The Case-Book of Sherlock Holmes

I fear that Mr. Sherlock Holmes may become like one of those popular
tenors who, having outlived their time, are still tempted to make
repeated farewell bows to their indulgent audiences. This must cease
and he must go the way of all flesh, material or imaginary. One likes
to think that there is some fantastic limbo for the children of
imagination, some strange, impossible place where the beaux of
Fielding may still make love to the belles of Richardson, where
Scott’s heroes still may strut, Dickens’s delightful Cockneys still
raise a laugh, and Thackeray’s worldlings continue to carry on their
reprehensible careers. Perhaps in some humble corner of such a
Valhalla, Sherlock and his Watson may for a time find a place, while
some more astute sleuth with some even less astute comrade may fill
the stage which they have vacated.

His career has been a long one–though it is possible to exaggerate
it; decrepit gentlemen who approach me and declare that his
adventures formed the reading of their boyhood do not meet the
response from me which they seem to expect. One is not anxious to
have one’s personal dates handled so unkindly. As a matter of cold
fact, Holmes made his debut in A Study in Scarlet and in The Sign of
Four, two small booklets which appeared between 1887 and 1889. It was
in 1891 that “A Scandal in Bohemia,” the first of the long series of
short stories, appeared in The Strand Magazine. The public seemed
appreciative and desirous of more, so that from that date,
thirty-nine years ago, they have been produced in a broken series
which now contains no fewer than fifty-six stories, republished in
The Adventures, The Memoirs, The Return, and His Last Bow. And there
remain these twelve published during the last few years which are
here produced under the title of The Case Book of Sherlock Holmes. He
began his adventures in the very heart of the later Victorian era,
carried it through the all-too-short reign of Edward, and has managed
to hold his own little niche even in these feverish days. Thus it
would be true to say that those who first read of him, as young men,
have lived to see their own grown-up children following the same
adventures in the same magazine. It is a striking example of the
patience and loyalty of the British public.

I had fully determined at the conclusion of The Memoirs to bring
Holmes to an end, as I felt that my literary energies should not be
directed too much into one channel. That pale, clear-cut face and
loose-limbed figure were taking up an undue share of my imagination.
I did the deed, but fortunately no coroner had pronounced upon the
remains, and so, after a long interval, it was not difficult for me
to respond to the flattering demand and to explain my rash act away.
I have never regretted it, for I have not in actual practice found
that these lighter sketches have prevented me from exploring and
finding my limitations in such varied branches of literature as
history, poetry, historical novels, psychic research, and the drama.
Had Holmes never existed I could not have done more, though he may
perhaps have stood a little in the way of the recognition of my more
serious literary work.

And so, reader, farewell to Sherlock Holmes! I thank you for your
past constancy, and can but hope that some return has been made in
the shape of that distraction from the worries of life and
stimulating change of thought which can only be found in the fairy
kingdom of romance.

Arthur Conan Doyle

“It can’t hurt now,” was Mr. Sherlock Holmes’s comment when, for the
tenth time in as many years, I asked his leave to reveal the
following narrative. So it was that at last I obtained permission to
put on record what was, in some ways, the supreme moment of my
friend’s career.

Both Holmes and I had a weakness for the Turkish bath. It was over a
smoke in the pleasant lassitude of the drying-room that I have found
him less reticent and more human than anywhere else. On the upper
floor of the Northumberland Avenue establishment there is an isolated
corner where two couches lie side by side, and it was on these that
we lay upon September 3, 1902, the day when my narrative begins. I
had asked him whether anything was stirring, and for answer he had
shot his long, thin, nervous arm out of the sheets which enveloped
him and had drawn an envelope from the inside pocket of the coat
which hung beside him.

“It may be some fussy, self-important fool; it may be a matter of
life or death,” said he as he handed me the note. “I know no more
than this message tells me.”

It was from the Carlton Club and dated the evening before. This is
what I read:

Sir James Damery presents his compliments to Mr. Sherlock Holmes and
will call upon him at 4.30 to-morrow. Sir James begs to say that the
matter upon which he desires to consult Mr. Holmes is very delicate
and also very important. He trusts, therefore, that Mr. Holmes will
make every effort to grant this interview, and that he will confirm
it over the telephone to the Carlton Club.

“I need not say that I have confirmed it, Watson,” said Holmes as I
returned the paper. “Do you know anything of this man Damery?”

“Only that this name is a household word in society.”

“Well, I can tell you a little more than that. He has rather a
reputation for arranging delicate matters which are to be kept out of
the papers. You may remember his negotiations with Sir George Lewis
over the Hammerford Will case. He is a man of the world with a
natural turn for diplomacy. I am bound, therefore, to hope that it is
not a false scent and that he has some real need for our assistance.”

“Our?”

“Well, if you will be so good, Watson.”

“I shall be honoured.”

“Then you have the hour–4.30. Until then we can put the matter out
of our heads.”

I was living in my own rooms in Queen Anne Street at the time, but I
was round at Baker Street before the time named. Sharp to the
half-hour, Colonel Sir James Damery was announced. It is hardly
necessary to describe him, for many will remember that large, bluff,
honest personality, that broad, clean-shaven face, and, above all,
that pleasant, mellow voice. Frankness shone from his gray Irish
eyes, and good humour played round his mobile, smiling lips. His
lucent top-hat, his dark frock-coat, indeed, every detail, from the
pearl pin in the black satin cravat to the lavender spats over the
varnished shoes, spoke of the meticulous care in dress for which he
was famous. The big, masterful aristocrat dominated the little room.

“Of course, I was prepared to find Dr. Watson,” he remarked with a
courteous bow. “His collaboration may be very necessary, for we are
dealing on this occasion, Mr. Holmes, with a man to whom violence is
familiar and who will, literally, stick at nothing. I should say that
there is no more dangerous man in Europe.”

“I have had several opponents to whom that flattering term has been
applied,” said Holmes with a smile. “Don’t you smoke? Then you will
excuse me if I light my pipe. If your man is more dangerous than the
late Professor Moriarty, or than the living Colonel Sebastian Moran,
then he is indeed worth meeting. May I ask his name?”

“Have you ever heard of Baron Gruner?”

“You mean the Austrian murderer?”

Colonel Damery threw up his kid-gloved hands with a laugh. “There is
no getting past you, Mr. Holmes! Wonderful! So you have already sized
him up as a murderer?”

“It is my business to follow the details of Continental crime. Who
could possibly have read what happened at Prague and have any doubts
as to the man’s guilt! It was a purely technical legal point and the
suspicious death of a witness that saved him! I am as sure that he
killed his wife when the so-called ‘accident’ happened in the Splugen
Pass as if I had seen him do it. I knew, also, that he had come to
England and had a presentiment that sooner or later he would find me
some work to do. Well, what has Baron Gruner been up to? I presume it
is not this old tragedy which has come up again?”

“No, it is more serious than that. To revenge crime is important, but
to prevent it is more so. It is a terrible thing, Mr. Holmes, to see
a dreadful event, an atrocious situation, preparing itself before
your eyes, to clearly understand whither it will lead and yet to be
utterly unable to avert it. Can a human being be placed in a more
trying position?”

“Perhaps not.”

“Then you will sympathize with the client in whose interests I am
acting.”

“I did not understand that you were merely an intermediary. Who is
the principal?”

“Mr. Holmes, I must beg you not to press that question. It is
important that I should be able to assure him that his honoured name
has been in no way dragged into the matter. His motives are, to the
last degree, honourable and chivalrous, but he prefers to remain
unknown. I need not say that your fees will be assured and that you
will be given a perfectly free hand. Surely the actual name of your
client is immaterial?”

“I am sorry,” said Holmes. “I am accustomed to have mystery at one
end of my cases, but to have it at both ends is too confusing. I
fear, Sir James, that I must decline to act.”

Our visitor was greatly disturbed. His large, sensitive face was
darkened with emotion and disappointment.

“You hardly realize the effect of your own action, Mr. Holmes,” said
he. “You place me in a most serious dilemma, for I am perfectly
certain that you would be proud to take over the case if I could give
you the facts, and yet a promise forbids me from revealing them all.
May I, at least, lay all that I can before you?”

“By all means, so long as it is understood that I commit myself to
nothing.”

“That is understood. In the first place, you have no doubt heard of
General de Merville?”

“De Merville of Khyber fame? Yes, I have heard of him.”

“He has a daughter, Violet de Merville, young, rich, beautiful,
accomplished, a wonder-woman in every way. It is this daughter, this
lovely, innocent girl, whom we are endeavouring to save from the
clutches of a fiend.”

“Baron Gruner has some hold over her, then?”

“The strongest of all holds where a woman is concerned–the hold of
love. The fellow is, as you may have heard, extraordinarily handsome,
with a most fascinating manner, a gentle voice, and that air of
romance and mystery which means so much to a woman. He is said to
have the whole sex at his mercy and to have made ample use of the
fact.”

“But how came such a man to meet a lady of the standing of Miss
Violet de Merville?”

“It was on a Mediterranean yachting voyage. The company, though
select, paid their own passages. No doubt the promoters hardly
realized the Baron’s true character until it was too late. The
villain attached himself to the lady, and with such effect that he
has completely and absolutely won her heart. To say that she loves
him hardly expresses it. She dotes upon him; she is obsessed by him.
Outside of him there is nothing on earth. She will not hear one word
against him. Everything has been done to cure her of her madness, but
in vain. To sum up, she proposes to marry him next month. As she is
of age and has a will of iron, it is hard to know how to prevent
her.”

“Does she know about the Austrian episode?”

“The cunning devil has told her every unsavoury public scandal of his
past life, but always in such a way as to make himself out to be an
innocent martyr. She absolutely accepts his version and will listen
to no other.”

“Dear me! But surely you have inadvertently let out the name of your
client? It is no doubt General de Merville.”

Our visitor fidgeted in his chair.

“I could deceive you by saying so, Mr. Holmes, but it would not be
true. De Merville is a broken man. The strong soldier has been
utterly demoralized by this incident. He has lost the nerve which
never failed him on the battlefield and has become a weak, doddering
old man, utterly incapable of contending with a brilliant, forceful
rascal like this Austrian. My client, however, is an old friend, one
who has known the General intimately for many years and taken a
paternal interest in this young girl since she wore short frocks. He
cannot see this tragedy consummated without some attempt to stop it.
There is nothing in which Scotland Yard can act. It was his own
suggestion that you should be called in, but it was, as I have said,
on the express stipulation that he should not be personally involved
in the matter. I have no doubt, Mr. Holmes, with your great powers
you could easily trace my client back through me, but I must ask you,
as a point of honour, to refrain from doing so, and not to break in
upon his incognito.”

Holmes gave a whimsical smile.

“I think I may safely promise that,” said he. “I may add that your
problem interests me, and that I shall be prepared to look into it.
How shall I keep in touch with you?”

“The Carlton Club will find me. But in case of emergency, there is a
private telephone call, ‘XX.31.'”

Holmes noted it down and sat, still smiling, with the open
memorandum-book upon his knee.

“The Baron’s present address, please?”

“Vernon Lodge, near Kingston. It is a large house. He has been
fortunate in some rather shady speculations and is a rich man, which
naturally makes him a more dangerous antagonist.”

“Is he at home at present?”

“Yes.”

“Apart from what you have told me, can you give me any further
information about the man?”

“He has expensive tastes. He is a horse fancier. For a short time he
played polo at Hurlingham, but then this Prague affair got noised
about and he had to leave. He collects books and pictures. He is a
man with a considerable artistic side to his nature. He is, I
believe, a recognized authority upon Chinese pottery and has written
a book upon the subject.”

“A complex mind,” said Holmes. “All great criminals have that. My old
friend Charlie Peace was a violin virtuoso. Wainwright was no mean
artist. I could quote many more. Well, Sir James, you will inform
your client that I am turning my mind upon Baron Gruner. I can say no
more. I have some sources of information of my own, and I dare say we
may find some means of opening the matter up.”

When our visitor had left us Holmes sat so long in deep thought that
it seemed to me that he had forgotten my presence. At last, however,
he came briskly back to earth.

“Well, Watson, any views?” he asked.

“I should think you had better see the young lady herself.”

“My dear Watson, if her poor old broken father cannot move her, how
shall I, a stranger, prevail? And yet there is something in the
suggestion if all else fails. But I think we must begin from a
different angle. I rather fancy that Shinwell Johnson might be a
help.”

I have not had occasion to mention Shinwell Johnson in these memoirs
because I have seldom drawn my cases from the latter phases of my
friend’s career. During the first years of the century he became a
valuable assistant. Johnson, I grieve to say, made his name first as
a very dangerous villain and served two terms at Parkhurst. Finally
he repented and allied himself to Holmes, acting as his agent in the
huge criminal underworld of London and obtaining information which
often proved to be of vital importance. Had Johnson been a “nark” of
the police he would soon have been exposed, but as he dealt with
cases which never came directly into the courts, his activities were
never realized by his companions. With the glamour of his two
convictions upon him, he had the entree of every night-club, doss
house, and gambling-den in the town, and his quick observation and
active brain made him an ideal agent for gaining information. It was
to him that Sherlock Holmes now proposed to turn.

It was not possible for me to follow the immediate steps taken by my
friend, for I had some pressing professional business of my own, but
I met him by appointment that evening at Simpson’s, where, sitting at
a small table in the front window and looking down at the rushing
stream of life in the Strand, he told me something of what had
passed.

“Johnson is on the prowl,” said he. “He may pick up some garbage in
the darker recesses of the underworld, for it is down there, amid the
black roots of crime, that we must hunt for this man’s secrets.”

“But if the lady will not accept what is already known, why should
any fresh discovery of yours turn her from her purpose?”

“Who knows, Watson? Woman’s heart and mind are insoluble puzzles to
the male. Murder might be condoned or explained, and yet some smaller
offence might rankle. Baron Gruner remarked to me–“

“He remarked to you!”

“Oh, to be sure, I had not told you of my plans. Well, Watson, I love
to come to close grips with my man. I like to meet him eye to eye and
read for myself the stuff that he is made of. When I had given
Johnson his instructions I took a cab out to Kingston and found the
Baron in a most affable mood.”

“Did he recognize you?”

“There was no difficulty about that, for I simply sent in my card. He
is an excellent antagonist, cool as ice, silky voiced and soothing as
one of your fashionable consultants, and poisonous as a cobra. He has
breeding in him–a real aristocrat of crime, with a superficial
suggestion of afternoon tea and all the cruelty of the grave behind
it. Yes, I am glad to have had my attention called to Baron Adelbert
Gruner.”

“You say he was affable?”

“A purring cat who thinks he sees prospective mice. Some people’s
affability is more deadly than the violence of coarser souls. His
greeting was characteristic. ‘I rather thought I should see you
sooner or later, Mr. Holmes,’ said he. ‘You have been engaged, no
doubt by General de Merville, to endeavour to stop my marriage with
his daughter, Violet. That is so, is it not?’

“I acquiesced.

“‘My dear man,’ said he, ‘you will only ruin your own well-deserved
reputation. It is not a case in which you can possibly succeed. You
will have barren work, to say nothing of incurring some danger. Let
me very strongly advise you to draw off at once.’

“‘It is curious,’ I answered, ‘but that was the very advice which I
had intended to give you. I have a respect for your brains, Baron,
and the little which I have seen of your personality has not lessened
it. Let me put it to you as man to man. No one wants to rake up your
past and make you unduly uncomfortable. It is over, and you are now
in smooth waters, but if you persist in this marriage you will raise
up a swarm of powerful enemies who will never leave you alone until
they have made England too hot to hold you. Is the game worth it?
Surely you would be wiser if you left the lady alone. It would not be
pleasant for you if these facts of your past were brought to her
notice.’

“The Baron has little waxed tips of hair under his nose, like the
short antennae of an insect. These quivered with amusement as he
listened, and he finally broke into a gentle chuckle.

“‘Excuse my amusement, Mr. Holmes,’ said he, ‘but it is really funny
to see you trying to play a hand with no cards in it. I don’t think
anyone could do it better, but it is rather pathetic, all the same.
Not a colour card there, Mr. Holmes, nothing but the smallest of the
small.’

“‘So you think.’

“‘So I know. Let me make the thing clear to you, for my own hand is
so strong that I can afford to show it. I have been fortunate enough
to win the entire affection of this lady. This was given to me in
spite of the fact that I told her very clearly of all the unhappy
incidents in my past life. I also told her that certain wicked and
designing persons–I hope you recognize yourself–would come to her
and tell her these things, and I warned her how to treat them. You
have heard of post-hypnotic suggestion, Mr. Holmes? Well, you will
see how it works, for a man of personality can use hypnotism without
any vulgar passes or tomfoolery. So she is ready for you and, I have
no doubt, would give you an appointment, for she is quite amenable to
her father’s will–save only in the one little matter.’

“Well, Watson, there seemed to be no more to say, so I took my leave
with as much cold dignity as I could summon, but, as I had my hand on
the door-handle, he stopped me.

“‘By the way, Mr. Holmes,’ said he, ‘did you know Le Brun, the French
agent?’

“‘Yes,’ said I.

“‘Do you know what befell him?’

“‘I heard that he was beaten by some Apaches in the Montmartre
district and crippled for life.’

“‘Quite true, Mr. Holmes. By a curious coincidence he had been
inquiring into my affairs only a week before. Don’t do it, Mr.
Holmes; it’s not a lucky thing to do. Several have found that out. My
last word to you is, go your own way and let me go mine. Good-bye!’

“So there you are, Watson. You are up to date now.”

“The fellow seems dangerous.”

“Mighty dangerous. I disregard the blusterer, but this is the sort of
man who says rather less than he means.”

“Must you interfere? Does it really matter if he marries the girl?”

“Considering that he undoubtedly murdered his last wife, I should say
it mattered very much. Besides, the client! Well, well, we need not
discuss that. When you have finished your coffee you had best come
home with me, for the blithe Shinwell will be there with his report.”

We found him sure enough, a huge, coarse, red-faced, scorbutic man,
with a pair of vivid black eyes which were the only external sign of
the very cunning mind within. It seems that he had dived down into
what was peculiarly his kingdom, and beside him on the settee was a
brand which he had brought up in the shape of a slim, flame-like
young woman with a pale, intense face, youthful, and yet so worn with
sin and sorrow that one read the terrible years which had left their
leprous mark upon her.

“This is Miss Kitty Winter,” said Shinwell Johnson, waving his fat
hand as an introduction. “What she don’t know–well, there, she’ll
speak for herself. Put my hand right on her, Mr. Holmes, within an
hour of your message.”

“I’m easy to find,” said the young woman. “Hell, London, gets me
every time. Same address for Porky Shinwell. We’re old mates, Porky,
you and I. But, by cripes! there is another who ought to be down in a
lower hell than we if there was any justice in the world! That is the
man you are after, Mr. Holmes.”

Holmes smiled. “I gather we have your good wishes, Miss Winter.”

“If I can help to put him where he belongs, I’m yours to the rattle,”
said our visitor with fierce energy. There was an intensity of hatred
in her white, set face and her blazing eyes such as woman seldom and
man never can attain. “You needn’t go into my past, Mr. Holmes.
That’s neither here nor there. But what I am Adelbert Gruner made me.
If I could pull him down!” She clutched frantically with her hands
into the air. “Oh, if I could only pull him into the pit where he has
pushed so many!”

“You know how the matter stands?”

“Porky Shinwell has been telling me. He’s after some other poor fool
and wants to marry her this time. You want to stop it. Well, you
surely know enough about this devil to prevent any decent girl in her
senses wanting to be in the same parish with him.”

“She is not in her senses. She is madly in love. She has been told
all about him. She cares nothing.”

“Told about the murder?”

“Yes.”

“My Lord, she must have a nerve!”

“She puts them all down as slanders.”

“Couldn’t you lay proofs before her silly eyes?”

“Well, can you help us do so?”

“Ain’t I a proof myself? If I stood before her and told her how he
used me–“

“Would you do this?”

“Would I? Would I not!”

“Well, it might be worth trying. But he has told her most of his sins
and had pardon from her, and I understand she will not reopen the
question.”

“I’ll lay he didn’t tell her all,” said Miss Winter. “I caught a
glimpse of one or two murders besides the one that made such a fuss.
He would speak of someone in his velvet way and then look at me with
a steady eye and say: ‘He died within a month.’ It wasn’t hot air,
either. But I took little notice–you see, I loved him myself at that
time. Whatever he did went with me, same as with this poor fool!
There was just one thing that shook me. Yes, by cripes! if it had not
been for his poisonous, lying tongue that explains and soothes, I’d
have left him that very night. It’s a book he has–a brown leather
book with a lock, and his arms in gold on the outside. I think he was
a bit drunk that night, or he would not have shown it to me.”

“What was it, then?”

“I tell you, Mr. Holmes, this man collects women, and takes a pride
in his collection, as some men collect moths or butterflies. He had
it all in that book. Snapshot photographs, names, details, everything
about them. It was a beastly book–a book no man, even if he had come
from the gutter, could have put together. But it was Adelbert
Gruner’s book all the same. ‘Souls I have ruined.’ He could have put
that on the outside if he had been so minded. However, that’s neither
here nor there, for the book would not serve you, and, if it would,
you can’t get it.”

“Where is it?”

“How can I tell you where it is now? It’s more than a year since I
left him. I know where he kept it then. He’s a precise, tidy cat of a
man in many of his ways, so maybe it is still in the pigeon-hole of
the old bureau in the inner study. Do you know his house?”

“I’ve been in the study,” said Holmes.

“Have you, though? You haven’t been slow on the job if you only
started this morning. Maybe dear Adelbert has met his match this
time. The outer study is the one with the Chinese crockery in it–big
glass cupboard between the windows. Then behind his desk is the door
that leads to the inner study–a small room where he keeps papers and
things.”

“Is he not afraid of burglars?”

“Adelbert is no coward. His worst enemy couldn’t say that of him. He
can look after himself. There’s a burglar alarm at night. Besides,
what is there for a burglar–unless they got away with all this fancy
crockery?”

“No good,” said Shinwell Johnson with the decided voice of the
expert. “No fence wants stuff of that sort that you can neither melt
nor sell.”

“Quite so,” said Holmes. “Well, now, Miss Winter, if you would call
here to-morrow evening at five, I would consider in the meanwhile
whether your suggestion of seeing this lady personally may not be
arranged. I am exceedingly obliged to you for your cooperation. I
need not say that my clients will consider liberally–“

“None of that, Mr. Holmes,” cried the young woman. “I am not out for
money. Let me see this man in the mud, and I’ve got all I’ve worked
for–in the mud with my foot on his cursed face. That’s my price. I’m
with you to-morrow or any other day so long as you are on his track.
Porky here can tell you always where to find me.”

I did not see Holmes again until the following evening when we dined
once more at our Strand restaurant. He shrugged his shoulders when I
asked him what luck he had had in his interview. Then he told the
story, which I would repeat in this way. His hard, dry statement
needs some little editing to soften it into the terms of real life.

“There was no difficulty at all about the appointment,” said Holmes,
“for the girl glories in showing abject filial obedience in all
secondary things in an attempt to atone for her flagrant breach of it
in her engagement. The General ‘phoned that all was ready, and the
fiery Miss W. turned up according to schedule, so that at half-past
five a cab deposited us outside 104 Berkeley Square, where the old
soldier resides–one of those awful gray London castles which would
make a church seem frivolous. A footman showed us into a great
yellow-curtained drawing-room, and there was the lady awaiting us,
demure, pale, self-contained, as inflexible and remote as a snow
image on a mountain.

“I don’t quite know how to make her clear to you, Watson. Perhaps you
may meet her before we are through, and you can use your own gift of
words. She is beautiful, but with the ethereal other-world beauty of
some fanatic whose thoughts are set on high. I have seen such faces
in the pictures of the old masters of the Middle Ages. How a beastman
could have laid his vile paws upon such a being of the beyond I
cannot imagine. You may have noticed how extremes call to each other,
the spiritual to the animal, the cave-man to the angel. You never saw
a worse case than this.

“She knew what we had come for, of course–that villain had lost no
time in poisoning her mind against us. Miss Winter’s advent rather
amazed her, I think, but she waved us into our respective chairs like
a reverend abbess receiving two rather leprous mendicants. If your
head is inclined to swell, my dear Watson, take a course of Miss
Violet de Merville.

“‘Well, sir,’ said she in a voice like the wind from an iceberg,
‘your name is familiar to me. You have called, as I understand, to
malign my fiancé, Baron Gruner. It is only by my father’s request
that I see you at all, and I warn you in advance that anything you
can say could not possibly have the slightest effect upon my mind.’

“I was sorry for her, Watson. I thought of her for the moment as I
would have thought of a daughter of my own. I am not often eloquent.
I use my head, not my heart. But I really did plead with her with all
the warmth of words that I could find in my nature. I pictured to her
the awful position of the woman who only wakes to a man’s character
after she is his wife–a woman who has to submit to be caressed by
bloody hands and lecherous lips. I spared her nothing–the shame, the
fear, the agony, the hopelessness of it all. All my hot words could
not bring one tinge of colour to those ivory cheeks or one gleam of
emotion to those abstracted eyes. I thought of what the rascal had
said about a post-hypnotic influence. One could really believe that
she was living above the earth in some ecstatic dream. Yet there was
nothing indefinite in her replies.

“‘I have listened to you with patience, Mr. Holmes,’ said she. ‘The
effect upon my mind is exactly as predicted. I am aware that
Adelbert, that my fiancé, has had a stormy life in which he has
incurred bitter hatreds and most unjust aspersions. You are only the
last of a series who have brought their slanders before me. Possibly
you mean well, though I learn that you are a paid agent who would
have been equally willing to act for the Baron as against him. But in
any case I wish you to understand once for all that I love him and
that he loves me, and that the opinion of all the world is no more to
me than the twitter of those birds outside the window. If his noble
nature has ever for an instant fallen, it may be that I have been
specially sent to raise it to its true and lofty level. I am not
clear’–here she turned eyes upon my companion–‘who this young lady
may be.’

“I was about to answer when the girl broke in like a whirlwind. If
ever you saw flame and ice face to face, it was those two women.

“‘I’ll tell you who I am,’ she cried, springing out of her chair, her
mouth all twisted with passion–‘I am his last mistress. I am one of
a hundred that he has tempted and used and ruined and thrown into the
refuse heap, as he will you also. Your refuse heap is more likely to
be a grave, and maybe that’s the best. I tell you, you foolish woman,
if you marry this man he’ll be the death of you. It may be a broken
heart or it may be a broken neck, but he’ll have you one way or the
other. It’s not out of love for you I’m speaking. I don’t care a
tinker’s curse whether you live or die. It’s out of hate for him and
to spite him and to get back on him for what he did to me. But it’s
all the same, and you needn’t look at me like that, my fine lady, for
you may be lower than I am before you are through with it.’

“‘I should prefer not to discuss such matters,’ said Miss de Merville
coldly. ‘Let me say once for all that I am aware of three passages in
my fiancé’s life in which he became entangled with designing women,
and that I am assured of his hearty repentance for any evil that he
may have done.’

“‘Three passages!’ screamed my companion. ‘You fool! You unutterable
fool!’

“‘Mr. Holmes, I beg that you will bring this interview to an end,’
said the icy voice. ‘I have obeyed my father’s wish in seeing you,
but I am not compelled to listen to the ravings of this person.’

“With an oath Miss Winter darted forward, and if I had not caught her
wrist she would have clutched this maddening woman by the hair. I
dragged her towards the door and was lucky to get her back into the
cab without a public scene, for she was beside herself with rage. In
a cold way I felt pretty furious myself, Watson, for there was
something indescribably annoying in the calm aloofness and supreme
self-complaisance of the woman whom we were trying to save. So now
once again you know exactly how we stand, and it is clear that I must
plan some fresh opening move, for this gambit won’t work. I’ll keep
in touch with you, Watson, for it is more than likely that you will
have your part to play, though it is just possible that the next move
may lie with them rather than with us.”

And it did. Their blow fell–or his blow rather, for never could I
believe that the lady was privy to it. I think I could show you the
very paving-stone upon which I stood when my eyes fell upon the
placard, and a pang of horror passed through my very soul. It was
between the Grand Hotel and Charing Cross Station, where a one-legged
news-vender displayed his evening papers. The date was just two days
after the last conversation. There, black upon yellow, was the
terrible news-sheet:

Murderous Attack Upon Sherlock Holmes

I think I stood stunned for some moments. Then I have a confused
recollection of snatching at a paper, of the remonstrance of the man,
whom I had not paid, and, finally, of standing in the doorway of a
chemist’s shop while I turned up the fateful paragraph. This was how
it ran:

We learn with regret that Mr. Sherlock Holmes, the well-known private
detective, was the victim this morning of a murderous assault which
has left him in a precarious position. There are no exact details to
hand, but the event seems to have occurred about twelve o’clock in
Regent Street, outside the Cafe Royal. The attack was made by two men
armed with sticks, and Mr. Holmes was beaten about the head and body,
receiving injuries which the doctors describe as most serious. He was
carried to Charing Cross Hospital and afterwards insisted upon being
taken to his rooms in Baker Street. The miscreants who attacked him
appear to have been respectably dressed men, who escaped from the
bystanders by passing through the Cafe Royal and out into Glasshouse
Street behind it. No doubt they belonged to that criminal fraternity
which has so often had occasion to bewail the activity and ingenuity
of the injured man.

I need not say that my eyes had hardly glanced over the paragraph
before I had sprung into a hansom and was on my way to Baker Street.
I found Sir Leslie Oakshott, the famous surgeon, in the hall and his
brougham waiting at the curb.

“No immediate danger,” was his report. “Two lacerated scalp wounds
and some considerable bruises. Several stitches have been necessary.
Morphine has been injected and quiet is essential, but an interview
of a few minutes would not be absolutely forbidden.”

With this permission I stole into the darkened room. The sufferer was
wide awake, and I heard my name in a hoarse whisper. The blind was
three-quarters down, but one ray of sunlight slanted through and
struck the bandaged head of the injured man. A crimson patch had
soaked through the white linen compress. I sat beside him and bent my
head.

“All right, Watson. Don’t look so scared,” he muttered in a very weak
voice. “It’s not as bad as it seems.”

“Thank God for that!”

“I’m a bit of a single-stick expert, as you know. I took most of them
on my guard. It was the second man that was too much for me.”

“What can I do, Holmes? Of course, it was that damned fellow who set
them on. I’ll go and thrash the hide off him if you give the word.”

“Good old Watson! No, we can do nothing there unless the police lay
their hands on the men. But their get-away had been well prepared. We
may be sure of that. Wait a little. I have my plans. The first thing
is to exaggerate my injuries. They’ll come to you for news. Put it on
thick, Watson. Lucky if I live the week
out–concussion–delirium–what you like! You can’t overdo it.”

“But Sir Leslie Oakshott?”

“Oh, he’s all right. He shall see the worst side of me. I’ll look
after that.”

“Anything else?”

“Yes. Tell Shinwell Johnson to get that girl out of the way. Those
beauties will be after her now. They know, of course, that she was
with me in the case. If they dared to do me in it is not likely they
will neglect her. That is urgent. Do it to-night.”

“I’ll go now. Anything more?”

“Put my pipe on the table–and the tobacco-slipper. Right! Come in
each morning and we will plan our campaign.”

I arranged with Johnson that evening to take Miss Winter to a quiet
suburb and see that she lay low until the danger was past.

For six days the public were under the impression that Holmes was at
the door of death. The bulletins were very grave and there were
sinister paragraphs in the papers. My continual visits assured me
that it was not so bad as that. His wiry constitution and his
determined will were working wonders. He was recovering fast, and I
had suspicions at times that he was really finding himself faster
than he pretended even to me. There was a curious secretive streak in
the man which led to many dramatic effects, but left even his closest
friend guessing as to what his exact plans might be. He pushed to an
extreme the axiom that the only safe plotter was he who plotted
alone. I was nearer him than anyone else, and yet I was always
conscious of the gap between.

On the seventh day the stitches were taken out, in spite of which
there was a report of erysipelas in the evening papers. The same
evening papers had an announcement which I was bound, sick or well,
to carry to my friend. It was simply that among the passengers on the
Cunard boat Ruritania, starting from Liverpool on Friday, was the
Baron Adelbert Gruner, who had some important financial business to
settle in the States before his impending wedding to Miss Violet de
Merville, only daughter of, etc., etc. Holmes listened to the news
with a cold, concentrated look upon his pale face, which told me that
it hit him hard.

“Friday!” he cried. “Only three clear days. I believe the rascal
wants to put himself out of danger’s way. But he won’t, Watson! By
the Lord Harry, he won’t! Now, Watson, I want you to do something for
me.”

“I am here to be used, Holmes.”

“Well, then, spend the next twenty-four hours in an intensive study
of Chinese pottery.”

He gave no explanations and I asked for none. By long experience I
had learned the wisdom of obedience. But when I had left his room I
walked down Baker Street, revolving in my head how on earth I was to
carry out so strange an order. Finally I drove to the London Library
in St. James’s Square, put the matter to my friend Lomax, the
sublibrarian, and departed to my rooms with a goodly volume under my
arm.

It is said that the barrister who crams up a case with such care that
he can examine an expert witness upon the Monday has forgotten all
his forced knowledge before the Saturday. Certainly I should not like
now to pose as an authority upon ceramics. And yet all that evening,
and all that night with a short interval for rest, and all next
morning, I was sucking in knowledge and committing names to memory.
There I learned of the hall-marks of the great artist-decorators, of
the mystery of cyclical dates, the marks of the Hung-wu and the
beauties of the Yung-lo, the writings of Tang-ying, and the glories
of the primitive period of the Sung and the Yuan. I was charged with
all this information when I called upon Holmes next evening. He was
out of bed now, though you would not have guessed it from the
published reports, and he sat with his much-bandaged head resting
upon his hand in the depth of his favourite armchair.

“Why, Holmes,” I said, “if one believed the papers, you are dying.”

“That,” said he, “is the very impression which I intended to convey.
And now, Watson, have you learned your lessons?”

“At least I have tried to.”

“Good. You could keep up an intelligent conversation on the subject?”

“I believe I could.”

“Then hand me that little box from the mantelpiece.”

He opened the lid and took out a small object most carefully wrapped
in some fine Eastern silk. This he unfolded, and disclosed a delicate
little saucer of the most beautiful deep-blue colour.

“It needs careful handling, Watson. This is the real egg-shell
pottery of the Ming dynasty. No finer piece ever passed through
Christie’s. A complete set of this would be worth a king’s ransom–in
fact, it is doubtful if there is a complete set outside the imperial
palace of Peking. The sight of this would drive a real connoisseur
wild.”

“What am I to do with it?”

Holmes handed me a card upon which was printed: “Dr. Hill Barton, 369
Half Moon Street.”

“That is your name for the evening, Watson. You will call upon Baron
Gruner. I know something of his habits, and at half-past eight he
would probably be disengaged. A note will tell him in advance that
you are about to call, and you will say that you are bringing him a
specimen of an absolutely unique set of Ming china. You may as well
be a medical man, since that is a part which you can play without
duplicity. You are a collector, this set has come your way, you have
heard of the Baron’s interest in the subject, and you are not averse
to selling at a price.”

“What price?”

“Well asked, Watson. You would certainly fall down badly if you did
not know the value of your own wares. This saucer was got for me by
Sir James, and comes, I understand, from the collection of his
client. You will not exaggerate if you say that it could hardly be
matched in the world.”

“I could perhaps suggest that the set should be valued by an expert.”

“Excellent, Watson! You scintillate to-day. Suggest Christie or
Sotheby. Your delicacy prevents your putting a price for yourself.”

“But if he won’t see me?”

“Oh, yes, he will see you. He has the collection mania in its most
acute form–and especially on this subject, on which he is an
acknowledged authority. Sit down, Watson, and I will dictate the
letter. No answer needed. You will merely say that you are coming,
and why.”

It was an admirable document, short, courteous, and stimulating to
the curiosity of the connoisseur. A district messenger was duly
dispatched with it. On the same evening, with the precious saucer in
my hand and the card of Dr. Hill Barton in my pocket, I set off on my
own adventure.

The beautiful house and grounds indicated that Baron Gruner was, as
Sir James had said, a man of considerable wealth. A long winding
drive, with banks of rare shrubs on either side, opened out into a
great gravelled square adorned with statues. The place had been built
by a South African gold king in the days of the great boom, and the
long, low house with the turrets at the corners, though an
architectural nightmare, was imposing in its size and solidity. A
butler, who would have adorned a bench of bishops, showed me in and
handed me over to a plush-clad footman, who ushered me into the
Baron’s presence.

He was standing at the open front of a great case which stood between
the windows and which contained part of his Chinese collection. He
turned as I entered with a small brown vase in his hand.

“Pray sit down, Doctor,” said he. “I was looking over my own
treasures and wondering whether I could really afford to add to them.
This little Tang specimen, which dates from the seventh century,
would probably interest you. I am sure you never saw finer
workmanship or a richer glaze. Have you the Ming saucer with you of
which you spoke?”

I carefully unpacked it and handed it to him. He seated himself at
his desk, pulled over the lamp, for it was growing dark, and set
himself to examine it. As he did so the yellow light beat upon his
own features, and I was able to study them at my ease.

He was certainly a remarkably handsome man. His European reputation
for beauty was fully deserved. In figure he was not more than of
middle size, but was built upon graceful and active lines. His face
was swarthy, almost Oriental, with large, dark, languorous eyes which
might easily hold an irresistible fascination for women. His hair and
moustache were raven black, the latter short, pointed, and carefully
waxed. His features were regular and pleasing, save only his
straight, thin-lipped mouth. If ever I saw a murderer’s mouth it was
there–a cruel, hard gash in the face, compressed, inexorable, and
terrible. He was ill-advised to train his moustache away from it, for
it was Nature’s danger-signal, set as a warning to his victims. His
voice was engaging and his manners perfect. In age I should have put
him at little over thirty, though his record afterwards showed that
he was forty-two.

“Very fine–very fine indeed!” he said at last. “And you say you have
a set of six to correspond. What puzzles me is that I should not have
heard of such magnificent specimens. I only know of one in England to
match this, and it is certainly not likely to be in the market. Would
it be indiscreet if I were to ask you, Dr. Hill Barton, how you
obtained this?”

“Does it really matter?” I asked with as careless an air as I could
muster. “You can see that the piece is genuine, and, as to the value,
I am content to take an expert’s valuation.”

“Very mysterious,” said he with a quick, suspicious flash of his dark
eyes. “In dealing with objects of such value, one naturally wishes to
know all about the transaction. That the piece is genuine is certain.
I have no doubts at all about that. But suppose–I am bound to take
every possibility into account–that it should prove afterwards that
you had no right to sell?”

“I would guarantee you against any claim of the sort.”

“That, of course, would open up the question as to what your
guarantee was worth.”

“My bankers would answer that.”

“Quite so. And yet the whole transaction strikes me as rather
unusual.”

“You can do business or not,” said I with indifference. “I have given
you the first offer as I understood that you were a connoisseur, but
I shall have no difficulty in other quarters.”

“Who told you I was a connoisseur?”

“I was aware that you had written a book upon the subject.”

“Have you read the book?”

“No.”

“Dear me, this becomes more and more difficult for me to understand!
You are a connoisseur and collector with a very valuable piece in
your collection, and yet you have never troubled to consult the one
book which would have told you of the real meaning and value of what
you held. How do you explain that?”

“I am a very busy man. I am a doctor in practice.”

“That is no answer. If a man has a hobby he follows it up, whatever
his other pursuits may be. You said in your note that you were a
connoisseur.”

“So I am.”

“Might I ask you a few questions to test you? I am obliged to tell
you, Doctor–if you are indeed a doctor–that the incident becomes
more and more suspicious. I would ask you what do you know of the
Emperor Shomu and how do you associate him with the Shoso-in near
Nara? Dear me, does that puzzle you? Tell me a little about the
Northern Wei dynasty and its place in the history of ceramics.”

I sprang from my chair in simulated anger.

“This is intolerable, sir,” said I. “I came here to do you a favour,
and not to be examined as if I were a schoolboy. My knowledge on
these subjects may be second only to your own, but I certainly shall
not answer questions which have been put in so offensive a way.”

He looked at me steadily. The languor had gone from his eyes. They
suddenly glared. There was a gleam of teeth from between those cruel
lips.

“What is the game? You are here as a spy. You are an emissary of
Holmes. This is a trick that you are playing upon me. The fellow is
dying I hear, so he sends his tools to keep watch upon me. You’ve
made your way in here without leave, and, by God! you may find it
harder to get out than to get in.”

He had sprung to his feet, and I stepped back, bracing myself for an
attack, for the man was beside himself with rage. He may have
suspected me from the first; certainly this cross-examination had
shown him the truth; but it was clear that I could not hope to
deceive him. He dived his hand into a side-drawer and rummaged
furiously. Then something struck upon his ear, for he stood listening
intently.

“Ah!” he cried. “Ah!” and dashed into the room behind him.

Two steps took me to the open door, and my mind will ever carry a
clear picture of the scene within. The window leading out to the
garden was wide open. Beside it, looking like some terrible ghost,
his head girt with bloody bandages, his face drawn and white, stood
Sherlock Holmes. The next instant he was through the gap, and I heard
the crash of his body among the laurel bushes outside. With a howl of
rage the master of the house rushed after him to the open window.

And then! It was done in an instant, and yet I clearly saw it. An
arm–a woman’s arm–shot out from among the leaves. At the same
instant the Baron uttered a horrible cry–a yell which will always
ring in my memory. He clapped his two hands to his face and rushed
round the room, beating his head horribly against the walls. Then he
fell upon the carpet, rolling and writhing, while scream after scream
resounded through the house.

“Water! For God’s sake, water!” was his cry.

I seized a carafe from a side-table and rushed to his aid. At the
same moment the butler and several footmen ran in from the hall. I
remember that one of them fainted as I knelt by the injured man and
turned that awful face to the light of the lamp. The vitriol was
eating into it everywhere and dripping from the ears and the chin.
One eye was already white and glazed. The other was red and inflamed.
The features which I had admired a few minutes before were now like
some beautiful painting over which the artist has passed a wet and
foul sponge. They were blurred, discoloured, inhuman, terrible.

In a few words I explained exactly what had occurred, so far as the
vitriol attack was concerned. Some had climbed through the window and
others had rushed out on to the lawn, but it was dark and it had
begun to rain. Between his screams the victim raged and raved against
the avenger. “It was that hell-cat, Kitty Winter!” he cried. “Oh, the
she-devil! She shall pay for it! She shall pay! Oh, God in heaven,
this pain is more than I can bear!”

I bathed his face in oil, put cotton wadding on the raw surfaces, and
administered a hypodermic of morphia. All suspicion of me had passed
from his mind in the presence of this shock, and he clung to my hands
as if I might have the power even yet to clear those dead-fish eyes
which gazed up at me. I could have wept over the ruin had I not
remembered very clearly the vile life which had led up to so hideous
a change. It was loathsome to feel the pawing of his burning hands,
and I was relieved when his family surgeon, closely followed by a
specialist, came to relieve me of my charge. An inspector of police
had also arrived, and to him I handed my real card. It would have
been useless as well as foolish to do otherwise, for I was nearly as
well known by sight at the Yard as Holmes himself. Then I left that
house of gloom and terror. Within an hour I was at Baker Street.

Holmes was seated in his familiar chair, looking very pale and
exhausted. Apart from his injuries, even his iron nerves had been
shocked by the events of the evening, and he listened with horror to
my account of the Baron’s transformation.

“The wages of sin, Watson–the wages of sin!” said he. “Sooner or
later it will always come. God knows, there was sin enough,” he
added, taking up a brown volume from the table. “Here is the book the
woman talked of. If this will not break off the marriage, nothing
ever could. But it will, Watson. It must. No self-respecting woman
could stand it.”

“It is his love diary?”

“Or his lust diary. Call it what you will. The moment the woman told
us of it I realized what a tremendous weapon was there if we could
but lay our hands on it. I said nothing at the time to indicate my
thoughts, for this woman might have given it away. But I brooded over
it. Then this assault upon me gave me the chance of letting the Baron
think that no precautions need be taken against me. That was all to
the good. I would have waited a little longer, but his visit to
America forced my hand. He would never have left so compromising a
document behind him. Therefore we had to act at once. Burglary at
night is impossible. He takes precautions. But there was a chance in
the evening if I could only be sure that his attention was engaged.
That was where you and your blue saucer came in. But I had to be sure
of the position of the book, and I knew I had only a few minutes in
which to act, for my time was limited by your knowledge of Chinese
pottery. Therefore I gathered the girl up at the last moment. How
could I guess what the little packet was that she carried so
carefully under her cloak? I thought she had come altogether on my
business, but it seems she had some of her own.”

“He guessed I came from you.”

“I feared he would. But you held him in play just long enough for me
to get the book, though not long enough for an unobserved escape. Ah,
Sir James, I am very glad you have come!”

Our courtly friend had appeared in answer to a previous summons. He
listened with the deepest attention to Holmes’s account of what had
occurred.

“You have done wonders–wonders!” he cried when he had heard the
narrative. “But if these injuries are as terrible as Dr. Watson
describes, then surely our purpose of thwarting the marriage is
sufficiently gained without the use of this horrible book.”

Holmes shook his head.

“Women of the De Merville type do not act like that. She would love
him the more as a disfigured martyr. No, no. It is his moral side,
not his physical, which we have to destroy. That book will bring her
back to earth–and I know nothing else that could. It is in his own
writing. She cannot get past it.”

Sir James carried away both it and the precious saucer. As I was
myself overdue, I went down with him into the street. A brougham was
waiting for him. He sprang in, gave a hurried order to the cockaded
coachman, and drove swiftly away. He flung his overcoat half out of
the window to cover the armorial bearings upon the panel, but I had
seen them in the glare of our fanlight none the less. I gasped with
surprise. Then I turned back and ascended the stair to Holmes’s room.

“I have found out who our client is,” I cried, bursting with my great
news. “Why, Holmes, it is–“

“It is a loyal friend and a chivalrous gentleman,” said Holmes,
holding up a restraining hand. “Let that now and forever be enough
for us.”

I do not know how the incriminating book was used. Sir James may have
managed it. Or it is more probable that so delicate a task was
entrusted to the young lady’s father. The effect, at any rate, was
all that could be desired. Three days later appeared a paragraph in
the Morning Post to say that the marriage between Baron Adelbert
Gruner and Miss Violet de Merville would not take place. The same
paper had the first police-court hearing of the proceedings against
Miss Kitty Winter on the grave charge of vitriol-throwing. Such
extenuating circumstances came out in the trial that the sentence, as
will be remembered, was the lowest that was possible for such an
offence. Sherlock Holmes was threatened with a prosecution for
burglary, but when an object is good and a client is sufficiently
illustrious, even the rigid British law becomes human and elastic. My
friend has not yet stood in the dock.

The ideas of my friend Watson, though limited, are exceedingly
pertinacious. For a long time he has worried me to write an
experience of my own. Perhaps I have rather invited this persecution,
since I have often had occasion to point out to him how superficial
are his own accounts and to accuse him of pandering to popular taste
instead of confining himself rigidly to facts and figures. “Try it
yourself, Holmes!” he has retorted, and I am compelled to admit that,
having taken my pen in my hand, I do begin to realize that the matter
must be presented in such a way as may interest the reader. The
following case can hardly fail to do so, as it is among the strangest
happenings in my collection, though it chanced that Watson had no
note of it in his collection. Speaking of my old friend and
biographer, I would take this opportunity to remark that if I burden
myself with a companion in my various little inquiries it is not done
out of sentiment or caprice, but it is that Watson has some
remarkable characteristics of his own to which in his modesty he has
given small attention amid his exaggerated estimates of my own
performances. A confederate who foresees your conclusions and course
of action is always dangerous, but one to whom each development comes
as a perpetual surprise, and to whom the future is always a closed
book, is indeed an ideal helpmate.

I find from my notebook that it was in January, 1903, just after the
conclusion of the Boer War, that I had my visit from Mr. James M.
Dodd, a big, fresh, sunburned, upstanding Briton. The good Watson had
at that time deserted me for a wife, the only selfish action which I
can recall in our association. I was alone.

It is my habit to sit with my back to the window and to place my
visitors in the opposite chair, where the light falls full upon them.
Mr. James M. Dodd seemed somewhat at a loss how to begin the
interview. I did not attempt to help him, for his silence gave me
more time for observation. I have found it wise to impress clients
with a sense of power, and so I gave him some of my conclusions.

“From South Africa, sir, I perceive.”

“Yes, sir,” he answered, with some surprise.

“Imperial Yeomanry, I fancy.”

“Exactly.”

“Middlesex Corps, no doubt.”

“That is so. Mr. Holmes, you are a wizard.”

I smiled at his bewildered expression.

“When a gentleman of virile appearance enters my room with such tan
upon his face as an English sun could never give, and with his
handkerchief in his sleeve instead of in his pocket, it is not
difficult to place him. You wear a short beard, which shows that you
were not a regular. You have the cut of a riding-man. As to
Middlesex, your card has already shown me that you are a stockbroker
from Throgmorton Street. What other regiment would you join?”

“You see everything.”

“I see no more than you, but I have trained myself to notice what I
see. However, Mr. Dodd, it was not to discuss the science of
observation that you called upon me this morning. What has been
happening at Tuxbury Old Park?”

“Mr. Holmes–!”

“My dear sir, there is no mystery. Your letter came with that
heading, and as you fixed this appointment in very pressing terms it
was clear that something sudden and important had occurred.”

“Yes, indeed. But the letter was written in the afternoon, and a good
deal has happened since then. If Colonel Emsworth had not kicked me
out–“

“Kicked you out!”

“Well, that was what it amounted to. He is a hard nail, is Colonel
Emsworth. The greatest martinet in the Army in his day, and it was a
day of rough language, too. I couldn’t have stuck the colonel if it
had not been for Godfrey’s sake.”

I lit my pipe and leaned back in my chair.

“Perhaps you will explain what you are talking about.”

My client grinned mischievously.

“I had got into the way of supposing that you knew everything without
being told,” said he. “But I will give you the facts, and I hope to
God that you will be able to tell me what they mean. I’ve been awake
all night puzzling my brain, and the more I think the more incredible
does it become.

“When I joined up in January, 1901–just two years ago–young Godfrey
Emsworth had joined the same squadron. He was Colonel Emsworth’s only
son–Emsworth, the Crimean V. C.–and he had the fighting blood in
him, so it is no wonder he volunteered. There was not a finer lad in
the regiment. We formed a friendship–the sort of friendship which
can only be made when one lives the same life and shares the same
joys and sorrows. He was my mate–and that means a good deal in the
Army. We took the rough and the smooth together for a year of hard
fighting. Then he was hit with a bullet from an elephant gun in the
action near Diamond Hill outside Pretoria. I got one letter from the
hospital at Cape Town and one from Southampton. Since then not a
word–not one word, Mr. Holmes, for six months and more, and he my
closest pal.

“Well, when the war was over, and we all got back, I wrote to his
father and asked where Godfrey was. No answer. I waited a bit and
then I wrote again. This time I had a reply, short and gruff. Godfrey
had gone on a voyage round the world, and it was not likely that he
would be back for a year. That was all.

“I wasn’t satisfied, Mr. Holmes. The whole thing seemed to me so
damned unnatural. He was a good lad, and he would not drop a pal like
that. It was not like him. Then, again, I happened to know that he
was heir to a lot of money, and also that his father and he did not
always hit it off too well. The old man was sometimes a bully, and
young Godfrey had too much spirit to stand it. No, I wasn’t
satisfied, and I determined that I would get to the root of the
matter. It happened, however, that my own affairs needed a lot of
straightening out, after two years’ absence, and so it is only this
week that I have been able to take up Godfrey’s case again. But since
I have taken it up I mean to drop everything in order to see it
through.”

Mr. James M. Dodd appeared to be the sort of person whom it would be
better to have as a friend than as an enemy. His blue eyes were stern
and his square jaw had set hard as he spoke.

“Well, what have you done?” I asked.

“My first move was to get down to his home, Tuxbury Old Park, near
Bedford, and to see for myself how the ground lay. I wrote to the
mother, therefore–I had had quite enough of the curmudgeon of a
father–and I made a clean frontal attack: Godfrey was my chum, I had
a great deal of interest which I might tell her of our common
experiences, I should be in the neighbourhood, would there be any
objection, et cetera? In reply I had quite an amiable answer from her
and an offer to put me up for the night. That was what took me down
on Monday.

“Tuxbury Old Hall is inaccessible–five miles from anywhere. There
was no trap at the station, so I had to walk, carrying my suitcase,
and it was nearly dark before I arrived. It is a great wandering
house, standing in a considerable park. I should judge it was of all
sorts of ages and styles, starting on a half-timbered Elizabethan
foundation and ending in a Victorian portico. Inside it was all
panelling and tapestry and half-effaced old pictures, a house of
shadows and mystery. There was a butler, old Ralph, who seemed about
the same age as the house, and there was his wife, who might have
been older. She had been Godfrey’s nurse, and I had heard him speak
of her as second only to his mother in his affections, so I was drawn
to her in spite of her queer appearance. The mother I liked also–a
gentle little white mouse of a woman. It was only the colonel himself
whom I barred.

“We had a bit of barney right away, and I should have walked back to
the station if I had not felt that it might be playing his game for
me to do so. I was shown straight into his study, and there I found
him, a huge, bow-backed man with a smoky skin and a straggling gray
beard, seated behind his littered desk. A red-veined nose jutted out
like a vulture’s beak, and two fierce gray eyes glared at me from
under tufted brows. I could understand now why Godfrey seldom spoke
of his father.

“‘Well, sir,’ said he in a rasping voice, ‘I should be interested to
know the real reasons for this visit.’

“I answered that I had explained them in my letter to his wife.

“‘Yes, yes, you said that you had known Godfrey in Africa. We have,
of course, only your word for that.’

“‘I have his letters to me in my pocket.’

“‘Kindly let me see them.’

“He glanced at the two which I handed him, and then he tossed them
back.

“‘Well, what then?’ he asked.

“‘I was fond of your son Godfrey, sir. Many ties and memories united
us. Is it not natural that I should wonder at his sudden silence and
should wish to know what has become of him?’

“‘I have some recollections, sir, that I had already corresponded
with you and had told you what had become of him. He has gone upon a
voyage round the world. His health was in a poor way after his
African experiences, and both his mother and I were of opinion that
complete rest and change were needed. Kindly pass that explanation on
to any other friends who may be interested in the matter.’

“‘Certainly,’ I answered. ‘But perhaps you would have the goodness to
let me have the name of the steamer and of the line by which he
sailed, together with the date. I have no doubt that I should be able
to get a letter through to him.’

“My request seemed both to puzzle and to irritate my host. His great
eyebrows came down over his eyes, and he tapped his fingers
impatiently on the table. He looked up at last with the expression of
one who has seen his adversary make a dangerous move at chess, and
has decided how to meet it.

“‘Many people, Mr. Dodd,’ said he, ‘would take offence at your
infernal pertinacity and would think that this insistence had reached
the point of damned impertinence.’

“‘You must put it down, sir, to my real love for your son.’

“‘Exactly. I have already made every allowance upon that score. I
must ask you, however, to drop these inquiries. Every family has its
own inner knowledge and its own motives, which cannot always be made
clear to outsiders, however well-intentioned. My wife is anxious to
hear something of Godfrey’s past which you are in a position to tell
her, but I would ask you to let the present and the future alone.
Such inquiries serve no useful purpose, sir, and place us in a
delicate and difficult position.’

“So I came to a dead end, Mr. Holmes. There was no getting past it. I
could only pretend to accept the situation and register a vow
inwardly that I would never rest until my friend’s fate had been
cleared up. It was a dull evening. We dined quietly, the three of us,
in a gloomy, faded old room. The lady questioned me eagerly about her
son, but the old man seemed morose and depressed. I was so bored by
the whole proceeding that I made an excuse as soon as I decently
could and retired to my bedroom. It was a large, bare room on the
ground floor, as gloomy as the rest of the house, but after a year of
sleeping upon the veldt, Mr. Holmes, one is not too particular about
one’s quarters. I opened the curtains and looked out into the garden,
remarking that it was a fine night with a bright half-moon. Then I
sat down by the roaring fire with the lamp on a table beside me, and
endeavoured to distract my mind with a novel. I was interrupted,
however, by Ralph, the old butler, who came in with a fresh supply of
coals.

“‘I thought you might run short in the night-time, sir. It is bitter
weather and these rooms are cold.’

“He hesitated before leaving the room, and when I looked round he was
standing facing me with a wistful look upon his wrinkled face.

“‘Beg your pardon, sir, but I could not help hearing what you said of
young Master Godfrey at dinner. You know, sir, that my wife nursed
him, and so I may say I am his foster-father. It’s natural we should
take an interest. And you say he carried himself well, sir?’

“‘There was no braver man in the regiment. He pulled me out once from
under the rifles of the Boers, or maybe I should not be here.’

“The old butler rubbed his skinny hands.

“‘Yes, sir, yes, that is Master Godfrey all over. He was always
courageous. There’s not a tree in the park, sir, that he has not
climbed. Nothing would stop him. He was a fine boy–and oh, sir, he
was a fine man.’

“I sprang to my feet.

“‘Look here!’ I cried. ‘You say he was. You speak as if he were dead.
What is all this mystery? What has become of Godfrey Emsworth?’

“I gripped the old man by the shoulder, but he shrank away.

“‘I don’t know what you mean, sir. Ask the master about Master
Godfrey. He knows. It is not for me to interfere.’

“He was leaving the room, but I held his arm.

“‘Listen,’ I said. ‘You are going to answer one question before you
leave if I have to hold you all night. Is Godfrey dead?’

“He could not face my eyes. He was like a man hypnotized. The answer
was dragged from his lips. It was a terrible and unexpected one.

“‘I wish to God he was!’ he cried, and, tearing himself free, he
dashed from the room.

“You will think, Mr. Holmes, that I returned to my chair in no very
happy state of mind. The old man’s words seemed to me to bear only
one interpretation. Clearly my poor friend had become involved in
some criminal or, at the least, disreputable transaction which
touched the family honour. That stern old man had sent his son away
and hidden him from the world lest some scandal should come to light.
Godfrey was a reckless fellow. He was easily influenced by those
around him. No doubt he had fallen into bad hands and been misled to
his ruin. It was a piteous business, if it was indeed so, but even
now it was my duty to hunt him out and see if I could aid him. I was
anxiously pondering the matter when I looked up, and there was
Godfrey Emsworth standing before me.”

My client had paused as one in deep emotion.

“Pray continue,” I said. “Your problem presents some very unusual
features.”

“He was outside the window, Mr. Holmes, with his face pressed against
the glass. I have told you that I looked out at the night. When I did
so I left the curtains partly open. His figure was framed in this
gap. The window came down to the ground and I could see the whole
length of it, but it was his face which held my gaze. He was deadly
pale–never have I seen a man so white. I reckon ghosts may look like
that; but his eyes met mine, and they were the eyes of a living man.
He sprang back when he saw that I was looking at him, and he vanished
into the darkness.

“There was something shocking about the man, Mr. Holmes. It wasn’t
merely that ghastly face glimmering as white as cheese in the
darkness. It was more subtle than that–something slinking, something
furtive, something guilty– something very unlike the frank, manly
lad that I had known. It left a feeling of horror in my mind.

“But when a man has been soldiering for a year or two with brother
Boer as a playmate, he keeps his nerve and acts quickly. Godfrey had
hardly vanished before I was at the window. There was an awkward
catch, and I was some little time before I could throw it up. Then I
nipped through and ran down the garden path in the direction that I
thought he might have taken.

“It was a long path and the light was not very good, but it seemed to
me something was moving ahead of me. I ran on and called his name,
but it was no use. When I got to the end of the path there were
several others branching in different directions to various
outhouses. I stood hesitating, and as I did so I heard distinctly the
sound of a closing door. It was not behind me in the house, but ahead
of me, somewhere in the darkness. That was enough, Mr. Holmes, to
assure me that what I had seen was not a vision. Godfrey had run away
from me, and he had shut a door behind him. Of that I was certain.

“There was nothing more I could do, and I spent an uneasy night
turning the matter over in my mind and trying to find some theory
which would cover the facts. Next day I found the colonel rather more
conciliatory, and as his wife remarked that there were some places of
interest in the neighbourhood, it gave me an opening to ask whether
my presence for one more night would incommode them. A somewhat
grudging acquiescence from the old man gave me a clear day in which
to make my observations. I was already perfectly convinced that
Godfrey was in hiding somewhere near, but where and why remained to
be solved.

“The house was so large and so rambling that a regiment might be hid
away in it and no one the wiser. If the secret lay there it was
difficult for me to penetrate it. But the door which I had heard
close was certainly not in the house. I must explore the garden and
see what I could find. There was no difficulty in the way, for the
old people were busy in their own fashion and left me to my own
devices.

“There were several small outhouses, but at the end of the garden
there was a detached building of some size–large enough for a
gardener’s or a gamekeeper’s residence. Could this be the place
whence the sound of that shutting door had come? I approached it in a
careless fashion as though I were strolling aimlessly round the
grounds. As I did so, a small, brisk, bearded man in a black coat and
bowler hat–not at all the gardener type–came out of the door. To my
surprise, he locked it after him and put the key in his pocket. Then
he looked at me with some surprise on his face.

“‘Are you a visitor here?’ he asked.

“I explained that I was and that I was a friend of Godfrey’s.

“‘What a pity that he should be away on his travels, for he would
have so liked to see me,’ I continued.

“‘Quite so. Exactly,’ said he with a rather guilty air. ‘No doubt you
will renew your visit at some more propitious time.’ He passed on,
but when I turned I observed that he was standing watching me,
half-concealed by the laurels at the far end of the garden.

“I had a good look at the little house as I passed it, but the
windows were heavily curtained, and, so far as one could see, it was
empty. I might spoil my own game and even be ordered off the premises
if I were too audacious, for I was still conscious that I was being
watched. Therefore, I strolled back to the house and waited for night
before I went on with my inquiry. When all was dark and quiet I
slipped out of my window and made my way as silently as possible to
the mysterious lodge.

“I have said that it was heavily curtained, but now I found that the
windows were shuttered as well. Some light, however, was breaking
through one of them, so I concentrated my attention upon this. I was
in luck, for the curtain had not been quite closed, and there was a
crack in the shutter, so that I could see the inside of the room. It
was a cheery place enough, a bright lamp and a blazing fire. Opposite
to me was seated the little man whom I had seen in the morning. He
was smoking a pipe and reading a paper.”

“What paper?” I asked.

My client seemed annoyed at the interruption of his narrative.

“Can it matter?” he asked.

“It is most essential.”

“I really took no notice.”

“Possibly you observed whether it was a broad-leafed paper or of that
smaller type which one associates with weeklies.”

“Now that you mention it, it was not large. It might have been the
Spectator. However, I had little thought to spare upon such details,
for a second man was seated with his back to the window, and I could
swear that this second man was Godfrey. I could not see his face, but
I knew the familiar slope of his shoulders. He was leaning upon his
elbow in an attitude of great melancholy, his body turned towards the
fire. I was hesitating as to what I should do when there was a sharp
tap on my shoulder, and there was Colonel Emsworth beside me.

“‘This way, sir!’ said he in a low voice. He walked in silence to the
house, and I followed him into my own bedroom. He had picked up a
time-table in the hall.

“‘There is a train to London at 8.30,’ said he. ‘The trap will be at
the door at eight.’

“He was white with rage, and, indeed, I felt myself in so difficult a
position that I could only stammer out a few incoherent apologies in
which I tried to excuse myself by urging my anxiety for my friend.

“‘The matter will not bear discussion,’ said he abruptly. ‘You have
made a most damnable intrusion into the privacy of our family. You
were here as a guest and you have become a spy. I have nothing more
to say, sir, save that I have no wish ever to see you again.’

“At this I lost my temper, Mr. Holmes, and I spoke with some warmth.

“‘I have seen your son, and I am convinced that for some reason of
your own you are concealing him from the world. I have no idea what
your motives are in cutting him off in this fashion, but I am sure
that he is no longer a free agent. I warn you, Colonel Emsworth, that
until I am assured as to the safety and well-being of my friend I
shall never desist in my efforts to get to the bottom of the mystery,
and I shall certainly not allow myself to be intimidated by anything
which you may say or do.’

“The old fellow looked diabolical, and I really thought he was about
to attack me. I have said that he was a gaunt, fierce old giant, and
though I am no weakling I might have been hard put to it to hold my
own against him. However, after a long glare of rage he turned upon
his heel and walked out of the room. For my part, I took the
appointed train in the morning, with the full intention of coming
straight to you and asking for your advice and assistance at the
appointment for which I had already written.”

Such was the problem which my visitor laid before me. It presented,
as the astute reader will have already perceived, few difficulties in
its solution, for a very limited choice of alternatives must get to
the root of the matter. Still, elementary as it was, there were
points of interest and novelty about it which may excuse my placing
it upon record. I now proceeded, using my familiar method of logical
analysis, to narrow down the possible solutions.

“The servants,” I asked; “how many were in the house?”

“To the best of my belief there were only the old butler and his
wife. They seemed to live in the simplest fashion.”

“There was no servant, then, in the detached house?”

“None, unless the little man with the beard acted as such. He seemed,
however, to be quite a superior person.”

“That seems very suggestive. Had you any indication that food was
conveyed from the one house to the other?”

“Now that you mention it, I did see old Ralph carrying a basket down
the garden walk and going in the direction of this house. The idea of
food did not occur to me at the moment.”

“Did you make any local inquiries?”

“Yes, I did. I spoke to the station-master and also to the innkeeper
in the village. I simply asked if they knew anything of my old
comrade, Godfrey Emsworth. Both of them assured me that he had gone
for a voyage round the world. He had come home and then had almost at
once started off again. The story was evidently universally
accepted.”

“You said nothing of your suspicions?”

“Nothing.”

“That was very wise. The matter should certainly be inquired into. I
will go back with you to Tuxbury Old Park.”

“To-day?”

It happened that at the moment I was clearing up the case which my
friend Watson has described as that of the Abbey School, in which the
Duke of Greyminster was so deeply involved. I had also a commission
from the Sultan of Turkey which called for immediate action, as
political consequences of the gravest kind might arise from its
neglect. Therefore it was not until the beginning of the next week,
as my diary records, that I was able to start forth on my mission to
Bedfordshire in company with Mr. James M. Dodd. As we drove to Euston
we picked up a grave and taciturn gentleman of iron-gray aspect, with
whom I had made the necessary arrangements.

“This is an old friend,” said I to Dodd. “It is possible that his
presence may be entirely unnecessary, and, on the other hand, it may
be essential. It is not necessary at the present stage to go further
into the matter.”

The narratives of Watson have accustomed the reader, no doubt, to the
fact that I do not waste words or disclose my thoughts while a case
is actually under consideration. Dodd seemed surprised, but nothing
more was said, and the three of us continued our journey together. In
the train I asked Dodd one more question which I wished our companion
to hear.

“You say that you saw your friend’s face quite clearly at the window,
so clearly that you are sure of his identity?”

“I have no doubt about it whatever. His nose was pressed against the
glass. The lamplight shone full upon him.”

“It could not have been someone resembling him?”

“No, no, it was he.”

“But you say he was changed?”

“Only in colour. His face was–how shall I describe it?–it was of a
fish-belly whiteness. It was bleached.”

“Was it equally pale all over?”

“I think not. It was his brow which I saw so clearly as it was
pressed against the window.”

“Did you call to him?”

“I was too startled and horrified for the moment. Then I pursued him,
as I have told you, but without result.”

My case was practically complete, and there was only one small
incident needed to round it off. When, after a considerable drive, we
arrived at the strange old rambling house which my client had
described, it was Ralph, the elderly butler, who opened the door. I
had requisitioned the carriage for the day and had asked my elderly
friend to remain within it unless we should summon him. Ralph, a
little wrinkled old fellow, was in the conventional costume of black
coat and pepper-and-salt trousers, with only one curious variant. He
wore brown leather gloves, which at sight of us he instantly shuffled
off, laying them down on the hall-table as we passed in. I have, as
my friend Watson may have remarked, an abnormally acute set of
senses, and a faint but incisive scent was apparent. It seemed to
centre on the hall-table. I turned, placed my hat there, knocked it
off, stooped to pick it up, and contrived to bring my nose within a
foot of the gloves. Yes, it was undoubtedly from them that the
curious tarry odour was oozing. I passed on into the study with my
case complete. Alas, that I should have to show my hand so when I
tell my own story! It was by concealing such links in the chain that
Watson was enabled to produce his meretricious finales.

Colonel Emsworth was not in his room, but he came quickly enough on
receipt of Ralph’s message. We heard his quick, heavy step in the
passage. The door was flung open and he rushed in with bristling
beard and twisted features, as terrible an old man as ever I have
seen. He held our cards in his hand, and he tore them up and stamped
on the fragments.

“Have I not told you, you infernal busybody, that you are warned off
the premises? Never dare to show your damned face here again. If you
enter again without my leave I shall be within my rights if I use
violence. I’ll shoot you, sir! By God, I will! As to you, sir,”
turning upon me, “I extend the same warning to you. I am familiar
with your ignoble profession, but you must take your reputed talents
to some other field. There is no opening for them here.”

“I cannot leave here,” said my client firmly, “until I hear from
Godfrey’s own lips that he is under no restraint.”

Our involuntary host rang the bell.

“Ralph,” he said, “telephone down to the county police and ask the
inspector to send up two constables. Tell him there are burglars in
the house.”

“One moment,” said I. “You must be aware, Mr. Dodd, that Colonel
Emsworth is within his rights and that we have no legal status within
his house. On the other hand, he should recognize that your action is
prompted entirely by solicitude for his son. I venture to hope that
if I were allowed to have five minutes’ conversation with Colonel
Emsworth I could certainly alter his view of the matter.”

“I am not so easily altered,” said the old soldier. “Ralph, do what I
have told you. What the devil are you waiting for? Ring up the
police!”

“Nothing of the sort,” I said, putting my back to the door. “Any
police interference would bring about the very catastrophe which you
dread.” I took out my notebook and scribbled one word upon a loose
sheet. “That,” said I as I handed it to Colonel Emsworth, “is what
has brought us here.”

He stared at the writing with a face from which every expression save
amazement had vanished.

“How do you know?” he gasped, sitting down heavily in his chair.

“It is my business to know things. That is my trade.”

He sat in deep thought, his gaunt hand tugging at his straggling
beard. Then he made a gesture of resignation.

“Well, if you wish to see Godfrey, you shall. It is no doing of mine,
but you have forced my hand. Ralph, tell Mr. Godfrey and Mr. Kent
that in five minutes we shall be with them.”

At the end of that time we passed down the garden path and found
ourselves in front of the mystery house at the end. A small bearded
man stood at the door with a look of considerable astonishment upon
his face.

“This is very sudden, Colonel Emsworth,” said he. “This will
disarrange all our plans.”

“I can’t help it, Mr. Kent. Our hands have been forced. Can Mr.
Godfrey see us?”

“Yes, he is waiting inside.” He turned and led us into a large,
plainly furnished front room. A man was standing with his back to the
fire, and at the sight of him my client sprang forward with
outstretched hand.

“Why, Godfrey, old man, this is fine!”

But the other waved him back.

“Don’t touch me, Jimmie. Keep your distance. Yes, you may well stare!
I don’t quite look the smart Lance-Corporal Emsworth, of B Squadron,
do I?”

His appearance was certainly extraordinary. One could see that he had
indeed been a handsome man with clear-cut features sunburned by an
African sun, but mottled in patches over this darker surface were
curious whitish patches which had bleached his skin.

“That’s why I don’t court visitors,” said he. “I don’t mind you,
Jimmie, but I could have done without your friend. I suppose there is
some good reason for it, but you have me at a disadvantage.”

“I wanted to be sure that all was well with you, Godfrey. I saw you
that night when you looked into my window, and I could not let the
matter rest till I had cleared things up.”

“Old Ralph told me you were there, and I couldn’t help taking a peep
at you. I hoped you would not have seen me, and I had to run to my
burrow when I heard the window go up.”

“But what in heaven’s name is the matter?”

“Well, it’s not a long story to tell,” said he, lighting a cigarette.
“You remember that morning fight at Buffelsspruit, outside Pretoria,
on the Eastern railway line? You heard I was hit?”

“Yes, I heard that, but I never got particulars.”

“Three of us got separated from the others. It was very broken
country, you may remember. There was Simpson–the fellow we called
Baldy Simpson– and Anderson, and I. We were clearing brother Boer,
but he lay low and got the three of us. The other two were killed. I
got an elephant bullet through my shoulder. I stuck on to my horse,
however, and he galloped several miles before I fainted and rolled
off the saddle.

“When I came to myself it was nightfall, and I raised myself up,
feeling very weak and ill. To my surprise there was a house close
beside me, a fairly large house with a broad stoep and many windows.
It was deadly cold. You remember the kind of numb cold which used to
come at evening, a deadly, sickening sort of cold, very different
from a crisp healthy frost. Well, I was chilled to the bone, and my
only hope seemed to lie in reaching that house. I staggered to my
feet and dragged myself along, hardly conscious of what I did. I have
a dim memory of slowly ascending the steps, entering a wide-opened
door, passing into a large room which contained several beds, and
throwing myself down with a gasp of satisfaction upon one of them. It
was unmade, but that troubled me not at all. I drew the clothes over
my shivering body and in a moment I was in a deep sleep.

“It was morning when I wakened, and it seemed to me that instead of
coming out into a world of sanity I had emerged into some
extraordinary nightmare. The African sun flooded through the big,
curtainless windows, and every detail of the great, bare, whitewashed
dormitory stood out hard and clear. In front of me was standing a
small, dwarf-like man with a huge, bulbous head, who was jabbering
excitedly in Dutch, waving two horrible hands which looked to me like
brown sponges. Behind him stood a group of people who seemed to be
intensely amused by the situation, but a chill came over me as I
looked at them. Not one of them was a normal human being. Every one
was twisted or swollen or disfigured in some strange way. The
laughter of these strange monstrosities was a dreadful thing to hear.

“It seemed that none of them could speak English, but the situation
wanted clearing up, for the creature with the big head was growing
furiously angry, and, uttering wild-beast cries, he had laid his
deformed hands upon me and was dragging me out of bed, regardless of
the fresh flow of blood from my wound. The little monster was as
strong as a bull, and I don’t know what he might have done to me had
not an elderly man who was clearly in authority been attracted to the
room by the hubbub. He said a few stern words in Dutch, and my
persecutor shrank away. Then he turned upon me, gazing at me in the
utmost amazement.

“‘How in the world did you come here?’ he asked in amazement. ‘Wait a
bit! I see that you are tired out and that wounded shoulder of yours
wants looking after. I am a doctor, and I’ll soon have you tied up.
But, man alive! you are in far greater danger here than ever you were
on the battlefield. You are in the Leper Hospital, and you have slept
in a leper’s bed.’

“Need I tell you more, Jimmie? It seems that in view of the
approaching battle all these poor creatures had been evacuated the
day before. Then, as the British advanced, they had been brought back
by this, their medical superintendent, who assured me that, though he
believed he was immune to the disease, he would none the less never
have dared to do what I had done. He put me in a private room,
treated me kindly, and within a week or so I was removed to the
general hospital at Pretoria.

“So there you have my tragedy. I hoped against hope, but it was not
until I had reached home that the terrible signs which you see upon
my face told me that I had not escaped. What was I to do? I was in
this lonely house. We had two servants whom we could utterly trust.
There was a house where I could live. Under pledge of secrecy, Mr.
Kent, who is a surgeon, was prepared to stay with me. It seemed
simple enough on those lines. The alternative was a dreadful
one–segregation for life among strangers with never a hope of
release. But absolute secrecy was necessary, or even in this quiet
countryside there would have been an outcry, and I should have been
dragged to my horrible doom. Even you, Jimmie–even you had to be
kept in the dark. Why my father has relented I cannot imagine.”

Colonel Emsworth pointed to me.

“This is the gentleman who forced my hand.” He unfolded the scrap of
paper on which I had written the word “Leprosy.” “It seemed to me
that if he knew so much as that it was safer that he should know
all.”

“And so it was,” said I. “Who knows but good may come of it? I
understand that only Mr. Kent has seen the patient. May I ask, sir,
if you are an authority on such complaints, which are, I understand,
tropical or semi-tropical in their nature?”

“I have the ordinary knowledge of the educated medical man,” he
observed with some stiffness.

“I have no doubt, sir, that you are fully competent, but I am sure
that you will agree that in such a case a second opinion is valuable.
You have avoided this, I understand, for fear that pressure should be
put upon you to segregate the patient.”

“That is so,” said Colonel Emsworth.

“I foresaw this situation,” I explained, “and I have brought with me
a friend whose discretion may absolutely be trusted. I was able once
to do him a professional service, and he is ready to advise as a
friend rather than as a specialist. His name is Sir James Saunders.”

The prospect of an interview with Lord Roberts would not have excited
greater wonder and pleasure in a raw subaltern than was now reflected
upon the face of Mr. Kent.

“I shall indeed be proud,” he murmured.

“Then I will ask Sir James to step this way. He is at present in the
carriage outside the door. Meanwhile, Colonel Emsworth, we may
perhaps assemble in your study, where I could give the necessary
explanations.”

And here it is that I miss my Watson. By cunning questions and
ejaculations of wonder he could elevate my simple art, which is but
systematized common sense, into a prodigy. When I tell my own story I
have no such aid. And yet I will give my process of thought even as I
gave it to my small audience, which included Godfrey’s mother in the
study of Colonel Emsworth.

“That process,” said I, “starts upon the supposition that when you
have eliminated all which is impossible, then whatever remains,
however improbable, must be the truth. It may well be that several
explanations remain, in which case one tries test after test until
one or other of them has a convincing amount of support. We will now
apply this principle to the case in point. As it was first presented
to me, there were three possible explanations of the seclusion or
incarceration of this gentleman in an outhouse of his father’s
mansion. There was the explanation that he was in hiding for a crime,
or that he was mad and that they wished to avoid an asylum, or that
he had some disease which caused his segregation. I could think of no
other adequate solutions. These, then, had to be sifted and balanced
against each other.

“The criminal solution would not bear inspection. No unsolved crime
had been reported from that district. I was sure of that. If it were
some crime not yet discovered, then clearly it would be to the
interest of the family to get rid of the delinquent and send him
abroad rather than keep him concealed at home. I could see no
explanation for such a line of conduct.

“Insanity was more plausible. The presence of the second person in
the outhouse suggested a keeper. The fact that he locked the door
when he came out strengthened the supposition and gave the idea of
constraint. On the other hand, this constraint could not be severe or
the young man could not have got loose and come down to have a look
at his friend. You will remember, Mr. Dodd, that I felt round for
points, asking you, for example, about the paper which Mr. Kent was
reading. Had it been the Lancet or the British Medical Journal it
would have helped me. It is not illegal, however, to keep a lunatic
upon private premises so long as there is a qualified person in
attendance and that the authorities have been duly notified. Why,
then, all this desperate desire for secrecy? Once again I could not
get the theory to fit the facts.

“There remained the third possibility, into which, rare and unlikely
as it was, everything seemed to fit. Leprosy is not uncommon in South
Africa. By some extraordinary chance this youth might have contracted
it. His people would be placed in a very dreadful position, since
they would desire to save him from segregation. Great secrecy would
be needed to prevent rumours from getting about and subsequent
interference by the authorities. A devoted medical man, if
sufficiently paid, would easily be found to take charge of the
sufferer. There would be no reason why the latter should not be
allowed freedom after dark. Bleaching of the skin is a common result
of the disease. The case was a strong one–so strong that I
determined to act as if it were actually proved. When on arriving
here I noticed that Ralph, who carries out the meals, had gloves
which are impregnated with disinfectants, my last doubts were
removed. A single word showed you, sir, that your secret was
discovered, and if I wrote rather than said it, it was to prove to
you that my discretion was to be trusted.”

I was finishing this little analysis of the case when the door was
opened and the austere figure of the great dermatologist was ushered
in. But for once his sphinx-like features had relaxed and there was a
warm humanity in his eyes. He strode up to Colonel Emsworth and shook
him by the hand.

“It is often my lot to bring ill-tidings and seldom good,” said he.
“This occasion is the more welcome. It is not leprosy.”

“What?”

“A well-marked case of pseudo-leprosy or ichthyosis, a scale-like
affection of the skin, unsightly, obstinate, but possibly curable,
and certainly noninfective. Yes, Mr. Holmes, the coincidence is a
remarkable one. But is it coincidence? Are there not subtle forces at
work of which we know little? Are we assured that the apprehension
from which this young man has no doubt suffered terribly since his
exposure to its contagion may not produce a physical effect which
simulates that which it fears? At any rate, I pledge my professional
reputation– But the lady has fainted! I think that Mr. Kent had
better be with her until she recovers from this joyous shock.”

It was pleasant to Dr. Watson to find himself once more in the untidy
room of the first floor in Baker Street which had been the
starting-point of so many remarkable adventures. He looked round him
at the scientific charts upon the wall, the acid-charred bench of
chemicals, the violin-case leaning in the corner, the coal-scuttle,
which contained of old the pipes and tobacco. Finally, his eyes came
round to the fresh and smiling face of Billy, the young but very wise
and tactful page, who had helped a little to fill up the gap of
loneliness and isolation which surrounded the saturnine figure of the
great detective.

“It all seems very unchanged, Billy. You don’t change, either. I hope
the same can be said of him?”

Billy glanced with some solicitude at the closed door of the bedroom.

“I think he’s in bed and asleep,” he said.

It was seven in the evening of a lovely summer’s day, but Dr. Watson
was sufficiently familiar with the irregularity of his old friend’s
hours to feel no surprise at the idea.

“That means a case, I suppose?”

“Yes, sir, he is very hard at it just now. I’m frightened for his
health. He gets paler and thinner, and he eats nothing. ‘When will
you be pleased to dine, Mr. Holmes?’ Mrs. Hudson asked.
‘Seven-thirty, the day after to-morrow,’ said he. You know his way
when he is keen on a case.”

“Yes, Billy, I know.”

“He’s following someone. Yesterday he was out as a workman looking
for a job. To-day he was an old woman. Fairly took me in, he did, and
I ought to know his ways by now.” Billy pointed with a grin to a very
baggy parasol which leaned against the sofa. “That’s part of the old
woman’s outfit,” he said.

“But what is it all about, Billy?”

Billy sank his voice, as one who discusses great secrets of State. “I
don’t mind telling you, sir, but it should go no farther. It’s this
case of the Crown diamond.”

“What–the hundred-thousand-pound burglary?”

“Yes, sir. They must get it back, sir. Why, we had the Prime Minister
and the Home Secretary both sitting on that very sofa. Mr. Holmes was
very nice to them. He soon put them at their ease and promised he
would do all he could. Then there is Lord Cantlemere–“

“Ah!”

“Yes, sir, you know what that means. He’s a stiff ‘un, sir, if I may
say so. I can get along with the Prime Minister, and I’ve nothing
against the Home Secretary, who seemed a civil, obliging sort of man,
but I can’t stand his Lordship. Neither can Mr. Holmes, sir. You see,
he don’t believe in Mr. Holmes and he was against employing him. He’d
rather he failed.”

“And Mr. Holmes knows it?”

“Mr. Holmes always knows whatever there is to know.”

“Well, we’ll hope he won’t fail and that Lord Cantlemere will be
confounded. But I say, Billy, what is that curtain for across the
window?”

“Mr. Holmes had it put up there three days ago. We’ve got something
funny behind it.”

Billy advanced and drew away the drapery which screened the alcove of
the bow window.

Dr. Watson could not restrain a cry of amazement. There was a
facsimile of his old friend, dressing-gown and all, the face turned
three-quarters towards the window and downward, as though reading an
invisible book, while the body was sunk deep in an armchair. Billy
detached the head and held it in the air.

“We put it at different angles, so that it may seem more lifelike. I
wouldn’t dare touch it if the blind were not down. But when it’s up
you can see this from across the way.”

“We used something of the sort once before.”

“Before my time,” said Billy. He drew the window curtains apart and
looked out into the street. “There are folk who watch us from over
yonder. I can see a fellow now at the window. Have a look for
yourself.”

Watson had taken a step forward when the bedroom door opened, and the
long, thin form of Holmes emerged, his face pale and drawn, but his
step and bearing as active as ever. With a single spring he was at
the window, and had drawn the blind once more.

“That will do, Billy,” said he. “You were in danger of your life
then, my boy, and I can’t do without you just yet. Well, Watson, it
is good to see you in your old quarters once again. You come at a
critical moment.”

“So I gather.”

“You can go, Billy. That boy is a problem, Watson. How far am I
justified in allowing him to be in danger?”

“Danger of what, Holmes?”

“Of sudden death. I’m expecting something this evening.”

“Expecting what?”

“To be murdered, Watson.”

“No, no, you are joking, Holmes!”

“Even my limited sense of humour could evolve a better joke than
that. But we may be comfortable in the meantime, may we not? Is
alcohol permitted? The gasogene and cigars are in the old place. Let
me see you once more in the customary armchair. You have not, I hope,
learned to despise my pipe and my lamentable tobacco? It has to take
the place of food these days.”

“But why not eat?”

“Because the faculties become refined when you starve them. Why,
surely, as a doctor, my dear Watson, you must admit that what your
digestion gains in the way of blood supply is so much lost to the
brain. I am a brain, Watson. The rest of me is a mere appendix.
Therefore, it is the brain I must consider.”

“But this danger, Holmes?”

“Ah, yes, in case it should come off, it would perhaps be as well
that you should burden your memory with the name and address of the
murderer. You can give it to Scotland Yard, with my love and a
parting blessing. Sylvius is the name–Count Negretto Sylvius. Write
it down, man, write it down! 136 Moorside Gardens, N. W. Got it?”

Watson’s honest face was twitching with anxiety. He knew only too
well the immense risks taken by Holmes and was well aware that what
he said was more likely to be under-statement than exaggeration.
Watson was always the man of action, and he rose to the occasion.

“Count me in, Holmes. I have nothing to do for a day or two.”

“Your morals don’t improve, Watson. You have added fibbing to your
other vices. You bear every sign of the busy medical man, with calls
on him every hour.”

“Not such important ones. But can’t you have this fellow arrested?”

“Yes, Watson, I could. That’s what worries him so.”

“But why don’t you?”

“Because I don’t know where the diamond is.”

“Ah! Billy told me–the missing Crown jewel!”

“Yes, the great yellow Mazarin stone. I’ve cast my net and I have my
fish. But I have not got the stone. What is the use of taking them?
We can make the world a better place by laying them by the heels. But
that is not what I am out for. It’s the stone I want.”

“And is this Count Sylvius one of your fish?”

“Yes, and he’s a shark. He bites. The other is Sam Merton, the boxer.
Not a bad fellow, Sam, but the Count has used him. Sam’s not a shark.
He is a great big silly bull-headed gudgeon. But he is flopping about
in my net all the same.”

“Where is this Count Sylvius?”

“I’ve been at his very elbow all the morning. You’ve seen me as an
old lady, Watson. I was never more convincing. He actually picked up
my parasol for me once. ‘By your leave, madame,’ said
he–half-Italian, you know, and with the Southern graces of manner
when in the mood, but a devil incarnate in the other mood. Life is
full of whimsical happenings, Watson.”

“It might have been tragedy.”

“Well, perhaps it might. I followed him to old Straubenzee’s workshop
in the Minories. Straubenzee made the air-gun–a very pretty bit of
work, as I understand, and I rather fancy it is in the opposite
window at the present moment. Have you seen the dummy? Of course,
Billy showed it to you. Well, it may get a bullet through its
beautiful head at any moment. Ah, Billy, what is it?”

The boy had reappeared in the room with a card upon a tray. Holmes
glanced at it with raised eyebrows and an amused smile.

“The man himself. I had hardly expected this. Grasp the nettle,
Watson! A man of nerve. Possibly you have heard of his reputation as
a shooter of big game. It would indeed be a triumphant ending to his
excellent sporting record if he added me to his bag. This is a proof
that he feels my toe very close behind his heel.”

“Send for the police.”

“I probably shall. But not just yet. Would you glance carefully out
of the window, Watson, and see if anyone is hanging about in the
street?”

Watson looked warily round the edge of the curtain.

“Yes, there is one rough fellow near the door.”

“That will be Sam Merton–the faithful but rather fatuous Sam. Where
is this gentleman, Billy?”

“In the waiting-room, sir.”

“Show him up when I ring.”

“Yes, sir.”

“If I am not in the room, show him in all the same.”

“Yes, sir.”

Watson waited until the door was closed, and then he turned earnestly
to his companion.

“Look here, Holmes, this is simply impossible. This is a desperate
man, who sticks at nothing. He may have come to murder you.”

“I should not be surprised.”

“I insist upon staying with you.”

“You would be horribly in the way.”

“In his way?”

“No, my dear fellow–in my way.”

“Well, I can’t possibly leave you.”

“Yes, you can, Watson. And you will, for you have never failed to
play the game. I am sure you will play it to the end. This man has
come for his own purpose, but he may stay for mine.” Holmes took out
his notebook and scribbled a few lines. “Take a cab to Scotland Yard
and give this to Youghal of the C. I. D. Come back with the police.
The fellow’s arrest will follow.”

“I’ll do that with joy.”

“Before you return I may have just time enough to find out where the
stone is.” He touched the bell. “I think we will go out through the
bedroom. This second exit is exceedingly useful. I rather want to see
my shark without his seeing me, and I have, as you will remember, my
own way of doing it.”

It was, therefore, an empty room into which Billy, a minute later,
ushered Count Sylvius. The famous game-shot, sportsman, and
man-about-town was a big, swarthy fellow, with a formidable dark
moustache shading a cruel, thin-lipped mouth, and surmounted by a
long, curved nose like the beak of an eagle. He was well dressed, but
his brilliant necktie, shining pin, and glittering rings were
flamboyant in their effect. As the door closed behind him he looked
round him with fierce, startled eyes, like one who suspects a trap at
every turn. Then he gave a violent start as he saw the impassive head
and the collar of the dressing-gown which projected above the
armchair in the window. At first his expression was one of pure
amazement. Then the light of a horrible hope gleamed in his dark,
murderous eyes. He took one more glance round to see that there were
no witnesses, and then, on tiptoe, his thick stick half raised, he
approached the silent figure. He was crouching for his final spring
and blow when a cool, sardonic voice greeted him from the open
bedroom door:

“Don’t break it, Count! Don’t break it!”

The assassin staggered back, amazement in his convulsed face. For an
instant he half raised his loaded cane once more, as if he would turn
his violence from the effigy to the original; but there was something
in that steady gray eye and mocking smile which caused his hand to
sink to his side.

“It’s a pretty little thing,” said Holmes, advancing towards the
image. “Tavernier, the French modeller, made it. He is as good at
waxworks as your friend Straubenzee is at air-guns.”

“Air-guns, sir! What do you mean?”

“Put your hat and stick on the side-table. Thank you! Pray take a
seat. Would you care to put your revolver out also? Oh, very good, if
you prefer to sit upon it. Your visit is really most opportune, for I
wanted badly to have a few minutes’ chat with you.”

The Count scowled, with heavy, threatening eyebrows.

“I, too, wished to have some words with you, Holmes. That is why I am
here. I won’t deny that I intended to assault you just now.”

Holmes swung his leg on the edge of the table.

“I rather gathered that you had some idea of the sort in your head,”
said he. “But why these personal attentions?”

“Because you have gone out of your way to annoy me. Because you have
put your creatures upon my track.”

“My creatures! I assure you no!”

“Nonsense! I have had them followed. Two can play at that game,
Holmes.”

“It is a small point, Count Sylvius, but perhaps you would kindly
give me my prefix when you address me. You can understand that, with
my routine of work, I should find myself on familiar terms with half
the rogues’ gallery, and you will agree that exceptions are
invidious.”

“Well, Mr. Holmes, then.”

“Excellent! But I assure you you are mistaken about my alleged
agents.”

Count Sylvius laughed contemptuously.

“Other people can observe as well as you. Yesterday there was an old
sporting man. To-day it was an elderly woman. They held me in view
all day.”

“Really, sir, you compliment me. Old Baron Dowson said the night
before he was hanged that in my case what the law had gained the
stage had lost. And now you give my little impersonations your kindly
praise?”

“It was you–you yourself?”

Holmes shrugged his shoulders. “You can see in the corner the parasol
which you so politely handed to me in the Minories before you began
to suspect.”

“If I had known, you might never–“

“Have seen this humble home again. I was well aware of it. We all
have neglected opportunities to deplore. As it happens, you did not
know, so here we are!”

The Count’s knotted brows gathered more heavily over his menacing
eyes. “What you say only makes the matter worse. It was not your
agents but your play-acting, busybody self! You admit that you have
dogged me. Why?”

“Come now, Count. You used to shoot lions in Algeria.”

“Well?”

“But why?”

“Why? The sport–the excitement–the danger!”

“And, no doubt, to free the country from a pest?”

“Exactly!”

“My reasons in a nutshell!”

The Count sprang to his feet, and his hand involuntarily moved back
to his hip-pocket.

“Sit down, sir, sit down! There was another, more practical, reason.
I want that yellow diamond!”

Count Sylvius lay back in his chair with an evil smile.

“Upon my word!” said he.

“You knew that I was after you for that. The real reason why you are
here to-night is to find out how much I know about the matter and how
far my removal is absolutely essential. Well, I should say that, from
your point of view, it is absolutely essential, for I know all about
it, save only one thing, which you are about to tell me.”

“Oh, indeed! And pray, what is this missing fact?”

“Where the Crown diamond now is.”

The Count looked sharply at his companion. “Oh, you want to know
that, do you? How the devil should I be able to tell you where it
is?”

“You can, and you will.”

“Indeed!”

“You can’t bluff me, Count Sylvius.” Holmes’s eyes, as he gazed at
him, contracted and lightened until they were like two menacing
points of steel. “You are absolute plate-glass. I see to the very
back of your mind.”

“Then, of course, you see where the diamond is!”

Holmes clapped his hands with amusement, and then pointed a derisive
finger. “Then you do know. You have admitted it!”

“I admit nothing.”

“Now, Count, if you will be reasonable we can do business. If not,
you will get hurt.”

Count Sylvius threw up his eyes to the ceiling. “And you talk about
bluff!” said he.

Holmes looked at him thoughtfully like a master chess-player who
meditates his crowning move. Then he threw open the table drawer and
drew out a squat notebook.

“Do you know what I keep in this book?”

“No, sir, I do not!”

“You!”

“Me!”

“Yes, sir, you! You are all here–every action of your vile and
dangerous life.”

“Damn you, Holmes!” cried the Count with blazing eyes. “There are
limits to my patience!”

“It’s all here, Count. The real facts as to the death of old Mrs.
Harold, who left you the Blymer estate, which you so rapidly gambled
away.”

“You are dreaming!”

“And the complete life history of Miss Minnie Warrender.”

“Tut! You will make nothing of that!”

“Plenty more here, Count. Here is the robbery in the train de-luxe to
the Riviera on February 13, 1892. Here is the forged check in the
same year on the Credit Lyonnais.”

“No; you’re wrong there.”

“Then I am right on the others! Now, Count, you are a card-player.
When the other fellow has all the trumps, it saves time to throw down
your hand.”

“What has all this talk to do with the jewel of which you spoke?”

“Gently, Count. Restrain that eager mind! Let me get to the points in
my own humdrum fashion. I have all this against you; but, above all,
I have a clear case against both you and your fighting bully in the
case of the Crown diamond.”

“Indeed!”

“I have the cabman who took you to Whitehall and the cabman who
brought you away. I have the commissionaire who saw you near the
case. I have Ikey Sanders, who refused to cut it up for you. Ikey has
peached, and the game is up.”

The veins stood out on the Count’s forehead. His dark, hairy hands
were clenched in a convulsion of restrained emotion. He tried to
speak, but the words would not shape themselves.

“That’s the hand I play from,” said Holmes. “I put it all upon the
table. But one card is missing. It’s the king of diamonds. I don’t
know where the stone is.”

“You never shall know.”

“No? Now, be reasonable, Count. Consider the situation. You are going
to be locked up for twenty years. So is Sam Merton. What good are you
going to get out of your diamond? None in the world. But if you hand
it over–well, I’ll compound a felony. We don’t want you or Sam. We
want the stone. Give that up, and so far as I am concerned you can go
free so long as you behave yourself in the future. If you make
another slip–well, it will be the last. But this time my commission
is to get the stone, not you.”

“But if I refuse?”

“Why, then–alas!–it must be you and not the stone.”

Billy had appeared in answer to a ring.

“I think, Count, that it would be as well to have your friend Sam at
this conference. After all, his interests should be represented.
Billy, you will see a large and ugly gentleman outside the front
door. Ask him to come up.”

“If he won’t come, sir?”

“No violence, Billy. Don’t be rough with him. If you tell him that
Count Sylvius wants him he will certainly come.”

“What are you going to do now?” asked the Count as Billy disappeared.

“My friend Watson was with me just now. I told him that I had a shark
and a gudgeon in my net; now I am drawing the net and up they come
together.”

The Count had risen from his chair, and his hand was behind his back.
Holmes held something half protruding from the pocket of his
dressing-gown.

“You won’t die in your bed, Holmes.”

“I have often had the same idea. Does it matter very much? After all,
Count, your own exit is more likely to be perpendicular than
horizontal. But these anticipations of the future are morbid. Why not
give ourselves up to the unrestrained enjoyment of the present?”

A sudden wild-beast light sprang up in the dark, menacing eyes of the
master criminal. Holmes’s figure seemed to grow taller as he grew
tense and ready.

“It is no use your fingering your revolver, my friend,” he said in a
quiet voice. “You know perfectly well that you dare not use it, even
if I gave you time to draw it. Nasty, noisy things, revolvers, Count.
Better stick to air-guns. Ah! I think I hear the fairy footstep of
your estimable partner. Good day, Mr. Merton. Rather dull in the
street, is it not?”

The prize-fighter, a heavily built young man with a stupid,
obstinate, slab-sided face, stood awkwardly at the door, looking
about him with a puzzled expression. Holmes’s debonair manner was a
new experience, and though he vaguely felt that it was hostile, he
did not know how to counter it. He turned to his more astute comrade
for help.

“What’s the game now, Count? What’s this fellow want? What’s up?” His
voice was deep and raucous.

The Count shrugged his shoulders, and it was Holmes who answered.

“If I may put it in a nutshell, Mr. Merton, I should say it was all
up.”

The boxer still addressed his remarks to his associate.

“Is this cove trying to be funny, or what? I’m not in the funny mood
myself.”

“No, I expect not,” said Holmes. “I think I can promise you that you
will feel even less humorous as the evening advances. Now, look here,
Count Sylvius. I’m a busy man and I can’t waste time. I’m going into
that bedroom. Pray make yourselves quite at home in my absence. You
can explain to your friend how the matter lies without the restraint
of my presence. I shall try over the Hoffman ‘Barcarole’ upon my
violin. In five minutes I shall return for your final answer. You
quite grasp the alternative, do you not? Shall we take you, or shall
we have the stone?”

Holmes withdrew, picking up his violin from the corner as he passed.
A few moments later the long-drawn, wailing notes of that most
haunting of tunes came faintly through the closed door of the
bedroom.

“What is it, then?” asked Merton anxiously as his companion turned to
him. “Does he know about the stone?”

“He knows a damned sight too much about it. I’m not sure that he
doesn’t know all about it.”

“Good Lord!” The boxer’s sallow face turned a shade whiter.

“Ikey Sanders has split on us.”

“He has, has he? I’ll do him down a thick ‘un for that if I swing for
it.”

“That won’t help us much. We’ve got to make up our minds what to do.”

“Half a mo’,” said the boxer, looking suspiciously at the bedroom
door. “He’s a leary cove that wants watching. I suppose he’s not
listening?”

“How can he be listening with that music going?”

“That’s right. Maybe somebody’s behind a curtain. Too many curtains
in this room.” As he looked round he suddenly saw for the first time
the effigy in the window, and stood staring and pointing, too amazed
for words.

“Tut! it’s only a dummy,” said the Count.

“A fake, is it? Well, strike me! Madame Tussaud ain’t in it. It’s the
living spit of him, gown and all. But them curtains, Count!”

“Oh, confound the curtains! We are wasting our time, and there is
none too much. He can lag us over this stone.”

“The deuce he can!”

“But he’ll let us slip if we only tell him where the swag is.”

“What! Give it up? Give up a hundred thousand quid?”

“It’s one or the other.”

Merton scratched his short-cropped pate.

“He’s alone in there. Let’s do him in. If his light were out we
should have nothing to fear.”

The Count shook his head.

“He is armed and ready. If we shot him we could hardly get away in a
place like this. Besides, it’s likely enough that the police know
whatever evidence he has got. Hallo! What was that?”

There was a vague sound which seemed to come from the window. Both
men sprang round, but all was quiet. Save for the one strange figure
seated in the chair, the room was certainly empty.

“Something in the street,” said Merton. “Now look here, guv’nor,
you’ve got the brains. Surely you can think a way out of it. If
slugging is no use then it’s up to you.”

“I’ve fooled better men than he,” the Count answered. “The stone is
here in my secret pocket. I take no chances leaving it about. It can
be out of England to-night and cut into four pieces in Amsterdam
before Sunday. He knows nothing of Van Seddar.”

“I thought Van Seddar was going next week.”

“He was. But now he must get off by the next boat. One or other of us
must slip round with the stone to Lime Street and tell him.”

“But the false bottom ain’t ready.”

“Well, he must take it as it is and chance it. There’s not a moment
to lose.” Again, with the sense of danger which becomes an instinct
with the sportsman, he paused and looked hard at the window. Yes, it
was surely from the street that the faint sound had come.

“As to Holmes,” he continued, “we can fool him easily enough. You
see, the damned fool won’t arrest us if he can get the stone. Well,
we’ll promise him the stone. We’ll put him on the wrong track about
it, and before he finds that it is the wrong track it will be in
Holland and we out of the country.”

“That sounds good to me!” cried Sam Merton with a grin.

“You go on and tell the Dutchman to get a move on him. I’ll see this
sucker and fill him up with a bogus confession. I’ll tell him that
the stone is in Liverpool. Confound that whining music; it gets on my
nerves! By the time he finds it isn’t in Liverpool it will be in
quarters and we on the blue water. Come back here, out of a line with
that keyhole. Here is the stone.”

“I wonder you dare carry it.”

“Where could I have it safer? If we could take it out of Whitehall
someone else could surely take it out of my lodgings.”

“Let’s have a look at it.”

Count Sylvius cast a somewhat unflattering glance at his associate
and disregarded the unwashed hand which was extended towards him.

“What–d’ye think I’m going to snatch it off you? See here, mister,
I’m getting a bit tired of your ways.”

“Well, well, no offence, Sam. We can’t afford to quarrel. Come over
to the window if you want to see the beauty properly. Now hold it to
the light! Here!”

“Thank you!”

With a single spring Holmes had leaped from the dummy’s chair and had
grasped the precious jewel. He held it now in one hand, while his
other pointed a revolver at the Count’s head. The two villains
staggered back in utter amazement. Before they had recovered Holmes
had pressed the electric bell.

“No violence, gentlemen–no violence, I beg of you! Consider the
furniture! It must be very clear to you that your position is an
impossible one. The police are waiting below.”

The Count’s bewilderment overmastered his rage and fear.

“But how the deuce–?” he gasped.

“Your surprise is very natural. You are not aware that a second door
from my bedroom leads behind that curtain. I fancied that you must
have heard me when I displaced the figure, but luck was on my side.
It gave me a chance of listening to your racy conversation which
would have been painfully constrained had you been aware of my
presence.”

The Count gave a gesture of resignation.

“We give you best, Holmes. I believe you are the devil himself.”

“Not far from him, at any rate,” Holmes answered with a polite smile.

Sam Merton’s slow intellect had only gradually appreciated the
situation. Now, as the sound of heavy steps came from the stairs
outside, he broke silence at last.

“A fair cop!” said he. “But, I say, what about that bloomin’ fiddle!
I hear it yet.”

“Tut, tut!” Holmes answered. “You are perfectly right. Let it play!
These modern gramophones are a remarkable invention.”

There was an inrush of police, the handcuffs clicked and the
criminals were led to the waiting cab. Watson lingered with Holmes,
congratulating him upon this fresh leaf added to his laurels. Once
more their conversation was interrupted by the imperturbable Billy
with his card-tray.

“Lord Cantlemere, sir.”

“Show him up, Billy. This is the eminent peer who represents the very
highest interests,” said Holmes. “He is an excellent and loyal
person, but rather of the old regime. Shall we make him unbend? Dare
we venture upon a slight liberty? He knows, we may conjecture,
nothing of what has occurred.”

The door opened to admit a thin, austere figure with a hatchet face
and drooping mid-Victorian whiskers of a glossy blackness which
hardly corresponded with the rounded shoulders and feeble gait.
Holmes advanced affably, and shook an unresponsive hand.

“How do you do, Lord Cantlemere? It is chilly for the time of year,
but rather warm indoors. May I take your overcoat?”

“No, I thank you; I will not take it off.”

Holmes laid his hand insistently upon the sleeve.

“Pray allow me! My friend Dr. Watson would assure you that these
changes of temperature are most insidious.”

His Lordship shook himself free with some impatience.

“I am quite comfortable, sir. I have no need to stay. I have simply
looked in to know how your self-appointed task was progressing.”

“It is difficult–very difficult.”

“I feared that you would find it so.”

There was a distinct sneer in the old courtier’s words and manner.

“Every man finds his limitations, Mr. Holmes, but at least it cures
us of the weakness of self-satisfaction.”

“Yes, sir, I have been much perplexed.”

“No doubt.”

“Especially upon one point. Possibly you could help me upon it?”

“You apply for my advice rather late in the day. I thought that you
had your own all-sufficient methods. Still, I am ready to help you.”

“You see, Lord Cantlemere, we can no doubt frame a case against the
actual thieves.”

“When you have caught them.”

“Exactly. But the question is–how shall we proceed against the
receiver?”

“Is this not rather premature?”

“It is as well to have our plans ready. Now, what would you regard as
final evidence against the receiver?”

“The actual possession of the stone.”

“You would arrest him upon that?”

“Most undoubtedly.”

Holmes seldom laughed, but he got as near it as his old friend Watson
could remember.

“In that case, my dear sir, I shall be under the painful necessity of
advising your arrest.”

Lord Cantlemere was very angry. Some of the ancient fires flickered
up into his sallow cheeks.

“You take a great liberty, Mr. Holmes. In fifty years of official
life I cannot recall such a case. I am a busy man, sir, engaged upon
important affairs, and I have no time or taste for foolish jokes. I
may tell you frankly, sir, that I have never been a believer in your
powers, and that I have always been of the opinion that the matter
was far safer in the hands of the regular police force. Your conduct
confirms all my conclusions. I have the honour, sir, to wish you
good-evening.”

Holmes had swiftly changed his position and was between the peer and
the door.

“One moment, sir,” said he. “To actually go off with the Mazarin
stone would be a more serious offence than to be found in temporary
possession of it.”

“Sir, this is intolerable! Let me pass.”

“Put your hand in the right-hand pocket of your overcoat.”

“What do you mean, sir?”

“Come–come, do what I ask.”

An instant later the amazed peer was standing, blinking and
stammering, with the great yellow stone on his shaking palm.

“What! What! How is this, Mr. Holmes?”

“Too bad, Lord Cantlemere, too bad!” cried Holmes. “My old friend
here will tell you that I have an impish habit of practical joking.
Also that I can never resist a dramatic situation. I took the
liberty–the very great liberty, I admit–of putting the stone into
your pocket at the beginning of our interview.”

The old peer stared from the stone to the smiling face before him.

“Sir, I am bewildered. But–yes–it is indeed the Mazarin stone. We
are greatly your debtors, Mr. Holmes. Your sense of humour may, as
you admit, be somewhat perverted, and its exhibition remarkably
untimely, but at least I withdraw any reflection I have made upon
your amazing professional powers. But how–“

“The case is but half finished; the details can wait. No doubt, Lord
Cantlemere, your pleasure in telling of this successful result in the
exalted circle to which you return will be some small atonement for
my practical joke. Billy, you will show his Lordship out, and tell
Mrs. Hudson that I should be glad if she would send up dinner for two
as soon as possible.”

I don’t think that any of my adventures with Mr. Sherlock Holmes
opened quite so abruptly, or so dramatically, as that which I
associate with The Three Gables. I had not seen Holmes for some days
and had no idea of the new channel into which his activities had been
directed. He was in a chatty mood that morning, however, and had just
settled me into the well-worn low armchair on one side of the fire,
while he had curled down with his pipe in his mouth upon the opposite
chair, when our visitor arrived. If I had said that a mad bull had
arrived it would give a clearer impression of what occurred.

The door had flown open and a huge negro had burst into the room. He
would have been a comic figure if he had not been terrific, for he
was dressed in a very loud gray check suit with a flowing
salmon-coloured tie. His broad face and flattened nose were thrust
forward, as his sullen dark eyes, with a smouldering gleam of malice
in them, turned from one of us to the other.

“Which of you gen’l’men is Masser Holmes?” he asked.

Holmes raised his pipe with a languid smile.

“Oh! it’s you, is it?” said our visitor, coming with an unpleasant,
stealthy step round the angle of the table. “See here, Masser Holmes,
you keep your hands out of other folks’ business. Leave folks to
manage their own affairs. Got that, Masser Holmes?”

“Keep on talking,” said Holmes. “It’s fine.”

“Oh! it’s fine, is it?” growled the savage. “It won’t be so damn fine
if I have to trim you up a bit. I’ve handled your kind before now,
and they didn’t look fine when I was through with them. Look at that,
Masser Holmes!”

He swung a huge knotted lump of a fist under my friend’s nose. Holmes
examined it closely with an air of great interest. “Were you born
so?” he asked. “Or did it come by degrees?”

It may have been the icy coolness of my friend, or it may have been
the slight clatter which I made as I picked up the poker. In any
case, our visitor’s manner became less flamboyant.

“Well, I’ve given you fair warnin’,” said he. “I’ve a friend that’s
interested out Harrow way–you know what I’m meaning–and he don’t
intend to have no buttin’ in by you. Got that? You ain’t the law, and
I ain’t the law either, and if you come in I’ll be on hand also.
Don’t you forget it.”

“I’ve wanted to meet you for some time,” said Holmes. “I won’t ask
you to sit down, for I don’t like the smell of you, but aren’t you
Steve Dixie, the bruiser?”

“That’s my name, Masser Holmes, and you’ll get put through it for
sure if you give me any lip.”

“It is certainly the last thing you need,” said Holmes, staring at
our visitor’s hideous mouth. “But it was the killing of young Perkins
outside the Holborn Bar– What! you’re not going?”

The negro had sprung back, and his face was leaden. “I won’t listen
to no such talk,” said he. “What have I to do with this ‘ere Perkins,
Masser Holmes? I was trainin’ at the Bull Ring in Birmingham when
this boy done gone get into trouble.”

“Yes, you’ll tell the magistrate about it, Steve,” said Holmes. “I’ve
been watching you and Barney Stockdale–“

“So help me the Lord! Masser Holmes–“

“That’s enough. Get out of it. I’ll pick you up when I want you.”

“Good-mornin’, Masser Holmes. I hope there ain’t no hard feelin’s
about this ‘ere visit?”

“There will be unless you tell me who sent you.”

“Why, there ain’t no secret about that, Masser Holmes. It was that
same gen’l’man that you have just done gone mention.”

“And who set him on to it?”

“S’elp me. I don’t know, Masser Holmes. He just say, ‘Steve, you go
see Mr. Holmes, and tell him his life ain’t safe if he go down Harrow
way.’ That’s the whole truth.” Without waiting for any further
questioning, our visitor bolted out of the room almost as
precipitately as he had entered. Holmes knocked out the ashes of his
pipe with a quiet chuckle.

“I am glad you were not forced to break his woolly head, Watson. I
observed your manoeuvres with the poker. But he is really rather a
harmless fellow, a great muscular, foolish, blustering baby, and
easily cowed, as you have seen. He is one of the Spencer John gang
and has taken part in some dirty work of late which I may clear up
when I have time. His immediate principal, Barney, is a more astute
person. They specialize in assaults, intimidation, and the like. What
I want to know is, who is at the back of them on this particular
occasion?”

“But why do they want to intimidate you?”

“It is this Harrow Weald case. It decides me to look into the matter,
for if it is worth anyone’s while to take so much trouble, there must
be something in it.”

“But what is it?”

“I was going to tell you when we had this comic interlude. Here is
Mrs. Maberley’s note. If you care to come with me we will wire her
and go out at once.”

Dear Mr. Sherlock Holmes [I read]:
I have had a succession of strange incidents occur to me in
connection with this house, and I should much value your advice. You
would find me at home any time to-morrow. The house is within a short
walk of the Weald Station. I believe that my late husband, Mortimer
Maberley, was one of your early clients.
Yours faithfully,
Mary Maberley

The address was “The Three Gables, Harrow Weald.”

“So that’s that!” said Holmes. “And now, if you can spare the time,
Watson, we will get upon our way.”

A short railway journey, and a shorter drive, brought us to the
house, a brick and timber villa, standing in its own acre of
undeveloped grassland. Three small projections above the upper
windows made a feeble attempt to justify its name. Behind was a grove
of melancholy, half-grown pines, and the whole aspect of the place
was poor and depressing. None the less, we found the house to be well
furnished, and the lady who received us was a most engaging elderly
person, who bore every mark of refinement and culture.

“I remember your husband well, madam,” said Holmes, “though it is
some years since he used my services in some trifling matter.”

“Probably you would be more familiar with the name of my son
Douglas.”

Holmes looked at her with great interest.

“Dear me! Are you the mother of Douglas Maberley? I knew him
slightly. But of course all London knew him. What a magnificent
creature he was! Where is he now?”

“Dead, Mr. Holmes, dead! He was attache at Rome, and he died there of
pneumonia last month.”

“I am sorry. One could not connect death with such a man. I have
never known anyone so vitally alive. He lived intensely–every fibre
of him!”

“Too intensely, Mr. Holmes. That was the ruin of him. You remember
him as he was–debonair and splendid. You did not see the moody,
morose, brooding creature into which he developed. His heart was
broken. In a single month I seemed to see my gallant boy turn into a
worn-out cynical man.”

“A love affair–a woman?”

“Or a fiend. Well, it was not to talk of my poor lad that I asked you
to come, Mr. Holmes.”

“Dr. Watson and I are at your service.”

“There have been some very strange happenings. I have been in this
house more than a year now, and as I wished to lead a retired life I
have seen little of my neighbours. Three days ago I had a call from a
man who said that he was a house agent. He said that this house would
exactly suit a client of his, and that if I would part with it money
would be no object. It seemed to me very strange as there are several
empty houses on the market which appear to be equally eligible, but
naturally I was interested in what he said. I therefore named a price
which was five hundred pounds more than I gave. He at once closed
with the offer, but added that his client desired to buy the
furniture as well and would I put a price upon it. Some of this
furniture is from my old home, and it is, as you see, very good, so
that I named a good round sum. To this also he at once agreed. I had
always wanted to travel, and the bargain was so good a one that it
really seemed that I should be my own mistress for the rest of my
life.

“Yesterday the man arrived with the agreement all drawn out. Luckily
I showed it to Mr. Sutro, my lawyer, who lives in Harrow. He said to
me, ‘This is a very strange document. Are you aware that if you sign
it you could not legally take anything out of the house–not even
your own private possessions?’ When the man came again in the evening
I pointed this out, and I said that I meant only to sell the
furniture.

“‘No, no, everything,’ said he.

“‘But my clothes? My jewels?’

“‘Well, well, some concession might be made for your personal
effects. But nothing shall go out of the house unchecked. My client
is a very liberal man, but he has his fads and his own way of doing
things. It is everything or nothing with him.’

“‘Then it must be nothing,’ said I. And there the matter was left,
but the whole thing seemed to me to be so unusual that I thought–“

Here we had a very extraordinary interruption.

Holmes raised his hand for silence. Then he strode across the room,
flung open the door, and dragged in a great gaunt woman whom he had
seized by the shoulder. She entered with ungainly struggle like some
huge awkward chicken, torn, squawking, out of its coop.

“Leave me alone! What are you a-doin’ of?” she screeched.

“Why, Susan, what is this?”

“Well, ma’am, I was comin’ in to ask if the visitors was stayin’ for
lunch when this man jumped out at me.”

“I have been listening to her for the last five minutes, but did not
wish to interrupt your most interesting narrative. Just a little
wheezy, Susan, are you not? You breathe too heavily for that kind of
work.”

Susan turned a sulky but amazed face upon her captor. “Who be you,
anyhow, and what right have you a-pullin’ me about like this?”

“It was merely that I wished to ask a question in your presence. Did
you, Mrs. Maberley, mention to anyone that you were going to write to
me and consult me?”

“No, Mr. Holmes, I did not.”

“Who posted your letter?”

“Susan did.”

“Exactly. Now, Susan, to whom was it that you wrote or sent a message
to say that your mistress was asking advice from me?”

“It’s a lie. I sent no message.”

“Now, Susan, wheezy people may not live long, you know. It’s a wicked
thing to tell fibs. Whom did you tell?”

“Susan!” cried her mistress, “I believe you are a bad, treacherous
woman. I remember now that I saw you speaking to someone over the
hedge.”

“That was my own business,” said the woman sullenly.

“Suppose I tell you that it was Barney Stockdale to whom you spoke?”
said Holmes.

“Well, if you know, what do you want to ask for?”

“I was not sure, but I know now. Well now, Susan, it will be worth
ten pounds to you if you will tell me who is at the back of Barney.”

“Someone that could lay down a thousand pounds for every ten you have
in the world.”

“So, a rich man? No; you smiled–a rich woman. Now we have got so
far, you may as well give the name and earn the tenner.”

“I’ll see you in hell first.”

“Oh, Susan! Language!”

“I am clearing out of here. I’ve had enough of you all. I’ll send for
my box to-morrow.” She flounced for the door.

“Good-bye, Susan. Paregoric is the stuff… Now,” he continued,
turning suddenly from lively to severe when the door had closed
behind the flushed and angry woman, “this gang means business. Look
how close they play the game. Your letter to me had the 10 P. M.
postmark. And yet Susan passes the word to Barney. Barney has time to
go to his employer and get instructions; he or she–I incline to the
latter from Susan’s grin when she thought I had blundered–forms a
plan. Black Steve is called in, and I am warned off by eleven o’clock
next morning. That’s quick work, you know.”

“But what do they want?”

“Yes, that’s the question. Who had the house before you?”

“A retired sea captain called Ferguson.”

“Anything remarkable about him?”

“Not that ever I heard of.”

“I was wondering whether he could have buried something. Of course,
when people bury treasure nowadays they do it in the Post-Office
bank. But there are always some lunatics about. It would be a dull
world without them. At first I thought of some buried valuable. But
why, in that case, should they want your furniture? You don’t happen
to have a Raphael or a first folio Shakespeare without knowing it?”

“No, I don’t think I have anything rarer than a Crown Derby tea-set.”

“That would hardly justify all this mystery. Besides, why should they
not openly state what they want? If they covet your tea-set, they can
surely offer a price for it without buying you out, lock, stock, and
barrel. No, as I read it, there is something which you do not know
that you have, and which you would not give up if you did know.”

“That is how I read it,” said I.

“Dr. Watson agrees, so that settles it.”

“Well, Mr. Holmes, what can it be?”

“Let us see whether by this purely mental analysis we can get it to a
finer point. You have been in this house a year.”

“Nearly two.”

“All the better. During this long period no one wants anything from
you. Now suddenly within three or four days you have urgent demands.
What would you gather from that?”

“It can only mean,” said I, “that the object, whatever it may be, has
only just come into the house.”

“Settled once again,” said Holmes. “Now, Mrs. Maberley, has any
object just arrived?”

“No, I have bought nothing new this year.”

“Indeed! That is very remarkable. Well, I think we had best let
matters develop a little further until we have clearer data. Is that
lawyer of yours a capable man?”

“Mr. Sutro is most capable.”

“Have you another maid, or was the fair Susan, who has just banged
your front door, alone?”

“I have a young girl.”

“Try and get Sutro to spend a night or two in the house. You might
possibly want protection.”

“Against whom?”

“Who knows? The matter is certainly obscure. If I can’t find what
they are after, I must approach the matter from the other end and try
to get at the principal. Did this house-agent man give any address?”

“Simply his card and occupation. Haines-Johnson, Auctioneer and
Valuer.”

“I don’t think we shall find him in the directory. Honest business
men don’t conceal their place of business. Well, you will let me know
any fresh development. I have taken up your case, and you may rely
upon it that I shall see it through.”

As we passed through the hall Holmes’s eyes, which missed nothing,
lighted upon several trunks and cases which were piled in a corner.
The labels shone out upon them.

“‘Milano.’ ‘Lucerne.’ These are from Italy.”

“They are poor Douglas’s things.”

“You have not unpacked them? How long have you had them?”

“They arrived last week.”

“But you said–why, surely this might be the missing link. How do we
know that there is not something of value there?”

“There could not possibly be, Mr. Holmes. Poor Douglas had only his
pay and a small annuity. What could he have of value?”

Holmes was lost in thought.

“Delay no longer, Mrs. Maberley,” he said at last. “Have these things
taken upstairs to your bedroom. Examine them as soon as possible and
see what they contain. I will come to-morrow and hear your report.”

It was quite evident that The Three Gables was under very close
surveillance, for as we came round the high hedge at the end of the
lane there was the negro prize-fighter standing in the shadow. We
came on him quite suddenly, and a grim and menacing figure he looked
in that lonely place. Holmes clapped his hand to his pocket.

“Lookin’ for your gun, Masser Holmes?”

“No, for my scent-bottle, Steve.”

“You are funny, Masser Holmes, ain’t you?”

“It won’t be funny for you, Steve, if I get after you. I gave you
fair warning this morning.”

“Well, Masser Holmes, I done gone think over what you said, and I
don’t want no more talk about that affair of Masser Perkins. S’pose I
can help you, Masser Holmes, I will.”

“Well, then, tell me who is behind you on this job.”

“So help me the Lord! Masser Holmes, I told you the truth before. I
don’t know. My boss Barney gives me orders and that’s all.”

“Well, just bear in mind, Steve, that the lady in that house, and
everything under that roof, is under my protection. Don’t forget it.”

“All right, Masser Holmes. I’ll remember.”

“I’ve got him thoroughly frightened for his own skin, Watson,” Holmes
remarked as we walked on. “I think he would double-cross his employer
if he knew who he was. It was lucky I had some knowledge of the
Spencer John crowd, and that Steve was one of them. Now, Watson, this
is a case for Langdale Pike, and I am going to see him now. When I
get back I may be clearer in the matter.”

I saw no more of Holmes during the day, but I could well imagine how
he spent it, for Langdale Pike was his human book of reference upon
all matters of social scandal. This strange, languid creature spent
his waking hours in the bow window of a St. James’s Street club and
was the receiving-station as well as the transmitter for all the
gossip of the metropolis. He made, it was said, a four-figure income
by the paragraphs which he contributed every week to the garbage
papers which cater to an inquisitive public. If ever, far down in the
turbid depths of London life, there was some strange swirl or eddy,
it was marked with automatic exactness by this human dial upon the
surface. Holmes discreetly helped Langdale to knowledge, and on
occasion was helped in turn.

When I met my friend in his room early next morning, I was conscious
from his bearing that all was well, but none the less a most
unpleasant surprise was awaiting us. It took the shape of the
following telegram:

Please come out at once. Client’s house burgled in the night. Police
in possession.
Sutro.

Holmes whistled. “The drama has come to a crisis, and quicker than I
had expected. There is a great driving-power at the back of this
business, Watson, which does not surprise me after what I have heard.
This Sutro, of course, is her lawyer. I made a mistake, I fear, in
not asking you to spend the night on guard. This fellow has clearly
proved a broken reed. Well, there is nothing for it but another
journey to Harrow Weald.”

We found The Three Gables a very different establishment to the
orderly household of the previous day. A small group of idlers had
assembled at the garden gate, while a couple of constables were
examining the windows and the geranium beds. Within we met a gray old
gentleman, who introduced himself as the lawyer, together with a
bustling, rubicund inspector, who greeted Holmes as an old friend.

“Well, Mr. Holmes, no chance for you in this case, I’m afraid. Just a
common, ordinary burglary, and well within the capacity of the poor
old police. No experts need apply.”

“I am sure the case is in very good hands,” said Holmes. “Merely a
common burglary, you say?”

“Quite so. We know pretty well who the men are and where to find
them. It is that gang of Barney Stockdale, with the big nigger in
it–they’ve been seen about here.”

“Excellent! What did they get?”

“Well, they don’t seem to have got much. Mrs. Maberley was
chloroformed and the house was– Ah! here is the lady herself.”

Our friend of yesterday, looking very pale and ill, had entered the
room, leaning upon a little maidservant.

“You gave me good advice, Mr. Holmes,” said she, smiling ruefully.
“Alas, I did not take it! I did not wish to trouble Mr. Sutro, and so
I was unprotected.”

“I only heard of it this morning,” the lawyer explained.

“Mr. Holmes advised me to have some friend in the house. I neglected
his advice, and I have paid for it.”

“You look wretchedly ill,” said Holmes. “Perhaps you are hardly equal
to telling me what occurred.”

“It is all here,” said the inspector, tapping a bulky notebook.

“Still, if the lady is not too exhausted–“

“There is really so little to tell. I have no doubt that wicked Susan
had planned an entrance for them. They must have known the house to
an inch. I was conscious for a moment of the chloroform rag which was
thrust over my mouth, but I have no notion how long I may have been
senseless. When I woke, one man was at the bedside and another was
rising with a bundle in his hand from among my son’s baggage, which
was partially opened and littered over the floor. Before he could get
away I sprang up and seized him.”

“You took a big risk,” said the inspector.

“I clung to him, but he shook me off, and the other may have struck
me, for I can remember no more. Mary the maid heard the noise and
began screaming out of the window. That brought the police, but the
rascals had got away.”

“What did they take?”

“Well, I don’t think there is anything of value missing. I am sure
there was nothing in my son’s trunks.”

“Did the men leave no clue?”

“There was one sheet of paper which I may have torn from the man that
I grasped. It was lying all crumpled on the floor. It is in my son’s
handwriting.”

“Which means that it is not of much use,” said the inspector. “Now if
it had been in the burglar’s–“

“Exactly,” said Holmes. “What rugged common sense! None the less, I
should be curious to see it.”

The inspector drew a folded sheet of foolscap from his pocketbook.

“I never pass anything, however trifling,” said he with some
pomposity. “That is my advice to you, Mr. Holmes. In twenty-five
years’ experience I have learned my lesson. There is always the
chance of finger-marks or something.”

Holmes inspected the sheet of paper.

“What do you make of it, Inspector?”

“Seems to be the end of some queer novel, so far as I can see.”

“It may certainly prove to be the end of a queer tale,” said Holmes.
“You have noticed the number on the top of the page. It is two
hundred and forty-five. Where are the odd two hundred and forty-four
pages?”

“Well, I suppose the burglars got those. Much good may it do them!”

“It seems a queer thing to break into a house in order to steal such
papers as that. Does it suggest anything to you, Inspector?”

“Yes, sir, it suggests that in their hurry the rascals just grabbed
at what came first to hand. I wish them joy of what they got.”

“Why should they go to my son’s things?” asked Mrs. Maberley.

“Well, they found nothing valuable downstairs, so they tried their
luck upstairs. That is how I read it. What do you make of it, Mr.
Holmes?”

“I must think it over, Inspector. Come to the window, Watson.” Then,
as we stood together, he read over the fragment of paper. It began in
the middle of a sentence and ran like this:

“… face bled considerably from the cuts and blows, but it was
nothing to the bleeding of his heart as he saw that lovely face, the
face for which he had been prepared to sacrifice his very life,
looking out at his agony and humiliation. She smiled–yes, by Heaven!
she smiled, like the heartless fiend she was, as he looked up at her.
It was at that moment that love died and hate was born. Man must live
for something. If it is not for your embrace, my lady, then it shall
surely be for your undoing and my complete revenge.”

“Queer grammar!” said Holmes with a smile as he handed the paper back
to the inspector. “Did you notice how the ‘he’ suddenly changed to
‘my’? The writer was so carried away by his own story that he
imagined himself at the supreme moment to be the hero.”

“It seemed mighty poor stuff,” said the inspector as he replaced it
in his book. “What! are you off, Mr. Holmes?”

“I don’t think there is anything more for me to do now that the case
is in such capable hands. By the way, Mrs. Maberley, did you say you
wished to travel?”

“It has always been my dream, Mr. Holmes.”

“Where would you like to go–Cairo, Madeira, the Riviera?”

“Oh, if I had the money I would go round the world.”

“Quite so. Round the world. Well, good-morning. I may drop you a line
in the evening.” As we passed the window I caught a glimpse of the
inspector’s smile and shake of the head. “These clever fellows have
always a touch of madness.” That was what I read in the inspector’s
smile.

“Now, Watson, we are at the last lap of our little journey,” said
Holmes when we were back in the roar of central London once more. “I
think we had best clear the matter up at once, and it would be well
that you should come with me, for it is safer to have a witness when
you are dealing with such a lady as Isadora Klein.”

We had taken a cab and were speeding to some address in Grosvenor
Square. Holmes had been sunk in thought, but he roused himself
suddenly.

“By the way, Watson, I suppose you see it all clearly?”

“No, I can’t say that I do. I only gather that we are going to see
the lady who is behind all this mischief.”

“Exactly! But does the name Isadora Klein convey nothing to you? She
was, of course, the celebrated beauty. There was never a woman to
touch her. She is pure Spanish, the real blood of the masterful
Conquistadors, and her people have been leaders in Pernambuco for
generations. She married the aged German sugar king, Klein, and
presently found herself the richest as well as the most lovely widow
upon earth. Then there was an interval of adventure when she pleased
her own tastes. She had several lovers, and Douglas Maberley, one of
the most striking men in London, was one of them. It was by all
accounts more than an adventure with him. He was not a society
butterfly but a strong, proud man who gave and expected all. But she
is the ‘belle dame sans merci’ of fiction. When her caprice is
satisfied the matter is ended, and if the other party in the matter
can’t take her word for it she knows how to bring it home to him.”

“Then that was his own story–“

“Ah! you are piecing it together now. I hear that she is about to
marry the young Duke of Lomond, who might almost be her son. His
Grace’s ma might overlook the age, but a big scandal would be a
different matter, so it is imperative– Ah! here we are.”

It was one of the finest corner-houses of the West End. A
machine-like footman took up our cards and returned with word that
the lady was not at home. “Then we shall wait until she is,” said
Holmes cheerfully.

The machine broke down.

“Not at home means not at home to you,” said the footman.

“Good,” Holmes answered. “That means that we shall not have to wait.
Kindly give this note to your mistress.”

He scribbled three or four words upon a sheet of his notebook, folded
it, and handed it to the man.

“What did you say, Holmes?” I asked.

“I simply wrote: ‘Shall it be the police, then?’ I think that should
pass us in.”

It did–with amazing celerity. A minute later we were in an Arabian
Nights drawing-room, vast and wonderful, in a half gloom, picked out
with an occasional pink electric light. The lady had come, I felt, to
that time of life when even the proudest beauty finds the half light
more welcome. She rose from a settee as we entered: tall, queenly, a
perfect figure, a lovely mask-like face, with two wonderful Spanish
eyes which looked murder at us both.

“What is this intrusion–and this insulting message?” she asked,
holding up the slip of paper.

“I need not explain, madame. I have too much respect for your
intelligence to do so–though I confess that intelligence has been
surprisingly at fault of late.”

“How so, sir?”

“By supposing that your hired bullies could frighten me from my work.
Surely no man would take up my profession if it were not that danger
attracts him. It was you, then, who forced me to examine the case of
young Maberley.”

“I have no idea what you are talking about. What have I to do with
hired bullies?”

Holmes turned away wearily.

“Yes, I have underrated your intelligence. Well, good-afternoon!”

“Stop! Where are you going?”

“To Scotland Yard.”

We had not got halfway to the door before she had overtaken us and
was holding his arm. She had turned in a moment from steel to velvet.

“Come and sit down, gentlemen. Let us talk this matter over. I feel
that I may be frank with you, Mr. Holmes. You have the feelings of a
gentleman. How quick a woman’s instinct is to find it out. I will
treat you as a friend.”

“I cannot promise to reciprocate, madame. I am not the law, but I
represent justice so far as my feeble powers go. I am ready to
listen, and then I will tell you how I will act.”

“No doubt it was foolish of me to threaten a brave man like
yourself.”

“What was really foolish, madame, is that you have placed yourself in
the power of a band of rascals who may blackmail or give you away.”

“No, no! I am not so simple. Since I have promised to be frank, I may
say that no one, save Barney Stockdale and Susan, his wife, have the
least idea who their employer is. As to them, well, it is not the
first–” She smiled and nodded with a charming coquettish intimacy.

“I see. You’ve tested them before.”

“They are good hounds who run silent.”

“Such hounds have a way sooner or later of biting the hand that feeds
them. They will be arrested for this burglary. The police are already
after them.”

“They will take what comes to them. That is what they are paid for. I
shall not appear in the matter.”

“Unless I bring you into it.”

“No, no, you would not. You are a gentleman. It is a woman’s secret.”

“In the first place, you must give back this manuscript.”

She broke into a ripple of laughter and walked to the fireplace.
There was a calcined mass which she broke up with the poker. “Shall I
give this back?” she asked. So roguish and exquisite did she look as
she stood before us with a challenging smile that I felt of all
Holmes’s criminals this was the one whom he would find it hardest to
face. However, he was immune from sentiment.

“That seals your fate,” he said coldly. “You are very prompt in your
actions, madame, but you have overdone it on this occasion.”

She threw the poker down with a clatter.

“How hard you are!” she cried. “May I tell you the whole story?”

“I fancy I could tell it to you.”

“But you must look at it with my eyes, Mr. Holmes. You must realize
it from the point of view of a woman who sees all her life’s ambition
about to be ruined at the last moment. Is such a woman to be blamed
if she protects herself?”

“The original sin was yours.”

“Yes, yes! I admit it. He was a dear boy, Douglas, but it so chanced
that he could not fit into my plans. He wanted marriage–marriage,
Mr. Holmes–with a penniless commoner. Nothing less would serve him.
Then he became pertinacious. Because I had given he seemed to think
that I still must give, and to him only. It was intolerable. At last
I had to make him realize it.”

“By hiring ruffians to beat him under your own window.”

“You do indeed seem to know everything. Well, it is true. Barney and
the boys drove him away, and were, I admit, a little rough in doing
so. But what did he do then? Could I have believed that a gentleman
would do such an act? He wrote a book in which he described his own
story. I, of course, was the wolf; he the lamb. It was all there,
under different names, of course; but who in all London would have
failed to recognize it? What do you say to that, Mr. Holmes?”

“Well, he was within his rights.”

“It was as if the air of Italy had got into his blood and brought
with it the old cruel Italian spirit. He wrote to me and sent me a
copy of his book that I might have the torture of anticipation. There
were two copies, he said–one for me, one for his publisher.”

“How did you know the publisher’s had not reached him?”

“I knew who his publisher was. It is not his only novel, you know. I
found out that he had not heard from Italy. Then came Douglas’s
sudden death. So long as that other manuscript was in the world there
was no safety for me. Of course, it must be among his effects, and
these would be returned to his mother. I set the gang at work. One of
them got into the house as servant. I wanted to do the thing
honestly. I really and truly did. I was ready to buy the house and
everything in it. I offered any price she cared to ask. I only tried
the other way when everything else had failed. Now, Mr. Holmes,
granting that I was too hard on Douglas–and, God knows, I am sorry
for it!–what else could I do with my whole future at stake?”

Sherlock Holmes shrugged his shoulders.

“Well, well,” said he, “I suppose I shall have to compound a felony
as usual. How much does it cost to go round the world in first-class
style?”

The lady stared in amazement.

“Could it be done on five thousand pounds?”

“Well, I should think so, indeed!”

“Very good. I think you will sign me a check for that, and I will see
that it comes to Mrs. Maberley. You owe her a little change of air.
Meantime, lady”–he wagged a cautionary forefinger–“have a care!
Have a care! You can’t play with edged tools forever without cutting
those dainty hands.”

Holmes had read carefully a note which the last post had brought him.
Then, with the dry chuckle which was his nearest approach to a
laugh, he tossed it over to me.

“For a mixture of the modern and the mediaeval, of the practical and
of the wildly fanciful, I think this is surely the limit,” said he.
“What do you make of it, Watson?”

I read as follows:

46, Old Jewry,
Nov. 19th.
Re Vampires
Sir:
Our client, Mr. Robert Ferguson, of Ferguson and Muirhead, tea
brokers, of Mincing Lane, has made some inquiry from us in a
communication of even date concerning vampires. As our firm
specializes entirely upon the assessment of machinery the matter
hardly comes within our purview, and we have therefore recommended
Mr. Ferguson to call upon you and lay the matter before you. We have
not forgotten your successful action in the case of Matilda Briggs.
We are, sir,
Faithfully yours,
Morrison, Morrison, and Dodd.
per E. J. C.

“Matilda Briggs was not the name of a young woman, Watson,” said
Holmes in a reminiscent voice. “It was a ship which is associated
with the giant rat of Sumatra, a story for which the world is not yet
prepared. But what do we know about vampires? Does it come within our
purview either? Anything is better than stagnation, but really we
seem to have been switched on to a Grimms’ fairy tale. Make a long
arm, Watson, and see what V has to say.”

I leaned back and took down the great index volume to which he
referred. Holmes balanced it on his knee, and his eyes moved slowly
and lovingly over the record of old cases, mixed with the accumulated
information of a lifetime.

“Voyage of the Gloria Scott,” he read. “That was a bad business. I
have some recollection that you made a record of it, Watson, though I
was unable to congratulate you upon the result. Victor Lynch, the
forger. Venomous lizard or gila. Remarkable case, that! Vittoria,
the circus belle. Vanderbilt and the Yeggman. Vipers. Vigor, the
Hammersmith wonder. Hullo! Hullo! Good old index. You can’t beat it.
Listen to this, Watson. Vampirism in Hungary. And again, Vampires in
Transylvania.” He turned over the pages with eagerness, but after a
short intent perusal he threw down the great book with a snarl of
disappointment.

“Rubbish, Watson, rubbish! What have we to do with walking corpses
who can only be held in their grave by stakes driven through their
hearts? It’s pure lunacy.”

“But surely,” said I, “the vampire was not necessarily a dead man? A
living person might have the habit. I have read, for example, of the
old sucking the blood of the young in order to retain their youth.”

“You are right, Watson. It mentions the legend in one of these
references. But are we to give serious attention to such things? This
agency stands flat-footed upon the ground, and there it must remain.
The world is big enough for us. No ghosts need apply. I fear that we
cannot take Mr. Robert Ferguson very seriously. Possibly this note
may be from him and may throw some light upon what is worrying him.”

He took up a second letter which had lain unnoticed upon the table
while he had been absorbed with the first. This he began to read with
a smile of amusement upon his face which gradually faded away into an
expression of intense interest and concentration. When he had
finished he sat for some little time lost in thought with the letter
dangling from his fingers. Finally, with a start, he aroused himself
from his reverie.

“Cheeseman’s, Lamberley. Where is Lamberley, Watson?”

“It is in Sussex, south of Horsham.”

“Not very far, eh? And Cheeseman’s?”

“I know that country, Holmes. It is full of old houses which are
named after the men who built them centuries ago. You get Odley’s and
Harvey’s and Carriton’s–the folk are forgotten but their names live
in their houses.

“Precisely,” said Holmes coldly. It was one of the peculiarities of
his proud, self-contained nature that though he docketed any fresh
information very quietly and accurately in his brain, he seldom made
any acknowledgment to the giver. “I rather fancy we shall know a good
deal more about Cheeseman’s, Lamberley, before we are through. The
letter is, as I had hoped, from Robert Ferguson. By the way, he
claims acquaintance with you.”

“With me!”

“You had better read it.”

He handed the letter across. It was headed with the address quoted.

Dear Mr. Holmes [it said]:
I have been recommended to you by my lawyers, but indeed the matter
is so extraordinarily delicate that it is most difficult to discuss.
It concerns a friend for whom I am acting. This gentleman married
some five years ago a Peruvian lady, the daughter of a Peruvian
merchant, whom he had met in connection with the importation of
nitrates. The lady was very beautiful, but the fact of her foreign
birth and of her alien religion always caused a separation of
interests and of feelings between husband and wife, so that after a
time his love may have cooled towards her and he may have come to
regard their union as a mistake. He felt there were sides of her
character which he could never explore or understand. This was the
more painful as she was as loving a wife as a man could have–to all
appearance absolutely devoted.
Now for the point which I will make more plain when we meet. Indeed,
this note is merely to give you a general idea of the situation and
to ascertain whether you would care to interest yourself in the
matter. The lady began to show some curious traits quite alien to her
ordinarily sweet and gentle disposition. The gentleman had been
married twice and he had one son by the first wife. This boy was now
fifteen, a very charming and affectionate youth, though unhappily
injured through an accident in childhood. Twice the wife was caught
in the act of assaulting this poor lad in the most unprovoked way.
Once she struck him with a stick and left a great weal on his arm.
This was a small matter, however, compared with her conduct to her
own child, a dear boy just under one year of age. On one occasion
about a month ago this child had been left by its nurse for a few
minutes. A loud cry from the baby, as of pain, called the nurse back.
As she ran into the room she saw her employer, the lady, leaning over
the baby and apparently biting his neck. There was a small wound in
the neck from which a stream of blood had escaped. The nurse was so
horrified that she wished to call the husband, but the lady implored
her not to do so and actually gave her five pounds as a price for her
silence. No explanation was ever given, and for the moment the matter
was passed over.
It left, however, a terrible impression upon the nurse’s mind, and
from that time she began to watch her mistress closely and to keep a
closer guard upon the baby, whom she tenderly loved. It seemed to her
that even as she watched the mother, so the mother watched her, and
that every time she was compelled to leave the baby alone the mother
was waiting to get at it. Day and night the nurse covered the child,
and day and night the silent, watchful mother seemed to be lying in
wait as a wolf waits for a lamb. It must read most incredible to you,
and yet I beg you to take it seriously, for a child’s life and a
man’s sanity may depend upon it.
At last there came one dreadful day when the facts could no longer be
concealed from the husband. The nurse’s nerve had given way; she
could stand the strain no longer, and she made a clean breast of it
all to the man. To him it seemed as wild a tale as it may now seem to
you. He knew his wife to be a loving wife, and, save for the assaults
upon her stepson, a loving mother. Why, then, should she wound her
own dear little baby? He told the nurse that she was dreaming, that
her suspicions were those of a lunatic, and that such libels upon her
mistress were not to be tolerated. While they were talking a sudden
cry of pain was heard. Nurse and master rushed together to the
nursery. Imagine his feelings, Mr. Holmes, as he saw his wife rise
from a kneeling position beside the cot and saw blood upon the
child’s exposed neck and upon the sheet. With a cry of horror, he
turned his wife’s face to the light and saw blood all round her lips.
It was she–she beyond all question–who had drunk the poor baby’s
blood.
So the matter stands. She is now confined to her room. There has been
no explanation. The husband is half demented. He knows, and I know,
little of vampirism beyond the name. We had thought it was some wild
tale of foreign parts. And yet here in the very heart of the English
Sussex–well, all this can be discussed with you in the morning. Will
you see me? Will you use your great powers in aiding a distracted
man? If so, kindly wire to Ferguson, Cheeseman’s, Lamberley, and I
will be at your rooms by ten o’clock.
Yours faithfully,
Robert Ferguson.
P. S. I believe your friend Watson played Rugby for Blackheath when I
was three-quarter for Richmond. It is the only personal introduction
which I can give.

“Of course I remembered him,” said I as I laid down the letter. “Big
Bob Ferguson, the finest three-quarter Richmond ever had. He was
always a good-natured chap. It’s like him to be so concerned over a
friend’s case.”

Holmes looked at me thoughtfully and shook his head.

“I never get your limits, Watson,” said he. “There are unexplored
possibilities about you. Take a wire down, like a good fellow. ‘Will
examine your case with pleasure.'”

“Your case!”

“We must not let him think that this agency is a home for the
weak-minded. Of course it is his case. Send him that wire and let the
matter rest till morning.”

Promptly at ten o’clock next morning Ferguson strode into our room. I
had remembered him as a long, slab-sided man with loose limbs and a
fine turn of speed which had carried him round many an opposing back.
There is surely nothing in life more painful than to meet the wreck
of a fine athlete whom one has known in his prime. His great frame
had fallen in, his flaxen hair was scanty, and his shoulders were
bowed. I fear that I roused corresponding emotions in him.

“Hullo, Watson,” said he, and his voice was still deep and hearty.
“You don’t look quite the man you did when I threw you over the ropes
into the crowd at the Old Deer Park. I expect I have changed a bit
also. But it’s this last day or two that has aged me. I see by your
telegram, Mr. Holmes, that it is no use my pretending to be anyone’s
deputy.”

“It is simpler to deal direct,” said Holmes.

“Of course it is. But you can imagine how difficult it is when you
are speaking of the one woman whom you are bound to protect and help.
What can I do? How am I to go to the police with such a story? And
yet the kiddies have got to be protected. Is it madness, Mr. Holmes?
Is it something in the blood? Have you any similar case in your
experience? For God’s sake, give me some advice, for I am at my wit’s
end.”

“Very naturally, Mr. Ferguson. Now sit here and pull yourself
together and give me a few clear answers. I can assure you that I am
very far from being at my wit’s end, and that I am confident we shall
find some solution. First of all, tell me what steps you have taken.
Is your wife still near the children?”

“We had a dreadful scene. She is a most loving woman, Mr. Holmes. If
ever a woman loved a man with all her heart and soul, she loves me.
She was cut to the heart that I should have discovered this horrible,
this incredible, secret. She would not even speak. She gave no answer
to my reproaches, save to gaze at me with a sort of wild, despairing
look in her eyes. Then she rushed to her room and locked herself in.
Since then she has refused to see me. She has a maid who was with her
before her marriage, Dolores by name–a friend rather than a servant.
She takes her food to her.”

“Then the child is in no immediate danger?”

“Mrs. Mason, the nurse, has sworn that she will not leave it night or
day. I can absolutely trust her. I am more uneasy about poor little
Jack, for, as I told you in my note, he has twice been assaulted by
her.”

“But never wounded?”

“No, she struck him savagely. It is the more terrible as he is a poor
little inoffensive cripple.” Ferguson’s gaunt features softened as he
spoke of his boy. “You would think that the dear lad’s condition
would soften anyone’s heart. A fall in childhood and a twisted spine,
Mr. Holmes. But the dearest, most loving heart within.”

Holmes had picked up the letter of yesterday and was reading it over.
“What other inmates are there in your house, Mr. Ferguson?”

“Two servants who have not been long with us. One stable-hand,
Michael, who sleeps in the house. My wife, myself, my boy Jack, baby,
Dolores, and Mrs. Mason. That is all.”

“I gather that you did not know your wife well at the time of your
marriage?”

“I had only known her a few weeks.”

“How long had this maid Dolores been with her?”

“Some years.”

“Then your wife’s character would really be better known by Dolores
than by you?”

“Yes, you may say so.”

Holmes made a note.

“I fancy,” said he, “that I may be of more use at Lamberley than
here. It is eminently a case for personal investigation. If the lady
remains in her room, our presence could not annoy or inconvenience
her. Of course, we would stay at the inn.”

Ferguson gave a gesture of relief.

“It is what I hoped, Mr. Holmes. There is an excellent train at two
from Victoria if you could come.”

“Of course we could come. There is a lull at present. I can give you
my undivided energies. Watson, of course, comes with us. But there
are one or two points upon which I wish to be very sure before I
start. This unhappy lady, as I understand it, has appeared to assault
both the children, her own baby and your little son?”

“That is so.”

“But the assaults take different forms, do they not? She has beaten
your son.”

“Once with a stick and once very savagely with her hands.”

“Did she give no explanation why she struck him?”

“None save that she hated him. Again and again she said so.”

“Well, that is not unknown among stepmothers. A posthumous jealousy,
we will say. Is the lady jealous by nature?”

“Yes, she is very jealous–jealous with all the strength of her fiery
tropical love.”

“But the boy–he is fifteen, I understand, and probably very
developed in mind, since his body has been circumscribed in action.
Did he give you no explanation of these assaults?”

“No, he declared there was no reason.”

“Were they good friends at other times?”

“No, there was never any love between them.”

“Yet you say he is affectionate?”

“Never in the world could there be so devoted a son. My life is his
life. He is absorbed in what I say or do.”

Once again Holmes made a note. For some time he sat lost in thought.

“No doubt you and the boy were great comrades before this second
marriage. You were thrown very close together, were you not?”

“Very much so.”

“And the boy, having so affectionate a nature, was devoted, no doubt,
to the memory of his mother?”

“Most devoted.”

“He would certainly seem to be a most interesting lad. There is one
other point about these assaults. Were the strange attacks upon the
baby and the assaults upon your son at the same period?”

“In the first case it was so. It was as if some frenzy had seized
her, and she had vented her rage upon both. In the second case it was
only Jack who suffered. Mrs. Mason had no complaint to make about the
baby.”

“That certainly complicates matters.”

“I don’t quite follow you, Mr. Holmes.”

“Possibly not. One forms provisional theories and waits for time or
fuller knowledge to explode them. A bad habit, Mr. Ferguson, but
human nature is weak. I fear that your old friend here has given an
exaggerated view of my scientific methods. However, I will only say
at the present stage that your problem does not appear to me to be
insoluble, and that you may expect to find us at Victoria at two
o’clock.”

It was evening of a dull, foggy November day when, having left our
bags at the Chequers, Lamberley, we drove through the Sussex clay of
a long winding lane and finally reached the isolated and ancient
farmhouse in which Ferguson dwelt. It was a large, straggling
building, very old in the centre, very new at the wings with towering
Tudor chimneys and a lichen-spotted, high-pitched roof of Horsham
slabs. The doorsteps were worn into curves, and the ancient tiles
which lined the porch were marked with the rebus of a cheese and a
man after the original builder. Within, the ceilings were corrugated
with heavy oaken beams, and the uneven floors sagged into sharp
curves. An odour of age and decay pervaded the whole crumbling
building.

There was one very large central room into which Ferguson led us.
Here, in a huge old-fashioned fireplace with an iron screen behind it
dated 1670, there blazed and spluttered a splendid log fire.

The room, as I gazed round, was a most singular mixture of dates and
of places. The half-panelled walls may well have belonged to the
original yeoman farmer of the seventeenth century. They were
ornamented, however, on the lower part by a line of well-chosen
modern water-colours; while above, where yellow plaster took the
place of oak, there was hung a fine collection of South American
utensils and weapons, which had been brought, no doubt, by the
Peruvian lady upstairs. Holmes rose, with that quick curiosity which
sprang from his eager mind, and examined them with some care. He
returned with his eyes full of thought.

“Hullo!” he cried. “Hullo!”

A spaniel had lain in a basket in the corner. It came slowly forward
towards its master, walking with difficulty. Its hind legs moved
irregularly and its tail was on the ground. It licked Ferguson’s
hand.

“What is it, Mr. Holmes?”

“The dog. What’s the matter with it?”

“That’s what puzzled the vet. A sort of paralysis. Spinal
meningitis, he thought. But it is passing. He’ll be all right
soon–won’t you, Carlo?”

A shiver of assent passed through the drooping tail. The dog’s
mournful eyes passed from one of us to the other. He knew that we
were discussing his case.

“Did it come on suddenly?”

“In a single night.”

“How long ago?”

“It may have been four months ago.”

“Very remarkable. Very suggestive.”

“What do you see in it, Mr. Holmes?”

“A confirmation of what I had already thought.”

“For God’s sake, what do you think, Mr. Holmes? It may be a mere
intellectual puzzle to you, but it is life and death to me! My wife a
would-be murderer–my child in constant danger! Don’t play with me,
Mr. Holmes. It is too terribly serious.”

The big Rugby three-quarter was trembling all over. Holmes put his
hand soothingly upon his arm.

“I fear that there is pain for you, Mr. Ferguson, whatever the
solution may be,” said he. “I would spare you all I can. I cannot say
more for the instant, but before I leave this house I hope I may have
something definite.”

“Please God you may! If you will excuse me, gentlemen, I will go up
to my wife’s room and see if there has been any change.”

He was away some minutes, during which Holmes resumed his examination
of the curiosities upon the wall. When our host returned it was clear
from his downcast face that he had made no progress. He brought with
him a tall, slim, brown-faced girl.

“The tea is ready, Dolores,” said Ferguson. “See that your mistress
has everything she can wish.”

“She verra ill,” cried the girl, looking with indignant eyes at her
master. “She no ask for food. She verra ill. She need doctor. I
frightened stay alone with her without doctor.”

Ferguson looked at me with a question in his eyes.

“I should be so glad if I could be of use.”

“Would your mistress see Dr. Watson?”

“I take him. I no ask leave. She needs doctor.”

“Then I’ll come with you at once.”

I followed the girl, who was quivering with strong emotion, up the
staircase and down an ancient corridor. At the end was an
iron-clamped and massive door. It struck me as I looked at it that if
Ferguson tried to force his way to his wife he would find it no easy
matter. The girl drew a key from her pocket, and the heavy oaken
planks creaked upon their old hinges. I passed in and she swiftly
followed, fastening the door behind her.

On the bed a woman was lying who was clearly in a high fever. She
was only half conscious, but as I entered she raised a pair of
frightened but beautiful eyes and glared at me in apprehension.
Seeing a stranger, she appeared to be relieved and sank back with a
sigh upon the pillow. I stepped up to her with a few reassuring
words, and she lay still while I took her pulse and temperature. Both
were high, and yet my impression was that the condition was rather
that of mental and nervous excitement than of any actual seizure.

“She lie like that one day, two day. I ‘fraid she die,” said the
girl.

The woman turned her flushed and handsome face towards me.

“Where is my husband?”

“He is below and would wish to see you.”

“I will not see him. I will not see him.” Then she seemed to wander
off into delirium. “A fiend! A fiend! Oh, what shall I do with this
devil?”

“Can I help you in any way?”

“No. No one can help. It is finished. All is destroyed. Do what I
will, all is destroyed.”

The woman must have some strange delusion. I could not see honest Bob
Ferguson in the character of fiend or devil.

“Madame,” I said, “your husband loves you dearly. He is deeply
grieved at this happening.”

Again she turned on me those glorious eyes.

“He loves me. Yes. But do I not love him? Do I not love him even to
sacrifice myself rather than break his dear heart? That is how I love
him. And yet he could think of me–he could speak of me so.”

“He is full of grief, but he cannot understand.”

“No, he cannot understand. But he should trust.”

“Will you not see him?” I suggested.

“No, no, I cannot forget those terrible words nor the look upon his
face. I will not see him. Go now. You can do nothing for me. Tell him
only one thing. I want my child. I have a right to my child. That is
the only message I can send him.” She turned her face to the wall and
would say no more.

I returned to the room downstairs, where Ferguson and Holmes still
sat by the fire. Ferguson listened moodily to my account of the
interview.

“How can I send her the child?” he said. “How do I know what strange
impulse might come upon her? How can I ever forget how she rose from
beside it with its blood upon her lips?” He shuddered at the
recollection. “The child is safe with Mrs. Mason, and there he must
remain.”

A smart maid, the only modern thing which we had seen in the house,
had brought in some tea. As she was serving it the door opened and a
youth entered the room. He was a remarkable lad, pale-faced and
fair-haired, with excitable light blue eyes which blazed into a
sudden flame of emotion and joy as they rested upon his father. He
rushed forward and threw his arms round his neck with the abandon of
a loving girl.

“Oh, daddy,” he cried, “I did not know that you were due yet. I
should have been here to meet you. Oh, I am so glad to see you!”

Ferguson gently disengaged himself from the embrace with some little
show of embarrassment.

“Dear old chap,” said he, patting the flaxen head with a very tender
hand. “I came early because my friends, Mr. Holmes and Dr. Watson,
have been persuaded to come down and spend an evening with us.”

“Is that Mr. Holmes, the detective?”

“Yes.”

The youth looked at us with a very penetrating and, as it seemed to
me, unfriendly gaze.

“What about your other child, Mr. Ferguson?” asked Holmes. “Might we
make the acquaintance of the baby?”

“Ask Mrs. Mason to bring baby down,” said Ferguson. The boy went off
with a curious, shambling gait which told my surgical eyes that he
was suffering from a weak spine. Presently he returned, and behind
him came a tall, gaunt woman bearing in her arms a very beautiful
child, dark-eyed, golden-haired, a wonderful mixture of the Saxon and
the Latin. Ferguson was evidently devoted to it, for he took it into
his arms and fondled it most tenderly.

“Fancy anyone having the heart to hurt him,” he muttered as he
glanced down at the small, angry red pucker upon the cherub throat.

It was at this moment that I chanced to glance at Holmes and saw a
most singular intentness in his expression. His face was as set as if
it had been carved out of old ivory, and his eyes, which had glanced
for a moment at father and child, were now fixed with eager curiosity
upon something at the other side of the room. Following his gaze I
could only guess that he was looking out through the window at the
melancholy, dripping garden. It is true that a shutter had half
closed outside and obstructed the view, but none the less it was
certainly at the window that Holmes was fixing his concentrated
attention. Then he smiled, and his eyes came back to the baby. On its
chubby neck there was this small puckered mark. Without speaking,
Holmes examined it with care. Finally he shook one of the dimpled
fists which waved in front of him.

“Good-bye, little man. You have made a strange start in life. Nurse,
I should wish to have a word with you in private.”

He took her aside and spoke earnestly for a few minutes. I only heard
the last words, which were: “Your anxiety will soon, I hope, be set
at rest.” The woman, who seemed to be a sour, silent kind of
creature, withdrew with the child.

“What is Mrs. Mason like?” asked Holmes.

“Not very prepossessing externally, as you can see, but a heart of
gold, and devoted to the child.”

“Do you like her, Jack?” Holmes turned suddenly upon the boy. His
expressive mobile face shadowed over, and he shook his head.

“Jacky has very strong likes and dislikes,” said Ferguson, putting
his arm round the boy. “Luckily I am one of his likes.”

The boy cooed and nestled his head upon his father’s breast. Ferguson
gently disengaged him.

“Run away, little Jacky,” said he, and he watched his son with loving
eyes until he disappeared. “Now, Mr. Holmes,” he continued when the
boy was gone, “I really feel that I have brought you on a fool’s
errand, for what can you possibly do save give me your sympathy? It
must be an exceedingly delicate and complex affair from your point of
view.”

“It is certainly delicate,” said my friend with an amused smile, “but
I have not been struck up to now with its complexity. It has been a
case for intellectual deduction, but when this original intellectual
deduction is confirmed point by point by quite a number of
independent incidents, then the subjective becomes objective and we
can say confidently that we have reached our goal. I had, in fact,
reached it before we left Baker Street, and the rest has merely been
observation and confirmation.”

Ferguson put his big hand to his furrowed forehead.

“For heaven’s sake, Holmes,” he said hoarsely; “if you can see the
truth in this matter, do not keep me in suspense. How do I stand?
What shall I do? I care nothing as to how you have found your facts
so long as you have really got them.”

“Certainly I owe you an explanation, and you shall have it. But you
will permit me to handle the matter in my own way? Is the lady
capable of seeing us, Watson?”

“She is ill, but she is quite rational.”

“Very good. It is only in her presence that we can clear the matter
up. Let us go up to her.”

“She will not see me,” cried Ferguson.

“Oh, yes, she will,” said Holmes. He scribbled a few lines upon a
sheet of paper. “You at least have the entree, Watson. Will you have
the goodness to give the lady this note?”

I ascended again and handed the note to Dolores, who cautiously
opened the door. A minute later I heard a cry from within, a cry in
which joy and surprise seemed to be blended. Dolores looked out.

“She will see them. She will leesten,” said she.

At my summons Ferguson and Holmes came up. As we entered the room
Ferguson took a step or two towards his wife, who had raised herself
in the bed, but she held out her hand to repulse him. He sank into an
armchair, while Holmes seated himself beside him, after bowing to the
lady, who looked at him with wide-eyed amazement.

“I think we can dispense with Dolores,” said Holmes. “Oh, very well,
madame, if you would rather she stayed I can see no objection. Now,
Mr. Ferguson, I am a busy man with many calls, and my methods have to
be short and direct. The swiftest surgery is the least painful. Let
me first say what will ease your mind. Your wife is a very good, a
very loving, and a very ill-used woman.”

Ferguson sat up with a cry of joy.

“Prove that, Mr. Holmes, and I am your debtor forever.”

“I will do so, but in doing so I must wound you deeply in another
direction.”

“I care nothing so long as you clear my wife. Everything on earth is
insignificant compared to that.”

“Let me tell you, then, the train of reasoning which passed through
my mind in Baker Street. The idea of a vampire was to me absurd. Such
things do not happen in criminal practice in England. And yet your
observation was precise. You had seen the lady rise from beside the
child’s cot with the blood upon her lips.”

“I did.”

“Did it not occur to you that a bleeding wound may be sucked for some
other purpose than to draw the blood from it? Was there not a queen
in English history who sucked such a wound to draw poison from it?”

“Poison!”

“A South American household. My instinct felt the presence of those
weapons upon the wall before my eyes ever saw them. It might have
been other poison, but that was what occurred to me. When I saw that
little empty quiver beside the small bird-bow, it was just what I
expected to see. If the child were pricked with one of those arrows
dipped in curare or some other devilish drug, it would mean death if
the venom were not sucked out.

“And the dog! If one were to use such a poison, would one not try it
first in order to see that it had not lost its power? I did not
foresee the dog, but at least I understand him and he fitted into my
reconstruction.

“Now do you understand? Your wife feared such an attack. She saw it
made and saved the child’s life, and yet she shrank from telling you
all the truth, for she knew how you loved the boy and feared lest it
break your heart.”

“Jacky!”

“I watched him as you fondled the child just now. His face was
clearly reflected in the glass of the window where the shutter formed
a background. I saw such jealousy, such cruel hatred, as I have
seldom seen in a human face.”

“My Jacky!”

“You have to face it, Mr. Ferguson. It is the more painful because it
is a distorted love, a maniacal exaggerated love for you, and
possibly for his dead mother, which has prompted his action. His very
soul is consumed with hatred for this splendid child, whose health
and beauty are a contrast to his own weakness.”

“Good God! It is incredible!”

“Have I spoken the truth, madame?”

The lady was sobbing, with her face buried in the pillows. Now she
turned to her husband.

“How could I tell you, Bob? I felt the blow it would be to you. It
was better that I should wait and that it should come from some other
lips than mine. When this gentleman, who seems to have powers of
magic, wrote that he knew all, I was glad.”

“I think a year at sea would be my prescription for Master Jacky,”
said Holmes, rising from his chair. “Only one thing is still clouded,
madame. We can quite understand your attacks upon Master Jacky. There
is a limit to a mother’s patience. But how did you dare to leave the
child these last two days?”

“I had told Mrs. Mason. She knew.”

“Exactly. So I imagined.”

Ferguson was standing by the bed, choking, his hands outstretched and
quivering.

“This, I fancy, is the time for our exit, Watson,” said Holmes in a
whisper. “If you will take one elbow of the too faithful Dolores, I
will take the other. There, now,” he added as he closed the door
behind him, “I think we may leave them to settle the rest among
themselves.”

I have only one further note of this case. It is the letter which
Holmes wrote in final answer to that with which the narrative begins.
It ran thus:

Baker Street,
Nov. 21st.
Re Vampires
Sir:
Referring to your letter of the 19th, I beg to state that I have
looked into the inquiry of your client, Mr. Robert Ferguson, of
Ferguson and Muirhead, tea brokers, of Mincing Lane, and that the
matter has been brought to a satisfactory conclusion. With thanks for
your recommendation, I am, sir,
Faithfully yours,
Sherlock Holmes.

It may have been a comedy, or it may have been a tragedy. It cost one
man his reason, it cost me a blood-letting, and it cost yet another
man the penalties of the law. Yet there was certainly an element of
comedy. Well, you shall judge for yourselves.

I remember the date very well, for it was in the same month that
Holmes refused a knighthood for services which may perhaps some day
be described. I only refer to the matter in passing, for in my
position of partner and confidant I am obliged to be particularly
careful to avoid any indiscretion. I repeat, however, that this
enables me to fix the date, which was the latter end of June, 1902,
shortly after the conclusion of the South African War. Holmes had
spent several days in bed, as was his habit from time to time, but he
emerged that morning with a long foolscap document in his hand and a
twinkle of amusement in his austere gray eyes.

“There is a chance for you to make some money, friend Watson,” said
he. “Have you ever heard the name of Garrideb?”

I admitted that I had not.

“Well, if you can lay your hand upon a Garrideb, there’s money in
it.”

“Why?”

“Ah, that’s a long story–rather a whimsical one, too. I don’t think
in all our explorations of human complexities we have ever come upon
anything more singular. The fellow will be here presently for
cross-examination, so I won’t open the matter up till he comes. But,
meanwhile, that’s the name we want.”

The telephone directory lay on the table beside me, and I turned over
the pages in a rather hopeless quest. But to my amazement there was
this strange name in its due place. I gave a cry of triumph.

“Here you are, Holmes! Here it is!”

Holmes took the book from my hand.

“‘Garrideb, N.,’ ” he read, “‘136 Little Ryder Street, W.’ Sorry to
disappoint you, my dear Watson, but this is the man himself. That is
the address upon his letter. We want another to match him.”

Mrs. Hudson had come in with a card upon a tray. I took it up and
glanced at it.

“Why, here it is!” I cried in amazement. “This is a different
initial. John Garrideb, Counsellor at Law, Moorville, Kansas, U. S.
A.”

Holmes smiled as he looked at the card. “I am afraid you must make
yet another effort, Watson,” said he. “This gentleman is also in the
plot already, though I certainly did not expect to see him this
morning. However, he is in a position to tell us a good deal which I
want to know.”

A moment later he was in the room. Mr. John Garrideb, Counsellor at
Law, was a short, powerful man with the round, fresh, clean-shaven
face characteristic of so many American men of affairs. The general
effect was chubby and rather childlike, so that one received the
impression of quite a young man with a broad set smile upon his face.
His eyes, however, were arresting. Seldom in any human head have I
seen a pair which bespoke a more intense inward life, so bright were
they, so alert, so responsive to every change of thought. His accent
was American, but was not accompanied by any eccentricity of speech.

“Mr. Holmes?” he asked, glancing from one to the other. “Ah, yes!
Your pictures are not unlike you, sir, if I may say so. I believe you
have had a letter from my namesake, Mr. Nathan Garrideb, have you
not?”

“Pray sit down,” said Sherlock Holmes. “We shall, I fancy, have a
good deal to discuss.” He took up his sheets of foolscap. “You are,
of course, the Mr. John Garrideb mentioned in this document. But
surely you have been in England some time?”

“Why do you say that, Mr. Holmes?” I seemed to read sudden suspicion
in those expressive eyes.

“Your whole outfit is English.”

Mr. Garrideb forced a laugh. “I’ve read of your tricks, Mr. Holmes,
but I never thought I would be the subject of them. Where do you read
that?”

“The shoulder cut of your coat, the toes of your boots–could anyone
doubt it?”

“Well, well, I had no idea I was so obvious a Britisher. But business
brought me over here some time ago, and so, as you say, my outfit is
nearly all London. However, I guess your time is of value, and we did
not meet to talk about the cut of my socks. What about getting down
to that paper you hold in your hand?”

Holmes had in some way ruffled our visitor, whose chubby face had
assumed a far less amiable expression.

“Patience! Patience, Mr. Garrideb!” said my friend in a soothing
voice. “Dr. Watson would tell you that these little digressions of
mine sometimes prove in the end to have some bearing on the matter.
But why did Mr. Nathan Garrideb not come with you?”

“Why did he ever drag you into it at all?” asked our visitor with a
sudden outflame of anger. “What in thunder had you to do with it?
Here was a bit of professional business between two gentlemen, and
one of them must needs call in a detective! I saw him this morning,
and he told me this fool-trick he had played me, and that’s why I am
here. But I feel bad about it, all the same.”

“There was no reflection upon you, Mr. Garrideb. It was simply zeal
upon his part to gain your end–an end which is, I understand,
equally vital for both of you. He knew that I had means of getting
information, and, therefore, it was very natural that he should apply
to me.”

Our visitor’s angry face gradually cleared.

“Well, that puts it different,” said he. “When I went to see him this
morning and he told me he had sent to a detective, I just asked for
your address and came right away. I don’t want police butting into a
private matter. But if you are content just to help us find the man,
there can be no harm in that.”

“Well, that is just how it stands,” said Holmes. “And now, sir, since
you are here, we had best have a clear account from your own lips. My
friend here knows nothing of the details.”

Mr. Garrideb surveyed me with not too friendly a gaze.

“Need he know?” he asked.

“We usually work together.”

“Well, there’s no reason it should be kept a secret. I’ll give you
the facts as short as I can make them. If you came from Kansas I
would not need to explain to you who Alexander Hamilton Garrideb was.
He made his money in real estate, and afterwards in the wheat pit at
Chicago, but he spent it in buying up as much land as would make one
of your counties, lying along the Arkansas River, west of Fort Dodge.
It’s grazing-land and lumber-land and arable-land and
mineralized-land, and just every sort of land that brings dollars to
the man that owns it.

“He had no kith nor kin–or, if he had, I never heard of it. But he
took a kind of pride in the queerness of his name. That was what
brought us together. I was in the law at Topeka, and one day I had a
visit from the old man, and he was tickled to death to meet another
man with his own name. It was his pet fad, and he was dead set to
find out if there were any more Garridebs in the world. ‘Find me
another!’ said he. I told him I was a busy man and could not spend my
life hiking round the world in search of Garridebs. ‘None the less,’
said he, ‘that is just what you will do if things pan out as I
planned them.’ I thought he was joking, but there was a powerful lot
of meaning in the words, as I was soon to discover.

“For he died within a year of saying them, and he left a will behind
him. It was the queerest will that has ever been filed in the State
of Kansas. His property was divided into three parts, and I was to
have one on condition that I found two Garridebs who would share the
remainder. It’s five million dollars for each if it is a cent, but we
can’t lay a finger on it until we all three stand in a row.

“It was so big a chance that I just let my legal practice slide and I
set forth looking for Garridebs. There is not one in the United
States. I went through it, sir, with a fine-toothed comb and never a
Garrideb could I catch. Then I tried the old country. Sure enough
there was the name in the London telephone directory. I went after
him two days ago and explained the whole matter to him. But he is a
lone man, like myself, with some women relations, but no men. It says
three adult men in the will. So you see we still have a vacancy, and
if you can help to fill it we will be very ready to pay your
charges.”

“Well, Watson,” said Holmes with a smile, “I said it was rather
whimsical, did I not? I should have thought, sir, that your obvious
way was to advertise in the agony columns of the papers.”

“I have done that, Mr. Holmes. No replies.”

“Dear me! Well, it is certainly a most curious little problem. I may
take a glance at it in my leisure. By the way, it is curious that you
should have come from Topeka. I used to have a correspondent–he is
dead now–old Dr. Lysander Starr, who was mayor in 1890.”

“Good old Dr. Starr!” said our visitor. “His name is still honoured.
Well, Mr. Holmes, I suppose all we can do is to report to you and let
you know how we progress. I reckon you will hear within a day or
two.” With this assurance our American bowed and departed.

Holmes had lit his pipe, and he sat for some time with a curious
smile upon his face.

“Well?” I asked at last.

“I am wondering, Watson–just wondering!”

“At what?”

Holmes took his pipe from his lips.

“I was wondering, Watson, what on earth could be the object of this
man in telling us such a rigmarole of lies. I nearly asked him
so–for there are times when a brutal frontal attack is the best
policy–but I judged it better to let him think he had fooled us.
Here is a man with an English coat frayed at the elbow and trousers
bagged at the knee with a year’s wear, and yet by this document and
by his own account he is a provincial American lately landed in
London. There have been no advertisements in the agony columns. You
know that I miss nothing there. They are my favourite covert for
putting up a bird, and I would never have overlooked such a cock
pheasant as that. I never knew a Dr. Lysander Starr, of Topeka. Touch
him where you would he was false. I think the fellow is really an
American, but he has worn his accent smooth with years of London.
What is his game, then, and what motive lies behind this preposterous
search for Garridebs? It’s worth our attention, for, granting that
the man is a rascal, he is certainly a complex and ingenious one. We
must now find out if our other correspondent is a fraud also. Just
ring him up, Watson.”

I did so, and heard a thin, quavering voice at the other end of the
line.

“Yes, yes, I am Mr. Nathan Garrideb. Is Mr. Holmes there? I should
very much like to have a word with Mr. Holmes.”

My friend took the instrument and I heard the usual syncopated
dialogue.

“Yes, he has been here. I understand that you don’t know him. … How
long? … Only two days! … Yes, yes, of course, it is a most
captivating prospect. Will you be at home this evening? I suppose
your namesake will not be there? … Very good, we will come then,
for I would rather have a chat without him. … Dr. Watson will come
with me. … I understand from your note that you did not go out
often. … Well, we shall be round about six. You need not mention it
to the American lawyer. … Very good. Good-bye!”

It was twilight of a lovely spring evening, and even Little Ryder
Street, one of the smaller offshoots from the Edgware Road, within a
stone-cast of old Tyburn Tree of evil memory, looked golden and
wonderful in the slanting rays of the setting sun. The particular
house to which we were directed was a large, old-fashioned, Early
Georgian edifice, with a flat brick face broken only by two deep bay
windows on the ground floor. It was on this ground floor that our
client lived, and, indeed, the low windows proved to be the front of
the huge room in which he spent his waking hours. Holmes pointed as
we passed to the small brass plate which bore the curious name.

“Up some years, Watson,” he remarked, indicating its discoloured
surface. “It’s his real name, anyhow, and that is something to note.”

The house had a common stair, and there were a number of names
painted in the hall, some indicating offices and some private
chambers. It was not a collection of residential flats, but rather
the abode of Bohemian bachelors. Our client opened the door for us
himself and apologized by saying that the woman in charge left at
four o’clock. Mr. Nathan Garrideb proved to be a very tall,
loose-jointed, round-backed person, gaunt and bald, some sixty-odd
years of age. He had a cadaverous face, with the dull dead skin of a
man to whom exercise was unknown. Large round spectacles and a small
projecting goat’s beard combined with his stooping attitude to give
him an expression of peering curiosity. The general effect, however,
was amiable, though eccentric.

The room was as curious as its occupant. It looked like a small
museum. It was both broad and deep, with cupboards and cabinets all
round, crowded with specimens, geological and anatomical. Cases of
butterflies and moths flanked each side of the entrance. A large
table in the centre was littered with all sorts of debris, while the
tall brass tube of a powerful microscope bristled up among them. As I
glanced round I was surprised at the universality of the man’s
interests. Here was a case of ancient coins. There was a cabinet of
flint instruments. Behind his central table was a large cupboard of
fossil bones. Above was a line of plaster skulls with such names as
“Neanderthal,” “Heidelberg,” “Cro-Magnon” printed beneath them. It
was clear that he was a student of many subjects. As he stood in
front of us now, he held a piece of chamois leather in his right hand
with which he was polishing a coin.

“Syracusan–of the best period,” he explained, holding it up. “They
degenerated greatly towards the end. At their best I hold them
supreme, though some prefer the Alexandrian school. You will find a
chair here, Mr. Holmes. Pray allow me to clear these bones. And you,
sir–ah, yes, Dr. Watson–if you would have the goodness to put the
Japanese vase to one side. You see round me my little interests in
life. My doctor lectures me about never going out, but why should I
go out when I have so much to hold me here? I can assure you that the
adequate cataloguing of one of those cabinets would take me three
good months.”

Holmes looked round him with curiosity.

“But do you tell me that you never go out?” he said.

“Now and again I drive down to Sotheby’s or Christie’s. Otherwise I
very seldom leave my room. I am not too strong, and my researches are
very absorbing. But you can imagine, Mr. Holmes, what a terrific
shock–pleasant but terrific–it was for me when I heard of this
unparalleled good fortune. It only needs one more Garrideb to
complete the matter, and surely we can find one. I had a brother, but
he is dead, and female relatives are disqualified. But there must
surely be others in the world. I had heard that you handled strange
cases, and that was why I sent to you. Of course, this American
gentleman is quite right, and I should have taken his advice first,
but I acted for the best.”

“I think you acted very wisely indeed,” said Holmes. “But are you
really anxious to acquire an estate in America?”

“Certainly not, sir. Nothing would induce me to leave my collection.
But this gentleman has assured me that he will buy me out as soon as
we have established our claim. Five million dollars was the sum
named. There are a dozen specimens in the market at the present
moment which fill gaps in my collection, and which I am unable to
purchase for want of a few hundred pounds. Just think what I could do
with five million dollars. Why, I have the nucleus of a national
collection. I shall be the Hans Sloane of my age.”

His eyes gleamed behind his great spectacles. It was very clear that
no pains would be spared by Mr. Nathan Garrideb in finding a
namesake.

“I merely called to make your acquaintance, and there is no reason
why I should interrupt your studies,” said Holmes. “I prefer to
establish personal touch with those with whom I do business. There
are few questions I need ask, for I have your very clear narrative in
my pocket, and I filled up the blanks when this American gentleman
called. I understand that up to this week you were unaware of his
existence.”

“That is so. He called last Tuesday.”

“Did he tell you of our interview to-day?”

“Yes, he came straight back to me. He had been very angry.”

“Why should he be angry?”

“He seemed to think it was some reflection on his honour. But he was
quite cheerful again when he returned.”

“Did he suggest any course of action?”

“No, sir, he did not.”

“Has he had, or asked for, any money from you?”

“No, sir, never!”

“You see no possible object he has in view?”

“None, except what he states.”

“Did you tell him of our telephone appointment?”

“Yes, sir, I did.”

Holmes was lost in thought. I could see that he was puzzled.

“Have you any articles of great value in your collection?”

“No, sir. I am not a rich man. It is a good collection, but not a
very valuable one.”

“You have no fear of burglars?”

“Not the least.”

“How long have you been in these rooms?”

“Nearly five years.”

Holmes’s cross-examination was interrupted by an imperative knocking
at the door. No sooner had our client unlatched it than the American
lawyer burst excitedly into the room.

“Here you are!” he cried, waving a paper over his head. “I thought I
should be in time to get you. Mr. Nathan Garrideb, my
congratulations! You are a rich man, sir. Our business is happily
finished and all is well. As to you, Mr. Holmes, we can only say we
are sorry if we have given you any useless trouble.”

He handed over the paper to our client, who stood staring at a marked
advertisement. Holmes and I leaned forward and read it over his
shoulder. This is how it ran:

Howard Garrideb
Constructor of Agricultural Machinery
Binders, reapers, steam and hand plows, drills, harrows, farmers’
carts, buckboards, and all other appliances.
Estimates for Artesian Wells
Apply Grosvenor Buildings, Aston

“Glorious!” gasped our host. “That makes our third man.”

“I had opened up inquiries in Birmingham,” said the American, “and my
agent there has sent me this advertisement from a local paper. We
must hustle and put the thing through. I have written to this man and
told him that you will see him in his office to-morrow afternoon at
four o’clock.”

“You want me to see him?”

“What do you say, Mr. Holmes? Don’t you think it would be wiser? Here
am I, a wandering American with a wonderful tale. Why should he
believe what I tell him? But you are a Britisher with solid
references, and he is bound to take notice of what you say. I would
go with you if you wished, but I have a very busy day to-morrow, and
I could always follow you if you are in any trouble.”

“Well, I have not made such a journey for years.”

“It is nothing, Mr. Garrideb. I have figured out our connections. You
leave at twelve and should be there soon after two. Then you can be
back the same night. All you have to do is to see this man, explain
the matter, and get an affidavit of his existence. By the Lord!” he
added hotly, “considering I’ve come all the way from the centre of
America, it is surely little enough if you go a hundred miles in
order to put this matter through.”

“Quite so,” said Holmes. “I think what this gentleman says is very
true.”

Mr. Nathan Garrideb shrugged his shoulders with a disconsolate air.
“Well, if you insist I shall go,” said he. “It is certainly hard for
me to refuse you anything, considering the glory of hope that you
have brought into my life.”

“Then that is agreed,” said Holmes, “and no doubt you will let me
have a report as soon as you can.”

“I’ll see to that,” said the American. “Well,” he added, looking at
his watch, “I’ll have to get on. I’ll call to-morrow, Mr. Nathan, and
see you off to Birmingham. Coming my way, Mr. Holmes? Well, then,
good-bye, and we may have good news for you to-morrow night.”

I noticed that my friend’s face cleared when the American left the
room, and the look of thoughtful perplexity had vanished.

“I wish I could look over your collection, Mr. Garrideb,” said he.
“In my profession all sorts of odd knowledge comes useful, and this
room of yours is a storehouse of it.”

Our client shone with pleasure and his eyes gleamed from behind his
big glasses.

“I had always heard, sir, that you were a very intelligent man,” said
he. “I could take you round now if you have the time.”

“Unfortunately, I have not. But these specimens are so well labelled
and classified that they hardly need your personal explanation. If I
should be able to look in to-morrow, I presume that there would be no
objection to my glancing over them?”

“None at all. You are most welcome. The place will, of course, be
shut up, but Mrs. Saunders is in the basement up to four o’clock and
would let you in with her key.”

Well, I happen to be clear to-morrow afternoon. If you would say a
word to Mrs. Saunders it would be quite in order. By the way, who is
your house-agent?”

Our client was amazed at the sudden question.

“Holloway and Steele, in the Edgware Road. But why?”

“I am a bit of an archaeologist myself when it comes to houses,” said
Holmes, laughing. “I was wondering if this was Queen Anne or
Georgian.”

“Georgian, beyond doubt.”

“Really. I should have thought a little earlier. However, it is
easily ascertained. Well, good-bye, Mr. Garrideb, and may you have
every success in your Birmingham journey.”

The house-agent’s was close by, but we found that it was closed for
the day, so we made our way back to Baker Street. It was not till
after dinner that Holmes reverted to the subject.

“Our little problem draws to a close,” said he. “No doubt you have
outlined the solution in your own mind.”

“I can make neither head nor tail of it.”

“The head is surely clear enough and the tail we should see
to-morrow. Did you notice nothing curious about that advertisement?”

“I saw that the word ‘plough’ was misspelt.”

“Oh, you did notice that, did you? Come, Watson, you improve all the
time. Yes, it was bad English but good American. The printer had set
it up as received. Then the buckboards. That is American also. And
artesian wells are commoner with them than with us. It was a typical
American advertisement, but purporting to be from an English firm.
What do you make of that?”

“I can only suppose that this American lawyer put it in himself. What
his object was I fail to understand.”

“Well, there are alternative explanations. Anyhow, he wanted to get
this good old fossil up to Birmingham. That is very clear. I might
have told him that he was clearly going on a wild-goose chase, but,
on second thoughts, it seemed better to clear the stage by letting
him go. To-morrow, Watson–well, to-morrow will speak for itself.”

Holmes was up and out early. When he returned at lunchtime I noticed
that his face was very grave.

“This is a more serious matter than I had expected, Watson,” said he.
“It is fair to tell you so, though I know it will only be an
additional reason to you for running your head into danger. I should
know my Watson by now. But there is danger, and you should know it.”

“Well, it is not the first we have shared, Holmes. I hope it may not
be the last. What is the particular danger this time?”

“We are up against a very hard case. I have identified Mr. John
Garrideb, Counsellor at Law. He is none other than ‘Killer’ Evans, of
sinister and murderous reputation.”

“I fear I am none the wiser.”

“Ah, it is not part of your profession to carry about a portable
Newgate Calendar in your memory. I have been down to see friend
Lestrade at the Yard. There may be an occasional want of imaginative
intuition down there, but they lead the world for thoroughness and
method. I had an idea that we might get on the track of our American
friend in their records. Sure enough, I found his chubby face smiling
up at me from the rogues’ portrait gallery. ‘James Winter, alias
Morecroft, alias Killer Evans,’ was the inscription below.” Holmes
drew an envelope from his pocket. “I scribbled down a few points from
his dossier: Aged forty-four. Native of Chicago. Known to have shot
three men in the States. Escaped from penitentiary through political
influence. Came to London in 1893. Shot a man over cards in a
night-club in the Waterloo Road in January, 1895. Man died, but he
was shown to have been the aggressor in the row. Dead man was
identified as Rodger Prescott, famous as forger and coiner in
Chicago. Killer Evans released in 1901. Has been under police
supervision since, but so far as known has led an honest life. Very
dangerous man, usually carries arms and is prepared to use them. That
is our bird, Watson–a sporting bird, as you must admit.”

“But what is his game?”

“Well, it begins to define itself. I have been to the house-agent’s.
Our client, as he told us, has been there five years. It was unlet
for a year before then. The previous tenant was a gentleman at large
named Waldron. Waldron’s appearance was well remembered at the
office. He had suddenly vanished and nothing more been heard of him.
He was a tall, bearded man with very dark features. Now, Prescott,
the man whom Killer Evans had shot, was, according to Scotland Yard,
a tall, dark man with a beard. As a working hypothesis, I think we
may take it that Prescott, the American criminal, used to live in the
very room which our innocent friend now devotes to his museum. So at
last we get a link, you see.”

“And the next link?”

“Well, we must go now and look for that.”

He took a revolver from the drawer and handed it to me.

“I have my old favourite with me. If our Wild West friend tries to
live up to his nickname, we must be ready for him. I’ll give you an
hour for a siesta, Watson, and then I think it will be time for our
Ryder Street adventure.”

It was just four o’clock when we reached the curious apartment of
Nathan Garrideb. Mrs. Saunders, the caretaker, was about to leave,
but she had no hesitation in admitting us, for the door shut with a
spring lock, and Holmes promised to see that all was safe before we
left. Shortly afterwards the outer door closed, her bonnet passed the
bow window, and we knew that we were alone in the lower floor of the
house. Holmes made a rapid examination of the premises. There was one
cupboard in a dark corner which stood out a little from the wall. It
was behind this that we eventually crouched while Holmes in a whisper
outlined his intentions.

“He wanted to get our amiable friend out of his room–that is very
clear, and, as the collector never went out, it took some planning to
do it. The whole of this Garrideb invention was apparently for no
other end. I must say, Watson, that there is a certain devilish
ingenuity about it, even if the queer name of the tenant did give him
an opening which he could hardly have expected. He wove his plot with
remarkable cunning.”

“But what did he want?”

“Well, that is what we are here to find out. It has nothing whatever
to do with our client, so far as I can read the situation. It is
something connected with the man he murdered–the man who may have
been his confederate in crime. There is some guilty secret in the
room. That is how I read it. At first I thought our friend might have
something in his collection more valuable than he knew–something
worth the attention of a big criminal. But the fact that Rodger
Prescott of evil memory inhabited these rooms points to some deeper
reason. Well, Watson, we can but possess our souls in patience and
see what the hour may bring.”

That hour was not long in striking. We crouched closer in the shadow
as we heard the outer door open and shut. Then came the sharp,
metallic snap of a key, and the American was in the room. He closed
the door softly behind him, took a sharp glance around him to see
that all was safe, threw off his overcoat, and walked up to the
central table with the brisk manner of one who knows exactly what he
has to do and how to do it. He pushed the table to one side, tore up
the square of carpet on which it rested, rolled it completely back,
and then, drawing a jemmy from his inside pocket, he knelt down and
worked vigorously upon the floor. Presently we heard the sound of
sliding boards, and an instant later a square had opened in the
planks. Killer Evans struck a match, lit a stump of candle, and
vanished from our view.

Clearly our moment had come. Holmes touched my wrist as a signal, and
together we stole across to the open trap-door. Gently as we moved,
however, the old floor must have creaked under our feet, for the head
of our American, peering anxiously round, emerged suddenly from the
open space. His face turned upon us with a glare of baffled rage,
which gradually softened into a rather shamefaced grin as he realized
that two pistols were pointed at his head.

“Well, well!” said he coolly as he scrambled to the surface. “I guess
you have been one too many for me, Mr. Holmes. Saw through my game, I
suppose, and played me for a sucker from the first. Well, sir, I hand
it to you; you have me beat and–“

In an instant he had whisked out a revolver from his breast and had
fired two shots. I felt a sudden hot sear as if a red-hot iron had
been pressed to my thigh. There was a crash as Holmes’s pistol came
down on the man’s head. I had a vision of him sprawling upon the
floor with blood running down his face while Holmes rummaged him for
weapons. Then my friend’s wiry arms were round me, and he was leading
me to a chair.

“You’re not hurt, Watson? For God’s sake, say that you are not hurt!”

It was worth a wound–it was worth many wounds–to know the depth of
loyalty and love which lay behind that cold mask. The clear, hard
eyes were dimmed for a moment, and the firm lips were shaking. For
the one and only time I caught a glimpse of a great heart as well as
of a great brain. All my years of humble but single-minded service
culminated in that moment of revelation.

“It’s nothing, Holmes. It’s a mere scratch.”

He had ripped up my trousers with his pocket-knife.

“You are right,” he cried with an immense sigh of relief. “It is
quite superficial.” His face set like flint as he glared at our
prisoner, who was sitting up with a dazed face. “By the Lord, it is
as well for you. If you had killed Watson, you would not have got out
of this room alive. Now, sir, what have you to say for yourself?”

He had nothing to say for himself. He only sat and scowled. I leaned
on Holmes’s arm, and together we looked down into the small cellar
which had been disclosed by the secret flap. It was still illuminated
by the candle which Evans had taken down with him. Our eyes fell upon
a mass of rusted machinery, great rolls of paper, a litter of
bottles, and, neatly arranged upon a small table, a number of neat
little bundles.

“A printing press–a counterfeiter’s outfit,” said Holmes.

“Yes, sir,” said our prisoner, staggering slowly to his feet and then
sinking into the chair. “The greatest counterfeiter London ever saw.
That’s Prescott’s machine, and those bundles on the table are two
thousand of Prescott’s notes worth a hundred each and fit to pass
anywhere. Help yourselves, gentlemen. Call it a deal and let me beat
it.”

Holmes laughed.

“We don’t do things like that, Mr. Evans. There is no bolt-hole for
you in this country. You shot this man Prescott, did you not?”

“Yes, sir, and got five years for it, though it was he who pulled on
me. Five years–when I should have had a medal the size of a soup
plate. No living man could tell a Prescott from a Bank of England,
and if I hadn’t put him out he would have flooded London with them. I
was the only one in the world who knew where he made them. Can you
wonder that I wanted to get to the place? And can you wonder that
when I found this crazy boob of a bug-hunter with the queer name
squatting right on the top of it, and never quitting his room, I had
to do the best I could to shift him? Maybe I would have been wiser if
I had put him away. It would have been easy enough, but I’m a
soft-hearted guy that can’t begin shooting unless the other man has a
gun also. But say, Mr. Holmes, what have I done wrong, anyhow? I’ve
not used this plant. I’ve not hurt this old stiff. Where do you get
me?”

“Only attempted murder, so far as I can see,” said Holmes. “But
that’s not our job. They take that at the next stage. What we wanted
at present was just your sweet self. Please give the Yard a call,
Watson. It won’t be entirely unexpected.”

So those were the facts about Killer Evans and his remarkable
invention of the three Garridebs. We heard later that our poor old
friend never got over the shock of his dissipated dreams. When his
castle in the air fell down, it buried him beneath the ruins. He was
last heard of at a nursing-home in Brixton. It was a glad day at the
Yard when the Prescott outfit was discovered, for, though they knew
that it existed, they had never been able, after the death of the
man, to find out where it was. Evans had indeed done great service
and caused several worthy C. I. D. men to sleep the sounder, for the
counterfeiter stands in a class by himself as a public danger. They
would willingly have subscribed to that soup-plate medal of which the
criminal had spoken, but an unappreciative bench took a less
favourable view, and the Killer returned to those shades from which
he had just emerged.

Somewhere in the vaults of the bank of Cox and Co., at Charing Cross,
there is a travel-worn and battered tin dispatch-box with my name,
John H. Watson, M.D., Late Indian Army, painted upon the lid. It is
crammed with papers, nearly all of which are records of cases to
illustrate the curious problems which Mr. Sherlock Holmes had at
various times to examine. Some, and not the least interesting, were
complete failures, and as such will hardly bear narrating, since no
final explanation is forthcoming. A problem without a solution may
interest the student, but can hardly fail to annoy the casual reader.
Among these unfinished tales is that of Mr. James Phillimore, who,
stepping back into his own house to get his umbrella, was never more
seen in this world. No less remarkable is that of the cutter Alicia,
which sailed one spring morning into a small patch of mist from where
she never again emerged, nor was anything further ever heard of
herself and her crew. A third case worthy of note is that of Isadora
Persano, the well-known journalist and duellist, who was found stark
staring mad with a match box in front of him which contained a
remarkable worm said to be unknown to science. Apart from these
unfathomed cases, there are some which involve the secrets of private
families to an extent which would mean consternation in many exalted
quarters if it were thought possible that they might find their way
into print. I need not say that such a breach of confidence is
unthinkable, and that these records will be separated and destroyed
now that my friend has time to turn his energies to the matter. There
remain a considerable residue of cases of greater or less interest
which I might have edited before had I not feared to give the public
a surfeit which might react upon the reputation of the man whom above
all others I revere. In some I was myself concerned and can speak as
an eye-witness, while in others I was either not present or played so
small a part that they could only be told as by a third person. The
following narrative is drawn from my own experience.

It was a wild morning in October, and I observed as I was dressing
how the last remaining leaves were being whirled from the solitary
plane tree which graces the yard behind our house. I descended to
breakfast prepared to find my companion in depressed spirits, for,
like all great artists, he was easily impressed by his surroundings.
On the contrary, I found that he had nearly finished his meal, and
that his mood was particularly bright and joyous, with that somewhat
sinister cheerfulness which was characteristic of his lighter
moments.

“You have a case, Holmes?” I remarked.

“The faculty of deduction is certainly contagious, Watson,” he
answered. “It has enabled you to probe my secret. Yes, I have a case.
After a month of trivialities and stagnation the wheels move once
more.”

“Might I share it?”

“There is little to share, but we may discuss it when you have
consumed the two hard-boiled eggs with which our new cook has
favoured us. Their condition may not be unconnected with the copy of
the Family Herald which I observed yesterday upon the hall-table.
Even so trivial a matter as cooking an egg demands an attention which
is conscious of the passage of time and incompatible with the love
romance in that excellent periodical.”

A quarter of an hour later the table had been cleared and we were
face to face. He had drawn a letter from his pocket.

“You have heard of Neil Gibson, the Gold King?” he said.

“You mean the American Senator?”

“Well, he was once Senator for some Western state, but is better
known as the greatest gold-mining magnate in the world.”

“Yes, I know of him. He has surely lived in England for some time.
His name is very familiar.”

“Yes, he bought a considerable estate in Hampshire some five years
ago. Possibly you have already heard of the tragic end of his wife?”

“Of course. I remember it now. That is why the name is familiar. But
I really know nothing of the details.”

Holmes waved his hand towards some papers on a chair. “I had no idea
that the case was coming my way or I should have had my extracts
ready,” said he. “The fact is that the problem, though exceedingly
sensational, appeared to present no difficulty. The interesting
personality of the accused does not obscure the clearness of the
evidence. That was the view taken by the coroner’s jury and also in
the police-court proceedings. It is now referred to the Assizes at
Winchester. I fear it is a thankless business. I can discover facts,
Watson, but I cannot change them. Unless some entirely new and
unexpected ones come to light I do not see what my client can hope
for.”

“Your client?”

“Ah, I forgot I had not told you. I am getting into your involved
habit, Watson, of telling a story backward. You had best read this
first.”

The letter which he handed to me, written in a bold, masterful hand,
ran as follows:

Claridge’s Hotel
October 3rd.
Dear Mr. Sherlock Holmes:
I can’t see the best woman God ever made go to her death without
doing all that is possible to save her. I can’t explain things–I
can’t even try to explain them, but I know beyond all doubt that Miss
Dunbar is innocent. You know the facts–who doesn’t? It has been the
gossip of the country. And never a voice raised for her! It’s the
damned injustice of it all that makes me crazy. That woman has a
heart that wouldn’t let her kill a fly. Well, I’ll come at eleven
to-morrow and see if you can get some ray of light in the dark. Maybe
I have a clue and don’t know it. Anyhow, all I know and all I have
and all I am are for your use if only you can save her. If ever in
your life you showed your powers, put them now into this case.
Yours faithfully,
J. Neil Gibson.

“There you have it,” said Sherlock Holmes, knocking out the ashes of
his after-breakfast pipe and slowly refilling it. “That is the
gentleman I await. As to the story, you have hardly time to master
all these papers, so I must give it to you in a nutshell if you are
to take an intelligent interest in the proceedings. This man is the
greatest financial power in the world, and a man, as I understand, of
most violent and formidable character. He married a wife, the victim
of this tragedy, of whom I know nothing save that she was past her
prime, which was the more unfortunate as a very attractive governess
superintended the education of two young children. These are the
three people concerned, and the scene is a grand old manor house, the
centre of a historical English state. Then as to the tragedy. The
wife was found in the grounds nearly half a mile from the house, late
at night, clad in her dinner dress, with a shawl over her shoulders
and a revolver bullet through her brain. No weapon was found near her
and there was no local clue as to the murder. No weapon near her,
Watson–mark that! The crime seems to have been committed late in the
evening, and the body was found by a game-keeper about eleven
o’clock, when it was examined by the police and by a doctor before
being carried up to the house. Is this too condensed, or can you
follow it clearly?”

“It is all very clear. But why suspect the governess?”

“Well, in the first place there is some very direct evidence. A
revolver with one discharged chamber and a calibre which corresponded
with the bullet was found on the floor of her wardrobe.” His eyes
fixed and he repeated in broken words,
“On–the–floor–of–her–wardrobe.” Then he sank into silence, and I
saw that some train of thought had been set moving which I should be
foolish to interrupt. Suddenly with a start he emerged into brisk
life once more. “Yes, Watson, it was found. Pretty damning, eh? So
the two juries thought. Then the dead woman had a note upon her
making an appointment at that very place and signed by the governess.
How’s that? Finally there is the motive. Senator Gibson is an
attractive person. If his wife dies, who more likely to succeed her
than the young lady who had already by all accounts received pressing
attentions from her employer? Love, fortune, power, all depending
upon one middle-aged life. Ugly, Watson–very ugly!”

“Yes, indeed, Holmes.”

“Nor could she prove an alibi. On the contrary, she had to admit that
she was down near Thor Bridge–that was the scene of the
tragedy–about that hour. She couldn’t deny it, for some passing
villager had seen her there.”

“That really seems final.”

“And yet, Watson–and yet! This bridge–a single broad span of stone
with balustraded sides–carries the drive over the narrowest part of
a long, deep, reed-girt sheet of water. Thor Mere it is called. In
the mouth of the bridge lay the dead woman. Such are the main facts.
But here, if I mistake not, is our client, considerably before his
time.”

Billy had opened the door, but the name which he announced was an
unexpected one. Mr. Marlow Bates was a stranger to both of us. He was
a thin, nervous wisp of a man with frightened eyes and a twitching,
hesitating manner–a man whom my own professional eye would judge to
be on the brink of an absolute nervous breakdown.

“You seem agitated, Mr. Bates,” said Holmes. “Pray sit down. I fear I
can only give you a short time, for I have an appointment at eleven.”

“I know you have,” our visitor gasped, shooting out short sentences
like a man who is out of breath. “Mr. Gibson is coming. Mr. Gibson is
my employer. I am manager of his estate. Mr. Holmes, he is a
villain–an infernal villain.”

“Strong language, Mr. Bates.”

“I have to be emphatic, Mr. Holmes, for the time is so limited. I
would not have him find me here for the world. He is almost due now.
But I was so situated that I could not come earlier. His secretary,
Mr. Ferguson, only told me this morning of his appointment with you.”

“And you are his manager?”

“I have given him notice. In a couple of weeks I shall have shaken
off his accursed slavery. A hard man, Mr. Holmes, hard to all about
him. Those public charities are a screen to cover his private
iniquities. But his wife was his chief victim. He was brutal to
her–yes, sir, brutal! How she came by her death I do not know, but I
am sure that he had made her life a misery to her. She was a creature
of the tropics, a Brazilian by birth, as no doubt you know.”

“No, it had escaped me.”

“Tropical by birth and tropical by nature. A child of the sun and of
passion. She had loved him as such women can love, but when her own
physical charms had faded–I am told that they once were great–there
was nothing to hold him. We all liked her and felt for her and hated
him for the way that he treated her. But he is plausible and cunning.
That is all I have to say to you. Don’t take him at his face value.
There is more behind. Now I’ll go. No, no, don’t detain me! He is
almost due.”

With a frightened look at the clock our strange visitor literally ran
to the door and disappeared.

“Well! Well!” said Holmes after an interval of silence. “Mr. Gibson
seems to have a nice loyal household. But the warning is a useful
one, and now we can only wait till the man himself appears.”

Sharp at the hour we heard a heavy step upon the stairs, and the
famous millionaire was shown into the room. As I looked upon him I
understood not only the fears and dislike of his manager but also the
execrations which so many business rivals have heaped upon his head.
If I were a sculptor and desired to idealize the successful man of
affairs, iron of nerve and leathery of conscience, I should choose
Mr. Neil Gibson as my model. His tall, gaunt, craggy figure had a
suggestion of hunger and rapacity. An Abraham Lincoln keyed to base
uses instead of high ones would give some idea of the man. His face
might have been chiselled in granite, hard-set, craggy, remorseless,
with deep lines upon it, the scars of many a crisis. Cold gray eyes,
looking shrewdly out from under bristling brows, surveyed us each in
turn. He bowed in perfunctory fashion as Holmes mentioned my name,
and then with a masterful air of possession he drew a chair up to my
companion and seated himself with his bony knees almost touching him.

“Let me say right here, Mr. Holmes,” he began, “that money is nothing
to me in this case. You can burn it if it’s any use in lighting you
to the truth. This woman is innocent and this woman has to be
cleared, and it’s up to you to do it. Name your figure!”

“My professional charges are upon a fixed scale,” said Holmes coldly.
“I do not vary them, save when I remit them altogether.”

“Well, if dollars make no difference to you, think of the reputation.
If you pull this off every paper in England and America will be
booming you. You’ll be the talk of two continents.”

“Thank you, Mr. Gibson, I do not think that I am in need of booming.
It may surprise you to know that I prefer to work anonymously, and
that it is the problem itself which attracts me. But we are wasting
time. Let us get down to the facts.”

“I think that you will find all the main ones in the press reports. I
don’t know that I can add anything which will help you. But if there
is anything you would wish more light upon–well, I am here to give
it.”

“Well, there is just one point.”

“What is it?”

“What were the exact relations between you and Miss Dunbar?”

The Gold King gave a violent start and half rose from his chair. Then
his massive calm came back to him.

“I suppose you are within your rights–and maybe doing your duty–in
asking such a question, Mr. Holmes.”

“We will agree to suppose so,” said Holmes.

“Then I can assure you that our relations were entirely and always
those of an employer towards a young lady whom he never conversed
with, or ever saw, save when she was in the company of his children.”

Holmes rose from his chair.

“I am a rather busy man, Mr. Gibson,” said he, “and I have no time or
taste for aimless conversations. I wish you good-morning.”

Our visitor had risen also, and his great loose figure towered above
Holmes. There was an angry gleam from under those bristling brows and
a tinge of colour in the sallow cheeks.

“What the devil do you mean by this, Mr. Holmes? Do you dismiss my
case?”

“Well, Mr. Gibson, at least I dismiss you. I should have thought my
words were plain.”

“Plain enough, but what’s at the back of it? Raising the price on me,
or afraid to tackle it, or what? I’ve a right to a plain answer.”

“Well, perhaps you have,” said Holmes. “I’ll give you one. This case
is quite sufficiently complicated to start with without the further
difficulty of false information.”

“Meaning that I lie.”

“Well, I was trying to express it as delicately as I could, but if
you insist upon the word I will not contradict you.”

I sprang to my feet, for the expression upon the millionaire’s face
was fiendish in its intensity, and he had raised his great knotted
fist. Holmes smiled languidly and reached his hand out for his pipe.

“Don’t be noisy, Mr. Gibson. I find that after breakfast even the
smallest argument is unsettling. I suggest that a stroll in the
morning air and a little quiet thought will be greatly to your
advantage.”

With an effort the Gold King mastered his fury. I could not but
admire him, for by a supreme self-command he had turned in a minute
from a hot flame of anger to a frigid and contemptuous indifference.

“Well, it’s your choice. I guess you know how to run your own
business. I can’t make you touch the case against your will. You’ve
done yourself no good this morning, Mr. Holmes, for I have broken
stronger men than you. No man ever crossed me and was the better for
it.”

“So many have said so, and yet here I am,” said Holmes, smiling.
“Well, good-morning, Mr. Gibson. You have a good deal yet to learn.”

Our visitor made a noisy exit, but Holmes smoked in imperturbable
silence with dreamy eyes fixed upon the ceiling.

“Any views, Watson?” he asked at last.

“Well, Holmes, I must confess that when I consider that this is a man
who would certainly brush any obstacle from his path, and when I
remember that his wife may have been an obstacle and an object of
dislike, as that man Bates plainly told us, it seems to me–“

“Exactly. And to me also.”

“But what were his relations with the governess, and how did you
discover them?”

“Bluff, Watson, bluff! When I considered the passionate,
unconventional, unbusinesslike tone of his letter and contrasted it
with his self-contained manner and appearance, it was pretty clear
that there was some deep emotion which centred upon the accused woman
rather than upon the victim. We’ve got to understand the exact
relations of those three people if we are to reach the truth. You saw
the frontal attack which I made upon him, and how imperturbably he
received it. Then I bluffed him by giving him the impression that I
was absolutely certain, when in reality I was only extremely
suspicious.”

“Perhaps he will come back?”

“He is sure to come back. He must come back. He can’t leave it where
it is. Ha! isn’t that a ring? Yes, there is his footstep. Well, Mr.
Gibson, I was just saying to Dr. Watson that you were somewhat
overdue.”

The Gold King had reentered the room in a more chastened mood than he
had left it. His wounded pride still showed in his resentful eyes,
but his common sense had shown him that he must yield if he would
attain his end.

“I’ve been thinking it over, Mr. Holmes, and I feel that I have been
hasty in taking your remarks amiss. You are justified in getting down
to the facts, whatever they may be, and I think the more of you for
it. I can assure you, however, that the relations between Miss Dunbar
and me don’t really touch this case.”

“That is for me to decide, is it not?”

“Yes, I guess that is so. You’re like a surgeon who wants every
symptom before he can give his diagnosis.”

“Exactly. That expresses it. And it is only a patient who has an
object in deceiving his surgeon who would conceal the facts of his
case.”

“That may be so, but you will admit, Mr. Holmes, that most men would
shy off a bit when they are asked point-blank what their relations
with a woman may be–if there is really some serious feeling in the
case. I guess most men have a little private reserve of their own in
some corner of their souls where they don’t welcome intruders. And
you burst suddenly into it. But the object excuses you, since it was
to try and save her. Well, the stakes are down and the reserve open,
and you can explore where you will. What is it you want?”

“The truth.”

The Gold King paused for a moment as one who marshals his thoughts.
His grim, deep-lined face had become even sadder and more grave.

“I can give it to you in a very few words, Mr. Holmes,” said he at
last. “There are some things that are painful as well as difficult to
say, so I won’t go deeper than is needful. I met my wife when I was
gold-hunting in Brazil. Maria Pinto was the daughter of a government
official at Manaos, and she was very beautiful. I was young and
ardent in those days, but even now, as I look back with colder blood
and a more critical eye, I can see that she was rare and wonderful in
her beauty. It was a deep rich nature, too, passionate,
whole-hearted, tropical, ill-balanced, very different from the
American women whom I had known. Well, to make a long story short, I
loved her and I married her. It was only when the romance had
passed–and it lingered for years–that I realized that we had
nothing–absolutely nothing–in common. My love faded. If hers had
faded also it might have been easier. But you know the wonderful way
of women! Do what I might, nothing could turn her from me. If I have
been harsh to her, even brutal as some have said, it has been because
I knew that if I could kill her love, or if it turned to hate, it
would be easier for both of us. But nothing changed her. She adored
me in those English woods as she had adored me twenty years ago on
the banks of the Amazon. Do what I might, she was as devoted as ever.

“Then came Miss Grace Dunbar. She answered our advertisement and
became governess to our two children. Perhaps you have seen her
portrait in the papers. The whole world has proclaimed that she also
is a very beautiful woman. Now, I make no pretence to be more moral
than my neighbours, and I will admit to you that I could not live
under the same roof with such a woman and in daily contact with her
without feeling a passionate regard for her. Do you blame me, Mr.
Holmes?”

“I do not blame you for feeling it. I should blame you if you
expressed it, since this young lady was in a sense under your
protection.”

“Well, maybe so,” said the millionaire, though for a moment the
reproof had brought the old angry gleam into his eyes. “I’m not
pretending to be any better than I am. I guess all my life I’ve been
a man that reached out his hand for what he wanted, and I never
wanted anything more than the love and possession of that woman. I
told her so.”

“Oh, you did, did you?”

Holmes could look very formidable when he was moved.

“I said to her that if I could marry her I would, but that it was out
of my power. I said that money was no object and that all I could do
to make her happy and comfortable would be done.”

“Very generous, I am sure,” said Holmes with a sneer.

“See here, Mr. Holmes. I came to you on a question of evidence, not
on a question of morals. I’m not asking for your criticism.”

“It is only for the young lady’s sake that I touch your case at all,”
said Holmes sternly. “I don’t know that anything she is accused of is
really worse than what you have yourself admitted, that you have
tried to ruin a defenceless girl who was under your roof. Some of you
rich men have to be taught that all the world cannot be bribed into
condoning your offences.”

To my surprise the Gold King took the reproof with equanimity.

“That’s how I feel myself about it now. I thank God that my plans did
not work out as I intended. She would have none of it, and she wanted
to leave the house instantly.”

“Why did she not?”

“Well, in the first place, others were dependent upon her, and it was
no light matter for her to let them all down by sacrificing her
living. When I had sworn–as I did–that she should never be molested
again, she consented to remain. But there was another reason. She
knew the influence she had over me, and that it was stronger than any
other influence in the world. She wanted to use it for good.”

“How?”

“Well, she knew something of my affairs. They are large, Mr.
Holmes–large beyond the belief of an ordinary man. I can make or
break–and it is usually break. It wasn’t individuals only. It was
communities, cities, even nations. Business is a hard game, and the
weak go to the wall. I played the game for all it was worth. I never
squealed myself, and I never cared if the other fellow squealed. But
she saw it different. I guess she was right. She believed and said
that a fortune for one man that was more than he needed should not be
built on ten thousand ruined men who were left without the means of
life. That was how she saw it, and I guess she could see past the
dollars to something that was more lasting. She found that I listened
to what she said, and she believed she was serving the world by
influencing my actions. So she stayed–and then this came along.”

“Can you throw any light upon that?”

The Gold King paused for a minute or more, his head sunk in his
hands, lost in deep thought.

“It’s very black against her. I can’t deny that. And women lead an
inward life and may do things beyond the judgment of a man. At first
I was so rattled and taken aback that I was ready to think she had
been led away in some extraordinary fashion that was clean against
her usual nature. One explanation came into my head. I give it to
you, Mr. Holmes, for what it is worth. There is no doubt that my wife
was bitterly jealous. There is a soul-jealousy that can be as frantic
as any body-jealousy, and though my wife had no cause–and I think
she understood this–for the latter, she was aware that this English
girl exerted an influence upon my mind and my acts that she herself
never had. It was an influence for good, but that did not mend the
matter. She was crazy with hatred, and the heat of the Amazon was
always in her blood. She might have planned to murder Miss Dunbar–or
we will say to threaten her with a gun and so frighten her into
leaving us. Then there might have been a scuffle and the gun gone off
and shot the woman who held it.”

“That possibility had already occurred to me,” said Holmes. “Indeed,
it is the only obvious alternative to deliberate murder.”

“But she utterly denies it.”

“Well, that is not final–is it? One can understand that a woman
placed in so awful a position might hurry home still in her
bewilderment holding the revolver. She might even throw it down among
her clothes, hardly knowing what she was doing, and when it was found
she might try to lie her way out by a total denial, since all
explanation was impossible. What is against such a supposition?”

“Miss Dunbar herself.”

“Well, perhaps.”

Holmes looked at his watch. “I have no doubt we can get the necessary
permits this morning and reach Winchester by the evening train. When
I have seen this young lady it is very possible that I may be of more
use to you in the matter, though I cannot promise that my conclusions
will necessarily be such as you desire.”

There was some delay in the official pass, and instead of reaching
Winchester that day we went down to Thor Place, the Hampshire estate
of Mr. Neil Gibson. He did not accompany us himself, but we had the
address of Sergeant Coventry, of the local police, who had first
examined into the affair. He was a tall, thin, cadaverous man, with a
secretive and mysterious manner which conveyed the idea that he knew
or suspected a very great deal more than he dared say. He had a
trick, too, of suddenly sinking his voice to a whisper as if he had
come upon something of vital importance, though the information was
usually commonplace enough. Behind these tricks of manner he soon
showed himself to be a decent, honest fellow who was not too proud to
admit that he was out of his depth and would welcome any help.

“Anyhow, I’d rather have you than Scotland Yard, Mr. Holmes,” said
he. “If the Yard gets called into a case, then the local loses all
credit for success and may be blamed for failure. Now, you play
straight, so I’ve heard.”

“I need not appear in the matter at all,” said Holmes to the evident
relief of our melancholy acquaintance. “If I can clear it up I don’t
ask to have my name mentioned.”

“Well, it’s very handsome of you, I am sure. And your friend, Dr.
Watson, can be trusted, I know. Now, Mr. Holmes, as we walk down to
the place there is one question I should like to ask you. I’d breathe
it to no soul but you.” He looked round as though he hardly dare
utter the words. “Don’t you think there might be a case against Mr.
Neil Gibson himself?”

“I have been considering that.”

“You’ve not seen Miss Dunbar. She is a wonderful fine woman in every
way. He may well have wished his wife out of the road. And these
Americans are readier with pistols than our folk are. It was his
pistol, you know.”

“Was that clearly made out?”

“Yes, sir. It was one of a pair that he had.”

“One of a pair? Where is the other?”

“Well, the gentleman has a lot of firearms of one sort and another.
We never quite matched that particular pistol–but the box was made
for two.”

“If it was one of a pair you should surely be able to match it.”

“Well, we have them all laid out at the house if you would care to
look them over.”

“Later, perhaps. I think we will walk down together and have a look
at the scene of the tragedy.”

This conversation had taken place in the little front room of
Sergeant Coventry’s humble cottage which served as the local
police-station. A walk of half a mile or so across a wind-swept
heath, all gold and bronze with the fading ferns, brought us to a
side-gate opening into the grounds of the Thor Place estate. A path
led us through the pheasant preserves, and then from a clearing we
saw the widespread, half-timbered house, half Tudor and half
Georgian, upon the crest of the hill. Beside us there was a long,
reedy pool, constricted in the centre where the main carriage drive
passed over a stone bridge, but swelling into small lakes on either
side. Our guide paused at the mouth of this bridge, and he pointed to
the ground.

“That was where Mrs. Gibson’s body lay. I marked it by that stone.”

“I understand that you were there before it was moved?”

“Yes, they sent for me at once.”

“Who did?”

“Mr. Gibson himself. The moment the alarm was given and he had rushed
down with others from the house, he insisted that nothing should be
moved until the police should arrive.”

“That was sensible. I gathered from the newspaper report that the
shot was fired from close quarters.”

“Yes, sir, very close.”

“Near the right temple?”

“Just behind it, sir.”

“How did the body lie?”

“On the back, sir. No trace of a struggle. No marks. No weapon. The
short note from Miss Dunbar was clutched in her left hand.”

“Clutched, you say?”

“Yes, sir, we could hardly open the fingers.”

“That is of great importance. It excludes the idea that anyone could
have placed the note there after death in order to furnish a false
clue. Dear me! The note, as I remember, was quite short:

“I will be at Thor Bridge at nine o’clock.
“G. Dunbar.

“Was that not so?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Did Miss Dunbar admit writing it?”

“Yes, sir.”

“What was her explanation?”

“Her defence was reserved for the Assizes. She would say nothing.”

“The problem is certainly a very interesting one. The point of the
letter is very obscure, is it not?”

“Well, sir,” said the guide, “it seemed, if I may be so bold as to
say so, the only really clear point in the whole case.”

Holmes shook his head.

“Granting that the letter is genuine and was really written, it was
certainly received some time before–say one hour or two. Why, then,
was this lady still clasping it in her left hand? Why should she
carry it so carefully? She did not need to refer to it in the
interview. Does it not seem remarkable?”

“Well, sir, as you put it, perhaps it does.”

“I think I should like to sit quietly for a few minutes and think it
out.” He seated himself upon the stone ledge of the bridge, and I
could see his quick gray eyes darting their questioning glances in
every direction. Suddenly he sprang up again and ran across to the
opposite parapet, whipped his lens from his pocket, and began to
examine the stonework.

“This is curious,” said he.

“Yes, sir, we saw the chip on the ledge. I expect it’s been done by
some passer-by.”

The stonework was gray, but at this one point it showed white for a
space not larger than a sixpence. When examined closely one could see
that the surface was chipped as by a sharp blow.

“It took some violence to do that,” said Holmes thoughtfully. With
his cane he struck the ledge several times without leaving a mark.
“Yes, it was a hard knock. In a curious place, too. It was not from
above but from below, for you see that it is on the lower edge of the
parapet.”

“But it is at least fifteen feet from the body.”

“Yes, it is fifteen feet from the body. It may have nothing to do
with the matter, but it is a point worth noting. I do not think that
we have anything more to learn here. There were no footsteps, you
say?”

“The ground was iron hard, sir. There were no traces at all.”

“Then we can go. We will go up to the house first and look over these
weapons of which you speak. Then we shall get on to Winchester, for I
should desire to see Miss Dunbar before we go farther.”

Mr. Neil Gibson had not returned from town, but we saw in the house
the neurotic Mr. Bates who had called upon us in the morning. He
showed us with a sinister relish the formidable array of firearms of
various shapes and sizes which his employer had accumulated in the
course of an adventurous life.

“Mr. Gibson has his enemies, as anyone would expect who knew him and
his methods,” said he. “He sleeps with a loaded revolver in the
drawer beside his bed. He is a man of violence, sir, and there are
times when all of us are afraid of him. I am sure that the poor lady
who has passed was often terrified.”

“Did you ever witness physical violence towards her?”

“No, I cannot say that. But I have heard words which were nearly as
bad–words of cold, cutting contempt, even before the servants.”

“Our millionaire does not seem to shine in private life,” remarked
Holmes as we made our way to the station. “Well, Watson, we have come
on a good many facts, some of them new ones, and yet I seem some way
from my conclusion. In spite of the very evident dislike which Mr.
Bates has to his employer, I gather from him that when the alarm came
he was undoubtedly in his library. Dinner was over at 8.30 and all
was normal up to then. It is true that the alarm was somewhat late in
the evening, but the tragedy certainly occurred about the hour named
in the note. There is no evidence at all that Mr. Gibson had been out
of doors since his return from town at five o’clock. On the other
hand, Miss Dunbar, as I understand it, admits that she had made an
appointment to meet Mrs. Gibson at the bridge. Beyond this she would
say nothing, as her lawyer had advised her to reserve her defence. We
have several very vital questions to ask that young lady, and my mind
will not be easy until we have seen her. I must confess that the case
would seem to me to be very black against her if it were not for one
thing.”

“And what is that, Holmes?”

“The finding of the pistol in her wardrobe.”

“Dear me, Holmes!” I cried, “that seemed to me to be the most damning
incident of all.”

“Not so, Watson. It had struck me even at my first perfunctory
reading as very strange, and now that I am in closer touch with the
case it is my only firm ground for hope. We must look for
consistency. Where there is a want of it we must suspect deception.”

“I hardly follow you.”

“Well now, Watson, suppose for a moment that we visualize you in the
character of a woman who, in a cold, premeditated fashion, is about
to get rid of a rival. You have planned it. A note has been written.
The victim has come. You have your weapon. The crime is done. It has
been workmanlike and complete. Do you tell me that after carrying out
so crafty a crime you would now ruin your reputation as a criminal by
forgetting to fling your weapon into those adjacent reed-beds which
would forever cover it, but you must needs carry it carefully home
and put it in your own wardrobe, the very first place that would be
searched? Your best friends would hardly call you a schemer, Watson,
and yet I could not picture you doing anything so crude as that.”

“In the excitement of the moment–“

“No, no, Watson, I will not admit that it is possible. Where a crime
is coolly premeditated, then the means of covering it are coolly
premeditated also. I hope, therefore, that we are in the presence of
a serious misconception.”

“But there is so much to explain.”

“Well, we shall set about explaining it. When once your point of view
is changed, the very thing which was so damning becomes a clue to the
truth. For example, there is this revolver. Miss Dunbar disclaims all
knowledge of it. On our new theory she is speaking truth when she
says so. Therefore, it was placed in her wardrobe. Who placed it
there? Someone who wished to incriminate her. Was not that person the
actual criminal? You see how we come at once upon a most fruitful
line of inquiry.”

We were compelled to spend the night at Winchester, as the
formalities had not yet been completed, but next morning, in the
company of Mr. Joyce Cummings, the rising barrister who was entrusted
with the defence, we were allowed to see the young lady in her cell.
I had expected from all that we had heard to see a beautiful woman,
but I can never forget the effect which Miss Dunbar produced upon me.
It was no wonder that even the masterful millionaire had found in her
something more powerful than himself–something which could control
and guide him. One felt, too, as one looked at the strong, clear-cut,
and yet sensitive face, that even should she be capable of some
impetuous deed, none the less there was an innate nobility of
character which would make her influence always for the good. She was
a brunette, tall, with a noble figure and commanding presence, but
her dark eyes had in them the appealing, helpless expression of the
hunted creature who feels the nets around it, but can see no way out
from the toils. Now, as she realized the presence and the help of my
famous friend, there came a touch of colour in her wan cheeks and a
light of hope began to glimmer in the glance which she turned upon
us.

“Perhaps Mr. Neil Gibson has told you something of what occurred
between us?” she asked in a low, agitated voice.

“Yes,” Holmes answered, “you need not pain yourself by entering into
that part of the story. After seeing you, I am prepared to accept Mr.
Gibson’s statement both as to the influence which you had over him
and as to the innocence of your relations with him. But why was the
whole situation not brought out in court?”

“It seemed to me incredible that such a charge could be sustained. I
thought that if we waited the whole thing must clear itself up
without our being compelled to enter into painful details of the
inner life of the family. But I understand that far from clearing it
has become even more serious.”

“My dear young lady,” cried Holmes earnestly, “I beg you to have no
illusions upon the point. Mr. Cummings here would assure you that all
the cards are at present against us, and that we must do everything
that is possible if we are to win clear. It would be a cruel
deception to pretend that you are not in very great danger. Give me
all the help you can, then, to get at the truth.”

“I will conceal nothing.”

“Tell us, then, of your true relations with Mr. Gibson’s wife.”

“She hated me, Mr. Holmes. She hated me with all the fervour of her
tropical nature. She was a woman who would do nothing by halves, and
the measure of her love for her husband was the measure also of her
hatred for me. It is probable that she misunderstood our relations. I
would not wish to wrong her, but she loved so vividly in a physical
sense that she could hardly understand the mental, and even
spiritual, tie which held her husband to me, or imagine that it was
only my desire to influence his power to good ends which kept me
under his roof. I can see now that I was wrong. Nothing could justify
me in remaining where I was a cause of unhappiness, and yet it is
certain that the unhappiness would have remained even if I had left
the house.”

“Now, Miss Dunbar,” said Holmes, “I beg you to tell us exactly what
occurred that evening.”

“I can tell you the truth so far as I know it, Mr. Holmes, but I am
in a position to prove nothing, and there are points–the most vital
points–which I can neither explain nor can I imagine any
explanation.”

“If you will find the facts, perhaps others may find the
explanation.”

“With regard, then, to my presence at Thor Bridge that night, I
received a note from Mrs. Gibson in the morning. It lay on the table
of the schoolroom, and it may have been left there by her own hand.
It implored me to see her there after dinner, said she had something
important to say to me, and asked me to leave an answer on the
sundial in the garden, as she desired no one to be in our confidence.
I saw no reason for such secrecy, but I did as she asked, accepting
the appointment. She asked me to destroy her note and I burned it in
the schoolroom grate. She was very much afraid of her husband, who
treated her with a harshness for which I frequently reproached him,
and I could only imagine that she acted in this way because she did
not wish him to know of our interview.”

“Yet she kept your reply very carefully?”

“Yes. I was surprised to hear that she had it in her hand when she
died.”

“Well, what happened then?”

“I went down as I had promised. When I reached the bridge she was
waiting for me. Never did I realize till that moment how this poor
creature hated me. She was like a mad woman–indeed, I think she was
a mad woman, subtly mad with the deep power of deception which insane
people may have. How else could she have met me with unconcern every
day and yet had so raging a hatred of me in her heart? I will not say
what she said. She poured her whole wild fury out in burning and
horrible words. I did not even answer–I could not. It was dreadful
to see her. I put my hands to my ears and rushed away. When I left
her she was standing, still shrieking out her curses at me, in the
mouth of the bridge.”

“Where she was afterwards found?”

“Within a few yards from the spot.”

“And yet, presuming that she met her death shortly after you left
her, you heard no shot?”

“No, I heard nothing. But, indeed, Mr. Holmes, I was so agitated and
horrified by this terrible outbreak that I rushed to get back to the
peace of my own room, and I was incapable of noticing anything which
happened.”

“You say that you returned to your room. Did you leave it again
before next morning?”

“Yes, when the alarm came that the poor creature had met her death I
ran out with the others.”

“Did you see Mr. Gibson?”

“Yes, he had just returned from the bridge when I saw him. He had
sent for the doctor and the police.”

“Did he seem to you much perturbed?”

“Mr. Gibson is a very strong, self-contained man. I do not think that
he would ever show his emotions on the surface. But I, who knew him
so well, could see that he was deeply concerned.”

“Then we come to the all-important point. This pistol that was found
in your room. Had you ever seen it before?”

“Never, I swear it.”

“When was it found?”

“Next morning, when the police made their search.”

“Among your clothes?”

“Yes, on the floor of my wardrobe under my dresses.”

“You could not guess how long it had been there?”

“It had not been there the morning before.”

“How do you know?”

“Because I tidied out the wardrobe.”

“That is final. Then someone came into your room and placed the
pistol there in order to inculpate you.”

“It must have been so.”

“And when?”

“It could only have been at meal-time, or else at the hours when I
would be in the schoolroom with the children.”

“As you were when you got the note?”

“Yes, from that time onward for the whole morning.”

“Thank you, Miss Dunbar. Is there any other point which could help me
in the investigation?”

“I can think of none.”

“There was some sign of violence on the stonework of the bridge–a
perfectly fresh chip just opposite the body. Could you suggest any
possible explanation of that?”

“Surely it must be a mere coincidence.”

“Curious, Miss Dunbar, very curious. Why should it appear at the very
time of the tragedy, and why at the very place?”

“But what could have caused it? Only great violence could have such
an effect.”

Holmes did not answer. His pale, eager face had suddenly assumed that
tense, far-away expression which I had learned to associate with the
supreme manifestations of his genius. So evident was the crisis in
his mind that none of us dared to speak, and we sat, barrister,
prisoner, and myself, watching him in a concentrated and absorbed
silence. Suddenly he sprang from his chair, vibrating with nervous
energy and the pressing need for action.

“Come, Watson, come!” he cried.

“What is it, Mr. Holmes?”

“Never mind, my dear lady. You will hear from me, Mr. Cummings. With
the help of the god of justice I will give you a case which will make
England ring. You will get news by to-morrow, Miss Dunbar, and
meanwhile take my assurance that the clouds are lifting and that I
have every hope that the light of truth is breaking through.”

It was not a long journey from Winchester to Thor Place, but it was
long to me in my impatience, while for Holmes it was evident that it
seemed endless; for, in his nervous restlessness, he could not sit
still, but paced the carriage or drummed with his long, sensitive
fingers upon the cushions beside him. Suddenly, however, as we neared
our destination he seated himself opposite to me–we had a
first-class carriage to ourselves–and laying a hand upon each of my
knees he looked into my eyes with the peculiarly mischievous gaze
which was characteristic of his more imp-like moods.

“Watson,” said he, “I have some recollection that you go armed upon
these excursions of ours.”

It was as well for him that I did so, for he took little care for his
own safety when his mind was once absorbed by a problem, so that more
than once my revolver had been a good friend in need. I reminded him
of the fact.

“Yes, yes, I am a little absent-minded in such matters. But have you
your revolver on you?”

I produced it from my hip-pocket, a short, handy, but very
serviceable little weapon. He undid the catch, shook out the
cartridges, and examined it with care.

“It’s heavy–remarkably heavy,” said he.

“Yes, it is a solid bit of work.”

He mused over it for a minute.

“Do you know, Watson,” said he, “I believe your revolver is going to
have a very intimate connection with the mystery which we are
investigating.”

“My dear Holmes, you are joking.”

“No, Watson, I am very serious. There is a test before us. If the
test comes off, all will be clear. And the test will depend upon the
conduct of this little weapon. One cartridge out. Now we will replace
the other five and put on the safety-catch. So! That increases the
weight and makes it a better reproduction.”

I had no glimmer of what was in his mind, nor did he enlighten me,
but sat lost in thought until we pulled up in the little Hampshire
station. We secured a ramshackle trap, and in a quarter of an hour
were at the house of our confidential friend, the sergeant.

“A clue, Mr. Holmes? What is it?”

“It all depends upon the behaviour of Dr. Watson’s revolver,” said my
friend. “Here it is. Now, officer, can you give me ten yards of
string?”

The village shop provided a ball of stout twine.

“I think that this is all we will need,” said Holmes. “Now, if you
please, we will get off on what I hope is the last stage of our
journey.”

The sun was setting and turning the rolling Hampshire moor into a
wonderful autumnal panorama. The sergeant, with many critical and
incredulous glances, which showed his deep doubts of the sanity of my
companion, lurched along beside us. As we approached the scene of the
crime I could see that my friend under all his habitual coolness was
in truth deeply agitated.

“Yes,” he said in answer to my remark, “you have seen me miss my mark
before, Watson. I have an instinct for such things, and yet it has
sometimes played me false. It seemed a certainty when first it
flashed across my mind in the cell at Winchester, but one drawback of
an active mind is that one can always conceive alternative
explanations which would make our scent a false one. And yet–and
yet– Well, Watson, we can but try.”

As he walked he had firmly tied one end of the string to the handle
of the revolver. We had now reached the scene of the tragedy. With
great care he marked out under the guidance of the policeman the
exact spot where the body had been stretched. He then hunted among
the heather and the ferns until he found a considerable stone. This
he secured to the other end of his line of string, and he hung it
over the parapet of the bridge so that it swung clear above the
water. He then stood on the fatal spot, some distance from the edge
of the bridge, with my revolver in his hand, the string being taut
between the weapon and the heavy stone on the farther side.

“Now for it!” he cried.

At the words he raised the pistol to his head, and then let go his
grip. In an instant it had been whisked away by the weight of the
stone, had struck with a sharp crack against the parapet, and had
vanished over the side into the water. It had hardly gone before
Holmes was kneeling beside the stonework, and a joyous cry showed
that he had found what he expected.

“Was there ever a more exact demonstration?” he cried. “See, Watson,
your revolver has solved the problem!” As he spoke he pointed to a
second chip of the exact size and shape of the first which had
appeared on the under edge of the stone balustrade.

“We’ll stay at the inn to-night,” he continued as he rose and faced
the astonished sergeant. “You will, of course, get a grappling-hook
and you will easily restore my friend’s revolver. You will also find
beside it the revolver, string and weight with which this vindictive
woman attempted to disguise her own crime and to fasten a charge of
murder upon an innocent victim. You can let Mr. Gibson know that I
will see him in the morning, when steps can be taken for Miss
Dunbar’s vindication.”

Late that evening, as we sat together smoking our pipes in the
village inn, Holmes gave me a brief review of what had passed.

“I fear, Watson,” said he, “that you will not improve any reputation
which I may have acquired by adding the case of the Thor Bridge
mystery to your annals. I have been sluggish in mind and wanting in
that mixture of imagination and reality which is the basis of my art.
I confess that the chip in the stonework was a sufficient clue to
suggest the true solution, and that I blame myself for not having
attained it sooner.

“It must be admitted that the workings of this unhappy woman’s mind
were deep and subtle, so that it was no very simple matter to unravel
her plot. I do not think that in our adventures we have ever come
across a stranger example of what perverted love can bring about.
Whether Miss Dunbar was her rival in a physical or in a merely mental
sense seems to have been equally unforgivable in her eyes. No doubt
she blamed this innocent lady for all those harsh dealings and unkind
words with which her husband tried to repel her too demonstrative
affection. Her first resolution was to end her own life. Her second
was to do it in such a way as to involve her victim in a fate which
was worse far than any sudden death could be.

“We can follow the various steps quite clearly, and they show a
remarkable subtlety of mind. A note was extracted very cleverly from
Miss Dunbar which would make it appear that she had chosen the scene
of the crime. In her anxiety that it should be discovered she
somewhat overdid it by holding it in her hand to the last. This alone
should have excited my suspicions earlier than it did.

“Then she took one of her husband’s revolvers–there was, as you saw,
an arsenal in the house–and kept it for her own use. A similar one
she concealed that morning in Miss Dunbar’s wardrobe after
discharging one barrel, which she could easily do in the woods
without attracting attention. She then went down to the bridge where
she had contrived this exceedingly ingenious method for getting rid
of her weapon. When Miss Dunbar appeared she used her last breath in
pouring out her hatred, and then, when she was out of hearing,
carried out her terrible purpose. Every link is now in its place and
the chain is complete. The papers may ask why the mere was not
dragged in the first instance, but it is easy to be wise after the
event, and in any case the expanse of a reed-filled lake is no easy
matter to drag unless you have a clear perception of what you are
looking for and where. Well, Watson, we have helped a remarkable
woman, and also a formidable man. Should they in the future join
their forces, as seems not unlikely, the financial world may find
that Mr. Neil Gibson has learned something in that schoolroom of
sorrow where our earthly lessons are taught.”

Mr. Sherlock Holmes was always of opinion that I should publish the
singular facts connected with Professor Presbury, if only to dispel
once for all the ugly rumours which some twenty years ago agitated
the university and were echoed in the learned societies of London.
There were, however, certain obstacles in the way, and the true
history of this curious case remained entombed in the tin box which
contains so many records of my friend’s adventures. Now we have at
last obtained permission to ventilate the facts which formed one of
the very last cases handled by Holmes before his retirement from
practice. Even now a certain reticence and discretion have to be
observed in laying the matter before the public.

It was one Sunday evening early in September of the year 1903 that I
received one of Holmes’s laconic messages:

Come at once if convenient–if inconvenient come all the same.
S. H.

The relations between us in those latter days were peculiar. He was a
man of habits, narrow and concentrated habits, and I had become one
of them. As an institution I was like the violin, the shag tobacco,
the old black pipe, the index books, and others perhaps less
excusable. When it was a case of active work and a comrade was needed
upon whose nerve he could place some reliance, my role was obvious.
But apart from this I had uses. I was a whetstone for his mind. I
stimulated him. He liked to think aloud in my presence. His remarks
could hardly be said to be made to me–many of them would have been
as appropriately addressed to his bedstead–but none the less, having
formed the habit, it had become in some way helpful that I should
register and interject. If I irritated him by a certain methodical
slowness in my mentality, that irritation served only to make his own
flame-like intuitions and impressions flash up the more vividly and
swiftly. Such was my humble role in our alliance.

When I arrived at Baker Street I found him huddled up in his armchair
with updrawn knees, his pipe in his mouth and his brow furrowed with
thought. It was clear that he was in the throes of some vexatious
problem. With a wave of his hand he indicated my old armchair, but
otherwise for half an hour he gave no sign that he was aware of my
presence. Then with a start he seemed to come from his reverie, and
with his usual whimsical smile he greeted me back to what had once
been my home.

“You will excuse a certain abstraction of mind, my dear Watson,” said
he. “Some curious facts have been submitted to me within the last
twenty-four hours, and they in turn have given rise to some
speculations of a more general character. I have serious thoughts of
writing a small monograph upon the uses of dogs in the work of the
detective.”

“But surely, Holmes, this has been explored,” said I.
“Bloodhounds–sleuth-hounds–“

“No, no, Watson, that side of the matter is, of course, obvious. But
there is another which is far more subtle. You may recollect that in
the case which you, in your sensational way, coupled with the Copper
Beeches, I was able, by watching the mind of the child, to form a
deduction as to the criminal habits of the very smug and respectable
father.”

“Yes, I remember it well.”

“My line of thoughts about dogs is analogous. A dog reflects the
family life. Whoever saw a frisky dog in a gloomy family, or a sad
dog in a happy one? Snarling people have snarling dogs, dangerous
people have dangerous ones. And their passing moods may reflect the
passing moods of others.”

I shook my head. “Surely, Holmes, this is a little far-fetched,” said
I.

He had refilled his pipe and resumed his seat, taking no notice of my
comment.

“The practical application of what I have said is very close to the
problem which I am investigating. It is a tangled skein, you
understand, and I am looking for a loose end. One possible loose end
lies in the question: Why does Professor Presbury’s wolfhound, Roy,
endeavour to bite him?”

I sank back in my chair in some disappointment. Was it for so trivial
a question as this that I had been summoned from my work? Holmes
glanced across at me.

“The same old Watson!” said he. “You never learn that the gravest
issues may depend upon the smallest things. But is it not on the face
of it strange that a staid, elderly philosopher–you’ve heard of
Presbury, of course, the famous Camford physiologist?–that such a
man, whose friend has been his devoted wolfhound, should now have
been twice attacked by his own dog? What do you make of it?”

“The dog is ill.”

“Well, that has to be considered. But he attacks no one else, nor
does he apparently molest his master, save on very special occasions.
Curious, Watson–very curious. But young Mr. Bennett is before his
time if that is his ring. I had hoped to have a longer chat with you
before he came.”

There was a quick step on the stairs, a sharp tap at the door, and a
moment later the new client presented himself. He was a tall,
handsome youth about thirty, well dressed and elegant, but with
something in his bearing which suggested the shyness of the student
rather than the self-possession of the man of the world. He shook
hands with Holmes, and then looked with some surprise at me.

“This matter is very delicate, Mr. Holmes,” he said. “Consider the
relation in which I stand to Professor Presbury both privately and
publicly. I really can hardly justify myself if I speak before any
third person.”

“Have no fear, Mr. Bennett. Dr. Watson is the very soul of
discretion, and I can assure you that this is a matter in which I am
very likely to need an assistant.”

“As you like, Mr. Holmes. You will, I am sure, understand my having
some reserves in the matter.”

“You will appreciate it, Watson, when I tell you that this gentleman,
Mr. Trevor Bennett, is professional assistant to the great scientist,
lives under his roof, and is engaged to his only daughter. Certainly
we must agree that the professor has every claim upon his loyalty and
devotion. But it may best be shown by taking the necessary steps to
clear up this strange mystery.”

“I hope so, Mr. Holmes. That is my one object. Does Dr. Watson know
the situation?”

“I have not had time to explain it.”

“Then perhaps I had better go over the ground again before explaining
some fresh developments.”

“I will do so myself,” said Holmes, “in order to show that I have the
events in their due order. The professor, Watson, is a man of
European reputation. His life has been academic. There has never been
a breath of scandal. He is a widower with one daughter, Edith. He is,
I gather, a man of very virile and positive, one might almost say
combative, character. So the matter stood until a very few months
ago.

“Then the current of his life was broken. He is sixty-one years of
age, but he became engaged to the daughter of Professor Morphy, his
colleague in the chair of comparative anatomy. It was not, as I
understand, the reasoned courting of an elderly man but rather the
passionate frenzy of youth, for no one could have shown himself a
more devoted lover. The lady, Alice Morphy, was a very perfect girl
both in mind and body, so that there was every excuse for the
professor’s infatuation. None the less, it did not meet with full
approval in his own family.”

“We thought it rather excessive,” said our visitor.

“Exactly. Excessive and a little violent and unnatural. Professor
Presbury was rich, however, and there was no objection upon the part
of the father. The daughter, however, had other views, and there were
already several candidates for her hand, who, if they were less
eligible from a worldly point of view, were at least more of an age.
The girl seemed to like the professor in spite of his eccentricities.
It was only age which stood in the way.

“About this time a little mystery suddenly clouded the normal routine
of the professor’s life. He did what he had never done before. He
left home and gave no indication where he was going. He was away a
fortnight and returned looking rather travel-worn. He made no
allusion to where he had been, although he was usually the frankest
of men. It chanced, however, that our client here, Mr. Bennett,
received a letter from a fellow-student in Prague, who said that he
was glad to have seen Professor Presbury there, although he had not
been able to talk to him. Only in this way did his own household
learn where he had been.

“Now comes the point. From that time onward a curious change came
over the professor. He became furtive and sly. Those around him had
always the feeling that he was not the man that they had known, but
that he was under some shadow which had darkened his higher
qualities. His intellect was not affected. His lectures were as
brilliant as ever. But always there was something new, something
sinister and unexpected. His daughter, who was devoted to him, tried
again and again to resume the old relations and to penetrate this
mask which her father seemed to have put on. You, sir, as I
understand, did the same–but all was in vain. And now, Mr. Bennett,
tell in your own words the incident of the letters.”

“You must understand, Dr. Watson, that the professor had no secrets
from me. If I were his son or his younger brother I could not have
more completely enjoyed his confidence. As his secretary I handled
every paper which came to him, and I opened and subdivided his
letters. Shortly after his return all this was changed. He told me
that certain letters might come to him from London which would be
marked by a cross under the stamp. These were to be set aside for his
own eyes only. I may say that several of these did pass through my
hands, that they had the E. C. mark, and were in an illiterate
handwriting. If he answered them at all the answers did not pass
through my hands nor into the letter-basket in which our
correspondence was collected.”

“And the box,” said Holmes.

“Ah, yes, the box. The professor brought back a little wooden box
from his travels. It was the one thing which suggested a Continental
tour, for it was one of those quaint carved things which one
associates with Germany. This he placed in his instrument cupboard.
One day, in looking for a canula, I took up the box. To my surprise
he was very angry, and reproved me in words which were quite savage
for my curiosity. It was the first time such a thing had happened,
and I was deeply hurt. I endeavoured to explain that it was a mere
accident that I had touched the box, but all the evening I was
conscious that he looked at me harshly and that the incident was
rankling in his mind.” Mr. Bennett drew a little diary book from his
pocket. “That was on July 2d,” said he.

“You are certainly an admirable witness,” said Holmes. “I may need
some of these dates which you have noted.”

“I learned method among other things from my great teacher. From the
time that I observed abnormality in his behaviour I felt that it was
my duty to study his case. Thus I have it here that it was on that
very day, July 2d, that Roy attacked the professor as he came from
his study into the hall. Again, on July 11th, there was a scene of
the same sort, and then I have a note of yet another upon July 20th.
After that we had to banish Roy to the stables. He was a dear,
affectionate animal–but I fear I weary you.”

Mr. Bennett spoke in a tone of reproach, for it was very clear that
Holmes was not listening. His face was rigid and his eyes gazed
abstractedly at the ceiling. With an effort he recovered himself.

“Singular! Most singular!” he murmured. “These details were new to
me, Mr. Bennett. I think we have now fairly gone over the old ground,
have we not? But you spoke of some fresh developments.”

The pleasant, open face of our visitor clouded over, shadowed by some
grim remembrance. “What I speak of occurred the night before last,”
said he. “I was lying awake about two in the morning, when I was
aware of a dull muffled sound coming from the passage. I opened my
door and peeped out. I should explain that the professor sleeps at
the end of the passage–“

“The date being–?” asked Holmes.

Our visitor was clearly annoyed at so irrelevant an interruption.

“I have said, sir, that it was the night before last–that is,
September 4th.”

Holmes nodded and smiled.

“Pray continue,” said he.

“He sleeps at the end of the passage and would have to pass my door
in order to reach the staircase. It was a really terrifying
experience, Mr. Holmes. I think that I am as strong-nerved as my
neighbours, but I was shaken by what I saw. The passage was dark save
that one window halfway along it threw a patch of light. I could see
that something was coming along the passage, something dark and
crouching. Then suddenly it emerged into the light, and I saw that it
was he. He was crawling, Mr. Holmes–crawling! He was not quite on
his hands and knees. I should rather say on his hands and feet, with
his face sunk between his hands. Yet he seemed to move with ease. I
was so paralyzed by the sight that it was not until he had reached my
door that I was able to step forward and ask if I could assist him.
His answer was extraordinary. He sprang up, spat out some atrocious
word at me, and hurried on past me, and down the staircase. I waited
about for an hour, but he did not come back. It must have been
daylight before he regained his room.”

“Well, Watson, what make you of that?” asked Holmes with the air of
the pathologist who presents a rare specimen.

“Lumbago, possibly. I have known a severe attack make a man walk in
just such a way, and nothing would be more trying to the temper.”

“Good, Watson! You always keep us flat-footed on the ground. But we
can hardly accept lumbago, since he was able to stand erect in a
moment.”

“He was never better in health,” said Bennett. “In fact, he is
stronger than I have known him for years. But there are the facts,
Mr. Holmes. It is not a case in which we can consult the police, and
yet we are utterly at our wit’s end as to what to do, and we feel in
some strange way that we are drifting towards disaster. Edith–Miss
Presbury–feels as I do, that we cannot wait passively any longer.”

“It is certainly a very curious and suggestive case. What do you
think, Watson?”

“Speaking as a medical man,” said I, “it appears to be a case for an
alienist. The old gentleman’s cerebral processes were disturbed by
the love affair. He made a journey abroad in the hope of breaking
himself of the passion. His letters and the box may be connected with
some other private transaction–a loan, perhaps, or share
certificates, which are in the box.”

“And the wolfhound no doubt disapproved of the financial bargain. No,
no, Watson, there is more in it than this. Now, I can only suggest–“

What Sherlock Holmes was about to suggest will never be known, for at
this moment the door opened and a young lady was shown into the room.
As she appeared Mr. Bennett sprang up with a cry and ran forward with
his hands out to meet those which she had herself outstretched.

“Edith, dear! Nothing the matter, I hope?”

“I felt I must follow you. Oh, Jack, I have been so dreadfully
frightened! It is awful to be there alone.”

“Mr. Holmes, this is the young lady I spoke of. This is my fiancee.”

“We were gradually coming to that conclusion, were we not, Watson?”
Holmes answered with a smile. “I take it, Miss Presbury, that there
is some fresh development in the case, and that you thought we should
know?”

Our new visitor, a bright, handsome girl of a conventional English
type, smiled back at Holmes as she seated herself beside Mr. Bennett.

“When I found Mr. Bennett had left his hotel I thought I should
probably find him here. Of course, he had told me that he would
consult you. But, oh, Mr. Holmes, can you do nothing for my poor
father?”

“I have hopes, Miss Presbury, but the case is still obscure. Perhaps
what you have to say may throw some fresh light upon it.”

“It was last night, Mr. Holmes. He had been very strange all day. I
am sure that there are times when he has no recollection of what he
does. He lives as in a strange dream. Yesterday was such a day. It
was not my father with whom I lived. His outward shell was there, but
it was not really he.”

“Tell me what happened.”

“I was awakened in the night by the dog barking most furiously. Poor
Roy, he is chained now near the stable. I may say that I always sleep
with my door locked; for, as Jack–as Mr. Bennett–will tell you, we
all have a feeling of impending danger. My room is on the second
floor. It happened that the blind was up in my window, and there was
bright moonlight outside. As I lay with my eyes fixed upon the square
of light, listening to the frenzied barkings of the dog, I was amazed
to see my father’s face looking in at me. Mr. Holmes, I nearly died
of surprise and horror. There it was pressed against the window-pane,
and one hand seemed to be raised as if to push up the window. If that
window had opened, I think I should have gone mad. It was no
delusion, Mr. Holmes. Don’t deceive yourself by thinking so. I dare
say it was twenty seconds or so that I lay paralyzed and watched the
face. Then it vanished, but I could not–I could not spring out of
bed and look out after it. I lay cold and shivering till morning. At
breakfast he was sharp and fierce in manner, and made no allusion to
the adventure of the night. Neither did I, but I gave an excuse for
coming to town–and here I am.”

Holmes looked thoroughly surprised at Miss Presbury’s narrative.

“My dear young lady, you say that your room is on the second floor.
Is there a long ladder in the garden?”

“No, Mr. Holmes, that is the amazing part of it. There is no possible
way of reaching the window–and yet he was there.”

“The date being September 5th,” said Holmes. “That certainly
complicates matters.”

It was the young lady’s turn to look surprised. “This is the second
time that you have alluded to the date, Mr. Holmes,” said Bennett.
“Is it possible that it has any bearing upon the case?”

“It is possible–very possible–and yet I have not my full material
at present.”

“Possibly you are thinking of the connection between insanity and
phases of the moon?”

“No, I assure you. It was quite a different line of thought. Possibly
you can leave your notebook with me, and I will check the dates. Now
I think, Watson, that our line of action is perfectly clear. This
young lady has informed us–and I have the greatest confidence in her
intuition–that her father remembers little or nothing which occurs
upon certain dates. We will therefore call upon him as if he had
given us an appointment upon such a date. He will put it down to his
own lack of memory. Thus we will open our campaign by having a good
close view of him.”

“That is excellent,” said Mr. Bennett. “I warn you, however, that the
professor is irascible and violent at times.”

Holmes smiled. “There are reasons why we should come at once–very
cogent reasons if my theories hold good. To-morrow, Mr. Bennett, will
certainly see us in Camford. There is, if I remember right, an inn
called the Chequers where the port used to be above mediocrity and
the linen was above reproach. I think, Watson, that our lot for the
next few days might lie in less pleasant places.”

Monday morning found us on our way to the famous university town–an
easy effort on the part of Holmes, who had no roots to pull up, but
one which involved frantic planning and hurrying on my part, as my
practice was by this time not inconsiderable. Holmes made no allusion
to the case until after we had deposited our suitcases at the ancient
hostel of which he had spoken.

“I think, Watson, that we can catch the professor just before lunch.
He lectures at eleven and should have an interval at home.”

“What possible excuse have we for calling?”

Holmes glanced at his notebook.

“There was a period of excitement upon August 26th. We will assume
that he is a little hazy as to what he does at such times. If we
insist that we are there by appointment I think he will hardly
venture to contradict us. Have you the effrontery necessary to put it
through?”

“We can but try.”

“Excellent, Watson! Compound of the Busy Bee and Excelsior. We can
but try–the motto of the firm. A friendly native will surely guide
us.”

Such a one on the back of a smart hansom swept us past a row of
ancient colleges and, finally turning into a tree-lined drive, pulled
up at the door of a charming house, girt round with lawns and covered
with purple wisteria. Professor Presbury was certainly surrounded
with every sign not only of comfort but of luxury. Even as we pulled
up, a grizzled head appeared at the front window, and we were aware
of a pair of keen eyes from under shaggy brows which surveyed us
through large horn glasses. A moment later we were actually in his
sanctum, and the mysterious scientist, whose vagaries had brought us
from London, was standing before us. There was certainly no sign of
eccentricity either in his manner or appearance, for he was a portly,
large-featured man, grave, tall, and frock-coated, with the dignity
of bearing which a lecturer needs. His eyes were his most remarkable
feature, keen, observant, and clever to the verge of cunning.

He looked at our cards. “Pray sit down, gentlemen. What can I do for
you?”

Mr. Holmes smiled amiably.

“It was the question which I was about to put to you, Professor.”

“To me, sir!”

“Possibly there is some mistake. I heard through a second person that
Professor Presbury of Camford had need of my services.”

“Oh, indeed!” It seemed to me that there was a malicious sparkle in
the intense gray eyes. “You heard that, did you? May I ask the name
of your informant?”

“I am sorry, Professor, but the matter was rather confidential. If I
have made a mistake there is no harm done. I can only express my
regret.”

“Not at all. I should wish to go further into this matter. It
interests me. Have you any scrap of writing, any letter or telegram,
to bear out your assertion?”

“No, I have not.”

“I presume that you do not go so far as to assert that I summoned
you?”

“I would rather answer no questions,” said Holmes.

“No, I dare say not,” said the professor with asperity. “However,
that particular one can be answered very easily without your aid.”

He walked across the room to the bell. Our London friend, Mr.
Bennett, answered the call.

“Come in, Mr. Bennett. These two gentlemen have come from London
under the impression that they have been summoned. You handle all my
correspondence. Have you a note of anything going to a person named
Holmes?”

“No, sir,” Bennett answered with a flush.

“That is conclusive,” said the professor, glaring angrily at my
companion. “Now, sir”–he leaned forward with his two hands upon the
table–“it seems to me that your position is a very questionable
one.”

Holmes shrugged his shoulders.

“I can only repeat that I am sorry that we have made a needless
intrusion.”

“Hardly enough, Mr. Holmes!” the old man cried in a high screaming
voice, with extraordinary malignancy upon his face. He got between us
and the door as he spoke, and he shook his two hands at us with
furious passion. “You can hardly get out of it so easily as that.”
His face was convulsed, and he grinned and gibbered at us in his
senseless rage. I am convinced that we should have had to fight our
way out of the room if Mr. Bennett had not intervened.

“My dear Professor,” he cried, “consider your position! Consider the
scandal at the university! Mr. Holmes is a well-known man. You cannot
possibly treat him with such discourtesy.”

Sulkily our host–if I may call him so–cleared the path to the door.
We were glad to find ourselves outside the house and in the quiet of
the tree-lined drive. Holmes seemed greatly amused by the episode.

“Our learned friend’s nerves are somewhat out of order,” said he.
“Perhaps our intrusion was a little crude, and yet we have gained
that personal contact which I desired. But, dear me, Watson, he is
surely at our heels. The villain still pursues us.”

There were the sounds of running feet behind, but it was, to my
relief, not the formidable professor but his assistant who appeared
round the curve of the drive. He came panting up to us.

“I am so sorry, Mr. Holmes. I wished to apologize.”

“My dear sir, there is no need. It is all in the way of professional
experience.”

“I have never seen him in a more dangerous mood. But he grows more
sinister. You can understand now why his daughter and I are alarmed.
And yet his mind is perfectly clear.”

“Too clear!” said Holmes. “That was my miscalculation. It is evident
that his memory is much more reliable than I had thought. By the way,
can we, before we go, see the window of Miss Presbury’s room?”

Mr. Bennett pushed his way through some shrubs, and we had a view of
the side of the house.

“It is there. The second on the left.”

“Dear me, it seems hardly accessible. And yet you will observe that
there is a creeper below and a water-pipe above which give some
foothold.”

“I could not climb it myself,” said Mr. Bennett.

“Very likely. It would certainly be a dangerous exploit for any
normal man.”

“There was one other thing I wish to tell you, Mr. Holmes. I have the
address of the man in London to whom the professor writes. He seems
to have written this morning, and I got it from his blotting-paper.
It is an ignoble position for a trusted secretary, but what else can
I do?”

Holmes glanced at the paper and put it into his pocket.

“Dorak–a curious name. Slavonic, I imagine. Well, it is an important
link in the chain. We return to London this afternoon, Mr. Bennett. I
see no good purpose to be served by our remaining. We cannot arrest
the professor because he has done no crime, nor can we place him
under constraint, for he cannot be proved to be mad. No action is as
yet possible.”

“Then what on earth are we to do?”

“A little patience, Mr. Bennett. Things will soon develop. Unless I
am mistaken, next Tuesday may mark a crisis. Certainly we shall be in
Camford on that day. Meanwhile, the general position is undeniably
unpleasant, and if Miss Presbury can prolong her visit–“

“That is easy.”

“Then let her stay till we can assure her that all danger is past.
Meanwhile, let him have his way and do not cross him. So long as he
is in a good humour all is well.”

“There he is!” said Bennett in a startled whisper. Looking between
the branches we saw the tall, erect figure emerge from the hall door
and look around him. He stood leaning forward, his hands swinging
straight before him, his head turning from side to side. The
secretary with a last wave slipped off among the trees, and we saw
him presently rejoin his employer, the two entering the house
together in what seemed to be animated and even excited conversation.

“I expect the old gentleman has been putting two and two together,”
said Holmes as we walked hotelward. “He struck me as having a
particularly clear and logical brain from the little I saw of him.
Explosive, no doubt, but then from his point of view he has something
to explode about if detectives are put on his track and he suspects
his own household of doing it. I rather fancy that friend Bennett is
in for an uncomfortable time.”

Holmes stopped at a post-office and sent off a telegram on our way.
The answer reached us in the evening, and he tossed it across to me.

Have visited the Commercial Road and seen Dorak. Suave person,
Bohemian, elderly. Keeps large general store.
Mercer.

“Mercer is since your time,” said Holmes. “He is my general utility
man who looks up routine business. It was important to know something
of the man with whom our professor was so secretly corresponding. His
nationality connects up with the Prague visit.”

“Thank goodness that something connects with something,” said I. “At
present we seem to be faced by a long series of inexplicable
incidents with no bearing upon each other. For example, what possible
connection can there be between an angry wolfhound and a visit to
Bohemia, or either of them with a man crawling down a passage at
night? As to your dates, that is the biggest mystification of all.”

Holmes smiled and rubbed his hands. We were, I may say, seated in the
old sitting-room of the ancient hotel, with a bottle of the famous
vintage of which Holmes had spoken on the table between us.

“Well, now, let us take the dates first,” said he, his finger-tips
together and his manner as if he were addressing a class. “This
excellent young man’s diary shows that there was trouble upon July
2d, and from then onward it seems to have been at nine-day intervals,
with, so far as I remember, only one exception. Thus the last
outbreak upon Friday was on September 3d, which also falls into the
series, as did August 26th, which preceded it. The thing is beyond
coincidence.”

I was forced to agree.

“Let us, then, form the provisional theory that every nine days the
professor takes some strong drug which has a passing but highly
poisonous effect. His naturally violent nature is intensified by it.
He learned to take this drug while he was in Prague, and is now
supplied with it by a Bohemian intermediary in London. This all hangs
together, Watson!”

“But the dog, the face at the window, the creeping man in the
passage?”

“Well, well, we have made a beginning. I should not expect any fresh
developments until next Tuesday. In the meantime we can only keep in
touch with friend Bennett and enjoy the amenities of this charming
town.”

In the morning Mr. Bennett slipped round to bring us the latest
report. As Holmes had imagined, times had not been easy with him.
Without exactly accusing him of being responsible for our presence,
the professor had been very rough and rude in his speech, and
evidently felt some strong grievance. This morning he was quite
himself again, however, and had delivered his usual brilliant lecture
to a crowded class. “Apart from his queer fits,” said Bennett, “he
has actually more energy and vitality than I can ever remember, nor
was his brain ever clearer. But it’s not he–it’s never the man whom
we have known.”

“I don’t think you have anything to fear now for a week at least,”
Holmes answered. “I am a busy man, and Dr. Watson has his patients to
attend to. Let us agree that we meet here at this hour next Tuesday,
and I shall be surprised if before we leave you again we are not able
to explain, even if we cannot perhaps put an end to, your troubles.
Meanwhile, keep us posted in what occurs.”

I saw nothing of my friend for the next few days, but on the
following Monday evening I had a short note asking me to meet him
next day at the train. From what he told me as we travelled up to
Camford all was well, the peace of the professor’s house had been
unruffled, and his own conduct perfectly normal. This also was the
report which was given us by Mr. Bennett himself when he called upon
us that evening at our old quarters in the Chequers. “He heard from
his London correspondent to-day. There was a letter and there was a
small packet, each with the cross under the stamp which warned me not
to touch them. There has been nothing else.”

“That may prove quite enough,” said Holmes grimly. “Now, Mr. Bennett,
we shall, I think, come to some conclusion to-night. If my deductions
are correct we should have an opportunity of bringing matters to a
head. In order to do so it is necessary to hold the professor under
observation. I would suggest, therefore, that you remain awake and on
the lookout. Should you hear him pass your door, do not interrupt
him, but follow him as discreetly as you can. Dr. Watson and I will
not be far off. By the way, where is the key of that little box of
which you spoke?”

“Upon his watch-chain.”

“I fancy our researches must lie in that direction. At the worst the
lock should not be very formidable. Have you any other able-bodied
man on the premises?”

“There is the coachman, Macphail.”

“Where does he sleep?”

“Over the stables.”

“We might possibly want him. Well, we can do no more until we see how
things develop. Good-bye–but I expect that we shall see you before
morning.”

It was nearly midnight before we took our station among some bushes
immediately opposite the hall door of the professor. It was a fine
night, but chilly, and we were glad of our warm overcoats. There was
a breeze, and clouds were scudding across the sky, obscuring from
time to time the half-moon. It would have been a dismal vigil were it
not for the expectation and excitement which carried us along, and
the assurance of my comrade that we had probably reached the end of
the strange sequence of events which had engaged our attention.

“If the cycle of nine days holds good then we shall have the
professor at his worst to-night,” said Holmes. “The fact that these
strange symptoms began after his visit to Prague, that he is in
secret correspondence with a Bohemian dealer in London, who
presumably represents someone in Prague, and that he received a
packet from him this very day, all point in one direction. What he
takes and why he takes it are still beyond our ken, but that it
emanates in some way from Prague is clear enough. He takes it under
definite directions which regulate this ninth-day system, which was
the first point which attracted my attention. But his symptoms are
most remarkable. Did you observe his knuckles?”

I had to confess that I did not.

“Thick and horny in a way which is quite new in my experience. Always
look at the hands first, Watson. Then cuffs, trouser-knees, and
boots. Very curious knuckles which can only be explained by the mode
of progression observed by–” Holmes paused and suddenly clapped his
hand to his forehead. “Oh, Watson, Watson, what a fool I have been!
It seems incredible, and yet it must be true. All points in one
direction. How could I miss seeing the connection of ideas? Those
knuckles–how could I have passed those knuckles? And the dog! And
the ivy! It’s surely time that I disappeared into that little farm of
my dreams. Look out, Watson! Here he is! We shall have the chance of
seeing for ourselves.”

The hall door had slowly opened, and against the lamplit background
we saw the tall figure of Professor Presbury. He was clad in his
dressing-gown. As he stood outlined in the doorway he was erect but
leaning forward with dangling arms, as when we saw him last.

Now he stepped forward into the drive, and an extraordinary change
came over him. He sank down into a crouching position and moved along
upon his hands and feet, skipping every now and then as if he were
overflowing with energy and vitality. He moved along the face of the
house and then round the corner. As he disappeared Bennett slipped
through the hall door and softly followed him.

“Come, Watson, come!” cried Holmes, and we stole as softly as we
could through the bushes until we had gained a spot whence we could
see the other side of the house, which was bathed in the light of the
half-moon. The professor was clearly visible crouching at the foot of
the ivy-covered wall. As we watched him he suddenly began with
incredible agility to ascend it. From branch to branch he sprang,
sure of foot and firm of grasp, climbing apparently in mere joy at
his own powers, with no definite object in view. With his
dressing-gown flapping on each side of him, he looked like some huge
bat glued against the side of his own house, a great square dark
patch upon the moonlit wall. Presently he tired of this amusement,
and, dropping from branch to branch, he squatted down into the old
attitude and moved towards the stables, creeping along in the same
strange way as before. The wolfhound was out now, barking furiously,
and more excited than ever when it actually caught sight of its
master. It was straining on its chain and quivering with eagerness
and rage. The professor squatted down very deliberately just out of
reach of the hound and began to provoke it in every possible way. He
took handfuls of pebbles from the drive and threw them in the dog’s
face, prodded him with a stick which he had picked up, flicked his
hands about only a few inches from the gaping mouth, and endeavoured
in every way to increase the animal’s fury, which was already beyond
all control. In all our adventures I do not know that I have ever
seen a more strange sight than this impassive and still dignified
figure crouching frog-like upon the ground and goading to a wilder
exhibition of passion the maddened hound, which ramped and raged in
front of him, by all manner of ingenious and calculated cruelty.

And then in a moment it happened! It was not the chain that broke,
but it was the collar that slipped, for it had been made for a
thick-necked Newfoundland. We heard the rattle of falling metal, and
the next instant dog and man were rolling on the ground together, the
one roaring in rage, the other screaming in a strange shrill falsetto
of terror. It was a very narrow thing for the professor’s life. The
savage creature had him fairly by the throat, its fangs had bitten
deep, and he was senseless before we could reach them and drag the
two apart. It might have been a dangerous task for us, but Bennett’s
voice and presence brought the great wolfhound instantly to reason.
The uproar had brought the sleepy and astonished coachman from his
room above the stables. “I’m not surprised,” said he, shaking his
head. “I’ve seen him at it before. I knew the dog would get him
sooner or later.”

The hound was secured, and together we carried the professor up to
his room, where Bennett, who had a medical degree, helped me to dress
his torn throat. The sharp teeth had passed dangerously near the
carotid artery, and the haemorrhage was serious. In half an hour the
danger was past, I had given the patient an injection of morphia, and
he had sunk into deep sleep. Then, and only then, were we able to
look at each other and to take stock of the situation.

“I think a first-class surgeon should see him,” said I.

“For God’s sake, no!” cried Bennett. “At present the scandal is
confined to our own household. It is safe with us. If it gets beyond
these walls it will never stop. Consider his position at the
university, his European reputation, the feelings of his daughter.”

“Quite so,” said Holmes. “I think it may be quite possible to keep
the matter to ourselves, and also to prevent its recurrence now that
we have a free hand. The key from the watch-chain, Mr. Bennett.
Macphail will guard the patient and let us know if there is any
change. Let us see what we can find in the professor’s mysterious
box.”

There was not much, but there was enough–an empty phial, another
nearly full, a hypodermic syringe, several letters in a crabbed,
foreign hand. The marks on the envelopes showed that they were those
which had disturbed the routine of the secretary, and each was dated
from the Commercial Road and signed “A. Dorak.” They were mere
invoices to say that a fresh bottle was being sent to Professor
Presbury, or receipt to acknowledge money. There was one other
envelope, however, in a more educated hand and bearing the Austrian
stamp with the postmark of Prague. “Here we have our material!” cried
Holmes as he tore out the enclosure.

Honoured Colleague [it ran]:
Since your esteemed visit I have thought much of your case, and
though in your circumstances there are some special reasons for the
treatment, I would none the less enjoin caution, as my results have
shown that it is not without danger of a kind.
It is possible that the serum of anthropoid would have been better. I
have, as I explained to you, used black-faced langur because a
specimen was accessible. Langur is, of course, a crawler and climber,
while anthropoid walks erect and is in all ways nearer.
I beg you to take every possible precaution that there be no
premature revelation of the process. I have one other client in
England, and Dorak is my agent for both.
Weekly reports will oblige.
Yours with high esteem,
H. Lowenstein.

Lowenstein! The name brought back to me the memory of some snippet
from a newspaper which spoke of an obscure scientist who was striving
in some unknown way for the secret of rejuvenescence and the elixir
of life. Lowenstein of Prague! Lowenstein with the wondrous
strength-giving serum, tabooed by the profession because he refused
to reveal its source. In a few words I said what I remembered.
Bennett had taken a manual of zoology from the shelves. “‘Langur,'”
he read, “‘the great black-faced monkey of the Himalayan slopes,
biggest and most human of climbing monkeys.’ Many details are added.
Well, thanks to you, Mr. Holmes, it is very clear that we have traced
the evil to its source.”

“The real source,” said Holmes, “lies, of course, in that untimely
love affair which gave our impetuous professor the idea that he could
only gain his wish by turning himself into a younger man. When one
tries to rise above Nature one is liable to fall below it. The
highest type of man may revert to the animal if he leaves the
straight road of destiny.” He sat musing for a little with the phial
in his hand, looking at the clear liquid within. “When I have written
to this man and told him that I hold him criminally responsible for
the poisons which he circulates, we will have no more trouble. But it
may recur. Others may find a better way. There is danger there–a
very real danger to humanity. Consider, Watson, that the material,
the sensual, the worldly would all prolong their worthless lives. The
spiritual would not avoid the call to something higher. It would be
the survival of the least fit. What sort of cesspool may not our poor
world become?” Suddenly the dreamer disappeared, and Holmes, the man
of action, sprang from his chair. “I think there is nothing more to
be said, Mr. Bennett. The various incidents will now fit themselves
easily into the general scheme. The dog, of course, was aware of the
change far more quickly than you. His smell would insure that. It was
the monkey, not the professor, whom Roy attacked, just as it was the
monkey who teased Roy. Climbing was a joy to the creature, and it was
a mere chance, I take it, that the pastime brought him to the young
lady’s window. There is an early train to town, Watson, but I think
we shall just have time for a cup of tea at the Chequers before we
catch it.”

It is a most singular thing that a problem which was certainly as
abstruse and unusual as any which I have faced in my long
professional career should have come to me after my retirement, and
be brought, as it were, to my very door. It occurred after my
withdrawal to my little Sussex home, when I had given myself up
entirely to that soothing life of Nature for which I had so often
yearned during the long years spent amid the gloom of London. At this
period of my life the good Watson had passed almost beyond my ken. An
occasional week-end visit was the most that I ever saw of him. Thus I
must act as my own chronicler. Ah! had he but been with me, how much
he might have made of so wonderful a happening and of my eventual
triumph against every difficulty! As it is, however, I must needs
tell my tale in my own plain way, showing by my words each step upon
the difficult road which lay before me as I searched for the mystery
of the Lion’s Mane.

My villa is situated upon the southern slope of the downs, commanding
a great view of the Channel. At this point the coast-line is entirely
of chalk cliffs, which can only be descended by a single, long,
tortuous path, which is steep and slippery. At the bottom of the path
lie a hundred yards of pebbles and shingle, even when the tide is at
full. Here and there, however, there are curves and hollows which
make splendid swimming-pools filled afresh with each flow. This
admirable beach extends for some miles in each direction, save only
at one point where the little cove and village of Fulworth break the
line.

My house is lonely. I, my old housekeeper, and my bees have the
estate all to ourselves. Half a mile off, however, is Harold
Stackhurst’s well-known coaching establishment, The Gables, quite a
large place, which contains some score of young fellows preparing for
various professions, with a staff of several masters. Stackhurst
himself was a well-known rowing Blue in his day, and an excellent
all-round scholar. He and I were always friendly from the day I came
to the coast, and he was the one man who was on such terms with me
that we could drop in on each other in the evenings without an
invitation.

Towards the end of July, 1907, there was a severe gale, the wind
blowing up-channel, heaping the seas to the base of the cliffs and
leaving a lagoon at the turn of the tide. On the morning of which I
speak the wind had abated, and all Nature was newly washed and fresh.
It was impossible to work upon so delightful a day, and I strolled
out before breakfast to enjoy the exquisite air. I walked along the
cliff path which led to the steep descent to the beach. As I walked I
heard a shout behind me, and there was Harold Stackhurst waving his
hand in cheery greeting.

“What a morning, Mr. Holmes! I thought I should see you out.”

“Going for a swim, I see.”

“At your old tricks again,” he laughed, patting his bulging pocket.
“Yes. McPherson started early, and I expect I may find him there.”

Fitzroy McPherson was the science master, a fine upstanding young
fellow whose life had been crippled by heart trouble following
rheumatic fever. He was a natural athlete, however, and excelled in
every game which did not throw too great a strain upon him. Summer
and winter he went for his swim, and, as I am a swimmer myself, I
have often joined him.

At this moment we saw the man himself. His head showed above the edge
of the cliff where the path ends. Then his whole figure appeared at
the top, staggering like a drunken man. The next instant he threw up
his hands and, with a terrible cry, fell upon his face. Stackhurst
and I rushed forward–it may have been fifty yards–and turned him on
his back. He was obviously dying. Those glazed sunken eyes and
dreadful livid cheeks could mean nothing else. One glimmer of life
came into his face for an instant, and he uttered two or three words
with an eager air of warning. They were slurred and indistinct, but
to my ear the last of them, which burst in a shriek from his lips,
were “the Lion’s Mane.” It was utterly irrelevant and unintelligible,
and yet I could twist the sound into no other sense. Then he half
raised himself from the ground, threw his arms into the air, and fell
forward on his side. He was dead.

My companion was paralyzed by the sudden horror of it, but I, as may
well be imagined, had every sense on the alert. And I had need, for
it was speedily evident that we were in the presence of an
extraordinary case. The man was dressed only in his Burberry
overcoat, his trousers, and an unlaced pair of canvas shoes. As he
fell over, his Burberry, which had been simply thrown round his
shoulders, slipped off, exposing his trunk. We stared at it in
amazement. His back was covered with dark red lines as though he had
been terribly flogged by a thin wire scourge. The instrument with
which this punishment had been inflicted was clearly flexible, for
the long, angry weals curved round his shoulders and ribs. There was
blood dripping down his chin, for he had bitten through his lower lip
in the paroxysm of his agony. His drawn and distorted face told how
terrible that agony had been.

I was kneeling and Stackhurst standing by the body when a shadow fell
across us, and we found that Ian Murdoch was by our side. Murdoch was
the mathematical coach at the establishment, a tall, dark, thin man,
so taciturn and aloof that none can be said to have been his friend.
He seemed to live in some high, abstract region of surds and conic
sections, with little to connect him with ordinary life. He was
looked upon as an oddity by the students, and would have been their
butt, but there was some strange outlandish blood in the man, which
showed itself not only in his coal-black eyes and swarthy face but
also in occasional outbreaks of temper, which could only be described
as ferocious. On one occasion, being plagued by a little dog
belonging to McPherson, he had caught the creature up and hurled it
through the plate-glass window, an action for which Stackhurst would
certainly have given him his dismissal had he not been a very
valuable teacher. Such was the strange complex man who now appeared
beside us. He seemed to be honestly shocked at the sight before him,
though the incident of the dog may show that there was no great
sympathy between the dead man and himself.

“Poor fellow! Poor fellow! What can I do? How can I help?”

“Were you with him? Can you tell us what has happened?”

“No, no, I was late this morning. I was not on the beach at all. I
have come straight from The Gables. What can I do?”

“You can hurry to the police-station at Fulworth. Report the matter
at once.”

Without a word he made off at top speed, and I proceeded to take the
matter in hand, while Stackhurst, dazed at this tragedy, remained by
the body. My first task naturally was to note who was on the beach.
From the top of the path I could see the whole sweep of it, and it
was absolutely deserted save that two or three dark figures could be
seen far away moving towards the village of Fulworth. Having
satisfied myself upon this point, I walked slowly down the path.
There was clay or soft marl mixed with the chalk, and every here and
there I saw the same footstep, both ascending and descending. No one
else had gone down to the beach by this track that morning. At one
place I observed the print of an open hand with the fingers towards
the incline. This could only mean that poor McPherson had fallen as
he ascended. There were rounded depressions, too, which suggested
that he had come down upon his knees more than once. At the bottom of
the path was the considerable lagoon left by the retreating tide. At
the side of it McPherson had undressed, for there lay his towel on a
rock. It was folded and dry, so that it would seem that, after all,
he had never entered the water. Once or twice as I hunted round amid
the hard shingle I came on little patches of sand where the print of
his canvas shoe, and also of his naked foot, could be seen. The
latter fact proved that he had made all ready to bathe, though the
towel indicated that he had not actually done so.

And here was the problem clearly defined–as strange a one as had
ever confronted me. The man had not been on the beach more than a
quarter of an hour at the most. Stackhurst had followed him from The
Gables, so there could be no doubt about that. He had gone to bathe
and had stripped, as the naked footsteps showed. Then he had suddenly
huddled on his clothes again–they were all dishevelled and
unfastened–and he had returned without bathing, or at any rate
without drying himself. And the reason for his change of purpose had
been that he had been scourged in some savage, inhuman fashion,
tortured until he bit his lip through in his agony, and was left with
only strength enough to crawl away and to die. Who had done this
barbarous deed? There were, it is true, small grottos and caves in
the base of the cliffs, but the low sun shone directly into them, and
there was no place for concealment. Then, again, there were those
distant figures on the beach. They seemed too far away to have been
connected with the crime, and the broad lagoon in which McPherson had
intended to bathe lay between him and them, lapping up to the rocks.
On the sea two or three fishing-boats were at no great distance.
Their occupants might be examined at our leisure. There were several
roads for inquiry, but none which led to any very obvious goal.

When I at last returned to the body I found that a little group of
wondering folk had gathered round it. Stackhurst was, of course,
still there, and Ian Murdoch had just arrived with Anderson, the
village constable, a big, ginger-moustached man of the slow, solid
Sussex breed–a breed which covers much good sense under a heavy,
silent exterior. He listened to everything, took note of all we said,
and finally drew me aside.

“I’d be glad of your advice, Mr. Holmes. This is a big thing for me
to handle, and I’ll hear of it from Lewes if I go wrong.”

I advised him to send for his immediate superior, and for a doctor;
also to allow nothing to be moved, and as few fresh footmarks as
possible to be made, until they came. In the meantime I searched the
dead man’s pockets. There were his handkerchief, a large knife, and a
small folding card-case. From this projected a slip of paper, which I
unfolded and handed to the constable. There was written on it in a
scrawling, feminine hand:

I will be there, you may be sure.
Maudie.

It read like a love affair, an assignation, though when and where
were a blank. The constable replaced it in the card-case and returned
it with the other things to the pockets of the Burberry. Then, as
nothing more suggested itself, I walked back to my house for
breakfast, having first arranged that the base of the cliffs should
be thoroughly searched.

Stackhurst was round in an hour or two to tell me that the body had
been removed to The Gables, where the inquest would be held. He
brought with him some serious and definite news. As I expected,
nothing had been found in the small caves below the cliff, but he had
examined the papers in McPherson’s desk, and there were several which
showed an intimate correspondence with a certain Miss Maud Bellamy,
of Fulworth. We had then established the identity of the writer of
the note.

“The police have the letters,” he explained. “I could not bring them.
But there is no doubt that it was a serious love affair. I see no
reason, however, to connect it with that horrible happening save,
indeed, that the lady had made an appointment with him.”

“But hardly at a bathing-pool which all of you were in the habit of
using,” I remarked.

“It is mere chance,” said he, “that several of the students were not
with McPherson.”

“Was it mere chance?”

Stackhurst knit his brows in thought.

“Ian Murdoch held them back,” said he. “He would insist upon some
algebraic demonstration before breakfast. Poor chap, he is dreadfully
cut up about it all.”

“And yet I gather that they were not friends.”

“At one time they were not. But for a year or more Murdoch has been
as near to McPherson as he ever could be to anyone. He is not of a
very sympathetic disposition by nature.”

“So I understand. I seem to remember your telling me once about a
quarrel over the ill-usage of a dog.”

“That blew over all right.”

“But left some vindictive feeling, perhaps.”

“No, no, I am sure they were real friends.”

“Well, then, we must explore the matter of the girl. Do you know
her?”

“Everyone knows her. She is the beauty of the neighbourhood–a real
beauty, Holmes, who would draw attention everywhere. I knew that
McPherson was attracted by her, but I had no notion that it had gone
so far as these letters would seem to indicate.”

“But who is she?”

“She is the daughter of old Tom Bellamy, who owns all the boats and
bathing-cots at Fulworth. He was a fisherman to start with, but is
now a man of some substance. He and his son William run the
business.”

“Shall we walk into Fulworth and see them?”

“On what pretext?”

“Oh, we can easily find a pretext. After all, this poor man did not
ill-use himself in this outrageous way. Some human hand was on the
handle of that scourge, if indeed it was a scourge which inflicted
the injuries. His circle of acquaintances in this lonely place was
surely limited. Let us follow it up in every direction and we can
hardly fail to come upon the motive, which in turn should lead us to
the criminal.”

It would have been a pleasant walk across the thyme-scented downs had
our minds not been poisoned by the tragedy we had witnessed. The
village of Fulworth lies in a hollow curving in a semicircle round
the bay. Behind the old-fashioned hamlet several modern houses have
been built upon the rising ground. It was to one of these that
Stackhurst guided me.

“That’s The Haven, as Bellamy called it. The one with the corner
tower and slate roof. Not bad for a man who started with nothing
but– By Jove, look at that!”

The garden gate of The Haven had opened and a man had emerged. There
was no mistaking that tall, angular, straggling figure. It was Ian
Murdoch, the mathematician. A moment later we confronted him upon the
road.

“Hullo!” said Stackhurst. The man nodded, gave us a sideways glance
from his curious dark eyes, and would have passed us, but his
principal pulled him up.

“What were you doing there?” he asked.

Murdoch’s face flushed with anger. “I am your subordinate, sir, under
your roof. I am not aware that I owe you any account of my private
actions.”

Stackhurst’s nerves were near the surface after all he had endured.
Otherwise, perhaps, he would have waited. Now he lost his temper
completely.

“In the circumstances your answer is pure impertinence, Mr. Murdoch.”

“Your own question might perhaps come under the same heading.”

“This is not the first time that I have had to overlook your
insubordinate ways. It will certainly be the last. You will kindly
make fresh arrangements for your future as speedily as you can.”

“I had intended to do so. I have lost to-day the only person who made
The Gables habitable.”

He strode off upon his way, while Stackhurst, with angry eyes, stood
glaring after him. “Is he not an impossible, intolerable man?” he
cried.

The one thing that impressed itself forcibly upon my mind was that
Mr. Ian Murdoch was taking the first chance to open a path of escape
from the scene of the crime. Suspicion, vague and nebulous, was now
beginning to take outline in my mind. Perhaps the visit to the
Bellamys might throw some further light upon the matter. Stackhurst
pulled himself together, and we went forward to the house.

Mr. Bellamy proved to be a middle-aged man with a flaming red beard.
He seemed to be in a very angry mood, and his face was soon as florid
as his hair.

“No, sir, I do not desire any particulars. My son here”–indicating a
powerful young man, with a heavy, sullen face, in the corner of the
sitting-room–“is of one mind with me that Mr. McPherson’s attentions
to Maud were insulting. Yes, sir, the word ‘marriage’ was never
mentioned, and yet there were letters and meetings, and a great deal
more of which neither of us could approve. She has no mother, and we
are her only guardians. We are determined–“

But the words were taken from his mouth by the appearance of the lady
herself. There was no gainsaying that she would have graced any
assembly in the world. Who could have imagined that so rare a flower
would grow from such a root and in such an atmosphere? Women have
seldom been an attraction to me, for my brain has always governed my
heart, but I could not look upon her perfect clear-cut face, with all
the soft freshness of the downlands in her delicate colouring,
without realizing that no young man would cross her path unscathed.
Such was the girl who had pushed open the door and stood now,
wide-eyed and intense, in front of Harold Stackhurst.

“I know already that Fitzroy is dead,” she said. “Do not be afraid to
tell me the particulars.”

“This other gentleman of yours let us know the news,” explained the
father.

“There is no reason why my sister should be brought into the matter,”
growled the younger man.

The sister turned a sharp, fierce look upon him. “This is my
business, William. Kindly leave me to manage it in my own way. By all
accounts there has been a crime committed. If I can help to show who
did it, it is the least I can do for him who is gone.”

She listened to a short account from my companion, with a composed
concentration which showed me that she possessed strong character as
well as great beauty. Maud Bellamy will always remain in my memory as
a most complete and remarkable woman. It seems that she already knew
me by sight, for she turned to me at the end.

“Bring them to justice, Mr. Holmes. You have my sympathy and my help,
whoever they may be.” It seemed to me that she glanced defiantly at
her father and brother as she spoke.

“Thank you,” said I. “I value a woman’s instinct in such matters. You
use the word ‘they.’ You think that more than one was concerned?”

“I knew Mr. McPherson well enough to be aware that he was a brave and
a strong man. No single person could ever have inflicted such an
outrage upon him.”

“Might I have one word with you alone?”

“I tell you, Maud, not to mix yourself up in the matter,” cried her
father angrily.

She looked at me helplessly. “What can I do?”

“The whole world will know the facts presently, so there can be no
harm if I discuss them here,” said I. “I should have preferred
privacy, but if your father will not allow it he must share the
deliberations.” Then I spoke of the note which had been found in the
dead man’s pocket. “It is sure to be produced at the inquest. May I
ask you to throw any light upon it that you can?”

“I see no reason for mystery,” she answered. “We were engaged to be
married, and we only kept it secret because Fitzroy’s uncle, who is
very old and said to be dying, might have disinherited him if he had
married against his wish. There was no other reason.”

“You could have told us,” growled Mr. Bellamy.

“So I would, father, if you had ever shown sympathy.”

“I object to my girl picking up with men outside her own station.”

“It was your prejudice against him which prevented us from telling
you. As to this appointment”–she fumbled in her dress and produced a
crumpled note–“it was in answer to this.”

Dearest [ran the message]:
The old place on the beach just after sunset on Tuesday. It is the
only time I can get away.
F. M.

“Tuesday was to-day, and I had meant to meet him to-night.”

I turned over the paper. “This never came by post. How did you get
it?”

“I would rather not answer that question. It has really nothing to do
with the matter which you are investigating. But anything which bears
upon that I will most freely answer.”

She was as good as her word, but there was nothing which was helpful
in our investigation. She had no reason to think that her fiance had
any hidden enemy, but she admitted that she had had several warm
admirers.

“May I ask if Mr. Ian Murdoch was one of them?”

She blushed and seemed confused.

“There was a time when I thought he was. But that was all changed
when he understood the relations between Fitzroy and myself.”

Again the shadow round this strange man seemed to me to be taking
more definite shape. His record must be examined. His rooms must be
privately searched. Stackhurst was a willing collaborator, for in his
mind also suspicions were forming. We returned from our visit to The
Haven with the hope that one free end of this tangled skein was
already in our hands.

A week passed. The inquest had thrown no light upon the matter and
had been adjourned for further evidence. Stackhurst had made discreet
inquiry about his subordinate, and there had been a superficial
search of his room, but without result. Personally, I had gone over
the whole ground again, both physically and mentally, but with no new
conclusions. In all my chronicles the reader will find no case which
brought me so completely to the limit of my powers. Even my
imagination could conceive no solution to the mystery. And then there
came the incident of the dog.

It was my old housekeeper who heard of it first by that strange
wireless by which such people collect the news of the countryside.

“Sad story this, sir, about Mr. McPherson’s dog,” said she one
evening.

I do not encourage such conversations, but the words arrested my
attention.

“What of Mr. McPherson’s dog?”

“Dead, sir. Died of grief for its master.”

“Who told you this?”

“Why, sir, everyone is talking of it. It took on terrible, and has
eaten nothing for a week. Then to-day two of the young gentlemen from
The Gables found it dead–down on the beach, sir, at the very place
where its master met his end.”

“At the very place.” The words stood out clear in my memory. Some dim
perception that the matter was vital rose in my mind. That the dog
should die was after the beautiful, faithful nature of dogs. But “in
the very place”! Why should this lonely beach be fatal to it? Was it
possible that it also had been sacrificed to some revengeful feud?
Was it possible–? Yes, the perception was dim, but already something
was building up in my mind. In a few minutes I was on my way to The
Gables, where I found Stackhurst in his study. At my request he sent
for Sudbury and Blount, the two students who had found the dog.

“Yes, it lay on the very edge of the pool,” said one of them. “It
must have followed the trail of its dead master.”

I saw the faithful little creature, an Airedale terrier, laid out
upon the mat in the hall. The body was stiff and rigid, the eyes
projecting, and the limbs contorted. There was agony in every line of
it.

From The Gables I walked down to the bathing-pool. The sun had sunk
and the shadow of the great cliff lay black across the water, which
glimmered dully like a sheet of lead. The place was deserted and
there was no sign of life save for two sea-birds circling and
screaming overhead. In the fading light I could dimly make out the
little dog’s spoor upon the sand round the very rock on which his
master’s towel had been laid. For a long time I stood in deep
meditation while the shadows grew darker around me. My mind was
filled with racing thoughts. You have known what it was to be in a
nightmare in which you feel that there is some all-important thing
for which you search and which you know is there, though it remains
forever just beyond your reach. That was how I felt that evening as I
stood alone by that place of death. Then at last I turned and walked
slowly homeward.

I had just reached the top of the path when it came to me. Like a
flash, I remembered the thing for which I had so eagerly and vainly
grasped. You will know, or Watson has written in vain, that I hold a
vast store of out-of-the-way knowledge without scientific system, but
very available for the needs of my work. My mind is like a crowded
box-room with packets of all sorts stowed away therein–so many that
I may well have but a vague perception of what was there. I had known
that there was something which might bear upon this matter. It was
still vague, but at least I knew how I could make it clear. It was
monstrous, incredible, and yet it was always a possibility. I would
test it to the full.

There is a great garret in my little house which is stuffed with
books. It was into this that I plunged and rummaged for an hour. At
the end of that time I emerged with a little chocolate and silver
volume. Eagerly I turned up the chapter of which I had a dim
remembrance. Yes, it was indeed a far-fetched and unlikely
proposition, and yet I could not be at rest until I had made sure if
it might, indeed, be so. It was late when I retired, with my mind
eagerly awaiting the work of the morrow.

But that work met with an annoying interruption. I had hardly
swallowed my early cup of tea and was starting for the beach when I
had a call from Inspector Bardle of the Sussex Constabulary–a
steady, solid, bovine man with thoughtful eyes, which looked at me
now with a very troubled expression.

“I know your immense experience, sir,” said he. “This is quite
unofficial, of course, and need go no farther. But I am fairly up
against it in this McPherson case. The question is, shall I make an
arrest, or shall I not?”

“Meaning Mr. Ian Murdoch?”

“Yes, sir. There is really no one else when you come to think of it.
That’s the advantage of this solitude. We narrow it down to a very
small compass. If he did not do it, then who did?”

“What have you against him?”

He had gleaned along the same furrows as I had. There was Murdoch’s
character and the mystery which seemed to hang round the man. His
furious bursts of temper, as shown in the incident of the dog. The
fact that he had quarrelled with McPherson in the past, and that
there was some reason to think that he might have resented his
attentions to Miss Bellamy. He had all my points, but no fresh ones,
save that Murdoch seemed to be making every preparation for
departure.

“What would my position be if I let him slip away with all this
evidence against him?” The burly, phlegmatic man was sorely troubled
in his mind.

“Consider,” I said, “all the essential gaps in your case. On the
morning of the crime he can surely prove an alibi. He had been with
his scholars till the last moment, and within a few minutes of
McPherson’s appearance he came upon us from behind. Then bear in mind
the absolute impossibility that he could single-handed have inflicted
this outrage upon a man quite as strong as himself. Finally, there is
this question of the instrument with which these injuries were
inflicted.”

“What could it be but a scourge or flexible whip of some sort?”

“Have you examined the marks?” I asked.

“I have seen them. So has the doctor.”

“But I have examined them very carefully with a lens. They have
peculiarities.”

“What are they, Mr. Holmes?”

I stepped to my bureau and brought out an enlarged photograph. “This
is my method in such cases,” I explained.

“You certainly do things thoroughly, Mr. Holmes.”

“I should hardly be what I am if I did not. Now let us consider this
weal which extends round the right shoulder. Do you observe nothing
remarkable?”

“I can’t say I do.”

“Surely it is evident that it is unequal in its intensity. There is a
dot of extravasated blood here, and another there. There are similar
indications in this other weal down here. What can that mean?”

“I have no idea. Have you?”

“Perhaps I have. Perhaps I haven’t. I may be able to say more soon.
Anything which will define what made that mark will bring us a long
way towards the criminal.”

“It is, of course, an absurd idea,” said the policeman, “but if a
red-hot net of wire had been laid across the back, then these better
marked points would represent where the meshes crossed each other.”

“A most ingenious comparison. Or shall we say a very stiff
cat-o’-nine-tails with small hard knots upon it?”

“By Jove, Mr. Holmes, I think you have hit it.”

“Or there may be some very different cause, Mr. Bardle. But your case
is far too weak for an arrest. Besides, we have those last words–the
‘Lion’s Mane.'”

“I have wondered whether Ian–“

“Yes, I have considered that. If the second word had borne any
resemblance to Murdoch–but it did not. He gave it almost in a
shriek. I am sure that it was ‘Mane.'”

“Have you no alternative, Mr. Holmes?”

“Perhaps I have. But I do not care to discuss it until there is
something more solid to discuss.”

“And when will that be?”

“In an hour–possibly less.”

The inspector rubbed his chin and looked at me with dubious eyes.

“I wish I could see what was in your mind, Mr. Holmes. Perhaps it’s
those fishing-boats.”

“No, no, they were too far out.”

“Well, then, is it Bellamy and that big son of his? They were not too
sweet upon Mr. McPherson. Could they have done him a mischief?”

“No, no, you won’t draw me until I am ready,” said I with a smile.
“Now, Inspector, we each have our own work to do. Perhaps if you were
to meet me here at midday–“

So far we had got when there came the tremendous interruption which
was the beginning of the end.

My outer door was flung open, there were blundering footsteps in the
passage, and Ian Murdoch staggered into the room, pallid,
dishevelled, his clothes in wild disorder, clawing with his bony
hands at the furniture to hold himself erect. “Brandy! Brandy!” he
gasped, and fell groaning upon the sofa.

He was not alone. Behind him came Stackhurst, hatless and panting,
almost as distrait as his companion.

“Yes, yes, brandy!” he cried. “The man is at his last gasp. It was
all I could do to bring him here. He fainted twice upon the way.”

Half a tumbler of the raw spirit brought about a wondrous change. He
pushed himself up on one arm and swung his coat from his shoulders.
“For God’s sake, oil, opium, morphia!” he cried. “Anything to ease
this infernal agony!”

The inspector and I cried out at the sight. There, crisscrossed upon
the man’s naked shoulder, was the same strange reticulated pattern of
red, inflamed lines which had been the death-mark of Fitzroy
McPherson.

The pain was evidently terrible and was more than local, for the
sufferer’s breathing would stop for a time, his face would turn
black, and then with loud gasps he would clap his hand to his heart,
while his brow dropped beads of sweat. At any moment he might die.
More and more brandy was poured down his throat, each fresh dose
bringing him back to life. Pads of cotton-wool soaked in salad-oil
seemed to take the agony from the strange wounds. At last his head
fell heavily upon the cushion. Exhausted Nature had taken refuge in
its last storehouse of vitality. It was half a sleep and half a
faint, but at least it was ease from pain.

To question him had been impossible, but the moment we were assured
of his condition Stackhurst turned upon me.

“My God!” he cried, “what is it, Holmes? What is it?”

“Where did you find him?”

“Down on the beach. Exactly where poor McPherson met his end. If this
man’s heart had been weak as McPherson’s was, he would not be here
now. More than once I thought he was gone as I brought him up. It was
too far to The Gables, so I made for you.”

“Did you see him on the beach?”

“I was walking on the cliff when I heard his cry. He was at the edge
of the water, reeling about like a drunken man. I ran down, threw
some clothes about him, and brought him up. For heaven’s sake,
Holmes, use all the powers you have and spare no pains to lift the
curse from this place, for life is becoming unendurable. Can you,
with all your world-wide reputation, do nothing for us?”

“I think I can, Stackhurst. Come with me now! And you, Inspector,
come along! We will see if we cannot deliver this murderer into your
hands.”

Leaving the unconscious man in the charge of my housekeeper, we all
three went down to the deadly lagoon. On the shingle there was piled
a little heap of towels and clothes left by the stricken man. Slowly
I walked round the edge of the water, my comrades in Indian file
behind me. Most of the pool was quite shallow, but under the cliff
where the beach was hollowed out it was four or five feet deep. It
was to this part that a swimmer would naturally go, for it formed a
beautiful pellucid green pool as clear as crystal. A line of rocks
lay above it at the base of the cliff, and along this I led the way,
peering eagerly into the depths beneath me. I had reached the deepest
and stillest pool when my eyes caught that for which they were
searching, and I burst into a shout of triumph.

“Cyanea!” I cried. “Cyanea! Behold the Lion’s Mane!”

The strange object at which I pointed did indeed look like a tangled
mass torn from the mane of a lion. It lay upon a rocky shelf some
three feet under the water, a curious waving, vibrating, hairy
creature with streaks of silver among its yellow tresses. It pulsated
with a slow, heavy dilation and contraction.

“It has done mischief enough. Its day is over!” I cried. “Help me,
Stackhurst! Let us end the murderer forever.”

There was a big boulder just above the ledge, and we pushed it until
it fell with a tremendous splash into the water. When the ripples had
cleared we saw that it had settled upon the ledge below. One flapping
edge of yellow membrane showed that our victim was beneath it. A
thick oily scum oozed out from below the stone and stained the water
round, rising slowly to the surface.

“Well, this gets me!” cried the inspector. “What was it, Mr. Holmes?
I’m born and bred in these parts, but I never saw such a thing. It
don’t belong to Sussex.”

“Just as well for Sussex,” I remarked. “It may have been the
southwest gale that brought it up. Come back to my house, both of
you, and I will give you the terrible experience of one who has good
reason to remember his own meeting with the same peril of the seas.”

When we reached my study we found that Murdoch was so far recovered
that he could sit up. He was dazed in mind, and every now and then
was shaken by a paroxysm of pain. In broken words he explained that
he had no notion what had occurred to him, save that terrific pangs
had suddenly shot through him, and that it had taken all his
fortitude to reach the bank.

“Here is a book,” I said, taking up the little volume, “which first
brought light into what might have been forever dark. It is Out of
Doors, by the famous observer, J. G. Wood. Wood himself very nearly
perished from contact with this vile creature, so he wrote with a
very full knowledge. Cyanea capillata is the miscreant’s full name,
and he can be as dangerous to life as, and far more painful than, the
bite of the cobra. Let me briefly give this extract.

“If the bather should see a loose roundish mass of tawny membranes
and fibres, something like very large handfuls of lion’s mane and
silver paper, let him beware, for this is the fearful stinger, Cyanea
capillata.

Could our sinister acquaintance be more clearly described?

“He goes on to tell of his own encounter with one when swimming off
the coast of Kent. He found that the creature radiated almost
invisible filaments to the distance of fifty feet, and that anyone
within that circumference from the deadly centre was in danger of
death. Even at a distance the effect upon Wood was almost fatal.

“The multitudinous threads caused light scarlet lines upon the skin
which on closer examination resolved into minute dots or pustules,
each dot charged as it were with a red-hot needle making its way
through the nerves.

“The local pain was, as he explains, the least part of the exquisite
torment.

“Pangs shot through the chest, causing me to fall as if struck by a
bullet. The pulsation would cease, and then the heart would give six
or seven leaps as if it would force its way through the chest.

“It nearly killed him, although he had only been exposed to it in the
disturbed ocean and not in the narrow calm waters of a bathing-pool.
He says that he could hardly recognize himself afterwards, so white,
wrinkled and shrivelled was his face. He gulped down brandy, a whole
bottleful, and it seems to have saved his life. There is the book,
Inspector. I leave it with you, and you cannot doubt that it contains
a full explanation of the tragedy of poor McPherson.”

“And incidentally exonerates me,” remarked Ian Murdoch with a wry
smile. “I do not blame you, Inspector, nor you, Mr. Holmes, for your
suspicions were natural. I feel that on the very eve of my arrest I
have only cleared myself by sharing the fate of my poor friend.”

“No, Mr. Murdoch. I was already upon the track, and had I been out as
early as I intended I might well have saved you from this terrific
experience.”

“But how did you know, Mr. Holmes?”

“I am an omnivorous reader with a strangely retentive memory for
trifles. That phrase ‘the Lion’s Mane’ haunted my mind. I knew that I
had seen it somewhere in an unexpected context. You have seen that it
does describe the creature. I have no doubt that it was floating on
the water when McPherson saw it, and that this phrase was the only
one by which he could convey to us a warning as to the creature which
had been his death.”

“Then I, at least, am cleared,” said Murdoch, rising slowly to his
feet. “There are one or two words of explanation which I should give,
for I know the direction in which your inquiries have run. It is true
that I loved this lady, but from the day when she chose my friend
McPherson my one desire was to help her to happiness. I was well
content to stand aside and act as their go-between. Often I carried
their messages, and it was because I was in their confidence and
because she was so dear to me that I hastened to tell her of my
friend’s death, lest someone should forestall me in a more sudden and
heartless manner. She would not tell you, sir, of our relations lest
you should disapprove and I might suffer. But with your leave I must
try to get back to The Gables, for my bed will be very welcome.”

Stackhurst held out his hand. “Our nerves have all been at
concert-pitch,” said he. “Forgive what is past, Murdoch. We shall
understand each other better in the future.” They passed out together
with their arms linked in friendly fashion. The inspector remained,
staring at me in silence with his ox-like eyes.

“Well, you’ve done it!” he cried at last. “I had read of you, but I
never believed it. It’s wonderful!”

I was forced to shake my head. To accept such praise was to lower
one’s own standards.

“I was slow at the outset–culpably slow. Had the body been found in
the water I could hardly have missed it. It was the towel which
misled me. The poor fellow had never thought to dry himself, and so I
in turn was led to believe that he had never been in the water. Why,
then, should the attack of any water creature suggest itself to me?
That was where I went astray. Well, well, Inspector, I often ventured
to chaff you gentlemen of the police force, but Cyanea capillata very
nearly avenged Scotland Yard.”

When one considers that Mr. Sherlock Holmes was in active practice
for twenty-three years, and that during seventeen of these I was
allowed to cooperate with him and to keep notes of his doings, it
will be clear that I have a mass of material at my command. The
problem has always been not to find but to choose. There is the long
row of year-books which fill a shelf, and there are the
dispatch-cases filled with documents, a perfect quarry for the
student not only of crime but of the social and official scandals of
the late Victorian era. Concerning these latter, I may say that the
writers of agonized letters, who beg that the honour of their
families or the reputation of famous forebears may not be touched,
have nothing to fear. The discretion and high sense of professional
honour which have always distinguished my friend are still at work in
the choice of these memoirs, and no confidence will be abused. I
deprecate, however, in the strongest way the attempts which have been
made lately to get at and to destroy these papers. The source of
these outrages is known, and if they are repeated I have Mr. Holmes’s
authority for saying that the whole story concerning the politician,
the lighthouse, and the trained cormorant will be given to the
public. There is at least one reader who will understand.

It is not reasonable to suppose that every one of these cases gave
Holmes the opportunity of showing those curious gifts of instinct and
observation which I have endeavoured to set forth in these memoirs.
Sometimes he had with much effort to pick the fruit, sometimes it
fell easily into his lap. But the most terrible human tragedies were
often involved in those cases which brought him the fewest personal
opportunities, and it is one of these which I now desire to record.
In telling it, I have made a slight change of name and place, but
otherwise the facts are as stated.

One forenoon–it was late in 1896–I received a hurried note from
Holmes asking for my attendance. When I arrived I found him seated in
a smoke-laden atmosphere, with an elderly, motherly woman of the
buxom landlady type in the corresponding chair in front of him.

“This is Mrs. Merrilow, of South Brixton,” said my friend with a wave
of the hand. “Mrs. Merrilow does not object to tobacco, Watson, if
you wish to indulge your filthy habits. Mrs. Merrilow has an
interesting story to tell which may well lead to further developments
in which your presence may be useful.”

“Anything I can do–“

“You will understand, Mrs. Merrilow, that if I come to Mrs. Ronder I
should prefer to have a witness. You will make her understand that
before we arrive.”

“Lord bless you, Mr. Holmes,” said our visitor, “she is that anxious
to see you that you might bring the whole parish at your heels!”

“Then we shall come early in the afternoon. Let us see that we have
our facts correct before we start. If we go over them it will help
Dr. Watson to understand the situation. You say that Mrs. Ronder has
been your lodger for seven years and that you have only once seen her
face.”

“And I wish to God I had not!” said Mrs. Merrilow.

“It was, I understand, terribly mutilated.”

“Well, Mr. Holmes, you would hardly say it was a face at all. That’s
how it looked. Our milkman got a glimpse of her once peeping out of
the upper window, and he dropped his tin and the milk all over the
front garden. That is the kind of face it is. When I saw her–I
happened on her unawares–she covered up quick, and then she said,
‘Now, Mrs. Merrilow, you know at last why it is that I never raise my
veil.'”

“Do you know anything about her history?”

“Nothing at all.”

“Did she give references when she came?”

“No, sir, but she gave hard cash, and plenty of it. A quarter’s rent
right down on the table in advance and no arguing about terms. In
these times a poor woman like me can’t afford to turn down a chance
like that.”

“Did she give any reason for choosing your house?”

“Mine stands well back from the road and is more private than most.
Then, again, I only take the one, and I have no family of my own. I
reckon she had tried others and found that mine suited her best. It’s
privacy she is after, and she is ready to pay for it.”

“You say that she never showed her face from first to last save on
the one accidental occasion. Well, it is a very remarkable story,
most remarkable, and I don’t wonder that you want it examined.”

“I don’t, Mr. Holmes. I am quite satisfied so long as I get my rent.
You could not have a quieter lodger, or one who gives less trouble.”

“Then what has brought matters to a head?”

“Her health, Mr. Holmes. She seems to be wasting away. And there’s
something terrible on her mind. ‘Murder!’ she cries. ‘Murder!’ And
once I heard her: ‘You cruel beast! You monster!’ she cried. It was
in the night, and it fair rang through the house and sent the shivers
through me. So I went to her in the morning. ‘Mrs. Ronder,’ I says,
‘if you have anything that is troubling your soul, there’s the
clergy,’ I says, ‘and there’s the police. Between them you should get
some help.’ ‘For God’s sake, not the police!’ says she, ‘and the
clergy can’t change what is past. And yet,’ she says, ‘it would ease
my mind if someone knew the truth before I died.’ ‘Well,’ says I, ‘if
you won’t have the regulars, there is this detective man what we read
about’–beggin’ your pardon, Mr. Holmes. And she, she fair jumped at
it. ‘That’s the man,’ says she. ‘I wonder I never thought of it
before. Bring him here, Mrs. Merrilow, and if he won’t come, tell him
I am the wife of Ronder’s wild beast show. Say that, and give him the
name Abbas Parva. Here it is as she wrote it, Abbas Parva. ‘That will
bring him if he’s the man I think he is.'”

“And it will, too,” remarked Holmes. “Very good, Mrs. Merrilow. I
should like to have a little chat with Dr. Watson. That will carry us
till lunch-time. About three o’clock you may expect to see us at your
house in Brixton.”

Our visitor had no sooner waddled out of the room–no other verb can
describe Mrs. Merrilow’s method of progression–than Sherlock Holmes
threw himself with fierce energy upon the pile of commonplace books
in the corner. For a few minutes there was a constant swish of the
leaves, and then with a grunt of satisfaction he came upon what he
sought. So excited was he that he did not rise, but sat upon the
floor like some strange Buddha, with crossed legs, the huge books all
round him, and one open upon his knees.

“The case worried me at the time, Watson. Here are my marginal notes
to prove it. I confess that I could make nothing of it. And yet I was
convinced that the coroner was wrong. Have you no recollection of the
Abbas Parva tragedy?”

“None, Holmes.”

“And yet you were with me then. But certainly my own impression was
very superficial. For there was nothing to go by, and none of the
parties had engaged my services. Perhaps you would care to read the
papers?”

“Could you not give me the points?”

“That is very easily done. It will probably come back to your memory
as I talk. Ronder, of course, was a household word. He was the rival
of Wombwell, and of Sanger, one of the greatest showmen of his day.
There is evidence, however, that he took to drink, and that both he
and his show were on the down grade at the time of the great tragedy.
The caravan had halted for the night at Abbas Parva, which is a small
village in Berkshire, when this horror occurred. They were on their
way to Wimbledon, travelling by road, and they were simply camping
and not exhibiting, as the place is so small a one that it would not
have paid them to open.

“They had among their exhibits a very fine North African lion. Sahara
King was its name, and it was the habit, both of Ronder and his wife,
to give exhibitions inside its cage. Here, you see, is a photograph
of the performance by which you will perceive that Ronder was a huge
porcine person and that his wife was a very magnificent woman. It was
deposed at the inquest that there had been some signs that the lion
was dangerous, but, as usual, familiarity begat contempt, and no
notice was taken of the fact.

“It was usual for either Ronder or his wife to feed the lion at
night. Sometimes one went, sometimes both, but they never allowed
anyone else to do it, for they believed that so long as they were the
food-carriers he would regard them as benefactors and would never
molest them. On this particular night, seven years ago, they both
went, and a very terrible happening followed, the details of which
have never been made clear.

“It seems that the whole camp was roused near midnight by the roars
of the animal and the screams of the woman. The different grooms and
employees rushed from their tents, carrying lanterns, and by their
light an awful sight was revealed. Ronder lay, with the back of his
head crushed in and deep claw-marks across his scalp, some ten yards
from the cage, which was open. Close to the door of the cage lay Mrs.
Ronder upon her back, with the creature squatting and snarling above
her. It had torn her face in such a fashion that it was never thought
that she could live. Several of the circus men, headed by Leonardo,
the strong man, and Griggs, the clown, drove the creature off with
poles, upon which it sprang back into the cage and was at once locked
in. How it had got loose was a mystery. It was conjectured that the
pair intended to enter the cage, but that when the door was loosed
the creature bounded out upon them. There was no other point of
interest in the evidence save that the woman in a delirium of agony
kept screaming, ‘Coward! Coward!’ as she was carried back to the van
in which they lived. It was six months before she was fit to give
evidence, but the inquest was duly held, with the obvious verdict of
death from misadventure.”

“What alternative could be conceived?” said I.

“You may well say so. And yet there were one or two points which
worried young Edmunds, of the Berkshire Constabulary. A smart lad
that! He was sent later to Allahabad. That was how I came into the
matter, for he dropped in and smoked a pipe or two over it.”

“A thin, yellow-haired man?”

“Exactly. I was sure you would pick up the trail presently.”

“But what worried him?”

“Well, we were both worried. It was so deucedly difficult to
reconstruct the affair. Look at it from the lion’s point of view. He
is liberated. What does he do? He takes half a dozen bounds forward,
which brings him to Ronder. Ronder turns to fly–the claw-marks were
on the back of his head–but the lion strikes him down. Then, instead
of bounding on and escaping, he returns to the woman, who was close
to the cage, and he knocks her over and chews her face up. Then,
again, those cries of hers would seem to imply that her husband had
in some way failed her. What could the poor devil have done to help
her? You see the difficulty?”

“Quite.”

“And then there was another thing. It comes back to me now as I think
it over. There was some evidence that just at the time the lion
roared and the woman screamed, a man began shouting in terror.”

“This man Ronder, no doubt.”

“Well, if his skull was smashed in you would hardly expect to hear
from him again. There were at least two witnesses who spoke of the
cries of a man being mingled with those of a woman.”

“I should think the whole camp was crying out by then. As to the
other points, I think I could suggest a solution.”

“I should be glad to consider it.”

“The two were together, ten yards from the cage, when the lion got
loose. The man turned and was struck down. The woman conceived the
idea of getting into the cage and shutting the door. It was her only
refuge. She made for it, and just as she reached it the beast bounded
after her and knocked her over. She was angry with her husband for
having encouraged the beast’s rage by turning. If they had faced it
they might have cowed it. Hence her cries of ‘Coward!'”

“Brilliant, Watson! Only one flaw in your diamond.”

“What is the flaw, Holmes?”

“If they were both ten paces from the cage, how came the beast to get
loose?”

“Is it possible that they had some enemy who loosed it?”

“And why should it attack them savagely when it was in the habit of
playing with them, and doing tricks with them inside the cage?”

“Possibly the same enemy had done something to enrage it.”

Holmes looked thoughtful and remained in silence for some moments.

“Well, Watson, there is this to be said for your theory. Ronder was a
man of many enemies. Edmunds told me that in his cups he was
horrible. A huge bully of a man, he cursed and slashed at everyone
who came in his way. I expect those cries about a monster, of which
our visitor has spoken, were nocturnal reminiscences of the dear
departed. However, our speculations are futile until we have all the
facts. There is a cold partridge on the sideboard, Watson, and a
bottle of Montrachet. Let us renew our energies before we make a
fresh call upon them.”

When our hansom deposited us at the house of Mrs. Merrilow, we found
that plump lady blocking up the open door of her humble but retired
abode. It was very clear that her chief preoccupation was lest she
should lose a valuable lodger, and she implored us, before showing us
up, to say and do nothing which could lead to so undesirable an end.
Then, having reassured her, we followed her up the straight, badly
carpeted staircase and were shown into the room of the mysterious
lodger.

It was a close, musty, ill-ventilated place, as might be expected,
since its inmate seldom left it. From keeping beasts in a cage, the
woman seemed, by some retribution of fate, to have become herself a
beast in a cage. She sat now in a broken armchair in the shadowy
corner of the room. Long years of inaction had coarsened the lines of
her figure, but at some period it must have been beautiful, and was
still full and voluptuous. A thick dark veil covered her face, but it
was cut off close at her upper lip and disclosed a perfectly shaped
mouth and a delicately rounded chin. I could well conceive that she
had indeed been a very remarkable woman. Her voice, too, was well
modulated and pleasing.

“My name is not unfamiliar to you, Mr. Holmes,” said she. “I thought
that it would bring you.”

“That is so, madam, though I do not know how you are aware that I was
interested in your case.”

“I learned it when I had recovered my health and was examined by Mr.
Edmunds, the county detective. I fear I lied to him. Perhaps it would
have been wiser had I told the truth.”

“It is usually wiser to tell the truth. But why did you lie to him?”

“Because the fate of someone else depended upon it. I know that he
was a very worthless being, and yet I would not have his destruction
upon my conscience. We had been so close–so close!”

“But has this impediment been removed?”

“Yes, sir. The person that I allude to is dead.”

“Then why should you not now tell the police anything you know?”

“Because there is another person to be considered. That other person
is myself. I could not stand the scandal and publicity which would
come from a police examination. I have not long to live, but I wish
to die undisturbed. And yet I wanted to find one man of judgment to
whom I could tell my terrible story, so that when I am gone all might
be understood.”

“You compliment me, madam. At the same time, I am a responsible
person. I do not promise you that when you have spoken I may not
myself think it my duty to refer the case to the police.”

“I think not, Mr. Holmes. I know your character and methods too well,
for I have followed your work for some years. Reading is the only
pleasure which fate has left me, and I miss little which passes in
the world. But in any case, I will take my chance of the use which
you may make of my tragedy. It will ease my mind to tell it.”

“My friend and I would be glad to hear it.”

The woman rose and took from a drawer the photograph of a man. He was
clearly a professional acrobat, a man of magnificent physique, taken
with his huge arms folded across his swollen chest and a smile
breaking from under his heavy moustache–the self-satisfied smile of
the man of many conquests.

“That is Leonardo,” she said.

“Leonardo, the strong man, who gave evidence?”

“The same. And this–this is my husband.”

It was a dreadful face–a human pig, or rather a human wild boar, for
it was formidable in its bestiality. One could imagine that vile
mouth champing and foaming in its rage, and one could conceive those
small, vicious eyes darting pure malignancy as they looked forth upon
the world. Ruffian, bully, beast–it was all written on that
heavy-jowled face.

“Those two pictures will help you, gentlemen, to understand the
story. I was a poor circus girl brought up on the sawdust, and doing
springs through the hoop before I was ten. When I became a woman this
man loved me, if such lust as his can be called love, and in an evil
moment I became his wife. From that day I was in hell, and he the
devil who tormented me. There was no one in the show who did not know
of his treatment. He deserted me for others. He tied me down and
lashed me with his riding-whip when I complained. They all pitied me
and they all loathed him, but what could they do? They feared him,
one and all. For he was terrible at all times, and murderous when he
was drunk. Again and again he was had up for assault, and for cruelty
to the beasts, but he had plenty of money and the fines were nothing
to him. The best men all left us, and the show began to go downhill.
It was only Leonardo and I who kept it up–with little Jimmy Griggs,
the clown. Poor devil, he had not much to be funny about, but he did
what he could to hold things together.

“Then Leonardo came more and more into my life. You see what he was
like. I know now the poor spirit that was hidden in that splendid
body, but compared to my husband he seemed like the angel Gabriel. He
pitied me and helped me, till at last our intimacy turned to
love–deep, deep, passionate love, such love as I had dreamed of but
never hoped to feel. My husband suspected it, but I think that he was
a coward as well as a bully, and that Leonardo was the one man that
he was afraid of. He took revenge in his own way by torturing me more
than ever. One night my cries brought Leonardo to the door of our
van. We were near tragedy that night, and soon my lover and I
understood that it could not be avoided. My husband was not fit to
live. We planned that he should die.

“Leonardo had a clever, scheming brain. It was he who planned it. I
do not say that to blame him, for I was ready to go with him every
inch of the way. But I should never have had the wit to think of such
a plan. We made a club–Leonardo made it–and in the leaden head he
fastened five long steel nails, the points outward, with just such a
spread as the lion’s paw. This was to give my husband his death-blow,
and yet to leave the evidence that it was the lion which we would
loose who had done the deed.

“It was a pitch-dark night when my husband and I went down, as was
our custom, to feed the beast. We carried with us the raw meat in a
zinc pail. Leonardo was waiting at the corner of the big van which we
should have to pass before we reached the cage. He was too slow, and
we walked past him before he could strike, but he followed us on
tiptoe and I heard the crash as the club smashed my husband’s skull.
My heart leaped with joy at the sound. I sprang forward, and I undid
the catch which held the door of the great lion’s cage.

“And then the terrible thing happened. You may have heard how quick
these creatures are to scent human blood, and how it excites them.
Some strange instinct had told the creature in one instant that a
human being had been slain. As I slipped the bars it bounded out and
was on me in an instant. Leonardo could have saved me. If he had
rushed forward and struck the beast with his club he might have cowed
it. But the man lost his nerve. I heard him shout in his terror, and
then I saw him turn and fly. At the same instant the teeth of the
lion met in my face. Its hot, filthy breath had already poisoned me
and I was hardly conscious of pain. With the palms of my hands I
tried to push the great steaming, blood-stained jaws away from me,
and I screamed for help. I was conscious that the camp was stirring,
and then dimly I remembered a group of men. Leonardo, Griggs, and
others, dragging me from under the creature’s paws. That was my last
memory, Mr. Holmes, for many a weary month. When I came to myself and
saw myself in the mirror, I cursed that lion–oh, how I cursed
him!–not because he had torn away my beauty but because he had not
torn away my life. I had but one desire, Mr. Holmes, and I had enough
money to gratify it. It was that I should cover myself so that my
poor face should be seen by none, and that I should dwell where none
whom I had ever known should find me. That was all that was left to
me to do–and that is what I have done. A poor wounded beast that has
crawled into its hole to die–that is the end of Eugenia Ronder.”

We sat in silence for some time after the unhappy woman had told her
story. Then Holmes stretched out his long arm and patted her hand
with such a show of sympathy as I had seldom known him to exhibit.

“Poor girl!” he said. “Poor girl! The ways of fate are indeed hard to
understand. If there is not some compensation hereafter, then the
world is a cruel jest. But what of this man Leonardo?”

“I never saw him or heard from him again. Perhaps I have been wrong
to feel so bitterly against him. He might as soon have loved one of
the freaks whom we carried round the country as the thing which the
lion had left. But a woman’s love is not so easily set aside. He had
left me under the beast’s claws, he had deserted me in my need, and
yet I could not bring myself to give him to the gallows. For myself,
I cared nothing what became of me. What could be more dreadful than
my actual life? But I stood between Leonardo and his fate.”

“And he is dead?”

“He was drowned last month when bathing near Margate. I saw his death
in the paper.”

“And what did he do with this five-clawed club, which is the most
singular and ingenious part of all your story?”

“I cannot tell, Mr. Holmes. There is a chalk-pit by the camp, with a
deep green pool at the base of it. Perhaps in the depths of that
pool–“

“Well, well, it is of little consequence now. The case is closed.”

“Yes,” said the woman, “the case is closed.”

We had risen to go, but there was something in the woman’s voice
which arrested Holmes’s attention. He turned swiftly upon her.

“Your life is not your own,” he said. “Keep your hands off it.”

“What use is it to anyone?”

“How can you tell? The example of patient suffering is in itself the
most precious of all lessons to an impatient world.”

The woman’s answer was a terrible one. She raised her veil and
stepped forward into the light.

“I wonder if you would bear it,” she said.

It was horrible. No words can describe the framework of a face when
the face itself is gone. Two living and beautiful brown eyes looking
sadly out from that grisly ruin did but make the view more awful.
Holmes held up his hand in a gesture of pity and protest, and
together we left the room.

Two days later, when I called upon my friend, he pointed with some
pride to a small blue bottle upon his mantelpiece. I picked it up.
There was a red poison label. A pleasant almondy odour rose when I
opened it.

“Prussic acid?” said I.

“Exactly. It came by post. ‘I send you my temptation. I will follow
your advice.’ That was the message. I think, Watson, we can guess the
name of the brave woman who sent it.”

Sherlock Holmes had been bending for a long time over a low-power
microscope. Now he straightened himself up and looked round at me in
triumph.

“It is glue, Watson,” said he. “Unquestionably it is glue. Have a
look at these scattered objects in the field!”

I stooped to the eyepiece and focussed for my vision.

“Those hairs are threads from a tweed coat. The irregular gray masses
are dust. There are epithelial scales on the left. Those brown blobs
in the centre are undoubtedly glue.”

“Well,” I said, laughing, “I am prepared to take your word for it.
Does anything depend upon it?”

“It is a very fine demonstration,” he answered. “In the St. Pancras
case you may remember that a cap was found beside the dead policeman.
The accused man denies that it is his. But he is a picture-frame
maker who habitually handles glue.”

“Is it one of your cases?”

“No; my friend, Merivale, of the Yard, asked me to look into the
case. Since I ran down that coiner by the zinc and copper filings in
the seam of his cuff they have begun to realize the importance of the
microscope.” He looked impatiently at his watch. “I had a new client
calling, but he is overdue. By the way, Watson, you know something of
racing?”

“I ought to. I pay for it with about half my wound pension.”

“Then I’ll make you my ‘Handy Guide to the Turf.’ What about Sir
Robert Norberton? Does the name recall anything?”

“Well, I should say so. He lives at Shoscombe Old Place, and I know
it well, for my summer quarters were down there once. Norberton
nearly came within your province once.”

“How was that?”

“It was when he horsewhipped Sam Brewer, the well-known Curzon Street
money-lender, on Newmarket Heath. He nearly killed the man.”

“Ah, he sounds interesting! Does he often indulge in that way?”

“Well, he has the name of being a dangerous man. He is about the most
daredevil rider in England–second in the Grand National a few years
back. He is one of those men who have overshot their true generation.
He should have been a buck in the days of the Regency–a boxer, an
athlete, a plunger on the turf, a lover of fair ladies, and, by all
account, so far down Queer Street that he may never find his way back
again.”

“Capital, Watson! A thumb-nail sketch. I seem to know the man. Now,
can you give me some idea of Shoscombe Old Place?”

“Only that it is in the centre of Shoscombe Park, and that the famous
Shoscombe stud and training quarters are to be found there.”

“And the head trainer,” said Holmes, “is John Mason. You need not
look surprised at my knowledge, Watson, for this is a letter from him
which I am unfolding. But let us have some more about Shoscombe. I
seem to have struck a rich vein.”

“There are the Shoscombe spaniels,” said I. “You hear of them at
every dog show. The most exclusive breed in England. They are the
special pride of the lady of Shoscombe Old Place.”

“Sir Robert Norberton’s wife, I presume!”

“Sir Robert has never married. Just as well, I think, considering his
prospects. He lives with his widowed sister, Lady Beatrice Falder.”

“You mean that she lives with him?”

“No, no. The place belonged to her late husband, Sir James. Norberton
has no claim on it at all. It is only a life interest and reverts to
her husband’s brother. Meantime, she draws the rents every year.”

“And brother Robert, I suppose, spends the said rents?”

“That is about the size of it. He is a devil of a fellow and must
lead her a most uneasy life. Yet I have heard that she is devoted to
him. But what is amiss at Shoscombe?”

“Ah, that is just what I want to know. And here, I expect, is the man
who can tell us.”

The door had opened and the page had shown in a tall, clean-shaven
man with the firm, austere expression which is only seen upon those
who have to control horses or boys. Mr. John Mason had many of both
under his sway, and he looked equal to the task. He bowed with cold
self-possession and seated himself upon the chair to which Holmes had
waved him.

“You had my note, Mr. Holmes?”

“Yes, but it explained nothing.”

“It was too delicate a thing for me to put the details on paper. And
too complicated. It was only face to face I could do it.”

“Well, we are at your disposal.”

“First of all, Mr. Holmes, I think that my employer, Sir Robert, has
gone mad.”

Holmes raised his eyebrows. “This is Baker Street, not Harley
Street,” said he. “But why do you say so?”

“Well, sir, when a man does one queer thing, or two queer things,
there may be a meaning to it, but when everything he does is queer,
then you begin to wonder. I believe Shoscombe Prince and the Derby
have turned his brain.”

“That is a colt you are running?”

“The best in England, Mr. Holmes. I should know, if anyone does. Now,
I’ll be plain with you, for I know you are gentlemen of honour and
that it won’t go beyond the room. Sir Robert has got to win this
Derby. He’s up to the neck, and it’s his last chance. Everything he
could raise or borrow is on the horse–and at fine odds, too! You can
get forties now, but it was nearer the hundred when he began to back
him.”

“But how is that if the horse is so good?”

“The public don’t know how good he is. Sir Robert has been too clever
for the touts. He has the Prince’s half-brother out for spins. You
can’t tell ’em apart. But there are two lengths in a furlong between
them when it comes to a gallop. He thinks of nothing but the horse
and the race. His whole life is on it. He’s holding off the Jews till
then. If the Prince fails him he is done.”

“It seems a rather desperate gamble, but where does the madness come
in?”

“Well, first of all, you have only to look at him. I don’t believe he
sleeps at night. He is down at the stables at all hours. His eyes are
wild. It has all been too much for his nerves. Then there is his
conduct to Lady Beatrice!”

“Ah! What is that?”

“They have always been the best of friends. They had the same tastes,
the two of them, and she loved the horses as much as he did. Every
day at the same hour she would drive down to see them–and, above
all, she loved the Prince. He would prick up his ears when he heard
the wheels on the gravel, and he would trot out each morning to the
carriage to get his lump of sugar. But that’s all over now.”

“Why?”

“Well, she seems to have lost all interest in the horses. For a week
now she has driven past the stables with never so much as
‘Good-morning’!”

“You think there has been a quarrel?”

“And a bitter, savage, spiteful quarrel at that. Why else would he
give away her pet spaniel that she loved as if he were her child? He
gave it a few days ago to old Barnes, what keeps the Green Dragon,
three miles off, at Crendall.”

“That certainly did seem strange.”

“Of course, with her weak heart and dropsy one couldn’t expect that
she could get about with him, but he spent two hours every evening in
her room. He might well do what he could, for she has been a rare
good friend to him. But that’s all over, too. He never goes near her.
And she takes it to heart. She is brooding and sulky and drinking,
Mr. Holmes–drinking like a fish.”

“Did she drink before this estrangement?”

“Well, she took her glass, but now it is often a whole bottle of an
evening. So Stephens, the butler, told me. It’s all changed, Mr.
Holmes, and there is something damned rotten about it. But then,
again, what is master doing down at the old church crypt at night?
And who is the man that meets him there?”

Holmes rubbed his hands.

“Go on, Mr. Mason. You get more and more interesting.”

“It was the butler who saw him go. Twelve o’clock at night and
raining hard. So next night I was up at the house and, sure enough,
master was off again. Stephens and I went after him, but it was jumpy
work, for it would have been a bad job if he had seen us. He’s a
terrible man with his fists if he gets started, and no respecter of
persons. So we were shy of getting too near, but we marked him down
all right. It was the haunted crypt that he was making for, and there
was a man waiting for him there.”

“What is this haunted crypt?”

“Well, sir, there is an old ruined chapel in the park. It is so old
that nobody could fix its date. And under it there’s a crypt which
has a bad name among us. It’s a dark, damp, lonely place by day, but
there are few in that county that would have the nerve to go near it
at night. But master’s not afraid. He never feared anything in his
life. But what is he doing there in the night-time?”

“Wait a bit!” said Holmes. “You say there is another man there. It
must be one of your own stablemen, or someone from the house! Surely
you have only to spot who it is and question him?”

“It’s no one I know.”

“How can you say that?”

“Because I have seen him, Mr. Holmes. It was on that second night.
Sir Robert turned and passed us–me and Stephens, quaking in the
bushes like two bunny-rabbits, for there was a bit of moon that
night. But we could hear the other moving about behind. We were not
afraid of him. So we up when Sir Robert was gone and pretended we
were just having a walk like in the moonlight, and so we came right
on him as casual and innocent as you please. ‘Hullo, mate! who may
you be?’ says I. I guess he had not heard us coming, so he looked
over his shoulder with a face as if he had seen the devil coming out
of hell. He let out a yell, and away he went as hard as he could lick
it in the darkness. He could run!–I’ll give him that. In a minute he
was out of sight and hearing, and who he was, or what he was, we
never found.”

“But you saw him clearly in the moonlight?”

“Yes, I would swear to his yellow face–a mean dog, I should say.
What could he have in common with Sir Robert?”

Holmes sat for some time lost in thought.

“Who keeps Lady Beatrice Falder company?” he asked at last.

“There is her maid, Carrie Evans. She has been with her this five
years.”

“And is, no doubt, devoted?”

Mr. Mason shuffled uncomfortably.

“She’s devoted enough,” he answered at last. “But I won’t say to
whom.”

“Ah!” said Holmes.

“I can’t tell tales out of school.”

“I quite understand, Mr. Mason. Of course, the situation is clear
enough. From Dr. Watson’s description of Sir Robert I can realize
that no woman is safe from him. Don’t you think the quarrel between
brother and sister may lie there?”

“Well, the scandal has been pretty clear for a long time.”

“But she may not have seen it before. Let us suppose that she has
suddenly found it out. She wants to get rid of the woman. Her brother
will not permit it. The invalid, with her weak heart and inability to
get about, has no means of enforcing her will. The hated maid is
still tied to her. The lady refuses to speak, sulks, takes to drink.
Sir Robert in his anger takes her pet spaniel away from her. Does not
all this hang together?”

“Well, it might do–so far as it goes.”

“Exactly! As far as it goes. How would all that bear upon the visits
by night to the old crypt? We can’t fit that into our plot.”

“No, sir, and there is something more that I can’t fit in. Why should
Sir Robert want to dig up a dead body?”

Holmes sat up abruptly.

“We only found it out yesterday–after I had written to you.
Yesterday Sir Robert had gone to London, so Stephens and I went down
to the crypt. It was all in order, sir, except that in one corner was
a bit of a human body.”

“You informed the police, I suppose?”

Our visitor smiled grimly.

“Well, sir, I think it would hardly interest them. It was just the
head and a few bones of a mummy. It may have been a thousand years
old. But it wasn’t there before. That I’ll swear, and so will
Stephens. It had been stowed away in a corner and covered over with a
board, but that corner had always been empty before.”

“What did you do with it?”

“Well, we just left it there.”

“That was wise. You say Sir Robert was away yesterday. Has he
returned?”

“We expect him back to-day.”

“When did Sir Robert give away his sister’s dog?”

“It was just a week ago to-day. The creature was howling outside the
old well-house, and Sir Robert was in one of his tantrums that
morning. He caught it up, and I thought he would have killed it. Then
he gave it to Sandy Bain, the jockey, and told him to take the dog to
old Barnes at the Green Dragon, for he never wished to see it again.”

Holmes sat for some time in silent thought. He had lit the oldest and
foulest of his pipes.

“I am not clear yet what you want me to do in this matter, Mr.
Mason,” he said at last. “Can’t you make it more definite?”

“Perhaps this will make it more definite, Mr. Holmes,” said our
visitor.

He took a paper from his pocket, and, unwrapping it carefully, he
exposed a charred fragment of bone.

Holmes examined it with interest.

“Where did you get it?”

“There is a central heating furnace in the cellar under Lady
Beatrice’s room. It’s been off for some time, but Sir Robert
complained of cold and had it on again. Harvey runs it–he’s one of
my lads. This very morning he came to me with this which he found
raking out the cinders. He didn’t like the look of it.”

“Nor do I,” said Holmes. “What do you make of it, Watson?”

It was burned to a black cinder, but there could be no question as to
its anatomical significance.

“It’s the upper condyle of a human femur,” said I.

“Exactly!” Holmes had become very serious. “When does this lad tend
to the furnace?”

“He makes it up every evening and then leaves it.”

“Then anyone could visit it during the night?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Can you enter it from outside?”

“There is one door from outside. There is another which leads up by a
stair to the passage in which Lady Beatrice’s room is situated.”

“These are deep waters, Mr. Mason; deep and rather dirty. You say
that Sir Robert was not at home last night?”

“No, sir.”

“Then, whoever was burning bones, it was not he.”

“That’s true, sir.”

“What is the name of that inn you spoke of?”

“The Green Dragon.”

“Is there good fishing in that part of Berkshire?” The honest trainer
showed very clearly upon his face that he was convinced that yet
another lunatic had come into his harassed life.

“Well, sir, I’ve heard there are trout in the mill-stream and pike in
the Hall lake.”

“That’s good enough. Watson and I are famous fishermen–are we not,
Watson? You may address us in future at the Green Dragon. We should
reach it to-night. I need not say that we don’t want to see you, Mr.
Mason, but a note will reach us, and no doubt I could find you if I
want you. When we have gone a little farther into the matter I will
let you have a considered opinion.”

Thus it was that on a bright May evening Holmes and I found ourselves
alone in a first-class carriage and bound for the little
“halt-on-demand” station of Shoscombe. The rack above us was covered
with a formidable litter of rods, reels, and baskets. On reaching our
destination a short drive took us to an old-fashioned tavern, where a
sporting host, Josiah Barnes, entered eagerly into our plans for the
extirpation of the fish of the neighbourhood.

“What about the Hall lake and the chance of a pike?” said Holmes.

The face of the innkeeper clouded.

“That wouldn’t do, sir. You might chance to find yourself in the lake
before you were through.”

“How’s that, then?”

“It’s Sir Robert, sir. He’s terrible jealous of touts. If you two
strangers were as near his training quarters as that he’d be after
you as sure as fate. He ain’t taking no chances, Sir Robert ain’t.”

“I’ve heard he has a horse entered for the Derby.”

“Yes, and a good colt, too. He carries all our money for the race,
and all Sir Robert’s into the bargain. By the way”–he looked at us
with thoughtful eyes–“I suppose you ain’t on the turf yourselves?”

“No, indeed. Just two weary Londoners who badly need some good
Berkshire air.”

“Well, you are in the right place for that. There is a deal of it
lying about. But mind what I have told you about Sir Robert. He’s the
sort that strikes first and speaks afterwards. Keep clear of the
park.”

“Surely, Mr. Barnes! We certainly shall. By the way, that was a most
beautiful spaniel that was whining in the hall.”

“I should say it was. That was the real Shoscombe breed. There ain’t
a better in England.”

“I am a dog-fancier myself,” said Holmes. “Now, if it is a fair
question, what would a prize dog like that cost?”

“More than I could pay, sir. It was Sir Robert himself who gave me
this one. That’s why I have to keep it on a lead. It would be off to
the Hall in a jiffy if I gave it its head.”

“We are getting some cards in our hand, Watson,” said Holmes when the
landlord had left us. “It’s not an easy one to play, but we may see
our way in a day or two. By the way, Sir Robert is still in London, I
hear. We might, perhaps, enter the sacred domain to-night without
fear of bodily assault. There are one or two points on which I should
like reassurance.”

“Have you any theory, Holmes?”

“Only this, Watson, that something happened a week or so ago which
has cut deep into the life of the Shoscombe household. What is that
something? We can only guess at it from its effects. They seem to be
of a curiously mixed character. But that should surely help us. It is
only the colourless, uneventful case which is hopeless.

“Let us consider our data. The brother no longer visits the beloved
invalid sister. He gives away her favourite dog. Her dog, Watson!
Does that suggest nothing to you?”

“Nothing but the brother’s spite.”

“Well, it might be so. Or–well, there is an alternative. Now to
continue our review of the situation from the time that the quarrel,
if there is a quarrel, began. The lady keeps her room, alters her
habits, is not seen save when she drives out with her maid, refuses
to stop at the stables to greet her favourite horse, and apparently
takes to drink. That covers the case, does it not?”

“Save for the business in the crypt.”

“That is another line of thought. There are two, and I beg you will
not tangle them. Line A, which concerns Lady Beatrice, has a vaguely
sinister flavour, has it not?”

“I can make nothing of it.”

“Well, now, let us take up line B, which concerns Sir Robert. He is
mad keen upon winning the Derby. He is in the hands of the Jews, and
may at any moment be sold up and his racing stables seized by his
creditors. He is a daring and desperate man. He derives his income
from his sister. His sister’s maid is his willing tool. So far we
seem to be on fairly safe ground, do we not?”

“But the crypt?”

“Ah, yes, the crypt! Let us suppose, Watson–it is merely a
scandalous supposition, a hypothesis put forward for argument’s
sake–that Sir Robert has done away with his sister.”

“My dear Holmes, it is out of the question.”

“Very possibly, Watson. Sir Robert is a man of an honourable stock.
But you do occasionally find a carrion crow among the eagles. Let us
for a moment argue upon this supposition. He could not fly the
country until he had realized his fortune, and that fortune could
only be realized by bringing off this coup with Shoscombe Prince.
Therefore, he has still to stand his ground. To do this he would have
to dispose of the body of his victim, and he would also have to find
a substitute who would impersonate her. With the maid as his
confidante that would not be impossible. The woman’s body might be
conveyed to the crypt, which is a place so seldom visited, and it
might be secretly destroyed at night in the furnace, leaving behind
it such evidence as we have already seen. What say you to that,
Watson?”

“Well, it is all possible if you grant the original monstrous
supposition.”

“I think that there is a small experiment which we may try to-morrow,
Watson, in order to throw some light on the matter. Meanwhile, if we
mean to keep up our characters, I suggest that we have our host in
for a glass of his own wine and hold some high converse upon eels and
dace, which seems to be the straight road to his affections. We may
chance to come upon some useful local gossip in the process.”

In the morning Holmes discovered that we had come without our
spoon-bait for jack, which absolved us from fishing for the day.
About eleven o’clock we started for a walk, and he obtained leave to
take the black spaniel with us.

“This is the place,” said he as we came to two high park gates with
heraldic griffins towering above them. “About midday, Mr. Barnes
informs me, the old lady takes a drive, and the carriage must slow
down while the gates are opened. When it comes through, and before it
gathers speed, I want you, Watson, to stop the coachman with some
question. Never mind me. I shall stand behind this holly-bush and see
what I can see.”

It was not a long vigil. Within a quarter of an hour we saw the big
open yellow barouche coming down the long avenue, with two splendid,
high-stepping gray carriage horses in the shafts. Holmes crouched
behind his bush with the dog. I stood unconcernedly swinging a cane
in the roadway. A keeper ran out and the gates swung open.

The carriage had slowed to a walk, and I was able to get a good look
at the occupants. A highly coloured young woman with flaxen hair and
impudent eyes sat on the left. At her right was an elderly person
with rounded back and a huddle of shawls about her face and shoulders
which proclaimed the invalid. When the horses reached the highroad I
held up my hand with an authoritative gesture, and as the coachman
pulled up I inquired if Sir Robert was at Shoscombe Old Place.

At the same moment Holmes stepped out and released the spaniel. With
a joyous cry it dashed forward to the carriage and sprang upon the
step. Then in a moment its eager greeting changed to furious rage,
and it snapped at the black skirt above it.

“Drive on! Drive on!” shrieked a harsh voice. The coachman lashed the
horses, and we were left standing in the roadway.

“Well, Watson, that’s done it,” said Holmes as he fastened the lead
to the neck of the excited spaniel. “He thought it was his mistress,
and he found it was a stranger. Dogs don’t make mistakes.”

“But it was the voice of a man!” I cried.

“Exactly! We have added one card to our hand, Watson, but it needs
careful playing, all the same.”

My companion seemed to have no further plans for the day, and we did
actually use our fishing tackle in the mill-stream, with the result
that we had a dish of trout for our supper. It was only after that
meal that Holmes showed signs of renewed activity. Once more we found
ourselves upon the same road as in the morning, which led us to the
park gates. A tall, dark figure was awaiting us there, who proved to
be our London acquaintance, Mr. John Mason, the trainer.

“Good-evening, gentlemen,” said he. “I got your note, Mr. Holmes. Sir
Robert has not returned yet, but I hear that he is expected
to-night.”

“How far is this crypt from the house?” asked Holmes.

“A good quarter of a mile.”

“Then I think we can disregard him altogether.”

“I can’t afford to do that, Mr. Holmes. The moment he arrives he will
want to see me to get the last news of Shoscombe Prince.”

“I see! In that case we must work without you, Mr. Mason. You can
show us the crypt and then leave us.”

It was pitch-dark and without a moon, but Mason led us over the
grass-lands until a dark mass loomed up in front of us which proved
to be the ancient chapel. We entered the broken gap which was once
the porch, and our guide, stumbling among heaps of loose masonry,
picked his way to the corner of the building, where a steep stair led
down into the crypt. Striking a match, he illuminated the melancholy
place–dismal and evil-smelling, with ancient crumbling walls of
rough-hewn stone, and piles of coffins, some of lead and some of
stone, extending upon one side right up to the arched and groined
roof which lost itself in the shadows above our heads. Holmes had lit
his lantern, which shot a tiny tunnel of vivid yellow light upon the
mournful scene. Its rays were reflected back from the coffin-plates,
many of them adorned with the griffin and coronet of this old family
which carried its honours even to the gate of Death.

“You spoke of some bones, Mr. Mason. Could you show them before you
go?”

“They are here in this corner.” The trainer strode across and then
stood in silent surprise as our light was turned upon the place.
“They are gone,” said he.

“So I expected,” said Holmes, chuckling. “I fancy the ashes of them
might even now be found in that oven which had already consumed a
part.”

“But why in the world would anyone want to burn the bones of a man
who has been dead a thousand years?” asked John Mason.

“That is what we are here to find out,” said Holmes. “It may mean a
long search, and we need not detain you. I fancy that we shall get
our solution before morning.”

When John Mason had left us, Holmes set to work making a very careful
examination of the graves, ranging from a very ancient one, which
appeared to be Saxon, in the centre, through a long line of Norman
Hugos and Odos, until we reached the Sir William and Sir Denis Falder
of the eighteenth century. It was an hour or more before Holmes came
to a leaden coffin standing on end before the entrance to the vault.
I heard his little cry of satisfaction and was aware from his hurried
but purposeful movements that he had reached a goal. With his lens he
was eagerly examining the edges of the heavy lid. Then he drew from
his pocket a short jemmy, a box-opener, which he thrust into a chink,
levering back the whole front, which seemed to be secured by only a
couple of clamps. There was a rending, tearing sound as it gave way,
but it had hardly hinged back and partly revealed the contents before
we had an unforeseen interruption.

Someone was walking in the chapel above. It was the firm, rapid step
of one who came with a definite purpose and knew well the ground upon
which he walked. A light streamed down the stairs, and an instant
later the man who bore it was framed in the Gothic archway. He was a
terrible figure, huge in stature and fierce in manner. A large
stable-lantern which he held in front of him shone upward upon a
strong, heavily moustached face and angry eyes, which glared round
him into every recess of the vault, finally fixing themselves with a
deadly stare upon my companion and myself.

“Who the devil are you?” he thundered. “And what are you doing upon
my property?” Then, as Holmes returned no answer, he took a couple of
steps forward and raised a heavy stick which he carried. “Do you hear
me?” he cried. “Who are you? What are you doing here?” His cudgel
quivered in the air.

But instead of shrinking Holmes advanced to meet him.

“I also have a question to ask you, Sir Robert,” he said in his
sternest tone. “Who is this? And what is it doing here?”

He turned and tore open the coffin-lid behind him. In the glare of
the lantern I saw a body swathed in a sheet from head to foot, with
dreadful, witch-like features, all nose and chin, projecting at one
end, the dim, glazed eyes staring from a discoloured and crumbling
face.

The baronet had staggered back with a cry and supported himself
against a stone sarcophagus.

“How came you to know of this?” he cried. And then, with some return
of his truculent manner: “What business is it of yours?”

“My name is Sherlock Holmes,” said my companion. “Possibly it is
familiar to you. In any case, my business is that of every other good
citizen–to uphold the law. It seems to me that you have much to
answer for.”

Sir Robert glared for a moment, but Holmes’s quiet voice and cool,
assured manner had their effect.

“‘Fore God, Mr. Holmes, it’s all right,” said he. “Appearances are
against me, I’ll admit, but I could act no otherwise.”

“I should be happy to think so, but I fear your explanations must be
before the police.”

Sir Robert shrugged his broad shoulders.

“Well, if it must be, it must. Come up to the house and you can judge
for yourself how the matter stands.”

A quarter of an hour later we found ourselves in what I judge, from
the lines of polished barrels behind glass covers, to be the gun-room
of the old house. It was comfortably furnished, and here Sir Robert
left us for a few moments. When he returned he had two companions
with him; the one, the florid young woman whom we had seen in the
carriage; the other, a small rat-faced man with a disagreeably
furtive manner. These two wore an appearance of utter bewilderment,
which showed that the baronet had not yet had time to explain to them
the turn events had taken.

“There,” said Sir Robert with a wave of his hand, “are Mr. and Mrs.
Norlett. Mrs. Norlett, under her maiden name of Evans, has for some
years been my sister’s confidential maid. I have brought them here
because I feel that my best course is to explain the true position to
you, and they are the two people upon earth who can substantiate what
I say.”

“Is this necessary, Sir Robert? Have you thought what you are doing?”
cried the woman.

“As to me, I entirely disclaim all responsibility,” said her husband.

Sir Robert gave him a glance of contempt. “I will take all
responsibility,” said he. “Now, Mr. Holmes, listen to a plain
statement of the facts.

“You have clearly gone pretty deeply into my affairs or I should not
have found you where I did. Therefore, you know already, in all
probability, that I am running a dark horse for the Derby and that
everything depends upon my success. If I win, all is easy. If I
lose–well, I dare not think of that!”

“I understand the position,” said Holmes.

“I am dependent upon my sister, Lady Beatrice, for everything. But it
is well known that her interest in the estate is for her own life
only. For myself, I am deeply in the hands of the Jews. I have always
known that if my sister were to die my creditors would be on to my
estate like a flock of vultures. Everything would be seized–my
stables, my horses–everything. Well, Mr. Holmes, my sister did die
just a week ago.”

“And you told no one!”

“What could I do? Absolute ruin faced me. If I could stave things off
for three weeks all would be well. Her maid’s husband–this man
here–is an actor. It came into our heads–it came into my head–that
he could for that short period personate my sister. It was but a case
of appearing daily in the carriage, for no one need enter her room
save the maid. It was not difficult to arrange. My sister died of the
dropsy which had long afflicted her.”

“That will be for a coroner to decide.”

“Her doctor would certify that for months her symptoms have
threatened such an end.”

“Well, what did you do?”

“The body could not remain there. On the first night Norlett and I
carried it out to the old well-house, which is now never used. We
were followed, however, by her pet spaniel, which yapped continually
at the door, so I felt some safer place was needed. I got rid of the
spaniel, and we carried the body to the crypt of the church. There
was no indignity or irreverence, Mr. Holmes. I do not feel that I
have wronged the dead.”

“Your conduct seems to me inexcusable, Sir Robert.”

The baronet shook his head impatiently. “It is easy to preach,” said
he. “Perhaps you would have felt differently if you had been in my
position. One cannot see all one’s hopes and all one’s plans
shattered at the last moment and make no effort to save them. It
seemed to me that it would be no unworthy resting-place if we put her
for the time in one of the coffins of her husband’s ancestors lying
in what is still consecrated ground. We opened such a coffin, removed
the contents, and placed her as you have seen her. As to the old
relics which we took out, we could not leave them on the floor of the
crypt. Norlett and I removed them, and he descended at night and
burned them in the central furnace. There is my story, Mr. Holmes,
though how you forced my hand so that I have to tell it is more than
I can say.”

Holmes sat for some time lost in thought.

“There is one flaw in your narrative, Sir Robert,” he said at last.
“Your bets on the race, and therefore your hopes for the future,
would hold good even if your creditors seized your estate.”

“The horse would be part of the estate. What do they care for my
bets? As likely as not they would not run him at all. My chief
creditor is, unhappily, my most bitter enemy–a rascally fellow, Sam
Brewer, whom I was once compelled to horsewhip on Newmarket Heath. Do
you suppose that he would try to save me?”

“Well, Sir Robert,” said Holmes, rising, “this matter must, of
course, be referred to the police. It was my duty to bring the facts
to light, and there I must leave it. As to the morality or decency of
your conduct, it is not for me to express an opinion. It is nearly
midnight, Watson, and I think we may make our way back to our humble
abode.”

It is generally known now that this singular episode ended upon a
happier note than Sir Robert’s actions deserved. Shoscombe Prince did
win the Derby, the sporting owner did net eighty thousand pounds in
bets, and the creditors did hold their hand until the race was over,
when they were paid in full, and enough was left to reestablish Sir
Robert in a fair position in life. Both police and coroner took a
lenient view of the transaction, and beyond a mild censure for the
delay in registering the lady’s decease, the lucky owner got away
scatheless from this strange incident in a career which has now
outlived its shadows and promises to end in an honoured old age.

Sherlock Holmes was in a melancholy and philosophic mood that
morning. His alert practical nature was subject to such reactions.

“Did you see him?” he asked.

“You mean the old fellow who has just gone out?”

“Precisely.”

“Yes, I met him at the door.”

“What did you think of him?”

“A pathetic, futile, broken creature.”

“Exactly, Watson. Pathetic and futile. But is not all life pathetic
and futile? Is not his story a microcosm of the whole? We reach. We
grasp. And what is left in our hands at the end? A shadow. Or worse
than a shadow–misery.”

“Is he one of your clients?”

“Well, I suppose I may call him so. He has been sent on by the Yard.
Just as medical men occasionally send their incurables to a quack.
They argue that they can do nothing more, and that whatever happens
the patient can be no worse than he is.”

“What is the matter?”

Holmes took a rather soiled card from the table. “Josiah Amberley. He
says he was junior partner of Brickfall and Amberley, who are
manufacturers of artistic materials. You will see their names upon
paint-boxes. He made his little pile, retired from business at the
age of sixty-one, bought a house at Lewisham, and settled down to
rest after a life of ceaseless grind. One would think his future was
tolerably assured.”

“Yes, indeed.”

Holmes glanced over some notes which he had scribbled upon the back
of an envelope.

“Retired in 1896, Watson. Early in 1897 he married a woman twenty
years younger than himself–a good-looking woman, too, if the
photograph does not flatter. A competence, a wife, leisure–it seemed
a straight road which lay before him. And yet within two years he is,
as you have seen, as broken and miserable a creature as crawls
beneath the sun.”

“But what has happened?”

“The old story, Watson. A treacherous friend and a fickle wife. It
would appear that Amberley has one hobby in life, and it is chess.
Not far from him at Lewisham there lives a young doctor who is also a
chess-player. I have noted his name as Dr. Ray Ernest. Ernest was
frequently in the house, and an intimacy between him and Mrs.
Amberley was a natural sequence, for you must admit that our
unfortunate client has few outward graces, whatever his inner virtues
may be. The couple went off together last week–destination untraced.
What is more, the faithless spouse carried off the old man’s deed-box
as her personal luggage with a good part of his life’s savings
within. Can we find the lady? Can we save the money? A commonplace
problem so far as it has developed, and yet a vital one for Josiah
Amberley.”

“What will you do about it?”

“Well, the immediate question, my dear Watson, happens to be, What
will you do?–if you will be good enough to understudy me. You know
that I am preoccupied with this case of the two Coptic Patriarchs,
which should come to a head to-day. I really have not time to go out
to Lewisham, and yet evidence taken on the spot has a special value.
The old fellow was quite insistent that I should go, but I explained
my difficulty. He is prepared to meet a representative.”

“By all means,” I answered. “I confess I don’t see that I can be of
much service, but I am willing to do my best.” And so it was that on
a summer afternoon I set forth to Lewisham, little dreaming that
within a week the affair in which I was engaging would be the eager
debate of all England.

It was late that evening before I returned to Baker Street and gave
an account of my mission. Holmes lay with his gaunt figure stretched
in his deep chair, his pipe curling forth slow wreaths of acrid
tobacco, while his eyelids drooped over his eyes so lazily that he
might almost have been asleep were it not that at any halt or
questionable passage of my narrative they half lifted, and two gray
eyes, as bright and keen as rapiers, transfixed me with their
searching glance.

“The Haven is the name of Mr. Josiah Amberley’s house,” I explained.
“I think it would interest you, Holmes. It is like some penurious
patrician who has sunk into the company of his inferiors. You know
that particular quarter, the monotonous brick streets, the weary
suburban highways. Right in the middle of them, a little island of
ancient culture and comfort, lies this old home, surrounded by a high
sun-baked wall mottled with lichens and topped with moss, the sort of
wall–“

“Cut out the poetry, Watson,” said Holmes severely. “I note that it
was a high brick wall.”

“Exactly. I should not have known which was The Haven had I not asked
a lounger who was smoking in the street. I have a reason for
mentioning him. He was a tall, dark, heavily moustached, rather
military-looking man. He nodded in answer to my inquiry and gave me a
curiously questioning glance, which came back to my memory a little
later.

“I had hardly entered the gateway before I saw Mr. Amberley coming
down the drive. I only had a glimpse of him this morning, and he
certainly gave me the impression of a strange creature, but when I
saw him in full light his appearance was even more abnormal.”

“I have, of course, studied it, and yet I should be interested to
have your impression,” said Holmes.

“He seemed to me like a man who was literally bowed down by care. His
back was curved as though he carried a heavy burden. Yet he was not
the weakling that I had at first imagined, for his shoulders and
chest have the framework of a giant, though his figure tapers away
into a pair of spindled legs.”

“Left shoe wrinkled, right one smooth.”

“I did not observe that.”

“No, you wouldn’t. I spotted his artificial limb. But proceed.”

“I was struck by the snaky locks of grizzled hair which curled from
under his old straw hat, and his face with its fierce, eager
expression and the deeply lined features.”

“Very good, Watson. What did he say?”

“He began pouring out the story of his grievances. We walked down the
drive together, and of course I took a good look round. I have never
seen a worse-kept place. The garden was all running to seed, giving
me an impression of wild neglect in which the plants had been allowed
to find the way of Nature rather than of art. How any decent woman
could have tolerated such a state of things, I don’t know. The house,
too, was slatternly to the last degree, but the poor man seemed
himself to be aware of it and to be trying to remedy it, for a great
pot of green paint stood in the centre of the hall, and he was
carrying a thick brush in his left hand. He had been working on the
woodwork.

“He took me into his dingy sanctum, and we had a long chat. Of
course, he was disappointed that you had not come yourself. ‘I hardly
expected,’ he said, ‘that so humble an individual as myself,
especially after my heavy financial loss, could obtain the complete
attention of so famous a man as Mr. Sherlock Holmes.’

“I assured him that the financial question did not arise. ‘No, of
course, it is art for art’s sake with him,’ said he, ‘but even on the
artistic side of crime he might have found something here to study.
And human nature, Dr. Watson–the black ingratitude of it all! When
did I ever refuse one of her requests? Was ever a woman so pampered?
And that young man–he might have been my own son. He had the run of
my house. And yet see how they have treated me! Oh, Dr. Watson, it is
a dreadful, dreadful world!’

“That was the burden of his song for an hour or more. He had, it
seems, no suspicion of an intrigue. They lived alone save for a woman
who comes in by the day and leaves every evening at six. On that
particular evening old Amberley, wishing to give his wife a treat,
had taken two upper circle seats at the Haymarket Theatre. At the
last moment she had complained of a headache and had refused to go.
He had gone alone. There seemed to be no doubt about the fact, for he
produced the unused ticket which he had taken for his wife.”

“That is remarkable–most remarkable,” said Holmes, whose interest in
the case seemed to be rising. “Pray continue, Watson. I find your
narrative most arresting. Did you personally examine this ticket? You
did not, perchance, take the number?”

“It so happens that I did,” I answered with some pride. “It chanced
to be my old school number, thirty-one, and so is stuck in my head.”

“Excellent, Watson! His seat, then, was either thirty or thirty-two.”

“Quite so,” I answered with some mystification. “And on B row.”

“That is most satisfactory. What else did he tell you?”

“He showed me his strong-room, as he called it. It really is a
strong-room–like a bank–with iron door and shutter–burglar-proof,
as he claimed. However, the woman seems to have had a duplicate key,
and between them they had carried off some seven thousand pounds’
worth of cash and securities.”

“Securities! How could they dispose of those?”

“He said that he had given the police a list and that he hoped they
would be unsaleable. He had got back from the theatre about midnight
and found the place plundered, the door and window open, and the
fugitives gone. There was no letter or message, nor has he heard a
word since. He at once gave the alarm to the police.”

Holmes brooded for some minutes.

“You say he was painting. What was he painting?”

“Well, he was painting the passage. But he had already painted the
door and woodwork of this room I spoke of.”

“Does it not strike you as a strange occupation in the
circumstances?”

“‘One must do something to ease an aching heart.’ That was his own
explanation. It was eccentric, no doubt, but he is clearly an
eccentric man. He tore up one of his wife’s photographs in my
presence–tore it up furiously in a tempest of passion. ‘I never wish
to see her damned face again,’ he shrieked.”

“Anything more, Watson?”

“Yes, one thing which struck me more than anything else. I had driven
to the Blackheath Station and had caught my train there when, just as
it was starting, I saw a man dart into the carriage next to my own.
You know that I have a quick eye for faces, Holmes. It was
undoubtedly the tall, dark man whom I had addressed in the street. I
saw him once more at London Bridge, and then I lost him in the crowd.
But I am convinced that he was following me.”

“No doubt! No doubt!” said Holmes. “A tall, dark, heavily moustached
man, you say, with gray-tinted sun-glasses?”

“Holmes, you are a wizard. I did not say so, but he had gray-tinted
sun-glasses.”

“And a Masonic tie-pin?”

“Holmes!”

“Quite simple, my dear Watson. But let us get down to what is
practical. I must admit to you that the case, which seemed to me to
be so absurdly simple as to be hardly worth my notice, is rapidly
assuming a very different aspect. It is true that though in your
mission you have missed everything of importance, yet even those
things which have obtruded themselves upon your notice give rise to
serious thought.”

“What have I missed?”

“Don’t be hurt, my dear fellow. You know that I am quite impersonal.
No one else would have done better. Some possibly not so well. But
clearly you have missed some vital points. What is the opinion of the
neighbours about this man Amberley and his wife? That surely is of
importance. What of Dr. Ernest? Was he the gay Lothario one would
expect? With your natural advantages, Watson, every lady is your
helper and accomplice. What about the girl at the post-office, or the
wife of the greengrocer? I can picture you whispering soft nothings
with the young lady at the Blue Anchor, and receiving hard somethings
in exchange. All this you have left undone.”

“It can still be done.”

“It has been done. Thanks to the telephone and the help of the Yard,
I can usually get my essentials without leaving this room. As a
matter of fact, my information confirms the man’s story. He has the
local repute of being a miser as well as a harsh and exacting
husband. That he had a large sum of money in that strong-room of his
is certain. So also is it that young Dr. Ernest, an unmarried man,
played chess with Amberley, and probably played the fool with his
wife. All this seems plain sailing, and one would think that there
was no more to be said–and yet!–and yet!”

“Where lies the difficulty?”

“In my imagination, perhaps. Well, leave it there, Watson. Let us
escape from this weary workaday world by the side door of music.
Carina sings to-night at the Albert Hall, and we still have time to
dress, dine, and enjoy.”

In the morning I was up betimes, but some toast crumbs and two empty
egg-shells told me that my companion was earlier still. I found a
scribbled note upon the table.

Dear Watson:
There are one or two points of contact which I should wish to
establish with Mr. Josiah Amberley. When I have done so we can
dismiss the case–or not. I would only ask you to be on hand about
three o’clock, as I conceive it possible that I may want you.
S. H.

I saw nothing of Holmes all day, but at the hour named he returned,
grave, preoccupied, and aloof. At such times it was wiser to leave
him to himself.

“Has Amberley been here yet?”

“No.”

“Ah! I am expecting him.”

He was not disappointed, for presently the old fellow arrived with a
very worried and puzzled expression upon his austere face.

“I’ve had a telegram, Mr. Holmes. I can make nothing of it.” He
handed it over, and Holmes read it aloud.

“Come at once without fail. Can give you information as to your
recent loss.
“Elman.
“The Vicarage.

“Dispatched at 2.10 from Little Purlington,” said Holmes. “Little
Purlington is in Essex, I believe, not far from Frinton. Well, of
course you will start at once. This is evidently from a responsible
person, the vicar of the place. Where is my Crockford? Yes, here we
have him: ‘J. C. Elman, M. A., Living of Moosmoor cum Little
Purlington.’ Look up the trains, Watson.”

“There is one at 5.20 from Liverpool Street.”

“Excellent. You had best go with him, Watson. He may need help or
advice. Clearly we have come to a crisis in this affair.”

But our client seemed by no means eager to start.

“It’s perfectly absurd, Mr. Holmes,” he said. “What can this man
possibly know of what has occurred? It is waste of time and money.”

“He would not have telegraphed to you if he did not know something.
Wire at once that you are coming.”

“I don’t think I shall go.”

Holmes assumed his sternest aspect.

“It would make the worst possible impression both on the police and
upon myself, Mr. Amberley, if when so obvious a clue arose you should
refuse to follow it up. We should feel that you were not really in
earnest in this investigation.”

Our client seemed horrified at the suggestion.

“Why, of course I shall go if you look at it in that way,” said he.
“On the face of it, it seems absurd to suppose that this person knows
anything, but if you think–“

“I do think,” said Holmes with emphasis, and so we were launched upon
our journey. Holmes took me aside before we left the room and gave me
one word of counsel, which showed that he considered the matter to be
of importance. “Whatever you do, see that he really does go,” said
he. “Should he break away or return, get to the nearest telephone
exchange and send the single word ‘Bolted.’ I will arrange here that
it shall reach me wherever I am.”

Little Purlington is not an easy place to reach, for it is on a
branch line. My remembrance of the journey is not a pleasant one, for
the weather was hot, the train slow, and my companion sullen and
silent, hardly talking at all save to make an occasional sardonic
remark as to the futility of our proceedings. When we at last reached
the little station it was a two-mile drive before we came to the
Vicarage, where a big, solemn, rather pompous clergyman received us
in his study. Our telegram lay before him.

“Well, gentlemen,” he asked, “what can I do for you?”

“We came,” I explained, “in answer to your wire.”

“My wire! I sent no wire.”

“I mean the wire which you sent to Mr. Josiah Amberley about his wife
and his money.”

“If this is a joke, sir, it is a very questionable one,” said the
vicar angrily. “I have never heard of the gentleman you name, and I
have not sent a wire to anyone.”

Our client and I looked at each other in amazement.

“Perhaps there is some mistake,” said I; “are there perhaps two
vicarages? Here is the wire itself, signed Elman and dated from the
Vicarage.”

“There is only one vicarage, sir, and only one vicar, and this wire
is a scandalous forgery, the origin of which shall certainly be
investigated by the police. Meanwhile, I can see no possible object
in prolonging this interview.”

So Mr. Amberley and I found ourselves on the roadside in what seemed
to me to be the most primitive village in England. We made for the
telegraph office, but it was already closed. There was a telephone,
however, at the little Railway Arms, and by it I got into touch with
Holmes, who shared in our amazement at the result of our journey.

“Most singular!” said the distant voice. “Most remarkable! I much
fear, my dear Watson, that there is no return train to-night. I have
unwittingly condemned you to the horrors of a country inn. However,
there is always Nature, Watson–Nature and Josiah Amberley–you can
be in close commune with both.” I heard his dry chuckle as he turned
away.

It was soon apparent to me that my companion’s reputation as a miser
was not undeserved. He had grumbled at the expense of the journey,
had insisted upon travelling third-class, and was now clamorous in
his objections to the hotel bill. Next morning, when we did at last
arrive in London, it was hard to say which of us was in the worse
humour.

“You had best take Baker Street as we pass,” said I. “Mr. Holmes may
have some fresh instructions.”

“If they are not worth more than the last ones they are not of much
use, ” said Amberley with a malevolent scowl. None the less, he kept
me company. I had already warned Holmes by telegram of the hour of
our arrival, but we found a message waiting that he was at Lewisham
and would expect us there. That was a surprise, but an even greater
one was to find that he was not alone in the sitting-room of our
client. A stern-looking, impassive man sat beside him, a dark man
with gray-tinted glasses and a large Masonic pin projecting from his
tie.

“This is my friend Mr. Barker,” said Holmes. “He has been interesting
himself also in your business, Mr. Josiah Amberley, though we have
been working independently. But we both have the same question to ask
you!”

Mr. Amberley sat down heavily. He sensed impending danger. I read it
in his straining eyes and his twitching features.

“What is the question, Mr. Holmes?”

“Only this: What did you do with the bodies?”

The man sprang to his feet with a hoarse scream. He clawed into the
air with his bony hands. His mouth was open, and for the instant he
looked like some horrible bird of prey. In a flash we got a glimpse
of the real Josiah Amberley, a misshapen demon with a soul as
distorted as his body. As he fell back into his chair he clapped his
hand to his lips as if to stifle a cough. Holmes sprang at his throat
like a tiger and twisted his face towards the ground. A white pellet
fell from between his gasping lips.

“No short cuts, Josiah Amberley. Things must be done decently and in
order. What about it, Barker?”

“I have a cab at the door,” said our taciturn companion.

“It is only a few hundred yards to the station. We will go together.
You can stay here, Watson. I shall be back within half an hour.”

The old colourman had the strength of a lion in that great trunk of
his, but he was helpless in the hands of the two experienced
man-handlers. Wriggling and twisting he was dragged to the waiting
cab, and I was left to my solitary vigil in the ill-omened house. In
less time than he had named, however, Holmes was back, in company
with a smart young police inspector.

“I’ve left Barker to look after the formalities,” said Holmes. “You
had not met Barker, Watson. He is my hated rival upon the Surrey
shore. When you said a tall dark man it was not difficult for me to
complete the picture. He has several good cases to his credit, has he
not, Inspector?”

“He has certainly interfered several times,” the inspector answered
with reserve.

“His methods are irregular, no doubt, like my own. The irregulars are
useful sometimes, you know. You, for example, with your compulsory
warning about whatever he said being used against him, could never
have bluffed this rascal into what is virtually a confession.”

“Perhaps not. But we get there all the same, Mr. Holmes. Don’t
imagine that we had not formed our own views of this case, and that
we would not have laid our hands on our man. You will excuse us for
feeling sore when you jump in with methods which we cannot use, and
so rob us of the credit.”

“There shall be no such robbery, MacKinnon. I assure you that I
efface myself from now onward, and as to Barker, he has done nothing
save what I told him.”

The inspector seemed considerably relieved.

“That is very handsome of you, Mr. Holmes. Praise or blame can matter
little to you, but it is very different to us when the newspapers
begin to ask questions.”

“Quite so. But they are pretty sure to ask questions anyhow, so it
would be as well to have answers. What will you say, for example,
when the intelligent and enterprising reporter asks you what the
exact points were which aroused your suspicion, and finally gave you
a certain conviction as to the real facts?”

The inspector looked puzzled.

“We don’t seem to have got any real facts yet, Mr. Holmes. You say
that the prisoner, in the presence of three witnesses, practically
confessed by trying to commit suicide, that he had murdered his wife
and her lover. What other facts have you?”

“Have you arranged for a search?”

“There are three constables on their way.”

“Then you will soon get the clearest fact of all. The bodies cannot
be far away. Try the cellars and the garden. It should not take long
to dig up the likely places. This house is older than the
water-pipes. There must be a disused well somewhere. Try your luck
there.”

“But how did you know of it, and how was it done?”

“I’ll show you first how it was done, and then I will give the
explanation which is due to you, and even more to my long-suffering
friend here, who has been invaluable throughout. But, first, I would
give you an insight into this man’s mentality. It is a very unusual
one–so much so that I think his destination is more likely to be
Broadmoor than the scaffold. He has, to a high degree, the sort of
mind which one associates with the mediaeval Italian nature rather
than with the modern Briton. He was a miserable miser who made his
wife so wretched by his niggardly ways that she was a ready prey for
any adventurer. Such a one came upon the scene in the person of this
chess-playing doctor. Amberley excelled at chess–one mark, Watson,
of a scheming mind. Like all misers, he was a jealous man, and his
jealousy became a frantic mania. Rightly or wrongly, he suspected an
intrigue. He determined to have his revenge, and he planned it with
diabolical cleverness. Come here!”

Holmes led us along the passage with as much certainty as if he had
lived in the house and halted at the open door of the strong-room.

“Pooh! What an awful smell of paint!” cried the inspector.

“That was our first clue,” said Holmes. “You can thank Dr. Watson’s
observation for that, though he failed to draw the inference. It set
my foot upon the trail. Why should this man at such a time be filling
his house with strong odours? Obviously, to cover some other smell
which he wished to conceal–some guilty smell which would suggest
suspicions. Then came the idea of a room such as you see here with
iron door and shutter–a hermetically sealed room. Put those two
facts together, and whither do they lead? I could only determine that
by examining the house myself. I was already certain that the case
was serious, for I had examined the box-office chart at the Haymarket
Theatre–another of Dr. Watson’s bull’s-eyes–and ascertained that
neither B thirty nor thirty-two of the upper circle had been occupied
that night. Therefore, Amberley had not been to the theatre, and his
alibi fell to the ground. He made a bad slip when he allowed my
astute friend to notice the number of the seat taken for his wife.
The question now arose how I might be able to examine the house. I
sent an agent to the most impossible village I could think of, and
summoned my man to it at such an hour that he could not possibly get
back. To prevent any miscarriage, Dr. Watson accompanied him. The
good vicar’s name I took, of course, out of my Crockford. Do I make
it all clear to you?”

“It is masterly,” said the inspector in an awed voice.

“There being no fear of interruption I proceeded to burgle the house.
Burglary has always been an alternative profession had I cared to
adopt it, and I have little doubt that I should have come to the
front. Observe what I found. You see the gas-pipe along the skirting
here. Very good. It rises in the angle of the wall, and there is a
tap here in the corner. The pipe runs out into the strong-room, as
you can see, and ends in that plaster rose in the centre of the
ceiling, where it is concealed by the ornamentation. That end is wide
open. At any moment by turning the outside tap the room could be
flooded with gas. With door and shutter closed and the tap full on I
would not give two minutes of conscious sensation to anyone shut up
in that little chamber. By what devilish device he decoyed them there
I do not know, but once inside the door they were at his mercy.”

The inspector examined the pipe with interest. “One of our officers
mentioned the smell of gas,” said he, “but of course the window and
door were open then, and the paint–or some of it–was already about.
He had begun the work of painting the day before, according to his
story. But what next, Mr. Holmes?”

“Well, then came an incident which was rather unexpected to myself. I
was slipping through the pantry window in the early dawn when I felt
a hand inside my collar, and a voice said: ‘Now, you rascal, what are
you doing in there?’ When I could twist my head round I looked into
the tinted spectacles of my friend and rival, Mr. Barker. It was a
curious foregathering and set us both smiling. It seems that he had
been engaged by Dr. Ray Ernest’s family to make some investigations
and had come to the same conclusion as to foul play. He had watched
the house for some days and had spotted Dr. Watson as one of the
obviously suspicious characters who had called there. He could hardly
arrest Watson, but when he saw a man actually climbing out of the
pantry window there came a limit to his restraint. Of course, I told
him how matters stood and we continued the case together.”

“Why him? Why not us?”

“Because it was in my mind to put that little test which answered so
admirably. I fear you would not have gone so far.”

The inspector smiled.

“Well, maybe not. I understand that I have your word, Mr. Holmes,
that you step right out of the case now and that you turn all your
results over to us.”

“Certainly, that is always my custom.”

“Well, in the name of the force I thank you. It seems a clear case,
as you put it, and there can’t be much difficulty over the bodies.”

“I’ll show you a grim little bit of evidence,” said Holmes, “and I am
sure Amberley himself never observed it. You’ll get results,
Inspector, by always putting yourself in the other fellow’s place,
and thinking what you would do yourself. It takes some imagination,
but it pays. Now, we will suppose that you were shut up in this
little room, had not two minutes to live, but wanted to get even with
the fiend who was probably mocking at you from the other side of the
door. What would you do?”

“Write a message.”

“Exactly. You would like to tell people how you died. No use writing
on paper. That would be seen. If you wrote on the wall someone might
rest upon it. Now, look here! Just above the skirting is scribbled
with a purple indelible pencil: ‘We we–‘ That’s all.”

“What do you make of that?”

“Well, it’s only a foot above the ground. The poor devil was on the
floor dying when he wrote it. He lost his senses before he could
finish.”

“He was writing, ‘We were murdered.'”

“That’s how I read it. If you find an indelible pencil on the body–“

“We’ll look out for it, you may be sure. But those securities?
Clearly there was no robbery at all. And yet he did possess those
bonds. We verified that.”

“You may be sure he has them hidden in a safe place. When the whole
elopement had passed into history, he would suddenly discover them
and announce that the guilty couple had relented and sent back the
plunder or had dropped it on the way.”

“You certainly seem to have met every difficulty,” said the
inspector. “Of course, he was bound to call us in, but why he should
have gone to you I can’t understand.”

“Pure swank!” Holmes answered. “He felt so clever and so sure of
himself that he imagined no one could touch him. He could say to any
suspicious neighbour, ‘Look at the steps I have taken. I have
consulted not only the police but even Sherlock Holmes.'”

The inspector laughed.

“We must forgive you your ‘even,’ Mr. Holmes,” said he, “it’s as
workmanlike a job as I can remember.”

A couple of days later my friend tossed across to me a copy of the
bi-weekly North Surrey Observer. Under a series of flaming headlines,
which began with “The Haven Horror” and ended with “Brilliant Police
Investigation,” there was a packed column of print which gave the
first consecutive account of the affair. The concluding paragraph is
typical of the whole. It ran thus:

The remarkable acumen by which Inspector MacKinnon deduced from the
smell of paint that some other smell, that of gas, for example, might
be concealed; the bold deduction that the strong-room might also be
the death-chamber, and the subsequent inquiry which led to the
discovery of the bodies in a disused well, cleverly concealed by a
dog-kennel, should live in the history of crime as a standing example
of the intelligence of our professional detectives.

“Well, well, MacKinnon is a good fellow,” said Holmes with a tolerant
smile. “You can file it in our archives, Watson. Some day the true
story may be told.”