The Memoirs of Sherlock Holmes (collection)

“I am afraid, Watson, that I shall have to go,” said Holmes, as we
sat down together to our breakfast one morning.

“Go! Where to?”

“To Dartmoor; to King’s Pyland.”

I was not surprised. Indeed, my only wonder was that he had not
already been mixed up in this extraordinary case, which was the one
topic of conversation through the length and breadth of England. For
a whole day my companion had rambled about the room with his chin
upon his chest and his brows knitted, charging and recharging his
pipe with the strongest black tobacco, and absolutely deaf to any of
my questions or remarks. Fresh editions of every paper had been sent
up by our news agent, only to be glanced over and tossed down into a
corner. Yet, silent as he was, I knew perfectly well what it was over
which he was brooding. There was but one problem before the public
which could challenge his powers of analysis, and that was the
singular disappearance of the favorite for the Wessex Cup, and the
tragic murder of its trainer. When, therefore, he suddenly announced
his intention of setting out for the scene of the drama it was only
what I had both expected and hoped for.

“I should be most happy to go down with you if I should not be in the
way,” said I.

“My dear Watson, you would confer a great favour upon me by coming.
And I think that your time will not be misspent, for there are points
about the case which promise to make it an absolutely unique one. We
have, I think, just time to catch our train at Paddington, and I will
go further into the matter upon our journey. You would oblige me by
bringing with you your very excellent field-glass.”

And so it happened that an hour or so later I found myself in the
corner of a first-class carriage flying along en route for Exeter,
while Sherlock Holmes, with his sharp, eager face framed in his
ear-flapped travelling-cap, dipped rapidly into the bundle of fresh
papers which he had procured at Paddington. We had left Reading far
behind us before he thrust the last one of them under the seat, and
offered me his cigar-case.

“We are going well,” said he, looking out the window and glancing at
his watch. “Our rate at present is fifty-three and a half miles an
hour.”

“I have not observed the quarter-mile posts,” said I.

“Nor have I. But the telegraph posts upon this line are sixty yards
apart, and the calculation is a simple one. I presume that you have
looked into this matter of the murder of John Straker and the
disappearance of Silver Blaze?”

“I have seen what the Telegraph and the Chronicle have to say.”

“It is one of those cases where the art of the reasoner should be
used rather for the sifting of details than for the acquiring of
fresh evidence. The tragedy has been so uncommon, so complete and of
such personal importance to so many people, that we are suffering
from a plethora of surmise, conjecture, and hypothesis. The
difficulty is to detach the framework of fact–of absolute undeniable
fact–from the embellishments of theorists and reporters. Then,
having established ourselves upon this sound basis, it is our duty to
see what inferences may be drawn and what are the special points upon
which the whole mystery turns. On Tuesday evening I received
telegrams from both Colonel Ross, the owner of the horse, and from
Inspector Gregory, who is looking after the case, inviting my
cooperation.

“Tuesday evening!” I exclaimed. “And this is Thursday morning. Why
didn’t you go down yesterday?”

“Because I made a blunder, my dear Watson–which is, I am afraid, a
more common occurrence than any one would think who only knew me
through your memoirs. The fact is that I could not believe it
possible that the most remarkable horse in England could long remain
concealed, especially in so sparsely inhabited a place as the north
of Dartmoor. From hour to hour yesterday I expected to hear that he
had been found, and that his abductor was the murderer of John
Straker. When, however, another morning had come, and I found that
beyond the arrest of young Fitzroy Simpson nothing had been done, I
felt that it was time for me to take action. Yet in some ways I feel
that yesterday has not been wasted.”

“You have formed a theory, then?”

“At least I have got a grip of the essential facts of the case. I
shall enumerate them to you, for nothing clears up a case so much as
stating it to another person, and I can hardly expect your
co-operation if I do not show you the position from which we start.”

I lay back against the cushions, puffing at my cigar, while Holmes,
leaning forward, with his long, thin forefinger checking off the
points upon the palm of his left hand, gave me a sketch of the events
which had led to our journey.

“Silver Blaze,” said he, “is from the Somomy stock, and holds as
brilliant a record as his famous ancestor. He is now in his fifth
year, and has brought in turn each of the prizes of the turf to
Colonel Ross, his fortunate owner. Up to the time of the catastrophe
he was the first favorite for the Wessex Cup, the betting being three
to one on him. He has always, however, been a prime favorite with the
racing public, and has never yet disappointed them, so that even at
those odds enormous sums of money have been laid upon him. It is
obvious, therefore, that there were many people who had the strongest
interest in preventing Silver Blaze from being there at the fall of
the flag next Tuesday.

“The fact was, of course, appreciated at King’s Pyland, where the
Colonel’s training-stable is situated. Every precaution was taken to
guard the favorite. The trainer, John Straker, is a retired jockey
who rode in Colonel Ross’s colors before he became too heavy for the
weighing-chair. He has served the Colonel for five years as jockey
and for seven as trainer, and has always shown himself to be a
zealous and honest servant. Under him were three lads; for the
establishment was a small one, containing only four horses in all.
One of these lads sat up each night in the stable, while the others
slept in the loft. All three bore excellent characters. John Straker,
who is a married man, lived in a small villa about two hundred yards
from the stables. He has no children, keeps one maid-servant, and is
comfortably off. The country round is very lonely, but about half a
mile to the north there is a small cluster of villas which have been
built by a Tavistock contractor for the use of invalids and others
who may wish to enjoy the pure Dartmoor air. Tavistock itself lies
two miles to the west, while across the moor, also about two miles
distant, is the larger training establishment of Mapleton, which
belongs to Lord Backwater, and is managed by Silas Brown. In every
other direction the moor is a complete wilderness, inhabited only by
a few roaming gypsies. Such was the general situation last Monday
night when the catastrophe occurred.

“On that evening the horses had been exercised and watered as usual,
and the stables were locked up at nine o’clock. Two of the lads
walked up to the trainer’s house, where they had supper in the
kitchen, while the third, Ned Hunter, remained on guard. At a few
minutes after nine the maid, Edith Baxter, carried down to the
stables his supper, which consisted of a dish of curried mutton. She
took no liquid, as there was a water-tap in the stables, and it was
the rule that the lad on duty should drink nothing else. The maid
carried a lantern with her, as it was very dark and the path ran
across the open moor.

“Edith Baxter was within thirty yards of the stables, when a man
appeared out of the darkness and called to her to stop. As he stepped
into the circle of yellow light thrown by the lantern she saw that he
was a person of gentlemanly bearing, dressed in a gray suit of
tweeds, with a cloth cap. He wore gaiters, and carried a heavy stick
with a knob to it. She was most impressed, however, by the extreme
pallor of his face and by the nervousness of his manner. His age, she
thought, would be rather over thirty than under it.

“‘Can you tell me where I am?’ he asked. ‘I had almost made up my
mind to sleep on the moor, when I saw the light of your lantern.’

“‘You are close to the King’s Pyland training-stables,’ said she.

“‘Oh, indeed! What a stroke of luck!’ he cried. ‘I understand that a
stable-boy sleeps there alone every night. Perhaps that is his supper
which you are carrying to him. Now I am sure that you would not be
too proud to earn the price of a new dress, would you?’ He took a
piece of white paper folded up out of his waistcoat pocket. ‘See that
the boy has this to-night, and you shall have the prettiest frock
that money can buy.’

“She was frightened by the earnestness of his manner, and ran past
him to the window through which she was accustomed to hand the meals.
It was already opened, and Hunter was seated at the small table
inside. She had begun to tell him of what had happened, when the
stranger came up again.

“‘Good-evening,’ said he, looking through the window. ‘I wanted to
have a word with you.’ The girl has sworn that as he spoke she
noticed the corner of the little paper packet protruding from his
closed hand.

“‘What business have you here?’ asked the lad.

“‘It’s business that may put something into your pocket,’ said the
other. ‘You’ve two horses in for the Wessex Cup–Silver Blaze and
Bayard. Let me have the straight tip and you won’t be a loser. Is it
a fact that at the weights Bayard could give the other a hundred
yards in five furlongs, and that the stable have put their money on
him?’

“‘So, you’re one of those damned touts!’ cried the lad. ‘I’ll show
you how we serve them in King’s Pyland.’ He sprang up and rushed
across the stable to unloose the dog. The girl fled away to the
house, but as she ran she looked back and saw that the stranger was
leaning through the window. A minute later, however, when Hunter
rushed out with the hound he was gone, and though he ran all round
the buildings he failed to find any trace of him.”

“One moment,” I asked. “Did the stable-boy, when he ran out with the
dog, leave the door unlocked behind him?”

“Excellent, Watson, excellent!” murmured my companion. “The
importance of the point struck me so forcibly that I sent a special
wire to Dartmoor yesterday to clear the matter up. The boy locked the
door before he left it. The window, I may add, was not large enough
for a man to get through.

“Hunter waited until his fellow-grooms had returned, when he sent a
message to the trainer and told him what had occurred. Straker was
excited at hearing the account, although he does not seem to have
quite realized its true significance. It left him, however, vaguely
uneasy, and Mrs. Straker, waking at one in the morning, found that he
was dressing. In reply to her inquiries, he said that he could not
sleep on account of his anxiety about the horses, and that he
intended to walk down to the stables to see that all was well. She
begged him to remain at home, as she could hear the rain pattering
against the window, but in spite of her entreaties he pulled on his
large mackintosh and left the house.

“Mrs. Straker awoke at seven in the morning, to find that her husband
had not yet returned. She dressed herself hastily, called the maid,
and set off for the stables. The door was open; inside, huddled
together upon a chair, Hunter was sunk in a state of absolute stupor,
the favorite’s stall was empty, and there were no signs of his
trainer.

“The two lads who slept in the chaff-cutting loft above the
harness-room were quickly aroused. They had heard nothing during the
night, for they are both sound sleepers. Hunter was obviously under
the influence of some powerful drug, and as no sense could be got out
of him, he was left to sleep it off while the two lads and the two
women ran out in search of the absentees. They still had hopes that
the trainer had for some reason taken out the horse for early
exercise, but on ascending the knoll near the house, from which all
the neighboring moors were visible, they not only could see no signs
of the missing favorite, but they perceived something which warned
them that they were in the presence of a tragedy.

“About a quarter of a mile from the stables John Straker’s overcoat
was flapping from a furze-bush. Immediately beyond there was a
bowl-shaped depression in the moor, and at the bottom of this was
found the dead body of the unfortunate trainer. His head had been
shattered by a savage blow from some heavy weapon, and he was wounded
on the thigh, where there was a long, clean cut, inflicted evidently
by some very sharp instrument. It was clear, however, that Straker
had defended himself vigorously against his assailants, for in his
right hand he held a small knife, which was clotted with blood up to
the handle, while in his left he clasped a red and black silk cravat,
which was recognized by the maid as having been worn on the preceding
evening by the stranger who had visited the stables. Hunter, on
recovering from his stupor, was also quite positive as to the
ownership of the cravat. He was equally certain that the same
stranger had, while standing at the window, drugged his curried
mutton, and so deprived the stables of their watchman. As to the
missing horse, there were abundant proofs in the mud which lay at the
bottom of the fatal hollow that he had been there at the time of the
struggle. But from that morning he has disappeared, and although a
large reward has been offered, and all the gypsies of Dartmoor are on
the alert, no news has come of him. Finally, an analysis has shown
that the remains of his supper left by the stable-lad contain an
appreciable quantity of powdered opium, while the people at the house
partook of the same dish on the same night without any ill effect.

“Those are the main facts of the case, stripped of all surmise, and
stated as baldly as possible. I shall now recapitulate what the
police have done in the matter.

“Inspector Gregory, to whom the case has been committed, is an
extremely competent officer. Were he but gifted with imagination he
might rise to great heights in his profession. On his arrival he
promptly found and arrested the man upon whom suspicion naturally
rested. There was little difficulty in finding him, for he inhabited
one of those villas which I have mentioned. His name, it appears, was
Fitzroy Simpson. He was a man of excellent birth and education, who
had squandered a fortune upon the turf, and who lived now by doing a
little quiet and genteel book-making in the sporting clubs of London.
An examination of his betting-book shows that bets to the amount of
five thousand pounds had been registered by him against the favorite.
On being arrested he volunteered the statement that he had come down
to Dartmoor in the hope of getting some information about the King’s
Pyland horses, and also about Desborough, the second favorite, which
was in charge of Silas Brown at the Mapleton stables. He did not
attempt to deny that he had acted as described upon the evening
before, but declared that he had no sinister designs, and had simply
wished to obtain first-hand information. When confronted with his
cravat, he turned very pale, and was utterly unable to account for
its presence in the hand of the murdered man. His wet clothing showed
that he had been out in the storm of the night before, and his stick,
which was a Penang-lawyer weighted with lead, was just such a weapon
as might, by repeated blows, have inflicted the terrible injuries to
which the trainer had succumbed. On the other hand, there was no
wound upon his person, while the state of Straker’s knife would show
that one at least of his assailants must bear his mark upon him.
There you have it all in a nutshell, Watson, and if you can give me
any light I shall be infinitely obliged to you.”

I had listened with the greatest interest to the statement which
Holmes, with characteristic clearness, had laid before me. Though
most of the facts were familiar to me, I had not sufficiently
appreciated their relative importance, nor their connection to each
other.

“Is in not possible,” I suggested, “that the incised wound upon
Straker may have been caused by his own knife in the convulsive
struggles which follow any brain injury?”

“It is more than possible; it is probable,” said Holmes. “In that
case one of the main points in favor of the accused disappears.”

“And yet,” said I, “even now I fail to understand what the theory of
the police can be.”

“I am afraid that whatever theory we state has very grave objections
to it,” returned my companion. “The police imagine, I take it, that
this Fitzroy Simpson, having drugged the lad, and having in some way
obtained a duplicate key, opened the stable door and took out the
horse, with the intention, apparently, of kidnapping him altogether.
His bridle is missing, so that Simpson must have put this on. Then,
having left the door open behind him, he was leading the horse away
over the moor, when he was either met or overtaken by the trainer. A
row naturally ensued. Simpson beat out the trainer’s brains with his
heavy stick without receiving any injury from the small knife which
Straker used in self-defence, and then the thief either led the horse
on to some secret hiding-place, or else it may have bolted during the
struggle, and be now wandering out on the moors. That is the case as
it appears to the police, and improbable as it is, all other
explanations are more improbable still. However, I shall very quickly
test the matter when I am once upon the spot, and until then I cannot
really see how we can get much further than our present position.”

It was evening before we reached the little town of Tavistock, which
lies, like the boss of a shield, in the middle of the huge circle of
Dartmoor. Two gentlemen were awaiting us in the station–the one a
tall, fair man with lion-like hair and beard and curiously
penetrating light blue eyes; the other a small, alert person, very
neat and dapper, in a frock-coat and gaiters, with trim little
side-whiskers and an eye-glass. The latter was Colonel Ross, the
well-known sportsman; the other, Inspector Gregory, a man who was
rapidly making his name in the English detective service.

“I am delighted that you have come down, Mr. Holmes,” said the
Colonel. “The Inspector here has done all that could possibly be
suggested, but I wish to leave no stone unturned in trying to avenge
poor Straker and in recovering my horse.”

“Have there been any fresh developments?” asked Holmes.

“I am sorry to say that we have made very little progress,” said the
Inspector. “We have an open carriage outside, and as you would no
doubt like to see the place before the light fails, we might talk it
over as we drive.”

A minute later we were all seated in a comfortable landau, and were
rattling through the quaint old Devonshire city. Inspector Gregory
was full of his case, and poured out a stream of remarks, while
Holmes threw in an occasional question or interjection. Colonel Ross
leaned back with his arms folded and his hat tilted over his eyes,
while I listened with interest to the dialogue of the two detectives.
Gregory was formulating his theory, which was almost exactly what
Holmes had foretold in the train.

“The net is drawn pretty close round Fitzroy Simpson,” he remarked,
“and I believe myself that he is our man. At the same time I
recognize that the evidence is purely circumstantial, and that some
new development may upset it.”

“How about Straker’s knife?”

“We have quite come to the conclusion that he wounded himself in his
fall.”

“My friend Dr. Watson made that suggestion to me as we came down. If
so, it would tell against this man Simpson.”

“Undoubtedly. He has neither a knife nor any sign of a wound. The
evidence against him is certainly very strong. He had a great
interest in the disappearance of the favorite. He lies under
suspicion of having poisoned the stable-boy, he was undoubtedly out
in the storm, he was armed with a heavy stick, and his cravat was
found in the dead man’s hand. I really think we have enough to go
before a jury.”

Holmes shook his head. “A clever counsel would tear it all to rags,”
said he. “Why should he take the horse out of the stable? If he
wished to injure it why could he not do it there? Has a duplicate key
been found in his possession? What chemist sold him the powdered
opium? Above all, where could he, a stranger to the district, hide a
horse, and such a horse as this? What is his own explanation as to
the paper which he wished the maid to give to the stable-boy?”

“He says that it was a ten-pound note. One was found in his purse.
But your other difficulties are not so formidable as they seem. He is
not a stranger to the district. He has twice lodged at Tavistock in
the summer. The opium was probably brought from London. The key,
having served its purpose, would be hurled away. The horse may be at
the bottom of one of the pits or old mines upon the moor.”

“What does he say about the cravat?”

“He acknowledges that it is his, and declares that he had lost it.
But a new element has been introduced into the case which may account
for his leading the horse from the stable.”

Holmes pricked up his ears.

“We have found traces which show that a party of gypsies encamped on
Monday night within a mile of the spot where the murder took place.
On Tuesday they were gone. Now, presuming that there was some
understanding between Simpson and these gypsies, might he not have
been leading the horse to them when he was overtaken, and may they
not have him now?”

“It is certainly possible.”

“The moor is being scoured for these gypsies. I have also examined
every stable and out-house in Tavistock, and for a radius of ten
miles.”

“There is another training-stable quite close, I understand?”

“Yes, and that is a factor which we must certainly not neglect. As
Desborough, their horse, was second in the betting, they had an
interest in the disappearance of the favorite. Silas Brown, the
trainer, is known to have had large bets upon the event, and he was
no friend to poor Straker. We have, however, examined the stables,
and there is nothing to connect him with the affair.”

“And nothing to connect this man Simpson with the interests of the
Mapleton stables?”

“Nothing at all.”

Holmes leaned back in the carriage, and the conversation ceased. A
few minutes later our driver pulled up at a neat little red-brick
villa with overhanging eaves which stood by the road. Some distance
off, across a paddock, lay a long gray-tiled out-building. In every
other direction the low curves of the moor, bronze-colored from the
fading ferns, stretched away to the sky-line, broken only by the
steeples of Tavistock, and by a cluster of houses away to the
westward which marked the Mapleton stables. We all sprang out with
the exception of Holmes, who continued to lean back with his eyes
fixed upon the sky in front of him, entirely absorbed in his own
thoughts. It was only when I touched his arm that he roused himself
with a violent start and stepped out of the carriage.

“Excuse me,” said he, turning to Colonel Ross, who had looked at him
in some surprise. “I was day-dreaming.” There was a gleam in his eyes
and a suppressed excitement in his manner which convinced me, used as
I was to his ways, that his hand was upon a clue, though I could not
imagine where he had found it.

“Perhaps you would prefer at once to go on to the scene of the crime,
Mr. Holmes?” said Gregory.

“I think that I should prefer to stay here a little and go into one
or two questions of detail. Straker was brought back here, I
presume?”

“Yes; he lies upstairs. The inquest is to-morrow.”

“He has been in your service some years, Colonel Ross?”

“I have always found him an excellent servant.”

“I presume that you made an inventory of what he had in this pockets
at the time of his death, Inspector?”

“I have the things themselves in the sitting-room, if you would care
to see them.”

“I should be very glad.” We all filed into the front room and sat
round the central table while the Inspector unlocked a square tin box
and laid a small heap of things before us. There was a box of vestas,
two inches of tallow candle, an A D P brier-root pipe, a pouch of
seal-skin with half an ounce of long-cut Cavendish, a silver watch
with a gold chain, five sovereigns in gold, an aluminum pencil-case,
a few papers, and an ivory-handled knife with a very delicate,
inflexible blade marked Weiss & Co., London.

“This is a very singular knife,” said Holmes, lifting it up and
examining it minutely. “I presume, as I see blood-stains upon it,
that it is the one which was found in the dead man’s grasp. Watson,
this knife is surely in your line?”

“It is what we call a cataract knife,” said I.

“I thought so. A very delicate blade devised for very delicate work.
A strange thing for a man to carry with him upon a rough expedition,
especially as it would not shut in his pocket.”

“The tip was guarded by a disk of cork which we found beside his
body,” said the Inspector. “His wife tells us that the knife had lain
upon the dressing-table, and that he had picked it up as he left the
room. It was a poor weapon, but perhaps the best that he could lay
his hands on at the moment.”

“Very possible. How about these papers?”

“Three of them are receipted hay-dealers’ accounts. One of them is a
letter of instructions from Colonel Ross. This other is a milliner’s
account for thirty-seven pounds fifteen made out by Madame Lesurier,
of Bond Street, to William Derbyshire. Mrs. Straker tells us that
Derbyshire was a friend of her husband’s and that occasionally his
letters were addressed here.”

“Madam Derbyshire had somewhat expensive tastes,” remarked Holmes,
glancing down the account. “Twenty-two guineas is rather heavy for a
single costume. However there appears to be nothing more to learn,
and we may now go down to the scene of the crime.”

As we emerged from the sitting-room a woman, who had been waiting in
the passage, took a step forward and laid her hand upon the
Inspector’s sleeve. Her face was haggard and thin and eager, stamped
with the print of a recent horror.

“Have you got them? Have you found them?” she panted.

“No, Mrs. Straker. But Mr. Holmes here has come from London to help
us, and we shall do all that is possible.”

“Surely I met you in Plymouth at a garden-party some little time ago,
Mrs. Straker?” said Holmes.

“No, sir; you are mistaken.”

“Dear me! Why, I could have sworn to it. You wore a costume of
dove-colored silk with ostrich-feather trimming.”

“I never had such a dress, sir,” answered the lady.

“Ah, that quite settles it,” said Holmes. And with an apology he
followed the Inspector outside. A short walk across the moor took us
to the hollow in which the body had been found. At the brink of it
was the furze-bush upon which the coat had been hung.

“There was no wind that night, I understand,” said Holmes.

“None; but very heavy rain.”

“In that case the overcoat was not blown against the furze-bush, but
placed there.”

“Yes, it was laid across the bush.”

“You fill me with interest, I perceive that the ground has been
trampled up a good deal. No doubt many feet have been here since
Monday night.”

“A piece of matting has been laid here at the side, and we have all
stood upon that.”

“Excellent.”

“In this bag I have one of the boots which Straker wore, one of
Fitzroy Simpson’s shoes, and a cast horseshoe of Silver Blaze.”

“My dear Inspector, you surpass yourself!” Holmes took the bag, and,
descending into the hollow, he pushed the matting into a more central
position. Then stretching himself upon his face and leaning his chin
upon his hands, he made a careful study of the trampled mud in front
of him. “Hullo!” said he, suddenly. “What’s this?” It was a wax vesta
half burned, which was so coated with mud that it looked at first
like a little chip of wood.

“I cannot think how I came to overlook it,” said the Inspector, with
an expression of annoyance.

“It was invisible, buried in the mud. I only saw it because I was
looking for it.”

“What! You expected to find it?”

“I thought it not unlikely.”

He took the boots from the bag, and compared the impressions of each
of them with marks upon the ground. Then he clambered up to the rim
of the hollow, and crawled about among the ferns and bushes.

“I am afraid that there are no more tracks,” said the Inspector. “I
have examined the ground very carefully for a hundred yards in each
direction.”

“Indeed!” said Holmes, rising. “I should not have the impertinence to
do it again after what you say. But I should like to take a little
walk over the moor before it grows dark, that I may know my ground
to-morrow, and I think that I shall put this horseshoe into my pocket
for luck.”

Colonel Ross, who had shown some signs of impatience at my
companion’s quiet and systematic method of work, glanced at his
watch. “I wish you would come back with me, Inspector,” said he.
“There are several points on which I should like your advice, and
especially as to whether we do not owe it to the public to remove our
horse’s name from the entries for the Cup.”

“Certainly not,” cried Holmes, with decision. “I should let the name
stand.”

The Colonel bowed. “I am very glad to have had your opinion, sir,”
said he. “You will find us at poor Straker’s house when you have
finished your walk, and we can drive together into Tavistock.”

He turned back with the Inspector, while Holmes and I walked slowly
across the moor. The sun was beginning to sink behind the stables of
Mapleton, and the long, sloping plain in front of us was tinged with
gold, deepening into rich, ruddy browns where the faded ferns and
brambles caught the evening light. But the glories of the landscape
were all wasted upon my companion, who was sunk in the deepest
thought.

“It’s this way, Watson,” said he at last. “We may leave the question
of who killed John Straker for the instant, and confine ourselves to
finding out what has become of the horse. Now, supposing that he
broke away during or after the tragedy, where could he have gone to?
The horse is a very gregarious creature. If left to himself his
instincts would have been either to return to King’s Pyland or go
over to Mapleton. Why should he run wild upon the moor? He would
surely have been seen by now. And why should gypsies kidnap him?
These people always clear out when they hear of trouble, for they do
not wish to be pestered by the police. They could not hope to sell
such a horse. They would run a great risk and gain nothing by taking
him. Surely that is clear.”

“Where is he, then?”

“I have already said that he must have gone to King’s Pyland or to
Mapleton. He is not at King’s Pyland. Therefore he is at Mapleton.
Let us take that as a working hypothesis and see what it leads us to.
This part of the moor, as the Inspector remarked, is very hard and
dry. But it falls away towards Mapleton, and you can see from here
that there is a long hollow over yonder, which must have been very
wet on Monday night. If our supposition is correct, then the horse
must have crossed that, and there is the point where we should look
for his tracks.”

We had been walking briskly during this conversation, and a few more
minutes brought us to the hollow in question. At Holmes’ request I
walked down the bank to the right, and he to the left, but I had not
taken fifty paces before I heard him give a shout, and saw him waving
his hand to me. The track of a horse was plainly outlined in the soft
earth in front of him, and the shoe which he took from his pocket
exactly fitted the impression.

“See the value of imagination,” said Holmes. “It is the one quality
which Gregory lacks. We imagined what might have happened, acted upon
the supposition, and find ourselves justified. Let us proceed.”

We crossed the marshy bottom and passed over a quarter of a mile of
dry, hard turf. Again the ground sloped, and again we came on the
tracks. Then we lost them for half a mile, but only to pick them up
once more quite close to Mapleton. It was Holmes who saw them first,
and he stood pointing with a look of triumph upon his face. A man’s
track was visible beside the horse’s.

“The horse was alone before,” I cried.

“Quite so. It was alone before. Hullo, what is this?”

The double track turned sharp off and took the direction of King’s
Pyland. Holmes whistled, and we both followed along after it. His
eyes were on the trail, but I happened to look a little to one side,
and saw to my surprise the same tracks coming back again in the
opposite direction.

“One for you, Watson,” said Holmes, when I pointed it out. “You have
saved us a long walk, which would have brought us back on our own
traces. Let us follow the return track.”

We had not to go far. It ended at the paving of asphalt which led up
to the gates of the Mapleton stables. As we approached, a groom ran
out from them.

“We don’t want any loiterers about here,” said he.

“I only wished to ask a question,” said Holmes, with his finger and
thumb in his waistcoat pocket. “Should I be too early to see your
master, Mr. Silas Brown, if I were to call at five o’clock to-morrow
morning?”

“Bless you, sir, if any one is about he will be, for he is always the
first stirring. But here he is, sir, to answer your questions for
himself. No, sir, no; it is as much as my place is worth to let him
see me touch your money. Afterwards, if you like.”

As Sherlock Holmes replaced the half-crown which he had drawn from
his pocket, a fierce-looking elderly man strode out from the gate
with a hunting-crop swinging in his hand.

“What’s this, Dawson!” he cried. “No gossiping! Go about your
business! And you, what the devil do you want here?”

“Ten minutes’ talk with you, my good sir,” said Holmes in the
sweetest of voices.

“I’ve no time to talk to every gadabout. We want no stranger here. Be
off, or you may find a dog at your heels.”

Holmes leaned forward and whispered something in the trainer’s ear.
He started violently and flushed to the temples.

“It’s a lie!” he shouted, “an infernal lie!”

“Very good. Shall we argue about it here in public or talk it over in
your parlor?”

“Oh, come in if you wish to.”

Holmes smiled. “I shall not keep you more than a few minutes,
Watson,” said he. “Now, Mr. Brown, I am quite at your disposal.”

It was twenty minutes, and the reds had all faded into grays before
Holmes and the trainer reappeared. Never have I seen such a change as
had been brought about in Silas Brown in that short time. His face
was ashy pale, beads of perspiration shone upon his brow, and his
hands shook until the hunting-crop wagged like a branch in the wind.
His bullying, overbearing manner was all gone too, and he cringed
along at my companion’s side like a dog with its master.

“Your instructions will be done. It shall all be done,” said he.

“There must be no mistake,” said Holmes, looking round at him. The
other winced as he read the menace in his eyes.

“Oh no, there shall be no mistake. It shall be there. Should I change
it first or not?”

Holmes thought a little and then burst out laughing. “No, don’t,”
said he; “I shall write to you about it. No tricks, now, or–“

“Oh, you can trust me, you can trust me!”

“Yes, I think I can. Well, you shall hear from me to-morrow.” He
turned upon his heel, disregarding the trembling hand which the other
held out to him, and we set off for King’s Pyland.

“A more perfect compound of the bully, coward, and sneak than Master
Silas Brown I have seldom met with,” remarked Holmes as we trudged
along together.

“He has the horse, then?”

“He tried to bluster out of it, but I described to him so exactly
what his actions had been upon that morning that he is convinced that
I was watching him. Of course you observed the peculiarly square toes
in the impressions, and that his own boots exactly corresponded to
them. Again, of course no subordinate would have dared to do such a
thing. I described to him how, when according to his custom he was
the first down, he perceived a strange horse wandering over the moor.
How he went out to it, and his astonishment at recognizing, from the
white forehead which has given the favorite its name, that chance had
put in his power the only horse which could beat the one upon which
he had put his money. Then I described how his first impulse had been
to lead him back to King’s Pyland, and how the devil had shown him
how he could hide the horse until the race was over, and how he had
led it back and concealed it at Mapleton. When I told him every
detail he gave it up and thought only of saving his own skin.”

“But his stables had been searched?”

“Oh, and old horse-faker like him has many a dodge.”

“But are you not afraid to leave the horse in his power now, since he
has every interest in injuring it?”

“My dear fellow, he will guard it as the apple of his eye. He knows
that his only hope of mercy is to produce it safe.”

“Colonel Ross did not impress me as a man who would be likely to show
much mercy in any case.”

“The matter does not rest with Colonel Ross. I follow my own methods,
and tell as much or as little as I choose. That is the advantage of
being unofficial. I don’t know whether you observed it, Watson, but
the Colonel’s manner has been just a trifle cavalier to me. I am
inclined now to have a little amusement at his expense. Say nothing
to him about the horse.”

“Certainly not without your permission.”

“And of course this is all quite a minor point compared to the
question of who killed John Straker.”

“And you will devote yourself to that?”

“On the contrary, we both go back to London by the night train.”

I was thunderstruck by my friend’s words. We had only been a few
hours in Devonshire, and that he should give up an investigation
which he had begun so brilliantly was quite incomprehensible to me.
Not a word more could I draw from him until we were back at the
trainer’s house. The Colonel and the Inspector were awaiting us in
the parlor.

“My friend and I return to town by the night-express,” said Holmes.
“We have had a charming little breath of your beautiful Dartmoor
air.”

The Inspector opened his eyes, and the Colonel’s lip curled in a
sneer.

“So you despair of arresting the murderer of poor Straker,” said he.

Holmes shrugged his shoulders. “There are certainly grave
difficulties in the way,” said he. “I have every hope, however, that
your horse will start upon Tuesday, and I beg that you will have your
jockey in readiness. Might I ask for a photograph of Mr. John
Straker?”

The Inspector took one from an envelope and handed it to him.

“My dear Gregory, you anticipate all my wants. If I might ask you to
wait here for an instant, I have a question which I should like to
put to the maid.”

“I must say that I am rather disappointed in our London consultant,”
said Colonel Ross, bluntly, as my friend left the room. “I do not see
that we are any further than when he came.”

“At least you have his assurance that your horse will run,” said I.

“Yes, I have his assurance,” said the Colonel, with a shrug of his
shoulders. “I should prefer to have the horse.”

I was about to make some reply in defence of my friend when he
entered the room again.

“Now, gentlemen,” said he, “I am quite ready for Tavistock.”

As we stepped into the carriage one of the stable-lads held the door
open for us. A sudden idea seemed to occur to Holmes, for he leaned
forward and touched the lad upon the sleeve.

“You have a few sheep in the paddock,” he said. “Who attends to
them?”

“I do, sir.”

“Have you noticed anything amiss with them of late?”

“Well, sir, not of much account; but three of them have gone lame,
sir.”

I could see that Holmes was extremely pleased, for he chuckled and
rubbed his hands together.

“A long shot, Watson; a very long shot,” said he, pinching my arm.
“Gregory, let me recommend to your attention this singular epidemic
among the sheep. Drive on, coachman!”

Colonel Ross still wore an expression which showed the poor opinion
which he had formed of my companion’s ability, but I saw by the
Inspector’s face that his attention had been keenly aroused.

“You consider that to be important?” he asked.

“Exceedingly so.”

“Is there any point to which you would wish to draw my attention?”

“To the curious incident of the dog in the night-time.”

“The dog did nothing in the night-time.”

“That was the curious incident,” remarked Sherlock Holmes.

Four days later Holmes and I were again in the train, bound for
Winchester to see the race for the Wessex Cup. Colonel Ross met us by
appointment outside the station, and we drove in his drag to the
course beyond the town. His face was grave, and his manner was cold
in the extreme.

“I have seen nothing of my horse,” said he.

“I suppose that you would know him when you saw him?” asked Holmes.

The Colonel was very angry. “I have been on the turf for twenty
years, and never was asked such a question as that before,” said he.
“A child would know Silver Blaze, with his white forehead and his
mottled off-foreleg.”

“How is the betting?”

“Well, that is the curious part of it. You could have got fifteen to
one yesterday, but the price has become shorter and shorter, until
you can hardly get three to one now.”

“Hum!” said Holmes. “Somebody knows something, that is clear.”

As the drag drew up in the enclosure near the grand stand I glanced
at the card to see the entries.

Wessex Plate [it ran] 50 sovs. each h ft with 1000 sovs. added, for
four and five year olds. Second, £300. Third, £200. New course (one
mile and five furlongs).

1. Mr. Heath Newton’s The Negro. Red cap. Cinnamon jacket.
2. Colonel Wardlaw’s Pugilist. Pink cap. Blue and black jacket.
3. Lord Backwater’s Desborough. Yellow cap and sleeves.
4. Colonel Ross’s Silver Blaze. Black cap. Red jacket.
5. Duke of Balmoral’s Iris. Yellow and black stripes.
6. Lord Singleford’s Rasper. Purple cap. Black sleeves.

“We scratched our other one, and put all hopes on your word,” said
the Colonel. “Why, what is that? Silver Blaze favorite?”

“Five to four against Silver Blaze!” roared the ring. “Five to four
against Silver Blaze! Five to fifteen against Desborough! Five to
four on the field!”

“There are the numbers up,” I cried. “They are all six there.”

“All six there? Then my horse is running,” cried the Colonel in great
agitation. “But I don’t see him. My colors have not passed.”

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

As I spoke a powerful bay horse swept out from the weighting
enclosure and cantered past us, bearing on its back the well-known
black and red of the Colonel.

“That’s not my horse,” cried the owner. “That beast has not a white
hair upon its body. What is this that you have done, Mr. Holmes?”

“Well, well, let us see how he gets on,” said my friend,
imperturbably. For a few minutes he gazed through my field-glass.
“Capital! An excellent start!” he cried suddenly. “There they are,
coming round the curve!”

From our drag we had a superb view as they came up the straight. The
six horses were so close together that a carpet could have covered
them, but half way up the yellow of the Mapleton stable showed to the
front. Before they reached us, however, Desborough’s bolt was shot,
and the Colonel’s horse, coming away with a rush, passed the post a
good six lengths before its rival, the Duke of Balmoral’s Iris making
a bad third.

“It’s my race, anyhow,” gasped the Colonel, passing his hand over his
eyes. “I confess that I can make neither head nor tail of it. Don’t
you think that you have kept up your mystery long enough, Mr.
Holmes?”

“Certainly, Colonel, you shall know everything. Let us all go round
and have a look at the horse together. Here he is,” he continued, as
we made our way into the weighing enclosure, where only owners and
their friends find admittance. “You have only to wash his face and
his leg in spirits of wine, and you will find that he is the same old
Silver Blaze as ever.”

“You take my breath away!”

“I found him in the hands of a faker, and took the liberty of running
him just as he was sent over.”

“My dear sir, you have done wonders. The horse looks very fit and
well. It never went better in its life. I owe you a thousand
apologies for having doubted your ability. You have done me a great
service by recovering my horse. You would do me a greater still if
you could lay your hands on the murderer of John Straker.”

“I have done so,” said Holmes quietly.

The Colonel and I stared at him in amazement. “You have got him!
Where is he, then?”

“He is here.”

“Here! Where?”

“In my company at the present moment.”

The Colonel flushed angrily. “I quite recognize that I am under
obligations to you, Mr. Holmes,” said he, “but I must regard what you
have just said as either a very bad joke or an insult.”

Sherlock Holmes laughed. “I assure you that I have not associated you
with the crime, Colonel,” said he. “The real murderer is standing
immediately behind you.” He stepped past and laid his hand upon the
glossy neck of the thoroughbred.

“The horse!” cried both the Colonel and myself.

“Yes, the horse. And it may lessen his guilt if I say that it was
done in self-defence, and that John Straker was a man who was
entirely unworthy of your confidence. But there goes the bell, and as
I stand to win a little on this next race, I shall defer a lengthy
explanation until a more fitting time.”

We had the corner of a Pullman car to ourselves that evening as we
whirled back to London, and I fancy that the journey was a short one
to Colonel Ross as well as to myself, as we listened to our
companion’s narrative of the events which had occurred at the
Dartmoor training-stables upon the Monday night, and the means by
which he had unravelled them.

“I confess,” said he, “that any theories which I had formed from the
newspaper reports were entirely erroneous. And yet there were
indications there, had they not been overlaid by other details which
concealed their true import. I went to Devonshire with the conviction
that Fitzroy Simpson was the true culprit, although, of course, I saw
that the evidence against him was by no means complete. It was while
I was in the carriage, just as we reached the trainer’s house, that
the immense significance of the curried mutton occurred to me. You
may remember that I was distrait, and remained sitting after you had
all alighted. I was marvelling in my own mind how I could possibly
have overlooked so obvious a clue.”

“I confess,” said the Colonel, “that even now I cannot see how it
helps us.”

“It was the first link in my chain of reasoning. Powdered opium is by
no means tasteless. The flavor is not disagreeable, but it is
perceptible. Were it mixed with any ordinary dish the eater would
undoubtedly detect it, and would probably eat no more. A curry was
exactly the medium which would disguise this taste. By no possible
supposition could this stranger, Fitzroy Simpson, have caused curry
to be served in the trainer’s family that night, and it is surely too
monstrous a coincidence to suppose that he happened to come along
with powdered opium upon the very night when a dish happened to be
served which would disguise the flavor. That is unthinkable.
Therefore Simpson becomes eliminated from the case, and our attention
centers upon Straker and his wife, the only two people who could have
chosen curried mutton for supper that night. The opium was added
after the dish was set aside for the stable-boy, for the others had
the same for supper with no ill effects. Which of them, then, had
access to that dish without the maid seeing them?

“Before deciding that question I had grasped the significance of the
silence of the dog, for one true inference invariably suggests
others. The Simpson incident had shown me that a dog was kept in the
stables, and yet, though some one had been in and had fetched out a
horse, he had not barked enough to arouse the two lads in the loft.
Obviously the midnight visitor was some one whom the dog knew well.

“I was already convinced, or almost convinced, that John Straker went
down to the stables in the dead of the night and took out Silver
Blaze. For what purpose? For a dishonest one, obviously, or why
should he drug his own stable-boy? And yet I was at a loss to know
why. There have been cases before now where trainers have made sure
of great sums of money by laying against their own horses, through
agents, and then preventing them from winning by fraud. Sometimes it
is a pulling jockey. Sometimes it is some surer and subtler means.
What was it here? I hoped that the contents of his pockets might help
me to form a conclusion.

“And they did so. You cannot have forgotten the singular knife which
was found in the dead man’s hand, a knife which certainly no sane man
would choose for a weapon. It was, as Dr. Watson told us, a form of
knife which is used for the most delicate operations known in
surgery. And it was to be used for a delicate operation that night.
You must know, with your wide experience of turf matters, Colonel
Ross, that it is possible to make a slight nick upon the tendons of a
horse’s ham, and to do it subcutaneously, so as to leave absolutely
no trace. A horse so treated would develop a slight lameness, which
would be put down to a strain in exercise or a touch of rheumatism,
but never to foul play.”

“Villain! Scoundrel!” cried the Colonel.

“We have here the explanation of why John Straker wished to take the
horse out on to the moor. So spirited a creature would have certainly
roused the soundest of sleepers when it felt the prick of the knife.
It was absolutely necessary to do it in the open air.”

“I have been blind!” cried the Colonel. “Of course that was why he
needed the candle, and struck the match.”

“Undoubtedly. But in examining his belongings I was fortunate enough
to discover not only the method of the crime, but even its motives.
As a man of the world, Colonel, you know that men do not carry other
people’s bills about in their pockets. We have most of us quite
enough to do to settle our own. I at once concluded that Straker was
leading a double life, and keeping a second establishment. The nature
of the bill showed that there was a lady in the case, and one who had
expensive tastes. Liberal as you are with your servants, one can
hardly expect that they can buy twenty-guinea walking dresses for
their ladies. I questioned Mrs. Straker as to the dress without her
knowing it, and having satisfied myself that it had never reached
her, I made a note of the milliner’s address, and felt that by
calling there with Straker’s photograph I could easily dispose of the
mythical Derbyshire.

“From that time on all was plain. Straker had led out the horse to a
hollow where his light would be invisible. Simpson in his flight had
dropped his cravat, and Straker had picked it up–with some idea,
perhaps, that he might use it in securing the horse’s leg. Once in
the hollow, he had got behind the horse and had struck a light; but
the creature frightened at the sudden glare, and with the strange
instinct of animals feeling that some mischief was intended, had
lashed out, and the steel shoe had struck Straker full on the
forehead. He had already, in spite of the rain, taken off his
overcoat in order to do his delicate task, and so, as he fell, his
knife gashed his thigh. Do I make it clear?”

“Wonderful!” cried the Colonel. “Wonderful! You might have been
there!”

“My final shot was, I confess a very long one. It struck me that so
astute a man as Straker would not undertake this delicate
tendon-nicking without a little practice. What could he practice on?
My eyes fell upon the sheep, and I asked a question which, rather to
my surprise, showed that my surmise was correct.

“When I returned to London I called upon the milliner, who had
recognized Straker as an excellent customer of the name of
Derbyshire, who had a very dashing wife, with a strong partiality for
expensive dresses. I have no doubt that this woman had plunged him
over head and ears in debt, and so led him into this miserable plot.”

“You have explained all but one thing,” cried the Colonel. “Where was
the horse?”

“Ah, it bolted, and was cared for by one of your neighbors. We must
have an amnesty in that direction, I think. This is Clapham Junction,
if I am not mistaken, and we shall be in Victoria in less than ten
minutes. If you care to smoke a cigar in our rooms, Colonel, I shall
be happy to give you any other details which might interest you.”

[In publishing these short sketches based upon the numerous cases in
which my companion’s singular gifts have made us the listeners to,
and eventually the actors in, some strange drama, it is only natural
that I should dwell rather upon his successes than upon his failures.
And this not so much for the sake of his reputations–for, indeed, it
was when he was at his wits’ end that his energy and his versatility
were most admirable–but because where he failed it happened too
often that no one else succeeded, and that the tale was left forever
without a conclusion. Now and again, however, it chanced that even
when he erred, the truth was still discovered. I have noted of some
half-dozen cases of the kind of which “The Adventure of the Musgrave
Ritual” and that which I am about to recount are the two which
present the strongest features of interest.]

Sherlock Holmes was a man who seldom took exercise for exercise’s
sake. Few men were capable of greater muscular effort, and he was
undoubtedly one of the finest boxers of his weight that I have ever
seen; but he looked upon aimless bodily exertion as a waste of
energy, and he seldom bestirred himself save when there was some
professional object to be served. Then he was absolutely untiring and
indefatigable. That he should have kept himself in training under
such circumstances is remarkable, but his diet was usually of the
sparest, and his habits were simple to the verge of austerity. Save
for the occasional use of cocaine, he had no vices, and he only
turned to the drug as a protest against the monotony of existence
when cases were scanty and the papers uninteresting.

One day in early spring he had so far relaxed as to go for a walk
with me in the Park, where the first faint shoots of green were
breaking out upon the elms, and the sticky spear-heads of the
chestnuts were just beginning to burst into their five-fold leaves.
For two hours we rambled about together, in silence for the most
part, as befits two men who know each other intimately. It was nearly
five before we were back in Baker Street once more.

“Beg pardon, sir,” said our page-boy, as he opened the door. “There’s
been a gentleman here asking for you, sir.”

Holmes glanced reproachfully at me. “So much for afternoon walks!”
said he. “Has this gentleman gone, then?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Didn’t you ask him in?”

“Yes, sir; he came in.”

“How long did he wait?”

“Half an hour, sir. He was a very restless gentleman, sir, a-walkin’
and a-stampin’ all the time he was here. I was waitin’ outside the
door, sir, and I could hear him. At last he outs into the passage,
and he cries, ‘Is that man never goin’ to come?’ Those were his very
words, sir. ‘You’ll only need to wait a little longer,’ says I. ‘Then
I’ll wait in the open air, for I feel half choked,’ says he. ‘I’ll be
back before long.’ And with that he ups and he outs, and all I could
say wouldn’t hold him back.”

“Well, well, you did your best,” said Holmes, as we walked into our
room. “It’s very annoying, though, Watson. I was badly in need of a
case, and this looks, from the man’s impatience, as if it were of
importance. Hullo! That’s not your pipe on the table. He must have
left his behind him. A nice old brier with a good long stem of what
the tobacconists call amber. I wonder how many real amber mouthpieces
there are in London? Some people think that a fly in it is a sign.
Well, he must have been disturbed in his mind to leave a pipe behind
him which he evidently values highly.”

“How do you know that he values it highly?” I asked.

“Well, I should put the original cost of the pipe at seven and
sixpence. Now it has, you see, been twice mended, once in the wooden
stem and once in the amber. Each of these mends, done, as you
observe, with silver bands, must have cost more than the pipe did
originally. The man must value the pipe highly when he prefers to
patch it up rather than buy a new one with the same money.”

“Anything else?” I asked, for Holmes was turning the pipe about in
his hand, and staring at it in his peculiar pensive way.

He held it up and tapped on it with his long, thin fore-finger, as a
professor might who was lecturing on a bone.

“Pipes are occasionally of extraordinary interest,” said he. “Nothing
has more individuality, save perhaps watches and bootlaces. The
indications here, however, are neither very marked nor very
important. The owner is obviously a muscular man, left-handed, with
an excellent set of teeth, careless in his habits, and with no need
to practise economy.”

My friend threw out the information in a very offhand way, but I saw
that he cocked his eye at me to see if I had followed his reasoning.

“You think a man must be well-to-do if he smokes a seven-shilling
pipe,” said I.

“This is Grosvenor mixture at eightpence an ounce,” Holmes answered,
knocking a little out on his palm. “As he might get an excellent
smoke for half the price, he has no need to practise economy.”

“And the other points?”

“He has been in the habit of lighting his pipe at lamps and gas-jets.
You can see that it is quite charred all down one side. Of course a
match could not have done that. Why should a man hold a match to the
side of his pipe? But you cannot light it at a lamp without getting
the bowl charred. And it is all on the right side of the pipe. From
that I gather that he is a left-handed man. You hold your own pipe to
the lamp, and see how naturally you, being right-handed, hold the
left side to the flame. You might do it once the other way, but not
as a constancy. This has always been held so. Then he has bitten
through his amber. It takes a muscular, energetic fellow, and one
with a good set of teeth, to do that. But if I am not mistaken I hear
him upon the stair, so we shall have something more interesting than
his pipe to study.”

An instant later our door opened, and a tall young man entered the
room. He was well but quietly dressed in a dark-gray suit, and
carried a brown wide-awake in his hand. I should have put him at
about thirty, though he was really some years older.

“I beg your pardon,” said he, with some embarrassment; “I suppose I
should have knocked. Yes, of course I should have knocked. The fact
is that I am a little upset, and you must put it all down to that.”
He passed his hand over his forehead like a man who is half dazed,
and then fell rather than sat down upon a chair.

“I can see that you have not slept for a night or two,” said Holmes,
in his easy, genial way. “That tries a man’s nerves more than work,
and more even than pleasure. May I ask how I can help you?”

“I wanted your advice, sir. I don’t know what to do and my whole life
seems to have gone to pieces.”

“You wish to employ me as a consulting detective?”

“Not that only. I want your opinion as a judicious man–as a man of
the world. I want to know what I ought to do next. I hope to God
you’ll be able to tell me.”

He spoke in little, sharp, jerky outbursts, and it seemed to me that
to speak at all was very painful to him, and that his will all
through was overriding his inclinations.

“It’s a very delicate thing,” said he. “One does not like to speak of
one’s domestic affairs to strangers. It seems dreadful to discuss the
conduct of one’s wife with two men whom I have never seen before.
It’s horrible to have to do it. But I’ve got to the end of my tether,
and I must have advice.”

“My dear Mr. Grant Munro–” began Holmes.

Our visitor sprang from his chair. “What!” he cried, “you know my
name?”

“If you wish to preserve your incognito,” said Holmes, smiling, “I
would suggest that you cease to write your name upon the lining of
your hat, or else that you turn the crown towards the person whom you
are addressing. I was about to say that my friend and I have listened
to a good many strange secrets in this room, and that we have had the
good fortune to bring peace to many troubled souls. I trust that we
may do as much for you. Might I beg you, as time may prove to be of
importance, to furnish me with the facts of your case without further
delay?”

Our visitor again passed his hand over his forehead, as if he found
it bitterly hard. From every gesture and expression I could see that
he was a reserved, self-contained man, with a dash of pride in his
nature, more likely to hide his wounds than to expose them. Then
suddenly, with a fierce gesture of his closed hand, like one who
throws reserve to the winds, he began.

“The facts are these, Mr. Holmes,” said he. “I am a married man, and
have been so for three years. During that time my wife and I have
loved each other as fondly and lived as happily as any two that ever
were joined. We have not had a difference, not one, in thought or
word or deed. And now, since last Monday, there has suddenly sprung
up a barrier between us, and I find that there is something in her
life and in her thought of which I know as little as if she were the
woman who brushes by me in the street. We are estranged, and I want
to know why.

“Now there is one thing that I want to impress upon you before I go
any further, Mr. Holmes. Effie loves me. Don’t let there be any
mistake about that. She loves me with her whole heart and soul, and
never more than now. I know it. I feel it. I don’t want to argue
about that. A man can tell easily enough when a woman loves him. But
there’s this secret between us, and we can never be the same until it
is cleared.”

“Kindly let me have the facts, Mr. Munro,” said Holmes, with some
impatience.

“I’ll tell you what I know about Effie’s history. She was a widow
when I met her first, though quite young–only twenty-five. Her name
then was Mrs. Hebron. She went out to America when she was young, and
lived in the town of Atlanta, where she married this Hebron, who was
a lawyer with a good practice. They had one child, but the yellow
fever broke out badly in the place, and both husband and child died
of it. I have seen his death certificate. This sickened her of
America, and she came back to live with a maiden aunt at Pinner, in
Middlesex. I may mention that her husband had left her comfortably
off, and that she had a capital of about four thousand five hundred
pounds, which had been so well invested by him that it returned an
average of seven per cent. She had only been six months at Pinner
when I met her; we fell in love with each other, and we married a few
weeks afterwards.

“I am a hop merchant myself, and as I have an income of seven or
eight hundred, we found ourselves comfortably off, and took a nice
eighty-pound-a-year villa at Norbury. Our little place was very
countrified, considering that it is so close to town. We had an inn
and two houses a little above us, and a single cottage at the other
side of the field which faces us, and except those there were no
houses until you got half way to the station. My business took me
into town at certain seasons, but in summer I had less to do, and
then in our country home my wife and I were just as happy as could be
wished. I tell you that there never was a shadow between us until
this accursed affair began.

“There’s one thing I ought to tell you before I go further. When we
married, my wife made over all her property to me–rather against my
will, for I saw how awkward it would be if my business affairs went
wrong. However, she would have it so, and it was done. Well, about
six weeks ago she came to me.

“‘Jack,’ said she, ‘when you took my money you said that if ever I
wanted any I was to ask you for it.’

“‘Certainly,’ said I. ‘It’s all your own.’

“‘Well,’ said she, ‘I want a hundred pounds.’

“I was a bit staggered at this, for I had imagined it was simply a
new dress or something of the kind that she was after.

“‘What on earth for?’ I asked.

“‘Oh,’ said she, in her playful way, ‘you said that you were only my
banker, and bankers never ask questions, you know.’

“‘If you really mean it, of course you shall have the money,’ said I.

“‘Oh, yes, I really mean it.’

“‘And you won’t tell me what you want it for?’

“‘Some day, perhaps, but not just at present, Jack.’

“So I had to be content with that, though it was the first time that
there had ever been any secret between us. I gave her a check, and I
never thought any more of the matter. It may have nothing to do with
what came afterwards, but I thought it only right to mention it.

“Well, I told you just now that there is a cottage not far from our
house. There is just a field between us, but to reach it you have to
go along the road and then turn down a lane. Just beyond it is a nice
little grove of Scotch firs, and I used to be very fond of strolling
down there, for trees are always a neighborly kind of things. The
cottage had been standing empty this eight months, and it was a pity,
for it was a pretty two storied place, with an old-fashioned porch
and honeysuckle about it. I have stood many a time and thought what a
neat little homestead it would make.

“Well, last Monday evening I was taking a stroll down that way, when
I met an empty van coming up the lane, and saw a pile of carpets and
things lying about on the grass-plot beside the porch. It was clear
that the cottage had at last been let. I walked past it, and wondered
what sort of folk they were who had come to live so near us. And as I
looked I suddenly became aware that a face was watching me out of one
of the upper windows.

“I don’t know what there was about that face, Mr. Holmes, but it
seemed to send a chill right down my back. I was some little way off,
so that I could not make out the features, but there was something
unnatural and inhuman about the face. That was the impression that I
had, and I moved quickly forwards to get a nearer view of the person
who was watching me. But as I did so the face suddenly disappeared,
so suddenly that it seemed to have been plucked away into the
darkness of the room. I stood for five minutes thinking the business
over, and trying to analyze my impressions. I could not tell if the
face were that of a man or a woman. It had been too far from me for
that. But its color was what had impressed me most. It was of a livid
chalky white, and with something set and rigid about it which was
shockingly unnatural. So disturbed was I that I determined to see a
little more of the new inmates of the cottage. I approached and
knocked at the door, which was instantly opened by a tall, gaunt
woman with a harsh, forbidding face.

“‘What may you be wantin’?’ she asked, in a Northern accent.

“‘I am your neighbor over yonder,’ said I, nodding towards my house.
‘I see that you have only just moved in, so I thought that if I could
be of any help to you in any–‘

“‘Ay, we’ll just ask ye when we want ye,’ said she, and shut the door
in my face. Annoyed at the churlish rebuff, I turned my back and
walked home. All evening, though I tried to think of other things, my
mind would still turn to the apparition at the window and the
rudeness of the woman. I determined to say nothing about the former
to my wife, for she is a nervous, highly strung woman, and I had no
wish that she would share the unpleasant impression which had been
produced upon myself. I remarked to her, however, before I fell
asleep, that the cottage was now occupied, to which she returned no
reply.

“I am usually an extremely sound sleeper. It has been a standing jest
in the family that nothing could ever wake me during the night. And
yet somehow on that particular night, whether it may have been the
slight excitement produced by my little adventure or not I know not,
but I slept much more lightly than usual. Half in my dreams I was
dimly conscious that something was going on in the room, and
gradually became aware that my wife had dressed herself and was
slipping on her mantle and her bonnet. My lips were parted to murmur
out some sleepy words of surprise or remonstrance at this untimely
preparation, when suddenly my half-opened eyes fell upon her face,
illuminated by the candle-light, and astonishment held me dumb. She
wore an expression such as I had never seen before–such as I should
have thought her incapable of assuming. She was deadly pale and
breathing fast, glancing furtively towards the bed as she fastened
her mantle, to see if she had disturbed me. Then, thinking that I was
still asleep, she slipped noiselessly from the room, and an instant
later I heard a sharp creaking which could only come from the hinges
of the front door. I sat up in bed and rapped my knuckles against the
rail to make certain that I was truly awake. Then I took my watch
from under the pillow. It was three in the morning. What on this
earth could my wife be doing out on the country road at three in the
morning?

“I had sat for about twenty minutes turning the thing over in my mind
and trying to find some possible explanation. The more I thought, the
more extraordinary and inexplicable did it appear. I was still
puzzling over it when I heard the door gently close again, and her
footsteps coming up the stairs.

“‘Where in the world have you been, Effie?’ I asked as she entered.

“She gave a violent start and a kind of gasping cry when I spoke, and
that cry and start troubled me more than all the rest, for there was
something indescribably guilty about them. My wife had always been a
woman of a frank, open nature, and it gave me a chill to see her
slinking into her own room, and crying out and wincing when her own
husband spoke to her.

“‘You awake, Jack!’ she cried, with a nervous laugh. ‘Why, I thought
that nothing could awake you.’

“‘Where have you been?’ I asked, more sternly.

“‘I don’t wonder that you are surprised,’ said she, and I could see
that her fingers were trembling as she undid the fastenings of her
mantle. ‘Why, I never remember having done such a thing in my life
before. The fact is that I felt as though I were choking, and had a
perfect longing for a breath of fresh air. I really think that I
should have fainted if I had not gone out. I stood at the door for a
few minutes, and now I am quite myself again.’

“All the time that she was telling me this story she never once
looked in my direction, and her voice was quite unlike her usual
tones. It was evident to me that she was saying what was false. I
said nothing in reply, but turned my face to the wall, sick at heart,
with my mind filled with a thousand venomous doubts and suspicions.
What was it that my wife was concealing from me? Where had she been
during that strange expedition? I felt that I should have no peace
until I knew, and yet I shrank from asking her again after once she
had told me what was false. All the rest of the night I tossed and
tumbled, framing theory after theory, each more unlikely than the
last.

“I should have gone to the City that day, but I was too disturbed in
my mind to be able to pay attention to business matters. My wife
seemed to be as upset as myself, and I could see from the little
questioning glances which she kept shooting at me that she understood
that I disbelieved her statement, and that she was at her wits’ end
what to do. We hardly exchanged a word during breakfast, and
immediately afterwards I went out for a walk, that I might think the
matter out in the fresh morning air.

“I went as far as the Crystal Palace, spent an hour in the grounds,
and was back in Norbury by one o’clock. It happened that my way took
me past the cottage, and I stopped for an instant to look at the
windows, and to see if I could catch a glimpse of the strange face
which had looked out at me on the day before. As I stood there,
imagine my surprise, Mr. Holmes, when the door suddenly opened and my
wife walked out.

“I was struck dumb with astonishment at the sight of her; but my
emotions were nothing to those which showed themselves upon her face
when our eyes met. She seemed for an instant to wish to shrink back
inside the house again; and then, seeing how useless all concealment
must be, she came forward, with a very white face and frightened eyes
which belied the smile upon her lips.

“‘Ah, Jack,’ she said, ‘I have just been in to see if I can be of any
assistance to our new neighbors. Why do you look at me like that,
Jack? You are not angry with me?’

“‘So,’ said I, ‘this is where you went during the night.’

“‘What do you mean?’ she cried.

“‘You came here. I am sure of it. Who are these people, that you
should visit them at such an hour?’

“‘I have not been here before.’

“‘How can you tell me what you know is false?’ I cried. ‘Your very
voice changes as you speak. When have I ever had a secret from you? I
shall enter that cottage, and I shall probe the matter to the
bottom.’

“‘No, no, Jack, for God’s sake!’ she gasped, in uncontrollable
emotion. Then, as I approached the door, she seized my sleeve and
pulled me back with convulsive strength.

“‘I implore you not to do this, Jack,’ she cried. ‘I swear that I
will tell you everything some day, but nothing but misery can come of
it if you enter that cottage.’ Then, as I tried to shake her off, she
clung to me in a frenzy of entreaty.

“‘Trust me, Jack!’ she cried. ‘Trust me only this once. You will
never have cause to regret it. You know that I would not have a
secret from you if it were not for your own sake. Our whole lives are
at stake in this. If you come home with me, all will be well. If you
force your way into that cottage, all is over between us.’

“There was such earnestness, such despair, in her manner that her
words arrested me, and I stood irresolute before the door.

“‘I will trust you on one condition, and on one condition only,’ said
I at last. ‘It is that this mystery comes to an end from now. You are
at liberty to preserve your secret, but you must promise me that
there shall be no more nightly visits, no more doings which are kept
from my knowledge. I am willing to forget those which are passed if
you will promise that there shall be no more in the future.’

“‘I was sure that you would trust me,’ she cried, with a great sigh
of relief. ‘It shall be just as you wish. Come away–oh, come away up
to the house.’

“Still pulling at my sleeve, she led me away from the cottage. As we
went I glanced back, and there was that yellow livid face watching us
out of the upper window. What link could there be between that
creature and my wife? Or how could the coarse, rough woman whom I had
seen the day before be connected with her? It was a strange puzzle,
and yet I knew that my mind could never know ease again until I had
solved it.

“For two days after this I stayed at home, and my wife appeared to
abide loyally by our engagement, for, as far as I know, she never
stirred out of the house. On the third day, however, I had ample
evidence that her solemn promise was not enough to hold her back from
this secret influence which drew her away from her husband and her
duty.

“I had gone into town on that day, but I returned by the 2.40 instead
of the 3.36, which is my usual train. As I entered the house the maid
ran into the hall with a startled face.

“‘Where is your mistress?’ I asked.

“‘I think that she has gone out for a walk,’ she answered.

“My mind was instantly filled with suspicion. I rushed upstairs to
make sure that she was not in the house. As I did so I happened to
glance out of one of the upper windows, and saw the maid with whom I
had just been speaking running across the field in the direction of
the cottage. Then of course I saw exactly what it all meant. My wife
had gone over there, and had asked the servant to call her if I
should return. Tingling with anger, I rushed down and hurried across,
determined to end the matter once and forever. I saw my wife and the
maid hurrying back along the lane, but I did not stop to speak with
them. In the cottage lay the secret which was casting a shadow over
my life. I vowed that, come what might, it should be a secret no
longer. I did not even knock when I reached it, but turned the handle
and rushed into the passage.

“It was all still and quiet upon the ground floor. In the kitchen a
kettle was singing on the fire, and a large black cat lay coiled up
in the basket; but there was no sign of the woman whom I had seen
before. I ran into the other room, but it was equally deserted. Then
I rushed up the stairs, only to find two other rooms empty and
deserted at the top. There was no one at all in the whole house. The
furniture and pictures were of the most common and vulgar
description, save in the one chamber at the window of which I had
seen the strange face. That was comfortable and elegant, and all my
suspicions rose into a fierce bitter flame when I saw that on the
mantelpiece stood a copy of a full-length photograph of my wife,
which had been taken at my request only three months ago.

“I stayed long enough to make certain that the house was absolutely
empty. Then I left it, feeling a weight at my heart such as I had
never had before. My wife came out into the hall as I entered my
house; but I was too hurt and angry to speak with her, and pushing
past her, I made my way into my study. She followed me, however,
before I could close the door.

“‘I am sorry that I broke my promise, Jack,’ said she; ‘but if you
knew all the circumstances I am sure that you would forgive me.’

“‘Tell me everything, then,’ said I.

“‘I cannot, Jack, I cannot,’ she cried.

“‘Until you tell me who it is that has been living in that cottage,
and who it is to whom you have given that photograph, there can never
be any confidence between us,’ said I, and breaking away from her, I
left the house. That was yesterday, Mr. Holmes, and I have not seen
her since, nor do I know anything more about this strange business.
It is the first shadow that has come between us, and it has so shaken
me that I do not know what I should do for the best. Suddenly this
morning it occurred to me that you were the man to advise me, so I
have hurried to you now, and I place myself unreservedly in your
hands. If there is any point which I have not made clear, pray
question me about it. But, above all, tell me quickly what I am to
do, for this misery is more than I can bear.”

Holmes and I had listened with the utmost interest to this
extraordinary statement, which had been delivered in the jerky,
broken fashion of a man who is under the influence of extreme
emotions. My companion sat silent for some time, with his chin upon
his hand, lost in thought.

“Tell me,” said he at last, “could you swear that this was a man’s
face which you saw at the window?”

“Each time that I saw it I was some distance away from it, so that it
is impossible for me to say.”

“You appear, however, to have been disagreeably impressed by it.”

“It seemed to be of an unnatural color, and to have a strange
rigidity about the features. When I approached, it vanished with a
jerk.”

“How long is it since your wife asked you for a hundred pounds?”

“Nearly two months.”

“Have you ever seen a photograph of her first husband?”

“No; there was a great fire at Atlanta very shortly after his death,
and all her papers were destroyed.”

“And yet she had a certificate of death. You say that you saw it.”

“Yes; she got a duplicate after the fire.”

“Did you ever meet any one who knew her in America?”

“No.”

“Did she ever talk of revisiting the place?”

“No.”

“Or get letters from it?”

“No.”

“Thank you. I should like to think over the matter a little now. If
the cottage is now permanently deserted we may have some difficulty.
If, on the other hand, as I fancy is more likely, the inmates were
warned of your coming, and left before you entered yesterday, then
they may be back now, and we should clear it all up easily. Let me
advise you, then, to return to Norbury, and to examine the windows of
the cottage again. If you have reason to believe that is inhabited,
do not force your way in, but send a wire to my friend and me. We
shall be with you within an hour of receiving it, and we shall then
very soon get to the bottom of the business.”

“And if it is still empty?”

“In that case I shall come out to-morrow and talk it over with you.
Good-bye, and, above all, do not fret until you know that you really
have a cause for it.”

“I am afraid that this is a bad business, Watson,” said my companion,
as he returned after accompanying Mr. Grant Munro to the door. “What
do you make of it?”

“It had an ugly sound,” I answered.

“Yes. There’s blackmail in it, or I am much mistaken.”

“And who is the blackmailer?”

“Well, it must be the creature who lives in the only comfortable room
in the place, and has her photograph above his fireplace. Upon my
word, Watson, there is something very attractive about that livid
face at the window, and I would not have missed the case for worlds.”

“You have a theory?”

“Yes, a provisional one. But I shall be surprised if it does not turn
out to be correct. This woman’s first husband is in that cottage.”

“Why do you think so?”

“How else can we explain her frenzied anxiety that her second one
should not enter it? The facts, as I read them, are something like
this: This woman was married in America. Her husband developed some
hateful qualities; or shall we say that he contracted some loathsome
disease, and became a leper or an imbecile? She flies from him at
last, returns to England, changes her name, and starts her life, as
she thinks, afresh. She has been married three years, and believes
that her position is quite secure, having shown her husband the death
certificate of some man whose name she has assumed, when suddenly her
whereabouts is discovered by her first husband; or, we may suppose,
by some unscrupulous woman who has attached herself to the invalid.
They write to the wife, and threaten to come and expose her. She asks
for a hundred pounds, and endeavors to buy them off. They come in
spite of it, and when the husband mentions casually to the wife that
there are new-comers in the cottage, she knows in some way that they
are her pursuers. She waits until her husband is asleep, and then she
rushes down to endeavor to persuade them to leave her in peace.
Having no success, she goes again next morning, and her husband meets
her, as he has told us, as she comes out. She promises him then not
to go there again, but two days afterwards the hope of getting rid of
those dreadful neighbors was too strong for her, and she made another
attempt, taking down with her the photograph which had probably been
demanded from her. In the midst of this interview the maid rushed in
to say that the master had come home, on which the wife, knowing that
he would come straight down to the cottage, hurried the inmates out
at the back door, into the grove of fir-trees, probably, which was
mentioned as standing near. In this way he found the place deserted.
I shall be very much surprised, however, if it still so when he
reconnoitres it this evening. What do you think of my theory?”

“It is all surmise.”

“But at least it covers all the facts. When new facts come to our
knowledge which cannot be covered by it, it will be time enough to
reconsider it. We can do nothing more until we have a message from
our friend at Norbury.”

But we had not a very long time to wait for that. It came just as we
had finished our tea.

“The cottage is still tenanted,” it said. “Have seen the face again
at the window. Will meet the seven o’clock train, and will take no
steps until you arrive.”

He was waiting on the platform when we stepped out, and we could see
in the light of the station lamps that he was very pale, and
quivering with agitation.

“They are still there, Mr. Holmes,” said he, laying his hand hard
upon my friend’s sleeve. “I saw lights in the cottage as I came down.
We shall settle it now once and for all.”

“What is your plan, then?” asked Holmes, as he walked down the dark
tree-lined road.

“I am going to force my way in and see for myself who is in the
house. I wish you both to be there as witnesses.”

“You are quite determined to do this, in spite of your wife’s warning
that it is better that you should not solve the mystery?”

“Yes, I am determined.”

“Well, I think that you are in the right. Any truth is better than
indefinite doubt. We had better go up at once. Of course, legally, we
are putting ourselves hopelessly in the wrong; but I think that it is
worth it.”

It was a very dark night, and a thin rain began to fall as we turned
from the high road into a narrow lane, deeply rutted, with hedges on
either side. Mr. Grant Munro pushed impatiently forward, however, and
we stumbled after him as best we could.

“There are the lights of my house,” he murmured, pointing to a
glimmer among the trees. “And here is the cottage which I am going to
enter.”

We turned a corner in the lane as he spoke, and there was the
building close beside us. A yellow bar falling across the black
foreground showed that the door was not quite closed, and one window
in the upper story was brightly illuminated. As we looked, we saw a
dark blur moving across the blind.

“There is that creature!” cried Grant Munro. “You can see for
yourselves that some one is there. Now follow me, and we shall soon
know all.”

We approached the door; but suddenly a woman appeared out of the
shadow and stood in the golden track of the lamp-light. I could not
see her face in the darkness, but her arms were thrown out in an
attitude of entreaty.

“For God’s sake, don’t Jack!” she cried. “I had a presentiment that
you would come this evening. Think better of it, dear! Trust me
again, and you will never have cause to regret it.”

“I have trusted you too long, Effie,” he cried, sternly. “Leave go of
me! I must pass you. My friends and I are going to settle this matter
once and forever!” He pushed her to one side, and we followed closely
after him. As he threw the door open an old woman ran out in front of
him and tried to bar his passage, but he thrust her back, and an
instant afterwards we were all upon the stairs. Grant Munro rushed
into the lighted room at the top, and we entered at his heels.

It was a cosy, well-furnished apartment, with two candles burning
upon the table and two upon the mantelpiece. In the corner, stooping
over a desk, there sat what appeared to be a little girl. Her face
was turned away as we entered, but we could see that she was dressed
in a red frock, and that she had long white gloves on. As she whisked
round to us, I gave a cry of surprise and horror. The face which she
turned towards us was of the strangest livid tint, and the features
were absolutely devoid of any expression. An instant later the
mystery was explained. Holmes, with a laugh, passed his hand behind
the child’s ear, a mask peeled off from her countenance, an there was
a little coal black negress, with all her white teeth flashing in
amusement at our amazed faces. I burst out laughing, out of sympathy
with her merriment; but Grant Munro stood staring, with his hand
clutching his throat.

“My God!” he cried. “What can be the meaning of this?”

“I will tell you the meaning of it,” cried the lady, sweeping into
the room with a proud, set face. “You have forced me, against my own
judgment, to tell you, and now we must both make the best of it. My
husband died at Atlanta. My child survived.”

“Your child?”

She drew a large silver locket from her bosom. “You have never seen
this open.”

“I understood that it did not open.”

She touched a spring, and the front hinged back. There was a portrait
within of a man strikingly handsome and intelligent-looking, but
bearing unmistakable signs upon his features of his African descent.

“That is John Hebron, of Atlanta,” said the lady, “and a nobler man
never walked the earth. I cut myself off from my race in order to wed
him, but never once while he lived did I for an instant regret it. It
was our misfortune that our only child took after his people rather
than mine. It is often so in such matches, and little Lucy is darker
far than ever her father was. But dark or fair, she is my own dear
little girlie, and her mother’s pet.” The little creature ran across
at the words and nestled up against the lady’s dress. “When I left
her in America,” she continued, “it was only because her health was
weak, and the change might have done her harm. She was given to the
care of a faithful Scotch woman who had once been our servant. Never
for an instant did I dream of disowning her as my child. But when
chance threw you in my way, Jack, and I learned to love you, I feared
to tell you about my child. God forgive me, I feared that I should
lose you, and I had not the courage to tell you. I had to choose
between you, and in my weakness I turned away from my own little
girl. For three years I have kept her existence a secret from you,
but I heard from the nurse, and I knew that all was well with her. At
last, however, there came an overwhelming desire to see the child
once more. I struggled against it, but in vain. Though I knew the
danger, I determined to have the child over, if it were but for a few
weeks. I sent a hundred pounds to the nurse, and I gave her
instructions about this cottage, so that she might come as a
neighbor, without my appearing to be in any way connected with her. I
pushed my precautions so far as to order her to keep the child in the
house during the daytime, and to cover up her little face and hands
so that even those who might see her at the window should not gossip
about there being a black child in the neighborhood. If I had been
less cautious I might have been more wise, but I was half crazy with
fear that you should learn the truth.

“It was you who told me first that the cottage was occupied. I should
have waited for the morning, but I could not sleep for excitement,
and so at last I slipped out, knowing how difficult it is to awake
you. But you saw me go, and that was the beginning of my troubles.
Next day you had my secret at your mercy, but you nobly refrained
from pursuing your advantage. Three days later, however, the nurse
and child only just escaped from the back door as you rushed in at
the front one. And now to-night you at last know all, and I ask you
what is to become of us, my child and me?” She clasped her hands and
waited for an answer.

It was a long ten minutes before Grant Munro broke the silence, and
when his answer came it was one of which I love to think. He lifted
the little child, kissed her, and then, still carrying her, he held
his other hand out to his wife and turned towards the door.

“We can talk it over more comfortably at home,” said he. “I am not a
very good man, Effie, but I think that I am a better one than you
have given me credit for being.”

Holmes and I followed them down the lane, and my friend plucked at my
sleeve as we came out.

“I think,” said he, “that we shall be of more use in London than in
Norbury.”

Not another word did he say of the case until late that night, when
he was turning away, with his lighted candle, for his bedroom.

“Watson,” said he, “if it should ever strike you that I am getting a
little over-confident in my powers, or giving less pains to a case
than it deserves, kindly whisper ‘Norbury’ in my ear, and I shall be
infinitely obliged to you.”

Shortly after my marriage I had bought a connection in the Paddington
district. Old Mr. Farquhar, from whom I purchased it, had at one time
an excellent general practice; but his age, and an affliction of the
nature of St. Vitus’s dance from which he suffered, had very much
thinned it. The public not unnaturally goes on the principle that he
who would heal others must himself be whole, and looks askance at the
curative powers of the man whose own case is beyond the reach of his
drugs. Thus as my predecessor weakened his practice declined, until
when I purchased it from him it had sunk from twelve hundred to
little more than three hundred a year. I had confidence, however, in
my own youth and energy, and was convinced that in a very few years
the concern would be as flourishing as ever.

For three months after taking over the practice I was kept very
closely at work, and saw little of my friend Sherlock Holmes, for I
was too busy to visit Baker Street, and he seldom went anywhere
himself save upon professional business. I was surprised, therefore,
when, one morning in June, as I sat reading the British Medical
Journal after breakfast, I heard a ring at the bell, followed by the
high, somewhat strident tones of my old companion’s voice.

“Ah, my dear Watson,” said he, striding into the room, “I am very
delighted to see you! I trust that Mrs. Watson has entirely recovered
from all the little excitements connected with our adventure of the
Sign of Four.”

“Thank you, we are both very well,” said I, shaking him warmly by the
hand.

“And I hope, also,” he continued, sitting down in the rocking-chair,
“that the cares of medical practice have not entirely obliterated the
interest which you used to take in our little deductive problems.”

“On the contrary,” I answered, “it was only last night that I was
looking over my old notes, and classifying some of our past results.”

“I trust that you don’t consider your collection closed.”

“Not at all. I should wish nothing better than to have some more of
such experiences.”

“To-day, for example?”

“Yes, to-day, if you like.”

“And as far off as Birmingham?”

“Certainly, if you wish it.”

“And the practice?”

“I do my neighbor’s when he goes. He is always ready to work off the
debt.”

“Ha! Nothing could be better,” said Holmes, leaning back in his chair
and looking keenly at me from under his half closed lids. “I perceive
that you have been unwell lately. Summer colds are always a little
trying.”

“I was confined to the house by a severe chill for three days last
week. I thought, however, that I had cast off every trace of it.”

“So you have. You look remarkably robust.”

“How, then, did you know of it?”

“My dear fellow, you know my methods.”

“You deduced it, then?”

“Certainly.”

“And from what?”

“From your slippers.”

I glanced down at the new patent leathers which I was wearing. “How
on earth–” I began, but Holmes answered my question before it was
asked.

“Your slippers are new,” he said. “You could not have had them more
than a few weeks. The soles which you are at this moment presenting
to me are slightly scorched. For a moment I thought they might have
got wet and been burned in the drying. But near the instep there is a
small circular wafer of paper with the shopman’s hieroglyphics upon
it. Damp would of course have removed this. You had, then, been
sitting with our feet outstretched to the fire, which a man would
hardly do even in so wet a June as this if he were in his full
health.”

Like all Holmes’s reasoning the thing seemed simplicity itself when
it was once explained. He read the thought upon my features, and his
smile had a tinge of bitterness.

“I am afraid that I rather give myself away when I explain,” said he.
“Results without causes are much more impressive. You are ready to
come to Birmingham, then?”

“Certainly. What is the case?”

“You shall hear it all in the train. My client is outside in a
four-wheeler. Can you come at once?”

“In an instant.” I scribbled a note to my neighbor, rushed upstairs
to explain the matter to my wife, and joined Holmes upon the
door-step.

“Your neighbor is a doctor,” said he, nodding at the brass plate.

“Yes; he bought a practice as I did.”

“An old-established one?”

“Just the same as mine. Both have been ever since the houses were
built.”

“Ah! Then you got hold of the best of the two.”

“I think I did. But how do you know?”

“By the steps, my boy. Yours are worn three inches deeper than his.
But this gentleman in the cab is my client, Mr. Hall Pycroft. Allow
me to introduce you to him. Whip your horse up, cabby, for we have
only just time to catch our train.”

The man whom I found myself facing was a well built,
fresh-complexioned young fellow, with a frank, honest face and a
slight, crisp, yellow mustache. He wore a very shiny top hat and a
neat suit of sober black, which made him look what he was–a smart
young City man, of the class who have been labeled cockneys, but who
give us our crack volunteer regiments, and who turn out more fine
athletes and sportsmen than any body of men in these islands. His
round, ruddy face was naturally full of cheeriness, but the corners
of his mouth seemed to me to be pulled down in a half-comical
distress. It was not, however, until we were all in a first-class
carriage and well started upon our journey to Birmingham that I was
able to learn what the trouble was which had driven him to Sherlock
Holmes.

“We have a clear run here of seventy minutes,” Holmes remarked. “I
want you, Mr. Hall Pycroft, to tell my friend your very interesting
experience exactly as you have told it to me, or with more detail if
possible. It will be of use to me to hear the succession of events
again. It is a case, Watson, which may prove to have something in it,
or may prove to have nothing, but which, at least, presents those
unusual and outré features which are as dear to you as they are to
me. Now, Mr. Pycroft, I shall not interrupt you again.”

Our young companion looked at me with a twinkle in his eye.

“The worst of the story is,” said he, “that I show myself up as such
a confounded fool. Of course it may work out all right, and I don’t
see that I could have done otherwise; but if I have lost my crib and
get nothing in exchange I shall feel what a soft Johnnie I have been.
I’m not very good at telling a story, Dr. Watson, but it is like this
with me:

“I used to have a billet at Coxon & Woodhouse’s, of Draper’s Gardens,
but they were let in early in the spring through the Venezuelan loan,
as no doubt you remember, and came a nasty cropper. I had been with
them five years, and old Coxon gave me a ripping good testimonial
when the smash came, but of course we clerks were all turned adrift,
the twenty-seven of us. I tried here and tried there, but there were
lots of other chaps on the same lay as myself, and it was a perfect
frost for a long time. I had been taking three pounds a week at
Coxon’s, and I had saved about seventy of them, but I soon worked my
way through that and out at the other end. I was fairly at the end of
my tether at last, and could hardly find the stamps to answer the
advertisements or the envelopes to stick them to. I had worn out my
boots paddling up office stairs, and I seemed just as far from
getting a billet as ever.

“At last I saw a vacancy at Mawson & Williams’s, the great
stock-broking firm in Lombard Street. I dare say E. C. is not much in
your line, but I can tell you that this is about the richest house in
London. The advertisement was to be answered by letter only. I sent
in my testimonial and application, but without the least hope of
getting it. Back came an answer by return, saying that if I would
appear next Monday I might take over my new duties at once, provided
that my appearance was satisfactory. No one knows how these things
are worked. Some people say that the manager just plunges his hand
into the heap and takes the first that comes. Anyhow it was my
innings that time, and I don’t ever wish to feel better pleased. The
screw was a pound a week rise, and the duties just about the same as
at Coxon’s.

“And now I come to the queer part of the business. I was in diggings
out Hampstead way, 17 Potter’s Terrace. Well, I was sitting doing a
smoke that very evening after I had been promised the appointment,
when up came my landlady with a card which had “Arthur Pinner,
Financial Agent,” printed upon it. I had never heard the name before
and could not imagine what he wanted with me; but, of course, I asked
her to show him up. In he walked, a middle-sized, dark-haired,
dark-eyed, black-bearded man, with a touch of the sheeny about his
nose. He had a brisk kind of way with him and spoke sharply, like a
man who knew the value of time.

“‘Mr. Hall Pycroft, I believe?’ said he.

“‘Yes, sir,’ I answered, pushing a chair towards him.

“‘Lately engaged at Coxon & Woodhouse’s?’

“‘Yes, sir.’

“‘And now on the staff of Mawson’s.’

“‘Quite so.’

“‘Well,’ said he, ‘the fact is that I have heard some really
extraordinary stories about your financial ability. You remember
Parker, who used to be Coxon’s manager? He can never say enough about
it.’

“Of course I was pleased to hear this. I had always been pretty sharp
in the office, but I had never dreamed that I was talked about in the
City in this fashion.

“‘You have a good memory?’ said he.

“‘Pretty fair,’ I answered, modestly.

“‘Have you kept in touch with the market while you have been out of
work?’ he asked.

“‘Yes. I read the stock exchange list every morning.’

“‘Now that shows real application!’ he cried. ‘That is the way to
prosper! You won’t mind my testing you, will you? Let me see. How are
Ayrshires?’

“‘A hundred and six and a quarter to a hundred and five and
seven-eighths.’

“‘And New Zealand consolidated?’

“‘A hundred and four.’

“‘And British Broken Hills?’

“‘Seven to seven-and-six.’

“‘Wonderful!’ he cried, with his hands up. ‘This quite fits in with
all that I had heard. My boy, my boy, you are very much too good to
be a clerk at Mawson’s!’

“This outburst rather astonished me, as you can think. ‘Well,’ said
I, ‘other people don’t think quite so much of me as you seem to do,
Mr. Pinner. I had a hard enough fight to get this berth, and I am
very glad to have it.’

“‘Pooh, man; you should soar above it. You are not in your true
sphere. Now, I’ll tell you how it stands with me. What I have to
offer is little enough when measured by your ability, but when
compared with Mawson’s, it’s light to dark. Let me see. When do you
go to Mawson’s?’

“‘On Monday.’

“‘Ha, ha! I think I would risk a little sporting flutter that you
don’t go there at all.’

“‘Not go to Mawson’s?’

“‘No, sir. By that day you will be the business manager of the
Franco-Midland Hardware Company, Limited, with a hundred and
thirty-four branches in the towns and villages of France, not
counting one in Brussels and one in San Remo.’

“This took my breath away. ‘I never heard of it,’ said I.

“‘Very likely not. It has been kept very quiet, for the capital was
all privately subscribed, and it’s too good a thing to let the public
into. My brother, Harry Pinner, is promoter, and joins the board
after allotment as managing director. He knew I was in the swim down
here, and asked me to pick up a good man cheap. A young, pushing man
with plenty of snap about him. Parker spoke of you, and that brought
me here tonight. We can only offer you a beggarly five hundred to
start with.’

“‘Five hundred a year!’ I shouted.

“‘Only that at the beginning; but you are to have an overriding
commission of one per cent on all business done by your agents, and
you may take my word for it that this will come to more than your
salary.’

“‘But I know nothing about hardware.’

“‘Tut, my boy; you know about figures.’

“My head buzzed, and I could hardly sit still in my chair. But
suddenly a little chill of doubt came upon me.

“‘I must be frank with you,’ said I. ‘Mawson only gives me two
hundred, but Mawson is safe. Now, really, I know so little about your
company that–‘

“‘Ah, smart, smart!’ he cried, in a kind of ecstasy of delight. ‘You
are the very man for us. You are not to be talked over, and quite
right, too. Now, here’s a note for a hundred pounds, and if you think
that we can do business you may just slip it into your pocket as an
advance upon your salary.’

“‘That is very handsome,’ said I. ‘When should I take over my new
duties?’

“‘Be in Birmingham to-morrow at one,’ said he. ‘I have a note in my
pocket here which you will take to my brother. You will find him at
126b Corporation Street, where the temporary offices of the company
are situated. Of course he must confirm your engagement, but between
ourselves it will be all right.’

“‘Really, I hardly know how to express my gratitude, Mr. Pinner,’
said I.

“‘Not at all, my boy. You have only got your desserts. There are one
or two small things–mere formalities–which I must arrange with you.
You have a bit of paper beside you there. Kindly write upon it “I am
perfectly willing to act as business manager to the Franco-Midland
Hardware Company, Limited, at a minimum salary of £500.”‘

“I did as he asked, and he put the paper in his pocket.

“‘There is one other detail,’ said he. ‘What do you intend to do
about Mawson’s?’

“I had forgotten all about Mawson’s in my joy. ‘I’ll write and
resign,’ said I.

“‘Precisely what I don’t want you to do. I had a row over you with
Mawson’s manager. I had gone up to ask him about you, and he was very
offensive; accused me of coaxing you away from the service of the
firm, and that sort of thing. At last I fairly lost my temper. “If
you want good men you should pay them a good price,” said I.

“‘”He would rather have our small price than your big one,” said he.

“‘”I’ll lay you a fiver,” said I, “that when he has my offer you’ll
never so much as hear from him again.”

“‘”Done!” said he. “We picked him out of the gutter, and he won’t
leave us so easily.” Those were his very words.’

“‘The impudent scoundrel!’ I cried. ‘I’ve never so much as seen him
in my life. Why should I consider him in any way? I shall certainly
not write if you would rather I didn’t.’

“‘Good! That’s a promise,’ said he, rising from his chair. ‘Well, I’m
delighted to have got so good a man for my brother. Here’s your
advance of a hundred pounds, and here is the letter. Make a note of
the address, 126b Corporation Street, and remember that one o’clock
to-morrow is your appointment. Good-night; and may you have all the
fortune that you deserve!’

“That’s just about all that passed between us, as near as I can
remember. You can imagine, Dr. Watson, how pleased I was at such an
extraordinary bit of good fortune. I sat up half the night hugging
myself over it, and next day I was off to Birmingham in a train that
would take me in plenty time for my appointment. I took my things to
a hotel in New Street, and then I made my way to the address which
had been given me.

“It was a quarter of an hour before my time, but I thought that would
make no difference. 126b was a passage between two large shops, which
led to a winding stone stair, from which there were many flats, let
as offices to companies or professional men. The names of the
occupants were painted at the bottom on the wall, but there was no
such name as the Franco-Midland Hardware Company, Limited. I stood
for a few minutes with my heart in my boots, wondering whether the
whole thing was an elaborate hoax or not, when up came a man and
addressed me. He was very like the chap I had seen the night before,
the same figure and voice, but he was clean shaven and his hair was
lighter.

“‘Are you Mr. Hall Pycroft?’ he asked.

“‘Yes,’ said I.

“‘Oh! I was expecting you, but you are a trifle before your time. I
had a note from my brother this morning in which he sang your praises
very loudly.’

“‘I was just looking for the offices when you came.’

“‘We have not got our name up yet, for we only secured these
temporary premises last week. Come up with me, and we will talk the
matter over.’

“I followed him to the top of a very lofty stair, and there, right
under the slates, were a couple of empty, dusty little rooms,
uncarpeted and uncurtained, into which he led me. I had thought of a
great office with shining tables and rows of clerks, such as I was
used to, and I dare say I stared rather straight at the two deal
chairs and one little table, which, with a ledger and a waste paper
basket, made up the whole furniture.

“‘Don’t be disheartened, Mr. Pycroft,’ said my new acquaintance,
seeing the length of my face. ‘Rome was not built in a day, and we
have lots of money at our backs, though we don’t cut much dash yet in
offices. Pray sit down, and let me have your letter.’

“I gave it to him, and her read it over very carefully.

“‘You seem to have made a vast impression upon my brother Arthur,’
said he; ‘and I know that he is a pretty shrewd judge. He swears by
London, you know; and I by Birmingham; but this time I shall follow
his advice. Pray consider yourself definitely engaged.’

“‘What are my duties?’ I asked.

“‘You will eventually manage the great depot in Paris, which will
pour a flood of English crockery into the shops of a hundred and
thirty-four agents in France. The purchase will be completed in a
week, and meanwhile you will remain in Birmingham and make yourself
useful.’

“‘How?’

“For answer, he took a big red book out of a drawer.

“‘This is a directory of Paris,’ said he, ‘with the trades after the
names of the people. I want you to take it home with you, and to mark
off all the hardware sellers, with their addresses. It would be of
the greatest use to me to have them.’

“‘Surely there are classified lists?’ I suggested.

“‘Not reliable ones. Their system is different from ours. Stick at
it, and let me have the lists by Monday, at twelve. Good-day, Mr.
Pycroft. If you continue to show zeal and intelligence you will find
the company a good master.’

“I went back to the hotel with the big book under my arm, and with
very conflicting feelings in my breast. On the one hand, I was
definitely engaged and had a hundred pounds in my pocket; on the
other, the look of the offices, the absence of name on the wall, and
other of the points which would strike a business man had left a bad
impression as to the position of my employers. However, come what
might, I had my money, so I settled down to my task. All Sunday I was
kept hard at work, and yet by Monday I had only got as far as H. I
went round to my employer, found him in the same dismantled kind of
room, and was told to keep at it until Wednesday, and then come
again. On Wednesday it was still unfinished, so I hammered away until
Friday–that is, yesterday. Then I brought it round to Mr. Harry
Pinner.

“‘Thank you very much,’ said he; ‘I fear that I underrated the
difficulty of the task. This list will be of very material assistance
to me.’

“‘It took some time,’ said I.

“‘And now,’ said he, ‘I want you to make a list of the furniture
shops, for they all sell crockery.’

“‘Very good.’

“‘And you can come up to-morrow evening, at seven, and let me know
how you are getting on. Don’t overwork yourself. A couple of hours at
Day’s Music Hall in the evening would do you no harm after your
labors.’ He laughed as he spoke, and I saw with a thrill that his
second tooth upon the left-hand side had been very badly stuffed with
gold.”

Sherlock Holmes rubbed his hands with delight, and I stared with
astonishment at our client.

“You may well look surprised, Dr. Watson; but it is this way,” said
he: “When I was speaking to the other chap in London, at the time
that he laughed at my not going to Mawson’s, I happened to notice
that his tooth was stuffed in this very identical fashion. The glint
of the gold in each case caught my eye, you see. When I put that with
the voice and figure being the same, and only those things altered
which might be changed by a razor or a wig, I could not doubt that it
was the same man. Of course you expect two brothers to be alike, but
not that they should have the same tooth stuffed in the same way. He
bowed me out, and I found myself in the street, hardly knowing
whether I was on my head or my heels. Back I went to my hotel, put my
head in a basin of cold water, and tried to think it out. Why had he
sent me from London to Birmingham? Why had he got there before me?
And why had he written a letter from himself to himself? It was
altogether too much for me, and I could make no sense of it. And then
suddenly it struck me that what was dark to me might be very light to
Mr. Sherlock Holmes. I had just time to get up to town by the night
train to see him this morning, and to bring you both back with me to
Birmingham.”

There was a pause after the stock-broker’s clerk had concluded his
surprising experience. Then Sherlock Holmes cocked his eye at me,
leaning back on the cushions with a pleased and yet critical face,
like a connoisseur who has just taken his first sip of a comet
vintage.

“Rather fine, Watson, is it not?” said he. “There are points in it
which please me. I think that you will agree with me that an
interview with Mr. Arthur Harry Pinner in the temporary offices of
the Franco-Midland Hardware Company, Limited, would be a rather
interesting experience for both of us.”

“But how can we do it?” I asked.

“Oh, easily enough,” said Hall Pycroft, cheerily. “You are two
friends of mine who are in want of a billet, and what could be more
natural than that I should bring you both round to the managing
director?”

“Quite so, of course,” said Holmes. “I should like to have a look at
the gentleman, and see if I can make anything of his little game.
What qualities have you, my friend, which would make your services so
valuable? Or is it possible that–” He began biting his nails and
staring blankly out of the window, and we hardly drew another word
from him until we were in New Street.

At seven o’clock that evening we were walking, the three of us, down
Corporation Street to the company’s offices.

“It is no use our being at all before our time,” said our client. “He
only comes there to see me, apparently, for the place is deserted up
to the very hour he names.”

“That is suggestive,” remarked Holmes.

“By Jove, I told you so!” cried the clerk. “That’s he walking ahead
of us there.”

He pointed to a smallish, dark, well-dressed man who was bustling
along the other side of the road. As we watched him he looked across
at a boy who was bawling out the latest edition of the evening paper,
and running over among the cabs and busses, he bought one from him.
Then, clutching it in his hand, he vanished through a door-way.

“There he goes!” cried Hall Pycroft. “These are the company’s offices
into which he has gone. Come with me, and I’ll fix it up as easily as
possible.”

Following his lead, we ascended five stories, until we found
ourselves outside a half-opened door, at which our client tapped. A
voice within bade us enter, and we entered a bare, unfurnished room
such as Hall Pycroft had described. At the single table sat the man
whom we had seen in the street, with his evening paper spread out in
front of him, and as he looked up at us it seemed to me that I had
never looked upon a face which bore such marks of grief, and of
something beyond grief–of a horror such as comes to few men in a
lifetime. His brow glistened with perspiration, his cheeks were of
the dull, dead white of a fish’s belly, and his eyes were wild and
staring. He looked at his clerk as though he failed to recognize him,
and I could see by the astonishment depicted upon our conductor’s
face that this was by no means the usual appearance of his employer.

“You look ill, Mr. Pinner!” he exclaimed.

“Yes, I am not very well,” answered the other, making obvious efforts
to pull himself together, and licking his dry lips before he spoke.
“Who are these gentlemen whom you have brought with you?”

“One is Mr. Harris, of Bermondsey, and the other is Mr. Price, of
this town,” said our clerk, glibly. “They are friends of mine and
gentlemen of experience, but they have been out of a place for some
little time, and they hoped that perhaps you might find an opening
for them in the company’s employment.”

“Very possibly! Very possibly!” cried Mr. Pinner with a ghastly
smile. “Yes, I have no doubt that we shall be able to do something
for you. What is your particular line, Mr. Harris?”

“I am an accountant,” said Holmes.

“Ah yes, we shall want something of the sort. And you, Mr. Price?”

“A clerk,” said I.

“I have every hope that the company may accommodate you. I will let
you know about it as soon as we come to any conclusion. And now I beg
that you will go. For God’s sake leave me to myself!”

These last words were shot out of him, as though the constraint which
he was evidently setting upon himself had suddenly and utterly burst
asunder. Holmes and I glanced at each other, and Hall Pycroft took a
step towards the table.

“You forget, Mr. Pinner, that I am here by appointment to receive
some directions from you,” said he.

“Certainly, Mr. Pycroft, certainly,” the other resumed in a calmer
tone. “You may wait here a moment; and there is no reason why your
friends should not wait with you. I will be entirely at your service
in three minutes, if I might trespass upon your patience so far.” He
rose with a very courteous air, and, bowing to us, he passed out
through a door at the farther end of the room, which he closed behind
him.

“What now?” whispered Holmes. “Is he giving us the slip?”

“Impossible,” answered Pycroft.

“Why so?”

“That door leads into an inner room.”

“There is no exit?”

“None.”

“Is it furnished?”

“It was empty yesterday.”

“Then what on earth can he be doing? There is something which I don’t
understand in his manner. If ever a man was three parts mad with
terror, that man’s name is Pinner. What can have put the shivers on
him?”

“He suspects that we are detectives,” I suggested.

“That’s it,” cried Pycroft.

Holmes shook his head. “He did not turn pale. He was pale when we
entered the room,” said he. “It is just possible that–“

His words were interrupted by a sharp rat-tat from the direction of
the inner door.

“What the deuce is he knocking at his own door for?” cried the clerk.

Again and much louder cam the rat-tat-tat. We all gazed expectantly
at the closed door. Glancing at Holmes, I saw his face turn rigid,
and he leaned forward in intense excitement. Then suddenly came a low
guggling, gargling sound, and a brisk drumming upon woodwork. Holmes
sprang frantically across the room and pushed at the door. It was
fastened on the inner side. Following his example, we threw ourselves
upon it with all our weight. One hinge snapped, then the other, and
down came the door with a crash. Rushing over it, we found ourselves
in the inner room. It was empty.

But it was only for a moment that we were at fault. At one corner,
the corner nearest the room which we had left, there was a second
door. Holmes sprang to it and pulled it open. A coat and waistcoat
were lying on the floor, and from a hook behind the door, with his
own braces round his neck, was hanging the managing director of the
Franco-Midland Hardware Company. His knees were drawn up, his head
hung at a dreadful angle to his body, and the clatter of his heels
against the door made the noise which had broken in upon our
conversation. In an instant I had caught him round the waist, and
held him up while Holmes and Pycroft untied the elastic bands which
had disappeared between the livid creases of skin. Then we carried
him into the other room, where he lay with a clay-colored face,
puffing his purple lips in and out with every breath–a dreadful
wreck of all that he had been but five minutes before.

“What do you think of him, Watson?” asked Holmes.

I stooped over him and examined him. His pulse was feeble and
intermittent, but his breathing grew longer, and there was a little
shivering of his eyelids, which showed a thin white slit of ball
beneath.

“It has been touch and go with him,” said I, “but he’ll live now.
Just open that window, and hand me the water carafe.” I undid his
collar, poured the cold water over his face, and raised and sank his
arms until he drew a long, natural breath. “It’s only a question of
time now,” said I, as I turned away from him.

Holmes stood by the table, with his hands deep in his trouser’s
pockets and his chin upon his breast.

“I suppose we ought to call the police in now,” said he. “And yet I
confess that I’d like to give them a complete case when they come.”

“It’s a blessed mystery to me,” cried Pycroft, scratching his head.
“Whatever they wanted to bring me all the way up here for, and
then–“

“Pooh! All that is clear enough,” said Holmes impatiently. “It is
this last sudden move.”

“You understand the rest, then?”

“I think that it is fairly obvious. What do you say, Watson?”

I shrugged my shoulders. “I must confess that I am out of my depths,”
said I.

“Oh surely if you consider the events at first they can only point to
one conclusion.”

“What do you make of them?”

“Well, the whole thing hinges upon two points. The first is the
making of Pycroft write a declaration by which he entered the service
of this preposterous company. Do you not see how very suggestive that
is?”

“I am afraid I miss the point.”

“Well, why did they want him to do it? Not as a business matter, for
these arrangements are usually verbal, and there was no earthly
business reason why this should be an exception. Don’t you see, my
young friend, that they were very anxious to obtain a specimen of
your handwriting, and had no other way of doing it?”

“And why?”

“Quite so. Why? When we answer that we have made some progress with
our little problem. Why? There can be only one adequate reason.
Someone wanted to learn to imitate your writing, and had to procure a
specimen of it first. And now if we pass on to the second point we
find that each throws light upon the other. That point is the request
made by Pinner that you should not resign your place, but should
leave the manager of this important business in the full expectation
that a Mr. Hall Pycroft, whom he had never seen, was about to enter
the office upon the Monday morning.”

“My God!” cried our client, “what a blind beetle I have been!”

“Now you see the point about the handwriting. Suppose that some one
turned up in your place who wrote a completely different hand from
that in which you had applied for the vacancy, of course the game
would have been up. But in the interval the rogue had learned to
imitate you, and his position was therefore secure, as I presume that
nobody in the office had ever set eyes upon you.”

“Not a soul,” groaned Hall Pycroft.

“Very good. Of course it was of the utmost importance to prevent you
from thinking better of it, and also to keep you from coming into
contact with any one who might tell you that your double was at work
in Mawson’s office. Therefore they gave you a handsome advance on
your salary, and ran you off to the Midlands, where they gave you
enough work to do to prevent your going to London, where you might
have burst their little game up. That is all plain enough.”

“But why should this man pretend to be his own brother?”

“Well, that is pretty clear also. There are evidently only two of
them in it. The other is impersonating you at the office. This one
acted as your engager, and then found that he could not find you an
employer without admitting a third person into his plot. That he was
most unwilling to do. He changed his appearance as far as he could,
and trusted that the likeness, which you could not fail to observe,
would be put down to a family resemblance. But for the happy chance
of the gold stuffing, your suspicions would probably never have been
aroused.”

Hall Pycroft shook his clinched hands in the air. “Good Lord!” he
cried, “while I have been fooled in this way, what has this other
Hall Pycroft been doing at Mawson’s? What should we do, Mr. Holmes?
Tell me what to do.”

“We must wire to Mawson’s.”

“They shut at twelve on Saturdays.”

“Never mind. There may be some door-keeper or attendant–“

“Ah yes, they keep a permanent guard there on account of the value of
the securities that they hold. I remember hearing it talked of in the
City.”

“Very good; we shall wire to him, and see if all is well, and if a
clerk of your name is working there. That is clear enough; but what
is not so clear is why at sight of us one of the rogues should
instantly walk out of the room and hang himself.”

“The paper!” croaked a voice behind us. The man was sitting up,
blanched and ghastly, with returning reason in his eyes, and hands
which rubbed nervously at the broad red band which still encircled
his throat.

“The paper! Of course!” yelled Holmes, in a paroxysm of excitement.
“Idiot that I was! I thought so must of our visit that the paper
never entered my head for an instant. To be sure, the secret must be
there.” He flattened it out upon the table, and a cry of triumph
burst from his lips. “Look at this, Watson,” he cried. “It is a
London paper, an early edition of the Evening Standard. Here is what
we want. Look at the headlines: ‘Crime in the City. Murder at Mawson
& Williams’s. Gigantic attempted Robbery. Capture of the Criminal.’
Here, Watson, we are all equally anxious to hear it, so kindly read
it aloud to us.”

It appeared from its position in the paper to have been the one event
of importance in town, and the account of it ran in this way:

“A desperate attempt at robbery, culminating in the death of one man
and the capture of the criminal, occurred this afternoon in the City.
For some time back Mawson & Williams, the famous financial house,
have been the guardians of securities which amount in the aggregate
to a sum of considerably over a million sterling. So conscious was
the manager of the responsibility which devolved upon him in
consequence of the great interests at stake that safes of the very
latest construction have been employed, and an armed watchman has
been left day and night in the building. It appears that last week a
new clerk named Hall Pycroft was engaged by the firm. This person
appears to have been none other that Beddington, the famous forger
and cracksman, who, with his brother, had only recently emerged from
a five years’ spell of penal servitude. By some means, which are not
yet clear, he succeeded in winning, under a false name, this official
position in the office, which he utilized in order to obtain moulding
of various locks, and a thorough knowledge of the position of the
strong room and the safes.
“It is customary at Mawson’s for the clerks to leave at midday on
Saturday. Sergeant Tuson, of the City Police, was somewhat surprised,
therefore to see a gentleman with a carpet bag come down the steps at
twenty minutes past one. His suspicions being aroused, the sergeant
followed the man, and with the aid of Constable Pollack succeeded,
after a most desperate resistance, in arresting him. It was at once
clear that a daring and gigantic robbery had been committed. Nearly a
hundred thousand pounds’ worth of American railway bonds, with a
large amount of scrip in mines and other companies, was discovered in
the bag. On examining the premises the body of the unfortunate
watchman was found doubled up and thrust into the largest of the
safes, where it would not have been discovered until Monday morning
had it not been for the prompt action of Sergeant Tuson. The man’s
skull had been shattered by a blow from a poker delivered from
behind. There could be no doubt that Beddington had obtained entrance
by pretending that he had left something behind him, and having
murdered the watchman, rapidly rifled the large safe, and then made
off with his booty. His brother, who usually works with him, has not
appeared in this job as far as can at present be ascertained,
although the police are making energetic inquiries as to his
whereabouts.”

“Well, we may save the police some little trouble in that direction,”
said Holmes, glancing at the haggard figure huddled up by the window.
“Human nature is a strange mixture, Watson. You see that even a
villain and murderer can inspire such affection that his brother
turns to suicide when he learns that his neck is forfeited. However,
we have no choice as to our action. The doctor and I will remain on
guard, Mr. Pycroft, if you will have the kindness to step out for the
police.”

“I have some papers here,” said my friend Sherlock Holmes, as we sat
one winter’s night on either side of the fire, “which I really think,
Watson, that it would be worth your while to glance over. These are
the documents in the extraordinary case of the Gloria Scott, and this
is the message which struck Justice of the Peace Trevor dead with
horror when he read it.”

He had picked from a drawer a little tarnished cylinder, and, undoing
the tape, he handed me a short note scrawled upon a half-sheet of
slate gray-paper.

“The supply of game for London is going steadily up,” it ran.
“Head-keeper Hudson, we believe, has been now told to receive all
orders for fly-paper and for preservation of your hen-pheasant’s
life.”

As I glanced up from reading this enigmatical message, I saw Holmes
chuckling at the expression upon my face.

“You look a little bewildered,” said he.

“I cannot see how such a message as this could inspire horror. It
seems to me to be rather grotesque than otherwise.”

“Very likely. Yet the fact remains that the reader, who was a fine,
robust old man, was knocked clean down by it as if it had been the
butt end of a pistol.”

“You arouse my curiosity,” said I. “But why did you say just now that
there were very particular reasons why I should study this case?”

“Because it was the first in which I was ever engaged.”

I had often endeavored to elicit from my companion what had first
turned his mind in the direction of criminal research, but had never
caught him before in a communicative humor. Now he sat forward in his
arm-chair and spread out the documents upon his knees. Then he lit
his pipe and sat for some time smoking and turning them over.

“You never heard me talk of Victor Trevor?” he asked. “He was the
only friend I made during the two years I was at college. I was never
a very sociable fellow, Watson, always rather fond of moping in my
rooms and working out my own little methods of thought, so that I
never mixed much with the men of my year. Bar fencing and boxing I
had few athletic tastes, and then my line of study was quite distinct
from that of the other fellows, so that we had no points of contact
at all. Trevor was the only man I knew, and that only through the
accident of his bull terrier freezing on to my ankle one morning as I
went down to chapel.

“It was a prosaic way of forming a friendship, but it was effective.
I was laid by the heels for ten days, but Trevor used to come in to
inquire after me. At first it was only a minute’s chat, but soon his
visits lengthened, and before the end of the term we were close
friends. He was a hearty, full-blooded fellow, full of spirits and
energy, the very opposite to me in most respects, but we had some
subjects in common, and it was a bond of union when I found that he
was as friendless as I. Finally, he invited me down to his father’s
place at Donnithorpe, in Norfolk, and I accepted his hospitality for
a month of the long vacation.

“Old Trevor was evidently a man of some wealth and consideration, a
J.P., and a landed proprietor. Donnithorpe is a little hamlet just to
the north of Langmere, in the country of the Broads. The house was an
old-fashioned, wide-spread, oak-beamed brick building, with a fine
lime-lined avenue leading up to it. There was excellent wild-duck
shooting in the fens, remarkably good fishing, a small but select
library, taken over, as I understood, from a former occupant, and a
tolerable cook, so that he would be a fastidious man who could not
put in a pleasant month there.

“Trevor senior was a widower, and my friend his only son.

“There had been a daughter, I heard, but she had died of diphtheria
while on a visit to Birmingham. The father interested me extremely.
He was a man of little culture, but with a considerable amount of
rude strength, both physically and mentally. He knew hardly any
books, but he had traveled far, had seen much of the world. And had
remembered all that he had learned. In person he was a thick-set,
burly man with a shock of grizzled hair, a brown, weather-beaten
face, and blue eyes which were keen to the verge of fierceness. Yet
he had a reputation for kindness and charity on the country-side, and
was noted for the leniency of his sentences from the bench.

“One evening, shortly after my arrival, we were sitting over a glass
of port after dinner, when young Trevor began to talk about those
habits of observation and inference which I had already formed into a
system, although I had not yet appreciated the part which they were
to play in my life. The old man evidently thought that his son was
exaggerating in his description of one or two trivial feats which I
had performed.

“‘Come, now, Mr. Holmes,’ said he, laughing good-humoredly. ‘I’m an
excellent subject, if you can deduce anything from me.’

“‘I fear there is not very much,’ I answered; ‘I might suggest that
you have gone about in fear of some personal attack within the last
twelve months.’

“The laugh faded from his lips, and he stared at me in great
surprise.

“‘Well, that’s true enough,’ said he. ‘You know, Victor,’ turning to
his son, ‘when we broke up that poaching gang they swore to knife us,
and Sir Edward Holly has actually been attacked. I’ve always been on
my guard since then, though I have no idea how you know it.’

“‘You have a very handsome stick,’ I answered. ‘By the inscription I
observed that you had not had it more than a year. But you have taken
some pains to bore the head of it and pour melted lead into the hole
so as to make it a formidable weapon. I argued that you would not
take such precautions unless you had some danger to fear.’

“‘Anything else?’ he asked, smiling.

“‘You have boxed a good deal in your youth.’

“‘Right again. How did you know it? Is my nose knocked a little out
of the straight?’

“‘No,’ said I. ‘It is your ears. They have the peculiar flattening
and thickening which marks the boxing man.’

“‘Anything else?’

“‘You have done a good deal of digging by your callosities.’

“‘Made all my money at the gold fields.’

“‘You have been in New Zealand.’

“‘Right again.’

“‘You have visited Japan.’

“‘Quite true.’

“‘And you have been most intimately associated with some one whose
initials were J. A., and whom you afterwards were eager to entirely
forget.’

“Mr. Trevor stood slowly up, fixed his large blue eyes upon me with a
strange wild stare, and then pitched forward, with his face among the
nutshells which strewed the cloth, in a dead faint.

“You can imagine, Watson, how shocked both his son and I were. His
attack did not last long, however, for when we undid his collar, and
sprinkled the water from one of the finger-glasses over his face, he
gave a gasp or two and sat up.

“‘Ah, boys,’ said he, forcing a smile, ‘I hope I haven’t frightened
you. Strong as I look, there is a weak place in my heart, and it does
not take much to knock me over. I don’t know how you manage this, Mr.
Holmes, but it seems to me that all the detectives of fact and of
fancy would be children in your hands. That’s your line of life, sir,
and you may take the word of a man who has seen something of the
world.’

“And that recommendation, with the exaggerated estimate of my ability
with which he prefaced it, was, if you will believe me, Watson, the
very first thing which ever made me feel that a profession might be
made out of what had up to that time been the merest hobby. At the
moment, however, I was too much concerned at the sudden illness of my
host to think of anything else.

“‘I hope that I have said nothing to pain you?’ said I.

“‘Well, you certainly touched upon rather a tender point. Might I ask
how you know, and how much you know?’ He spoke now in a half-jesting
fashion, but a look of terror still lurked at the back of his eyes.

“‘It is simplicity itself,’ said I. ‘When you bared your arm to draw
that fish into the boat I saw that J. A. had been tattooed in the
bend of the elbow. The letters were still legible, but it was
perfectly clear from their blurred appearance, and from the staining
of the skin round them, that efforts had been made to obliterate
them. It was obvious, then, that those initials had once been very
familiar to you, and that you had afterwards wished to forget them.’

“‘What an eye you have!’ he cried, with a sigh of relief. ‘It is just
as you say. But we won’t talk of it. Of all ghosts the ghosts of our
old lovers are the worst. Come into the billiard-room and have a
quiet cigar.’

“From that day, amid all his cordiality, there was always a touch of
suspicion in Mr. Trevor’s manner towards me. Even his son remarked
it. ‘You’ve given the governor such a turn,’ said he, ‘that he’ll
never be sure again of what you know and what you don’t know.’ He did
not mean to show it, I am sure, but it was so strongly in his mind
that it peeped out at every action. At last I became so convinced
that I was causing him uneasiness that I drew my visit to a close. On
the very day, however, before I left, an incident occurred which
proved in the sequel to be of importance.

“We were sitting out upon the lawn on garden chairs, the three of us,
basking in the sun and admiring the view across the Broads, when a
maid came out to say that there was a man at the door who wanted to
see Mr. Trevor.

“‘What is his name?’ asked my host.

“‘He would not give any.’

“‘What does he want, then?’

“‘He says that you know him, and that he only wants a moment’s
conversation.’

“‘Show him round here.’ An instant afterwards there appeared a little
wizened fellow with a cringing manner and a shambling style of
walking. He wore an open jacket, with a splotch of tar on the sleeve,
a red-and-black check shirt, dungaree trousers, and heavy boots badly
worn. His face was thin and brown and crafty, with a perpetual smile
upon it, which showed an irregular line of yellow teeth, and his
crinkled hands were half closed in a way that is distinctive of
sailors. As he came slouching across the lawn I heard Mr. Trevor make
a sort of hiccoughing noise in his throat, and jumping out of his
chair, he ran into the house. He was back in a moment, and I smelt a
strong reek of brandy as he passed me.

“‘Well, my man,’ said he. ‘What can I do for you?’

“The sailor stood looking at him with puckered eyes, and with the
same loose-lipped smile upon his face.

“‘You don’t know me?’ he asked.

“‘Why, dear me, it is surely Hudson,’ said Mr. Trevor in a tone of
surprise.

“‘Hudson it is, sir,’ said the seaman. ‘Why, it’s thirty year and
more since I saw you last. Here you are in your house, and me still
picking my salt meat out of the harness cask.’

“‘Tut, you will find that I have not forgotten old times,’ cried Mr.
Trevor, and, walking towards the sailor, he said something in a low
voice. ‘Go into the kitchen,’ he continued out loud, ‘and you will
get food and drink. I have no doubt that I shall find you a
situation.’

“‘Thank you, sir,’ said the seaman, touching his fore-lock. ‘I’m just
off a two-yearer in an eight-knot tramp, short-handed at that, and I
wants a rest. I thought I’d get it either with Mr. Beddoes or with
you.’

“‘Ah!’ cried Trevor. ‘You know where Mr. Beddoes is?’

“‘Bless you, sir, I know where all my old friends are,’ said the
fellow with a sinister smile, and he slouched off after the maid to
the kitchen. Mr. Trevor mumbled something to us about having been
shipmate with the man when he was going back to the diggings, and
then, leaving us on the lawn, he went indoors. An hour later, when we
entered the house, we found him stretched dead drunk upon the
dining-room sofa. The whole incident left a most ugly impression upon
my mind, and I was not sorry next day to leave Donnithorpe behind me,
for I felt that my presence must be a source of embarrassment to my
friend.

“All this occurred during the first month of the long vacation. I
went up to my London rooms, where I spent seven weeks working out a
few experiments in organic chemistry. One day, however, when the
autumn was far advanced and the vacation drawing to a close, I
received a telegram from my friend imploring me to return to
Donnithorpe, and saying that he was in great need of my advice and
assistance. Of course I dropped everything and set out for the North
once more.

“He met me with the dog-cart at the station, and I saw at a glance
that the last two months had been very trying ones for him. He had
grown thin and careworn, and had lost the loud, cheery manner for
which he had been remarkable.

“‘The governor is dying,’ were the first words he said.

“‘Impossible!’ I cried. ‘What is the matter?’

“‘Apoplexy. Nervous shock, He’s been on the verge all day. I doubt if
we shall find him alive.’

“I was, as you may think, Watson, horrified at this unexpected news.

“‘What has caused it?’ I asked.

“‘Ah, that is the point. Jump in and we can talk it over while we
drive. You remember that fellow who came upon the evening before you
left us?’

“‘Perfectly.’

“‘Do you know who it was that we let into the house that day?’

“‘I have no idea.’

“‘It was the devil, Holmes,’ he cried.

“I stared at him in astonishment.

“‘Yes, it was the devil himself. We have not had a peaceful hour
since–not one. The governor has never held up his head from that
evening, and now the life has been crushed out of him and his heart
broken, all through this accursed Hudson.’

“‘What power had he, then?’

“‘Ah, that is what I would give so much to know. The kindly,
charitable, good old governor–how could he have fallen into the
clutches of such a ruffian! But I am so glad that you have come,
Holmes. I trust very much to your judgment and discretion, and I know
that you will advise me for the best.’

“We were dashing along the smooth white country road, with the long
stretch of the Broads in front of us glimmering in the red light of
the setting sun. From a grove upon our left I could already see the
high chimneys and the flag-staff which marked the squire’s dwelling.

“‘My father made the fellow gardener,’ said my companion, ‘and then,
as that did not satisfy him, he was promoted to be butler. The house
seemed to be at his mercy, and he wandered about and did what he
chose in it. The maids complained of his drunken habits and his vile
language. The dad raised their wages all round to recompense them for
the annoyance. The fellow would take the boat and my father’s best
gun and treat himself to little shooting trips. And all this with
such a sneering, leering, insolent face that I would have knocked him
down twenty times over if he had been a man of my own age. I tell
you, Holmes, I have had to keep a tight hold upon myself all this
time; and now I am asking myself whether, if I had let myself go a
little more, I might not have been a wiser man.

“‘Well, matters went from bad to worse with us, and this animal
Hudson became more and more intrusive, until at last, on making some
insolent reply to my father in my presence one day, I took him by the
shoulders and turned him out of the room. He slunk away with a livid
face and two venomous eyes which uttered more threats than his tongue
could do. I don’t know what passed between the poor dad and him after
that, but the dad came to me next day and asked me whether I would
mind apologizing to Hudson. I refused, as you can imagine, and asked
my father how he could allow such a wretch to take such liberties
with himself and his household.

“‘”Ah, my boy,” said he, “it is all very well to talk, but you don’t
know how I am placed. But you shall know, Victor. I’ll see that you
shall know, come what may. You wouldn’t believe harm of your poor old
father, would you, lad?” He was very much moved, and shut himself up
in the study all day, where I could see through the window that he
was writing busily.

“‘That evening there came what seemed to me to be a grand release,
for Hudson told us that he was going to leave us. He walked into the
dining-room as we sat after dinner, and announced his intention in
the thick voice of a half-drunken man.

“‘”I’ve had enough of Norfolk,” said he. “I’ll run down to Mr.
Beddoes in Hampshire. He’ll be as glad to see me as you were, I dare
say.”

“‘”You’re not going away in any kind of spirit, Hudson, I hope,” said
my father, with a tameness which mad my blood boil.

“‘”I’ve not had my ‘pology,” said he sulkily, glancing in my
direction.

“‘”Victor, you will acknowledge that you have used this worthy fellow
rather roughly,” said the dad, turning to me.

“‘”On the contrary, I think that we have both shown extraordinary
patience towards him,” I answered.

“‘”Oh, you do, do you?” he snarls. “Very good, mate. We’ll see about
that!”

“‘He slouched out of the room, and half an hour afterwards left the
house, leaving my father in a state of pitiable nervousness. Night
after night I heard him pacing his room, and it was just as he was
recovering his confidence that the blow did at last fall.’

“‘And how?’ I asked eagerly.

“‘In a most extraordinary fashion. A letter arrived for my father
yesterday evening, bearing the Fordingbridge post-mark. My father
read it, clapped both his hands to his head, and began running round
the room in little circles like a man who has been driven out of his
senses. When I at last drew him down on to the sofa, his mouth and
eyelids were all puckered on one side, and I saw that he had a
stroke. Dr. Fordham came over at once. We put him to bed; but the
paralysis has spread, he has shown no sign of returning
consciousness, and I think that we shall hardly find him alive.’

“‘You horrify me, Trevor!’ I cried. ‘What then could have been in
this letter to cause so dreadful a result?’

“‘Nothing. There lies the inexplicable part of it. The message was
absurd and trivial. Ah, my God, it is as I feared!’

“As he spoke we came round the curve of the avenue, and saw in the
fading light that every blind in the house had been drawn down. As we
dashed up to the door, my friend’s face convulsed with grief, a
gentleman in black emerged from it.

“‘When did it happen, doctor?’ asked Trevor.

“‘Almost immediately after you left.’

“‘Did he recover consciousness?’

“‘For an instant before the end.’

“‘Any message for me?’

“‘Only that the papers were in the back drawer of the Japanese
cabinet.’

“My friend ascended with the doctor to the chamber of death, while I
remained in the study, turning the whole matter over and over in my
head, and feeling as sombre as ever I had done in my life. What was
the past of this Trevor, pugilist, traveler, and gold-digger, and how
had he placed himself in the power of this acid-faced seaman? Why,
too, should he faint at an allusion to the half-effaced initials upon
his arm, and die of fright when he had a letter from Fordingham?
Then I remembered that Fordingham was in Hampshire, and that this Mr.
Beddoes, whom the seaman had gone to visit and presumably to
blackmail, had also been mentioned as living in Hampshire. The
letter, then, might either come from Hudson, the seaman, saying that
he had betrayed the guilty secret which appeared to exist, or it
might come from Beddoes, warning an old confederate that such a
betrayal was imminent. So far it seemed clear enough. But then how
could this letter be trivial and grotesque, as described by the son?
He must have misread it. If so, it must have been one of those
ingenious secret codes which mean one thing while they seem to mean
another. I must see this letter. If there were a hidden meaning in
it, I was confident that I could pluck it forth. For an hour I sat
pondering over it in the gloom, until at last a weeping maid brought
in a lamp, and close at her heels came my friend Trevor, pale but
composed, with these very papers which lie upon my knee held in his
grasp. He sat down opposite to me, drew the lamp to the edge of the
table, and handed me a short note scribbled, as you see, upon a
single sheet of gray paper. ‘The supply of game for London is going
steadily up,’ it ran. ‘Head-keeper Hudson, we believe, has been now
told to receive all orders for fly-paper and for preservation of your
hen-pheasant’s life.’

“I dare say my face looked as bewildered as yours did just now when
first I read this message. Then I reread it very carefully. It was
evidently as I had thought, and some secret meaning must lie buried
in this strange combination of words. Or could it be that there was a
prearranged significance to such phrases as ‘fly-paper’ and
‘hen-pheasant’? Such a meaning would be arbitrary and could not be
deduced in any way. And yet I was loath to believe that this was the
case, and the presence of the word Hudson seemed to show that the
subject of the message was as I had guessed, and that it was from
Beddoes rather than the sailor. I tried it backwards, but the
combination ‘life pheasant’s hen’ was not encouraging. Then I tried
alternate words, but neither ‘the of for’ nor ‘supply game London’
promised to throw any light upon it.

“And then in an instant the key of the riddle was in my hands, and I
saw that every third word, beginning with the first, would give a
message which might well drive old Trevor to despair.

“It was short and terse, the warning, as I now read it to my
companion:

“‘The game is up. Hudson has told all. Fly for your life.’

“Victor Trevor sank his face into his shaking hands, ‘It must be
that, I suppose,’ said he. “This is worse than death, for it means
disgrace as well. But what is the meaning of these “head-keepers” and
“hen-pheasants”?

“‘It means nothing to the message, but it might mean a good deal to
us if we had no other means of discovering the sender. You see that
he has begun by writing “The … game … is,” and so on. Afterwards
he had, to fulfill the prearranged cipher, to fill in any two words
in each space. He would naturally use the first words which came to
his mind, and if there were so many which referred to sport among
them, you may be tolerably sure that he is either an ardent shot or
interested in breeding. Do you know anything of this Beddoes?’

“‘Why, now that you mention it,’ said he, ‘I remember that my poor
father used to have an invitation from him to shoot over his
preserves every autumn.’

“‘Then it is undoubtedly from him that the note comes,’ said I. ‘It
only remains for us to find out what this secret was which the sailor
Hudson seems to have held over the heads of these two wealthy and
respected men.’

“‘Alas, Holmes, I fear that it is one of sin and shame!’ cried my
friend. ‘But from you I shall have no secrets. Here is the statement
which was drawn up by my father when he knew that the danger from
Hudson had become imminent. I found it in the Japanese cabinet, as he
told the doctor. Take it and read it to me, for I have neither the
strength nor the courage to do it myself.’

“These are the very papers, Watson, which he handed to me, and I will
read them to you, as I read them in the old study that night to him.
They are endorsed outside, as you see, ‘Some particulars of the
voyage of the bark Gloria Scott, from her leaving Falmouth on the 8th
October, 1855, to her destruction in N. Lat. 15° 20′, W. Long. 25°
14′ on Nov. 6th.’ It is in the form of a letter, and runs in this
way:

“‘My dear, dear son, now that approaching disgrace begins to darken
the closing years of my life, I can write with all truth and honesty
that it is not the terror of the law, it is not the loss of my
position in the county, nor is it my fall in the eyes of all who have
known me, which cuts me to the heart; but it is the thought that you
should come to blush for me–you who love me and who have seldom, I
hope, had reason to do other than respect me. But if the blow falls
which is forever hanging over me, then I should wish you to read
this, that you may know straight from me how far I have been to
blame. On the other hand, if all should go well (which may kind God
Almighty grant!), then if by any chance this paper should be still
undestroyed and should fall into your hands, I conjure you, by all
you hold sacred, by the memory of your dear mother, and by the love
which had been between us, to hurl it into the fire and to never give
one thought to it again.

“‘If then your eye goes onto read this line, I know that I shall
already have been exposed and dragged from my home, or as is more
likely, for you know that my heart is weak, by lying with my tongue
sealed forever in death. In either case the time for suppression is
past, and every word which I tell you is the naked truth, and this I
swear as I hope for mercy.

“‘My name, dear lad, is not Trevor. I was James Armitage in my
younger days, and you can understand now the shock that it was to me
a few weeks ago when your college friend addressed me in words which
seemed to imply that he had surprised my secret. As Armitage it was
that I entered a London banking-house, and as Armitage I was
convicted of breaking my country’s laws, and was sentenced to
transportation. Do not think very harshly of me, laddie. It was a
debt of honor, so called, which I had to pay, and I used money which
was not my own to do it, in the certainty that I could replace it
before there could be any possibility of its being missed. But the
most dreadful ill-luck pursued me. The money which I had reckoned
upon never came to hand, and a premature examination of accounts
exposed my deficit. The case might have been dealt leniently with,
but the laws were more harshly administered thirty years ago than
now, and on my twenty-third birthday I found myself chained as a
felon with thirty-seven other convicts in ‘tween-decks of the bark
Gloria Scott, bound for Australia.

“‘It was the year ’55 when the Crimean war was at its height, and the
old convict ships had been largely used as transports in the Black
Sea. The government was compelled, therefore, to use smaller and less
suitable vessels for sending out their prisoners. The Gloria Scott
had been in the Chinese tea-trade, but she was an old-fashioned,
heavy-bowed, broad-beamed craft, and the new clippers had cut her
out. She was a five-hundred-ton boat; and besides her thirty-eight
jail-birds, she carried twenty-six of a crew, eighteen soldiers, a
captain, three mates, a doctor, a chaplain, and four warders. Nearly
a hundred souls were in her, all told, when we set sail from
Falmouth.

“‘The partitions between the cells of the convicts, instead of being
of thick oak, as is usual in convict-ships, were quite thin and
frail. The man next to me, upon the aft side, was one whom I had
particularly noticed when we were led down the quay. He was a young
man with a clear, hairless face, a long, thin nose, and rather
nut-cracker jaws. He carried his head very jauntily in the air, had a
swaggering style of walking, and was, above all else, remarkable for
his extraordinary height. I don’t think any of our heads would have
come up to his shoulder, and I am sure that he could not have
measured less than six and a half feet. It was strange among so many
sad and weary faces to see one which was full of energy and
resolution. The sight of it was to me like a fire in a snow-storm. I
was glad, then, to find that he was my neighbor, and gladder still
when, in the dead of the night, I heard a whisper close to my ear,
and found that he had managed to cut an opening in the board which
separated us.

“‘”Hullo, chummy!” said he, “what’s your name, and what are you here
for?”

“‘I answered him, and asked in turn who I was talking with.

“‘”I’m Jack Prendergast,” said he, “and by God! You’ll learn to bless
my name before you’ve done with me.”

“‘I remembered hearing of his case, for it was one which had made an
immense sensation throughout the country some time before my own
arrest. He was a man of good family and of great ability, but of
incurably vicious habits, who had, by an ingenious system of fraud,
obtained huge sums of money from the leading London merchants.

“‘”Ha, ha! You remember my case!” said he proudly.

“‘”Very well, indeed.”

“‘”Then maybe you remember something queer about it?”

“‘”What was that, then?”

“‘”I’d had nearly a quarter of a million, hadn’t I?”

“‘”So it was said.”

“‘”But none was recovered, eh?”

“‘”No.”

“‘”Well, where d’ye suppose the balance is?” he asked.

“‘”I have no idea,” said I.

“‘”Right between my finger and thumb,” he cried. “By God! I’ve got
more pounds to my name than you’ve hairs on your head. And if you’ve
money, my son, and know how to handle it and spread it, you can do
anything. Now, you don’t think it likely that a man who could do
anything is going to wear his breeches out sitting in the stinking
hold of a rat-gutted, beetle-ridden, mouldy old coffin of a Chin
China coaster. No, sir, such a man will look after himself and will
look after his chums. You may lay to that! You hold on to him, and
you may kiss the book that he’ll haul you through.”

“‘That was his style of talk, and at first I thought it meant
nothing; but after a while, when he had tested me and sworn me in
with all possible solemnity, he let me understand that there really
was a plot to gain command of the vessel. A dozen of the prisoners
had hatched it before they came aboard, Prendergast was the leader,
and his money was the motive power.

“‘”I’d a partner,” said he, “a rare good man, as true as a stock to a
barrel. He’s got the dibbs, he has, and where do you think he is at
this moment? Why, he’s the chaplain of this ship–the chaplain, no
less! He came aboard with a black coat, and his papers right, and
money enough in his box to buy the thing right up from keel to
main-truck. The crew are his, body and soul. He could buy ’em at so
much a gross with a cash discount, and he did it before ever they
signed on. He’s got two of the warders and Mercer, the second mate,
and he’d get the captain himself, if he thought him worth it.”

“‘”What are we to do, then?” I asked.

“‘”What do you think?” said he. “We’ll make the coats of some of
these soldiers redder than ever the tailor did.”

“‘”But they are armed,” said I.

“‘”And so shall we be, my boy. There’s a brace of pistols for every
mother’s son of us, and if we can’t carry this ship, with the crew at
our back, it’s time we were all sent to a young misses’
boarding-school. You speak to your mate upon the left to-night, and
see if he is to be trusted.”

“‘I did so, and found my other neighbor to be a young fellow in much
the same position as myself, whose crime had been forgery. His name
was Evans, but he afterwards changed it, like myself, and he is now a
rich and prosperous man in the south of England. He was ready enough
to join the conspiracy, as the only means of saving ourselves, and
before we had crossed the Bay there were only two of the prisoners
who were not in the secret. One of these was of weak mind, and we did
not dare to trust him, and the other was suffering from jaundice, and
could not be of any use to us.

“‘From the beginning there was really nothing to prevent us from
taking possession of the ship. The crew were a set of ruffians,
specially picked for the job. The sham chaplain came into our cells
to exhort us, carrying a black bag, supposed to be full of tracts,
and so often did he come that by the third day we had each stowed
away at the foot of our beds a file, a brace of pistols, a pound of
powder, and twenty slugs. Two of the warders were agents of
Prendergast, and the second mate was his right-hand man. The captain,
the two mates, two warders Lieutenant Martin, his eighteen soldiers,
and the doctor were all that we had against us. Yet, safe as it was,
we determined to neglect no precaution, and to make our attack
suddenly by night. It came, however, more quickly than we expected,
and in this way.

“‘One evening, about the third week after our start, the doctor had
come down to see one of the prisoners who was ill, and putting his
hand down on the bottom of his bunk he felt the outline of the
pistols. If he had been silent he might have blown the whole thing,
but he was a nervous little chap, so he gave a cry of surprise and
turned so pale that the man knew what was up in an instant and seized
him. He was gagged before he could give the alarm, and tied down upon
the bed. He had unlocked the door that led to the deck, and we were
through it in a rush. The two sentries were shot down, and so was a
corporal who came running to see what was the matter. There were two
more soldiers at the door of the state-room, and their muskets seemed
not to be loaded, for they never fired upon us, and they were shot
while trying to fix their bayonets. Then we rushed on into the
captain’s cabin, but as we pushed open the door there was an
explosion from within, and there he lay with his brains smeared over
the chart of the Atlantic which was pinned upon the table, while the
chaplain stood with a smoking pistol in his hand at his elbow. The
two mates had both been seized by the crew, and the whole business
seemed to be settled.

“‘The state-room was next the cabin, and we flocked in there and
flopped down on the settees, all speaking together, for we were just
mad with the feeling that we were free once more. There were lockers
all round, and Wilson, the sham chaplain, knocked one of them in, and
pulled out a dozen of brown sherry. We cracked off the necks of the
bottles, poured the stuff out into tumblers, and were just tossing
them off, when in an instant without warning there came the roar of
muskets in our ears, and the saloon was so full of smoke that we
could not see across the table. When it cleared again the place was a
shambles. Wilson and eight others were wriggling on the top of each
other on the floor, and the blood and the brown sherry on that table
turn me sick now when I think of it. We were so cowed by the sight
that I think we should have given the job up if had not been for
Prendergast. He bellowed like a bull and rushed for the door with all
that were left alive at his heels. Out we ran, and there on the poop
were the lieutenent and ten of his men. The swing skylights above the
saloon table had been a bit open, and they had fired on us through
the slit. We got on them before they could load, and they stood to
it like men; but we had the upper hand of them, and in five minutes
it was all over. My God! Was there ever a slaughter-house like that
ship! Predergast was like a raging devil, and he picked the soldiers
up as if they had been children and threw them overboard alive or
dead. There was one sergeant that was horribly wounded and yet kept
on swimming for a surprising time, until some one in mercy blew out
his brains. When the fighting was over there was no one left of our
enemies except just the warders, the mates, and the doctor.

“‘It was over them that the great quarrel arose. There were many of
us who were glad enough to win back our freedom, and yet who had no
wish to have murder on our souls. It was one thing to knock the
soldiers over with their muskets in their hands, and it was another
to stand by while men were being killed in cold blood. Eight of us,
five convicts and three sailors, said that we would not see it done.
But there was no moving Predergast and those who were with him. Our
only chance of safety lay in making a clean job of it, said he, and
he would not leave a tongue with power to wag in a witness-box. It
nearly came to our sharing the fate of the prisoners, but at last he
said that if we wished we might take a boat and go. We jumped at the
offer, for we were already sick of these blookthirsty doings, and we
saw that there would be worse before it was done. We were given a
suit of sailor togs each, a barrel of water, two casks, one of junk
and one of biscuits, and a compass. Prendergast threw us over a
chart, told us that we were shipwrecked mariners whose ship had
foundered in Lat. 15° and Long. 25° west, and then cut the painter
and let us go.

“‘And now I come to the most surprising part of my story, my dear
son. The seamen had hauled the fore-yard aback during the rising, but
now as we left them they brought it square again, and as there was a
light wind from the north and east the bark began to draw slowly away
from us. Our boat lay, rising and falling, upon the long, smooth
rollers, and Evans and I, who were the most educated of the party,
were sitting in the sheets working out our position and planning what
coast we should make for. It was a nice question, for the Cape de
Verds were about five hundred miles to the north of us, and the
African coast about seven hundred to the east. On the whole, as the
wind was coming round to the north, we thought that Sierra Leone
might be best, and turned our head in that direction, the bark being
at that time nearly hull down on our starboard quarter. Suddenly as
we looked at her we saw a dense black cloud of smoke shoot up from
her, which hung like a monstrous tree upon the sky line. A few
seconds later a roar like thunder burst upon our ears, and as the
smoke thinned away there was no sign left of the Gloria Scott. In an
instant we swept the boat’s head round again and pulled with all our
strength for the place where the haze still trailing over the water
marked the scene of this catastrophe.

“‘It was a long hour before we reached it, and at first we feared
that we had come too late to save any one. A splintered boat and a
number of crates and fragments of spars rising and falling on the
waves showed us where the vessel had foundered; but there was no sign
of life, and we had turned away in despair when we heard a cry for
help, and saw at some distance a piece of wreckage with a man lying
stretched across it. When we pulled him aboard the boat he proved to
be a young seaman of the name of Hudson, who was so burned and
exhausted that he could give us no account of what had happened until
the following morning.

“‘It seemed that after we had left, Prendergast and his gang had
proceeded to put to death the five remaining prisoners. The two
warders had been shot and thrown overboard, and so also had the third
mate. Prendergast then descended into the ‘tween-decks and with his
own hands cut the throat of the unfortunate surgeon. There only
remained the first mate, who was a bold and active man. When he saw
the convict approaching him with the bloody knife in his hand he
kicked off his bonds, which he had somehow contrived to loosen, and
rushing down the deck he plunged into the after-hold. A dozen
convicts, who descended with their pistols in search of him, found
him with a match-box in his hand seated beside an open powder-barrel,
which was one of a hundred carried on board, and swearing that he
would blow all hands up if he were in any way molested. An instant
later the explosion occurred, though Hudson thought it was caused by
the misdirected bullet of one of the convicts rather than the mate’s
match. Be the cause what I may, it was the end of the Gloria Scott
and of the rabble who held command of her.

“‘Such, in a few words, my dear boy, is the history of this terrible
business in which I was involved. Next day we were picked up by the
brig Hotspur, bound for Australia, whose captain found no difficulty
in believing that we were the survivors of a passenger ship which had
foundered. The transport ship Gloria Scott was set down by the
Admiralty as being lost at sea, and no word has ever leaked out as to
her true fate. After an excellent voyage the Hotspur landed us at
Sydney, where Evans and I changed our names and made our way to the
diggings, where, among the crowds who were gathered from all nations,
we had no difficulty in losing our former identities. The rest I need
not relate. We prospered, we traveled, we came back as rich colonials
to England, and we bought country estates. For more than twenty years
we have led peaceful and useful lives, and we hoped that our past was
forever buried. Imagine, then, my feelings when in the seaman who
came to us I recognized instantly the man who had been picked off the
wreck. He had tracked us down somehow, and had set himself to live
upon our fears. You will understand now how it was that I strove to
keep the peace with him, and you will in some measure sympathize with
me in the fears which fill me, now that he has gone from me to his
other victim with threats upon his tongue.’

“Underneath is written in a hand so shaky as to be hardly legible,
‘Beddoes writes in cipher to say H. has told all. Sweet Lord, have
mercy on our souls!’

“That was the narrative which I read that night to young Trevor, and
I think, Watson, that under the circumstances it was a dramatic one.
The good fellow was heart-broken at it, and went out to the Terai tea
planting, where I hear that he is doing well. As to the sailor and
Beddoes, neither of them was ever heard of again after that day on
which the letter of warning was written. They both disappeared
utterly and completely. No complaint had been lodged with the police,
so that Beddoes had mistaken a threat for a deed. Hudson had been
seen lurking about, and it was believed by the police that he had
done away with Beddoes and had fled. For myself I believe that the
truth was exactly the opposite. I think that it is most probable that
Beddoes, pushed to desperation and believing himself to have been
already betrayed, had revenged himself upon Hudson, and had fled from
the country with as much money as he could lay his hands on. Those
are the facts of the case, Doctor, and if they are of any use to your
collection, I am sure that they are very heartily at your service.”

An anomaly which often struck me in the character of my friend
Sherlock Holmes was that, although in his methods of thought he was
the neatest and most methodical of mankind, and although also he
affected a certain quiet primness of dress, he was none the less in
his personal habits one of the most untidy men that ever drove a
fellow-lodger to distraction. Not that I am in the least conventional
in that respect myself. The rough-and-tumble work in Afghanistan,
coming on the top of a natural Bohemianism of disposition, has made
me rather more lax than befits a medical man. But with me there is a
limit, and when I find a man who keeps his cigars in the
coal-scuttle, his tobacco in the toe end of a Persian slipper, and
his unanswered correspondence transfixed by a jack-knife into the
very centre of his wooden mantelpiece, then I begin to give myself
virtuous airs. I have always held, too, that pistol practice should
be distinctly an open-air pastime; and when Holmes, in one of his
queer humors, would sit in an arm-chair with his hair-trigger and a
hundred Boxer cartridges, and proceed to adorn the opposite wall with
a patriotic V. R. done in bullet-pocks, I felt strongly that neither
the atmosphere nor the appearance of our room was improved by it.

Our chambers were always full of chemicals and of criminal relics
which had a way of wandering into unlikely positions, and of turning
up in the butter-dish or in even less desirable places. But his
papers were my great crux. He had a horror of destroying documents,
especially those which were connected with his past cases, and yet it
was only once in every year or two that he would muster energy to
docket and arrange them; for, as I have mentioned somewhere in these
incoherent memoirs, the outbursts of passionate energy when he
performed the remarkable feats with which his name is associated were
followed by reactions of lethargy during which he would lie about
with his violin and his books, hardly moving save from the sofa to
the table. Thus month after month his papers accumulated, until every
corner of the room was stacked with bundles of manuscript which were
on no account to be burned, and which could not be put away save by
their owner. One winter’s night, as we sat together by the fire, I
ventured to suggest to him that, as he had finished pasting extracts
into his common-place book, he might employ the next two hours in
making our room a little more habitable. He could not deny the
justice of my request, so with a rather rueful face he went off to
his bedroom, from which he returned presently pulling a large tin box
behind him. This he placed in the middle of the floor and, squatting
down upon a stool in front of it, he threw back the lid. I could see
that it was already a third full of bundles of paper tied up with red
tape into separate packages.

“There are cases enough here, Watson,” said he, looking at me with
mischievous eyes. “I think that if you knew all that I had in this
box you would ask me to pull some out instead of putting others in.”

“These are the records of your early work, then?” I asked. “I have
often wished that I had notes of those cases.”

“Yes, my boy, these were all done prematurely before my biographer
had come to glorify me.” He lifted bundle after bundle in a tender,
caressing sort of way. “They are not all successes, Watson,” said he.
“But there are some pretty little problems among them. Here’s the
record of the Tarleton murders, and the case of Vamberry, the wine
merchant, and the adventure of the old Russian woman, and the
singular affair of the aluminium crutch, as well as a full account of
Ricoletti of the club-foot, and his abominable wife. And here–ah,
now, this really is something a little recherché.”

He dived his arm down to the bottom of the chest, and brought up a
small wooden box with a sliding lid, such as children’s toys are kept
in. From within he produced a crumpled piece of paper, an
old-fashioned brass key, a peg of wood with a ball of string attached
to it, and three rusty old disks of metal.

“Well, my boy, what do you make of this lot?” he asked, smiling at my
expression.

“It is a curious collection.”

“Very curious, and the story that hangs round it will strike you as
being more curious still.”

“These relics have a history then?”

“So much so that they are history.”

“What do you mean by that?”

Sherlock Holmes picked them up one by one, and laid them along the
edge of the table. Then he reseated himself in his chair and looked
them over with a gleam of satisfaction in his eyes.

“These,” said he, “are all that I have left to remind me of the
adventure of the Musgrave Ritual.”

I had heard him mention the case more than once, though I had never
been able to gather the details. “I should be so glad,” said I, “if
you would give me an account of it.”

“And leave the litter as it is?” he cried, mischievously. “Your
tidiness won’t bear much strain after all, Watson. But I should be
glad that you should add this case to your annals, for there are
points in it which make it quite unique in the criminal records of
this or, I believe, of any other country. A collection of my trifling
achievements would certainly be incomplete which contained no account
of this very singular business.

“You may remember how the affair of the Gloria Scott, and my
conversation with the unhappy man whose fate I told you of, first
turned my attention in the direction of the profession which has
become my life’s work. You see me now when my name has become known
far and wide, and when I am generally recognized both by the public
and by the official force as being a final court of appeal in
doubtful cases. Even when you knew me first, at the time of the
affair which you have commemorated in ‘A Study in Scarlet,’ I had
already established a considerable, though not a very lucrative,
connection. You can hardly realize, then, how difficult I found it at
first, and how long I had to wait before I succeeded in making any
headway.

“When I first came up to London I had rooms in Montague Street, just
round the corner from the British Museum, and there I waited, filling
in my too abundant leisure time by studying all those branches of
science which might make me more efficient. Now and again cases came
in my way, principally through the introduction of old
fellow-students, for during my last years at the University there was
a good deal of talk there about myself and my methods. The third of
these cases was that of the Musgrave Ritual, and it is to the
interest which was aroused by that singular chain of events, and the
large issues which proved to be at stake, that I trace my first
stride towards the position which I now hold.

“Reginald Musgrave had been in the same college as myself, and I had
some slight acquaintance with him. He was not generally popular among
the undergraduates, though it always seemed to me that what was set
down as pride was really an attempt to cover extreme natural
diffidence. In appearance he was a man of exceedingly aristocratic
type, thin, high-nosed, and large-eyed, with languid and yet courtly
manners. He was indeed a scion of one of the very oldest families in
the kingdom, though his branch was a cadet one which had separated
from the northern Musgraves some time in the sixteenth century, and
had established itself in western Sussex, where the Manor House of
Hurlstone is perhaps the oldest inhabited building in the county.
Something of his birth place seemed to cling to the man, and I never
looked at his pale, keen face or the poise of his head without
associating him with gray archways and mullioned windows and all the
venerable wreckage of a feudal keep. Once or twice we drifted into
talk, and I can remember that more than once he expressed a keen
interest in my methods of observation and inference.

“For four years I had seen nothing of him until one morning he walked
into my room in Montague Street. He had changed little, was dressed
like a young man of fashion–he was always a bit of a dandy–and
preserved the same quiet, suave manner which had formerly
distinguished him.

“‘How has all gone with you Musgrave?’ I asked, after we had
cordially shaken hands.

“‘You probably heard of my poor father’s death,’ said he; ‘he was
carried off about two years ago. Since then I have of course had the
Hurlstone estates to manage, and as I am member for my district as
well, my life has been a busy one. But I understand, Holmes, that you
are turning to practical ends those powers with which you used to
amaze us?’

“‘Yes,’ said I, ‘I have taken to living by my wits.’

“‘I am delighted to hear it, for your advice at present would be
exceedingly valuable to me. We have had some very strange doings at
Hurlstone, and the police have been able to throw no light upon the
matter. It is really the most extraordinary and inexplicable
business.’

“You can imagine with what eagerness I listened to him, Watson, for
the very chance for which I had been panting during all those months
of inaction seemed to have come within my reach. In my inmost heart I
believed that I could succeed where others failed, and now I had the
opportunity to test myself.

“‘Pray, let me have the details,’ I cried.

“Reginald Musgrave sat down opposite to me, and lit the cigarette
which I had pushed towards him.

“‘You must know,’ said he, ‘that though I am a bachelor, I have to
keep up a considerable staff of servants at Hurlstone, for it is a
rambling old place, and takes a good deal of looking after. I
preserve, too, and in the pheasant months I usually have a
house-party, so that it would not do to be short-handed. Altogether
there are eight maids, the cook, the butler, two footmen, and a boy.
The garden and the stables of course have a separate staff.

“‘Of these servants the one who had been longest in our service was
Brunton the butler. He was a young school-master out of place when he
was first taken up by my father, but he was a man of great energy and
character, and he soon became quite invaluable in the household. He
was a well-grown, handsome man, with a splendid forehead, and though
he has been with us for twenty years he cannot be more than forty
now. With his personal advantages and his extraordinary gifts–for he
can speak several languages and play nearly every musical
instrument–it is wonderful that he should have been satisfied so
long in such a position, but I suppose that he was comfortable, and
lacked energy to make any change. The butler of Hurlstone is always a
thing that is remembered by all who visit us.

“‘But this paragon has one fault. He is a bit of a Don Juan, and you
can imagine that for a man like him it is not a very difficult part
to play in a quiet country district. When he was married it was all
right, but since he has been a widower we have had no end of trouble
with him. A few months ago we were in hopes that he was about to
settle down again for he became engaged to Rachel Howells, our second
house-maid; but he has thrown her over since then and taken up with
Janet Tregellis, the daughter of the head game-keeper. Rachel–who is
a very good girl, but of an excitable Welsh temperament–had a sharp
touch of brain-fever, and goes about the house now–or did until
yesterday–like a black-eyed shadow of her former self. That was our
first drama at Hurlstone; but a second one came to drive it from our
minds, and it was prefaced by the disgrace and dismissal of butler
Brunton.

“‘This was how it came about. I have said that the man was
intelligent, and this very intelligence has caused his ruin, for it
seems to have led to an insatiable curiosity about things which did
not in the least concern him. I had no idea of the lengths to which
this would carry him, until the merest accident opened my eyes to it.

“‘I have said that the house is a rambling one. One day last week–on
Thursday night, to be more exact–I found that I could not sleep,
having foolishly taken a cup of strong café noir after my dinner.
After struggling against it until two in the morning, I felt that it
was quite hopeless, so I rose and lit the candle with the intention
of continuing a novel which I was reading. The book, however, had
been left in the billiard-room, so I pulled on my dressing-gown and
started off to get it.

“‘In order to reach the billiard-room I had to descend a flight of
stairs and then to cross the head of a passage which led to the
library and the gun-room. You can imagine my surprise when, as I
looked down this corridor, I saw a glimmer of light coming from the
open door of the library. I had myself extinguished the lamp and
closed the door before coming to bed. Naturally my first thought was
of burglars. The corridors at Hurlstone have their walls largely
decorated with trophies of old weapons. From one of these I picked a
battle-axe, and then, leaving my candle behind me, I crept on tiptoe
down the passage and peeped in at the open door.

“‘Brunton, the butler, was in the library. He was sitting, fully
dressed, in an easy-chair, with a slip of paper which looked like a
map upon his knee, and his forehead sunk forward upon his hand in
deep thought. I stood dumb with astonishment, watching him from the
darkness. A small taper on the edge of the table shed a feeble light
which sufficed to show me that he was fully dressed. Suddenly, as I
looked, he rose from his chair, and walking over to a bureau at the
side, he unlocked it and drew out one of the drawers. From this he
took a paper, and returning to his seat he flattened it out beside
the taper on the edge of the table, and began to study it with minute
attention. My indignation at this calm examination of our family
documents overcame me so far that I took a step forward, and Brunton,
looking up, saw me standing in the doorway. He sprang to his feet,
his face turned livid with fear, and he thrust into his breast the
chart-like paper which he had been originally studying.

“‘”So!” said I. “This is how you repay the trust which we have
reposed in you. You will leave my service to-morrow.”

“‘He bowed with the look of a man who is utterly crushed, and slunk
past me without a word. The taper was still on the table, and by its
light I glanced to see what the paper was which Brunton had taken
from the bureau. To my surprise it was nothing of any importance at
all, but simply a copy of the questions and answers in the singular
old observance called the Musgrave Ritual. It is a sort of ceremony
peculiar to our family, which each Musgrave for centuries past has
gone through on his coming of age–a thing of private interest, and
perhaps of some little importance to the archaeologist, like our own
blazonings and charges, but of no practical use whatever.’

“‘We had better come back to the paper afterwards,’ said I.

“‘If you think it really necessary,’ he answered, with some
hesitation. ‘To continue my statement, however: I relocked the
bureau, using the key which Brunton had left, and I had turned to go
when I was surprised to find that the butler had returned, and was
standing before me.

“‘”Mr. Musgrave, sir,” he cried, in a voice which was hoarse with
emotion, “I can’t bear disgrace, sir. I’ve always been proud above my
station in life, and disgrace would kill me. My blood will be on your
head, sir–it will, indeed–if you drive me to despair. If you cannot
keep me after what has passed, then for God’s sake let me give you
notice and leave in a month, as if of my own free will. I could stand
that, Mr. Musgrave, but not to be cast out before all the folk that I
know so well.”

“‘”You don’t deserve much consideration, Brunton,” I answered. “Your
conduct has been most infamous. However, as you have been a long time
in the family, I have no wish to bring public disgrace upon you. A
month, however is too long. Take yourself away in a week, and give
what reason you like for going.”

“‘”Only a week, sir?” he cried, in a despairing voice. “A
fortnight–say at least a fortnight!”

“‘”A week,” I repeated, “and you may consider yourself to have been
very leniently dealt with.”

“‘He crept away, his face sunk upon his breast, like a broken man,
while I put out the light and returned to my room.

“‘For two days after this Brunton was most assiduous in his attention
to his duties. I made no allusion to what had passed, and waited with
some curiosity to see how he would cover his disgrace. On the third
morning, however he did not appear, as was his custom, after
breakfast to receive my instructions for the day. As I left the
dining-room I happened to meet Rachel Howells, the maid. I have told
you that she had only recently recovered from an illness, and was
looking so wretchedly pale and wan that I remonstrated with her for
being at work.

“‘”You should be in bed,” I said. “Come back to your duties when you
are stronger.”

“‘She looked at me with so strange an expression that I began to
suspect that her brain was affected.

“‘”I am strong enough, Mr. Musgrave,” said she.

“‘”We will see what the doctor says,” I answered. “You must stop work
now, and when you go downstairs just say that I wish to see Brunton.”

“‘”The butler is gone,” said she.

“‘”Gone! Gone where?”

“‘”He is gone. No one has seen him. He is not in his room. Oh, yes,
he is gone, he is gone!” She fell back against the wall with shriek
after shriek of laughter, while I, horrified at this sudden
hysterical attack, rushed to the bell to summon help. The girl was
taken to her room, still screaming and sobbing, while I made
inquiries about Brunton. There was no doubt about it that he had
disappeared. His bed had not been slept in, he had been seen by no
one since he had retired to his room the night before, and yet it was
difficult to see how he could have left the house, as both windows
and doors were found to be fastened in the morning. His clothes, his
watch, and even his money were in his room, but the black suit which
he usually wore was missing. His slippers, too, were gone, but his
boots were left behind. Where then could butler Brunton have gone in
the night, and what could have become of him now?

“‘Of course we searched the house from cellar to garret, but there
was no trace of him. It is, as I have said, a labyrinth of an old
house, especially the original wing, which is now practically
uninhabited; but we ransacked every room and cellar without
discovering the least sign of the missing man. It was incredible to
me that he could have gone away leaving all his property behind him,
and yet where could he be? I called in the local police, but without
success. Rain had fallen on the night before and we examined the lawn
and the paths all round the house, but in vain. Matters were in this
state, when a new development quite drew our attention away from the
original mystery.

“‘For two days Rachel Howells had been so ill, sometimes delirious,
sometimes hysterical, that a nurse had been employed to sit up with
her at night. On the third night after Brunton’s disappearance, the
nurse, finding her patient sleeping nicely, had dropped into a nap in
the arm-chair, when she woke in the early morning to find the bed
empty, the window open, and no signs of the invalid. I was instantly
aroused, and, with the two footmen, started off at once in search of
the missing girl. It was not difficult to tell the direction which
she had taken, for, starting from under her window, we could follow
her footmarks easily across the lawn to the edge of the mere, where
they vanished close to the gravel path which leads out of the
grounds. The lake there is eight feet deep, and you can imagine our
feelings when we saw that the trail of the poor demented girl came to
an end at the edge of it.

“‘Of course, we had the drags at once, and set to work to recover the
remains, but no trace of the body could we find. On the other hand,
we brought to the surface an object of a most unexpected kind. It was
a linen bag which contained within it a mass of old rusted and
discolored metal and several dull-colored pieces of pebble or glass.
This strange find was all that we could get from the mere, and,
although we made every possible search and inquiry yesterday, we know
nothing of the fate either of Rachel Howells or of Richard Brunton.
The county police are at their wits’ end, and I have come up to you
as a last resource.’

“You can imagine, Watson, with what eagerness I listened to this
extraordinary sequence of events, and endeavored to piece them
together, and to devise some common thread upon which they might all
hang. The butler was gone. The maid was gone. The maid had loved the
butler, but had afterwards had cause to hate him. She was of Welsh
blood, fiery and passionate. She had been terribly excited
immediately after his disappearance. She had flung into the lake a
bag containing some curious contents. These were all factors which
had to be taken into consideration, and yet none of them got quite to
the heart of the matter. What was the starting-point of this chain of
events? There lay the end of this tangled line.

“‘I must see that paper, Musgrave,’ said I, ‘which this butler of
your thought it worth his while to consult, even at the risk of the
loss of his place.’

“‘It is rather an absurd business, this ritual of ours,’ he answered.
‘But it has at least the saving grace of antiquity to excuse it. I
have a copy of the questions and answers here if you care to run your
eye over them.’

“He handed me the very paper which I have here, Watson, and this is
the strange catechism to which each Musgrave had to submit when he
came to man’s estate. I will read you the questions and answers as
they stand.

“‘Whose was it?’

“‘His who is gone.’

“‘Who shall have it?’

“‘He who will come.’

“‘What was the month?’

“‘The sixth from the first.’

“‘Where was the sun?’

“‘Over the oak.’

“‘Where was the shadow?’

“‘Under the elm.’

“‘How was it stepped?’

“‘North by ten and by ten, east by five and by five, south by two and
by two, west by one and by one, and so under.’

“‘What shall we give for it?’

“‘All that is ours.’

“‘Why should we give it?’

“‘For the sake of the trust.’

“‘The original has no date, but is in the spelling of the middle of
the seventeenth century,’ remarked Musgrave. ‘I am afraid, however,
that it can be of little help to you in solving this mystery.’

“‘At least,’ said I, ‘it gives us another mystery, and one which is
even more interesting than the first. It may be that the solution of
the one may prove to be the solution of the other. You will excuse
me, Musgrave, if I say that your butler appears to me to have been a
very clever man, and to have had a clearer insight that ten
generations of his masters.’

“‘I hardly follow you,’ said Musgrave. ‘The paper seems to me to be
of no practical importance.’

“‘But to me it seems immensely practical, and I fancy that Brunton
took the same view. He had probably seen it before that night on
which you caught him.’

“‘It is very possible. We took no pains to hide it.’

“‘He simply wished, I should imagine, to refresh his memory upon that
last occasion. He had, as I understand, some sort of map or chart
which he was comparing with the manuscript, and which he thrust into
his pocket when you appeared.’

“‘That is true. But what could he have to do with this old family
custom of ours, and what does this rigmarole mean?’

“‘I don’t think that we should have much difficulty in determining
that,’ said I; ‘with your permission we will take the first train
down to Sussex, and go a little more deeply into the matter upon the
spot.’

“The same afternoon saw us both at Hurlstone. Possibly you have seen
pictures and read descriptions of the famous old building, so I will
confine my account of it to saying that it is built in the shape of
an L, the long arm being the more modern portion, and the shorter the
ancient nucleus, from which the other had developed. Over the low,
heavily-lintelled door, in the centre of this old part, is chiseled
the date, 1607, but experts are agreed that the beams and stone-work
are really much older than this. The enormously thick walls and tiny
windows of this part had in the last century driven the family into
building the new wing, and the old one was used now as a store-house
and a cellar, when it was used at all. A splendid park with fine old
timber surrounds the house, and the lake, to which my client had
referred, lay close to the avenue, about two hundred yards from the
building.

“I was already firmly convinced, Watson, that there were not three
separate mysteries here, but one only, and that if I could read the
Musgrave Ritual aright I should hold in my hand the clue which would
lead me to the truth concerning both the butler Brunton and the maid
Howells. To that then I turned all my energies. Why should this
servant be so anxious to master this old formula? Evidently because
he saw something in it which had escaped all those generations of
country squires, and from which he expected some personal advantage.
What was it then, and how had it affected his fate?

“It was perfectly obvious to me, on reading the ritual, that the
measurements must refer to some spot to which the rest of the
document alluded, and that if we could find that spot, we should be
in a fair way towards finding what the secret was which the old
Musgraves had thought it necessary to embalm in so curious a fashion.
There were two guides given us to start with, an oak and an elm. As
to the oak there could be no question at all. Right in front of the
house, upon the left-hand side of the drive, there stood a patriarch
among oaks, one of the most magnificent trees that I have ever seen.

“‘That was there when your ritual was drawn up,’ said I, as we drove
past it.

“‘It was there at the Norman Conquest in all probability,’ he
answered. ‘It has a girth of twenty-three feet.’

“Here was one of my fixed points secured.

“‘Have you any old elms?’ I asked.

“‘There used to be a very old one over yonder but it was struck by
lightning ten years ago, and we cut down the stump,’

“‘You can see where it used to be?’

“‘Oh, yes.’

“‘There are no other elms?’

“‘No old ones, but plenty of beeches.’

“‘I should like to see where it grew.’

“We had driven up in a dogcart, and my client led me away at once,
without our entering the house, to the scar on the lawn where the elm
had stood. It was nearly midway between the oak and the house. My
investigation seemed to be progressing.

“‘I suppose it is impossible to find out how high the elm was?’ I
asked.

“‘I can give you it at once. It was sixty-four feet.’

“‘How do you come to know it?’ I asked, in surprise.

“‘When my old tutor used to give me an exercise in trigonometry, it
always took the shape of measuring heights. When I was a lad I worked
out every tree and building in the estate.’

“This was an unexpected piece of luck. My data were coming more
quickly than I could have reasonably hoped.

“‘Tell me,’ I asked, ‘did your butler ever ask you such a question?’

“Reginald Musgrave looked at me in astonishment. ‘Now that you call
it to my mind,’ he answered, ‘Brunton did ask me about the height of
the tree some months ago, in connection with some little argument
with the groom.’

“This was excellent news, Watson, for it showed me that I was on the
right road. I looked up at the sun. It was low in the heavens, and I
calculated that in less than an hour it would lie just above the
topmost branches of the old oak. One condition mentioned in the
Ritual would then be fulfilled. And the shadow of the elm must mean
the farther end of the shadow, otherwise the trunk would have been
chosen as the guide. I had, then, to find where the far end of the
shadow would fall when the sun was just clear of the oak.”

“That must have been difficult, Holmes, when the elm was no longer
there.”

“Well, at least I knew that if Brunton could do it, I could also.
Besides, there was no real difficulty. I went with Musgrave to his
study and whittled myself this peg, to which I tied this long string
with a knot at each yard. Then I took two lengths of a fishing-rod,
which came to just six feet, and I went back with my client to where
the elm had been. The sun was just grazing the top of the oak. I
fastened the rod on end, marked out the direction of the shadow, and
measured it. It was nine feet in length.

“Of course the calculation now was a simple one. If a rod of six feet
threw a shadow of nine, a tree of sixty-four feet would throw one of
ninety-six, and the line of the one would of course be the line of
the other. I measured out the distance, which brought me almost to
the wall of the house, and I thrust a peg into the spot. You can
imagine my exultation, Watson, when within two inches of my peg I saw
a conical depression in the ground. I knew that it was the mark made
by Brunton in his measurements, and that I was still upon his trail.

“From this starting-point I proceeded to step, having first taken the
cardinal points by my pocket-compass. Ten steps with each foot took
me along parallel with the wall of the house, and again I marked my
spot with a peg. Then I carefully paced off five to the east and two
to the south. It brought me to the very threshold of the old door.
Two steps to the west meant now that I was to go two paces down the
stone-flagged passage, and this was the place indicated by the
Ritual.

“Never have I felt such a cold chill of disappointment, Watson. For a
moment it seemed to me that there must be some radical mistake in my
calculations. The setting sun shone full upon the passage floor, and
I could see that the old, foot-worn gray stones with which it was
paved were firmly cemented together, and had certainly not been moved
for many a long year. Brunton had not been at work here. I tapped
upon the floor, but it sounded the same all over, and there was no
sign of any crack or crevice. But fortunately, Musgrave, who had
begun to appreciate the meaning of my proceedings, and who was now as
excited as myself, took out his manuscript to check my calculation.

“‘And under,’ he cried. ‘You have omitted the “and under.”‘

“I had thought that it meant that we were to dig, but now, of course,
I saw at once that I was wrong. ‘There is a cellar under this then?’
I cried.

“‘Yes, and as old as the house. Down here, through this door.’

“We went down a winding stone stair, and my companion, striking a
match, lit a large lantern which stood on a barrel in the corner. In
an instant it was obvious that we had at last come upon the true
place, and that we had not been the only people to visit the spot
recently.

“It had been used for the storage of wood, but the billets, which had
evidently been littered over the floor, were now piled at the sides,
so as to leave a clear space in the middle. In this space lay a large
and heavy flagstone with a rusted iron ring in the centre to which a
thick shepherd’s-check muffler was attached.

“‘By Jove!’ cried my client. ‘That’s Brunton’s muffler. I have seen
it on him, and could swear to it. What has the villain been doing
here?’

“At my suggestion a couple of the county police were summoned to be
present, and I then endeavored to raise the stone by pulling on the
cravat. I could only move it slightly, and it was with the aid of one
of the constables that I succeeded at last in carrying it to one
side. A black hole yawned beneath into which we all peered, while
Musgrave, kneeling at the side, pushed down the lantern.

“A small chamber about seven feet deep and four feet square lay open
to us. At one side of this was a squat, brass-bound wooden box, the
lid of which was hinged upwards, with this curious old-fashioned key
projecting from the lock. It was furred outside by a thick layer of
dust, and damp and worms had eaten through the wood, so that a crop
of livid fungi was growing on the inside of it. Several discs of
metal, old coins apparently, such as I hold here, were scattered over
the bottom of the box, but it contained nothing else.

“At the moment, however, we had no thought for the old chest, for our
eyes were riveted upon that which crouched beside it. It was the
figure of a man, clad in a suit of black, who squatted down upon his
hams with his forehead sunk upon the edge of the box and his two arms
thrown out on each side of it. The attitude had drawn all the
stagnant blood to the face, and no man could have recognized that
distorted liver-colored countenance; but his height, his dress, and
his hair were all sufficient to show my client, when we had drawn the
body up, that it was indeed his missing butler. He had been dead some
days, but there was no wound or bruise upon his person to show how he
had met his dreadful end. When his body had been carried from the
cellar we found ourselves still confronted with a problem which was
almost as formidable as that with which we had started.

“I confess that so far, Watson, I had been disappointed in my
investigation. I had reckoned upon solving the matter when once I had
found the place referred to in the Ritual; but now I was there, and
was apparently as far as ever from knowing what it was which the
family had concealed with such elaborate precautions. It is true that
I had thrown a light upon the fate of Brunton, but now I had to
ascertain how that fate had come upon him, and what part had been
played in the matter by the woman who had disappeared. I sat down
upon a keg in the corner and thought the whole matter carefully over.

“You know my methods in such cases, Watson. I put myself in the man’s
place and, having first gauged his intelligence, I try to imagine how
I should myself have proceeded under the same circumstances. In this
case the matter was simplified by Brunton’s intelligence being quite
first-rate, so that it was unnecessary to make any allowance for the
personal equation, as the astronomers have dubbed it. He knew that
something valuable was concealed. He had spotted the place. He found
that the stone which covered it was just too heavy for a man to move
unaided. What would he do next? He could not get help from outside,
even if he had some one whom he could trust, without the unbarring of
doors and considerable risk of detection. It was better, if he could,
to have his helpmate inside the house. But whom could he ask? This
girl had been devoted to him. A man always finds it hard to realize
that he may have finally lost a woman’s love, however badly he may
have treated her. He would try by a few attentions to make his peace
with the girl Howells, and then would engage her as his accomplice.
Together they would come at night to the cellar, and their united
force would suffice to raise the stone. So far I could follow their
actions as if I had actually seen them.

“But for two of them, and one a woman, it must have been heavy work
the raising of that stone. A burly Sussex policeman and I had found
it no light job. What would they do to assist them? Probably what I
should have done myself. I rose and examined carefully the different
billets of wood which were scattered round the floor. Almost at once
I came upon what I expected. One piece, about three feet in length,
had a very marked indentation at one end, while several were
flattened at the sides as if they had been compressed by some
considerable weight. Evidently, as they had dragged the stone up they
had thrust the chunks of wood into the chink, until at last, when the
opening was large enough to crawl through, they would hold it open by
a billet placed lengthwise, which might very well become indented at
the lower end, since the whole weight of the stone would press it
down on to the edge of this other slab. So far I was still on safe
ground.

“And now how was I to proceed to reconstruct this midnight drama?
Clearly, only one could fit into the hole, and that one was Brunton.
The girl must have waited above. Brunton then unlocked the box,
handed up the contents presumably–since they were not to be
found–and then–and then what happened?

“What smouldering fire of vengeance had suddenly sprung into flame in
this passionate Celtic woman’s soul when she saw the man who had
wronged her–wronged her, perhaps, far more than we suspected–in her
power? Was it a chance that the wood had slipped, and that the stone
had shut Brunton into what had become his sepulchre? Had she only
been guilty of silence as to his fate? Or had some sudden blow from
her hand dashed the support away and sent the slab crashing down into
its place? Be that as it might, I seemed to see that woman’s figure
still clutching at her treasure trove and flying wildly up the
winding stair, with her ears ringing perhaps with the muffled screams
from behind her and with the drumming of frenzied hands against the
slab of stone which was choking her faithless lover’s life out.

“Here was the secret of her blanched face, her shaken nerves, her
peals of hysterical laughter on the next morning. But what had been
in the box? What had she done with that? Of course, it must have been
the old metal and pebbles which my client had dragged from the mere.
She had thrown them in there at the first opportunity to remove the
last trace of her crime.

“For twenty minutes I had sat motionless, thinking the matter out.
Musgrave still stood with a very pale face, swinging his lantern and
peering down into the hole.

“‘These are coins of Charles the First,’ said he, holding out the few
which had been in the box; ‘you see we were right in fixing our date
for the Ritual.’

“‘We may find something else of Charles the First,’ I cried, as the
probable meaning of the first two question of the Ritual broke
suddenly upon me. ‘Let me see the contents of the bag which you
fished from the mere.’

“We ascended to his study, and he laid the debris before me. I could
understand his regarding it as of small importance when I looked at
it, for the metal was almost black and the stones lustreless and
dull. I rubbed one of them on my sleeve, however, and it glowed
afterwards like a spark in the dark hollow of my hand. The metal work
was in the form of a double ring, but it had been bent and twisted
out of its original shape.

“‘You must bear in mind,’ said I, ‘that the royal party made head in
England even after the death of the King, and that when they at last
fled they probably left many of their most precious possessions
buried behind them, with the intention of returning for them in more
peaceful times.’

“‘My ancestor, Sir Ralph Musgrave, was a prominent Cavalier and the
right-hand man of Charles the Second in his wanderings,’ said my
friend.

“‘Ah, indeed!’ I answered. ‘Well now, I think that really should give
us the last link that we wanted. I must congratulate you on coming
into the possession, though in rather a tragic manner, of a relic
which is of great intrinsic value, but of even greater importance as
an historical curiosity.’

“‘What is it, then?’ he gasped in astonishment.

“‘It is nothing less than the ancient crown of the kings of England.’

“‘The crown!’

“‘Precisely. Consider what the Ritual says: How does it run? “Whose
was it?” “His who is gone.” That was after the execution of Charles.
Then, “Who shall have it?” “He who will come.” That was Charles the
Second, whose advent was already foreseen. There can, I think, be no
doubt that this battered and shapeless diadem once encircled the
brows of the royal Stuarts.’

“‘And how came it in the pond?’

“‘Ah, that is a question that will take some time to answer.’ And
with that I sketched out to him the whole long chain of surmise and
of proof which I had constructed. The twilight had closed in and the
moon was shining brightly in the sky before my narrative was
finished.

“‘And how was it then that Charles did not get his crown when he
returned?’ asked Musgrave, pushing back the relic into its linen bag.

“‘Ah, there you lay your finger upon the one point which we shall
probably never be able to clear up. It is likely that the Musgrave
who held the secret died in the interval, and by some oversight left
this guide to his descendant without explaining the meaning of it.
From that day to this it has been handed down from father to son,
until at last it came within reach of a man who tore its secret out
of it and lost his life in the venture.’

“And that’s the story of the Musgrave Ritual, Watson. They have the
crown down at Hurlstone–though they had some legal bother and a
considerable sum to pay before they were allowed to retain it. I am
sure that if you mentioned my name they would be happy to show it to
you. Of the woman nothing was ever heard, and the probability is that
she got away out of England and carried herself and the memory of her
crime to some land beyond the seas.”

It was some time before the health of my friend Mr. Sherlock Holmes
recovered from the strain caused by his immense exertions in the
spring of ’87. The whole question of the Netherland-Sumatra Company
and of the colossal schemes of Baron Maupertuis are too recent in the
minds of the public, and are too intimately concerned with politics
and finance to be fitting subjects for this series of sketches. They
led, however, in an indirect fashion to a singular and complex
problem which gave my friend an opportunity of demonstrating the
value of a fresh weapon among the many with which he waged his
life-long battle against crime.

On referring to my notes I see that it was upon the 14th of April
that I received a telegram from Lyons which informed me that Holmes
was lying ill in the Hotel Dulong. Within twenty-four hours I was in
his sick-room, and was relieved to find that there was nothing
formidable in his symptoms. Even his iron constitution, however, had
broken down under the strain of an investigation which had extended
over two months, during which period he had never worked less than
fifteen hours a day, and had more than once, as he assured me, kept
to his task for five days at a stretch. Even the triumphant issue of
his labors could not save him from reaction after so terrible an
exertion, and at a time when Europe was ringing with his name and
when his room was literally ankle-deep with congratulatory telegrams
I found him a prey to the blackest depression. Even the knowledge
that he had succeeded where the police of three countries had failed,
and that he had outmanoeuvred at every point the most accomplished
swindler in Europe, was insufficient to rouse him from his nervous
prostration.

Three days later we were back in Baker Street together; but it was
evident that my friend would be much the better for a change, and the
thought of a week of spring time in the country was full of
attractions to me also. My old friend, Colonel Hayter, who had come
under my professional care in Afghanistan, had now taken a house near
Reigate in Surrey, and had frequently asked me to come down to him
upon a visit. On the last occasion he had remarked that if my friend
would only come with me he would be glad to extend his hospitality to
him also. A little diplomacy was needed, but when Holmes understood
that the establishment was a bachelor one, and that he would be
allowed the fullest freedom, he fell in with my plans and a week
after our return from Lyons we were under the Colonel’s roof. Hayter
was a fine old soldier who had seen much of the world, and he soon
found, as I had expected, that Holmes and he had much in common.

On the evening of our arrival we were sitting in the Colonel’s
gun-room after dinner, Holmes stretched upon the sofa, while Hayter
and I looked over his little armory of Eastern weapons.

“By the way,” said he suddenly, “I think I’ll take one of these
pistols upstairs with me in case we have an alarm.”

“An alarm!” said I.

“Yes, we’ve had a scare in this part lately. Old Acton, who is one of
our county magnates, had his house broken into last Monday. No great
damage done, but the fellows are still at large.”

“No clue?” asked Holmes, cocking his eye at the Colonel.

“None as yet. But the affair is a pretty one, one of our little
country crimes, which must seem too small for your attention, Mr.
Holmes, after this great international affair.”

Holmes waved away the compliment, though his smile showed that it had
pleased him.

“Was there any feature of interest?”

“I fancy not. The thieves ransacked the library and got very little
for their pains. The whole place was turned upside down, drawers
burst open, and presses ransacked, with the result that an odd volume
of Pope’s Homer, two plated candlesticks, an ivory letter-weight, a
small oak barometer, and a ball of twine are all that have vanished.”

“What an extraordinary assortment!” I exclaimed.

“Oh, the fellows evidently grabbed hold of everything they could
get.”

Holmes grunted from the sofa.

“The county police ought to make something of that,” said he; “why,
it is surely obvious that–“

But I held up a warning finger.

“You are here for a rest, my dear fellow. For Heaven’s sake don’t get
started on a new problem when your nerves are all in shreds.”

Holmes shrugged his shoulders with a glance of comic resignation
towards the Colonel, and the talk drifted away into less dangerous
channels.

It was destined, however, that all my professional caution should be
wasted, for next morning the problem obtruded itself upon us in such
a way that it was impossible to ignore it, and our country visit took
a turn which neither of us could have anticipated. We were at
breakfast when the Colonel’s butler rushed in with all his propriety
shaken out of him.

“Have you heard the news, sir?” he gasped. “At the Cunningham’s sir!”

“Burglary!” cried the Colonel, with his coffee-cup in mid-air.

“Murder!”

The Colonel whistled. “By Jove!” said he. “Who’s killed, then? The
J.P. or his son?”

“Neither, sir. It was William the coachman. Shot through the heart,
sir, and never spoke again.”

“Who shot him, then?”

“The burglar, sir. He was off like a shot and got clean away. He’d
just broke in at the pantry window when William came on him and met
his end in saving his master’s property.”

“What time?”

“It was last night, sir, somewhere about twelve.”

“Ah, then, we’ll step over afterwards,” said the Colonel, coolly
settling down to his breakfast again. “It’s a baddish business,” he
added when the butler had gone; “he’s our leading man about here, is
old Cunningham, and a very decent fellow too. He’ll be cut up over
this, for the man has been in his service for years and was a good
servant. It’s evidently the same villains who broke into Acton’s.”

“And stole that very singular collection,” said Holmes, thoughtfully.

“Precisely.”

“Hum! It may prove the simplest matter in the world, but all the same
at first glance this is just a little curious, is it not? A gang of
burglars acting in the country might be expected to vary the scene of
their operations, and not to crack two cribs in the same district
within a few days. When you spoke last night of taking precautions I
remember that it passed through my mind that this was probably the
last parish in England to which the thief or thieves would be likely
to turn their attention–which shows that I have still much to
learn.”

“I fancy it’s some local practitioner,” said the Colonel. “In that
case, of course, Acton’s and Cunningham’s are just the places he
would go for, since they are far the largest about here.”

“And richest?”

“Well, they ought to be, but they’ve had a lawsuit for some years
which has sucked the blood out of both of them, I fancy. Old Acton
has some claim on half Cunningham’s estate, and the lawyers have been
at it with both hands.”

“If it’s a local villain there should not be much difficulty in
running him down,” said Holmes with a yawn. “All right, Watson, I
don’t intend to meddle.”

“Inspector Forrester, sir,” said the butler, throwing open the door.

The official, a smart, keen-faced young fellow, stepped into the
room. “Good-morning, Colonel,” said he; “I hope I don’t intrude, but
we hear that Mr. Holmes of Baker Street is here.”

The Colonel waved his hand towards my friend, and the Inspector
bowed.

“We thought that perhaps you would care to step across, Mr. Holmes.”

“The fates are against you, Watson,” said he, laughing. “We were
chatting about the matter when you came in, Inspector. Perhaps you
can let us have a few details.” As he leaned back in his chair in the
familiar attitude I knew that the case was hopeless.

“We had no clue in the Acton affair. But here we have plenty to go
on, and there’s no doubt it is the same party in each case. The man
was seen.”

“Ah!”

“Yes, sir. But he was off like a deer after the shot that killed poor
William Kirwan was fired. Mr. Cunningham saw him from the bedroom
window, and Mr. Alec Cunningham saw him from the back passage. It was
quarter to twelve when the alarm broke out. Mr. Cunningham had just
got into bed, and Mr. Alec was smoking a pipe in his dressing-gown.
They both heard William the coachman calling for help, and Mr. Alec
ran down to see what was the matter. The back door was open, and as
he came to the foot of the stairs he saw two men wrestling together
outside. One of them fired a shot, the other dropped, and the
murderer rushed across the garden and over the hedge. Mr. Cunningham,
looking out of his bedroom, saw the fellow as he gained the road, but
lost sight of him at once. Mr. Alec stopped to see if he could help
the dying man, and so the villain got clean away. Beyond the fact
that he was a middle-sized man and dressed in some dark stuff, we
have no personal clue; but we are making energetic inquiries, and if
he is a stranger we shall soon find him out.”

“What was this William doing there? Did he say anything before he
died?”

“Not a word. He lives at the lodge with his mother, and as he was a
very faithful fellow we imagine that he walked up to the house with
the intention of seeing that all was right there. Of course this
Acton business has put every one on their guard. The robber must have
just burst open the door–the lock has been forced–when William came
upon him.”

“Did William say anything to his mother before going out?”

“She is very old and deaf, and we can get no information from her.
The shock has made her half-witted, but I understand that she was
never very bright. There is one very important circumstance, however.
Look at this!”

He took a small piece of torn paper from a note-book and spread it
out upon his knee.

“This was found between the finger and thumb of the dead man. It
appears to be a fragment torn from a larger sheet. You will observe
that the hour mentioned upon it is the very time at which the poor
fellow met his fate. You see that his murderer might have torn the
rest of the sheet from him or he might have taken this fragment from
the murderer. It reads almost as though it were an appointment.”

Holmes took up the scrap of paper, a facsimile of which is here
reproduced.

[ Picture: Scrap showing the words: At quarter to twelve, learn what,
may be ]

“Presuming that it is an appointment,” continued the Inspector, “it
is of course a conceivable theory that this William Kirwan–though he
had the reputation of being an honest man, may have been in league
with the thief. He may have met him there, may even have helped him
to break in the door, and then they may have fallen out between
themselves.”

“This writing is of extraordinary interest,” said Holmes, who had
been examining it with intense concentration. “These are much deeper
waters than I had thought.” He sank his head upon his hands, while
the Inspector smiled at the effect which his case had had upon the
famous London specialist.

“Your last remark,” said Holmes, presently, “as to the possibility of
there being an understanding between the burglar and the servant, and
this being a note of appointment from one to the other, is an
ingenious and not entirely impossible supposition. But this writing
opens up–” He sank his head into his hands again and remained for
some minutes in the deepest thought. When he raised his face again, I
was surprised to see that his cheek was tinged with color, and his
eyes as bright as before his illness. He sprang to his feet with all
his old energy.

“I’ll tell you what,” said he, “I should like to have a quiet little
glance into the details of this case. There is something in it which
fascinates me extremely. If you will permit me, Colonel, I will leave
my friend Watson and you, and I will step round with the Inspector to
test the truth of one or two little fancies of mine. I will be with
you again in half an hour.”

An hour and half had elapsed before the Inspector returned alone.

“Mr. Holmes is walking up and down in the field outside,” said he.
“He wants us all four to go up to the house together.”

“To Mr. Cunningham’s?”

“Yes, sir.”

“What for?”

The Inspector shrugged his shoulders. “I don’t quite know, sir.
Between ourselves, I think Mr. Holmes had not quite got over his
illness yet. He’s been behaving very queerly, and he is very much
excited.”

“I don’t think you need alarm yourself,” said I. “I have usually
found that there was method in his madness.”

“Some folks might say there was madness in his method,” muttered the
Inspector. “But he’s all on fire to start, Colonel, so we had best go
out if you are ready.”

We found Holmes pacing up and down in the field, his chin sunk upon
his breast, and his hands thrust into his trousers pockets.

“The matter grows in interest,” said he. “Watson, your country-trip
has been a distinct success. I have had a charming morning.”

“You have been up to the scene of the crime, I understand,” said the
Colonel.

“Yes; the Inspector and I have made quite a little reconnaissance
together.”

“Any success?”

“Well, we have seen some very interesting things. I’ll tell you what
we did as we walk. First of all, we saw the body of this unfortunate
man. He certainly died from a revolver wound as reported.”

“Had you doubted it, then?”

“Oh, it is as well to test everything. Our inspection was not wasted.
We then had an interview with Mr. Cunningham and his son, who were
able to point out the exact spot where the murderer had broken
through the garden-hedge in his flight. That was of great interest.”

“Naturally.”

“Then we had a look at this poor fellow’s mother. We could get no
information from her, however, as she is very old and feeble.”

“And what is the result of your investigations?”

“The conviction that the crime is a very peculiar one. Perhaps our
visit now may do something to make it less obscure. I think that we
are both agreed, Inspector, that the fragment of paper in the dead
man’s hand, bearing, as it does, the very hour of his death written
upon it, is of extreme importance.”

“It should give a clue, Mr. Holmes.”

“It does give a clue. Whoever wrote that note was the man who brought
William Kirwan out of his bed at that hour. But where is the rest of
that sheet of paper?”

“I examined the ground carefully in the hope of finding it,” said the
Inspector.

“It was torn out of the dead man’s hand. Why was some one so anxious
to get possession of it? Because it incriminated him. And what would
he do with it? Thrust it into his pocket, most likely, never noticing
that a corner of it had been left in the grip of the corpse. If we
could get the rest of that sheet it is obvious that we should have
gone a long way towards solving the mystery.”

“Yes, but how can we get at the criminal’s pocket before we catch the
criminal?”

“Well, well, it was worth thinking over. Then there is another
obvious point. The note was sent to William. The man who wrote it
could not have taken it; otherwise, of course, he might have
delivered his own message by word of mouth. Who brought the note,
then? Or did it come through the post?”

“I have made inquiries,” said the Inspector. “William received a
letter by the afternoon post yesterday. The envelope was destroyed by
him.”

“Excellent!” cried Holmes, clapping the Inspector on the back.
“You’ve seen the postman. It is a pleasure to work with you. Well,
here is the lodge, and if you will come up, Colonel, I will show you
the scene of the crime.”

We passed the pretty cottage where the murdered man had lived, and
walked up an oak-lined avenue to the fine old Queen Anne house, which
bears the date of Malplaquet upon the lintel of the door. Holmes and
the Inspector led us round it until we came to the side gate, which
is separated by a stretch of garden from the hedge which lines the
road. A constable was standing at the kitchen door.

“Throw the door open, officer,” said Holmes. “Now, it was on those
stairs that young Mr. Cunningham stood and saw the two men struggling
just where we are. Old Mr. Cunningham was at that window–the second
on the left–and he saw the fellow get away just to the left of that
bush. So did the son. They are both sure of it on account of the
bush. Then Mr. Alec ran out and knelt beside the wounded man. The
ground is very hard, you see, and there are no marks to guide us.” As
he spoke two men came down the garden path, from round the angle of
the house. The one was an elderly man, with a strong, deep-lined,
heavy-eyed face; the other a dashing young fellow, whose bright,
smiling expression and showy dress were in strange contrast with the
business which had brought us there.

“Still at it, then?” said he to Holmes. “I thought you Londoners were
never at fault. You don’t seem to be so very quick, after all.”

“Ah, you must give us a little time,” said Holmes good-humoredly.

“You’ll want it,” said young Alec Cunningham. “Why, I don’t see that
we have any clue at all.”

“There’s only one,” answered the Inspector. “We thought that if we
could only find–Good heavens, Mr. Holmes! What is the matter?”

My poor friend’s face had suddenly assumed the most dreadful
expression. His eyes rolled upwards, his features writhed in agony,
and with a suppressed groan he dropped on his face upon the ground.
Horrified at the suddenness and severity of the attack, we carried
him into the kitchen, where he lay back in a large chair, and
breathed heavily for some minutes. Finally, with a shamefaced apology
for his weakness, he rose once more.

“Watson would tell you that I have only just recovered from a severe
illness,” he explained. “I am liable to these sudden nervous
attacks.”

“Shall I send you home in my trap?” asked old Cunningham.

“Well, since I am here, there is one point on which I should like to
feel sure. We can very easily verify it.”

“What was it?”

“Well, it seems to me that it is just possible that the arrival of
this poor fellow William was not before, but after, the entrance of
the burglary into the house. You appear to take it for granted that,
although the door was forced, the robber never got in.”

“I fancy that is quite obvious,” said Mr. Cunningham, gravely. “Why,
my son Alec had not yet gone to bed, and he would certainly have
heard any one moving about.”

“Where was he sitting?”

“I was smoking in my dressing-room.”

“Which window is that?”

“The last on the left next my father’s.”

“Both of your lamps were lit, of course?”

“Undoubtedly.”

“There are some very singular points here,” said Holmes, smiling. “Is
it not extraordinary that a burglary–and a burglar who had had some
previous experience–should deliberately break into a house at a time
when he could see from the lights that two of the family were still
afoot?”

“He must have been a cool hand.”

“Well, of course, if the case were not an odd one we should not have
been driven to ask you for an explanation,” said young Mr. Alec. “But
as to your ideas that the man had robbed the house before William
tackled him, I think it a most absurd notion. Wouldn’t we have found
the place disarranged, and missed the things which he had taken?”

“It depends on what the things were,” said Holmes. “You must remember
that we are dealing with a burglar who is a very peculiar fellow, and
who appears to work on lines of his own. Look, for example, at the
queer lot of things which he took from Acton’s–what was it?–a ball
of string, a letter-weight, and I don’t know what other odds and
ends.”

“Well, we are quite in your hands, Mr. Holmes,” said old Cunningham.
“Anything which you or the Inspector may suggest will most certainly
be done.”

“In the first place,” said Holmes, “I should like you to offer a
reward–coming from yourself, for the officials may take a little
time before they would agree upon the sum, and these things cannot be
done too promptly. I have jotted down the form here, if you would not
mind signing it. Fifty pound was quite enough, I thought.”

“I would willingly give five hundred,” said the J.P., taking the slip
of paper and the pencil which Holmes handed to him. “This is not
quite correct, however,” he added, glancing over the document.

“I wrote it rather hurriedly.”

“You see you begin, ‘Whereas, at about a quarter to one on Tuesday
morning an attempt was made,’ and so on. It was at a quarter to
twelve, as a matter of fact.”

I was pained at the mistake, for I knew how keenly Holmes would feel
any slip of the kind. It was his specialty to be accurate as to fact,
but his recent illness had shaken him, and this one little incident
was enough to show me that he was still far from being himself. He
was obviously embarrassed for an instant, while the Inspector raised
his eyebrows, and Alec Cunningham burst into a laugh. The old
gentleman corrected the mistake, however, and handed the paper back
to Holmes.

“Get it printed as soon as possible,” he said; “I think your idea is
an excellent one.”

Holmes put the slip of paper carefully away into his pocket-book.

“And now,” said he, “it really would be a good thing that we should
all go over the house together and make certain that this rather
erratic burglar did not, after all, carry anything away with him.”

Before entering, Holmes made an examination of the door which had
been forced. It was evident that a chisel or strong knife had been
thrust in, and the lock forced back with it. We could see the marks
in the wood where it had been pushed in.

“You don’t use bars, then?” he asked.

“We have never found it necessary.”

“You don’t keep a dog?”

“Yes, but he is chained on the other side of the house.”

“When do the servants go to bed?”

“About ten.”

“I understand that William was usually in bed also at that hour.”

“Yes.”

“It is singular that on this particular night he should have been up.
Now, I should be very glad if you would have the kindness to show us
over the house, Mr. Cunningham.”

A stone-flagged passage, with the kitchens branching away from it,
led by a wooden staircase directly to the first floor of the house.
It came out upon the landing opposite to a second more ornamental
stair which came up from the front hall. Out of this landing opened
the drawing-room and several bedrooms, including those of Mr.
Cunningham and his son. Holmes walked slowly, taking keen note of the
architecture of the house. I could tell from his expression that he
was on a hot scent, and yet I could not in the least imagine in what
direction his inferences were leading him.

“My good sir,” said Mr. Cunningham with some impatience, “this is
surely very unnecessary. That is my room at the end of the stairs,
and my son’s is the one beyond it. I leave it to your judgment
whether it was possible for the thief to have come up here without
disturbing us.”

“You must try round and get on a fresh scent, I fancy,” said the son
with a rather malicious smile.

“Still, I must ask you to humor me a little further. I should like,
for example, to see how far the windows of the bedrooms command the
front. This, I understand is your son’s room”–he pushed open the
door–“and that, I presume, is the dressing-room in which he sat
smoking when the alarm was given. Where does the window of that look
out to?” He stepped across the bedroom, pushed open the door, and
glanced round the other chamber.

“I hope that you are satisfied now?” said Mr. Cunningham, tartly.

“Thank you, I think I have seen all that I wished.”

“Then if it is really necessary we can go into my room.”

“If it is not too much trouble.”

The J.P. shrugged his shoulders, and led the way into his own
chamber, which was a plainly furnished and commonplace room. As we
moved across it in the direction of the window, Holmes fell back
until he and I were the last of the group. Near the foot of the bed
stood a dish of oranges and a carafe of water. As we passed it
Holmes, to my unutterable astonishment, leaned over in front of me
and deliberately knocked the whole thing over. The glass smashed into
a thousand pieces and the fruit rolled about into every corner of the
room.

“You’ve done it now, Watson,” said he, coolly. “A pretty mess you’ve
made of the carpet.”

I stooped in some confusion and began to pick up the fruit,
understanding for some reason my companion desired me to take the
blame upon myself. The others did the same, and set the table on its
legs again.

“Hullo!” cried the Inspector, “where’s he got to?”

Holmes had disappeared.

“Wait here an instant,” said young Alec Cunningham. “The fellow is
off his head, in my opinion. Come with me, father, and see where he
has got to!”

They rushed out of the room, leaving the Inspector, the Colonel, and
me staring at each other.

“‘Pon my word, I am inclined to agree with Master Alec,” said the
official. “It may be the effect of this illness, but it seems to me
that–“

His words were cut short by a sudden scream of “Help! Help! Murder!”
With a thrill I recognised the voice as that of my friend. I rushed
madly from the room on to the landing. The cries, which had sunk down
into a hoarse, inarticulate shouting, came from the room which we had
first visited. I dashed in, and on into the dressing-room beyond. The
two Cunninghams were bending over the prostrate figure of Sherlock
Holmes, the younger clutching his throat with both hands, while the
elder seemed to be twisting one of his wrists. In an instant the
three of us had torn them away from him, and Holmes staggered to his
feet, very pale and evidently greatly exhausted.

“Arrest these men, Inspector,” he gasped.

“On what charge?”

“That of murdering their coachman, William Kirwan.”

The Inspector stared about him in bewilderment. “Oh, come now, Mr.
Holmes,” said he at last, “I’m sure you don’t really mean to–“

“Tut, man, look at their faces!” cried Holmes, curtly.

Never, certainly, have I seen a plainer confession of guilt upon
human countenances. The older man seemed numbed and dazed with a
heavy, sullen expression upon his strongly-marked face. The son, on
the other hand, had dropped all that jaunty, dashing style which had
characterized him, and the ferocity of a dangerous wild beast gleamed
in his dark eyes and distorted his handsome features. The Inspector
said nothing, but, stepping to the door, he blew his whistle. Two of
his constables came at the call.

“I have no alternative, Mr. Cunningham,” said he. “I trust that this
may all prove to be an absurd mistake, but you can see that–Ah,
would you? Drop it!” He struck out with his hand, and a revolver
which the younger man was in the act of cocking clattered down upon
the floor.

“Keep that,” said Holmes, quietly putting his foot upon it; “you will
find it useful at the trial. But this is what we really wanted.” He
held up a little crumpled piece of paper.

“The remainder of the sheet!” cried the Inspector.

“Precisely.”

“And where was it?”

“Where I was sure it must be. I’ll make the whole matter clear to you
presently. I think, Colonel, that you and Watson might return now,
and I will be with you again in an hour at the furthest. The
Inspector and I must have a word with the prisoners, but you will
certainly see me back at luncheon time.”

Sherlock Holmes was as good as his word, for about one o’clock he
rejoined us in the Colonel’s smoking-room. He was accompanied by a
little elderly gentleman, who was introduced to me as the Mr. Acton
whose house had been the scene of the original burglary.

“I wished Mr. Acton to be present while I demonstrated this small
matter to you,” said Holmes, “for it is natural that he should take a
keen interest in the details. I am afraid, my dear Colonel, that you
must regret the hour that you took in such a stormy petrel as I am.”

“On the contrary,” answered the Colonel, warmly, “I consider it the
greatest privilege to have been permitted to study your methods of
working. I confess that they quite surpass my expectations, and that
I am utterly unable to account for your result. I have not yet seen
the vestige of a clue.”

“I am afraid that my explanation may disillusion you but it has
always been my habit to hide none of my methods, either from my
friend Watson or from any one who might take an intelligent interest
in them. But, first, as I am rather shaken by the knocking about
which I had in the dressing-room, I think that I shall help myself to
a dash of your brandy, Colonel. My strength had been rather tried of
late.”

“I trust that you had no more of those nervous attacks.”

Sherlock Holmes laughed heartily. “We will come to that in its turn,”
said he. “I will lay an account of the case before you in its due
order, showing you the various points which guided me in my decision.
Pray interrupt me if there is any inference which is not perfectly
clear to you.

“It is of the highest importance in the art of detection to be able
to recognize, out of a number of facts, which are incidental and
which vital. Otherwise your energy and attention must be dissipated
instead of being concentrated. Now, in this case there was not the
slightest doubt in my mind from the first that the key of the whole
matter must be looked for in the scrap of paper in the dead man’s
hand.

“Before going into this, I would draw your attention to the fact
that, if Alec Cunningham’s narrative was correct, and if the
assailant, after shooting William Kirwan, had instantly fled, then it
obviously could not be he who tore the paper from the dead man’s
hand. But if it was not he, it must have been Alec Cunningham
himself, for by the time that the old man had descended several
servants were upon the scene. The point is a simple one, but the
Inspector had overlooked it because he had started with the
supposition that these county magnates had had nothing to do with the
matter. Now, I make a point of never having any prejudices, and of
following docilely wherever fact may lead me, and so, in the very
first stage of the investigation, I found myself looking a little
askance at the part which had been played by Mr. Alec Cunningham.

“And now I made a very careful examination of the corner of paper
which the Inspector had submitted to us. It was at once clear to me
that it formed part of a very remarkable document. Here it is. Do you
not now observed something very suggestive about it?”

“It has a very irregular look,” said the Colonel.

“My dear sir,” cried Holmes, “there cannot be the least doubt in the
world that it has been written by two persons doing alternate words.
When I draw your attention to the strong t’s of ‘at’ and ‘to’, and
ask you to compare them with the weak ones of ‘quarter’ and ‘twelve,’
you will instantly recognize the fact. A very brief analysis of these
four words would enable you to say with the utmost confidence that
the ‘learn’ and the ‘maybe’ are written in the stronger hand, and the
‘what’ in the weaker.”

“By Jove, it’s as clear as day!” cried the Colonel. “Why on earth
should two men write a letter in such a fashion?”

“Obviously the business was a bad one, and one of the men who
distrusted the other was determined that, whatever was done, each
should have an equal hand in it. Now, of the two men, it is clear
that the one who wrote the ‘at’ and ‘to’ was the ringleader.”

“How do you get at that?”

“We might deduce it from the mere character of the one hand as
compared with the other. But we have more assured reasons than that
for supposing it. If you examine this scrap with attention you will
come to the conclusion that the man with the stronger hand wrote all
his words first, leaving blanks for the other to fill up. These
blanks were not always sufficient, and you can see that the second
man had a squeeze to fit his ‘quarter’ in between the ‘at’ and the
‘to,’ showing that the latter were already written. The man who wrote
all his words first is undoubtedly the man who planned the affair.”

“Excellent!” cried Mr. Acton.

“But very superficial,” said Holmes. “We come now, however, to a
point which is of importance. You may not be aware that the deduction
of a man’s age from his writing is one which has been brought to
considerable accuracy by experts. In normal cases one can place a man
in his true decade with tolerable confidence. I say normal cases,
because ill-health and physical weakness reproduce the signs of old
age, even when the invalid is a youth. In this case, looking at the
bold, strong hand of the one, and the rather broken-backed appearance
of the other, which still retains its legibility although the t’s
have begun to lose their crossing, we can say that the one was a
young man and the other was advanced in years without being
positively decrepit.”

“Excellent!” cried Mr. Acton again.

“There is a further point, however, which is subtler and of greater
interest. There is something in common between these hands. They
belong to men who are blood-relatives. It may be most obvious to you
in the Greek e’s, but to me there are many small points which
indicate the same thing. I have no doubt at all that a family
mannerism can be traced in these two specimens of writing. I am only,
of course, giving you the leading results now of my examination of
the paper. There were twenty-three other deductions which would be of
more interest to experts than to you. They all tended to deepen the
impression upon my mind that the Cunninghams, father and son, had
written this letter.

“Having got so far, my next step was, of course, to examine into the
details of the crime, and to see how far they would help us. I went
up to the house with the Inspector, and saw all that was to be seen.
The wound upon the dead man was, as I was able to determine with
absolute confidence, fired from a revolver at the distance of
something over four yards. There was no powder-blackening on the
clothes. Evidently, therefore, Alec Cunningham had lied when he said
that the two men were struggling when the shot was fired. Again, both
father and son agreed as to the place where the man escaped into the
road. At that point, however, as it happens, there is a broadish
ditch, moist at the bottom. As there were no indications of bootmarks
about this ditch, I was absolutely sure not only that the Cunninghams
had again lied, but that there had never been any unknown man upon
the scene at all.

“And now I have to consider the motive of this singular crime. To get
at this, I endeavored first of all to solve the reason of the
original burglary at Mr. Acton’s. I understood, from something which
the Colonel told us, that a lawsuit had been going on between you,
Mr. Acton, and the Cunninghams. Of course, it instantly occurred to
me that they had broken into your library with the intention of
getting at some document which might be of importance in the case.”

“Precisely so,” said Mr. Acton. “There can be no possible doubt as to
their intentions. I have the clearest claim upon half of their
present estate, and if they could have found a single paper–which,
fortunately, was in the strong-box of my solicitors–they would
undoubtedly have crippled our case.”

“There you are,” said Holmes, smiling. “It was a dangerous, reckless
attempt, in which I seem to trace the influence of young Alec. Having
found nothing they tried to divert suspicion by making it appear to
be an ordinary burglary, to which end they carried off whatever they
could lay their hands upon. That is all clear enough, but there was
much that was still obscure. What I wanted above all was to get the
missing part of that note. I was certain that Alec had torn it out of
the dead man’s hand, and almost certain that he must have thrust it
into the pocket of his dressing-gown. Where else could he have put
it? The only question was whether it was still there. It was worth an
effort to find out, and for that object we all went up to the house.

“The Cunninghams joined us, as you doubtless remember, outside the
kitchen door. It was, of course, of the very first importance that
they should not be reminded of the existence of this paper, otherwise
they would naturally destroy it without delay. The Inspector was
about to tell them the importance which we attached to it when, by
the luckiest chance in the world, I tumbled down in a sort of fit and
so changed the conversation.”

“Good heavens!” cried the Colonel, laughing, “do you mean to say all
our sympathy was wasted and your fit an imposture?”

“Speaking professionally, it was admirably done,” cried I, looking in
amazement at this man who was forever confounding me with some new
phase of his astuteness.

“It is an art which is often useful,” said he. “When I recovered I
managed, by a device which had perhaps some little merit of
ingenuity, to get old Cunningham to write the word ‘twelve,’ so that
I might compare it with the ‘twelve’ upon the paper.”

“Oh, what an ass I have been!” I exclaimed.

“I could see that you were commiserating with me over my weakness,”
said Holmes, laughing. “I was sorry to cause you the sympathetic pain
which I know that you felt. We then went upstairs together, and
having entered the room and seen the dressing-gown hanging up behind
the door, I contrived, by upsetting a table, to engage their
attention for the moment, and slipped back to examine the pockets. I
had hardly got the paper, however–which was, as I had expected, in
one of them–when the two Cunninghams were on me, and would, I verily
believe, have murdered me then and there but for your prompt and
friendly aid. As it is, I feel that young man’s grip on my throat
now, and the father has twisted my wrist round in the effort to get
the paper out of my hand. They saw that I must know all about it, you
see, and the sudden change from absolute security to complete despair
made them perfectly desperate.

“I had a little talk with old Cunningham afterwards as to the motive
of the crime. He was tractable enough, though his son was a perfect
demon, ready to blow out his own or anybody else’s brains if he could
have got to his revolver. When Cunningham saw that the case against
him was so strong he lost all heart and made a clean breast of
everything. It seems that William had secretly followed his two
masters on the night when they made their raid upon Mr. Acton’s, and
having thus got them into his power, proceeded, under threats of
exposure, to levy black-mail upon them. Mr. Alec, however, was a
dangerous man to play games of that sort with. It was a stroke of
positive genius on his part to see in the burglary scare which was
convulsing the country side an opportunity of plausibly getting rid
of the man whom he feared. William was decoyed up and shot, and had
they only got the whole of the note and paid a little more attention
to detail in the accessories, it is very possible that suspicion
might never have been aroused.”

“And the note?” I asked.

Sherlock Holmes placed the subjoined paper before us.

[ Picture: Paper which reads: If you will only come around at quarter
to twelve to the east gate you will learn what will very much
surprise you and may be of the greatest service to you and also to
Annie Morrison. But say nothing to anyone upon the matter ]

“It is very much the sort of thing that I expected,” said he. “Of
course, we do not yet know what the relations may have been between
Alec Cunningham, William Kirwan, and Annie Morrison. The results
shows that the trap was skillfully baited. I am sure that you cannot
fail to be delighted with the traces of heredity shown in the p’s and
in the tails of the g’s. The absence of the i-dots in the old man’s
writing is also most characteristic. Watson, I think our quiet rest
in the country has been a distinct success, and I shall certainly
return much invigorated to Baker Street to-morrow.”

One summer night, a few months after my marriage, I was seated by my
own hearth smoking a last pipe and nodding over a novel, for my day’s
work had been an exhausting one. My wife had already gone upstairs,
and the sound of the locking of the hall door some time before told
me that the servants had also retired. I had risen from my seat and
was knocking out the ashes of my pipe when I suddenly heard the clang
of the bell.

I looked at the clock. It was a quarter to twelve. This could not
be a visitor at so late an hour. A patient, evidently, and possibly
an all-night sitting. With a wry face I went out into the hall and
opened the door. To my astonishment it was Sherlock Holmes who stood
upon my step.

“Ah, Watson,” said he, “I hoped that I might not be too late to catch
you.”

“My dear fellow, pray come in.”

“You look surprised, and no wonder! Relieved, too, I fancy! Hum!
You still smoke the Arcadia mixture of your bachelor days then!
There’s no mistaking that fluffy ash upon your coat. It’s easy to
tell that you have been accustomed to wear a uniform, Watson. You’ll
never pass as a pure-bred civilian as long as you keep that habit of
carrying your handkerchief in your sleeve. Could you put me up
tonight?”

“With pleasure.”

“You told me that you had bachelor quarters for one, and I see that
you have no gentleman visitor at present. Your hat-stand proclaims
as much.”

“I shall be delighted if you will stay.”

“Thank you. I’ll fill the vacant peg then. Sorry to see that you’ve
had the British workman in the house. He’s a token of evil. Not the
drains, I hope?”

“No, the gas.”

“Ah! He has left two nail-marks from his boot upon your linoleum
just where the light strikes it. No, thank you, I had some supper at
Waterloo, but I’ll smoke a pipe with you with pleasure.”

I handed him my pouch, and he seated himself opposite to me and
smoked for some time in silence. I was well aware that nothing but
business of importance would have brought him to me at such an hour,
so I waited patiently until he should come round to it.

“I see that you are professionally rather busy just now,” said he,
glancing very keenly across at me.

“Yes, I’ve had a busy day,” I answered. “It may seem very foolish in
your eyes,” I added, “but really I don’t know how you deduced it.”

Holmes chuckled to himself.

“I have the advantage of knowing your habits, my dear Watson,” said
he. “When your round is a short one you walk, and when it is a long
one you use a hansom. As I perceive that your boots, although used,
are by no means dirty, I cannot doubt that you are at present busy
enough to justify the hansom.”

“Excellent!” I cried.

“Elementary,” said he. “It is one of those instances where the
reasoner can produce an effect which seems remarkable to his
neighbor, because the latter has missed the one little point which is
the basis of the deduction. The same may be said, my dear fellow,
for the effect of some of these little sketches of yours, which is
entirely meretricious, depending as it does upon your retaining in
your own hands some factors in the problem which are never imparted
to the reader. Now, at present I am in the position of these same
readers, for I hold in this hand several threads of one of the
strangest cases which ever perplexed a man’s brain, and yet I lack
the one or two which are needful to complete my theory. But I’ll
have them, Watson, I’ll have them!” His eyes kindled and a slight
flush sprang into his thin cheeks. For an instant the veil had lifted
upon his keen, intense nature, but for an instant only. When I
glanced again his face had resumed that red-Indian composure which
had made so many regard him as a machine rather than a man.

“The problem presents features of interest,” said he. “I may even
say exceptional features of interest. I have already looked into the
matter, and have come, as I think, within sight of my solution. If
you could accompany me in that last step you might be of considerable
service to me.”

“I should be delighted.”

“Could you go as far as Aldershot to-morrow?”

“I have no doubt Jackson would take my practice.”

“Very good. I want to start by the 11.10 from Waterloo.”

“That would give me time.”

“Then, if you are not too sleepy, I will give you a sketch of what
has happened, and of what remains to be done.”

“I was sleepy before you came. I am quite wakeful now.”

“I will compress the story as far as may be done without omitting
anything vital to the case. It is conceivable that you may even have
read some account of the matter. It is the supposed murder of
Colonel Barclay, of the Royal Munsters, at Aldershot, which I am
investigating.”

“I have heard nothing of it.”

“It has not excited much attention yet, except locally. The facts
are only two days old. Briefly they are these:

“The Royal Munsters is, as you know, one of the most famous Irish
regiments in the British army. It did wonders both in the Crimea and
the Mutiny, and has since that time distinguished itself upon every
possible occasion. It was commanded up to Monday night by James
Barclay, a gallant veteran, who started as a full private, was raised
to commissioned rank for his bravery at the time of the Mutiny, and
so lived to command the regiment in which he had once carried a
musket.

“Colonel Barclay had married at the time when he was a sergeant, and
his wife, whose maiden name was Miss Nancy Devoy, was the daughter of
a former color-sergeant in the same corps. There was, therefore, as
can be imagined, some little social friction when the young couple
(for they were still young) found themselves in their new
surroundings. They appear, however, to have quickly adapted
themselves, and Mrs. Barclay has always, I understand, been as
popular with the ladies of the regiment as her husband was with his
brother officers. I may add that she was a woman of great beauty,
and that even now, when she has been married for upwards of thirty
years, she is still of a striking and queenly appearance.

“Colonel Barclay’s family life appears to have been a uniformly happy
one. Major Murphy, to whom I owe most of my facts, assures me that
he has never heard of any misunderstanding between the pair. On the
whole, he thinks that Barclay’s devotion to his wife was greater than
his wife’s to Barclay. He was acutely uneasy if he were absent from
her for a day. She, on the other hand, though devoted and faithful,
was less obtrusively affectionate. But they were regarded in the
regiment as the very model of a middle-aged couple. There was
absolutely nothing in their mutual relations to prepare people for
the tragedy which was to follow.

“Colonel Barclay himself seems to have had some singular traits in
his character. He was a dashing, jovial old solder in his usual
mood, but there were occasions on which he seemed to show himself
capable of considerable violence and vindictiveness. This side of
his nature, however, appears never to have been turned towards his
wife. Another fact, which had struck Major Murphy and three out of
five of the other officers with whom I conversed, was the singular
sort of depression which came upon him at times. As the major
expressed it, the smile had often been struck from his mouth, as if
by some invisible hand, when he has been joining the gaieties and
chaff of the mess-table. For days on end, when the mood was on him,
he has been sunk in the deepest gloom. This and a certain tinge of
superstition were the only unusual traits in his character which his
brother officers had observed. The latter peculiarity took the form
of a dislike to being left alone, especially after dark. This
puerile feature in a nature which was conspicuously manly had often
given rise to comment and conjecture.

“The first battalion of the Royal Munsters (which is the old 117th)
has been stationed at Aldershot for some years. The married officers
live out of barracks, and the Colonel has during all this time
occupied a villa called Lachine, about half a mile from the north
camp. The house stands in its own grounds, but the west side of it
is not more than thirty yards from the high-road. A coachman and two
maids form the staff of servants. These with their master and
mistress were the sole occupants of Lachine, for the Barclays had no
children, nor was it usual for them to have resident visitors.

“Now for the events at Lachine between nine and ten on the evening of
last Monday.

“Mrs. Barclay was, it appears, a member of the Roman Catholic Church,
and had interested herself very much in the establishment of the
Guild of St. George, which was formed in connection with the Watt
Street Chapel for the purpose of supplying the poor with cast-off
clothing. A meeting of the Guild had been held that evening at
eight, and Mrs. Barclay had hurried over her dinner in order to be
present at it. When leaving the house she was heard by the coachman
to make some commonplace remark to her husband, and to assure him
that she would be back before very long. She then called for Miss
Morrison, a young lady who lives in the next villa, and the two went
off together to their meeting. It lasted forty minutes, and at a
quarter-past nine Mrs. Barclay returned home, having left Miss
Morrison at her door as she passed.

“There is a room which is used as a morning-room at Lachine. This
faces the road and opens by a large glass folding-door on to the
lawn. The lawn is thirty yards across, and is only divided from the
highway by a low wall with an iron rail above it. It was into this
room that Mrs. Barclay went upon her return. The blinds were not
down, for the room was seldom used in the evening, but Mrs. Barclay
herself lit the lamp and then rang the bell, asking Jane Stewart, the
house-maid, to bring her a cup of tea, which was quite contrary to
her usual habits. The Colonel had been sitting in the dining-room,
but hearing that his wife had returned he joined her in the
morning-room. The coachman saw him cross the hall and enter it. He
was never seen again alive.

“The tea which had been ordered was brought up at the end of ten
minutes; but the maid, as she approached the door, was surprised to
hear the voices of her master and mistress in furious altercation.
She knocked without receiving any answer, and even turned the handle,
but only to find that the door was locked upon the inside. Naturally
enough she ran down to tell the cook, and the two women with the
coachman came up into the hall and listened to the dispute which was
still raging. They all agreed that only two voices were to be heard,
those of Barclay and of his wife. Barclay’s remarks were subdued and
abrupt, so that none of them were audible to the listeners. The
lady’s, on the other hand, were most bitter, and when she raised her
voice could be plainly heard. ‘You coward!’ she repeated over and
over again. ‘What can be done now? What can be done now? Give me
back my life. I will never so much as breathe the same air with you
again! You coward! You Coward!’ Those were scraps of her
conversation, ending in a sudden dreadful cry in the man’s voice,
with a crash, and a piercing scream from the woman. Convinced that
some tragedy had occurred, the coachman rushed to the door and strove
to force it, while scream after scream issued from within. He was
unable, however, to make his way in, and the maids were too
distracted with fear to be of any assistance to him. A sudden
thought struck him, however, and he ran through the hall door and
round to the lawn upon which the long French windows open. One side
of the window was open, which I understand was quite usual in the
summer-time, and he passed without difficulty into the room. His
mistress had ceased to scream and was stretched insensible upon a
couch, while with his feet tilted over the side of an arm-chair, and
his head upon the ground near the corner of the fender, was lying the
unfortunate soldier stone dead in a pool of his own blood.

“Naturally, the coachman’s first thought, on finding that he could do
nothing for his master, was to open the door. But here an unexpected
and singular difficulty presented itself. The key was not in the
inner side of the door, nor could he find it anywhere in the room.
He went out again, therefore, through the window, and having obtained
the help of a policeman and of a medical man, he returned. The lady,
against whom naturally the strongest suspicion rested, was removed to
her room, still in a state of insensibility. The Colonel’s body was
then placed upon the sofa, and a careful examination made of the
scene of the tragedy.

“The injury from which the unfortunate veteran was suffering was
found to be a jagged cut some two inches long at the back part of his
head, which had evidently been caused by a violent blow from a blunt
weapon. Nor was it difficult to guess what that weapon may have
been. Upon the floor, close to the body, was lying a singular club
of hard carved wood with a bone handle. The Colonel possessed a
varied collection of weapons brought from the different countries in
which he had fought, and it is conjectured by the police that his
club was among his trophies. The servants deny having seen it
before, but among the numerous curiosities in the house it is
possible that it may have been overlooked. Nothing else of
importance was discovered in the room by the police, save the
inexplicable fact that neither upon Mrs. Barclay’s person nor upon
that of the victim nor in any part of the room was the missing key to
be found. The door had eventually to be opened by a locksmith from
Aldershot.

“That was the state of things, Watson, when upon the Tuesday morning
I, at the request of Major Murphy, went down to Aldershot to
supplement the efforts of the police. I think that you will
acknowledge that the problem was already one of interest, but my
observations soon made me realize that it was in truth much more
extraordinary than would at first sight appear.

“Before examining the room I cross-questioned the servants, but only
succeeded in eliciting the facts which I have already stated. One
other detail of interest was remembered by Jane Stewart, the
housemaid. You will remember that on hearing the sound of the
quarrel she descended and returned with the other servants. On that
first occasion, when she was alone, she says that the voices of her
master and mistress were sunk so low that she could hear hardly
anything, and judged by their tones rather than their words that they
had fallen out. On my pressing her, however, she remembered that she
heard the word David uttered twice by the lady. The point is of the
utmost importance as guiding us towards the reason of the sudden
quarrel. The Colonel’s name, you remember, was James.

“There was one thing in the case which had made the deepest
impression both upon the servants and the police. This was the
contortion of the Colonel’s face. It had set, according to their
account, into the most dreadful expression of fear and horror which a
human countenance is capable of assuming. More than one person
fainted at the mere sight of him, so terrible was the effect. It was
quite certain that he had foreseen his fate, and that it had caused
him the utmost horror. This, of course, fitted in well enough with
the police theory, if the Colonel could have seen his wife making a
murderous attack upon him. Nor was the fact of the wound being on
the back of his head a fatal objection to this, as he might have
turned to avoid the blow. No information could be got from the lady
herself, who was temporarily insane from an acute attack of
brain-fever.

“From the police I learned that Miss Morrison, who you remember went
out that evening with Mrs. Barclay, denied having any knowledge of
what it was which had caused the ill-humor in which her companion had
returned.

“Having gathered these facts, Watson, I smoked several pipes over
them, trying to separate those which were crucial from others which
were merely incidental. There could be no question that the most
distinctive and suggestive point in the case was the singular
disappearance of the door-key. A most careful search had failed to
discover it in the room. Therefore it must have been taken from it.
But neither the Colonel nor the Colonel’s wife could have taken it.
That was perfectly clear. Therefore a third person must have entered
the room. And that third person could only have come in through the
window. It seemed to me that a careful examination of the room and
the lawn might possibly reveal some traces of this mysterious
individual. You know my methods, Watson. There was not one of them
which I did not apply to the inquiry. And it ended by my discovering
traces, but very different ones from those which I had expected.
There had been a man in the room, and he had crossed the lawn coming
from the road. I was able to obtain five very clear impressions of
his foot-marks: one in the roadway itself, at the point where he had
climbed the low wall, two on the lawn, and two very faint ones upon
the stained boards near the window where he had entered. He had
apparently rushed across the lawn, for his toe-marks were much deeper
than his heels. But it was not the man who surprised me. It was his
companion.”

“His companion!”

Holmes pulled a large sheet of tissue-paper out of his pocket and
carefully unfolded it upon his knee.

“What do you make of that?” he asked.

The paper was covered with the tracings of the foot-marks of some
small animal. It had five well-marked foot-pads, an indication of
long nails, and the whole print might be nearly as large as a
dessert-spoon.

“It’s a dog,” said I.

“Did you ever hear of a dog running up a curtain? I found distinct
traces that this creature had done so.”

“A monkey, then?”

“But it is not the print of a monkey.”

“What can it be, then?”

“Neither dog nor cat nor monkey nor any creature that we are familiar
with. I have tried to reconstruct it from the measurements. Here
are four prints where the beast has been standing motionless. You
see that it is no less than fifteen inches from fore-foot to hind.
Add to that the length of neck and head, and you get a creature not
much less than two feet long–probably more if there is any tail.
But now observe this other measurement. The animal has been moving,
and we have the length of its stride. In each case it is only about
three inches. You have an indication, you see, of a long body with
very short legs attached to it. It has not been considerate enough
to leave any of its hair behind it. But its general shape must be
what I have indicated, and it can run up a curtain, and it is
carnivorous.”

“How do you deduce that?”

“Because it ran up the curtain. A canary’s cage was hanging in the
window, and its aim seems to have been to get at the bird.”

“Then what was the beast?”

“Ah, if I could give it a name it might go a long way towards solving
the case. On the whole, it was probably some creature of the weasel
and stoat tribe–and yet it is larger than any of these that I have
seen.”

“But what had it to do with the crime?”

“That, also, is still obscure. But we have learned a good deal, you
perceive. We know that a man stood in the road looking at the
quarrel between the Barclays–the blinds were up and the room
lighted. We know, also, that he ran across the lawn, entered the
room, accompanied by a strange animal, and that he either struck the
Colonel or, as is equally possible, that the Colonel fell down from
sheer fright at the sight of him, and cut his head on the corner of
the fender. Finally, we have the curious fact that the intruder
carried away the key with him when he left.”

“Your discoveries seem to have left the business more obscure that it
was before,” said I.

“Quite so. They undoubtedly showed that the affair was much deeper
than was at first conjectured. I thought the matter over, and I came
to the conclusion that I must approach the case from another aspect.
But really, Watson, I am keeping you up, and I might just as well
tell you all this on our way to Aldershot to-morrow.”

“Thank you, you have gone rather too far to stop.”

“It is quite certain that when Mrs. Barclay left the house at
half-past seven she was on good terms with her husband. She was
never, as I think I have said, ostentatiously affectionate, but she
was heard by the coachman chatting with the Colonel in a friendly
fashion. Now, it was equally certain that, immediately on her
return, she had gone to the room in which she was least likely to see
her husband, had flown to tea as an agitated woman will, and finally,
on his coming in to her, had broken into violent recriminations.
Therefore something had occurred between seven-thirty and nine
o’clock which had completely altered her feelings towards him. But
Miss Morrison had been with her during the whole of that hour and a
half. It was absolutely certain, therefore, in spite of her denial,
that she must know something of the matter.

“My first conjecture was, that possibly there had been some passages
between this young lady and the old soldier, which the former had now
confessed to the wife. That would account for the angry return, and
also for the girl’s denial that anything had occurred. Nor would it
be entirely incompatible with most of the words overhead. But there
was the reference to David, and there was the known affection of the
Colonel for his wife, to weigh against it, to say nothing of the
tragic intrusion of this other man, which might, of course, be
entirely disconnected with what had gone before. It was not easy to
pick one’s steps, but, on the whole, I was inclined to dismiss the
idea that there had been anything between the Colonel and Miss
Morrison, but more than ever convinced that the young lady held the
clue as to what it was which had turned Mrs. Barclay to hatred of her
husband. I took the obvious course, therefore, of calling upon Miss
M., of explaining to her that I was perfectly certain that she held
the facts in her possession, and of assuring her that her friend,
Mrs. Barclay, might find herself in the dock upon a capital charge
unless the matter were cleared up.

“Miss Morrison is a little ethereal slip of a girl, with timid eyes
and blond hair, but I found her by no means wanting in shrewdness and
common-sense. She sat thinking for some time after I had spoken, and
then, turning to me with a brisk air of resolution, she broke into a
remarkable statement which I will condense for your benefit.

“‘I promised my friend that I would say nothing of the matter, and a
promise is a promise,’ said she; ‘but if I can really help her when
so serious a charge is laid against her, and when her own mouth, poor
darling, is closed by illness, then I think I am absolved from my
promise. I will tell you exactly what happened upon Monday evening.

“‘We were returning from the Watt Street Mission about a quarter to
nine o’clock. On our way we had to pass through Hudson Street, which
is a very quiet thoroughfare. There is only one lamp in it, upon the
left-hand side, and as we approached this lamp I saw a man coming
towards us with is back very bent, and something like a box slung
over one of his shoulders. He appeared to be deformed, for he
carried his head low and walked with his knees bent. We were passing
him when he raised his face to look at us in the circle of light
thrown by the lamp, and as he did so he stopped and screamed out in a
dreadful voice, “My God, it’s Nancy!” Mrs. Barclay turned as white
as death, and would have fallen down had the dreadful-looking
creature not caught hold of her. I was going to call for the police,
but she, to my surprise, spoke quite civilly to the fellow.

“‘”I thought you had been dead this thirty years, Henry,” said she,
in a shaking voice.

“‘”So I have,” said he, and it was awful to hear the tones that he
said it in. He had a very dark, fearsome face, and a gleam in his
eyes that comes back to me in my dreams. His hair and whiskers were
shot with gray, and his face was all crinkled and puckered like a
withered apple.

“‘”Just walk on a little way, dear,” said Mrs. Barclay; “I want to
have a word with this man. There is nothing to be afraid of.” She
tried to speak boldly, but she was still deadly pale and could hardly
get her words out for the trembling of her lips.

“‘I did as she asked me, and they talked together for a few minutes.
Then she came down the street with her eyes blazing, and I saw the
crippled wretch standing by the lamp-post and shaking his clenched
fists in the air as if he were mad with rage. She never said a word
until we were at the door here, when she took me by the hand and
begged me to tell no one what had happened.

“‘”It’s an old acquaintance of mine who has come down in the world,”
said she. When I promised her I would say nothing she kissed me, and
I have never seen her since. I have told you now the whole truth,
and if I withheld it from the police it is because I did not realize
then the danger in which my dear friend stood. I know that it can
only be to her advantage that everything should be known.’

“There was her statement, Watson, and to me, as you can imagine, it
was like a light on a dark night. Everything which had been
disconnected before began at once to assume its true place, and I had
a shadowy presentiment of the whole sequence of events. My next step
obviously was to find the man who had produced such a remarkable
impression upon Mrs. Barclay. If he were still in Aldershot it
should not be a very difficult matter. There are not such a very
great number of civilians, and a deformed man was sure to have
attracted attention. I spent a day in the search, and by
evening–this very evening, Watson–I had run him down. The man’s
name is Henry Wood, and he lives in lodgings in this same street in
which the ladies met him. He has only been five days in the place.
In the character of a registration-agent I had a most interesting
gossip with his landlady. The man is by trade a conjurer and
performer, going round the canteens after nightfall, and giving a
little entertainment at each. He carries some creature about with
him in that box; about which the landlady seemed to be in
considerable trepidation, for she had never seen an animal like it.
He uses it in some of his tricks according to her account. So much
the woman was able to tell me, and also that it was a wonder the man
lived, seeing how twisted he was, and that he spoke in a strange
tongue sometimes, and that for the last two nights she had heard him
groaning and weeping in his bedroom. He was all right, as far as
money went, but in his deposit he had given her what looked like a
bad florin. She showed it to me, Watson, and it was an Indian rupee.

“So now, my dear fellow, you see exactly how we stand and why it is I
want you. It is perfectly plain that after the ladies parted from
this man he followed them at a distance, that he saw the quarrel
between husband and wife through the window, that he rushed in, and
that the creature which he carried in his box got loose. That is all
very certain. But he is the only person in this world who can tell
us exactly what happened in that room.”

“And you intend to ask him?”

“Most certainly–but in the presence of a witness.”

“And I am the witness?”

“If you will be so good. If he can clear the matter up, well and
good. If he refuses, we have no alternative but to apply for a
warrant.”

“But how do you know he’ll be there when we return?”

“You may be sure that I took some precautions. I have one of my
Baker Street boys mounting guard over him who would stick to him like
a burr, go where he might. We shall find him in Hudson Street
to-morrow, Watson, and meanwhile I should be the criminal myself if I
kept you out of bed any longer.”

It was midday when we found ourselves at the scene of the tragedy,
and, under my companion’s guidance, we made our way at once to Hudson
Street. In spite of his capacity for concealing his emotions, I
could easily see that Holmes was in a state of suppressed excitement,
while I was myself tingling with that half-sporting,
half-intellectual pleasure which I invariably experienced when I
associated myself with him in his investigations.

“This is the street,” said he, as we turned into a short thoroughfare
lined with plain two-storied brick houses. “Ah, here is Simpson to
report.”

“He’s in all right, Mr. Holmes,” cried a small street Arab, running
up to us.

“Good, Simpson!” said Holmes, patting him on the head. “Come along,
Watson. This is the house.” He sent in his card with a message that
he had come on important business, and a moment later we were face to
face with the man whom we had come to see. In spite of the warm
weather he was crouching over a fire, and the little room was like an
oven. The man sat all twisted and huddled in his chair in a way
which gave an indescribably impression of deformity; but the face
which he turned towards us, though worn and swarthy, must at some
time have been remarkable for its beauty. He looked suspiciously at
us now out of yellow-shot, bilious eyes, and, without speaking or
rising, he waved towards two chairs.

“Mr. Henry Wood, late of India, I believe,” said Holmes, affably.
“I’ve come over this little matter of Colonel Barclay’s death.”

“What should I know about that?”

“That’s what I want to ascertain. You know, I suppose, that unless
the matter is cleared up, Mrs. Barclay, who is an old friend of
yours, will in all probability be tried for murder.”

The man gave a violent start.

“I don’t know who you are,” he cried, “nor how you come to know what
you do know, but will you swear that this is true that you tell me?”

“Why, they are only waiting for her to come to her senses to arrest
her.”

“My God! Are you in the police yourself?”

“No.”

“What business is it of yours, then?”

“It’s every man’s business to see justice done.”

“You can take my word that she is innocent.”

“Then you are guilty.”

“No, I am not.”

“Who killed Colonel James Barclay, then?”

“It was a just providence that killed him. But, mind you this, that
if I had knocked his brains out, as it was in my heart to do, he
would have had no more than his due from my hands. If his own guilty
conscience had not struck him down it is likely enough that I might
have had his blood upon my soul. You want me to tell the story.
Well, I don’t know why I shouldn’t, for there’s no cause for me to be
ashamed of it.

“It was in this way, sir. You see me now with my back like a camel
and by ribs all awry, but there was a time when Corporal Henry Wood
was the smartest man in the 117th foot. We were in India then, in
cantonments, at a place we’ll call Bhurtee. Barclay, who died the
other day, was sergeant in the same company as myself, and the belle
of the regiment, ay, and the finest girl that ever had the breath of
life between her lips, was Nancy Devoy, the daughter of the
color-sergeant. There were two men that loved her, and one that she
loved, and you’ll smile when you look at this poor thing huddled
before the fire, and hear me say that it was for my good looks that
she loved me.

“Well, though I had her heart, her father was set upon her marrying
Barclay. I was a harum-scarum, reckless lad, and he had had an
education, and was already marked for the sword-belt. But the girl
held true to me, and it seemed that I would have had her when the
Mutiny broke out, and all hell was loose in the country.

“We were shut up in Bhurtee, the regiment of us with half a battery
of artillery, a company of Sikhs, and a lot of civilians and
women-folk. There were ten thousand rebels round us, and they were
as keen as a set of terriers round a rat-cage. About the second week
of it our water gave out, and it was a question whether we could
communicate with General Neill’s column, which was moving up country.
It was our only chance, for we could not hope to fight our way out
with all the women and children, so I volunteered to go out and to
warn General Neill of our danger. My offer was accepted, and I
talked it over with Sergeant Barclay, who was supposed to know the
ground better than any other man, and who drew up a route by which I
might get through the rebel lines. At ten o’clock the same night I
started off upon my journey. There were a thousand lives to save,
but it was of only one that I was thinking when I dropped over the
wall that night.

“My way ran down a dried-up watercourse, which we hoped would screen
me from the enemy’s sentries; but as I crept round the corner of it I
walked right into six of them, who were crouching down in the dark
waiting for me. In an instant I was stunned with a blow and bound
hand and foot. But the real blow was to my heart and not to my head,
for as I came to and listened to as much as I could understand of
their talk, I heard enough to tell me that my comrade, the very man
who had arranged the way that I was to take, had betrayed me by means
of a native servant into the hands of the enemy.

“Well, there’s no need for me to dwell on that part of it. You know
now what James Barclay was capable of. Bhurtee was relieved by Neill
next day, but the rebels took me away with them in their retreat, and
it was many a long year before ever I saw a white face again. I was
tortured and tried to get away, and was captured and tortured again.
You can see for yourselves the state in which I was left. Some of
them that fled into Nepal took me with them, and then afterwards I
was up past Darjeeling. The hill-folk up there murdered the rebels
who had me, and I became their slave for a time until I escaped; but
instead of going south I had to go north, until I found myself among
the Afghans. There I wandered about for many a year, and at last
came back to the Punjaub, where I lived mostly among the natives and
picked up a living by the conjuring tricks that I had learned. What
use was it for me, a wretched cripple, to go back to England or to
make myself known to my old comrades? Even my wish for revenge would
not make me do that. I had rather that Nancy and my old pals should
think of Harry Wood as having died with a straight back, than see him
living and crawling with a stick like a chimpanzee. They never
doubted that I was dead, and I meant that they never should. I heard
that Barclay had married Nancy, and that he was rising rapidly in the
regiment, but even that did not make me speak.

“But when one gets old one has a longing for home. For years I’ve
been dreaming of the bright green fields and the hedges of England.
At last I determined to see them before I died. I saved enough to
bring me across, and then I came here where the soldiers are, for I
know their ways and how to amuse them and so earn enough to keep me.”

“Your narrative is most interesting,” said Sherlock Holmes. “I have
already heard of your meeting with Mrs. Barclay, and your mutual
recognition. You then, as I understand, followed her home and saw
through the window an altercation between her husband and her, in
which she doubtless cast his conduct to you in his teeth. Your own
feelings overcame you, and you ran across the lawn and broke in upon
them.”

“I did, sir, and at the sight of me he looked as I have never seen a
man look before, and over he went with his head on the fender. But
he was dead before he fell. I read death on his face as plain as I
can read that text over the fire. The bare sight of me was like a
bullet through his guilty heart.”

“And then?”

“Then Nancy fainted, and I caught up the key of the door from her
hand, intending to unlock it and get help. But as I was doing it it
seemed to me better to leave it alone and get away, for the thing
might look black against me, and any way my secret would be out if I
were taken. In my haste I thrust the key into my pocket, and dropped
my stick while I was chasing Teddy, who had run up the curtain. When
I got him into his box, from which he had slipped, I was off as fast
as I could run.”

“Who’s Teddy?” asked Holmes.

The man leaned over and pulled up the front of a kind of hutch in the
corner. In an instant out there slipped a beautiful reddish-brown
creature, thin and lithe, with the legs of a stoat, a long, thin
nose, and a pair of the finest red eyes that ever I saw in an
animal’s head.

“It’s a mongoose,” I cried.

“Well, some call them that, and some call them ichneumon,” said the
man. “Snake-catcher is what I call them, and Teddy is amazing quick
on cobras. I have one here without the fangs, and Teddy catches it
every night to please the folk in the canteen.

“Any other point, sir?”

“Well, we may have to apply to you again if Mrs. Barclay should prove
to be in serious trouble.”

“In that case, of course, I’d come forward.”

“But if not, there is no object in raking up this scandal against a
dead man, foully as he has acted. You have at least the satisfaction
of knowing that for thirty years of his life his conscience bitterly
reproached him for this wicked deed. Ah, there goes Major Murphy on
the other side of the street. Good-bye, Wood. I want to learn if
anything has happened since yesterday.”

We were in time to overtake the major before he reached the corner.

“Ah, Holmes,” he said: “I suppose you have heard that all this fuss
has come to nothing?”

“What then?”

“The inquest is just over. The medical evidence showed conclusively
that death was due to apoplexy. You see it was quite a simple case
after all.”

“Oh, remarkably superficial,” said Holmes, smiling. “Come, Watson, I
don’t think we shall be wanted in Aldershot any more.”

“There’s one thing,” said I, as we walked down to the station. “If
the husband’s name was James, and the other was Henry, what was this
talk about David?”

“That one word, my dear Watson, should have told me the whole story
had I been the ideal reasoner which you are so fond of depicting. It
was evidently a term of reproach.”

“Of reproach?”

“Yes; David strayed a little occasionally, you know, and on one
occasion in the same direction as Sergeant James Barclay. You
remember the small affair of Uriah and Bathsheba? My biblical
knowledge is a trifle rusty, I fear, but you will find the story in
the first or second of Samuel.”

Glancing over the somewhat incoherent series of Memoirs with which I
have endeavored to illustrate a few of the mental peculiarities of my
friend Mr. Sherlock Holmes, I have been struck by the difficulty
which I have experienced in picking out examples which shall in every
way answer my purpose. For in those cases in which Holmes has
performed some tour de force of analytical reasoning, and has
demonstrated the value of his peculiar methods of investigation, the
facts themselves have often been so slight or so commonplace that I
could not feel justified in laying them before the public. On the
other hand, it has frequently happened that he has been concerned in
some research where the facts have been of the most remarkable and
dramatic character, but where the share which he has himself taken in
determining their causes has been less pronounced than I, as his
biographer, could wish. The small matter which I have chronicled
under the heading of “A Study in Scarlet,” and that other later one
connected with the loss of the Gloria Scott, may serve as examples of
this Scylla and Charybdis which are forever threatening the
historian. It may be that in the business of which I am now about to
write the part which my friend played is not sufficiently
accentuated; and yet the whole train of circumstances is so
remarkable that I cannot bring myself to omit it entirely from this
series.

It had been a close, rainy day in October. Our blinds were
half-drawn, and Holmes lay curled upon the sofa, reading and
re-reading a letter which he had received by the morning post. For
myself, my term of service in India had trained me to stand heat
better than cold, and a thermometer of 90 was no hardship. But the
paper was uninteresting. Parliament had risen. Everybody was out of
town, and I yearned for the glades of the New Forest or the shingle
of Southsea. A depleted bank account had caused me to postpone my
holiday, and as to my companion, neither the country nor the sea
presented the slightest attraction to him. He loved to lie in the
very centre of five millions of people, with his filaments stretching
out and running through them, responsive to every little rumor or
suspicion of unsolved crime. Appreciation of Nature found no place
among his many gifts, and his only change was when he turned his mind
from the evil-doer of the town to track down his brother of the
country.

I cannot be sure of the exact date, for some of my memoranda upon the
matter have been mislaid, but it must have been towards the end of
the first year during which Holmes and I shared chambers in Baker
Street. It was boisterous October weather, and we had both remained
indoors all day, I because I feared with my shaken health to face the
keen autumn wind, while he was deep in some of those abstruse
chemical investigations which absorbed him utterly as long as he was
engaged upon them. Towards evening, however, the breaking of a
test-tube brought his research to a premature ending, and he sprang
up from his chair with an exclamation of impatience and a clouded
brow.

“A day’s work ruined, Watson,” said he, striding across to the
window. “Ha! The stars are out and he wind has fallen. What do you
say to a ramble through London?”

I was weary of our little sitting-room and gladly acquiesced. For
three hours we strolled about together, watching the ever-changing
kaleidoscope of life as it ebbs and flows through Fleet Street and
the Strand. His characteristic talk, with its keen observance of
detail and subtle power of inference held me amused and enthralled.
It was ten o’clock before we reached Baker Street again. A brougham
was waiting at our door.

“Hum! A doctor’s–general practitioner, I perceive,” said Holmes.
“Not been long in practice, but has had a good deal to do. Come to
consult us, I fancy! Lucky we came back!”

I was sufficiently conversant with Holmes’s methods to be able to
follow his reasoning, and to see that the nature and state of the
various medical instruments in the wicker basket which hung in the
lamplight inside the brougham had given him the data for his swift
deduction. The light in our window above showed that this late visit
was indeed intended for us. With some curiosity as to what could have
sent a brother medico to us at such an hour, I followed Holmes into
our sanctum.

A pale, taper-faced man with sandy whiskers rose up from a chair by
the fire as we entered. His age may not have been more than three or
four and thirty, but his haggard expression and unhealthy hue told of
a life which has sapped his strength and robbed him of his youth. His
manner was nervous and shy, like that of a sensitive gentleman, and
the thin white hand which he laid on the mantelpiece as he rose was
that of an artist rather than of a surgeon. His dress was quiet and
sombre–a black frock-coat, dark trousers, and a touch of color about
his necktie.

“Good-evening, doctor,” said Holmes, cheerily. “I am glad to see that
you have only been waiting a very few minutes.”

“You spoke to my coachman, then?”

“No, it was the candle on the side-table that told me. Pray resume
your seat and let me know how I can serve you.”

“My name is Doctor Percy Trevelyan,” said our visitor, “and I live at
403 Brook Street.”

“Are you not the author of a monograph upon obscure nervous lesions?”
I asked.

His pale cheeks flushed with pleasure at hearing that his work was
known to me.

“I so seldom hear of the work that I thought it was quite dead,” said
he. “My publishers gave me a most discouraging account of its sale.
You are yourself, I presume, a medical man?”

“A retired army surgeon.”

“My own hobby has always been nervous disease. I should wish to make
it an absolute specialty, but, of course, a man must take what he can
get at first. This, however, is beside the question, Mr. Sherlock
Holmes, and I quite appreciate how valuable your time is. The fact is
that a very singular train of events has occurred recently at my
house in Brook Street, and to-night they came to such a head that I
felt it was quite impossible for me to wait another hour before
asking for your advice and assistance.”

Sherlock Holmes sat down and lit his pipe. “You are very welcome to
both,” said he. “Pray let me have a detailed account of what the
circumstances are which have disturbed you.”

“One or two of them are so trivial,” said Dr. Trevelyan, “that really
I am almost ashamed to mention them. But the matter is so
inexplicable, and the recent turn which it has taken is so elaborate,
that I shall lay it all before you, and you shall judge what is
essential and what is not.

“I am compelled, to begin with, to say something of my own college
career. I am a London University man, you know, and I am sure that
you will not think that I am unduly singing my own praises if I say
that my student career was considered by my professors to be a very
promising one. After I had graduated I continued to devote myself to
research, occupying a minor position in King’s College Hospital, and
I was fortunate enough to excite considerable interest by my research
into the pathology of catalepsy, and finally to win the Bruce
Pinkerton prize and medal by the monograph on nervous lesions to
which your friend has just alluded. I should not go too far if I were
to say that there was a general impression at that time that a
distinguished career lay before me.

“But the one great stumbling-block lay in my want of capital. As you
will readily understand, a specialist who aims high is compelled to
start in one of a dozen streets in the Cavendish Square quarter, all
of which entail enormous rents and furnishing expenses. Besides this
preliminary outlay, he must be prepared to keep himself for some
years, and to hire a presentable carriage and horse. To do this was
quite beyond my power, and I could only hope that by economy I might
in ten years’ time save enough to enable me to put up my plate.
Suddenly, however, an unexpected incident opened up quite a new
prospect to me.

“This was a visit from a gentleman of the name of Blessington, who
was a complete stranger to me. He came up to my room one morning, and
plunged into business in an instant.

“‘You are the same Percy Trevelyan who has had so distinguished a
career and won a great prize lately?’ said he.

“I bowed.

“‘Answer me frankly,’ he continued, ‘for you will find it to your
interest to do so. You have all the cleverness which makes a
successful man. Have you the tact?’

“I could not help smiling at the abruptness of the question.

“‘I trust that I have my share,’ I said.

“‘Any bad habits? Not drawn towards drink, eh?’

“‘Really, sir!’ I cried.

“‘Quite right! That’s all right! But I was bound to ask. With all
these qualities, why are you not in practice?’

“I shrugged my shoulders.

“‘Come, come!’ said he, in his bustling way. ‘It’s the old story.
More in your brains than in your pocket, eh? What would you say if I
were to start you in Brook Street?’

“I stared at him in astonishment.

“‘Oh, it’s for my sake, not for yours,’ he cried. ‘I’ll be perfectly
frank with you, and if it suits you it will suit me very well. I have
a few thousands to invest, d’ye see, and I think I’ll sink them in
you.’

“‘But why?’ I gasped.

“‘Well, it’s just like any other speculation, and safer than most.’

“‘What am I to do, then?’

“‘I’ll tell you. I’ll take the house, furnish it, pay the maids, and
run the whole place. All you have to do is just to wear out your
chair in the consulting-room. I’ll let you have pocket-money and
everything. Then you hand over to me three quarters of what you earn,
and you keep the other quarter for yourself.’

“This was the strange proposal, Mr. Holmes, with which the man
Blessington approached me. I won’t weary you with the account of how
we bargained and negotiated. It ended in my moving into the house
next Lady Day, and starting in practice on very much the same
conditions as he had suggested. He came himself to live with me in
the character of a resident patient. His heart was weak, it appears,
and he needed constant medical supervision. He turned the two best
rooms of the first floor into a sitting-room and bedroom for himself.
He was a man of singular habits, shunning company and very seldom
going out. His life was irregular, but in one respect he was
regularity itself. Every evening, at the same hour, he walked into
the consulting-room, examined the books, put down five and
three-pence for every guinea that I had earned, and carried the rest
off to the strong-box in his own room.

“I may say with confidence that he never had occasion to regret his
speculation. From the first it was a success. A few good cases and
the reputation which I had won in the hospital brought me rapidly to
the front, and during the last few years I have made him a rich man.

“So much, Mr. Holmes, for my past history and my relations with Mr.
Blessington. It only remains for me now to tell you what has occurred
to bring me here to-night.

“Some weeks ago Mr. Blessington came down to me in, as it seemed to
me, a state of considerable agitation. He spoke of some burglary
which, he said, had been committed in the West End, and he appeared,
I remember, to be quite unnecessarily excited about it, declaring
that a day should not pass before we should add stronger bolts to our
windows and doors. For a week he continued to be in a peculiar state
of restlessness, peering continually out of the windows, and ceasing
to take the short walk which had usually been the prelude to his
dinner. From his manner it struck me that he was in mortal dread of
something or somebody, but when I questioned him upon the point he
became so offensive that I was compelled to drop the subject.
Gradually, as time passed, his fears appeared to die away, and he had
renewed his former habits, when a fresh event reduced him to the
pitiable state of prostration in which he now lies.

“What happened was this. Two days ago I received the letter which I
now read to you. Neither address nor date is attached to it.

“‘A Russian nobleman who is now resident in England,’ it runs, ‘would
be glad to avail himself of the professional assistance of Dr. Percy
Trevelyan. He has been for some years a victim to cataleptic attacks,
on which, as is well known, Dr. Trevelyan is an authority. He
proposes to call at about quarter past six to-morrow evening, if Dr.
Trevelyan will make it convenient to be at home.’

“This letter interested me deeply, because the chief difficulty in
the study of catalepsy is the rareness of the disease. You may
believe, than, that I was in my consulting-room when, at the
appointed hour, the page showed in the patient.

He was an elderly man, thin, demure, and common-place–by no means
the conception one forms of a Russian nobleman. I was much more
struck by the appearance of his companion. This was a tall young man,
surprisingly handsome, with a dark, fierce face, and the limbs and
chest of a Hercules. He had his hand under the other’s arm as they
entered, and helped him to a chair with a tenderness which one would
hardly have expected from his appearance.

“‘You will excuse my coming in, doctor,’ said he to me, speaking
English with a slight lisp. ‘This is my father, and his health is a
matter of the most overwhelming importance to me.’

“I was touched by this filial anxiety. ‘You would, perhaps, care to
remain during the consultation?’ said I.

“‘Not for the world,’ he cried with a gesture of horror. ‘It is more
painful to me than I can express. If I were to see my father in one
of these dreadful seizures I am convinced that I should never survive
it. My own nervous system is an exceptionally sensitive one. With
your permission, I will remain in the waiting-room while you go into
my father’s case.’

“To this, of course, I assented, and the young man withdrew. The
patient and I then plunged into a discussion of his case, of which I
took exhaustive notes. He was not remarkable for intelligence, and
his answers were frequently obscure, which I attributed to his
limited acquaintance with our language. Suddenly, however, as I sat
writing, he ceased to give any answer at all to my inquiries, and on
my turning towards him I was shocked to see that he was sitting bolt
upright in his chair, staring at me with a perfectly blank and rigid
face. He was again in the grip of his mysterious malady.

“My first feeling, as I have just said, was one of pity and horror.
My second, I fear, was rather one of professional satisfaction. I
made notes of my patient’s pulse and temperature, tested the rigidity
of his muscles, and examined his reflexes. There was nothing markedly
abnormal in any of these conditions, which harmonized with my former
experiences. I had obtained good results in such cases by the
inhalation of nitrite of amyl, and the present seemed an admirable
opportunity of testing its virtues. The bottle was downstairs in my
laboratory, so leaving my patient seated in his chair, I ran down to
get it. There was some little delay in finding it–five minutes, let
us say–and then I returned. Imagine my amazement to find the room
empty and the patient gone.

“Of course, my first act was to run into the waiting-room. The son
had gone also. The hall door had been closed, but not shut. My page
who admits patients is a new boy and by no means quick. He waits
downstairs, and runs up to show patients out when I ring the
consulting-room bell. He had heard nothing, and the affair remained a
complete mystery. Mr. Blessington came in from his walk shortly
afterwards, but I did not say anything to him upon the subject, for,
to tell the truth, I have got in the way of late of holding as little
communication with him as possible.

“Well, I never thought that I should see anything more of the Russian
and his son, so you can imagine my amazement when, at the very same
hour this evening, they both came marching into my consulting-room,
just as they had done before.

“‘I feel that I owe you a great many apologies for my abrupt
departure yesterday, doctor,’ said my patient.

“‘I confess that I was very much surprised at it,’ said I.

“‘Well, the fact is,’ he remarked, ‘that when I recover from these
attacks my mind is always very clouded as to all that has gone
before. I woke up in a strange room, as it seemed to me, and made my
way out into the street in a sort of dazed way when you were absent.’

“‘And I,’ said the son, ‘seeing my father pass the door of the
waiting-room, naturally thought that the consultation had come to an
end. It was not until we had reached home that I began to realize the
true state of affairs.’

“‘Well,’ said I, laughing, ‘there is no harm done except that you
puzzled me terribly; so if you, sir, would kindly step into the
waiting-room I shall be happy to continue our consultation which was
brought to so abrupt an ending.’

“For half an hour or so I discussed that old gentleman’s symptoms
with him, and then, having prescribed for him, I saw him go off upon
the arm of his son.

“I have told you that Mr. Blessington generally chose this hour of
the day for his exercise. He came in shortly afterwards and passed
upstairs. An instant later I heard him running down, and he burst
into my consulting-room like a man who is mad with panic.

“‘Who has been in my room?’ he cried.

“‘No one,’ said I.

“‘It’s a lie!’ He yelled. ‘Come up and look!’

“I passed over the grossness of his language, as he seemed half out
of his mind with fear. When I went upstairs with him he pointed to
several footprints upon the light carpet.

“‘D’you mean to say those are mine?’ he cried.

“They were certainly very much larger than any which he could have
made, and were evidently quite fresh. It rained hard this afternoon,
as you know, and my patients were the only people who called. It must
have been the case, then, that the man in the waiting-room had, for
some unknown reason, while I was busy with the other, ascended to the
room of my resident patient. Nothing has been touched or taken, but
there were the footprints to prove that the intrusion was an
undoubted fact.

“Mr. Blessington seemed more excited over the matter than I should
have thought possible, though of course it was enough to disturb
anybody’s peace of mind. He actually sat crying in an arm-chair, and
I could hardly get him to speak coherently. It was his suggestion
that I should come round to you, and of course I at once saw the
propriety of it, for certainly the incident is a very singular one,
though he appears to completely overrate its importance. If you would
only come back with me in my brougham, you would at least be able to
soothe him, though I can hardly hope that you will be able to explain
this remarkable occurrence.”

Sherlock Holmes had listened to this long narrative with an
intentness which showed me that his interest was keenly aroused. His
face was as impassive as ever, but his lids had drooped more heavily
over his eyes, and his smoke had curled up more thickly from his pipe
to emphasize each curious episode in the doctor’s tale. As our
visitor concluded, Holmes sprang up without a word, handed me my hat,
picked his own from the table, and followed Dr. Trevelyan to the
door. Within a quarter of an hour we had been dropped at the door of
the physician’s residence in Brook Street, one of those sombre,
flat-faced houses which one associates with a West-End practice. A
small page admitted us, and we began at once to ascend the broad,
well-carpeted stair.

But a singular interruption brought us to a standstill. The light at
the top was suddenly whisked out, and from the darkness came a reedy,
quivering voice.

“I have a pistol,” it cried. “I give you my word that I’ll fire if
you come any nearer.”

“This really grows outrageous, Mr. Blessington,” cried Dr. Trevelyan.

“Oh, then it is you, doctor,” said the voice, with a great heave of
relief. “But those other gentlemen, are they what they pretend to
be?”

We were conscious of a long scrutiny out of the darkness.

“Yes, yes, it’s all right,” said the voice at last. “You can come up,
and I am sorry if my precautions have annoyed you.”

He relit the stair gas as he spoke, and we saw before us a
singular-looking man, whose appearance, as well as his voice,
testified to his jangled nerves. He was very fat, but had apparently
at some time been much fatter, so that the skin hung about his face
in loose pouches, like the cheeks of a blood-hound. He was of a
sickly color, and his thin, sandy hair seemed to bristle up with the
intensity of his emotion. In his hand he held a pistol, but he thrust
it into his pocket as we advanced.

“Good-evening, Mr. Holmes,” said he. “I am sure I am very much
obliged to you for coming round. No one ever needed your advice more
than I do. I suppose that Dr. Trevelyan has told you of this most
unwarrantable intrusion into my rooms.”

“Quite so,” said Holmes. “Who are these two men Mr. Blessington, and
why do they wish to molest you?”

“Well, well,” said the resident patient, in a nervous fashion, “of
course it is hard to say that. You can hardly expect me to answer
that, Mr. Holmes.”

“Do you mean that you don’t know?”

“Come in here, if you please. Just have the kindness to step in
here.”

He led the way into his bedroom, which was large and comfortably
furnished.

“You see that,” said he, pointing to a big black box at the end of
his bed. “I have never been a very rich man, Mr. Holmes–never made
but one investment in my life, as Dr. Trevelyan would tell you. But I
don’t believe in bankers. I would never trust a banker, Mr. Holmes.
Between ourselves, what little I have is in that box, so you can
understand what it means to me when unknown people force themselves
into my rooms.”

Holmes looked at Blessington in his questioning way and shook his
head.

“I cannot possibly advise you if you try to deceive me,” said he.

“But I have told you everything.”

Holmes turned on his heel with a gesture of disgust. “Good-night, Dr.
Trevelyan,” said he.

“And no advice for me?” cried Blessington, in a breaking voice.

“My advice to your, sir, is to speak the truth.”

A minute later we were in the street and walking for home. We had
crossed Oxford Street and were half way down Harley Street before I
could get a word from my companion.

“Sorry to bring you out on such a fool’s errand, Watson,” he said at
last. “It is an interesting case, too, at the bottom of it.”

“I can make little of it,” I confessed.

“Well, it is quite evident that there are two men–more, perhaps, but
at least two–who are determined for some reason to get at this
fellow Blessington. I have no doubt in my mind that both on the first
and on the second occasion that young man penetrated to Blessington’s
room, while his confederate, by an ingenious device, kept the doctor
from interfering.”

“And the catalepsy?”

“A fraudulent imitation, Watson, though I should hardly dare to hint
as much to our specialist. It is a very easy complaint to imitate. I
have done it myself.”

“And then?”

“By the purest chance Blessington was out on each occasion. Their
reason for choosing so unusual an hour for a consultation was
obviously to insure that there should be no other patient in the
waiting-room. It just happened, however, that this hour coincided
with Blessington’s constitutional, which seems to show that they were
not very well acquainted with his daily routine. Of course, if they
had been merely after plunder they would at least have made some
attempt to search for it. Besides, I can read in a man’s eye when it
is his own skin that he is frightened for. It is inconceivable that
this fellow could have made two such vindictive enemies as these
appear to be without knowing of it. I hold it, therefore, to be
certain that he does know who these men are, and that for reasons of
his own he suppresses it. It is just possible that to-morrow may find
him in a more communicative mood.”

“Is there not one alternative,” I suggested, “grotesquely improbably,
no doubt, but still just conceivable? Might the whole story of the
cataleptic Russian and his son be a concoction of Dr. Trevelyan’s,
who has, for his own purposes, been in Blessington’s rooms?”

I saw in the gaslight that Holmes wore an amused smile at this
brilliant departure of mine.

“My dear fellow,” said he, “it was one of the first solutions which
occurred to me, but I was soon able to corroborate the doctor’s tale.
This young man has left prints upon the stair-carpet which made it
quite superfluous for me to ask to see those which he had made in the
room. When I tell you that his shoes were square-toed instead of
being pointed like Blessington’s, and were quite an inch and a third
longer than the doctor’s, you will acknowledge that there can be no
doubt as to his individuality. But we may sleep on it now, for I
shall be surprised if we do not hear something further from Brook
Street in the morning.”

Sherlock Holmes’s prophecy was soon fulfilled, and in a dramatic
fashion. At half-past seven next morning, in the first glimmer of
daylight, I found him standing by my bedside in his dressing-gown.

“There’s a brougham waiting for us, Watson,” said he.

“What’s the matter, then?”

“The Brook Street business.”

“Any fresh news?”

“Tragic, but ambiguous,” said he, pulling up the blind. “Look at
this–a sheet from a note-book, with ‘For God’s sake come at once–P.
T.,’ scrawled upon it in pencil. Our friend, the doctor, was hard put
to it when he wrote this. Come along, my dear fellow, for it’s an
urgent call.”

In a quarter of an hour or so we were back at the physician’s house.
He came running out to meet us with a face of horror.

“Oh, such a business!” he cried, with his hands to his temples.

“What then?”

“Blessington has committed suicide!”

Holmes whistled.

“Yes, he hanged himself during the night.”

We had entered, and the doctor had preceded us into what was
evidently his waiting-room.

“I really hardly know what I am doing,” he cried. “The police are
already upstairs. It has shaken me most dreadfully.”

“When did you find it out?”

“He has a cup of tea taken in to him early every morning. When the
maid entered, about seven, there the unfortunate fellow was hanging
in the middle of the room. He had tied his cord to the hook on which
the heavy lamp used to hang, and he had jumped off from the top of
the very box that he showed us yesterday.”

Holmes stood for a moment in deep thought.

“With your permission,” said he at last, “I should like to go
upstairs and look into the matter.”

We both ascended, followed by the doctor.

It was a dreadful sight which met us as we entered the bedroom door.
I have spoken of the impression of flabbiness which this man
Blessington conveyed. As he dangled from the hook it was exaggerated
and intensified until he was scarce human in his appearance. The neck
was drawn out like a plucked chicken’s, making the rest of him seem
the more obese and unnatural by the contrast. He was clad only in his
long night-dress, and his swollen ankles and ungainly feet protruded
starkly from beneath it. Beside him stood a smart-looking
police-inspector, who was taking notes in a pocket-book.

“Ah, Mr. Holmes,” said he, heartily, as my friend entered, “I am
delighted to see you.”

“Good-morning, Lanner,” answered Holmes; “you won’t think me an
intruder, I am sure. Have you heard of the events which led up to
this affair?”

“Yes, I heard something of them.”

“Have you formed any opinion?”

“As far as I can see, the man has been driven out of his senses by
fright. The bed has been well slept in, you see. There’s his
impression deep enough. It’s about five in the morning, you know,
that suicides are most common. That would be about his time for
hanging himself. It seems to have been a very deliberate affair.”

“I should say that he has been dead about three hours, judging by the
rigidity of the muscles,” said I.

“Noticed anything peculiar about the room?” asked Holmes.

“Found a screw-driver and some screws on the wash-hand stand. Seems
to have smoked heavily during the night, too. Here are four
cigar-ends that I picked out of the fireplace.”

“Hum!” said Holmes, “have you got his cigar-holder?”

“No, I have seen none.”

“His cigar-case, then?”

“Yes, it was in his coat-pocket.”

Holmes opened it and smelled the single cigar which it contained.

“Oh, this is an Havana, and these others are cigars of the peculiar
sort which are imported by the Dutch from their East Indian colonies.
They are usually wrapped in straw, you know, and are thinner for
their length than any other brand.” He picked up the four ends and
examined them with his pocket-lens.

“Two of these have been smoked from a holder and two without,” said
he. “Two have been cut by a not very sharp knife, and two have had
the ends bitten off by a set of excellent teeth. This is no suicide,
Mr. Lanner. It is a very deeply planned and cold-blooded murder.”

“Impossible!” cried the inspector.

“And why?”

“Why should any one murder a man in so clumsy a fashion as by hanging
him?”

“That is what we have to find out.”

“How could they get in?”

“Through the front door.”

“It was barred in the morning.”

“Then it was barred after them.”

“How do you know?”

“I saw their traces. Excuse me a moment, and I may be able to give
you some further information about it.”

He went over to the door, and turning the lock he examined it in his
methodical way. Then he took out the key, which was on the inside,
and inspected that also. The bed, the carpet, the chairs the
mantelpiece, the dead body, and the rope were each in turn examined,
until at last he professed himself satisfied, and with my aid and
that of the inspector cut down the wretched object and laid it
reverently under a sheet.

“How about this rope?” he asked.

“It is cut off this,” said Dr. Trevelyan, drawing a large coil from
under the bed. “He was morbidly nervous of fire, and always kept this
beside him, so that he might escape by the window in case the stairs
were burning.”

“That must have saved them trouble,” said Holmes, thoughtfully. “Yes,
the actual facts are very plain, and I shall be surprised if by the
afternoon I cannot give you the reasons for them as well. I will take
this photograph of Blessington, which I see upon the mantelpiece, as
it may help me in my inquiries.”

“But you have told us nothing!” cried the doctor.

“Oh, there can be no doubt as to the sequence of events,” said
Holmes. “There were three of them in it: the young man, the old man,
and a third, to whose identity I have no clue. The first two, I need
hardly remark, are the same who masqueraded as the Russian count and
his son, so we can give a very full description of them. They were
admitted by a confederate inside the house. If I might offer you a
word of advice, Inspector, it would be to arrest the page, who, as I
understand, has only recently come into your service, Doctor.”

“The young imp cannot be found,” said Dr. Trevelyan; “the maid and
the cook have just been searching for him.”

Holmes shrugged his shoulders.

“He has played a not unimportant part in this drama,” said he. “The
three men having ascended the stairs, which they did on tiptoe, the
elder man first, the younger man second, and the unknown man in the
rear–“

“My dear Holmes!” I ejaculated.

“Oh, there could be no question as to the superimposing of the
footmarks. I had the advantage of learning which was which last
night. They ascended, then, to Mr. Blessington’s room, the door of
which they found to be locked. With the help of a wire, however, they
forced round the key. Even without the lens you will perceive, by the
scratches on this ward, where the pressure was applied.

“On entering the room their first proceeding must have been to gag
Mr. Blessington. He may have been asleep, or he may have been so
paralyzed with terror as to have been unable to cry out. These walls
are thick, and it is conceivable that his shriek, if he had time to
utter one, was unheard.

“Having secured him, it is evident to me that a consultation of some
sort was held. Probably it was something in the nature of a judicial
proceeding. It must have lasted for some time, for it was then that
these cigars were smoked. The older man sat in that wicker chair; it
was he who used the cigar-holder. The younger man sat over yonder; he
knocked his ash off against the chest of drawers. The third fellow
paced up and down. Blessington, I think, sat upright in the bed, but
of that I cannot be absolutely certain.

“Well, it ended by their taking Blessington and hanging him. The
matter was so prearranged that it is my belief that they brought with
them some sort of block or pulley which might serve as a gallows.
That screw-driver and those screws were, as I conceive, for fixing it
up. Seeing the hook, however they naturally saved themselves the
trouble. Having finished their work they made off, and the door was
barred behind them by their confederate.”

We had all listened with the deepest interest to this sketch of the
night’s doings, which Holmes had deduced from signs so subtle and
minute that, even when he had pointed them out to us, we could
scarcely follow him in his reasoning. The inspector hurried away on
the instant to make inquiries about the page, while Holmes and I
returned to Baker Street for breakfast.

“I’ll be back by three,” said he, when we had finished our meal.
“Both the inspector and the doctor will meet me here at that hour,
and I hope by that time to have cleared up any little obscurity which
the case may still present.”

Our visitors arrived at the appointed time, but it was a quarter to
four before my friend put in an appearance. From his expression as he
entered, however, I could see that all had gone well with him.

“Any news, Inspector?”

“We have got the boy, sir.”

“Excellent, and I have got the men.”

“You have got them!” we cried, all three.

“Well, at least I have got their identity. This so-called Blessington
is, as I expected, well known at headquarters, and so are his
assailants. Their names are Biddle, Hayward, and Moffat.”

“The Worthingdon bank gang,” cried the inspector.

“Precisely,” said Holmes.

“Then Blessington must have been Sutton.”

“Exactly,” said Holmes.

“Why, that makes it as clear as crystal,” said the inspector.

But Trevelyan and I looked at each other in bewilderment.

“You must surely remember the great Worthingdon bank business,” said
Holmes. “Five men were in it–these four and a fifth called
Cartwright. Tobin, the care-taker, was murdered, and the thieves got
away with seven thousand pounds. This was in 1875. They were all five
arrested, but the evidence against them was by no means conclusive.
This Blessington or Sutton, who was the worst of the gang, turned
informer. On his evidence Cartwright was hanged and the other three
got fifteen years apiece. When they got out the other day, which was
some years before their full term, they set themselves, as you
perceive, to hunt down the traitor and to avenge the death of their
comrade upon him. Twice they tried to get at him and failed; a third
time, you see, it came off. Is there anything further which I can
explain, Dr. Trevelyan?”

“I think you have made it all remarkable clear,” said the doctor. “No
doubt the day on which he was perturbed was the day when he had seen
of their release in the newspapers.”

“Quite so. His talk about a burglary was the merest blind.”

“But why could he not tell you this?”

“Well, my dear sir, knowing the vindictive character of his old
associates, he was trying to hide his own identity from everybody as
long as he could. His secret was a shameful one, and he could not
bring himself to divulge it. However, wretch as he was, he was still
living under the shield of British law, and I have no doubt,
Inspector, that you will see that, though that shield may fail to
guard, the sword of justice is still there to avenge.”

Such were the singular circumstances in connection with the Resident
Patient and the Brook Street Doctor. From that night nothing has been
seen of the three murderers by the police, and it is surmised at
Scotland Yard that they were among the passengers of the ill-fated
steamer Norah Creina, which was lost some years ago with all hands
upon the Portuguese coast, some leagues to the north of Oporto. The
proceedings against the page broke down for want of evidence, and the
Brook Street Mystery, as it was called, has never until now been
fully dealt with in any public print.

During my long and intimate acquaintance with Mr. Sherlock Holmes I
had never heard him refer to his relations, and hardly ever to his
own early life. This reticence upon his part had increased the
somewhat inhuman effect which he produced upon me, until sometimes I
found myself regarding him as an isolated phenomenon, a brain without
a heart, as deficient in human sympathy as he was pre-eminent in
intelligence. His aversion to women and his disinclination to form
new friendships were both typical of his unemotional character, but
not more so than his complete suppression of every reference to his
own people. I had come to believe that he was an orphan with no
relatives living, but one day, to my very great surprise, he began to
talk to me about his brother.

It was after tea on a summer evening, and the conversation, which had
roamed in a desultory, spasmodic fashion from golf clubs to the
causes of the change in the obliquity of the ecliptic, came round at
last to the question of atavism and hereditary aptitudes. The point
under discussion was, how far any singular gift in an individual was
due to his ancestry and how far to his own early training.

“In your own case,” said I, “from all that you have told me, it seems
obvious that your faculty of observation and your peculiar facility
for deduction are due to your own systematic training.”

“To some extent,” he answered, thoughtfully. “My ancestors were
country squires, who appear to have led much the same life as is
natural to their class. But, none the less, my turn that way is in
my veins, and may have come with my grandmother, who was the sister
of Vernet, the French artist. Art in the blood is liable to take the
strangest forms.”

“But how do you know that it is hereditary?”

“Because my brother Mycroft possesses it in a larger degree than I
do.”

This was news to me indeed. If there were another man with such
singular powers in England, how was it that neither police nor public
had heard of him? I put the question, with a hint that it was my
companion’s modesty which made him acknowledge his brother as his
superior. Holmes laughed at my suggestion.

“My dear Watson,” said he, “I cannot agree with those who rank
modesty among the virtues. To the logician all things should be seen
exactly as they are, and to underestimate one’s self is as much a
departure from truth as to exaggerate one’s own powers. When I say,
therefore, that Mycroft has better powers of observation than I, you
may take it that I am speaking the exact and literal truth.”

“Is he your junior?”

“Seven years my senior.”

“How comes it that he is unknown?”

“Oh, he is very well known in his own circle.”

“Where, then?”

“Well, in the Diogenes Club, for example.”

I had never heard of the institution, and my face must have
proclaimed as much, for Sherlock Holmes pulled out his watch.

“The Diogenes Club is the queerest club in London, and Mycroft one of
the queerest men. He’s always there from quarter to five to twenty
to eight. It’s six now, so if you care for a stroll this beautiful
evening I shall be very happy to introduce you to two curiosities.”

Five minutes later we were in the street, walking towards Regent’s
Circus.

“You wonder,” said my companion, “why it is that Mycroft does not use
his powers for detective work. He is incapable of it.”

“But I thought you said–“

“I said that he was my superior in observation and deduction. If the
art of the detective began and ended in reasoning from an arm-chair,
my brother would be the greatest criminal agent that ever lived. But
he has no ambition and no energy. He will not even go out of his way
to verify his own solution, and would rather be considered wrong than
take the trouble to prove himself right. Again and again I have
taken a problem to him, and have received an explanation which has
afterwards proved to be the correct one. And yet he was absolutely
incapable of working out the practical points which must be gone into
before a case could be laid before a judge or jury.”

“It is not his profession, then?”

“By no means. What is to me a means of livelihood is to him the
merest hobby of a dilettante. He has an extraordinary faculty for
figures, and audits the books in some of the government departments.
Mycroft lodges in Pall Mall, and he walks round the corner into
Whitehall every morning and back every evening. From year’s end to
year’s end he takes no other exercise, and is seen nowhere else,
except only in the Diogenes Club, which is just opposite his rooms.”

“I cannot recall the name.”

“Very likely not. There are many men in London, you know, who, some
from shyness, some from misanthropy, have no wish for the company of
their fellows. Yet they are not averse to comfortable chairs and the
latest periodicals. It is for the convenience of these that the
Diogenes Club was started, and it now contains the most unsociable
and unclubable men in town. No member is permitted to take the least
notice of any other one. Save in the Stranger’s Room, no talking is,
under any circumstances, allowed, and three offences, if brought to
the notice of the committee, render the talker liable to expulsion.
My brother was one of the founders, and I have myself found it a very
soothing atmosphere.”

We had reached Pall Mall as we talked, and were walking down it from
the St. James’s end. Sherlock Holmes stopped at a door some little
distance from the Carlton, and, cautioning me not to speak, he led
the way into the hall. Through the glass paneling I caught a glimpse
of a large and luxurious room, in which a considerable number of men
were sitting about and reading papers, each in his own little nook.
Holmes showed me into a small chamber which looked out into Pall
Mall, and then, leaving me for a minute, he came back with a
companion whom I knew could only be his brother.

Mycroft Holmes was a much larger and stouter man than Sherlock. His
body was absolutely corpulent, but his face, though massive, had
preserved something of the sharpness of expression which was so
remarkable in that of his brother. His eyes, which were of a
peculiarly light, watery gray, seemed to always retain that far-away,
introspective look which I had only observed in Sherlock’s when he
was exerting his full powers.

“I am glad to meet you, sir,” said he, putting out a broad, fat hand
like the flipper of a seal. “I hear of Sherlock everywhere since you
became his chronicler. By the way, Sherlock, I expected to see you
round last week, to consult me over that Manor House case. I thought
you might be a little out of your depth.”

“No, I solved it,” said my friend, smiling.

“It was Adams, of course.”

“Yes, it was Adams.”

“I was sure of it from the first.” The two sat down together in the
bow-window of the club. “To any one who wishes to study mankind this
is the spot,” said Mycroft. “Look at the magnificent types! Look at
these two men who are coming towards us, for example.”

“The billiard-marker and the other?”

“Precisely. What do you make of the other?”

The two men had stopped opposite the window. Some chalk marks over
the waistcoat pocket were the only signs of billiards which I could
see in one of them. The other was a very small, dark fellow, with
his hat pushed back and several packages under his arm.

“An old soldier, I perceive,” said Sherlock.

“And very recently discharged,” remarked the brother.

“Served in India, I see.”

“And a non-commissioned officer.”

“Royal Artillery, I fancy,” said Sherlock.

“And a widower.”

“But with a child.”

“Children, my dear boy, children.”

“Come,” said I, laughing, “this is a little too much.”

“Surely,” answered Holmes, “it is not hard to say that a man with
that bearing, expression of authority, and sunbaked skin, is a
soldier, is more than a private, and is not long from India.”

“That he has not left the service long is shown by his still wearing
his ‘ammunition boots’, as they are called,” observed Mycroft.

“He had not the cavalry stride, yet he wore his hat on one side, as
is shown by the lighter skin of that side of his brow. His weight is
against his being a sapper. He is in the artillery.”

“Then, of course, his complete mourning shows that he has lost some
one very dear. The fact that he is doing his own shopping looks as
though it were his wife. He has been buying things for children, you
perceive. There is a rattle, which shows that one of them is very
young. The wife probably died in childbed. The fact that he has a
picture-book under his arm shows that there is another child to be
thought of.”

I began to understand what my friend meant when he said that his
brother possessed even keener faculties that he did himself. He
glanced across at me and smiled. Mycroft took snuff from a
tortoise-shell box, and brushed away the wandering grains from his
coat front with a large, red silk handkerchief.

“By the way, Sherlock,” said he, “I have had something quite after
your own heart–a most singular problem–submitted to my judgment. I
really had not the energy to follow it up save in a very incomplete
fashion, but it gave me a basis for some pleasing speculation. If
you would care to hear the facts–“

“My dear Mycroft, I should be delighted.”

The brother scribbled a note upon a leaf of his pocket-book, and,
ringing the bell, he handed it to the waiter.

“I have asked Mr. Melas to step across,” said he. “He lodges on the
floor above me, and I have some slight acquaintance with him, which
led him to come to me in his perplexity. Mr. Melas is a Greek by
extraction, as I understand, and he is a remarkable linguist. He
earns his living partly as interpreter in the law courts and partly
by acting as guide to any wealthy Orientals who may visit the
Northumberland Avenue hotels. I think I will leave him to tell his
very remarkable experience in his own fashion.”

A few minutes later we were joined by a short, stout man whose olive
face and coal-black hair proclaimed his Southern origin, though his
speech was that of an educated Englishman. He shook hands eagerly
with Sherlock Holmes, and his dark eyes sparkled with pleasure when
he understood that the specialist was anxious to hear his story.

“I do not believe that the police credit me–on my word, I do not,”
said he in a wailing voice. “Just because they have never heard of
it before, they think that such a thing cannot be. But I know that I
shall never be easy in my mind until I know what has become of my
poor man with the sticking-plaster upon his face.”

“I am all attention,” said Sherlock Holmes.

“This is Wednesday evening,” said Mr. Melas. “Well then, it was
Monday night–only two days ago, you understand–that all this
happened. I am an interpreter, as perhaps my neighbor there has told
you. I interpret all languages–or nearly all–but as I am a Greek
by birth and with a Grecian name, it is with that particular tongue
that I am principally associated. For many years I have been the
chief Greek interpreter in London, and my name is very well known in
the hotels.

It happens not unfrequently that I am sent for at strange hours by
foreigners who get into difficulties, or by travelers who arrive late
and wish my services. I was not surprised, therefore, on Monday
night when a Mr. Latimer, a very fashionably dressed young man, came
up to my rooms and asked me to accompany him in a cab which was
waiting at the door. A Greek friend had come to see him upon
business, he said, and as he could speak nothing but his own tongue,
the services of an interpreter were indispensable. He gave me to
understand that his house was some little distance off, in
Kensington, and he seemed to be in a great hurry, bustling me rapidly
into the cab when we had descended to the street.

“I say into the cab, but I soon became doubtful as to whether it was
not a carriage in which I found myself. It was certainly more roomy
than the ordinary four-wheeled disgrace to London, and the fittings,
though frayed, were of rich quality. Mr. Latimer seated himself
opposite to me and we started off through Charing Cross and up the
Shaftesbury Avenue. We had come out upon Oxford Street and I had
ventured some remark as to this being a roundabout way to Kensington,
when my words were arrested by the extraordinary conduct of my
companion.

“He began by drawing a most formidable-looking bludgeon loaded with
lead from his pocket, and switching it backward and forward several
times, as if to test its weight and strength. Then he placed it
without a word upon the seat beside him. Having done this, he drew
up the windows on each side, and I found to my astonishment that they
were covered with paper so as to prevent my seeing through them.

“‘I am sorry to cut off your view, Mr. Melas,’ said he. ‘The fact is
that I have no intention that you should see what the place is to
which we are driving. It might possibly be inconvenient to me if you
could find your way there again.’

“As you can imagine, I was utterly taken aback by such an address.
My companion was a powerful, broad-shouldered young fellow, and,
apart from the weapon, I should not have had the slightest chance in
a struggle with him.

“‘This is very extraordinary conduct, Mr. Latimer,’ I stammered.
‘You must be aware that what you are doing is quite illegal.’

“‘It is somewhat of a liberty, no doubt,’ said he, ‘but we’ll make it
up to you. I must warn you, however, Mr. Melas, that if at any time
to-night you attempt to raise an alarm or do anything which is
against my interests, you will find it a very serious thing. I beg
you to remember that no one knows where you are, and that, whether
you are in this carriage or in my house, you are equally in my
power.’

“His words were quiet, but he had a rasping way of saying them which
was very menacing. I sat in silence wondering what on earth could be
his reason for kidnapping me in this extraordinary fashion. Whatever
it might be, it was perfectly clear that there was no possible use in
my resisting, and that I could only wait to see what might befall.

“For nearly two hours we drove without my having the least clue as to
where we were going. Sometimes the rattle of the stones told of a
paved causeway, and at others our smooth, silent course suggested
asphalt; but, save by this variation in sound, there was nothing at
all which could in the remotest way help me to form a guess as to
where we were. The paper over each window was impenetrable to light,
and a blue curtain was drawn across the glass work in front. It was
a quarter-past seven when we left Pall Mall, and my watch showed me
that it was ten minutes to nine when we at last came to a standstill.
My companion let down the window, and I caught a glimpse of a low,
arched doorway with a lamp burning above it. As I was hurried from
the carriage it swung open, and I found myself inside the house, with
a vague impression of a lawn and trees on each side of me as I
entered. Whether these were private grounds, however, or bona-fide
country was more than I could possibly venture to say.

“There was a colored gas-lamp inside which was turned so low that I
could see little save that the hall was of some size and hung with
pictures. In the dim light I could make out that the person who had
opened the door was a small, mean-looking, middle-aged man with
rounded shoulders. As he turned towards us the glint of the light
showed me that he was wearing glasses.

“‘Is this Mr. Melas, Harold?’ said he.

“‘Yes.’

“‘Well done, well done! No ill-will, Mr. Melas, I hope, but we could
not get on without you. If you deal fair with us you’ll not regret
it, but if you try any tricks, God help you!’ He spoke in a nervous,
jerky fashion, and with little giggling laughs in between, but
somehow he impressed me with fear more than the other.

“‘What do you want with me?’ I asked.

“‘Only to ask a few questions of a Greek gentleman who is visiting
us, and to let us have the answers. But say no more than you are
told to say, or–‘ here came the nervous giggle again–‘you had
better never have been born.’

“As he spoke he opened a door and showed the way into a room which
appeared to be very richly furnished, but again the only light was
afforded by a single lamp half-turned down. The chamber was
certainly large, and the way in which my feet sank into the carpet as
I stepped across it told me of its richness. I caught glimpses of
velvet chairs, a high white marble mantel-piece, and what seemed to
be a suit of Japanese armor at one side of it. There was a chair
just under the lamp, and the elderly man motioned that I should sit
in it. The younger had left us, but he suddenly returned through
another door, leading with him a gentleman clad in some sort of loose
dressing-gown who moved slowly towards us. As he came into the
circle of dim light which enabled me to see him more clearly I was
thrilled with horror at his appearance. He was deadly pale and
terribly emaciated, with the protruding, brilliant eyes of a man
whose spirit was greater than his strength. But what shocked me more
than any signs of physical weakness was that his face was grotesquely
criss-crossed with sticking-plaster, and that one large pad of it was
fastened over his mouth.

“‘Have you the slate, Harold?’ cried the older man, as this strange
being fell rather than sat down into a chair. ‘Are his hands loose?
Now, then, give him the pencil. You are to ask the questions, Mr.
Melas, and he will write the answers. Ask him first of all whether
he is prepared to sign the papers?’

“The man’s eyes flashed fire.

“‘Never!’ he wrote in Greek upon the slate.

“‘On no condition?’ I asked, at the bidding of our tyrant.

“‘Only if I see her married in my presence by a Greek priest whom I
know.’

“The man giggled in his venomous way.

“‘You know what awaits you, then?’

“‘I care nothing for myself.’

“These are samples of the questions and answers which made up our
strange half-spoken, half-written conversation. Again and again I
had to ask him whether he would give in and sign the documents.
Again and again I had the same indignant reply. But soon a happy
thought came to me. I took to adding on little sentences of my own
to each question, innocent ones at first, to test whether either of
our companions knew anything of the matter, and then, as I found that
they showed no signs I played a more dangerous game. Our
conversation ran something like this:

“‘You can do no good by this obstinacy. Who are you?’

“‘I care not. I am a stranger in London.’

“‘Your fate will be upon your own head. How long have you been here?’

“‘Let it be so. Three weeks.’

“‘The property can never be yours. What ails you?’

“‘It shall not go to villains. They are starving me.’

“‘You shall go free if you sign. What house is this?’

“‘I will never sign. I do not know.’

“‘You are not doing her any service. What is your name?’

“‘Let me hear her say so. Kratides.’

“‘You shall see her if you sign. Where are you from?’

“‘Then I shall never see her. Athens.’

“Another five minutes, Mr. Holmes, and I should have wormed out the
whole story under their very noses. My very next question might have
cleared the matter up, but at that instant the door opened and a
woman stepped into the room. I could not see her clearly enough to
know more than that she was tall and graceful, with black hair, and
clad in some sort of loose white gown.

“‘Harold,’ said she, speaking English with a broken accent. ‘I could
not stay away longer. It is so lonely up there with only–Oh, my
God, it is Paul!’

“These last words were in Greek, and at the same instant the man with
a convulsive effort tore the plaster from his lips, and screaming out
‘Sophy! Sophy!’ rushed into the woman’s arms. Their embrace was but
for an instant, however, for the younger man seized the woman and
pushed her out of the room, while the elder easily overpowered his
emaciated victim, and dragged him away through the other door. For a
moment I was left alone in the room, and I sprang to my feet with
some vague idea that I might in some way get a clue to what this
house was in which I found myself. Fortunately, however, I took no
steps, for looking up I saw that the older man was standing in the
door-way with his eyes fixed upon me.

“‘That will do, Mr. Melas,’ said he. ‘You perceive that we have
taken you into our confidence over some very private business. We
should not have troubled you, only that our friend who speaks Greek
and who began these negotiations has been forced to return to the
East. It was quite necessary for us to find some one to take his
place, and we were fortunate in hearing of your powers.’

“I bowed.

“‘There are five sovereigns here,’ said he, walking up to me, ‘which
will, I hope, be a sufficient fee. But remember,’ he added, tapping
me lightly on the chest and giggling, ‘if you speak to a human soul
about this–one human soul, mind–well, may God have mercy upon your
soul!’

“I cannot tell you the loathing and horror with which this
insignificant-looking man inspired me. I could see him better now as
the lamp-light shone upon him. His features were peaky and sallow,
and his little pointed beard was thready and ill-nourished. He
pushed his face forward as he spoke and his lips and eyelids were
continually twitching like a man with St. Vitus’s dance. I could not
help thinking that his strange, catchy little laugh was also a
symptom of some nervous malady. The terror of his face lay in his
eyes, however, steel gray, and glistening coldly with a malignant,
inexorable cruelty in their depths.

“‘We shall know if you speak of this,’ said he. ‘We have our own
means of information. Now you will find the carriage waiting, and my
friend will see you on your way.’

“I was hurried through the hall and into the vehicle, again obtaining
that momentary glimpse of trees and a garden. Mr. Latimer followed
closely at my heels, and took his place opposite to me without a
word. In silence we again drove for an interminable distance with
the windows raised, until at last, just after midnight, the carriage
pulled up.

“‘You will get down here, Mr. Melas,’ said my companion. ‘I am sorry
to leave you so far from your house, but there is no alternative.
Any attempt upon your part to follow the carriage can only end in
injury to yourself.’

“He opened the door as he spoke, and I had hardly time to spring out
when the coachman lashed the horse and the carriage rattled away. I
looked around me in astonishment. I was on some sort of a heathy
common mottled over with dark clumps of furze-bushes. Far away
stretched a line of houses, with a light here and there in the upper
windows. On the other side I saw the red signal-lamps of a railway.

“The carriage which had brought me was already out of sight. I stood
gazing round and wondering where on earth I might be, when I saw some
one coming towards me in the darkness. As he came up to me I made
out that he was a railway porter.

“‘Can you tell me what place this is?’ I asked.

“‘Wandsworth Common,’ said he.

“‘Can I get a train into town?’

“‘If you walk on a mile or so to Clapham Junction,’ said he, ‘you’ll
just be in time for the last to Victoria.’

“So that was the end of my adventure, Mr. Holmes. I do not know
where I was, nor whom I spoke with, nor anything save what I have
told you. But I know that there is foul play going on, and I want to
help that unhappy man if I can. I told the whole story to Mr.
Mycroft Holmes next morning, and subsequently to the police.”

We all sat in silence for some little time after listening to this
extraordinary narrative. Then Sherlock looked across at his brother.

“Any steps?” he asked.

Mycroft picked up the Daily News, which was lying on the side-table.

“Anybody supplying any information as to the whereabouts of a Greek
gentleman named Paul Kratides, from Athens, who is unable to speak
English, will be rewarded. A similar reward paid to any one giving
information about a Greek lady whose first name is Sophy. X 2473.

“That was in all the dailies. No answer.”

“How about the Greek Legation?”

“I have inquired. They know nothing.”

“A wire to the head of the Athens police, then?”

“Sherlock has all the energy of the family,” said Mycroft, turning to
me. “Well, you take the case up by all means, and let me know if you
do any good.”

“Certainly,” answered my friend, rising from his chair. “I’ll let
you know, and Mr. Melas also. In the meantime, Mr. Melas, I should
certainly be on my guard, if I were you, for of course they must know
through these advertisements that you have betrayed them.”

As we walked home together, Holmes stopped at a telegraph office and
sent off several wires.

“You see, Watson,” he remarked, “our evening has been by no means
wasted. Some of my most interesting cases have come to me in this
way through Mycroft. The problem which we have just listened to,
although it can admit of but one explanation, has still some
distinguishing features.”

“You have hopes of solving it?”

“Well, knowing as much as we do, it will be singular indeed if we
fail to discover the rest. You must yourself have formed some theory
which will explain the facts to which we have listened.”

“In a vague way, yes.”

“What was your idea, then?”

“It seemed to me to be obvious that this Greek girl had been carried
off by the young Englishman named Harold Latimer.”

“Carried off from where?”

“Athens, perhaps.”

Sherlock Holmes shook his head. “This young man could not talk a
word of Greek. The lady could talk English fairly well.
Inference–that she had been in England some little time, but he had
not been in Greece.”

“Well, then, we will presume that she had come on a visit to England,
and that this Harold had persuaded her to fly with him.”

“That is more probable.”

“Then the brother–for that, I fancy, must be the relationship–comes
over from Greece to interfere. He imprudently puts himself into the
power of the young man and his older associate. They seize him and
use violence towards him in order to make him sign some papers to
make over the girl’s fortune–of which he may be trustee–to them.
This he refuses to do. In order to negotiate with him they have to
get an interpreter, and they pitch upon this Mr. Melas, having used
some other one before. The girl is not told of the arrival of her
brother, and finds it out by the merest accident.”

“Excellent, Watson!” cried Holmes. “I really fancy that you are not
far from the truth. You see that we hold all the cards, and we have
only to fear some sudden act of violence on their part. If they give
us time we must have them.”

“But how can we find where this house lies?”

“Well, if our conjecture is correct and the girl’s name is or was
Sophy Kratides, we should have no difficulty in tracing her. That
must be our main hope, for the brother is, of course, a complete
stranger. It is clear that some time has elapsed since this Harold
established these relations with the girl–some weeks, at any
rate–since the brother in Greece has had time to hear of it and come
across. If they have been living in the same place during this time,
it is probable that we shall have some answer to Mycroft’s
advertisement.”

We had reached our house in Baker Street while we had been talking.
Holmes ascended the stair first, and as he opened the door of our
room he gave a start of surprise. Looking over his shoulder, I was
equally astonished. His brother Mycroft was sitting smoking in the
arm-chair.

“Come in, Sherlock! Come in, sir,” said he blandly, smiling at our
surprised faces. “You don’t expect such energy from me, do you,
Sherlock? But somehow this case attracts me.”

“How did you get here?”

“I passed you in a hansom.”

“There has been some new development?”

“I had an answer to my advertisement.”

“Ah!”

“Yes, it came within a few minutes of your leaving.”

“And to what effect?”

Mycroft Holmes took out a sheet of paper.

“Here it is,” said he, “written with a J pen on royal cream paper by
a middle-aged man with a weak constitution.

“Sir [he says]:
“In answer to your advertisement of to-day’s date, I beg to inform
you that I know the young lady in question very well. If you should
care to call upon me I could give you some particulars as to her
painful history. She is living at present at The Myrtles, Beckenham.
“Yours faithfully,
“J. Davenport.

“He writes from Lower Brixton,” said Mycroft Holmes. “Do you not
think that we might drive to him now, Sherlock, and learn these
particulars?”

“My dear Mycroft, the brother’s life is more valuable than the
sister’s story. I think we should call at Scotland Yard for
Inspector Gregson, and go straight out to Beckenham. We know that a
man is being done to death, and every hour may be vital.”

“Better pick up Mr. Melas on our way,” I suggested. “We may need an
interpreter.”

“Excellent,” said Sherlock Holmes. “Send the boy for a four-wheeler,
and we shall be off at once.” He opened the table-drawer as he
spoke, and I noticed that he slipped his revolver into his pocket.
“Yes,” said he, in answer to my glance; “I should say from what we
have heard, that we are dealing with a particularly dangerous gang.”

It was almost dark before we found ourselves in Pall Mall, at the
rooms of Mr. Melas. A gentleman had just called for him, and he was
gone.

“Can you tell me where?” asked Mycroft Holmes.

“I don’t know, sir,” answered the woman who had opened the door; “I
only know that he drove away with the gentleman in a carriage.”

“Did the gentleman give a name?”

“No, sir.”

“He wasn’t a tall, handsome, dark young man?”

“Oh, no, sir. He was a little gentleman, with glasses, thin in the
face, but very pleasant in his ways, for he was laughing all the time
that he was talking.”

“Come along!” cried Sherlock Holmes, abruptly. “This grows serious,”
he observed, as we drove to Scotland Yard. “These men have got hold
of Melas again. He is a man of no physical courage, as they are well
aware from their experience the other night. This villain was able
to terrorize him the instant that he got into his presence. No doubt
they want his professional services, but, having used him, they may
be inclined to punish him for what they will regard as his
treachery.”

Our hope was that, by taking train, we might get to Beckenham as soon
or sooner than the carriage. On reaching Scotland Yard, however, it
was more than an hour before we could get Inspector Gregson and
comply with the legal formalities which would enable us to enter the
house. It was a quarter to ten before we reached London Bridge, and
half past before the four of us alighted on the Beckenham platform.
A drive of half a mile brought us to The Myrtles–a large, dark house
standing back from the road in its own grounds. Here we dismissed
our cab, and made our way up the drive together.

“The windows are all dark,” remarked the inspector. “The house seems
deserted.”

“Our birds are flown and the nest empty,” said Holmes.

“Why do you say so?”

“A carriage heavily loaded with luggage has passed out during the
last hour.”

The inspector laughed. “I saw the wheel-tracks in the light of the
gate-lamp, but where does the luggage come in?”

“You may have observed the same wheel-tracks going the other way.
But the outward-bound ones were very much deeper–so much so that we
can say for a certainty that there was a very considerable weight on
the carriage.”

“You get a trifle beyond me there,” said the inspector, shrugging his
shoulder. “It will not be an easy door to force, but we will try if
we cannot make some one hear us.”

He hammered loudly at the knocker and pulled at the bell, but without
any success. Holmes had slipped away, but he came back in a few
minutes.

“I have a window open,” said he.

“It is a mercy that you are on the side of the force, and not against
it, Mr. Holmes,” remarked the inspector, as he noted the clever way
in which my friend had forced back the catch. “Well, I think that
under the circumstances we may enter without an invitation.”

One after the other we made our way into a large apartment, which was
evidently that in which Mr. Melas had found himself. The inspector
had lit his lantern, and by its light we could see the two doors, the
curtain, the lamp, and the suit of Japanese mail as he had described
them. On the table lay two glasses, and empty brandy-bottle, and the
remains of a meal.

“What is that?” asked Holmes, suddenly.

We all stood still and listened. A low moaning sound was coming from
somewhere over our heads. Holmes rushed to the door and out into the
hall. The dismal noise came from upstairs. He dashed up, the
inspector and I at his heels, while his brother Mycroft followed as
quickly as his great bulk would permit.

Three doors faced up upon the second floor, and it was from the
central of these that the sinister sounds were issuing, sinking
sometimes into a dull mumble and rising again into a shrill whine.
It was locked, but the key had been left on the outside. Holmes
flung open the door and rushed in, but he was out again in an
instant, with his hand to his throat.

“It’s charcoal,” he cried. “Give it time. It will clear.”

Peering in, we could see that the only light in the room came from a
dull blue flame which flickered from a small brass tripod in the
centre. It threw a livid, unnatural circle upon the floor, while in
the shadows beyond we saw the vague loom of two figures which
crouched against the wall. From the open door there reeked a
horrible poisonous exhalation which set us gasping and coughing.
Holmes rushed to the top of the stairs to draw in the fresh air, and
then, dashing into the room, he threw up the window and hurled the
brazen tripod out into the garden.

“We can enter in a minute,” he gasped, darting out again. “Where is
a candle? I doubt if we could strike a match in that atmosphere.
Hold the light at the door and we shall get them out, Mycroft. Now!”

With a rush we got to the poisoned men and dragged them out into the
well-lit hall. Both of them were blue-lipped and insensible, with
swollen, congested faces and protruding eyes. Indeed, so distorted
were their features that, save for his black beard and stout figure,
we might have failed to recognize in one of them the Greek
interpreter who had parted from us only a few hours before at the
Diogenes Club. His hands and feet were securely strapped together,
and he bore over one eye the marks of a violent blow. The other, who
was secured in a similar fashion, was a tall man in the last stage of
emaciation, with several strips of sticking-plaster arranged in a
grotesque pattern over his face. He had ceased to moan as we laid
him down, and a glance showed me that for him at least our aid had
come too late. Mr. Melas, however, still lived, and in less than an
hour, with the aid of ammonia and brandy I had the satisfaction of
seeing him open his eyes, and of knowing that my hand had drawn him
back from that dark valley in which all paths meet.

It was a simple story which he had to tell, and one which did but
confirm our own deductions. His visitor, on entering his rooms, had
drawn a life-preserver from his sleeve, and had so impressed him with
the fear of instant and inevitable death that he had kidnapped him
for the second time. Indeed, it was almost mesmeric, the effect
which this giggling ruffian had produced upon the unfortunate
linguist, for he could not speak of him save with trembling hands and
a blanched cheek. He had been taken swiftly to Beckenham, and had
acted as interpreter in a second interview, even more dramatic than
the first, in which the two Englishmen had menaced their prisoner
with instant death if he did not comply with their demands. Finally,
finding him proof against every threat, they had hurled him back into
his prison, and after reproaching Melas with his treachery, which
appeared from the newspaper advertisement, they had stunned him with
a blow from a stick, and he remembered nothing more until he found us
bending over him.

And this was the singular case of the Grecian Interpreter, the
explanation of which is still involved in some mystery. We were able
to find out, by communicating with the gentleman who had answered the
advertisement, that the unfortunate young lady came of a wealthy
Grecian family, and that she had been on a visit to some friends in
England. While there she had met a young man named Harold Latimer,
who had acquired an ascendancy over her and had eventually persuaded
her to fly with him. Her friends, shocked at the event, had
contented themselves with informing her brother at Athens, and had
then washed their hands of the matter. The brother, on his arrival
in England, had imprudently placed himself in the power of Latimer
and of his associate, whose name was Wilson Kemp–a man of the
foulest antecedents. These two, finding that through his ignorance
of the language he was helpless in their hands, had kept him a
prisoner, and had endeavored by cruelty and starvation to make him
sign away his own and his sister’s property. They had kept him in
the house without the girl’s knowledge, and the plaster over the face
had been for the purpose of making recognition difficult in case she
should ever catch a glimpse of him. Her feminine perception,
however, had instantly seen through the disguise when, on the
occasion of the interpreter’s visit, she had seen him for the first
time. The poor girl, however, was herself a prisoner, for there was
no one about the house except the man who acted as coachman, and his
wife, both of whom were tools of the conspirators. Finding that
their secret was out, and that their prisoner was not to be coerced,
the two villains with the girl had fled away at a few hours’ notice
from the furnished house which they had hired, having first, as they
thought, taken vengeance both upon the man who had defied and the one
who had betrayed them.

Months afterwards a curious newspaper cutting reached us from
Buda-Pesth. It told how two Englishmen who had been traveling with a
woman had met with a tragic end. They had each been stabbed, it
seems, and the Hungarian police were of opinion that they had
quarreled and had inflicted mortal injuries upon each other. Holmes,
however, is, I fancy, of a different way of thinking, and holds to
this day that, if one could find the Grecian girl, one might learn
how the wrongs of herself and her brother came to be avenged.

The July which immediately succeeded my marriage was made memorable
by three cases of interest, in which I had the privilege of being
associated with Sherlock Holmes and of studying his methods. I find
them recorded in my notes under the headings of “The Adventure of the
Second Stain,” “The Adventure of the Naval Treaty,” and “The
Adventure of the Tired Captain.” The first of these, however, deals
with interest of such importance and implicates so many of the first
families in the kingdom that for many years it will be impossible to
make it public. No case, however, in which Holmes was engaged has
ever illustrated the value of his analytical methods so clearly or
has impressed those who were associated with him so deeply. I still
retain an almost verbatim report of the interview in which he
demonstrated the true facts of the case to Monsieur Dubugue of the
Paris police, and Fritz von Waldbaum, the well-known specialist of
Dantzig, both of whom had wasted their energies upon what proved to
be side-issues. The new century will have come, however, before the
story can be safely told. Meanwhile I pass on to the second on my
list, which promised also at one time to be of national importance,
and was marked by several incidents which give it a quite unique
character.

During my school-days I had been intimately associated with a lad
named Percy Phelps, who was of much the same age as myself, though he
was two classes ahead of me. He was a very brilliant boy, and carried
away every prize which the school had to offer, finishing his
exploits by winning a scholarship which sent him on to continue his
triumphant career at Cambridge. He was, I remember, extremely well
connected, and even when we were all little boys together we knew
that his mother’s brother was Lord Holdhurst, the great conservative
politician. This gaudy relationship did him little good at school. On
the contrary, it seemed rather a piquant thing to us to chevy him
about the playground and hit him over the shins with a wicket. But it
was another thing when he came out into the world. I heard vaguely
that his abilities and the influences which he commanded had won him
a good position at the Foreign Office, and then he passed completely
out of my mind until the following letter recalled his existence:

Briarbrae, Woking.
My dear Watson:
I have no doubt that you can remember “Tadpole” Phelps, who was in
the fifth form when you were in the third. It is possible even that
you may have heard that through my uncle’s influence I obtained a
good appointment at the Foreign Office, and that I was in a situation
of trust and honor until a horrible misfortune came suddenly to blast
my career.
There is no use writing of the details of that dreadful event. In the
event of your acceding to my request it is probable that I shall have
to narrate them to you. I have only just recovered from nine weeks of
brain-fever, and am still exceedingly weak. Do you think that you
could bring your friend Mr. Holmes down to see me? I should like to
have his opinion of the case, though the authorities assure me that
nothing more can be done. Do try to bring him down, and as soon as
possible. Every minute seems an hour while I live in this state of
horrible suspense. Assure him that if I have not asked his advice
sooner it was not because I did not appreciate his talents, but
because I have been off my head ever since the blow fell. Now I am
clear again, though I dare not think of it too much for fear of a
relapse. I am still so weak that I have to write, as you see, by
dictating. Do try to bring him.
Your old school-fellow,
Percy Phelps.

There was something that touched me as I read this letter, something
pitiable in the reiterated appeals to bring Holmes. So moved was I
that even had it been a difficult matter I should have tried it, but
of course I knew well that Holmes loved his art, so that he was ever
as ready to bring his aid as his client could be to receive it. My
wife agreed with me that not a moment should be lost in laying the
matter before him, and so within an hour of breakfast-time I found
myself back once more in the old rooms in Baker Street.

Holmes was seated at his side-table clad in his dressing-gown, and
working hard over a chemical investigation. A large curved retort was
boiling furiously in the bluish flame of a Bunsen burner, and the
distilled drops were condensing into a two-litre measure. My friend
hardly glanced up as I entered, and I, seeing that his investigation
must be of importance, seated myself in an arm-chair and waited. He
dipped into this bottle or that, drawing out a few drops of each with
his glass pipette, and finally brought a test-tube containing a
solution over to the table. In his right hand he held a slip of
litmus-paper.

“You come at a crisis, Watson,” said he. “If this paper remains blue,
all is well. If it turns red, it means a man’s life.” He dipped it
into the test-tube and it flushed at once into a dull, dirty crimson.
“Hum! I thought as much!” he cried. “I will be at your service in an
instant, Watson. You will find tobacco in the Persian slipper.” He
turned to his desk and scribbled off several telegrams, which were
handed over to the page-boy. Then he threw himself down into the
chair opposite, and drew up his knees until his fingers clasped round
his long, thin shins.

“A very commonplace little murder,” said he. “You’ve got something
better, I fancy. You are the stormy petrel of crime, Watson. What is
it?”

I handed him the letter, which he read with the most concentrated
attention.

“It does not tell us very much, does it?” he remarked, as he handed
it back to me.

“Hardly anything.”

“And yet the writing is of interest.”

“But the writing is not his own.”

“Precisely. It is a woman’s.”

“A man’s surely,” I cried.

“No, a woman’s, and a woman of rare character. You see, at the
commencement of an investigation it is something to know that your
client is in close contact with some one who, for good or evil, has
an exceptional nature. My interest is already awakened in the case.
If you are ready we will start at once for Woking, and see this
diplomatist who is in such evil case, and the lady to whom he
dictates his letters.”

We were fortunate enough to catch an early train at Waterloo, and in
a little under an hour we found ourselves among the fir-woods and the
heather of Woking. Briarbrae proved to be a large detached house
standing in extensive grounds within a few minutes’ walk of the
station. On sending in our cards we were shown into an elegantly
appointed drawing-room, where we were joined in a few minutes by a
rather stout man who received us with much hospitality. His age may
have been nearer forty than thirty, but his cheeks were so ruddy and
his eyes so merry that he still conveyed the impression of a plump
and mischievous boy.

“I am so glad that you have come,” said he, shaking our hands with
effusion. “Percy has been inquiring for you all morning. Ah, poor old
chap, he clings to any straw! His father and his mother asked me to
see you, for the mere mention of the subject is very painful to
them.”

“We have had no details yet,” observed Holmes. “I perceive that you
are not yourself a member of the family.”

Our acquaintance looked surprised, and then, glancing down, he began
to laugh.

“Of course you saw the J H monogram on my locket,” said he. “For a
moment I thought you had done something clever. Joseph Harrison is my
name, and as Percy is to marry my sister Annie I shall at least be a
relation by marriage. You will find my sister in his room, for she
has nursed him hand-and-foot this two months back. Perhaps we’d
better go in at once, for I know how impatient he is.”

The chamber in which we were shown was on the same floor as the
drawing-room. It was furnished partly as a sitting and partly as a
bedroom, with flowers arranged daintily in every nook and corner. A
young man, very pale and worn, was lying upon a sofa near the open
window, through which came the rich scent of the garden and the balmy
summer air. A woman was sitting beside him, who rose as we entered.

“Shall I leave, Percy?” she asked.

He clutched her hand to detain her. “How are you, Watson?” said he,
cordially. “I should never have known you under that moustache, and I
dare say you would not be prepared to swear to me. This I presume is
your celebrated friend, Mr. Sherlock Holmes?”

I introduced him in a few words, and we both sat down. The stout
young man had left us, but his sister still remained with her hand in
that of the invalid. She was a striking-looking woman, a little short
and thick for symmetry, but with a beautiful olive complexion, large,
dark, Italian eyes, and a wealth of deep black hair. Her rich tints
made the white face of her companion the more worn and haggard by the
contrast.

“I won’t waste your time,” said he, raising himself upon the sofa.
“I’ll plunge into the matter without further preamble. I was a happy
and successful man, Mr. Holmes, and on the eve of being married, when
a sudden and dreadful misfortune wrecked all my prospects in life.

“I was, as Watson may have told you, in the Foreign Office, and
through the influences of my uncle, Lord Holdhurst, I rose rapidly to
a responsible position. When my uncle became foreign minister in this
administration he gave me several missions of trust, and as I always
brought them to a successful conclusion, he came at last to have the
utmost confidence in my ability and tact.

“Nearly ten weeks ago–to be more accurate, on the twenty-third of
May–he called me into his private room, and, after complimenting me
on the good work which I had done, he informed me that he had a new
commission of trust for me to execute.

“‘This,’ said he, taking a gray roll of paper from his bureau, ‘is
the original of that secret treaty between England and Italy of
which, I regret to say, some rumors have already got into the public
press. It is of enormous importance that nothing further should leak
out. The French or the Russian embassy would pay an immense sum to
learn the contents of these papers. They should not leave my bureau
were it not that it is absolutely necessary to have them copied. You
have a desk in your office?’

“‘Yes, sir.’

“‘Then take the treaty and lock it up there. I shall give directions
that you may remain behind when the others go, so that you may copy
it at your leisure without fear of being overlooked. When you have
finished, relock both the original and the draft in the desk, and
hand them over to me personally to-morrow morning.’

“I took the papers and–“

“Excuse me an instant,” said Holmes. “Were you alone during this
conversation?”

“Absolutely.”

“In a large room?”

“Thirty feet each way.”

“In the centre?”

“Yes, about it.”

“And speaking low?”

“My uncle’s voice is always remarkably low. I hardly spoke at all.”

“Thank you,” said Holmes, shutting his eyes; “pray go on.”

“I did exactly what he indicated, and waited until the other clerks
had departed. One of them in my room, Charles Gorot, had some arrears
of work to make up, so I left him there and went out to dine. When I
returned he was gone. I was anxious to hurry my work, for I knew that
Joseph–the Mr. Harrison whom you saw just now–was in town, and that
he would travel down to Woking by the eleven-o’clock train, and I
wanted if possible to catch it.

“When I came to examine the treaty I saw at once that it was of such
importance that my uncle had been guilty of no exaggeration in what
he had said. Without going into details, I may say that it defined
the position of Great Britain towards the Triple Alliance, and
fore-shadowed the policy which this country would pursue in the event
of the French fleet gaining a complete ascendancy over that of Italy
in the Mediterranean. The questions treated in it were purely naval.
At the end were the signatures of the high dignitaries who had signed
it. I glanced my eyes over it, and then settled down to my task of
copying.

“It was a long document, written in the French language, and
containing twenty-six separate articles. I copied as quickly as I
could, but at nine o’clock I had only done nine articles, and it
seemed hopeless for me to attempt to catch my train. I was feeling
drowsy and stupid, partly from my dinner and also from the effects of
a long day’s work. A cup of coffee would clear my brain. A
commissionaire remains all night in a little lodge at the foot of the
stairs, and is in the habit of making coffee at his spirit-lamp for
any of the officials who may be working over time. I rang the bell,
therefore, to summon him.

“To my surprise, it was a woman who answered the summons, a large,
coarse-faced, elderly woman, in an apron. She explained that she was
the commissionaire’s wife, who did the charing, and I gave her the
order for the coffee.

“I wrote two more articles and then, feeling more drowsy than ever, I
rose and walked up and down the room to stretch my legs. My coffee
had not yet come, and I wondered what was the cause of the delay
could be. Opening the door, I started down the corridor to find out.
There was a straight passage, dimly lighted, which led from the room
in which I had been working, and was the only exit from it. It ended
in a curving staircase, with the commissionaire’s lodge in the
passage at the bottom. Half way down this staircase is a small
landing, with another passage running into it at right angles. This
second one leads by means of a second small stair to a side door,
used by servants, and also as a short cut by clerks when coming from
Charles Street. Here is a rough chart of the place.”

“Thank you. I think that I quite follow you,” said Sherlock Holmes.

“It is of the utmost importance that you should notice this point. I
went down the stairs and into the hall, where I found the
commissionaire fast asleep in his box, with the kettle boiling
furiously upon the spirit-lamp. I took off the kettle and blew out
the lamp, for the water was spurting over the floor. Then I put out
my hand and was about to shake the man, who was still sleeping
soundly, when a bell over his head rang loudly, and he woke with a
start.

“‘Mr. Phelps, sir!’ said he, looking at me in bewilderment.

“‘I came down to see if my coffee was ready.’

“‘I was boiling the kettle when I fell asleep, sir.’ He looked at me
and then up at the still quivering bell with an ever-growing
astonishment upon his face.

“‘If you was here, sir, then who rang the bell?’ he asked.

“‘The bell!’ I cried. ‘What bell is it?’

“‘It’s the bell of the room you were working in.’

“A cold hand seemed to close round my heart. Some one, then, was in
that room where my precious treaty lay upon the table. I ran
frantically up the stair and along the passage. There was no one in
the corridors, Mr. Holmes. There was no one in the room. All was
exactly as I left it, save only that the papers which had been
committed to my care had been taken from the desk on which they lay.
The copy was there, and the original was gone.”

Holmes sat up in his chair and rubbed his hands. I could see that the
problem was entirely to his heart. “Pray, what did you do then?” he
murmured.

“I recognized in an instant that the thief must have come up the
stairs from the side door. Of course I must have met him if he had
come the other way.”

“You were satisfied that he could not have been concealed in the room
all the time, or in the corridor which you have just described as
dimly lighted?”

“It is absolutely impossible. A rat could not conceal himself either
in the room or the corridor. There is no cover at all.”

“Thank you. Pray proceed.”

“The commissionaire, seeing by my pale face that something was to be
feared, had followed me upstairs. Now we both rushed along the
corridor and down the steep steps which led to Charles Street. The
door at the bottom was closed, but unlocked. We flung it open and
rushed out. I can distinctly remember that as we did so there came
three chimes from a neighboring clock. It was quarter to ten.”

“That is of enormous importance,” said Holmes, making a note upon his
shirt-cuff.

“The night was very dark, and a thin, warm rain was falling. There
was no one in Charles Street, but a great traffic was going on, as
usual, in Whitehall, at the extremity. We rushed along the pavement,
bare-headed as we were, and at the far corner we found a policeman
standing.

“‘A robbery has been committed,’ I gasped. ‘A document of immense
value has been stolen from the Foreign Office. Has any one passed
this way?’

“‘I have been standing here for a quarter of an hour, sir,’ said he;
‘only one person has passed during that time–a woman, tall and
elderly, with a Paisley shawl.’

“‘Ah, that is only my wife,’ cried the commissionaire; ‘has no one
else passed?’

“‘No one.’

“‘Then it must be the other way that the thief took,’ cried the
fellow, tugging at my sleeve.

“But I was not satisfied, and the attempts which he made to draw me
away increased my suspicions.

“‘Which way did the woman go?’ I cried.

“‘I don’t know, sir. I noticed her pass, but I had no special reason
for watching her. She seemed to be in a hurry.’

“‘How long ago was it?’

“‘Oh, not very many minutes.’

“‘Within the last five?’

“‘Well, it could not be more than five.’

“‘You’re only wasting your time, sir, and every minute now is of
importance,’ cried the commissionaire; ‘take my word for it that my
old woman has nothing to do with it, and come down to the other end
of the street. Well, if you won’t, I will.’ And with that he rushed
off in the other direction.

“But I was after him in an instant and caught him by the sleeve.

“‘Where do you live?’ said I.

“’16 Ivy Lane, Brixton,’ he answered. ‘But don’t let yourself be
drawn away upon a false scent, Mr. Phelps. Come to the other end of
the street and let us see if we can hear of anything.’

“Nothing was to be lost by following his advice. With the policeman
we both hurried down, but only to find the street full of traffic,
many people coming and going, but all only too eager to get to a
place of safety upon so wet a night. There was no lounger who could
tell us who had passed.

“Then we returned to the office, and searched the stairs and the
passage without result. The corridor which led to the room was laid
down with a kind of creamy linoleum which shows an impression very
easily. We examined it very carefully, but found no outline of any
footmark.”

“Had it been raining all evening?”

“Since about seven.”

“How is it, then, that the woman who came into the room about nine
left no traces with her muddy boots?”

“I am glad you raised the point. It occurred to me at the time. The
charwomen are in the habit of taking off their boots at the
commissionaire’s office, and putting on list slippers.”

“That is very clear. There were no marks, then, though the night was
a wet one? The chain of events is certainly one of extraordinary
interest. What did you do next?”

“We examined the room also. There is no possibility of a secret door,
and the windows are quite thirty feet from the ground. Both of them
were fastened on the inside. The carpet prevents any possibility of a
trap-door, and the ceiling is of the ordinary whitewashed kind. I
will pledge my life that whoever stole my papers could only have come
through the door.”

“How about the fireplace?”

“They use none. There is a stove. The bell-rope hangs from the wire
just to the right of my desk. Whoever rang it must have come right up
to the desk to do it. But why should any criminal wish to ring the
bell? It is a most insoluble mystery.”

“Certainly the incident was unusual. What were your next steps? You
examined the room, I presume, to see if the intruder had left any
traces–any cigar-end or dropped glove or hairpin or other trifle?”

“There was nothing of the sort.”

“No smell?”

“Well, we never thought of that.”

“Ah, a scent of tobacco would have been worth a great deal to us in
such an investigation.”

“I never smoke myself, so I think I should have observed it if there
had been any smell of tobacco. There was absolutely no clue of any
kind. The only tangible fact was that the commissionaire’s wife–Mrs.
Tangey was the name–had hurried out of the place. He could give no
explanation save that it was about the time when the woman always
went home. The policeman and I agreed that our best plan would be to
seize the woman before she could get rid of the papers, presuming
that she had them.

“The alarm had reached Scotland Yard by this time, and Mr. Forbes,
the detective, came round at once and took up the case with a great
deal of energy. We hired a hansom, and in half an hour we were at the
address which had been given to us. A young woman opened the door,
who proved to be Mrs. Tangey’s eldest daughter. Her mother had not
come back yet, and we were shown into the front room to wait.

“About ten minutes later a knock came at the door, and here we made
the one serious mistake for which I blame myself. Instead of opening
the door ourselves, we allowed the girl to do so. We heard her say,
‘Mother, there are two men in the house waiting to see you,’ and an
instant afterwards we heard the patter of feet rushing down the
passage. Forbes flung open the door, and we both ran into the back
room or kitchen, but the woman had got there before us. She stared at
us with defiant eyes, and then, suddenly recognizing me, an
expression of absolute astonishment came over her face.

“‘Why, if it isn’t Mr. Phelps, of the office!’ she cried.

“‘Come, come, who did you think we were when you ran away from us?’
asked my companion.

“‘I thought you were the brokers,’ said she, ‘we have had some
trouble with a tradesman.’

“‘That’s not quite good enough,’ answered Forbes. ‘We have reason to
believe that you have taken a paper of importance from the Foreign
Office, and that you ran in here to dispose of it. You must come back
with us to Scotland Yard to be searched.’

“It was in vain that she protested and resisted. A four-wheeler was
brought, and we all three drove back in it. We had first made an
examination of the kitchen, and especially of the kitchen fire, to
see whether she might have made away with the papers during the
instant that she was alone. There were no signs, however, of any
ashes or scraps. When we reached Scotland Yard she was handed over at
once to the female searcher. I waited in an agony of suspense until
she came back with her report. There were no signs of the papers.

“Then for the first time the horror of my situation came in its full
force. Hitherto I had been acting, and action had numbed thought. I
had been so confident of regaining the treaty at once that I had not
dared to think of what would be the consequence if I failed to do so.
But now there was nothing more to be done, and I had leisure to
realize my position. It was horrible. Watson there would tell you
that I was a nervous, sensitive boy at school. It is my nature. I
thought of my uncle and of his colleagues in the Cabinet, of the
shame which I had brought upon him, upon myself, upon every one
connected with me. What though I was the victim of an extraordinary
accident? No allowance is made for accidents where diplomatic
interests are at stake. I was ruined, shamefully, hopelessly ruined.
I don’t know what I did. I fancy I must have made a scene. I have a
dim recollection of a group of officials who crowded round me,
endeavoring to soothe me. One of them drove down with me to Waterloo,
and saw me into the Woking train. I believe that he would have come
all the way had it not been that Dr. Ferrier, who lives near me, was
going down by that very train. The doctor most kindly took charge of
me, and it was well he did so, for I had a fit in the station, and
before we reached home I was practically a raving maniac.

“You can imagine the state of things here when they were roused from
their beds by the doctor’s ringing and found me in this condition.
Poor Annie here and my mother were broken-hearted. Dr. Ferrier had
just heard enough from the detective at the station to be able to
give an idea of what had happened, and his story did not mend
matters. It was evident to all that I was in for a long illness, so
Joseph was bundled out of this cheery bedroom, and it was turned into
a sick-room for me. Here I have lain, Mr. Holmes, for over nine
weeks, unconscious, and raving with brain-fever. If it had not been
for Miss Harrison here and for the doctor’s care I should not be
speaking to you now. She has nursed me by day and a hired nurse has
looked after me by night, for in my mad fits I was capable of
anything. Slowly my reason has cleared, but it is only during the
last three days that my memory has quite returned. Sometimes I wish
that it never had. The first thing that I did was to wire to Mr.
Forbes, who had the case in hand. He came out, and assures me that,
though everything has been done, no trace of a clue has been
discovered. The commissionaire and his wife have been examined in
every way without any light being thrown upon the matter. The
suspicions of the police then rested upon young Gorot, who, as you
may remember, stayed over time in the office that night. His
remaining behind and his French name were really the only two points
which could suggest suspicion; but, as a matter of fact, I did not
begin work until he had gone, and his people are of Huguenot
extraction, but as English in sympathy and tradition as you and I
are. Nothing was found to implicate him in any way, and there the
matter dropped. I turn to you, Mr. Holmes, as absolutely my last
hope. If you fail me, then my honor as well as my position are
forever forfeited.”

The invalid sank back upon his cushions, tired out by this long
recital, while his nurse poured him out a glass of some stimulating
medicine. Holmes sat silently, with his head thrown back and his eyes
closed, in an attitude which might seem listless to a stranger, but
which I knew betokened the most intense self-absorption.

“You statement has been so explicit,” said he at last, “that you have
really left me very few questions to ask. There is one of the very
utmost importance, however. Did you tell any one that you had this
special task to perform?”

“No one.”

“Not Miss Harrison here, for example?”

“No. I had not been back to Woking between getting the order and
executing the commission.”

“And none of your people had by chance been to see you?”

“None.”

“Did any of them know their way about in the office?”

“Oh, yes, all of them had been shown over it.”

“Still, of course, if you said nothing to any one about the treaty
these inquiries are irrelevant.”

“I said nothing.”

“Do you know anything of the commissionaire?”

“Nothing except that he is an old soldier.”

“What regiment?”

“Oh, I have heard–Coldstream Guards.”

“Thank you. I have no doubt I can get details from Forbes. The
authorities are excellent at amassing facts, though they do not
always use them to advantage. What a lovely thing a rose is!”

He walked past the couch to the open window, and held up the drooping
stalk of a moss-rose, looking down at the dainty blend of crimson and
green. It was a new phase of his character to me, for I had never
before seen him show any keen interest in natural objects.

“There is nothing in which deduction is so necessary as in religion,”
said he, leaning with his back against the shutters. “It can be built
up as an exact science by the reasoner. Our highest assurance of the
goodness of Providence seems to me to rest in the flowers. All other
things, our powers our desires, our food, are all really necessary
for our existence in the first instance. But this rose is an extra.
Its smell and its color are an embellishment of life, not a condition
of it. It is only goodness which gives extras, and so I say again
that we have much to hope from the flowers.”

Percy Phelps and his nurse looked at Holmes during this demonstration
with surprise and a good deal of disappointment written upon their
faces. He had fallen into a reverie, with the moss-rose between his
fingers. It had lasted some minutes before the young lady broke in
upon it.

“Do you see any prospect of solving this mystery, Mr. Holmes?” she
asked, with a touch of asperity in her voice.

“Oh, the mystery!” he answered, coming back with a start to the
realities of life. “Well, it would be absurd to deny that the case is
a very abstruse and complicated one, but I can promise you that I
will look into the matter and let you know any points which may
strike me.”

“Do you see any clue?”

“You have furnished me with seven, but, of course, I must test them
before I can pronounce upon their value.”

“You suspect some one?”

“I suspect myself.”

“What!”

“Of coming to conclusions too rapidly.”

“Then go to London and test your conclusions.”

“Your advice is very excellent, Miss Harrison,” said Holmes, rising.
“I think, Watson, we cannot do better. Do not allow yourself to
indulge in false hopes, Mr. Phelps. The affair is a very tangled
one.”

“I shall be in a fever until I see you again,” cried the diplomatist.

“Well, I’ll come out by the same train to-morrow, though it’s more
than likely that my report will be a negative one.”

“God bless you for promising to come,” cried our client. “It gives me
fresh life to know that something is being done. By the way, I have
had a letter from Lord Holdhurst.”

“Ha! What did he say?”

“He was cold, but not harsh. I dare say my severe illness prevented
him from being that. He repeated that the matter was of the utmost
importance, and added that no steps would be taken about my
future–by which he means, of course, my dismissal–until my health
was restored and I had an opportunity of repairing my misfortune.”

“Well, that was reasonable and considerate,” said Holmes. “Come,
Watson, for we have a good day’s work before us in town.”

Mr. Joseph Harrison drove us down to the station, and we were soon
whirling up in a Portsmouth train. Holmes was sunk in profound
thought, and hardly opened his mouth until we had passed Clapham
Junction.

“It’s a very cheery thing to come into London by any of these lines
which run high, and allow you to look down upon the houses like
this.”

I thought he was joking, for the view was sordid enough, but he soon
explained himself.

“Look at those big, isolated clumps of building rising up above the
slates, like brick islands in a lead-colored sea.”

“The board-schools.”

“Light-houses, my boy! Beacons of the future! Capsules with hundreds
of bright little seeds in each, out of which will spring the wise,
better England of the future. I suppose that man Phelps does not
drink?”

“I should not think so.”

“Nor should I, but we are bound to take every possibility into
account. The poor devil has certainly got himself into very deep
water, and it’s a question whether we shall ever be able to get him
ashore. What did you think of Miss Harrison?”

“A girl of strong character.”

“Yes, but she is a good sort, or I am mistaken. She and her brother
are the only children of an iron-master somewhere up Northumberland
way. He got engaged to her when traveling last winter, and she came
down to be introduced to his people, with her brother as escort. Then
came the smash, and she stayed on to nurse her lover, while brother
Joseph, finding himself pretty snug, stayed on too. I’ve been making
a few independent inquiries, you see. But to-day must be a day of
inquiries.”

“My practice–” I began.

“Oh, if you find your own cases more interesting than mine–” said
Holmes, with some asperity.

“I was going to say that my practice could get along very well for a
day or two, since it is the slackest time in the year.”

“Excellent,” said he, recovering his good-humor. “Then we’ll look
into this matter together. I think that we should begin by seeing
Forbes. He can probably tell us all the details we want until we know
from what side the case is to be approached.”

“You said you had a clue?”

“Well, we have several, but we can only test their value by further
inquiry. The most difficult crime to track is the one which is
purposeless. Now this is not purposeless. Who is it who profits by
it? There is the French ambassador, there is the Russian, there is
who-ever might sell it to either of these, and there is Lord
Holdhurst.”

“Lord Holdhurst!”

“Well, it is just conceivable that a statesman might find himself in
a position where he was not sorry to have such a document
accidentally destroyed.”

“Not a statesman with the honorable record of Lord Holdhurst?”

“It is a possibility and we cannot afford to disregard it. We shall
see the noble lord to-day and find out if he can tell us anything.
Meanwhile I have already set inquiries on foot.”

“Already?”

“Yes, I sent wires from Woking station to every evening paper in
London. This advertisement will appear in each of them.”

He handed over a sheet torn from a note-book. On it was scribbled in
pencil:

“£10 reward. The number of the cab which dropped a fare at or about
the door of the Foreign Office in Charles Street at quarter to ten in
the evening of May 23d. Apply 221b, Baker Street.”

“You are confident that the thief came in a cab?”

“If not, there is no harm done. But if Mr. Phelps is correct in
stating that there is no hiding-place either in the room or the
corridors, then the person must have come from outside. If he came
from outside on so wet a night, and yet left no trace of damp upon
the linoleum, which was examined within a few minutes of his passing,
then it is exceeding probably that he came in a cab. Yes, I think
that we may safely deduce a cab.”

“It sounds plausible.”

“That is one of the clues of which I spoke. It may lead us to
something. And then, of course, there is the bell–which is the most
distinctive feature of the case. Why should the bell ring? Was it the
thief who did it out of bravado? Or was it some one who was with the
thief who did it in order to prevent the crime? Or was it an
accident? Or was it–?” He sank back into the state of intense and
silent thought from which he had emerged; but it seemed to me,
accustomed as I was to his every mood, that some new possibility had
dawned suddenly upon him.

It was twenty past three when we reached our terminus, and after a
hasty luncheon at the buffet we pushed on at once to Scotland Yard.
Holmes had already wired to Forbes, and we found him waiting to
receive us–a small, foxy man with a sharp but by no means amiable
expression. He was decidedly frigid in his manner to us, especially
when he heard the errand upon which we had come.

“I’ve heard of your methods before now, Mr. Holmes,” said he, tartly.
“You are ready enough to use all the information that the police can
lay at your disposal, and then you try to finish the case yourself
and bring discredit on them.”

“On the contrary,” said Holmes, “out of my last fifty-three cases my
name has only appeared in four, and the police have had all the
credit in forty-nine. I don’t blame you for not knowing this, for you
are young and inexperienced, but if you wish to get on in your new
duties you will work with me and not against me.”

“I’d be very glad of a hint or two,” said the detective, changing his
manner. “I’ve certainly had no credit from the case so far.”

“What steps have you taken?”

“Tangey, the commissionaire, has been shadowed. He left the Guards
with a good character and we can find nothing against him. His wife
is a bad lot, though. I fancy she knows more about this than
appears.”

“Have you shadowed her?”

“We have set one of our women on to her. Mrs. Tangey drinks, and our
woman has been with her twice when she was well on, but she could get
nothing out of her.”

“I understand that they have had brokers in the house?”

“Yes, but they were paid off.”

“Where did the money come from?”

“That was all right. His pension was due. They have not shown any
sign of being in funds.”

“What explanation did she give of having answered the bell when Mr.
Phelps rang for the coffee?”

“She said that he husband was very tired and she wished to relieve
him.”

“Well, certainly that would agree with his being found a little later
asleep in his chair. There is nothing against them then but the
woman’s character. Did you ask her why she hurried away that night?
Her haste attracted the attention of the police constable.”

“She was later than usual and wanted to get home.”

“Did you point out to her that you and Mr. Phelps, who started at
least twenty minutes after he, got home before her?”

“She explains that by the difference between a ‘bus and a hansom.”

“Did she make it clear why, on reaching her house, she ran into the
back kitchen?”

“Because she had the money there with which to pay off the brokers.”

“She has at least an answer for everything. Did you ask her whether
in leaving she met any one or saw any one loitering about Charles
Street?”

“She saw no one but the constable.”

“Well, you seem to have cross-examined her pretty thoroughly. What
else have you done?”

“The clerk Gorot has been shadowed all these nine weeks, but without
result. We can show nothing against him.”

“Anything else?”

“Well, we have nothing else to go upon–no evidence of any kind.”

“Have you formed a theory about how that bell rang?”

“Well, I must confess that it beats me. It was a cool hand, whoever
it was, to go and give the alarm like that.”

“Yes, it was a queer thing to do. Many thanks to you for what you
have told me. If I can put the man into your hands you shall hear
from me. Come along, Watson.”

“Where are we going to now?” I asked, as we left the office.

“We are now going to interview Lord Holdhurst, the cabinet minister
and future premier of England.”

We were fortunate in finding that Lord Holdhurst was still in his
chambers in Downing Street, and on Holmes sending in his card we were
instantly shown up. The statesman received us with that old-fashioned
courtesy for which he is remarkable, and seated us on the two
luxuriant lounges on either side of the fireplace. Standing on the
rug between us, with his slight, tall figure, his sharp features,
thoughtful face, and curling hair prematurely tinged with gray, he
seemed to represent that not too common type, a nobleman who is in
truth noble.

“Your name is very familiar to me, Mr. Holmes,” said he, smiling.
“And, of course, I cannot pretend to be ignorant of the object of
your visit. There has only been one occurrence in these offices which
could call for your attention. In whose interest are you acting, may
I ask?”

“In that of Mr. Percy Phelps,” answered Holmes.

“Ah, my unfortunate nephew! You can understand that our kinship makes
it the more impossible for me to screen him in any way. I fear that
the incident must have a very prejudicial effect upon his career.”

“But if the document is found?”

“Ah, that, of course, would be different.”

“I had one or two questions which I wished to ask you, Lord
Holdhurst.”

“I shall be happy to give you any information in my power.”

“Was it in this room that you gave your instructions as to the
copying of the document?”

“It was.”

“Then you could hardly have been overheard?”

“It is out of the question.”

“Did you ever mention to any one that it was your intention to give
any one the treaty to be copied?”

“Never.”

“You are certain of that?”

“Absolutely.”

“Well, since you never said so, and Mr. Phelps never said so, and
nobody else knew anything of the matter, then the thief’s presence in
the room was purely accidental. He saw his chance and he took it.”

The statesman smiled. “You take me out of my province there,” said
he.

Holmes considered for a moment. “There is another very important
point which I wish to discuss with you,” said he. “You feared, as I
understand, that very grave results might follow from the details of
this treaty becoming known.”

A shadow passed over the expressive face of the statesman. “Very
grave results indeed.”

“And have they occurred?”

“Not yet.”

“If the treaty had reached, let us say, the French or Russian Foreign
Office, you would expect to hear of it?”

“I should,” said Lord Holdhurst, with a wry face.

“Since nearly ten weeks have elapsed, then, and nothing has been
heard, it is not unfair to suppose that for some reason the treaty
has not reached them.”

Lord Holdhurst shrugged his shoulders.

“We can hardly suppose, Mr. Holmes, that the thief took the treaty in
order to frame it and hang it up.”

“Perhaps he is waiting for a better price.”

“If he waits a little longer he will get no price at all. The treaty
will cease to be secret in a few months.”

“That is most important,” said Holmes. “Of course, it is a possible
supposition that the thief has had a sudden illness–“

“An attack of brain-fever, for example?” asked the statesman,
flashing a swift glance at him.

“I did not say so,” said Holmes, imperturbably. “And now, Lord
Holdhurst, we have already taken up too much of your valuable time,
and we shall wish you good-day.”

“Every success to your investigation, be the criminal who it may,”
answered the nobleman, as he bowed us out the door.

“He’s a fine fellow,” said Holmes, as we came out into Whitehall.
“But he has a struggle to keep up his position. He is far from rich
and has many calls. You noticed, of course, that his boots had been
re-soled? Now, Watson, I won’t detain you from your legitimate work
any longer. I shall do nothing more to-day, unless I have an answer
to my cab advertisement. But I should be extremely obliged to you if
you would come down with me to Woking to-morrow, by the same train
which we took yesterday.”

I met him accordingly next morning and we traveled down to Woking
together. He had had no answer to his advertisement, he said, and no
fresh light had been thrown upon the case. He had, when he so willed
it, the utter immobility of countenance of a red Indian, and I could
not gather from his appearance whether he was satisfied or not with
the position of the case. His conversation, I remember, was about the
Bertillon system of measurements, and he expressed his enthusiastic
admiration of the French savant.

We found our client still under the charge of his devoted nurse, but
looking considerably better than before. He rose from the sofa and
greeted us without difficulty when we entered.

“Any news?” he asked, eagerly.

“My report, as I expected, is a negative one,” said Holmes. “I have
seen Forbes, and I have seen your uncle, and I have set one or two
trains of inquiry upon foot which may lead to something.”

“You have not lost heart, then?”

“By no means.”

“God bless you for saying that!” cried Miss Harrison. “If we keep our
courage and our patience the truth must come out.”

“We have more to tell you than you have for us,” said Phelps,
reseating himself upon the couch.

“I hoped you might have something.”

“Yes, we have had an adventure during the night, and one which might
have proved to be a serious one.” His expression grew very grave as
he spoke, and a look of something akin to fear sprang up in his eyes.
“Do you know,” said he, “that I begin to believe that I am the
unconscious centre of some monstrous conspiracy, and that my life is
aimed at as well as my honor?”

“Ah!” cried Holmes.

“It sounds incredible, for I have not, as far as I know, an enemy in
the world. Yet from last night’s experience I can come to no other
conclusion.”

“Pray let me hear it.”

“You must know that last night was the very first night that I have
ever slept without a nurse in the room. I was so much better that I
thought I could dispense with one. I had a night-light burning,
however. Well, about two in the morning I had sunk into a light sleep
when I was suddenly aroused by a slight noise. It was like the sound
which a mouse makes when it is gnawing a plank, and I lay listening
to it for some time under the impression that it must come from that
cause. Then it grew louder, and suddenly there came from the window a
sharp metallic snick. I sat up in amazement. There could be no doubt
what the sounds were now. The first ones had been caused by some one
forcing an instrument through the slit between the sashes, and the
second by the catch being pressed back.

“There was a pause then for about ten minutes, as if the person were
waiting to see whether the noise had awakened me. Then I heard a
gentle creaking as the window was very slowly opened. I could stand
it no longer, for my nerves are not what they used to be. I sprang
out of bed and flung open the shutters. A man was crouching at the
window. I could see little of him, for he was gone like a flash. He
was wrapped in some sort of cloak which came across the lower part of
his face. One thing only I am sure of, and that is that he had some
weapon in his hand. It looked to me like a long knife. I distinctly
saw the gleam of it as he turned to run.”

“This is most interesting,” said Holmes. “Pray what did you do then?”

“I should have followed him through the open window if I had been
stronger. As it was, I rang the bell and roused the house. It took me
some little time, for the bell rings in the kitchen and the servants
all sleep upstairs. I shouted, however, and that brought Joseph down,
and he roused the others. Joseph and the groom found marks on the bed
outside the window, but the weather has been so dry lately that they
found it hopeless to follow the trail across the grass. There’s a
place, however, on the wooden fence which skirts the road which shows
signs, they tell me, as if some one had got over, and had snapped the
top of the rail in doing so. I have said nothing to the local police
yet, for I thought I had best have your opinion first.”

This tale of our client’s appeared to have an extraordinary effect
upon Sherlock Holmes. He rose from his chair and paced about the room
in uncontrollable excitement.

“Misfortunes never come single,” said Phelps, smiling, though it was
evident that his adventure had somewhat shaken him.

“You have certainly had your share,” said Holmes. “Do you think you
could walk round the house with me?”

“Oh, yes, I should like a little sunshine. Joseph will come, too.”

“And I also,” said Miss Harrison.

“I am afraid not,” said Holmes, shaking his head. “I think I must ask
you to remain sitting exactly where you are.”

The young lady resumed her seat with an air of displeasure. Her
brother, however, had joined us and we set off all four together. We
passed round the lawn to the outside of the young diplomatist’s
window. There were, as he had said, marks upon the bed, but they were
hopelessly blurred and vague. Holmes stopped over them for an
instant, and then rose shrugging his shoulders.

“I don’t think any one could make much of this,” said he. “Let us go
round the house and see why this particular room was chose by the
burglar. I should have thought those larger windows of the
drawing-room and dining-room would have had more attractions for
him.”

“They are more visible from the road,” suggested Mr. Joseph Harrison.

“Ah, yes, of course. There is a door here which he might have
attempted. What is it for?”

“It is the side entrance for trades-people. Of course it is locked at
night.”

“Have you ever had an alarm like this before?”

“Never,” said our client.

“Do you keep plate in the house, or anything to attract burglars?”

“Nothing of value.”

Holmes strolled round the house with his hands in his pockets and a
negligent air which was unusual with him.

“By the way,” said he to Joseph Harrison, “you found some place, I
understand, where the fellow scaled the fence. Let us have a look at
that!”

The plump young man led us to a spot where the top of one of the
wooden rails had been cracked. A small fragment of the wood was
hanging down. Holmes pulled it off and examined it critically.

“Do you think that was done last night? It looks rather old, does it
not?”

“Well, possibly so.”

“There are no marks of any one jumping down upon the other side. No,
I fancy we shall get no help here. Let us go back to the bedroom and
talk the matter over.”

Percy Phelps was walking very slowly, leaning upon the arm of his
future brother-in-law. Holmes walked swiftly across the lawn, and we
were at the open window of the bedroom long before the others came
up.

“Miss Harrison,” said Holmes, speaking with the utmost intensity of
manner, “you must stay where you are all day. Let nothing prevent you
from staying where you are all day. It is of the utmost importance.”

“Certainly, if you wish it, Mr. Holmes,” said the girl in
astonishment.

“When you go to bed lock the door of this room on the outside and
keep the key. Promise to do this.”

“But Percy?”

“He will come to London with us.”

“And am I to remain here?”

“It is for his sake. You can serve him. Quick! Promise!”

She gave a quick nod of assent just as the other two came up.

“Why do you sit moping there, Annie?” cried her brother. “Come out
into the sunshine!”

“No, thank you, Joseph. I have a slight headache and this room is
deliciously cool and soothing.”

“What do you propose now, Mr. Holmes?” asked our client.

“Well, in investigating this minor affair we must not lose sight of
our main inquiry. It would be a very great help to me if you would
come up to London with us.”

“At once?”

“Well, as soon as you conveniently can. Say in an hour.”

“I feel quite strong enough, if I can really be of any help.”

“The greatest possible.”

“Perhaps you would like me to stay there to-night?”

“I was just going to propose it.”

“Then, if my friend of the night comes to revisit me, he will find
the bird flown. We are all in your hands, Mr. Holmes, and you must
tell us exactly what you would like done. Perhaps you would prefer
that Joseph came with us so as to look after me?”

“Oh, no; my friend Watson is a medical man, you know, and he’ll look
after you. We’ll have our lunch here, if you will permit us, and then
we shall all three set off for town together.”

It was arranged as he suggested, though Miss Harrison excused herself
from leaving the bedroom, in accordance with Holmes’s suggestion.
What the object of my friend’s manoeuvres was I could not conceive,
unless it were to keep the lady away from Phelps, who, rejoiced by
his returning health and by the prospect of action, lunched with us
in the dining-room. Holmes had still more startling surprise for us,
however, for, after accompanying us down to the station and seeing us
into our carriage, he calmly announced that he had no intention of
leaving Woking.

“There are one or two small points which I should desire to clear up
before I go,” said he. “Your absence, Mr. Phelps, will in some ways
rather assist me. Watson, when you reach London you would oblige me
by driving at once to Baker Street with our friend here, and
remaining with him until I see you again. It is fortunate that you
are old school-fellows, as you must have much to talk over. Mr.
Phelps can have the spare bedroom to-night, and I will be with you in
time for breakfast, for there is a train which will take me into
Waterloo at eight.”

“But how about our investigation in London?” asked Phelps, ruefully.

“We can do that to-morrow. I think that just at present I can be of
more immediate use here.”

“You might tell them at Briarbrae that I hope to be back to-morrow
night,” cried Phelps, as we began to move from the platform.

“I hardly expect to go back to Briarbrae,” answered Holmes, and waved
his hand to us cheerily as we shot out from the station.

Phelps and I talked it over on our journey, but neither of us could
devise a satisfactory reason for this new development.

“I suppose he wants to find out some clue as to the burglary last
night, if a burglar it was. For myself, I don’t believe it was an
ordinary thief.”

“What is your own idea, then?”

“Upon my word, you may put it down to my weak nerves or not, but I
believe there is some deep political intrigue going on around me, and
that for some reason that passes my understanding my life is aimed at
by the conspirators. It sounds high-flown and absurd, but consider
the facts! Why should a thief try to break in at a bedroom window,
where there could be no hope of any plunder, and why should he come
with a long knife in his hand?”

“You are sure it was not a house-breaker’s jimmy?”

“Oh, no, it was a knife. I saw the flash of the blade quite
distinctly.”

“But why on earth should you be pursued with such animosity?”

“Ah, that is the question.”

“Well, if Holmes takes the same view, that would account for his
action, would it not? Presuming that your theory is correct, if he
can lay his hands upon the man who threatened you last night he will
have gone a long way towards finding who took the naval treaty. It is
absurd to suppose that you have two enemies, one of whom robs you,
while the other threatens your life.”

“But Holmes said that he was not going to Briarbrae.”

“I have known him for some time,” said I, “but I never knew him do
anything yet without a very good reason,” and with that our
conversation drifted off on to other topics.

But it was a weary day for me. Phelps was still weak after his long
illness, and his misfortune made him querulous and nervous. In vain I
endeavored to interest him in Afghanistan, in India, in social
questions, in anything which might take his mind out of the groove.
He would always come back to his lost treaty, wondering, guessing,
speculating, as to what Holmes was doing, what steps Lord Holdhurst
was taking, what news we should have in the morning. As the evening
wore on his excitement became quite painful.

“You have implicit faith in Holmes?” he asked.

“I have seen him do some remarkable things.”

“But he never brought light into anything quite so dark as this?”

“Oh, yes, I have known him solve questions which presented fewer
clues than yours.”

“But not where such large interests are at stake?”

“I don’t know that. To my certain knowledge he has acted on behalf of
three of the reigning houses of Europe in very vital matters.”

“But you know him well, Watson. He is such an inscrutable fellow that
I never quite know what to make of him. Do you think he is hopeful?
Do you think he expects to make a success of it?”

“He has said nothing.”

“That is a bad sign.”

“On the contrary, I have noticed that when he is off the trail he
generally says so. It is when he is on a scent and is not quite
absolutely sure yet that it is the right one that he is most
taciturn. Now, my dear fellow, we can’t help matters by making
ourselves nervous about them, so let me implore you to go to bed and
so be fresh for whatever may await us to-morrow.”

I was able at last to persuade my companion to take my advice, though
I knew from his excited manner that there was not much hope of sleep
for him. Indeed, his mood was infectious, for I lay tossing half the
night myself, brooding over this strange problem, and inventing a
hundred theories, each of which was more impossible than the last.
Why had Holmes remained at Woking? Why had he asked Miss Harrison to
remain in the sick-room all day? Why had he been so careful not to
inform the people at Briarbrae that he intended to remain near them?
I cudgelled my brains until I fell asleep in the endeavor to find
some explanation which would cover all these facts.

It was seven o’clock when I awoke, and I set off at once for Phelps’s
room, to find him haggard and spent after a sleepless night. His
first question was whether Holmes had arrived yet.

“He’ll be here when he promised,” said I, “and not an instant sooner
or later.”

And my words were true, for shortly after eight a hansom dashed up to
the door and our friend got out of it. Standing in the window we saw
that his left hand was swathed in a bandage and that his face was
very grim and pale. He entered the house, but it was some little time
before he came upstairs.

“He looks like a beaten man,” cried Phelps.

I was forced to confess that he was right. “After all,” said I, “the
clue of the matter lies probably here in town.”

Phelps gave a groan.

“I don’t know how it is,” said he, “but I had hoped for so much from
his return. But surely his hand was not tied up like that yesterday.
What can be the matter?”

“You are not wounded, Holmes?” I asked, as my friend entered the
room.

“Tut, it is only a scratch through my own clumsiness,” he answered,
nodding his good-mornings to us. “This case of yours, Mr. Phelps, is
certainly one of the darkest which I have ever investigated.”

“I feared that you would find it beyond you.”

“It has been a most remarkable experience.”

“That bandage tells of adventures,” said I. “Won’t you tell us what
has happened?”

“After breakfast, my dear Watson. Remember that I have breathed
thirty miles of Surrey air this morning. I suppose that there has
been no answer from my cabman advertisement? Well, well, we cannot
expect to score every time.”

The table was all laid, and just as I was about to ring Mrs. Hudson
entered with the tea and coffee. A few minutes later she brought in
three covers, and we all drew up to the table, Holmes ravenous, I
curious, and Phelps in the gloomiest state of depression.

“Mrs. Hudson has risen to the occasion,” said Holmes, uncovering a
dish of curried chicken. “Her cuisine is a little limited, but she
has as good an idea of breakfast as a Scotch-woman. What have you
here, Watson?”

“Ham and eggs,” I answered.

“Good! What are you going to take, Mr. Phelps–curried fowl or eggs,
or will you help yourself?”

“Thank you. I can eat nothing,” said Phelps.

“Oh, come! Try the dish before you.”

“Thank you, I would really rather not.”

“Well, then,” said Holmes, with a mischievous twinkle, “I suppose
that you have no objection to helping me?”

Phelps raised the cover, and as he did so he uttered a scream, and
sat there staring with a face as white as the plate upon which he
looked. Across the centre of it was lying a little cylinder of
blue-gray paper. He caught it up, devoured it with his eyes, and then
danced madly about the room, passing it to his bosom and shrieking
out in his delight. Then he fell back into an arm-chair so limp and
exhausted with his own emotions that we had to pour brandy down his
throat to keep him from fainting.

“There! there!” said Holmes, soothing, patting him upon the shoulder.
“It was too bad to spring it on you like this, but Watson here will
tell you that I never can resist a touch of the dramatic.”

Phelps seized his hand and kissed it. “God bless you!” he cried. “You
have saved my honor.”

“Well, my own was at stake, you know,” said Holmes. “I assure you it
is just as hateful to me to fail in a case as it can be to you to
blunder over a commission.”

Phelps thrust away the precious document into the innermost pocket of
his coat.

“I have not the heart to interrupt your breakfast any further, and
yet I am dying to know how you got it and where it was.”

Sherlock Holmes swallowed a cup of coffee, and turned his attention
to the ham and eggs. Then he rose, lit his pipe, and settled himself
down into his chair.

“I’ll tell you what I did first, and how I came to do it afterwards,”
said he. “After leaving you at the station I went for a charming walk
through some admirable Surrey scenery to a pretty little village
called Ripley, where I had my tea at an inn, and took the precaution
of filling my flask and of putting a paper of sandwiches in my
pocket. There I remained until evening, when I set off for Woking
again, and found myself in the high-road outside Briarbrae just after
sunset.

“Well, I waited until the road was clear–it is never a very
frequented one at any time, I fancy–and then I clambered over the
fence into the grounds.”

“Surely the gate was open!” ejaculated Phelps.

“Yes, but I have a peculiar taste in these matters. I chose the place
where the three fir-trees stand, and behind their screen I got over
without the least chance of any one in the house being able to see
me. I crouched down among the bushes on the other side, and crawled
from one to the other–witness the disreputable state of my trouser
knees–until I had reached the clump of rhododendrons just opposite
to your bedroom window. There I squatted down and awaited
developments.

“The blind was not down in your room, and I could see Miss Harrison
sitting there reading by the table. It was quarter-past ten when she
closed her book, fastened the shutters, and retired.

“I heard her shut the door, and felt quite sure that she had turned
the key in the lock.”

“The key!” ejaculated Phelps.

“Yes, I had given Miss Harrison instructions to lock the door on the
outside and take the key with her when she went to bed. She carried
out every one of my injunctions to the letter, and certainly without
her cooperation you would not have that paper in you coat-pocket. She
departed then and the lights went out, and I was left squatting in
the rhododendron-bush.

“The night was fine, but still it was a very weary vigil. Of course
it has the sort of excitement about it that the sportsman feels when
he lies beside the water-course and waits for the big game. It was
very long, though–almost as long, Watson, as when you and I waited
in that deadly room when we looked into the little problem of the
Speckled Band. There was a church-clock down at Woking which struck
the quarters, and I thought more than once that it had stopped. At
last however about two in the morning, I suddenly heard the gentle
sound of a bolt being pushed back and the creaking of a key. A moment
later the servant’s door was opened, and Mr. Joseph Harrison stepped
out into the moonlight.”

“Joseph!” ejaculated Phelps.

“He was bare-headed, but he had a black coat thrown over his shoulder
so that he could conceal his face in an instant if there were any
alarm. He walked on tiptoe under the shadow of the wall, and when he
reached the window he worked a long-bladed knife through the sash and
pushed back the catch. Then he flung open the window, and putting his
knife through the crack in the shutters, he thrust the bar up and
swung them open.

“From where I lay I had a perfect view of the inside of the room and
of every one of his movements. He lit the two candles which stood
upon the mantelpiece, and then he proceeded to turn back the corner
of the carpet in the neighborhood of the door. Presently he stopped
and picked out a square piece of board, such as is usually left to
enable plumbers to get at the joints of the gas-pipes. This one
covered, as a matter of fact, the T joint which gives off the pipe
which supplies the kitchen underneath. Out of this hiding-place he
drew that little cylinder of paper, pushed down the board, rearranged
the carpet, blew out the candles, and walked straight into my arms as
I stood waiting for him outside the window.

“Well, he has rather more viciousness than I gave him credit for, has
Master Joseph. He flew at me with his knife, and I had to grasp him
twice, and got a cut over the knuckles, before I had the upper hand
of him. He looked murder out of the only eye he could see with when
we had finished, but he listened to reason and gave up the papers.
Having got them I let my man go, but I wired full particulars to
Forbes this morning. If he is quick enough to catch his bird, well
and good. But if, as I shrewdly suspect, he finds the nest empty
before he gets there, why, all the better for the government. I fancy
that Lord Holdhurst for one, and Mr. Percy Phelps for another, would
very much rather that the affair never got as far as a police-court.

“My God!” gasped our client. “Do you tell me that during these long
ten weeks of agony the stolen papers were within the very room with
me all the time?”

“So it was.”

“And Joseph! Joseph a villain and a thief!”

“Hum! I am afraid Joseph’s character is a rather deeper and more
dangerous one than one might judge from his appearance. From what I
have heard from him this morning, I gather that he has lost heavily
in dabbling with stocks, and that he is ready to do anything on earth
to better his fortunes. Being an absolutely selfish man, when a
chance presented itself he did not allow either his sister’s
happiness or your reputation to hold his hand.”

Percy Phelps sank back in his chair. “My head whirls,” said he. “Your
words have dazed me.”

“The principal difficulty in your case,” remarked Holmes, in his
didactic fashion, “lay in the fact of there being too much evidence.
What was vital was overlaid and hidden by what was irrelevant. Of all
the facts which were presented to us we had to pick just those which
we deemed to be essential, and then piece them together in their
order, so as to reconstruct this very remarkable chain of events. I
had already begun to suspect Joseph, from the fact that you had
intended to travel home with him that night, and that therefore it
was a likely enough thing that he should call for you, knowing the
Foreign Office well, upon his way. When I heard that some one had
been so anxious to get into the bedroom, in which no one but Joseph
could have concealed anything–you told us in your narrative how you
had turned Joseph out when you arrived with the doctor–my suspicions
all changed to certainties, especially as the attempt was made on the
first night upon which the nurse was absent, showing that the
intruder was well acquainted with the ways of the house.”

“How blind I have been!”

“The facts of the case, as far as I have worked them out, are these:
this Joseph Harrison entered the office through the Charles Street
door, and knowing his way he walked straight into your room the
instant after you left it. Finding no one there he promptly rang the
bell, and at the instant that he did so his eyes caught the paper
upon the table. A glance showed him that chance had put in his way a
State document of immense value, and in an instant he had thrust it
into his pocket and was gone. A few minutes elapsed, as you remember,
before the sleepy commissionaire drew your attention to the bell, and
those were just enough to give the thief time to make his escape.

“He made his way to Woking by the first train, and having examined
his booty and assured himself that it really was of immense value, he
had concealed it in what he thought was a very safe place, with the
intention of taking it out again in a day or two, and carrying it to
the French embassy, or wherever he thought that a long price was to
be had. Then came your sudden return. He, without a moment’s warning,
was bundled out of his room, and from that time onward there were
always at least two of you there to prevent him from regaining his
treasure. The situation to him must have been a maddening one. But at
last he thought he saw his chance. He tried to steal in, but was
baffled by your wakefulness. You remember that you did not take your
usual draught that night.”

“I remember.”

“I fancy that he had taken steps to make that draught efficacious,
and that he quite relied upon your being unconscious. Of course, I
understood that he would repeat the attempt whenever it could be done
with safety. Your leaving the room gave him the chance he wanted. I
kept Miss Harrison in it all day so that he might not anticipate us.
Then, having given him the idea that the coast was clear, I kept
guard as I have described. I already knew that the papers were
probably in the room, but I had no desire to rip up all the planking
and skirting in search of them. I let him take them, therefore, from
the hiding-place, and so saved myself an infinity of trouble. Is
there any other point which I can make clear?”

“Why did he try the window on the first occasion,” I asked, “when he
might have entered by the door?”

“In reaching the door he would have to pass seven bedrooms. On the
other hand, he could get out on to the lawn with ease. Anything
else?”

“You do not think,” asked Phelps, “that he had any murderous
intention? The knife was only meant as a tool.”

“It may be so,” answered Holmes, shrugging his shoulders. “I can only
say for certain that Mr. Joseph Harrison is a gentleman to whose
mercy I should be extremely unwilling to trust.”

It is with a heavy heart that I take up my pen to write these the
last words in which I shall ever record the singular gifts by which
my friend Mr. Sherlock Holmes was distinguished. In an incoherent
and, as I deeply feel, an entirely inadequate fashion, I have
endeavored to give some account of my strange experiences in his
company from the chance which first brought us together at the period
of the “Study in Scarlet,” up to the time of his interference in the
matter of the “Naval Treaty”–an interference which had the
unquestionable effect of preventing a serious international
complication. It was my intention to have stopped there, and to have
said nothing of that event which has created a void in my life which
the lapse of two years has done little to fill. My hand has been
forced, however, by the recent letters in which Colonel James
Moriarty defends the memory of his brother, and I have no choice but
to lay the facts before the public exactly as they occurred. I alone
know the absolute truth of the matter, and I am satisfied that the
time has come when no good purpose is to be served by its
suppression. As far as I know, there have been only three accounts
in the public press: that in the Journal de Genève on May 6th, 1891,
the Reuter’s despatch in the English papers on May 7th, and finally
the recent letters to which I have alluded. Of these the first and
second were extremely condensed, while the last is, as I shall now
show, an absolute perversion of the facts. It lies with me to tell
for the first time what really took place between Professor Moriarty
and Mr. Sherlock Holmes.

It may be remembered that after my marriage, and my subsequent start
in private practice, the very intimate relations which had existed
between Holmes and myself became to some extent modified. He still
came to me from time to time when he desired a companion in his
investigation, but these occasions grew more and more seldom, until I
find that in the year 1890 there were only three cases of which I
retain any record. During the winter of that year and the early
spring of 1891, I saw in the papers that he had been engaged by the
French government upon a matter of supreme importance, and I received
two notes from Holmes, dated from Narbonne and from Nimes, from which
I gathered that his stay in France was likely to be a long one. It
was with some surprise, therefore, that I saw him walk into my
consulting-room upon the evening of April 24th. It struck me that he
was looking even paler and thinner than usual.

“Yes, I have been using myself up rather too freely,” he remarked, in
answer to my look rather than to my words; “I have been a little
pressed of late. Have you any objection to my closing your
shutters?”

The only light in the room came from the lamp upon the table at which
I had been reading. Holmes edged his way round the wall and flinging
the shutters together, he bolted them securely.

“You are afraid of something?” I asked.

“Well, I am.”

“Of what?”

“Of air-guns.”

“My dear Holmes, what do you mean?”

“I think that you know me well enough, Watson, to understand that I
am by no means a nervous man. At the same time, it is stupidity
rather than courage to refuse to recognize danger when it is close
upon you. Might I trouble you for a match?” He drew in the smoke of
his cigarette as if the soothing influence was grateful to him.

“I must apologize for calling so late,” said he, “and I must further
beg you to be so unconventional as to allow me to leave your house
presently by scrambling over your back garden wall.”

“But what does it all mean?” I asked.

He held out his hand, and I saw in the light of the lamp that two of
his knuckles were burst and bleeding.

“It is not an airy nothing, you see,” said he, smiling. “On the
contrary, it is solid enough for a man to break his hand over. Is
Mrs. Watson in?”

“She is away upon a visit.”

“Indeed! You are alone?”

“Quite.”

“Then it makes it the easier for me to propose that you should come
away with me for a week to the Continent.”

“Where?”

“Oh, anywhere. It’s all the same to me.”

There was something very strange in all this. It was not Holmes’s
nature to take an aimless holiday, and something about his pale, worn
face told me that his nerves were at their highest tension. He saw
the question in my eyes, and, putting his finger-tips together and
his elbows upon his knees, he explained the situation.

“You have probably never heard of Professor Moriarty?” said he.

“Never.”

“Aye, there’s the genius and the wonder of the thing!” he cried.
“The man pervades London, and no one has heard of him. That’s what
puts him on a pinnacle in the records of crime. I tell you, Watson,
in all seriousness, that if I could beat that man, if I could free
society of him, I should feel that my own career had reached its
summit, and I should be prepared to turn to some more placid line in
life. Between ourselves, the recent cases in which I have been of
assistance to the royal family of Scandinavia, and to the French
republic, have left me in such a position that I could continue to
live in the quiet fashion which is most congenial to me, and to
concentrate my attention upon my chemical researches. But I could
not rest, Watson, I could not sit quiet in my chair, if I thought
that such a man as Professor Moriarty were walking the streets of
London unchallenged.”

“What has he done, then?”

“His career has been an extraordinary one. He is a man of good birth
and excellent education, endowed by nature with a phenomenal
mathematical faculty. At the age of twenty-one he wrote a treatise
upon the Binomial Theorem, which has had a European vogue. On the
strength of it he won the Mathematical Chair at one of our smaller
universities, and had, to all appearance, a most brilliant career
before him. But the man had hereditary tendencies of the most
diabolical kind. A criminal strain ran in his blood, which, instead
of being modified, was increased and rendered infinitely more
dangerous by his extraordinary mental powers. Dark rumors gathered
round him in the university town, and eventually he was compelled to
resign his chair and to come down to London, where he set up as an
army coach. So much is known to the world, but what I am telling you
now is what I have myself discovered.

“As you are aware, Watson, there is no one who knows the higher
criminal world of London so well as I do. For years past I have
continually been conscious of some power behind the malefactor, some
deep organizing power which forever stands in the way of the law, and
throws its shield over the wrong-doer. Again and again in cases of
the most varying sorts–forgery cases, robberies, murders–I have
felt the presence of this force, and I have deduced its action in
many of those undiscovered crimes in which I have not been personally
consulted. For years I have endeavored to break through the veil
which shrouded it, and at last the time came when I seized my thread
and followed it, until it led me, after a thousand cunning windings,
to ex-Professor Moriarty of mathematical celebrity.

“He is the Napoleon of crime, Watson. He is the organizer of half
that is evil and of nearly all that is undetected in this great city.
He is a genius, a philosopher, an abstract thinker. He has a brain
of the first order. He sits motionless, like a spider in the center
of its web, but that web has a thousand radiations, and he knows well
every quiver of each of them. He does little himself. He only
plans. But his agents are numerous and splendidly organized. Is
there a crime to be done, a paper to be abstracted, we will say, a
house to be rifled, a man to be removed–the word is passed to the
Professor, the matter is organized and carried out. The agent may be
caught. In that case money is found for his bail or his defence.
But the central power which uses the agent is never caught–never so
much as suspected. This was the organization which I deduced,
Watson, and which I devoted my whole energy to exposing and breaking
up.

“But the Professor was fenced round with safeguards so cunningly
devised that, do what I would, it seemed impossible to get evidence
which would convict in a court of law. You know my powers, my dear
Watson, and yet at the end of three months I was forced to confess
that I had at last met an antagonist who was my intellectual equal.
My horror at his crimes was lost in my admiration at his skill. But
at last he made a trip–only a little, little trip–but it was more
than he could afford when I was so close upon him. I had my chance,
and, starting from that point, I have woven my net round him until
now it is all ready to close. In three days–that is to say, on
Monday next–matters will be ripe, and the Professor, with all the
principal members of his gang, will be in the hands of the police.
Then will come the greatest criminal trial of the century, the
clearing up of over forty mysteries, and the rope for all of them;
but if we move at all prematurely, you understand, they may slip out
of our hands even at the last moment.

“Now, if I could have done this without the knowledge of Professor
Moriarty, all would have been well. But he was too wily for that.
He saw every step which I took to draw my toils round him. Again and
again he strove to break away, but I as often headed him off. I tell
you, my friend, that if a detailed account of that silent contest
could be written, it would take its place as the most brilliant bit
of thrust-and-parry work in the history of detection. Never have I
risen to such a height, and never have I been so hard pressed by an
opponent. He cut deep, and yet I just undercut him. This morning
the last steps were taken, and three days only were wanted to
complete the business. I was sitting in my room thinking the matter
over, when the door opened and Professor Moriarty stood before me.

“My nerves are fairly proof, Watson, but I must confess to a start
when I saw the very man who had been so much in my thoughts standing
there on my threshold. His appearance was quite familiar to me. He
is extremely tall and thin, his forehead domes out in a white curve,
and his two eyes are deeply sunken in his head. He is clean-shaven,
pale, and ascetic-looking, retaining something of the professor in
his features. His shoulders are rounded from much study, and his
face protrudes forward, and is forever slowly oscillating from side
to side in a curiously reptilian fashion. He peered at me with great
curiosity in his puckered eyes.

“‘You have less frontal development that I should have expected,’
said he, at last. ‘It is a dangerous habit to finger loaded firearms
in the pocket of one’s dressing-gown.’

“The fact is that upon his entrance I had instantly recognized the
extreme personal danger in which I lay. The only conceivable escape
for him lay in silencing my tongue. In an instant I had slipped the
revolver from the drawer into my pocket, and was covering him through
the cloth. At his remark I drew the weapon out and laid it cocked
upon the table. He still smiled and blinked, but there was something
about his eyes which made me feel very glad that I had it there.

“‘You evidently don’t know me,’ said he.

“‘On the contrary,’ I answered, ‘I think it is fairly evident that I
do. Pray take a chair. I can spare you five minutes if you have
anything to say.’

“‘All that I have to say has already crossed your mind,’ said he.

“‘Then possibly my answer has crossed yours,’ I replied.

“‘You stand fast?’

“‘Absolutely.’

“He clapped his hand into his pocket, and I raised the pistol from
the table. But he merely drew out a memorandum-book in which he had
scribbled some dates.

“‘You crossed my path on the 4th of January,’ said he. ‘On the 23d
you incommoded me; by the middle of February I was seriously
inconvenienced by you; at the end of March I was absolutely hampered
in my plans; and now, at the close of April, I find myself placed in
such a position through your continual persecution that I am in
positive danger of losing my liberty. The situation is becoming an
impossible one.’

“‘Have you any suggestion to make?’ I asked.

“‘You must drop it, Mr. Holmes,’ said he, swaying his face about.
‘You really must, you know.’

“‘After Monday,’ said I.

“‘Tut, tut,’ said he. ‘I am quite sure that a man of your
intelligence will see that there can be but one outcome to this
affair. It is necessary that you should withdraw. You have worked
things in such a fashion that we have only one resource left. It has
been an intellectual treat to me to see the way in which you have
grappled with this affair, and I say, unaffectedly, that it would be
a grief to me to be forced to take any extreme measure. You smile,
sir, but I assure you that it really would.’

“‘Danger is part of my trade,’ I remarked.

“‘That is not danger,’ said he. ‘It is inevitable destruction. You
stand in the way not merely of an individual, but of a mighty
organization, the full extent of which you, with all your cleverness,
have been unable to realize. You must stand clear, Mr. Holmes, or be
trodden under foot.’

“‘I am afraid,’ said I, rising, ‘that in the pleasure of this
conversation I am neglecting business of importance which awaits me
elsewhere.’

“He rose also and looked at me in silence, shaking his head sadly.

“‘Well, well,’ said he, at last. ‘It seems a pity, but I have done
what I could. I know every move of your game. You can do nothing
before Monday. It has been a duel between you and me, Mr. Holmes.
You hope to place me in the dock. I tell you that I will never stand
in the dock. You hope to beat me. I tell you that you will never
beat me. If you are clever enough to bring destruction upon me, rest
assured that I shall do as much to you.’

“‘You have paid me several compliments, Mr. Moriarty,’ said I. ‘Let
me pay you one in return when I say that if I were assured of the
former eventuality I would, in the interests of the public,
cheerfully accept the latter.’

“‘I can promise you the one, but not the other,’ he snarled, and so
turned his rounded back upon me, and went peering and blinking out of
the room.

“That was my singular interview with Professor Moriarty. I confess
that it left an unpleasant effect upon my mind. His soft, precise
fashion of speech leaves a conviction of sincerity which a mere bully
could not produce. Of course, you will say: ‘Why not take police
precautions against him?’ the reason is that I am well convinced
that it is from his agents the blow would fall. I have the best
proofs that it would be so.”

“You have already been assaulted?”

“My dear Watson, Professor Moriarty is not a man who lets the grass
grow under his feet. I went out about mid-day to transact some
business in Oxford Street. As I passed the corner which leads from
Bentinck Street on to the Welbeck Street crossing a two-horse van
furiously driven whizzed round and was on me like a flash. I sprang
for the foot-path and saved myself by the fraction of a second. The
van dashed round by Marylebone Lane and was gone in an instant. I
kept to the pavement after that, Watson, but as I walked down Vere
Street a brick came down from the roof of one of the houses, and was
shattered to fragments at my feet. I called the police and had the
place examined. There were slates and bricks piled up on the roof
preparatory to some repairs, and they would have me believe that the
wind had toppled over one of these. Of course I knew better, but I
could prove nothing. I took a cab after that and reached my
brother’s rooms in Pall Mall, where I spent the day. Now I have come
round to you, and on my way I was attacked by a rough with a
bludgeon. I knocked him down, and the police have him in custody;
but I can tell you with the most absolute confidence that no possible
connection will ever be traced between the gentleman upon whose front
teeth I have barked my knuckles and the retiring mathematical coach,
who is, I dare say, working out problems upon a black-board ten miles
away. You will not wonder, Watson, that my first act on entering
your rooms was to close your shutters, and that I have been compelled
to ask your permission to leave the house by some less conspicuous
exit than the front door.”

I had often admired my friend’s courage, but never more than now, as
he sat quietly checking off a series of incidents which must have
combined to make up a day of horror.

“You will spend the night here?” I said.

“No, my friend, you might find me a dangerous guest. I have my plans
laid, and all will be well. Matters have gone so far now that they
can move without my help as far as the arrest goes, though my
presence is necessary for a conviction. It is obvious, therefore,
that I cannot do better than get away for the few days which remain
before the police are at liberty to act. It would be a great
pleasure to me, therefore, if you could come on to the Continent with
me.”

“The practice is quiet,” said I, “and I have an accommodating
neighbor. I should be glad to come.”

“And to start to-morrow morning?”

“If necessary.”

“Oh yes, it is most necessary. Then these are your instructions, and
I beg, my dear Watson, that you will obey them to the letter, for you
are now playing a double-handed game with me against the cleverest
rogue and the most powerful syndicate of criminals in Europe. Now
listen! You will dispatch whatever luggage you intend to take by a
trusty messenger unaddressed to Victoria to-night. In the morning
you will send for a hansom, desiring your man to take neither the
first nor the second which may present itself. Into this hansom you
will jump, and you will drive to the Strand end of the Lowther
Arcade, handing the address to the cabman upon a slip of paper, with
a request that he will not throw it away. Have your fare ready, and
the instant that your cab stops, dash through the Arcade, timing
yourself to reach the other side at a quarter-past nine. You will
find a small brougham waiting close to the curb, driven by a fellow
with a heavy black cloak tipped at the collar with red. Into this
you will step, and you will reach Victoria in time for the
Continental express.”

“Where shall I meet you?”

“At the station. The second first-class carriage from the front will
be reserved for us.”

“The carriage is our rendezvous, then?”

“Yes.”

It was in vain that I asked Holmes to remain for the evening. It was
evident to me that he thought he might bring trouble to the roof he
was under, and that that was the motive which impelled him to go.
With a few hurried words as to our plans for the morrow he rose and
came out with me into the garden, clambering over the wall which
leads into Mortimer Street, and immediately whistling for a hansom,
in which I heard him drive away.

In the morning I obeyed Holmes’s injunctions to the letter. A hansom
was procured with such precaution as would prevent its being one
which was placed ready for us, and I drove immediately after
breakfast to the Lowther Arcade, through which I hurried at the top
of my speed. A brougham was waiting with a very massive driver
wrapped in a dark cloak, who, the instant that I had stepped in,
whipped up the horse and rattled off to Victoria Station. On my
alighting there he turned the carriage, and dashed away again without
so much as a look in my direction.

So far all had gone admirably. My luggage was waiting for me, and I
had no difficulty in finding the carriage which Holmes had indicated,
the less so as it was the only one in the train which was marked
“Engaged.” My only source of anxiety now was the non-appearance of
Holmes. The station clock marked only seven minutes from the time
when we were due to start. In vain I searched among the groups of
travellers and leave-takers for the lithe figure of my friend. There
was no sign of him. I spent a few minutes in assisting a venerable
Italian priest, who was endeavoring to make a porter understand, in
his broken English, that his luggage was to be booked through to
Paris. Then, having taken another look round, I returned to my
carriage, where I found that the porter, in spite of the ticket, had
given me my decrepit Italian friend as a traveling companion. It was
useless for me to explain to him that his presence was an intrusion,
for my Italian was even more limited than his English, so I shrugged
my shoulders resignedly, and continued to look out anxiously for my
friend. A chill of fear had come over me, as I thought that his
absence might mean that some blow had fallen during the night.
Already the doors had all been shut and the whistle blown, when–

“My dear Watson,” said a voice, “you have not even condescended to
say good-morning.”

I turned in uncontrollable astonishment. The aged ecclesiastic had
turned his face towards me. For an instant the wrinkles were
smoothed away, the nose drew away from the chin, the lower lip ceased
to protrude and the mouth to mumble, the dull eyes regained their
fire, the drooping figure expanded. The next the whole frame
collapsed again, and Holmes had gone as quickly as he had come.

“Good heavens!” I cried; “how you startled me!”

“Every precaution is still necessary,” he whispered. “I have reason
to think that they are hot upon our trail. Ah, there is Moriarty
himself.”

The train had already begun to move as Holmes spoke. Glancing back,
I saw a tall man pushing his way furiously through the crowd, and
waving his hand as if he desired to have the train stopped. It was
too late, however, for we were rapidly gathering momentum, and an
instant later had shot clear of the station.

“With all our precautions, you see that we have cut it rather fine,”
said Holmes, laughing. He rose, and throwing off the black cassock
and hat which had formed his disguise, he packed them away in a
hand-bag.

“Have you seen the morning paper, Watson?”

“No.”

“You haven’t seen about Baker Street, then?”

“Baker Street?”

“They set fire to our rooms last night. No great harm was done.”

“Good heavens, Holmes, this is intolerable!”

“They must have lost my track completely after their bludgeon-man was
arrested. Otherwise they could not have imagined that I had returned
to my rooms. They have evidently taken the precaution of watching
you, however, and that is what has brought Moriarty to Victoria. You
could not have made any slip in coming?”

“I did exactly what you advised.”

“Did you find your brougham?”

“Yes, it was waiting.”

“Did you recognize your coachman?”

“No.”

“It was my brother Mycroft. It is an advantage to get about in such
a case without taking a mercenary into your confidence. But we must
plan what we are to do about Moriarty now.”

“As this is an express, and as the boat runs in connection with it, I
should think we have shaken him off very effectively.”

“My dear Watson, you evidently did not realize my meaning when I said
that this man may be taken as being quite on the same intellectual
plane as myself. You do not imagine that if I were the pursuer I
should allow myself to be baffled by so slight an obstacle. Why,
then, should you think so meanly of him?”

“What will he do?”

“What I should do.”

“What would you do, then?”

“Engage a special.”

“But it must be late.”

“By no means. This train stops at Canterbury; and there is always at
least a quarter of an hour’s delay at the boat. He will catch us
there.”

“One would think that we were the criminals. Let us have him
arrested on his arrival.”

“It would be to ruin the work of three months. We should get the big
fish, but the smaller would dart right and left out of the net. On
Monday we should have them all. No, an arrest is inadmissible.”

“What then?”

“We shall get out at Canterbury.”

“And then?”

“Well, then we must make a cross-country journey to Newhaven, and so
over to Dieppe. Moriarty will again do what I should do. He will
get on to Paris, mark down our luggage, and wait for two days at the
depot. In the meantime we shall treat ourselves to a couple of
carpet-bags, encourage the manufactures of the countries through
which we travel, and make our way at our leisure into Switzerland,
via Luxembourg and Basle.”

At Canterbury, therefore, we alighted, only to find that we should
have to wait an hour before we could get a train to Newhaven.

I was still looking rather ruefully after the rapidly disappearing
luggage-van which contained my wardrobe, when Holmes pulled my sleeve
and pointed up the line.

“Already, you see,” said he.

Far away, from among the Kentish woods there rose a thin spray of
smoke. A minute later a carriage and engine could be seen flying
along the open curve which leads to the station. We had hardly time
to take our place behind a pile of luggage when it passed with a
rattle and a roar, beating a blast of hot air into our faces.

“There he goes,” said Holmes, as we watched the carriage swing and
rock over the point. “There are limits, you see, to our friend’s
intelligence. It would have been a coup-de-maître had he deduced
what I would deduce and acted accordingly.”

“And what would he have done had he overtaken us?”

“There cannot be the least doubt that he would have made a murderous
attack upon me. It is, however, a game at which two may play. The
question now is whether we should take a premature lunch here, or run
our chance of starving before we reach the buffet at Newhaven.”

We made our way to Brussels that night and spent two days there,
moving on upon the third day as far as Strasburg. On the Monday
morning Holmes had telegraphed to the London police, and in the
evening we found a reply waiting for us at our hotel. Holmes tore it
open, and then with a bitter curse hurled it into the grate.

“I might have known it!” he groaned. “He has escaped!”

“Moriarty?”

“They have secured the whole gang with the exception of him. He has
given them the slip. Of course, when I had left the country there
was no one to cope with him. But I did think that I had put the game
in their hands. I think that you had better return to England,
Watson.”

“Why?”

“Because you will find me a dangerous companion now. This man’s
occupation is gone. He is lost if he returns to London. If I read
his character right he will devote his whole energies to revenging
himself upon me. He said as much in our short interview, and I fancy
that he meant it. I should certainly recommend you to return to your
practice.”

It was hardly an appeal to be successful with one who was an old
campaigner as well as an old friend. We sat in the Strasbourg
salle-à-manger arguing the question for half an hour, but the same
night we had resumed our journey and were well on our way to Geneva.

For a charming week we wandered up the Valley of the Rhone, and then,
branching off at Leuk, we made our way over the Gemmi Pass, still
deep in snow, and so, by way of Interlaken, to Meiringen. It was a
lovely trip, the dainty green of the spring below, the virgin white
of the winter above; but it was clear to me that never for one
instant did Holmes forget the shadow which lay across him. In the
homely Alpine villages or in the lonely mountain passes, I could tell
by his quick glancing eyes and his sharp scrutiny of every face that
passed us, that he was well convinced that, walk where we would, we
could not walk ourselves clear of the danger which was dogging our
footsteps.

Once, I remember, as we passed over the Gemmi, and walked along the
border of the melancholy Daubensee, a large rock which had been
dislodged from the ridge upon our right clattered down and roared
into the lake behind us. In an instant Holmes had raced up on to the
ridge, and, standing upon a lofty pinnacle, craned his neck in every
direction. It was in vain that our guide assured him that a fall of
stones was a common chance in the spring-time at that spot. He said
nothing, but he smiled at me with the air of a man who sees the
fulfillment of that which he had expected.

And yet for all his watchfulness he was never depressed. On the
contrary, I can never recollect having seen him in such exuberant
spirits. Again and again he recurred to the fact that if he could be
assured that society was freed from Professor Moriarty he would
cheerfully bring his own career to a conclusion.

“I think that I may go so far as to say, Watson, that I have not
lived wholly in vain,” he remarked. “If my record were closed
to-night I could still survey it with equanimity. The air of London
is the sweeter for my presence. In over a thousand cases I am not
aware that I have ever used my powers upon the wrong side. Of late I
have been tempted to look into the problems furnished by nature
rather than those more superficial ones for which our artificial
state of society is responsible. Your memoirs will draw to an end,
Watson, upon the day that I crown my career by the capture or
extinction of the most dangerous and capable criminal in Europe.”

I shall be brief, and yet exact, in the little which remains for me
to tell. It is not a subject on which I would willingly dwell, and
yet I am conscious that a duty devolves upon me to omit no detail.

It was on the third of May that we reached the little village of
Meiringen, where we put up at the Englischer Hof, then kept by Peter
Steiler the elder. Our landlord was an intelligent man, and spoke
excellent English, having served for three years as waiter at the
Grosvenor Hotel in London. At his advice, on the afternoon of the
fourth we set off together, with the intention of crossing the hills
and spending the night at the hamlet of Rosenlaui. We had strict
injunctions, however, on no account to pass the falls of Reichenbach,
which are about half-way up the hill, without making a small detour
to see them.

It is, indeed, a fearful place. The torrent, swollen by the melting
snow, plunges into a tremendous abyss, from which the spray rolls up
like the smoke from a burning house. The shaft into which the river
hurls itself is an immense chasm, lined by glistening coal-black
rock, and narrowing into a creaming, boiling pit of incalculable
depth, which brims over and shoots the stream onward over its jagged
lip. The long sweep of green water roaring forever down, and the
thick flickering curtain of spray hissing forever upward, turn a man
giddy with their constant whirl and clamor. We stood near the edge
peering down at the gleam of the breaking water far below us against
the black rocks, and listening to the half-human shout which came
booming up with the spray out of the abyss.

The path has been cut half-way round the fall to afford a complete
view, but it ends abruptly, and the traveler has to return as he
came. We had turned to do so, when we saw a Swiss lad come running
along it with a letter in his hand. It bore the mark of the hotel
which we had just left, and was addressed to me by the landlord. It
appeared that within a very few minutes of our leaving, an English
lady had arrived who was in the last stage of consumption. She had
wintered at Davos Platz, and was journeying now to join her friends
at Lucerne, when a sudden hemorrhage had overtaken her. It was
thought that she could hardly live a few hours, but it would be a
great consolation to her to see an English doctor, and, if I would
only return, etc. The good Steiler assured me in a postscript that
he would himself look upon my compliance as a very great favor, since
the lady absolutely refused to see a Swiss physician, and he could
not but feel that he was incurring a great responsibility.

The appeal was one which could not be ignored. It was impossible to
refuse the request of a fellow-countrywoman dying in a strange land.
Yet I had my scruples about leaving Holmes. It was finally agreed,
however, that he should retain the young Swiss messenger with him as
guide and companion while I returned to Meiringen. My friend would
stay some little time at the fall, he said, and would then walk
slowly over the hill to Rosenlaui, where I was to rejoin him in the
evening. As I turned away I saw Holmes, with his back against a rock
and his arms folded, gazing down at the rush of the waters. It was
the last that I was ever destined to see of him in this world.

When I was near the bottom of the descent I looked back. It was
impossible, from that position, to see the fall, but I could see the
curving path which winds over the shoulder of the hill and leads to
it. Along this a man was, I remember, walking very rapidly.

I could see his black figure clearly outlined against the green
behind him. I noted him, and the energy with which he walked but he
passed from my mind again as I hurried on upon my errand.

It may have been a little over an hour before I reached Meiringen.
Old Steiler was standing at the porch of his hotel.

“Well,” said I, as I came hurrying up, “I trust that she is no
worse?”

A look of surprise passed over his face, and at the first quiver of
his eyebrows my heart turned to lead in my breast.

“You did not write this?” I said, pulling the letter from my pocket.
“There is no sick Englishwoman in the hotel?”

“Certainly not!” he cried. “But it has the hotel mark upon it! Ha,
it must have been written by that tall Englishman who came in after
you had gone. He said–“

But I waited for none of the landlord’s explanations. In a tingle of
fear I was already running down the village street, and making for
the path which I had so lately descended. It had taken me an hour to
come down. For all my efforts two more had passed before I found
myself at the fall of Reichenbach once more. There was Holmes’s
Alpine-stock still leaning against the rock by which I had left him.
But there was no sign of him, and it was in vain that I shouted. My
only answer was my own voice reverberating in a rolling echo from the
cliffs around me.