The Return of Sherlock Holmes

THE ADVENTURE OF THE EMPTY HOUSE

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which was only withdrawn upon the third of last month.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I acknowledged that I was.

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

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

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

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

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

I gripped him by the arms.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You’ll come with me to-night?”

“When you like and where you like.”

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

“You never were in it?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“But why are we here?”

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

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

“Well?” said he.

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

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

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

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

“But why?”

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

“And you thought the rooms were watched?”

“I knew that they were watched.”

“By whom?”

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

“How do you know?”

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

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

“The shadow has moved!” I cried.

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

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

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

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

“That you, Lestrade?” said Holmes.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Colonel Moran turned to the official detective.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Got him! Got whom, Mr. Holmes?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“No, I have not.”

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

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

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

He handed over the book, and I read:

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

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

The second most dangerous man in London.

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

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

“It is surely rather fanciful.”

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

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

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

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

“You have formed one, then?”

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

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

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

THE ADVENTURE OF THE NORWOOD BUILDER

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Mr. John Hector McFarlane?” said Lestrade.

Our unfortunate client rose with a ghastly face.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Exactly,” said McFarlane.

“Pray proceed.”

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

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

“Was the blind down?” asked Holmes.

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

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

“Not until I have been to Blackheath.”

“You mean to Norwood,” said Lestrade.

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

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

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

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

The official looked at them with a puzzled expression.

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

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

“Well, what do you make of it?”

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

Lestrade began to laugh.

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

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

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

“Oh, you think so?”

“Don’t you?”

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

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

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

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

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

“Why should the tramp burn the body?”

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

“To hide some evidence.”

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

“And why did the tramp take nothing?”

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

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

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

My friend seemed struck by this remark.

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

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

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

“And why not Norwood?”

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

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

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

“Did you go to Blackheath?”

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

“‘You knew him at that time?’ said I.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“It is true.”

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

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

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

It was from Norwood, and ran as follows:

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

“This sounds serious,” said I.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Lestrade laughed loudly.

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

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

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

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

“Yes, I am doing so.”

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

“I have heard something of the kind.”

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

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

“That is final,” said Lestrade.

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

“It is final,” said Holmes.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Where was the night constable?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“It is unquestionably the mark of his thumb.”

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

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

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

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

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

“Indeed, Holmes! What is it?”

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

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

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

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

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

“So I am.”

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

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

“What do you mean, Mr. Holmes?”

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

“Can you produce him?”

“I think I can.”

“Then do so.”

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

“There are three within call.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Fire!” we all yelled.

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

“Fire!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I have done no harm.”

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

The wretched creature began to whimper.

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

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

Holmes smiled, and clapped Lestrade upon the shoulder.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“But how?”

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

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

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

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

“Well, that’s likely enough.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Holmes smiled indulgently.

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

THE ADVENTURE OF THE DANCING MEN

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I am.”

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

“Why?”

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

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

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

“I see no connection.”

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

“How absurdly simple!” I cried.

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

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

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

“Oh, that’s your idea!”

“What else should it be?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Hilton Cubitt shook his massive head.

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

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

“No.”

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

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

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

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

“You had better stay here, Watson.”

“Why?”

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

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

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

“Has she said anything yet?”

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

“But you have found out something for yourself?”

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

“What, the man who draws them?”

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

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

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

Holmes rubbed his hands and chuckled with delight.

“Our material is rapidly accumulating,” said he.

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

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

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

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

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

“Have you that fresh drawing?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

A look of annoyance passed over Holmes’s face.

“What makes you think such a thing?”

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

Holmes’s brow was dark with anxiety.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Has he been moved?” asked Holmes.

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

“How long have you been here, Doctor?”

“Since four o’clock.”

“Anyone else?”

“Yes, the constable here.”

“And you have touched nothing?”

“Nothing.”

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

“The housemaid, Saunders.”

“Was it she who gave the alarm?”

“She and Mrs. King, the cook.”

“Where are they now?”

“In the kitchen, I believe.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Because I looked for it.”

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

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

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

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

“How do you prove that?”

“Because the candle was not guttered.”

“Capital!” cried the inspector. “Capital!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I am sure I couldn’t say, sir.”

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

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

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

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

“Whom do you suspect?” he asked.

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

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

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

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

“Is it a lonely farm?”

“Very lonely, sir.”

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

“Maybe not, sir.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

.M .ERE ..E SL.NE.

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

AM HERE A.E SLANE.

Or, filling in the obvious vacancies in the name:

AM HERE ABE SLANEY.

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

A. ELRI. ES.

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

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

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

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

ELSIE .RE.ARE TO MEET THY GO.

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

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

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

“How do you know?”

“To fly would be a confession of guilt.”

“Then let us go arrest him.”

“I expect him here every instant.”

“But why should he come?”

“Because I have written and asked him.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I wrote it, to bring you here.”

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

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

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

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

Slaney shrugged his shoulders.

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

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

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

“It is time for us to go.”

“Can I see her first?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

THE ADVENTURE OF THE SOLITARY CYCLIST

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Yes, Mr. Holmes, I teach music.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Last December—four months ago.”

“Pray proceed.”

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

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

The young lady blushed and laughed.

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

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

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

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

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

“Two or three minutes.”

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

“None.”

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

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

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

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

Holmes sat in silence for some little time.

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

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

“He would not pay you a surprise visit?”

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

“Have you had any other admirers?”

“Several before I knew Cyril.”

“And since?”

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

“No one else?”

Our fair client seemed a little confused.

“Who was he?” asked Holmes.

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

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

“He is a rich man.”

“No carriages or horses?”

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

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

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

“That he should appear only at that point?”

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

“You will go down?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I begged him to tell me what had occurred.

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

The Thursday brought us another letter from our client.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“That’s the man!” I gasped.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“They’re married!” I gasped.

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

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

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

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

“You’re too late. She’s my wife.”

“No, she’s your widow.”

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

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

“Who are you, then?”

“My name is Sherlock Holmes.”

“Good Lord!”

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

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

“He will live,” said I.

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

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

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

“And also unfrocked.”

“Once a clergyman, always a clergyman.”

“I think not. How about the license?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What cable?”

Carruthers took a telegram from his pocket.

“That’s it,” said he.

It was short and concise:

The old man is dead.

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

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

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

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

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

“What he says is true,” said Carruthers.

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

Carruthers nodded and Williamson swore.

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

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

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

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

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

“No, by George, I couldn’t!”

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

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

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

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

THE ADVENTURE OF THE PRIORY SCHOOL

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

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

“What is it, Watson?” asked Holmes.

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

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

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

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

“When you are quite restored——”

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

My friend shook his head.

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

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

“What! the late Cabinet Minister?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“But there has been some official investigation?”

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

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

“It was entirely dropped.”

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

“I feel it and admit it.”

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

“None at all.”

“Was he in the master’s class?”

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

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

“No.”

“Was any other bicycle missing?”

“No.”

“Is that certain?”

“Quite.”

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

“Certainly not.”

“Then what is the theory in your mind?”

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

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

“Several.”

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

“I suppose he would.”

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

“No.”

“Did he get any letters?”

“Yes, one letter.”

“From whom?”

“From his father.”

“Do you open the boys’ letters?”

“No.”

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

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

“When had he a letter before that?”

“Not for several days.”

“Had he ever one from France?”

“No, never.

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

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

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

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

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

“Yes.”

“Did he say so?”

“No.”

“The Duke, then?”

“Good Heavens, no!”

“Then how could you know?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“But surely, Mr. Wilder——”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“No, sir, I have not.”

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

The great minister showed perceptible hesitation.

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

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

“No, sir.”

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

“No, I wrote upon the day before.”

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

“Yes.”

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

“No, sir, certainly not.”

“Did you post that letter yourself?”

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

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

“You are sure this one was among them?”

“Yes, I observed it.”

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

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

“Not entirely,” said Holmes.

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

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

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

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

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

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

HOLMES’ MAP OF THE NEIGHBOURHOOD OF THE SCHOOL.

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

“Exactly.”

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

“But the bicycle?” I objected.

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

“But the bicycle?” I persisted.

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

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

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

“Where was it found?”

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

“How do they account for it?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Hurrah!” I cried. “We have it.”

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

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

“The boy’s, then?”

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

“Or towards it?”

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

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

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

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

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

“I congratulate you.”

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

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

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

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

“A side-slip,” I suggested.

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

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

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

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

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

“I could take a note back.”

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

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

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

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

I assented.

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

“Undoubtedly.”

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

“So it would seem.”

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

“The other bicycle.”

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

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

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

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

“In a morass, Watson?”

“I am at my wits’ end.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“No, I have not.”

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

“Don’t put it to the ground.”

“But I can’t walk.”

“Well, then hop.”

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

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

“Neither do I,” said the morose landlord.

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

The landlord pricked up his ears.

“Where do you want to go?”

“To Holdernesse Hall.”

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

Holmes laughed good-naturedly.

“He’ll be glad to see us, anyhow.”

“Why?”

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

The landlord gave a very visible start.

“What, you’re on his track?”

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

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

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

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

“I haven’t got a bicycle.”

Holmes held up a sovereign.

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

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

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

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

“Yes, several.”

“Where?”

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

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

“I don’t remember seeing any.”

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

“Yes, it is strange.”

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

“Yes, I can.”

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

“No, I cannot.”

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

“And what is your conclusion?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“It looks like a flight.”

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

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

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

“The bar is on the other side.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I must see the Duke, Mr. Wilder.”

“But he is in his room.”

“Then I must go to his room.”

“I believe he is in his bed.”

“I will see him there.”

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

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

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

“Well, Mr. Holmes?” said he.

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

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

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

“If your Grace wishes——”

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

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

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

“Certainly, Mr. Holmes.”

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

“Exactly.”

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

“Exactly.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What do you mean, then?”

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

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

“Where is he?” he gasped.

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

The Duke fell back in his chair.

“And whom do you accuse?”

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

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

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

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

“I saw you together last night.”

“Does anyone else beside your friend know?”

“I have spoken to no one.”

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

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

“I hardly understand your Grace.”

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

But Holmes smiled and shook his head.

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

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

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

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

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

“No, the murderer has escaped.”

Sherlock Holmes smiled demurely.

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

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

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

“Your secretary?”

“No, sir, my son.”

It was Holmes’s turn to look astonished.

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Duke bowed his assent.

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

“Under solemn promises——”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“And the first?”

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

THE ADVENTURE OF BLACK PETER

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

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

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

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

“I drove to the butcher’s and back.”

“The butcher’s?”

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

“I will not attempt it.”

He chuckled as he poured out the coffee.

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

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

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

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

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

“And what had you to report?”

“Failure, sir, absolute failure.”

“You have made no progress?”

“None.”

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

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

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

Hopkins looked surprised.

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

“But he had no pipe.”

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

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

Stanley Hopkins drew a slip of paper from his pocket.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Meaning that you saw none?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What part of the table?”

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

“Excellent! What more?”

Stanley Hopkins drew from his pocket a drab-covered notebook. The outside
was rough and worn, the leaves discoloured. On the first page were written
the initials “J.H.N.” and the date “1883.” Holmes laid it on the table and
examined it in his minute way, while Hopkins and I gazed over each
shoulder. On the second page were the printed letters “C.P.R.,” and then
came several sheets of numbers. Another heading was “Argentine,” another
“Costa Rica,” and another “San Paulo,” each with pages of signs and
figures after it.

“What do you make of these?” asked Holmes.

“They appear to be lists of Stock Exchange securities. I thought that
‘J.H.N.’ were the initials of a broker, and that ‘C.P.R.’ may have been
his client.”

“Try Canadian Pacific Railway,” said Holmes.

Stanley Hopkins swore between his teeth, and struck his thigh with his
clenched hand.

“What a fool I have been!” he cried. “Of course, it is as you say. Then
‘J.H.N.’ are the only initials we have to solve. I have already examined
the old Stock Exchange lists, and I can find no one in 1883, either in the
house or among the outside brokers, whose initials correspond with these.
Yet I feel that the clue is the most important one that I hold. You will
admit, Mr. Holmes, that there is a possibility that these initials are
those of the second person who was present—in other words, of the
murderer. I would also urge that the introduction into the case of a
document relating to large masses of valuable securities gives us for the
first time some indication of a motive for the crime.”

Sherlock Holmes’s face showed that he was thoroughly taken aback by this
new development.

“I must admit both your points,” said he. “I confess that this notebook,
which did not appear at the inquest, modifies any views which I may have
formed. I had come to a theory of the crime in which I can find no place
for this. Have you endeavoured to trace any of the securities here
mentioned?”

“Inquiries are now being made at the offices, but I fear that the complete
register of the stockholders of these South American concerns is in South
America, and that some weeks must elapse before we can trace the shares.”

Holmes had been examining the cover of the notebook with his magnifying
lens.

“Surely there is some discolouration here,” said he.

“Yes, sir, it is a blood-stain. I told you that I picked the book off the
floor.”

“Was the blood-stain above or below?”

“On the side next the boards.”

“Which proves, of course, that the book was dropped after the crime was
committed.”

“Exactly, Mr. Holmes. I appreciated that point, and I conjectured that it
was dropped by the murderer in his hurried flight. It lay near the door.”

“I suppose that none of these securities have been found among the
property of the dead man?”

“No, sir.”

“Have you any reason to suspect robbery?”

“No, sir. Nothing seemed to have been touched.”

“Dear me, it is certainly a very interesting case. Then there was a knife,
was there not?”

“A sheath-knife, still in its sheath. It lay at the feet of the dead man.
Mrs. Carey has identified it as being her husband’s property.”

Holmes was lost in thought for some time.

“Well,” said he, at last, “I suppose I shall have to come out and have a
look at it.”

Stanley Hopkins gave a cry of joy.

“Thank you, sir. That will, indeed, be a weight off my mind.”

Holmes shook his finger at the inspector.

“It would have been an easier task a week ago,” said he. “But even now my
visit may not be entirely fruitless. Watson, if you can spare the time, I
should be very glad of your company. If you will call a four-wheeler,
Hopkins, we shall be ready to start for Forest Row in a quarter of an
hour.”

Alighting at the small wayside station, we drove for some miles through
the remains of widespread woods, which were once part of that great forest
which for so long held the Saxon invaders at bay—the impenetrable
“weald,” for sixty years the bulwark of Britain. Vast sections of it have
been cleared, for this is the seat of the first iron-works of the country,
and the trees have been felled to smelt the ore. Now the richer fields of
the North have absorbed the trade, and nothing save these ravaged groves
and great scars in the earth show the work of the past. Here, in a
clearing upon the green slope of a hill, stood a long, low, stone house,
approached by a curving drive running through the fields. Nearer the road,
and surrounded on three sides by bushes, was a small outhouse, one window
and the door facing in our direction. It was the scene of the murder.

Stanley Hopkins led us first to the house, where he introduced us to a
haggard, grey-haired woman, the widow of the murdered man, whose gaunt and
deep-lined face, with the furtive look of terror in the depths of her
red-rimmed eyes, told of the years of hardship and ill-usage which she had
endured. With her was her daughter, a pale, fair-haired girl, whose eyes
blazed defiantly at us as she told us that she was glad that her father
was dead, and that she blessed the hand which had struck him down. It was
a terrible household that Black Peter Carey had made for himself, and it
was with a sense of relief that we found ourselves in the sunlight again
and making our way along a path which had been worn across the fields by
the feet of the dead man.

The outhouse was the simplest of dwellings, wooden-walled, shingle-roofed,
one window beside the door and one on the farther side. Stanley Hopkins
drew the key from his pocket and had stooped to the lock, when he paused
with a look of attention and surprise upon his face.

“Someone has been tampering with it,” he said.

There could be no doubt of the fact. The woodwork was cut, and the
scratches showed white through the paint, as if they had been that instant
done. Holmes had been examining the window.

“Someone has tried to force this also. Whoever it was has failed to make
his way in. He must have been a very poor burglar.”

“This is a most extraordinary thing,” said the inspector, “I could swear
that these marks were not here yesterday evening.”

“Some curious person from the village, perhaps,” I suggested.

“Very unlikely. Few of them would dare to set foot in the grounds, far
less try to force their way into the cabin. What do you think of it, Mr.
Holmes?”

“I think that fortune is very kind to us.”

“You mean that the person will come again?”

“It is very probable. He came expecting to find the door open. He tried to
get in with the blade of a very small penknife. He could not manage it.
What would he do?”

“Come again next night with a more useful tool.”

“So I should say. It will be our fault if we are not there to receive him.
Meanwhile, let me see the inside of the cabin.”

The traces of the tragedy had been removed, but the furniture within the
little room still stood as it had been on the night of the crime. For two
hours, with most intense concentration, Holmes examined every object in
turn, but his face showed that his quest was not a successful one. Once
only he paused in his patient investigation.

“Have you taken anything off this shelf, Hopkins?”

“No, I have moved nothing.”

“Something has been taken. There is less dust in this corner of the shelf
than elsewhere. It may have been a book lying on its side. It may have
been a box. Well, well, I can do nothing more. Let us walk in these
beautiful woods, Watson, and give a few hours to the birds and the
flowers. We shall meet you here later, Hopkins, and see if we can come to
closer quarters with the gentleman who has paid this visit in the night.”

It was past eleven o’clock when we formed our little ambuscade. Hopkins
was for leaving the door of the hut open, but Holmes was of the opinion
that this would rouse the suspicions of the stranger. The lock was a
perfectly simple one, and only a strong blade was needed to push it back.
Holmes also suggested that we should wait, not inside the hut, but outside
it, among the bushes which grew round the farther window. In this way we
should be able to watch our man if he struck a light, and see what his
object was in this stealthy nocturnal visit.

It was a long and melancholy vigil, and yet brought with it something of
the thrill which the hunter feels when he lies beside the water-pool, and
waits for the coming of the thirsty beast of prey. What savage creature
was it which might steal upon us out of the darkness? Was it a fierce
tiger of crime, which could only be taken fighting hard with flashing fang
and claw, or would it prove to be some skulking jackal, dangerous only to
the weak and unguarded?

In absolute silence we crouched amongst the bushes, waiting for whatever
might come. At first the steps of a few belated villagers, or the sound of
voices from the village, lightened our vigil, but one by one these
interruptions died away, and an absolute stillness fell upon us, save for
the chimes of the distant church, which told us of the progress of the
night, and for the rustle and whisper of a fine rain falling amid the
foliage which roofed us in.

Half-past two had chimed, and it was the darkest hour which precedes the
dawn, when we all started as a low but sharp click came from the direction
of the gate. Someone had entered the drive. Again there was a long
silence, and I had begun to fear that it was a false alarm, when a
stealthy step was heard upon the other side of the hut, and a moment later
a metallic scraping and clinking. The man was trying to force the lock.
This time his skill was greater or his tool was better, for there was a
sudden snap and the creak of the hinges. Then a match was struck, and next
instant the steady light from a candle filled the interior of the hut.
Through the gauze curtain our eyes were all riveted upon the scene within.

The nocturnal visitor was a young man, frail and thin, with a black
moustache, which intensified the deadly pallor of his face. He could not
have been much above twenty years of age. I have never seen any human
being who appeared to be in such a pitiable fright, for his teeth were
visibly chattering, and he was shaking in every limb. He was dressed like
a gentleman, in Norfolk jacket and knickerbockers, with a cloth cap upon
his head. We watched him staring round with frightened eyes. Then he laid
the candle-end upon the table and disappeared from our view into one of
the corners. He returned with a large book, one of the logbooks which
formed a line upon the shelves. Leaning on the table, he rapidly turned
over the leaves of this volume until he came to the entry which he sought.
Then, with an angry gesture of his clenched hand, he closed the book,
replaced it in the corner, and put out the light. He had hardly turned to
leave the hut when Hopkin’s hand was on the fellow’s collar, and I heard
his loud gasp of terror as he understood that he was taken. The candle was
relit, and there was our wretched captive, shivering and cowering in the
grasp of the detective. He sank down upon the sea-chest, and looked
helplessly from one of us to the other.

“Now, my fine fellow,” said Stanley Hopkins, “who are you, and what do you
want here?”

The man pulled himself together, and faced us with an effort at
self-composure.

“You are detectives, I suppose?” said he. “You imagine I am connected with
the death of Captain Peter Carey. I assure you that I am innocent.”

“We’ll see about that,” said Hopkins. “First of all, what is your name?”

“It is John Hopley Neligan.”

I saw Holmes and Hopkins exchange a quick glance.

“What are you doing here?”

“Can I speak confidentially?”

“No, certainly not.”

“Why should I tell you?”

“If you have no answer, it may go badly with you at the trial.”

The young man winced.

“Well, I will tell you,” he said. “Why should I not? And yet I hate to
think of this old scandal gaining a new lease of life. Did you ever hear
of Dawson and Neligan?”

I could see, from Hopkins’s face, that he never had, but Holmes was keenly
interested.

“You mean the West Country bankers,” said he. “They failed for a million,
ruined half the county families of Cornwall, and Neligan disappeared.”

“Exactly. Neligan was my father.”

At last we were getting something positive, and yet it seemed a long gap
between an absconding banker and Captain Peter Carey pinned against the
wall with one of his own harpoons. We all listened intently to the young
man’s words.

“It was my father who was really concerned. Dawson had retired. I was only
ten years of age at the time, but I was old enough to feel the shame and
horror of it all. It has always been said that my father stole all the
securities and fled. It is not true. It was his belief that if he were
given time in which to realize them, all would be well and every creditor
paid in full. He started in his little yacht for Norway just before the
warrant was issued for his arrest. I can remember that last night when he
bade farewell to my mother. He left us a list of the securities he was
taking, and he swore that he would come back with his honour cleared, and
that none who had trusted him would suffer. Well, no word was ever heard
from him again. Both the yacht and he vanished utterly. We believed, my
mother and I, that he and it, with the securities that he had taken with
him, were at the bottom of the sea. We had a faithful friend, however, who
is a business man, and it was he who discovered some time ago that some of
the securities which my father had with him had reappeared on the London
market. You can imagine our amazement. I spent months in trying to trace
them, and at last, after many doubtings and difficulties, I discovered
that the original seller had been Captain Peter Carey, the owner of this
hut.

“Naturally, I made some inquiries about the man. I found that he had been
in command of a whaler which was due to return from the Arctic seas at the
very time when my father was crossing to Norway. The autumn of that year
was a stormy one, and there was a long succession of southerly gales. My
father’s yacht may well have been blown to the north, and there met by
Captain Peter Carey’s ship. If that were so, what had become of my father?
In any case, if I could prove from Peter Carey’s evidence how these
securities came on the market it would be a proof that my father had not
sold them, and that he had no view to personal profit when he took them.

“I came down to Sussex with the intention of seeing the captain, but it
was at this moment that his terrible death occurred. I read at the inquest
a description of his cabin, in which it stated that the old logbooks of
his vessel were preserved in it. It struck me that if I could see what
occurred in the month of August, 1883, on board the Sea Unicorn, I might
settle the mystery of my father’s fate. I tried last night to get at these
logbooks, but was unable to open the door. To-night I tried again and
succeeded, but I find that the pages which deal with that month have been
torn from the book. It was at that moment I found myself a prisoner in
your hands.”

“Is that all?” asked Hopkins.

“Yes, that is all.” His eyes shifted as he said it.

“You have nothing else to tell us?”

He hesitated.

“No, there is nothing.”

“You have not been here before last night?”

“No.

“Then how do you account for that?” cried Hopkins, as he held up the
damning notebook, with the initials of our prisoner on the first leaf and
the blood-stain on the cover.

The wretched man collapsed. He sank his face in his hands, and trembled
all over.

“Where did you get it?” he groaned. “I did not know. I thought I had lost
it at the hotel.”

“That is enough,” said Hopkins, sternly. “Whatever else you have to say,
you must say in court. You will walk down with me now to the
police-station. Well, Mr. Holmes, I am very much obliged to you and to
your friend for coming down to help me. As it turns out your presence was
unnecessary, and I would have brought the case to this successful issue
without you, but, none the less, I am grateful. Rooms have been reserved
for you at the Brambletye Hotel, so we can all walk down to the village
together.”

“Well, Watson, what do you think of it?” asked Holmes, as we travelled
back next morning.

“I can see that you are not satisfied.”

“Oh, yes, my dear Watson, I am perfectly satisfied. At the same time,
Stanley Hopkins’s methods do not commend themselves to me. I am
disappointed in Stanley Hopkins. I had hoped for better things from him.
One should always look for a possible alternative, and provide against it.
It is the first rule of criminal investigation.”

“What, then, is the alternative?”

“The line of investigation which I have myself been pursuing. It may give
us nothing. I cannot tell. But at least I shall follow it to the end.”

Several letters were waiting for Holmes at Baker Street. He snatched one
of them up, opened it, and burst out into a triumphant chuckle of
laughter.

“Excellent, Watson! The alternative develops. Have you telegraph forms?
Just write a couple of messages for me: ‘Sumner, Shipping Agent, Ratcliff
Highway. Send three men on, to arrive ten to-morrow morning.—Basil.’
That’s my name in those parts. The other is: ‘Inspector Stanley Hopkins,
46 Lord Street, Brixton. Come breakfast to-morrow at nine-thirty.
Important. Wire if unable to come.—Sherlock Holmes.’ There, Watson,
this infernal case has haunted me for ten days. I hereby banish it
completely from my presence. To-morrow, I trust that we shall hear the
last of it forever.”

Sharp at the hour named Inspector Stanley Hopkins appeared, and we sat
down together to the excellent breakfast which Mrs. Hudson had prepared.
The young detective was in high spirits at his success.

“You really think that your solution must be correct?” asked Holmes.

“I could not imagine a more complete case.”

“It did not seem to me conclusive.”

“You astonish me, Mr. Holmes. What more could one ask for?”

“Does your explanation cover every point?”

“Undoubtedly. I find that young Neligan arrived at the Brambletye Hotel on
the very day of the crime. He came on the pretence of playing golf. His
room was on the ground-floor, and he could get out when he liked. That
very night he went down to Woodman’s Lee, saw Peter Carey at the hut,
quarrelled with him, and killed him with the harpoon. Then, horrified by
what he had done, he fled out of the hut, dropping the notebook which he
had brought with him in order to question Peter Carey about these
different securities. You may have observed that some of them were marked
with ticks, and the others—the great majority—were not. Those
which are ticked have been traced on the London market, but the others,
presumably, were still in the possession of Carey, and young Neligan,
according to his own account, was anxious to recover them in order to do
the right thing by his father’s creditors. After his flight he did not
dare to approach the hut again for some time, but at last he forced
himself to do so in order to obtain the information which he needed.
Surely that is all simple and obvious?”

Holmes smiled and shook his head.

“It seems to me to have only one drawback, Hopkins, and that is
that it is intrinsically impossible. Have you tried to drive a harpoon
through a body? No? Tut, tut my dear sir, you must really pay attention
to these details. My friend Watson could tell you that I spent a whole
morning in that exercise. It is no easy matter, and requires a strong and
practised arm. But this blow was delivered with such violence that the
head of the weapon sank deep into the wall. Do you imagine that this
anæmic youth was capable of so frightful an assault? Is he the man who
hobnobbed in rum and water with Black Peter in the dead of the night? Was
it his profile that was seen on the blind two nights before? No, no,
Hopkins, it is another and more formidable person for whom we must
seek.”

The detective’s face had grown longer and longer during Holmes’s speech.
His hopes and his ambitions were all crumbling about him. But he would not
abandon his position without a struggle.

“You can’t deny that Neligan was present that night, Mr. Holmes. The book
will prove that. I fancy that I have evidence enough to satisfy a jury,
even if you are able to pick a hole in it. Besides, Mr. Holmes, I have
laid my hand upon my man. As to this terrible person of yours, where is
he?”

“I rather fancy that he is on the stair,” said Holmes, serenely. “I think,
Watson, that you would do well to put that revolver where you can reach
it.” He rose and laid a written paper upon a side-table. “Now we are
ready,” said he.

There had been some talking in gruff voices outside, and now Mrs. Hudson
opened the door to say that there were three men inquiring for Captain
Basil.

“Show them in one by one,” said Holmes.

“The first who entered was a little Ribston pippin of a man, with ruddy
cheeks and fluffy white side-whiskers. Holmes had drawn a letter from his
pocket.

“What name?” he asked.

“James Lancaster.”

“I am sorry, Lancaster, but the berth is full. Here is half a sovereign
for your trouble. Just step into this room and wait there for a few
minutes.”

The second man was a long, dried-up creature, with lank hair and sallow
cheeks. His name was Hugh Pattins. He also received his dismissal, his
half-sovereign, and the order to wait.

The third applicant was a man of remarkable appearance. A fierce bull-dog
face was framed in a tangle of hair and beard, and two bold, dark eyes
gleamed behind the cover of thick, tufted, overhung eyebrows. He saluted
and stood sailor-fashion, turning his cap round in his hands.

“Your name?” asked Holmes.

“Patrick Cairns.”

“Harpooner?”

“Yes, sir. Twenty-six voyages.”

“Dundee, I suppose?”

“Yes, sir.”

“And ready to start with an exploring ship?”

“Yes, sir.”

“What wages?”

“Eight pounds a month.”

“Could you start at once?”

“As soon as I get my kit.”

“Have you your papers?”

“Yes, sir.” He took a sheaf of worn and greasy forms from his pocket.
Holmes glanced over them and returned them.

“You are just the man I want,” said he. “Here’s the agreement on the
side-table. If you sign it the whole matter will be settled.”

The seaman lurched across the room and took up the pen.

“Shall I sign here?” he asked, stooping over the table.

Holmes leaned over his shoulder and passed both hands over his neck.

“This will do,” said he.

I heard a click of steel and a bellow like an enraged bull. The next
instant Holmes and the seaman were rolling on the ground together. He was
a man of such gigantic strength that, even with the handcuffs which Holmes
had so deftly fastened upon his wrists, he would have very quickly
overpowered my friend had Hopkins and I not rushed to his rescue. Only
when I pressed the cold muzzle of the revolver to his temple did he at
last understand that resistance was vain. We lashed his ankles with cord,
and rose breathless from the struggle.

“I must really apologize, Hopkins,” said Sherlock Holmes. “I fear that the
scrambled eggs are cold. However, you will enjoy the rest of your
breakfast all the better, will you not, for the thought that you have
brought your case to a triumphant conclusion.”

Stanley Hopkins was speechless with amazement.

“I don’t know what to say, Mr. Holmes,” he blurted out at last, with a
very red face. “It seems to me that I have been making a fool of myself
from the beginning. I understand now, what I should never have forgotten,
that I am the pupil and you are the master. Even now I see what you have
done, but I don’t know how you did it or what it signifies.”

“Well, well,” said Holmes, good-humouredly. “We all learn by experience,
and your lesson this time is that you should never lose sight of the
alternative. You were so absorbed in young Neligan that you could not
spare a thought to Patrick Cairns, the true murderer of Peter Carey.”

The hoarse voice of the seaman broke in on our conversation.

“See here, mister,” said he, “I make no complaint of being man-handled in
this fashion, but I would have you call things by their right names. You
say I murdered Peter Carey, I say I killed Peter Carey, and there’s all
the difference. Maybe you don’t believe what I say. Maybe you think I am
just slinging you a yarn.”

“Not at all,” said Holmes. “Let us hear what you have to say.”

“It’s soon told, and, by the Lord, every word of it is truth. I knew Black
Peter, and when he pulled out his knife I whipped a harpoon through him
sharp, for I knew that it was him or me. That’s how he died. You can call
it murder. Anyhow, I’d as soon die with a rope round my neck as with Black
Peter’s knife in my heart.”

“How came you there?” asked Holmes.

“I’ll tell it you from the beginning. Just sit me up a little, so as I can
speak easy. It was in ’83 that it happened—August of that year.
Peter Carey was master of the Sea Unicorn, and I was spare harpooner. We
were coming out of the ice-pack on our way home, with head winds and a
week’s southerly gale, when we picked up a little craft that had been
blown north. There was one man on her—a landsman. The crew had
thought she would founder and had made for the Norwegian coast in the
dinghy. I guess they were all drowned. Well, we took him on board, this
man, and he and the skipper had some long talks in the cabin. All the
baggage we took off with him was one tin box. So far as I know, the man’s
name was never mentioned, and on the second night he disappeared as if he
had never been. It was given out that he had either thrown himself
overboard or fallen overboard in the heavy weather that we were having.
Only one man knew what had happened to him, and that was me, for, with my
own eyes, I saw the skipper tip up his heels and put him over the rail in
the middle watch of a dark night, two days before we sighted the Shetland
Lights. Well, I kept my knowledge to myself, and waited to see what would
come of it. When we got back to Scotland it was easily hushed up, and
nobody asked any questions. A stranger died by accident and it was
nobody’s business to inquire. Shortly after Peter Carey gave up the sea,
and it was long years before I could find where he was. I guessed that he
had done the deed for the sake of what was in that tin box, and that he
could afford now to pay me well for keeping my mouth shut. I found out
where he was through a sailor man that had met him in London, and down I
went to squeeze him. The first night he was reasonable enough, and was
ready to give me what would make me free of the sea for life. We were to
fix it all two nights later. When I came, I found him three parts drunk
and in a vile temper. We sat down and we drank and we yarned about old
times, but the more he drank the less I liked the look on his face. I
spotted that harpoon upon the wall, and I thought I might need it before I
was through. Then at last he broke out at me, spitting and cursing, with
murder in his eyes and a great clasp-knife in his hand. He had not time to
get it from the sheath before I had the harpoon through him. Heavens! what
a yell he gave! and his face gets between me and my sleep. I stood there,
with his blood splashing round me, and I waited for a bit, but all was
quiet, so I took heart once more. I looked round, and there was the tin
box on the shelf. I had as much right to it as Peter Carey, anyhow, so I
took it with me and left the hut. Like a fool I left my baccy-pouch upon
the table.

“Now I’ll tell you the queerest part of the whole story. I had hardly got
outside the hut when I heard someone coming, and I hid among the bushes. A
man came slinking along, went into the hut, gave a cry as if he had seen a
ghost, and legged it as hard as he could run until he was out of sight.
Who he was or what he wanted is more than I can tell. For my part I walked
ten miles, got a train at Tunbridge Wells, and so reached London, and no
one the wiser.

“Well, when I came to examine the box I found there was no money in it,
and nothing but papers that I would not dare to sell. I had lost my hold
on Black Peter and was stranded in London without a shilling. There was
only my trade left. I saw these advertisements about harpooners, and high
wages, so I went to the shipping agents, and they sent me here. That’s all
I know, and I say again that if I killed Black Peter, the law should give
me thanks, for I saved them the price of a hempen rope.”

“A very clear statement said Holmes,” rising and lighting his pipe. “I
think, Hopkins, that you should lose no time in conveying your prisoner to
a place of safety. This room is not well adapted for a cell, and Mr.
Patrick Cairns occupies too large a proportion of our carpet.”

“Mr. Holmes,” said Hopkins, “I do not know how to express my gratitude.
Even now I do not understand how you attained this result.”

“Simply by having the good fortune to get the right clue from the
beginning. It is very possible if I had known about this notebook it might
have led away my thoughts, as it did yours. But all I heard pointed in the
one direction. The amazing strength, the skill in the use of the harpoon,
the rum and water, the sealskin tobacco-pouch with the coarse tobacco—all
these pointed to a seaman, and one who had been a whaler. I was convinced
that the initials ‘P.C.’ upon the pouch were a coincidence, and not those
of Peter Carey, since he seldom smoked, and no pipe was found in his
cabin. You remember that I asked whether whisky and brandy were in the
cabin. You said they were. How many landsmen are there who would drink rum
when they could get these other spirits? Yes, I was certain it was a
seaman.”

“And how did you find him?”

“My dear sir, the problem had become a very simple one. If it were a
seaman, it could only be a seaman who had been with him on the Sea
Unicorn. So far as I could learn he had sailed in no other ship. I spent
three days in wiring to Dundee, and at the end of that time I had
ascertained the names of the crew of the Sea Unicorn in 1883. When I found
Patrick Cairns among the harpooners, my research was nearing its end. I
argued that the man was probably in London, and that he would desire to
leave the country for a time. I therefore spent some days in the East End,
devised an Arctic expedition, put forth tempting terms for harpooners who
would serve under Captain Basil—and behold the result!”

“Wonderful!” cried Hopkins. “Wonderful!”

“You must obtain the release of young Neligan as soon as possible,” said
Holmes. “I confess that I think you owe him some apology. The tin box must
be returned to him, but, of course, the securities which Peter Carey has
sold are lost forever. There’s the cab, Hopkins, and you can remove your
man. If you want me for the trial, my address and that of Watson will be
somewhere in Norway—I’ll send particulars later.”

THE ADVENTURE OF CHARLES AUGUSTUS MILVERTON

It is years since the incidents of which I speak took place, and yet it is
with diffidence that I allude to them. For a long time, even with the
utmost discretion and reticence, it would have been impossible to make the
facts public, but now the principal person concerned is beyond the reach
of human law, and with due suppression the story may be told in such
fashion as to injure no one. It records an absolutely unique experience in
the career both of Mr. Sherlock Holmes and of myself. The reader will
excuse me if I conceal the date or any other fact by which he might trace
the actual occurrence.

We had been out for one of our evening rambles, Holmes and I, and had
returned about six o’clock on a cold, frosty winter’s evening. As Holmes
turned up the lamp the light fell upon a card on the table. He glanced at
it, and then, with an ejaculation of disgust, threw it on the floor. I
picked it up and read:

CHARLES AUGUSTUS MILVERTON,
Appledore Towers,
Hampstead.

Agent.

“Who is he?” I asked.

“The worst man in London,” Holmes answered, as he sat down and stretched
his legs before the fire. “Is anything on the back of the card?”

I turned it over.

“Will call at 6:30—C.A.M.,” I read.

“Hum! He’s about due. Do you feel a creeping, shrinking sensation, Watson,
when you stand before the serpents in the Zoo, and see the slithery,
gliding, venomous creatures, with their deadly eyes and wicked, flattened
faces? Well, that’s how Milverton impresses me. I’ve had to do with fifty
murderers in my career, but the worst of them never gave me the repulsion
which I have for this fellow. And yet I can’t get out of doing business
with him—indeed, he is here at my invitation.”

“But who is he?”

“I’ll tell you, Watson. He is the king of all the blackmailers. Heaven
help the man, and still more the woman, whose secret and reputation come
into the power of Milverton! With a smiling face and a heart of marble, he
will squeeze and squeeze until he has drained them dry. The fellow is a
genius in his way, and would have made his mark in some more savoury
trade. His method is as follows: He allows it to be known that he is
prepared to pay very high sums for letters which compromise people of
wealth and position. He receives these wares not only from treacherous
valets or maids, but frequently from genteel ruffians, who have gained the
confidence and affection of trusting women. He deals with no niggard hand.
I happen to know that he paid seven hundred pounds to a footman for a note
two lines in length, and that the ruin of a noble family was the result.
Everything which is in the market goes to Milverton, and there are
hundreds in this great city who turn white at his name. No one knows where
his grip may fall, for he is far too rich and far too cunning to work from
hand to mouth. He will hold a card back for years in order to play it at
the moment when the stake is best worth winning. I have said that he is
the worst man in London, and I would ask you how could one compare the
ruffian, who in hot blood bludgeons his mate, with this man, who
methodically and at his leisure tortures the soul and wrings the nerves in
order to add to his already swollen money-bags?”

I had seldom heard my friend speak with such intensity of feeling.

“But surely,” said I, “the fellow must be within the grasp of the law?”

“Technically, no doubt, but practically not. What would it profit a woman,
for example, to get him a few months’ imprisonment if her own ruin must
immediately follow? His victims dare not hit back. If ever he blackmailed
an innocent person, then indeed we should have him, but he is as cunning
as the Evil One. No, no, we must find other ways to fight him.”

“And why is he here?”

“Because an illustrious client has placed her piteous case in my hands. It
is the Lady Eva Blackwell, the most beautiful débutante of last season.
She is to be married in a fortnight to the Earl of Dovercourt. This fiend
has several imprudent letters—imprudent, Watson, nothing worse—which
were written to an impecunious young squire in the country. They would
suffice to break off the match. Milverton will send the letters to the
Earl unless a large sum of money is paid him. I have been commissioned to
meet him, and—to make the best terms I can.”

At that instant there was a clatter and a rattle in the street below.
Looking down I saw a stately carriage and pair, the brilliant lamps
gleaming on the glossy haunches of the noble chestnuts. A footman opened
the door, and a small, stout man in a shaggy astrakhan overcoat descended.
A minute later he was in the room.

Charles Augustus Milverton was a man of fifty, with a large, intellectual
head, a round, plump, hairless face, a perpetual frozen smile, and two
keen grey eyes, which gleamed brightly from behind broad, gold-rimmed
glasses. There was something of Mr. Pickwick’s benevolence in his
appearance, marred only by the insincerity of the fixed smile and by the
hard glitter of those restless and penetrating eyes. His voice was as
smooth and suave as his countenance, as he advanced with a plump little
hand extended, murmuring his regret for having missed us at his first
visit. Holmes disregarded the outstretched hand and looked at him with a
face of granite. Milverton’s smile broadened, he shrugged his shoulders
removed his overcoat, folded it with great deliberation over the back of a
chair, and then took a seat.

“This gentleman?” said he, with a wave in my direction. “Is it discreet?
Is it right?”

“Dr. Watson is my friend and partner.”

“Very good, Mr. Holmes. It is only in your client’s interests that I
protested. The matter is so very delicate——”

“Dr. Watson has already heard of it.”

“Then we can proceed to business. You say that you are acting for Lady
Eva. Has she empowered you to accept my terms?”

“What are your terms?”

“Seven thousand pounds.”

“And the alternative?”

“My dear sir, it is painful for me to discuss it, but if the money is not
paid on the 14th, there certainly will be no marriage on the 18th.” His
insufferable smile was more complacent than ever.

Holmes thought for a little.

“You appear to me,” he said, at last, “to be taking matters too much for
granted. I am, of course, familiar with the contents of these letters. My
client will certainly do what I may advise. I shall counsel her to tell
her future husband the whole story and to trust to his generosity.”

Milverton chuckled.

“You evidently do not know the Earl,” said he.

From the baffled look upon Holmes’s face, I could see clearly that he did.

“What harm is there in the letters?” he asked.

“They are sprightly—very sprightly,” Milverton answered. “The lady
was a charming correspondent. But I can assure you that the Earl of
Dovercourt would fail to appreciate them. However, since you think
otherwise, we will let it rest at that. It is purely a matter of business.
If you think that it is in the best interests of your client that these
letters should be placed in the hands of the Earl, then you would indeed
be foolish to pay so large a sum of money to regain them.” He rose and
seized his astrakhan coat.

Holmes was grey with anger and mortification.

“Wait a little,” he said. “You go too fast. We should certainly make every
effort to avoid scandal in so delicate a matter.”

Milverton relapsed into his chair.

“I was sure that you would see it in that light,” he purred.

“At the same time,” Holmes continued, “Lady Eva is not a wealthy woman. I
assure you that two thousand pounds would be a drain upon her resources,
and that the sum you name is utterly beyond her power. I beg, therefore,
that you will moderate your demands, and that you will return the letters
at the price I indicate, which is, I assure you, the highest that you can
get.”

Milverton’s smile broadened and his eyes twinkled humorously.

“I am aware that what you say is true about the lady’s resources,” said
he. “At the same time you must admit that the occasion of a lady’s
marriage is a very suitable time for her friends and relatives to make
some little effort upon her behalf. They may hesitate as to an acceptable
wedding present. Let me assure them that this little bundle of letters
would give more joy than all the candelabra and butter-dishes in London.”

“It is impossible,” said Holmes.

“Dear me, dear me, how unfortunate!” cried Milverton, taking out a bulky
pocketbook. “I cannot help thinking that ladies are ill-advised in not
making an effort. Look at this!” He held up a little note with a
coat-of-arms upon the envelope. “That belongs to—well, perhaps it is
hardly fair to tell the name until to-morrow morning. But at that time it
will be in the hands of the lady’s husband. And all because she will not
find a beggarly sum which she could get by turning her diamonds into
paste. It is such a pity! Now, you remember the sudden end of the
engagement between the Honourable Miss Miles and Colonel Dorking? Only two
days before the wedding, there was a paragraph in the Morning Post to say
that it was all off. And why? It is almost incredible, but the absurd sum
of twelve hundred pounds would have settled the whole question. Is it not
pitiful? And here I find you, a man of sense, boggling about terms, when
your client’s future and honour are at stake. You surprise me, Mr.
Holmes.”

“What I say is true,” Holmes answered. “The money cannot be found. Surely
it is better for you to take the substantial sum which I offer than to
ruin this woman’s career, which can profit you in no way?”

“There you make a mistake, Mr. Holmes. An exposure would profit me
indirectly to a considerable extent. I have eight or ten similar cases
maturing. If it was circulated among them that I had made a severe example
of the Lady Eva, I should find all of them much more open to reason. You
see my point?”

Holmes sprang from his chair.

“Get behind him, Watson! Don’t let him out! Now, sir, let us see the
contents of that notebook.”

Milverton had glided as quick as a rat to the side of the room and stood
with his back against the wall.

“Mr. Holmes, Mr. Holmes,” he said, turning the front of his coat and
exhibiting the butt of a large revolver, which projected from the inside
pocket. “I have been expecting you to do something original. This has been
done so often, and what good has ever come from it? I assure you that I am
armed to the teeth, and I am perfectly prepared to use my weapons, knowing
that the law will support me. Besides, your supposition that I would bring
the letters here in a notebook is entirely mistaken. I would do nothing so
foolish. And now, gentlemen, I have one or two little interviews this
evening, and it is a long drive to Hampstead.” He stepped forward, took up
his coat, laid his hand on his revolver, and turned to the door. I picked
up a chair, but Holmes shook his head, and I laid it down again. With bow,
a smile, and a twinkle, Milverton was out of the room, and a few moments
after we heard the slam of the carriage door and the rattle of the wheels
as he drove away.

Holmes sat motionless by the fire, his hands buried deep in his trouser
pockets, his chin sunk upon his breast, his eyes fixed upon the glowing
embers. For half an hour he was silent and still. Then, with the gesture
of a man who has taken his decision, he sprang to his feet and passed into
his bedroom. A little later a rakish young workman, with a goatee beard
and a swagger, lit his clay pipe at the lamp before descending into the
street. “I’ll be back some time, Watson,” said he, and vanished into the
night. I understood that he had opened his campaign against Charles
Augustus Milverton, but I little dreamed the strange shape which that
campaign was destined to take.

For some days Holmes came and went at all hours in this attire, but beyond
a remark that his time was spent at Hampstead, and that it was not wasted,
I knew nothing of what he was doing. At last, however, on a wild,
tempestuous evening, when the wind screamed and rattled against the
windows, he returned from his last expedition, and having removed his
disguise he sat before the fire and laughed heartily in his silent inward
fashion.

“You would not call me a marrying man, Watson?”

“No, indeed!”

“You’ll be interested to hear that I’m engaged.”

“My dear fellow! I congrat——”

“To Milverton’s housemaid.”

“Good heavens, Holmes!”

“I wanted information, Watson.”

“Surely you have gone too far?”

“It was a most necessary step. I am a plumber with a rising business,
Escott, by name. I have walked out with her each evening, and I have
talked with her. Good heavens, those talks! However, I have got all I
wanted. I know Milverton’s house as I know the palm of my hand.”

“But the girl, Holmes?”

He shrugged his shoulders.

“You can’t help it, my dear Watson. You must play your cards as best you
can when such a stake is on the table. However, I rejoice to say that I
have a hated rival, who will certainly cut me out the instant that my back
is turned. What a splendid night it is!”

“You like this weather?”

“It suits my purpose. Watson, I mean to burgle Milverton’s house
to-night.”

I had a catching of the breath, and my skin went cold at the words, which
were slowly uttered in a tone of concentrated resolution. As a flash of
lightning in the night shows up in an instant every detail of a wild
landscape, so at one glance I seemed to see every possible result of such
an action—the detection, the capture, the honoured career ending in
irreparable failure and disgrace, my friend himself lying at the mercy of
the odious Milverton.

“For heaven’s sake, Holmes, think what you are doing,” I cried.

“My dear fellow, I have given it every consideration. I am never
precipitate in my actions, nor would I adopt so energetic and, indeed, so
dangerous a course, if any other were possible. Let us look at the matter
clearly and fairly. I suppose that you will admit that the action is
morally justifiable, though technically criminal. To burgle his house is
no more than to forcibly take his pocketbook—an action in which you
were prepared to aid me.”

I turned it over in my mind.

“Yes,” I said, “it is morally justifiable so long as our object is to take
no articles save those which are used for an illegal purpose.”

“Exactly. Since it is morally justifiable, I have only to consider the
question of personal risk. Surely a gentleman should not lay much stress
upon this, when a lady is in most desperate need of his help?”

“You will be in such a false position.”

“Well, that is part of the risk. There is no other possible way of
regaining these letters. The unfortunate lady has not the money, and there
are none of her people in whom she could confide. To-morrow is the last
day of grace, and unless we can get the letters to-night, this villain
will be as good as his word and will bring about her ruin. I must,
therefore, abandon my client to her fate or I must play this last card.
Between ourselves, Watson, it’s a sporting duel between this fellow
Milverton and me. He had, as you saw, the best of the first exchanges, but
my self-respect and my reputation are concerned to fight it to a finish.”

“Well, I don’t like it, but I suppose it must be,” said I. “When do we
start?”

“You are not coming.”

“Then you are not going,” said I. “I give you my word of honour—and
I never broke it in my life—that I will take a cab straight to the
police-station and give you away, unless you let me share this adventure
with you.”

“You can’t help me.”

“How do you know that? You can’t tell what may happen. Anyway, my
resolution is taken. Other people besides you have self-respect, and even
reputations.”

Holmes had looked annoyed, but his brow cleared, and he clapped me on the
shoulder.

“Well, well, my dear fellow, be it so. We have shared this same room for
some years, and it would be amusing if we ended by sharing the same cell.
You know, Watson, I don’t mind confessing to you that I have always had an
idea that I would have made a highly efficient criminal. This is the
chance of my lifetime in that direction. See here!” He took a neat little
leather case out of a drawer, and opening it he exhibited a number of
shining instruments. “This is a first-class, up-to-date burgling kit, with
nickel-plated jemmy, diamond-tipped glass-cutter, adaptable keys, and
every modern improvement which the march of civilization demands. Here,
too, is my dark lantern. Everything is in order. Have you a pair of silent
shoes?”

“I have rubber-soled tennis shoes.”

“Excellent! And a mask?”

“I can make a couple out of black silk.”

“I can see that you have a strong, natural turn for this sort of thing.
Very good, do you make the masks. We shall have some cold supper before we
start. It is now nine-thirty. At eleven we shall drive as far as Church
Row. It is a quarter of an hour’s walk from there to Appledore Towers. We
shall be at work before midnight. Milverton is a heavy sleeper, and
retires punctually at ten-thirty. With any luck we should be back here by
two, with the Lady Eva’s letters in my pocket.”

Holmes and I put on our dress-clothes, so that we might appear to be two
theatre-goers homeward bound. In Oxford Street we picked up a hansom and
drove to an address in Hampstead. Here we paid off our cab, and with our
great coats buttoned up, for it was bitterly cold, and the wind seemed to
blow through us, we walked along the edge of the heath.

“It’s a business that needs delicate treatment,” said Holmes. “These
documents are contained in a safe in the fellow’s study, and the study is
the ante-room of his bed-chamber. On the other hand, like all these stout,
little men who do themselves well, he is a plethoric sleeper. Agatha—that’s
my fiancée—says it is a joke in the servants’ hall that it’s
impossible to wake the master. He has a secretary who is devoted to his
interests, and never budges from the study all day. That’s why we are
going at night. Then he has a beast of a dog which roams the garden. I met
Agatha late the last two evenings, and she locks the brute up so as to
give me a clear run. This is the house, this big one in its own grounds.
Through the gate—now to the right among the laurels. We might put on
our masks here, I think. You see, there is not a glimmer of light in any
of the windows, and everything is working splendidly.”

With our black silk face-coverings, which turned us into two of the most
truculent figures in London, we stole up to the silent, gloomy house. A
sort of tiled veranda extended along one side of it, lined by several
windows and two doors.

“That’s his bedroom,” Holmes whispered. “This door opens straight into the
study. It would suit us best, but it is bolted as well as locked, and we
should make too much noise getting in. Come round here. There’s a
greenhouse which opens into the drawing-room.”

The place was locked, but Holmes removed a circle of glass and turned the
key from the inside. An instant afterwards he had closed the door behind
us, and we had become felons in the eyes of the law. The thick, warm air
of the conservatory and the rich, choking fragrance of exotic plants took
us by the throat. He seized my hand in the darkness and led me swiftly
past banks of shrubs which brushed against our faces. Holmes had
remarkable powers, carefully cultivated, of seeing in the dark. Still
holding my hand in one of his, he opened a door, and I was vaguely
conscious that we had entered a large room in which a cigar had been
smoked not long before. He felt his way among the furniture, opened
another door, and closed it behind us. Putting out my hand I felt several
coats hanging from the wall, and I understood that I was in a passage. We
passed along it and Holmes very gently opened a door upon the right-hand
side. Something rushed out at us and my heart sprang into my mouth, but I
could have laughed when I realized that it was the cat. A fire was burning
in this new room, and again the air was heavy with tobacco smoke. Holmes
entered on tiptoe, waited for me to follow, and then very gently closed
the door. We were in Milverton’s study, and a portière at the farther side
showed the entrance to his bedroom.

It was a good fire, and the room was illuminated by it. Near the door I
saw the gleam of an electric switch, but it was unnecessary, even if it
had been safe, to turn it on. At one side of the fireplace was a heavy
curtain which covered the bay window we had seen from outside. On the
other side was the door which communicated with the veranda. A desk stood
in the centre, with a turning-chair of shining red leather. Opposite was a
large bookcase, with a marble bust of Athene on the top. In the corner,
between the bookcase and the wall, there stood a tall, green safe, the
firelight flashing back from the polished brass knobs upon its face.
Holmes stole across and looked at it. Then he crept to the door of the
bedroom, and stood with slanting head listening intently. No sound came
from within. Meanwhile it had struck me that it would be wise to secure
our retreat through the outer door, so I examined it. To my amazement, it
was neither locked nor bolted. I touched Holmes on the arm, and he turned
his masked face in that direction. I saw him start, and he was evidently
as surprised as I.

“I don’t like it,” he whispered, putting his lips to my very ear. “I can’t
quite make it out. Anyhow, we have no time to lose.”

“Can I do anything?”

“Yes, stand by the door. If you hear anyone come, bolt it on the inside,
and we can get away as we came. If they come the other way, we can get
through the door if our job is done, or hide behind these window curtains
if it is not. Do you understand?”

I nodded, and stood by the door. My first feeling of fear had passed away,
and I thrilled now with a keener zest than I had ever enjoyed when we were
the defenders of the law instead of its defiers. The high object of our
mission, the consciousness that it was unselfish and chivalrous, the
villainous character of our opponent, all added to the sporting interest
of the adventure. Far from feeling guilty, I rejoiced and exulted in our
dangers. With a glow of admiration I watched Holmes unrolling his case of
instruments and choosing his tool with the calm, scientific accuracy of a
surgeon who performs a delicate operation. I knew that the opening of
safes was a particular hobby with him, and I understood the joy which it
gave him to be confronted with this green and gold monster, the dragon
which held in its maw the reputations of many fair ladies. Turning up the
cuffs of his dress-coat—he had placed his overcoat on a chair—Holmes
laid out two drills, a jemmy, and several skeleton keys. I stood at the
centre door with my eyes glancing at each of the others, ready for any
emergency, though, indeed, my plans were somewhat vague as to what I
should do if we were interrupted. For half an hour, Holmes worked with
concentrated energy, laying down one tool, picking up another, handling
each with the strength and delicacy of the trained mechanic. Finally I
heard a click, the broad green door swung open, and inside I had a glimpse
of a number of paper packets, each tied, sealed, and inscribed. Holmes
picked one out, but it was as hard to read by the flickering fire, and he
drew out his little dark lantern, for it was too dangerous, with Milverton
in the next room, to switch on the electric light. Suddenly I saw him
halt, listen intently, and then in an instant he had swung the door of the
safe to, picked up his coat, stuffed his tools into the pockets, and
darted behind the window curtain, motioning me to do the same.

It was only when I had joined him there that I heard what had alarmed his
quicker senses. There was a noise somewhere within the house. A door
slammed in the distance. Then a confused, dull murmur broke itself into
the measured thud of heavy footsteps rapidly approaching. They were in the
passage outside the room. They paused at the door. The door opened. There
was a sharp snick as the electric light was turned on. The door closed
once more, and the pungent reek of a strong cigar was borne to our
nostrils. Then the footsteps continued backward and forward, backward and
forward, within a few yards of us. Finally there was a creak from a chair,
and the footsteps ceased. Then a key clicked in a lock, and I heard the
rustle of papers.

So far I had not dared to look out, but now I gently parted the division
of the curtains in front of me and peeped through. From the pressure of
Holmes’s shoulder against mine, I knew that he was sharing my
observations. Right in front of us, and almost within our reach, was the
broad, rounded back of Milverton. It was evident that we had entirely
miscalculated his movements, that he had never been to his bedroom, but
that he had been sitting up in some smoking or billiard room in the
farther wing of the house, the windows of which we had not seen. His
broad, grizzled head, with its shining patch of baldness, was in the
immediate foreground of our vision. He was leaning far back in the red
leather chair, his legs outstretched, a long, black cigar projecting at an
angle from his mouth. He wore a semi-military smoking jacket,
claret-coloured, with a black velvet collar. In his hand he held a long,
legal document which he was reading in an indolent fashion, blowing rings
of tobacco smoke from his lips as he did so. There was no promise of a
speedy departure in his composed bearing and his comfortable attitude.

I felt Holmes’s hand steal into mine and give me a reassuring shake, as if
to say that the situation was within his powers, and that he was easy in
his mind. I was not sure whether he had seen what was only too obvious
from my position, that the door of the safe was imperfectly closed, and
that Milverton might at any moment observe it. In my own mind I had
determined that if I were sure, from the rigidity of his gaze, that it had
caught his eye, I would at once spring out, throw my great coat over his
head, pinion him, and leave the rest to Holmes. But Milverton never looked
up. He was languidly interested by the papers in his hand, and page after
page was turned as he followed the argument of the lawyer. At least, I
thought, when he has finished the document and the cigar he will go to his
room, but before he had reached the end of either, there came a remarkable
development, which turned our thoughts into quite another channel.

Several times I had observed that Milverton looked at his watch, and once
he had risen and sat down again, with a gesture of impatience. The idea,
however, that he might have an appointment at so strange an hour never
occurred to me until a faint sound reached my ears from the veranda
outside. Milverton dropped his papers and sat rigid in his chair. The
sound was repeated, and then there came a gentle tap at the door.
Milverton rose and opened it.

“Well,” said he, curtly, “you are nearly half an hour late.”

So this was the explanation of the unlocked door and of the nocturnal
vigil of Milverton. There was the gentle rustle of a woman’s dress. I had
closed the slit between the curtains as Milverton’s face had turned in our
direction, but now I ventured very carefully to open it once more. He had
resumed his seat, the cigar still projecting at an insolent angle from the
corner of his mouth. In front of him, in the full glare of the electric
light, there stood a tall, slim, dark woman, a veil over her face, a
mantle drawn round her chin. Her breath came quick and fast, and every
inch of the lithe figure was quivering with strong emotion.

“Well,” said Milverton, “you made me lose a good night’s rest, my dear. I
hope you’ll prove worth it. You couldn’t come any other time—eh?”

The woman shook her head.

“Well, if you couldn’t you couldn’t. If the Countess is a hard mistress,
you have your chance to get level with her now. Bless the girl, what are
you shivering about? That’s right. Pull yourself together. Now, let us get
down to business.” He took a notebook from the drawer of his desk. “You
say that you have five letters which compromise the Countess d’Albert. You
want to sell them. I want to buy them. So far so good. It only remains to
fix a price. I should want to inspect the letters, of course. If they are
really good specimens—Great heavens, is it you?”

The woman, without a word, had raised her veil and dropped the mantle from
her chin. It was a dark, handsome, clear-cut face which confronted
Milverton—a face with a curved nose, strong, dark eyebrows shading
hard, glittering eyes, and a straight, thin-lipped mouth set in a
dangerous smile.

“It is I,” she said, “the woman whose life you have ruined.”

Milverton laughed, but fear vibrated in his voice. “You were so very
obstinate,” said he. “Why did you drive me to such extremities? I assure
you I wouldn’t hurt a fly of my own accord, but every man has his
business, and what was I to do? I put the price well within your means.
You would not pay.”

“So you sent the letters to my husband, and he—the noblest gentleman
that ever lived, a man whose boots I was never worthy to lace—he
broke his gallant heart and died. You remember that last night, when I
came through that door, I begged and prayed you for mercy, and you laughed
in my face as you are trying to laugh now, only your coward heart cannot
keep your lips from twitching. Yes, you never thought to see me here
again, but it was that night which taught me how I could meet you face to
face, and alone. Well, Charles Milverton, what have you to say?”

“Don’t imagine that you can bully me,” said he, rising to his feet. “I
have only to raise my voice and I could call my servants and have you
arrested. But I will make allowance for your natural anger. Leave the room
at once as you came, and I will say no more.”

The woman stood with her hand buried in her bosom, and the same deadly
smile on her thin lips.

“You will ruin no more lives as you have ruined mine. You will wring no
more hearts as you wrung mine. I will free the world of a poisonous thing.
Take that, you hound—and that!—and that!—and that!”

She had drawn a little gleaming revolver, and emptied barrel after barrel
into Milverton’s body, the muzzle within two feet of his shirt front. He
shrank away and then fell forward upon the table, coughing furiously and
clawing among the papers. Then he staggered to his feet, received another
shot, and rolled upon the floor. “You’ve done me,” he cried, and lay
still. The woman looked at him intently, and ground her heel into his
upturned face. She looked again, but there was no sound or movement. I
heard a sharp rustle, the night air blew into the heated room, and the
avenger was gone.

No interference upon our part could have saved the man from his fate, but,
as the woman poured bullet after bullet into Milverton’s shrinking body I
was about to spring out, when I felt Holmes’s cold, strong grasp upon my
wrist. I understood the whole argument of that firm, restraining grip—that
it was no affair of ours, that justice had overtaken a villain, that we
had our own duties and our own objects, which were not to be lost sight
of. But hardly had the woman rushed from the room when Holmes, with swift,
silent steps, was over at the other door. He turned the key in the lock.
At the same instant we heard voices in the house and the sound of hurrying
feet. The revolver shots had roused the household. With perfect coolness
Holmes slipped across to the safe, filled his two arms with bundles of
letters, and poured them all into the fire. Again and again he did it,
until the safe was empty. Someone turned the handle and beat upon the
outside of the door. Holmes looked swiftly round. The letter which had
been the messenger of death for Milverton lay, all mottled with his blood,
upon the table. Holmes tossed it in among the blazing papers. Then he drew
the key from the outer door, passed through after me, and locked it on the
outside. “This way, Watson,” said he, “we can scale the garden wall in
this direction.”

I could not have believed that an alarm could have spread so swiftly.
Looking back, the huge house was one blaze of light. The front door was
open, and figures were rushing down the drive. The whole garden was alive
with people, and one fellow raised a view-halloa as we emerged from the
veranda and followed hard at our heels. Holmes seemed to know the grounds
perfectly, and he threaded his way swiftly among a plantation of small
trees, I close at his heels, and our foremost pursuer panting behind us.
It was a six-foot wall which barred our path, but he sprang to the top and
over. As I did the same I felt the hand of the man behind me grab at my
ankle, but I kicked myself free and scrambled over a grass-strewn coping.
I fell upon my face among some bushes, but Holmes had me on my feet in an
instant, and together we dashed away across the huge expanse of Hampstead
Heath. We had run two miles, I suppose, before Holmes at last halted and
listened intently. All was absolute silence behind us. We had shaken off
our pursuers and were safe.

We had breakfasted and were smoking our morning pipe on the day after the
remarkable experience which I have recorded, when Mr. Lestrade, of
Scotland Yard, very solemn and impressive, was ushered into our modest
sitting-room.

“Good-morning, Mr. Holmes,” said he; “good-morning. May I ask if you are
very busy just now?”

“Not too busy to listen to you.”

“I thought that, perhaps, if you had nothing particular on hand, you might
care to assist us in a most remarkable case, which occurred only last
night at Hampstead.”

“Dear me!” said Holmes. “What was that?”

“A murder—a most dramatic and remarkable murder. I know how keen you
are upon these things, and I would take it as a great favour if you would
step down to Appledore Towers, and give us the benefit of your advice. It
is no ordinary crime. We have had our eyes upon this Mr. Milverton for
some time, and, between ourselves, he was a bit of a villain. He is known
to have held papers which he used for blackmailing purposes. These papers
have all been burned by the murderers. No article of value was taken, as
it is probable that the criminals were men of good position, whose sole
object was to prevent social exposure.”

“Criminals?” said Holmes. “Plural?”

“Yes, there were two of them. They were as nearly as possible captured
red-handed. We have their footmarks, we have their description, it’s ten
to one that we trace them. The first fellow was a bit too active, but the
second was caught by the under-gardener, and only got away after a
struggle. He was a middle-sized, strongly built man—square jaw,
thick neck, moustache, a mask over his eyes.”

“That’s rather vague,” said Sherlock Holmes. “My, it might be a
description of Watson!”

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

“Well, I’m afraid I can’t help you, Lestrade,” said Holmes. “The fact is
that I knew this fellow Milverton, that I considered him one of the most
dangerous men in London, and that I think there are certain crimes which
the law cannot touch, and which therefore, to some extent, justify private
revenge. No, it’s no use arguing. I have made up my mind. My sympathies
are with the criminals rather than with the victim, and I will not handle
this case.”

Holmes had not said one word to me about the tragedy which we had
witnessed, but I observed all the morning that he was in his most
thoughtful mood, and he gave me the impression, from his vacant eyes and
his abstracted manner, of a man who is striving to recall something to his
memory. We were in the middle of our lunch, when he suddenly sprang to his
feet. “By Jove, Watson, I’ve got it!” he cried. “Take your hat! Come with
me!” He hurried at his top speed down Baker Street and along Oxford
Street, until we had almost reached Regent Circus. Here, on the left hand,
there stands a shop window filled with photographs of the celebrities and
beauties of the day. Holmes’s eyes fixed themselves upon one of them, and
following his gaze I saw the picture of a regal and stately lady in Court
dress, with a high diamond tiara upon her noble head. I looked at that
delicately curved nose, at the marked eyebrows, at the straight mouth, and
the strong little chin beneath it. Then I caught my breath as I read the
time-honoured title of the great nobleman and statesman whose wife she had
been. My eyes met those of Holmes, and he put his finger to his lips as we
turned away from the window.

THE ADVENTURE OF THE SIX NAPOLEONS

It was no very unusual thing for Mr. Lestrade, of Scotland Yard, to look
in upon us of an evening, and his visits were welcome to Sherlock Holmes,
for they enabled him to keep in touch with all that was going on at the
police headquarters. In return for the news which Lestrade would bring,
Holmes was always ready to listen with attention to the details of any
case upon which the detective was engaged, and was able occasionally,
without any active interference, to give some hint or suggestion drawn
from his own vast knowledge and experience.

On this particular evening, Lestrade had spoken of the weather and the
newspapers. Then he had fallen silent, puffing thoughtfully at his cigar.
Holmes looked keenly at him.

“Anything remarkable on hand?” he asked.

“Oh, no, Mr. Holmes—nothing very particular.”

“Then tell me about it.”

Lestrade laughed.

“Well, Mr. Holmes, there is no use denying that there is something on my
mind. And yet it is such an absurd business, that I hesitated to bother
you about it. On the other hand, although it is trivial, it is undoubtedly
queer, and I know that you have a taste for all that is out of the common.
But, in my opinion, it comes more in Dr. Watson’s line than ours.”

“Disease?” said I.

“Madness, anyhow. And a queer madness, too. You wouldn’t think there was
anyone living at this time of day who had such a hatred of Napoleon the
First that he would break any image of him that he could see.”

Holmes sank back in his chair.

“That’s no business of mine,” said he.

“Exactly. That’s what I said. But then, when the man commits burglary in
order to break images which are not his own, that brings it away from the
doctor and on to the policeman.”

Holmes sat up again.

“Burglary! This is more interesting. Let me hear the details.”

Lestrade took out his official notebook and refreshed his memory from its
pages.

“The first case reported was four days ago,” said he. “It was at the shop
of Morse Hudson, who has a place for the sale of pictures and statues in
the Kennington Road. The assistant had left the front shop for an instant,
when he heard a crash, and hurrying in he found a plaster bust of
Napoleon, which stood with several other works of art upon the counter,
lying shivered into fragments. He rushed out into the road, but, although
several passers-by declared that they had noticed a man run out of the
shop, he could neither see anyone nor could he find any means of
identifying the rascal. It seemed to be one of those senseless acts of
hooliganism which occur from time to time, and it was reported to the
constable on the beat as such. The plaster cast was not worth more than a
few shillings, and the whole affair appeared to be too childish for any
particular investigation.

“The second case, however, was more serious, and also more singular. It
occurred only last night.

“In Kennington Road, and within a few hundred yards of Morse Hudson’s
shop, there lives a well-known medical practitioner, named Dr. Barnicot,
who has one of the largest practices upon the south side of the Thames.
His residence and principal consulting-room is at Kennington Road, but he
has a branch surgery and dispensary at Lower Brixton Road, two miles away.
This Dr. Barnicot is an enthusiastic admirer of Napoleon, and his house is
full of books, pictures, and relics of the French Emperor. Some little
time ago he purchased from Morse Hudson two duplicate plaster casts of the
famous head of Napoleon by the French sculptor, Devine. One of these he
placed in his hall in the house at Kennington Road, and the other on the
mantelpiece of the surgery at Lower Brixton. Well, when Dr. Barnicot came
down this morning he was astonished to find that his house had been
burgled during the night, but that nothing had been taken save the plaster
head from the hall. It had been carried out and had been dashed savagely
against the garden wall, under which its splintered fragments were
discovered.”

Holmes rubbed his hands.

“This is certainly very novel,” said he.

“I thought it would please you. But I have not got to the end yet. Dr.
Barnicot was due at his surgery at twelve o’clock, and you can imagine his
amazement when, on arriving there, he found that the window had been
opened in the night and that the broken pieces of his second bust were
strewn all over the room. It had been smashed to atoms where it stood. In
neither case were there any signs which could give us a clue as to the
criminal or lunatic who had done the mischief. Now, Mr. Holmes, you have
got the facts.”

“They are singular, not to say grotesque,” said Holmes. “May I ask whether
the two busts smashed in Dr. Barnicot’s rooms were the exact duplicates of
the one which was destroyed in Morse Hudson’s shop?”

“They were taken from the same mould.”

“Such a fact must tell against the theory that the man who breaks them is
influenced by any general hatred of Napoleon. Considering how many
hundreds of statues of the great Emperor must exist in London, it is too
much to suppose such a coincidence as that a promiscuous iconoclast should
chance to begin upon three specimens of the same bust.”

“Well, I thought as you do,” said Lestrade. “On the other hand, this Morse
Hudson is the purveyor of busts in that part of London, and these three
were the only ones which had been in his shop for years. So, although, as
you say, there are many hundreds of statues in London, it is very probable
that these three were the only ones in that district. Therefore, a local
fanatic would begin with them. What do you think, Dr. Watson?”

“There are no limits to the possibilities of monomania,” I answered.
“There is the condition which the modern French psychologists have called
the idée fixe, which may be trifling in character, and accompanied by
complete sanity in every other way. A man who had read deeply about
Napoleon, or who had possibly received some hereditary family injury
through the great war, might conceivably form such an idée fixe and under
its influence be capable of any fantastic outrage.”

“That won’t do, my dear Watson,” said Holmes, shaking his head, “for no
amount of idée fixe would enable your interesting monomaniac to find out
where these busts were situated.”

“Well, how do you explain it?”

“I don’t attempt to do so. I would only observe that there is a certain
method in the gentleman’s eccentric proceedings. For example, in Dr.
Barnicot’s hall, where a sound might arouse the family, the bust was taken
outside before being broken, whereas in the surgery, where there was less
danger of an alarm, it was smashed where it stood. The affair seems
absurdly trifling, and yet I dare call nothing trivial when I reflect that
some of my most classic cases have had the least promising commencement.
You will remember, Watson, how the dreadful business of the Abernetty
family was first brought to my notice by the depth which the parsley had
sunk into the butter upon a hot day. I can’t afford, therefore, to smile
at your three broken busts, Lestrade, and I shall be very much obliged to
you if you will let me hear of any fresh development of so singular a
chain of events.”

The development for which my friend had asked came in a quicker and an
infinitely more tragic form than he could have imagined. I was still
dressing in my bedroom next morning, when there was a tap at the door and
Holmes entered, a telegram in his hand. He read it aloud:

“Come instantly, 131, Pitt Street, Kensington.—LESTRADE.”

“What is it, then?” I asked.

“Don’t know—may be anything. But I suspect it is the sequel of the
story of the statues. In that case our friend the image-breaker has begun
operations in another quarter of London. There’s coffee on the table,
Watson, and I have a cab at the door.”

In half an hour we had reached Pitt Street, a quiet little backwater just
beside one of the briskest currents of London life. No. 131 was one of a
row, all flat-chested, respectable, and most unromantic dwellings. As we
drove up, we found the railings in front of the house lined by a curious
crowd. Holmes whistled.

“By George! It’s attempted murder at the least. Nothing less will hold the
London message-boy. There’s a deed of violence indicated in that fellow’s
round shoulders and outstretched neck. What’s this, Watson? The top steps
swilled down and the other ones dry. Footsteps enough, anyhow! Well, well,
there’s Lestrade at the front window, and we shall soon know all about
it.”

The official received us with a very grave face and showed us into a
sitting-room, where an exceedingly unkempt and agitated elderly man, clad
in a flannel dressing-gown, was pacing up and down. He was introduced to
us as the owner of the house—Mr. Horace Harker, of the Central Press
Syndicate.

“It’s the Napoleon bust business again,” said Lestrade. “You seemed
interested last night, Mr. Holmes, so I thought perhaps you would be glad
to be present now that the affair has taken a very much graver turn.”

“What has it turned to, then?”

“To murder. Mr. Harker, will you tell these gentlemen exactly what has
occurred?”

The man in the dressing-gown turned upon us with a most melancholy face.

“It’s an extraordinary thing,” said he, “that all my life I have been
collecting other people’s news, and now that a real piece of news has come
my own way I am so confused and bothered that I can’t put two words
together. If I had come in here as a journalist, I should have interviewed
myself and had two columns in every evening paper. As it is, I am giving
away valuable copy by telling my story over and over to a string of
different people, and I can make no use of it myself. However, I’ve heard
your name, Mr. Sherlock Holmes, and if you’ll only explain this queer
business, I shall be paid for my trouble in telling you the story.”

Holmes sat down and listened.

“It all seems to centre round that bust of Napoleon which I bought for
this very room about four months ago. I picked it up cheap from Harding
Brothers, two doors from the High Street Station. A great deal of my
journalistic work is done at night, and I often write until the early
morning. So it was to-day. I was sitting in my den, which is at the back
of the top of the house, about three o’clock, when I was convinced that I
heard some sounds downstairs. I listened, but they were not repeated, and
I concluded that they came from outside. Then suddenly, about five minutes
later, there came a most horrible yell—the most dreadful sound, Mr.
Holmes, that ever I heard. It will ring in my ears as long as I live. I
sat frozen with horror for a minute or two. Then I seized the poker and
went downstairs. When I entered this room I found the window wide open,
and I at once observed that the bust was gone from the mantelpiece. Why
any burglar should take such a thing passes my understanding, for it was
only a plaster cast and of no real value whatever.

“You can see for yourself that anyone going out through that open window
could reach the front doorstep by taking a long stride. This was clearly
what the burglar had done, so I went round and opened the door. Stepping
out into the dark, I nearly fell over a dead man, who was lying there. I
ran back for a light and there was the poor fellow, a great gash in his
throat and the whole place swimming in blood. He lay on his back, his
knees drawn up, and his mouth horribly open. I shall see him in my dreams.
I had just time to blow on my police-whistle, and then I must have
fainted, for I knew nothing more until I found the policeman standing over
me in the hall.”

“Well, who was the murdered man?” asked Holmes.

“There’s nothing to show who he was,” said Lestrade. “You shall see the
body at the mortuary, but we have made nothing of it up to now. He is a
tall man, sunburned, very powerful, not more than thirty. He is poorly
dressed, and yet does not appear to be a labourer. A horn-handled clasp
knife was lying in a pool of blood beside him. Whether it was the weapon
which did the deed, or whether it belonged to the dead man, I do not know.
There was no name on his clothing, and nothing in his pockets save an
apple, some string, a shilling map of London, and a photograph. Here it
is.”

It was evidently taken by a snapshot from a small camera. It represented
an alert, sharp-featured simian man, with thick eyebrows and a very
peculiar projection of the lower part of the face, like the muzzle of a
baboon.

“And what became of the bust?” asked Holmes, after a careful study of this
picture.

“We had news of it just before you came. It has been found in the front
garden of an empty house in Campden House Road. It was broken into
fragments. I am going round now to see it. Will you come?”

“Certainly. I must just take one look round.” He examined the carpet and
the window. “The fellow had either very long legs or was a most active
man,” said he. “With an area beneath, it was no mean feat to reach that
window ledge and open that window. Getting back was comparatively simple.
Are you coming with us to see the remains of your bust, Mr. Harker?”

The disconsolate journalist had seated himself at a writing-table.

“I must try and make something of it,” said he, “though I have no doubt
that the first editions of the evening papers are out already with full
details. It’s like my luck! You remember when the stand fell at Doncaster?
Well, I was the only journalist in the stand, and my journal the only one
that had no account of it, for I was too shaken to write it. And now I’ll
be too late with a murder done on my own doorstep.”

As we left the room, we heard his pen travelling shrilly over the
foolscap.

The spot where the fragments of the bust had been found was only a few
hundred yards away. For the first time our eyes rested upon this
presentment of the great emperor, which seemed to raise such frantic and
destructive hatred in the mind of the unknown. It lay scattered, in
splintered shards, upon the grass. Holmes picked up several of them and
examined them carefully. I was convinced, from his intent face and his
purposeful manner, that at last he was upon a clue.

“Well?” asked Lestrade.

Holmes shrugged his shoulders.

“We have a long way to go yet,” said he. “And yet—and yet—well,
we have some suggestive facts to act upon. The possession of this trifling
bust was worth more, in the eyes of this strange criminal, than a human
life. That is one point. Then there is the singular fact that he did not
break it in the house, or immediately outside the house, if to break it
was his sole object.”

“He was rattled and bustled by meeting this other fellow. He hardly knew
what he was doing.”

“Well, that’s likely enough. But I wish to call your attention very
particularly to the position of this house, in the garden of which the
bust was destroyed.”

Lestrade looked about him.

“It was an empty house, and so he knew that he would not be disturbed in
the garden.”

“Yes, but there is another empty house farther up the street which he must
have passed before he came to this one. Why did he not break it there,
since it is evident that every yard that he carried it increased the risk
of someone meeting him?”

“I give it up,” said Lestrade.

Holmes pointed to the street lamp above our heads.

“He could see what he was doing here, and he could not there. That was his
reason.”

“By Jove! that’s true,” said the detective. “Now that I come to think of
it, Dr. Barnicot’s bust was broken not far from his red lamp. Well, Mr.
Holmes, what are we to do with that fact?”

“To remember it—to docket it. We may come on something later which
will bear upon it. What steps do you propose to take now, Lestrade?”

“The most practical way of getting at it, in my opinion, is to identify
the dead man. There should be no difficulty about that. When we have found
who he is and who his associates are, we should have a good start in
learning what he was doing in Pitt Street last night, and who it was who
met him and killed him on the doorstep of Mr. Horace Harker. Don’t you
think so?”

“No doubt; and yet it is not quite the way in which I should approach the
case.”

“What would you do then?”

“Oh, you must not let me influence you in any way. I suggest that you go
on your line and I on mine. We can compare notes afterwards, and each will
supplement the other.”

“Very good,” said Lestrade.

“If you are going back to Pitt Street, you might see Mr. Horace Harker.
Tell him for me that I have quite made up my mind, and that it is certain
that a dangerous homicidal lunatic, with Napoleonic delusions, was in his
house last night. It will be useful for his article.”

Lestrade stared.

“You don’t seriously believe that?”

Holmes smiled.

“Don’t I? Well, perhaps I don’t. But I am sure that it will interest Mr.
Horace Harker and the subscribers of the Central Press Syndicate. Now,
Watson, I think that we shall find that we have a long and rather complex
day’s work before us. I should be glad, Lestrade, if you could make it
convenient to meet us at Baker Street at six o’clock this evening. Until
then I should like to keep this photograph, found in the dead man’s
pocket. It is possible that I may have to ask your company and assistance
upon a small expedition which will have be undertaken to-night, if my
chain of reasoning should prove to be correct. Until then good-bye and
good luck!”

Sherlock Holmes and I walked together to the High Street, where we stopped
at the shop of Harding Brothers, whence the bust had been purchased. A
young assistant informed us that Mr. Harding would be absent until
afternoon, and that he was himself a newcomer, who could give us no
information. Holmes’s face showed his disappointment and annoyance.

“Well, well, we can’t expect to have it all our own way, Watson,” he said,
at last. “We must come back in the afternoon, if Mr. Harding will not be
here until then. I am, as you have no doubt surmised, endeavouring to
trace these busts to their source, in order to find if there is not
something peculiar which may account for their remarkable fate. Let us
make for Mr. Morse Hudson, of the Kennington Road, and see if he can throw
any light upon the problem.”

A drive of an hour brought us to the picture-dealer’s establishment. He
was a small, stout man with a red face and a peppery manner.

“Yes, sir. On my very counter, sir,” said he. “What we pay rates and taxes
for I don’t know, when any ruffian can come in and break one’s goods. Yes,
sir, it was I who sold Dr. Barnicot his two statues. Disgraceful, sir! A
Nihilist plot—that’s what I make it. No one but an anarchist would
go about breaking statues. Red republicans—that’s what I call ’em.
Who did I get the statues from? I don’t see what that has to do with it.
Well, if you really want to know, I got them from Gelder & Co., in
Church Street, Stepney. They are a well-known house in the trade, and have
been this twenty years. How many had I? Three—two and one are three—two
of Dr. Barnicot’s, and one smashed in broad daylight on my own counter. Do
I know that photograph? No, I don’t. Yes, I do, though. Why, it’s Beppo.
He was a kind of Italian piece-work man, who made himself useful in the
shop. He could carve a bit, and gild and frame, and do odd jobs. The
fellow left me last week, and I’ve heard nothing of him since. No, I don’t
know where he came from nor where he went to. I had nothing against him
while he was here. He was gone two days before the bust was smashed.”

“Well, that’s all we could reasonably expect from Morse Hudson,” said
Holmes, as we emerged from the shop. “We have this Beppo as a common
factor, both in Kennington and in Kensington, so that is worth a ten-mile
drive. Now, Watson, let us make for Gelder & Co., of Stepney, the
source and origin of the busts. I shall be surprised if we don’t get some
help down there.”

In rapid succession we passed through the fringe of fashionable London,
hotel London, theatrical London, literary London, commercial London, and,
finally, maritime London, till we came to a riverside city of a hundred
thousand souls, where the tenement houses swelter and reek with the
outcasts of Europe. Here, in a broad thoroughfare, once the abode of
wealthy City merchants, we found the sculpture works for which we
searched. Outside was a considerable yard full of monumental masonry.
Inside was a large room in which fifty workers were carving or moulding.
The manager, a big blond German, received us civilly and gave a clear
answer to all Holmes’s questions. A reference to his books showed that
hundreds of casts had been taken from a marble copy of Devine’s head of
Napoleon, but that the three which had been sent to Morse Hudson a year or
so before had been half of a batch of six, the other three being sent to
Harding Brothers, of Kensington. There was no reason why those six should
be different from any of the other casts. He could suggest no possible
cause why anyone should wish to destroy them—in fact, he laughed at
the idea. Their wholesale price was six shillings, but the retailer would
get twelve or more. The cast was taken in two moulds from each side of the
face, and then these two profiles of plaster of Paris were joined together
to make the complete bust. The work was usually done by Italians, in the
room we were in. When finished, the busts were put on a table in the
passage to dry, and afterwards stored. That was all he could tell us.

But the production of the photograph had a remarkable effect upon the
manager. His face flushed with anger, and his brows knotted over his blue
Teutonic eyes.

“Ah, the rascal!” he cried. “Yes, indeed, I know him very well. This has
always been a respectable establishment, and the only time that we have
ever had the police in it was over this very fellow. It was more than a
year ago now. He knifed another Italian in the street, and then he came to
the works with the police on his heels, and he was taken here. Beppo was
his name—his second name I never knew. Serve me right for engaging a
man with such a face. But he was a good workman—one of the best.”

“What did he get?”

“The man lived and he got off with a year. I have no doubt he is out now,
but he has not dared to show his nose here. We have a cousin of his here,
and I daresay he could tell you where he is.”

“No, no,” cried Holmes, “not a word to the cousin—not a word, I beg
of you. The matter is very important, and the farther I go with it, the
more important it seems to grow. When you referred in your ledger to the
sale of those casts I observed that the date was June 3rd of last year.
Could you give me the date when Beppo was arrested?”

“I could tell you roughly by the pay-list,” the manager answered. “Yes,”
he continued, after some turning over of pages, “he was paid last on May
20th.”

“Thank you,” said Holmes. “I don’t think that I need intrude upon your
time and patience any more.” With a last word of caution that he should
say nothing as to our researches, we turned our faces westward once more.

The afternoon was far advanced before we were able to snatch a hasty
luncheon at a restaurant. A news-bill at the entrance announced
“Kensington Outrage. Murder by a Madman,” and the contents of the paper
showed that Mr. Horace Harker had got his account into print after all.
Two columns were occupied with a highly sensational and flowery rendering
of the whole incident. Holmes propped it against the cruet-stand and read
it while he ate. Once or twice he chuckled.

“This is all right, Watson,” said he. “Listen to this:

“It is satisfactory to know that there can be no difference of opinion
upon this case, since Mr. Lestrade, one of the most experienced members of
the official force, and Mr. Sherlock Holmes, the well-known consulting
expert, have each come to the conclusion that the grotesque series of
incidents, which have ended in so tragic a fashion, arise from lunacy
rather than from deliberate crime. No explanation save mental aberration
can cover the facts.

“The Press, Watson, is a most valuable institution, if you only know how
to use it. And now, if you have quite finished, we will hark back to
Kensington and see what the manager of Harding Brothers has to say on the
matter.”

The founder of that great emporium proved to be a brisk, crisp little
person, very dapper and quick, with a clear head and a ready tongue.

“Yes, sir, I have already read the account in the evening papers. Mr.
Horace Harker is a customer of ours. We supplied him with the bust some
months ago. We ordered three busts of that sort from Gelder & Co., of
Stepney. They are all sold now. To whom? Oh, I daresay by consulting our
sales book we could very easily tell you. Yes, we have the entries here.
One to Mr. Harker you see, and one to Mr. Josiah Brown, of Laburnum Lodge,
Laburnum Vale, Chiswick, and one to Mr. Sandeford, of Lower Grove Road,
Reading. No, I have never seen this face which you show me in the
photograph. You would hardly forget it, would you, sir, for I’ve seldom
seen an uglier. Have we any Italians on the staff? Yes, sir, we have
several among our workpeople and cleaners. I daresay they might get a peep
at that sales book if they wanted to. There is no particular reason for
keeping a watch upon that book. Well, well, it’s a very strange business,
and I hope that you will let me know if anything comes of your inquiries.”

Holmes had taken several notes during Mr. Harding’s evidence, and I could
see that he was thoroughly satisfied by the turn which affairs were
taking. He made no remark, however, save that, unless we hurried, we
should be late for our appointment with Lestrade. Sure enough, when we
reached Baker Street the detective was already there, and we found him
pacing up and down in a fever of impatience. His look of importance showed
that his day’s work had not been in vain.

“Well?” he asked. “What luck, Mr. Holmes?”

“We have had a very busy day, and not entirely a wasted one,” my friend
explained. “We have seen both the retailers and also the wholesale
manufacturers. I can trace each of the busts now from the beginning.”

“The busts,” cried Lestrade. “Well, well, you have your own methods, Mr.
Sherlock Holmes, and it is not for me to say a word against them, but I
think I have done a better day’s work than you. I have identified the dead
man.”

“You don’t say so?”

“And found a cause for the crime.”

“Splendid!”

“We have an inspector who makes a specialty of Saffron Hill and the
Italian Quarter. Well, this dead man had some Catholic emblem round his
neck, and that, along with his colour, made me think he was from the
South. Inspector Hill knew him the moment he caught sight of him. His name
is Pietro Venucci, from Naples, and he is one of the greatest cut-throats
in London. He is connected with the Mafia, which, as you know, is a secret
political society, enforcing its decrees by murder. Now, you see how the
affair begins to clear up. The other fellow is probably an Italian also,
and a member of the Mafia. He has broken the rules in some fashion. Pietro
is set upon his track. Probably the photograph we found in his pocket is
the man himself, so that he may not knife the wrong person. He dogs the
fellow, he sees him enter a house, he waits outside for him, and in the
scuffle he receives his own death-wound. How is that, Mr. Sherlock
Holmes?”

Holmes clapped his hands approvingly.

“Excellent, Lestrade, excellent!” he cried. “But I didn’t quite follow
your explanation of the destruction of the busts.”

“The busts! You never can get those busts out of your head. After all,
that is nothing; petty larceny, six months at the most. It is the murder
that we are really investigating, and I tell you that I am gathering all
the threads into my hands.”

“And the next stage?”

“Is a very simple one. I shall go down with Hill to the Italian Quarter,
find the man whose photograph we have got, and arrest him on the charge of
murder. Will you come with us?”

“I think not. I fancy we can attain our end in a simpler way. I can’t say
for certain, because it all depends—well, it all depends upon a
factor which is completely outside our control. But I have great hopes—in
fact, the betting is exactly two to one—that if you will come with
us to-night I shall be able to help you to lay him by the heels.”

“In the Italian Quarter?”

“No, I fancy Chiswick is an address which is more likely to find him. If
you will come with me to Chiswick to-night, Lestrade, I’ll promise to go
to the Italian Quarter with you to-morrow, and no harm will be done by the
delay. And now I think that a few hours’ sleep would do us all good, for I
do not propose to leave before eleven o’clock, and it is unlikely that we
shall be back before morning. You’ll dine with us, Lestrade, and then you
are welcome to the sofa until it is time for us to start. In the meantime,
Watson, I should be glad if you would ring for an express messenger, for I
have a letter to send and it is important that it should go at once.”

Holmes spent the evening in rummaging among the files of the old daily
papers with which one of our lumber-rooms was packed. When at last he
descended, it was with triumph in his eyes, but he said nothing to either
of us as to the result of his researches. For my own part, I had followed
step by step the methods by which he had traced the various windings of
this complex case, and, though I could not yet perceive the goal which we
would reach, I understood clearly that Holmes expected this grotesque
criminal to make an attempt upon the two remaining busts, one of which, I
remembered, was at Chiswick. No doubt the object of our journey was to
catch him in the very act, and I could not but admire the cunning with
which my friend had inserted a wrong clue in the evening paper, so as to
give the fellow the idea that he could continue his scheme with impunity.
I was not surprised when Holmes suggested that I should take my revolver
with me. He had himself picked up the loaded hunting-crop, which was his
favourite weapon.

A four-wheeler was at the door at eleven, and in it we drove to a spot at
the other side of Hammersmith Bridge. Here the cabman was directed to
wait. A short walk brought us to a secluded road fringed with pleasant
houses, each standing in its own grounds. In the light of a street lamp we
read “Laburnum Villa” upon the gate-post of one of them. The occupants had
evidently retired to rest, for all was dark save for a fanlight over the
hall door, which shed a single blurred circle on to the garden path. The
wooden fence which separated the grounds from the road threw a dense black
shadow upon the inner side, and here it was that we crouched.

“I fear that you’ll have a long wait,” Holmes whispered. “We may thank our
stars that it is not raining. I don’t think we can even venture to smoke
to pass the time. However, it’s a two to one chance that we get something
to pay us for our trouble.”

It proved, however, that our vigil was not to be so long as Holmes had led
us to fear, and it ended in a very sudden and singular fashion. In an
instant, without the least sound to warn us of his coming, the garden gate
swung open, and a lithe, dark figure, as swift and active as an ape,
rushed up the garden path. We saw it whisk past the light thrown from over
the door and disappear against the black shadow of the house. There was a
long pause, during which we held our breath, and then a very gentle
creaking sound came to our ears. The window was being opened. The noise
ceased, and again there was a long silence. The fellow was making his way
into the house. We saw the sudden flash of a dark lantern inside the room.
What he sought was evidently not there, for again we saw the flash through
another blind, and then through another.

“Let us get to the open window. We will nab him as he climbs out,”
Lestrade whispered.

But before we could move, the man had emerged again. As he came out into
the glimmering patch of light, we saw that he carried something white
under his arm. He looked stealthily all round him. The silence of the
deserted street reassured him. Turning his back upon us he laid down his
burden, and the next instant there was the sound of a sharp tap, followed
by a clatter and rattle. The man was so intent upon what he was doing that
he never heard our steps as we stole across the grass plot. With the bound
of a tiger Holmes was on his back, and an instant later Lestrade and I had
him by either wrist, and the handcuffs had been fastened. As we turned him
over I saw a hideous, sallow face, with writhing, furious features,
glaring up at us, and I knew that it was indeed the man of the photograph
whom we had secured.

But it was not our prisoner to whom Holmes was giving his attention.
Squatted on the doorstep, he was engaged in most carefully examining that
which the man had brought from the house. It was a bust of Napoleon, like
the one which we had seen that morning, and it had been broken into
similar fragments. Carefully Holmes held each separate shard to the light,
but in no way did it differ from any other shattered piece of plaster. He
had just completed his examination when the hall lights flew up, the door
opened, and the owner of the house, a jovial, rotund figure in shirt and
trousers, presented himself.

“Mr. Josiah Brown, I suppose?” said Holmes.

“Yes, sir; and you, no doubt, are Mr. Sherlock Holmes? I had the note
which you sent by the express messenger, and I did exactly what you told
me. We locked every door on the inside and awaited developments. Well, I’m
very glad to see that you have got the rascal. I hope, gentlemen, that you
will come in and have some refreshment.”

However, Lestrade was anxious to get his man into safe quarters, so within
a few minutes our cab had been summoned and we were all four upon our way
to London. Not a word would our captive say, but he glared at us from the
shadow of his matted hair, and once, when my hand seemed within his reach,
he snapped at it like a hungry wolf. We stayed long enough at the
police-station to learn that a search of his clothing revealed nothing
save a few shillings and a long sheath knife, the handle of which bore
copious traces of recent blood.

“That’s all right,” said Lestrade, as we parted. “Hill knows all these
gentry, and he will give a name to him. You’ll find that my theory of the
Mafia will work out all right. But I’m sure I am exceedingly obliged to
you, Mr. Holmes, for the workmanlike way in which you laid hands upon him.
I don’t quite understand it all yet.”

“I fear it is rather too late an hour for explanations,” said Holmes.
“Besides, there are one or two details which are not finished off, and it
is one of those cases which are worth working out to the very end. If you
will come round once more to my rooms at six o’clock to-morrow, I think I
shall be able to show you that even now you have not grasped the entire
meaning of this business, which presents some features which make it
absolutely original in the history of crime. If ever I permit you to
chronicle any more of my little problems, Watson, I foresee that you will
enliven your pages by an account of the singular adventure of the
Napoleonic busts.”

When we met again next evening, Lestrade was furnished with much
information concerning our prisoner. His name, it appeared, was Beppo,
second name unknown. He was a well-known ne’er-do-well among the Italian
colony. He had once been a skilful sculptor and had earned an honest
living, but he had taken to evil courses and had twice already been in
jail—once for a petty theft, and once, as we had already heard, for
stabbing a fellow-countryman. He could talk English perfectly well. His
reasons for destroying the busts were still unknown, and he refused to
answer any questions upon the subject, but the police had discovered that
these same busts might very well have been made by his own hands, since he
was engaged in this class of work at the establishment of Gelder & Co.
To all this information, much of which we already knew, Holmes listened
with polite attention, but I, who knew him so well, could clearly see that
his thoughts were elsewhere, and I detected a mixture of mingled
uneasiness and expectation beneath that mask which he was wont to assume.
At last he started in his chair, and his eyes brightened. There had been a
ring at the bell. A minute later we heard steps upon the stairs, and an
elderly red-faced man with grizzled side-whiskers was ushered in. In his
right hand he carried an old-fashioned carpet-bag, which he placed upon
the table.

“Is Mr. Sherlock Holmes here?”

My friend bowed and smiled. “Mr. Sandeford, of Reading, I suppose?” said
he.

“Yes, sir, I fear that I am a little late, but the trains were awkward.
You wrote to me about a bust that is in my possession.”

“Exactly.”

“I have your letter here. You said, ‘I desire to possess a copy of
Devine’s Napoleon, and am prepared to pay you ten pounds for the one which
is in your possession.’ Is that right?”

“Certainly.”

“I was very much surprised at your letter, for I could not imagine how you
knew that I owned such a thing.”

“Of course you must have been surprised, but the explanation is very
simple. Mr. Harding, of Harding Brothers, said that they had sold you
their last copy, and he gave me your address.”

“Oh, that was it, was it? Did he tell you what I paid for it?”

“No, he did not.”

“Well, I am an honest man, though not a very rich one. I only gave fifteen
shillings for the bust, and I think you ought to know that before I take
ten pounds from you.

“I am sure the scruple does you honour, Mr. Sandeford. But I have named
that price, so I intend to stick to it.”

“Well, it is very handsome of you, Mr. Holmes. I brought the bust up with
me, as you asked me to do. Here it is!” He opened his bag, and at last we
saw placed upon our table a complete specimen of that bust which we had
already seen more than once in fragments.

Holmes took a paper from his pocket and laid a ten-pound note upon the
table.

“You will kindly sign that paper, Mr. Sandeford, in the presence of these
witnesses. It is simply to say that you transfer every possible right that
you ever had in the bust to me. I am a methodical man, you see, and you
never know what turn events might take afterwards. Thank you, Mr.
Sandeford; here is your money, and I wish you a very good evening.”

When our visitor had disappeared, Sherlock Holmes’s movements were such as
to rivet our attention. He began by taking a clean white cloth from a
drawer and laying it over the table. Then he placed his newly acquired
bust in the centre of the cloth. Finally, he picked up his hunting-crop
and struck Napoleon a sharp blow on the top of the head. The figure broke
into fragments, and Holmes bent eagerly over the shattered remains. Next
instant, with a loud shout of triumph he held up one splinter, in which a
round, dark object was fixed like a plum in a pudding.

“Gentlemen,” he cried, “let me introduce you to the famous black pearl of
the Borgias.”

Lestrade and I sat silent for a moment, and then, with a spontaneous
impulse, we both broke at clapping, as at the well-wrought crisis of a
play. A flush of colour sprang to Holmes’s pale cheeks, and he bowed to us
like the master dramatist who receives the homage of his audience. It was
at such moments that for an instant he ceased to be a reasoning machine,
and betrayed his human love for admiration and applause. The same
singularly proud and reserved nature which turned away with disdain from
popular notoriety was capable of being moved to its depths by spontaneous
wonder and praise from a friend.

“Yes, gentlemen,” said he, “it is the most famous pearl now existing in
the world, and it has been my good fortune, by a connected chain of
inductive reasoning, to trace it from the Prince of Colonna’s bedroom at
the Dacre Hotel, where it was lost, to the interior of this, the last of
the six busts of Napoleon which were manufactured by Gelder & Co., of
Stepney. You will remember, Lestrade, the sensation caused by the
disappearance of this valuable jewel and the vain efforts of the London
police to recover it. I was myself consulted upon the case, but I was
unable to throw any light upon it. Suspicion fell upon the maid of the
Princess, who was an Italian, and it was proved that she had a brother in
London, but we failed to trace any connection between them. The maid’s
name was Lucretia Venucci, and there is no doubt in my mind that this
Pietro who was murdered two nights ago was the brother. I have been
looking up the dates in the old files of the paper, and I find that the
disappearance of the pearl was exactly two days before the arrest of
Beppo, for some crime of violence—an event which took place in the
factory of Gelder & Co., at the very moment when these busts were
being made. Now you clearly see the sequence of events, though you see
them, of course, in the inverse order to the way in which they presented
themselves to me. Beppo had the pearl in his possession. He may have
stolen it from Pietro, he may have been Pietro’s confederate, he may have
been the go-between of Pietro and his sister. It is of no consequence to
us which is the correct solution.

“The main fact is that he had the pearl, and at that moment, when it was
on his person, he was pursued by the police. He made for the factory in
which he worked, and he knew that he had only a few minutes in which to
conceal this enormously valuable prize, which would otherwise be found on
him when he was searched. Six plaster casts of Napoleon were drying in the
passage. One of them was still soft. In an instant Beppo, a skilful
workman, made a small hole in the wet plaster, dropped in the pearl, and
with a few touches covered over the aperture once more. It was an
admirable hiding-place. No one could possibly find it. But Beppo was
condemned to a year’s imprisonment, and in the meanwhile his six busts
were scattered over London. He could not tell which contained his
treasure. Only by breaking them could he see. Even shaking would tell him
nothing, for as the plaster was wet it was probable that the pearl would
adhere to it—as, in fact, it has done. Beppo did not despair, and he
conducted his search with considerable ingenuity and perseverance. Through
a cousin who works with Gelder, he found out the retail firms who had
bought the busts. He managed to find employment with Morse Hudson, and in
that way tracked down three of them. The pearl was not there. Then, with
the help of some Italian employee, he succeeded in finding out where the
other three busts had gone. The first was at Harker’s. There he was dogged
by his confederate, who held Beppo responsible for the loss of the pearl,
and he stabbed him in the scuffle which followed.”

“If he was his confederate, why should he carry his photograph?” I asked.

“As a means of tracing him, if he wished to inquire about him from any
third person. That was the obvious reason. Well, after the murder I
calculated that Beppo would probably hurry rather than delay his
movements. He would fear that the police would read his secret, and so he
hastened on before they should get ahead of him. Of course, I could not
say that he had not found the pearl in Harker’s bust. I had not even
concluded for certain that it was the pearl, but it was evident to me that
he was looking for something, since he carried the bust past the other
houses in order to break it in the garden which had a lamp overlooking it.
Since Harker’s bust was one in three, the chances were exactly as I told
you—two to one against the pearl being inside it. There remained two
busts, and it was obvious that he would go for the London one first. I
warned the inmates of the house, so as to avoid a second tragedy, and we
went down, with the happiest results. By that time, of course, I knew for
certain that it was the Borgia pearl that we were after. The name of the
murdered man linked the one event with the other. There only remained a
single bust—the Reading one—and the pearl must be there. I
bought it in your presence from the owner—and there it lies.”

We sat in silence for a moment.

“Well,” said Lestrade, “I’ve seen you handle a good many cases, Mr.
Holmes, but I don’t know that I ever knew a more workmanlike one than
that. We’re not jealous of you at Scotland Yard. No, sir, we are very
proud of you, and if you come down to-morrow, there’s not a man, from the
oldest inspector to the youngest constable, who wouldn’t be glad to shake
you by the hand.”

“Thank you!” said Holmes. “Thank you!” and as he turned away, it seemed to
me that he was more nearly moved by the softer human emotions than I had
ever seen him. A moment later he was the cold and practical thinker once
more. “Put the pearl in the safe, Watson,” said he, “and get out the
papers of the Conk-Singleton forgery case. Good-bye, Lestrade. If any
little problem comes your way, I shall be happy, if I can, to give you a
hint or two as to its solution.”

THE ADVENTURE OF THE THREE STUDENTS

It was in the year ’95 that a combination of events, into which I need not
enter, caused Mr. Sherlock Holmes and myself to spend some weeks in one of
our great university towns, and it was during this time that the small but
instructive adventure which I am about to relate befell us. It will be
obvious that any details which would help the reader exactly to identify
the college or the criminal would be injudicious and offensive. So painful
a scandal may well be allowed to die out. With due discretion the incident
itself may, however, be described, since it serves to illustrate some of
those qualities for which my friend was remarkable. I will endeavour, in
my statement, to avoid such terms as would serve to limit the events to
any particular place, or give a clue as to the people concerned.

We were residing at the time in furnished lodgings close to a library
where Sherlock Holmes was pursuing some laborious researches in early
English charters—researches which led to results so striking that
they may be the subject of one of my future narratives. Here it was that
one evening we received a visit from an acquaintance, Mr. Hilton Soames,
tutor and lecturer at the College of St. Luke’s. Mr. Soames was a tall,
spare man, of a nervous and excitable temperament. I had always known him
to be restless in his manner, but on this particular occasion he was in
such a state of uncontrollable agitation that it was clear something very
unusual had occurred.

“I trust, Mr. Holmes, that you can spare me a few hours of your valuable
time. We have had a very painful incident at St. Luke’s, and really, but
for the happy chance of your being in town, I should have been at a loss
what to do.”

“I am very busy just now, and I desire no distractions,” my friend
answered. “I should much prefer that you called in the aid of the police.”

“No, no, my dear sir; such a course is utterly impossible. When once the
law is evoked it cannot be stayed again, and this is just one of those
cases where, for the credit of the college, it is most essential to avoid
scandal. Your discretion is as well-known as your powers, and you are the
one man in the world who can help me. I beg you, Mr. Holmes, to do what
you can.”

My friend’s temper had not improved since he had been deprived of the
congenial surroundings of Baker Street. Without his scrapbooks, his
chemicals, and his homely untidiness, he was an uncomfortable man. He
shrugged his shoulders in ungracious acquiescence, while our visitor in
hurried words and with much excitable gesticulation poured forth his
story.

“I must explain to you, Mr. Holmes, that to-morrow is the first day of the
examination for the Fortescue Scholarship. I am one of the examiners. My
subject is Greek, and the first of the papers consists of a large passage
of Greek translation which the candidate has not seen. This passage is
printed on the examination paper, and it would naturally be an immense
advantage if the candidate could prepare it in advance. For this reason,
great care is taken to keep the paper secret.

“To-day, about three o’clock, the proofs of this paper arrived from the
printers. The exercise consists of half a chapter of Thucydides. I had to
read it over carefully, as the text must be absolutely correct. At
four-thirty my task was not yet completed. I had, however, promised to
take tea in a friend’s rooms, so I left the proof upon my desk. I was
absent rather more than an hour.

“You are aware, Mr. Holmes, that our college doors are double—a
green baize one within and a heavy oak one without. As I approached my
outer door, I was amazed to see a key in it. For an instant I imagined
that I had left my own there, but on feeling in my pocket I found that it
was all right. The only duplicate which existed, so far as I knew, was
that which belonged to my servant, Bannister—a man who has looked
after my room for ten years, and whose honesty is absolutely above
suspicion. I found that the key was indeed his, that he had entered my
room to know if I wanted tea, and that he had very carelessly left the key
in the door when he came out. His visit to my room must have been within a
very few minutes of my leaving it. His forgetfulness about the key would
have mattered little upon any other occasion, but on this one day it has
produced the most deplorable consequences.

“The moment I looked at my table, I was aware that someone had rummaged
among my papers. The proof was in three long slips. I had left them all
together. Now, I found that one of them was lying on the floor, one was on
the side table near the window, and the third was where I had left it.”

Holmes stirred for the first time.

“The first page on the floor, the second in the window, the third where
you left it,” said he.

“Exactly, Mr. Holmes. You amaze me. How could you possibly know that?”

“Pray continue your very interesting statement.”

“For an instant I imagined that Bannister had taken the unpardonable
liberty of examining my papers. He denied it, however, with the utmost
earnestness, and I am convinced that he was speaking the truth. The
alternative was that someone passing had observed the key in the door, had
known that I was out, and had entered to look at the papers. A large sum
of money is at stake, for the scholarship is a very valuable one, and an
unscrupulous man might very well run a risk in order to gain an advantage
over his fellows.

“Bannister was very much upset by the incident. He had nearly fainted when
we found that the papers had undoubtedly been tampered with. I gave him a
little brandy and left him collapsed in a chair, while I made a most
careful examination of the room. I soon saw that the intruder had left
other traces of his presence besides the rumpled papers. On the table in
the window were several shreds from a pencil which had been sharpened. A
broken tip of lead was lying there also. Evidently the rascal had copied
the paper in a great hurry, had broken his pencil, and had been compelled
to put a fresh point to it.”

“Excellent!” said Holmes, who was recovering his good-humour as his
attention became more engrossed by the case. “Fortune has been your
friend.”

“This was not all. I have a new writing-table with a fine surface of red
leather. I am prepared to swear, and so is Bannister, that it was smooth
and unstained. Now I found a clean cut in it about three inches long—not
a mere scratch, but a positive cut. Not only this, but on the table I
found a small ball of black dough or clay, with specks of something which
looks like sawdust in it. I am convinced that these marks were left by the
man who rifled the papers. There were no footmarks and no other evidence
as to his identity. I was at my wits’ end, when suddenly the happy thought
occurred to me that you were in the town, and I came straight round to put
the matter into your hands. Do help me, Mr. Holmes. You see my dilemma.
Either I must find the man or else the examination must be postponed until
fresh papers are prepared, and since this cannot be done without
explanation, there will ensue a hideous scandal, which will throw a cloud
not only on the college, but on the university. Above all things, I desire
to settle the matter quietly and discreetly.”

“I shall be happy to look into it and to give you such advice as I can,”
said Holmes, rising and putting on his overcoat. “The case is not entirely
devoid of interest. Had anyone visited you in your room after the papers
came to you?”

“Yes, young Daulat Ras, an Indian student, who lives on the same stair,
came in to ask me some particulars about the examination.”

“For which he was entered?”

“Yes.”

“And the papers were on your table?”

“To the best of my belief, they were rolled up.”

“But might be recognized as proofs?”

“Possibly.”

“No one else in your room?”

“No.”

“Did anyone know that these proofs would be there?”

“No one save the printer.”

“Did this man Bannister know?”

“No, certainly not. No one knew.”

“Where is Bannister now?”

“He was very ill, poor fellow. I left him collapsed in the chair. I was in
such a hurry to come to you.”

“You left your door open?”

“I locked up the papers first.”

“Then it amounts to this, Mr. Soames: that, unless the Indian student
recognized the roll as being proofs, the man who tampered with them came
upon them accidentally without knowing that they were there.”

“So it seems to me.”

Holmes gave an enigmatic smile.

“Well,” said he, “let us go round. Not one of your cases, Watson—mental,
not physical. All right; come if you want to. Now, Mr. Soames—at
your disposal!”

The sitting-room of our client opened by a long, low, latticed window on
to the ancient lichen-tinted court of the old college. A Gothic arched
door led to a worn stone staircase. On the ground floor was the tutor’s
room. Above were three students, one on each story. It was already
twilight when we reached the scene of our problem. Holmes halted and
looked earnestly at the window. Then he approached it, and, standing on
tiptoe with his neck craned, he looked into the room.

“He must have entered through the door. There is no opening except the one
pane,” said our learned guide.

“Dear me!” said Holmes, and he smiled in a singular way as he glanced at
our companion. “Well, if there is nothing to be learned here, we had best
go inside.”

The lecturer unlocked the outer door and ushered us into his room. We
stood at the entrance while Holmes made an examination of the carpet.

“I am afraid there are no signs here,” said he. “One could hardly hope for
any upon so dry a day. Your servant seems to have quite recovered. You
left him in a chair, you say. Which chair?”

“By the window there.”

“I see. Near this little table. You can come in now. I have finished with
the carpet. Let us take the little table first. Of course, what has
happened is very clear. The man entered and took the papers, sheet by
sheet, from the central table. He carried them over to the window table,
because from there he could see if you came across the courtyard, and so
could effect an escape.”

“As a matter of fact, he could not,” said Soames, “for I entered by the
side door.”

“Ah, that’s good! Well, anyhow, that was in his mind. Let me see the three
strips. No finger impressions—no! Well, he carried over this one
first, and he copied it. How long would it take him to do that, using
every possible contraction? A quarter of an hour, not less. Then he tossed
it down and seized the next. He was in the midst of that when your return
caused him to make a very hurried retreat—very hurried, since he had
not time to replace the papers which would tell you that he had been
there. You were not aware of any hurrying feet on the stair as you entered
the outer door?”

“No, I can’t say I was.”

“Well, he wrote so furiously that he broke his pencil, and had, as you
observe, to sharpen it again. This is of interest, Watson. The pencil was
not an ordinary one. It was above the usual size, with a soft lead, the
outer colour was dark blue, the maker’s name was printed in silver
lettering, and the piece remaining is only about an inch and a half long.
Look for such a pencil, Mr. Soames, and you have got your man. When I add
that he possesses a large and very blunt knife, you have an additional
aid.”

Mr. Soames was somewhat overwhelmed by this flood of information. “I can
follow the other points,” said he, “but really, in this matter of the
length——”

Holmes held out a small chip with the letters NN and a space of clear wood
after them.

“You see?”

“No, I fear that even now——”

“Watson, I have always done you an injustice. There are others. What could
this NN be? It is at the end of a word. You are aware that Johann Faber is
the most common maker’s name. Is it not clear that there is just as much
of the pencil left as usually follows the Johann?” He held the small table
sideways to the electric light. “I was hoping that if the paper on which
he wrote was thin, some trace of it might come through upon this polished
surface. No, I see nothing. I don’t think there is anything more to be
learned here. Now for the central table. This small pellet is, I presume,
the black, doughy mass you spoke of. Roughly pyramidal in shape and
hollowed out, I perceive. As you say, there appear to be grains of sawdust
in it. Dear me, this is very interesting. And the cut—a positive
tear, I see. It began with a thin scratch and ended in a jagged hole. I am
much indebted to you for directing my attention to this case, Mr. Soames.
Where does that door lead to?”

“To my bedroom.”

“Have you been in it since your adventure?”

“No, I came straight away for you.”

“I should like to have a glance round. What a charming, old-fashioned
room! Perhaps you will kindly wait a minute, until I have examined the
floor. No, I see nothing. What about this curtain? You hang your clothes
behind it. If anyone were forced to conceal himself in this room he must
do it there, since the bed is too low and the wardrobe too shallow. No one
there, I suppose?”

As Holmes drew the curtain I was aware, from some little rigidity and
alertness of his attitude, that he was prepared for an emergency. As a
matter of fact, the drawn curtain disclosed nothing but three or four
suits of clothes hanging from a line of pegs. Holmes turned away, and
stooped suddenly to the floor.

“Halloa! What’s this?” said he.

It was a small pyramid of black, putty-like stuff, exactly like the one
upon the table of the study. Holmes held it out on his open palm in the
glare of the electric light.

“Your visitor seems to have left traces in your bedroom as well as in your
sitting-room, Mr. Soames.”

“What could he have wanted there?”

“I think it is clear enough. You came back by an unexpected way, and so he
had no warning until you were at the very door. What could he do? He
caught up everything which would betray him, and he rushed into your
bedroom to conceal himself.”

“Good gracious, Mr. Holmes, do you mean to tell me that, all the time I
was talking to Bannister in this room, we had the man prisoner if we had
only known it?”

“So I read it.”

“Surely there is another alternative, Mr. Holmes. I don’t know whether you
observed my bedroom window?”

“Lattice-paned, lead framework, three separate windows, one swinging on
hinge, and large enough to admit a man.”

“Exactly. And it looks out on an angle of the courtyard so as to be partly
invisible. The man might have effected his entrance there, left traces as
he passed through the bedroom, and finally, finding the door open, have
escaped that way.”

Holmes shook his head impatiently.

“Let us be practical,” said he. “I understand you to say that there are
three students who use this stair, and are in the habit of passing your
door?”

“Yes, there are.”

“And they are all in for this examination?”

“Yes.”

“Have you any reason to suspect any one of them more than the others?”

Soames hesitated.

“It is a very delicate question,” said he. “One hardly likes to throw
suspicion where there are no proofs.”

“Let us hear the suspicions. I will look after the proofs.”

“I will tell you, then, in a few words the character of the three men who
inhabit these rooms. The lower of the three is Gilchrist, a fine scholar
and athlete, plays in the Rugby team and the cricket team for the college,
and got his Blue for the hurdles and the long jump. He is a fine, manly
fellow. His father was the notorious Sir Jabez Gilchrist, who ruined
himself on the turf. My scholar has been left very poor, but he is
hard-working and industrious. He will do well.

“The second floor is inhabited by Daulat Ras, the Indian. He is a quiet,
inscrutable fellow; as most of those Indians are. He is well up in his
work, though his Greek is his weak subject. He is steady and methodical.

“The top floor belongs to Miles McLaren. He is a brilliant fellow when he
chooses to work—one of the brightest intellects of the university;
but he is wayward, dissipated, and unprincipled. He was nearly expelled
over a card scandal in his first year. He has been idling all this term,
and he must look forward with dread to the examination.”

“Then it is he whom you suspect?”

“I dare not go so far as that. But, of the three, he is perhaps the least
unlikely.”

“Exactly. Now, Mr. Soames, let us have a look at your servant, Bannister.”

He was a little, white-faced, clean-shaven, grizzly-haired fellow of
fifty. He was still suffering from this sudden disturbance of the quiet
routine of his life. His plump face was twitching with his nervousness,
and his fingers could not keep still.

“We are investigating this unhappy business, Bannister,” said his master.

“Yes, sir.”

“I understand,” said Holmes, “that you left your key in the door?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Was it not very extraordinary that you should do this on the very day
when there were these papers inside?”

“It was most unfortunate, sir. But I have occasionally done the same thing
at other times.”

“When did you enter the room?”

“It was about half-past four. That is Mr. Soames’ tea time.”

“How long did you stay?”

“When I saw that he was absent, I withdrew at once.”

“Did you look at these papers on the table?”

“No, sir—certainly not.”

“How came you to leave the key in the door?”

“I had the tea-tray in my hand. I thought I would come back for the key.
Then I forgot.”

“Has the outer door a spring lock?”

“No, sir.”

“Then it was open all the time?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Anyone in the room could get out?”

“Yes, sir.”

“When Mr. Soames returned and called for you, you were very much
disturbed?”

“Yes, sir. Such a thing has never happened during the many years that I
have been here. I nearly fainted, sir.”

“So I understand. Where were you when you began to feel bad?”

“Where was I, sir? Why, here, near the door.”

“That is singular, because you sat down in that chair over yonder near the
corner. Why did you pass these other chairs?”

“I don’t know, sir, it didn’t matter to me where I sat.”

“I really don’t think he knew much about it, Mr. Holmes. He was looking
very bad—quite ghastly.”

“You stayed here when your master left?”

“Only for a minute or so. Then I locked the door and went to my room.”

“Whom do you suspect?”

“Oh, I would not venture to say, sir. I don’t believe there is any
gentleman in this university who is capable of profiting by such an
action. No, sir, I’ll not believe it.”

“Thank you, that will do,” said Holmes. “Oh, one more word. You have not
mentioned to any of the three gentlemen whom you attend that anything is
amiss?”

“No, sir—not a word.”

“You haven’t seen any of them?”

“No, sir.”

“Very good. Now, Mr. Soames, we will take a walk in the quadrangle, if you
please.”

Three yellow squares of light shone above us in the gathering gloom.

“Your three birds are all in their nests,” said Holmes, looking up.
“Halloa! What’s that? One of them seems restless enough.”

It was the Indian, whose dark silhouette appeared suddenly upon his blind.
He was pacing swiftly up and down his room.

“I should like to have a peep at each of them,” said Holmes. “Is it
possible?”

“No difficulty in the world,” Soames answered. “This set of rooms is quite
the oldest in the college, and it is not unusual for visitors to go over
them. Come along, and I will personally conduct you.”

“No names, please!” said Holmes, as we knocked at Gilchrist’s door. A
tall, flaxen-haired, slim young fellow opened it, and made us welcome when
he understood our errand. There were some really curious pieces of
mediæval domestic architecture within. Holmes was so charmed with one of
them that he insisted on drawing it in his notebook, broke his pencil, had
to borrow one from our host and finally borrowed a knife to sharpen his
own. The same curious accident happened to him in the rooms of the Indian—a
silent, little, hook-nosed fellow, who eyed us askance, and was obviously
glad when Holmes’s architectural studies had come to an end. I could not
see that in either case Holmes had come upon the clue for which he was
searching. Only at the third did our visit prove abortive. The outer door
would not open to our knock, and nothing more substantial than a torrent
of bad language came from behind it. “I don’t care who you are. You can go
to blazes!” roared the angry voice. “Tomorrow’s the exam, and I won’t be
drawn by anyone.”

“A rude fellow,” said our guide, flushing with anger as we withdrew down
the stair. “Of course, he did not realize that it was I who was knocking,
but none the less his conduct was very uncourteous, and, indeed, under the
circumstances rather suspicious.”

Holmes’s response was a curious one.

“Can you tell me his exact height?” he asked.

“Really, Mr. Holmes, I cannot undertake to say. He is taller than the
Indian, not so tall as Gilchrist. I suppose five foot six would be about
it.”

“That is very important,” said Holmes. “And now, Mr. Soames, I wish you
good-night.”

Our guide cried aloud in his astonishment and dismay. “Good gracious, Mr.
Holmes, you are surely not going to leave me in this abrupt fashion! You
don’t seem to realize the position. To-morrow is the examination. I must
take some definite action to-night. I cannot allow the examination to be
held if one of the papers has been tampered with. The situation must be
faced.”

“You must leave it as it is. I shall drop round early to-morrow morning
and chat the matter over. It is possible that I may be in a position then
to indicate some course of action. Meanwhile, you change nothing—nothing
at all.”

“Very good, Mr. Holmes.”

“You can be perfectly easy in your mind. We shall certainly find some way
out of your difficulties. I will take the black clay with me, also the
pencil cuttings. Good-bye.”

When we were out in the darkness of the quadrangle, we again looked up at
the windows. The Indian still paced his room. The others were invisible.

“Well, Watson, what do you think of it?” Holmes asked, as we came out into
the main street. “Quite a little parlour game—sort of three-card
trick, is it not? There are your three men. It must be one of them. You
take your choice. Which is yours?”

“The foul-mouthed fellow at the top. He is the one with the worst record.
And yet that Indian was a sly fellow also. Why should he be pacing his
room all the time?”

“There is nothing in that. Many men do it when they are trying to learn
anything by heart.”

“He looked at us in a queer way.”

“So would you, if a flock of strangers came in on you when you were
preparing for an examination next day, and every moment was of value. No,
I see nothing in that. Pencils, too, and knives—all was
satisfactory. But that fellow does puzzle me.”

“Who?”

“Why, Bannister, the servant. What’s his game in the matter?”

“He impressed me as being a perfectly honest man.”

“So he did me. That’s the puzzling part. Why should a perfectly honest man—well,
well, here’s a large stationer’s. We shall begin our researches here.”

There were only four stationers of any consequences in the town, and at
each Holmes produced his pencil chips, and bid high for a duplicate. All
were agreed that one could be ordered, but that it was not a usual size of
pencil and that it was seldom kept in stock. My friend did not appear to
be depressed by his failure, but shrugged his shoulders in half-humorous
resignation.

“No good, my dear Watson. This, the best and only final clue, has run to
nothing. But, indeed, I have little doubt that we can build up a
sufficient case without it. By Jove! my dear fellow, it is nearly nine,
and the landlady babbled of green peas at seven-thirty. What with your
eternal tobacco, Watson, and your irregularity at meals, I expect that you
will get notice to quit, and that I shall share your downfall—not,
however, before we have solved the problem of the nervous tutor, the
careless servant, and the three enterprising students.”

Holmes made no further allusion to the matter that day, though he sat lost
in thought for a long time after our belated dinner. At eight in the
morning, he came into my room just as I finished my toilet.

“Well, Watson,” said he, “it is time we went down to St. Luke’s. Can you
do without breakfast?”

“Certainly.”

“Soames will be in a dreadful fidget until we are able to tell him
something positive.”

“Have you anything positive to tell him?”

“I think so.”

“You have formed a conclusion?”

“Yes, my dear Watson, I have solved the mystery.”

“But what fresh evidence could you have got?”

“Aha! It is not for nothing that I have turned myself out of bed at the
untimely hour of six. I have put in two hours’ hard work and covered at
least five miles, with something to show for it. Look at that!”

He held out his hand. On the palm were three little pyramids of black,
doughy clay.

“Why, Holmes, you had only two yesterday.”

“And one more this morning. It is a fair argument that wherever No. 3 came
from is also the source of Nos. 1 and 2. Eh, Watson? Well, come along and
put friend Soames out of his pain.”

The unfortunate tutor was certainly in a state of pitiable agitation when
we found him in his chambers. In a few hours the examination would
commence, and he was still in the dilemma between making the facts public
and allowing the culprit to compete for the valuable scholarship. He could
hardly stand still so great was his mental agitation, and he ran towards
Holmes with two eager hands outstretched.

“Thank heaven that you have come! I feared that you had given it up in
despair. What am I to do? Shall the examination proceed?”

“Yes, let it proceed, by all means.”

“But this rascal?—”

“He shall not compete.”

“You know him?”

“I think so. If this matter is not to become public, we must give
ourselves certain powers and resolve ourselves into a small private
court-martial. You there, if you please, Soames! Watson, you here! I’ll
take the armchair in the middle. I think that we are now sufficiently
imposing to strike terror into a guilty breast. Kindly ring the bell!”

Bannister entered, and shrank back in evident surprise and fear at our
judicial appearance.

“You will kindly close the door,” said Holmes. “Now, Bannister, will you
please tell us the truth about yesterday’s incident?”

The man turned white to the roots of his hair.

“I have told you everything, sir.”

“Nothing to add?”

“Nothing at all, sir.”

“Well, then, I must make some suggestions to you. When you sat down on
that chair yesterday, did you do so in order to conceal some object which
would have shown who had been in the room?”

Bannister’s face was ghastly.

“No, sir, certainly not.”

“It is only a suggestion,” said Holmes, suavely. “I frankly admit that I
am unable to prove it. But it seems probable enough, since the moment that
Mr. Soames’s back was turned, you released the man who was hiding in that
bedroom.”

Bannister licked his dry lips.

“There was no man, sir.”

“Ah, that’s a pity, Bannister. Up to now you may have spoken the truth,
but now I know that you have lied.”

The man’s face set in sullen defiance.

“There was no man, sir.”

“Come, come, Bannister!”

“No, sir, there was no one.”

“In that case, you can give us no further information. Would you please
remain in the room? Stand over there near the bedroom door. Now, Soames, I
am going to ask you to have the great kindness to go up to the room of
young Gilchrist, and to ask him to step down into yours.”

An instant later the tutor returned, bringing with him the student. He was
a fine figure of a man, tall, lithe, and agile, with a springy step and a
pleasant, open face. His troubled blue eyes glanced at each of us, and
finally rested with an expression of blank dismay upon Bannister in the
farther corner.

“Just close the door,” said Holmes. “Now, Mr. Gilchrist, we are all quite
alone here, and no one need ever know one word of what passes between us.
We can be perfectly frank with each other. We want to know, Mr. Gilchrist,
how you, an honourable man, ever came to commit such an action as that of
yesterday?”

The unfortunate young man staggered back, and cast a look full of horror
and reproach at Bannister.

“No, no, Mr. Gilchrist, sir, I never said a word—never one word!”
cried the servant.

“No, but you have now,” said Holmes. “Now, sir, you must see that after
Bannister’s words your position is hopeless, and that your only chance
lies in a frank confession.”

For a moment Gilchrist, with upraised hand, tried to control his writhing
features. The next he had thrown himself on his knees beside the table,
and burying his face in his hands, he had burst into a storm of passionate
sobbing.

“Come, come,” said Holmes, kindly, “it is human to err, and at least no
one can accuse you of being a callous criminal. Perhaps it would be easier
for you if I were to tell Mr. Soames what occurred, and you can check me
where I am wrong. Shall I do so? Well, well, don’t trouble to answer.
Listen, and see that I do you no injustice.

“From the moment, Mr. Soames, that you said to me that no one, not even
Bannister, could have told that the papers were in your room, the case
began to take a definite shape in my mind. The printer one could, of
course, dismiss. He could examine the papers in his own office. The Indian
I also thought nothing of. If the proofs were in a roll, he could not
possibly know what they were. On the other hand, it seemed an unthinkable
coincidence that a man should dare to enter the room, and that by chance
on that very day the papers were on the table. I dismissed that. The man
who entered knew that the papers were there. How did he know?

“When I approached your room, I examined the window. You amused me by
supposing that I was contemplating the possibility of someone having in
broad daylight, under the eyes of all these opposite rooms, forced himself
through it. Such an idea was absurd. I was measuring how tall a man would
need to be in order to see, as he passed, what papers were on the central
table. I am six feet high, and I could do it with an effort. No one less
than that would have a chance. Already you see I had reason to think that,
if one of your three students was a man of unusual height, he was the most
worth watching of the three.

“I entered, and I took you into my confidence as to the suggestions of the
side table. Of the centre table I could make nothing, until in your
description of Gilchrist you mentioned that he was a long-distance jumper.
Then the whole thing came to me in an instant, and I only needed certain
corroborative proofs, which I speedily obtained.

“What happened was this. This young fellow had employed his
afternoon at the athletic grounds, where he had been practising the jump.
He returned carrying his jumping-shoes, which are provided, as you are
aware, with several sharp spikes. As he passed your window he saw, by
means of his great height, these proofs upon your table, and conjectured
what they were. No harm would have been done had it not been that, as he
passed your door, he perceived the key which had been left by the
carelessness of your servant. A sudden impulse came over him to enter,
and see if they were indeed the proofs. It was not a dangerous exploit
for he could always pretend that he had simply looked in to ask a
question.

“Well, when he saw that they were indeed the proofs, it was then that he
yielded to temptation. He put his shoes on the table. What was it you put
on that chair near the window?”

“Gloves,” said the young man.

Holmes looked triumphantly at Bannister. “He put his gloves on the chair,
and he took the proofs, sheet by sheet, to copy them. He thought the tutor
must return by the main gate and that he would see him. As we know, he
came back by the side gate. Suddenly he heard him at the very door. There
was no possible escape. He forgot his gloves but he caught up his shoes
and darted into the bedroom. You observe that the scratch on that table is
slight at one side, but deepens in the direction of the bedroom door. That
in itself is enough to show us that the shoe had been drawn in that
direction, and that the culprit had taken refuge there. The earth round
the spike had been left on the table, and a second sample was loosened and
fell in the bedroom. I may add that I walked out to the athletic grounds
this morning, saw that tenacious black clay is used in the jumping-pit and
carried away a specimen of it, together with some of the fine tan or
sawdust which is strewn over it to prevent the athlete from slipping. Have
I told the truth, Mr. Gilchrist?”

The student had drawn himself erect.

“Yes, sir, it is true,” said he.

“Good heavens! have you nothing to add?” cried Soames.

“Yes, sir, I have, but the shock of this disgraceful exposure has
bewildered me. I have a letter here, Mr. Soames, which I wrote to you
early this morning in the middle of a restless night. It was before I knew
that my sin had found me out. Here it is, sir. You will see that I have
said, ‘I have determined not to go in for the examination. I have been
offered a commission in the Rhodesian Police, and I am going out to South
Africa at once.’”

“I am indeed pleased to hear that you did not intend to profit by your
unfair advantage,” said Soames. “But why did you change your purpose?”

Gilchrist pointed to Bannister.

“There is the man who set me in the right path,” said he.

“Come now, Bannister,” said Holmes. “It will be clear to you, from what I
have said, that only you could have let this young man out, since you were
left in the room, and must have locked the door when you went out. As to
his escaping by that window, it was incredible. Can you not clear up the
last point in this mystery, and tell us the reasons for your action?”

“It was simple enough, sir, if you only had known, but, with all your
cleverness, it was impossible that you could know. Time was, sir, when I
was butler to old Sir Jabez Gilchrist, this young gentleman’s father. When
he was ruined I came to the college as servant, but I never forgot my old
employer because he was down in the world. I watched his son all I could
for the sake of the old days. Well, sir, when I came into this room
yesterday, when the alarm was given, the very first thing I saw was Mr.
Gilchrist’s tan gloves a-lying in that chair. I knew those gloves well,
and I understood their message. If Mr. Soames saw them, the game was up. I
flopped down into that chair, and nothing would budge me until Mr. Soames
he went for you. Then out came my poor young master, whom I had dandled on
my knee, and confessed it all to me. Wasn’t it natural, sir, that I should
save him, and wasn’t it natural also that I should try to speak to him as
his dead father would have done, and make him understand that he could not
profit by such a deed? Could you blame me, sir?”

“No, indeed,” said Holmes, heartily, springing to his feet. “Well, Soames,
I think we have cleared your little problem up, and our breakfast awaits
us at home. Come, Watson! As to you, sir, I trust that a bright future
awaits you in Rhodesia. For once you have fallen low. Let us see, in the
future, how high you can rise.”

THE ADVENTURE OF THE GOLDEN PINCE-NEZ

When I look at the three massive manuscript volumes which contain our work
for the year 1894, I confess that it is very difficult for me, out of such
a wealth of material, to select the cases which are most interesting in
themselves, and at the same time most conducive to a display of those
peculiar powers for which my friend was famous. As I turn over the pages,
I see my notes upon the repulsive story of the red leech and the terrible
death of Crosby, the banker. Here also I find an account of the Addleton
tragedy, and the singular contents of the ancient British barrow. The
famous Smith-Mortimer succession case comes also within this period, and
so does the tracking and arrest of Huret, the Boulevard assassin—an
exploit which won for Holmes an autograph letter of thanks from the French
President and the Order of the Legion of Honour. Each of these would
furnish a narrative, but on the whole I am of opinion that none of them
unites so many singular points of interest as the episode of Yoxley Old
Place, which includes not only the lamentable death of young Willoughby
Smith, but also those subsequent developments which threw so curious a
light upon the causes of the crime.

It was a wild, tempestuous night, towards the close of November. Holmes
and I sat together in silence all the evening, he engaged with a powerful
lens deciphering the remains of the original inscription upon a
palimpsest, I deep in a recent treatise upon surgery. Outside the wind
howled down Baker Street, while the rain beat fiercely against the
windows. It was strange there, in the very depths of the town, with ten
miles of man’s handiwork on every side of us, to feel the iron grip of
Nature, and to be conscious that to the huge elemental forces all London
was no more than the molehills that dot the fields. I walked to the
window, and looked out on the deserted street. The occasional lamps
gleamed on the expanse of muddy road and shining pavement. A single cab
was splashing its way from the Oxford Street end.

“Well, Watson, it’s as well we have not to turn out to-night,” said
Holmes, laying aside his lens and rolling up the palimpsest. “I’ve done
enough for one sitting. It is trying work for the eyes. So far as I can
make out, it is nothing more exciting than an Abbey’s accounts dating from
the second half of the fifteenth century. Halloa! halloa! halloa! What’s
this?”

Amid the droning of the wind there had come the stamping of a horse’s
hoofs, and the long grind of a wheel as it rasped against the curb. The
cab which I had seen had pulled up at our door.

“What can he want?” I ejaculated, as a man stepped out of it.

“Want? He wants us. And we, my poor Watson, want overcoats and cravats and
goloshes, and every aid that man ever invented to fight the weather. Wait
a bit, though! There’s the cab off again! There’s hope yet. He’d have kept
it if he had wanted us to come. Run down, my dear fellow, and open the
door, for all virtuous folk have been long in bed.”

When the light of the hall lamp fell upon our midnight visitor, I had no
difficulty in recognizing him. It was young Stanley Hopkins, a promising
detective, in whose career Holmes had several times shown a very practical
interest.

“Is he in?” he asked, eagerly.

“Come up, my dear sir,” said Holmes’s voice from above. “I hope you have
no designs upon us such a night as this.”

The detective mounted the stairs, and our lamp gleamed upon his shining
waterproof. I helped him out of it, while Holmes knocked a blaze out of
the logs in the grate.

“Now, my dear Hopkins, draw up and warm your toes,” said he. “Here’s a
cigar, and the doctor has a prescription containing hot water and a lemon,
which is good medicine on a night like this. It must be something
important which has brought you out in such a gale.”

“It is indeed, Mr. Holmes. I’ve had a bustling afternoon, I promise you.
Did you see anything of the Yoxley case in the latest editions?”

“I’ve seen nothing later than the fifteenth century to-day.”

“Well, it was only a paragraph, and all wrong at that, so you have not
missed anything. I haven’t let the grass grow under my feet. It’s down in
Kent, seven miles from Chatham and three from the railway line. I was
wired for at 3:15, reached Yoxley Old Place at 5, conducted my
investigation, was back at Charing Cross by the last train, and straight
to you by cab.”

“Which means, I suppose, that you are not quite clear about your case?”

“It means that I can make neither head nor tail of it. So far as I can
see, it is just as tangled a business as ever I handled, and yet at first
it seemed so simple that one couldn’t go wrong. There’s no motive, Mr.
Holmes. That’s what bothers me—I can’t put my hand on a motive.
Here’s a man dead—there’s no denying that—but, so far as I can
see, no reason on earth why anyone should wish him harm.”

Holmes lit his cigar and leaned back in his chair.

“Let us hear about it,” said he.

“I’ve got my facts pretty clear,” said Stanley Hopkins. “All I want now is
to know what they all mean. The story, so far as I can make it out, is
like this. Some years ago this country house, Yoxley Old Place, was taken
by an elderly man, who gave the name of Professor Coram. He was an
invalid, keeping his bed half the time, and the other half hobbling round
the house with a stick or being pushed about the grounds by the gardener
in a Bath chair. He was well liked by the few neighbours who called upon
him, and he has the reputation down there of being a very learned man. His
household used to consist of an elderly housekeeper, Mrs. Marker, and of a
maid, Susan Tarlton. These have both been with him since his arrival, and
they seem to be women of excellent character. The professor is writing a
learned book, and he found it necessary, about a year ago, to engage a
secretary. The first two that he tried were not successes, but the third,
Mr. Willoughby Smith, a very young man straight from the university, seems
to have been just what his employer wanted. His work consisted in writing
all the morning to the professor’s dictation, and he usually spent the
evening in hunting up references and passages which bore upon the next
day’s work. This Willoughby Smith has nothing against him, either as a boy
at Uppingham or as a young man at Cambridge. I have seen his testimonials,
and from the first he was a decent, quiet, hard-working fellow, with no
weak spot in him at all. And yet this is the lad who has met his death
this morning in the professor’s study under circumstances which can point
only to murder.”

The wind howled and screamed at the windows. Holmes and I drew closer to
the fire, while the young inspector slowly and point by point developed
his singular narrative.

“If you were to search all England,” said he, “I don’t suppose you could
find a household more self-contained or freer from outside influences.
Whole weeks would pass, and not one of them go past the garden gate. The
professor was buried in his work and existed for nothing else. Young Smith
knew nobody in the neighbourhood, and lived very much as his employer did.
The two women had nothing to take them from the house. Mortimer, the
gardener, who wheels the Bath chair, is an army pensioner—an old
Crimean man of excellent character. He does not live in the house, but in
a three-roomed cottage at the other end of the garden. Those are the only
people that you would find within the grounds of Yoxley Old Place. At the
same time, the gate of the garden is a hundred yards from the main London
to Chatham road. It opens with a latch, and there is nothing to prevent
anyone from walking in.

“Now I will give you the evidence of Susan Tarlton, who is the only person
who can say anything positive about the matter. It was in the forenoon,
between eleven and twelve. She was engaged at the moment in hanging some
curtains in the upstairs front bedroom. Professor Coram was still in bed,
for when the weather is bad he seldom rises before midday. The housekeeper
was busied with some work in the back of the house. Willoughby Smith had
been in his bedroom, which he uses as a sitting-room, but the maid heard
him at that moment pass along the passage and descend to the study
immediately below her. She did not see him, but she says that she could
not be mistaken in his quick, firm tread. She did not hear the study door
close, but a minute or so later there was a dreadful cry in the room
below. It was a wild, hoarse scream, so strange and unnatural that it
might have come either from a man or a woman. At the same instant there
was a heavy thud, which shook the old house, and then all was silence. The
maid stood petrified for a moment, and then, recovering her courage, she
ran downstairs. The study door was shut and she opened it. Inside, young
Mr. Willoughby Smith was stretched upon the floor. At first she could see
no injury, but as she tried to raise him she saw that blood was pouring
from the underside of his neck. It was pierced by a very small but very
deep wound, which had divided the carotid artery. The instrument with
which the injury had been inflicted lay upon the carpet beside him. It was
one of those small sealing-wax knives to be found on old-fashioned
writing-tables, with an ivory handle and a stiff blade. It was part of the
fittings of the professor’s own desk.

“At first the maid thought that young Smith was already dead, but on
pouring some water from the carafe over his forehead he opened his eyes
for an instant. ‘The professor,’ he murmured—‘it was she.’ The maid
is prepared to swear that those were the exact words. He tried desperately
to say something else, and he held his right hand up in the air. Then he
fell back dead.

“In the meantime the housekeeper had also arrived upon the scene, but she
was just too late to catch the young man’s dying words. Leaving Susan with
the body, she hurried to the professor’s room. He was sitting up in bed,
horribly agitated, for he had heard enough to convince him that something
terrible had occurred. Mrs. Marker is prepared to swear that the professor
was still in his night-clothes, and indeed it was impossible for him to
dress without the help of Mortimer, whose orders were to come at twelve
o’clock. The professor declares that he heard the distant cry, but that he
knows nothing more. He can give no explanation of the young man’s last
words, ‘The professor—it was she,’ but imagines that they were the
outcome of delirium. He believes that Willoughby Smith had not an enemy in
the world, and can give no reason for the crime. His first action was to
send Mortimer, the gardener, for the local police. A little later the
chief constable sent for me. Nothing was moved before I got there, and
strict orders were given that no one should walk upon the paths leading to
the house. It was a splendid chance of putting your theories into
practice, Mr. Sherlock Holmes. There was really nothing wanting.”

“Except Mr. Sherlock Holmes,” said my companion, with a somewhat bitter
smile. “Well, let us hear about it. What sort of a job did you make of
it?”

“I must ask you first, Mr. Holmes, to glance at this rough plan, which
will give you a general idea of the position of the professor’s study and
the various points of the case. It will help you in following my
investigation.”

He unfolded the rough chart, which I here reproduce, and he laid it
across Holmes’s knee. I rose and, standing behind Holmes, studied
it over his shoulder.

“It is very rough, of course, and it only deals with the points which seem
to me to be essential. All the rest you will see later for yourself. Now,
first of all, presuming that the assassin entered the house, how did he or
she come in? Undoubtedly by the garden path and the back door, from which
there is direct access to the study. Any other way would have been
exceedingly complicated. The escape must have also been made along that
line, for of the two other exits from the room one was blocked by Susan as
she ran downstairs and the other leads straight to the professor’s
bedroom. I therefore directed my attention at once to the garden path,
which was saturated with recent rain, and would certainly show any
footmarks.

“My examination showed me that I was dealing with a cautious and expert
criminal. No footmarks were to be found on the path. There could be no
question, however, that someone had passed along the grass border which
lines the path, and that he had done so in order to avoid leaving a track.
I could not find anything in the nature of a distinct impression, but the
grass was trodden down, and someone had undoubtedly passed. It could only
have been the murderer, since neither the gardener nor anyone else had
been there that morning, and the rain had only begun during the night.”

“One moment,” said Holmes. “Where does this path lead to?”

“To the road.”

“How long is it?”

“A hundred yards or so.”

“At the point where the path passes through the gate, you could surely
pick up the tracks?”

“Unfortunately, the path was tiled at that point.”

“Well, on the road itself?”

“No, it was all trodden into mire.”

“Tut-tut! Well, then, these tracks upon the grass, were they coming or
going?”

“It was impossible to say. There was never any outline.”

“A large foot or a small?”

“You could not distinguish.”

Holmes gave an ejaculation of impatience.

“It has been pouring rain and blowing a hurricane ever since,” said he.
“It will be harder to read now than that palimpsest. Well, well, it can’t
be helped. What did you do, Hopkins, after you had made certain that you
had made certain of nothing?”

“I think I made certain of a good deal, Mr. Holmes. I knew that someone
had entered the house cautiously from without. I next examined the
corridor. It is lined with cocoanut matting and had taken no impression of
any kind. This brought me into the study itself. It is a scantily
furnished room. The main article is a large writing-table with a fixed
bureau. This bureau consists of a double column of drawers, with a central
small cupboard between them. The drawers were open, the cupboard locked.
The drawers, it seems, were always open, and nothing of value was kept in
them. There were some papers of importance in the cupboard, but there were
no signs that this had been tampered with, and the professor assures me
that nothing was missing. It is certain that no robbery has been
committed.

“I come now to the body of the young man. It was found near the bureau,
and just to the left of it, as marked upon that chart. The stab was on the
right side of the neck and from behind forward, so that it is almost
impossible that it could have been self-inflicted.”

“Unless he fell upon the knife,” said Holmes.

“Exactly. The idea crossed my mind. But we found the knife some feet away
from the body, so that seems impossible. Then, of course, there are the
man’s own dying words. And, finally, there was this very important piece
of evidence which was found clasped in the dead man’s right hand.”

From his pocket Stanley Hopkins drew a small paper packet. He unfolded it
and disclosed a golden pince-nez, with two broken ends of black silk cord
dangling from the end of it. “Willoughby Smith had excellent sight,” he
added. “There can be no question that this was snatched from the face or
the person of the assassin.”

Sherlock Holmes took the glasses into his hand, and examined them with the
utmost attention and interest. He held them on his nose, endeavoured to
read through them, went to the window and stared up the street with them,
looked at them most minutely in the full light of the lamp, and finally,
with a chuckle, seated himself at the table and wrote a few lines upon a
sheet of paper, which he tossed across to Stanley Hopkins.

“That’s the best I can do for you,” said he. “It may prove to be of some
use.”

The astonished detective read the note aloud. It ran as follows:

“Wanted, a woman of good address, attired like a lady. She has a
remarkably thick nose, with eyes which are set close upon either side of
it. She has a puckered forehead, a peering expression, and probably
rounded shoulders. There are indications that she has had recourse to an
optician at least twice during the last few months. As her glasses are of
remarkable strength, and as opticians are not very numerous, there should
be no difficulty in tracing her.”

Holmes smiled at the astonishment of Hopkins, which must have been
reflected upon my features. “Surely my deductions are simplicity itself,”
said he. “It would be difficult to name any articles which afford a finer
field for inference than a pair of glasses, especially so remarkable a
pair as these. That they belong to a woman I infer from their delicacy,
and also, of course, from the last words of the dying man. As to her being
a person of refinement and well dressed, they are, as you perceive,
handsomely mounted in solid gold, and it is inconceivable that anyone who
wore such glasses could be slatternly in other respects. You will find
that the clips are too wide for your nose, showing that the lady’s nose
was very broad at the base. This sort of nose is usually a short and
coarse one, but there is a sufficient number of exceptions to prevent me
from being dogmatic or from insisting upon this point in my description.
My own face is a narrow one, and yet I find that I cannot get my eyes into
the centre, nor near the centre, of these glasses. Therefore, the lady’s
eyes are set very near to the sides of the nose. You will perceive,
Watson, that the glasses are concave and of unusual strength. A lady whose
vision has been so extremely contracted all her life is sure to have the
physical characteristics of such vision, which are seen in the forehead,
the eyelids, and the shoulders.”

“Yes,” I said, “I can follow each of your arguments. I confess, however,
that I am unable to understand how you arrive at the double visit to the
optician.”

Holmes took the glasses in his hand.

“You will perceive,” he said, “that the clips are lined with tiny bands of
cork to soften the pressure upon the nose. One of these is discoloured and
worn to some slight extent, but the other is new. Evidently one has fallen
off and been replaced. I should judge that the older of them has not been
there more than a few months. They exactly correspond, so I gather that
the lady went back to the same establishment for the second.”

“By George, it’s marvellous!” cried Hopkins, in an ecstasy of admiration.
“To think that I had all that evidence in my hand and never knew it! I had
intended, however, to go the round of the London opticians.”

“Of course you would. Meanwhile, have you anything more to tell us about
the case?”

“Nothing, Mr. Holmes. I think that you know as much as I do now—probably
more. We have had inquiries made as to any stranger seen on the country
roads or at the railway station. We have heard of none. What beats me is
the utter want of all object in the crime. Not a ghost of a motive can
anyone suggest.”

“Ah! there I am not in a position to help you. But I suppose you want us
to come out to-morrow?”

“If it is not asking too much, Mr. Holmes. There’s a train from Charing
Cross to Chatham at six in the morning, and we should be at Yoxley Old
Place between eight and nine.”

“Then we shall take it. Your case has certainly some features of great
interest, and I shall be delighted to look into it. Well, it’s nearly one,
and we had best get a few hours’ sleep. I daresay you can manage all right
on the sofa in front of the fire. I’ll light my spirit lamp, and give you
a cup of coffee before we start.”

The gale had blown itself out next day, but it was a bitter morning when
we started upon our journey. We saw the cold winter sun rise over the
dreary marshes of the Thames and the long, sullen reaches of the river,
which I shall ever associate with our pursuit of the Andaman Islander in
the earlier days of our career. After a long and weary journey, we
alighted at a small station some miles from Chatham. While a horse was
being put into a trap at the local inn, we snatched a hurried breakfast,
and so we were all ready for business when we at last arrived at Yoxley
Old Place. A constable met us at the garden gate.

“Well, Wilson, any news?”

“No, sir—nothing.”

“No reports of any stranger seen?”

“No, sir. Down at the station they are certain that no stranger either
came or went yesterday.”

“Have you had inquiries made at inns and lodgings?”

“Yes, sir: there is no one that we cannot account for.”

“Well, it’s only a reasonable walk to Chatham. Anyone might stay there or
take a train without being observed. This is the garden path of which I
spoke, Mr. Holmes. I’ll pledge my word there was no mark on it yesterday.”

“On which side were the marks on the grass?”

“This side, sir. This narrow margin of grass between the path and the
flower-bed. I can’t see the traces now, but they were clear to me then.”

“Yes, yes: someone has passed along,” said Holmes, stooping over the grass
border. “Our lady must have picked her steps carefully, must she not,
since on the one side she would leave a track on the path, and on the
other an even clearer one on the soft bed?”

“Yes, sir, she must have been a cool hand.”

I saw an intent look pass over Holmes’s face.

“You say that she must have come back this way?”

“Yes, sir, there is no other.”

“On this strip of grass?”

“Certainly, Mr. Holmes.”

“Hum! It was a very remarkable performance—very remarkable. Well, I
think we have exhausted the path. Let us go farther. This garden door is
usually kept open, I suppose? Then this visitor had nothing to do but to
walk in. The idea of murder was not in her mind, or she would have
provided herself with some sort of weapon, instead of having to pick this
knife off the writing-table. She advanced along this corridor, leaving no
traces upon the cocoanut matting. Then she found herself in this study.
How long was she there? We have no means of judging.”

“Not more than a few minutes, sir. I forgot to tell you that Mrs. Marker,
the housekeeper, had been in there tidying not very long before—about
a quarter of an hour, she says.”

“Well, that gives us a limit. Our lady enters this room, and what does she
do? She goes over to the writing-table. What for? Not for anything in the
drawers. If there had been anything worth her taking, it would surely have
been locked up. No, it was for something in that wooden bureau. Halloa!
what is that scratch upon the face of it? Just hold a match, Watson. Why
did you not tell me of this, Hopkins?”

The mark which he was examining began upon the brass-work on the
right-hand side of the keyhole, and extended for about four inches, where
it had scratched the varnish from the surface.

“I noticed it, Mr. Holmes, but you’ll always find scratches round a
keyhole.”

“This is recent, quite recent. See how the brass shines where it is cut.
An old scratch would be the same colour as the surface. Look at it through
my lens. There’s the varnish, too, like earth on each side of a furrow. Is
Mrs. Marker there?”

A sad-faced, elderly woman came into the room.

“Did you dust this bureau yesterday morning?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Did you notice this scratch?”

“No, sir, I did not.”

“I am sure you did not, for a duster would have swept away these shreds of
varnish. Who has the key of this bureau?”

“The Professor keeps it on his watch-chain.”

“Is it a simple key?”

“No, sir, it is a Chubb’s key.”

“Very good. Mrs. Marker, you can go. Now we are making a little progress.
Our lady enters the room, advances to the bureau, and either opens it or
tries to do so. While she is thus engaged, young Willoughby Smith enters
the room. In her hurry to withdraw the key, she makes this scratch upon
the door. He seizes her, and she, snatching up the nearest object, which
happens to be this knife, strikes at him in order to make him let go his
hold. The blow is a fatal one. He falls and she escapes, either with or
without the object for which she has come. Is Susan, the maid, there?
Could anyone have got away through that door after the time that you heard
the cry, Susan?”

“No, sir, it is impossible. Before I got down the stair, I’d have seen
anyone in the passage. Besides, the door never opened, or I would have
heard it.”

“That settles this exit. Then no doubt the lady went out the way she came.
I understand that this other passage leads only to the professor’s room.
There is no exit that way?”

“No, sir.”

“We shall go down it and make the acquaintance of the professor. Halloa,
Hopkins! this is very important, very important indeed. The professor’s
corridor is also lined with cocoanut matting.”

“Well, sir, what of that?”

“Don’t you see any bearing upon the case? Well, well. I don’t insist upon
it. No doubt I am wrong. And yet it seems to me to be suggestive. Come
with me and introduce me.”

We passed down the passage, which was of the same length as that which led
to the garden. At the end was a short flight of steps ending in a door.
Our guide knocked, and then ushered us into the professor’s bedroom.

It was a very large chamber, lined with innumerable volumes, which had
overflowed from the shelves and lay in piles in the corners, or were
stacked all round at the base of the cases. The bed was in the centre of
the room, and in it, propped up with pillows, was the owner of the house.
I have seldom seen a more remarkable-looking person. It was a gaunt,
aquiline face which was turned towards us, with piercing dark eyes, which
lurked in deep hollows under overhung and tufted brows. His hair and beard
were white, save that the latter was curiously stained with yellow around
his mouth. A cigarette glowed amid the tangle of white hair, and the air
of the room was fetid with stale tobacco smoke. As he held out his hand to
Holmes, I perceived that it was also stained with yellow nicotine.

“A smoker, Mr. Holmes?” said he, speaking in well-chosen English, with a
curious little mincing accent. “Pray take a cigarette. And you, sir? I can
recommend them, for I have them especially prepared by Ionides, of
Alexandria. He sends me a thousand at a time, and I grieve to say that I
have to arrange for a fresh supply every fortnight. Bad, sir, very bad,
but an old man has few pleasures. Tobacco and my work—that is all
that is left to me.”

Holmes had lit a cigarette and was shooting little darting glances all
over the room.

“Tobacco and my work, but now only tobacco,” the old man exclaimed. “Alas!
what a fatal interruption! Who could have foreseen such a terrible
catastrophe? So estimable a young man! I assure you that, after a few
months’ training, he was an admirable assistant. What do you think of the
matter, Mr. Holmes?”

“I have not yet made up my mind.”

“I shall indeed be indebted to you if you can throw a light where all is
so dark to us. To a poor bookworm and invalid like myself such a blow is
paralysing. I seem to have lost the faculty of thought. But you are a man
of action—you are a man of affairs. It is part of the everyday
routine of your life. You can preserve your balance in every emergency. We
are fortunate, indeed, in having you at our side.”

Holmes was pacing up and down one side of the room whilst the old
professor was talking. I observed that he was smoking with extraordinary
rapidity. It was evident that he shared our host’s liking for the fresh
Alexandrian cigarettes.

“Yes, sir, it is a crushing blow,” said the old man. “That is my magnum
opus—the pile of papers on the side table yonder. It is my analysis
of the documents found in the Coptic monasteries of Syria and Egypt, a
work which will cut deep at the very foundation of revealed religion. With
my enfeebled health I do not know whether I shall ever be able to complete
it, now that my assistant has been taken from me. Dear me! Mr. Holmes,
why, you are even a quicker smoker than I am myself.”

Holmes smiled.

“I am a connoisseur,” said he, taking another cigarette from the box—his
fourth—and lighting it from the stub of that which he had finished.
“I will not trouble you with any lengthy cross-examination, Professor
Coram, since I gather that you were in bed at the time of the crime, and
could know nothing about it. I would only ask this: What do you imagine
that this poor fellow meant by his last words: ‘The professor—it was
she’?”

The professor shook his head.

“Susan is a country girl,” said he, “and you know the incredible stupidity
of that class. I fancy that the poor fellow murmured some incoherent
delirious words, and that she twisted them into this meaningless message.”

“I see. You have no explanation yourself of the tragedy?”

“Possibly an accident, possibly—I only breathe it among ourselves—a
suicide. Young men have their hidden troubles—some affair of the
heart, perhaps, which we have never known. It is a more probable
supposition than murder.”

“But the eyeglasses?”

“Ah! I am only a student—a man of dreams. I cannot explain the
practical things of life. But still, we are aware, my friend, that
love-gages may take strange shapes. By all means take another cigarette.
It is a pleasure to see anyone appreciate them so. A fan, a glove, glasses—who
knows what article may be carried as a token or treasured when a man puts
an end to his life? This gentleman speaks of footsteps in the grass, but,
after all, it is easy to be mistaken on such a point. As to the knife, it
might well be thrown far from the unfortunate man as he fell. It is
possible that I speak as a child, but to me it seems that Willoughby Smith
has met his fate by his own hand.”

Holmes seemed struck by the theory thus put forward, and he continued to
walk up and down for some time, lost in thought and consuming cigarette
after cigarette.

“Tell me, Professor Coram,” he said, at last, “what is in that cupboard in
the bureau?”

“Nothing that would help a thief. Family papers, letters from my poor
wife, diplomas of universities which have done me honour. Here is the key.
You can look for yourself.”

Holmes picked up the key, and looked at it for an instant, then he handed
it back.

“No, I hardly think that it would help me,” said he. “I should prefer to
go quietly down to your garden, and turn the whole matter over in my head.
There is something to be said for the theory of suicide which you have put
forward. We must apologize for having intruded upon you, Professor Coram,
and I promise that we won’t disturb you until after lunch. At two o’clock
we will come again, and report to you anything which may have happened in
the interval.”

Holmes was curiously distrait, and we walked up and down the garden path
for some time in silence.

“Have you a clue?” I asked, at last.

“It depends upon those cigarettes that I smoked,” said he. “It is possible
that I am utterly mistaken. The cigarettes will show me.”

“My dear Holmes,” I exclaimed, “how on earth——”

“Well, well, you may see for yourself. If not, there’s no harm done. Of
course, we always have the optician clue to fall back upon, but I take a
short cut when I can get it. Ah, here is the good Mrs. Marker! Let us
enjoy five minutes of instructive conversation with her.”

I may have remarked before that Holmes had, when he liked, a peculiarly
ingratiating way with women, and that he very readily established terms of
confidence with them. In half the time which he had named, he had captured
the housekeeper’s goodwill and was chatting with her as if he had known
her for years.

“Yes, Mr. Holmes, it is as you say, sir. He does smoke something terrible.
All day and sometimes all night, sir. I’ve seen that room of a morning—well,
sir, you’d have thought it was a London fog. Poor young Mr. Smith, he was
a smoker also, but not as bad as the professor. His health—well, I
don’t know that it’s better nor worse for the smoking.”

“Ah!” said Holmes, “but it kills the appetite.”

“Well, I don’t know about that, sir.”

“I suppose the professor eats hardly anything?”

“Well, he is variable. I’ll say that for him.”

“I’ll wager he took no breakfast this morning, and won’t face his lunch
after all the cigarettes I saw him consume.”

“Well, you’re out there, sir, as it happens, for he ate a remarkable big
breakfast this morning. I don’t know when I’ve known him make a better
one, and he’s ordered a good dish of cutlets for his lunch. I’m surprised
myself, for since I came into that room yesterday and saw young Mr. Smith
lying there on the floor, I couldn’t bear to look at food. Well, it takes
all sorts to make a world, and the professor hasn’t let it take his
appetite away.”

We loitered the morning away in the garden. Stanley Hopkins had gone down
to the village to look into some rumours of a strange woman who had been
seen by some children on the Chatham Road the previous morning. As to my
friend, all his usual energy seemed to have deserted him. I had never
known him handle a case in such a half-hearted fashion. Even the news
brought back by Hopkins that he had found the children, and that they had
undoubtedly seen a woman exactly corresponding with Holmes’s description,
and wearing either spectacles or eyeglasses, failed to rouse any sign of
keen interest. He was more attentive when Susan, who waited upon us at
lunch, volunteered the information that she believed Mr. Smith had been
out for a walk yesterday morning, and that he had only returned half an
hour before the tragedy occurred. I could not myself see the bearing of
this incident, but I clearly perceived that Holmes was weaving it into the
general scheme which he had formed in his brain. Suddenly he sprang from
his chair and glanced at his watch. “Two o’clock, gentlemen,” said he. “We
must go up and have it out with our friend, the professor.”

The old man had just finished his lunch, and certainly his empty dish bore
evidence to the good appetite with which his housekeeper had credited him.
He was, indeed, a weird figure as he turned his white mane and his glowing
eyes towards us. The eternal cigarette smouldered in his mouth. He had
been dressed and was seated in an armchair by the fire.

“Well, Mr. Holmes, have you solved this mystery yet?” He shoved the large
tin of cigarettes which stood on a table beside him towards my companion.
Holmes stretched out his hand at the same moment, and between them they
tipped the box over the edge. For a minute or two we were all on our knees
retrieving stray cigarettes from impossible places. When we rose again, I
observed Holmes’s eyes were shining and his cheeks tinged with colour.
Only at a crisis have I seen those battle-signals flying.

“Yes,” said he, “I have solved it.”

Stanley Hopkins and I stared in amazement. Something like a sneer quivered
over the gaunt features of the old professor.

“Indeed! In the garden?”

“No, here.”

“Here! When?”

“This instant.”

“You are surely joking, Mr. Sherlock Holmes. You compel me to tell you
that this is too serious a matter to be treated in such a fashion.”

“I have forged and tested every link of my chain, Professor Coram, and I
am sure that it is sound. What your motives are, or what exact part you
play in this strange business, I am not yet able to say. In a few minutes
I shall probably hear it from your own lips. Meanwhile I will reconstruct
what is past for your benefit, so that you may know the information which
I still require.

“A lady yesterday entered your study. She came with the intention of
possessing herself of certain documents which were in your bureau. She had
a key of her own. I have had an opportunity of examining yours, and I do
not find that slight discolouration which the scratch made upon the
varnish would have produced. You were not an accessory, therefore, and she
came, so far as I can read the evidence, without your knowledge to rob
you.”

The professor blew a cloud from his lips. “This is most interesting and
instructive,” said he. “Have you no more to add? Surely, having traced
this lady so far, you can also say what has become of her.”

“I will endeavour to do so. In the first place she was seized by your
secretary, and stabbed him in order to escape. This catastrophe I am
inclined to regard as an unhappy accident, for I am convinced that the
lady had no intention of inflicting so grievous an injury. An assassin
does not come unarmed. Horrified by what she had done, she rushed wildly
away from the scene of the tragedy. Unfortunately for her, she had lost
her glasses in the scuffle, and as she was extremely short-sighted she was
really helpless without them. She ran down a corridor, which she imagined
to be that by which she had come—both were lined with cocoanut
matting—and it was only when it was too late that she understood
that she had taken the wrong passage, and that her retreat was cut off
behind her. What was she to do? She could not go back. She could not
remain where she was. She must go on. She went on. She mounted a stair,
pushed open a door, and found herself in your room.”

The old man sat with his mouth open, staring wildly at Holmes. Amazement
and fear were stamped upon his expressive features. Now, with an effort,
he shrugged his shoulders and burst into insincere laughter.

“All very fine, Mr. Holmes,” said he. “But there is one little flaw in
your splendid theory. I was myself in my room, and I never left it during
the day.”

“I am aware of that, Professor Coram.”

“And you mean to say that I could lie upon that bed and not be aware that
a woman had entered my room?”

“I never said so. You were aware of it. You spoke with her. You recognized
her. You aided her to escape.”

Again the professor burst into high-keyed laughter. He had risen to his
feet, and his eyes glowed like embers.

“You are mad!” he cried. “You are talking insanely. I helped her to
escape? Where is she now?”

“She is there,” said Holmes, and he pointed to a high bookcase in the
corner of the room.

I saw the old man throw up his arms, a terrible convulsion passed over his
grim face, and he fell back in his chair. At the same instant the bookcase
at which Holmes pointed swung round upon a hinge, and a woman rushed out
into the room. “You are right!” she cried, in a strange foreign voice.
“You are right! I am here.”

She was brown with the dust and draped with the cobwebs which had come
from the walls of her hiding-place. Her face, too, was streaked with
grime, and at the best she could never have been handsome, for she had the
exact physical characteristics which Holmes had divined, with, in
addition, a long and obstinate chin. What with her natural blindness, and
what with the change from dark to light, she stood as one dazed, blinking
about her to see where and who we were. And yet, in spite of all these
disadvantages, there was a certain nobility in the woman’s bearing—a
gallantry in the defiant chin and in the upraised head, which compelled
something of respect and admiration.

Stanley Hopkins had laid his hand upon her arm and claimed her as his
prisoner, but she waved him aside gently, and yet with an over-mastering
dignity which compelled obedience. The old man lay back in his chair with
a twitching face, and stared at her with brooding eyes.

“Yes, sir, I am your prisoner,” she said. “From where I stood I could hear
everything, and I know that you have learned the truth. I confess it all.
It was I who killed the young man. But you are right—you who say it
was an accident. I did not even know that it was a knife which I held in
my hand, for in my despair I snatched anything from the table and struck
at him to make him let me go. It is the truth that I tell.”

“Madam,” said Holmes, “I am sure that it is the truth. I fear that you are
far from well.”

She had turned a dreadful colour, the more ghastly under the dark
dust-streaks upon her face. She seated herself on the side of the bed;
then she resumed.

“I have only a little time here,” she said, “but I would have you to know
the whole truth. I am this man’s wife. He is not an Englishman. He is a
Russian. His name I will not tell.”

For the first time the old man stirred. “God bless you, Anna!” he cried.
“God bless you!”

She cast a look of the deepest disdain in his direction. “Why should you
cling so hard to that wretched life of yours, Sergius?” said she. “It has
done harm to many and good to none—not even to yourself. However, it
is not for me to cause the frail thread to be snapped before God’s time. I
have enough already upon my soul since I crossed the threshold of this
cursed house. But I must speak or I shall be too late.

“I have said, gentlemen, that I am this man’s wife. He was fifty and I a
foolish girl of twenty when we married. It was in a city of Russia, a
university—I will not name the place.”

“God bless you, Anna!” murmured the old man again.

“We were reformers—revolutionists—Nihilists, you understand.
He and I and many more. Then there came a time of trouble, a police
officer was killed, many were arrested, evidence was wanted, and in order
to save his own life and to earn a great reward, my husband betrayed his
own wife and his companions. Yes, we were all arrested upon his
confession. Some of us found our way to the gallows, and some to Siberia.
I was among these last, but my term was not for life. My husband came to
England with his ill-gotten gains and has lived in quiet ever since,
knowing well that if the Brotherhood knew where he was not a week would
pass before justice would be done.”

The old man reached out a trembling hand and helped himself to a
cigarette. “I am in your hands, Anna,” said he. “You were always good to
me.”

“I have not yet told you the height of his villainy,” said she. “Among our
comrades of the Order, there was one who was the friend of my heart. He
was noble, unselfish, loving—all that my husband was not. He hated
violence. We were all guilty—if that is guilt—but he was not.
He wrote forever dissuading us from such a course. These letters would
have saved him. So would my diary, in which, from day to day, I had
entered both my feelings towards him and the view which each of us had
taken. My husband found and kept both diary and letters. He hid them, and
he tried hard to swear away the young man’s life. In this he failed, but
Alexis was sent a convict to Siberia, where now, at this moment, he works
in a salt mine. Think of that, you villain, you villain!—now, now,
at this very moment, Alexis, a man whose name you are not worthy to speak,
works and lives like a slave, and yet I have your life in my hands, and I
let you go.”

“You were always a noble woman, Anna,” said the old man, puffing at his
cigarette.

She had risen, but she fell back again with a little cry of pain.

“I must finish,” she said. “When my term was over I set myself to get the
diary and letters which, if sent to the Russian government, would procure
my friend’s release. I knew that my husband had come to England. After
months of searching I discovered where he was. I knew that he still had
the diary, for when I was in Siberia I had a letter from him once,
reproaching me and quoting some passages from its pages. Yet I was sure
that, with his revengeful nature, he would never give it to me of his own
free-will. I must get it for myself. With this object I engaged an agent
from a private detective firm, who entered my husband’s house as a
secretary—it was your second secretary, Sergius, the one who left
you so hurriedly. He found that papers were kept in the cupboard, and he
got an impression of the key. He would not go farther. He furnished me
with a plan of the house, and he told me that in the forenoon the study
was always empty, as the secretary was employed up here. So at last I took
my courage in both hands, and I came down to get the papers for myself. I
succeeded; but at what a cost!

“I had just taken the paper; and was locking the cupboard, when the young
man seized me. I had seen him already that morning. He had met me on the
road, and I had asked him to tell me where Professor Coram lived, not
knowing that he was in his employ.”

“Exactly! Exactly!” said Holmes. “The secretary came back, and told his
employer of the woman he had met. Then, in his last breath, he tried to
send a message that it was she—the she whom he had just discussed
with him.”

“You must let me speak,” said the woman, in an imperative voice, and her
face contracted as if in pain. “When he had fallen I rushed from the room,
chose the wrong door, and found myself in my husband’s room. He spoke of
giving me up. I showed him that if he did so, his life was in my hands. If
he gave me to the law, I could give him to the Brotherhood. It was not
that I wished to live for my own sake, but it was that I desired to
accomplish my purpose. He knew that I would do what I said—that his
own fate was involved in mine. For that reason, and for no other, he
shielded me. He thrust me into that dark hiding-place—a relic of old
days, known only to himself. He took his meals in his own room, and so was
able to give me part of his food. It was agreed that when the police left
the house I should slip away by night and come back no more. But in some
way you have read our plans.” She tore from the bosom of her dress a small
packet. “These are my last words,” said she; “here is the packet which
will save Alexis. I confide it to your honour and to your love of justice.
Take it! You will deliver it at the Russian Embassy. Now, I have done my
duty, and——”

“Stop her!” cried Holmes. He had bounded across the room and had wrenched
a small phial from her hand.

“Too late!” she said, sinking back on the bed. “Too late! I took the
poison before I left my hiding-place. My head swims! I am going! I charge
you, sir, to remember the packet.”

“A simple case, and yet, in some ways, an instructive one,” Holmes
remarked, as we travelled back to town. “It hinged from the outset upon
the pince-nez. But for the fortunate chance of the dying man having seized
these, I am not sure that we could ever have reached our solution. It was
clear to me, from the strength of the glasses, that the wearer must have
been very blind and helpless when deprived of them. When you asked me to
believe that she walked along a narrow strip of grass without once making
a false step, I remarked, as you may remember, that it was a noteworthy
performance. In my mind I set it down as an impossible performance, save
in the unlikely case that she had a second pair of glasses. I was forced,
therefore, to consider seriously the hypothesis that she had remained
within the house. On perceiving the similarity of the two corridors, it
became clear that she might very easily have made such a mistake, and, in
that case, it was evident that she must have entered the professor’s room.
I was keenly on the alert, therefore, for whatever would bear out this
supposition, and I examined the room narrowly for anything in the shape of
a hiding-place. The carpet seemed continuous and firmly nailed, so I
dismissed the idea of a trap-door. There might well be a recess behind the
books. As you are aware, such devices are common in old libraries. I
observed that books were piled on the floor at all other points, but that
one bookcase was left clear. This, then, might be the door. I could see no
marks to guide me, but the carpet was of a dun colour, which lends itself
very well to examination. I therefore smoked a great number of those
excellent cigarettes, and I dropped the ash all over the space in front of
the suspected bookcase. It was a simple trick, but exceedingly effective.
I then went downstairs, and I ascertained, in your presence, Watson,
without your perceiving the drift of my remarks, that Professor Coram’s
consumption of food had increased—as one would expect when he is
supplying a second person. We then ascended to the room again, when, by
upsetting the cigarette-box, I obtained a very excellent view of the
floor, and was able to see quite clearly, from the traces upon the
cigarette ash, that the prisoner had in our absence come out from her
retreat. Well, Hopkins, here we are at Charing Cross, and I congratulate
you on having brought your case to a successful conclusion. You are going
to headquarters, no doubt. I think, Watson, you and I will drive together
to the Russian Embassy.”

THE ADVENTURE OF THE MISSING THREE-QUARTER

We were fairly accustomed to receive weird telegrams at Baker Street, but
I have a particular recollection of one which reached us on a gloomy
February morning, some seven or eight years ago, and gave Mr. Sherlock
Holmes a puzzled quarter of an hour. It was addressed to him, and ran
thus:

Please await me. Terrible misfortune. Right wing three-quarter missing,
indispensable to-morrow. OVERTON.

“Strand postmark, and dispatched ten thirty-six,” said Holmes, reading it
over and over. “Mr. Overton was evidently considerably excited when he
sent it, and somewhat incoherent in consequence. Well, well, he will be
here, I daresay, by the time I have looked through The Times, and then we
shall know all about it. Even the most insignificant problem would be
welcome in these stagnant days.”

Things had indeed been very slow with us, and I had learned to dread such
periods of inaction, for I knew by experience that my companion’s brain
was so abnormally active that it was dangerous to leave it without
material upon which to work. For years I had gradually weaned him from
that drug mania which had threatened once to check his remarkable career.
Now I knew that under ordinary conditions he no longer craved for this
artificial stimulus, but I was well aware that the fiend was not dead but
sleeping, and I have known that the sleep was a light one and the waking
near when in periods of idleness I have seen the drawn look upon Holmes’s
ascetic face, and the brooding of his deep-set and inscrutable eyes.
Therefore I blessed this Mr. Overton whoever he might be, since he had
come with his enigmatic message to break that dangerous calm which brought
more peril to my friend than all the storms of his tempestuous life.

As we had expected, the telegram was soon followed by its sender, and the
card of Mr. Cyril Overton, Trinity College, Cambridge, announced the
arrival of an enormous young man, sixteen stone of solid bone and muscle,
who spanned the doorway with his broad shoulders, and looked from one of
us to the other with a comely face which was haggard with anxiety.

“Mr. Sherlock Holmes?”

My companion bowed.

“I’ve been down to Scotland Yard, Mr. Holmes. I saw Inspector Stanley
Hopkins. He advised me to come to you. He said the case, so far as he
could see, was more in your line than in that of the regular police.”

“Pray sit down and tell me what is the matter.”

“It’s awful, Mr. Holmes—simply awful! I wonder my hair isn’t grey.
Godfrey Staunton—you’ve heard of him, of course? He’s simply the
hinge that the whole team turns on. I’d rather spare two from the pack,
and have Godfrey for my three-quarter line. Whether it’s passing, or
tackling, or dribbling, there’s no one to touch him, and then, he’s got
the head, and can hold us all together. What am I to do? That’s what I ask
you, Mr. Holmes. There’s Moorhouse, first reserve, but he is trained as a
half, and he always edges right in on to the scrum instead of keeping out
on the touchline. He’s a fine place-kick, it’s true, but then he has no
judgment, and he can’t sprint for nuts. Why, Morton or Johnson, the Oxford
fliers, could romp round him. Stevenson is fast enough, but he couldn’t
drop from the twenty-five line, and a three-quarter who can’t either punt
or drop isn’t worth a place for pace alone. No, Mr. Holmes, we are done
unless you can help me to find Godfrey Staunton.”

My friend had listened with amused surprise to this long speech, which was
poured forth with extraordinary vigour and earnestness, every point being
driven home by the slapping of a brawny hand upon the speaker’s knee. When
our visitor was silent Holmes stretched out his hand and took down letter
“S” of his commonplace book. For once he dug in vain into that mine of
varied information.

“There is Arthur H. Staunton, the rising young forger,” said he, “and
there was Henry Staunton, whom I helped to hang, but Godfrey Staunton is a
new name to me.”

It was our visitor’s turn to look surprised.

“Why, Mr. Holmes, I thought you knew things,” said he. “I suppose, then,
if you have never heard of Godfrey Staunton, you don’t know Cyril Overton
either?”

Holmes shook his head good humouredly.

“Great Scott!” cried the athlete. “Why, I was first reserve for England
against Wales, and I’ve skippered the ’Varsity all this year. But that’s
nothing! I didn’t think there was a soul in England who didn’t know
Godfrey Staunton, the crack three-quarter, Cambridge, Blackheath, and five
Internationals. Good Lord! Mr. Holmes, where have you lived?”

Holmes laughed at the young giant’s naïve astonishment.

“You live in a different world to me, Mr. Overton—a sweeter and
healthier one. My ramifications stretch out into many sections of society,
but never, I am happy to say, into amateur sport, which is the best and
soundest thing in England. However, your unexpected visit this morning
shows me that even in that world of fresh air and fair play, there may be
work for me to do. So now, my good sir, I beg you to sit down and to tell
me, slowly and quietly, exactly what it is that has occurred, and how you
desire that I should help you.”

Young Overton’s face assumed the bothered look of the man who is more
accustomed to using his muscles than his wits, but by degrees, with many
repetitions and obscurities which I may omit from his narrative, he laid
his strange story before us.

“It’s this way, Mr. Holmes. As I have said, I am the skipper of the Rugger
team of Cambridge ’Varsity, and Godfrey Staunton is my best man. To-morrow
we play Oxford. Yesterday we all came up, and we settled at Bentley’s
private hotel. At ten o’clock I went round and saw that all the fellows
had gone to roost, for I believe in strict training and plenty of sleep to
keep a team fit. I had a word or two with Godfrey before he turned in. He
seemed to me to be pale and bothered. I asked him what was the matter. He
said he was all right—just a touch of headache. I bade him
good-night and left him. Half an hour later, the porter tells me that a
rough-looking man with a beard called with a note for Godfrey. He had not
gone to bed, and the note was taken to his room. Godfrey read it, and fell
back in a chair as if he had been pole-axed. The porter was so scared that
he was going to fetch me, but Godfrey stopped him, had a drink of water,
and pulled himself together. Then he went downstairs, said a few words to
the man who was waiting in the hall, and the two of them went off
together. The last that the porter saw of them, they were almost running
down the street in the direction of the Strand. This morning Godfrey’s
room was empty, his bed had never been slept in, and his things were all
just as I had seen them the night before. He had gone off at a moment’s
notice with this stranger, and no word has come from him since. I don’t
believe he will ever come back. He was a sportsman, was Godfrey, down to
his marrow, and he wouldn’t have stopped his training and let in his
skipper if it were not for some cause that was too strong for him. No: I
feel as if he were gone for good, and we should never see him again.”

Sherlock Holmes listened with the deepest attention to this singular
narrative.

“What did you do?” he asked.

“I wired to Cambridge to learn if anything had been heard of him there. I
have had an answer. No one has seen him.”

“Could he have got back to Cambridge?”

“Yes, there is a late train—quarter-past eleven.”

“But, so far as you can ascertain, he did not take it?”

“No, he has not been seen.”

“What did you do next?”

“I wired to Lord Mount-James.”

“Why to Lord Mount-James?”

“Godfrey is an orphan, and Lord Mount-James is his nearest relative—his
uncle, I believe.”

“Indeed. This throws new light upon the matter. Lord Mount-James is one of
the richest men in England.”

“So I’ve heard Godfrey say.”

“And your friend was closely related?”

“Yes, he was his heir, and the old boy is nearly eighty—cram full of
gout, too. They say he could chalk his billiard-cue with his knuckles. He
never allowed Godfrey a shilling in his life, for he is an absolute miser,
but it will all come to him right enough.”

“Have you heard from Lord Mount-James?”

“No.”

“What motive could your friend have in going to Lord Mount-James?”

“Well, something was worrying him the night before, and if it was to do
with money it is possible that he would make for his nearest relative, who
had so much of it, though from all I have heard he would not have much
chance of getting it. Godfrey was not fond of the old man. He would not go
if he could help it.”

“Well, we can soon determine that. If your friend was going to his
relative, Lord Mount-James, you have then to explain the visit of this
rough-looking fellow at so late an hour, and the agitation that was caused
by his coming.”

Cyril Overton pressed his hands to his head. “I can make nothing of it,”
said he.

“Well, well, I have a clear day, and I shall be happy to look into the
matter,” said Holmes. “I should strongly recommend you to make your
preparations for your match without reference to this young gentleman. It
must, as you say, have been an overpowering necessity which tore him away
in such a fashion, and the same necessity is likely to hold him away. Let
us step round together to the hotel, and see if the porter can throw any
fresh light upon the matter.”

Sherlock Holmes was a past-master in the art of putting a humble witness
at his ease, and very soon, in the privacy of Godfrey Staunton’s abandoned
room, he had extracted all that the porter had to tell. The visitor of the
night before was not a gentleman, neither was he a workingman. He was
simply what the porter described as a “medium-looking chap,” a man of
fifty, beard grizzled, pale face, quietly dressed. He seemed himself to be
agitated. The porter had observed his hand trembling when he had held out
the note. Godfrey Staunton had crammed the note into his pocket. Staunton
had not shaken hands with the man in the hall. They had exchanged a few
sentences, of which the porter had only distinguished the one word “time.”
Then they had hurried off in the manner described. It was just half-past
ten by the hall clock.

“Let me see,” said Holmes, seating himself on Staunton’s bed. “You are the
day porter, are you not?”

“Yes, sir, I go off duty at eleven.”

“The night porter saw nothing, I suppose?”

“No, sir, one theatre party came in late. No one else.”

“Were you on duty all day yesterday?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Did you take any messages to Mr. Staunton?”

“Yes, sir, one telegram.”

“Ah! that’s interesting. What o’clock was this?”

“About six.”

“Where was Mr. Staunton when he received it?”

“Here in his room.”

“Were you present when he opened it?”

“Yes, sir, I waited to see if there was an answer.”

“Well, was there?”

“Yes, sir, he wrote an answer.”

“Did you take it?”

“No, he took it himself.”

“But he wrote it in your presence.”

“Yes, sir. I was standing by the door, and he with his back turned at that
table. When he had written it, he said: ‘All right, porter, I will take
this myself.’”

“What did he write it with?”

“A pen, sir.”

“Was the telegraphic form one of these on the table?”

“Yes, sir, it was the top one.”

Holmes rose. Taking the forms, he carried them over to the window and
carefully examined that which was uppermost.

“It is a pity he did not write in pencil,” said he, throwing them down
again with a shrug of disappointment. “As you have no doubt frequently
observed, Watson, the impression usually goes through—a fact which
has dissolved many a happy marriage. However, I can find no trace here. I
rejoice, however, to perceive that he wrote with a broad-pointed quill
pen, and I can hardly doubt that we will find some impression upon this
blotting-pad. Ah, yes, surely this is the very thing!”

He tore off a strip of the blotting-paper and turned towards us the
following hieroglyphic:

Cyril Overton was much excited. “Hold it to the glass!” he cried.

“That is unnecessary,” said Holmes. “The paper is thin, and the reverse
will give the message. Here it is.” He turned it over, and we read:

“So that is the tail end of the telegram which Godfrey Staunton dispatched
within a few hours of his disappearance. There are at least six words of
the message which have escaped us; but what remains—‘Stand by us for
God’s sake!’—proves that this young man saw a formidable danger
which approached him, and from which someone else could protect him. ‘Us,’
mark you! Another person was involved. Who should it be but the
pale-faced, bearded man, who seemed himself in so nervous a state? What,
then, is the connection between Godfrey Staunton and the bearded man? And
what is the third source from which each of them sought for help against
pressing danger? Our inquiry has already narrowed down to that.”

“We have only to find to whom that telegram is addressed,” I suggested.

“Exactly, my dear Watson. Your reflection, though profound, had already
crossed my mind. But I daresay it may have come to your notice that,
counterfoil of another man’s message, there may be some disinclination on
the part of the officials to oblige you. There is so much red tape in
these matters. However, I have no doubt that with a little delicacy and
finesse the end may be attained. Meanwhile, I should like in your
presence, Mr. Overton, to go through these papers which have been left
upon the table.”

There were a number of letters, bills, and notebooks, which Holmes turned
over and examined with quick, nervous fingers and darting, penetrating
eyes. “Nothing here,” he said, at last. “By the way, I suppose your friend
was a healthy young fellow—nothing amiss with him?”

“Sound as a bell.”

“Have you ever known him ill?”

“Not a day. He has been laid up with a hack, and once he slipped his
knee-cap, but that was nothing.”

“Perhaps he was not so strong as you suppose. I should think he may have
had some secret trouble. With your assent, I will put one or two of these
papers in my pocket, in case they should bear upon our future inquiry.”

“One moment—one moment!” cried a querulous voice, and we looked up
to find a queer little old man, jerking and twitching in the doorway. He
was dressed in rusty black, with a very broad-brimmed top-hat and a loose
white necktie—the whole effect being that of a very rustic parson or
of an undertaker’s mute. Yet, in spite of his shabby and even absurd
appearance, his voice had a sharp crackle, and his manner a quick
intensity which commanded attention.

“Who are you, sir, and by what right do you touch this gentleman’s
papers?” he asked.

“I am a private detective, and I am endeavouring to explain his
disappearance.”

“Oh, you are, are you? And who instructed you, eh?”

“This gentleman, Mr. Staunton’s friend, was referred to me by Scotland
Yard.”

“Who are you, sir?”

“I am Cyril Overton.”

“Then it is you who sent me a telegram. My name is Lord Mount-James. I
came round as quickly as the Bayswater bus would bring me. So you have
instructed a detective?”

“Yes, sir.”

“And are you prepared to meet the cost?”

“I have no doubt, sir, that my friend Godfrey, when we find him, will be
prepared to do that.”

“But if he is never found, eh? Answer me that!”

“In that case, no doubt his family——”

“Nothing of the sort, sir!” screamed the little man. “Don’t look to me for
a penny—not a penny! You understand that, Mr. Detective! I am all
the family that this young man has got, and I tell you that I am not
responsible. If he has any expectations it is due to the fact that I have
never wasted money, and I do not propose to begin to do so now. As to
those papers with which you are making so free, I may tell you that in
case there should be anything of any value among them, you will be held
strictly to account for what you do with them.”

“Very good, sir,” said Sherlock Holmes. “May I ask, in the meanwhile,
whether you have yourself any theory to account for this young man’s
disappearance?”

“No, sir, I have not. He is big enough and old enough to look after
himself, and if he is so foolish as to lose himself, I entirely refuse to
accept the responsibility of hunting for him.”

“I quite understand your position,” said Holmes, with a mischievous
twinkle in his eyes. “Perhaps you don’t quite understand mine. Godfrey
Staunton appears to have been a poor man. If he has been kidnapped, it
could not have been for anything which he himself possesses. The fame of
your wealth has gone abroad, Lord Mount-James, and it is entirely possible
that a gang of thieves have secured your nephew in order to gain from him
some information as to your house, your habits, and your treasure.”

The face of our unpleasant little visitor turned as white as his
neckcloth.

“Heavens, sir, what an idea! I never thought of such villainy! What
inhuman rogues there are in the world! But Godfrey is a fine lad—a
staunch lad. Nothing would induce him to give his old uncle away. I’ll
have the plate moved over to the bank this evening. In the meantime spare
no pains, Mr. Detective! I beg you to leave no stone unturned to bring him
safely back. As to money, well, so far as a fiver or even a tenner goes
you can always look to me.”

Even in his chastened frame of mind, the noble miser could give us no
information which could help us, for he knew little of the private life of
his nephew. Our only clue lay in the truncated telegram, and with a copy
of this in his hand Holmes set forth to find a second link for his chain.
We had shaken off Lord Mount-James, and Overton had gone to consult with
the other members of his team over the misfortune which had befallen them.

There was a telegraph-office at a short distance from the hotel. We halted
outside it.

“It’s worth trying, Watson,” said Holmes. “Of course, with a warrant we
could demand to see the counterfoils, but we have not reached that stage
yet. I don’t suppose they remember faces in so busy a place. Let us
venture it.”

“I am sorry to trouble you,” said he, in his blandest manner, to the young
woman behind the grating; “there is some small mistake about a telegram I
sent yesterday. I have had no answer, and I very much fear that I must
have omitted to put my name at the end. Could you tell me if this was so?”

The young woman turned over a sheaf of counterfoils.

“What o’clock was it?” she asked.

“A little after six.”

“Whom was it to?”

Holmes put his finger to his lips and glanced at me. “The last words in it
were ‘For God’s sake,’” he whispered, confidentially; “I am very anxious
at getting no answer.”

The young woman separated one of the forms.

“This is it. There is no name,” said she, smoothing it out upon the
counter.

“Then that, of course, accounts for my getting no answer,” said Holmes.
“Dear me, how very stupid of me, to be sure! Good-morning, miss, and many
thanks for having relieved my mind.” He chuckled and rubbed his hands when
we found ourselves in the street once more.

“Well?” I asked.

“We progress, my dear Watson, we progress. I had seven different schemes
for getting a glimpse of that telegram, but I could hardly hope to succeed
the very first time.”

“And what have you gained?”

“A starting-point for our investigation.” He hailed a cab. “King’s Cross
Station,” said he.

“We have a journey, then?”

“Yes, I think we must run down to Cambridge together. All the indications
seem to me to point in that direction.”

“Tell me,” I asked, as we rattled up Gray’s Inn Road, “have you any
suspicion yet as to the cause of the disappearance? I don’t think that
among all our cases I have known one where the motives are more obscure.
Surely you don’t really imagine that he may be kidnapped in order to give
information against his wealthy uncle?”

“I confess, my dear Watson, that that does not appeal to me as a very
probable explanation. It struck me, however, as being the one which was
most likely to interest that exceedingly unpleasant old person.”

“It certainly did that; but what are your alternatives?”

“I could mention several. You must admit that it is curious and suggestive
that this incident should occur on the eve of this important match, and
should involve the only man whose presence seems essential to the success
of the side. It may, of course, be a coincidence, but it is interesting.
Amateur sport is free from betting, but a good deal of outside betting
goes on among the public, and it is possible that it might be worth
someone’s while to get at a player as the ruffians of the turf get at a
race-horse. There is one explanation. A second very obvious one is that
this young man really is the heir of a great property, however modest his
means may at present be, and it is not impossible that a plot to hold him
for ransom might be concocted.”

“These theories take no account of the telegram.”

“Quite true, Watson. The telegram still remains the only solid thing with
which we have to deal, and we must not permit our attention to wander away
from it. It is to gain light upon the purpose of this telegram that we are
now upon our way to Cambridge. The path of our investigation is at present
obscure, but I shall be very much surprised if before evening we have not
cleared it up, or made a considerable advance along it.”

It was already dark when we reached the old university city. Holmes took a
cab at the station and ordered the man to drive to the house of Dr. Leslie
Armstrong. A few minutes later, we had stopped at a large mansion in the
busiest thoroughfare. We were shown in, and after a long wait were at last
admitted into the consulting-room, where we found the doctor seated behind
his table.

It argues the degree in which I had lost touch with my profession that the
name of Leslie Armstrong was unknown to me. Now I am aware that he is not
only one of the heads of the medical school of the university, but a
thinker of European reputation in more than one branch of science. Yet
even without knowing his brilliant record one could not fail to be
impressed by a mere glance at the man, the square, massive face, the
brooding eyes under the thatched brows, and the granite moulding of the
inflexible jaw. A man of deep character, a man with an alert mind, grim,
ascetic, self-contained, formidable—so I read Dr. Leslie Armstrong.
He held my friend’s card in his hand, and he looked up with no very
pleased expression upon his dour features.

“I have heard your name, Mr. Sherlock Holmes, and I am aware of your
profession—one of which I by no means approve.”

“In that, Doctor, you will find yourself in agreement with every criminal
in the country,” said my friend, quietly.

“So far as your efforts are directed towards the suppression of crime,
sir, they must have the support of every reasonable member of the
community, though I cannot doubt that the official machinery is amply
sufficient for the purpose. Where your calling is more open to criticism
is when you pry into the secrets of private individuals, when you rake up
family matters which are better hidden, and when you incidentally waste
the time of men who are more busy than yourself. At the present moment,
for example, I should be writing a treatise instead of conversing with
you.”

“No doubt, Doctor; and yet the conversation may prove more important than
the treatise. Incidentally, I may tell you that we are doing the reverse
of what you very justly blame, and that we are endeavouring to prevent
anything like public exposure of private matters which must necessarily
follow when once the case is fairly in the hands of the official police.
You may look upon me simply as an irregular pioneer, who goes in front of
the regular forces of the country. I have come to ask you about Mr.
Godfrey Staunton.”

“What about him?”

“You know him, do you not?”

“He is an intimate friend of mine.”

“You are aware that he has disappeared?”

“Ah, indeed!” There was no change of expression in the rugged features of
the doctor.

“He left his hotel last night—he has not been heard of.”

“No doubt he will return.”

“To-morrow is the ’Varsity football match.”

“I have no sympathy with these childish games. The young man’s fate
interests me deeply, since I know him and like him. The football match
does not come within my horizon at all.”

“I claim your sympathy, then, in my investigation of Mr. Staunton’s fate.
Do you know where he is?”

“Certainly not.”

“You have not seen him since yesterday?”

“No, I have not.”

“Was Mr. Staunton a healthy man?”

“Absolutely.”

“Did you ever know him ill?”

“Never.”

Holmes popped a sheet of paper before the doctor’s eyes. “Then perhaps you
will explain this receipted bill for thirteen guineas, paid by Mr. Godfrey
Staunton last month to Dr. Leslie Armstrong, of Cambridge. I picked it out
from among the papers upon his desk.”

The doctor flushed with anger.

“I do not feel that there is any reason why I should render an explanation
to you, Mr. Holmes.”

Holmes replaced the bill in his notebook. “If you prefer a public
explanation, it must come sooner or later,” said he. “I have already told
you that I can hush up that which others will be bound to publish, and you
would really be wiser to take me into your complete confidence.”

“I know nothing about it.”

“Did you hear from Mr. Staunton in London?”

“Certainly not.”

“Dear me, dear me—the postoffice again!” Holmes sighed, wearily. “A
most urgent telegram was dispatched to you from London by Godfrey Staunton
at six-fifteen yesterday evening—a telegram which is undoubtedly
associated with his disappearance—and yet you have not had it. It is
most culpable. I shall certainly go down to the office here and register a
complaint.”

Dr. Leslie Armstrong sprang up from behind his desk, and his dark face was
crimson with fury.

“I’ll trouble you to walk out of my house, sir,” said he. “You can tell
your employer, Lord Mount-James, that I do not wish to have anything to do
either with him or with his agents. No, sir—not another word!” He
rang the bell furiously. “John, show these gentlemen out!” A pompous
butler ushered us severely to the door, and we found ourselves in the
street. Holmes burst out laughing.

“Dr. Leslie Armstrong is certainly a man of energy and character,” said
he. “I have not seen a man who, if he turns his talents that way, was more
calculated to fill the gap left by the illustrious Moriarty. And now, my
poor Watson, here we are, stranded and friendless in this inhospitable
town, which we cannot leave without abandoning our case. This little inn
just opposite Armstrong’s house is singularly adapted to our needs. If you
would engage a front room and purchase the necessaries for the night, I
may have time to make a few inquiries.”

These few inquiries proved, however, to be a more lengthy proceeding than
Holmes had imagined, for he did not return to the inn until nearly nine
o’clock. He was pale and dejected, stained with dust, and exhausted with
hunger and fatigue. A cold supper was ready upon the table, and when his
needs were satisfied and his pipe alight he was ready to take that half
comic and wholly philosophic view which was natural to him when his
affairs were going awry. The sound of carriage wheels caused him to rise
and glance out of the window. A brougham and pair of greys, under the
glare of a gas-lamp, stood before the doctor’s door.

“It’s been out three hours,” said Holmes; “started at half-past six, and
here it is back again. That gives a radius of ten or twelve miles, and he
does it once, or sometimes twice, a day.”

“No unusual thing for a doctor in practice.”

“But Armstrong is not really a doctor in practice. He is a lecturer and a
consultant, but he does not care for general practice, which distracts him
from his literary work. Why, then, does he make these long journeys, which
must be exceedingly irksome to him, and who is it that he visits?”

“His coachman——”

“My dear Watson, can you doubt that it was to him that I first applied? I
do not know whether it came from his own innate depravity or from the
promptings of his master, but he was rude enough to set a dog at me.
Neither dog nor man liked the look of my stick, however, and the matter
fell through. Relations were strained after that, and further inquiries
out of the question. All that I have learned I got from a friendly native
in the yard of our own inn. It was he who told me of the doctor’s habits
and of his daily journey. At that instant, to give point to his words, the
carriage came round to the door.”