's."

     My companion started. "Well?" he asked in that vibrant voice which
     told of the fiery soul behind the cold gray face.

     "She was talking to the woman behind the counter. I entered as well.
     'It is late,' I heard her say, or words to that effect. The woman was
     excusing herself. 'It should be there before now,' she answered. 'It
     took longer, being out of the ordinary.' They both stopped and looked
     at me, so I asked some questions and then left the shop."

     "You did excellently well. What happened next?"

     "The woman came out, but I had hid myself in a doorway. Her
     suspicions had been aroused, I think, for she looked round her. Then
     she called a cab and got in. I was lucky enough to get another and so
     to follow her. She got down at last at No. 36, Poultney Square,
     Brixton. I drove past, left my cab at the corner of the square, and
     watched the house."

     "Did you see anyone?"

     "The windows were all in darkness save one on the lower floor. The
     blind was down, and I could not see in. I was standing there,
     wondering what I should do next, when a covered van drove up with two
     men in it. They descended, took something out of the van, and carried
     it up the steps to the hall door. Mr. Holmes, it was a coffin."

     "Ah!"

     "For an instant I was on the point of rushing in. The door had been
     opened to admit the men and their burden. It was the woman who had
     opened it. But as I stood there she caught a glimpse of me, and I
     think that she recognized me. I saw her start, and she hastily closed
     the door. I remembered my promise to you, and here I am."

     "You have done excellent work," said Holmes, scribbling a few words
     upon a half-sheet of paper. "We can do nothing legal without a
     warrant, and you can serve the cause best by taking this note down to
     the authorities and getting one. There may be some difficulty, but I
     should think that the sale of the jewellery should be sufficient.
     Lestrade will see to all details."

     "But they may murder her in the meanwhile. What could the coffin
     mean, and for whom could it be but for her?"

     "We will do all that can be done, Mr. Green. Not a moment will be
     lost. Leave it in our hands. Now Watson," he added as our client
     hurried away, "he will set the regular forces on the move. We are, as
     usual, the irregulars, and we must take our own line of action. The
     situation strikes me as so desperate that the most extreme measures
     are justified. Not a moment is to be lost in getting to Poultney
     Square.

     "Let us try to reconstruct the situation," said he as we drove
     swiftly past the Houses of Parliament and over Westminster Bridge.
     "These villains have coaxed this unhappy lady to London, after first
     alienating her from her faithful maid. If she has written any letters
     they have been intercepted. Through some confederate they have
     engaged a furnished house. Once inside it, they have made her a
     prisoner, and they have become possessed of the valuable jewellery
     which has been their object from the first. Already they have begun
     to sell part of it, which seems safe enough to them, since they have
     no reason to think that anyone is interested in the lady's fate. When
     she is released she will, of course, denounce them. Therefore, she
     must not be released. But they cannot keep her under lock and key
     forever. So murder is their only solution."

     "That seems very clear."

     "Now we will take another line of reasoning. When you follow two
     separate chains of thought, Watson, you will find some point of
     intersection which should approximate to the truth. We will start
     now, not from the lady but from the coffin and argue backward. That
     incident proves, I fear, beyond all doubt that the lady is dead. It
     points also to an orthodox burial with proper accompaniment of
     medical certificate and official sanction. Had the lady been
     obviously murdered, they would have buried her in a hole in the back
     garden. But here all is open and regular. What does this mean? Surely
     that they have done her to death in some way which has deceived the
     doctor and simulated a natural end--poisoning, perhaps. And yet how
     strange that they should ever let a doctor approach her unless he
     were a confederate, which is hardly a credible proposition."

     "Could they have forged a medical certificate?"

     "Dangerous, Watson, very dangerous. No, I hardly see them doing that.
     Pull up, cabby! This is evidently the undertaker's, for we have just
     passed the pawnbroker's. Would go in, Watson? Your appearance
     inspires confidence. Ask what hour the Poultney Square funeral takes
     place to-morrow."

     The woman in the shop answered me without hesitation that it was to
     be at eight o'clock in the morning. "You see, Watson, no mystery;
     everything above-board! In some way the legal forms have undoubtedly
     been complied with, and they think that they have little to fear.
     Well, there's nothing for it now but a direct frontal attack. Are you
     armed?"

     "My stick!"

     "Well, well, we shall be strong enough. 'Thrice is he armed who hath
     his quarrel just.' We simply can't afford to wait for the police or
     to keep within the four corners of the law. You can drive off, cabby.
     Now, Watson, we'll just take our luck together, as we have
     occasionally in the past."

     He had rung loudly at the door of a great dark house in the centre of
     Poultney Square. It was opened immediately, and the figure of a tall
     woman was outlined against the dim-lit hall.

     "Well, what do you want?" she asked sharply, peering at us through
     the darkness.

     "I want to speak to Dr. Shlessinger," said Holmes.

     "There is no such person here," she answered, and tried to close the
     door, but Holmes had jammed it with his foot.

     "Well, I want to see the man who lives here, whatever he may call
     himself," said Holmes firmly.

     She hesitated. Then she threw open the door. "Well, come in!" said
     she. "My husband is not afraid to face any man in the world." She
     closed the door behind us and showed us into a sitting-room on the
     right side of the hall, turning up the gas as she left us. "Mr.
     Peters will be with you in an instant," she said.

     Her words were literally true, for we had hardly time to look around
     the dusty and moth-eaten apartment in which we found ourselves before
     the door opened and a big, clean-shaven bald-headed man stepped
     lightly into the room. He had a large red face, with pendulous
     cheeks, and a general air of superficial benevolence which was marred
     by a cruel, vicious mouth.

     "There is surely some mistake here, gentlemen," he said in an
     unctuous, make-everything-easy voice. "I fancy that you have been
     misdirected. Possibly if you tried farther down the street--"

     "That will do; we have no time to waste," said my companion firmly.
     "You are Henry Peters, of Adelaide, late the Rev. Dr. Shlessinger, of
     Baden and South America. I am as sure of that as that my own name is
     Sherlock Holmes."

     Peters, as I will now call him, started and stared hard at his
     formidable pursuer. "I guess your name does not frighten me, Mr.
     Holmes," said he coolly. "When a man's conscience is easy you can't
     rattle him. What is your business in my house?"

     "I want to know what you have done with the Lady Frances Carfax, whom
     you brought away with you from Baden."

     "I'd be very glad if you could tell me where that lady may be,"
     Peters answered coolly. "I've a bill against her for a nearly a
     hundred pounds, and nothing to show for it but a couple of trumpery
     pendants that the dealer would hardly look at. She attached herself
     to Mrs. Peters and me at Baden--it is a fact that I was using another
     name at the time--and she stuck on to us until we came to London. I
     paid her bill and her ticket. Once in London, she gave us the slip,
     and, as I say, left these out-of-date jewels to pay her bills. You
     find her, Mr. Holmes, and I'm your debtor."

     In mean to find her," said Sherlock Holmes. "I'm going through this
     house till I do find her."

     "Where is your warrant?"

     Holmes half drew a revolver from his pocket. "This will have to serve
     till a better one comes."

     "Why, you're a common burglar."

     "So you might describe me," said Holmes cheerfully. "My companion is
     also a dangerous ruffian. And together we are going through your
     house."

     Our opponent opened the door.

     "Fetch a policeman, Annie!" said he. There was a whisk of feminine
     skirts down the passage, and the hall door was opened and shut.

     "Our time is limited, Watson," said Holmes. "If you try to stop us,
     Peters, you will most certainly get hurt. Where is that coffin which
     was brought into your house?"

     "What do you want with the coffin? It is in use. There is a body in
     it."

     "I must see the body."

     "Never with my consent."

     "Then without it." With a quick movement Holmes pushed the fellow to
     one side and passed into the hall. A door half opened stood
     immediately before us. We entered. It was the dining-room. On the
     table, under a half-lit chandelier, the coffin was lying. Holmes
     turned up the gas and raised the lid. Deep down in the recesses of
     the coffin lay an emaciated figure. The glare from the lights above
     beat down upon an aged and withered face. By no possible process of
     cruelty, starvation, or disease could this wornout wreck be the still
     beautiful Lady Frances. Holmes's face showed his amazement, and also
     his relief.

     "Thank God!" he muttered. "It's someone else."

     "Ah, you've blundered badly for once, Mr. Sherlock Holmes," said
     Peters, who had followed us into the room.

     "Who is the dead woman?"

     "Well, if you really must know, she is an old nurse of my wife's,
     Rose Spender by name, whom we found in the Brixton Workhouse
     Infirmary. We brought her round here, called in Dr. Horsom, of 13
     Firbank Villas--mind you take the address, Mr. Holmes--and had her
     carefully tended, as Christian folk should. On the third day she
     died--certificate says senile decay--but that's only the doctor's
     opinion, and of course you know better. We ordered her funeral to be
     carried out by Stimson and Co., of the Kennington Road, who will bury
     her at eight o'clock to-morrow morning. Can you pick any hole in
     that, Mr. Holmes? You've made a silly blunder, and you may as well
     own up to it. I'd give something for a photograph of your gaping,
     staring face when you pulled aside that lid expecting to see the Lady
     Frances Carfax and only found a poor old woman of ninety."

     Holmes's expression was as impassive as ever under the jeers of his
     antagonist, but his clenched hands betrayed his acute annoyance.

     "I am going through your house," said he.

     "Are you, though!" cried Peters as a woman's voice and heavy steps
     sounded in the passage. "We'll soon see about that. This way,
     officers, if you please. These men have forced their way into my
     house, and I cannot get rid of them. Help me to put them out."

     A sergeant and a constable stood in the doorway. Holmes drew his card
     from his case.

     "This is my name and address. This is my friend, Dr. Watson."

     "Bless you, sir, we know you very well," said the sergeant, "but you
     can't stay here without a warrant."

     "Of course not. I quite understand that."

     "Arrest him!" cried Peters.

     "We know where to lay our hands on this gentleman if he is wanted,"
     said the sergeant majestically, "but you'll have to go, Mr. Holmes."

     "Yes, Watson, we shall have to go."

     A minute later we were in the street once more. Holmes was as cool as
     ever, but I was hot with anger and humiliation. The sergeant had
     followed us.

     "Sorry, Mr. Holmes, but that's the law."

     "Exactly, Sergeant, you could not do otherwise."

     "I expect there was good reason for your presence there. If there is
     anything I can do--"

     "It's a missing lady, Sergeant, and we think she is in that house. I
     expect a warrant presently."

     "Then I'll keep my eye on the parties, Mr. Holmes. If anything comes
     along, I will surely let you know."

     It was only nine o'clock, and we were off full cry upon the trail at
     once. First we drove to Brixton Workhoused Infirmary, where we found
     that it was indeed the truth that a charitable couple had called some
     days before, that they had claimed an imbecile old woman as a former
     servant, and that they had obtained permission to take her away with
     them. No surprise was expressed at the news that she had since died.

     The doctor was our next goal. He had been called in, had found the
     woman dying of pure senility, had actually seen her pass away, and
     had signed the certificate in due form. "I assure you that everything
     was perfectly normal and there was no room for foul play in the
     matter," said he. Nothing in the house had struck him as suspicious
     save that for people of their class it was remarkable that they
     should have no servant. So far and no further went the doctor.

     Finally we found our way to Scotland Yard. There had been
     difficulties of procedure in regard to the warrant. Some delay was
     inevitable. The magistrate's signature might not be obtained until
     next morning. If Holmes would call about nine he could go down with
     Lestrade and see it acted upon. So ended the day, save that near
     midnight our friend, the sergeant, called to say that he had seen
     flickering lights here and there in the windows of the great dark
     house, but that no one had left it and none had entered. We could but
     pray for patience and wait for the morrow.

     Sherlock Holmes was too irritable for conversation and too restless
     for sleep. I left him smoking hard, with his heavy, dark brows
     knotted together, and his long, nervous fingers tapping upon the arms
     of his chair, as he turned over in his mind every possible solution
     of the mystery. Several times in the course of the night I heard him
     prowling about the house. Finally, just after I had been called in
     the morning, he rushed into my room. He was in his dressing-gown, but
     his pale, hollow-eyed face told me that his night had been a
     sleepless one.

     "What time was the funeral? Eight, was it not?" he asked eagerly.
     "Well, it is 7.20 now. Good heavens, Watson, what has become of any
     brains that God has given me? Quick, man, quick! It's life or
     death--a hundred chances on death to one on life. I'll never forgive
     myself, never, if we are too late!"

     Five minutes had not passed before we were flying in a hansom down
     Baker Street. But even so it was twenty-five to eight as we passed
     Big Ben, and eight struck as we tore down the Brixton Road. But
     others were late as well as we. Ten minutes after the hour the hearse
     was still standing at the door of the house, and even as our foaming
     horse came to a halt the coffin, supported by three men, appeared on
     the threshold. Holmes darted forward and barred their way.

     "Take it back!" he cried, laying his hand on the breast of the
     foremost. "Take it back this instant!"

     "What the devil do you mean? Once again I ask you, where is your
     warrant?" shouted the furious Peters, his big red face glaring over
     the farther end of the coffin.

     "The warrant is on its way. The coffin shall remain in the house
     until it comes."

     The authority in Holmes's voice had its effect upon the bearers.
     Peters had suddenly vanished into the house, and they obeyed these
     new orders. "Quick, Watson, quick! Here is a screw-driver!" he
     shouted as the coffin was replaced upon the table. "Here's one for
     you, my man! A sovreign if the lid comes off in a minute! Ask no
     questions--work away! That's good! Another! And another! Now pull all
     together! It's giving! It's giving! Ah, that does it at last."

     With a united effort we tore off the coffin-lid. As we did so there
     came from the inside a stupefying and overpowering smell of
     chloroform. A body lay within, its head all wreathed in cotton-wool,
     which had been soaked in the narcotic. Holmes plucked it off and
     disclosed the statuesque face of a handsome and spiritual woman of
     middle age. In an instant he had passed his arm round the figure and
     raised her to a sitting position.

     "Is she gone, Watson? Is there a spark left? Surely we are not too
     late!"

     For half an hour it seemed that we were. What with actual
     suffocation, and what with the poisonous fumes of the chloroform, the
     Lady Frances seemed to have passed the last point of recall. And
     then, at last, with artificial respiration, with injected ether, and
     with every device that science could suggest, some flutter of life,
     some quiver of the eyelids, some dimming of a mirror, spoke of the
     slowly returning life. A cab had driven up, and Holmes, parting the
     blind, looked out at it. "Here is Lestrade with his warrant," said
     he. "He will find that his birds have flown. And here," he added as a
     heavy step hurried along the passage, "is someone who has a better
     right to nurse this lady than we have. Good morning, Mr. Green; I
     think that the sooner we can move the Lady Frances the better.
     Meanwhile, the funeral may proceed, and the poor old woman who still
     lies in that coffin may go to her last resting-place alone."

     "Should you care to add the case to your annals, my dear Watson,"
     said Holmes that evening, "it can only be as an example of that
     temporary eclipse to which even the best-balanced mind may be
     exposed. Such slips are common to all mortals, and the greatest is he
     who can recognize and repair them. To this modified credit I may,
     perhaps, make some claim. My night was haunted by the thought that
     somewhere a clue, a strange sentence, a curious observation, had come
     under my notice and had been too easily dismissed. Then, suddenly, in
     the gray of the morning, the words came back to me. It was the remark
     of the undertaker's wife, as reported by Philip Green. She had said,
     'It should be there before now. It took longer, being out of the
     ordinary.' It was the coffin of which she spoke. It had been out of
     the ordinary. That could only mean that it had been made to some
     special measurement. But why? Why? Then in an instant I remembered
     the deep sides, and the little wasted figure at the bottom. Why so
     large a coffin for so small a body? To leave room for another body.
     Both would be buried under the one certificate. It had all been so
     clear, if only my own sight had not been dimmed. At eight the Lady
     Frances would be buried. Our one chance was to stop the coffin before
     it left the house.

     "It was a desperate chance that we might find her alive, but it was a
     chance, as the result showed. These people had never, to my
     knowledge, done a murder. They might shrink from actual violence at
     the last. The could bury her with no sign of how she met her end, and
     even if she were exhumed there was a chance for them. I hoped that
     such considerations might prevail with them. You can reconstruct the
     scene well enough. You saw the horrible den upstairs, where the poor
     lady had been kept so long. They rushed in and overpowered her with
     their chloroform, carried her down, poured more into the coffin to
     insure against her waking, and then screwed down the lid. A clever
     device, Watson. It is new to me in the annals of crime. If our
     ex-missionary friends escape the clutches of Lestrade, I shall expect
     to hear of some brilliant incidents in their future career."






                        THE ADVENTURE OF THE DEVIL'S FOOT

     In recording from time to time some of the curious experiences and
     interesting recollections which I associate with my long and intimate
     friendship with Mr. Sherlock Holmes, I have continually been faced by
     difficulties caused by his own aversion to publicity. To his sombre
     and cynical spirit all popular applause was always abhorrent, and
     nothing amused him more at the end of a successful case than to hand
     over the actual exposure to some orthodox official, and to listen
     with a mocking smile to the general chorus of misplaced
     congratulation. It was indeed this attitude upon the part of my
     friend and certainly not any lack of interesting material which has
     caused me of late years to lay very few of my records before the
     public. My participation in some if his adventures was always a
     privilege which entailed discretion and reticence upon me.

     It was, then, with considerable surprise that I received a telegram
     from Homes last Tuesday--he has never been known to write where a
     telegram would serve--in the following terms:

     Why not tell them of the Cornish horror--strangest case I have
     handled.
     I have no idea what backward sweep of memory had brought the matter
     fresh to his mind, or what freak had caused him to desire that I
     should recount it; but I hasten, before another cancelling telegram
     may arrive, to hunt out the notes which give me the exact details of
     the case and to lay the narrative before my readers.

     It was, then, in the spring of the year 1897 that Holmes's iron
     constitution showed some symptoms of giving way in the face of
     constant hard work of a most exacting kind, aggravated, perhaps, by
     occasional indiscretions of his own. In March of that year Dr. Moore
     Agar, of Harley Street, whose dramatic introduction to Holmes I may
     some day recount, gave positive injunctions that the famous private
     agent lay aside all his cases and surrender himself to complete rest
     if he wished to avert an absolute breakdown. The state of his health
     was not a matter in which he himself took the faintest interest, for
     his mental detachment was absolute, but he was induced at last, on
     the threat of being permanently disqualified from work, to give
     himself a complete change of scene and air. Thus it was that in the
     early spring of that year we found ourselves together in a small
     cottage near Poldhu Bay, at the further extremity of the Cornish
     peninsula.

     It was a singular spot, and one peculiarly well suited to the grim
     humour of my patient. From the windows of our little whitewashed
     house, which stood high upon a grassy headland, we looked down upon
     the whole sinister semicircle of Mounts Bay, that old death trap of
     sailing vessels, with its fringe of black cliffs and surge-swept
     reefs on which innumerable seamen have met their end. With a
     northerly breeze it lies placid and sheltered, inviting the
     storm-tossed craft to tack into it for rest and protection.

     Then come the sudden swirl round of the wind, the blistering gale
     from the south-west, the dragging anchor, the lee shore, and the last
     battle in the creaming breakers. The wise mariner stands far out from
     that evil place.

     On the land side our surroundings were as sombre as on the sea. It
     was a country of rolling moors, lonely and dun-colored, with an
     occasional church tower to mark the site of some old-world village.
     In every direction upon these moors there were traces of some
     vanished race which had passed utterly away, and left as it sole
     record strange monuments of stone, irregular mounds which contained
     the burned ashes of the dead, and curious earthworks which hinted at
     prehistoric strife. The glamour and mystery of the place, with its
     sinister atmosphere of forgotten nations, appealed to the imagination
     of my friend, and he spent much of his time in long walks and
     solitary meditations upon the moor. The ancient Cornish language had
     also arrested his attention, and he had, I remember, conceived the
     idea that it was akin to the Chaldean, and had been largely derived
     from the Phoenician traders in tin. He had received a consignment of
     books upon philology and was settling down to develop this thesis
     when suddenly, to my sorrow and to his unfeigned delight, we found
     ourselves, even in that land of dreams, plunged into a problem at our
     very doors which was more intense, more engrossing, and infinitely
     more mysterious than any of those which had driven us from London.
     Our simple life and peaceful, healthy routine were violently
     interrupted, and we were precipitated into the midst of a series of
     events which caused the utmost excitement not only in Cornwall but
     throughout the whole west of England. Many of my readers may retain
     some recollection of what was called at the time "The Cornish
     Horror," though a most imperfect account of the matter reached the
     London press. Now, after thirteen years, I will give the true details
     of this inconceivable affair to the public.

     I have said that scattered towers marked the villages which dotted
     this part of Cornwall. The nearest of these was the hamlet of
     Tredannick Wollas, where the cottages of a couple of hundred
     inhabitants clustered round an ancient, moss-grown church. The vicar
     of the parish, Mr. Roundhay, was something of an archaeologist, and
     as such Holmes had made his acquaintance. He was a middle-aged man,
     portly and affable, with a considerable fund of local lore. At his
     invitation we had taken tea at the vicarage and had come to know,
     also, Mr. Mortimer Tregennis, an independent gentleman, who increased
     the clergyman's scanty resources by taking rooms in his large,
     straggling house. The vicar, being a bachelor, was glad to come to
     such an arrangement, though he had little in common with his lodger,
     who was a thin, dark, spectacled man, with a stoop which gave the
     impression of actual, physical deformity. I remember that during our
     short visit we found the vicar garrulous, but his lodger strangely
     reticent, a sad-faced, introspective man, sitting with averted eyes,
     brooding apparently upon his own affairs.

     These were the two men who entered abruptly into our little
     sitting-room on Tuesday, March the 16th, shortly after our breakfast
     hour, as we were smoking together, preparatory to our daily excursion
     upon the moors.

     "Mr. Holmes," said the vicar in an agitated voice, "the most
     extraordinary and tragic affair has occurred during the night. It is
     the most unheard-of business. We can only regard it as a special
     Providence that you should chance to be here at the time, for in all
     England you are the one man we need."

     I glared at the intrusive vicar with no very friendly eyes; but
     Holmes took his pipe from his lips and sat up in his chair like an
     old hound who hears the view-halloa. He waved his hand to the sofa,
     and our palpitating visitor with his agitated companion sat side by
     side upon it. Mr. Mortimer Tregennis was more self-contained than the
     clergyman, but the twitching of his thin hands and the brightness of
     his dark eyes showed that they shared a common emotion.

     "Shall I speak or you?" he asked of the vicar.

     "Well, as you seem to have made the discovery, whatever it may be,
     and the vicar to have had it second-hand, perhaps you had better do
     the speaking," said Holmes.

     I glanced at the hastily clad clergyman, with the formally dressed
     lodger seated beside him, and was amused at the surprise which
     Holmes's simple deduction had brought to their faces.

     "Perhaps I had best say a few words first," said the vicar, "and then
     you can judge if you will listen to the details from Mr. Tregennis,
     or whether we should not hasten at once to the scene of this
     mysterious affair. I may explain, then, that our friend here spent
     last evening in the company of his two brothers, Owen and George, and
     of his sister Brenda, at their house of Tredannick Wartha, which is
     near the old stone cross upon the moor. He left them shortly after
     ten o'clock, playing cards round the dining-room table, in excellent
     health and spirits. This morning, being an early riser, he walked in
     that direction before breakfast and was overtaken by the carriage of
     Dr. Richards, who explained that he had just been sent for on a most
     urgent call to Tredannick Wartha. Mr. Mortimer Tregennis naturally
     went with him. When he arrived at Tredannick Wartha he found an
     extraordinary state of things. His two brothers and his sister were
     seated round the table exactly as he had left them, the cards still
     spread in front of them and the candles burned down to their sockets.
     The sister lay back stone-dead in her chair, while the two brothers
     sat on each side of her laughing, shouting, and singing, the senses
     stricken clean out of them. All three of them, the dead woman and the
     two demented men, retained upon their faces an expression of the
     utmost horror--a convulsion of terror which was dreadful to look
     upon. There was no sign of the presence of anyone in the house,
     except Mrs. Porter, the old cook and housekeeper, who declared that
     she had slept deeply and heard no sound during the night. Nothing had
     been stolen or disarranged, and there is absolutely no explanation of
     what the horror can be which has frightened a woman to death and two
     strong men out of their senses. There is the situation, Mr. Holmes,
     in a nutshell, and if you can help us to clear it up you will have
     done a great work."

     I had hoped that in some way I could coax my companion back into the
     quiet which had been the object of our journey; but one glance at his
     intense face and contracted eyebrows told me how vain was now the
     expectation. He sat for some little time in silence, absorbed in the
     strange drama which had broken in upon our peace.

     "I will look into this matter," he said at last. "On the face of it,
     it would appear to be a case of a very exceptional nature. Have you
     been there yourself, Mr. Roundhay?"

     "No, Mr. Holmes. Mr. Tregennis brought back the account to the
     vicarage, and I at once hurried over with him to consult you."

     "How far is it to the house where this singular tragedy occurred?"

     "About a mile inland."

     "Then we shall walk over together. But before we start I must ask you
     a few questions, Mr. Mortimer Tregennis."

     The other had been silent all this time, but I had observed that his
     more controlled excitement was even greater than the obtrusive
     emotion of the clergyman. He sat with a pale, drawn face, his anxious
     gaze fixed upon Holmes, and his thin hands clasped convulsively
     together. His pale lips quivered as he listened to the dreadful
     experience which had befallen his family, and his dark eyes seemed to
     reflect something of the horror of the scene.

     "Ask what you like, Mr. Holmes," said he eagerly. "It is a bad thing
     to speak of, but I will answer you the truth."

     "Tell me about last night."

     "Well, Mr. Holmes, I supped there, as the vicar has said, and my
     elder brother George proposed a game of whist afterwards. We sat down
     about nine o'clock. It was a quarter-past ten when I moved to go. I
     left them all round the table, as merry as could be."

     "Who let you out?"

     "Mrs. Porter had gone to bed, so I let myself out. I shut the hall
     door behind me. The window of the room in which they sat was closed,
     but the blind was not drawn down. There was no change in door or
     window this morning, or any reason to think that any stranger had
     been to the house. Yet there they sat, driven clean mad with terror,
     and Brenda lying dead of fright, with her head hanging over the arm
     of the chair. I'll never get the sight of that room out of my mind so
     long as I live."

     "The facts, as you state them, are certainly most remarkable," said
     Holmes. "I take it that you have no theory yourself which can in any
     way account for them?"

     "It's devilish, Mr. Holmes, devilish!" cried Mortimer Tregennis. "It
     is not of this world. Something has come into that room which has
     dashed the light of reason from their minds. What human contrivance
     could do that?"

     "I fear," said Holmes, "that if the matter is beyond humanity it is
     certainly beyond me. Yet we must exhaust all natural explanations
     before we fall back upon such a theory as this. As to yourself, Mr.
     Tregennis, I take it you were divided in some way from your family,
     since they lived together and you had rooms apart?"

     "That is so, Mr. Holmes, though the matter is past and done with. We
     were a family of tin-miners at Redruth, but we sold our venture to a
     company, and so retired with enough to keep us. I won't deny that
     there was some feeling about the division of the money and it stood
     between us for a time, but it was all forgiven and forgotten, and we
     were the best of friends together."

     "Looking back at the evening which you spent together, does anything
     stand out in your memory as throwing any possible light upon the
     tragedy? Think carefully, Mr. Tregennis, for any clue which can help
     me."

     "There is nothing at all, sir."

     "Your people were in their usual spirits?"

     "Never better."

     "Were they nervous people? Did they ever show any apprehension of
     coming danger?"

     "Nothing of the kind."

     "You have nothing to add then, which could assist me?"

     Mortimer Tregennis considered earnestly for a moment.

     "There is one thing occurs to me," said he at last. "As we sat at the
     table my back was to the window, and my brother George, he being my
     partner at cards, was facing it. I saw him once look hard over my
     shoulder, so I turned round and looked also. The blind was up and the
     window shut, but I could just make out the bushes on the lawn, and it
     seemed to me for a moment that I saw something moving among them. I
     couldn't even say if it was man or animal, but I just thought there
     was something there. When I asked him what he was looking at, he told
     me that he had the same feeling. That is all that I can say."

     "Did you not investigate?"

     "No; the matter passed as unimportant."

     "You left them, then, without any premonition of evil?"

     "None at all."

     "I am not clear how you came to hear the news so early this morning."

     "I am an early riser and generally take a walk before breakfast. This
     morning I had hardly started when the doctor in his carriage overtook
     me. He told me that old Mrs. Porter had sent a boy down with an
     urgent message. I sprang in beside him and we drove on. When we got
     there we looked into that dreadful room. The candles and the fire
     must have burned out hours before, and they had been sitting there in
     the dark until dawn had broken. The doctor said Brenda must have been
     dead at least six hours. There were no signs of violence. She just
     lay across the arm of the chair with that look on her face. George
     and Owen were singing snatches of songs and gibbering like two great
     apes. Oh, it was awful to see! I couldn't stand it, and the doctor
     was as white as a sheet. Indeed, he fell into a chair in a sort of
     faint, and we nearly had him on our hands as well."

     "Remarkable--most remarkable!" said Holmes, rising and taking his
     hat. "I think, perhaps, we had better go down to Tredannick Wartha
     without further delay. I confess that I have seldom known a case
     which at first sight presented a more singular problem."

     Our proceedings of that first morning did little to advance the
     investigation. It was marked, however, at the outset by an incident
     which left the most sinister impression upon my mind. The approach to
     the spot at which the tragedy occurred is down a narrow, winding,
     country lane. While we made our way along it we heard the rattle of a
     carriage coming towards us and stood aside to let it pass. As it
     drove by us I caught a glimpse through the closed window of a
     horribly contorted, grinning face glaring out at us. Those staring
     eyes and gnashing teeth flashed past us like a dreadful vision.

     "My brothers!" cried Mortimer Tregennis, white to his lips. "They are
     taking them to Helston."

     We looked with horror after the black carriage, lumbering upon its
     way. Then we turned our steps towards this ill-omened house in which
     they had met their strange fate.

     It was a large and bright dwelling, rather a villa than a cottage,
     with a considerable garden which was already, in that Cornish air,
     well filled with spring flowers. Towards this garden the window of
     the sitting-room fronted, and from it, according to Mortimer
     Tregennis, must have come that thing of evil which had by sheer
     horror in a single instant blasted their minds. Holmes walked slowly
     and thoughtfully among the flower-plots and along the path before we
     entered the porch. So absorbed was he in his thoughts, I remember,
     that he stumbled over the watering-pot, upset its contents, and
     deluged both our feet and the garden path. Inside the house we were
     met by the elderly Cornish housekeeper, Mrs. Porter, who, with the
     aid of a young girl, looked after the wants of the family. She
     readily answered all Holmes's questions. She had heard nothing in the
     night. Her employers had all been in excellent spirits lately, and
     she had never known them more cheerful and prosperous. She had
     fainted with horror upon entering the room in the morning and seeing
     that dreadful company round the table. She had, when she recovered,
     thrown open the window to let the morning air in, and had run down to
     the lane, whence she sent a farm-lad for the doctor. The lady was on
     her bed upstairs if we cared to see her. It took four strong men to
     get the brothers into the asylum carriage. She would not herself stay
     in the house another day and was starting that very afternoon to
     rejoin her family at St. Ives.

     We ascended the stairs and viewed the body. Miss Brenda Tregennis had
     been a very beautiful girl, though now verging upon middle age. Her
     dark, clear-cut face was handsome, even in death, but there still
     lingered upon it something of that convulsion of horror which had
     been her last human emotion. From her bedroom we descended to the
     sitting-room, where this strange tragedy had actually occurred. The
     charred ashes of the overnight fire lay in the grate. On the table
     were the four guttered and burned-out candles, with the cards
     scattered over its surface. The chairs had been moved back against
     the walls, but all else was as it had been the night before. Holmes
     paced with light, swift steps about the room; he sat in the various
     chairs, drawing them up and reconstructing their positions. He tested
     how much of the garden was visible; he examined the floor, the
     ceiling, and the fireplace; but never once did I see that sudden
     brightening of his eyes and tightening of his lips which would have
     told me that he saw some gleam of light in this utter darkness.

     "Why a fire?" he asked once. "Had they always a fire in this small
     room on a spring evening?"

     Mortimer Tregennis explained that the night was cold and damp. For
     that reason, after his arrival, the fire was lit. "What are you going
     to do now, Mr. Holmes?" he asked.

     My friend smiled and laid his hand upon my arm. "I think, Watson,
     that I shall resume that course of tobacco-poisoning which you have
     so often and so justly condemned," said he. "With your permission,
     gentlemen, we will now return to our cottage, for I am not aware that
     any new factor is likely to come to our notice here. I will turn the
     facts over in my mid, Mr, Tregennis, and should anything occur to me
     I will certainly ommunicate with you and the vicar. In the meantime I
     wish you both good-morning."

     It was not until long after we were back in Poldhu Cottage that
     Holmes broke his complete and absorbed silence. He sat coiled in his
     armchair, his haggard and ascetic face hardly visible amid the blue
     swirl of his tobacco smoke, his black brows drawn down, his forehead
     contracted, his eyes vacant and far away. Finally he laid down his
     pipe and sprang to his feet.

     "It won't do, Watson!" said he with a laugh. "Let us walk along the
     cliffs together and search for flint arrows. We are more likely to
     find them than clues to this problem. To let the brain work without
     sufficient material is like racing an engine. It racks itself to
     pieces. The sea air, sunshine, and patience, Watson--all else will
     come.

     "Now, let us calmly define our position, Watson," he continued as we
     skirted the cliffs together. "Let us get a firm grip of the very
     little which we do know, so that when fresh facts arise we may be
     ready to fit them into their places. I take it, in the first place,
     that neither of us is prepared to admit diabolical intrusions into
     the affairs of men. Let us begin by ruling that entirely out of our
     minds. Very good. There remain three persons who have been grievously
     stricken by some conscious or unconscious human agency. That is firm
     ground. Now, when did this occur? Evidently, assuming his narrative
     to be true, it was immediately after Mr. Mortimer Tregennis had left
     the room. That is a very important point. The presumption is that it
     was within a few minutes afterwards. The cards still lay upon the
     table. It was already past their usual hour for bed. Yet they had not
     changed their position or pushed back their chairs. I repeat, then,
     that the occurrence was immediately after his departure, and not
     later than eleven o'clock last night.

     "Our next obvious step is to check, so far as we can, the movements
     of Mortimer Tregennis after he left the room. In this there is no
     difficulty, and they seem to be above suspicion. Knowing my methods
     as you do, you were, of course, conscious of the somewhat clumsy
     water-pot expedient by which I obtained a clearer impress of his foot
     than might otherwise have been possible. The wet, sandy path took it
     admirably. Last night was also wet, you will remember, and it was not
     difficult--having obtained a sample print--to pick out his track
     among others and to follow his movements. He appears to have walked
     away swiftly in the direction of the vicarage.

     "If, then, Mortimer Tregennis disappeared from the scene, and yet
     some outside person affected the card-players, how can we reconstruct
     that person, and how was such an impression of horror conveyed? Mrs.
     Porter may be eliminated. She is evidently harmless. Is there any
     evidence that someone crept up to the garden window and in some
     manner produced so terrific an effect that he drove those who saw it
     out of their senses? The only suggestion in this direction comes from
     Mortimer Tregennis himself, who says that his brother spoke about
     some movement in the garden. That is certainly remarkable, as the
     night was rainy, cloudy, and dark. Anyone who had the design to alarm
     these people would be compelled to place his very face against the
     glass before he could be seen. There is a three-foot flower-border
     outside this window, but no indication of a footmark. It is difficult
     to imagine, then, how an outsider could have made so terrible an
     impression upon the company, nor have we found any possible motive
     for so strange and elaborate an attempt. You perceive our
     difficulties, Watson?"

     "They are only too clear," I answered with conviction.

     "And yet, with a little more material, we may prove that they are not
     insurmountable," said Holmes. "I fancy that among your extensive
     archives, Watson, you may find some which were nearly as obscure.
     Meanwhile, we shall put the case aside until more accurate data are
     available, and devote the rest of our morning to the pursuit of
     neolithic man."

     I may have commented upon my friend's power of mental detachment, but
     never have I wondered at it more than upon that spring morning in
     Cornwall when for two hours he discoursed upon celts, arrowheads, and
     shards, as lightly as if no sinister mystery were waiting for his
     solution. It was not until we had returned in the afternoon to our
     cottage that we found a visitor awaiting us, who soon brought our
     minds back to the matter in hand. Neither of us needed to be told who
     that visitor was. The huge body, the craggy and deeply seamed face
     with the fierce eyes and hawk-like nose, the grizzled hair which
     nearly brushed our cottage ceiling, the beard--golden at the fringes
     and white near the lips, save for the nicotine stain from his
     perpetual cigar--all these were as well known in London as in Africa,
     and could only be associated with the tremendous personality of Dr.
     Leon Sterndale, the great lion-hunter and explorer.

     We had heard of his presence in the district and had once or twice
     caught sight of his tall figure upon the moorland paths. He made no
     advances to us, however, nor would we have dreamed of doing so to
     him, as it was well known that it was his love of seclusion which
     caused him to spend the greater part of the intervals between his
     journeys in a small bungalow buried in the lonely wood of Beauchamp
     Arriance. Here, amid his books and his maps, he lived an absolutely
     lonely life, attending to his own simple wants and paying little
     apparent heed to the affairs of his neighbours. It was a surprise to
     me, therefore, to hear him asking Holmes in an eager voice whether he
     had made any advance in his reconstruction of this mysterious
     episode. "The county police are utterly at fault," said he, "but
     perhaps your wider experience has suggested some conceivable
     explanation. My only claim to being taken into your confidence is
     that during my many residences here I have come to know this family
     of Tregennis very well--indeed, upon my Cornish mother's side I could
     call them cousins--and their strange fate has naturally been a great
     shock to me. I may tell you that I had got as far as Plymouth upon my
     way to Africa, but the news reached me this morning, and I came
     straight back again to help in the inquiry."

     Holmes raised his eyebrows.

     "Did you lose your boat through it?"

     "I will take the next."

     "Dear me! that is friendship indeed."

     "I tell you they were relatives."

     "Quite so--cousins of your mother. Was your baggage aboard the ship?"

     "Some of it, but the main part at the hotel."

     "I see. But surely this event could not have found its way into the
     Plymouth morning papers."

     "No, sir; I had a telegram."

     "Might I ask from whom?"

     A shadow passed over the gaunt face of the explorer.

     "You are very inquisitive, Mr. Holmes."

     "It is my business."

     With an effort Dr. Sterndale recovered his ruffled composure.

     "I have no objection to telling you," he said. "It was Mr. Roundhay,
     the vicar, who sent me the telegram which recalled me."

     "Thank you," said Holmes. "I may say in answer to your original
     question that I have not cleared my mind entirely on the subject of
     this case, but that I have every hope of reaching some conclusion. It
     would be premature to say more."

     "Perhaps you would not mind telling me if your suspicions point in
     any particular direction?"

     "No, I can hardly answer that."

     "Then I have wasted my time and need not prolong my visit." The
     famous doctor strode out of our cottage in considerable ill-humour,
     and within five minutes Holmes had followed him. I saw him no more
     until the evening, when he returned with a slow step and haggard face
     which assured me that he had made no great progress with his
     investigation. He glanced at a telegram which awaited him and threw
     it into the grate.

     "From the Plymouth hotel, Watson," he said. "I learned the name of it
     from the vicar, and I wired to make certain that Dr. Leon Sterndale's
     account was true. It appears that he did indeed spend last night
     there, and that he has actually allowed some of his baggage to go on
     to Africa, while he returned to be present at this investigation.
     What do you make of that, Watson?"

     "He is deeply interested."

     "Deeply interested--yes. There is a thread here which we had not yet
     grasped and which might lead us through the tangle. Cheer up, Watson,
     for I am very sure that our material has not yet all come to hand.
     When it does we may soon leave our difficulties behind us."

     Little did I think how soon the words of Holmes would be realized, or
     how strange and sinister would be that new development which opened
     up an entirely fresh line of investigation. I was shaving at my
     window in the morning when I heard the rattle of hoofs and, looking
     up, saw a dog-cart coming at a gallop down the road. It pulled up at
     our door, and our friend, the vicar, sprang from it and rushed up our
     garden path. Holmes was already dressed, and we hastened down to meet
     him.

     Our visitor was so excited that he could hardly articulate, but at
     last in gasps and bursts his tragic story came out of him.

     "We are devil-ridden, Mr. Holmes! My poor parish is devil-ridden!" he
     cried. "Satan himself is loose in it! We are given over into his
     hands!" He danced about in his agitation, a ludicrous object if it
     were not for his ashy face and startled eyes. Finally he shot out his
     terrible news.

     "Mr. Mortimer Tregennis died during the night, and with exactly the
     same symptoms as the rest of his family."

     Holmes sprang to his feet, all energy in an instant.

     "Can you fit us both into your dog-cart?"

     "Yes, I can."

     "Then, Watson, we will postpone our breakfast. Mr. Roundhay, we are
     entirely at your disposal. Hurry--hurry, before things get
     disarranged."

     The lodger occupied two rooms at the vicarage, which were in an angle
     by themselves, the one above the other. Below was a large
     sitting-room; above, his bedroom. They looked out upon a croquet lawn
     which came up to the windows. We had arrived before the doctor or the
     police, so that everything was absolutely undisturbed. Let me
     describe exactly the scene as we saw it upon that misty March
     morning. It has left an impression which can never be effaced from my
     mind.

     The atmosphere of the room was of a horrible and depressing
     stuffiness. The servant who had first entered had thrown up the
     window, or it would have been even more intolerable. This might
     partly be due to the fact that a lamp stood flaring and smoking on
     the centre table. Beside it sat the dead man, leaning back in his
     chair, his thin beard projecting, his spectacles pushed up on to his
     forehead, and his lean dark face turned towards the window and
     twisted into the same distortion of terror which had marked the
     features of his dead sister. His limbs were convulsed and his fingers
     contorted as though he had died in a very paroxysm of fear. He was
     fully clothed, though there were signs that his dressing had been
     done in a hurry. We had already learned that his bed had been slept
     in, and that the tragic end had come to him in the early morning.

     One realized the red-hot energy which underlay Holmes's phlegmatic
     exterior when one saw the sudden change which came over him from the
     moment that he entered the fatal apartment. In an instant he was
     tense and alert, his eyes shining, his face set, his limbs quivering
     with eager activity. He was out on the lawn, in through the window,
     round the room, and up into the bedroom, for all the world like a
     dashing foxhound drawing a cover. In the bedroom he made a rapid cast
     around and ended by throwing open the window, which appeared to give
     him some fresh cause for excitement, for he leaned out of it with
     loud ejaculations of interest and delight. Then he rushed down the
     stair, out through the open window, threw himself upon his face on
     the lawn, sprang up and into the room once more, all with the energy
     of the hunter who is at the very heels of his quarry. The lamp, which
     was an ordinary standard, he examined with minute care, making
     certain measurements upon its bowl. He carefully scrutinized with his
     lens the talc shield which covered the top of the chimney and scraped
     off some ashes which adhered to its upper surface, putting some of
     them into an envelope, which he placed in his pocketbook. Finally,
     just as the doctor and the official police put in an appearance, he
     beckoned to the vicar and we all three went out upon the lawn.

     "I am glad to say that my investigation has not been entirely
     barren," he remarked. "I cannot remain to discuss the matter with the
     police, but I should be exceedingly obliged, Mr. Roundhay, if you
     would give the inspector my compliments and direct his attention to
     the bedroom window and to the sitting-room lamp. Each is suggestive,
     and together they are almost conclusive. If the police would desire
     further information I shall be happy to see any of them at the
     cottage. And now, Watson, I think that, perhaps, we shall be better
     employed elsewhere."

     It may be that the police resented the intrusion of an amateur, or
     that they imagined themselves to be upon some hopeful line of
     investigation; but it is certain that we heard nothing from them for
     the next two days. During this time Holmes spent some of his time
     smoking and dreaming in the cottage; but a greater portion in country
     walks which he undertook alone, returning after many hours without
     remark as to where he had been. One experiment served to show me the
     line of his investigation. He had bought a lamp which was the
     duplicate of the one which had burned in the room of Mortimer
     Tregennis on the morning of the tragedy. This he filled with the same
     oil as that used at the vicarage, and he carefully timed the period
     which it would take to be exhausted. Another experiment which he made
     was of a more unpleasant nature, and one which I am not likely ever
     to forget.

     "You will remember, Watson," he remarked one afternoon, "that there
     is a single common point of resemblance in the varying reports which
     have reached us. This concerns the effect of the atmosphere of the
     room in each case upon those who had first entered it. You will
     recollect that Mortimer Tregennis, in describing the episode of his
     last visit to his brother's house, remarked that the doctor on
     entering the room fell into a chair? You had forgotten? Well I can
     answer for it that it was so. Now, you will remember also that Mrs.
     Porter, the housekeeper, told us that she herself fainted upon
     entering the room and had afterwards opened the window. In the second
     case--that of Mortimer Tregennis himself--you cannot have forgotten
     the horrible stuffiness of the room when we arrived, though the
     servant had thrown open the window. That servant, I found upon
     inquiry, was so ill that she had gone to her bed. You will admit,
     Watson, that these facts are very suggestive. In each case there is
     evidence of a poisonous atmosphere. In each case, also, there is
     combustion going on in the room--in the one case a fire, in the other
     a lamp. The fire was needed, but the lamp was lit--as a comparison of
     the oil consumed will show--long after it was broad daylight. Why?
     Surely because there is some connection between three things--the
     burning, the stuffy atmosphere, and, finally, the madness or death of
     those unfortunate people. That is clear, is it not?"

     "It would appear so."

     "At least we may accept it as a working hypothesis. We will suppose,
     then, that something was burned in each case which produced an
     atmosphere causing strange toxic effects. Very good. In the first
     instance--that of the Tregennis family--this substance was placed in
     the fire. Now the window was shut, but the fire would naturally carry
     fumes to some extent up the chimney. Hence one would expect the
     effects of the poison to be less than in the second case, where there
     was less escape for the vapour. The result seems to indicate that it
     was so, since in the first case only the woman, who had presumably
     the more sensitive organism, was killed, the others exhibiting that
     temporary or permanent lunacy which is evidently the first effect of
     the drug. In the second case the result was complete. The facts,
     therefore, seem to bear out the theory of a poison which worked by
     combustion.

     "With this train of reasoning in my head I naturally looked about in
     Mortimer Tregennis's room to find some remains of this substance. The
     obvious place to look was the talc shelf or smoke-guard of the lamp.
     There, sure enough, I perceived a number of flaky ashes, and round
     the edges a fringe of brownish powder, which had not yet been
     consumed. Half of this I took, as you saw, and I placed it in an
     envelope."

     "Why half, Holmes?"

     "It is not for me, my dear Watson, to stand in the way of the
     official police force. I leave them all the evidence which I found.
     The poison still remained upon the talc had they the wit to find it.
     Now, Watson, we will light our lamp; we will, however, take the
     precaution to open our window to avoid the premature decease of two
     deserving members of society, and you will seat yourself near that
     open window in an armchair unless, like a sensible man, you determine
     to have nothing to do with the affair. Oh, you will see it out, will
     you? I thought I knew my Watson. This chair I will place opposite
     yours, so that we may be the same distance from the poison and face
     to face. The door we will leave ajar. Each is now in a position to
     watch the other and to bring the experiment to an end should the
     symptoms seem alarming. Is that all clear? Well, then, I take our
     powder--or what remains of it--from the envelope, and I lay it above
     the burning lamp. So! Now, Watson, let us sit down and await
     developments."

     They were not long in coming. I had hardly settled in my chair before
     I was conscious of a thick, musky odour, subtle and nauseous. At the
     very first whiff of it my brain and my imagination were beyond all
     control. A thick, black cloud swirled before my eyes, and my mind
     told me that in this cloud, unseen as yet, but about to spring out
     upon my appalled senses, lurked all that was vaguely horrible, all
     that was monstrous and inconceivably wicked in the universe. Vague
     shapes swirled and swam amid the dark cloud-bank, each a menace and a
     warning of something coming, the advent of some unspeakable dweller
     upon the threshold, whose very shadow would blast my soul. A freezing
     horror took possession of me. I felt that my hair was rising, that my
     eyes were protruding, that my mouth was opened, and my tongue like
     leather. The turmoil within my brain was such that something must
     surely snap. I tried to scream and was vaguely aware of some hoarse
     croak which was my own voice, but distant and detached from myself.
     At the same moment, in some effort of escape, I broke through that
     cloud of despair and had a glimpse of Holmes's face, white, rigid,
     and drawn with horror--the very look which I had seen upon the
     features of the dead. It was that vision which gave me an instant of
     sanity and of strength. I dashed from my chair, threw my arms round
     Holmes, and together we lurched through the door, and an instant
     afterwards had thrown ourselves down upon the grass plot and were
     lying side by side, conscious only of the glorious sunshine which was
     bursting its way through the hellish cloud of terror which had girt
     us in. Slowly it rose from our souls like the mists from a landscape
     until peace and reason had returned, and we were sitting upon the
     grass, wiping our clammy foreheads, and looking with apprehension at
     each other to mark the last traces of that terrific experience which
     we had undergone.

     "Upon my word, Watson!" said Holmes at last with an unsteady voice,
     "I owe you both my thanks and an apology. It was an unjustifiable
     experiment even for one's self, and doubly so for a friend. I am
     really very sorry."

     "You know," I answered with some emotion, for I have never seen so
     much of Holmes's heart before, "that it is my greatest joy and
     privilege to help you."

     He relapsed at once into the half-humorous, half-cynical vein which
     was his habitual attitude to those about him. "It would be
     superfluous to drive us mad, my dear Watson," said he. "A candid
     observer would certainly declare that we were so already before we
     embarked upon so wild an experiment. I confess that I never imagined
     that the effect could be so sudden and so severe." He dashed into the
     cottage, and, reappearing with the burning lamp held at full arm's
     length, he threw it among a bank of brambles. "We must give the room
     a little time to clear. I take it, Watson, that you have no longer a
     shadow of a doubt as to how these tragedies were produced?"

     "None whatever."

     "But the cause remains as obscure as before. Come into the arbour
     here and let us discuss it together. That villainous stuff seems
     still to linger round my throat. I think we must admit that all the
     evidence points to this man, Mortimer Tregennis, having been the
     criminal in the first tragedy, though he was the victim in the second
     one. We must remember, in the first place, that there is some story
     of a family quarrel, followed by a reconciliation. How bitter that
     quarrel may have been, or how hollow the reconciliation we cannot
     tell. When I think of Mortimer Tregennis, with the foxy face and the
     small shrewd, beady eyes behind the spectacles, he is not a man whom
     I should judge to be of a particularly forgiving disposition. Well,
     in the next place, you will remember that this idea of someone moving
     in the garden, which took our attention for a moment from the real
     cause of the tragedy, emanated from him. He had a motive in
     misleading us. Finally, if he did not throw the substance into the
     fire at the moment of leaving the room, who did do so? The affair
     happened immediately after his departure. Had anyone else come in,
     the family would certainly have risen from the table. Besides, in
     peaceful Cornwall, visitors did not arrive after ten o'clock at
     night. We may take it, then, that all the evidence points to Mortimer
     Tregennis as the culprit."

     "Then his own death was suicide!"

     "Well, Watson, it is on the face of it a not impossible supposition.
     The man who had the guilt upon his soul of having brought such a fate
     upon his own family might well be driven by remorse to inflict it
     upon himself. There are, however, some cogent reasons against it.
     Fortunately, there is one man in England who knows all about it, and
     I have made arrangements by which we shall hear the facts this
     afternoon from his own lips. Ah! he is a little before his time.
     Perhaps you would kindly step this way, Dr. Leon Sterndale. We have
     been conducing a chemical experiment indoors which has left our
     little room hardly fit for the reception of so distinguished a
     visitor."

     I had heard the click of the garden gate, and now the majestic figure
     of the great African explorer appeared upon the path. He turned in
     some surprise towards the rustic arbour in which we sat.

     "You sent for me, Mr. Holmes. I had your note about an hour ago, and
     I have come, though I really do not know why I should obey your
     summons."

     "Perhaps we can clear the point up before we separate," said Holmes.
     "Meanwhile, I am much obliged to you for your courteous acquiescence.
     You will excuse this informal reception in the open air, but my
     friend Watson and I have nearly furnished an additional chapter to
     what the papers call the Cornish Horror, and we prefer a clear
     atmosphere for the present. Perhaps, since the matters which we have
     to discuss will affect you personally in a very intimate fashion, it
     is as well that we should talk where there can be no eavesdropping."

     The explorer took his cigar from his lips and gazed sternly at my
     companion.

     "I am at a loss to know, sir," he said, "what you can have to speak
     about which affects me personally in a very intimate fashion."

     "The killing of Mortimer Tregennis," said Holmes.

     For a moment I wished that I were armed. Sterndale's fierce face
     turned to a dusky red, his eyes glared, and the knotted, passionate
     veins started out in his forehead, while he sprang forward with
     clenched hands towards my companion. Then he stopped, and with a
     violent effort he resumed a cold, rigid calmness, which was, perhaps,
     more suggestive of danger than his hot-headed outburst.

     "I have lived so long among savages and beyond the law," said he,
     "that I have got into the way of being a law to myself. You would do
     well, Mr. Holmes, not to forget it, for I have no desire to do you an
     injury."

     "Nor have I any desire to do you an injury, Dr. Sterndale. Surely the
     clearest proof of it is that, knowing what I know, I have sent for
     you and not for the police."

     Sterndale sat down with a gasp, overawed for, perhaps, the first time
     in his adventurous life. There was a calm assurance of power in
     Holmes's manner which could not be withstood. Our visitor stammered
     for a moment, his great hands opening and shutting in his agitation.

     "What do you mean?" he asked at last. "If this is bluff upon your
     part, Mr. Holmes, you have chosen a bad man for your experiment. Let
     us have no more beating about the bush. What do you mean?"

     "I will tell you," said Holmes, "and the reason why I tell you is
     that I hope frankness may beget frankness. What my next step may be
     will depend entirely upon the nature of your own defence."

     "My defence?"

     "Yes, sir."

     "My defence against what?"

     "Against the charge of killing Mortimer Tregennis."

     Sterndale mopped his forehead with his handkerchief. "Upon my word,
     you are getting on," said he. "Do all your successes depend upon this
     prodigious power of bluff?"

     "The bluff," said Holmes sternly, "is upon your side, Dr. Leon
     Sterndale, and not upon mine. As a proof I will tell you some of the
     facts upon which my conclusions are based. Of your return from
     Plymouth, allowing much of your property to go on to Africa, I will
     say nothing save that it first informed me that you were one of the
     factors which had to be taken into account in reconstructing this
     drama--"

     "I came back--"

     "I have heard your reasons and regard them as unconvincing and
     inadequate. We will pass that. You came down here to ask me whom I
     suspected. I refused to answer you. You then went to the vicarage,
     waited outside it for some time, and finally returned to your
     cottage."

     "How do you know that?"

     "I followed you."

     "I saw no one."

     "That is what you may expect to see when I follow you. You spent a
     restless night at your cottage, and you formed certain plans, which
     in the early morning you proceeded to put into execution. Leaving
     your door just as day was breaking, you filled your pocket with some
     reddish gravel that was lying heaped beside your gate."

     Sterndale gave a violent start and looked at Holmes in amazement.

     "You then walked swiftly for the mile which separated you from the
     vicarage. You were wearing, I may remark, the same pair of ribbed
     tennis shoes which are at the present moment upon your feet. At the
     vicarage you passed through the orchard and the side hedge, coming
     out under the window of the lodger Tregennis. It was now daylight,
     but the household was not yet stirring. You drew some of the gravel
     from your pocket, and you threw it up at the window above you."

     Sterndale sprang to his feet.

     "I believe that you are the devil himself!" he cried.

     Holmes smiled at the compliment. "It took two, or possibly three,
     handfuls before the lodger came to the window. You beckoned him to
     come down. He dressed hurriedly and descended to his sitting-room.
     You entered by the window. There was an interview--a short
     one--during which you walked up and down the room. Then you passed
     out and closed the window, standing on the lawn outside smoking a
     cigar and watching what occurred. Finally, after the death of
     Tregennis, you withdrew as you had come. Now, Dr. Sterndale, how do
     you justify such conduct, and what were the motives for your actions?
     If you prevaricate or trifle with me, I give you my assurance that
     the matter will pass out of my hands forever."

     Our visitor's face had turned ashen gray as he listened to the words
     of his accuser. Now he sat for some time in thought with his face
     sunk in his hands. Then with a sudden impulsive gesture he plucked a
     photograph from his breast-pocket and threw it on the rustic table
     before us.

     "That is why I have done it," said he.

     It showed the bust and face of a very beautiful woman. Holmes stooped
     over it.

     "Brenda Tregennis," said he.

     "Yes, Brenda Tregennis," repeated our visitor. "For years I have
     loved her. For years she has loved me. There is the secret of that
     Cornish seclusion which people have marvelled at. It has brought me
     close to the one thing on earth that was dear to me. I could not
     marry her, for I have a wife who has left me for years and yet whom,
     by the deplorable laws of England, I could not divorce. For years
     Brenda waited. For years I waited. And this is what we have waited
     for." A terrible sob shook his great frame, and he clutched his
     throat under his brindled beard. Then with an effort he mastered
     himself and spoke on:

     "The vicar knew. He was in our confidence. He would tell you that she
     was an angel upon earth. That was why he telegraphed to me and I
     returned. What was my baggage or Africa to me when I learned that
     such a fate had come upon my darling? There you have the missing clue
     to my action, Mr. Holmes."

     "Proceed," said my friend.

     Dr. Sterndale drew from his pocket a paper packet and laid it upon
     the table. On the outside was written "Radix pedis diaboli" with a
     red poison label beneath it. He pushed it towards me. "I understand
     that you are a doctor, sir. Have you ever heard of this preparation?"

     "Devil's-foot root! No, I have never heard of it."

     "It is no reflection upon your professional knowledge," said he, "for
     I believe that, save for one sample in a laboratory at Buda, there is
     no other specimen in Europe. It has not yet found its way either into
     the pharmacopoeia or into the literature of toxicology. The root is
     shaped like a foot, half human, half goatlike; hence the fanciful
     name given by a botanical missionary. It is used as an ordeal poison
     by the medicine-men in certain districts of West Africa and is kept
     as a secret among them. This particular specimen I obtained under
     very extraordinary circumstances in the Ubangi country." He opened
     the paper as he spoke and disclosed a heap of reddish-brown,
     snuff-like powder.

     "Well, sir?" asked Holmes sternly.

     "I am about to tell you, Mr. Holmes, all that actually occurred, for
     you already know so much that it is clearly to my interest that you
     should know all. I have already explained the relationship in which I
     stood to the Tregennis family. For the sake of the sister I was
     friendly with the brothers. There was a family quarrel about money
     which estranged this man Mortimer, but it was supposed to be made up,
     and I afterwards met him as I did the others. He was a sly, subtle,
     scheming man, and several things arose which gave me a suspicion of
     him, but I had no cause for any positive quarrel.

     "One day, only a couple of weeks ago, he came down to my cottage and
     I showed him some of my African curiosities. Among other things I
     exhibited this powder, and I told him of its strange properties, how
     it stimulates those brain centres which control the emotion of fear,
     and how either madness or death is the fate of the unhappy native who
     is subjected to the ordeal by the priest of his tribe. I told him
     also how powerless European science would be to detect it. How he
     took it I cannot say, for I never left the room, but there is no
     doubt that it was then, while I was opening cabinets and stooping to
     boxes, that he managed to abstract some of the devil's-foot root. I
     well remember how he plied me with questions as to the amount and the
     time that was needed for its effect, but I little dreamed that he
     could have a personal reason for asking.

     "I thought no more of the matter until the vicar's telegram reached
     me at Plymouth. This villain had thought that I would be at sea
     before the news could reach me, and that I should be lost for years
     in Africa. But I returned at once. Of course, I could not listen to
     the details without feeling assured that my poison had been used. I
     came round to see you on the chance that some other explanation had
     suggested itself to you. But there could be none. I was convinced
     that Mortimer Tregennis was the murderer; that for the sake of money,
     and with the idea, perhaps, that if the other members of his family
     were all insane he would be the sole guardian of their joint
     property, he had used the devil's-foot powder upon them, driven two
     of them out of their senses, and killed his sister Brenda, the one
     human being whom I have ever loved or who has ever loved me. There
     was his crime; what was to be his punishment?

     "Should I appeal to the law? Where were my proofs? I knew that the
     facts were true, but could I help to make a jury of countrymen
     believe so fantastic a story? I might or I might not. But I could not
     afford to fail. My soul cried out for revenge. I have said to you
     once before, Mr. Holmes, that I have spent much of my life outside
     the law, and that I have come at last to be a law to myself. So it
     was even now. I determined that the fate which he had given to others
     should be shared by himself. Either that or I would do justice upon
     him with my own hand. In all England there can be no man who sets
     less value upon his own life than I do at the present moment.

     "Now I have told you all. You have yourself supplied the rest. I did,
     as you say, after a restless night, set off early from my cottage. I
     foresaw the difficulty of arousing him, so I gathered some gravel
     from the pile which you have mentioned, and I used it to throw up to
     his window. He came down and admitted me through the window of the
     sitting-room. I laid his offence before him. I told him that I had
     come both as judge and executioner. The wretch sank into a chair,
     paralyzed at the sight of my revolver. I lit the lamp, put the powder
     above it, and stood outside the window, ready to carry out my threat
     to shoot him should he try to leave the room. In five minutes he
     died. My God! how he died! But my heart was flint, for he endured
     nothing which my innocent darling had not felt before him. There is
     my story, Mr. Holmes. Perhaps, if you loved a woman, you would have
     done as much yourself. At any rate, I am in your hands. You can take
     what steps you like. As I have already said, there is no man living
     who can fear death less than I do."

     Holmes sat for some little time in silence.

     "What were your plans?" he asked at last.

     "I had intended to bury myself in central Africa. My work there is
     but half finished."

     "Go and do the other half," said Holmes. "I, at least, am not
     prepared to prevent you."

     Dr. Sterndale raised his giant figure, bowed gravely, and walked from
     the arbour. Holmes lit his pipe and handed me his pouch.

     "Some fumes which are not poisonous would be a welcome change," said
     he. "I think you must agree, Watson, that it is not a case in which
     we are called upon to interfere. Our investigation has been
     independent, and our action shall be so also. You would not denounce
     the man?"

     "Certainly not," I answered.

     "I have never loved, Watson, but if I did and if the woman I loved
     had met such an end, I might act even as our lawless lion-hunter has
     done. Who knows? Well, Watson, I will not offend your intelligence by
     explaining what is obvious. The gravel upon the window-sill was, of
     course, the starting-point of my research. It was unlike anything in
     the vicarage garden. Only when my attention had been drawn to Dr.
     Sterndale and his cottage did I find its counterpart. The lamp
     shining in broad daylight and the remains of powder upon the shield
     were successive links in a fairly obvious chain. And now, my dear
     Watson, I think we may dismiss the matter from our mind and go back
     with a clear conscience to the study of those Chaldean roots which
     are surely to be traced in the Cornish branch of the great Celtic
     speech."






                                  HIS LAST BOW
                         An Epilogue of Sherlock Holmes

     It was nine o'clock at night upon the second of August--the most
     terrible August in the history of the world. One might have thought
     already that God's curse hung heavy over a degenerate world, for
     there was an awesome hush and a feeling of vague expectancy in the
     sultry and stagnant air. The sun had long set, but one blood-red gash
     like an open wound lay low in the distant west. Above, the stars were
     shining brightly, and below, the lights of the shipping glimmered in
     the bay. The two famous Germans stood beside the stone parapet of the
     garden walk, with the long, low, heavily gabled house behind them,
     and they looked down upon the broad sweep of the beach at the foot of
     the great chalk cliff in which Von Bork, like some wandering eagle,
     had perched himself four years before. They stood with their heads
     close together, talking in low, confidential tones. From below the
     two glowing ends of their cigars might have been the smouldering eyes
     of some malignant fiend looking down in the darkness.

     A remarkable man this Von Bork--a man who could hardly be matched
     among all the devoted agents of the Kaiser. It was his talents which
     had first recommended him for the English mission, the most important
     mission of all, but since he had taken it over those talents had
     become more and more manifest to the half-dozen people in the world
     who were really in touch with the truth. One of these was his present
     companion, Baron Von Herling, the chief secretary of the legation,
     whose huge 100-horse-power Benz car was blocking the country lane as
     it waited to waft its owner back to London.

     "So far as I can judge the trend of events, you will probably be back
     in Berlin within the week," the secretary was saying. "When you get
     there, my dear Von Bork, I think you will be surprised at the welcome
     you will receive. I happen to know what is thought in the highest
     quarters of your work in this country." He was a huge man, the
     secretary, deep, broad, and tall, with a slow, heavy fashion of
     speech which had been his main asset in his political career.

     Von Bork laughed.

     "They are not very hard to deceive," he remarked. "A more docile,
     simple folk could not be imagined."

     "I don't know about that," said the other thoughtfully. "They have
     strange limits and one must learn to observe them. It is that surface
     simplicity of theirs which makes a trap for the stranger. One's first
     impression is that they are entirely soft. Then one comes suddenly
     upon something very hard, and you know that you have reached the
     limit and must adapt yourself to the fact. They have, for example,
     their insular conventions which simply must be observed."

     "Meaning 'good form' and that sort of thing?" Von Bork sighed as one
     who had suffered much.

     "Meaning British prejudice in all its queer manifestations. As an
     example I may quote one of my own worst blunders--I can afford to
     talk of my blunders, for you know my work well enough to be aware of
     my successes. It was on my first arrival. I was invited to a week-end
     gathering at the country house of a cabinet minister. The
     conversation was amazingly indiscreet."

     Von Bork nodded. "I've been there," said he dryly.

     "Exactly. Well, I naturally sent a resume of the information to
     Berlin. Unfortunately our good chancellor is a little heavy-handed in
     these matters, and he transmitted a remark which showed that he was
     aware of what had been said. This, of course, took the trail straight
     up to me. You've no idea the harm that it did me. There was nothing
     soft about our British hosts on that occasion, I can assure you. I
     was two years living it down. Now you, with this sporting pose of
     yours--"

     "No, no, don't call it a pose. A pose is an artificial thing. This is
     quite natural. I am a born sportsman. I enjoy it."

     "Well, that makes it the more effective. You yacht against them, you
     hunt with them, you play polo, you match them in every game, your
     four-in-hand takes the prize at Olympia. I have even heard that you
     go the length of boxing with the young officers. What is the result?
     Nobody takes you seriously. You are a 'good old sport,' 'quite a
     decent fellow for a German,' a hard-drinking, night-club,
     knock-about-town, devil-may-care young fellow. And all the time this
     quiet country house of yours is the centre of half the mischief in
     England, and the sporting squire the most astute secret-service man
     in Europe. Genius, my dear Von Bork--genius!"

     "You flatter me, Baron. But certainly I may claim my four years in
     this country have not been unproductive. I've never shown you my
     little store. Would you mind stepping in for a moment?"

     The door of the study opened straight on to the terrace. Von Bork
     pushed it back, and, leading the way, he clicked the switch of the
     electric light. He then closed the door behind the bulky form which
     followed him and carefully adjusted the heavy curtain over the
     latticed window. Only when all these precautions had been taken and
     tested did he turn his sunburned aquiline face to his guest.

     "Some of my papers have gone," said he. "When my wife and the
     household left yesterday for Flushing they took the less important
     with them. I must, of course, claim the protection of the embassy for
     the others."

     "Your name has already been filed as one of the personal suite. There
     will be no difficulties for you or your baggage. Of course, it is
     just possible that we may not have to go. England may leave France to
     her fate. We are sure that there is no binding treaty between them."

     "And Belgium?"

     "Yes, and Belgium, too."

     Von Bork shook his head. "I don't see how that could be. There is a
     definite treaty there. She could never recover from such a
     humiliation."

     "She would at least have peace for the moment."

     "But her honor?"

     "Tut, my dear sir, we live in a utilitarian age. Honour is a
     mediaeval conception. Besides England is not ready. It is an
     inconceivable thing, but even our special war tax of fifty million,
     which one would think made our purpose as clear as if we had
     advertised it on the front page of the Times, has not roused these
     people from their slumbers. Here and there one hears a question. It
     is my business to find an answer. Here and there also there is an
     irritation. It is my business to soothe it. But I can assure you that
     so far as the essentials go--the storage of munitions, the
     preparation for submarine attack, the arrangements for making high
     explosives--nothing is prepared. How, then, can England come in,
     especially when we have stirred her up such a devil's brew of Irish
     civil war, window-breaking Furies, and God knows what to keep her
     thoughts at home."

     "She must think of her future."

     "Ah, that is another matter. I fancy that in the future we have our
     own very definite plans about England, and that your information will
     be very vital to us. It is to-day or to-morrow with Mr. John Bull. If
     he prefers to-day we are perfectly ready. If it is to-morrow we shall
     be more ready still. I should think they would be wiser to fight with
     allies than without them, but that is their own affair. This week is
     their week of destiny. But you were speaking of your papers." He sat
     in the armchair with the light shining upon his broad bald head,
     while he puffed sedately at his cigar.

     The large oak-panelled, book-lined room had a curtain hung in the
     future corner. When this was drawn it disclosed a large, brass-bound
     safe. Von Bork detached a small key from his watch chain, and after
     some considerable manipulation of the lock he swung open the heavy
     door.

     "Look!" said he, standing clear, with a wave of his hand.

     The light shone vividly into the opened safe, and the secretary of
     the embassy gazed with an absorbed interest at the rows of stuffed
     pigeon-holes with which it was furnished. Each pigeon-hole had its
     label, and his eyes as he glanced along them read a long series of
     such titles as "Fords," "Harbour-defences," "Aeroplanes," "Ireland,"
     "Egypt," "Portsmouth forts," "The Channel," "Rosythe," and a score of
     others. Each compartment was bristling with papers and plans.

     "Colossal!" said the secretary. Putting down his cigar he softly
     clapped his fat hands.

     "And all in four years, Baron. Not such a bad show for the
     hard-drinking, hard-riding country squire. But the gem of my
     collection is coming and there is the setting all ready for it." He
     pointed to a space over which "Naval Signals" was printed.

     "But you have a good dossier there already."

     "Out of date and waste paper. The Admiralty in some way got the alarm
     and every code has been changed. It was a blow, Baron--the worst
     setback in my whole campaign. But thanks to my check-book and the
     good Altamont all will be well to-night."

     The Baron looked at his watch and gave a guttural exclamation of
     disappointment.

     "Well, I really can wait no longer. You can imagine that things are
     moving at present in Carlton Terrace and that we have all to be at
     our posts. I had hoped to be able to bring news of your great coup.
     Did Altamont name no hour?"

     Von Bork pushed over a telegram.

     Will come without fail to-night and bring new sparking plugs.
     --Altamont.

     "Sparking plugs, eh?"

     "You see he poses as a motor expert and I keep a full garage. In our
     code everything likely to come up is named after some spare part. If
     he talks of a radiator it is a battleship, of an oil pump a cruiser,
     and so on. Sparking plugs are naval signals."

     "From Portsmouth at midday," said the secretary, examining the
     superscription. "By the way, what do you give him?"

     "Five hundred pounds for this particular job. Of course he has a
     salary as well."

     "The greedy rouge. They are useful, these traitors, but I grudge them
     their blood money."

     "I grudge Altamont nothing. He is a wonderful worker. If I pay him
     well, at least he delivers the goods, to use his own phrase. Besides
     he is not a traitor. I assure you that our most pan-Germanic Junker
     is a sucking dove in his feelings towards England as compared with a
     real bitter Irish-American."

     "Oh, an Irish-American?"

     "If you heard him talk you would not doubt it. Sometimes I assure you
     I can hardly understand him. He seems to have declared war on the
     King's English as well as on the English king. Must you really go? He
     may be here any moment."

     "No. I'm sorry, but I have already overstayed my time. We shall
     expect you early to-morrow, and when you get that signal book through
     the little door on the Duke of York's steps you can put a triumphant
     finis to your record in England. What! Tokay!" He indicated a heavily
     sealed dust-covered bottle which stood with two high glasses upon a
     salver.

     "May I offer you a glass before your journey?"

     "No, thanks. But it looks like revelry."

     "Altamont has a nice taste in wines, and he took a fancy to my Tokay.
     He is a touchy fellow and needs humouring in small things. I have to
     study him, I assure you." They had strolled out on to the terrace
     again, and along it to the further end where at a touch from the
     Baron's chauffeur the great car shivered and chuckled. "Those are the
     lights of Harwich, I suppose," said the secretary, pulling on his
     dust coat. "How still and peaceful it all seems. There may be other
     lights within the week, and the English coast a less tranquil place!
     The heavens, too, may not be quite so peaceful if all that the good
     Zeppelin promises us comes true. By the way, who is that?"

     Only one window showed a light behind them; in it there stood a lamp,
     and beside it, seated at a table, was a dear old ruddy-faced woman in
     a country cap. She was bending over her knitting and stopping
     occasionally to stroke a large black cat upon a stool beside her.

     "That is Martha, the only servant I have left."

     The secretary chuckled.

     "She might almost personify Britannia," said he, "with her complete
     self-absorption and general air of comfortable somnolence. Well, au
     revoir, Von Bork!" With a final wave of his hand he sprang into the
     car, and a moment later the two golden cones from the headlights shot
     through the darkness. The secretary lay back in the cushions of the
     luxurious limousine, with his thoughts so full of the impending
     European tragedy that he hardly observed that as his car swung round
     the village street it nearly passed over a little Ford coming in the
     opposite direction.

     Von Bork walked slowly back to the study when the last gleams of the
     motor lamps had faded into the distance. As he passed he observed
     that his old housekeeper had put out her lamp and retired. It was a
     new experience to him, the silence and darkness of his widespread
     house, for his family and household had been a large one. It was a
     relief to him, however, to think that they were all in safety and
     that, but for that one old woman who had lingered in the kitchen, he
     had the whole place to himself. There was a good deal of tidying up
     to do inside his study and he set himself to do it until his keen,
     handsome face was flushed with the heat of the burning papers. A
     leather valise stood beside his table, and into this he began to pack
     very neatly and systematically the precious contents of his safe. He
     had hardly got started with the work, however, when his quick ears
     caught the sounds of a distant car. Instantly he gave an exclamation
     of satisfaction, strapped up the valise, shut the safe, locked it,
     and hurried out on to the terrace. He was just in time to see the
     lights of a small car come to a halt at the gate. A passenger sprang
     out of it and advanced swiftly towards him, while the chauffeur, a
     heavily built, elderly man with a gray moustache, settled down like
     one who resigns himself to a long vigil.

     "Well?" asked Von Bork eagerly, running forward to meet his visitor.

     For answer the man waved a small brown-paper parcel triumphantly
     above his head.

     "You can give me the glad hand to-night, mister," he cried. "I'm
     bringing home the bacon at last."

     "The signals?"

     "Same as I said in my cable. Every last one of them, semaphore, lamp
     code, Marconi--a copy, mind you, not the original. That was too
     dangerous. But it's the real goods, and you can lay to that." He
     slapped the German upon the shoulder with a rough familiarity from
     which the other winced.

     "Come in," he said. "I'm all alone in the house. I was only waiting
     for this. Of course a copy is better than the original. If an
     original were missing they would change the whole thing. You think
     it's all safe about the copy?"

     The Irish-American had entered the study and stretched his long limbs
     from the armchair. He was a tall, gaunt man of sixty, with clear-cut
     features and a small goatee beard which gave him a general
     resemblance to the caricatures of Uncle Sam. A half-smoked, sodden
     cigar hung from the corner of his mouth, and as he sat down he struck
     a match and relit it. "Making ready for a move?" he remarked as he
     looked round him. "Say, mister," he added, as his eyes fell upon the
     safe from which the curtain was now removed, "you don't tell me you
     keep your papers in that?"

     "Why not?"

     "Gosh, in a wide-open contraption like that! And they reckon you to
     be some spy. Why, a Yankee crook would be into that with a
     can-opener. If I'd known that any letter of mine was goin' to lie
     loose in a thing like that I'd have been a mug to write to you at
     all."

     "It would puzzle any crook to force that safe," Von Bork answered.
     "You won't cut that metal with any tool."

     "But the lock?"

     "No, it's a double combination lock. You know what that is?"

     "Search me," said the American.

     "Well, you need a word as well as a set of figures before you can get
     the lock to work." He rose and showed a double-radiating disc round
     the keyhole. "This outer one is for the letters, the inner one for
     the figures."

     "Well, well, that's fine."

     "So it's not quite as simple as you thought. It was four years ago
     that I had it made, and what do you think I chose for the word and
     figures?"

     "It's beyond me."

     "Well, I chose August for the word, and 1914 for the figures, and
     here we are."

     The American's face showed his surprise and admiration.

     "My, but that was smart! You had it down to a fine thing."

     "Yes, a few of us even then could have guessed the date. Here it is,
     and I'm shutting down to-morrow morning."

     "Well, I guess you'll have to fix me up also. I'm not staying is this
     gol-darned country all on my lonesome. In a week or less, from what I
     see, John Bull will be on his hind legs and fair ramping. I'd rather
     watch him from over the water."

     "But you're an American citizen?"

     "Well, so was Jack James an American citizen, but he's doing time in
     Portland all the same. It cuts no ice with a British copper to tell
     him you're an American citizen. 'It's British law and order over
     here,' says he. By the way, mister, talking of Jack James, it seems
     to me you don't do much to cover your men."

     "What do you mean?" Von Bork asked sharply.

     "Well, you are their employer, ain't you? It's up to you to see that
     they don't fall down. But they do fall down, and when did you ever
     pick them up? There's James--"

     "It was James's own fault. You know that yourself. He was too
     self-willed for the job."

     "James was a bonehead--I give you that. Then there was Hollis."

     "The man was mad."

     "Well, he went a bit woozy towards the end. It's enough to make a man
     bug-house when he has to play a part from morning to night with a
     hundred guys all ready to set the coppers wise to him. But now there
     is Steiner--"

     Von Bork started violently, and his ruddy face turned a shade paler.

     "What about Steiner?"

     "Well, they've got him, that's all. They raided his store last night,
     and he and his papers are all in Portsmouth jail. You'll go off and
     he, poor devil, will have to stand the racket, and lucky if he gets
     off with his life. That's why I want to get over the water as soon as
     you do."

     Von Bork was a strong, self-contained man, but it was easy to see
     that the news had shaken him.

     "How could they have got on to Steiner?" he muttered. "That's the
     worst blow yet."

     "Well, you nearly had a worse one, for I believe they are not far off
     me."

     "You don't mean that!"

     "Sure thing. My landlady down Fratton way had some inquiries, and
     when I heard of it I guessed it was time for me to hustle. But what I
     want to know, mister, is how the coppers know these things? Steiner
     is the fifth man you've lost since I signed on with you, and I know
     the name of the sixth if I don't get a move on. How do you explain
     it, and ain't you ashamed to see your men go down like this?"

     Von Bork flushed crimson.

     "How dare you speak in such a way!"

     "If I didn't dare things, mister, I wouldn't be in your service. But
     I'll tell you straight what is in my mind. I've heard that with you
     German politicians when an agent has done his work you are not sorry
     to see him put away."

     Von Bork sprang to his feet.

     "Do you dare to suggest that I have given away my own agents!"

     "I don't stand for that, mister, but there's a stool pigeon or a
     cross somewhere, and it's up to you to find out where it is. Anyhow I
     am taking no more chances. It's me for little Holland, and the sooner
     the better."

     Von Bork had mastered his anger.

     "We have been allies too long to quarrel now at the very hour of
     victory," he said. "You've done splendid work and taken risks, and I
     can't forget it. By all means go to Holland, and you can get a boat
     from Rotterdam to New York. No other line will be safe a week from
     now. I'll take that book and pack it with the rest."

     The American held the small parcel in his hand, but made no motion to
     give it up.

     "What about the dough?" he asked.

     "The what?"

     "The boodle. The reward. The Â£500. The gunner turned damned nasty at
     the last, and I had to square him with an extra hundred dollars or it
     would have been nitsky for you and me. 'Nothin' doin'!' says he, and
     he meant it, too, but the last hundred did it. It's cost me two
     hundred pound from first to last, so it isn't likely I'd give it up
     without gettin' my wad."

     Von Bork smiled with some bitterness. "You don't seem to have a very
     high opinion of my honour," said he, "you want the money before you
     give up the book."

     "Well, mister, it is a business proposition."

     "All right. Have your way." He sat down at the table and scribbled a
     check, which he tore from the book, but he refrained from handing it
     to his companion. "After all, since we are to be on such terms, Mr.
     Altamont," said he, "I don't see why I should trust you any more than
     you trust me. Do you understand?" he added, looking back over his
     shoulder at the American. "There's the check upon the table. I claim
     the right to examine that parcel before you pick the money up."

     The American passed it over without a word. Von Bork undid a winding
     of string and two wrappers of paper. Then he sat dazing for a moment
     in silent amazement at a small blue book which lay before him. Across
     the cover was printed in golden letters Practical Handbook of Bee
     Culture. Only for one instant did the master spy glare at this
     strangely irrelevant inscription. The next he was gripped at the back
     of his neck by a grasp of iron, and a chloroformed sponge was held in
     front of his writhing face.

     "Another glass, Watson!" said Mr. Sherlock Holmes as he extended the
     bottle of Imperial Tokay.

     The thickset chauffeur, who had seated himself by the table, pushed
     forward his glass with some eagerness.

     "It is a good wine, Holmes."

     "A remarkable wine, Watson. Our friend upon the sofa has assured me
     that it is from Franz Josef's special cellar at the Schoenbrunn
     Palace. Might I trouble you to open the window, for chloroform vapour
     does not help the palate."

     The safe was ajar, and Holmes standing in front of it was removing
     dossier after dossier, swiftly examining each, and then packing it
     neatly in Von Bork's valise. The German lay upon the sofa sleeping
     stertorously with a strap round his upper arms and another round his
     legs.

     "We need not hurry ourselves, Watson. We are safe from interruption.
     Would you mind touching the bell? There is no one in the house except
     old Martha, who has played her part to admiration. I got her the
     situation here when first I took the matter up. Ah, Martha, you will
     be glad to hear that all is well."

     The pleasant old lady had appeared in the doorway. She curtseyed with
     a smile to Mr. Holmes, but glanced with some apprehension at the
     figure upon the sofa.

     "It is all right, Martha. He has not been hurt at all."

     "I am glad of that, Mr. Holmes. According to his lights he has been a
     kind master. He wanted me to go with his wife to Germany yesterday,
     but that would hardly have suited your plans, would it, sir?"

     "No, indeed, Martha. So long as you were here I was easy in my mind.
     We waited some time for your signal to-night."

     "It was the secretary, sir."

     "I know. His car passed ours."

     "I thought he would never go. I knew that it would not suit your
     plans, sir, to find him here."

     "No, indeed. Well, it only meant that we waited half an hour or so
     until I saw your lamp go out and knew that the coast was clear. You
     can report to me to-morrow in London, Martha, at Claridge's Hotel."

     "Very good, sir."

     "I suppose you have everything ready to leave."

     "Yes, sir. He posted seven letters to-day. I have the addresses as
     usual."

     "Very good, Martha. I will look into them to-morrow. Good-night.
     These papers," he continued as the old lady vanished, "are not of
     very great importance, for, of course, the information which they
     represent has been sent off long ago to the German government. These
     are the originals which cold not safely be got out of the country."

     "Then they are of no use."

     "I should not go so far as to say that, Watson. They will at least
     show our people what is known and what is not. I may say that a good
     many of these papers have come through me, and I need not add are
     thoroughly untrustworthy. It would brighten my declining years to see
     a German cruiser navigating the Solent according to the mine-field
     plans which I have furnished. But you, Watson"--he stopped his work
     and took his old friend by the shoulders--"I've hardly seen you in
     the light yet. How have the years used you? You look the same blithe
     boy as ever."

     "I feel twenty years younger, Holmes. I have seldom felt so happy as
     when I got your wire asking me to meet you at Harwich with the car.
     But you, Holmes--you have changed very little--save for that horrible
     goatee."

     "These are the sacrifices one makes for one's country, Watson," said
     Holmes, pulling at his little tuft. "To-morrow it will be but a
     dreadful memory. With my hair cut and a few other superficial changes
     I shall no doubt reappear at Claridge's to-morrow as I was before
     this American stunt--I beg your pardon, Watson, my well of English
     seems to be permanently defiled--before this American job came my
     way."

     "But you have retired, Holmes. We heard of you as living the life of
     a hermit among your bees and your books in a small farm upon the
     South Downs."

     "Exactly, Watson. Here is the fruit of my leisured ease, the magnum
     opus of my latter years!" He picked up the volume from the table and
     read out the whole title, Practical Handbook of Bee Culture, with
     Some Observations upon the Segregation of the Queen. "Alone I did it.
     Behold the fruit of pensive nights and laborious days when I watched
     the little working gangs as once I watched the criminal world of
     London."

     "But how did you get to work again?"

     "Ah, I have often marvelled at it myself. The Foreign Minister alone
     I could have withstood, but when the Premier also deigned to visit my
     humble roof--! The fact is, Watson, that this gentleman upon the sofa
     was a bit too good for our people. He was in a class by himself.
     Things were going wrong, and no one could understand why they were
     going wrong. Agents were suspected or even caught, but there was
     evidence of some strong and secret central force. It was absolutely
     necessary to expose it. Strong pressure was brought upon me to look
     into the matter. It has cost me two years, Watson, but they have not
     been devoid of excitement. When I say that I started my pilgrimage at
     Chicago, graduated in an Irish secret society at Buffalo, gave
     serious trouble to the constabulary at Skibbareen, and so eventually
     caught the eye of a subordinate agent of Von Bork, who recommended me
     as a likely man, you will realize that the matter was complex. Since
     then I have been honoured by his confidence, which has not prevented
     most of his plans going subtly wrong and five of his best agents
     being in prison. I watched them, Watson, and I picked them as they
     ripened. Well, sir, I hope that you are none the worse!"

     The last remark was addressed to Von Bork himself, who after much
     gasping and blinking had lain quietly listening to Holmes's
     statement. He broke out now into a furious stream of German
     invective, his face convulsed with passion. Holmes continued his
     swift investigation of documents while his prisoner cursed and swore.

     "Though unmusical, German is the most expressive of all languages,"
     he observed when Von Bork had stopped from pure exhaustion. "Hullo!
     Hullo!" he added as he looked hard at the corner of a tracing before
     putting it in the box. "This should put another bird in the cage. I
     had no idea that the paymaster was such a rascal, though I have long
     had an eye upon him. Mister Von Bork, you have a great deal to answer
     for."

     The prisoner had raised himself with some difficulty upon the sofa
     and was staring with a strange mixture of amazement and hatred at his
     captor.

     "I shall get level with you, Altamont," he said, speaking with slow
     deliberation. "If it takes me all my life I shall get level with
     you!"

     "The old sweet song," said Holmes. "How often have I heard it in days
     gone by. It was a favorite ditty of the late lamented Professor
     Moriarty.  Colonel Sebastian Moran has also been known to warble it.
     And yet I live and keep bees upon the South Downs."

     "Curse you, you double traitor!" cried the German, straining against
     his bonds and glaring murder from his furious eyes.

     "No, no, it is not so bad as that," said Holmes, smiling. "As my
     speech surely shows you, Mr. Altamont of Chicago had no existence in
     fact. I used him and he is gone."

     "Then who are you?"

     "It is really immaterial who I am, but since the matter seems to
     interest you, Mr. Von Bork, I may say that this is not my first
     acquaintance with the members of your family. I have done a good deal
     of business in Germany in the past and my name is probably familiar
     to you."

     "I would wish to know it," said the Prussian grimly.

     "It was I who brought about the separation between Irene Adler and
     the late King of Bohemia when your cousin Heinrich was the Imperial
     Envoy. It was I also who saved from murder, by the Nihilist Klopman,
     Count Von und Zu Grafenstein, who was your mother's elder brother. It
     was I--"

     Von Bork sat up in amazement.

     "There is only one man," he cried.

     "Exactly," said Holmes.

     Von Bork groaned and sank back on the sofa. "And most of that
     information came through you," he cried. "What is it worth? What have
     I done? It is my ruin forever!"

     "It is certainly a little untrustworthy," said Holmes. "It will
     require some checking and you have little time to check it. Your
     admiral may find the new guns rather larger than he expects, and the
     cruisers perhaps a trifle faster."

     Von Bork clutched at his own throat in despair.

     "There are a good many other points of detail which will, no doubt,
     come to light in good time. But you have one quality which is very
     rare in a German, Mr. Von Bork: you are a sportsman and you will bear
     me no ill-will when you realize that you, who have outwitted so many
     other people, have at last been outwitted yourself. After all, you
     have done your best for your country, and I have done my best for
     mine, and what could be more natural? Besides," he added, not
     unkindly, as he laid his hand upon the shoulder of the prostrate man,
     "it is better than to fall before some ignoble foe. These papers are
     now ready, Watson. If you will help me with our prisoner, I think
     that we may get started for London at once."

     It was no easy task to move Von Bork, for he was a strong and a
     desperate man. Finally, holding either arm, the two friends walked
     him very slowly down the garden walk which he had trod with such
     proud confidence when he received the congratulations of the famous
     diplomatist only a few hours before. After a short, final struggle he
     was hoisted, still bound hand and foot, into the spare seat of the
     little car. His precious valise was wedged in beside him.

     "I trust that you are as comfortable as circumstances permit," said
     Holmes when the final arrangements were made. "Should I be guilty of
     a liberty if I lit a cigar and placed it between your lips?"

     But all amenities were wasted upon the angry German.

     "I suppose you realize, Mr. Sherlock Holmes," said he, "that if your
     government bears you out in this treatment it becomes an act of war."

     "What about your government and all this treatment?" said Holmes,
     tapping the valise.

     "You are a private individual. You have no warrant for my arrest. The
     whole proceeding is absolutely illegal and outrageous."

     "Absolutely," said Holmes.

     "Kidnapping a German subject."

     "And stealing his private papers."

     "Well, you realize your position, you and your accomplice here. If I
     were to shout for help as we pass through the village--"

     "My dear sir, if you did anything so foolish you would probably
     enlarge the two limited titles of our village inns by giving us 'The
     Dangling Prussian' as a signpost. The Englishman is a patient
     creature, but at present his temper is a little inflamed, and it
     would be as well not to try him too far. No, Mr. Von Bork, you will
     go with us in a quiet, sensible fashion to Scotland Yard, whence you
     can send for your friend, Baron Von Herling, and see if even now you
     may not fill that place which he has reserved for you in the
     ambassadorial suite. As to you, Watson, you are joining us with your
     old service, as I understand, so London won't be out of your way.
     Stand with me here upon the terrace, for it may be the last quiet
     talk that we shall ever have."

     The two friends chatted in intimate converse for a few minutes,
     recalling once again the days of the past, while their prisoner
     vainly wriggled to undo the bonds that held him. As they turned to
     the car Holmes pointed back to the moonlit sea and shook a thoughtful
     head.

     "There's an east wind coming, Watson."

     "I think not, Holmes. It is very warm."

     "Good old Watson! You are the one fixed point in a changing age.
     There's an east wind coming all the same, such a wind as never blew
     on England yet. It will be cold and bitter, Watson, and a good many
     of us may wither before its blast. But it's God's own wind none the
     less, and a cleaner, better, stronger land will lie in the sunshine
     when the storm has cleared. Start her up, Watson, for it's time that
     we were on our way. I have a check for five hundred pounds which
     should be cashed early, for the drawer is quite capable of stopping
     it if he can."

                             THE ILLUSTRIOUS CLIENT

     "It can't hurt now," was Mr. Sherlock Holmes's comment when, for the
     tenth time in as many years, I asked his leave to reveal the
     following narrative. So it was that at last I obtained permission to
     put on record what was, in some ways, the supreme moment of my
     friend's career.

     Both Holmes and I had a weakness for the Turkish bath. It was over a
     smoke in the pleasant lassitude of the drying-room that I have found
     him less reticent and more human than anywhere else. On the upper
     floor of the Northumberland Avenue establishment there is an isolated
     corner where two couches lie side by side, and it was on these that
     we lay upon September 3, 1902, the day when my narrative begins. I
     had asked him whether anything was stirring, and for answer he had
     shot his long, thin, nervous arm out of the sheets which enveloped
     him and had drawn an envelope from the inside pocket of the coat
     which hung beside him.

     "It may be some fussy, self-important fool; it may be a matter of
     life or death," said he as he handed me the note. "I know no more
     than this message tells me."

     It was from the Carlton Club and dated the evening before. This is
     what I read:

     Sir James Damery presents his compliments to Mr. Sherlock Holmes and
     will call upon him at 4.30 to-morrow. Sir James begs to say that the
     matter upon which he desires to consult Mr. Holmes is very delicate
     and also very important. He trusts, therefore, that Mr. Holmes will
     make every effort to grant this interview, and that he will confirm
     it over the telephone to the Carlton Club.

     "I need not say that I have confirmed it, Watson," said Holmes as I
     returned the paper. "Do you know anything of this man Damery?"

     "Only that this name is a household word in society."

     "Well, I can tell you a little more than that. He has rather a
     reputation for arranging delicate matters which are to be kept out of
     the papers. You may remember his negotiations with Sir George Lewis
     over the Hammerford Will case. He is a man of the world with a
     natural turn for diplomacy. I am bound, therefore, to hope that it is
     not a false scent and that he has some real need for our assistance."

     "Our?"

     "Well, if you will be so good, Watson."

     "I shall be honoured."

     "Then you have the hour--4.30. Until then we can put the matter out
     of our heads."

     I was living in my own rooms in Queen Anne Street at the time, but I
     was round at Baker Street before the time named. Sharp to the
     half-hour, Colonel Sir James Damery was announced. It is hardly
     necessary to describe him, for many will remember that large, bluff,
     honest personality, that broad, clean-shaven face, and, above all,
     that pleasant, mellow voice. Frankness shone from his gray Irish
     eyes, and good humour played round his mobile, smiling lips. His
     lucent top-hat, his dark frock-coat, indeed, every detail, from the
     pearl pin in the black satin cravat to the lavender spats over the
     varnished shoes, spoke of the meticulous care in dress for which he
     was famous. The big, masterful aristocrat dominated the little room.

     "Of course, I was prepared to find Dr. Watson," he remarked with a
     courteous bow. "His collaboration may be very necessary, for we are
     dealing on this occasion, Mr. Holmes, with a man to whom violence is
     familiar and who will, literally, stick at nothing. I should say that
     there is no more dangerous man in Europe."

     "I have had several opponents to whom that flattering term has been
     applied," said Holmes with a smile. "Don't you smoke? Then you will
     excuse me if I light my pipe. If your man is more dangerous than the
     late Professor Moriarty, or than the living Colonel Sebastian Moran,
     then he is indeed worth meeting. May I ask his name?"

     "Have you ever heard of Baron Gruner?"

     "You mean the Austrian murderer?"

     Colonel Damery threw up his kid-gloved hands with a laugh. "There is
     no getting past you, Mr. Holmes! Wonderful! So you have already sized
     him up as a murderer?"

     "It is my business to follow the details of Continental crime. Who
     could possibly have read what happened at Prague and have any doubts
     as to the man's guilt! It was a purely technical legal point and the
     suspicious death of a witness that saved him! I am as sure that he
     killed his wife when the so-called 'accident' happened in the Splugen
     Pass as if I had seen him do it. I knew, also, that he had come to
     England and had a presentiment that sooner or later he would find me
     some work to do. Well, what has Baron Gruner been up to? I presume it
     is not this old tragedy which has come up again?"

     "No, it is more serious than that. To revenge crime is important, but
     to prevent it is more so. It is a terrible thing, Mr. Holmes, to see
     a dreadful event, an atrocious situation, preparing itself before
     your eyes, to clearly understand whither it will lead and yet to be
     utterly unable to avert it. Can a human being be placed in a more
     trying position?"

     "Perhaps not."

     "Then you will sympathize with the client in whose interests I am
     acting."

     "I did not understand that you were merely an intermediary. Who is
     the principal?"

     "Mr. Holmes, I must beg you not to press that question. It is
     important that I should be able to assure him that his honoured name
     has been in no way dragged into the matter. His motives are, to the
     last degree, honourable and chivalrous, but he prefers to remain
     unknown. I need not say that your fees will be assured and that you
     will be given a perfectly free hand. Surely the actual name of your
     client is immaterial?"

     "I am sorry," said Holmes. "I am accustomed to have mystery at one
     end of my cases, but to have it at both ends is too confusing. I
     fear, Sir James, that I must decline to act."

     Our visitor was greatly disturbed. His large, sensitive face was
     darkened with emotion and disappointment.

     "You hardly realize the effect of your own action, Mr. Holmes," said
     he. "You place me in a most serious dilemma, for I am perfectly
     certain that you would be proud to take over the case if I could give
     you the facts, and yet a promise forbids me from revealing them all.
     May I, at least, lay all that I can before you?"

     "By all means, so long as it is understood that I commit myself to
     nothing."

     "That is understood. In the first place, you have no doubt heard of
     General de Merville?"

     "De Merville of Khyber fame? Yes, I have heard of him."

     "He has a daughter, Violet de Merville, young, rich, beautiful,
     accomplished, a wonder-woman in every way. It is this daughter, this
     lovely, innocent girl, whom we are endeavouring to save from the
     clutches of a fiend."

     "Baron Gruner has some hold over her, then?"

     "The strongest of all holds where a woman is concerned--the hold of
     love. The fellow is, as you may have heard, extraordinarily handsome,
     with a most fascinating manner, a gentle voice, and that air of
     romance and mystery which means so much to a woman. He is said to
     have the whole sex at his mercy and to have made ample use of the
     fact."

     "But how came such a man to meet a lady of the standing of Miss
     Violet de Merville?"

     "It was on a Mediterranean yachting voyage. The company, though
     select, paid their own passages. No doubt the promoters hardly
     realized the Baron's true character until it was too late. The
     villain attached himself to the lady, and with such effect that he
     has completely and absolutely won her heart. To say that she loves
     him hardly expresses it. She dotes upon him; she is obsessed by him.
     Outside of him there is nothing on earth. She will not hear one word
     against him. Everything has been done to cure her of her madness, but
     in vain. To sum up, she proposes to marry him next month. As she is
     of age and has a will of iron, it is hard to know how to prevent
     her."

     "Does she know about the Austrian episode?"

     "The cunning devil has told her every unsavoury public scandal of his
     past life, but always in such a way as to make himself out to be an
     innocent martyr. She absolutely accepts his version and will listen
     to no other."

     "Dear me! But surely you have inadvertently let out the name of your
     client? It is no doubt General de Merville."

     Our visitor fidgeted in his chair.

     "I could deceive you by saying so, Mr. Holmes, but it would not be
     true. De Merville is a broken man. The strong soldier has been
     utterly demoralized by this incident. He has lost the nerve which
     never failed him on the battlefield and has become a weak, doddering
     old man, utterly incapable of contending with a brilliant, forceful
     rascal like this Austrian. My client, however, is an old friend, one
     who has known the General intimately for many years and taken a
     paternal interest in this young girl since she wore short frocks. He
     cannot see this tragedy consummated without some attempt to stop it.
     There is nothing in which Scotland Yard can act. It was his own
     suggestion that you should be called in, but it was, as I have said,
     on the express stipulation that he should not be personally involved
     in the matter. I have no doubt, Mr. Holmes, with your great powers
     you could easily trace my client back through me, but I must ask you,
     as a point of honour, to refrain from doing so, and not to break in
     upon his incognito."

     Holmes gave a whimsical smile.

     "I think I may safely promise that," said he. "I may add that your
     problem interests me, and that I shall be prepared to look into it.
     How shall I keep in touch with you?"

     "The Carlton Club will find me. But in case of emergency, there is a
     private telephone call, 'XX.31.'"

     Holmes noted it down and sat, still smiling, with the open
     memorandum-book upon his knee.

     "The Baron's present address, please?"

     "Vernon Lodge, near Kingston. It is a large house. He has been
     fortunate in some rather shady speculations and is a rich man, which
     naturally makes him a more dangerous antagonist."

     "Is he at home at present?"

     "Yes."

     "Apart from what you have told me, can you give me any further
     information about the man?"

     "He has expensive tastes. He is a horse fancier. For a short time he
     played polo at Hurlingham, but then this Prague affair got noised
     about and he had to leave. He collects books and pictures. He is a
     man with a considerable artistic side to his nature. He is, I
     believe, a recognized authority upon Chinese pottery and has written
     a book upon the subject."

     "A complex mind," said Holmes. "All great criminals have that. My old
     friend Charlie Peace was a violin virtuoso. Wainwright was no mean
     artist. I could quote many more. Well, Sir James, you will inform
     your client that I am turning my mind upon Baron Gruner. I can say no
     more. I have some sources of information of my own, and I dare say we
     may find some means of opening the matter up."

     When our visitor had left us Holmes sat so long in deep thought that
     it seemed to me that he had forgotten my presence. At last, however,
     he came briskly back to earth.

     "Well, Watson, any views?" he asked.

     "I should think you had better see the young lady herself."

     "My dear Watson, if her poor old broken father cannot move her, how
     shall I, a stranger, prevail? And yet there is something in the
     suggestion if all else fails. But I think we must begin from a
     different angle. I rather fancy that Shinwell Johnson might be a
     help."

     I have not had occasion to mention Shinwell Johnson in these memoirs
     because I have seldom drawn my cases from the latter phases of my
     friend's career. During the first years of the century he became a
     valuable assistant. Johnson, I grieve to say, made his name first as
     a very dangerous villain and served two terms at Parkhurst. Finally
     he repented and allied himself to Holmes, acting as his agent in the
     huge criminal underworld of London and obtaining information which
     often proved to be of vital importance. Had Johnson been a "nark" of
     the police he would soon have been exposed, but as he dealt with
     cases which never came directly into the courts, his activities were
     never realized by his companions. With the glamour of his two
     convictions upon him, he had the entree of every night-club, doss
     house, and gambling-den in the town, and his quick observation and
     active brain made him an ideal agent for gaining information. It was
     to him that Sherlock Holmes now proposed to turn.

     It was not possible for me to follow the immediate steps taken by my
     friend, for I had some pressing professional business of my own, but
     I met him by appointment that evening at Simpson's, where, sitting at
     a small table in the front window and looking down at the rushing
     stream of life in the Strand, he told me something of what had
     passed.

     "Johnson is on the prowl," said he. "He may pick up some garbage in
     the darker recesses of the underworld, for it is down there, amid the
     black roots of crime, that we must hunt for this man's secrets."

     "But if the lady will not accept what is already known, why should
     any fresh discovery of yours turn her from her purpose?"

     "Who knows, Watson? Woman's heart and mind are insoluble puzzles to
     the male. Murder might be condoned or explained, and yet some smaller
     offence might rankle. Baron Gruner remarked to me--"

     "He remarked to you!"

     "Oh, to be sure, I had not told you of my plans. Well, Watson, I love
     to come to close grips with my man. I like to meet him eye to eye and
     read for myself the stuff that he is made of. When I had given
     Johnson his instructions I took a cab out to Kingston and found the
     Baron in a most affable mood."

     "Did he recognize you?"

     "There was no difficulty about that, for I simply sent in my card. He
     is an excellent antagonist, cool as ice, silky voiced and soothing as
     one of your fashionable consultants, and poisonous as a cobra. He has
     breeding in him--a real aristocrat of crime, with a superficial
     suggestion of afternoon tea and all the cruelty of the grave behind
     it. Yes, I am glad to have had my attention called to Baron Adelbert
     Gruner."

     "You say he was affable?"

     "A purring cat who thinks he sees prospective mice. Some people's
     affability is more deadly than the violence of coarser souls. His
     greeting was characteristic. 'I rather thought I should see you
     sooner or later, Mr. Holmes,' said he. 'You have been engaged, no
     doubt by General de Merville, to endeavour to stop my marriage with
     his daughter, Violet. That is so, is it not?'

     "I acquiesced.

     "'My dear man,' said he, 'you will only ruin your own well-deserved
     reputation. It is not a case in which you can possibly succeed. You
     will have barren work, to say nothing of incurring some danger. Let
     me very strongly advise you to draw off at once.'

     "'It is curious,' I answered, 'but that was the very advice which I
     had intended to give you. I have a respect for your brains, Baron,
     and the little which I have seen of your personality has not lessened
     it. Let me put it to you as man to man. No one wants to rake up your
     past and make you unduly uncomfortable. It is over, and you are now
     in smooth waters, but if you persist in this marriage you will raise
     up a swarm of powerful enemies who will never leave you alone until
     they have made England too hot to hold you. Is the game worth it?
     Surely you would be wiser if you left the lady alone. It would not be
     pleasant for you if these facts of your past were brought to her
     notice.'

     "The Baron has little waxed tips of hair under his nose, like the
     short antennae of an insect. These quivered with amusement as he
     listened, and he finally broke into a gentle chuckle.

     "'Excuse my amusement, Mr. Holmes,' said he, 'but it is really funny
     to see you trying to play a hand with no cards in it. I don't think
     anyone could do it better, but it is rather pathetic, all the same.
     Not a colour card there, Mr. Holmes, nothing but the smallest of the
     small.'

     "'So you think.'

     "'So I know. Let me make the thing clear to you, for my own hand is
     so strong that I can afford to show it. I have been fortunate enough
     to win the entire affection of this lady. This was given to me in
     spite of the fact that I told her very clearly of all the unhappy
     incidents in my past life. I also told her that certain wicked and
     designing persons--I hope you recognize yourself--would come to her
     and tell her these things, and I warned her how to treat them. You
     have heard of post-hypnotic suggestion, Mr. Holmes? Well, you will
     see how it works, for a man of personality can use hypnotism without
     any vulgar passes or tomfoolery. So she is ready for you and, I have
     no doubt, would give you an appointment, for she is quite amenable to
     her father's will--save only in the one little matter.'

     "Well, Watson, there seemed to be no more to say, so I took my leave
     with as much cold dignity as I could summon, but, as I had my hand on
     the door-handle, he stopped me.

     "'By the way, Mr. Holmes,' said he, 'did you know Le Brun, the French
     agent?'

     "'Yes,' said I.

     "'Do you know what befell him?'

     "'I heard that he was beaten by some Apaches in the Montmartre
     district and crippled for life.'

     "'Quite true, Mr. Holmes. By a curious coincidence he had been
     inquiring into my affairs only a week before. Don't do it, Mr.
     Holmes; it's not a lucky thing to do. Several have found that out. My
     last word to you is, go your own way and let me go mine. Good-bye!'

     "So there you are, Watson. You are up to date now."

     "The fellow seems dangerous."

     "Mighty dangerous. I disregard the blusterer, but this is the sort of
     man who says rather less than he means."

     "Must you interfere? Does it really matter if he marries the girl?"

     "Considering that he undoubtedly murdered his last wife, I should say
     it mattered very much. Besides, the client! Well, well, we need not
     discuss that. When you have finished your coffee you had best come
     home with me, for the blithe Shinwell will be there with his report."

     We found him sure enough, a huge, coarse, red-faced, scorbutic man,
     with a pair of vivid black eyes which were the only external sign of
     the very cunning mind within. It seems that he had dived down into
     what was peculiarly his kingdom, and beside him on the settee was a
     brand which he had brought up in the shape of a slim, flame-like
     young woman with a pale, intense face, youthful, and yet so worn with
     sin and sorrow that one read the terrible years which had left their
     leprous mark upon her.

     "This is Miss Kitty Winter," said Shinwell Johnson, waving his fat
     hand as an introduction. "What she don't know--well, there, she'll
     speak for herself. Put my hand right on her, Mr. Holmes, within an
     hour of your message."

     "I'm easy to find," said the young woman. "Hell, London, gets me
     every time. Same address for Porky Shinwell. We're old mates, Porky,
     you and I. But, by cripes! there is another who ought to be down in a
     lower hell than we if there was any justice in the world! That is the
     man you are after, Mr. Holmes."

     Holmes smiled. "I gather we have your good wishes, Miss Winter."

     "If I can help to put him where he belongs, I'm yours to the rattle,"
     said our visitor with fierce energy. There was an intensity of hatred
     in her white, set face and her blazing eyes such as woman seldom and
     man never can attain. "You needn't go into my past, Mr. Holmes.
     That's neither here nor there. But what I am Adelbert Gruner made me.
     If I could pull him down!" She clutched frantically with her hands
     into the air. "Oh, if I could only pull him into the pit where he has
     pushed so many!"

     "You know how the matter stands?"

     "Porky Shinwell has been telling me. He's after some other poor fool
     and wants to marry her this time. You want to stop it. Well, you
     surely know enough about this devil to prevent any decent girl in her
     senses wanting to be in the same parish with him."

     "She is not in her senses. She is madly in love. She has been told
     all about him. She cares nothing."

     "Told about the murder?"

     "Yes."

     "My Lord, she must have a nerve!"

     "She puts them all down as slanders."

     "Couldn't you lay proofs before her silly eyes?"

     "Well, can you help us do so?"

     "Ain't I a proof myself? If I stood before her and told her how he
     used me--"

     "Would you do this?"

     "Would I? Would I not!"

     "Well, it might be worth trying. But he has told her most of his sins
     and had pardon from her, and I understand she will not reopen the
     question."

     "I'll lay he didn't tell her all," said Miss Winter. "I caught a
     glimpse of one or two murders besides the one that made such a fuss.
     He would speak of someone in his velvet way and then look at me with
     a steady eye and say: 'He died within a month.' It wasn't hot air,
     either. But I took little notice--you see, I loved him myself at that
     time. Whatever he did went with me, same as with this poor fool!
     There was just one thing that shook me. Yes, by cripes! if it had not
     been for his poisonous, lying tongue that explains and soothes, I'd
     have left him that very night. It's a book he has--a brown leather
     book with a lock, and his arms in gold on the outside. I think he was
     a bit drunk that night, or he would not have shown it to me."

     "What was it, then?"

     "I tell you, Mr. Holmes, this man collects women, and takes a pride
     in his collection, as some men collect moths or butterflies. He had
     it all in that book. Snapshot photographs, names, details, everything
     about them. It was a beastly book--a book no man, even if he had come
     from the gutter, could have put together. But it was Adelbert
     Gruner's book all the same. 'Souls I have ruined.' He could have put
     that on the outside if he had been so minded. However, that's neither
     here nor there, for the book would not serve you, and, if it would,
     you can't get it."

     "Where is it?"

     "How can I tell you where it is now? It's more than a year since I
     left him. I know where he kept it then. He's a precise, tidy cat of a
     man in many of his ways, so maybe it is still in the pigeon-hole of
     the old bureau in the inner study. Do you know his house?"

     "I've been in the study," said Holmes.

     "Have you, though? You haven't been slow on the job if you only
     started this morning. Maybe dear Adelbert has met his match this
     time. The outer study is the one with the Chinese crockery in it--big
     glass cupboard between the windows. Then behind his desk is the door
     that leads to the inner study--a small room where he keeps papers and
     things."

     "Is he not afraid of burglars?"

     "Adelbert is no coward. His worst enemy couldn't say that of him. He
     can look after himself. There's a burglar alarm at night. Besides,
     what is there for a burglar--unless they got away with all this fancy
     crockery?"

     "No good," said Shinwell Johnson with the decided voice of the
     expert. "No fence wants stuff of that sort that you can neither melt
     nor sell."

     "Quite so," said Holmes. "Well, now, Miss Winter, if you would call
     here to-morrow evening at five, I would consider in the meanwhile
     whether your suggestion of seeing this lady personally may not be
     arranged. I am exceedingly obliged to you for your cooperation. I
     need not say that my clients will consider liberally--"

     "None of that, Mr. Holmes," cried the young woman. "I am not out for
     money. Let me see this man in the mud, and I've got all I've worked
     for--in the mud with my foot on his cursed face. That's my price. I'm
     with you to-morrow or any other day so long as you are on his track.
     Porky here can tell you always where to find me."

     I did not see Holmes again until the following evening when we dined
     once more at our Strand restaurant. He shrugged his shoulders when I
     asked him what luck he had had in his interview. Then he told the
     story, which I would repeat in this way. His hard, dry statement
     needs some little editing to soften it into the terms of real life.

     "There was no difficulty at all about the appointment," said Holmes,
     "for the girl glories in showing abject filial obedience in all
     secondary things in an attempt to atone for her flagrant breach of it
     in her engagement. The General 'phoned that all was ready, and the
     fiery Miss W. turned up according to schedule, so that at half-past
     five a cab deposited us outside 104 Berkeley Square, where the old
     soldier resides--one of those awful gray London castles which would
     make a church seem frivolous. A footman showed us into a great
     yellow-curtained drawing-room, and there was the lady awaiting us,
     demure, pale, self-contained, as inflexible and remote as a snow
     image on a mountain.

     "I don't quite know how to make her clear to you, Watson. Perhaps you
     may meet her before we are through, and you can use your own gift of
     words. She is beautiful, but with the ethereal other-world beauty of
     some fanatic whose thoughts are set on high. I have seen such faces
     in the pictures of the old masters of the Middle Ages. How a beastman
     could have laid his vile paws upon such a being of the beyond I
     cannot imagine. You may have noticed how extremes call to each other,
     the spiritual to the animal, the cave-man to the angel. You never saw
     a worse case than this.

     "She knew what we had come for, of course--that villain had lost no
     time in poisoning her mind against us. Miss Winter's advent rather
     amazed her, I think, but she waved us into our respective chairs like
     a reverend abbess receiving two rather leprous mendicants. If your
     head is inclined to swell, my dear Watson, take a course of Miss
     Violet de Merville.

     "'Well, sir,' said she in a voice like the wind from an iceberg,
     'your name is familiar to me. You have called, as I understand, to
     malign my fiancÃ©, Baron Gruner. It is only by my father's request
     that I see you at all, and I warn you in advance that anything you
     can say could not possibly have the slightest effect upon my mind.'

     "I was sorry for her, Watson. I thought of her for the moment as I
     would have thought of a daughter of my own. I am not often eloquent.
     I use my head, not my heart. But I really did plead with her with all
     the warmth of words that I could find in my nature. I pictured to her
     the awful position of the woman who only wakes to a man's character
     after she is his wife--a woman who has to submit to be caressed by
     bloody hands and lecherous lips. I spared her nothing--the shame, the
     fear, the agony, the hopelessness of it all. All my hot words could
     not bring one tinge of colour to those ivory cheeks or one gleam of
     emotion to those abstracted eyes. I thought of what the rascal had
     said about a post-hypnotic influence. One could really believe that
     she was living above the earth in some ecstatic dream. Yet there was
     nothing indefinite in her replies.

     "'I have listened to you with patience, Mr. Holmes,' said she. 'The
     effect upon my mind is exactly as predicted. I am aware that
     Adelbert, that my fiancÃ©, has had a stormy life in which he has
     incurred bitter hatreds and most unjust aspersions. You are only the
     last of a series who have brought their slanders before me. Possibly
     you mean well, though I learn that you are a paid agent who would
     have been equally willing to act for the Baron as against him. But in
     any case I wish you to understand once for all that I love him and
     that he loves me, and that the opinion of all the world is no more to
     me than the twitter of those birds outside the window. If his noble
     nature has ever for an instant fallen, it may be that I have been
     specially sent to raise it to its true and lofty level. I am not
     clear'--here she turned eyes upon my companion--'who this young lady
     may be.'

     "I was about to answer when the girl broke in like a whirlwind. If
     ever you saw flame and ice face to face, it was those two women.

     "'I'll tell you who I am,' she cried, springing out of her chair, her
     mouth all twisted with passion--'I am his last mistress. I am one of
     a hundred that he has tempted and used and ruined and thrown into the
     refuse heap, as he will you also. Your refuse heap is more likely to
     be a grave, and maybe that's the best. I tell you, you foolish woman,
     if you marry this man he'll be the death of you. It may be a broken
     heart or it may be a broken neck, but he'll have you one way or the
     other. It's not out of love for you I'm speaking. I don't care a
     tinker's curse whether you live or die. It's out of hate for him and
     to spite him and to get back on him for what he did to me. But it's
     all the same, and you needn't look at me like that, my fine lady, for
     you may be lower than I am before you are through with it.'

     "'I should prefer not to discuss such matters,' said Miss de Merville
     coldly. 'Let me say once for all that I am aware of three passages in
     my fiancÃ©'s life in which he became entangled with designing women,
     and that I am assured of his hearty repentance for any evil that he
     may have done.'

     "'Three passages!' screamed my companion. 'You fool! You unutterable
     fool!'

     "'Mr. Holmes, I beg that you will bring this interview to an end,'
     said the icy voice. 'I have obeyed my father's wish in seeing you,
     but I am not compelled to listen to the ravings of this person.'

     "With an oath Miss Winter darted forward, and if I had not caught her
     wrist she would have clutched this maddening woman by the hair. I
     dragged her towards the door and was lucky to get her back into the
     cab without a public scene, for she was beside herself with rage. In
     a cold way I felt pretty furious myself, Watson, for there was
     something indescribably annoying in the calm aloofness and supreme
     self-complaisance of the woman whom we were trying to save. So now
     once again you know exactly how we stand, and it is clear that I must
     plan some fresh opening move, for this gambit won't work. I'll keep
     in touch with you, Watson, for it is more than likely that you will
     have your part to play, though it is just possible that the next move
     may lie with them rather than with us."

     And it did. Their blow fell--or his blow rather, for never could I
     believe that the lady was privy to it. I think I could show you the
     very paving-stone upon which I stood when my eyes fell upon the
     placard, and a pang of horror passed through my very soul. It was
     between the Grand Hotel and Charing Cross Station, where a one-legged
     news-vender displayed his evening papers. The date was just two days
     after the last conversation. There, black upon yellow, was the
     terrible news-sheet:

                      Murderous Attack Upon Sherlock Holmes

     I think I stood stunned for some moments. Then I have a confused
     recollection of snatching at a paper, of the remonstrance of the man,
     whom I had not paid, and, finally, of standing in the doorway of a
     chemist's shop while I turned up the fateful paragraph. This was how
     it ran:

     We learn with regret that Mr. Sherlock Holmes, the well-known private
     detective, was the victim this morning of a murderous assault which
     has left him in a precarious position. There are no exact details to
     hand, but the event seems to have occurred about twelve o'clock in
     Regent Street, outside the Cafe Royal. The attack was made by two men
     armed with sticks, and Mr. Holmes was beaten about the head and body,
     receiving injuries which the doctors describe as most serious. He was
     carried to Charing Cross Hospital and afterwards insisted upon being
     taken to his rooms in Baker Street. The miscreants who attacked him
     appear to have been respectably dressed men, who escaped from the
     bystanders by passing through the Cafe Royal and out into Glasshouse
     Street behind it. No doubt they belonged to that criminal fraternity
     which has so often had occasion to bewail the activity and ingenuity
     of the injured man.

     I need not say that my eyes had hardly glanced over the paragraph
     before I had sprung into a hansom and was on my way to Baker Street.
     I found Sir Leslie Oakshott, the famous surgeon, in the hall and his
     brougham waiting at the curb.

     "No immediate danger," was his report. "Two lacerated scalp wounds
     and some considerable bruises. Several stitches have been necessary.
     Morphine has been injected and quiet is essential, but an interview
     of a few minutes would not be absolutely forbidden."

     With this permission I stole into the darkened room. The sufferer was
     wide awake, and I heard my name in a hoarse whisper. The blind was
     three-quarters down, but one ray of sunlight slanted through and
     struck the bandaged head of the injured man. A crimson patch had
     soaked through the white linen compress. I sat beside him and bent my
     head.

     "All right, Watson. Don't look so scared," he muttered in a very weak
     voice. "It's not as bad as it seems."

     "Thank God for that!"

     "I'm a bit of a single-stick expert, as you know. I took most of them
     on my guard. It was the second man that was too much for me."

     "What can I do, Holmes? Of course, it was that damned fellow who set
     them on. I'll go and thrash the hide off him if you give the word."

     "Good old Watson! No, we can do nothing there unless the police lay
     their hands on the men. But their get-away had been well prepared. We
     may be sure of that. Wait a little. I have my plans. The first thing
     is to exaggerate my injuries. They'll come to you for news. Put it on
     thick, Watson. Lucky if I live the week
     out--concussion--delirium--what you like! You can't overdo it."

     "But Sir Leslie Oakshott?"

     "Oh, he's all right. He shall see the worst side of me. I'll look
     after that."

     "Anything else?"

     "Yes. Tell Shinwell Johnson to get that girl out of the way. Those
     beauties will be after her now. They know, of course, that she was
     with me in the case. If they dared to do me in it is not likely they
     will neglect her. That is urgent. Do it to-night."

     "I'll go now. Anything more?"

     "Put my pipe on the table--and the tobacco-slipper. Right! Come in
     each morning and we will plan our campaign."

     I arranged with Johnson that evening to take Miss Winter to a quiet
     suburb and see that she lay low until the danger was past.

     For six days the public were under the impression that Holmes was at
     the door of death. The bulletins were very grave and there were
     sinister paragraphs in the papers. My continual visits assured me
     that it was not so bad as that. His wiry constitution and his
     determined will were working wonders. He was recovering fast, and I
     had suspicions at times that he was really finding himself faster
     than he pretended even to me. There was a curious secretive streak in
     the man which led to many dramatic effects, but left even his closest
     friend guessing as to what his exact plans might be. He pushed to an
     extreme the axiom that the only safe plotter was he who plotted
     alone. I was nearer him than anyone else, and yet I was always
     conscious of the gap between.

     On the seventh day the stitches were taken out, in spite of which
     there was a report of erysipelas in the evening papers. The same
     evening papers had an announcement which I was bound, sick or well,
     to carry to my friend. It was simply that among the passengers on the
     Cunard boat Ruritania, starting from Liverpool on Friday, was the
     Baron Adelbert Gruner, who had some important financial business to
     settle in the States before his impending wedding to Miss Violet de
     Merville, only daughter of, etc., etc. Holmes listened to the news
     with a cold, concentrated look upon his pale face, which told me that
     it hit him hard.

     "Friday!" he cried. "Only three clear days. I believe the rascal
     wants to put himself out of danger's way. But he won't, Watson! By
     the Lord Harry, he won't! Now, Watson, I want you to do something for
     me."

     "I am here to be used, Holmes."

     "Well, then, spend the next twenty-four hours in an intensive study
     of Chinese pottery."

     He gave no explanations and I asked for none. By long experience I
     had learned the wisdom of obedience. But when I had left his room I
     walked down Baker Street, revolving in my head how on earth I was to
     carry out so strange an order. Finally I drove to the London Library
     in St. James's Square, put the matter to my friend Lomax, the
     sublibrarian, and departed to my rooms with a goodly volume under my
     arm.

     It is said that the barrister who crams up a case with such care that
     he can examine an expert witness upon the Monday has forgotten all
     his forced knowledge before the Saturday. Certainly I should not like
     now to pose as an authority upon ceramics. And yet all that evening,
     and all that night with a short interval for rest, and all next
     morning, I was sucking in knowledge and committing names to memory.
     There I learned of the hall-marks of the great artist-decorators, of
     the mystery of cyclical dates, the marks of the Hung-wu and the
     beauties of the Yung-lo, the writings of Tang-ying, and the glories
     of the primitive period of the Sung and the Yuan. I was charged with
     all this information when I called upon Holmes next evening. He was
     out of bed now, though you would not have guessed it from the
     published reports, and he sat with his much-bandaged head resting
     upon his hand in the depth of his favourite armchair.

     "Why, Holmes," I said, "if one believed the papers, you are dying."

     "That," said he, "is the very impression which I intended to convey.
     And now, Watson, have you learned your lessons?"

     "At least I have tried to."

     "Good. You could keep up an intelligent conversation on the subject?"

     "I believe I could."

     "Then hand me that little box from the mantelpiece."

     He opened the lid and took out a small object most carefully wrapped
     in some fine Eastern silk. This he unfolded, and disclosed a delicate
     little saucer of the most beautiful deep-blue colour.

     "It needs careful handling, Watson. This is the real egg-shell
     pottery of the Ming dynasty. No finer piece ever passed through
     Christie's. A complete set of this would be worth a king's ransom--in
     fact, it is doubtful if there is a complete set outside the imperial
     palace of Peking. The sight of this would drive a real connoisseur
     wild."

     "What am I to do with it?"

     Holmes handed me a card upon which was printed: "Dr. Hill Barton, 369
     Half Moon Street."

     "That is your name for the evening, Watson. You will call upon Baron
     Gruner. I know something of his habits, and at half-past eight he
     would probably be disengaged. A note will tell him in advance that
     you are about to call, and you will say that you are bringing him a
     specimen of an absolutely unique set of Ming china. You may as well
     be a medical man, since that is a part which you can play without
     duplicity. You are a collector, this set has come your way, you have
     heard of the Baron's interest in the subject, and you are not averse
     to selling at a price."

     "What price?"

     "Well asked, Watson. You would certainly fall down badly if you did
     not know the value of your own wares. This saucer was got for me by
     Sir James, and comes, I understand, from the collection of his
     client. You will not exaggerate if you say that it could hardly be
     matched in the world."

     "I could perhaps suggest that the set should be valued by an expert."

     "Excellent, Watson! You scintillate to-day. Suggest Christie or
     Sotheby. Your delicacy prevents your putting a price for yourself."

     "But if he won't see me?"

     "Oh, yes, he will see you. He has the collection mania in its most
     acute form--and especially on this subject, on which he is an
     acknowledged authority. Sit down, Watson, and I will dictate the
     letter. No answer needed. You will merely say that you are coming,
     and why."

     It was an admirable document, short, courteous, and stimulating to
     the curiosity of the connoisseur. A district messenger was duly
     dispatched with it. On the same evening, with the precious saucer in
     my hand and the card of Dr. Hill Barton in my pocket, I set off on my
     own adventure.

     The beautiful house and grounds indicated that Baron Gruner was, as
     Sir James had said, a man of considerable wealth. A long winding
     drive, with banks of rare shrubs on either side, opened out into a
     great gravelled square adorned with statues. The place had been built
     by a South African gold king in the days of the great boom, and the
     long, low house with the turrets at the corners, though an
     architectural nightmare, was imposing in its size and solidity. A
     butler, who would have adorned a bench of bishops, showed me in and
     handed me over to a plush-clad footman, who ushered me into the
     Baron's presence.

     He was standing at the open front of a great case which stood between
     the windows and which contained part of his Chinese collection. He
     turned as I entered with a small brown vase in his hand.

     "Pray sit down, Doctor," said he. "I was looking over my own
     treasures and wondering whether I could really afford to add to them.
     This little Tang specimen, which dates from the seventh century,
     would probably interest you. I am sure you never saw finer
     workmanship or a richer glaze. Have you the Ming saucer with you of
     which you spoke?"

     I carefully unpacked it and handed it to him. He seated himself at
     his desk, pulled over the lamp, for it was growing dark, and set
     himself to examine it. As he did so the yellow light beat upon his
     own features, and I was able to study them at my ease.

     He was certainly a remarkably handsome man. His European reputation
     for beauty was fully deserved. In figure he was not more than of
     middle size, but was built upon graceful and active lines. His face
     was swarthy, almost Oriental, with large, dark, languorous eyes which
     might easily hold an irresistible fascination for women. His hair and
     moustache were raven black, the latter short, pointed, and carefully
     waxed. His features were regular and pleasing, save only his
     straight, thin-lipped mouth. If ever I saw a murderer's mouth it was
     there--a cruel, hard gash in the face, compressed, inexorable, and
     terrible. He was ill-advised to train his moustache away from it, for
     it was Nature's danger-signal, set as a warning to his victims. His
     voice was engaging and his manners perfect. In age I should have put
     him at little over thirty, though his record afterwards showed that
     he was forty-two.

     "Very fine--very fine indeed!" he said at last. "And you say you have
     a set of six to correspond. What puzzles me is that I should not have
     heard of such magnificent specimens. I only know of one in England to
     match this, and it is certainly not likely to be in the market. Would
     it be indiscreet if I were to ask you, Dr. Hill Barton, how you
     obtained this?"

     "Does it really matter?" I asked with as careless an air as I could
     muster. "You can see that the piece is genuine, and, as to the value,
     I am content to take an expert's valuation."

     "Very mysterious," said he with a quick, suspicious flash of his dark
     eyes. "In dealing with objects of such value, one naturally wishes to
     know all about the transaction. That the piece is genuine is certain.
     I have no doubts at all about that. But suppose--I am bound to take
     every possibility into account--that it should prove afterwards that
     you had no right to sell?"

     "I would guarantee you against any claim of the sort."

     "That, of course, would open up the question as to what your
     guarantee was worth."

     "My bankers would answer that."

     "Quite so. And yet the whole transaction strikes me as rather
     unusual."

     "You can do business or not," said I with indifference. "I have given
     you the first offer as I understood that you were a connoisseur, but
     I shall have no difficulty in other quarters."

     "Who told you I was a connoisseur?"

     "I was aware that you had written a book upon the subject."

     "Have you read the book?"

     "No."

     "Dear me, this becomes more and more difficult for me to understand!
     You are a connoisseur and collector with a very valuable piece in
     your collection, and yet you have never troubled to consult the one
     book which would have told you of the real meaning and value of what
     you held. How do you explain that?"

     "I am a very busy man. I am a doctor in practice."

     "That is no answer. If a man has a hobby he follows it up, whatever
     his other pursuits may be. You said in your note that you were a
     connoisseur."

     "So I am."

     "Might I ask you a few questions to test you? I am obliged to tell
     you, Doctor--if you are indeed a doctor--that the incident becomes
     more and more suspicious. I would ask you what do you know of the
     Emperor Shomu and how do you associate him with the Shoso-in near
     Nara? Dear me, does that puzzle you? Tell me a little about the
     Northern Wei dynasty and its place in the history of ceramics."

     I sprang from my chair in simulated anger.

     "This is intolerable, sir," said I. "I came here to do you a favour,
     and not to be examined as if I were a schoolboy. My knowledge on
     these subjects may be second only to your own, but I certainly shall
     not answer questions which have been put in so offensive a way."

     He looked at me steadily. The languor had gone from his eyes. They
     suddenly glared. There was a gleam of teeth from between those cruel
     lips.

     "What is the game? You are here as a spy. You are an emissary of
     Holmes. This is a trick that you are playing upon me. The fellow is
     dying I hear, so he sends his tools to keep watch upon me. You've
     made your way in here without leave, and, by God! you may find it
     harder to get out than to get in."

     He had sprung to his feet, and I stepped back, bracing myself for an
     attack, for the man was beside himself with rage. He may have
     suspected me from the first; certainly this cross-examination had
     shown him the truth; but it was clear that I could not hope to
     deceive him. He dived his hand into a side-drawer and rummaged
     furiously. Then something struck upon his ear, for he stood listening
     intently.

     "Ah!" he cried. "Ah!" and dashed into the room behind him.

     Two steps took me to the open door, and my mind will ever carry a
     clear picture of the scene within. The window leading out to the
     garden was wide open. Beside it, looking like some terrible ghost,
     his head girt with bloody bandages, his face drawn and white, stood
     Sherlock Holmes. The next instant he was through the gap, and I heard
     the crash of his body among the laurel bushes outside. With a howl of
     rage the master of the house rushed after him to the open window.

     And then! It was done in an instant, and yet I clearly saw it. An
     arm--a woman's arm--shot out from among the leaves. At the same
     instant the Baron uttered a horrible cry--a yell which will always
     ring in my memory. He clapped his two hands to his face and rushed
     round the room, beating his head horribly against the walls. Then he
     fell upon the carpet, rolling and writhing, while scream after scream
     resounded through the house.

     "Water! For God's sake, water!" was his cry.

     I seized a carafe from a side-table and rushed to his aid. At the
     same moment the butler and several footmen ran in from the hall. I
     remember that one of them fainted as I knelt by the injured man and
     turned that awful face to the light of the lamp. The vitriol was
     eating into it everywhere and dripping from the ears and the chin.
     One eye was already white and glazed. The other was red and inflamed.
     The features which I had admired a few minutes before were now like
     some beautiful painting over which the artist has passed a wet and
     foul sponge. They were blurred, discoloured, inhuman, terrible.

     In a few words I explained exactly what had occurred, so far as the
     vitriol attack was concerned. Some had climbed through the window and
     others had rushed out on to the lawn, but it was dark and it had
     begun to rain. Between his screams the victim raged and raved against
     the avenger. "It was that hell-cat, Kitty Winter!" he cried. "Oh, the
     she-devil! She shall pay for it! She shall pay! Oh, God in heaven,
     this pain is more than I can bear!"

     I bathed his face in oil, put cotton wadding on the raw surfaces, and
     administered a hypodermic of morphia. All suspicion of me had passed
     from his mind in the presence of this shock, and he clung to my hands
     as if I might have the power even yet to clear those dead-fish eyes
     which gazed up at me. I could have wept over the ruin had I not
     remembered very clearly the vile life which had led up to so hideous
     a change. It was loathsome to feel the pawing of his burning hands,
     and I was relieved when his family surgeon, closely followed by a
     specialist, came to relieve me of my charge. An inspector of police
     had also arrived, and to him I handed my real card. It would have
     been useless as well as foolish to do otherwise, for I was nearly as
     well known by sight at the Yard as Holmes himself. Then I left that
     house of gloom and terror. Within an hour I was at Baker Street.

     Holmes was seated in his familiar chair, looking very pale and
     exhausted. Apart from his injuries, even his iron nerves had been
     shocked by the events of the evening, and he listened with horror to
     my account of the Baron's transformation.

     "The wages of sin, Watson--the wages of sin!" said he. "Sooner or
     later it will always come. God knows, there was sin enough," he
     added, taking up a brown volume from the table. "Here is the book the
     woman talked of. If this will not break off the marriage, nothing
     ever could. But it will, Watson. It must. No self-respecting woman
     could stand it."

     "It is his love diary?"

     "Or his lust diary. Call it what you will. The moment the woman told
     us of it I realized what a tremendous weapon was there if we could
     but lay our hands on it. I said nothing at the time to indicate my
     thoughts, for this woman might have given it away. But I brooded over
     it. Then this assault upon me gave me the chance of letting the Baron
     think that no precautions need be taken against me. That was all to
     the good. I would have waited a little longer, but his visit to
     America forced my hand. He would never have left so compromising a
     document behind him. Therefore we had to act at once. Burglary at
     night is impossible. He takes precautions. But there was a chance in
     the evening if I could only be sure that his attention was engaged.
     That was where you and your blue saucer came in. But I had to be sure
     of the position of the book, and I knew I had only a few minutes in
     which to act, for my time was limited by your knowledge of Chinese
     pottery. Therefore I gathered the girl up at the last moment. How
     could I guess what the little packet was that she carried so
     carefully under her cloak? I thought she had come altogether on my
     business, but it seems she had some of her own."

     "He guessed I came from you."

     "I feared he would. But you held him in play just long enough for me
     to get the book, though not long enough for an unobserved escape. Ah,
     Sir James, I am very glad you have come!"

     Our courtly friend had appeared in answer to a previous summons. He
     listened with the deepest attention to Holmes's account of what had
     occurred.

     "You have done wonders--wonders!" he cried when he had heard the
     narrative. "But if these injuries are as terrible as Dr. Watson
     describes, then surely our purpose of thwarting the marriage is
     sufficiently gained without the use of this horrible book."

     Holmes shook his head.

     "Women of the De Merville type do not act like that. She would love
     him the more as a disfigured martyr. No, no. It is his moral side,
     not his physical, which we have to destroy. That book will bring her
     back to earth--and I know nothing else that could. It is in his own
     writing. She cannot get past it."

     Sir James carried away both it and the precious saucer. As I was
     myself overdue, I went down with him into the street. A brougham was
     waiting for him. He sprang in, gave a hurried order to the cockaded
     coachman, and drove swiftly away. He flung his overcoat half out of
     the window to cover the armorial bearings upon the panel, but I had
     seen them in the glare of our fanlight none the less. I gasped with
     surprise. Then I turned back and ascended the stair to Holmes's room.

     "I have found out who our client is," I cried, bursting with my great
     news. "Why, Holmes, it is--"

     "It is a loyal friend and a chivalrous gentleman," said Holmes,
     holding up a restraining hand. "Let that now and forever be enough
     for us."

     I do not know how the incriminating book was used. Sir James may have
     managed it. Or it is more probable that so delicate a task was
     entrusted to the young lady's father. The effect, at any rate, was
     all that could be desired. Three days later appeared a paragraph in
     the Morning Post to say that the marriage between Baron Adelbert
     Gruner and Miss Violet de Merville would not take place. The same
     paper had the first police-court hearing of the proceedings against
     Miss Kitty Winter on the grave charge of vitriol-throwing. Such
     extenuating circumstances came out in the trial that the sentence, as
     will be remembered, was the lowest that was possible for such an
     offence. Sherlock Holmes was threatened with a prosecution for
     burglary, but when an object is good and a client is sufficiently
     illustrious, even the rigid British law becomes human and elastic. My
     friend has not yet stood in the dock.






                              THE BLANCHED SOLDIER

     The ideas of my friend Watson, though limited, are exceedingly
     pertinacious. For a long time he has worried me to write an
     experience of my own. Perhaps I have rather invited this persecution,
     since I have often had occasion to point out to him how superficial
     are his own accounts and to accuse him of pandering to popular taste
     instead of confining himself rigidly to facts and figures. "Try it
     yourself, Holmes!" he has retorted, and I am compelled to admit that,
     having taken my pen in my hand, I do begin to realize that the matter
     must be presented in such a way as may interest the reader. The
     following case can hardly fail to do so, as it is among the strangest
     happenings in my collection, though it chanced that Watson had no
     note of it in his collection. Speaking of my old friend and
     biographer, I would take this opportunity to remark that if I burden
     myself with a companion in my various little inquiries it is not done
     out of sentiment or caprice, but it is that Watson has some
     remarkable characteristics of his own to which in his modesty he has
     given small attention amid his exaggerated estimates of my own
     performances. A confederate who foresees your conclusions and course
     of action is always dangerous, but one to whom each development comes
     as a perpetual surprise, and to whom the future is always a closed
     book, is indeed an ideal helpmate.

     I find from my notebook that it was in January, 1903, just after the
     conclusion of the Boer War, that I had my visit from Mr. James M.
     Dodd, a big, fresh, sunburned, upstanding Briton. The good Watson had
     at that time deserted me for a wife, the only selfish action which I
     can recall in our association. I was alone.

     It is my habit to sit with my back to the window and to place my
     visitors in the opposite chair, where the light falls full upon them.
     Mr. James M. Dodd seemed somewhat at a loss how to begin the
     interview. I did not attempt to help him, for his silence gave me
     more time for observation. I have found it wise to impress clients
     with a sense of power, and so I gave him some of my conclusions.

     "From South Africa, sir, I perceive."

     "Yes, sir," he answered, with some surprise.

     "Imperial Yeomanry, I fancy."

     "Exactly."

     "Middlesex Corps, no doubt."

     "That is so. Mr. Holmes, you are a wizard."

     I smiled at his bewildered expression.

     "When a gentleman of virile appearance enters my room with such tan
     upon his face as an English sun could never give, and with his
     handkerchief in his sleeve instead of in his pocket, it is not
     difficult to place him. You wear a short beard, which shows that you
     were not a regular. You have the cut of a riding-man. As to
     Middlesex, your card has already shown me that you are a stockbroker
     from Throgmorton Street. What other regiment would you join?"

     "You see everything."

     "I see no more than you, but I have trained myself to notice what I
     see. However, Mr. Dodd, it was not to discuss the science of
     observation that you called upon me this morning. What has been
     happening at Tuxbury Old Park?"

     "Mr. Holmes--!"

     "My dear sir, there is no mystery. Your letter came with that
     heading, and as you fixed this appointment in very pressing terms it
     was clear that something sudden and important had occurred."

     "Yes, indeed. But the letter was written in the afternoon, and a good
     deal has happened since then. If Colonel Emsworth had not kicked me
     out--"

     "Kicked you out!"

     "Well, that was what it amounted to. He is a hard nail, is Colonel
     Emsworth. The greatest martinet in the Army in his day, and it was a
     day of rough language, too. I couldn't have stuck the colonel if it
     had not been for Godfrey's sake."

     I lit my pipe and leaned back in my chair.

     "Perhaps you will explain what you are talking about."

     My client grinned mischievously.

     "I had got into the way of supposing that you knew everything without
     being told," said he. "But I will give you the facts, and I hope to
     God that you will be able to tell me what they mean. I've been awake
     all night puzzling my brain, and the more I think the more incredible
     does it become.

     "When I joined up in January, 1901--just two years ago--young Godfrey
     Emsworth had joined the same squadron. He was Colonel Emsworth's only
     son--Emsworth, the Crimean V. C.--and he had the fighting blood in
     him, so it is no wonder he volunteered. There was not a finer lad in
     the regiment. We formed a friendship--the sort of friendship which
     can only be made when one lives the same life and shares the same
     joys and sorrows. He was my mate--and that means a good deal in the
     Army. We took the rough and the smooth together for a year of hard
     fighting. Then he was hit with a bullet from an elephant gun in the
     action near Diamond Hill outside Pretoria. I got one letter from the
     hospital at Cape Town and one from Southampton. Since then not a
     word--not one word, Mr. Holmes, for six months and more, and he my
     closest pal.

     "Well, when the war was over, and we all got back, I wrote to his
     father and asked where Godfrey was. No answer. I waited a bit and
     then I wrote again. This time I had a reply, short and gruff. Godfrey
     had gone on a voyage round the world, and it was not likely that he
     would be back for a year. That was all.

     "I wasn't satisfied, Mr. Holmes. The whole thing seemed to me so
     damned unnatural. He was a good lad, and he would not drop a pal like
     that. It was not like him. Then, again, I happened to know that he
     was heir to a lot of money, and also that his father and he did not
     always hit it off too well. The old man was sometimes a bully, and
     young Godfrey had too much spirit to stand it. No, I wasn't
     satisfied, and I determined that I would get to the root of the
     matter. It happened, however, that my own affairs needed a lot of
     straightening out, after two years' absence, and so it is only this
     week that I have been able to take up Godfrey's case again. But since
     I have taken it up I mean to drop everything in order to see it
     through."

     Mr. James M. Dodd appeared to be the sort of person whom it would be
     better to have as a friend than as an enemy. His blue eyes were stern
     and his square jaw had set hard as he spoke.

     "Well, what have you done?" I asked.

     "My first move was to get down to his home, Tuxbury Old Park, near
     Bedford, and to see for myself how the ground lay. I wrote to the
     mother, therefore--I had had quite enough of the curmudgeon of a
     father--and I made a clean frontal attack: Godfrey was my chum, I had
     a great deal of interest which I might tell her of our common
     experiences, I should be in the neighbourhood, would there be any
     objection, et cetera? In reply I had quite an amiable answer from her
     and an offer to put me up for the night. That was what took me down
     on Monday.

     "Tuxbury Old Hall is inaccessible--five miles from anywhere. There
     was no trap at the station, so I had to walk, carrying my suitcase,
     and it was nearly dark before I arrived. It is a great wandering
     house, standing in a considerable park. I should judge it was of all
     sorts of ages and styles, starting on a half-timbered Elizabethan
     foundation and ending in a Victorian portico. Inside it was all
     panelling and tapestry and half-effaced old pictures, a house of
     shadows and mystery. There was a butler, old Ralph, who seemed about
     the same age as the house, and there was his wife, who might have
     been older. She had been Godfrey's nurse, and I had heard him speak
     of her as second only to his mother in his affections, so I was drawn
     to her in spite of her queer appearance. The mother I liked also--a
     gentle little white mouse of a woman. It was only the colonel himself
     whom I barred.

     "We had a bit of barney right away, and I should have walked back to
     the station if I had not felt that it might be playing his game for
     me to do so. I was shown straight into his study, and there I found
     him, a huge, bow-backed man with a smoky skin and a straggling gray
     beard, seated behind his littered desk. A red-veined nose jutted out
     like a vulture's beak, and two fierce gray eyes glared at me from
     under tufted brows. I could understand now why Godfrey seldom spoke
     of his father.

     "'Well, sir,' said he in a rasping voice, 'I should be interested to
     know the real reasons for this visit.'

     "I answered that I had explained them in my letter to his wife.

     "'Yes, yes, you said that you had known Godfrey in Africa. We have,
     of course, only your word for that.'

     "'I have his letters to me in my pocket.'

     "'Kindly let me see them.'

     "He glanced at the two which I handed him, and then he tossed them
     back.

     "'Well, what then?' he asked.

     "'I was fond of your son Godfrey, sir. Many ties and memories united
     us. Is it not natural that I should wonder at his sudden silence and
     should wish to know what has become of him?'

     "'I have some recollections, sir, that I had already corresponded
     with you and had told you what had become of him. He has gone upon a
     voyage round the world. His health was in a poor way after his
     African experiences, and both his mother and I were of opinion that
     complete rest and change were needed. Kindly pass that explanation on
     to any other friends who may be interested in the matter.'

     "'Certainly,' I answered. 'But perhaps you would have the goodness to
     let me have the name of the steamer and of the line by which he
     sailed, together with the date. I have no doubt that I should be able
     to get a letter through to him.'

     "My request seemed both to puzzle and to irritate my host. His great
     eyebrows came down over his eyes, and he tapped his fingers
     impatiently on the table. He looked up at last with the expression of
     one who has seen his adversary make a dangerous move at chess, and
     has decided how to meet it.

     "'Many people, Mr. Dodd,' said he, 'would take offence at your
     infernal pertinacity and would think that this insistence had reached
     the point of damned impertinence.'

     "'You must put it down, sir, to my real love for your son.'

     "'Exactly. I have already made every allowance upon that score. I
     must ask you, however, to drop these inquiries. Every family has its
     own inner knowledge and its own motives, which cannot always be made
     clear to outsiders, however well-intentioned. My wife is anxious to
     hear something of Godfrey's past which you are in a position to tell
     her, but I would ask you to let the present and the future alone.
     Such inquiries serve no useful purpose, sir, and place us in a
     delicate and difficult position.'

     "So I came to a dead end, Mr. Holmes. There was no getting past it. I
     could only pretend to accept the situation and register a vow
     inwardly that I would never rest until my friend's fate had been
     cleared up. It was a dull evening. We dined quietly, the three of us,
     in a gloomy, faded old room. The lady questioned me eagerly about her
     son, but the old man seemed morose and depressed. I was so bored by
     the whole proceeding that I made an excuse as soon as I decently
     could and retired to my bedroom. It was a large, bare room on the
     ground floor, as gloomy as the rest of the house, but after a year of
     sleeping upon the veldt, Mr. Holmes, one is not too particular about
     one's quarters. I opened the curtains and looked out into the garden,
     remarking that it was a fine night with a bright half-moon. Then I
     sat down by the roaring fire with the lamp on a table beside me, and
     endeavoured to distract my mind with a novel. I was interrupted,
     however, by Ralph, the old butler, who came in with a fresh supply of
     coals.

     "'I thought you might run short in the night-time, sir. It is bitter
     weather and these rooms are cold.'

     "He hesitated before leaving the room, and when I looked round he was
     standing facing me with a wistful look upon his wrinkled face.

     "'Beg your pardon, sir, but I could not help hearing what you said of
     young Master Godfrey at dinner. You know, sir, that my wife nursed
     him, and so I may say I am his foster-father. It's natural we should
     take an interest. And you say he carried himself well, sir?'

     "'There was no braver man in the regiment. He pulled me out once from
     under the rifles of the Boers, or maybe I should not be here.'

     "The old butler rubbed his skinny hands.

     "'Yes, sir, yes, that is Master Godfrey all over. He was always
     courageous. There's not a tree in the park, sir, that he has not
     climbed. Nothing would stop him. He was a fine boy--and oh, sir, he
     was a fine man.'

     "I sprang to my feet.

     "'Look here!' I cried. 'You say he was. You speak as if he were dead.
     What is all this mystery? What has become of Godfrey Emsworth?'

     "I gripped the old man by the shoulder, but he shrank away.

     "'I don't know what you mean, sir. Ask the master about Master
     Godfrey. He knows. It is not for me to interfere.'

     "He was leaving the room, but I held his arm.

     "'Listen,' I said. 'You are going to answer one question before you
     leave if I have to hold you all night. Is Godfrey dead?'

     "He could not face my eyes. He was like a man hypnotized. The answer
     was dragged from his lips. It was a terrible and unexpected one.

     "'I wish to God he was!' he cried, and, tearing himself free, he
     dashed from the room.

     "You will think, Mr. Holmes, that I returned to my chair in no very
     happy state of mind. The old man's words seemed to me to bear only
     one interpretation. Clearly my poor friend had become involved in
     some criminal or, at the least, disreputable transaction which
     touched the family honour. That stern old man had sent his son away
     and hidden him from the world lest some scandal should come to light.
     Godfrey was a reckless fellow. He was easily influenced by those
     around him. No doubt he had fallen into bad hands and been misled to
     his ruin. It was a piteous business, if it was indeed so, but even
     now it was my duty to hunt him out and see if I could aid him. I was
     anxiously pondering the matter when I looked up, and there was
     Godfrey Emsworth standing before me."

     My client had paused as one in deep emotion.

     "Pray continue," I said. "Your problem presents some very unusual
     features."

     "He was outside the window, Mr. Holmes, with his face pressed against
     the glass. I have told you that I looked out at the night. When I did
     so I left the curtains partly open. His figure was framed in this
     gap. The window came down to the ground and I could see the whole
     length of it, but it was his face which held my gaze. He was deadly
     pale--never have I seen a man so white. I reckon ghosts may look like
     that; but his eyes met mine, and they were the eyes of a living man.
     He sprang back when he saw that I was looking at him, and he vanished
     into the darkness.

     "There was something shocking about the man, Mr. Holmes. It wasn't
     merely that ghastly face glimmering as white as cheese in the
     darkness. It was more subtle than that--something slinking, something
     furtive, something guilty-- something very unlike the frank, manly
     lad that I had known. It left a feeling of horror in my mind.

     "But when a man has been soldiering for a year or two with brother
     Boer as a playmate, he keeps his nerve and acts quickly. Godfrey had
     hardly vanished before I was at the window. There was an awkward
     catch, and I was some little time before I could throw it up. Then I
     nipped through and ran down the garden path in the direction that I
     thought he might have taken.

     "It was a long path and the light was not very good, but it seemed to
     me something was moving ahead of me. I ran on and called his name,
     but it was no use. When I got to the end of the path there were
     several others branching in different directions to various
     outhouses. I stood hesitating, and as I did so I heard distinctly the
     sound of a closing door. It was not behind me in the house, but ahead
     of me, somewhere in the darkness. That was enough, Mr. Holmes, to
     assure me that what I had seen was not a vision. Godfrey had run away
     from me, and he had shut a door behind him. Of that I was certain.

     "There was nothing more I could do, and I spent an uneasy night
     turning the matter over in my mind and trying to find some theory
     which would cover the facts. Next day I found the colonel rather more
     conciliatory, and as his wife remarked that there were some places of
     interest in the neighbourhood, it gave me an opening to ask whether
     my presence for one more night would incommode them. A somewhat
     grudging acquiescence from the old man gave me a clear day in which
     to make my observations. I was already perfectly convinced that
     Godfrey was in hiding somewhere near, but where and why remained to
     be solved.

     "The house was so large and so rambling that a regiment might be hid
     away in it and no one the wiser. If the secret lay there it was
     difficult for me to penetrate it. But the door which I had heard
     close was certainly not in the house. I must explore the garden and
     see what I could find. There was no difficulty in the way, for the
     old people were busy in their own fashion and left me to my own
     devices.

     "There were several small outhouses, but at the end of the garden
     there was a detached building of some size--large enough for a
     gardener's or a gamekeeper's residence. Could this be the place
     whence the sound of that shutting door had come? I approached it in a
     careless fashion as though I were strolling aimlessly round the
     grounds. As I did so, a small, brisk, bearded man in a black coat and
     bowler hat--not at all the gardener type--came out of the door. To my
     surprise, he locked it after him and put the key in his pocket. Then
     he looked at me with some surprise on his face.

     "'Are you a visitor here?' he asked.

     "I explained that I was and that I was a friend of Godfrey's.

     "'What a pity that he should be away on his travels, for he would
     have so liked to see me,' I continued.

     "'Quite so. Exactly,' said he with a rather guilty air. 'No doubt you
     will renew your visit at some more propitious time.' He passed on,
     but when I turned I observed that he was standing watching me,
     half-concealed by the laurels at the far end of the garden.

     "I had a good look at the little house as I passed it, but the
     windows were heavily curtained, and, so far as one could see, it was
     empty. I might spoil my own game and even be ordered off the premises
     if I were too audacious, for I was still conscious that I was being
     watched. Therefore, I strolled back to the house and waited for night
     before I went on with my inquiry. When all was dark and quiet I
     slipped out of my window and made my way as silently as possible to
     the mysterious lodge.

     "I have said that it was heavily curtained, but now I found that the
     windows were shuttered as well. Some light, however, was breaking
     through one of them, so I concentrated my attention upon this. I was
     in luck, for the curtain had not been quite closed, and there was a
     crack in the shutter, so that I could see the inside of the room. It
     was a cheery place enough, a bright lamp and a blazing fire. Opposite
     to me was seated the little man whom I had seen in the morning. He
     was smoking a pipe and reading a paper."

     "What paper?" I asked.

     My client seemed annoyed at the interruption of his narrative.

     "Can it matter?" he asked.

     "It is most essential."

     "I really took no notice."

     "Possibly you observed whether it was a broad-leafed paper or of that
     smaller type which one associates with weeklies."

     "Now that you mention it, it was not large. It might have been the
     Spectator. However, I had little thought to spare upon such details,
     for a second man was seated with his back to the window, and I could
     swear that this second man was Godfrey. I could not see his face, but
     I knew the familiar slope of his shoulders. He was leaning upon his
     elbow in an attitude of great melancholy, his body turned towards the
     fire. I was hesitating as to what I should do when there was a sharp
     tap on my shoulder, and there was Colonel Emsworth beside me.

     "'This way, sir!' said he in a low voice. He walked in silence to the
     house, and I followed him into my own bedroom. He had picked up a
     time-table in the hall.

     "'There is a train to London at 8.30,' said he. 'The trap will be at
     the door at eight.'

     "He was white with rage, and, indeed, I felt myself in so difficult a
     position that I could only stammer out a few incoherent apologies in
     which I tried to excuse myself by urging my anxiety for my friend.

     "'The matter will not bear discussion,' said he abruptly. 'You have
     made a most damnable intrusion into the privacy of our family. You
     were here as a guest and you have become a spy. I have nothing more
     to say, sir, save that I have no wish ever to see you again.'

     "At this I lost my temper, Mr. Holmes, and I spoke with some warmth.

     "'I have seen your son, and I am convinced that for some reason of
     your own you are concealing him from the world. I have no idea what
     your motives are in cutting him off in this fashion, but I am sure
     that he is no longer a free agent. I warn you, Colonel Emsworth, that
     until I am assured as to the safety and well-being of my friend I
     shall never desist in my efforts to get to the bottom of the mystery,
     and I shall certainly not allow myself to be intimidated by anything
     which you may say or do.'

     "The old fellow looked diabolical, and I really thought he was about
     to attack me. I have said that he was a gaunt, fierce old giant, and
     though I am no weakling I might have been hard put to it to hold my
     own against him. However, after a long glare of rage he turned upon
     his heel and walked out of the room. For my part, I took the
     appointed train in the morning, with the full intention of coming
     straight to you and asking for your advice and assistance at the
     appointment for which I had already written."

     Such was the problem which my visitor laid before me. It presented,
     as the astute reader will have already perceived, few difficulties in
     its solution, for a very limited choice of alternatives must get to
     the root of the matter. Still, elementary as it was, there were
     points of interest and novelty about it which may excuse my placing
     it upon record. I now proceeded, using my familiar method of logical
     analysis, to narrow down the possible solutions.

     "The servants," I asked; "how many were in the house?"

     "To the best of my belief there were only the old butler and his
     wife. They seemed to live in the simplest fashion."

     "There was no servant, then, in the detached house?"

     "None, unless the little man with the beard acted as such. He seemed,
     however, to be quite a superior person."

     "That seems very suggestive. Had you any indication that food was
     conveyed from the one house to the other?"

     "Now that you mention it, I did see old Ralph carrying a basket down
     the garden walk and going in the direction of this house. The idea of
     food did not occur to me at the moment."

     "Did you make any local inquiries?"

     "Yes, I did. I spoke to the station-master and also to the innkeeper
     in the village. I simply asked if they knew anything of my old
     comrade, Godfrey Emsworth. Both of them assured me that he had gone
     for a voyage round the world. He had come home and then had almost at
     once started off again. The story was evidently universally
     accepted."

     "You said nothing of your suspicions?"

     "Nothing."

     "That was very wise. The matter should certainly be inquired into. I
     will go back with you to Tuxbury Old Park."

     "To-day?"

     It happened that at the moment I was clearing up the case which my
     friend Watson has described as that of the Abbey School, in which the
     Duke of Greyminster was so deeply involved. I had also a commission
     from the Sultan of Turkey which called for immediate action, as
     political consequences of the gravest kind might arise from its
     neglect. Therefore it was not until the beginning of the next week,
     as my diary records, that I was able to start forth on my mission to
     Bedfordshire in company with Mr. James M. Dodd. As we drove to Euston
     we picked up a grave and taciturn gentleman of iron-gray aspect, with
     whom I had made the necessary arrangements.

     "This is an old friend," said I to Dodd. "It is possible that his
     presence may be entirely unnecessary, and, on the other hand, it may
     be essential. It is not necessary at the present stage to go further
     into the matter."

     The narratives of Watson have accustomed the reader, no doubt, to the
     fact that I do not waste words or disclose my thoughts while a case
     is actually under consideration. Dodd seemed surprised, but nothing
     more was said, and the three of us continued our journey together. In
     the train I asked Dodd one more question which I wished our companion
     to hear.

     "You say that you saw your friend's face quite clearly at the window,
     so clearly that you are sure of his identity?"

     "I have no doubt about it whatever. His nose was pressed against the
     glass. The lamplight shone full upon him."

     "It could not have been someone resembling him?"

     "No, no, it was he."

     "But you say he was changed?"

     "Only in colour. His face was--how shall I describe it?--it was of a
     fish-belly whiteness. It was bleached."

     "Was it equally pale all over?"

     "I think not. It was his brow which I saw so clearly as it was
     pressed against the window."

     "Did you call to him?"

     "I was too startled and horrified for the moment. Then I pursued him,
     as I have told you, but without result."

     My case was practically complete, and there was only one small
     incident needed to round it off. When, after a considerable drive, we
     arrived at the strange old rambling house which my client had
     described, it was Ralph, the elderly butler, who opened the door. I
     had requisitioned the carriage for the day and had asked my elderly
     friend to remain within it unless we should summon him. Ralph, a
     little wrinkled old fellow, was in the conventional costume of black
     coat and pepper-and-salt trousers, with only one curious variant. He
     wore brown leather gloves, which at sight of us he instantly shuffled
     off, laying them down on the hall-table as we passed in. I have, as
     my friend Watson may have remarked, an abnormally acute set of
     senses, and a faint but incisive scent was apparent. It seemed to
     centre on the hall-table. I turned, placed my hat there, knocked it
     off, stooped to pick it up, and contrived to bring my nose within a
     foot of the gloves. Yes, it was undoubtedly from them that the
     curious tarry odour was oozing. I passed on into the study with my
     case complete. Alas, that I should have to show my hand so when I
     tell my own story! It was by concealing such links in the chain that
     Watson was enabled to produce his meretricious finales.

     Colonel Emsworth was not in his room, but he came quickly enough on
     receipt of Ralph's message. We heard his quick, heavy step in the
     passage. The door was flung open and he rushed in with bristling
     beard and twisted features, as terrible an old man as ever I have
     seen. He held our cards in his hand, and he tore them up and stamped
     on the fragments.

     "Have I not told you, you infernal busybody, that you are warned off
     the premises? Never dare to show your damned face here again. If you
     enter again without my leave I shall be within my rights if I use
     violence. I'll shoot you, sir! By God, I will! As to you, sir,"
     turning upon me, "I extend the same warning to you. I am familiar
     with your ignoble profession, but you must take your reputed talents
     to some other field. There is no opening for them here."

     "I cannot leave here," said my client firmly, "until I hear from
     Godfrey's own lips that he is under no restraint."

     Our involuntary host rang the bell.

     "Ralph," he said, "telephone down to the county police and ask the
     inspector to send up two constables. Tell him there are burglars in
     the house."

     "One moment," said I. "You must be aware, Mr. Dodd, that Colonel
     Emsworth is within his rights and that we have no legal status within
     his house. On the other hand, he should recognize that your action is
     prompted entirely by solicitude for his son. I venture to hope that
     if I were allowed to have five minutes' conversation with Colonel
     Emsworth I could certainly alter his view of the matter."

     "I am not so easily altered," said the old soldier. "Ralph, do what I
     have told you. What the devil are you waiting for? Ring up the
     police!"

     "Nothing of the sort," I said, putting my back to the door. "Any
     police interference would bring about the very catastrophe which you
     dread." I took out my notebook and scribbled one word upon a loose
     sheet. "That," said I as I handed it to Colonel Emsworth, "is what
     has brought us here."

     He stared at the writing with a face from which every expression save
     amazement had vanished.

     "How do you know?" he gasped, sitting down heavily in his chair.

     "It is my business to know things. That is my trade."

     He sat in deep thought, his gaunt hand tugging at his straggling
     beard. Then he made a gesture of resignation.

     "Well, if you wish to see Godfrey, you shall. It is no doing of mine,
     but you have forced my hand. Ralph, tell Mr. Godfrey and Mr. Kent
     that in five minutes we shall be with them."

     At the end of that time we passed down the garden path and found
     ourselves in front of the mystery house at the end. A small bearded
     man stood at the door with a look of considerable astonishment upon
     his face.

     "This is very sudden, Colonel Emsworth," said he. "This will
     disarrange all our plans."

     "I can't help it, Mr. Kent. Our hands have been forced. Can Mr.
     Godfrey see us?"

     "Yes, he is waiting inside." He turned and led us into a large,
     plainly furnished front room. A man was standing with his back to the
     fire, and at the sight of him my client sprang forward with
     outstretched hand.

     "Why, Godfrey, old man, this is fine!"

     But the other waved him back.

     "Don't touch me, Jimmie. Keep your distance. Yes, you may well stare!
     I don't quite look the smart Lance-Corporal Emsworth, of B Squadron,
     do I?"

     His appearance was certainly extraordinary. One could see that he had
     indeed been a handsome man with clear-cut features sunburned by an
     African sun, but mottled in patches over this darker surface were
     curious whitish patches which had bleached his skin.

     "That's why I don't court visitors," said he. "I don't mind you,
     Jimmie, but I could have done without your friend. I suppose there is
     some good reason for it, but you have me at a disadvantage."

     "I wanted to be sure that all was well with you, Godfrey. I saw you
     that night when you looked into my window, and I could not let the
     matter rest till I had cleared things up."

     "Old Ralph told me you were there, and I couldn't help taking a peep
     at you. I hoped you would not have seen me, and I had to run to my
     burrow when I heard the window go up."

     "But what in heaven's name is the matter?"

     "Well, it's not a long story to tell," said he, lighting a cigarette.
     "You remember that morning fight at Buffelsspruit, outside Pretoria,
     on the Eastern railway line? You heard I was hit?"

     "Yes, I heard that, but I never got particulars."

     "Three of us got separated from the others. It was very broken
     country, you may remember. There was Simpson--the fellow we called
     Baldy Simpson-- and Anderson, and I. We were clearing brother Boer,
     but he lay low and got the three of us. The other two were killed. I
     got an elephant bullet through my shoulder. I stuck on to my horse,
     however, and he galloped several miles before I fainted and rolled
     off the saddle.

     "When I came to myself it was nightfall, and I raised myself up,
     feeling very weak and ill. To my surprise there was a house close
     beside me, a fairly large house with a broad stoep and many windows.
     It was deadly cold. You remember the kind of numb cold which used to
     come at evening, a deadly, sickening sort of cold, very different
     from a crisp healthy frost. Well, I was chilled to the bone, and my
     only hope seemed to lie in reaching that house. I staggered to my
     feet and dragged myself along, hardly conscious of what I did. I have
     a dim memory of slowly ascending the steps, entering a wide-opened
     door, passing into a large room which contained several beds, and
     throwing myself down with a gasp of satisfaction upon one of them. It
     was unmade, but that troubled me not at all. I drew the clothes over
     my shivering body and in a moment I was in a deep sleep.

     "It was morning when I wakened, and it seemed to me that instead of
     coming out into a world of sanity I had emerged into some
     extraordinary nightmare. The African sun flooded through the big,
     curtainless windows, and every detail of the great, bare, whitewashed
     dormitory stood out hard and clear. In front of me was standing a
     small, dwarf-like man with a huge, bulbous head, who was jabbering
     excitedly in Dutch, waving two horrible hands which looked to me like
     brown sponges. Behind him stood a group of people who seemed to be
     intensely amused by the situation, but a chill came over me as I
     looked at them. Not one of them was a normal human being. Every one
     was twisted or swollen or disfigured in some strange way. The
     laughter of these strange monstrosities was a dreadful thing to hear.

     "It seemed that none of them could speak English, but the situation
     wanted clearing up, for the creature with the big head was growing
     furiously angry, and, uttering wild-beast cries, he had laid his
     deformed hands upon me and was dragging me out of bed, regardless of
     the fresh flow of blood from my wound. The little monster was as
     strong as a bull, and I don't know what he might have done to me had
     not an elderly man who was clearly in authority been attracted to the
     room by the hubbub. He said a few stern words in Dutch, and my
     persecutor shrank away. Then he turned upon me, gazing at me in the
     utmost amazement.

     "'How in the world did you come here?' he asked in amazement. 'Wait a
     bit! I see that you are tired out and that wounded shoulder of yours
     wants looking after. I am a doctor, and I'll soon have you tied up.
     But, man alive! you are in far greater danger here than ever you were
     on the battlefield. You are in the Leper Hospital, and you have slept
     in a leper's bed.'

     "Need I tell you more, Jimmie? It seems that in view of the
     approaching battle all these poor creatures had been evacuated the
     day before. Then, as the British advanced, they had been brought back
     by this, their medical superintendent, who assured me that, though he
     believed he was immune to the disease, he would none the less never
     have dared to do what I had done. He put me in a private room,
     treated me kindly, and within a week or so I was removed to the
     general hospital at Pretoria.

     "So there you have my tragedy. I hoped against hope, but it was not
     until I had reached home that the terrible signs which you see upon
     my face told me that I had not escaped. What was I to do? I was in
     this lonely house. We had two servants whom we could utterly trust.
     There was a house where I could live. Under pledge of secrecy, Mr.
     Kent, who is a surgeon, was prepared to stay with me. It seemed
     simple enough on those lines. The alternative was a dreadful
     one--segregation for life among strangers with never a hope of
     release. But absolute secrecy was necessary, or even in this quiet
     countryside there would have been an outcry, and I should have been
     dragged to my horrible doom. Even you, Jimmie--even you had to be
     kept in the dark. Why my father has relented I cannot imagine."

     Colonel Emsworth pointed to me.

     "This is the gentleman who forced my hand." He unfolded the scrap of
     paper on which I had written the word "Leprosy." "It seemed to me
     that if he knew so much as that it was safer that he should know
     all."

     "And so it was," said I. "Who knows but good may come of it? I
     understand that only Mr. Kent has seen the patient. May I ask, sir,
     if you are an authority on such complaints, which are, I understand,
     tropical or semi-tropical in their nature?"

     "I have the ordinary knowledge of the educated medical man," he
     observed with some stiffness.

     "I have no doubt, sir, that you are fully competent, but I am sure
     that you will agree that in such a case a second opinion is valuable.
     You have avoided this, I understand, for fear that pressure should be
     put upon you to segregate the patient."

     "That is so," said Colonel Emsworth.

     "I foresaw this situation," I explained, "and I have brought with me
     a friend whose discretion may absolutely be trusted. I was able once
     to do him a professional service, and he is ready to advise as a
     friend rather than as a specialist. His name is Sir James Saunders."

     The prospect of an interview with Lord Roberts would not have excited
     greater wonder and pleasure in a raw subaltern than was now reflected
     upon the face of Mr. Kent.

     "I shall indeed be proud," he murmured.

     "Then I will ask Sir James to step this way. He is at present in the
     carriage outside the door. Meanwhile, Colonel Emsworth, we may
     perhaps assemble in your study, where I could give the necessary
     explanations."

     And here it is that I miss my Watson. By cunning questions and
     ejaculations of wonder he could elevate my simple art, which is but
     systematized common sense, into a prodigy. When I tell my own story I
     have no such aid. And yet I will give my process of thought even as I
     gave it to my small audience, which included Godfrey's mother in the
     study of Colonel Emsworth.

     "That process," said I, "starts upon the supposition that when you
     have eliminated all which is impossible, then whatever remains,
     however improbable, must be the truth. It may well be that several
     explanations remain, in which case one tries test after test until
     one or other of them has a convincing amount of support. We will now
     apply this principle to the case in point. As it was first presented
     to me, there were three possible explanations of the seclusion or
     incarceration of this gentleman in an outhouse of his father's
     mansion. There was the explanation that he was in hiding for a crime,
     or that he was mad and that they wished to avoid an asylum, or that
     he had some disease which caused his segregation. I could think of no
     other adequate solutions. These, then, had to be sifted and balanced
     against each other.

     "The criminal solution would not bear inspection. No unsolved crime
     had been reported from that district. I was sure of that. If it were
     some crime not yet discovered, then clearly it would be to the
     interest of the family to get rid of the delinquent and send him
     abroad rather than keep him concealed at home. I could see no
     explanation for such a line of conduct.

     "Insanity was more plausible. The presence of the second person in
     the outhouse suggested a keeper. The fact that he locked the door
     when he came out strengthened the supposition and gave the idea of
     constraint. On the other hand, this constraint could not be severe or
     the young man could not have got loose and come down to have a look
     at his friend. You will remember, Mr. Dodd, that I felt round for
     points, asking you, for example, about the paper which Mr. Kent was
     reading. Had it been the Lancet or the British Medical Journal it
     would have helped me. It is not illegal, however, to keep a lunatic
     upon private premises so long as there is a qualified person in
     attendance and that the authorities have been duly notified. Why,
     then, all this desperate desire for secrecy? Once again I could not
     get the theory to fit the facts.

     "There remained the third possibility, into which, rare and unlikely
     as it was, everything seemed to fit. Leprosy is not uncommon in South
     Africa. By some extraordinary chance this youth might have contracted
     it. His people would be placed in a very dreadful position, since
     they would desire to save him from segregation. Great secrecy would
     be needed to prevent rumours from getting about and subsequent
     interference by the authorities. A devoted medical man, if
     sufficiently paid, would easily be found to take charge of the
     sufferer. There would be no reason why the latter should not be
     allowed freedom after dark. Bleaching of the skin is a common result
     of the disease. The case was a strong one--so strong that I
     determined to act as if it were actually proved. When on arriving
     here I noticed that Ralph, who carries out the meals, had gloves
     which are impregnated with disinfectants, my last doubts were
     removed. A single word showed you, sir, that your secret was
     discovered, and if I wrote rather than said it, it was to prove to
     you that my discretion was to be trusted."

     I was finishing this little analysis of the case when the door was
     opened and the austere figure of the great dermatologist was ushered
     in. But for once his sphinx-like features had relaxed and there was a
     warm humanity in his eyes. He strode up to Colonel Emsworth and shook
     him by the hand.

     "It is often my lot to bring ill-tidings and seldom good," said he.
     "This occasion is the more welcome. It is not leprosy."

     "What?"

     "A well-marked case of pseudo-leprosy or ichthyosis, a scale-like
     affection of the skin, unsightly, obstinate, but possibly curable,
     and certainly noninfective. Yes, Mr. Holmes, the coincidence is a
     remarkable one. But is it coincidence? Are there not subtle forces at
     work of which we know little? Are we assured that the apprehension
     from which this young man has no doubt suffered terribly since his
     exposure to its contagion may not produce a physical effect which
     simulates that which it fears? At any rate, I pledge my professional
     reputation-- But the lady has fainted! I think that Mr. Kent had
     better be with her until she recovers from this joyous shock."






                       THE ADVENTURE OF THE MAZARIN STONE

     It was pleasant to Dr. Watson to find himself once more in the untidy
     room of the first floor in Baker Street which had been the
     starting-point of so many remarkable adventures. He looked round him
     at the scientific charts upon the wall, the acid-charred bench of
     chemicals, the violin-case leaning in the corner, the coal-scuttle,
     which contained of old the pipes and tobacco. Finally, his eyes came
     round to the fresh and smiling face of Billy, the young but very wise
     and tactful page, who had helped a little to fill up the gap of
     loneliness and isolation which surrounded the saturnine figure of the
     great detective.

     "It all seems very unchanged, Billy. You don't change, either. I hope
     the same can be said of him?"

     Billy glanced with some solicitude at the closed door of the bedroom.

     "I think he's in bed and asleep," he said.

     It was seven in the evening of a lovely summer's day, but Dr. Watson
     was sufficiently familiar with the irregularity of his old friend's
     hours to feel no surprise at the idea.

     "That means a case, I suppose?"

     "Yes, sir, he is very hard at it just now. I'm frightened for his
     health. He gets paler and thinner, and he eats nothing. 'When will
     you be pleased to dine, Mr. Holmes?' Mrs. Hudson asked.
     'Seven-thirty, the day after to-morrow,' said he. You know his way
     when he is keen on a case."

     "Yes, Billy, I know."

     "He's following someone. Yesterday he was out as a workman looking
     for a job. To-day he was an old woman. Fairly took me in, he did, and
     I ought to know his ways by now." Billy pointed with a grin to a very
     baggy parasol which leaned against the sofa. "That's part of the old
     woman's outfit," he said.

     "But what is it all about, Billy?"

     Billy sank his voice, as one who discusses great secrets of State. "I
     don't mind telling you, sir, but it should go no farther. It's this
     case of the Crown diamond."

     "What--the hundred-thousand-pound burglary?"

     "Yes, sir. They must get it back, sir. Why, we had the Prime Minister
     and the Home Secretary both sitting on that very sofa. Mr. Holmes was
     very nice to them. He soon put them at their ease and promised he
     would do all he could. Then there is Lord Cantlemere--"

     "Ah!"

     "Yes, sir, you know what that means. He's a stiff 'un, sir, if I may
     say so. I can get along with the Prime Minister, and I've nothing
     against the Home Secretary, who seemed a civil, obliging sort of man,
     but I can't stand his Lordship. Neither can Mr. Holmes, sir. You see,
     he don't believe in Mr. Holmes and he was against employing him. He'd
     rather he failed."

     "And Mr. Holmes knows it?"

     "Mr. Holmes always knows whatever there is to know."

     "Well, we'll hope he won't fail and that Lord Cantlemere will be
     confounded. But I say, Billy, what is that curtain for across the
     window?"

     "Mr. Holmes had it put up there three days ago. We've got something
     funny behind it."

     Billy advanced and drew away the drapery which screened the alcove of
     the bow window.

     Dr. Watson could not restrain a cry of amazement. There was a
     facsimile of his old friend, dressing-gown and all, the face turned
     three-quarters towards the window and downward, as though reading an
     invisible book, while the body was sunk deep in an armchair. Billy
     detached the head and held it in the air.

     "We put it at different angles, so that it may seem more lifelike. I
     wouldn't dare touch it if the blind were not down. But when it's up
     you can see this from across the way."

     "We used something of the sort once before."

     "Before my time," said Billy. He drew the window curtains apart and
     looked out into the street. "There are folk who watch us from over
     yonder. I can see a fellow now at the window. Have a look for
     yourself."

     Watson had taken a step forward when the bedroom door opened, and the
     long, thin form of Holmes emerged, his face pale and drawn, but his
     step and bearing as active as ever. With a single spring he was at
     the window, and had drawn the blind once more.

     "That will do, Billy," said he. "You were in danger of your life
     then, my boy, and I can't do without you just yet. Well, Watson, it
     is good to see you in your old quarters once again. You come at a
     critical moment."

     "So I gather."

     "You can go, Billy. That boy is a problem, Watson. How far am I
     justified in allowing him to be in danger?"

     "Danger of what, Holmes?"

     "Of sudden death. I'm expecting something this evening."

     "Expecting what?"

     "To be murdered, Watson."

     "No, no, you are joking, Holmes!"

     "Even my limited sense of humour could evolve a better joke than
     that. But we may be comfortable in the meantime, may we not? Is
     alcohol permitted? The gasogene and cigars are in the old place. Let
     me see you once more in the customary armchair. You have not, I hope,
     learned to despise my pipe and my lamentable tobacco? It has to take
     the place of food these days."

     "But why not eat?"

     "Because the faculties become refined when you starve them. Why,
     surely, as a doctor, my dear Watson, you must admit that what your
     digestion gains in the way of blood supply is so much lost to the
     brain. I am a brain, Watson. The rest of me is a mere appendix.
     Therefore, it is the brain I must consider."

     "But this danger, Holmes?"

     "Ah, yes, in case it should come off, it would perhaps be as well
     that you should burden your memory with the name and address of the
     murderer. You can give it to Scotland Yard, with my love and a
     parting blessing. Sylvius is the name--Count Negretto Sylvius. Write
     it down, man, write it down! 136 Moorside Gardens, N. W. Got it?"

     Watson's honest face was twitching with anxiety. He knew only too
     well the immense risks taken by Holmes and was well aware that what
     he said was more likely to be under-statement than exaggeration.
     Watson was always the man of action, and he rose to the occasion.

     "Count me in, Holmes. I have nothing to do for a day or two."

     "Your morals don't improve, Watson. You have added fibbing to your
     other vices. You bear every sign of the busy medical man, with calls
     on him every hour."

     "Not such important ones. But can't you have this fellow arrested?"

     "Yes, Watson, I could. That's what worries him so."

     "But why don't you?"

     "Because I don't know where the diamond is."

     "Ah! Billy told me--the missing Crown jewel!"

     "Yes, the great yellow Mazarin stone. I've cast my net and I have my
     fish. But I have not got the stone. What is the use of taking them?
     We can make the world a better place by laying them by the heels. But
     that is not what I am out for. It's the stone I want."

     "And is this Count Sylvius one of your fish?"

     "Yes, and he's a shark. He bites. The other is Sam Merton, the boxer.
     Not a bad fellow, Sam, but the Count has used him. Sam's not a shark.
     He is a great big silly bull-headed gudgeon. But he is flopping about
     in my net all the same."

     "Where is this Count Sylvius?"

     "I've been at his very elbow all the morning. You've seen me as an
     old lady, Watson. I was never more convincing. He actually picked up
     my parasol for me once. 'By your leave, madame,' said
     he--half-Italian, you know, and with the Southern graces of manner
     when in the mood, but a devil incarnate in the other mood. Life is
     full of whimsical happenings, Watson."

     "It might have been tragedy."

     "Well, perhaps it might. I followed him to old Straubenzee's workshop
     in the Minories. Straubenzee made the air-gun--a very pretty bit of
     work, as I understand, and I rather fancy it is in the opposite
     window at the present moment. Have you seen the dummy? Of course,
     Billy showed it to you. Well, it may get a bullet through its
     beautiful head at any moment. Ah, Billy, what is it?"

     The boy had reappeared in the room with a card upon a tray. Holmes
     glanced at it with raised eyebrows and an amused smile.

     "The man himself. I had hardly expected this. Grasp the nettle,
     Watson! A man of nerve. Possibly you have heard of his reputation as
     a shooter of big game. It would indeed be a triumphant ending to his
     excellent sporting record if he added me to his bag. This is a proof
     that he feels my toe very close behind his heel."

     "Send for the police."

     "I probably shall. But not just yet. Would you glance carefully out
     of the window, Watson, and see if anyone is hanging about in the
     street?"

     Watson looked warily round the edge of the curtain.

     "Yes, there is one rough fellow near the door."

     "That will be Sam Merton--the faithful but rather fatuous Sam. Where
     is this gentleman, Billy?"

     "In the waiting-room, sir."

     "Show him up when I ring."

     "Yes, sir."

     "If I am not in the room, show him in all the same."

     "Yes, sir."

     Watson waited until the door was closed, and then he turned earnestly
     to his companion.

     "Look here, Holmes, this is simply impossible. This is a desperate
     man, who sticks at nothing. He may have come to murder you."

     "I should not be surprised."

     "I insist upon staying with you."

     "You would be horribly in the way."

     "In his way?"

     "No, my dear fellow--in my way."

     "Well, I can't possibly leave you."

     "Yes, you can, Watson. And you will, for you have never failed to
     play the game. I am sure you will play it to the end. This man has
     come for his own purpose, but he may stay for mine." Holmes took out
     his notebook and scribbled a few lines. "Take a cab to Scotland Yard
     and give this to Youghal of the C. I. D. Come back with the police.
     The fellow's arrest will follow."

     "I'll do that with joy."

     "Before you return I may have just time enough to find out where the
     stone is." He touched the bell. "I think we will go out through the
     bedroom. This second exit is exceedingly useful. I rather want to see
     my shark without his seeing me, and I have, as you will remember, my
     own way of doing it."

     It was, therefore, an empty room into which Billy, a minute later,
     ushered Count Sylvius. The famous game-shot, sportsman, and
     man-about-town was a big, swarthy fellow, with a formidable dark
     moustache shading a cruel, thin-lipped mouth, and surmounted by a
     long, curved nose like the beak of an eagle. He was well dressed, but
     his brilliant necktie, shining pin, and glittering rings were
     flamboyant in their effect. As the door closed behind him he looked
     round him with fierce, startled eyes, like one who suspects a trap at
     every turn. Then he gave a violent start as he saw the impassive head
     and the collar of the dressing-gown which projected above the
     armchair in the window. At first his expression was one of pure
     amazement. Then the light of a horrible hope gleamed in his dark,
     murderous eyes. He took one more glance round to see that there were
     no witnesses, and then, on tiptoe, his thick stick half raised, he
     approached the silent figure. He was crouching for his final spring
     and blow when a cool, sardonic voice greeted him from the open
     bedroom door:

     "Don't break it, Count! Don't break it!"

     The assassin staggered back, amazement in his convulsed face. For an
     instant he half raised his loaded cane once more, as if he would turn
     his violence from the effigy to the original; but there was something
     in that steady gray eye and mocking smile which caused his hand to
     sink to his side.

     "It's a pretty little thing," said Holmes, advancing towards the
     image. "Tavernier, the French modeller, made it. He is as good at
     waxworks as your friend Straubenzee is at air-guns."

     "Air-guns, sir! What do you mean?"

     "Put your hat and stick on the side-table. Thank you! Pray take a
     seat. Would you care to put your revolver out also? Oh, very good, if
     you prefer to sit upon it. Your visit is really most opportune, for I
     wanted badly to have a few minutes' chat with you."

     The Count scowled, with heavy, threatening eyebrows.

     "I, too, wished to have some words with you, Holmes. That is why I am
     here. I won't deny that I intended to assault you just now."

     Holmes swung his leg on the edge of the table.

     "I rather gathered that you had some idea of the sort in your head,"
     said he. "But why these personal attentions?"

     "Because you have gone out of your way to annoy me. Because you have
     put your creatures upon my track."

     "My creatures! I assure you no!"

     "Nonsense! I have had them followed. Two can play at that game,
     Holmes."

     "It is a small point, Count Sylvius, but perhaps you would kindly
     give me my prefix when you address me. You can understand that, with
     my routine of work, I should find myself on familiar terms with half
     the rogues' gallery, and you will agree that exceptions are
     invidious."

     "Well, Mr. Holmes, then."

     "Excellent! But I assure you you are mistaken about my alleged
     agents."

     Count Sylvius laughed contemptuously.

     "Other people can observe as well as you. Yesterday there was an old
     sporting man. To-day it was an elderly woman. They held me in view
     all day."

     "Really, sir, you compliment me. Old Baron Dowson said the night
     before he was hanged that in my case what the law had gained the
     stage had lost. And now you give my little impersonations your kindly
     praise?"

     "It was you--you yourself?"

     Holmes shrugged his shoulders. "You can see in the corner the parasol
     which you so politely handed to me in the Minories before you began
     to suspect."

     "If I had known, you might never--"

     "Have seen this humble home again. I was well aware of it. We all
     have neglected opportunities to deplore. As it happens, you did not
     know, so here we are!"

     The Count's knotted brows gathered more heavily over his menacing
     eyes. "What you say only makes the matter worse. It was not your
     agents but your play-acting, busybody self! You admit that you have
     dogged me. Why?"

     "Come now, Count. You used to shoot lions in Algeria."

     "Well?"

     "But why?"

     "Why? The sport--the excitement--the danger!"

     "And, no doubt, to free the country from a pest?"

     "Exactly!"

     "My reasons in a nutshell!"

     The Count sprang to his feet, and his hand involuntarily moved back
     to his hip-pocket.

     "Sit down, sir, sit down! There was another, more practical, reason.
     I want that yellow diamond!"

     Count Sylvius lay back in his chair with an evil smile.

     "Upon my word!" said he.

     "You knew that I was after you for that. The real reason why you are
     here to-night is to find out how much I know about the matter and how
     far my removal is absolutely essential. Well, I should say that, from
     your point of view, it is absolutely essential, for I know all about
     it, save only one thing, which you are about to tell me."

     "Oh, indeed! And pray, what is this missing fact?"

     "Where the Crown diamond now is."

     The Count looked sharply at his companion. "Oh, you want to know
     that, do you? How the devil should I be able to tell you where it
     is?"

     "You can, and you will."

     "Indeed!"

     "You can't bluff me, Count Sylvius." Holmes's eyes, as he gazed at
     him, contracted and lightened until they were like two menacing
     points of steel. "You are absolute plate-glass. I see to the very
     back of your mind."

     "Then, of course, you see where the diamond is!"

     Holmes clapped his hands with amusement, and then pointed a derisive
     finger. "Then you do know. You have admitted it!"

     "I admit nothing."

     "Now, Count, if you will be reasonable we can do business. If not,
     you will get hurt."

     Count Sylvius threw up his eyes to the ceiling. "And you talk about
     bluff!" said he.

     Holmes looked at him thoughtfully like a master chess-player who
     meditates his crowning move. Then he threw open the table drawer and
     drew out a squat notebook.

     "Do you know what I keep in this book?"

     "No, sir, I do not!"

     "You!"

     "Me!"

     "Yes, sir, you! You are all here--every action of your vile and
     dangerous life."

     "Damn you, Holmes!" cried the Count with blazing eyes. "There are
     limits to my patience!"

     "It's all here, Count. The real facts as to the death of old Mrs.
     Harold, who left you the Blymer estate, which you so rapidly gambled
     away."

     "You are dreaming!"

     "And the complete life history of Miss Minnie Warrender."

     "Tut! You will make nothing of that!"

     "Plenty more here, Count. Here is the robbery in the train de-luxe to
     the Riviera on February 13, 1892. Here is the forged check in the
     same year on the Credit Lyonnais."

     "No; you're wrong there."

     "Then I am right on the others! Now, Count, you are a card-player.
     When the other fellow has all the trumps, it saves time to throw down
     your hand."

     "What has all this talk to do with the jewel of which you spoke?"

     "Gently, Count. Restrain that eager mind! Let me get to the points in
     my own humdrum fashion. I have all this against you; but, above all,
     I have a clear case against both you and your fighting bully in the
     case of the Crown diamond."

     "Indeed!"

     "I have the cabman who took you to Whitehall and the cabman who
     brought you away. I have the commissionaire who saw you near the
     case. I have Ikey Sanders, who refused to cut it up for you. Ikey has
     peached, and the game is up."

     The veins stood out on the Count's forehead. His dark, hairy hands
     were clenched in a convulsion of restrained emotion. He tried to
     speak, but the words would not shape themselves.

     "That's the hand I play from," said Holmes. "I put it all upon the
     table. But one card is missing. It's the king of diamonds. I don't
     know where the stone is."

     "You never shall know."

     "No? Now, be reasonable, Count. Consider the situation. You are going
     to be locked up for twenty years. So is Sam Merton. What good are you
     going to get out of your diamond? None in the world. But if you hand
     it over--well, I'll compound a felony. We don't want you or Sam. We
     want the stone. Give that up, and so far as I am concerned you can go
     free so long as you behave yourself in the future. If you make
     another slip--well, it will be the last. But this time my commission
     is to get the stone, not you."

     "But if I refuse?"

     "Why, then--alas!--it must be you and not the stone."

     Billy had appeared in answer to a ring.

     "I think, Count, that it would be as well to have your friend Sam at
     this conference. After all, his interests should be represented.
     Billy, you will see a large and ugly gentleman outside the front
     door. Ask him to come up."

     "If he won't come, sir?"

     "No violence, Billy. Don't be rough with him. If you tell him that
     Count Sylvius wants him he will certainly come."

     "What are you going to do now?" asked the Count as Billy disappeared.

     "My friend Watson was with me just now. I told him that I had a shark
     and a gudgeon in my net; now I am drawing the net and up they come
     together."

     The Count had risen from his chair, and his hand was behind his back.
     Holmes held something half protruding from the pocket of his
     dressing-gown.

     "You won't die in your bed, Holmes."

     "I have often had the same idea. Does it matter very much? After all,
     Count, your own exit is more likely to be perpendicular than
     horizontal. But these anticipations of the future are morbid. Why not
     give ourselves up to the unrestrained enjoyment of the present?"

     A sudden wild-beast light sprang up in the dark, menacing eyes of the
     master criminal. Holmes's figure seemed to grow taller as he grew
     tense and ready.

     "It is no use your fingering your revolver, my friend," he said in a
     quiet voice. "You know perfectly well that you dare not use it, even
     if I gave you time to draw it. Nasty, noisy things, revolvers, Count.
     Better stick to air-guns. Ah! I think I hear the fairy footstep of
     your estimable partner. Good day, Mr. Merton. Rather dull in the
     street, is it not?"

     The prize-fighter, a heavily built young man with a stupid,
     obstinate, slab-sided face, stood awkwardly at the door, looking
     about him with a puzzled expression. Holmes's debonair manner was a
     new experience, and though he vaguely felt that it was hostile, he
     did not know how to counter it. He turned to his more astute comrade
     for help.

     "What's the game now, Count? What's this fellow want? What's up?" His
     voice was deep and raucous.

     The Count shrugged his shoulders, and it was Holmes who answered.

     "If I may put it in a nutshell, Mr. Merton, I should say it was all
     up."

     The boxer still addressed his remarks to his associate.

     "Is this cove trying to be funny, or what? I'm not in the funny mood
     myself."

     "No, I expect not," said Holmes. "I think I can promise you that you
     will feel even less humorous as the evening advances. Now, look here,
     Count Sylvius. I'm a busy man and I can't waste time. I'm going into
     that bedroom. Pray make yourselves quite at home in my absence. You
     can explain to your friend how the matter lies without the restraint
     of my presence. I shall try over the Hoffman 'Barcarole' upon my
     violin. In five minutes I shall return for your final answer. You
     quite grasp the alternative, do you not? Shall we take you, or shall
     we have the stone?"

     Holmes withdrew, picking up his violin from the corner as he passed.
     A few moments later the long-drawn, wailing notes of that most
     haunting of tunes came faintly through the closed door of the
     bedroom.

     "What is it, then?" asked Merton anxiously as his companion turned to
     him. "Does he know about the stone?"

     "He knows a damned sight too much about it. I'm not sure that he
     doesn't know all about it."

     "Good Lord!" The boxer's sallow face turned a shade whiter.

     "Ikey Sanders has split on us."

     "He has, has he? I'll do him down a thick 'un for that if I swing for
     it."

     "That won't help us much. We've got to make up our minds what to do."

     "Half a mo'," said the boxer, looking suspiciously at the bedroom
     door. "He's a leary cove that wants watching. I suppose he's not
     listening?"

     "How can he be listening with that music going?"

     "That's right. Maybe somebody's behind a curtain. Too many curtains
     in this room." As he looked round he suddenly saw for the first time
     the effigy in the window, and stood staring and pointing, too amazed
     for words.

     "Tut! it's only a dummy," said the Count.

     "A fake, is it? Well, strike me! Madame Tussaud ain't in it. It's the
     living spit of him, gown and all. But them curtains, Count!"

     "Oh, confound the curtains! We are wasting our time, and there is
     none too much. He can lag us over this stone."

     "The deuce he can!"

     "But he'll let us slip if we only tell him where the swag is."

     "What! Give it up? Give up a hundred thousand quid?"

     "It's one or the other."

     Merton scratched his short-cropped pate.

     "He's alone in there. Let's do him in. If his light were out we
     should have nothing to fear."

     The Count shook his head.

     "He is armed and ready. If we shot him we could hardly get away in a
     place like this. Besides, it's likely enough that the police know
     whatever evidence he has got. Hallo! What was that?"

     There was a vague sound which seemed to come from the window. Both
     men sprang round, but all was quiet. Save for the one strange figure
     seated in the chair, the room was certainly empty.

     "Something in the street," said Merton. "Now look here, guv'nor,
     you've got the brains. Surely you can think a way out of it. If
     slugging is no use then it's up to you."

     "I've fooled better men than he," the Count answered. "The stone is
     here in my secret pocket. I take no chances leaving it about. It can
     be out of England to-night and cut into four pieces in Amsterdam
     before Sunday. He knows nothing of Van Seddar."

     "I thought Van Seddar was going next week."

     "He was. But now he must get off by the next boat. One or other of us
     must slip round with the stone to Lime Street and tell him."

     "But the false bottom ain't ready."

     "Well, he must take it as it is and chance it. There's not a moment
     to lose." Again, with the sense of danger which becomes an instinct
     with the sportsman, he paused and looked hard at the window. Yes, it
     was surely from the street that the faint sound had come.

     "As to Holmes," he continued, "we can fool him easily enough. You
     see, the damned fool won't arrest us if he can get the stone. Well,
     we'll promise him the stone. We'll put him on the wrong track about
     it, and before he finds that it is the wrong track it will be in
     Holland and we out of the country."

     "That sounds good to me!" cried Sam Merton with a grin.

     "You go on and tell the Dutchman to get a move on him. I'll see this
     sucker and fill him up with a bogus confession. I'll tell him that
     the stone is in Liverpool. Confound that whining music; it gets on my
     nerves! By the time he finds it isn't in Liverpool it will be in
     quarters and we on the blue water. Come back here, out of a line with
     that keyhole. Here is the stone."

     "I wonder you dare carry it."

     "Where could I have it safer? If we could take it out of Whitehall
     someone else could surely take it out of my lodgings."

     "Let's have a look at it."

     Count Sylvius cast a somewhat unflattering glance at his associate
     and disregarded the unwashed hand which was extended towards him.

     "What--d'ye think I'm going to snatch it off you? See here, mister,
     I'm getting a bit tired of your ways."

     "Well, well, no offence, Sam. We can't afford to quarrel. Come over
     to the window if you want to see the beauty properly. Now hold it to
     the light! Here!"

     "Thank you!"

     With a single spring Holmes had leaped from the dummy's chair and had
     grasped the precious jewel. He held it now in one hand, while his
     other pointed a revolver at the Count's head. The two villains
     staggered back in utter amazement. Before they had recovered Holmes
     had pressed the electric bell.

     "No violence, gentlemen--no violence, I beg of you! Consider the
     furniture! It must be very clear to you that your position is an
     impossible one. The police are waiting below."

     The Count's bewilderment overmastered his rage and fear.

     "But how the deuce--?" he gasped.

     "Your surprise is very natural. You are not aware that a second door
     from my bedroom leads behind that curtain. I fancied that you must
     have heard me when I displaced the figure, but luck was on my side.
     It gave me a chance of listening to your racy conversation which
     would have been painfully constrained had you been aware of my
     presence."

     The Count gave a gesture of resignation.

     "We give you best, Holmes. I believe you are the devil himself."

     "Not far from him, at any rate," Holmes answered with a polite smile.

     Sam Merton's slow intellect had only gradually appreciated the
     situation. Now, as the sound of heavy steps came from the stairs
     outside, he broke silence at last.

     "A fair cop!" said he. "But, I say, what about that bloomin' fiddle!
     I hear it yet."

     "Tut, tut!" Holmes answered. "You are perfectly right. Let it play!
     These modern gramophones are a remarkable invention."

     There was an inrush of police, the handcuffs clicked and the
     criminals were led to the waiting cab. Watson lingered with Holmes,
     congratulating him upon this fresh leaf added to his laurels. Once
     more their conversation was interrupted by the imperturbable Billy
     with his card-tray.

     "Lord Cantlemere, sir."

     "Show him up, Billy. This is the eminent peer who represents the very
     highest interests," said Holmes. "He is an excellent and loyal
     person, but rather of the old regime. Shall we make him unbend? Dare
     we venture upon a slight liberty? He knows, we may conjecture,
     nothing of what has occurred."

     The door opened to admit a thin, austere figure with a hatchet face
     and drooping mid-Victorian whiskers of a glossy blackness which
     hardly corresponded with the rounded shoulders and feeble gait.
     Holmes advanced affably, and shook an unresponsive hand.

     "How do you do, Lord Cantlemere? It is chilly for the time of year,
     but rather warm indoors. May I take your overcoat?"

     "No, I thank you; I will not take it off."

     Holmes laid his hand insistently upon the sleeve.

     "Pray allow me! My friend Dr. Watson would assure you that these
     changes of temperature are most insidious."

     His Lordship shook himself free with some impatience.

     "I am quite comfortable, sir. I have no need to stay. I have simply
     looked in to know how your self-appointed task was progressing."

     "It is difficult--very difficult."

     "I feared that you would find it so."

     There was a distinct sneer in the old courtier's words and manner.

     "Every man finds his limitations, Mr. Holmes, but at least it cures
     us of the weakness of self-satisfaction."

     "Yes, sir, I have been much perplexed."

     "No doubt."

     "Especially upon one point. Possibly you could help me upon it?"

     "You apply for my advice rather late in the day. I thought that you
     had your own all-sufficient methods. Still, I am ready to help you."

     "You see, Lord Cantlemere, we can no doubt frame a case against the
     actual thieves."

     "When you have caught them."

     "Exactly. But the question is--how shall we proceed against the
     receiver?"

     "Is this not rather premature?"

     "It is as well to have our plans ready. Now, what would you regard as
     final evidence against the receiver?"

     "The actual possession of the stone."

     "You would arrest him upon that?"

     "Most undoubtedly."

     Holmes seldom laughed, but he got as near it as his old friend Watson
     could remember.

     "In that case, my dear sir, I shall be under the painful necessity of
     advising your arrest."

     Lord Cantlemere was very angry. Some of the ancient fires flickered
     up into his sallow cheeks.

     "You take a great liberty, Mr. Holmes. In fifty years of official
     life I cannot recall such a case. I am a busy man, sir, engaged upon
     important affairs, and I have no time or taste for foolish jokes. I
     may tell you frankly, sir, that I have never been a believer in your
     powers, and that I have always been of the opinion that the matter
     was far safer in the hands of the regular police force. Your conduct
     confirms all my conclusions. I have the honour, sir, to wish you
     good-evening."

     Holmes had swiftly changed his position and was between the peer and
     the door.

     "One moment, sir," said he. "To actually go off with the Mazarin
     stone would be a more serious offence than to be found in temporary
     possession of it."

     "Sir, this is intolerable! Let me pass."

     "Put your hand in the right-hand pocket of your overcoat."

     "What do you mean, sir?"

     "Come--come, do what I ask."

     An instant later the amazed peer was standing, blinking and
     stammering, with the great yellow stone on his shaking palm.

     "What! What! How is this, Mr. Holmes?"

     "Too bad, Lord Cantlemere, too bad!" cried Holmes. "My old friend
     here will tell you that I have an impish habit of practical joking.
     Also that I can never resist a dramatic situation. I took the
     liberty--the very great liberty, I admit--of putting the stone into
     your pocket at the beginning of our interview."

     The old peer stared from the stone to the smiling face before him.

     "Sir, I am bewildered. But--yes--it is indeed the Mazarin stone. We
     are greatly your debtors, Mr. Holmes. Your sense of humour may, as
     you admit, be somewhat perverted, and its exhibition remarkably
     untimely, but at least I withdraw any reflection I have made upon
     your amazing professional powers. But how--"

     "The case is but half finished; the details can wait. No doubt, Lord
     Cantlemere, your pleasure in telling of this successful result in the
     exalted circle to which you return will be some small atonement for
     my practical joke. Billy, you will show his Lordship out, and tell
     Mrs. Hudson that I should be glad if she would send up dinner for two
     as soon as possible."






                        THE ADVENTURE OF THE THREE GABLES

     I don't think that any of my adventures with Mr. Sherlock Holmes
     opened quite so abruptly, or so dramatically, as that which I
     associate with The Three Gables. I had not seen Holmes for some days
     and had no idea of the new channel into which his activities had been
     directed. He was in a chatty mood that morning, however, and had just
     settled me into the well-worn low armchair on one side of the fire,
     while he had curled down with his pipe in his mouth upon the opposite
     chair, when our visitor arrived. If I had said that a mad bull had
     arrived it would give a clearer impression of what occurred.

     The door had flown open and a huge negro had burst into the room. He
     would have been a comic figure if he had not been terrific, for he
     was dressed in a very loud gray check suit with a flowing
     salmon-coloured tie. His broad face and flattened nose were thrust
     forward, as his sullen dark eyes, with a smouldering gleam of malice
     in them, turned from one of us to the other.

     "Which of you gen'l'men is Masser Holmes?" he asked.

     Holmes raised his pipe with a languid smile.

     "Oh! it's you, is it?" said our visitor, coming with an unpleasant,
     stealthy step round the angle of the table. "See here, Masser Holmes,
     you keep your hands out of other folks' business. Leave folks to
     manage their own affairs. Got that, Masser Holmes?"

     "Keep on talking," said Holmes. "It's fine."

     "Oh! it's fine, is it?" growled the savage. "It won't be so damn fine
     if I have to trim you up a bit. I've handled your kind before now,
     and they didn't look fine when I was through with them. Look at that,
     Masser Holmes!"

     He swung a huge knotted lump of a fist under my friend's nose. Holmes
     examined it closely with an air of great interest. "Were you born
     so?" he asked. "Or did it come by degrees?"

     It may have been the icy coolness of my friend, or it may have been
     the slight clatter which I made as I picked up the poker. In any
     case, our visitor's manner became less flamboyant.

     "Well, I've given you fair warnin'," said he. "I've a friend that's
     interested out Harrow way--you know what I'm meaning--and he don't
     intend to have no buttin' in by you. Got that? You ain't the law, and
     I ain't the law either, and if you come in I'll be on hand also.
     Don't you forget it."

     "I've wanted to meet you for some time," said Holmes. "I won't ask
     you to sit down, for I don't like the smell of you, but aren't you
     Steve Dixie, the bruiser?"

     "That's my name, Masser Holmes, and you'll get put through it for
     sure if you give me any lip."

     "It is certainly the last thing you need," said Holmes, staring at
     our visitor's hideous mouth. "But it was the killing of young Perkins
     outside the Holborn Bar-- What! you're not going?"

     The negro had sprung back, and his face was leaden. "I won't listen
     to no such talk," said he. "What have I to do with this 'ere Perkins,
     Masser Holmes? I was trainin' at the Bull Ring in Birmingham when
     this boy done gone get into trouble."

     "Yes, you'll tell the magistrate about it, Steve," said Holmes. "I've
     been watching you and Barney Stockdale--"

     "So help me the Lord! Masser Holmes--"

     "That's enough. Get out of it. I'll pick you up when I want you."

     "Good-mornin', Masser Holmes. I hope there ain't no hard feelin's
     about this 'ere visit?"

     "There will be unless you tell me who sent you."

     "Why, there ain't no secret about that, Masser Holmes. It was that
     same gen'l'man that you have just done gone mention."

     "And who set him on to it?"

     "S'elp me. I don't know, Masser Holmes. He just say, 'Steve, you go
     see Mr. Holmes, and tell him his life ain't safe if he go down Harrow
     way.' That's the whole truth." Without waiting for any further
     questioning, our visitor bolted out of the room almost as
     precipitately as he had entered. Holmes knocked out the ashes of his
     pipe with a quiet chuckle.

     "I am glad you were not forced to break his woolly head, Watson. I
     observed your manoeuvres with the poker. But he is really rather a
     harmless fellow, a great muscular, foolish, blustering baby, and
     easily cowed, as you have seen. He is one of the Spencer John gang
     and has taken part in some dirty work of late which I may clear up
     when I have time. His immediate principal, Barney, is a more astute
     person. They specialize in assaults, intimidation, and the like. What
     I want to know is, who is at the back of them on this particular
     occasion?"

     "But why do they want to intimidate you?"

     "It is this Harrow Weald case. It decides me to look into the matter,
     for if it is worth anyone's while to take so much trouble, there must
     be something in it."

     "But what is it?"

     "I was going to tell you when we had this comic interlude. Here is
     Mrs. Maberley's note. If you care to come with me we will wire her
     and go out at once."

     Dear Mr. Sherlock Holmes [I read]:
     I have had a succession of strange incidents occur to me in
     connection with this house, and I should much value your advice. You
     would find me at home any time to-morrow. The house is within a short
     walk of the Weald Station. I believe that my late husband, Mortimer
     Maberley, was one of your early clients.
     Yours faithfully,
     Mary Maberley

     The address was "The Three Gables, Harrow Weald."

     "So that's that!" said Holmes. "And now, if you can spare the time,
     Watson, we will get upon our way."

     A short railway journey, and a shorter drive, brought us to the
     house, a brick and timber villa, standing in its own acre of
     undeveloped grassland. Three small projections above the upper
     windows made a feeble attempt to justify its name. Behind was a grove
     of melancholy, half-grown pines, and the whole aspect of the place
     was poor and depressing. None the less, we found the house to be well
     furnished, and the lady who received us was a most engaging elderly
     person, who bore every mark of refinement and culture.

     "I remember your husband well, madam," said Holmes, "though it is
     some years since he used my services in some trifling matter."

     "Probably you would be more familiar with the name of my son
     Douglas."

     Holmes looked at her with great interest.

     "Dear me! Are you the mother of Douglas Maberley? I knew him
     slightly. But of course all London knew him. What a magnificent
     creature he was! Where is he now?"

     "Dead, Mr. Holmes, dead! He was attache at Rome, and he died there of
     pneumonia last month."

     "I am sorry. One could not connect death with such a man. I have
     never known anyone so vitally alive. He lived intensely--every fibre
     of him!"

     "Too intensely, Mr. Holmes. That was the ruin of him. You remember
     him as he was--debonair and splendid. You did not see the moody,
     morose, brooding creature into which he developed. His heart was
     broken. In a single month I seemed to see my gallant boy turn into a
     worn-out cynical man."

     "A love affair--a woman?"

     "Or a fiend. Well, it was not to talk of my poor lad that I asked you
     to come, Mr. Holmes."

     "Dr. Watson and I are at your service."

     "There have been some very strange happenings. I have been in this
     house more than a year now, and as I wished to lead a retired life I
     have seen little of my neighbours. Three days ago I had a call from a
     man who said that he was a house agent. He said that this house would
     exactly suit a client of his, and that if I would part with it money
     would be no object. It seemed to me very strange as there are several
     empty houses on the market which appear to be equally eligible, but
     naturally I was interested in what he said. I therefore named a price
     which was five hundred pounds more than I gave. He at once closed
     with the offer, but added that his client desired to buy the
     furniture as well and would I put a price upon it. Some of this
     furniture is from my old home, and it is, as you see, very good, so
     that I named a good round sum. To this also he at once agreed. I had
     always wanted to travel, and the bargain was so good a one that it
     really seemed that I should be my own mistress for the rest of my
     life.

     "Yesterday the man arrived with the agreement all drawn out. Luckily
     I showed it to Mr. Sutro, my lawyer, who lives in Harrow. He said to
     me, 'This is a very strange document. Are you aware that if you sign
     it you could not legally take anything out of the house--not even
     your own private possessions?' When the man came again in the evening
     I pointed this out, and I said that I meant only to sell the
     furniture.

     "'No, no, everything,' said he.

     "'But my clothes? My jewels?'

     "'Well, well, some concession might be made for your personal
     effects. But nothing shall go out of the house unchecked. My client
     is a very liberal man, but he has his fads and his own way of doing
     things. It is everything or nothing with him.'

     "'Then it must be nothing,' said I. And there the matter was left,
     but the whole thing seemed to me to be so unusual that I thought--"

     Here we had a very extraordinary interruption.

     Holmes raised his hand for silence. Then he strode across the room,
     flung open the door, and dragged in a great gaunt woman whom he had
     seized by the shoulder. She entered with ungainly struggle like some
     huge awkward chicken, torn, squawking, out of its coop.

     "Leave me alone! What are you a-doin' of?" she screeched.

     "Why, Susan, what is this?"

     "Well, ma'am, I was comin' in to ask if the visitors was stayin' for
     lunch when this man jumped out at me."

     "I have been listening to her for the last five minutes, but did not
     wish to interrupt your most interesting narrative. Just a little
     wheezy, Susan, are you not? You breathe too heavily for that kind of
     work."

     Susan turned a sulky but amazed face upon her captor. "Who be you,
     anyhow, and what right have you a-pullin' me about like this?"

     "It was merely that I wished to ask a question in your presence. Did
     you, Mrs. Maberley, mention to anyone that you were going to write to
     me and consult me?"

     "No, Mr. Holmes, I did not."

     "Who posted your letter?"

     "Susan did."

     "Exactly. Now, Susan, to whom was it that you wrote or sent a message
     to say that your mistress was asking advice from me?"

     "It's a lie. I sent no message."

     "Now, Susan, wheezy people may not live long, you know. It's a wicked
     thing to tell fibs. Whom did you tell?"

     "Susan!" cried her mistress, "I believe you are a bad, treacherous
     woman. I remember now that I saw you speaking to someone over the
     hedge."

     "That was my own business," said the woman sullenly.

     "Suppose I tell you that it was Barney Stockdale to whom you spoke?"
     said Holmes.

     "Well, if you know, what do you want to ask for?"

     "I was not sure, but I know now. Well now, Susan, it will be worth
     ten pounds to you if you will tell me who is at the back of Barney."

     "Someone that could lay down a thousand pounds for every ten you have
     in the world."

     "So, a rich man? No; you smiled--a rich woman. Now we have got so
     far, you may as well give the name and earn the tenner."

     "I'll see you in hell first."

     "Oh, Susan! Language!"

     "I am clearing out of here. I've had enough of you all. I'll send for
     my box to-morrow." She flounced for the door.

     "Good-bye, Susan. Paregoric is the stuff... Now," he continued,
     turning suddenly from lively to severe when the door had closed
     behind the flushed and angry woman, "this gang means business. Look
     how close they play the game. Your letter to me had the 10 P. M.
     postmark. And yet Susan passes the word to Barney. Barney has time to
     go to his employer and get instructions; he or she--I incline to the
     latter from Susan's grin when she thought I had blundered--forms a
     plan. Black Steve is called in, and I am warned off by eleven o'clock
     next morning. That's quick work, you know."

     "But what do they want?"

     "Yes, that's the question. Who had the house before you?"

     "A retired sea captain called Ferguson."

     "Anything remarkable about him?"

     "Not that ever I heard of."

     "I was wondering whether he could have buried something. Of course,
     when people bury treasure nowadays they do it in the Post-Office
     bank. But there are always some lunatics about. It would be a dull
     world without them. At first I thought of some buried valuable. But
     why, in that case, should they want your furniture? You don't happen
     to have a Raphael or a first folio Shakespeare without knowing it?"

     "No, I don't think I have anything rarer than a Crown Derby tea-set."

     "That would hardly justify all this mystery. Besides, why should they
     not openly state what they want? If they covet your tea-set, they can
     surely offer a price for it without buying you out, lock, stock, and
     barrel. No, as I read it, there is something which you do not know
     that you have, and which you would not give up if you did know."

     "That is how I read it," said I.

     "Dr. Watson agrees, so that settles it."

     "Well, Mr. Holmes, what can it be?"

     "Let us see whether by this purely mental analysis we can get it to a
     finer point. You have been in this house a year."

     "Nearly two."

     "All the better. During this long period no one wants anything from
     you. Now suddenly within three or four days you have urgent demands.
     What would you gather from that?"

     "It can only mean," said I, "that the object, whatever it may be, has
     only just come into the house."

     "Settled once again," said Holmes. "Now, Mrs. Maberley, has any
     object just arrived?"

     "No, I have bought nothing new this year."

     "Indeed! That is very remarkable. Well, I think we had best let
     matters develop a little further until we have clearer data. Is that
     lawyer of yours a capable man?"

     "Mr. Sutro is most capable."

     "Have you another maid, or was the fair Susan, who has just banged
     your front door, alone?"

     "I have a young girl."

     "Try and get Sutro to spend a night or two in the house. You might
     possibly want protection."

     "Against whom?"

     "Who knows? The matter is certainly obscure. If I can't find what
     they are after, I must approach the matter from the other end and try
     to get at the principal. Did this house-agent man give any address?"

     "Simply his card and occupation. Haines-Johnson, Auctioneer and
     Valuer."

     "I don't think we shall find him in the directory. Honest business
     men don't conceal their place of business. Well, you will let me know
     any fresh development. I have taken up your case, and you may rely
     upon it that I shall see it through."

     As we passed through the hall Holmes's eyes, which missed nothing,
     lighted upon several trunks and cases which were piled in a corner.
     The labels shone out upon them.

     "'Milano.' 'Lucerne.' These are from Italy."

     "They are poor Douglas's things."

     "You have not unpacked them? How long have you had them?"

     "They arrived last week."

     "But you said--why, surely this might be the missing link. How do we
     know that there is not something of value there?"

     "There could not possibly be, Mr. Holmes. Poor Douglas had only his
     pay and a small annuity. What could he have of value?"

     Holmes was lost in thought.

     "Delay no longer, Mrs. Maberley," he said at last. "Have these things
     taken upstairs to your bedroom. Examine them as soon as possible and
     see what they contain. I will come to-morrow and hear your report."

     It was quite evident that The Three Gables was under very close
     surveillance, for as we came round the high hedge at the end of the
     lane there was the negro prize-fighter standing in the shadow. We
     came on him quite suddenly, and a grim and menacing figure he looked
     in that lonely place. Holmes clapped his hand to his pocket.

     "Lookin' for your gun, Masser Holmes?"

     "No, for my scent-bottle, Steve."

     "You are funny, Masser Holmes, ain't you?"

     "It won't be funny for you, Steve, if I get after you. I gave you
     fair warning this morning."

     "Well, Masser Holmes, I done gone think over what you said, and I
     don't want no more talk about that affair of Masser Perkins. S'pose I
     can help you, Masser Holmes, I will."

     "Well, then, tell me who is behind you on this job."

     "So help me the Lord! Masser Holmes, I told you the truth before. I
     don't know. My boss Barney gives me orders and that's all."

     "Well, just bear in mind, Steve, that the lady in that house, and
     everything under that roof, is under my protection. Don't forget it."

     "All right, Masser Holmes. I'll remember."

     "I've got him thoroughly frightened for his own skin, Watson," Holmes
     remarked as we walked on. "I think he would double-cross his employer
     if he knew who he was. It was lucky I had some knowledge of the
     Spencer John crowd, and that Steve was one of them. Now, Watson, this
     is a case for Langdale Pike, and I am going to see him now. When I
     get back I may be clearer in the matter."

     I saw no more of Holmes during the day, but I could well imagine how
     he spent it, for Langdale Pike was his human book of reference upon
     all matters of social scandal. This strange, languid creature spent
     his waking hours in the bow window of a St. James's Street club and
     was the receiving-station as well as the transmitter for all the
     gossip of the metropolis. He made, it was said, a four-figure income
     by the paragraphs which he contributed every week to the garbage
     papers which cater to an inquisitive public. If ever, far down in the
     turbid depths of London life, there was some strange swirl or eddy,
     it was marked with automatic exactness by this human dial upon the
     surface. Holmes discreetly helped Langdale to knowledge, and on
     occasion was helped in turn.

     When I met my friend in his room early next morning, I was conscious
     from his bearing that all was well, but none the less a most
     unpleasant surprise was awaiting us. It took the shape of the
     following telegram:

     Please come out at once. Client's house burgled in the night. Police
     in possession.
     Sutro.

     Holmes whistled. "The drama has come to a crisis, and quicker than I
     had expected. There is a great driving-power at the back of this
     business, Watson, which does not surprise me after what I have heard.
     This Sutro, of course, is her lawyer. I made a mistake, I fear, in
     not asking you to spend the night on guard. This fellow has clearly
     proved a broken reed. Well, there is nothing for it but another
     journey to Harrow Weald."

     We found The Three Gables a very different establishment to the
     orderly household of the previous day. A small group of idlers had
     assembled at the garden gate, while a couple of constables were
     examining the windows and the geranium beds. Within we met a gray old
     gentleman, who introduced himself as the lawyer, together with a
     bustling, rubicund inspector, who greeted Holmes as an old friend.

     "Well, Mr. Holmes, no chance for you in this case, I'm afraid. Just a
     common, ordinary burglary, and well within the capacity of the poor
     old police. No experts need apply."

     "I am sure the case is in very good hands," said Holmes. "Merely a
     common burglary, you say?"

     "Quite so. We know pretty well who the men are and where to find
     them. It is that gang of Barney Stockdale, with the big nigger in
     it--they've been seen about here."

     "Excellent! What did they get?"

     "Well, they don't seem to have got much. Mrs. Maberley was
     chloroformed and the house was-- Ah! here is the lady herself."

     Our friend of yesterday, looking very pale and ill, had entered the
     room, leaning upon a little maidservant.

     "You gave me good advice, Mr. Holmes," said she, smiling ruefully.
     "Alas, I did not take it! I did not wish to trouble Mr. Sutro, and so
     I was unprotected."

     "I only heard of it this morning," the lawyer explained.

     "Mr. Holmes advised me to have some friend in the house. I neglected
     his advice, and I have paid for it."

     "You look wretchedly ill," said Holmes. "Perhaps you are hardly equal
     to telling me what occurred."

     "It is all here," said the inspector, tapping a bulky notebook.

     "Still, if the lady is not too exhausted--"

     "There is really so little to tell. I have no doubt that wicked Susan
     had planned an entrance for them. They must have known the house to
     an inch. I was conscious for a moment of the chloroform rag which was
     thrust over my mouth, but I have no notion how long I may have been
     senseless. When I woke, one man was at the bedside and another was
     rising with a bundle in his hand from among my son's baggage, which
     was partially opened and littered over the floor. Before he could get
     away I sprang up and seized him."

     "You took a big risk," said the inspector.

     "I clung to him, but he shook me off, and the other may have struck
     me, for I can remember no more. Mary the maid heard the noise and
     began screaming out of the window. That brought the police, but the
     rascals had got away."

     "What did they take?"

     "Well, I don't think there is anything of value missing. I am sure
     there was nothing in my son's trunks."

     "Did the men leave no clue?"

     "There was one sheet of paper which I may have torn from the man that
     I grasped. It was lying all crumpled on the floor. It is in my son's
     handwriting."

     "Which means that it is not of much use," said the inspector. "Now if
     it had been in the burglar's--"

     "Exactly," said Holmes. "What rugged common sense! None the less, I
     should be curious to see it."

     The inspector drew a folded sheet of foolscap from his pocketbook.

     "I never pass anything, however trifling," said he with some
     pomposity. "That is my advice to you, Mr. Holmes. In twenty-five
     years' experience I have learned my lesson. There is always the
     chance of finger-marks or something."

     Holmes inspected the sheet of paper.

     "What do you make of it, Inspector?"

     "Seems to be the end of some queer novel, so far as I can see."

     "It may certainly prove to be the end of a queer tale," said Holmes.
     "You have noticed the number on the top of the page. It is two
     hundred and forty-five. Where are the odd two hundred and forty-four
     pages?"

     "Well, I suppose the burglars got those. Much good may it do them!"

     "It seems a queer thing to break into a house in order to steal such
     papers as that. Does it suggest anything to you, Inspector?"

     "Yes, sir, it suggests that in their hurry the rascals just grabbed
     at what came first to hand. I wish them joy of what they got."

     "Why should they go to my son's things?" asked Mrs. Maberley.

     "Well, they found nothing valuable downstairs, so they tried their
     luck upstairs. That is how I read it. What do you make of it, Mr.
     Holmes?"

     "I must think it over, Inspector. Come to the window, Watson." Then,
     as we stood together, he read over the fragment of paper. It began in
     the middle of a sentence and ran like this:

     "... face bled considerably from the cuts and blows, but it was
     nothing to the bleeding of his heart as he saw that lovely face, the
     face for which he had been prepared to sacrifice his very life,
     looking out at his agony and humiliation. She smiled--yes, by Heaven!
     she smiled, like the heartless fiend she was, as he looked up at her.
     It was at that moment that love died and hate was born. Man must live
     for something. If it is not for your embrace, my lady, then it shall
     surely be for your undoing and my complete revenge."

     "Queer grammar!" said Holmes with a smile as he handed the paper back
     to the inspector. "Did you notice how the 'he' suddenly changed to
     'my'? The writer was so carried away by his own story that he
     imagined himself at the supreme moment to be the hero."

     "It seemed mighty poor stuff," said the inspector as he replaced it
     in his book. "What! are you off, Mr. Holmes?"

     "I don't think there is anything more for me to do now that the case
     is in such capable hands. By the way, Mrs. Maberley, did you say you
     wished to travel?"

     "It has always been my dream, Mr. Holmes."

     "Where would you like to go--Cairo, Madeira, the Riviera?"

     "Oh, if I had the money I would go round the world."

     "Quite so. Round the world. Well, good-morning. I may drop you a line
     in the evening." As we passed the window I caught a glimpse of the
     inspector's smile and shake of the head. "These clever fellows have
     always a touch of madness." That was what I read in the inspector's
     smile.

     "Now, Watson, we are at the last lap of our little journey," said
     Holmes when we were back in the roar of central London once more. "I
     think we had best clear the matter up at once, and it would be well
     that you should come with me, for it is safer to have a witness when
     you are dealing with such a lady as Isadora Klein."

     We had taken a cab and were speeding to some address in Grosvenor
     Square. Holmes had been sunk in thought, but he roused himself
     suddenly.

     "By the way, Watson, I suppose you see it all clearly?"

     "No, I can't say that I do. I only gather that we are going to see
     the lady who is behind all this mischief."

     "Exactly! But does the name Isadora Klein convey nothing to you? She
     was, of course, the celebrated beauty. There was never a woman to
     touch her. She is pure Spanish, the real blood of the masterful
     Conquistadors, and her people have been leaders in Pernambuco for
     generations. She married the aged German sugar king, Klein, and
     presently found herself the richest as well as the most lovely widow
     upon earth. Then there was an interval of adventure when she pleased
     her own tastes. She had several lovers, and Douglas Maberley, one of
     the most striking men in London, was one of them. It was by all
     accounts more than an adventure with him. He was not a society
     butterfly but a strong, proud man who gave and expected all. But she
     is the 'belle dame sans merci' of fiction. When her caprice is
     satisfied the matter is ended, and if the other party in the matter
     can't take her word for it she knows how to bring it home to him."

     "Then that was his own story--"

     "Ah! you are piecing it together now. I hear that she is about to
     marry the young Duke of Lomond, who might almost be her son. His
     Grace's ma might overlook the age, but a big scandal would be a
     different matter, so it is imperative-- Ah! here we are."

     It was one of the finest corner-houses of the West End. A
     machine-like footman took up our cards and returned with word that
     the lady was not at home. "Then we shall wait until she is," said
     Holmes cheerfully.

     The machine broke down.

     "Not at home means not at home to you," said the footman.

     "Good," Holmes answered. "That means that we shall not have to wait.
     Kindly give this note to your mistress."

     He scribbled three or four words upon a sheet of his notebook, folded
     it, and handed it to the man.

     "What did you say, Holmes?" I asked.

     "I simply wrote: 'Shall it be the police, then?' I think that should
     pass us in."

     It did--with amazing celerity. A minute later we were in an Arabian
     Nights drawing-room, vast and wonderful, in a half gloom, picked out
     with an occasional pink electric light. The lady had come, I felt, to
     that time of life when even the proudest beauty finds the half light
     more welcome. She rose from a settee as we entered: tall, queenly, a
     perfect figure, a lovely mask-like face, with two wonderful Spanish
     eyes which looked murder at us both.

     "What is this intrusion--and this insulting message?" she asked,
     holding up the slip of paper.

     "I need not explain, madame. I have too much respect for your
     intelligence to do so--though I confess that intelligence has been
     surprisingly at fault of late."

     "How so, sir?"

     "By supposing that your hired bullies could frighten me from my work.
     Surely no man would take up my profession if it were not that danger
     attracts him. It was you, then, who forced me to examine the case of
     young Maberley."

     "I have no idea what you are talking about. What have I to do with
     hired bullies?"

     Holmes turned away wearily.

     "Yes, I have underrated your intelligence. Well, good-afternoon!"

     "Stop! Where are you going?"

     "To Scotland Yard."

     We had not got halfway to the door before she had overtaken us and
     was holding his arm. She had turned in a moment from steel to velvet.

     "Come and sit down, gentlemen. Let us talk this matter over. I feel
     that I may be frank with you, Mr. Holmes. You have the feelings of a
     gentleman. How quick a woman's instinct is to find it out. I will
     treat you as a friend."

     "I cannot promise to reciprocate, madame. I am not the law, but I
     represent justice so far as my feeble powers go. I am ready to
     listen, and then I will tell you how I will act."

     "No doubt it was foolish of me to threaten a brave man like
     yourself."

     "What was really foolish, madame, is that you have placed yourself in
     the power of a band of rascals who may blackmail or give you away."

     "No, no! I am not so simple. Since I have promised to be frank, I may
     say that no one, save Barney Stockdale and Susan, his wife, have the
     least idea who their employer is. As to them, well, it is not the
     first--" She smiled and nodded with a charming coquettish intimacy.

     "I see. You've tested them before."

     "They are good hounds who run silent."

     "Such hounds have a way sooner or later of biting the hand that feeds
     them. They will be arrested for this burglary. The police are already
     after them."

     "They will take what comes to them. That is what they are paid for. I
     shall not appear in the matter."

     "Unless I bring you into it."

     "No, no, you would not. You are a gentleman. It is a woman's secret."

     "In the first place, you must give back this manuscript."

     She broke into a ripple of laughter and walked to the fireplace.
     There was a calcined mass which she broke up with the poker. "Shall I
     give this back?" she asked. So roguish and exquisite did she look as
     she stood before us with a challenging smile that I felt of all
     Holmes's criminals this was the one whom he would find it hardest to
     face. However, he was immune from sentiment.

     "That seals your fate," he said coldly. "You are very prompt in your
     actions, madame, but you have overdone it on this occasion."

     She threw the poker down with a clatter.

     "How hard you are!" she cried. "May I tell you the whole story?"

     "I fancy I could tell it to you."

     "But you must look at it with my eyes, Mr. Holmes. You must realize
     it from the point of view of a woman who sees all her life's ambition
     about to be ruined at the last moment. Is such a woman to be blamed
     if she protects herself?"

     "The original sin was yours."

     "Yes, yes! I admit it. He was a dear boy, Douglas, but it so chanced
     that he could not fit into my plans. He wanted marriage--marriage,
     Mr. Holmes--with a penniless commoner. Nothing less would serve him.
     Then he became pertinacious. Because I had given he seemed to think
     that I still must give, and to him only. It was intolerable. At last
     I had to make him realize it."

     "By hiring ruffians to beat him under your own window."

     "You do indeed seem to know everything. Well, it is true. Barney and
     the boys drove him away, and were, I admit, a little rough in doing
     so. But what did he do then? Could I have believed that a gentleman
     would do such an act? He wrote a book in which he described his own
     story. I, of course, was the wolf; he the lamb. It was all there,
     under different names, of course; but who in all London would have
     failed to recognize it? What do you say to that, Mr. Holmes?"

     "Well, he was within his rights."

     "It was as if the air of Italy had got into his blood and brought
     with it the old cruel Italian spirit. He wrote to me and sent me a
     copy of his book that I might have the torture of anticipation. There
     were two copies, he said--one for me, one for his publisher."

     "How did you know the publisher's had not reached him?"

     "I knew who his publisher was. It is not his only novel, you know. I
     found out that he had not heard from Italy. Then came Douglas's
     sudden death. So long as that other manuscript was in the world there
     was no safety for me. Of course, it must be among his effects, and
     these would be returned to his mother. I set the gang at work. One of
     them got into the house as servant. I wanted to do the thing
     honestly. I really and truly did. I was ready to buy the house and
     everything in it. I offered any price she cared to ask. I only tried
     the other way when everything else had failed. Now, Mr. Holmes,
     granting that I was too hard on Douglas--and, God knows, I am sorry
     for it!--what else could I do with my whole future at stake?"

     Sherlock Holmes shrugged his shoulders.

     "Well, well," said he, "I suppose I shall have to compound a felony
     as usual. How much does it cost to go round the world in first-class
     style?"

     The lady stared in amazement.

     "Could it be done on five thousand pounds?"

     "Well, I should think so, indeed!"

     "Very good. I think you will sign me a check for that, and I will see
     that it comes to Mrs. Maberley. You owe her a little change of air.
     Meantime, lady"--he wagged a cautionary forefinger--"have a care!
     Have a care! You can't play with edged tools forever without cutting
     those dainty hands."






                       THE ADVENTURE OF THE SUSSEX VAMPIRE

     Holmes had read carefully a note which the last post had brought him.
      Then, with the dry chuckle which was his nearest approach to a
     laugh, he tossed it over to me.

     "For a mixture of the modern and the mediaeval, of the practical and
     of the wildly fanciful, I think this is surely the limit," said he. 
     "What do you make of it, Watson?"

     I read as follows:

     46, Old Jewry,
     Nov. 19th.
                                   Re Vampires
     Sir:
     Our client, Mr. Robert Ferguson, of Ferguson and Muirhead, tea
     brokers, of Mincing Lane, has made some inquiry from us in a
     communication of even date concerning vampires. As our firm
     specializes entirely upon the assessment of machinery the matter
     hardly comes within our purview, and we have therefore recommended
     Mr. Ferguson to call upon you and lay the matter before you. We have
     not forgotten your successful action in the case of Matilda Briggs.
     We are, sir,
     Faithfully yours,
     Morrison, Morrison, and Dodd.
     per E. J. C.

     "Matilda Briggs was not the name of a young woman, Watson," said
     Holmes in a reminiscent voice. "It was a ship which is associated
     with the giant rat of Sumatra, a story for which the world is not yet
     prepared. But what do we know about vampires? Does it come within our
     purview either? Anything is better than stagnation, but really we
     seem to have been switched on to a Grimms' fairy tale. Make a long
     arm, Watson, and see what V has to say."

     I leaned back and took down the great index volume to which he
     referred. Holmes balanced it on his knee, and his eyes moved slowly
     and lovingly over the record of old cases, mixed with the accumulated
     information of a lifetime.

     "Voyage of the Gloria Scott," he read.  "That was a bad business. I
     have some recollection that you made a record of it, Watson, though I
     was unable to congratulate you upon the result. Victor Lynch, the
     forger.  Venomous lizard or gila. Remarkable case, that! Vittoria,
     the circus belle. Vanderbilt and the Yeggman. Vipers. Vigor, the
     Hammersmith wonder. Hullo! Hullo! Good old index. You can't beat it.
     Listen to this, Watson. Vampirism in Hungary. And again, Vampires in
     Transylvania." He turned over the pages with eagerness, but after a
     short intent perusal he threw down the great book with a snarl of
     disappointment.

     "Rubbish, Watson, rubbish! What have we to do with walking corpses
     who can only be held in their grave by stakes driven through their
     hearts?  It's pure lunacy."

     "But surely," said I, "the vampire was not necessarily a dead man? A
     living person might have the habit. I have read, for example, of the
     old sucking the blood of the young in order to retain their youth."

     "You are right, Watson. It mentions the legend in one of these
     references. But are we to give serious attention to such things? This
     agency stands flat-footed upon the ground, and there it must remain.
     The world is big enough for us. No ghosts need apply. I fear that we
     cannot take Mr. Robert Ferguson very seriously. Possibly this note
     may be from him and may throw some light upon what is worrying him."

     He took up a second letter which had lain unnoticed upon the table
     while he had been absorbed with the first. This he began to read with
     a smile of amusement upon his face which gradually faded away into an
     expression of intense interest and concentration. When he had
     finished he sat for some little time lost in thought with the letter
     dangling from his fingers. Finally, with a start, he aroused himself
     from his reverie.

     "Cheeseman's, Lamberley. Where is Lamberley, Watson?"

     "It is in Sussex, south of Horsham."

     "Not very far, eh? And Cheeseman's?"

     "I know that country, Holmes. It is full of old houses which are
     named after the men who built them centuries ago. You get Odley's and
     Harvey's and Carriton's--the folk are forgotten but their names live
     in their houses.

     "Precisely," said Holmes coldly. It was one of the peculiarities of
     his proud, self-contained nature that though he docketed any fresh
     information very quietly and accurately in his brain, he seldom made
     any acknowledgment to the giver. "I rather fancy we shall know a good
     deal more about Cheeseman's, Lamberley, before we are through. The
     letter is, as I had hoped, from Robert Ferguson. By the way, he
     claims acquaintance with you."

     "With me!"

     "You had better read it."

     He handed the letter across. It was headed with the address quoted.

     Dear Mr. Holmes [it said]:
     I have been recommended to you by my lawyers, but indeed the matter
     is so extraordinarily delicate that it is most difficult to discuss.
     It concerns a friend for whom I am acting. This gentleman married
     some five years ago a Peruvian lady, the daughter of a Peruvian
     merchant, whom he had met in connection with the importation of
     nitrates. The lady was very beautiful, but the fact of her foreign
     birth and of her alien religion always caused a separation of
     interests and of feelings between husband and wife, so that after a
     time his love may have cooled towards her and he may have come to
     regard their union as a mistake. He felt there were sides of her
     character which he could never explore or understand. This was the
     more painful as she was as loving a wife as a man could have--to all
     appearance absolutely devoted.
     Now for the point which I will make more plain when we meet.  Indeed,
     this note is merely to give you a general idea of the situation and
     to ascertain whether you would care to interest yourself in the
     matter. The lady began to show some curious traits quite alien to her
     ordinarily sweet and gentle disposition. The gentleman had been
     married twice and he had one son by the first wife. This boy was now
     fifteen, a very charming and affectionate youth, though unhappily
     injured through an accident in childhood. Twice the wife was caught
     in the act of assaulting this poor lad in the most unprovoked way.
     Once she struck him with a stick and left a great weal on his arm.
     This was a small matter, however, compared with her conduct to her
     own child, a dear boy just under one year of age. On one occasion
     about a month ago this child had been left by its nurse for a few
     minutes. A loud cry from the baby, as of pain, called the nurse back.
     As she ran into the room she saw her employer, the lady, leaning over
     the baby and apparently biting his neck. There was a small wound in
     the neck from which a stream of blood had escaped. The nurse was so
     horrified that she wished to call the husband, but the lady implored
     her not to do so and actually gave her five pounds as a price for her
     silence. No explanation was ever given, and for the moment the matter
     was passed over.
     It left, however, a terrible impression upon the nurse's mind, and
     from that time she began to watch her mistress closely and to keep a
     closer guard upon the baby, whom she tenderly loved. It seemed to her
     that even as she watched the mother, so the mother watched her, and
     that every time she was compelled to leave the baby alone the mother
     was waiting to get at it. Day and night the nurse covered the child,
     and day and night the silent, watchful mother seemed to be lying in
     wait as a wolf waits for a lamb. It must read most incredible to you,
     and yet I beg you to take it seriously, for a child's life and a
     man's sanity may depend upon it.
     At last there came one dreadful day when the facts could no longer be
     concealed from the husband. The nurse's nerve had given way; she
     could stand the strain no longer, and she made a clean breast of it
     all to the man. To him it seemed as wild a tale as it may now seem to
     you. He knew his wife to be a loving wife, and, save for the assaults
     upon her stepson, a loving mother. Why, then, should she wound her
     own dear little baby? He told the nurse that she was dreaming, that
     her suspicions were those of a lunatic, and that such libels upon her
     mistress were not to be tolerated.  While they were talking a sudden
     cry of pain was heard. Nurse and master rushed together to the
     nursery. Imagine his feelings, Mr. Holmes, as he saw his wife rise
     from a kneeling position beside the cot and saw blood upon the
     child's exposed neck and upon the sheet. With a cry of horror, he
     turned his wife's face to the light and saw blood all round her lips.
     It was she--she beyond all question--who had drunk the poor baby's
     blood.
     So the matter stands. She is now confined to her room. There has been
     no explanation. The husband is half demented. He knows, and I know,
     little of vampirism beyond the name. We had thought it was some wild
     tale of foreign parts. And yet here in the very heart of the English
     Sussex--well, all this can be discussed with you in the morning. Will
     you see me? Will you use your great powers in aiding a distracted
     man? If so, kindly wire to Ferguson, Cheeseman's, Lamberley, and I
     will be at your rooms by ten o'clock.
     Yours faithfully,
     Robert Ferguson.
     P. S. I believe your friend Watson played Rugby for Blackheath when I
     was three-quarter for Richmond. It is the only personal introduction
     which I can give.

     "Of course I remembered him," said I as I laid down the letter. "Big
     Bob Ferguson, the finest three-quarter Richmond ever had. He was
     always a good-natured chap. It's like him to be so concerned over a
     friend's case."

     Holmes looked at me thoughtfully and shook his head.

     "I never get your limits, Watson," said he.  "There are unexplored
     possibilities about you. Take a wire down, like a good fellow. 'Will
     examine your case with pleasure.'"

     "Your case!"

     "We must not let him think that this agency is a home for the
     weak-minded. Of course it is his case. Send him that wire and let the
     matter rest till morning."

     Promptly at ten o'clock next morning Ferguson strode into our room. I
     had remembered him as a long, slab-sided man with loose limbs and a
     fine turn of speed which had carried him round many an opposing back.
     There is surely nothing in life more painful than to meet the wreck
     of a fine athlete whom one has known in his prime. His great frame
     had fallen in, his flaxen hair was scanty, and his shoulders were
     bowed. I fear that I roused corresponding emotions in him.

     "Hullo, Watson," said he, and his voice was still deep and hearty.
     "You don't look quite the man you did when I threw you over the ropes
     into the crowd at the Old Deer Park. I expect I have changed a bit
     also. But it's this last day or two that has aged me. I see by your
     telegram, Mr. Holmes, that it is no use my pretending to be anyone's
     deputy."

     "It is simpler to deal direct," said Holmes.

     "Of course it is. But you can imagine how difficult it is when you
     are speaking of the one woman whom you are bound to protect and help.
     What can I do? How am I to go to the police with such a story? And
     yet the kiddies have got to be protected. Is it madness, Mr. Holmes?
     Is it something in the blood? Have you any similar case in your
     experience? For God's sake, give me some advice, for I am at my wit's
     end."

     "Very naturally, Mr. Ferguson. Now sit here and pull yourself
     together and give me a few clear answers. I can assure you that I am
     very far from being at my wit's end, and that I am confident we shall
     find some solution.  First of all, tell me what steps you have taken.
     Is your wife still near the children?"

     "We had a dreadful scene. She is a most loving woman, Mr.  Holmes. If
     ever a woman loved a man with all her heart and soul, she loves me.
     She was cut to the heart that I should have discovered this horrible,
     this incredible, secret. She would not even speak. She gave no answer
     to my reproaches, save to gaze at me with a sort of wild, despairing
     look in her eyes. Then she rushed to her room and locked herself in. 
     Since then she has refused to see me. She has a maid who was with her
     before her marriage, Dolores by name--a friend rather than a servant.
     She takes her food to her."

     "Then the child is in no immediate danger?"

     "Mrs. Mason, the nurse, has sworn that she will not leave it night or
     day. I can absolutely trust her. I am more uneasy about poor little
     Jack, for, as I told you in my note, he has twice been assaulted by
     her."

     "But never wounded?"

     "No, she struck him savagely. It is the more terrible as he is a poor
     little inoffensive cripple." Ferguson's gaunt features softened as he
     spoke of his boy. "You would think that the dear lad's condition
     would soften anyone's heart. A fall in childhood and a twisted spine,
     Mr. Holmes. But the dearest, most loving heart within."

     Holmes had picked up the letter of yesterday and was reading it over.
     "What other inmates are there in your house, Mr. Ferguson?"

     "Two servants who have not been long with us. One stable-hand,
     Michael, who sleeps in the house. My wife, myself, my boy Jack, baby,
     Dolores, and Mrs. Mason. That is all."

     "I gather that you did not know your wife well at the time of your
     marriage?"

     "I had only known her a few weeks."

     "How long had this maid Dolores been with her?"

     "Some years."

     "Then your wife's character would really be better known by Dolores
     than by you?"

     "Yes, you may say so."

     Holmes made a note.

     "I fancy," said he, "that I may be of more use at Lamberley than
     here. It is eminently a case for personal investigation. If the lady
     remains in her room, our presence could not annoy or inconvenience
     her. Of course, we would stay at the inn."

     Ferguson gave a gesture of relief.

     "It is what I hoped, Mr. Holmes. There is an excellent train at two
     from Victoria if you could come."

     "Of course we could come. There is a lull at present. I can give you
     my undivided energies. Watson, of course, comes with us. But there
     are one or two points upon which I wish to be very sure before I
     start. This unhappy lady, as I understand it, has appeared to assault
     both the children, her own baby and your little son?"

     "That is so."

     "But the assaults take different forms, do they not? She has beaten
     your son."

     "Once with a stick and once very savagely with her hands."

     "Did she give no explanation why she struck him?"

     "None save that she hated him. Again and again she said so."

     "Well, that is not unknown among stepmothers. A posthumous jealousy,
     we will say. Is the lady jealous by nature?"

     "Yes, she is very jealous--jealous with all the strength of her fiery
     tropical love."

     "But the boy--he is fifteen, I understand, and probably very
     developed in mind, since his body has been circumscribed in action.
     Did he give you no explanation of these assaults?"

     "No, he declared there was no reason."

     "Were they good friends at other times?"

     "No, there was never any love between them."

     "Yet you say he is affectionate?"

     "Never in the world could there be so devoted a son. My life is his
     life. He is absorbed in what I say or do."

     Once again Holmes made a note. For some time he sat lost in thought.

     "No doubt you and the boy were great comrades before this second
     marriage. You were thrown very close together, were you not?"

     "Very much so."

     "And the boy, having so affectionate a nature, was devoted, no doubt,
     to the memory of his mother?"

     "Most devoted."

     "He would certainly seem to be a most interesting lad.  There is one
     other point about these assaults. Were the strange attacks upon the
     baby and the assaults upon your son at the same period?"

     "In the first case it was so. It was as if some frenzy had seized
     her, and she had vented her rage upon both. In the second case it was
     only Jack who suffered. Mrs. Mason had no complaint to make about the
     baby."

     "That certainly complicates matters."

     "I don't quite follow you, Mr. Holmes."

     "Possibly not. One forms provisional theories and waits for time or
     fuller knowledge to explode them. A bad habit, Mr. Ferguson, but
     human nature is weak. I fear that your old friend here has given an
     exaggerated view of my scientific methods. However, I will only say
     at the present stage that your problem does not appear to me to be
     insoluble, and that you may expect to find us at Victoria at two
     o'clock."

     It was evening of a dull, foggy November day when, having left our
     bags at the Chequers, Lamberley, we drove through the Sussex clay of
     a long winding lane and finally reached the isolated and ancient
     farmhouse in which Ferguson dwelt. It was a large, straggling
     building, very old in the centre, very new at the wings with towering
     Tudor chimneys and a lichen-spotted, high-pitched roof of Horsham
     slabs. The doorsteps were worn into curves, and the ancient tiles
     which lined the porch were marked with the rebus of a cheese and a
     man after the original builder. Within, the ceilings were corrugated
     with heavy oaken beams, and the uneven floors sagged into sharp
     curves. An odour of age and decay pervaded the whole crumbling
     building.

     There was one very large central room into which Ferguson led us.
     Here, in a huge old-fashioned fireplace with an iron screen behind it
     dated 1670, there blazed and spluttered a splendid log fire.

     The room, as I gazed round, was a most singular mixture of dates and
     of places. The half-panelled walls may well have belonged to the
     original yeoman farmer of the seventeenth century. They were
     ornamented, however, on the lower part by a line of well-chosen
     modern water-colours; while above, where yellow plaster took the
     place of oak, there was hung a fine collection of South American
     utensils and weapons, which had been brought, no doubt, by the
     Peruvian lady upstairs. Holmes rose, with that quick curiosity which
     sprang from his eager mind, and examined them with some care. He
     returned with his eyes full of thought.

     "Hullo!" he cried. "Hullo!"

     A spaniel had lain in a basket in the corner. It came slowly forward
     towards its master, walking with difficulty. Its hind legs moved
     irregularly and its tail was on the ground. It licked Ferguson's
     hand.

     "What is it, Mr. Holmes?"

     "The dog. What's the matter with it?"

     "That's what puzzled the vet. A sort of paralysis.  Spinal
     meningitis, he thought. But it is passing. He'll be all right
     soon--won't you, Carlo?"

     A shiver of assent passed through the drooping tail. The dog's
     mournful eyes passed from one of us to the other. He knew that we
     were discussing his case.

     "Did it come on suddenly?"

     "In a single night."

     "How long ago?"

     "It may have been four months ago."

     "Very remarkable. Very suggestive."

     "What do you see in it, Mr. Holmes?"

     "A confirmation of what I had already thought."

     "For God's sake, what do you think, Mr. Holmes? It may be a mere
     intellectual puzzle to you, but it is life and death to me! My wife a
     would-be murderer--my child in constant danger! Don't play with me,
     Mr. Holmes.  It is too terribly serious."

     The big Rugby three-quarter was trembling all over. Holmes put his
     hand soothingly upon his arm.

     "I fear that there is pain for you, Mr. Ferguson, whatever the
     solution may be," said he. "I would spare you all I can. I cannot say
     more for the instant, but before I leave this house I hope I may have
     something definite."

     "Please God you may! If you will excuse me, gentlemen, I will go up
     to my wife's room and see if there has been any change."

     He was away some minutes, during which Holmes resumed his examination
     of the curiosities upon the wall. When our host returned it was clear
     from his downcast face that he had made no progress. He brought with
     him a tall, slim, brown-faced girl.

     "The tea is ready, Dolores," said Ferguson.  "See that your mistress
     has everything she can wish."

     "She verra ill," cried the girl, looking with indignant eyes at her
     master. "She no ask for food. She verra ill. She need doctor. I
     frightened stay alone with her without doctor."

     Ferguson looked at me with a question in his eyes.

     "I should be so glad if I could be of use."

     "Would your mistress see Dr. Watson?"

     "I take him. I no ask leave. She needs doctor."

     "Then I'll come with you at once."

     I followed the girl, who was quivering with strong emotion, up the
     staircase and down an ancient corridor. At the end was an
     iron-clamped and massive door. It struck me as I looked at it that if
     Ferguson tried to force his way to his wife he would find it no easy
     matter. The girl drew a key from her pocket, and the heavy oaken
     planks creaked upon their old hinges. I passed in and she swiftly
     followed, fastening the door behind her.

     On the bed a woman was lying who was clearly in a high fever.  She
     was only half conscious, but as I entered she raised a pair of
     frightened but beautiful eyes and glared at me in apprehension.
     Seeing a stranger, she appeared to be relieved and sank back with a
     sigh upon the pillow. I stepped up to her with a few reassuring
     words, and she lay still while I took her pulse and temperature. Both
     were high, and yet my impression was that the condition was rather
     that of mental and nervous excitement than of any actual seizure.

     "She lie like that one day, two day. I 'fraid she die," said the
     girl.

     The woman turned her flushed and handsome face towards me.

     "Where is my husband?"

     "He is below and would wish to see you."

     "I will not see him. I will not see him." Then she seemed to wander
     off into delirium. "A fiend! A fiend! Oh, what shall I do with this
     devil?"

     "Can I help you in any way?"

     "No. No one can help. It is finished. All is destroyed.  Do what I
     will, all is destroyed."

     The woman must have some strange delusion. I could not see honest Bob
     Ferguson in the character of fiend or devil.

     "Madame," I said, "your husband loves you dearly. He is deeply
     grieved at this happening."

     Again she turned on me those glorious eyes.

     "He loves me. Yes. But do I not love him? Do I not love him even to
     sacrifice myself rather than break his dear heart? That is how I love
     him. And yet he could think of me--he could speak of me so."

     "He is full of grief, but he cannot understand."

     "No, he cannot understand. But he should trust."

     "Will you not see him?" I suggested.

     "No, no, I cannot forget those terrible words nor the look upon his
     face. I will not see him. Go now. You can do nothing for me. Tell him
     only one thing. I want my child. I have a right to my child. That is
     the only message I can send him." She turned her face to the wall and
     would say no more.

     I returned to the room downstairs, where Ferguson and Holmes still
     sat by the fire. Ferguson listened moodily to my account of the
     interview.

     "How can I send her the child?" he said. "How do I know what strange
     impulse might come upon her? How can I ever forget how she rose from
     beside it with its blood upon her lips?" He shuddered at the
     recollection.  "The child is safe with Mrs. Mason, and there he must
     remain."

     A smart maid, the only modern thing which we had seen in the house,
     had brought in some tea. As she was serving it the door opened and a
     youth entered the room. He was a remarkable lad, pale-faced and
     fair-haired, with excitable light blue eyes which blazed into a
     sudden flame of emotion and joy as they rested upon his father.  He
     rushed forward and threw his arms round his neck with the abandon of
     a loving girl.

     "Oh, daddy," he cried, "I did not know that you were due yet. I
     should have been here to meet you. Oh, I am so glad to see you!"

     Ferguson gently disengaged himself from the embrace with some little
     show of embarrassment.

     "Dear old chap," said he, patting the flaxen head with a very tender
     hand. "I came early because my friends, Mr. Holmes and Dr. Watson,
     have been persuaded to come down and spend an evening with us."

     "Is that Mr. Holmes, the detective?"

     "Yes."

     The youth looked at us with a very penetrating and, as it seemed to
     me, unfriendly gaze.

     "What about your other child, Mr. Ferguson?" asked Holmes. "Might we
     make the acquaintance of the baby?"

     "Ask Mrs. Mason to bring baby down," said Ferguson.  The boy went off
     with a curious, shambling gait which told my surgical eyes that he
     was suffering from a weak spine. Presently he returned, and behind
     him came a tall, gaunt woman bearing in her arms a very beautiful
     child, dark-eyed, golden-haired, a wonderful mixture of the Saxon and
     the Latin. Ferguson was evidently devoted to it, for he took it into
     his arms and fondled it most tenderly.

     "Fancy anyone having the heart to hurt him," he muttered as he
     glanced down at the small, angry red pucker upon the cherub throat.

     It was at this moment that I chanced to glance at Holmes and saw a
     most singular intentness in his expression. His face was as set as if
     it had been carved out of old ivory, and his eyes, which had glanced
     for a moment at father and child, were now fixed with eager curiosity
     upon something at the other side of the room.  Following his gaze I
     could only guess that he was looking out through the window at the
     melancholy, dripping garden. It is true that a shutter had half
     closed outside and obstructed the view, but none the less it was
     certainly at the window that Holmes was fixing his concentrated
     attention. Then he smiled, and his eyes came back to the baby. On its
     chubby neck there was this small puckered mark. Without speaking,
     Holmes examined it with care. Finally he shook one of the dimpled
     fists which waved in front of him.

     "Good-bye, little man. You have made a strange start in life. Nurse,
     I should wish to have a word with you in private."

     He took her aside and spoke earnestly for a few minutes. I only heard
     the last words, which were: "Your anxiety will soon, I hope, be set
     at rest." The woman, who seemed to be a sour, silent kind of
     creature, withdrew with the child.

     "What is Mrs. Mason like?" asked Holmes.

     "Not very prepossessing externally, as you can see, but a heart of
     gold, and devoted to the child."

     "Do you like her, Jack?" Holmes turned suddenly upon the boy. His
     expressive mobile face shadowed over, and he shook his head.

     "Jacky has very strong likes and dislikes," said Ferguson, putting
     his arm round the boy. "Luckily I am one of his likes."

     The boy cooed and nestled his head upon his father's breast. Ferguson
     gently disengaged him.

     "Run away, little Jacky," said he, and he watched his son with loving
     eyes until he disappeared. "Now, Mr. Holmes," he continued when the
     boy was gone, "I really feel that I have brought you on a fool's
     errand, for what can you possibly do save give me your sympathy? It
     must be an exceedingly delicate and complex affair from your point of
     view."

     "It is certainly delicate," said my friend with an amused smile, "but
     I have not been struck up to now with its complexity. It has been a
     case for intellectual deduction, but when this original intellectual
     deduction is confirmed point by point by quite a number of
     independent incidents, then the subjective becomes objective and we
     can say confidently that we have reached our goal. I had, in fact,
     reached it before we left Baker Street, and the rest has merely been
     observation and confirmation."

     Ferguson put his big hand to his furrowed forehead.

     "For heaven's sake, Holmes," he said hoarsely; "if you can see the
     truth in this matter, do not keep me in suspense. How do I stand? 
     What shall I do? I care nothing as to how you have found your facts
     so long as you have really got them."

     "Certainly I owe you an explanation, and you shall have it. But you
     will permit me to handle the matter in my own way? Is the lady
     capable of seeing us, Watson?"

     "She is ill, but she is quite rational."

     "Very good. It is only in her presence that we can clear the matter
     up. Let us go up to her."

     "She will not see me," cried Ferguson.

     "Oh, yes, she will," said Holmes. He scribbled a few lines upon a
     sheet of paper. "You at least have the entree, Watson. Will you have
     the goodness to give the lady this note?"

     I ascended again and handed the note to Dolores, who cautiously
     opened the door. A minute later I heard a cry from within, a cry in
     which joy and surprise seemed to be blended. Dolores looked out.

     "She will see them. She will leesten," said she.

     At my summons Ferguson and Holmes came up. As we entered the room
     Ferguson took a step or two towards his wife, who had raised herself
     in the bed, but she held out her hand to repulse him. He sank into an
     armchair, while Holmes seated himself beside him, after bowing to the
     lady, who looked at him with wide-eyed amazement.

     "I think we can dispense with Dolores," said Holmes.  "Oh, very well,
     madame, if you would rather she stayed I can see no objection. Now,
     Mr. Ferguson, I am a busy man with many calls, and my methods have to
     be short and direct.  The swiftest surgery is the least painful. Let
     me first say what will ease your mind. Your wife is a very good, a
     very loving, and a very ill-used woman."

     Ferguson sat up with a cry of joy.

     "Prove that, Mr. Holmes, and I am your debtor forever."

     "I will do so, but in doing so I must wound you deeply in another
     direction."

     "I care nothing so long as you clear my wife. Everything on earth is
     insignificant compared to that."

     "Let me tell you, then, the train of reasoning which passed through
     my mind in Baker Street. The idea of a vampire was to me absurd. Such
     things do not happen in criminal practice in England. And yet your
     observation was precise. You had seen the lady rise from beside the
     child's cot with the blood upon her lips."

     "I did."

     "Did it not occur to you that a bleeding wound may be sucked for some
     other purpose than to draw the blood from it? Was there not a queen
     in English history who sucked such a wound to draw poison from it?"

     "Poison!"

     "A South American household. My instinct felt the presence of those
     weapons upon the wall before my eyes ever saw them. It might have
     been other poison, but that was what occurred to me. When I saw that
     little empty quiver beside the small bird-bow, it was just what I
     expected to see. If the child were pricked with one of those arrows
     dipped in curare or some other devilish drug, it would mean death if
     the venom were not sucked out.

     "And the dog! If one were to use such a poison, would one not try it
     first in order to see that it had not lost its power? I did not
     foresee the dog, but at least I understand him and he fitted into my
     reconstruction.

     "Now do you understand? Your wife feared such an attack.  She saw it
     made and saved the child's life, and yet she shrank from telling you
     all the truth, for she knew how you loved the boy and feared lest it
     break your heart."

     "Jacky!"

     "I watched him as you fondled the child just now. His face was
     clearly reflected in the glass of the window where the shutter formed
     a background. I saw such jealousy, such cruel hatred, as I have
     seldom seen in a human face."

     "My Jacky!"

     "You have to face it, Mr. Ferguson. It is the more painful because it
     is a distorted love, a maniacal exaggerated love for you, and
     possibly for his dead mother, which has prompted his action. His very
     soul is consumed with hatred for this splendid child, whose health
     and beauty are a contrast to his own weakness."

     "Good God! It is incredible!"

     "Have I spoken the truth, madame?"

     The lady was sobbing, with her face buried in the pillows. Now she
     turned to her husband.

     "How could I tell you, Bob? I felt the blow it would be to you. It
     was better that I should wait and that it should come from some other
     lips than mine. When this gentleman, who seems to have powers of
     magic, wrote that he knew all, I was glad."

     "I think a year at sea would be my prescription for Master Jacky,"
     said Holmes, rising from his chair. "Only one thing is still clouded,
     madame. We can quite understand your attacks upon Master Jacky. There
     is a limit to a mother's patience. But how did you dare to leave the
     child these last two days?"

     "I had told Mrs. Mason. She knew."

     "Exactly. So I imagined."

     Ferguson was standing by the bed, choking, his hands outstretched and
     quivering.

     "This, I fancy, is the time for our exit, Watson," said Holmes in a
     whisper. "If you will take one elbow of the too faithful Dolores, I
     will take the other. There, now," he added as he closed the door
     behind him, "I think we may leave them to settle the rest among
     themselves."

     I have only one further note of this case. It is the letter which
     Holmes wrote in final answer to that with which the narrative begins.
     It ran thus:

     Baker Street,
     Nov. 21st.
                                   Re Vampires
     Sir:
     Referring to your letter of the 19th, I beg to state that I have
     looked into the inquiry of your client, Mr. Robert Ferguson, of
     Ferguson and Muirhead, tea brokers, of Mincing Lane, and that the
     matter has been brought to a satisfactory conclusion. With thanks for
     your recommendation, I am, sir,
     Faithfully yours,
     Sherlock Holmes.






                      THE ADVENTURE OF THE THREE GARRIDEBS

     It may have been a comedy, or it may have been a tragedy. It cost one
     man his reason, it cost me a blood-letting, and it cost yet another
     man the penalties of the law. Yet there was certainly an element of
     comedy. Well, you shall judge for yourselves.

     I remember the date very well, for it was in the same month that
     Holmes refused a knighthood for services which may perhaps some day
     be described. I only refer to the matter in passing, for in my
     position of partner and confidant I am obliged to be particularly
     careful to avoid any indiscretion. I repeat, however, that this
     enables me to fix the date, which was the latter end of June, 1902,
     shortly after the conclusion of the South African War. Holmes had
     spent several days in bed, as was his habit from time to time, but he
     emerged that morning with a long foolscap document in his hand and a
     twinkle of amusement in his austere gray eyes.

     "There is a chance for you to make some money, friend Watson," said
     he. "Have you ever heard the name of Garrideb?"

     I admitted that I had not.

     "Well, if you can lay your hand upon a Garrideb, there's money in
     it."

     "Why?"

     "Ah, that's a long story--rather a whimsical one, too. I don't think
     in all our explorations of human complexities we have ever come upon
     anything more singular. The fellow will be here presently for
     cross-examination, so I won't open the matter up till he comes. But,
     meanwhile, that's the name we want."

     The telephone directory lay on the table beside me, and I turned over
     the pages in a rather hopeless quest. But to my amazement there was
     this strange name in its due place. I gave a cry of triumph.

     "Here you are, Holmes! Here it is!"

     Holmes took the book from my hand.

     "'Garrideb, N.,' " he read, "'136 Little Ryder Street, W.' Sorry to
     disappoint you, my dear Watson, but this is the man himself. That is
     the address upon his letter. We want another to match him."

     Mrs. Hudson had come in with a card upon a tray. I took it up and
     glanced at it.

     "Why, here it is!" I cried in amazement. "This is a different
     initial. John Garrideb, Counsellor at Law, Moorville, Kansas, U. S.
     A."

     Holmes smiled as he looked at the card. "I am afraid you must make
     yet another effort, Watson," said he. "This gentleman is also in the
     plot already, though I certainly did not expect to see him this
     morning. However, he is in a position to tell us a good deal which I
     want to know."

     A moment later he was in the room. Mr. John Garrideb, Counsellor at
     Law, was a short, powerful man with the round, fresh, clean-shaven
     face characteristic of so many American men of affairs. The general
     effect was chubby and rather childlike, so that one received the
     impression of quite a young man with a broad set smile upon his face.
     His eyes, however, were arresting. Seldom in any human head have I
     seen a pair which bespoke a more intense inward life, so bright were
     they, so alert, so responsive to every change of thought. His accent
     was American, but was not accompanied by any eccentricity of speech.

     "Mr. Holmes?" he asked, glancing from one to the other. "Ah, yes!
     Your pictures are not unlike you, sir, if I may say so. I believe you
     have had a letter from my namesake, Mr. Nathan Garrideb, have you
     not?"

     "Pray sit down," said Sherlock Holmes. "We shall, I fancy, have a
     good deal to discuss." He took up his sheets of foolscap. "You are,
     of course, the Mr. John Garrideb mentioned in this document. But
     surely you have been in England some time?"

     "Why do you say that, Mr. Holmes?" I seemed to read sudden suspicion
     in those expressive eyes.

     "Your whole outfit is English."

     Mr. Garrideb forced a laugh. "I've read of your tricks, Mr. Holmes,
     but I never thought I would be the subject of them. Where do you read
     that?"

     "The shoulder cut of your coat, the toes of your boots--could anyone
     doubt it?"

     "Well, well, I had no idea I was so obvious a Britisher. But business
     brought me over here some time ago, and so, as you say, my outfit is
     nearly all London. However, I guess your time is of value, and we did
     not meet to talk about the cut of my socks. What about getting down
     to that paper you hold in your hand?"

     Holmes had in some way ruffled our visitor, whose chubby face had
     assumed a far less amiable expression.

     "Patience! Patience, Mr. Garrideb!" said my friend in a soothing
     voice. "Dr. Watson would tell you that these little digressions of
     mine sometimes prove in the end to have some bearing on the matter.
     But why did Mr. Nathan Garrideb not come with you?"

     "Why did he ever drag you into it at all?" asked our visitor with a
     sudden outflame of anger. "What in thunder had you to do with it?
     Here was a bit of professional business between two gentlemen, and
     one of them must needs call in a detective! I saw him this morning,
     and he told me this fool-trick he had played me, and that's why I am
     here. But I feel bad about it, all the same."

     "There was no reflection upon you, Mr. Garrideb. It was simply zeal
     upon his part to gain your end--an end which is, I understand,
     equally vital for both of you. He knew that I had means of getting
     information, and, therefore, it was very natural that he should apply
     to me."

     Our visitor's angry face gradually cleared.

     "Well, that puts it different," said he. "When I went to see him this
     morning and he told me he had sent to a detective, I just asked for
     your address and came right away. I don't want police butting into a
     private matter. But if you are content just to help us find the man,
     there can be no harm in that."

     "Well, that is just how it stands," said Holmes. "And now, sir, since
     you are here, we had best have a clear account from your own lips. My
     friend here knows nothing of the details."

     Mr. Garrideb surveyed me with not too friendly a gaze.

     "Need he know?" he asked.

     "We usually work together."

     "Well, there's no reason it should be kept a secret. I'll give you
     the facts as short as I can make them. If you came from Kansas I
     would not need to explain to you who Alexander Hamilton Garrideb was.
     He made his money in real estate, and afterwards in the wheat pit at
     Chicago, but he spent it in buying up as much land as would make one
     of your counties, lying along the Arkansas River, west of Fort Dodge.
     It's grazing-land and lumber-land and arable-land and
     mineralized-land, and just every sort of land that brings dollars to
     the man that owns it.

     "He had no kith nor kin--or, if he had, I never heard of it. But he
     took a kind of pride in the queerness of his name. That was what
     brought us together. I was in the law at Topeka, and one day I had a
     visit from the old man, and he was tickled to death to meet another
     man with his own name. It was his pet fad, and he was dead set to
     find out if there were any more Garridebs in the world. 'Find me
     another!' said he. I told him I was a busy man and could not spend my
     life hiking round the world in search of Garridebs. 'None the less,'
     said he, 'that is just what you will do if things pan out as I
     planned them.' I thought he was joking, but there was a powerful lot
     of meaning in the words, as I was soon to discover.

     "For he died within a year of saying them, and he left a will behind
     him. It was the queerest will that has ever been filed in the State
     of Kansas. His property was divided into three parts, and I was to
     have one on condition that I found two Garridebs who would share the
     remainder. It's five million dollars for each if it is a cent, but we
     can't lay a finger on it until we all three stand in a row.

     "It was so big a chance that I just let my legal practice slide and I
     set forth looking for Garridebs. There is not one in the United
     States. I went through it, sir, with a fine-toothed comb and never a
     Garrideb could I catch. Then I tried the old country. Sure enough
     there was the name in the London telephone directory. I went after
     him two days ago and explained the whole matter to him. But he is a
     lone man, like myself, with some women relations, but no men. It says
     three adult men in the will. So you see we still have a vacancy, and
     if you can help to fill it we will be very ready to pay your
     charges."

     "Well, Watson," said Holmes with a smile, "I said it was rather
     whimsical, did I not? I should have thought, sir, that your obvious
     way was to advertise in the agony columns of the papers."

     "I have done that, Mr. Holmes. No replies."

     "Dear me! Well, it is certainly a most curious little problem. I may
     take a glance at it in my leisure. By the way, it is curious that you
     should have come from Topeka. I used to have a correspondent--he is
     dead now--old Dr. Lysander Starr, who was mayor in 1890."

     "Good old Dr. Starr!" said our visitor. "His name is still honoured.
     Well, Mr. Holmes, I suppose all we can do is to report to you and let
     you know how we progress. I reckon you will hear within a day or
     two." With this assurance our American bowed and departed.

     Holmes had lit his pipe, and he sat for some time with a curious
     smile upon his face.

     "Well?" I asked at last.

     "I am wondering, Watson--just wondering!"

     "At what?"

     Holmes took his pipe from his lips.

     "I was wondering, Watson, what on earth could be the object of this
     man in telling us such a rigmarole of lies. I nearly asked him
     so--for there are times when a brutal frontal attack is the best
     policy--but I judged it better to let him think he had fooled us.
     Here is a man with an English coat frayed at the elbow and trousers
     bagged at the knee with a year's wear, and yet by this document and
     by his own account he is a provincial American lately landed in
     London. There have been no advertisements in the agony columns. You
     know that I miss nothing there. They are my favourite covert for
     putting up a bird, and I would never have overlooked such a cock
     pheasant as that. I never knew a Dr. Lysander Starr, of Topeka. Touch
     him where you would he was false. I think the fellow is really an
     American, but he has worn his accent smooth with years of London.
     What is his game, then, and what motive lies behind this preposterous
     search for Garridebs? It's worth our attention, for, granting that
     the man is a rascal, he is certainly a complex and ingenious one. We
     must now find out if our other correspondent is a fraud also. Just
     ring him up, Watson."

     I did so, and heard a thin, quavering voice at the other end of the
     line.

     "Yes, yes, I am Mr. Nathan Garrideb. Is Mr. Holmes there? I should
     very much like to have a word with Mr. Holmes."

     My friend took the instrument and I heard the usual syncopated
     dialogue.

     "Yes, he has been here. I understand that you don't know him. ... How
     long? ... Only two days! ... Yes, yes, of course, it is a most
     captivating prospect. Will you be at home this evening? I suppose
     your namesake will not be there? ... Very good, we will come then,
     for I would rather have a chat without him. ... Dr. Watson will come
     with me. ... I understand from your note that you did not go out
     often. ... Well, we shall be round about six. You need not mention it
     to the American lawyer. ... Very good. Good-bye!"

     It was twilight of a lovely spring evening, and even Little Ryder
     Street, one of the smaller offshoots from the Edgware Road, within a
     stone-cast of old Tyburn Tree of evil memory, looked golden and
     wonderful in the slanting rays of the setting sun. The particular
     house to which we were directed was a large, old-fashioned, Early
     Georgian edifice, with a flat brick face broken only by two deep bay
     windows on the ground floor. It was on this ground floor that our
     client lived, and, indeed, the low windows proved to be the front of
     the huge room in which he spent his waking hours. Holmes pointed as
     we passed to the small brass plate which bore the curious name.

     "Up some years, Watson," he remarked, indicating its discoloured
     surface. "It's his real name, anyhow, and that is something to note."

     The house had a common stair, and there were a number of names
     painted in the hall, some indicating offices and some private
     chambers. It was not a collection of residential flats, but rather
     the abode of Bohemian bachelors. Our client opened the door for us
     himself and apologized by saying that the woman in charge left at
     four o'clock. Mr. Nathan Garrideb proved to be a very tall,
     loose-jointed, round-backed person, gaunt and bald, some sixty-odd
     years of age. He had a cadaverous face, with the dull dead skin of a
     man to whom exercise was unknown. Large round spectacles and a small
     projecting goat's beard combined with his stooping attitude to give
     him an expression of peering curiosity. The general effect, however,
     was amiable, though eccentric.

     The room was as curious as its occupant. It looked like a small
     museum. It was both broad and deep, with cupboards and cabinets all
     round, crowded with specimens, geological and anatomical. Cases of
     butterflies and moths flanked each side of the entrance. A large
     table in the centre was littered with all sorts of debris, while the
     tall brass tube of a powerful microscope bristled up among them. As I
     glanced round I was surprised at the universality of the man's
     interests. Here was a case of ancient coins. There was a cabinet of
     flint instruments. Behind his central table was a large cupboard of
     fossil bones. Above was a line of plaster skulls with such names as
     "Neanderthal," "Heidelberg," "Cro-Magnon" printed beneath them. It
     was clear that he was a student of many subjects. As he stood in
     front of us now, he held a piece of chamois leather in his right hand
     with which he was polishing a coin.

     "Syracusan--of the best period," he explained, holding it up. "They
     degenerated greatly towards the end. At their best I hold them
     supreme, though some prefer the Alexandrian school. You will find a
     chair here, Mr. Holmes. Pray allow me to clear these bones. And you,
     sir--ah, yes, Dr. Watson--if you would have the goodness to put the
     Japanese vase to one side. You see round me my little interests in
     life. My doctor lectures me about never going out, but why should I
     go out when I have so much to hold me here? I can assure you that the
     adequate cataloguing of one of those cabinets would take me three
     good months."

     Holmes looked round him with curiosity.

     "But do you tell me that you never go out?" he said.

     "Now and again I drive down to Sotheby's or Christie's. Otherwise I
     very seldom leave my room. I am not too strong, and my researches are
     very absorbing. But you can imagine, Mr. Holmes, what a terrific
     shock--pleasant but terrific--it was for me when I heard of this
     unparalleled good fortune. It only needs one more Garrideb to
     complete the matter, and surely we can find one. I had a brother, but
     he is dead, and female relatives are disqualified. But there must
     surely be others in the world. I had heard that you handled strange
     cases, and that was why I sent to you. Of course, this American
     gentleman is quite right, and I should have taken his advice first,
     but I acted for the best."

     "I think you acted very wisely indeed," said Holmes. "But are you
     really anxious to acquire an estate in America?"

     "Certainly not, sir. Nothing would induce me to leave my collection.
     But this gentleman has assured me that he will buy me out as soon as
     we have established our claim. Five million dollars was the sum
     named. There are a dozen specimens in the market at the present
     moment which fill gaps in my collection, and which I am unable to
     purchase for want of a few hundred pounds. Just think what I could do
     with five million dollars. Why, I have the nucleus of a national
     collection. I shall be the Hans Sloane of my age."

     His eyes gleamed behind his great spectacles. It was very clear that
     no pains would be spared by Mr. Nathan Garrideb in finding a
     namesake.

     "I merely called to make your acquaintance, and there is no reason
     why I should interrupt your studies," said Holmes. "I prefer to
     establish personal touch with those with whom I do business. There
     are few questions I need ask, for I have your very clear narrative in
     my pocket, and I filled up the blanks when this American gentleman
     called. I understand that up to this week you were unaware of his
     existence."

     "That is so. He called last Tuesday."

     "Did he tell you of our interview to-day?"

     "Yes, he came straight back to me. He had been very angry."

     "Why should he be angry?"

     "He seemed to think it was some reflection on his honour. But he was
     quite cheerful again when he returned."

     "Did he suggest any course of action?"

     "No, sir, he did not."

     "Has he had, or asked for, any money from you?"

     "No, sir, never!"

     "You see no possible object he has in view?"

     "None, except what he states."

     "Did you tell him of our telephone appointment?"

     "Yes, sir, I did."

     Holmes was lost in thought. I could see that he was puzzled.

     "Have you any articles of great value in your collection?"

     "No, sir. I am not a rich man. It is a good collection, but not a
     very valuable one."

     "You have no fear of burglars?"

     "Not the least."

     "How long have you been in these rooms?"

     "Nearly five years."

     Holmes's cross-examination was interrupted by an imperative knocking
     at the door. No sooner had our client unlatched it than the American
     lawyer burst excitedly into the room.

     "Here you are!" he cried, waving a paper over his head. "I thought I
     should be in time to get you. Mr. Nathan Garrideb, my
     congratulations! You are a rich man, sir. Our business is happily
     finished and all is well. As to you, Mr. Holmes, we can only say we
     are sorry if we have given you any useless trouble."

     He handed over the paper to our client, who stood staring at a marked
     advertisement. Holmes and I leaned forward and read it over his
     shoulder. This is how it ran:

                                 Howard Garrideb
                      Constructor of Agricultural Machinery
        Binders, reapers, steam and hand plows, drills, harrows, farmers'
                  carts, buckboards, and all other appliances.
                          Estimates for Artesian Wells
                        Apply Grosvenor Buildings, Aston

     "Glorious!" gasped our host. "That makes our third man."

     "I had opened up inquiries in Birmingham," said the American, "and my
     agent there has sent me this advertisement from a local paper. We
     must hustle and put the thing through. I have written to this man and
     told him that you will see him in his office to-morrow afternoon at
     four o'clock."

     "You want me to see him?"

     "What do you say, Mr. Holmes? Don't you think it would be wiser? Here
     am I, a wandering American with a wonderful tale. Why should he
     believe what I tell him? But you are a Britisher with solid
     references, and he is bound to take notice of what you say. I would
     go with you if you wished, but I have a very busy day to-morrow, and
     I could always follow you if you are in any trouble."

     "Well, I have not made such a journey for years."

     "It is nothing, Mr. Garrideb. I have figured out our connections. You
     leave at twelve and should be there soon after two. Then you can be
     back the same night. All you have to do is to see this man, explain
     the matter, and get an affidavit of his existence. By the Lord!" he
     added hotly, "considering I've come all the way from the centre of
     America, it is surely little enough if you go a hundred miles in
     order to put this matter through."

     "Quite so," said Holmes. "I think what this gentleman says is very
     true."

     Mr. Nathan Garrideb shrugged his shoulders with a disconsolate air.
     "Well, if you insist I shall go," said he. "It is certainly hard for
     me to refuse you anything, considering the glory of hope that you
     have brought into my life."

     "Then that is agreed," said Holmes, "and no doubt you will let me
     have a report as soon as you can."

     "I'll see to that," said the American. "Well," he added, looking at
     his watch, "I'll have to get on. I'll call to-morrow, Mr. Nathan, and
     see you off to Birmingham. Coming my way, Mr. Holmes? Well, then,
     good-bye, and we may have good news for you to-morrow night."

     I noticed that my friend's face cleared when the American left the
     room, and the look of thoughtful perplexity had vanished.

     "I wish I could look over your collection, Mr. Garrideb," said he.
     "In my profession all sorts of odd knowledge comes useful, and this
     room of yours is a storehouse of it."

     Our client shone with pleasure and his eyes gleamed from behind his
     big glasses.

     "I had always heard, sir, that you were a very intelligent man," said
     he. "I could take you round now if you have the time."

     "Unfortunately, I have not. But these specimens are so well labelled
     and classified that they hardly need your personal explanation. If I
     should be able to look in to-morrow, I presume that there would be no
     objection to my glancing over them?"

     "None at all. You are most welcome. The place will, of course, be
     shut up, but Mrs. Saunders is in the basement up to four o'clock and
     would let you in with her key."

     Well, I happen to be clear to-morrow afternoon. If you would say a
     word to Mrs. Saunders it would be quite in order. By the way, who is
     your house-agent?"

     Our client was amazed at the sudden question.

     "Holloway and Steele, in the Edgware Road. But why?"

     "I am a bit of an archaeologist myself when it comes to houses," said
     Holmes, laughing. "I was wondering if this was Queen Anne or
     Georgian."

     "Georgian, beyond doubt."

     "Really. I should have thought a little earlier. However, it is
     easily ascertained. Well, good-bye, Mr. Garrideb, and may you have
     every success in your Birmingham journey."

     The house-agent's was close by, but we found that it was closed for
     the day, so we made our way back to Baker Street. It was not till
     after dinner that Holmes reverted to the subject.

     "Our little problem draws to a close," said he. "No doubt you have
     outlined the solution in your own mind."

     "I can make neither head nor tail of it."

     "The head is surely clear enough and the tail we should see
     to-morrow. Did you notice nothing curious about that advertisement?"

     "I saw that the word 'plough' was misspelt."

     "Oh, you did notice that, did you? Come, Watson, you improve all the
     time. Yes, it was bad English but good American. The printer had set
     it up as received. Then the buckboards. That is American also. And
     artesian wells are commoner with them than with us. It was a typical
     American advertisement, but purporting to be from an English firm.
     What do you make of that?"

     "I can only suppose that this American lawyer put it in himself. What
     his object was I fail to understand."

     "Well, there are alternative explanations. Anyhow, he wanted to get
     this good old fossil up to Birmingham. That is very clear. I might
     have told him that he was clearly going on a wild-goose chase, but,
     on second thoughts, it seemed better to clear the stage by letting
     him go. To-morrow, Watson--well, to-morrow will speak for itself."

     Holmes was up and out early. When he returned at lunchtime I noticed
     that his face was very grave.

     "This is a more serious matter than I had expected, Watson," said he.
     "It is fair to tell you so, though I know it will only be an
     additional reason to you for running your head into danger. I should
     know my Watson by now. But there is danger, and you should know it."

     "Well, it is not the first we have shared, Holmes. I hope it may not
     be the last. What is the particular danger this time?"

     "We are up against a very hard case. I have identified Mr. John
     Garrideb, Counsellor at Law. He is none other than 'Killer' Evans, of
     sinister and murderous reputation."

     "I fear I am none the wiser."

     "Ah, it is not part of your profession to carry about a portable
     Newgate Calendar in your memory. I have been down to see friend
     Lestrade at the Yard. There may be an occasional want of imaginative
     intuition down there, but they lead the world for thoroughness and
     method. I had an idea that we might get on the track of our American
     friend in their records. Sure enough, I found his chubby face smiling
     up at me from the rogues' portrait gallery. 'James Winter, alias
     Morecroft, alias Killer Evans,' was the inscription below." Holmes
     drew an envelope from his pocket. "I scribbled down a few points from
     his dossier: Aged forty-four. Native of Chicago. Known to have shot
     three men in the States. Escaped from penitentiary through political
     influence. Came to London in 1893. Shot a man over cards in a
     night-club in the Waterloo Road in January, 1895. Man died, but he
     was shown to have been the aggressor in the row. Dead man was
     identified as Rodger Prescott, famous as forger and coiner in
     Chicago. Killer Evans released in 1901. Has been under police
     supervision since, but so far as known has led an honest life. Very
     dangerous man, usually carries arms and is prepared to use them. That
     is our bird, Watson--a sporting bird, as you must admit."

     "But what is his game?"

     "Well, it begins to define itself. I have been to the house-agent's.
     Our client, as he told us, has been there five years. It was unlet
     for a year before then. The previous tenant was a gentleman at large
     named Waldron. Waldron's appearance was well remembered at the
     office. He had suddenly vanished and nothing more been heard of him.
     He was a tall, bearded man with very dark features. Now, Prescott,
     the man whom Killer Evans had shot, was, according to Scotland Yard,
     a tall, dark man with a beard. As a working hypothesis, I think we
     may take it that Prescott, the American criminal, used to live in the
     very room which our innocent friend now devotes to his museum. So at
     last we get a link, you see."

     "And the next link?"

     "Well, we must go now and look for that."

     He took a revolver from the drawer and handed it to me.

     "I have my old favourite with me. If our Wild West friend tries to
     live up to his nickname, we must be ready for him. I'll give you an
     hour for a siesta, Watson, and then I think it will be time for our
     Ryder Street adventure."

     It was just four o'clock when we reached the curious apartment of
     Nathan Garrideb. Mrs. Saunders, the caretaker, was about to leave,
     but she had no hesitation in admitting us, for the door shut with a
     spring lock, and Holmes promised to see that all was safe before we
     left. Shortly afterwards the outer door closed, her bonnet passed the
     bow window, and we knew that we were alone in the lower floor of the
     house. Holmes made a rapid examination of the premises. There was one
     cupboard in a dark corner which stood out a little from the wall. It
     was behind this that we eventually crouched while Holmes in a whisper
     outlined his intentions.

     "He wanted to get our amiable friend out of his room--that is very
     clear, and, as the collector never went out, it took some planning to
     do it. The whole of this Garrideb invention was apparently for no
     other end. I must say, Watson, that there is a certain devilish
     ingenuity about it, even if the queer name of the tenant did give him
     an opening which he could hardly have expected. He wove his plot with
     remarkable cunning."

     "But what did he want?"

     "Well, that is what we are here to find out. It has nothing whatever
     to do with our client, so far as I can read the situation. It is
     something connected with the man he murdered--the man who may have
     been his confederate in crime. There is some guilty secret in the
     room. That is how I read it. At first I thought our friend might have
     something in his collection more valuable than he knew--something
     worth the attention of a big criminal. But the fact that Rodger
     Prescott of evil memory inhabited these rooms points to some deeper
     reason. Well, Watson, we can but possess our souls in patience and
     see what the hour may bring."

     That hour was not long in striking. We crouched closer in the shadow
     as we heard the outer door open and shut. Then came the sharp,
     metallic snap of a key, and the American was in the room. He closed
     the door softly behind him, took a sharp glance around him to see
     that all was safe, threw off his overcoat, and walked up to the
     central table with the brisk manner of one who knows exactly what he
     has to do and how to do it. He pushed the table to one side, tore up
     the square of carpet on which it rested, rolled it completely back,
     and then, drawing a jemmy from his inside pocket, he knelt down and
     worked vigorously upon the floor. Presently we heard the sound of
     sliding boards, and an instant later a square had opened in the
     planks. Killer Evans struck a match, lit a stump of candle, and
     vanished from our view.

     Clearly our moment had come. Holmes touched my wrist as a signal, and
     together we stole across to the open trap-door. Gently as we moved,
     however, the old floor must have creaked under our feet, for the head
     of our American, peering anxiously round, emerged suddenly from the
     open space. His face turned upon us with a glare of baffled rage,
     which gradually softened into a rather shamefaced grin as he realized
     that two pistols were pointed at his head.

     "Well, well!" said he coolly as he scrambled to the surface. "I guess
     you have been one too many for me, Mr. Holmes. Saw through my game, I
     suppose, and played me for a sucker from the first. Well, sir, I hand
     it to you; you have me beat and--"

     In an instant he had whisked out a revolver from his breast and had
     fired two shots. I felt a sudden hot sear as if a red-hot iron had
     been pressed to my thigh. There was a crash as Holmes's pistol came
     down on the man's head. I had a vision of him sprawling upon the
     floor with blood running down his face while Holmes rummaged him for
     weapons. Then my friend's wiry arms were round me, and he was leading
     me to a chair.

     "You're not hurt, Watson? For God's sake, say that you are not hurt!"

     It was worth a wound--it was worth many wounds--to know the depth of
     loyalty and love which lay behind that cold mask. The clear, hard
     eyes were dimmed for a moment, and the firm lips were shaking. For
     the one and only time I caught a glimpse of a great heart as well as
     of a great brain. All my years of humble but single-minded service
     culminated in that moment of revelation.

     "It's nothing, Holmes. It's a mere scratch."

     He had ripped up my trousers with his pocket-knife.

     "You are right," he cried with an immense sigh of relief. "It is
     quite superficial." His face set like flint as he glared at our
     prisoner, who was sitting up with a dazed face. "By the Lord, it is
     as well for you. If you had killed Watson, you would not have got out
     of this room alive. Now, sir, what have you to say for yourself?"

     He had nothing to say for himself. He only sat and scowled. I leaned
     on Holmes's arm, and together we looked down into the small cellar
     which had been disclosed by the secret flap. It was still illuminated
     by the candle which Evans had taken down with him. Our eyes fell upon
     a mass of rusted machinery, great rolls of paper, a litter of
     bottles, and, neatly arranged upon a small table, a number of neat
     little bundles.

     "A printing press--a counterfeiter's outfit," said Holmes.

     "Yes, sir," said our prisoner, staggering slowly to his feet and then
     sinking into the chair. "The greatest counterfeiter London ever saw.
     That's Prescott's machine, and those bundles on the table are two
     thousand of Prescott's notes worth a hundred each and fit to pass
     anywhere. Help yourselves, gentlemen. Call it a deal and let me beat
     it."

     Holmes laughed.

     "We don't do things like that, Mr. Evans. There is no bolt-hole for
     you in this country. You shot this man Prescott, did you not?"

     "Yes, sir, and got five years for it, though it was he who pulled on
     me. Five years--when I should have had a medal the size of a soup
     plate. No living man could tell a Prescott from a Bank of England,
     and if I hadn't put him out he would have flooded London with them. I
     was the only one in the world who knew where he made them. Can you
     wonder that I wanted to get to the place? And can you wonder that
     when I found this crazy boob of a bug-hunter with the queer name
     squatting right on the top of it, and never quitting his room, I had
     to do the best I could to shift him? Maybe I would have been wiser if
     I had put him away. It would have been easy enough, but I'm a
     soft-hearted guy that can't begin shooting unless the other man has a
     gun also. But say, Mr. Holmes, what have I done wrong, anyhow? I've
     not used this plant. I've not hurt this old stiff. Where do you get
     me?"

     "Only attempted murder, so far as I can see," said Holmes. "But
     that's not our job. They take that at the next stage. What we wanted
     at present was just your sweet self. Please give the Yard a call,
     Watson. It won't be entirely unexpected."

     So those were the facts about Killer Evans and his remarkable
     invention of the three Garridebs. We heard later that our poor old
     friend never got over the shock of his dissipated dreams. When his
     castle in the air fell down, it buried him beneath the ruins. He was
     last heard of at a nursing-home in Brixton. It was a glad day at the
     Yard when the Prescott outfit was discovered, for, though they knew
     that it existed, they had never been able, after the death of the
     man, to find out where it was. Evans had indeed done great service
     and caused several worthy C. I. D. men to sleep the sounder, for the
     counterfeiter stands in a class by himself as a public danger. They
     would willingly have subscribed to that soup-plate medal of which the
     criminal had spoken, but an unappreciative bench took a less
     favourable view, and the Killer returned to those shades from which
     he had just emerged.






                           THE PROBLEM OF THOR BRIDGE

     Somewhere in the vaults of the bank of Cox and Co., at Charing Cross,
     there is a travel-worn and battered tin dispatch-box with my name,
     John H. Watson, M.D., Late Indian Army, painted upon the lid. It is
     crammed with papers, nearly all of which are records of cases to
     illustrate the curious problems which Mr. Sherlock Holmes had at
     various times to examine. Some, and not the least interesting, were
     complete failures, and as such will hardly bear narrating, since no
     final explanation is forthcoming. A problem without a solution may
     interest the student, but can hardly fail to annoy the casual reader.
     Among these unfinished tales is that of Mr. James Phillimore, who,
     stepping back into his own house to get his umbrella, was never more
     seen in this world. No less remarkable is that of the cutter Alicia,
     which sailed one spring morning into a small patch of mist from where
     she never again emerged, nor was anything further ever heard of
     herself and her crew. A third case worthy of note is that of Isadora
     Persano, the well-known journalist and duellist, who was found stark
     staring mad with a match box in front of him which contained a
     remarkable worm said to be unknown to science. Apart from these
     unfathomed cases, there are some which involve the secrets of private
     families to an extent which would mean consternation in many exalted
     quarters if it were thought possible that they might find their way
     into print. I need not say that such a breach of confidence is
     unthinkable, and that these records will be separated and destroyed
     now that my friend has time to turn his energies to the matter. There
     remain a considerable residue of cases of greater or less interest
     which I might have edited before had I not feared to give the public
     a surfeit which might react upon the reputation of the man whom above
     all others I revere. In some I was myself concerned and can speak as
     an eye-witness, while in others I was either not present or played so
     small a part that they could only be told as by a third person. The
     following narrative is drawn from my own experience.

     It was a wild morning in October, and I observed as I was dressing
     how the last remaining leaves were being whirled from the solitary
     plane tree which graces the yard behind our house. I descended to
     breakfast prepared to find my companion in depressed spirits, for,
     like all great artists, he was easily impressed by his surroundings.
     On the contrary, I found that he had nearly finished his meal, and
     that his mood was particularly bright and joyous, with that somewhat
     sinister cheerfulness which was characteristic of his lighter
     moments.

     "You have a case, Holmes?" I remarked.

     "The faculty of deduction is certainly contagious, Watson," he
     answered. "It has enabled you to probe my secret. Yes, I have a case.
     After a month of trivialities and stagnation the wheels move once
     more."

     "Might I share it?"

     "There is little to share, but we may discuss it when you have
     consumed the two hard-boiled eggs with which our new cook has
     favoured us. Their condition may not be unconnected with the copy of
     the Family Herald which I observed yesterday upon the hall-table.
     Even so trivial a matter as cooking an egg demands an attention which
     is conscious of the passage of time and incompatible with the love
     romance in that excellent periodical."

     A quarter of an hour later the table had been cleared and we were
     face to face. He had drawn a letter from his pocket.

     "You have heard of Neil Gibson, the Gold King?" he said.

     "You mean the American Senator?"

     "Well, he was once Senator for some Western state, but is better
     known as the greatest gold-mining magnate in the world."

     "Yes, I know of him. He has surely lived in England for some time.
     His name is very familiar."

     "Yes, he bought a considerable estate in Hampshire some five years
     ago. Possibly you have already heard of the tragic end of his wife?"

     "Of course. I remember it now. That is why the name is familiar. But
     I really know nothing of the details."

     Holmes waved his hand towards some papers on a chair. "I had no idea
     that the case was coming my way or I should have had my extracts
     ready," said he. "The fact is that the problem, though exceedingly
     sensational, appeared to present no difficulty. The interesting
     personality of the accused does not obscure the clearness of the
     evidence. That was the view taken by the coroner's jury and also in
     the police-court proceedings. It is now referred to the Assizes at
     Winchester. I fear it is a thankless business. I can discover facts,
     Watson, but I cannot change them. Unless some entirely new and
     unexpected ones come to light I do not see what my client can hope
     for."

     "Your client?"

     "Ah, I forgot I had not told you. I am getting into your involved
     habit, Watson, of telling a story backward. You had best read this
     first."

     The letter which he handed to me, written in a bold, masterful hand,
     ran as follows:

     Claridge's Hotel
     October 3rd.
     Dear Mr. Sherlock Holmes:
     I can't see the best woman God ever made go to her death without
     doing all that is possible to save her. I can't explain things--I
     can't even try to explain them, but I know beyond all doubt that Miss
     Dunbar is innocent. You know the facts--who doesn't? It has been the
     gossip of the country. And never a voice raised for her! It's the
     damned injustice of it all that makes me crazy. That woman has a
     heart that wouldn't let her kill a fly. Well, I'll come at eleven
     to-morrow and see if you can get some ray of light in the dark. Maybe
     I have a clue and don't know it. Anyhow, all I know and all I have
     and all I am are for your use if only you can save her. If ever in
     your life you showed your powers, put them now into this case.
     Yours faithfully,
     J. Neil Gibson.

     "There you have it," said Sherlock Holmes, knocking out the ashes of
     his after-breakfast pipe and slowly refilling it. "That is the
     gentleman I await. As to the story, you have hardly time to master
     all these papers, so I must give it to you in a nutshell if you are
     to take an intelligent interest in the proceedings. This man is the
     greatest financial power in the world, and a man, as I understand, of
     most violent and formidable character. He married a wife, the victim
     of this tragedy, of whom I know nothing save that she was past her
     prime, which was the more unfortunate as a very attractive governess
     superintended the education of two young children. These are the
     three people concerned, and the scene is a grand old manor house, the
     centre of a historical English state. Then as to the tragedy. The
     wife was found in the grounds nearly half a mile from the house, late
     at night, clad in her dinner dress, with a shawl over her shoulders
     and a revolver bullet through her brain. No weapon was found near her
     and there was no local clue as to the murder. No weapon near her,
     Watson--mark that! The crime seems to have been committed late in the
     evening, and the body was found by a game-keeper about eleven
     o'clock, when it was examined by the police and by a doctor before
     being carried up to the house. Is this too condensed, or can you
     follow it clearly?"

     "It is all very clear. But why suspect the governess?"

     "Well, in the first place there is some very direct evidence. A
     revolver with one discharged chamber and a calibre which corresponded
     with the bullet was found on the floor of her wardrobe." His eyes
     fixed and he repeated in broken words,
     "On--the--floor--of--her--wardrobe." Then he sank into silence, and I
     saw that some train of thought had been set moving which I should be
     foolish to interrupt. Suddenly with a start he emerged into brisk
     life once more. "Yes, Watson, it was found. Pretty damning, eh? So
     the two juries thought. Then the dead woman had a note upon her
     making an appointment at that very place and signed by the governess.
     How's that? Finally there is the motive. Senator Gibson is an
     attractive person. If his wife dies, who more likely to succeed her
     than the young lady who had already by all accounts received pressing
     attentions from her employer? Love, fortune, power, all depending
     upon one middle-aged life. Ugly, Watson--very ugly!"

     "Yes, indeed, Holmes."

     "Nor could she prove an alibi. On the contrary, she had to admit that
     she was down near Thor Bridge--that was the scene of the
     tragedy--about that hour. She couldn't deny it, for some passing
     villager had seen her there."

     "That really seems final."

     "And yet, Watson--and yet! This bridge--a single broad span of stone
     with balustraded sides--carries the drive over the narrowest part of
     a long, deep, reed-girt sheet of water. Thor Mere it is called. In
     the mouth of the bridge lay the dead woman. Such are the main facts.
     But here, if I mistake not, is our client, considerably before his
     time."

     Billy had opened the door, but the name which he announced was an
     unexpected one. Mr. Marlow Bates was a stranger to both of us. He was
     a thin, nervous wisp of a man with frightened eyes and a twitching,
     hesitating manner--a man whom my own professional eye would judge to
     be on the brink of an absolute nervous breakdown.

     "You seem agitated, Mr. Bates," said Holmes. "Pray sit down. I fear I
     can only give you a short time, for I have an appointment at eleven."

     "I know you have," our visitor gasped, shooting out short sentences
     like a man who is out of breath. "Mr. Gibson is coming. Mr. Gibson is
     my employer. I am manager of his estate. Mr. Holmes, he is a
     villain--an infernal villain."

     "Strong language, Mr. Bates."

     "I have to be emphatic, Mr. Holmes, for the time is so limited. I
     would not have him find me here for the world. He is almost due now.
     But I was so situated that I could not come earlier. His secretary,
     Mr. Ferguson, only told me this morning of his appointment with you."

     "And you are his manager?"

     "I have given him notice. In a couple of weeks I shall have shaken
     off his accursed slavery. A hard man, Mr. Holmes, hard to all about
     him. Those public charities are a screen to cover his private
     iniquities. But his wife was his chief victim. He was brutal to
     her--yes, sir, brutal! How she came by her death I do not know, but I
     am sure that he had made her life a misery to her. She was a creature
     of the tropics, a Brazilian by birth, as no doubt you know."

     "No, it had escaped me."

     "Tropical by birth and tropical by nature. A child of the sun and of
     passion. She had loved him as such women can love, but when her own
     physical charms had faded--I am told that they once were great--there
     was nothing to hold him. We all liked her and felt for her and hated
     him for the way that he treated her. But he is plausible and cunning.
     That is all I have to say to you. Don't take him at his face value.
     There is more behind. Now I'll go. No, no, don't detain me! He is
     almost due."

     With a frightened look at the clock our strange visitor literally ran
     to the door and disappeared.

     "Well! Well!" said Holmes after an interval of silence. "Mr. Gibson
     seems to have a nice loyal household. But the warning is a useful
     one, and now we can only wait till the man himself appears."

     Sharp at the hour we heard a heavy step upon the stairs, and the
     famous millionaire was shown into the room. As I looked upon him I
     understood not only the fears and dislike of his manager but also the
     execrations which so many business rivals have heaped upon his head.
     If I were a sculptor and desired to idealize the successful man of
     affairs, iron of nerve and leathery of conscience, I should choose
     Mr. Neil Gibson as my model. His tall, gaunt, craggy figure had a
     suggestion of hunger and rapacity. An Abraham Lincoln keyed to base
     uses instead of high ones would give some idea of the man. His face
     might have been chiselled in granite, hard-set, craggy, remorseless,
     with deep lines upon it, the scars of many a crisis. Cold gray eyes,
     looking shrewdly out from under bristling brows, surveyed us each in
     turn. He bowed in perfunctory fashion as Holmes mentioned my name,
     and then with a masterful air of possession he drew a chair up to my
     companion and seated himself with his bony knees almost touching him.

     "Let me say right here, Mr. Holmes," he began, "that money is nothing
     to me in this case. You can burn it if it's any use in lighting you
     to the truth. This woman is innocent and this woman has to be
     cleared, and it's up to you to do it. Name your figure!"

     "My professional charges are upon a fixed scale," said Holmes coldly.
     "I do not vary them, save when I remit them altogether."

     "Well, if dollars make no difference to you, think of the reputation.
     If you pull this off every paper in England and America will be
     booming you. You'll be the talk of two continents."

     "Thank you, Mr. Gibson, I do not think that I am in need of booming.
     It may surprise you to know that I prefer to work anonymously, and
     that it is the problem itself which attracts me. But we are wasting
     time. Let us get down to the facts."

     "I think that you will find all the main ones in the press reports. I
     don't know that I can add anything which will help you. But if there
     is anything you would wish more light upon--well, I am here to give
     it."

     "Well, there is just one point."

     "What is it?"

     "What were the exact relations between you and Miss Dunbar?"

     The Gold King gave a violent start and half rose from his chair. Then
     his massive calm came back to him.

     "I suppose you are within your rights--and maybe doing your duty--in
     asking such a question, Mr. Holmes."

     "We will agree to suppose so," said Holmes.

     "Then I can assure you that our relations were entirely and always
     those of an employer towards a young lady whom he never conversed
     with, or ever saw, save when she was in the company of his children."

     Holmes rose from his chair.

     "I am a rather busy man, Mr. Gibson," said he, "and I have no time or
     taste for aimless conversations. I wish you good-morning."

     Our visitor had risen also, and his great loose figure towered above
     Holmes. There was an angry gleam from under those bristling brows and
     a tinge of colour in the sallow cheeks.

     "What the devil do you mean by this, Mr. Holmes? Do you dismiss my
     case?"

     "Well, Mr. Gibson, at least I dismiss you. I should have thought my
     words were plain."

     "Plain enough, but what's at the back of it? Raising the price on me,
     or afraid to tackle it, or what? I've a right to a plain answer."

     "Well, perhaps you have," said Holmes. "I'll give you one. This case
     is quite sufficiently complicated to start with without the further
     difficulty of false information."

     "Meaning that I lie."

     "Well, I was trying to express it as delicately as I could, but if
     you insist upon the word I will not contradict you."

     I sprang to my feet, for the expression upon the millionaire's face
     was fiendish in its intensity, and he had raised his great knotted
     fist. Holmes smiled languidly and reached his hand out for his pipe.

     "Don't be noisy, Mr. Gibson. I find that after breakfast even the
     smallest argument is unsettling. I suggest that a stroll in the
     morning air and a little quiet thought will be greatly to your
     advantage."

     With an effort the Gold King mastered his fury. I could not but
     admire him, for by a supreme self-command he had turned in a minute
     from a hot flame of anger to a frigid and contemptuous indifference.

     "Well, it's your choice. I guess you know how to run your own
     business. I can't make you touch the case against your will. You've
     done yourself no good this morning, Mr. Holmes, for I have broken
     stronger men than you. No man ever crossed me and was the better for
     it."

     "So many have said so, and yet here I am," said Holmes, smiling.
     "Well, good-morning, Mr. Gibson. You have a good deal yet to learn."

     Our visitor made a noisy exit, but Holmes smoked in imperturbable
     silence with dreamy eyes fixed upon the ceiling.

     "Any views, Watson?" he asked at last.

     "Well, Holmes, I must confess that when I consider that this is a man
     who would certainly brush any obstacle from his path, and when I
     remember that his wife may have been an obstacle and an object of
     dislike, as that man Bates plainly told us, it seems to me--"

     "Exactly. And to me also."

     "But what were his relations with the governess, and how did you
     discover them?"

     "Bluff, Watson, bluff! When I considered the passionate,
     unconventional, unbusinesslike tone of his letter and contrasted it
     with his self-contained manner and appearance, it was pretty clear
     that there was some deep emotion which centred upon the accused woman
     rather than upon the victim. We've got to understand the exact
     relations of those three people if we are to reach the truth. You saw
     the frontal attack which I made upon him, and how imperturbably he
     received it. Then I bluffed him by giving him the impression that I
     was absolutely certain, when in reality I was only extremely
     suspicious."

     "Perhaps he will come back?"

     "He is sure to come back. He must come back. He can't leave it where
     it is. Ha! isn't that a ring? Yes, there is his footstep. Well, Mr.
     Gibson, I was just saying to Dr. Watson that you were somewhat
     overdue."

     The Gold King had reentered the room in a more chastened mood than he
     had left it. His wounded pride still showed in his resentful eyes,
     but his common sense had shown him that he must yield if he would
     attain his end.

     "I've been thinking it over, Mr. Holmes, and I feel that I have been
     hasty in taking your remarks amiss. You are justified in getting down
     to the facts, whatever they may be, and I think the more of you for
     it. I can assure you, however, that the relations between Miss Dunbar
     and me don't really touch this case."

     "That is for me to decide, is it not?"

     "Yes, I guess that is so. You're like a surgeon who wants every
     symptom before he can give his diagnosis."

     "Exactly. That expresses it. And it is only a patient who has an
     object in deceiving his surgeon who would conceal the facts of his
     case."

     "That may be so, but you will admit, Mr. Holmes, that most men would
     shy off a bit when they are asked point-blank what their relations
     with a woman may be--if there is really some serious feeling in the
     case. I guess most men have a little private reserve of their own in
     some corner of their souls where they don't welcome intruders. And
     you burst suddenly into it. But the object excuses you, since it was
     to try and save her. Well, the stakes are down and the reserve open,
     and you can explore where you will. What is it you want?"

     "The truth."

     The Gold King paused for a moment as one who marshals his thoughts.
     His grim, deep-lined face had become even sadder and more grave.

     "I can give it to you in a very few words, Mr. Holmes," said he at
     last. "There are some things that are painful as well as difficult to
     say, so I won't go deeper than is needful. I met my wife when I was
     gold-hunting in Brazil. Maria Pinto was the daughter of a government
     official at Manaos, and she was very beautiful. I was young and
     ardent in those days, but even now, as I look back with colder blood
     and a more critical eye, I can see that she was rare and wonderful in
     her beauty. It was a deep rich nature, too, passionate,
     whole-hearted, tropical, ill-balanced, very different from the
     American women whom I had known. Well, to make a long story short, I
     loved her and I married her. It was only when the romance had
     passed--and it lingered for years--that I realized that we had
     nothing--absolutely nothing--in common. My love faded. If hers had
     faded also it might have been easier. But you know the wonderful way
     of women! Do what I might, nothing could turn her from me. If I have
     been harsh to her, even brutal as some have said, it has been because
     I knew that if I could kill her love, or if it turned to hate, it
     would be easier for both of us. But nothing changed her. She adored
     me in those English woods as she had adored me twenty years ago on
     the banks of the Amazon. Do what I might, she was as devoted as ever.

     "Then came Miss Grace Dunbar. She answered our advertisement and
     became governess to our two children. Perhaps you have seen her
     portrait in the papers. The whole world has proclaimed that she also
     is a very beautiful woman. Now, I make no pretence to be more moral
     than my neighbours, and I will admit to you that I could not live
     under the same roof with such a woman and in daily contact with her
     without feeling a passionate regard for her. Do you blame me, Mr.
     Holmes?"

     "I do not blame you for feeling it. I should blame you if you
     expressed it, since this young lady was in a sense under your
     protection."

     "Well, maybe so," said the millionaire, though for a moment the
     reproof had brought the old angry gleam into his eyes. "I'm not
     pretending to be any better than I am. I guess all my life I've been
     a man that reached out his hand for what he wanted, and I never
     wanted anything more than the love and possession of that woman. I
     told her so."

     "Oh, you did, did you?"

     Holmes could look very formidable when he was moved.

     "I said to her that if I could marry her I would, but that it was out
     of my power. I said that money was no object and that all I could do
     to make her happy and comfortable would be done."

     "Very generous, I am sure," said Holmes with a sneer.

     "See here, Mr. Holmes. I came to you on a question of evidence, not
     on a question of morals. I'm not asking for your criticism."

     "It is only for the young lady's sake that I touch your case at all,"
     said Holmes sternly. "I don't know that anything she is accused of is
     really worse than what you have yourself admitted, that you have
     tried to ruin a defenceless girl who was under your roof. Some of you
     rich men have to be taught that all the world cannot be bribed into
     condoning your offences."

     To my surprise the Gold King took the reproof with equanimity.

     "That's how I feel myself about it now. I thank God that my plans did
     not work out as I intended. She would have none of it, and she wanted
     to leave the house instantly."

     "Why did she not?"

     "Well, in the first place, others were dependent upon her, and it was
     no light matter for her to let them all down by sacrificing her
     living. When I had sworn--as I did--that she should never be molested
     again, she consented to remain. But there was another reason. She
     knew the influence she had over me, and that it was stronger than any
     other influence in the world. She wanted to use it for good."

     "How?"

     "Well, she knew something of my affairs. They are large, Mr.
     Holmes--large beyond the belief of an ordinary man. I can make or
     break--and it is usually break. It wasn't individuals only. It was
     communities, cities, even nations. Business is a hard game, and the
     weak go to the wall. I played the game for all it was worth. I never
     squealed myself, and I never cared if the other fellow squealed. But
     she saw it different. I guess she was right. She believed and said
     that a fortune for one man that was more than he needed should not be
     built on ten thousand ruined men who were left without the means of
     life. That was how she saw it, and I guess she could see past the
     dollars to something that was more lasting. She found that I listened
     to what she said, and she believed she was serving the world by
     influencing my actions. So she stayed--and then this came along."

     "Can you throw any light upon that?"

     The Gold King paused for a minute or more, his head sunk in his
     hands, lost in deep thought.

     "It's very black against her. I can't deny that. And women lead an
     inward life and may do things beyond the judgment of a man. At first
     I was so rattled and taken aback that I was ready to think she had
     been led away in some extraordinary fashion that was clean against
     her usual nature. One explanation came into my head. I give it to
     you, Mr. Holmes, for what it is worth. There is no doubt that my wife
     was bitterly jealous. There is a soul-jealousy that can be as frantic
     as any body-jealousy, and though my wife had no cause--and I think
     she understood this--for the latter, she was aware that this English
     girl exerted an influence upon my mind and my acts that she herself
     never had. It was an influence for good, but that did not mend the
     matter. She was crazy with hatred, and the heat of the Amazon was
     always in her blood. She might have planned to murder Miss Dunbar--or
     we will say to threaten her with a gun and so frighten her into
     leaving us. Then there might have been a scuffle and the gun gone off
     and shot the woman who held it."

     "That possibility had already occurred to me," said Holmes. "Indeed,
     it is the only obvious alternative to deliberate murder."

     "But she utterly denies it."

     "Well, that is not final--is it? One can understand that a woman
     placed in so awful a position might hurry home still in her
     bewilderment holding the revolver. She might even throw it down among
     her clothes, hardly knowing what she was doing, and when it was found
     she might try to lie her way out by a total denial, since all
     explanation was impossible. What is against such a supposition?"

     "Miss Dunbar herself."

     "Well, perhaps."

     Holmes looked at his watch. "I have no doubt we can get the necessary
     permits this morning and reach Winchester by the evening train. When
     I have seen this young lady it is very possible that I may be of more
     use to you in the matter, though I cannot promise that my conclusions
     will necessarily be such as you desire."

     There was some delay in the official pass, and instead of reaching
     Winchester that day we went down to Thor Place, the Hampshire estate
     of Mr. Neil Gibson. He did not accompany us himself, but we had the
     address of Sergeant Coventry, of the local police, who had first
     examined into the affair. He was a tall, thin, cadaverous man, with a
     secretive and mysterious manner which conveyed the idea that he knew
     or suspected a very great deal more than he dared say. He had a
     trick, too, of suddenly sinking his voice to a whisper as if he had
     come upon something of vital importance, though the information was
     usually commonplace enough. Behind these tricks of manner he soon
     showed himself to be a decent, honest fellow who was not too proud to
     admit that he was out of his depth and would welcome any help.

     "Anyhow, I'd rather have you than Scotland Yard, Mr. Holmes," said
     he. "If the Yard gets called into a case, then the local loses all
     credit for success and may be blamed for failure. Now, you play
     straight, so I've heard."

     "I need not appear in the matter at all," said Holmes to the evident
     relief of our melancholy acquaintance. "If I can clear it up I don't
     ask to have my name mentioned."

     "Well, it's very handsome of you, I am sure. And your friend, Dr.
     Watson, can be trusted, I know. Now, Mr. Holmes, as we walk down to
     the place there is one question I should like to ask you. I'd breathe
     it to no soul but you." He looked round as though he hardly dare
     utter the words. "Don't you think there might be a case against Mr.
     Neil Gibson himself?"

     "I have been considering that."

     "You've not seen Miss Dunbar. She is a wonderful fine woman in every
     way. He may well have wished his wife out of the road. And these
     Americans are readier with pistols than our folk are. It was his
     pistol, you know."

     "Was that clearly made out?"

     "Yes, sir. It was one of a pair that he had."

     "One of a pair? Where is the other?"

     "Well, the gentleman has a lot of firearms of one sort and another.
     We never quite matched that particular pistol--but the box was made
     for two."

     "If it was one of a pair you should surely be able to match it."

     "Well, we have them all laid out at the house if you would care to
     look them over."

     "Later, perhaps. I think we will walk down together and have a look
     at the scene of the tragedy."

     This conversation had taken place in the little front room of
     Sergeant Coventry's humble cottage which served as the local
     police-station. A walk of half a mile or so across a wind-swept
     heath, all gold and bronze with the fading ferns, brought us to a
     side-gate opening into the grounds of the Thor Place estate. A path
     led us through the pheasant preserves, and then from a clearing we
     saw the widespread, half-timbered house, half Tudor and half
     Georgian, upon the crest of the hill. Beside us there was a long,
     reedy pool, constricted in the centre where the main carriage drive
     passed over a stone bridge, but swelling into small lakes on either
     side. Our guide paused at the mouth of this bridge, and he pointed to
     the ground.

     "That was where Mrs. Gibson's body lay. I marked it by that stone."

     "I understand that you were there before it was moved?"

     "Yes, they sent for me at once."

     "Who did?"

     "Mr. Gibson himself. The moment the alarm was given and he had rushed
     down with others from the house, he insisted that nothing should be
     moved until the police should arrive."

     "That was sensible. I gathered from the newspaper report that the
     shot was fired from close quarters."

     "Yes, sir, very close."

     "Near the right temple?"

     "Just behind it, sir."

     "How did the body lie?"

     "On the back, sir. No trace of a struggle. No marks. No weapon. The
     short note from Miss Dunbar was clutched in her left hand."

     "Clutched, you say?"

     "Yes, sir, we could hardly open the fingers."

     "That is of great importance. It excludes the idea that anyone could
     have placed the note there after death in order to furnish a false
     clue. Dear me! The note, as I remember, was quite short:

     "I will be at Thor Bridge at nine o'clock.
     "G. Dunbar.

     "Was that not so?"

     "Yes, sir."

     "Did Miss Dunbar admit writing it?"

     "Yes, sir."

     "What was her explanation?"

     "Her defence was reserved for the Assizes. She would say nothing."

     "The problem is certainly a very interesting one. The point of the
     letter is very obscure, is it not?"

     "Well, sir," said the guide, "it seemed, if I may be so bold as to
     say so, the only really clear point in the whole case."

     Holmes shook his head.

     "Granting that the letter is genuine and was really written, it was
     certainly received some time before--say one hour or two. Why, then,
     was this lady still clasping it in her left hand? Why should she
     carry it so carefully? She did not need to refer to it in the
     interview. Does it not seem remarkable?"

     "Well, sir, as you put it, perhaps it does."

     "I think I should like to sit quietly for a few minutes and think it
     out." He seated himself upon the stone ledge of the bridge, and I
     could see his quick gray eyes darting their questioning glances in
     every direction. Suddenly he sprang up again and ran across to the
     opposite parapet, whipped his lens from his pocket, and began to
     examine the stonework.

     "This is curious," said he.

     "Yes, sir, we saw the chip on the ledge. I expect it's been done by
     some passer-by."

     The stonework was gray, but at this one point it showed white for a
     space not larger than a sixpence. When examined closely one could see
     that the surface was chipped as by a sharp blow.

     "It took some violence to do that," said Holmes thoughtfully. With
     his cane he struck the ledge several times without leaving a mark.
     "Yes, it was a hard knock. In a curious place, too. It was not from
     above but from below, for you see that it is on the lower edge of the
     parapet."

     "But it is at least fifteen feet from the body."

     "Yes, it is fifteen feet from the body. It may have nothing to do
     with the matter, but it is a point worth noting. I do not think that
     we have anything more to learn here. There were no footsteps, you
     say?"

     "The ground was iron hard, sir. There were no traces at all."

     "Then we can go. We will go up to the house first and look over these
     weapons of which you speak. Then we shall get on to Winchester, for I
     should desire to see Miss Dunbar before we go farther."

     Mr. Neil Gibson had not returned from town, but we saw in the house
     the neurotic Mr. Bates who had called upon us in the morning. He
     showed us with a sinister relish the formidable array of firearms of
     various shapes and sizes which his employer had accumulated in the
     course of an adventurous life.

     "Mr. Gibson has his enemies, as anyone would expect who knew him and
     his methods," said he. "He sleeps with a loaded revolver in the
     drawer beside his bed. He is a man of violence, sir, and there are
     times when all of us are afraid of him. I am sure that the poor lady
     who has passed was often terrified."

     "Did you ever witness physical violence towards her?"

     "No, I cannot say that. But I have heard words which were nearly as
     bad--words of cold, cutting contempt, even before the servants."

     "Our millionaire does not seem to shine in private life," remarked
     Holmes as we made our way to the station. "Well, Watson, we have come
     on a good many facts, some of them new ones, and yet I seem some way
     from my conclusion. In spite of the very evident dislike which Mr.
     Bates has to his employer, I gather from him that when the alarm came
     he was undoubtedly in his library. Dinner was over at 8.30 and all
     was normal up to then. It is true that the alarm was somewhat late in
     the evening, but the tragedy certainly occurred about the hour named
     in the note. There is no evidence at all that Mr. Gibson had been out
     of doors since his return from town at five o'clock. On the other
     hand, Miss Dunbar, as I understand it, admits that she had made an
     appointment to meet Mrs. Gibson at the bridge. Beyond this she would
     say nothing, as her lawyer had advised her to reserve her defence. We
     have several very vital questions to ask that young lady, and my mind
     will not be easy until we have seen her. I must confess that the case
     would seem to me to be very black against her if it were not for one
     thing."

     "And what is that, Holmes?"

     "The finding of the pistol in her wardrobe."

     "Dear me, Holmes!" I cried, "that seemed to me to be the most damning
     incident of all."

     "Not so, Watson. It had struck me even at my first perfunctory
     reading as very strange, and now that I am in closer touch with the
     case it is my only firm ground for hope. We must look for
     consistency. Where there is a want of it we must suspect deception."

     "I hardly follow you."

     "Well now, Watson, suppose for a moment that we visualize you in the
     character of a woman who, in a cold, premeditated fashion, is about
     to get rid of a rival. You have planned it. A note has been written.
     The victim has come. You have your weapon. The crime is done. It has
     been workmanlike and complete. Do you tell me that after carrying out
     so crafty a crime you would now ruin your reputation as a criminal by
     forgetting to fling your weapon into those adjacent reed-beds which
     would forever cover it, but you must needs carry it carefully home
     and put it in your own wardrobe, the very first place that would be
     searched? Your best friends would hardly call you a schemer, Watson,
     and yet I could not picture you doing anything so crude as that."

     "In the excitement of the moment--"

     "No, no, Watson, I will not admit that it is possible. Where a crime
     is coolly premeditated, then the means of covering it are coolly
     premeditated also. I hope, therefore, that we are in the presence of
     a serious misconception."

     "But there is so much to explain."

     "Well, we shall set about explaining it. When once your point of view
     is changed, the very thing which was so damning becomes a clue to the
     truth. For example, there is this revolver. Miss Dunbar disclaims all
     knowledge of it. On our new theory she is speaking truth when she
     says so. Therefore, it was placed in her wardrobe. Who placed it
     there? Someone who wished to incriminate her. Was not that person the
     actual criminal? You see how we come at once upon a most fruitful
     line of inquiry."

     We were compelled to spend the night at Winchester, as the
     formalities had not yet been completed, but next morning, in the
     company of Mr. Joyce Cummings, the rising barrister who was entrusted
     with the defence, we were allowed to see the young lady in her cell.
     I had expected from all that we had heard to see a beautiful woman,
     but I can never forget the effect which Miss Dunbar produced upon me.
     It was no wonder that even the masterful millionaire had found in her
     something more powerful than himself--something which could control
     and guide him. One felt, too, as one looked at the strong, clear-cut,
     and yet sensitive face, that even should she be capable of some
     impetuous deed, none the less there was an innate nobility of
     character which would make her influence always for the good. She was
     a brunette, tall, with a noble figure and commanding presence, but
     her dark eyes had in them the appealing, helpless expression of the
     hunted creature who feels the nets around it, but can see no way out
     from the toils. Now, as she realized the presence and the help of my
     famous friend, there came a touch of colour in her wan cheeks and a
     light of hope began to glimmer in the glance which she turned upon
     us.

     "Perhaps Mr. Neil Gibson has told you something of what occurred
     between us?" she asked in a low, agitated voice.

     "Yes," Holmes answered, "you need not pain yourself by entering into
     that part of the story. After seeing you, I am prepared to accept Mr.
     Gibson's statement both as to the influence which you had over him
     and as to the innocence of your relations with him. But why was the
     whole situation not brought out in court?"

     "It seemed to me incredible that such a charge could be sustained. I
     thought that if we waited the whole thing must clear itself up
     without our being compelled to enter into painful details of the
     inner life of the family. But I understand that far from clearing it
     has become even more serious."

     "My dear young lady," cried Holmes earnestly, "I beg you to have no
     illusions upon the point. Mr. Cummings here would assure you that all
     the cards are at present against us, and that we must do everything
     that is possible if we are to win clear. It would be a cruel
     deception to pretend that you are not in very great danger. Give me
     all the help you can, then, to get at the truth."

     "I will conceal nothing."

     "Tell us, then, of your true relations with Mr. Gibson's wife."

     "She hated me, Mr. Holmes. She hated me with all the fervour of her
     tropical nature. She was a woman who would do nothing by halves, and
     the measure of her love for her husband was the measure also of her
     hatred for me. It is probable that she misunderstood our relations. I
     would not wish to wrong her, but she loved so vividly in a physical
     sense that she could hardly understand the mental, and even
     spiritual, tie which held her husband to me, or imagine that it was
     only my desire to influence his power to good ends which kept me
     under his roof. I can see now that I was wrong. Nothing could justify
     me in remaining where I was a cause of unhappiness, and yet it is
     certain that the unhappiness would have remained even if I had left
     the house."

     "Now, Miss Dunbar," said Holmes, "I beg you to tell us exactly what
     occurred that evening."

     "I can tell you the truth so far as I know it, Mr. Holmes, but I am
     in a position to prove nothing, and there are points--the most vital
     points--which I can neither explain nor can I imagine any
     explanation."

     "If you will find the facts, perhaps others may find the
     explanation."

     "With regard, then, to my presence at Thor Bridge that night, I
     received a note from Mrs. Gibson in the morning. It lay on the table
     of the schoolroom, and it may have been left there by her own hand.
     It implored me to see her there after dinner, said she had something
     important to say to me, and asked me to leave an answer on the
     sundial in the garden, as she desired no one to be in our confidence.
     I saw no reason for such secrecy, but I did as she asked, accepting
     the appointment. She asked me to destroy her note and I burned it in
     the schoolroom grate. She was very much afraid of her husband, who
     treated her with a harshness for which I frequently reproached him,
     and I could only imagine that she acted in this way because she did
     not wish him to know of our interview."

     "Yet she kept your reply very carefully?"

     "Yes. I was surprised to hear that she had it in her hand when she
     died."

     "Well, what happened then?"

     "I went down as I had promised. When I reached the bridge she was
     waiting for me. Never did I realize till that moment how this poor
     creature hated me. She was like a mad woman--indeed, I think she was
     a mad woman, subtly mad with the deep power of deception which insane
     people may have. How else could she have met me with unconcern every
     day and yet had so raging a hatred of me in her heart? I will not say
     what she said. She poured her whole wild fury out in burning and
     horrible words. I did not even answer--I could not. It was dreadful
     to see her. I put my hands to my ears and rushed away. When I left
     her she was standing, still shrieking out her curses at me, in the
     mouth of the bridge."

     "Where she was afterwards found?"

     "Within a few yards from the spot."

     "And yet, presuming that she met her death shortly after you left
     her, you heard no shot?"

     "No, I heard nothing. But, indeed, Mr. Holmes, I was so agitated and
     horrified by this terrible outbreak that I rushed to get back to the
     peace of my own room, and I was incapable of noticing anything which
     happened."

     "You say that you returned to your room. Did you leave it again
     before next morning?"

     "Yes, when the alarm came that the poor creature had met her death I
     ran out with the others."

     "Did you see Mr. Gibson?"

     "Yes, he had just returned from the bridge when I saw him. He had
     sent for the doctor and the police."

     "Did he seem to you much perturbed?"

     "Mr. Gibson is a very strong, self-contained man. I do not think that
     he would ever show his emotions on the surface. But I, who knew him
     so well, could see that he was deeply concerned."

     "Then we come to the all-important point. This pistol that was found
     in your room. Had you ever seen it before?"

     "Never, I swear it."

     "When was it found?"

     "Next morning, when the police made their search."

     "Among your clothes?"

     "Yes, on the floor of my wardrobe under my dresses."

     "You could not guess how long it had been there?"

     "It had not been there the morning before."

     "How do you know?"

     "Because I tidied out the wardrobe."

     "That is final. Then someone came into your room and placed the
     pistol there in order to inculpate you."

     "It must have been so."

     "And when?"

     "It could only have been at meal-time, or else at the hours when I
     would be in the schoolroom with the children."

     "As you were when you got the note?"

     "Yes, from that time onward for the whole morning."

     "Thank you, Miss Dunbar. Is there any other point which could help me
     in the investigation?"

     "I can think of none."

     "There was some sign of violence on the stonework of the bridge--a
     perfectly fresh chip just opposite the body. Could you suggest any
     possible explanation of that?"

     "Surely it must be a mere coincidence."

     "Curious, Miss Dunbar, very curious. Why should it appear at the very
     time of the tragedy, and why at the very place?"

     "But what could have caused it? Only great violence could have such
     an effect."

     Holmes did not answer. His pale, eager face had suddenly assumed that
     tense, far-away expression which I had learned to associate with the
     supreme manifestations of his genius. So evident was the crisis in
     his mind that none of us dared to speak, and we sat, barrister,
     prisoner, and myself, watching him in a concentrated and absorbed
     silence. Suddenly he sprang from his chair, vibrating with nervous
     energy and the pressing need for action.

     "Come, Watson, come!" he cried.

     "What is it, Mr. Holmes?"

     "Never mind, my dear lady. You will hear from me, Mr. Cummings. With
     the help of the god of justice I will give you a case which will make
     England ring. You will get news by to-morrow, Miss Dunbar, and
     meanwhile take my assurance that the clouds are lifting and that I
     have every hope that the light of truth is breaking through."

     It was not a long journey from Winchester to Thor Place, but it was
     long to me in my impatience, while for Holmes it was evident that it
     seemed endless; for, in his nervous restlessness, he could not sit
     still, but paced the carriage or drummed with his long, sensitive
     fingers upon the cushions beside him. Suddenly, however, as we neared
     our destination he seated himself opposite to me--we had a
     first-class carriage to ourselves--and laying a hand upon each of my
     knees he looked into my eyes with the peculiarly mischievous gaze
     which was characteristic of his more imp-like moods.

     "Watson," said he, "I have some recollection that you go armed upon
     these excursions of ours."

     It was as well for him that I did so, for he took little care for his
     own safety when his mind was once absorbed by a problem, so that more
     than once my revolver had been a good friend in need. I reminded him
     of the fact.

     "Yes, yes, I am a little absent-minded in such matters. But have you
     your revolver on you?"

     I produced it from my hip-pocket, a short, handy, but very
     serviceable little weapon. He undid the catch, shook out the
     cartridges, and examined it with care.

     "It's heavy--remarkably heavy," said he.

     "Yes, it is a solid bit of work."

     He mused over it for a minute.

     "Do you know, Watson," said he, "I believe your revolver is going to
     have a very intimate connection with the mystery which we are
     investigating."

     "My dear Holmes, you are joking."

     "No, Watson, I am very serious. There is a test before us. If the
     test comes off, all will be clear. And the test will depend upon the
     conduct of this little weapon. One cartridge out. Now we will replace
     the other five and put on the safety-catch. So! That increases the
     weight and makes it a better reproduction."

     I had no glimmer of what was in his mind, nor did he enlighten me,
     but sat lost in thought until we pulled up in the little Hampshire
     station. We secured a ramshackle trap, and in a quarter of an hour
     were at the house of our confidential friend, the sergeant.

     "A clue, Mr. Holmes? What is it?"

     "It all depends upon the behaviour of Dr. Watson's revolver," said my
     friend. "Here it is. Now, officer, can you give me ten yards of
     string?"

     The village shop provided a ball of stout twine.

     "I think that this is all we will need," said Holmes. "Now, if you
     please, we will get off on what I hope is the last stage of our
     journey."

     The sun was setting and turning the rolling Hampshire moor into a
     wonderful autumnal panorama. The sergeant, with many critical and
     incredulous glances, which showed his deep doubts of the sanity of my
     companion, lurched along beside us. As we approached the scene of the
     crime I could see that my friend under all his habitual coolness was
     in truth deeply agitated.

     "Yes," he said in answer to my remark, "you have seen me miss my mark
     before, Watson. I have an instinct for such things, and yet it has
     sometimes played me false. It seemed a certainty when first it
     flashed across my mind in the cell at Winchester, but one drawback of
     an active mind is that one can always conceive alternative
     explanations which would make our scent a false one. And yet--and
     yet-- Well, Watson, we can but try."

     As he walked he had firmly tied one end of the string to the handle
     of the revolver. We had now reached the scene of the tragedy. With
     great care he marked out under the guidance of the policeman the
     exact spot where the body had been stretched. He then hunted among
     the heather and the ferns until he found a considerable stone. This
     he secured to the other end of his line of string, and he hung it
     over the parapet of the bridge so that it swung clear above the
     water. He then stood on the fatal spot, some distance from the edge
     of the bridge, with my revolver in his hand, the string being taut
     between the weapon and the heavy stone on the farther side.

     "Now for it!" he cried.

     At the words he raised the pistol to his head, and then let go his
     grip. In an instant it had been whisked away by the weight of the
     stone, had struck with a sharp crack against the parapet, and had
     vanished over the side into the water. It had hardly gone before
     Holmes was kneeling beside the stonework, and a joyous cry showed
     that he had found what he expected.

     "Was there ever a more exact demonstration?" he cried. "See, Watson,
     your revolver has solved the problem!" As he spoke he pointed to a
     second chip of the exact size and shape of the first which had
     appeared on the under edge of the stone balustrade.

     "We'll stay at the inn to-night," he continued as he rose and faced
     the astonished sergeant. "You will, of course, get a grappling-hook
     and you will easily restore my friend's revolver. You will also find
     beside it the revolver, string and weight with which this vindictive
     woman attempted to disguise her own crime and to fasten a charge of
     murder upon an innocent victim. You can let Mr. Gibson know that I
     will see him in the morning, when steps can be taken for Miss
     Dunbar's vindication."

     Late that evening, as we sat together smoking our pipes in the
     village inn, Holmes gave me a brief review of what had passed.

     "I fear, Watson," said he, "that you will not improve any reputation
     which I may have acquired by adding the case of the Thor Bridge
     mystery to your annals. I have been sluggish in mind and wanting in
     that mixture of imagination and reality which is the basis of my art.
     I confess that the chip in the stonework was a sufficient clue to
     suggest the true solution, and that I blame myself for not having
     attained it sooner.

     "It must be admitted that the workings of this unhappy woman's mind
     were deep and subtle, so that it was no very simple matter to unravel
     her plot. I do not think that in our adventures we have ever come
     across a stranger example of what perverted love can bring about.
     Whether Miss Dunbar was her rival in a physical or in a merely mental
     sense seems to have been equally unforgivable in her eyes. No doubt
     she blamed this innocent lady for all those harsh dealings and unkind
     words with which her husband tried to repel her too demonstrative
     affection. Her first resolution was to end her own life. Her second
     was to do it in such a way as to involve her victim in a fate which
     was worse far than any sudden death could be.

     "We can follow the various steps quite clearly, and they show a
     remarkable subtlety of mind. A note was extracted very cleverly from
     Miss Dunbar which would make it appear that she had chosen the scene
     of the crime. In her anxiety that it should be discovered she
     somewhat overdid it by holding it in her hand to the last. This alone
     should have excited my suspicions earlier than it did.

     "Then she took one of her husband's revolvers--there was, as you saw,
     an arsenal in the house--and kept it for her own use. A similar one
     she concealed that morning in Miss Dunbar's wardrobe after
     discharging one barrel, which she could easily do in the woods
     without attracting attention. She then went down to the bridge where
     she had contrived this exceedingly ingenious method for getting rid
     of her weapon. When Miss Dunbar appeared she used her last breath in
     pouring out her hatred, and then, when she was out of hearing,
     carried out her terrible purpose. Every link is now in its place and
     the chain is complete. The papers may ask why the mere was not
     dragged in the first instance, but it is easy to be wise after the
     event, and in any case the expanse of a reed-filled lake is no easy
     matter to drag unless you have a clear perception of what you are
     looking for and where. Well, Watson, we have helped a remarkable
     woman, and also a formidable man. Should they in the future join
     their forces, as seems not unlikely, the financial world may find
     that Mr. Neil Gibson has learned something in that schoolroom of
     sorrow where our earthly lessons are taught."






                        THE ADVENTURE OF THE CREEPING MAN

     Mr. Sherlock Holmes was always of opinion that I should publish the
     singular facts connected with Professor Presbury, if only to dispel
     once for all the ugly rumours which some twenty years ago agitated
     the university and were echoed in the learned societies of London.
     There were, however, certain obstacles in the way, and the true
     history of this curious case remained entombed in the tin box which
     contains so many records of my friend's adventures. Now we have at
     last obtained permission to ventilate the facts which formed one of
     the very last cases handled by Holmes before his retirement from
     practice. Even now a certain reticence and discretion have to be
     observed in laying the matter before the public.

     It was one Sunday evening early in September of the year 1903 that I
     received one of Holmes's laconic messages:

     Come at once if convenient--if inconvenient come all the same.
     S. H.

     The relations between us in those latter days were peculiar. He was a
     man of habits, narrow and concentrated habits, and I had become one
     of them. As an institution I was like the violin, the shag tobacco,
     the old black pipe, the index books, and others perhaps less
     excusable. When it was a case of active work and a comrade was needed
     upon whose nerve he could place some reliance, my role was obvious.
     But apart from this I had uses. I was a whetstone for his mind. I
     stimulated him. He liked to think aloud in my presence. His remarks
     could hardly be said to be made to me--many of them would have been
     as appropriately addressed to his bedstead--but none the less, having
     formed the habit, it had become in some way helpful that I should
     register and interject. If I irritated him by a certain methodical
     slowness in my mentality, that irritation served only to make his own
     flame-like intuitions and impressions flash up the more vividly and
     swiftly. Such was my humble role in our alliance.

     When I arrived at Baker Street I found him huddled up in his armchair
     with updrawn knees, his pipe in his mouth and his brow furrowed with
     thought. It was clear that he was in the throes of some vexatious
     problem. With a wave of his hand he indicated my old armchair, but
     otherwise for half an hour he gave no sign that he was aware of my
     presence. Then with a start he seemed to come from his reverie, and
     with his usual whimsical smile he greeted me back to what had once
     been my home.

     "You will excuse a certain abstraction of mind, my dear Watson," said
     he. "Some curious facts have been submitted to me within the last
     twenty-four hours, and they in turn have given rise to some
     speculations of a more general character. I have serious thoughts of
     writing a small monograph upon the uses of dogs in the work of the
     detective."

     "But surely, Holmes, this has been explored," said I.
     "Bloodhounds--sleuth-hounds--"

     "No, no, Watson, that side of the matter is, of course, obvious. But
     there is another which is far more subtle. You may recollect that in
     the case which you, in your sensational way, coupled with the Copper
     Beeches, I was able, by watching the mind of the child, to form a
     deduction as to the criminal habits of the very smug and respectable
     father."

     "Yes, I remember it well."

     "My line of thoughts about dogs is analogous. A dog reflects the
     family life. Whoever saw a frisky dog in a gloomy family, or a sad
     dog in a happy one? Snarling people have snarling dogs, dangerous
     people have dangerous ones. And their passing moods may reflect the
     passing moods of others."

     I shook my head. "Surely, Holmes, this is a little far-fetched," said
     I.

     He had refilled his pipe and resumed his seat, taking no notice of my
     comment.

     "The practical application of what I have said is very close to the
     problem which I am investigating. It is a tangled skein, you
     understand, and I am looking for a loose end. One possible loose end
     lies in the question: Why does Professor Presbury's wolfhound, Roy,
     endeavour to bite him?"

     I sank back in my chair in some disappointment. Was it for so trivial
     a question as this that I had been summoned from my work? Holmes
     glanced across at me.

     "The same old Watson!" said he. "You never learn that the gravest
     issues may depend upon the smallest things. But is it not on the face
     of it strange that a staid, elderly philosopher--you've heard of
     Presbury, of course, the famous Camford physiologist?--that such a
     man, whose friend has been his devoted wolfhound, should now have
     been twice attacked by his own dog? What do you make of it?"

     "The dog is ill."

     "Well, that has to be considered. But he attacks no one else, nor
     does he apparently molest his master, save on very special occasions.
     Curious, Watson--very curious. But young Mr. Bennett is before his
     time if that is his ring. I had hoped to have a longer chat with you
     before he came."

     There was a quick step on the stairs, a sharp tap at the door, and a
     moment later the new client presented himself. He was a tall,
     handsome youth about thirty, well dressed and elegant, but with
     something in his bearing which suggested the shyness of the student
     rather than the self-possession of the man of the world. He shook
     hands with Holmes, and then looked with some surprise at me.

     "This matter is very delicate, Mr. Holmes," he said. "Consider the
     relation in which I stand to Professor Presbury both privately and
     publicly. I really can hardly justify myself if I speak before any
     third person."

     "Have no fear, Mr. Bennett. Dr. Watson is the very soul of
     discretion, and I can assure you that this is a matter in which I am
     very likely to need an assistant."

     "As you like, Mr. Holmes. You will, I am sure, understand my having
     some reserves in the matter."

     "You will appreciate it, Watson, when I tell you that this gentleman,
     Mr. Trevor Bennett, is professional assistant to the great scientist,
     lives under his roof, and is engaged to his only daughter. Certainly
     we must agree that the professor has every claim upon his loyalty and
     devotion. But it may best be shown by taking the necessary steps to
     clear up this strange mystery."

     "I hope so, Mr. Holmes. That is my one object. Does Dr. Watson know
     the situation?"

     "I have not had time to explain it."

     "Then perhaps I had better go over the ground again before explaining
     some fresh developments."

     "I will do so myself," said Holmes, "in order to show that I have the
     events in their due order. The professor, Watson, is a man of
     European reputation. His life has been academic. There has never been
     a breath of scandal. He is a widower with one daughter, Edith. He is,
     I gather, a man of very virile and positive, one might almost say
     combative, character. So the matter stood until a very few months
     ago.

     "Then the current of his life was broken. He is sixty-one years of
     age, but he became engaged to the daughter of Professor Morphy, his
     colleague in the chair of comparative anatomy. It was not, as I
     understand, the reasoned courting of an elderly man but rather the
     passionate frenzy of youth, for no one could have shown himself a
     more devoted lover. The lady, Alice Morphy, was a very perfect girl
     both in mind and body, so that there was every excuse for the
     professor's infatuation. None the less, it did not meet with full
     approval in his own family."

     "We thought it rather excessive," said our visitor.

     "Exactly. Excessive and a little violent and unnatural. Professor
     Presbury was rich, however, and there was no objection upon the part
     of the father. The daughter, however, had other views, and there were
     already several candidates for her hand, who, if they were less
     eligible from a worldly point of view, were at least more of an age.
     The girl seemed to like the professor in spite of his eccentricities.
     It was only age which stood in the way.

     "About this time a little mystery suddenly clouded the normal routine
     of the professor's life. He did what he had never done before. He
     left home and gave no indication where he was going. He was away a
     fortnight and returned looking rather travel-worn. He made no
     allusion to where he had been, although he was usually the frankest
     of men. It chanced, however, that our client here, Mr. Bennett,
     received a letter from a fellow-student in Prague, who said that he
     was glad to have seen Professor Presbury there, although he had not
     been able to talk to him. Only in this way did his own household
     learn where he had been.

     "Now comes the point. From that time onward a curious change came
     over the professor. He became furtive and sly. Those around him had
     always the feeling that he was not the man that they had known, but
     that he was under some shadow which had darkened his higher
     qualities. His intellect was not affected. His lectures were as
     brilliant as ever. But always there was something new, something
     sinister and unexpected. His daughter, who was devoted to him, tried
     again and again to resume the old relations and to penetrate this
     mask which her father seemed to have put on. You, sir, as I
     understand, did the same--but all was in vain. And now, Mr. Bennett,
     tell in your own words the incident of the letters."

     "You must understand, Dr. Watson, that the professor had no secrets
     from me. If I were his son or his younger brother I could not have
     more completely enjoyed his confidence. As his secretary I handled
     every paper which came to him, and I opened and subdivided his
     letters. Shortly after his return all this was changed. He told me
     that certain letters might come to him from London which would be
     marked by a cross under the stamp. These were to be set aside for his
     own eyes only. I may say that several of these did pass through my
     hands, that they had the E. C. mark, and were in an illiterate
     handwriting. If he answered them at all the answers did not pass
     through my hands nor into the letter-basket in which our
     correspondence was collected."

     "And the box," said Holmes.

     "Ah, yes, the box. The professor brought back a little wooden box
     from his travels. It was the one thing which suggested a Continental
     tour, for it was one of those quaint carved things which one
     associates with Germany. This he placed in his instrument cupboard.
     One day, in looking for a canula, I took up the box. To my surprise
     he was very angry, and reproved me in words which were quite savage
     for my curiosity. It was the first time such a thing had happened,
     and I was deeply hurt. I endeavoured to explain that it was a mere
     accident that I had touched the box, but all the evening I was
     conscious that he looked at me harshly and that the incident was
     rankling in his mind." Mr. Bennett drew a little diary book from his
     pocket. "That was on July 2d," said he.

     "You are certainly an admirable witness," said Holmes. "I may need
     some of these dates which you have noted."

     "I learned method among other things from my great teacher. From the
     time that I observed abnormality in his behaviour I felt that it was
     my duty to study his case. Thus I have it here that it was on that
     very day, July 2d, that Roy attacked the professor as he came from
     his study into the hall. Again, on July 11th, there was a scene of
     the same sort, and then I have a note of yet another upon July 20th.
     After that we had to banish Roy to the stables. He was a dear,
     affectionate animal--but I fear I weary you."

     Mr. Bennett spoke in a tone of reproach, for it was very clear that
     Holmes was not listening. His face was rigid and his eyes gazed
     abstractedly at the ceiling. With an effort he recovered himself.

     "Singular! Most singular!" he murmured. "These details were new to
     me, Mr. Bennett. I think we have now fairly gone over the old ground,
     have we not? But you spoke of some fresh developments."

     The pleasant, open face of our visitor clouded over, shadowed by some
     grim remembrance. "What I speak of occurred the night before last,"
     said he. "I was lying awake about two in the morning, when I was
     aware of a dull muffled sound coming from the passage. I opened my
     door and peeped out. I should explain that the professor sleeps at
     the end of the passage--"

     "The date being--?" asked Holmes.

     Our visitor was clearly annoyed at so irrelevant an interruption.

     "I have said, sir, that it was the night before last--that is,
     September 4th."

     Holmes nodded and smiled.

     "Pray continue," said he.

     "He sleeps at the end of the passage and would have to pass my door
     in order to reach the staircase. It was a really terrifying
     experience, Mr. Holmes. I think that I am as strong-nerved as my
     neighbours, but I was shaken by what I saw. The passage was dark save
     that one window halfway along it threw a patch of light. I could see
     that something was coming along the passage, something dark and
     crouching. Then suddenly it emerged into the light, and I saw that it
     was he. He was crawling, Mr. Holmes--crawling! He was not quite on
     his hands and knees. I should rather say on his hands and feet, with
     his face sunk between his hands. Yet he seemed to move with ease. I
     was so paralyzed by the sight that it was not until he had reached my
     door that I was able to step forward and ask if I could assist him.
     His answer was extraordinary. He sprang up, spat out some atrocious
     word at me, and hurried on past me, and down the staircase. I waited
     about for an hour, but he did not come back. It must have been
     daylight before he regained his room."

     "Well, Watson, what make you of that?" asked Holmes with the air of
     the pathologist who presents a rare specimen.

     "Lumbago, possibly. I have known a severe attack make a man walk in
     just such a way, and nothing would be more trying to the temper."

     "Good, Watson! You always keep us flat-footed on the ground. But we
     can hardly accept lumbago, since he was able to stand erect in a
     moment."

     "He was never better in health," said Bennett. "In fact, he is
     stronger than I have known him for years. But there are the facts,
     Mr. Holmes. It is not a case in which we can consult the police, and
     yet we are utterly at our wit's end as to what to do, and we feel in
     some strange way that we are drifting towards disaster. Edith--Miss
     Presbury--feels as I do, that we cannot wait passively any longer."

     "It is certainly a very curious and suggestive case. What do you
     think, Watson?"

     "Speaking as a medical man," said I, "it appears to be a case for an
     alienist. The old gentleman's cerebral processes were disturbed by
     the love affair. He made a journey abroad in the hope of breaking
     himself of the passion. His letters and the box may be connected with
     some other private transaction--a loan, perhaps, or share
     certificates, which are in the box."

     "And the wolfhound no doubt disapproved of the financial bargain. No,
     no, Watson, there is more in it than this. Now, I can only suggest--"

     What Sherlock Holmes was about to suggest will never be known, for at
     this moment the door opened and a young lady was shown into the room.
     As she appeared Mr. Bennett sprang up with a cry and ran forward with
     his hands out to meet those which she had herself outstretched.

     "Edith, dear! Nothing the matter, I hope?"

     "I felt I must follow you. Oh, Jack, I have been so dreadfully
     frightened! It is awful to be there alone."

     "Mr. Holmes, this is the young lady I spoke of. This is my fiancee."

     "We were gradually coming to that conclusion, were we not, Watson?"
     Holmes answered with a smile. "I take it, Miss Presbury, that there
     is some fresh development in the case, and that you thought we should
     know?"

     Our new visitor, a bright, handsome girl of a conventional English
     type, smiled back at Holmes as she seated herself beside Mr. Bennett.

     "When I found Mr. Bennett had left his hotel I thought I should
     probably find him here. Of course, he had told me that he would
     consult you. But, oh, Mr. Holmes, can you do nothing for my poor
     father?"

     "I have hopes, Miss Presbury, but the case is still obscure. Perhaps
     what you have to say may throw some fresh light upon it."

     "It was last night, Mr. Holmes. He had been very strange all day. I
     am sure that there are times when he has no recollection of what he
     does. He lives as in a strange dream. Yesterday was such a day. It
     was not my father with whom I lived. His outward shell was there, but
     it was not really he."

     "Tell me what happened."

     "I was awakened in the night by the dog barking most furiously. Poor
     Roy, he is chained now near the stable. I may say that I always sleep
     with my door locked; for, as Jack--as Mr. Bennett--will tell you, we
     all have a feeling of impending danger. My room is on the second
     floor. It happened that the blind was up in my window, and there was
     bright moonlight outside. As I lay with my eyes fixed upon the square
     of light, listening to the frenzied barkings of the dog, I was amazed
     to see my father's face looking in at me. Mr. Holmes, I nearly died
     of surprise and horror. There it was pressed against the window-pane,
     and one hand seemed to be raised as if to push up the window. If that
     window had opened, I think I should have gone mad. It was no
     delusion, Mr. Holmes. Don't deceive yourself by thinking so. I dare
     say it was twenty seconds or so that I lay paralyzed and watched the
     face. Then it vanished, but I could not--I could not spring out of
     bed and look out after it. I lay cold and shivering till morning. At
     breakfast he was sharp and fierce in manner, and made no allusion to
     the adventure of the night. Neither did I, but I gave an excuse for
     coming to town--and here I am."

     Holmes looked thoroughly surprised at Miss Presbury's narrative.

     "My dear young lady, you say that your room is on the second floor.
     Is there a long ladder in the garden?"

     "No, Mr. Holmes, that is the amazing part of it. There is no possible
     way of reaching the window--and yet he was there."

     "The date being September 5th," said Holmes. "That certainly
     complicates matters."

     It was the young lady's turn to look surprised. "This is the second
     time that you have alluded to the date, Mr. Holmes," said Bennett.
     "Is it possible that it has any bearing upon the case?"

     "It is possible--very possible--and yet I have not my full material
     at present."

     "Possibly you are thinking of the connection between insanity and
     phases of the moon?"

     "No, I assure you. It was quite a different line of thought. Possibly
     you can leave your notebook with me, and I will check the dates. Now
     I think, Watson, that our line of action is perfectly clear. This
     young lady has informed us--and I have the greatest confidence in her
     intuition--that her father remembers little or nothing which occurs
     upon certain dates. We will therefore call upon him as if he had
     given us an appointment upon such a date. He will put it down to his
     own lack of memory. Thus we will open our campaign by having a good
     close view of him."

     "That is excellent," said Mr. Bennett. "I warn you, however, that the
     professor is irascible and violent at times."

     Holmes smiled. "There are reasons why we should come at once--very
     cogent reasons if my theories hold good. To-morrow, Mr. Bennett, will
     certainly see us in Camford. There is, if I remember right, an inn
     called the Chequers where the port used to be above mediocrity and
     the linen was above reproach. I think, Watson, that our lot for the
     next few days might lie in less pleasant places."

     Monday morning found us on our way to the famous university town--an
     easy effort on the part of Holmes, who had no roots to pull up, but
     one which involved frantic planning and hurrying on my part, as my
     practice was by this time not inconsiderable. Holmes made no allusion
     to the case until after we had deposited our suitcases at the ancient
     hostel of which he had spoken.

     "I think, Watson, that we can catch the professor just before lunch.
     He lectures at eleven and should have an interval at home."

     "What possible excuse have we for calling?"

     Holmes glanced at his notebook.

     "There was a period of excitement upon August 26th. We will assume
     that he is a little hazy as to what he does at such times. If we
     insist that we are there by appointment I think he will hardly
     venture to contradict us. Have you the effrontery necessary to put it
     through?"

     "We can but try."

     "Excellent, Watson! Compound of the Busy Bee and Excelsior. We can
     but try--the motto of the firm. A friendly native will surely guide
     us."

     Such a one on the back of a smart hansom swept us past a row of
     ancient colleges and, finally turning into a tree-lined drive, pulled
     up at the door of a charming house, girt round with lawns and covered
     with purple wisteria. Professor Presbury was certainly surrounded
     with every sign not only of comfort but of luxury. Even as we pulled
     up, a grizzled head appeared at the front window, and we were aware
     of a pair of keen eyes from under shaggy brows which surveyed us
     through large horn glasses. A moment later we were actually in his
     sanctum, and the mysterious scientist, whose vagaries had brought us
     from London, was standing before us. There was certainly no sign of
     eccentricity either in his manner or appearance, for he was a portly,
     large-featured man, grave, tall, and frock-coated, with the dignity
     of bearing which a lecturer needs. His eyes were his most remarkable
     feature, keen, observant, and clever to the verge of cunning.

     He looked at our cards. "Pray sit down, gentlemen. What can I do for
     you?"

     Mr. Holmes smiled amiably.

     "It was the question which I was about to put to you, Professor."

     "To me, sir!"

     "Possibly there is some mistake. I heard through a second person that
     Professor Presbury of Camford had need of my services."

     "Oh, indeed!" It seemed to me that there was a malicious sparkle in
     the intense gray eyes. "You heard that, did you? May I ask the name
     of your informant?"

     "I am sorry, Professor, but the matter was rather confidential. If I
     have made a mistake there is no harm done. I can only express my
     regret."

     "Not at all. I should wish to go further into this matter. It
     interests me. Have you any scrap of writing, any letter or telegram,
     to bear out your assertion?"

     "No, I have not."

     "I presume that you do not go so far as to assert that I summoned
     you?"

     "I would rather answer no questions," said Holmes.

     "No, I dare say not," said the professor with asperity. "However,
     that particular one can be answered very easily without your aid."

     He walked across the room to the bell. Our London friend, Mr.
     Bennett, answered the call.

     "Come in, Mr. Bennett. These two gentlemen have come from London
     under the impression that they have been summoned. You handle all my
     correspondence. Have you a note of anything going to a person named
     Holmes?"

     "No, sir," Bennett answered with a flush.

     "That is conclusive," said the professor, glaring angrily at my
     companion. "Now, sir"--he leaned forward with his two hands upon the
     table--"it seems to me that your position is a very questionable
     one."

     Holmes shrugged his shoulders.

     "I can only repeat that I am sorry that we have made a needless
     intrusion."

     "Hardly enough, Mr. Holmes!" the old man cried in a high screaming
     voice, with extraordinary malignancy upon his face. He got between us
     and the door as he spoke, and he shook his two hands at us with
     furious passion. "You can hardly get out of it so easily as that."
     His face was convulsed, and he grinned and gibbered at us in his
     senseless rage. I am convinced that we should have had to fight our
     way out of the room if Mr. Bennett had not intervened.

     "My dear Professor," he cried, "consider your position! Consider the
     scandal at the university! Mr. Holmes is a well-known man. You cannot
     possibly treat him with such discourtesy."

     Sulkily our host--if I may call him so--cleared the path to the door.
     We were glad to find ourselves outside the house and in the quiet of
     the tree-lined drive. Holmes seemed greatly amused by the episode.

     "Our learned friend's nerves are somewhat out of order," said he.
     "Perhaps our intrusion was a little crude, and yet we have gained
     that personal contact which I desired. But, dear me, Watson, he is
     surely at our heels. The villain still pursues us."

     There were the sounds of running feet behind, but it was, to my
     relief, not the formidable professor but his assistant who appeared
     round the curve of the drive. He came panting up to us.

     "I am so sorry, Mr. Holmes. I wished to apologize."

     "My dear sir, there is no need. It is all in the way of professional
     experience."

     "I have never seen him in a more dangerous mood. But he grows more
     sinister. You can understand now why his daughter and I are alarmed.
     And yet his mind is perfectly clear."

     "Too clear!" said Holmes. "That was my miscalculation. It is evident
     that his memory is much more reliable than I had thought. By the way,
     can we, before we go, see the window of Miss Presbury's room?"

     Mr. Bennett pushed his way through some shrubs, and we had a view of
     the side of the house.

     "It is there. The second on the left."

     "Dear me, it seems hardly accessible. And yet you will observe that
     there is a creeper below and a water-pipe above which give some
     foothold."

     "I could not climb it myself," said Mr. Bennett.

     "Very likely. It would certainly be a dangerous exploit for any
     normal man."

     "There was one other thing I wish to tell you, Mr. Holmes. I have the
     address of the man in London to whom the professor writes. He seems
     to have written this morning, and I got it from his blotting-paper.
     It is an ignoble position for a trusted secretary, but what else can
     I do?"

     Holmes glanced at the paper and put it into his pocket.

     "Dorak--a curious name. Slavonic, I imagine. Well, it is an important
     link in the chain. We return to London this afternoon, Mr. Bennett. I
     see no good purpose to be served by our remaining. We cannot arrest
     the professor because he has done no crime, nor can we place him
     under constraint, for he cannot be proved to be mad. No action is as
     yet possible."

     "Then what on earth are we to do?"

     "A little patience, Mr. Bennett. Things will soon develop. Unless I
     am mistaken, next Tuesday may mark a crisis. Certainly we shall be in
     Camford on that day. Meanwhile, the general position is undeniably
     unpleasant, and if Miss Presbury can prolong her visit--"

     "That is easy."

     "Then let her stay till we can assure her that all danger is past.
     Meanwhile, let him have his way and do not cross him. So long as he
     is in a good humour all is well."

     "There he is!" said Bennett in a startled whisper. Looking between
     the branches we saw the tall, erect figure emerge from the hall door
     and look around him. He stood leaning forward, his hands swinging
     straight before him, his head turning from side to side. The
     secretary with a last wave slipped off among the trees, and we saw
     him presently rejoin his employer, the two entering the house
     together in what seemed to be animated and even excited conversation.

     "I expect the old gentleman has been putting two and two together,"
     said Holmes as we walked hotelward. "He struck me as having a
     particularly clear and logical brain from the little I saw of him.
     Explosive, no doubt, but then from his point of view he has something
     to explode about if detectives are put on his track and he suspects
     his own household of doing it. I rather fancy that friend Bennett is
     in for an uncomfortable time."

     Holmes stopped at a post-office and sent off a telegram on our way.
     The answer reached us in the evening, and he tossed it across to me.

     Have visited the Commercial Road and seen Dorak. Suave person,
     Bohemian, elderly. Keeps large general store.
     Mercer.

     "Mercer is since your time," said Holmes. "He is my general utility
     man who looks up routine business. It was important to know something
     of the man with whom our professor was so secretly corresponding. His
     nationality connects up with the Prague visit."

     "Thank goodness that something connects with something," said I. "At
     present we seem to be faced by a long series of inexplicable
     incidents with no bearing upon each other. For example, what possible
     connection can there be between an angry wolfhound and a visit to
     Bohemia, or either of them with a man crawling down a passage at
     night? As to your dates, that is the biggest mystification of all."

     Holmes smiled and rubbed his hands. We were, I may say, seated in the
     old sitting-room of the ancient hotel, with a bottle of the famous
     vintage of which Holmes had spoken on the table between us.

     "Well, now, let us take the dates first," said he, his finger-tips
     together and his manner as if he were addressing a class. "This
     excellent young man's diary shows that there was trouble upon July
     2d, and from then onward it seems to have been at nine-day intervals,
     with, so far as I remember, only one exception. Thus the last
     outbreak upon Friday was on September 3d, which also falls into the
     series, as did August 26th, which preceded it. The thing is beyond
     coincidence."

     I was forced to agree.

     "Let us, then, form the provisional theory that every nine days the
     professor takes some strong drug which has a passing but highly
     poisonous effect. His naturally violent nature is intensified by it.
     He learned to take this drug while he was in Prague, and is now
     supplied with it by a Bohemian intermediary in London. This all hangs
     together, Watson!"

     "But the dog, the face at the window, the creeping man in the
     passage?"

     "Well, well, we have made a beginning. I should not expect any fresh
     developments until next Tuesday. In the meantime we can only keep in
     touch with friend Bennett and enjoy the amenities of this charming
     town."

     In the morning Mr. Bennett slipped round to bring us the latest
     report. As Holmes had imagined, times had not been easy with him.
     Without exactly accusing him of being responsible for our presence,
     the professor had been very rough and rude in his speech, and
     evidently felt some strong grievance. This morning he was quite
     himself again, however, and had delivered his usual brilliant lecture
     to a crowded class. "Apart from his queer fits," said Bennett, "he
     has actually more energy and vitality than I can ever remember, nor
     was his brain ever clearer. But it's not he--it's never the man whom
     we have known."

     "I don't think you have anything to fear now for a week at least,"
     Holmes answered. "I am a busy man, and Dr. Watson has his patients to
     attend to. Let us agree that we meet here at this hour next Tuesday,
     and I shall be surprised if before we leave you again we are not able
     to explain, even if we cannot perhaps put an end to, your troubles.
     Meanwhile, keep us posted in what occurs."

     I saw nothing of my friend for the next few days, but on the
     following Monday evening I had a short note asking me to meet him
     next day at the train. From what he told me as we travelled up to
     Camford all was well, the peace of the professor's house had been
     unruffled, and his own conduct perfectly normal. This also was the
     report which was given us by Mr. Bennett himself when he called upon
     us that evening at our old quarters in the Chequers. "He heard from
     his London correspondent to-day. There was a letter and there was a
     small packet, each with the cross under the stamp which warned me not
     to touch them. There has been nothing else."

     "That may prove quite enough," said Holmes grimly. "Now, Mr. Bennett,
     we shall, I think, come to some conclusion to-night. If my deductions
     are correct we should have an opportunity of bringing matters to a
     head. In order to do so it is necessary to hold the professor under
     observation. I would suggest, therefore, that you remain awake and on
     the lookout. Should you hear him pass your door, do not interrupt
     him, but follow him as discreetly as you can. Dr. Watson and I will
     not be far off. By the way, where is the key of that little box of
     which you spoke?"

     "Upon his watch-chain."

     "I fancy our researches must lie in that direction. At the worst the
     lock should not be very formidable. Have you any other able-bodied
     man on the premises?"

     "There is the coachman, Macphail."

     "Where does he sleep?"

     "Over the stables."

     "We might possibly want him. Well, we can do no more until we see how
     things develop. Good-bye--but I expect that we shall see you before
     morning."

     It was nearly midnight before we took our station among some bushes
     immediately opposite the hall door of the professor. It was a fine
     night, but chilly, and we were glad of our warm overcoats. There was
     a breeze, and clouds were scudding across the sky, obscuring from
     time to time the half-moon. It would have been a dismal vigil were it
     not for the expectation and excitement which carried us along, and
     the assurance of my comrade that we had probably reached the end of
     the strange sequence of events which had engaged our attention.

     "If the cycle of nine days holds good then we shall have the
     professor at his worst to-night," said Holmes. "The fact that these
     strange symptoms began after his visit to Prague, that he is in
     secret correspondence with a Bohemian dealer in London, who
     presumably represents someone in Prague, and that he received a
     packet from him this very day, all point in one direction. What he
     takes and why he takes it are still beyond our ken, but that it
     emanates in some way from Prague is clear enough. He takes it under
     definite directions which regulate this ninth-day system, which was
     the first point which attracted my attention. But his symptoms are
     most remarkable. Did you observe his knuckles?"

     I had to confess that I did not.

     "Thick and horny in a way which is quite new in my experience. Always
     look at the hands first, Watson. Then cuffs, trouser-knees, and
     boots. Very curious knuckles which can only be explained by the mode
     of progression observed by--" Holmes paused and suddenly clapped his
     hand to his forehead. "Oh, Watson, Watson, what a fool I have been!
     It seems incredible, and yet it must be true. All points in one
     direction. How could I miss seeing the connection of ideas? Those
     knuckles--how could I have passed those knuckles? And the dog! And
     the ivy! It's surely time that I disappeared into that little farm of
     my dreams. Look out, Watson! Here he is! We shall have the chance of
     seeing for ourselves."

     The hall door had slowly opened, and against the lamplit background
     we saw the tall figure of Professor Presbury. He was clad in his
     dressing-gown. As he stood outlined in the doorway he was erect but
     leaning forward with dangling arms, as when we saw him last.

     Now he stepped forward into the drive, and an extraordinary change
     came over him. He sank down into a crouching position and moved along
     upon his hands and feet, skipping every now and then as if he were
     overflowing with energy and vitality. He moved along the face of the
     house and then round the corner. As he disappeared Bennett slipped
     through the hall door and softly followed him.

     "Come, Watson, come!" cried Holmes, and we stole as softly as we
     could through the bushes until we had gained a spot whence we could
     see the other side of the house, which was bathed in the light of the
     half-moon. The professor was clearly visible crouching at the foot of
     the ivy-covered wall. As we watched him he suddenly began with
     incredible agility to ascend it. From branch to branch he sprang,
     sure of foot and firm of grasp, climbing apparently in mere joy at
     his own powers, with no definite object in view. With his
     dressing-gown flapping on each side of him, he looked like some huge
     bat glued against the side of his own house, a great square dark
     patch upon the moonlit wall. Presently he tired of this amusement,
     and, dropping from branch to branch, he squatted down into the old
     attitude and moved towards the stables, creeping along in the same
     strange way as before. The wolfhound was out now, barking furiously,
     and more excited than ever when it actually caught sight of its
     master. It was straining on its chain and quivering with eagerness
     and rage. The professor squatted down very deliberately just out of
     reach of the hound and began to provoke it in every possible way. He
     took handfuls of pebbles from the drive and threw them in the dog's
     face, prodded him with a stick which he had picked up, flicked his
     hands about only a few inches from the gaping mouth, and endeavoured
     in every way to increase the animal's fury, which was already beyond
     all control. In all our adventures I do not know that I have ever
     seen a more strange sight than this impassive and still dignified
     figure crouching frog-like upon the ground and goading to a wilder
     exhibition of passion the maddened hound, which ramped and raged in
     front of him, by all manner of ingenious and calculated cruelty.

     And then in a moment it happened! It was not the chain that broke,
     but it was the collar that slipped, for it had been made for a
     thick-necked Newfoundland. We heard the rattle of falling metal, and
     the next instant dog and man were rolling on the ground together, the
     one roaring in rage, the other screaming in a strange shrill falsetto
     of terror. It was a very narrow thing for the professor's life. The
     savage creature had him fairly by the throat, its fangs had bitten
     deep, and he was senseless before we could reach them and drag the
     two apart. It might have been a dangerous task for us, but Bennett's
     voice and presence brought the great wolfhound instantly to reason.
     The uproar had brought the sleepy and astonished coachman from his
     room above the stables. "I'm not surprised," said he, shaking his
     head. "I've seen him at it before. I knew the dog would get him
     sooner or later."

     The hound was secured, and together we carried the professor up to
     his room, where Bennett, who had a medical degree, helped me to dress
     his torn throat. The sharp teeth had passed dangerously near the
     carotid artery, and the haemorrhage was serious. In half an hour the
     danger was past, I had given the patient an injection of morphia, and
     he had sunk into deep sleep. Then, and only then, were we able to
     look at each other and to take stock of the situation.

     "I think a first-class surgeon should see him," said I.

     "For God's sake, no!" cried Bennett. "At present the scandal is
     confined to our own household. It is safe with us. If it gets beyond
     these walls it will never stop. Consider his position at the
     university, his European reputation, the feelings of his daughter."

     "Quite so," said Holmes. "I think it may be quite possible to keep
     the matter to ourselves, and also to prevent its recurrence now that
     we have a free hand. The key from the watch-chain, Mr. Bennett.
     Macphail will guard the patient and let us know if there is any
     change. Let us see what we can find in the professor's mysterious
     box."

     There was not much, but there was enough--an empty phial, another
     nearly full, a hypodermic syringe, several letters in a crabbed,
     foreign hand. The marks on the envelopes showed that they were those
     which had disturbed the routine of the secretary, and each was dated
     from the Commercial Road and signed "A. Dorak." They were mere
     invoices to say that a fresh bottle was being sent to Professor
     Presbury, or receipt to acknowledge money. There was one other
     envelope, however, in a more educated hand and bearing the Austrian
     stamp with the postmark of Prague. "Here we have our material!" cried
     Holmes as he tore out the enclosure.

     Honoured Colleague [it ran]:
     Since your esteemed visit I have thought much of your case, and
     though in your circumstances there are some special reasons for the
     treatment, I would none the less enjoin caution, as my results have
     shown that it is not without danger of a kind.
     It is possible that the serum of anthropoid would have been better. I
     have, as I explained to you, used black-faced langur because a
     specimen was accessible. Langur is, of course, a crawler and climber,
     while anthropoid walks erect and is in all ways nearer.
     I beg you to take every possible precaution that there be no
     premature revelation of the process. I have one other client in
     England, and Dorak is my agent for both.
     Weekly reports will oblige.
     Yours with high esteem,
     H. Lowenstein.

     Lowenstein! The name brought back to me the memory of some snippet
     from a newspaper which spoke of an obscure scientist who was striving
     in some unknown way for the secret of rejuvenescence and the elixir
     of life. Lowenstein of Prague! Lowenstein with the wondrous
     strength-giving serum, tabooed by the profession because he refused
     to reveal its source. In a few words I said what I remembered.
     Bennett had taken a manual of zoology from the shelves. "'Langur,'"
     he read, "'the great black-faced monkey of the Himalayan slopes,
     biggest and most human of climbing monkeys.' Many details are added.
     Well, thanks to you, Mr. Holmes, it is very clear that we have traced
     the evil to its source."

     "The real source," said Holmes, "lies, of course, in that untimely
     love affair which gave our impetuous professor the idea that he could
     only gain his wish by turning himself into a younger man. When one
     tries to rise above Nature one is liable to fall below it. The
     highest type of man may revert to the animal if he leaves the
     straight road of destiny." He sat musing for a little with the phial
     in his hand, looking at the clear liquid within. "When I have written
     to this man and told him that I hold him criminally responsible for
     the poisons which he circulates, we will have no more trouble. But it
     may recur. Others may find a better way. There is danger there--a
     very real danger to humanity. Consider, Watson, that the material,
     the sensual, the worldly would all prolong their worthless lives. The
     spiritual would not avoid the call to something higher. It would be
     the survival of the least fit. What sort of cesspool may not our poor
     world become?" Suddenly the dreamer disappeared, and Holmes, the man
     of action, sprang from his chair. "I think there is nothing more to
     be said, Mr. Bennett. The various incidents will now fit themselves
     easily into the general scheme. The dog, of course, was aware of the
     change far more quickly than you. His smell would insure that. It was
     the monkey, not the professor, whom Roy attacked, just as it was the
     monkey who teased Roy. Climbing was a joy to the creature, and it was
     a mere chance, I take it, that the pastime brought him to the young
     lady's window. There is an early train to town, Watson, but I think
     we shall just have time for a cup of tea at the Chequers before we
     catch it."






                        THE ADVENTURE OF THE LION'S MANE

     It is a most singular thing that a problem which was certainly as
     abstruse and unusual as any which I have faced in my long
     professional career should have come to me after my retirement, and
     be brought, as it were, to my very door. It occurred after my
     withdrawal to my little Sussex home, when I had given myself up
     entirely to that soothing life of Nature for which I had so often
     yearned during the long years spent amid the gloom of London. At this
     period of my life the good Watson had passed almost beyond my ken. An
     occasional week-end visit was the most that I ever saw of him. Thus I
     must act as my own chronicler. Ah! had he but been with me, how much
     he might have made of so wonderful a happening and of my eventual
     triumph against every difficulty! As it is, however, I must needs
     tell my tale in my own plain way, showing by my words each step upon
     the difficult road which lay before me as I searched for the mystery
     of the Lion's Mane.

     My villa is situated upon the southern slope of the downs, commanding
     a great view of the Channel. At this point the coast-line is entirely
     of chalk cliffs, which can only be descended by a single, long,
     tortuous path, which is steep and slippery. At the bottom of the path
     lie a hundred yards of pebbles and shingle, even when the tide is at
     full. Here and there, however, there are curves and hollows which
     make splendid swimming-pools filled afresh with each flow. This
     admirable beach extends for some miles in each direction, save only
     at one point where the little cove and village of Fulworth break the
     line.

     My house is lonely. I, my old housekeeper, and my bees have the
     estate all to ourselves. Half a mile off, however, is Harold
     Stackhurst's well-known coaching establishment, The Gables, quite a
     large place, which contains some score of young fellows preparing for
     various professions, with a staff of several masters. Stackhurst
     himself was a well-known rowing Blue in his day, and an excellent
     all-round scholar. He and I were always friendly from the day I came
     to the coast, and he was the one man who was on such terms with me
     that we could drop in on each other in the evenings without an
     invitation.

     Towards the end of July, 1907, there was a severe gale, the wind
     blowing up-channel, heaping the seas to the base of the cliffs and
     leaving a lagoon at the turn of the tide. On the morning of which I
     speak the wind had abated, and all Nature was newly washed and fresh.
     It was impossible to work upon so delightful a day, and I strolled
     out before breakfast to enjoy the exquisite air. I walked along the
     cliff path which led to the steep descent to the beach. As I walked I
     heard a shout behind me, and there was Harold Stackhurst waving his
     hand in cheery greeting.

     "What a morning, Mr. Holmes! I thought I should see you out."

     "Going for a swim, I see."

     "At your old tricks again," he laughed, patting his bulging pocket.
     "Yes. McPherson started early, and I expect I may find him there."

     Fitzroy McPherson was the science master, a fine upstanding young
     fellow whose life had been crippled by heart trouble following
     rheumatic fever. He was a natural athlete, however, and excelled in
     every game which did not throw too great a strain upon him. Summer
     and winter he went for his swim, and, as I am a swimmer myself, I
     have often joined him.

     At this moment we saw the man himself. His head showed above the edge
     of the cliff where the path ends. Then his whole figure appeared at
     the top, staggering like a drunken man. The next instant he threw up
     his hands and, with a terrible cry, fell upon his face. Stackhurst
     and I rushed forward--it may have been fifty yards--and turned him on
     his back. He was obviously dying. Those glazed sunken eyes and
     dreadful livid cheeks could mean nothing else. One glimmer of life
     came into his face for an instant, and he uttered two or three words
     with an eager air of warning. They were slurred and indistinct, but
     to my ear the last of them, which burst in a shriek from his lips,
     were "the Lion's Mane." It was utterly irrelevant and unintelligible,
     and yet I could twist the sound into no other sense. Then he half
     raised himself from the ground, threw his arms into the air, and fell
     forward on his side. He was dead.

     My companion was paralyzed by the sudden horror of it, but I, as may
     well be imagined, had every sense on the alert. And I had need, for
     it was speedily evident that we were in the presence of an
     extraordinary case. The man was dressed only in his Burberry
     overcoat, his trousers, and an unlaced pair of canvas shoes. As he
     fell over, his Burberry, which had been simply thrown round his
     shoulders, slipped off, exposing his trunk. We stared at it in
     amazement. His back was covered with dark red lines as though he had
     been terribly flogged by a thin wire scourge. The instrument with
     which this punishment had been inflicted was clearly flexible, for
     the long, angry weals curved round his shoulders and ribs. There was
     blood dripping down his chin, for he had bitten through his lower lip
     in the paroxysm of his agony. His drawn and distorted face told how
     terrible that agony had been.

     I was kneeling and Stackhurst standing by the body when a shadow fell
     across us, and we found that Ian Murdoch was by our side. Murdoch was
     the mathematical coach at the establishment, a tall, dark, thin man,
     so taciturn and aloof that none can be said to have been his friend.
     He seemed to live in some high, abstract region of surds and conic
     sections, with little to connect him with ordinary life. He was
     looked upon as an oddity by the students, and would have been their
     butt, but there was some strange outlandish blood in the man, which
     showed itself not only in his coal-black eyes and swarthy face but
     also in occasional outbreaks of temper, which could only be described
     as ferocious. On one occasion, being plagued by a little dog
     belonging to McPherson, he had caught the creature up and hurled it
     through the plate-glass window, an action for which Stackhurst would
     certainly have given him his dismissal had he not been a very
     valuable teacher. Such was the strange complex man who now appeared
     beside us. He seemed to be honestly shocked at the sight before him,
     though the incident of the dog may show that there was no great
     sympathy between the dead man and himself.

     "Poor fellow! Poor fellow! What can I do? How can I help?"

     "Were you with him? Can you tell us what has happened?"

     "No, no, I was late this morning. I was not on the beach at all. I
     have come straight from The Gables. What can I do?"

     "You can hurry to the police-station at Fulworth. Report the matter
     at once."

     Without a word he made off at top speed, and I proceeded to take the
     matter in hand, while Stackhurst, dazed at this tragedy, remained by
     the body. My first task naturally was to note who was on the beach.
     From the top of the path I could see the whole sweep of it, and it
     was absolutely deserted save that two or three dark figures could be
     seen far away moving towards the village of Fulworth. Having
     satisfied myself upon this point, I walked slowly down the path.
     There was clay or soft marl mixed with the chalk, and every here and
     there I saw the same footstep, both ascending and descending. No one
     else had gone down to the beach by this track that morning. At one
     place I observed the print of an open hand with the fingers towards
     the incline. This could only mean that poor McPherson had fallen as
     he ascended. There were rounded depressions, too, which suggested
     that he had come down upon his knees more than once. At the bottom of
     the path was the considerable lagoon left by the retreating tide. At
     the side of it McPherson had undressed, for there lay his towel on a
     rock. It was folded and dry, so that it would seem that, after all,
     he had never entered the water. Once or twice as I hunted round amid
     the hard shingle I came on little patches of sand where the print of
     his canvas shoe, and also of his naked foot, could be seen. The
     latter fact proved that he had made all ready to bathe, though the
     towel indicated that he had not actually done so.

     And here was the problem clearly defined--as strange a one as had
     ever confronted me. The man had not been on the beach more than a
     quarter of an hour at the most. Stackhurst had followed him from The
     Gables, so there could be no doubt about that. He had gone to bathe
     and had stripped, as the naked footsteps showed. Then he had suddenly
     huddled on his clothes again--they were all dishevelled and
     unfastened--and he had returned without bathing, or at any rate
     without drying himself. And the reason for his change of purpose had
     been that he had been scourged in some savage, inhuman fashion,
     tortured until he bit his lip through in his agony, and was left with
     only strength enough to crawl away and to die. Who had done this
     barbarous deed? There were, it is true, small grottos and caves in
     the base of the cliffs, but the low sun shone directly into them, and
     there was no place for concealment. Then, again, there were those
     distant figures on the beach. They seemed too far away to have been
     connected with the crime, and the broad lagoon in which McPherson had
     intended to bathe lay between him and them, lapping up to the rocks.
     On the sea two or three fishing-boats were at no great distance.
     Their occupants might be examined at our leisure. There were several
     roads for inquiry, but none which led to any very obvious goal.

     When I at last returned to the body I found that a little group of
     wondering folk had gathered round it. Stackhurst was, of course,
     still there, and Ian Murdoch had just arrived with Anderson, the
     village constable, a big, ginger-moustached man of the slow, solid
     Sussex breed--a breed which covers much good sense under a heavy,
     silent exterior. He listened to everything, took note of all we said,
     and finally drew me aside.

     "I'd be glad of your advice, Mr. Holmes. This is a big thing for me
     to handle, and I'll hear of it from Lewes if I go wrong."

     I advised him to send for his immediate superior, and for a doctor;
     also to allow nothing to be moved, and as few fresh footmarks as
     possible to be made, until they came. In the meantime I searched the
     dead man's pockets. There were his handkerchief, a large knife, and a
     small folding card-case. From this projected a slip of paper, which I
     unfolded and handed to the constable. There was written on it in a
     scrawling, feminine hand:

     I will be there, you may be sure.
     Maudie.

     It read like a love affair, an assignation, though when and where
     were a blank. The constable replaced it in the card-case and returned
     it with the other things to the pockets of the Burberry. Then, as
     nothing more suggested itself, I walked back to my house for
     breakfast, having first arranged that the base of the cliffs should
     be thoroughly searched.

     Stackhurst was round in an hour or two to tell me that the body had
     been removed to The Gables, where the inquest would be held. He
     brought with him some serious and definite news. As I expected,
     nothing had been found in the small caves below the cliff, but he had
     examined the papers in McPherson's desk, and there were several which
     showed an intimate correspondence with a certain Miss Maud Bellamy,
     of Fulworth. We had then established the identity of the writer of
     the note.

     "The police have the letters," he explained. "I could not bring them.
     But there is no doubt that it was a serious love affair. I see no
     reason, however, to connect it with that horrible happening save,
     indeed, that the lady had made an appointment with him."

     "But hardly at a bathing-pool which all of you were in the habit of
     using," I remarked.

     "It is mere chance," said he, "that several of the students were not
     with McPherson."

     "Was it mere chance?"

     Stackhurst knit his brows in thought.

     "Ian Murdoch held them back," said he. "He would insist upon some
     algebraic demonstration before breakfast. Poor chap, he is dreadfully
     cut up about it all."

     "And yet I gather that they were not friends."

     "At one time they were not. But for a year or more Murdoch has been
     as near to McPherson as he ever could be to anyone. He is not of a
     very sympathetic disposition by nature."

     "So I understand. I seem to remember your telling me once about a
     quarrel over the ill-usage of a dog."

     "That blew over all right."

     "But left some vindictive feeling, perhaps."

     "No, no, I am sure they were real friends."

     "Well, then, we must explore the matter of the girl. Do you know
     her?"

     "Everyone knows her. She is the beauty of the neighbourhood--a real
     beauty, Holmes, who would draw attention everywhere. I knew that
     McPherson was attracted by her, but I had no notion that it had gone
     so far as these letters would seem to indicate."

     "But who is she?"

     "She is the daughter of old Tom Bellamy, who owns all the boats and
     bathing-cots at Fulworth. He was a fisherman to start with, but is
     now a man of some substance. He and his son William run the
     business."

     "Shall we walk into Fulworth and see them?"

     "On what pretext?"

     "Oh, we can easily find a pretext. After all, this poor man did not
     ill-use himself in this outrageous way. Some human hand was on the
     handle of that scourge, if indeed it was a scourge which inflicted
     the injuries. His circle of acquaintances in this lonely place was
     surely limited. Let us follow it up in every direction and we can
     hardly fail to come upon the motive, which in turn should lead us to
     the criminal."

     It would have been a pleasant walk across the thyme-scented downs had
     our minds not been poisoned by the tragedy we had witnessed. The
     village of Fulworth lies in a hollow curving in a semicircle round
     the bay. Behind the old-fashioned hamlet several modern houses have
     been built upon the rising ground. It was to one of these that
     Stackhurst guided me.

     "That's The Haven, as Bellamy called it. The one with the corner
     tower and slate roof. Not bad for a man who started with nothing
     but-- By Jove, look at that!"

     The garden gate of The Haven had opened and a man had emerged. There
     was no mistaking that tall, angular, straggling figure. It was Ian
     Murdoch, the mathematician. A moment later we confronted him upon the
     road.

     "Hullo!" said Stackhurst. The man nodded, gave us a sideways glance
     from his curious dark eyes, and would have passed us, but his
     principal pulled him up.

     "What were you doing there?" he asked.

     Murdoch's face flushed with anger. "I am your subordinate, sir, under
     your roof. I am not aware that I owe you any account of my private
     actions."

     Stackhurst's nerves were near the surface after all he had endured.
     Otherwise, perhaps, he would have waited. Now he lost his temper
     completely.

     "In the circumstances your answer is pure impertinence, Mr. Murdoch."

     "Your own question might perhaps come under the same heading."

     "This is not the first time that I have had to overlook your
     insubordinate ways. It will certainly be the last. You will kindly
     make fresh arrangements for your future as speedily as you can."

     "I had intended to do so. I have lost to-day the only person who made
     The Gables habitable."

     He strode off upon his way, while Stackhurst, with angry eyes, stood
     glaring after him. "Is he not an impossible, intolerable man?" he
     cried.

     The one thing that impressed itself forcibly upon my mind was that
     Mr. Ian Murdoch was taking the first chance to open a path of escape
     from the scene of the crime. Suspicion, vague and nebulous, was now
     beginning to take outline in my mind. Perhaps the visit to the
     Bellamys might throw some further light upon the matter. Stackhurst
     pulled himself together, and we went forward to the house.

     Mr. Bellamy proved to be a middle-aged man with a flaming red beard.
     He seemed to be in a very angry mood, and his face was soon as florid
     as his hair.

     "No, sir, I do not desire any particulars. My son here"--indicating a
     powerful young man, with a heavy, sullen face, in the corner of the
     sitting-room--"is of one mind with me that Mr. McPherson's attentions
     to Maud were insulting. Yes, sir, the word 'marriage' was never
     mentioned, and yet there were letters and meetings, and a great deal
     more of which neither of us could approve. She has no mother, and we
     are her only guardians. We are determined--"

     But the words were taken from his mouth by the appearance of the lady
     herself. There was no gainsaying that she would have graced any
     assembly in the world. Who could have imagined that so rare a flower
     would grow from such a root and in such an atmosphere? Women have
     seldom been an attraction to me, for my brain has always governed my
     heart, but I could not look upon her perfect clear-cut face, with all
     the soft freshness of the downlands in her delicate colouring,
     without realizing that no young man would cross her path unscathed.
     Such was the girl who had pushed open the door and stood now,
     wide-eyed and intense, in front of Harold Stackhurst.

     "I know already that Fitzroy is dead," she said. "Do not be afraid to
     tell me the particulars."

     "This other gentleman of yours let us know the news," explained the
     father.

     "There is no reason why my sister should be brought into the matter,"
     growled the younger man.

     The sister turned a sharp, fierce look upon him. "This is my
     business, William. Kindly leave me to manage it in my own way. By all
     accounts there has been a crime committed. If I can help to show who
     did it, it is the least I can do for him who is gone."

     She listened to a short account from my companion, with a composed
     concentration which showed me that she possessed strong character as
     well as great beauty. Maud Bellamy will always remain in my memory as
     a most complete and remarkable woman. It seems that she already knew
     me by sight, for she turned to me at the end.

     "Bring them to justice, Mr. Holmes. You have my sympathy and my help,
     whoever they may be." It seemed to me that she glanced defiantly at
     her father and brother as she spoke.

     "Thank you," said I. "I value a woman's instinct in such matters. You
     use the word 'they.' You think that more than one was concerned?"

     "I knew Mr. McPherson well enough to be aware that he was a brave and
     a strong man. No single person could ever have inflicted such an
     outrage upon him."

     "Might I have one word with you alone?"

     "I tell you, Maud, not to mix yourself up in the matter," cried her
     father angrily.

     She looked at me helplessly. "What can I do?"

     "The whole world will know the facts presently, so there can be no
     harm if I discuss them here," said I. "I should have preferred
     privacy, but if your father will not allow it he must share the
     deliberations." Then I spoke of the note which had been found in the
     dead man's pocket. "It is sure to be produced at the inquest. May I
     ask you to throw any light upon it that you can?"

     "I see no reason for mystery," she answered. "We were engaged to be
     married, and we only kept it secret because Fitzroy's uncle, who is
     very old and said to be dying, might have disinherited him if he had
     married against his wish. There was no other reason."

     "You could have told us," growled Mr. Bellamy.

     "So I would, father, if you had ever shown sympathy."

     "I object to my girl picking up with men outside her own station."

     "It was your prejudice against him which prevented us from telling
     you. As to this appointment"--she fumbled in her dress and produced a
     crumpled note--"it was in answer to this."

     Dearest [ran the message]:
     The old place on the beach just after sunset on Tuesday. It is the
     only time I can get away.
     F. M.

     "Tuesday was to-day, and I had meant to meet him to-night."

     I turned over the paper. "This never came by post. How did you get
     it?"

     "I would rather not answer that question. It has really nothing to do
     with the matter which you are investigating. But anything which bears
     upon that I will most freely answer."

     She was as good as her word, but there was nothing which was helpful
     in our investigation. She had no reason to think that her fiance had
     any hidden enemy, but she admitted that she had had several warm
     admirers.

     "May I ask if Mr. Ian Murdoch was one of them?"

     She blushed and seemed confused.

     "There was a time when I thought he was. But that was all changed
     when he understood the relations between Fitzroy and myself."

     Again the shadow round this strange man seemed to me to be taking
     more definite shape. His record must be examined. His rooms must be
     privately searched. Stackhurst was a willing collaborator, for in his
     mind also suspicions were forming. We returned from our visit to The
     Haven with the hope that one free end of this tangled skein was
     already in our hands.

     A week passed. The inquest had thrown no light upon the matter and
     had been adjourned for further evidence. Stackhurst had made discreet
     inquiry about his subordinate, and there had been a superficial
     search of his room, but without result. Personally, I had gone over
     the whole ground again, both physically and mentally, but with no new
     conclusions. In all my chronicles the reader will find no case which
     brought me so completely to the limit of my powers. Even my
     imagination could conceive no solution to the mystery. And then there
     came the incident of the dog.

     It was my old housekeeper who heard of it first by that strange
     wireless by which such people collect the news of the countryside.

     "Sad story this, sir, about Mr. McPherson's dog," said she one
     evening.

     I do not encourage such conversations, but the words arrested my
     attention.

     "What of Mr. McPherson's dog?"

     "Dead, sir. Died of grief for its master."

     "Who told you this?"

     "Why, sir, everyone is talking of it. It took on terrible, and has
     eaten nothing for a week. Then to-day two of the young gentlemen from
     The Gables found it dead--down on the beach, sir, at the very place
     where its master met his end."

     "At the very place." The words stood out clear in my memory. Some dim
     perception that the matter was vital rose in my mind. That the dog
     should die was after the beautiful, faithful nature of dogs. But "in
     the very place"! Why should this lonely beach be fatal to it? Was it
     possible that it also had been sacrificed to some revengeful feud?
     Was it possible--? Yes, the perception was dim, but already something
     was building up in my mind. In a few minutes I was on my way to The
     Gables, where I found Stackhurst in his study. At my request he sent
     for Sudbury and Blount, the two students who had found the dog.

     "Yes, it lay on the very edge of the pool," said one of them. "It
     must have followed the trail of its dead master."

     I saw the faithful little creature, an Airedale terrier, laid out
     upon the mat in the hall. The body was stiff and rigid, the eyes
     projecting, and the limbs contorted. There was agony in every line of
     it.

     From The Gables I walked down to the bathing-pool. The sun had sunk
     and the shadow of the great cliff lay black across the water, which
     glimmered dully like a sheet of lead. The place was deserted and
     there was no sign of life save for two sea-birds circling and
     screaming overhead. In the fading light I could dimly make out the
     little dog's spoor upon the sand round the very rock on which his
     master's towel had been laid. For a long time I stood in deep
     meditation while the shadows grew darker around me. My mind was
     filled with racing thoughts. You have known what it was to be in a
     nightmare in which you feel that there is some all-important thing
     for which you search and which you know is there, though it remains
     forever just beyond your reach. That was how I felt that evening as I
     stood alone by that place of death. Then at last I turned and walked
     slowly homeward.

     I had just reached the top of the path when it came to me. Like a
     flash, I remembered the thing for which I had so eagerly and vainly
     grasped. You will know, or Watson has written in vain, that I hold a
     vast store of out-of-the-way knowledge without scientific system, but
     very available for the needs of my work. My mind is like a crowded
     box-room with packets of all sorts stowed away therein--so many that
     I may well have but a vague perception of what was there. I had known
     that there was something which might bear upon this matter. It was
     still vague, but at least I knew how I could make it clear. It was
     monstrous, incredible, and yet it was always a possibility. I would
     test it to the full.

     There is a great garret in my little house which is stuffed with
     books. It was into this that I plunged and rummaged for an hour. At
     the end of that time I emerged with a little chocolate and silver
     volume. Eagerly I turned up the chapter of which I had a dim
     remembrance. Yes, it was indeed a far-fetched and unlikely
     proposition, and yet I could not be at rest until I had made sure if
     it might, indeed, be so. It was late when I retired, with my mind
     eagerly awaiting the work of the morrow.

     But that work met with an annoying interruption. I had hardly
     swallowed my early cup of tea and was starting for the beach when I
     had a call from Inspector Bardle of the Sussex Constabulary--a
     steady, solid, bovine man with thoughtful eyes, which looked at me
     now with a very troubled expression.

     "I know your immense experience, sir," said he. "This is quite
     unofficial, of course, and need go no farther. But I am fairly up
     against it in this McPherson case. The question is, shall I make an
     arrest, or shall I not?"

     "Meaning Mr. Ian Murdoch?"

     "Yes, sir. There is really no one else when you come to think of it.
     That's the advantage of this solitude. We narrow it down to a very
     small compass. If he did not do it, then who did?"

     "What have you against him?"

     He had gleaned along the same furrows as I had. There was Murdoch's
     character and the mystery which seemed to hang round the man. His
     furious bursts of temper, as shown in the incident of the dog. The
     fact that he had quarrelled with McPherson in the past, and that
     there was some reason to think that he might have resented his
     attentions to Miss Bellamy. He had all my points, but no fresh ones,
     save that Murdoch seemed to be making every preparation for
     departure.

     "What would my position be if I let him slip away with all this
     evidence against him?" The burly, phlegmatic man was sorely troubled
     in his mind.

     "Consider," I said, "all the essential gaps in your case. On the
     morning of the crime he can surely prove an alibi. He had been with
     his scholars till the last moment, and within a few minutes of
     McPherson's appearance he came upon us from behind. Then bear in mind
     the absolute impossibility that he could single-handed have inflicted
     this outrage upon a man quite as strong as himself. Finally, there is
     this question of the instrument with which these injuries were
     inflicted."

     "What could it be but a scourge or flexible whip of some sort?"

     "Have you examined the marks?" I asked.

     "I have seen them. So has the doctor."

     "But I have examined them very carefully with a lens. They have
     peculiarities."

     "What are they, Mr. Holmes?"

     I stepped to my bureau and brought out an enlarged photograph. "This
     is my method in such cases," I explained.

     "You certainly do things thoroughly, Mr. Holmes."

     "I should hardly be what I am if I did not. Now let us consider this
     weal which extends round the right shoulder. Do you observe nothing
     remarkable?"

     "I can't say I do."

     "Surely it is evident that it is unequal in its intensity. There is a
     dot of extravasated blood here, and another there. There are similar
     indications in this other weal down here. What can that mean?"

     "I have no idea. Have you?"

     "Perhaps I have. Perhaps I haven't. I may be able to say more soon.
     Anything which will define what made that mark will bring us a long
     way towards the criminal."

     "It is, of course, an absurd idea," said the policeman, "but if a
     red-hot net of wire had been laid across the back, then these better
     marked points would represent where the meshes crossed each other."

     "A most ingenious comparison. Or shall we say a very stiff
     cat-o'-nine-tails with small hard knots upon it?"

     "By Jove, Mr. Holmes, I think you have hit it."

     "Or there may be some very different cause, Mr. Bardle. But your case
     is far too weak for an arrest. Besides, we have those last words--the
     'Lion's Mane.'"

     "I have wondered whether Ian--"

     "Yes, I have considered that. If the second word had borne any
     resemblance to Murdoch--but it did not. He gave it almost in a
     shriek. I am sure that it was 'Mane.'"

     "Have you no alternative, Mr. Holmes?"

     "Perhaps I have. But I do not care to discuss it until there is
     something more solid to discuss."

     "And when will that be?"

     "In an hour--possibly less."

     The inspector rubbed his chin and looked at me with dubious eyes.

     "I wish I could see what was in your mind, Mr. Holmes. Perhaps it's
     those fishing-boats."

     "No, no, they were too far out."

     "Well, then, is it Bellamy and that big son of his? They were not too
     sweet upon Mr. McPherson. Could they have done him a mischief?"

     "No, no, you won't draw me until I am ready," said I with a smile.
     "Now, Inspector, we each have our own work to do. Perhaps if you were
     to meet me here at midday--"

     So far we had got when there came the tremendous interruption which
     was the beginning of the end.

     My outer door was flung open, there were blundering footsteps in the
     passage, and Ian Murdoch staggered into the room, pallid,
     dishevelled, his clothes in wild disorder, clawing with his bony
     hands at the furniture to hold himself erect. "Brandy! Brandy!" he
     gasped, and fell groaning upon the sofa.

     He was not alone. Behind him came Stackhurst, hatless and panting,
     almost as distrait as his companion.

     "Yes, yes, brandy!" he cried. "The man is at his last gasp. It was
     all I could do to bring him here. He fainted twice upon the way."

     Half a tumbler of the raw spirit brought about a wondrous change. He
     pushed himself up on one arm and swung his coat from his shoulders.
     "For God's sake, oil, opium, morphia!" he cried. "Anything to ease
     this infernal agony!"

     The inspector and I cried out at the sight. There, crisscrossed upon
     the man's naked shoulder, was the same strange reticulated pattern of
     red, inflamed lines which had been the death-mark of Fitzroy
     McPherson.

     The pain was evidently terrible and was more than local, for the
     sufferer's breathing would stop for a time, his face would turn
     black, and then with loud gasps he would clap his hand to his heart,
     while his brow dropped beads of sweat. At any moment he might die.
     More and more brandy was poured down his throat, each fresh dose
     bringing him back to life. Pads of cotton-wool soaked in salad-oil
     seemed to take the agony from the strange wounds. At last his head
     fell heavily upon the cushion. Exhausted Nature had taken refuge in
     its last storehouse of vitality. It was half a sleep and half a
     faint, but at least it was ease from pain.

     To question him had been impossible, but the moment we were assured
     of his condition Stackhurst turned upon me.

     "My God!" he cried, "what is it, Holmes? What is it?"

     "Where did you find him?"

     "Down on the beach. Exactly where poor McPherson met his end. If this
     man's heart had been weak as McPherson's was, he would not be here
     now. More than once I thought he was gone as I brought him up. It was
     too far to The Gables, so I made for you."

     "Did you see him on the beach?"

     "I was walking on the cliff when I heard his cry. He was at the edge
     of the water, reeling about like a drunken man. I ran down, threw
     some clothes about him, and brought him up. For heaven's sake,
     Holmes, use all the powers you have and spare no pains to lift the
     curse from this place, for life is becoming unendurable. Can you,
     with all your world-wide reputation, do nothing for us?"

     "I think I can, Stackhurst. Come with me now! And you, Inspector,
     come along! We will see if we cannot deliver this murderer into your
     hands."

     Leaving the unconscious man in the charge of my housekeeper, we all
     three went down to the deadly lagoon. On the shingle there was piled
     a little heap of towels and clothes left by the stricken man. Slowly
     I walked round the edge of the water, my comrades in Indian file
     behind me. Most of the pool was quite shallow, but under the cliff
     where the beach was hollowed out it was four or five feet deep. It
     was to this part that a swimmer would naturally go, for it formed a
     beautiful pellucid green pool as clear as crystal. A line of rocks
     lay above it at the base of the cliff, and along this I led the way,
     peering eagerly into the depths beneath me. I had reached the deepest
     and stillest pool when my eyes caught that for which they were
     searching, and I burst into a shout of triumph.

     "Cyanea!" I cried. "Cyanea! Behold the Lion's Mane!"

     The strange object at which I pointed did indeed look like a tangled
     mass torn from the mane of a lion. It lay upon a rocky shelf some
     three feet under the water, a curious waving, vibrating, hairy
     creature with streaks of silver among its yellow tresses. It pulsated
     with a slow, heavy dilation and contraction.

     "It has done mischief enough. Its day is over!" I cried. "Help me,
     Stackhurst! Let us end the murderer forever."

     There was a big boulder just above the ledge, and we pushed it until
     it fell with a tremendous splash into the water. When the ripples had
     cleared we saw that it had settled upon the ledge below. One flapping
     edge of yellow membrane showed that our victim was beneath it. A
     thick oily scum oozed out from below the stone and stained the water
     round, rising slowly to the surface.

     "Well, this gets me!" cried the inspector. "What was it, Mr. Holmes?
     I'm born and bred in these parts, but I never saw such a thing. It
     don't belong to Sussex."

     "Just as well for Sussex," I remarked. "It may have been the
     southwest gale that brought it up. Come back to my house, both of
     you, and I will give you the terrible experience of one who has good
     reason to remember his own meeting with the same peril of the seas."

     When we reached my study we found that Murdoch was so far recovered
     that he could sit up. He was dazed in mind, and every now and then
     was shaken by a paroxysm of pain. In broken words he explained that
     he had no notion what had occurred to him, save that terrific pangs
     had suddenly shot through him, and that it had taken all his
     fortitude to reach the bank.

     "Here is a book," I said, taking up the little volume, "which first
     brought light into what might have been forever dark. It is Out of
     Doors, by the famous observer, J. G. Wood. Wood himself very nearly
     perished from contact with this vile creature, so he wrote with a
     very full knowledge. Cyanea capillata is the miscreant's full name,
     and he can be as dangerous to life as, and far more painful than, the
     bite of the cobra. Let me briefly give this extract.

     "If the bather should see a loose roundish mass of tawny membranes
     and fibres, something like very large handfuls of lion's mane and
     silver paper, let him beware, for this is the fearful stinger, Cyanea
     capillata.

     Could our sinister acquaintance be more clearly described?

     "He goes on to tell of his own encounter with one when swimming off
     the coast of Kent. He found that the creature radiated almost
     invisible filaments to the distance of fifty feet, and that anyone
     within that circumference from the deadly centre was in danger of
     death. Even at a distance the effect upon Wood was almost fatal.

     "The multitudinous threads caused light scarlet lines upon the skin
     which on closer examination resolved into minute dots or pustules,
     each dot charged as it were with a red-hot needle making its way
     through the nerves.

     "The local pain was, as he explains, the least part of the exquisite
     torment.

     "Pangs shot through the chest, causing me to fall as if struck by a
     bullet. The pulsation would cease, and then the heart would give six
     or seven leaps as if it would force its way through the chest.

     "It nearly killed him, although he had only been exposed to it in the
     disturbed ocean and not in the narrow calm waters of a bathing-pool.
     He says that he could hardly recognize himself afterwards, so white,
     wrinkled and shrivelled was his face. He gulped down brandy, a whole
     bottleful, and it seems to have saved his life. There is the book,
     Inspector. I leave it with you, and you cannot doubt that it contains
     a full explanation of the tragedy of poor McPherson."

     "And incidentally exonerates me," remarked Ian Murdoch with a wry
     smile. "I do not blame you, Inspector, nor you, Mr. Holmes, for your
     suspicions were natural. I feel that on the very eve of my arrest I
     have only cleared myself by sharing the fate of my poor friend."

     "No, Mr. Murdoch. I was already upon the track, and had I been out as
     early as I intended I might well have saved you from this terrific
     experience."

     "But how did you know, Mr. Holmes?"

     "I am an omnivorous reader with a strangely retentive memory for
     trifles. That phrase 'the Lion's Mane' haunted my mind. I knew that I
     had seen it somewhere in an unexpected context. You have seen that it
     does describe the creature. I have no doubt that it was floating on
     the water when McPherson saw it, and that this phrase was the only
     one by which he could convey to us a warning as to the creature which
     had been his death."

     "Then I, at least, am cleared," said Murdoch, rising slowly to his
     feet. "There are one or two words of explanation which I should give,
     for I know the direction in which your inquiries have run. It is true
     that I loved this lady, but from the day when she chose my friend
     McPherson my one desire was to help her to happiness. I was well
     content to stand aside and act as their go-between. Often I carried
     their messages, and it was because I was in their confidence and
     because she was so dear to me that I hastened to tell her of my
     friend's death, lest someone should forestall me in a more sudden and
     heartless manner. She would not tell you, sir, of our relations lest
     you should disapprove and I might suffer. But with your leave I must
     try to get back to The Gables, for my bed will be very welcome."

     Stackhurst held out his hand. "Our nerves have all been at
     concert-pitch," said he. "Forgive what is past, Murdoch. We shall
     understand each other better in the future." They passed out together
     with their arms linked in friendly fashion. The inspector remained,
     staring at me in silence with his ox-like eyes.

     "Well, you've done it!" he cried at last. "I had read of you, but I
     never believed it. It's wonderful!"

     I was forced to shake my head. To accept such praise was to lower
     one's own standards.

     "I was slow at the outset--culpably slow. Had the body been found in
     the water I could hardly have missed it. It was the towel which
     misled me. The poor fellow had never thought to dry himself, and so I
     in turn was led to believe that he had never been in the water. Why,
     then, should the attack of any water creature suggest itself to me?
     That was where I went astray. Well, well, Inspector, I often ventured
     to chaff you gentlemen of the police force, but Cyanea capillata very
     nearly avenged Scotland Yard."






                       THE ADVENTURE OF THE VEILED LODGER

     When one considers that Mr. Sherlock Holmes was in active practice
     for twenty-three years, and that during seventeen of these I was
     allowed to cooperate with him and to keep notes of his doings, it
     will be clear that I have a mass of material at my command. The
     problem has always been not to find but to choose. There is the long
     row of year-books which fill a shelf, and there are the
     dispatch-cases filled with documents, a perfect quarry for the
     student not only of crime but of the social and official scandals of
     the late Victorian era. Concerning these latter, I may say that the
     writers of agonized letters, who beg that the honour of their
     families or the reputation of famous forebears may not be touched,
     have nothing to fear. The discretion and high sense of professional
     honour which have always distinguished my friend are still at work in
     the choice of these memoirs, and no confidence will be abused. I
     deprecate, however, in the strongest way the attempts which have been
     made lately to get at and to destroy these papers. The source of
     these outrages is known, and if they are repeated I have Mr. Holmes's
     authority for saying that the whole story concerning the politician,
     the lighthouse, and the trained cormorant will be given to the
     public. There is at least one reader who will understand.

     It is not reasonable to suppose that every one of these cases gave
     Holmes the opportunity of showing those curious gifts of instinct and
     observation which I have endeavoured to set forth in these memoirs.
     Sometimes he had with much effort to pick the fruit, sometimes it
     fell easily into his lap. But the most terrible human tragedies were
     often involved in those cases which brought him the fewest personal
     opportunities, and it is one of these which I now desire to record.
     In telling it, I have made a slight change of name and place, but
     otherwise the facts are as stated.

     One forenoon--it was late in 1896--I received a hurried note from
     Holmes asking for my attendance. When I arrived I found him seated in
     a smoke-laden atmosphere, with an elderly, motherly woman of the
     buxom landlady type in the corresponding chair in front of him.

     "This is Mrs. Merrilow, of South Brixton," said my friend with a wave
     of the hand. "Mrs. Merrilow does not object to tobacco, Watson, if
     you wish to indulge your filthy habits. Mrs. Merrilow has an
     interesting story to tell which may well lead to further developments
     in which your presence may be useful."

     "Anything I can do--"

     "You will understand, Mrs. Merrilow, that if I come to Mrs. Ronder I
     should prefer to have a witness. You will make her understand that
     before we arrive."

     "Lord bless you, Mr. Holmes," said our visitor, "she is that anxious
     to see you that you might bring the whole parish at your heels!"

     "Then we shall come early in the afternoon. Let us see that we have
     our facts correct before we start. If we go over them it will help
     Dr. Watson to understand the situation. You say that Mrs. Ronder has
     been your lodger for seven years and that you have only once seen her
     face."

     "And I wish to God I had not!" said Mrs. Merrilow.

     "It was, I understand, terribly mutilated."

     "Well, Mr. Holmes, you would hardly say it was a face at all. That's
     how it looked. Our milkman got a glimpse of her once peeping out of
     the upper window, and he dropped his tin and the milk all over the
     front garden. That is the kind of face it is. When I saw her--I
     happened on her unawares--she covered up quick, and then she said,
     'Now, Mrs. Merrilow, you know at last why it is that I never raise my
     veil.'"

     "Do you know anything about her history?"

     "Nothing at all."

     "Did she give references when she came?"

     "No, sir, but she gave hard cash, and plenty of it. A quarter's rent
     right down on the table in advance and no arguing about terms. In
     these times a poor woman like me can't afford to turn down a chance
     like that."

     "Did she give any reason for choosing your house?"

     "Mine stands well back from the road and is more private than most.
     Then, again, I only take the one, and I have no family of my own. I
     reckon she had tried others and found that mine suited her best. It's
     privacy she is after, and she is ready to pay for it."

     "You say that she never showed her face from first to last save on
     the one accidental occasion. Well, it is a very remarkable story,
     most remarkable, and I don't wonder that you want it examined."

     "I don't, Mr. Holmes. I am quite satisfied so long as I get my rent.
     You could not have a quieter lodger, or one who gives less trouble."

     "Then what has brought matters to a head?"

     "Her health, Mr. Holmes. She seems to be wasting away. And there's
     something terrible on her mind. 'Murder!' she cries. 'Murder!' And
     once I heard her: 'You cruel beast! You monster!' she cried. It was
     in the night, and it fair rang through the house and sent the shivers
     through me. So I went to her in the morning. 'Mrs. Ronder,' I says,
     'if you have anything that is troubling your soul, there's the
     clergy,' I says, 'and there's the police. Between them you should get
     some help.' 'For God's sake, not the police!' says she, 'and the
     clergy can't change what is past. And yet,' she says, 'it would ease
     my mind if someone knew the truth before I died.' 'Well,' says I, 'if
     you won't have the regulars, there is this detective man what we read
     about'--beggin' your pardon, Mr. Holmes. And she, she fair jumped at
     it. 'That's the man,' says she. 'I wonder I never thought of it
     before. Bring him here, Mrs. Merrilow, and if he won't come, tell him
     I am the wife of Ronder's wild beast show. Say that, and give him the
     name Abbas Parva. Here it is as she wrote it, Abbas Parva. 'That will
     bring him if he's the man I think he is.'"

     "And it will, too," remarked Holmes. "Very good, Mrs. Merrilow. I
     should like to have a little chat with Dr. Watson. That will carry us
     till lunch-time. About three o'clock you may expect to see us at your
     house in Brixton."

     Our visitor had no sooner waddled out of the room--no other verb can
     describe Mrs. Merrilow's method of progression--than Sherlock Holmes
     threw himself with fierce energy upon the pile of commonplace books
     in the corner. For a few minutes there was a constant swish of the
     leaves, and then with a grunt of satisfaction he came upon what he
     sought. So excited was he that he did not rise, but sat upon the
     floor like some strange Buddha, with crossed legs, the huge books all
     round him, and one open upon his knees.

     "The case worried me at the time, Watson. Here are my marginal notes
     to prove it. I confess that I could make nothing of it. And yet I was
     convinced that the coroner was wrong. Have you no recollection of the
     Abbas Parva tragedy?"

     "None, Holmes."

     "And yet you were with me then. But certainly my own impression was
     very superficial. For there was nothing to go by, and none of the
     parties had engaged my services. Perhaps you would care to read the
     papers?"

     "Could you not give me the points?"

     "That is very easily done. It will probably come back to your memory
     as I talk. Ronder, of course, was a household word. He was the rival
     of Wombwell, and of Sanger, one of the greatest showmen of his day.
     There is evidence, however, that he took to drink, and that both he
     and his show were on the down grade at the time of the great tragedy.
     The caravan had halted for the night at Abbas Parva, which is a small
     village in Berkshire, when this horror occurred. They were on their
     way to Wimbledon, travelling by road, and they were simply camping
     and not exhibiting, as the place is so small a one that it would not
     have paid them to open.

     "They had among their exhibits a very fine North African lion. Sahara
     King was its name, and it was the habit, both of Ronder and his wife,
     to give exhibitions inside its cage. Here, you see, is a photograph
     of the performance by which you will perceive that Ronder was a huge
     porcine person and that his wife was a very magnificent woman. It was
     deposed at the inquest that there had been some signs that the lion
     was dangerous, but, as usual, familiarity begat contempt, and no
     notice was taken of the fact.

     "It was usual for either Ronder or his wife to feed the lion at
     night. Sometimes one went, sometimes both, but they never allowed
     anyone else to do it, for they believed that so long as they were the
     food-carriers he would regard them as benefactors and would never
     molest them. On this particular night, seven years ago, they both
     went, and a very terrible happening followed, the details of which
     have never been made clear.

     "It seems that the whole camp was roused near midnight by the roars
     of the animal and the screams of the woman. The different grooms and
     employees rushed from their tents, carrying lanterns, and by their
     light an awful sight was revealed. Ronder lay, with the back of his
     head crushed in and deep claw-marks across his scalp, some ten yards
     from the cage, which was open. Close to the door of the cage lay Mrs.
     Ronder upon her back, with the creature squatting and snarling above
     her. It had torn her face in such a fashion that it was never thought
     that she could live. Several of the circus men, headed by Leonardo,
     the strong man, and Griggs, the clown, drove the creature off with
     poles, upon which it sprang back into the cage and was at once locked
     in. How it had got loose was a mystery. It was conjectured that the
     pair intended to enter the cage, but that when the door was loosed
     the creature bounded out upon them. There was no other point of
     interest in the evidence save that the woman in a delirium of agony
     kept screaming, 'Coward! Coward!' as she was carried back to the van
     in which they lived. It was six months before she was fit to give
     evidence, but the inquest was duly held, with the obvious verdict of
     death from misadventure."

     "What alternative could be conceived?" said I.

     "You may well say so. And yet there were one or two points which
     worried young Edmunds, of the Berkshire Constabulary. A smart lad
     that! He was sent later to Allahabad. That was how I came into the
     matter, for he dropped in and smoked a pipe or two over it."

     "A thin, yellow-haired man?"

     "Exactly. I was sure you would pick up the trail presently."

     "But what worried him?"

     "Well, we were both worried. It was so deucedly difficult to
     reconstruct the affair. Look at it from the lion's point of view. He
     is liberated. What does he do? He takes half a dozen bounds forward,
     which brings him to Ronder. Ronder turns to fly--the claw-marks were
     on the back of his head--but the lion strikes him down. Then, instead
     of bounding on and escaping, he returns to the woman, who was close
     to the cage, and he knocks her over and chews her face up. Then,
     again, those cries of hers would seem to imply that her husband had
     in some way failed her. What could the poor devil have done to help
     her? You see the difficulty?"

     "Quite."

     "And then there was another thing. It comes back to me now as I think
     it over. There was some evidence that just at the time the lion
     roared and the woman screamed, a man began shouting in terror."

     "This man Ronder, no doubt."

     "Well, if his skull was smashed in you would hardly expect to hear
     from him again. There were at least two witnesses who spoke of the
     cries of a man being mingled with those of a woman."

     "I should think the whole camp was crying out by then. As to the
     other points, I think I could suggest a solution."

     "I should be glad to consider it."

     "The two were together, ten yards from the cage, when the lion got
     loose. The man turned and was struck down. The woman conceived the
     idea of getting into the cage and shutting the door. It was her only
     refuge. She made for it, and just as she reached it the beast bounded
     after her and knocked her over. She was angry with her husband for
     having encouraged the beast's rage by turning. If they had faced it
     they might have cowed it. Hence her cries of 'Coward!'"

     "Brilliant, Watson! Only one flaw in your diamond."

     "What is the flaw, Holmes?"

     "If they were both ten paces from the cage, how came the beast to get
     loose?"

     "Is it possible that they had some enemy who loosed it?"

     "And why should it attack them savagely when it was in the habit of
     playing with them, and doing tricks with them inside the cage?"

     "Possibly the same enemy had done something to enrage it."

     Holmes looked thoughtful and remained in silence for some moments.

     "Well, Watson, there is this to be said for your theory. Ronder was a
     man of many enemies. Edmunds told me that in his cups he was
     horrible. A huge bully of a man, he cursed and slashed at everyone
     who came in his way. I expect those cries about a monster, of which
     our visitor has spoken, were nocturnal reminiscences of the dear
     departed. However, our speculations are futile until we have all the
     facts. There is a cold partridge on the sideboard, Watson, and a
     bottle of Montrachet. Let us renew our energies before we make a
     fresh call upon them."

     When our hansom deposited us at the house of Mrs. Merrilow, we found
     that plump lady blocking up the open door of her humble but retired
     abode. It was very clear that her chief preoccupation was lest she
     should lose a valuable lodger, and she implored us, before showing us
     up, to say and do nothing which could lead to so undesirable an end.
     Then, having reassured her, we followed her up the straight, badly
     carpeted staircase and were shown into the room of the mysterious
     lodger.

     It was a close, musty, ill-ventilated place, as might be expected,
     since its inmate seldom left it. From keeping beasts in a cage, the
     woman seemed, by some retribution of fate, to have become herself a
     beast in a cage. She sat now in a broken armchair in the shadowy
     corner of the room. Long years of inaction had coarsened the lines of
     her figure, but at some period it must have been beautiful, and was
     still full and voluptuous. A thick dark veil covered her face, but it
     was cut off close at her upper lip and disclosed a perfectly shaped
     mouth and a delicately rounded chin. I could well conceive that she
     had indeed been a very remarkable woman. Her voice, too, was well
     modulated and pleasing.

     "My name is not unfamiliar to you, Mr. Holmes," said she. "I thought
     that it would bring you."

     "That is so, madam, though I do not know how you are aware that I was
     interested in your case."

     "I learned it when I had recovered my health and was examined by Mr.
     Edmunds, the county detective. I fear I lied to him. Perhaps it would
     have been wiser had I told the truth."

     "It is usually wiser to tell the truth. But why did you lie to him?"

     "Because the fate of someone else depended upon it. I know that he
     was a very worthless being, and yet I would not have his destruction
     upon my conscience. We had been so close--so close!"

     "But has this impediment been removed?"

     "Yes, sir. The person that I allude to is dead."

     "Then why should you not now tell the police anything you know?"

     "Because there is another person to be considered. That other person
     is myself. I could not stand the scandal and publicity which would
     come from a police examination. I have not long to live, but I wish
     to die undisturbed. And yet I wanted to find one man of judgment to
     whom I could tell my terrible story, so that when I am gone all might
     be understood."

     "You compliment me, madam. At the same time, I am a responsible
     person. I do not promise you that when you have spoken I may not
     myself think it my duty to refer the case to the police."

     "I think not, Mr. Holmes. I know your character and methods too well,
     for I have followed your work for some years. Reading is the only
     pleasure which fate has left me, and I miss little which passes in
     the world. But in any case, I will take my chance of the use which
     you may make of my tragedy. It will ease my mind to tell it."

     "My friend and I would be glad to hear it."

     The woman rose and took from a drawer the photograph of a man. He was
     clearly a professional acrobat, a man of magnificent physique, taken
     with his huge arms folded across his swollen chest and a smile
     breaking from under his heavy moustache--the self-satisfied smile of
     the man of many conquests.

     "That is Leonardo," she said.

     "Leonardo, the strong man, who gave evidence?"

     "The same. And this--this is my husband."

     It was a dreadful face--a human pig, or rather a human wild boar, for
     it was formidable in its bestiality. One could imagine that vile
     mouth champing and foaming in its rage, and one could conceive those
     small, vicious eyes darting pure malignancy as they looked forth upon
     the world. Ruffian, bully, beast--it was all written on that
     heavy-jowled face.

     "Those two pictures will help you, gentlemen, to understand the
     story. I was a poor circus girl brought up on the sawdust, and doing
     springs through the hoop before I was ten. When I became a woman this
     man loved me, if such lust as his can be called love, and in an evil
     moment I became his wife. From that day I was in hell, and he the
     devil who tormented me. There was no one in the show who did not know
     of his treatment. He deserted me for others. He tied me down and
     lashed me with his riding-whip when I complained. They all pitied me
     and they all loathed him, but what could they do? They feared him,
     one and all. For he was terrible at all times, and murderous when he
     was drunk. Again and again he was had up for assault, and for cruelty
     to the beasts, but he had plenty of money and the fines were nothing
     to him. The best men all left us, and the show began to go downhill.
     It was only Leonardo and I who kept it up--with little Jimmy Griggs,
     the clown. Poor devil, he had not much to be funny about, but he did
     what he could to hold things together.

     "Then Leonardo came more and more into my life. You see what he was
     like. I know now the poor spirit that was hidden in that splendid
     body, but compared to my husband he seemed like the angel Gabriel. He
     pitied me and helped me, till at last our intimacy turned to
     love--deep, deep, passionate love, such love as I had dreamed of but
     never hoped to feel. My husband suspected it, but I think that he was
     a coward as well as a bully, and that Leonardo was the one man that
     he was afraid of. He took revenge in his own way by torturing me more
     than ever. One night my cries brought Leonardo to the door of our
     van. We were near tragedy that night, and soon my lover and I
     understood that it could not be avoided. My husband was not fit to
     live. We planned that he should die.

     "Leonardo had a clever, scheming brain. It was he who planned it. I
     do not say that to blame him, for I was ready to go with him every
     inch of the way. But I should never have had the wit to think of such
     a plan. We made a club--Leonardo made it--and in the leaden head he
     fastened five long steel nails, the points outward, with just such a
     spread as the lion's paw. This was to give my husband his death-blow,
     and yet to leave the evidence that it was the lion which we would
     loose who had done the deed.

     "It was a pitch-dark night when my husband and I went down, as was
     our custom, to feed the beast. We carried with us the raw meat in a
     zinc pail. Leonardo was waiting at the corner of the big van which we
     should have to pass before we reached the cage. He was too slow, and
     we walked past him before he could strike, but he followed us on
     tiptoe and I heard the crash as the club smashed my husband's skull.
     My heart leaped with joy at the sound. I sprang forward, and I undid
     the catch which held the door of the great lion's cage.

     "And then the terrible thing happened. You may have heard how quick
     these creatures are to scent human blood, and how it excites them.
     Some strange instinct had told the creature in one instant that a
     human being had been slain. As I slipped the bars it bounded out and
     was on me in an instant. Leonardo could have saved me. If he had
     rushed forward and struck the beast with his club he might have cowed
     it. But the man lost his nerve. I heard him shout in his terror, and
     then I saw him turn and fly. At the same instant the teeth of the
     lion met in my face. Its hot, filthy breath had already poisoned me
     and I was hardly conscious of pain. With the palms of my hands I
     tried to push the great steaming, blood-stained jaws away from me,
     and I screamed for help. I was conscious that the camp was stirring,
     and then dimly I remembered a group of men. Leonardo, Griggs, and
     others, dragging me from under the creature's paws. That was my last
     memory, Mr. Holmes, for many a weary month. When I came to myself and
     saw myself in the mirror, I cursed that lion--oh, how I cursed
     him!--not because he had torn away my beauty but because he had not
     torn away my life. I had but one desire, Mr. Holmes, and I had enough
     money to gratify it. It was that I should cover myself so that my
     poor face should be seen by none, and that I should dwell where none
     whom I had ever known should find me. That was all that was left to
     me to do--and that is what I have done. A poor wounded beast that has
     crawled into its hole to die--that is the end of Eugenia Ronder."

     We sat in silence for some time after the unhappy woman had told her
     story. Then Holmes stretched out his long arm and patted her hand
     with such a show of sympathy as I had seldom known him to exhibit.

     "Poor girl!" he said. "Poor girl! The ways of fate are indeed hard to
     understand. If there is not some compensation hereafter, then the
     world is a cruel jest. But what of this man Leonardo?"

     "I never saw him or heard from him again. Perhaps I have been wrong
     to feel so bitterly against him. He might as soon have loved one of
     the freaks whom we carried round the country as the thing which the
     lion had left. But a woman's love is not so easily set aside. He had
     left me under the beast's claws, he had deserted me in my need, and
     yet I could not bring myself to give him to the gallows. For myself,
     I cared nothing what became of me. What could be more dreadful than
     my actual life? But I stood between Leonardo and his fate."

     "And he is dead?"

     "He was drowned last month when bathing near Margate. I saw his death
     in the paper."

     "And what did he do with this five-clawed club, which is the most
     singular and ingenious part of all your story?"

     "I cannot tell, Mr. Holmes. There is a chalk-pit by the camp, with a
     deep green pool at the base of it. Perhaps in the depths of that
     pool--"

     "Well, well, it is of little consequence now. The case is closed."

     "Yes," said the woman, "the case is closed."

     We had risen to go, but there was something in the woman's voice
     which arrested Holmes's attention. He turned swiftly upon her.

     "Your life is not your own," he said. "Keep your hands off it."

     "What use is it to anyone?"

     "How can you tell? The example of patient suffering is in itself the
     most precious of all lessons to an impatient world."

     The woman's answer was a terrible one. She raised her veil and
     stepped forward into the light.

     "I wonder if you would bear it," she said.

     It was horrible. No words can describe the framework of a face when
     the face itself is gone. Two living and beautiful brown eyes looking
     sadly out from that grisly ruin did but make the view more awful.
     Holmes held up his hand in a gesture of pity and protest, and
     together we left the room.

     Two days later, when I called upon my friend, he pointed with some
     pride to a small blue bottle upon his mantelpiece. I picked it up.
     There was a red poison label. A pleasant almondy odour rose when I
     opened it.

     "Prussic acid?" said I.

     "Exactly. It came by post. 'I send you my temptation. I will follow
     your advice.' That was the message. I think, Watson, we can guess the
     name of the brave woman who sent it."






                      THE ADVENTURE OF SHOSCOMBE OLD PLACE

     Sherlock Holmes had been bending for a long time over a low-power
     microscope. Now he straightened himself up and looked round at me in
     triumph.

     "It is glue, Watson," said he. "Unquestionably it is glue. Have a
     look at these scattered objects in the field!"

     I stooped to the eyepiece and focussed for my vision.

     "Those hairs are threads from a tweed coat. The irregular gray masses
     are dust. There are epithelial scales on the left. Those brown blobs
     in the centre are undoubtedly glue."

     "Well," I said, laughing, "I am prepared to take your word for it.
     Does anything depend upon it?"

     "It is a very fine demonstration," he answered. "In the St. Pancras
     case you may remember that a cap was found beside the dead policeman.
     The accused man denies that it is his. But he is a picture-frame
     maker who habitually handles glue."

     "Is it one of your cases?"

     "No; my friend, Merivale, of the Yard, asked me to look into the
     case. Since I ran down that coiner by the zinc and copper filings in
     the seam of his cuff they have begun to realize the importance of the
     microscope." He looked impatiently at his watch. "I had a new client
     calling, but he is overdue. By the way, Watson, you know something of
     racing?"

     "I ought to. I pay for it with about half my wound pension."

     "Then I'll make you my 'Handy Guide to the Turf.' What about Sir
     Robert Norberton? Does the name recall anything?"

     "Well, I should say so. He lives at Shoscombe Old Place, and I know
     it well, for my summer quarters were down there once. Norberton
     nearly came within your province once."

     "How was that?"

     "It was when he horsewhipped Sam Brewer, the well-known Curzon Street
     money-lender, on Newmarket Heath. He nearly killed the man."

     "Ah, he sounds interesting! Does he often indulge in that way?"

     "Well, he has the name of being a dangerous man. He is about the most
     daredevil rider in England--second in the Grand National a few years
     back. He is one of those men who have overshot their true generation.
     He should have been a buck in the days of the Regency--a boxer, an
     athlete, a plunger on the turf, a lover of fair ladies, and, by all
     account, so far down Queer Street that he may never find his way back
     again."

     "Capital, Watson! A thumb-nail sketch. I seem to know the man. Now,
     can you give me some idea of Shoscombe Old Place?"

     "Only that it is in the centre of Shoscombe Park, and that the famous
     Shoscombe stud and training quarters are to be found there."

     "And the head trainer," said Holmes, "is John Mason. You need not
     look surprised at my knowledge, Watson, for this is a letter from him
     which I am unfolding. But let us have some more about Shoscombe. I
     seem to have struck a rich vein."

     "There are the Shoscombe spaniels," said I. "You hear of them at
     every dog show. The most exclusive breed in England. They are the
     special pride of the lady of Shoscombe Old Place."

     "Sir Robert Norberton's wife, I presume!"

     "Sir Robert has never married. Just as well, I think, considering his
     prospects. He lives with his widowed sister, Lady Beatrice Falder."

     "You mean that she lives with him?"

     "No, no. The place belonged to her late husband, Sir James. Norberton
     has no claim on it at all. It is only a life interest and reverts to
     her husband's brother. Meantime, she draws the rents every year."

     "And brother Robert, I suppose, spends the said rents?"

     "That is about the size of it. He is a devil of a fellow and must
     lead her a most uneasy life. Yet I have heard that she is devoted to
     him. But what is amiss at Shoscombe?"

     "Ah, that is just what I want to know. And here, I expect, is the man
     who can tell us."

     The door had opened and the page had shown in a tall, clean-shaven
     man with the firm, austere expression which is only seen upon those
     who have to control horses or boys. Mr. John Mason had many of both
     under his sway, and he looked equal to the task. He bowed with cold
     self-possession and seated himself upon the chair to which Holmes had
     waved him.

     "You had my note, Mr. Holmes?"

     "Yes, but it explained nothing."

     "It was too delicate a thing for me to put the details on paper. And
     too complicated. It was only face to face I could do it."

     "Well, we are at your disposal."

     "First of all, Mr. Holmes, I think that my employer, Sir Robert, has
     gone mad."

     Holmes raised his eyebrows. "This is Baker Street, not Harley
     Street," said he. "But why do you say so?"

     "Well, sir, when a man does one queer thing, or two queer things,
     there may be a meaning to it, but when everything he does is queer,
     then you begin to wonder. I believe Shoscombe Prince and the Derby
     have turned his brain."

     "That is a colt you are running?"

     "The best in England, Mr. Holmes. I should know, if anyone does. Now,
     I'll be plain with you, for I know you are gentlemen of honour and
     that it won't go beyond the room. Sir Robert has got to win this
     Derby. He's up to the neck, and it's his last chance. Everything he
     could raise or borrow is on the horse--and at fine odds, too! You can
     get forties now, but it was nearer the hundred when he began to back
     him."

     "But how is that if the horse is so good?"

     "The public don't know how good he is. Sir Robert has been too clever
     for the touts. He has the Prince's half-brother out for spins. You
     can't tell 'em apart. But there are two lengths in a furlong between
     them when it comes to a gallop. He thinks of nothing but the horse
     and the race. His whole life is on it. He's holding off the Jews till
     then. If the Prince fails him he is done."

     "It seems a rather desperate gamble, but where does the madness come
     in?"

     "Well, first of all, you have only to look at him. I don't believe he
     sleeps at night. He is down at the stables at all hours. His eyes are
     wild. It has all been too much for his nerves. Then there is his
     conduct to Lady Beatrice!"

     "Ah! What is that?"

     "They have always been the best of friends. They had the same tastes,
     the two of them, and she loved the horses as much as he did. Every
     day at the same hour she would drive down to see them--and, above
     all, she loved the Prince. He would prick up his ears when he heard
     the wheels on the gravel, and he would trot out each morning to the
     carriage to get his lump of sugar. But that's all over now."

     "Why?"

     "Well, she seems to have lost all interest in the horses. For a week
     now she has driven past the stables with never so much as
     'Good-morning'!"

     "You think there has been a quarrel?"

     "And a bitter, savage, spiteful quarrel at that. Why else would he
     give away her pet spaniel that she loved as if he were her child? He
     gave it a few days ago to old Barnes, what keeps the Green Dragon,
     three miles off, at Crendall."

     "That certainly did seem strange."

     "Of course, with her weak heart and dropsy one couldn't expect that
     she could get about with him, but he spent two hours every evening in
     her room. He might well do what he could, for she has been a rare
     good friend to him. But that's all over, too. He never goes near her.
     And she takes it to heart. She is brooding and sulky and drinking,
     Mr. Holmes--drinking like a fish."

     "Did she drink before this estrangement?"

     "Well, she took her glass, but now it is often a whole bottle of an
     evening. So Stephens, the butler, told me. It's all changed, Mr.
     Holmes, and there is something damned rotten about it. But then,
     again, what is master doing down at the old church crypt at night?
     And who is the man that meets him there?"

     Holmes rubbed his hands.

     "Go on, Mr. Mason. You get more and more interesting."

     "It was the butler who saw him go. Twelve o'clock at night and
     raining hard. So next night I was up at the house and, sure enough,
     master was off again. Stephens and I went after him, but it was jumpy
     work, for it would have been a bad job if he had seen us. He's a
     terrible man with his fists if he gets started, and no respecter of
     persons. So we were shy of getting too near, but we marked him down
     all right. It was the haunted crypt that he was making for, and there
     was a man waiting for him there."

     "What is this haunted crypt?"

     "Well, sir, there is an old ruined chapel in the park. It is so old
     that nobody could fix its date. And under it there's a crypt which
     has a bad name among us. It's a dark, damp, lonely place by day, but
     there are few in that county that would have the nerve to go near it
     at night. But master's not afraid. He never feared anything in his
     life. But what is he doing there in the night-time?"

     "Wait a bit!" said Holmes. "You say there is another man there. It
     must be one of your own stablemen, or someone from the house! Surely
     you have only to spot who it is and question him?"

     "It's no one I know."

     "How can you say that?"

     "Because I have seen him, Mr. Holmes. It was on that second night.
     Sir Robert turned and passed us--me and Stephens, quaking in the
     bushes like two bunny-rabbits, for there was a bit of moon that
     night. But we could hear the other moving about behind. We were not
     afraid of him. So we up when Sir Robert was gone and pretended we
     were just having a walk like in the moonlight, and so we came right
     on him as casual and innocent as you please. 'Hullo, mate! who may
     you be?' says I. I guess he had not heard us coming, so he looked
     over his shoulder with a face as if he had seen the devil coming out
     of hell. He let out a yell, and away he went as hard as he could lick
     it in the darkness. He could run!--I'll give him that. In a minute he
     was out of sight and hearing, and who he was, or what he was, we
     never found."

     "But you saw him clearly in the moonlight?"

     "Yes, I would swear to his yellow face--a mean dog, I should say.
     What could he have in common with Sir Robert?"

     Holmes sat for some time lost in thought.

     "Who keeps Lady Beatrice Falder company?" he asked at last.

     "There is her maid, Carrie Evans. She has been with her this five
     years."

     "And is, no doubt, devoted?"

     Mr. Mason shuffled uncomfortably.

     "She's devoted enough," he answered at last. "But I won't say to
     whom."

     "Ah!" said Holmes.

     "I can't tell tales out of school."

     "I quite understand, Mr. Mason. Of course, the situation is clear
     enough. From Dr. Watson's description of Sir Robert I can realize
     that no woman is safe from him. Don't you think the quarrel between
     brother and sister may lie there?"

     "Well, the scandal has been pretty clear for a long time."

     "But she may not have seen it before. Let us suppose that she has
     suddenly found it out. She wants to get rid of the woman. Her brother
     will not permit it. The invalid, with her weak heart and inability to
     get about, has no means of enforcing her will. The hated maid is
     still tied to her. The lady refuses to speak, sulks, takes to drink.
     Sir Robert in his anger takes her pet spaniel away from her. Does not
     all this hang together?"

     "Well, it might do--so far as it goes."

     "Exactly! As far as it goes. How would all that bear upon the visits
     by night to the old crypt? We can't fit that into our plot."

     "No, sir, and there is something more that I can't fit in. Why should
     Sir Robert want to dig up a dead body?"

     Holmes sat up abruptly.

     "We only found it out yesterday--after I had written to you.
     Yesterday Sir Robert had gone to London, so Stephens and I went down
     to the crypt. It was all in order, sir, except that in one corner was
     a bit of a human body."

     "You informed the police, I suppose?"

     Our visitor smiled grimly.

     "Well, sir, I think it would hardly interest them. It was just the
     head and a few bones of a mummy. It may have been a thousand years
     old. But it wasn't there before. That I'll swear, and so will
     Stephens. It had been stowed away in a corner and covered over with a
     board, but that corner had always been empty before."

     "What did you do with it?"

     "Well, we just left it there."

     "That was wise. You say Sir Robert was away yesterday. Has he
     returned?"

     "We expect him back to-day."

     "When did Sir Robert give away his sister's dog?"

     "It was just a week ago to-day. The creature was howling outside the
     old well-house, and Sir Robert was in one of his tantrums that
     morning. He caught it up, and I thought he would have killed it. Then
     he gave it to Sandy Bain, the jockey, and told him to take the dog to
     old Barnes at the Green Dragon, for he never wished to see it again."

     Holmes sat for some time in silent thought. He had lit the oldest and
     foulest of his pipes.

     "I am not clear yet what you want me to do in this matter, Mr.
     Mason," he said at last. "Can't you make it more definite?"

     "Perhaps this will make it more definite, Mr. Holmes," said our
     visitor.

     He took a paper from his pocket, and, unwrapping it carefully, he
     exposed a charred fragment of bone.

     Holmes examined it with interest.

     "Where did you get it?"

     "There is a central heating furnace in the cellar under Lady
     Beatrice's room. It's been off for some time, but Sir Robert
     complained of cold and had it on again. Harvey runs it--he's one of
     my lads. This very morning he came to me with this which he found
     raking out the cinders. He didn't like the look of it."

     "Nor do I," said Holmes. "What do you make of it, Watson?"

     It was burned to a black cinder, but there could be no question as to
     its anatomical significance.

     "It's the upper condyle of a human femur," said I.

     "Exactly!" Holmes had become very serious. "When does this lad tend
     to the furnace?"

     "He makes it up every evening and then leaves it."

     "Then anyone could visit it during the night?"

     "Yes, sir."

     "Can you enter it from outside?"

     "There is one door from outside. There is another which leads up by a
     stair to the passage in which Lady Beatrice's room is situated."

     "These are deep waters, Mr. Mason; deep and rather dirty. You say
     that Sir Robert was not at home last night?"

     "No, sir."

     "Then, whoever was burning bones, it was not he."

     "That's true, sir."

     "What is the name of that inn you spoke of?"

     "The Green Dragon."

     "Is there good fishing in that part of Berkshire?" The honest trainer
     showed very clearly upon his face that he was convinced that yet
     another lunatic had come into his harassed life.

     "Well, sir, I've heard there are trout in the mill-stream and pike in
     the Hall lake."

     "That's good enough. Watson and I are famous fishermen--are we not,
     Watson? You may address us in future at the Green Dragon. We should
     reach it to-night. I need not say that we don't want to see you, Mr.
     Mason, but a note will reach us, and no doubt I could find you if I
     want you. When we have gone a little farther into the matter I will
     let you have a considered opinion."

     Thus it was that on a bright May evening Holmes and I found ourselves
     alone in a first-class carriage and bound for the little
     "halt-on-demand" station of Shoscombe. The rack above us was covered
     with a formidable litter of rods, reels, and baskets. On reaching our
     destination a short drive took us to an old-fashioned tavern, where a
     sporting host, Josiah Barnes, entered eagerly into our plans for the
     extirpation of the fish of the neighbourhood.

     "What about the Hall lake and the chance of a pike?" said Holmes.

     The face of the innkeeper clouded.

     "That wouldn't do, sir. You might chance to find yourself in the lake
     before you were through."

     "How's that, then?"

     "It's Sir Robert, sir. He's terrible jealous of touts. If you two
     strangers were as near his training quarters as that he'd be after
     you as sure as fate. He ain't taking no chances, Sir Robert ain't."

     "I've heard he has a horse entered for the Derby."

     "Yes, and a good colt, too. He carries all our money for the race,
     and all Sir Robert's into the bargain. By the way"--he looked at us
     with thoughtful eyes--"I suppose you ain't on the turf yourselves?"

     "No, indeed. Just two weary Londoners who badly need some good
     Berkshire air."

     "Well, you are in the right place for that. There is a deal of it
     lying about. But mind what I have told you about Sir Robert. He's the
     sort that strikes first and speaks afterwards. Keep clear of the
     park."

     "Surely, Mr. Barnes! We certainly shall. By the way, that was a most
     beautiful spaniel that was whining in the hall."

     "I should say it was. That was the real Shoscombe breed. There ain't
     a better in England."

     "I am a dog-fancier myself," said Holmes. "Now, if it is a fair
     question, what would a prize dog like that cost?"

     "More than I could pay, sir. It was Sir Robert himself who gave me
     this one. That's why I have to keep it on a lead. It would be off to
     the Hall in a jiffy if I gave it its head."

     "We are getting some cards in our hand, Watson," said Holmes when the
     landlord had left us. "It's not an easy one to play, but we may see
     our way in a day or two. By the way, Sir Robert is still in London, I
     hear. We might, perhaps, enter the sacred domain to-night without
     fear of bodily assault. There are one or two points on which I should
     like reassurance."

     "Have you any theory, Holmes?"

     "Only this, Watson, that something happened a week or so ago which
     has cut deep into the life of the Shoscombe household. What is that
     something? We can only guess at it from its effects. They seem to be
     of a curiously mixed character. But that should surely help us. It is
     only the colourless, uneventful case which is hopeless.

     "Let us consider our data. The brother no longer visits the beloved
     invalid sister. He gives away her favourite dog. Her dog, Watson!
     Does that suggest nothing to you?"

     "Nothing but the brother's spite."

     "Well, it might be so. Or--well, there is an alternative. Now to
     continue our review of the situation from the time that the quarrel,
     if there is a quarrel, began. The lady keeps her room, alters her
     habits, is not seen save when she drives out with her maid, refuses
     to stop at the stables to greet her favourite horse, and apparently
     takes to drink. That covers the case, does it not?"

     "Save for the business in the crypt."

     "That is another line of thought. There are two, and I beg you will
     not tangle them. Line A, which concerns Lady Beatrice, has a vaguely
     sinister flavour, has it not?"

     "I can make nothing of it."

     "Well, now, let us take up line B, which concerns Sir Robert. He is
     mad keen upon winning the Derby. He is in the hands of the Jews, and
     may at any moment be sold up and his racing stables seized by his
     creditors. He is a daring and desperate man. He derives his income
     from his sister. His sister's maid is his willing tool. So far we
     seem to be on fairly safe ground, do we not?"

     "But the crypt?"

     "Ah, yes, the crypt! Let us suppose, Watson--it is merely a
     scandalous supposition, a hypothesis put forward for argument's
     sake--that Sir Robert has done away with his sister."

     "My dear Holmes, it is out of the question."

     "Very possibly, Watson. Sir Robert is a man of an honourable stock.
     But you do occasionally find a carrion crow among the eagles. Let us
     for a moment argue upon this supposition. He could not fly the
     country until he had realized his fortune, and that fortune could
     only be realized by bringing off this coup with Shoscombe Prince.
     Therefore, he has still to stand his ground. To do this he would have
     to dispose of the body of his victim, and he would also have to find
     a substitute who would impersonate her. With the maid as his
     confidante that would not be impossible. The woman's body might be
     conveyed to the crypt, which is a place so seldom visited, and it
     might be secretly destroyed at night in the furnace, leaving behind
     it such evidence as we have already seen. What say you to that,
     Watson?"

     "Well, it is all possible if you grant the original monstrous
     supposition."

     "I think that there is a small experiment which we may try to-morrow,
     Watson, in order to throw some light on the matter. Meanwhile, if we
     mean to keep up our characters, I suggest that we have our host in
     for a glass of his own wine and hold some high converse upon eels and
     dace, which seems to be the straight road to his affections. We may
     chance to come upon some useful local gossip in the process."

     In the morning Holmes discovered that we had come without our
     spoon-bait for jack, which absolved us from fishing for the day.
     About eleven o'clock we started for a walk, and he obtained leave to
     take the black spaniel with us.

     "This is the place," said he as we came to two high park gates with
     heraldic griffins towering above them. "About midday, Mr. Barnes
     informs me, the old lady takes a drive, and the carriage must slow
     down while the gates are opened. When it comes through, and before it
     gathers speed, I want you, Watson, to stop the coachman with some
     question. Never mind me. I shall stand behind this holly-bush and see
     what I can see."

     It was not a long vigil. Within a quarter of an hour we saw the big
     open yellow barouche coming down the long avenue, with two splendid,
     high-stepping gray carriage horses in the shafts. Holmes crouched
     behind his bush with the dog. I stood unconcernedly swinging a cane
     in the roadway. A keeper ran out and the gates swung open.

     The carriage had slowed to a walk, and I was able to get a good look
     at the occupants. A highly coloured young woman with flaxen hair and
     impudent eyes sat on the left. At her right was an elderly person
     with rounded back and a huddle of shawls about her face and shoulders
     which proclaimed the invalid. When the horses reached the highroad I
     held up my hand with an authoritative gesture, and as the coachman
     pulled up I inquired if Sir Robert was at Shoscombe Old Place.

     At the same moment Holmes stepped out and released the spaniel. With
     a joyous cry it dashed forward to the carriage and sprang upon the
     step. Then in a moment its eager greeting changed to furious rage,
     and it snapped at the black skirt above it.

     "Drive on! Drive on!" shrieked a harsh voice. The coachman lashed the
     horses, and we were left standing in the roadway.

     "Well, Watson, that's done it," said Holmes as he fastened the lead
     to the neck of the excited spaniel. "He thought it was his mistress,
     and he found it was a stranger. Dogs don't make mistakes."

     "But it was the voice of a man!" I cried.

     "Exactly! We have added one card to our hand, Watson, but it needs
     careful playing, all the same."

     My companion seemed to have no further plans for the day, and we did
     actually use our fishing tackle in the mill-stream, with the result
     that we had a dish of trout for our supper. It was only after that
     meal that Holmes showed signs of renewed activity. Once more we found
     ourselves upon the same road as in the morning, which led us to the
     park gates. A tall, dark figure was awaiting us there, who proved to
     be our London acquaintance, Mr. John Mason, the trainer.

     "Good-evening, gentlemen," said he. "I got your note, Mr. Holmes. Sir
     Robert has not returned yet, but I hear that he is expected
     to-night."

     "How far is this crypt from the house?" asked Holmes.

     "A good quarter of a mile."

     "Then I think we can disregard him altogether."

     "I can't afford to do that, Mr. Holmes. The moment he arrives he will
     want to see me to get the last news of Shoscombe Prince."

     "I see! In that case we must work without you, Mr. Mason. You can
     show us the crypt and then leave us."

     It was pitch-dark and without a moon, but Mason led us over the
     grass-lands until a dark mass loomed up in front of us which proved
     to be the ancient chapel. We entered the broken gap which was once
     the porch, and our guide, stumbling among heaps of loose masonry,
     picked his way to the corner of the building, where a steep stair led
     down into the crypt. Striking a match, he illuminated the melancholy
     place--dismal and evil-smelling, with ancient crumbling walls of
     rough-hewn stone, and piles of coffins, some of lead and some of
     stone, extending upon one side right up to the arched and groined
     roof which lost itself in the shadows above our heads. Holmes had lit
     his lantern, which shot a tiny tunnel of vivid yellow light upon the
     mournful scene. Its rays were reflected back from the coffin-plates,
     many of them adorned with the griffin and coronet of this old family
     which carried its honours even to the gate of Death.

     "You spoke of some bones, Mr. Mason. Could you show them before you
     go?"

     "They are here in this corner." The trainer strode across and then
     stood in silent surprise as our light was turned upon the place.
     "They are gone," said he.

     "So I expected," said Holmes, chuckling. "I fancy the ashes of them
     might even now be found in that oven which had already consumed a
     part."

     "But why in the world would anyone want to burn the bones of a man
     who has been dead a thousand years?" asked John Mason.

     "That is what we are here to find out," said Holmes. "It may mean a
     long search, and we need not detain you. I fancy that we shall get
     our solution before morning."

     When John Mason had left us, Holmes set to work making a very careful
     examination of the graves, ranging from a very ancient one, which
     appeared to be Saxon, in the centre, through a long line of Norman
     Hugos and Odos, until we reached the Sir William and Sir Denis Falder
     of the eighteenth century. It was an hour or more before Holmes came
     to a leaden coffin standing on end before the entrance to the vault.
     I heard his little cry of satisfaction and was aware from his hurried
     but purposeful movements that he had reached a goal. With his lens he
     was eagerly examining the edges of the heavy lid. Then he drew from
     his pocket a short jemmy, a box-opener, which he thrust into a chink,
     levering back the whole front, which seemed to be secured by only a
     couple of clamps. There was a rending, tearing sound as it gave way,
     but it had hardly hinged back and partly revealed the contents before
     we had an unforeseen interruption.

     Someone was walking in the chapel above. It was the firm, rapid step
     of one who came with a definite purpose and knew well the ground upon
     which he walked. A light streamed down the stairs, and an instant
     later the man who bore it was framed in the Gothic archway. He was a
     terrible figure, huge in stature and fierce in manner. A large
     stable-lantern which he held in front of him shone upward upon a
     strong, heavily moustached face and angry eyes, which glared round
     him into every recess of the vault, finally fixing themselves with a
     deadly stare upon my companion and myself.

     "Who the devil are you?" he thundered. "And what are you doing upon
     my property?" Then, as Holmes returned no answer, he took a couple of
     steps forward and raised a heavy stick which he carried. "Do you hear
     me?" he cried. "Who are you? What are you doing here?" His cudgel
     quivered in the air.

     But instead of shrinking Holmes advanced to meet him.

     "I also have a question to ask you, Sir Robert," he said in his
     sternest tone. "Who is this? And what is it doing here?"

     He turned and tore open the coffin-lid behind him. In the glare of
     the lantern I saw a body swathed in a sheet from head to foot, with
     dreadful, witch-like features, all nose and chin, projecting at one
     end, the dim, glazed eyes staring from a discoloured and crumbling
     face.

     The baronet had staggered back with a cry and supported himself
     against a stone sarcophagus.

     "How came you to know of this?" he cried. And then, with some return
     of his truculent manner: "What business is it of yours?"

     "My name is Sherlock Holmes," said my companion. "Possibly it is
     familiar to you. In any case, my business is that of every other good
     citizen--to uphold the law. It seems to me that you have much to
     answer for."

     Sir Robert glared for a moment, but Holmes's quiet voice and cool,
     assured manner had their effect.

     "'Fore God, Mr. Holmes, it's all right," said he. "Appearances are
     against me, I'll admit, but I could act no otherwise."

     "I should be happy to think so, but I fear your explanations must be
     before the police."

     Sir Robert shrugged his broad shoulders.

     "Well, if it must be, it must. Come up to the house and you can judge
     for yourself how the matter stands."

     A quarter of an hour later we found ourselves in what I judge, from
     the lines of polished barrels behind glass covers, to be the gun-room
     of the old house. It was comfortably furnished, and here Sir Robert
     left us for a few moments. When he returned he had two companions
     with him; the one, the florid young woman whom we had seen in the
     carriage; the other, a small rat-faced man with a disagreeably
     furtive manner. These two wore an appearance of utter bewilderment,
     which showed that the baronet had not yet had time to explain to them
     the turn events had taken.

     "There," said Sir Robert with a wave of his hand, "are Mr. and Mrs.
     Norlett. Mrs. Norlett, under her maiden name of Evans, has for some
     years been my sister's confidential maid. I have brought them here
     because I feel that my best course is to explain the true position to
     you, and they are the two people upon earth who can substantiate what
     I say."

     "Is this necessary, Sir Robert? Have you thought what you are doing?"
     cried the woman.

     "As to me, I entirely disclaim all responsibility," said her husband.

     Sir Robert gave him a glance of contempt. "I will take all
     responsibility," said he. "Now, Mr. Holmes, listen to a plain
     statement of the facts.

     "You have clearly gone pretty deeply into my affairs or I should not
     have found you where I did. Therefore, you know already, in all
     probability, that I am running a dark horse for the Derby and that
     everything depends upon my success. If I win, all is easy. If I
     lose--well, I dare not think of that!"

     "I understand the position," said Holmes.

     "I am dependent upon my sister, Lady Beatrice, for everything. But it
     is well known that her interest in the estate is for her own life
     only. For myself, I am deeply in the hands of the Jews. I have always
     known that if my sister were to die my creditors would be on to my
     estate like a flock of vultures. Everything would be seized--my
     stables, my horses--everything. Well, Mr. Holmes, my sister did die
     just a week ago."

     "And you told no one!"

     "What could I do? Absolute ruin faced me. If I could stave things off
     for three weeks all would be well. Her maid's husband--this man
     here--is an actor. It came into our heads--it came into my head--that
     he could for that short period personate my sister. It was but a case
     of appearing daily in the carriage, for no one need enter her room
     save the maid. It was not difficult to arrange. My sister died of the
     dropsy which had long afflicted her."

     "That will be for a coroner to decide."

     "Her doctor would certify that for months her symptoms have
     threatened such an end."

     "Well, what did you do?"

     "The body could not remain there. On the first night Norlett and I
     carried it out to the old well-house, which is now never used. We
     were followed, however, by her pet spaniel, which yapped continually
     at the door, so I felt some safer place was needed. I got rid of the
     spaniel, and we carried the body to the crypt of the church. There
     was no indignity or irreverence, Mr. Holmes. I do not feel that I
     have wronged the dead."

     "Your conduct seems to me inexcusable, Sir Robert."

     The baronet shook his head impatiently. "It is easy to preach," said
     he. "Perhaps you would have felt differently if you had been in my
     position. One cannot see all one's hopes and all one's plans
     shattered at the last moment and make no effort to save them. It
     seemed to me that it would be no unworthy resting-place if we put her
     for the time in one of the coffins of her husband's ancestors lying
     in what is still consecrated ground. We opened such a coffin, removed
     the contents, and placed her as you have seen her. As to the old
     relics which we took out, we could not leave them on the floor of the
     crypt. Norlett and I removed them, and he descended at night and
     burned them in the central furnace. There is my story, Mr. Holmes,
     though how you forced my hand so that I have to tell it is more than
     I can say."

     Holmes sat for some time lost in thought.

     "There is one flaw in your narrative, Sir Robert," he said at last.
     "Your bets on the race, and therefore your hopes for the future,
     would hold good even if your creditors seized your estate."

     "The horse would be part of the estate. What do they care for my
     bets? As likely as not they would not run him at all. My chief
     creditor is, unhappily, my most bitter enemy--a rascally fellow, Sam
     Brewer, whom I was once compelled to horsewhip on Newmarket Heath. Do
     you suppose that he would try to save me?"

     "Well, Sir Robert," said Holmes, rising, "this matter must, of
     course, be referred to the police. It was my duty to bring the facts
     to light, and there I must leave it. As to the morality or decency of
     your conduct, it is not for me to express an opinion. It is nearly
     midnight, Watson, and I think we may make our way back to our humble
     abode."

     It is generally known now that this singular episode ended upon a
     happier note than Sir Robert's actions deserved. Shoscombe Prince did
     win the Derby, the sporting owner did net eighty thousand pounds in
     bets, and the creditors did hold their hand until the race was over,
     when they were paid in full, and enough was left to reestablish Sir
     Robert in a fair position in life. Both police and coroner took a
     lenient view of the transaction, and beyond a mild censure for the
     delay in registering the lady's decease, the lucky owner got away
     scatheless from this strange incident in a career which has now
     outlived its shadows and promises to end in an honoured old age.






                     THE ADVENTURE OF THE RETIRED COLOURMAN

     Sherlock Holmes was in a melancholy and philosophic mood that
     morning. His alert practical nature was subject to such reactions.

     "Did you see him?" he asked.

     "You mean the old fellow who has just gone out?"

     "Precisely."

     "Yes, I met him at the door."

     "What did you think of him?"

     "A pathetic, futile, broken creature."

     "Exactly, Watson. Pathetic and futile. But is not all life pathetic
     and futile? Is not his story a microcosm of the whole? We reach. We
     grasp. And what is left in our hands at the end? A shadow. Or worse
     than a shadow--misery."

     "Is he one of your clients?"

     "Well, I suppose I may call him so. He has been sent on by the Yard.
     Just as medical men occasionally send their incurables to a quack.
     They argue that they can do nothing more, and that whatever happens
     the patient can be no worse than he is."

     "What is the matter?"

     Holmes took a rather soiled card from the table. "Josiah Amberley. He
     says he was junior partner of Brickfall and Amberley, who are
     manufacturers of artistic materials. You will see their names upon
     paint-boxes. He made his little pile, retired from business at the
     age of sixty-one, bought a house at Lewisham, and settled down to
     rest after a life of ceaseless grind. One would think his future was
     tolerably assured."

     "Yes, indeed."

     Holmes glanced over some notes which he had scribbled upon the back
     of an envelope.

     "Retired in 1896, Watson. Early in 1897 he married a woman twenty
     years younger than himself--a good-looking woman, too, if the
     photograph does not flatter. A competence, a wife, leisure--it seemed
     a straight road which lay before him. And yet within two years he is,
     as you have seen, as broken and miserable a creature as crawls
     beneath the sun."

     "But what has happened?"

     "The old story, Watson. A treacherous friend and a fickle wife. It
     would appear that Amberley has one hobby in life, and it is chess.
     Not far from him at Lewisham there lives a young doctor who is also a
     chess-player. I have noted his name as Dr. Ray Ernest. Ernest was
     frequently in the house, and an intimacy between him and Mrs.
     Amberley was a natural sequence, for you must admit that our
     unfortunate client has few outward graces, whatever his inner virtues
     may be. The couple went off together last week--destination untraced.
     What is more, the faithless spouse carried off the old man's deed-box
     as her personal luggage with a good part of his life's savings
     within. Can we find the lady? Can we save the money? A commonplace
     problem so far as it has developed, and yet a vital one for Josiah
     Amberley."

     "What will you do about it?"

     "Well, the immediate question, my dear Watson, happens to be, What
     will you do?--if you will be good enough to understudy me. You know
     that I am preoccupied with this case of the two Coptic Patriarchs,
     which should come to a head to-day. I really have not time to go out
     to Lewisham, and yet evidence taken on the spot has a special value.
     The old fellow was quite insistent that I should go, but I explained
     my difficulty. He is prepared to meet a representative."

     "By all means," I answered. "I confess I don't see that I can be of
     much service, but I am willing to do my best." And so it was that on
     a summer afternoon I set forth to Lewisham, little dreaming that
     within a week the affair in which I was engaging would be the eager
     debate of all England.

     It was late that evening before I returned to Baker Street and gave
     an account of my mission. Holmes lay with his gaunt figure stretched
     in his deep chair, his pipe curling forth slow wreaths of acrid
     tobacco, while his eyelids drooped over his eyes so lazily that he
     might almost have been asleep were it not that at any halt or
     questionable passage of my narrative they half lifted, and two gray
     eyes, as bright and keen as rapiers, transfixed me with their
     searching glance.

     "The Haven is the name of Mr. Josiah Amberley's house," I explained.
     "I think it would interest you, Holmes. It is like some penurious
     patrician who has sunk into the company of his inferiors. You know
     that particular quarter, the monotonous brick streets, the weary
     suburban highways. Right in the middle of them, a little island of
     ancient culture and comfort, lies this old home, surrounded by a high
     sun-baked wall mottled with lichens and topped with moss, the sort of
     wall--"

     "Cut out the poetry, Watson," said Holmes severely. "I note that it
     was a high brick wall."

     "Exactly. I should not have known which was The Haven had I not asked
     a lounger who was smoking in the street. I have a reason for
     mentioning him. He was a tall, dark, heavily moustached, rather
     military-looking man. He nodded in answer to my inquiry and gave me a
     curiously questioning glance, which came back to my memory a little
     later.

     "I had hardly entered the gateway before I saw Mr. Amberley coming
     down the drive. I only had a glimpse of him this morning, and he
     certainly gave me the impression of a strange creature, but when I
     saw him in full light his appearance was even more abnormal."

     "I have, of course, studied it, and yet I should be interested to
     have your impression," said Holmes.

     "He seemed to me like a man who was literally bowed down by care. His
     back was curved as though he carried a heavy burden. Yet he was not
     the weakling that I had at first imagined, for his shoulders and
     chest have the framework of a giant, though his figure tapers away
     into a pair of spindled legs."

     "Left shoe wrinkled, right one smooth."

     "I did not observe that."

     "No, you wouldn't. I spotted his artificial limb. But proceed."

     "I was struck by the snaky locks of grizzled hair which curled from
     under his old straw hat, and his face with its fierce, eager
     expression and the deeply lined features."

     "Very good, Watson. What did he say?"

     "He began pouring out the story of his grievances. We walked down the
     drive together, and of course I took a good look round. I have never
     seen a worse-kept place. The garden was all running to seed, giving
     me an impression of wild neglect in which the plants had been allowed
     to find the way of Nature rather than of art. How any decent woman
     could have tolerated such a state of things, I don't know. The house,
     too, was slatternly to the last degree, but the poor man seemed
     himself to be aware of it and to be trying to remedy it, for a great
     pot of green paint stood in the centre of the hall, and he was
     carrying a thick brush in his left hand. He had been working on the
     woodwork.

     "He took me into his dingy sanctum, and we had a long chat. Of
     course, he was disappointed that you had not come yourself. 'I hardly
     expected,' he said, 'that so humble an individual as myself,
     especially after my heavy financial loss, could obtain the complete
     attention of so famous a man as Mr. Sherlock Holmes.'

     "I assured him that the financial question did not arise. 'No, of
     course, it is art for art's sake with him,' said he, 'but even on the
     artistic side of crime he might have found something here to study.
     And human nature, Dr. Watson--the black ingratitude of it all! When
     did I ever refuse one of her requests? Was ever a woman so pampered?
     And that young man--he might have been my own son. He had the run of
     my house. And yet see how they have treated me! Oh, Dr. Watson, it is
     a dreadful, dreadful world!'

     "That was the burden of his song for an hour or more. He had, it
     seems, no suspicion of an intrigue. They lived alone save for a woman
     who comes in by the day and leaves every evening at six. On that
     particular evening old Amberley, wishing to give his wife a treat,
     had taken two upper circle seats at the Haymarket Theatre. At the
     last moment she had complained of a headache and had refused to go.
     He had gone alone. There seemed to be no doubt about the fact, for he
     produced the unused ticket which he had taken for his wife."

     "That is remarkable--most remarkable," said Holmes, whose interest in
     the case seemed to be rising. "Pray continue, Watson. I find your
     narrative most arresting. Did you personally examine this ticket? You
     did not, perchance, take the number?"

     "It so happens that I did," I answered with some pride. "It chanced
     to be my old school number, thirty-one, and so is stuck in my head."

     "Excellent, Watson! His seat, then, was either thirty or thirty-two."

     "Quite so," I answered with some mystification. "And on B row."

     "That is most satisfactory. What else did he tell you?"

     "He showed me his strong-room, as he called it. It really is a
     strong-room--like a bank--with iron door and shutter--burglar-proof,
     as he claimed. However, the woman seems to have had a duplicate key,
     and between them they had carried off some seven thousand pounds'
     worth of cash and securities."

     "Securities! How could they dispose of those?"

     "He said that he had given the police a list and that he hoped they
     would be unsaleable. He had got back from the theatre about midnight
     and found the place plundered, the door and window open, and the
     fugitives gone. There was no letter or message, nor has he heard a
     word since. He at once gave the alarm to the police."

     Holmes brooded for some minutes.

     "You say he was painting. What was he painting?"

     "Well, he was painting the passage. But he had already painted the
     door and woodwork of this room I spoke of."

     "Does it not strike you as a strange occupation in the
     circumstances?"

     "'One must do something to ease an aching heart.' That was his own
     explanation. It was eccentric, no doubt, but he is clearly an
     eccentric man. He tore up one of his wife's photographs in my
     presence--tore it up furiously in a tempest of passion. 'I never wish
     to see her damned face again,' he shrieked."

     "Anything more, Watson?"

     "Yes, one thing which struck me more than anything else. I had driven
     to the Blackheath Station and had caught my train there when, just as
     it was starting, I saw a man dart into the carriage next to my own.
     You know that I have a quick eye for faces, Holmes. It was
     undoubtedly the tall, dark man whom I had addressed in the street. I
     saw him once more at London Bridge, and then I lost him in the crowd.
     But I am convinced that he was following me."

     "No doubt! No doubt!" said Holmes. "A tall, dark, heavily moustached
     man, you say, with gray-tinted sun-glasses?"

     "Holmes, you are a wizard. I did not say so, but he had gray-tinted
     sun-glasses."

     "And a Masonic tie-pin?"

     "Holmes!"

     "Quite simple, my dear Watson. But let us get down to what is
     practical. I must admit to you that the case, which seemed to me to
     be so absurdly simple as to be hardly worth my notice, is rapidly
     assuming a very different aspect. It is true that though in your
     mission you have missed everything of importance, yet even those
     things which have obtruded themselves upon your notice give rise to
     serious thought."

     "What have I missed?"

     "Don't be hurt, my dear fellow. You know that I am quite impersonal.
     No one else would have done better. Some possibly not so well. But
     clearly you have missed some vital points. What is the opinion of the
     neighbours about this man Amberley and his wife? That surely is of
     importance. What of Dr. Ernest? Was he the gay Lothario one would
     expect? With your natural advantages, Watson, every lady is your
     helper and accomplice. What about the girl at the post-office, or the
     wife of the greengrocer? I can picture you whispering soft nothings
     with the young lady at the Blue Anchor, and receiving hard somethings
     in exchange. All this you have left undone."

     "It can still be done."

     "It has been done. Thanks to the telephone and the help of the Yard,
     I can usually get my essentials without leaving this room. As a
     matter of fact, my information confirms the man's story. He has the
     local repute of being a miser as well as a harsh and exacting
     husband. That he had a large sum of money in that strong-room of his
     is certain. So also is it that young Dr. Ernest, an unmarried man,
     played chess with Amberley, and probably played the fool with his
     wife. All this seems plain sailing, and one would think that there
     was no more to be said--and yet!--and yet!"

     "Where lies the difficulty?"

     "In my imagination, perhaps. Well, leave it there, Watson. Let us
     escape from this weary workaday world by the side door of music.
     Carina sings to-night at the Albert Hall, and we still have time to
     dress, dine, and enjoy."

     In the morning I was up betimes, but some toast crumbs and two empty
     egg-shells told me that my companion was earlier still. I found a
     scribbled note upon the table.

     Dear Watson:
     There are one or two points of contact which I should wish to
     establish with Mr. Josiah Amberley. When I have done so we can
     dismiss the case--or not. I would only ask you to be on hand about
     three o'clock, as I conceive it possible that I may want you.
     S. H.

     I saw nothing of Holmes all day, but at the hour named he returned,
     grave, preoccupied, and aloof. At such times it was wiser to leave
     him to himself.

     "Has Amberley been here yet?"

     "No."

     "Ah! I am expecting him."

     He was not disappointed, for presently the old fellow arrived with a
     very worried and puzzled expression upon his austere face.

     "I've had a telegram, Mr. Holmes. I can make nothing of it." He
     handed it over, and Holmes read it aloud.

     "Come at once without fail. Can give you information as to your
     recent loss.
     "Elman.
     "The Vicarage.

     "Dispatched at 2.10 from Little Purlington," said Holmes. "Little
     Purlington is in Essex, I believe, not far from Frinton. Well, of
     course you will start at once. This is evidently from a responsible
     person, the vicar of the place. Where is my Crockford? Yes, here we
     have him: 'J. C. Elman, M. A., Living of Moosmoor cum Little
     Purlington.' Look up the trains, Watson."

     "There is one at 5.20 from Liverpool Street."

     "Excellent. You had best go with him, Watson. He may need help or
     advice. Clearly we have come to a crisis in this affair."

     But our client seemed by no means eager to start.

     "It's perfectly absurd, Mr. Holmes," he said. "What can this man
     possibly know of what has occurred? It is waste of time and money."

     "He would not have telegraphed to you if he did not know something.
     Wire at once that you are coming."

     "I don't think I shall go."

     Holmes assumed his sternest aspect.

     "It would make the worst possible impression both on the police and
     upon myself, Mr. Amberley, if when so obvious a clue arose you should
     refuse to follow it up. We should feel that you were not really in
     earnest in this investigation."

     Our client seemed horrified at the suggestion.

     "Why, of course I shall go if you look at it in that way," said he.
     "On the face of it, it seems absurd to suppose that this person knows
     anything, but if you think--"

     "I do think," said Holmes with emphasis, and so we were launched upon
     our journey. Holmes took me aside before we left the room and gave me
     one word of counsel, which showed that he considered the matter to be
     of importance. "Whatever you do, see that he really does go," said
     he. "Should he break away or return, get to the nearest telephone
     exchange and send the single word 'Bolted.' I will arrange here that
     it shall reach me wherever I am."

     Little Purlington is not an easy place to reach, for it is on a
     branch line. My remembrance of the journey is not a pleasant one, for
     the weather was hot, the train slow, and my companion sullen and
     silent, hardly talking at all save to make an occasional sardonic
     remark as to the futility of our proceedings. When we at last reached
     the little station it was a two-mile drive before we came to the
     Vicarage, where a big, solemn, rather pompous clergyman received us
     in his study. Our telegram lay before him.

     "Well, gentlemen," he asked, "what can I do for you?"

     "We came," I explained, "in answer to your wire."

     "My wire! I sent no wire."

     "I mean the wire which you sent to Mr. Josiah Amberley about his wife
     and his money."

     "If this is a joke, sir, it is a very questionable one," said the
     vicar angrily. "I have never heard of the gentleman you name, and I
     have not sent a wire to anyone."

     Our client and I looked at each other in amazement.

     "Perhaps there is some mistake," said I; "are there perhaps two
     vicarages? Here is the wire itself, signed Elman and dated from the
     Vicarage."

     "There is only one vicarage, sir, and only one vicar, and this wire
     is a scandalous forgery, the origin of which shall certainly be
     investigated by the police. Meanwhile, I can see no possible object
     in prolonging this interview."

     So Mr. Amberley and I found ourselves on the roadside in what seemed
     to me to be the most primitive village in England. We made for the
     telegraph office, but it was already closed. There was a telephone,
     however, at the little Railway Arms, and by it I got into touch with
     Holmes, who shared in our amazement at the result of our journey.

     "Most singular!" said the distant voice. "Most remarkable! I much
     fear, my dear Watson, that there is no return train to-night. I have
     unwittingly condemned you to the horrors of a country inn. However,
     there is always Nature, Watson--Nature and Josiah Amberley--you can
     be in close commune with both." I heard his dry chuckle as he turned
     away.

     It was soon apparent to me that my companion's reputation as a miser
     was not undeserved. He had grumbled at the expense of the journey,
     had insisted upon travelling third-class, and was now clamorous in
     his objections to the hotel bill. Next morning, when we did at last
     arrive in London, it was hard to say which of us was in the worse
     humour.

     "You had best take Baker Street as we pass," said I. "Mr. Holmes may
     have some fresh instructions."

     "If they are not worth more than the last ones they are not of much
     use, " said Amberley with a malevolent scowl. None the less, he kept
     me company. I had already warned Holmes by telegram of the hour of
     our arrival, but we found a message waiting that he was at Lewisham
     and would expect us there. That was a surprise, but an even greater
     one was to find that he was not alone in the sitting-room of our
     client. A stern-looking, impassive man sat beside him, a dark man
     with gray-tinted glasses and a large Masonic pin projecting from his
     tie.

     "This is my friend Mr. Barker," said Holmes. "He has been interesting
     himself also in your business, Mr. Josiah Amberley, though we have
     been working independently. But we both have the same question to ask
     you!"

     Mr. Amberley sat down heavily. He sensed impending danger. I read it
     in his straining eyes and his twitching features.

     "What is the question, Mr. Holmes?"

     "Only this: What did you do with the bodies?"

     The man sprang to his feet with a hoarse scream. He clawed into the
     air with his bony hands. His mouth was open, and for the instant he
     looked like some horrible bird of prey. In a flash we got a glimpse
     of the real Josiah Amberley, a misshapen demon with a soul as
     distorted as his body. As he fell back into his chair he clapped his
     hand to his lips as if to stifle a cough. Holmes sprang at his throat
     like a tiger and twisted his face towards the ground. A white pellet
     fell from between his gasping lips.

     "No short cuts, Josiah Amberley. Things must be done decently and in
     order. What about it, Barker?"

     "I have a cab at the door," said our taciturn companion.

     "It is only a few hundred yards to the station. We will go together.
     You can stay here, Watson. I shall be back within half an hour."

     The old colourman had the strength of a lion in that great trunk of
     his, but he was helpless in the hands of the two experienced
     man-handlers. Wriggling and twisting he was dragged to the waiting
     cab, and I was left to my solitary vigil in the ill-omened house. In
     less time than he had named, however, Holmes was back, in company
     with a smart young police inspector.

     "I've left Barker to look after the formalities," said Holmes. "You
     had not met Barker, Watson. He is my hated rival upon the Surrey
     shore. When you said a tall dark man it was not difficult for me to
     complete the picture. He has several good cases to his credit, has he
     not, Inspector?"

     "He has certainly interfered several times," the inspector answered
     with reserve.

     "His methods are irregular, no doubt, like my own. The irregulars are
     useful sometimes, you know. You, for example, with your compulsory
     warning about whatever he said being used against him, could never
     have bluffed this rascal into what is virtually a confession."

     "Perhaps not. But we get there all the same, Mr. Holmes. Don't
     imagine that we had not formed our own views of this case, and that
     we would not have laid our hands on our man. You will excuse us for
     feeling sore when you jump in with methods which we cannot use, and
     so rob us of the credit."

     "There shall be no such robbery, MacKinnon. I assure you that I
     efface myself from now onward, and as to Barker, he has done nothing
     save what I told him."

     The inspector seemed considerably relieved.

     "That is very handsome of you, Mr. Holmes. Praise or blame can matter
     little to you, but it is very different to us when the newspapers
     begin to ask questions."

     "Quite so. But they are pretty sure to ask questions anyhow, so it
     would be as well to have answers. What will you say, for example,
     when the intelligent and enterprising reporter asks you what the
     exact points were which aroused your suspicion, and finally gave you
     a certain conviction as to the real facts?"

     The inspector looked puzzled.

     "We don't seem to have got any real facts yet, Mr. Holmes. You say
     that the prisoner, in the presence of three witnesses, practically
     confessed by trying to commit suicide, that he had murdered his wife
     and her lover. What other facts have you?"

     "Have you arranged for a search?"

     "There are three constables on their way."

     "Then you will soon get the clearest fact of all. The bodies cannot
     be far away. Try the cellars and the garden. It should not take long
     to dig up the likely places. This house is older than the
     water-pipes. There must be a disused well somewhere. Try your luck
     there."

     "But how did you know of it, and how was it done?"

     "I'll show you first how it was done, and then I will give the
     explanation which is due to you, and even more to my long-suffering
     friend here, who has been invaluable throughout. But, first, I would
     give you an insight into this man's mentality. It is a very unusual
     one--so much so that I think his destination is more likely to be
     Broadmoor than the scaffold. He has, to a high degree, the sort of
     mind which one associates with the mediaeval Italian nature rather
     than with the modern Briton. He was a miserable miser who made his
     wife so wretched by his niggardly ways that she was a ready prey for
     any adventurer. Such a one came upon the scene in the person of this
     chess-playing doctor. Amberley excelled at chess--one mark, Watson,
     of a scheming mind. Like all misers, he was a jealous man, and his
     jealousy became a frantic mania. Rightly or wrongly, he suspected an
     intrigue. He determined to have his revenge, and he planned it with
     diabolical cleverness. Come here!"

     Holmes led us along the passage with as much certainty as if he had
     lived in the house and halted at the open door of the strong-room.

     "Pooh! What an awful smell of paint!" cried the inspector.

     "That was our first clue," said Holmes. "You can thank Dr. Watson's
     observation for that, though he failed to draw the inference. It set
     my foot upon the trail. Why should this man at such a time be filling
     his house with strong odours? Obviously, to cover some other smell
     which he wished to conceal--some guilty smell which would suggest
     suspicions. Then came the idea of a room such as you see here with
     iron door and shutter--a hermetically sealed room. Put those two
     facts together, and whither do they lead? I could only determine that
     by examining the house myself. I was already certain that the case
     was serious, for I had examined the box-office chart at the Haymarket
     Theatre--another of Dr. Watson's bull's-eyes--and ascertained that
     neither B thirty nor thirty-two of the upper circle had been occupied
     that night. Therefore, Amberley had not been to the theatre, and his
     alibi fell to the ground. He made a bad slip when he allowed my
     astute friend to notice the number of the seat taken for his wife.
     The question now arose how I might be able to examine the house. I
     sent an agent to the most impossible village I could think of, and
     summoned my man to it at such an hour that he could not possibly get
     back. To prevent any miscarriage, Dr. Watson accompanied him. The
     good vicar's name I took, of course, out of my Crockford. Do I make
     it all clear to you?"

     "It is masterly," said the inspector in an awed voice.

     "There being no fear of interruption I proceeded to burgle the house.
     Burglary has always been an alternative profession had I cared to
     adopt it, and I have little doubt that I should have come to the
     front. Observe what I found. You see the gas-pipe along the skirting
     here. Very good. It rises in the angle of the wall, and there is a
     tap here in the corner. The pipe runs out into the strong-room, as
     you can see, and ends in that plaster rose in the centre of the
     ceiling, where it is concealed by the ornamentation. That end is wide
     open. At any moment by turning the outside tap the room could be
     flooded with gas. With door and shutter closed and the tap full on I
     would not give two minutes of conscious sensation to anyone shut up
     in that little chamber. By what devilish device he decoyed them there
     I do not know, but once inside the door they were at his mercy."

     The inspector examined the pipe with interest. "One of our officers
     mentioned the smell of gas," said he, "but of course the window and
     door were open then, and the paint--or some of it--was already about.
     He had begun the work of painting the day before, according to his
     story. But what next, Mr. Holmes?"

     "Well, then came an incident which was rather unexpected to myself. I
     was slipping through the pantry window in the early dawn when I felt
     a hand inside my collar, and a voice said: 'Now, you rascal, what are
     you doing in there?' When I could twist my head round I looked into
     the tinted spectacles of my friend and rival, Mr. Barker. It was a
     curious foregathering and set us both smiling. It seems that he had
     been engaged by Dr. Ray Ernest's family to make some investigations
     and had come to the same conclusion as to foul play. He had watched
     the house for some days and had spotted Dr. Watson as one of the
     obviously suspicious characters who had called there. He could hardly
     arrest Watson, but when he saw a man actually climbing out of the
     pantry window there came a limit to his restraint. Of course, I told
     him how matters stood and we continued the case together."

     "Why him? Why not us?"

     "Because it was in my mind to put that little test which answered so
     admirably. I fear you would not have gone so far."

     The inspector smiled.

     "Well, maybe not. I understand that I have your word, Mr. Holmes,
     that you step right out of the case now and that you turn all your
     results over to us."

     "Certainly, that is always my custom."

     "Well, in the name of the force I thank you. It seems a clear case,
     as you put it, and there can't be much difficulty over the bodies."

     "I'll show you a grim little bit of evidence," said Holmes, "and I am
     sure Amberley himself never observed it. You'll get results,
     Inspector, by always putting yourself in the other fellow's place,
     and thinking what you would do yourself. It takes some imagination,
     but it pays. Now, we will suppose that you were shut up in this
     little room, had not two minutes to live, but wanted to get even with
     the fiend who was probably mocking at you from the other side of the
     door. What would you do?"

     "Write a message."

     "Exactly. You would like to tell people how you died. No use writing
     on paper. That would be seen. If you wrote on the wall someone might
     rest upon it. Now, look here! Just above the skirting is scribbled
     with a purple indelible pencil: 'We we--' That's all."

     "What do you make of that?"

     "Well, it's only a foot above the ground. The poor devil was on the
     floor dying when he wrote it. He lost his senses before he could
     finish."

     "He was writing, 'We were murdered.'"

     "That's how I read it. If you find an indelible pencil on the body--"

     "We'll look out for it, you may be sure. But those securities?
     Clearly there was no robbery at all. And yet he did possess those
     bonds. We verified that."

     "You may be sure he has them hidden in a safe place. When the whole
     elopement had passed into history, he would suddenly discover them
     and announce that the guilty couple had relented and sent back the
     plunder or had dropped it on the way."

     "You certainly seem to have met every difficulty," said the
     inspector. "Of course, he was bound to call us in, but why he should
     have gone to you I can't understand."

     "Pure swank!" Holmes answered. "He felt so clever and so sure of
     himself that he imagined no one could touch him. He could say to any
     suspicious neighbour, 'Look at the steps I have taken. I have
     consulted not only the police but even Sherlock Holmes.'"

     The inspector laughed.

     "We must forgive you your 'even,' Mr. Holmes," said he, "it's as
     workmanlike a job as I can remember."

     A couple of days later my friend tossed across to me a copy of the
     bi-weekly North Surrey Observer. Under a series of flaming headlines,
     which began with "The Haven Horror" and ended with "Brilliant Police
     Investigation," there was a packed column of print which gave the
     first consecutive account of the affair. The concluding paragraph is
     typical of the whole. It ran thus:

     The remarkable acumen by which Inspector MacKinnon deduced from the
     smell of paint that some other smell, that of gas, for example, might
     be concealed; the bold deduction that the strong-room might also be
     the death-chamber, and the subsequent inquiry which led to the
     discovery of the bodies in a disused well, cleverly concealed by a
     dog-kennel, should live in the history of crime as a standing example
     of the intelligence of our professional detectives.

     "Well, well, MacKinnon is a good fellow," said Holmes with a tolerant
     smile. "You can file it in our archives, Watson. Some day the true
     story may be told."
