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THE MEMOIRS OF SHERLOCK HOLMES



by Arthur Conan Doyle



Contents


   I. Silver Blaze
   II. The Adventure of the Cardboard Box
   III. The Yellow Face
   IV. The Stockbroker’s Clerk
   V. The “Gloria Scott”
   VI. The Musgrave Ritual
   VII. The Reigate Squires
   VIII. The Crooked Man
   IX. The Resident Patient
   X. The Greek Interpreter
   XI. The Naval Treaty
   XII. The Final Problem




I. 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 favourite 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 co-operation.”

      “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 Isonomy 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 favourite for the Wessex Cup, the
      betting being three to one on him. He has always, however, been a
      prime favourite 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 favourite. The trainer, John Straker, is a retired
      jockey who rode in Colonel Ross’s colours 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
      grey 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 favourite’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 neighbouring moors were visible, they
      not only could see no signs of the missing favourite, 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 recognised 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 favourite.

      “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
      favourite, 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 it 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 favour 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 recognise 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 favourite. 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 favourite. 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 grey-tiled
      out-building. In every other direction the low curves of the
      moor, bronze-coloured 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 his
      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. briar-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
      aluminium 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-coloured 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 strangers
      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 parlour?”

      “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 greys
      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 recognising, from the white forehead which has
      given the favourite 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, an 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 parlour.

      “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. It ran:—

      Wessex Plate. 50 sovs each h ft with 1000 sovs added for four and
      five year olds. Second, £300. Third, £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 favourite?”

      “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 colours have not
      passed.”

      “Only five have passed. This must be he.”

      As I spoke a powerful bay horse swept out from the weighing
      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 recognise 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 flavour 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
      flavour. That is unthinkable. Therefore Simpson becomes
      eliminated from the case, and our attention centres 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
      recognised 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 neighbours. 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.”




II. The Adventure of the Cardboard Box


      In choosing a few typical cases which illustrate the remarkable
      mental qualities of my friend, Sherlock Holmes, I have
      endeavoured, as far as possible, to select those which presented
      the minimum of sensationalism, while offering a fair field for
      his talents. It is, however, unfortunately impossible entirely to
      separate the sensational from the criminal, and a chronicler is
      left in the dilemma that he must either sacrifice details which
      are essential to his statement and so give a false impression of
      the problem, or he must use matter which chance, and not choice,
      has provided him with. With this short preface I shall turn to my
      notes of what proved to be a strange, though a peculiarly
      terrible, chain of events.

      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 centre 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 aside 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,” he said, “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 over 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 Holmes 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 to 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 gentleman 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 driver 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 our 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 has
      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 sailmakers 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.

      “Of course I at once saw the enormous importance of the
      observation. It was evident that the victim was a blood relation
      and probably a very close one. I began to talk to her about her
      family, and you remember that she at once gave us some
      exceedingly valuable details.

      “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
      calls 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 to-morrow 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 Aldridge, 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 last 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.”




III. 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
      reputation—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 Affair of the Second Stain and that which I am
      now 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. Halloa! That’s not your pipe on the table.
      He must have left his behind him. A nice old briar 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-grey 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 neighbourly
      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 colour 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 neighbour 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 neighbours. 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 colour, 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 it 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-by; 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 endeavours 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 endeavour 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
      neighbours 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 is 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 cosey, 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, and 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 neighbour, 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 neighbourhood. 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.”




IV. The Stockbroker’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 neighbour’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 your 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 neighbour, rushed
      upstairs to explain the matter to my wife, and joined Holmes upon
      the door-step.

      “Your neighbour 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 moustache. 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 _outré_ 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, of Drapers’
      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’, the great
      stockbroking firm in Lombard Street. I daresay 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 to-night. 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 deserts. 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
      £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 daresay 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 he 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 depôt 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 labours.’ 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 stockbroker’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 doorway.

      “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 recognise 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 this 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 came 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-coloured 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. Some one 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 much 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’. 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 than 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 utilised 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 Pollock 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
      other mines and 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.”




V. 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-grey 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 endeavoured 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 humour. Now he sat
      forward in this armchair 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 travelled 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 forelock. ‘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 apologising 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
      daresay.”

      “‘“You’re not going away in an unkind spirit, Hudson, I hope,”
      said my father, with a tameness which made 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 postmark. 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 Fordingbridge? Then I remembered that
      Fordingbridge 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 grey 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 daresay 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.
      15º 20’, W. long. 25º 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 on to 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 surmised 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 honour, 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 barque _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 gaol-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 snowstorm. I was glad, then, to find that he was my
      neighbour, 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.

      “‘“Hallao, 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 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 neighbour 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 it 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 lieutenant 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! Prendergast 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 Prendergast 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 bloodthirsty doings, and we saw that there
      would be worse before it was done. We were given a suit of
      sailors’ 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. 15º N. and long 25º W., 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 foreyard 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 barque 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 barque 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 it 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 travelled, 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 recognised 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 sympathise 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 heartbroken 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.”




VI. 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 humours,
      would sit in an armchair 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 _recherché_.”

      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 recognised 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
      birthplace 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 grey 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 schoolmaster 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 housemaid; but he has thrown her over
      since then and taken up with Janet Tregellis, the daughter of the
      head gamekeeper. 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 _café 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 armchair, 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 discoloured metal and several dull-coloured 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 endeavoured 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
      yours 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.’

      “‘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 than 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 stonework 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 storehouse 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.’

      “‘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 dog-cart, 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 grey
      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 endeavoured 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
      recognised that distorted liver-coloured 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 questions 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 _débris_ 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.”




VII. 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 labours 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 outmanœuvred 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 armoury of fire-arms.

      “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 petty 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.
scrap of paper

      “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 colour, 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. 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 burglar 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 burglar—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 pounds 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 humour 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.

      “Halloa!” 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 of 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 disillusionize 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
      has 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 recognise, 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 observe 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 recognise 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 tend 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 endeavoured 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 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 blackmail
      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.
piece of paper

     If you will only come round at quarter to twelve
     to the east gate you will learn what
     will very much surprise you and maybe
     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.”




VIII. 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 to-night?”

      “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
      neighbour, 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 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 Mallows, 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 Mallows 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 colour-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 soldier 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 gayeties 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 Mallows (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 housemaid, 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 armchair, 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-humour 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
      footmarks: 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 footmarks of some
      small animal. It had five well-marked footpads, 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 overheard. 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
      Morrison, 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 blonde 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 his 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 grey, 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 indescribable
      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 my 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 colour-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 Nepaul 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 Punjab, 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-by,
      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.”




IX. The Resident Patient


      In glancing over the somewhat incoherent series of memoirs with
      which I have endeavoured 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.

      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 the 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. Holmes had shaken off his temporary
      ill-humour, and 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 colour 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, then, 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 commonplace—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 harmonised 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
      had 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
      armchair, 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 colour, 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 you, 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
      improbable, 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 a 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 caretaker, 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 remarkably 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.




X. 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
      armchair, 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 solutions, 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 grey, 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 neighbour 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 _bonâ-fide_
      country was more than I could possibly venture to say.

      “There was a coloured 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 armour 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
      enables 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 doorway 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 grey, 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 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 armchair.

      “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 terrorise 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 recognise 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
      endeavoured 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.




XI. 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 Dubuque 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,
      finished 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 honour 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 schoolfellow,
      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
      armchair 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 daresay 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 23rd 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 grey roll of paper from his bureau,
      ‘is the original of that secret treaty between England and Italy
      of which, I regret to say, some rumours 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 commissionnaire 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 commissionnaire’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 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
      commissionnaire’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.”

rough chart

      “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 commissionnaire 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 stairs 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 recognised 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 commissionnaire, 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 neighbouring 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 commissionnaire; ‘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 commissionnaire; ‘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
      commissionnaire’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
      commissionnaire’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
      recognising 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, endeavouring 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
      commissionnaire 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 honour 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 commissionnaire?”

      “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 colour 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 daresay 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-coloured 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-humour. “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 whoever 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 honourable 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:

      “£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 23rd. 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 probable 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 commissionnaire, 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 her 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 her, 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 grey, 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 resoled. 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 travelled 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 honour?”

      “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 chosen 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 manœuvres 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 a 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 schoolfellows, 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 endeavoured 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 endeavour 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-grey paper. He caught it up, devoured it with
      his eyes, and then danced madly about the room, pressing it to
      his bosom and shrieking out in his delight. Then he fell back
      into an armchair 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 honour.”

      “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 co-operation you would not have that paper
      in your 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 servants’ 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 neighbourhood 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
      commissionnaire 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.”




XII. 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 endeavoured 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 Genève_ on May 6th, 1891, the Reuter’s despatch
      in the English papers on May 7th, and finally the recent letter
      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 the 24th of April. 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 recognise 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 apologise 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
      appearances, 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 rumours 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
      endeavoured 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 centre 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 threshhold. 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 than 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 recognised
      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
      23rd 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 will 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 midday 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 daresay, working out problems upon
      a blackboard 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
      neighbour. 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
      endeavouring 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 recognise 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 depôt. 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 points. “There are limits, you see, to our
      friend’s intelligence. It would have been a _coup-de-maître_ 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 Strasburg
      _salle-à-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 3rd 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 4th 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 détour 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 clamour. 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 favour, 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 a precise, and
      the writing as firm and clear, as though it had been written in
      his study.

      “My dear Watson,” he 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 caldron 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 endeavoured 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.