The Return of Sherlock Holmes (collection)

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prohibition from his own lips, which was only withdrawn upon the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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I acknowledged that I was.

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

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

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

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

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

I gripped him by the arm.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You’ll come with me to-night?”

“When you like and where you like.”

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

“You never were in it?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“But why are we here?”

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

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

“Well?” said he.

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

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

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

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

“But why?”

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

“And you thought the rooms were watched?”

“I knew that they were watched.”

“By whom?”

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

“How do you know?”

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

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

“The shadow has moved!” I cried.

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

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

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

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

“That you, Lestrade?” said Holmes.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Colonel Moran turned to the official detective.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Got him! Got whom, Mr. Holmes?”

“The man that the whole force has been seeking in vain–Colonel
Sebastian Moran, who shot the Honourable Ronald Adair with an
expanding bullet from an air-gun through the open window of the
second-floor front of No. 427, Park Lane, upon the 30th of last
month. That’s the charge, Lestrade. And now, Watson, if you can
endure the draught from a broken window, I think that half an hour in
my study over a cigar may afford you some profitable amusement.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“No, I have not.”

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

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

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

He handed over the book, and I read:

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

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

The second most dangerous man in London.

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

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

“It is surely rather fanciful.”

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

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

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

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

“You have formed one, then?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Underneath the vigorous head-lines which our client had quoted I read
the following suggestive narrative:–

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

Sherlock Holmes listened with closed eyes and finger-tips together to
this remarkable account.

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

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

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

“Mr. John Hector McFarlane?” said Lestrade.

Our unfortunate client rose with a ghastly face.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Exactly,” said McFarlane.

“Pray proceed.”

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

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

“Was the blind down?” asked Holmes.

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

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

“Not until I have been to Blackheath.”

“You mean to Norwood,” said Lestrade.

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

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

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

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

The official looked at them with a puzzled expression.

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

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

“Well, what do you make of it?”

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

Lestrade began to laugh.

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

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

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

“Oh, you think so?”

“Don’t you?”

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

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

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

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

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

“Why should the tramp burn the body?”

“For the matter of that why should McFarlane?”

“To hide some evidence.”

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

“And why did the tramp take nothing?”

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

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

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

My friend seemed struck by this remark.

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

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

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

“And why not Norwood?”

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

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

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

“Did you go to Blackheath?”

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

“‘You knew him at that time?’ said I.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“It is true.”

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

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

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

It was from Norwood, and ran as follows:

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

“This sounds serious,” said I.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Lestrade laughed loudly.

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

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

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

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

“Yes, I am doing so.”

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

“I have heard something of the kind.”

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

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

“That is final,” said Lestrade.

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

“It is final,” said Holmes.

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

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

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

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

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

“Where was the night constable?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“It is unquestionably the mark of his thumb.”

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

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

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

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

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

“Indeed, Holmes! What is it?”

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

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

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

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

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

“So I am.”

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

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

“What do you mean, Mr. Holmes?”

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

“Can you produce him?”

“I think I can.”

“Then do so.”

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

“There are three within call.”

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

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

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

Five minutes later three policemen had assembled in the hall.

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

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

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

Lestrade’s face had begun to grow red and angry.

“I don’t know whether you are playing a game with us, Mr. Sherlock
Holmes,” said he. “If you know anything, you can surely say it
without all this tomfoolery.”

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

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

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

“Fire!” we all yelled.

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

“Fire!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I have done no harm.”

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

The wretched creature began to whimper.

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

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

Holmes smiled and clapped Lestrade upon the shoulder.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“But how?”

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

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

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

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

“Well, that’s likely enough.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Holmes smiled indulgently.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I am.”

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

“Why?”

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

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

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

“I see no connection.”

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

“How absurdly simple!” I cried.

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

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

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

“Oh, that’s your idea!”

“What else should it be?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

[ Picture: Picture of several figures of dancing men, some holding
flags ]

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Hilton Cubitt shook his massive head.

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

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

“No.”

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

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

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

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

“You had better stay here, Watson.”

“Why?”

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

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

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

“Has she said anything yet?”

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

“But you have found out something for yourself?”

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

“What, the man who draws them?”

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

[ Picture: Picture of a few dancing men ]

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

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

[ Picture: Picture of some more dancing man figures ]

Holmes rubbed his hands and chuckled with delight.

“Our material is rapidly accumulating,” said he.

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

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

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

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

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

“Have you that fresh drawing?”

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

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

[ Picture: Picture of five dancing men figures ]

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

[ Picture: Picture of many dancing men figures ]

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

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

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

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

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

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

A look of annoyance passed over Holmes’s face.

“What makes you think such a thing?”

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

Holmes’s brow was dark with anxiety.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Has he been moved?” asked Holmes.

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

“How long have you been here, doctor?”

“Since four o’clock.”

“Anyone else?”

“Yes, the constable here.”

“And you have touched nothing?”

“Nothing.”

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

“The housemaid, Saunders.”

“Was it she who gave the alarm?”

“She and Mrs. King, the cook.”

“Where are they now?”

“In the kitchen, I believe.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Because I looked for it.”

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

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

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

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

“How do you prove that?”

“Because the candle has not guttered.”

“Capital!” cried the inspector. “Capital!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I am sure I couldn’t say, sir.”

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

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

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

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

“Whom do you suspect?” he asked.

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

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

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

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

“Is it a lonely farm?”

“Very lonely, sir.”

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

“Maybe not, sir.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Having once recognised, however, that the symbols stood for letters,
and having applied the rules which guide us in all forms of secret
writings, the solution was easy enough. The first message submitted
to me was so short that it was impossible for me to do more than to
say with some confidence that the symbol

[ Picture: Picture of a single dancing man ]

stood for E. As you are aware, E is the most common letter in the
English alphabet, and it predominates to so marked an extent that
even in a short sentence one would expect to find it most often. Out
of fifteen symbols in the first message four were the same, so it was
reasonable to set this down as E. It is true that in some cases the
figure was bearing a flag and in some cases not, but it was probable
from the way in which the flags were distributed that they were used
to break the sentence up into words. I accepted this as a hypothesis,
and noted that E was represented by

[ Picture: Picture of a single dancing man ]

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

[ Picture: Picture of three dancing men ]

stand respectively for N, V, and R.

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

.M .ERE ..E SL.NE.

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

AM HERE A.E SLANE.

Or, filling in the obvious vacancies in the name:–

AM HERE ABE SLANEY.

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

A. ELRI.ES.

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

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

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

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

ELSIE .RE.ARE TO MEET THY GO.

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

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

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

“How do you know?”

“To fly would be a confession of guilt.”

“Then let us go to arrest him.”

“I expect him here every instant.”

“But why should he come?”

“Because I have written and asked him.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I wrote it to bring you here.”

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

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

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

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

Slaney shrugged his shoulders.

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

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

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

“It is time for us to go.”

“Can I see her first?”

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

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

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

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

[ Picture: Picture of various dancing men ]

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Yes, Mr. Holmes, I teach music.”

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

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

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

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

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

“Excuse me,” said Holmes; “when was this interview?”

“Last December–four months ago.”

“Pray proceed.”

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

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

The young lady blushed and laughed.

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

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

“And now, Mr. Holmes, I come at last to the special thing which has
caused me to ask your advice to-day. You must know that every
Saturday forenoon I ride on my bicycle to Farnham Station in order to
get the 12.22 to town. The road from Chiltern Grange is a lonely one,
and at one spot it is particularly so, for it lies for over a mile
between Charlington Heath upon one side and the woods which lie round
Charlington Hall upon the other. You could not find a more lonely
tract of road anywhere, and it is quite rare to meet so much as a
cart, or a peasant, until you reach the high road near Crooksbury
Hill. Two weeks ago I was passing this place when I chanced to look
back over my shoulder, and about two hundred yards behind me I saw a
man, also on a bicycle. He seemed to be a middle-aged man, with a
short, dark beard. I looked back before I reached Farnham, but the
man was gone, so I thought no more about it. But you can imagine how
surprised I was, Mr. Holmes, when on my return on the Monday I saw
the same man on the same stretch of road. My astonishment was
increased when the incident occurred again, exactly as before, on the
following Saturday and Monday. He always kept his distance and did
not molest me in any way, but still it certainly was very odd. I
mentioned it to Mr. Carruthers, who seemed interested in what I said,
and told me that he had ordered a horse and trap, so that in future I
should not pass over these lonely roads without some companion.

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

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

“Two or three minutes.”

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

“None.”

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

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

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

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

Holmes sat in silence for some little time.

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

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

“He would not pay you a surprise visit?”

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

“Have you had any other admirers?”

“Several before I knew Cyril.”

“And since?”

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

“No one else?”

Our fair client seemed a little confused.

“Who was he?” asked Holmes.

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

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

“He is a rich man.”

“No carriages or horses?”

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

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

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

“That he should appear only at that point?”

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

“You will go down?”

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

We had ascertained from the lady that she went down upon the Monday
by the train which leaves Waterloo at 9.50, so I started early and
caught the 9.13. At Farnham Station I had no difficulty in being
directed to Charlington Heath. It was impossible to mistake the scene
of the young lady’s adventure, for the road runs between the open
heath on one side and an old yew hedge upon the other, surrounding a
park which is studded with magnificent trees. There was a main
gateway of lichen-studded stone, each side pillar surmounted by
mouldering heraldic emblems; but besides this central carriage drive
I observed several points where there were gaps in the hedge and
paths leading through them. The house was invisible from the road,
but the surroundings all spoke of gloom and decay.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I begged him to tell me what had occurred.

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

The Thursday brought us another letter from our client.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“That’s the man!” I gasped.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“They’re married!” I gasped.

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

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

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

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

“You’re too late. She’s my wife!”

“No, she’s your widow.”

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

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

“Who are you, then?”

“My name is Sherlock Holmes.”

“Good Lord!”

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

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

“He will live,” said I.

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

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

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

“And also unfrocked.”

“Once a clergyman, always a clergyman.”

“I think not. How about the license?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What cable?”

Carruthers took a telegram from his pocket.

“That’s it,” said he.

It was short and concise:

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

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

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

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

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

“What he says is true,” said Carruthers.

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

Carruthers nodded and Williamson swore.

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

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

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

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

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

“No, by George, I couldn’t!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What is it, Watson?” asked Holmes.

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

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

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

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

“When you are quite restored–

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

My friend shook his head.

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

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

“What! the late Cabinet Minister?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“But there has been some official investigation?”

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

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

“It was entirely dropped.”

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

“I feel it, and admit it.”

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

“None at all.”

“Was he in the master’s class?”

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

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

“No.”

“Was any other bicycle missing?”

“No.”

“Is that certain?”

“Quite.”

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

“Certainly not.”

“Then what is the theory in your mind?”

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

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

“Several.”

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

“I suppose he would.”

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

“No.”

“Did he get any letters?”

“Yes; one letter.”

“From whom?”

“From his father.”

“Do you open the boys’ letters?”

“No.”

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

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

“When had he a letter before that?”

“Not for several days.”

“Had he ever one from France?”

“No; never.”

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

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

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

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

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

“Yes.”

“Did he say so?”

“No.”

“The Duke, then?”

“Good heavens, no!”

“Then how could you know?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“When I learned that the police had failed–“

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

“But surely, Mr. Wilder–“

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“No, sir, I have not.”

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

The great Minister showed perceptible hesitation.

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

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

“No, sir.”

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

“No; I wrote upon the day before.”

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

“Yes.”

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

“No, sir, certainly not.”

“Did you post that letter yourself?”

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

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

“You are sure this one was among them?”

“Yes; I observed it.”

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

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

“Not entirely,” said Holmes.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

[ Picture: Chart of the surrounding area ]

“Exactly.”

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

“But the bicycle?” I objected.

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

“But the bicycle?” I persisted.

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

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

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

“Where was it found?”

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

“How do they account for it?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Hurrah!” I cried. “We have it.”

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

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

“The boy’s, then?”

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

“Or towards it?”

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

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

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

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

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

“I congratulate you.”

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

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

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

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

“A side-slip,” I suggested.

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

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

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

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

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

“I could take a note back.”

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

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

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

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

I assented.

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

“Undoubtedly.”

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

“So it would seem.”

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

“The other bicycle.”

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

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

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

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

“In a morass, Watson?”

“I am at my wit’s end.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“No; I have not.”

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

“Don’t put it to the ground.”

“But I can’t walk.”

“Well, then, hop.”

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

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

“Neither do I,” said the morose landlord.

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

The landlord pricked up his ears.

“Where do you want to go?”

“To Holdernesse Hall.”

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

Holmes laughed good-naturedly.

“He’ll be glad to see us, anyhow.”

“Why?”

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

The landlord gave a very visible start.

“What, you’re on his track?”

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

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

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

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

“I haven’t got a bicycle.”

Holmes held up a sovereign.

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

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

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

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

“Yes, several.”

“Where?”

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

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

“I don’t remember seeing any.”

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

“Yes, it is strange.”

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

“Yes, I can.”

“Can you recall that the tracks were sometimes like that, Watson”–he
arranged a number of bread-crumbs in this fashion–: : : : :–“and
sometimes like this”–: ` : ` : ` : `–“and occasionally like
this”–. ` . ` . ` . “Can you remember that?”

“No, I cannot.”

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

“And what is your conclusion?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“It looks like a flight.”

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

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

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

“The bar is on the other side.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I must see the Duke, Mr. Wilder.”

“But he is in his room.”

“Then I must go to his room.”

“I believe he is in his bed.”

“I will see him there.”

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

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

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

“Well, Mr. Holmes?” said he.

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

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

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

“If your Grace wishes–“

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

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

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

“Certainly, Mr. Holmes.”

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

“Exactly.”

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

“Exactly.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What do you mean, then?”

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

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

“Where is he?” he gasped.

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

The Duke fell back in his chair.

“And whom do you accuse?”

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

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

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

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

“I saw you together last night.”

“Does anyone else besides your friend know?”

“I have spoken to no one.”

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

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

“I hardly understand your Grace.”

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

But Holmes smiled and shook his head.

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

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

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

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

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

“No; the murderer has escaped.”

Sherlock Holmes smiled demurely.

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

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

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

“Your secretary?”

“No, sir; my son.”

It was Holmes’s turn to look astonished.

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Duke bowed his assent.

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

“Under solemn promises–“

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“And the first?”

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

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

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

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

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

“I drove to the butcher’s and back.”

“The butcher’s?”

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

“I will not attempt it.”

He chuckled as he poured out the coffee.

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

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

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

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

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

“And what had you to report?”

“Failure, sir; absolute failure.”

“You have made no progress?”

“None.”

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

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

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

Hopkins looked surprised.

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

“But he had no pipe.”

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

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

Stanley Hopkins drew a slip of paper from his pocket.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Meaning that you saw none?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What part of the table?”

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

“Excellent! What more?”

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

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

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

“Try Canadian Pacific Railway,” said Holmes.

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

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

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

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

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

Holmes had been examining the cover of the note-book with his
magnifying lens.

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

“Yes, sir, it is a blood-stain. I told you that I picked the book off
the floor.”

“Was the blood-stain above or below?”

“On the side next the boards.”

“Which proves, of course, that the book was dropped after the crime
was committed.”

“Exactly, Mr. Holmes. I appreciated that point, and I conjectured
that it was dropped by the murderer in his hurried flight. It lay
near the door.”

“I suppose that none of these securities have been found among the
property of the dead man?”

“No, sir.”

“Have you any reason to suspect robbery?”

“No, sir. Nothing seemed to have been touched.”

“Dear me, it is certainly a very interesting case. Then there was a
knife, was there not?”

“A sheath-knife, still in its sheath. It lay at the feet of the dead
man. Mrs. Carey has identified it as being her husband’s property.”

Holmes was lost in thought for some time.

“Well,” said he, at last, “I suppose I shall have to come out and
have a look at it.”

Stanley Hopkins gave a cry of joy.

“Thank you, sir. That will indeed be a weight off my mind.”

Holmes shook his finger at the inspector.

“It would have been an easier task a week ago,” said he. “But even
now my visit may not be entirely fruitless. Watson, if you can spare
the time I should be very glad of your company. If you will call a
four-wheeler, Hopkins, we shall be ready to start for Forest Row in a
quarter of an hour.”

Alighting at the small wayside station, we drove for some miles
through the remains of widespread woods, which were once part of that
great forest which for so long held the Saxon invaders at bay–the
impenetrable “weald,” for sixty years the bulwark of Britain. Vast
sections of it have been cleared, for this is the seat of the first
iron-works of the country, and the trees have been felled to smelt
the ore. Now the richer fields of the North have absorbed the trade,
and nothing save these ravaged groves and great scars in the earth
show the work of the past. Here in a clearing upon the green slope of
a hill stood a long, low stone house, approached by a curving drive
running through the fields. Nearer the road, and surrounded on three
sides by bushes, was a small outhouse, one window and the door facing
in our direction. It was the scene of the murder.

Stanley Hopkins led us first to the house, where he introduced us to
a haggard, grey-haired woman, the widow of the murdered man, whose
gaunt and deep-lined face, with the furtive look of terror in the
depths of her red-rimmed eyes, told of the years of hardship and
ill-usage which she had endured. With her was her daughter, a pale,
fair-haired girl, whose eyes blazed defiantly at us as she told us
that she was glad that her father was dead, and that she blessed the
hand which had struck him down. It was a terrible household that
Black Peter Carey had made for himself, and it was with a sense of
relief that we found ourselves in the sunlight again and making our
way along a path which had been worn across the fields by the feet of
the dead man.

The outhouse was the simplest of dwellings, wooden-walled,
shingle-roofed, one window beside the door and one on the farther
side. Stanley Hopkins drew the key from his pocket, and had stooped
to the lock, when he paused with a look of attention and surprise
upon his face.

“Someone has been tampering with it,” he said.

There could be no doubt of the fact. The woodwork was cut and the
scratches showed white through the paint, as if they had been that
instant done. Holmes had been examining the window.

“Someone has tried to force this also. Whoever it was has failed to
make his way in. He must have been a very poor burglar.”

“This is a most extraordinary thing,” said the inspector; “I could
swear that these marks were not here yesterday evening.”

“Some curious person from the village, perhaps,” I suggested.

“Very unlikely. Few of them would dare to set foot in the grounds,
far less try to force their way into the cabin. What do you think of
it, Mr. Holmes?”

“I think that fortune is very kind to us.”

“You mean that the person will come again?”

“It is very probable. He came expecting to find the door open. He
tried to get in with the blade of a very small penknife. He could not
manage it. What would he do?”

“Come again next night with a more useful tool.”

“So I should say. It will be our fault if we are not there to receive
him. Meanwhile, let me see the inside of the cabin.”

The traces of the tragedy had been removed, but the furniture within
the little room still stood as it had been on the night of the crime.
For two hours, with most intense concentration, Holmes examined every
object in turn, but his face showed that his quest was not a
successful one. Once only he paused in his patient investigation.

“Have you taken anything off this shelf, Hopkins?”

“No; I have moved nothing.”

“Something has been taken. There is less dust in this corner of the
shelf than elsewhere. It may have been a book lying on its side. It
may have been a box. Well, well, I can do nothing more. Let us walk
in these beautiful woods, Watson, and give a few hours to the birds
and the flowers. We shall meet you here later, Hopkins, and see if we
can come to closer quarters with the gentleman who has paid this
visit in the night.”

It was past eleven o’clock when we formed our little ambuscade.
Hopkins was for leaving the door of the hut open, but Holmes was of
the opinion that this would rouse the suspicions of the stranger. The
lock was a perfectly simple one, and only a strong blade was needed
to push it back. Holmes also suggested that we should wait, not
inside the hut, but outside it among the bushes which grew round the
farther window. In this way we should be able to watch our man if he
struck a light, and see what his object was in this stealthy
nocturnal visit.

It was a long and melancholy vigil, and yet brought with it something
of the thrill which the hunter feels when he lies beside the water
pool and waits for the coming of the thirsty beast of prey. What
savage creature was it which might steal upon us out of the darkness?
Was it a fierce tiger of crime, which could only be taken fighting
hard with flashing fang and claw, or would it prove to be some
skulking jackal, dangerous only to the weak and unguarded?

In absolute silence we crouched amongst the bushes, waiting for
whatever might come. At first the steps of a few belated villagers,
or the sound of voices from the village, lightened our vigil; but one
by one these interruptions died away and an absolute stillness fell
upon us, save for the chimes of the distant church, which told us of
the progress of the night, and for the rustle and whisper of a fine
rain falling amid the foliage which roofed us in.

Half-past two had chimed, and it was the darkest hour which precedes
the dawn, when we all started as a low but sharp click came from the
direction of the gate. Someone had entered the drive. Again there was
a long silence, and I had begun to fear that it was a false alarm,
when a stealthy step was heard upon the other side of the hut, and a
moment later a metallic scraping and clinking. The man was trying to
force the lock! This time his skill was greater or his tool was
better, for there was a sudden snap and the creak of the hinges. Then
a match was struck, and next instant the steady light from a candle
filled the interior of the hut. Through the gauze curtain our eyes
were all riveted upon the scene within.

The nocturnal visitor was a young man, frail and thin, with a black
moustache which intensified the deadly pallor of his face. He could
not have been much above twenty years of age. I have never seen any
human being who appeared to be in such a pitiable fright, for his
teeth were visibly chattering and he was shaking in every limb. He
was dressed like a gentleman, in Norfolk jacket and knickerbockers,
with a cloth cap upon his head. We watched him staring round with
frightened eyes. Then he laid the candle-end upon the table and
disappeared from our view into one of the corners. He returned with a
large book, one of the log-books which formed a line upon the
shelves. Leaning on the table he rapidly turned over the leaves of
this volume until he came to the entry which he sought. Then, with an
angry gesture of his clenched hand, he closed the book, replaced it
in the corner, and put out the light. He had hardly turned to leave
the hut when Hopkins’s hand was on the fellow’s collar, and I heard
his loud gasp of terror as he understood that he was taken. The
candle was re-lit, and there was our wretched captive shivering and
cowering in the grasp of the detective. He sank down upon the
sea-chest, and looked helplessly from one of us to the other.

“Now, my fine fellow,” said Stanley Hopkins, “who are you, and what
do you want here?”

The man pulled himself together and faced us with an effort at
self-composure.

“You are detectives, I suppose?” said he. “You imagine I am connected
with the death of Captain Peter Carey. I assure you that I am
innocent.”

“We’ll see about that,” said Hopkins. “First of all, what is your
name?”

“It is John Hopley Neligan.”

I saw Holmes and Hopkins exchange a quick glance.

“What are you doing here?”

“Can I speak confidentially?”

“No, certainly not.”

“Why should I tell you?”

“If you have no answer it may go badly with you at the trial.”

The young man winced.

“Well, I will tell you,” he said. “Why should I not? And yet I hate
to think of this old scandal gaining a new lease of life. Did you
ever hear of Dawson and Neligan?”

I could see from Hopkins’s face that he never had; but Holmes was
keenly interested.

“You mean the West-country bankers,” said he. “They failed for a
million, ruined half the county families of Cornwall, and Neligan
disappeared.”

“Exactly. Neligan was my father.”

At last we were getting something positive, and yet it seemed a long
gap between an absconding banker and Captain Peter Carey pinned
against the wall with one of his own harpoons. We all listened
intently to the young man’s words.

“It was my father who was really concerned. Dawson had retired. I was
only ten years of age at the time, but I was old enough to feel the
shame and horror of it all. It has always been said that my father
stole all the securities and fled. It is not true. It was his belief
that if he were given time in which to realize them all would be well
and every creditor paid in full. He started in his little yacht for
Norway just before the warrant was issued for his arrest. I can
remember that last night when he bade farewell to my mother. He left
us a list of the securities he was taking, and he swore that he would
come back with his honour cleared, and that none who had trusted him
would suffer. Well, no word was ever heard from him again. Both the
yacht and he vanished utterly. We believed, my mother and I, that he
and it, with the securities that he had taken with him, were at the
bottom of the sea. We had a faithful friend, however, who is a
business man, and it was he who discovered some time ago that some of
the securities which my father had with him have reappeared on the
London market. You can imagine our amazement. I spent months in
trying to trace them, and at last, after many doublings and
difficulties, I discovered that the original seller had been Captain
Peter Carey, the owner of this hut.

“Naturally, I made some inquiries about the man. I found that he had
been in command of a whaler which was due to return from the Arctic
seas at the very time when my father was crossing to Norway. The
autumn of that year was a stormy one, and there was a long succession
of southerly gales. My father’s yacht may well have been blown to the
north, and there met by Captain Peter Carey’s ship. If that were so,
what had become of my father? In any case, if I could prove from
Peter Carey’s evidence how these securities came on the market it
would be a proof that my father had not sold them, and that he had no
view to personal profit when he took them.

“I came down to Sussex with the intention of seeing the captain, but
it was at this moment that his terrible death occurred. I read at the
inquest a description of his cabin, in which it stated that the old
log-books of his vessel were preserved in it. It struck me that if I
could see what occurred in the month of August, 1883, on board the
Sea Unicorn, I might settle the mystery of my father’s fate. I tried
last night to get at these log-books, but was unable to open the
door. To-night I tried again, and succeeded; but I find that the
pages which deal with that month have been torn from the book. It was
at that moment I found myself a prisoner in your hands.”

“Is that all?” asked Hopkins.

“Yes, that is all.” His eyes shifted as he said it.

“You have nothing else to tell us?”

He hesitated.

“No; there is nothing.”

“You have not been here before last night?”

“No.”

“Then how do you account for that?” cried Hopkins, as he held up the
damning note-book, with the initials of our prisoner on the first
leaf and the blood-stain on the cover.

The wretched man collapsed. He sank his face in his hands and
trembled all over.

“Where did you get it?” he groaned. “I did not know. I thought I had
lost it at the hotel.”

“That is enough,” said Hopkins, sternly. “Whatever else you have to
say you must say in court. You will walk down with me now to the
police-station. Well, Mr. Holmes, I am very much obliged to you and
to your friend for coming down to help me. As it turns out your
presence was unnecessary, and I would have brought the case to this
successful issue without you; but none the less I am very grateful.
Rooms have been reserved for you at the Brambletye Hotel, so we can
all walk down to the village together.”

“Well, Watson, what do you think of it?” asked Holmes, as we
travelled back next morning.

“I can see that you are not satisfied.”

“Oh, yes, my dear Watson, I am perfectly satisfied. At the same time
Stanley Hopkins’s methods do not commend themselves to me. I am
disappointed in Stanley Hopkins. I had hoped for better things from
him. One should always look for a possible alternative and provide
against it. It is the first rule of criminal investigation.”

“What, then, is the alternative?”

“The line of investigation which I have myself been pursuing. It may
give us nothing. I cannot tell. But at least I shall follow it to the
end.”

Several letters were waiting for Holmes at Baker Street. He snatched
one of them up, opened it, and burst out into a triumphant chuckle of
laughter.

“Excellent, Watson. The alternative develops. Have you telegraph
forms? Just write a couple of messages for me: ‘Sumner, Shipping
Agent, Ratcliff Highway. Send three men on, to arrive ten to-morrow
morning.–Basil.’ That’s my name in those parts. The other is:
‘Inspector Stanley Hopkins, 46, Lord Street, Brixton. Come breakfast
to-morrow at nine-thirty. Important. Wire if unable to
come.–Sherlock Holmes.’ There, Watson, this infernal case has
haunted me for ten days. I hereby banish it completely from my
presence. To-morrow I trust that we shall hear the last of it for
ever.”

Sharp at the hour named Inspector Stanley Hopkins appeared, and we
sat down together to the excellent breakfast which Mrs. Hudson had
prepared. The young detective was in high spirits at his success.

“You really think that your solution must be correct?” asked Holmes.

“I could not imagine a more complete case.”

“It did not seem to me conclusive.”

“You astonish me, Mr. Holmes. What more could one ask for?”

“Does your explanation cover every point?”

“Undoubtedly. I find that young Neligan arrived at the Brambletye
Hotel on the very day of the crime. He came on the pretence of
playing golf. His room was on the ground-floor, and he could get out
when he liked. That very night he went down to Woodman’s Lee, saw
Peter Carey at the hut, quarrelled with him, and killed him with the
harpoon. Then, horrified by what he had done, he fled out of the hut,
dropping the note-book which he had brought with him in order to
question Peter Carey about these different securities. You may have
observed that some of them were marked with ticks, and the
others–the great majority–were not. Those which are ticked have
been traced on the London market; but the others presumably were
still in the possession of Carey, and young Neligan, according to his
own account, was anxious to recover them in order to do the right
thing by his father’s creditors. After his flight he did not dare to
approach the hut again for some time; but at last he forced himself
to do so in order to obtain the information which he needed. Surely
that is all simple and obvious?”

Holmes smiled and shook his head.

“It seems to me to have only one drawback, Hopkins, and that is that
it is intrinsically impossible. Have you tried to drive a harpoon
through a body? No? Tut, tut, my dear sir, you must really pay
attention to these details. My friend Watson could tell you that I
spent a whole morning in that exercise. It is no easy matter, and
requires a strong and practised arm. But this blow was delivered with
such violence that the head of the weapon sank deep into the wall. Do
you imagine that this anaemic youth was capable of so frightful an
assault? Is he the man who hobnobbed in rum and water with Black
Peter in the dead of the night? Was it his profile that was seen on
the blind two nights before? No, no, Hopkins; it is another and a
more formidable person for whom we must seek.”

The detective’s face had grown longer and longer during Holmes’s
speech. His hopes and his ambitions were all crumbling about him. But
he would not abandon his position without a struggle.

“You can’t deny that Neligan was present that night, Mr. Holmes. The
book will prove that. I fancy that I have evidence enough to satisfy
a jury, even if you are able to pick a hole in it. Besides, Mr.
Holmes, I have laid my hand upon my man. As to this terrible person
of yours, where is he?”

“I rather fancy that he is on the stair,” said Holmes, serenely. “I
think, Watson, that you would do well to put that revolver where you
can reach it.” He rose, and laid a written paper upon a side-table.
“Now we are ready,” said he.

There had been some talking in gruff voices outside, and now Mrs.
Hudson opened the door to say that there were three men inquiring for
Captain Basil.

“Show them in one by one,” said Holmes.

The first who entered was a little ribston-pippin of a man, with
ruddy cheeks and fluffy white side-whiskers. Holmes had drawn a
letter from his pocket.

“What name?” he asked.

“James Lancaster.”

“I am sorry, Lancaster, but the berth is full. Here is half a
sovereign for your trouble. Just step into this room and wait there
for a few minutes.”

The second man was a long, dried-up creature, with lank hair and
sallow cheeks. His name was Hugh Pattins. He also received his
dismissal, his half-sovereign, and the order to wait.

The third applicant was a man of remarkable appearance. A fierce
bull-dog face was framed in a tangle of hair and beard, and two bold
dark eyes gleamed behind the cover of thick, tufted, overhung
eyebrows. He saluted and stood sailor-fashion, turning his cap round
in his hands.

“Your name?” asked Holmes.

“Patrick Cairns.”

“Harpooner?”

“Yes, sir. Twenty-six voyages.”

“Dundee, I suppose?”

“Yes, sir.”

“And ready to start with an exploring ship?”

“Yes, sir.”

“What wages?”

“Eight pounds a month.”

“Could you start at once?”

“As soon as I get my kit.”

“Have you your papers?”

“Yes, sir.” He took a sheaf of worn and greasy forms from his pocket.
Holmes glanced over them and returned them.

“You are just the man I want,” said he. “Here’s the agreement on the
side-table. If you sign it the whole matter will be settled.”

The seaman lurched across the room and took up the pen.

“Shall I sign here?” he asked, stooping over the table.

Holmes leaned over his shoulder and passed both hands over his neck.

“This will do,” said he.

I heard a click of steel and a bellow like an enraged bull. The next
instant Holmes and the seaman were rolling on the ground together. He
was a man of such gigantic strength that, even with the handcuffs
which Holmes had so deftly fastened upon his wrists, he would have
very quickly overpowered my friend had Hopkins and I not rushed to
his rescue. Only when I pressed the cold muzzle of the revolver to
his temple did he at last understand that resistance was vain. We
lashed his ankles with cord and rose breathless from the struggle.

“I must really apologize, Hopkins,” said Sherlock Holmes; “I fear
that the scrambled eggs are cold. However, you will enjoy the rest of
your breakfast all the better, will you not, for the thought that you
have brought your case to a triumphant conclusion.”

Stanley Hopkins was speechless with amazement.

“I don’t know what to say, Mr. Holmes,” he blurted out at last, with
a very red face. “It seems to me that I have been making a fool of
myself from the beginning. I understand now, what I should never have
forgotten, that I am the pupil and you are the master. Even now I see
what you have done, but I don’t know how you did it, or what it
signifies.”

“Well, well,” said Holmes, good-humouredly. “We all learn by
experience, and your lesson this time is that you should never lose
sight of the alternative. You were so absorbed in young Neligan that
you could not spare a thought to Patrick Cairns, the true murderer of
Peter Carey.”

The hoarse voice of the seaman broke in on our conversation.

“See here, mister,” said he, “I make no complaint of being
man-handled in this fashion, but I would have you call things by
their right names. You say I murdered Peter Carey; I say I killed
Peter Carey, and there’s all the difference. Maybe you don’t believe
what I say. Maybe you think I am just slinging you a yarn.”

“Not at all,” said Holmes. “Let us hear what you have to say.”

“It’s soon told, and, by the Lord, every word of it is truth. I knew
Black Peter, and when he pulled out his knife I whipped a harpoon
through him sharp, for I knew that it was him or me. That’s how he
died. You can call it murder. Anyhow, I’d as soon die with a rope
round my neck as with Black Peter’s knife in my heart.”

“How came you there?” asked Holmes.

“I’ll tell it you from the beginning. Just sit me up a little so as I
can speak easy. It was in ’83 that it happened–August of that year.
Peter Carey was master of the Sea Unicorn, and I was spare harpooner.
We were coming out of the ice-pack on our way home, with head winds
and a week’s southerly gale, when we picked up a little craft that
had been blown north. There was one man on her–a landsman. The crew
had thought she would founder, and had made for the Norwegian coast
in the dinghy. I guess they were all drowned. Well, we took him on
board, this man, and he and the skipper had some long talks in the
cabin. All the baggage we took off with him was one tin box. So far
as I know, the man’s name was never mentioned, and on the second
night he disappeared as if he had never been. It was given out that
he had either thrown himself overboard or fallen overboard in the
heavy weather that we were having. Only one man knew what had
happened to him, and that was me, for with my own eyes I saw the
skipper tip up his heels and put him over the rail in the middle
watch of a dark night, two days before we sighted the Shetland
lights.

“Well, I kept my knowledge to myself and waited to see what would
come of it. When we got back to Scotland it was easily hushed up, and
nobody asked any questions. A stranger died by an accident, and it
was nobody’s business to inquire. Shortly after Peter Carey gave up
the sea, and it was long years before I could find where he was. I
guessed that he had done the deed for the sake of what was in that
tin box, and that he could afford now to pay me well for keeping my
mouth shut.

“I found out where he was through a sailor man that had met him in
London, and down I went to squeeze him. The first night he was
reasonable enough, and was ready to give me what would make me free
of the sea for life. We were to fix it all two nights later. When I
came I found him three parts drunk and in a vile temper. We sat down
and we drank and we yarned about old times, but the more he drank the
less I liked the look on his face. I spotted that harpoon upon the
wall, and I thought I might need it before I was through. Then at
last he broke out at me, spitting and cursing, with murder in his
eyes and a great clasp-knife in his hand. He had not time to get it
from the sheath before I had the harpoon through him. Heavens! what a
yell he gave; and his face gets between me and my sleep! I stood
there, with his blood splashing round me, and I waited for a bit; but
all was quiet, so I took heart once more. I looked round, and there
was the tin box on a shelf. I had as much right to it as Peter Carey,
anyhow, so I took it with me and left the hut. Like a fool I left my
baccy-pouch upon the table.

“Now I’ll tell you the queerest part of the whole story. I had hardly
got outside the hut when I heard someone coming, and I hid among the
bushes. A man came slinking along, went into the hut, gave a cry as
if he had seen a ghost, and legged it as hard as he could run until
he was out of sight. Who he was or what he wanted is more than I can
tell. For my part I walked ten miles, got a train at Tunbridge Wells,
and so reached London, and no one the wiser.

“Well, when I came to examine the box I found there was no money in
it, and nothing but papers that I would not dare to sell. I had lost
my hold on Black Peter, and was stranded in London without a
shilling. There was only my trade left. I saw these advertisements
about harpooners and high wages, so I went to the shipping agents,
and they sent me here. That’s all I know, and I say again that if I
killed Black Peter the law should give me thanks, for I saved them
the price of a hempen rope.”

“A very clear statement,” said Holmes, rising and lighting his pipe.
“I think, Hopkins, that you should lose no time in conveying your
prisoner to a place of safety. This room is not well adapted for a
cell, and Mr. Patrick Cairns occupies too large a proportion of our
carpet.”

“Mr. Holmes,” said Hopkins, “I do not know how to express my
gratitude. Even now I do not understand how you attained this
result.”

“Simply by having the good fortune to get the right clue from the
beginning. It is very possible if I had known about this note-book it
might have led away my thoughts, as it did yours. But all I heard
pointed in the one direction. The amazing strength, the skill in the
use of the harpoon, the rum and water, the seal-skin tobacco-pouch,
with the coarse tobacco–all these pointed to a seaman, and one who
had been a whaler. I was convinced that the initials ‘P.C.’ upon the
pouch were a coincidence, and not those of Peter Carey, since he
seldom smoked, and no pipe was found in his cabin. You remember that
I asked whether whisky and brandy were in the cabin. You said they
were. How many landsmen are there who would drink rum when they could
get these other spirits? Yes, I was certain it was a seaman.”

“And how did you find him?”

“My dear sir, the problem had become a very simple one. If it were a
seaman, it could only be a seaman who had been with him on the Sea
Unicorn. So far as I could learn he had sailed in no other ship. I
spent three days in wiring to Dundee, and at the end of that time I
had ascertained the names of the crew of the Sea Unicorn in 1883.
When I found Patrick Cairns among the harpooners my research was
nearing its end. I argued that the man was probably in London, and
that he would desire to leave the country for a time. I therefore
spent some days in the East-end, devised an Arctic expedition, put
forth tempting terms for harpooners who would serve under Captain
Basil–and behold the result!”

“Wonderful!” cried Hopkins. “Wonderful!”

“You must obtain the release of young Neligan as soon as possible,”
said Holmes. “I confess that I think you owe him some apology. The
tin box must be returned to him, but, of course, the securities which
Peter Carey has sold are lost for ever. There’s the cab, Hopkins, and
you can remove your man. If you want me for the trial, my address and
that of Watson will be somewhere in Norway–I’ll send particulars
later.”

It is years since the incidents of which I speak took place, and yet
it is with diffidence that I allude to them. For a long time, even
with the utmost discretion and reticence, it would have been
impossible to make the facts public; but now the principal person
concerned is beyond the reach of human law, and with due suppression
the story may be told in such fashion as to injure no one. It records
an absolutely unique experience in the career both of Mr. Sherlock
Holmes and of myself. The reader will excuse me if I conceal the date
or any other fact by which he might trace the actual occurrence.

We had been out for one of our evening rambles, Holmes and I, and had
returned about six o’clock on a cold, frosty winter’s evening. As
Holmes turned up the lamp the light fell upon a card on the table. He
glanced at it, and then, with an ejaculation of disgust, threw it on
the floor. I picked it up and read:–

Charles Augustus Milverton,

Appledore Towers,

Hampstead.

Agent.

“Who is he?” I asked.

“The worst man in London,” Holmes answered, as he sat down and
stretched his legs before the fire. “Is anything on the back of the
card?”

I turned it over.

“Will call at 6.30–C.A.M.,” I read.

“Hum! He’s about due. Do you feel a creeping, shrinking sensation,
Watson, when you stand before the serpents in the Zoo and see the
slithery, gliding, venomous creatures, with their deadly eyes and
wicked, flattened faces? Well, that’s how Milverton impresses me.
I’ve had to do with fifty murderers in my career, but the worst of
them never gave me the repulsion which I have for this fellow. And
yet I can’t get out of doing business with him–indeed, he is here at
my invitation.”

“But who is he?”

“I’ll tell you, Watson. He is the king of all the blackmailers.
Heaven help the man, and still more the woman, whose secret and
reputation come into the power of Milverton. With a smiling face and
a heart of marble he will squeeze and squeeze until he has drained
them dry. The fellow is a genius in his way, and would have made his
mark in some more savoury trade. His method is as follows: He allows
it to be known that he is prepared to pay very high sums for letters
which compromise people of wealth or position. He receives these
wares not only from treacherous valets or maids, but frequently from
genteel ruffians who have gained the confidence and affection of
trusting women. He deals with no niggard hand. I happen to know that
he paid seven hundred pounds to a footman for a note two lines in
length, and that the ruin of a noble family was the result.
Everything which is in the market goes to Milverton, and there are
hundreds in this great city who turn white at his name. No one knows
where his grip may fall, for he is far too rich and far too cunning
to work from hand to mouth. He will hold a card back for years in
order to play it at the moment when the stake is best worth winning.
I have said that he is the worst man in London, and I would ask you
how could one compare the ruffian who in hot blood bludgeons his mate
with this man, who methodically and at his leisure tortures the soul
and wrings the nerves in order to add to his already swollen
money-bags?”

I had seldom heard my friend speak with such intensity of feeling.

“But surely,” said I, “the fellow must be within the grasp of the
law?”

“Technically, no doubt, but practically not. What would it profit a
woman, for example, to get him a few months’ imprisonment if her own
ruin must immediately follow? His victims dare not hit back. If ever
he blackmailed an innocent person, then, indeed, we should have him;
but he is as cunning as the Evil One. No, no; we must find other ways
to fight him.”

“And why is he here?”

“Because an illustrious client has placed her piteous case in my
hands. It is the Lady Eva Brackwell, the most beautiful debutante of
last season. She is to be married in a fortnight to the Earl of
Dovercourt. This fiend has several imprudent letters–imprudent,
Watson, nothing worse–which were written to an impecunious young
squire in the country. They would suffice to break off the match.
Milverton will send the letters to the Earl unless a large sum of
money is paid him. I have been commissioned to meet him, and–to make
the best terms I can.”

At that instant there was a clatter and a rattle in the street below.
Looking down I saw a stately carriage and pair, the brilliant lamps
gleaming on the glossy haunches of the noble chestnuts. A footman
opened the door, and a small, stout man in a shaggy astrachan
overcoat descended. A minute later he was in the room.

Charles Augustus Milverton was a man of fifty, with a large,
intellectual head, a round, plump, hairless face, a perpetual frozen
smile, and two keen grey eyes, which gleamed brightly from behind
broad, golden-rimmed glasses. There was something of Mr. Pickwick’s
benevolence in his appearance, marred only by the insincerity of the
fixed smile and by the hard glitter of those restless and penetrating
eyes. His voice was as smooth and suave as his countenance, as he
advanced with a plump little hand extended, murmuring his regret for
having missed us at his first visit. Holmes disregarded the
outstretched hand and looked at him with a face of granite.
Milverton’s smile broadened; he shrugged his shoulders, removed his
overcoat, folded it with great deliberation over the back of a chair,
and then took a seat.

“This gentleman?” said he, with a wave in my direction. “Is it
discreet? Is it right?”

“Dr. Watson is my friend and partner.”

“Very good, Mr. Holmes. It is only in your client’s interests that I
protested. The matter is so very delicate–“

“Dr. Watson has already heard of it.”

“Then we can proceed to business. You say that you are acting for
Lady Eva. Has she empowered you to accept my terms?”

“What are your terms?”

“Seven thousand pounds.”

“And the alternative?”

“My dear sir, it is painful for me to discuss it; but if the money is
not paid on the 14th there certainly will be no marriage on the
18th.” His insufferable smile was more complacent than ever.

Holmes thought for a little.

“You appear to me,” he said, at last, “to be taking matters too much
for granted. I am, of course, familiar with the contents of these
letters. My client will certainly do what I may advise. I shall
counsel her to tell her future husband the whole story and to trust
to his generosity.”

Milverton chuckled.

“You evidently do not know the Earl,” said he.

From the baffled look upon Holmes’s face I could see clearly that he
did.

“What harm is there in the letters?” he asked.

“They are sprightly–very sprightly,” Milverton answered. “The lady
was a charming correspondent. But I can assure you that the Earl of
Dovercourt would fail to appreciate them. However, since you think
otherwise, we will let it rest at that. It is purely a matter of
business. If you think that it is in the best interests of your
client that these letters should be placed in the hands of the Earl,
then you would indeed be foolish to pay so large a sum of money to
regain them.” He rose and seized his astrachan coat.

Holmes was grey with anger and mortification.

“Wait a little,” he said. “You go too fast. We would certainly make
every effort to avoid scandal in so delicate a matter.”

Milverton relapsed into his chair.

“I was sure that you would see it in that light,” he purred.

“At the same time,” Holmes continued, “Lady Eva is not a wealthy
woman. I assure you that two thousand pounds would be a drain upon
her resources, and that the sum you name is utterly beyond her power.
I beg, therefore, that you will moderate your demands, and that you
will return the letters at the price I indicate, which is, I assure
you, the highest that you can get.”

Milverton’s smile broadened and his eyes twinkled humorously.

“I am aware that what you say is true about the lady’s resources,”
said he. “At the same time, you must admit that the occasion of a
lady’s marriage is a very suitable time for her friends and relatives
to make some little effort upon her behalf. They may hesitate as to
an acceptable wedding present. Let me assure them that this little
bundle of letters would give more joy than all the candelabra and
butter-dishes in London.”

“It is impossible,” said Holmes.

“Dear me, dear me, how unfortunate!” cried Milverton, taking out a
bulky pocket-book. “I cannot help thinking that ladies are
ill-advised in not making an effort. Look at this!” He held up a
little note with a coat-of-arms upon the envelope. “That belongs
to–well, perhaps it is hardly fair to tell the name until to-morrow
morning. But at that time it will be in the hands of the lady’s
husband. And all because she will not find a beggarly sum which she
could get by turning her diamonds into paste. It is such a pity. Now,
you remember the sudden end of the engagement between the Honourable
Miss Miles and Colonel Dorking? Only two days before the wedding
there was a paragraph in the Morning Post to say that it was all off.
And why? It is almost incredible, but the absurd sum of twelve
hundred pounds would have settled the whole question. Is it not
pitiful? And here I find you, a man of sense, boggling about terms
when your client’s future and honour are at stake. You surprise me,
Mr. Holmes.”

“What I say is true,” Holmes answered. “The money cannot be found.
Surely it is better for you to take the substantial sum which I offer
than to ruin this woman’s career, which can profit you in no way?”

“There you make a mistake, Mr. Holmes. An exposure would profit me
indirectly to a considerable extent. I have eight or ten similar
cases maturing. If it was circulated among them that I had made a
severe example of the Lady Eva I should find all of them much more
open to reason. You see my point?”

Holmes sprang from his chair.

“Get behind him, Watson! Don’t let him out! Now, sir, let us see the
contents of that note-book.”

Milverton had glided as quick as a rat to the side of the room, and
stood with his back against the wall.

“Mr. Holmes, Mr. Holmes,” he said, turning the front of his coat and
exhibiting the butt of a large revolver, which projected from the
inside pocket. “I have been expecting you to do something original.
This has been done so often, and what good has ever come from it? I
assure you that I am armed to the teeth, and I am perfectly prepared
to use my weapons, knowing that the law will support me. Besides,
your supposition that I would bring the letters here in a note-book
is entirely mistaken. I would do nothing so foolish. And now,
gentlemen, I have one or two little interviews this evening, and it
is a long drive to Hampstead.” He stepped forward, took up his coat,
laid his hand on his revolver, and turned to the door. I picked up a
chair, but Holmes shook his head and I laid it down again. With bow,
a smile, and a twinkle Milverton was out of the room, and a few
moments after we heard the slam of the carriage door and the rattle
of the wheels as he drove away.

Holmes sat motionless by the fire, his hands buried deep in his
trouser pockets, his chin sunk upon his breast, his eyes fixed upon
the glowing embers. For half an hour he was silent and still. Then,
with the gesture of a man who has taken his decision, he sprang to
his feet and passed into his bedroom. A little later a rakish young
workman with a goatee beard and a swagger lit his clay pipe at the
lamp before descending into the street. “I’ll be back some time,
Watson,” said he, and vanished into the night. I understood that he
had opened his campaign against Charles Augustus Milverton; but I
little dreamed the strange shape which that campaign was destined to
take.

For some days Holmes came and went at all hours in this attire, but
beyond a remark that his time was spent at Hampstead, and that it was
not wasted, I knew nothing of what he was doing. At last, however, on
a wild, tempestuous evening, when the wind screamed and rattled
against the windows, he returned from his last expedition, and having
removed his disguise he sat before the fire and laughed heartily in
his silent inward fashion.

“You would not call me a marrying man, Watson?”

“No, indeed!”

“You’ll be interested to hear that I am engaged.”

“My dear fellow! I congrat–“

“To Milverton’s housemaid.”

“Good heavens, Holmes!”

“I wanted information, Watson.”

“Surely you have gone too far?”

“It was a most necessary step. I am a plumber with a rising business,
Escott by name. I have walked out with her each evening, and I have
talked with her. Good heavens, those talks! However, I have got all I
wanted. I know Milverton’s house as I know the palm of my hand.”

“But the girl, Holmes?”

He shrugged his shoulders.

“You can’t help it, my dear Watson. You must play your cards as best
you can when such a stake is on the table. However, I rejoice to say
that I have a hated rival who will certainly cut me out the instant
that my back is turned. What a splendid night it is!”

“You like this weather?”

“It suits my purpose. Watson, I mean to burgle Milverton’s house
to-night.”

I had a catching of the breath, and my skin went cold at the words,
which were slowly uttered in a tone of concentrated resolution. As a
flash of lightning in the night shows up in an instant every detail
of a wide landscape, so at one glance I seemed to see every possible
result of such an action–the detection, the capture, the honoured
career ending in irreparable failure and disgrace, my friend himself
lying at the mercy of the odious Milverton.

“For Heaven’s sake, Holmes, think what you are doing,” I cried.

“My dear fellow, I have given it every consideration. I am never
precipitate in my actions, nor would I adopt so energetic and indeed
so dangerous a course if any other were possible. Let us look at the
matter clearly and fairly. I suppose that you will admit that the
action is morally justifiable, though technically criminal. To burgle
his house is no more than to forcibly take his pocket-book–an action
in which you were prepared to aid me.”

I turned it over in my mind.

“Yes,” I said; “it is morally justifiable so long as our object is to
take no articles save those which are used for an illegal purpose.”

“Exactly. Since it is morally justifiable I have only to consider the
question of personal risk. Surely a gentleman should not lay much
stress upon this when a lady is in most desperate need of his help?”

“You will be in such a false position.”

“Well, that is part of the risk. There is no other possible way of
regaining these letters. The unfortunate lady has not the money, and
there are none of her people in whom she could confide. To-morrow is
the last day of grace, and unless we can get the letters to-night
this villain will be as good as his word and will bring about her
ruin. I must, therefore, abandon my client to her fate or I must play
this last card. Between ourselves, Watson, it’s a sporting duel
between this fellow Milverton and me. He had, as you saw, the best of
the first exchanges; but my self-respect and my reputation are
concerned to fight it to a finish.”

“Well, I don’t like it; but I suppose it must be,” said I. “When do
we start?”

“You are not coming.”

“Then you are not going,” said I. “I give you my word of honour–and
I never broke it in my life–that I will take a cab straight to the
police-station and give you away unless you let me share this
adventure with you.”

“You can’t help me.”

“How do you know that? You can’t tell what may happen. Anyway, my
resolution is taken. Other people beside you have self-respect and
even reputations.”

Holmes had looked annoyed, but his brow cleared, and he clapped me on
the shoulder.

“Well, well, my dear fellow, be it so. We have shared the same room
for some years, and it would be amusing if we ended by sharing the
same cell. You know, Watson, I don’t mind confessing to you that I
have always had an idea that I would have made a highly efficient
criminal. This is the chance of my lifetime in that direction. See
here!” He took a neat little leather case out of a drawer, and
opening it he exhibited a number of shining instruments. “This is a
first-class, up-to-date burgling kit, with nickel-plated jemmy,
diamond-tipped glass-cutter, adaptable keys, and every modern
improvement which the march of civilization demands. Here, too, is my
dark lantern. Everything is in order. Have you a pair of silent
shoes?”

“I have rubber-soled tennis shoes.”

“Excellent. And a mask?”

“I can make a couple out of black silk.”

“I can see that you have a strong natural turn for this sort of
thing. Very good; do you make the masks. We shall have some cold
supper before we start. It is now nine-thirty. At eleven we shall
drive as far as Church Row. It is a quarter of an hour’s walk from
there to Appledore Towers. We shall be at work before midnight.
Milverton is a heavy sleeper and retires punctually at ten-thirty.
With any luck we should be back here by two, with the Lady Eva’s
letters in my pocket.”

Holmes and I put on our dress-clothes, so that we might appear to be
two theatre-goers homeward bound. In Oxford Street we picked up a
hansom and drove to an address in Hampstead. Here we paid off our
cab, and with our great-coats buttoned up, for it was bitterly cold
and the wind seemed to blow through us, we walked along the edge of
the Heath.

“It’s a business that needs delicate treatment,” said Holmes. “These
documents are contained in a safe in the fellow’s study, and the
study is the ante-room of his bed-chamber. On the other hand, like
all these stout, little men who do themselves well, he is a plethoric
sleeper. Agatha–that’s my fiancee–says it is a joke in the
servants’ hall that it’s impossible to wake the master. He has a
secretary who is devoted to his interests and never budges from the
study all day. That’s why we are going at night. Then he has a beast
of a dog which roams the garden. I met Agatha late the last two
evenings, and she locks the brute up so as to give me a clear run.
This is the house, this big one in its own grounds. Through the
gate–now to the right among the laurels. We might put on our masks
here, I think. You see, there is not a glimmer of light in any of the
windows, and everything is working splendidly.”

With our black silk face-coverings, which turned us into two of the
most truculent figures in London, we stole up to the silent, gloomy
house. A sort of tiled veranda extended along one side of it, lined
by several windows and two doors.

“That’s his bedroom,” Holmes whispered. “This door opens straight
into the study. It would suit us best, but it is bolted as well as
locked, and we should make too much noise getting in. Come round
here. There’s a greenhouse which opens into the drawing-room.”

The place was locked, but Holmes removed a circle of glass and turned
the key from the inside. An instant afterwards he had closed the door
behind us, and we had become felons in the eyes of the law. The
thick, warm air of the conservatory and the rich, choking fragrance
of exotic plants took us by the throat. He seized my hand in the
darkness and led me swiftly past banks of shrubs which brushed
against our faces. Holmes had remarkable powers, carefully
cultivated, of seeing in the dark. Still holding my hand in one of
his he opened a door, and I was vaguely conscious that we had entered
a large room in which a cigar had been smoked not long before. He
felt his way among the furniture, opened another door, and closed it
behind us. Putting out my hand I felt several coats hanging from the
wall, and I understood that I was in a passage. We passed along it,
and Holmes very gently opened a door upon the right-hand side.
Something rushed out at us and my heart sprang into my mouth, but I
could have laughed when I realized that it was the cat. A fire was
burning in this new room, and again the air was heavy with tobacco
smoke. Holmes entered on tiptoe, waited for me to follow, and then
very gently closed the door. We were in Milverton’s study, and a
portiere at the farther side showed the entrance to his bedroom.

It was a good fire, and the room was illuminated by it. Near the door
I saw the gleam of an electric switch, but it was unnecessary, even
if it had been safe, to turn it on. At one side of the fireplace was
a heavy curtain, which covered the bay window we had seen from
outside. On the other side was the door which communicated with the
veranda. A desk stood in the centre, with a turning chair of shining
red leather. Opposite was a large bookcase, with a marble bust of
Athene on the top. In the corner between the bookcase and the wall
there stood a tall green safe, the firelight flashing back from the
polished brass knobs upon its face. Holmes stole across and looked at
it. Then he crept to the door of the bedroom, and stood with slanting
head listening intently. No sound came from within. Meanwhile it had
struck me that it would be wise to secure our retreat through the
outer door, so I examined it. To my amazement it was neither locked
nor bolted! I touched Holmes on the arm, and he turned his masked
face in that direction. I saw him start, and he was evidently as
surprised as I.

“I don’t like it,” he whispered, putting his lips to my very ear. “I
can’t quite make it out. Anyhow, we have no time to lose.”

“Can I do anything?”

“Yes; stand by the door. If you hear anyone come, bolt it on the
inside, and we can get away as we came. If they come the other way,
we can get through the door if our job is done, or hide behind these
window curtains if it is not. Do you understand?”

I nodded and stood by the door. My first feeling of fear had passed
away, and I thrilled now with a keener zest than I had ever enjoyed
when we were the defenders of the law instead of its defiers. The
high object of our mission, the consciousness that it was unselfish
and chivalrous, the villainous character of our opponent, all added
to the sporting interest of the adventure. Far from feeling guilty, I
rejoiced and exulted in our dangers. With a glow of admiration I
watched Holmes unrolling his case of instruments and choosing his
tool with the calm, scientific accuracy of a surgeon who performs a
delicate operation. I knew that the opening of safes was a particular
hobby with him, and I understood the joy which it gave him to be
confronted with this green and gold monster, the dragon which held in
its maw the reputations of many fair ladies. Turning up the cuffs of
his dress-coat–he had placed his overcoat on a chair–Holmes laid
out two drills, a jemmy, and several skeleton keys. I stood at the
centre door with my eyes glancing at each of the others, ready for
any emergency; though, indeed, my plans were somewhat vague as to
what I should do if we were interrupted. For half an hour Holmes
worked with concentrated energy, laying down one tool, picking up
another, handling each with the strength and delicacy of the trained
mechanic. Finally I heard a click, the broad green door swung open,
and inside I had a glimpse of a number of paper packets, each tied,
sealed, and inscribed. Holmes picked one out, but it was hard to read
by the flickering fire, and he drew out his little dark lantern, for
it was too dangerous, with Milverton in the next room, to switch on
the electric light. Suddenly I saw him halt, listen intently, and
then in an instant he had swung the door of the safe to, picked up
his coat, stuffed his tools into the pockets, and darted behind the
window curtain, motioning me to do the same.

It was only when I had joined him there that I heard what had alarmed
his quicker senses. There was a noise somewhere within the house. A
door slammed in the distance. Then a confused, dull murmur broke
itself into the measured thud of heavy footsteps rapidly approaching.
They were in the passage outside the room. They paused at the door.
The door opened. There was a sharp snick as the electric light was
turned on. The door closed once more, and the pungent reek of a
strong cigar was borne to our nostrils. Then the footsteps continued
backwards and forwards, backwards and forwards, within a few yards of
us. Finally, there was a creak from a chair, and the footsteps
ceased. Then a key clicked in a lock and I heard the rustle of
papers.

So far I had not dared to look out, but now I gently parted the
division of the curtains in front of me and peeped through. From the
pressure of Holmes’s shoulder against mine I knew that he was sharing
my observations. Right in front of us, and almost within our reach,
was the broad, rounded back of Milverton. It was evident that we had
entirely miscalculated his movements, that he had never been to his
bedroom, but that he had been sitting up in some smoking or billiard
room in the farther wing of the house, the windows of which we had
not seen. His broad, grizzled head, with its shining patch of
baldness, was in the immediate foreground of our vision. He was
leaning far back in the red leather chair, his legs outstretched, a
long black cigar projecting at an angle from his mouth. He wore a
semi-military smoking jacket, claret-coloured, with a black velvet
collar. In his hand he held a long legal document, which he was
reading in an indolent fashion, blowing rings of tobacco smoke from
his lips as he did so. There was no promise of a speedy departure in
his composed bearing and his comfortable attitude.

I felt Holmes’s hand steal into mine and give me a reassuring shake,
as if to say that the situation was within his powers and that he was
easy in his mind. I was not sure whether he had seen what was only
too obvious from my position, that the door of the safe was
imperfectly closed, and that Milverton might at any moment observe
it. In my own mind I had determined that if I were sure, from the
rigidity of his gaze, that it had caught his eye, I would at once
spring out, throw my great-coat over his head, pinion him, and leave
the rest to Holmes. But Milverton never looked up. He was languidly
interested by the papers in his hand, and page after page was turned
as he followed the argument of the lawyer. At least, I thought, when
he has finished the document and the cigar he will go to his room;
but before he had reached the end of either there came a remarkable
development which turned our thoughts into quite another channel.

Several times I had observed that Milverton looked at his watch, and
once he had risen and sat down again, with a gesture of impatience.
The idea, however, that he might have an appointment at so strange an
hour never occurred to me until a faint sound reached my ears from
the veranda outside. Milverton dropped his papers and sat rigid in
his chair. The sound was repeated, and then there came a gentle tap
at the door. Milverton rose and opened it.

“Well,” said he, curtly, “you are nearly half an hour late.”

So this was the explanation of the unlocked door and of the nocturnal
vigil of Milverton. There was the gentle rustle of a woman’s dress. I
had closed the slit between the curtains as Milverton’s face had
turned in our direction, but now I ventured very carefully to open it
once more. He had resumed his seat, the cigar still projecting at an
insolent angle from the corner of his mouth. In front of him, in the
full glare of the electric light, there stood a tall, slim, dark
woman, a veil over her face, a mantle drawn round her chin. Her
breath came quick and fast, and every inch of the lithe figure was
quivering with strong emotion.

“Well,” said Milverton, “you’ve made me lose a good night’s rest, my
dear. I hope you’ll prove worth it. You couldn’t come any other
time–eh?”

The woman shook her head.

“Well, if you couldn’t you couldn’t. If the Countess is a hard
mistress you have your chance to get level with her now. Bless the
girl, what are you shivering about? That’s right! Pull yourself
together! Now, let us get down to business.” He took a note from the
drawer of his desk. “You say that you have five letters which
compromise the Countess d’Albert. You want to sell them. I want to
buy them. So far so good. It only remains to fix a price. I should
want to inspect the letters, of course. If they are really good
specimens–Great heavens, is it you?”

The woman without a word had raised her veil and dropped the mantle
from her chin. It was a dark, handsome, clear-cut face which
confronted Milverton, a face with a curved nose, strong, dark
eyebrows shading hard, glittering eyes, and a straight, thin-lipped
mouth set in a dangerous smile.

“It is I,” she said; “the woman whose life you have ruined.”

Milverton laughed, but fear vibrated in his voice. “You were so very
obstinate,” said he. “Why did you drive me to such extremities? I
assure you I wouldn’t hurt a fly of my own accord, but every man has
his business, and what was I to do? I put the price well within your
means. You would not pay.”

“So you sent the letters to my husband, and he–the noblest gentleman
that ever lived, a man whose boots I was never worthy to lace–he
broke his gallant heart and died. You remember that last night when I
came through that door I begged and prayed you for mercy, and you
laughed in my face as you are trying to laugh now, only your coward
heart cannot keep your lips from twitching? Yes, you never thought to
see me here again, but it was that night which taught me how I could
meet you face to face, and alone. Well, Charles Milverton, what have
you to say?”

“Don’t imagine that you can bully me,” said he, rising to his feet.
“I have only to raise my voice, and I could call my servants and have
you arrested. But I will make allowance for your natural anger. Leave
the room at once as you came, and I will say no more.”

The woman stood with her hand buried in her bosom, and the same
deadly smile on her thin lips.

“You will ruin no more lives as you ruined mine. You will wring no
more hearts as you wrung mine. I will free the world of a poisonous
thing. Take that, you hound, and that!–and that!–and that!”

She had drawn a little, gleaming revolver, and emptied barrel after
barrel into Milverton’s body, the muzzle within two feet of his shirt
front. He shrank away and then fell forward upon the table, coughing
furiously and clawing among the papers. Then he staggered to his
feet, received another shot, and rolled upon the floor. “You’ve done
me,” he cried, and lay still. The woman looked at him intently and
ground her heel into his upturned face. She looked again, but there
was no sound or movement. I heard a sharp rustle, the night air blew
into the heated room, and the avenger was gone.

No interference upon our part could have saved the man from his fate;
but as the woman poured bullet after bullet into Milverton’s
shrinking body I was about to spring out, when I felt Holmes’s cold,
strong grasp upon my wrist. I understood the whole argument of that
firm, restraining grip–that it was no affair of ours; that justice
had overtaken a villain; that we had our own duties and our own
objects which were not to be lost sight of. But hardly had the woman
rushed from the room when Holmes, with swift, silent steps, was over
at the other door. He turned the key in the lock. At the same instant
we heard voices in the house and the sound of hurrying feet. The
revolver shots had roused the household. With perfect coolness Holmes
slipped across to the safe, filled his two arms with bundles of
letters, and poured them all into the fire. Again and again he did
it, until the safe was empty. Someone turned the handle and beat upon
the outside of the door. Holmes looked swiftly round. The letter
which had been the messenger of death for Milverton lay, all mottled
with his blood, upon the table. Holmes tossed it in among the blazing
papers. Then he drew the key from the outer door, passed through
after me, and locked it on the outside. “This way, Watson,” said he;
“we can scale the garden wall in this direction.”

I could not have believed that an alarm could have spread so swiftly.
Looking back, the huge house was one blaze of light. The front door
was open, and figures were rushing down the drive. The whole garden
was alive with people, and one fellow raised a view-halloa as we
emerged from the veranda and followed hard at our heels. Holmes
seemed to know the ground perfectly, and he threaded his way swiftly
among a plantation of small trees, I close at his heels, and our
foremost pursuer panting behind us. It was a six-foot wall which
barred our path, but he sprang to the top and over. As I did the same
I felt the hand of the man behind me grab at my ankle; but I kicked
myself free and scrambled over a glass-strewn coping. I fell upon my
face among some bushes; but Holmes had me on my feet in an instant,
and together we dashed away across the huge expanse of Hampstead
Heath. We had run two miles, I suppose, before Holmes at last halted
and listened intently. All was absolute silence behind us. We had
shaken off our pursuers and were safe.

We had breakfasted and were smoking our morning pipe on the day after
the remarkable experience which I have recorded when Mr. Lestrade, of
Scotland Yard, very solemn and impressive, was ushered into our
modest sitting-room.

“Good morning, Mr. Holmes,” said he; “good morning. May I ask if you
are very busy just now?”

“Not too busy to listen to you.”

“I thought that, perhaps, if you had nothing particular on hand, you
might care to assist us in a most remarkable case which occurred only
last night at Hampstead.”

“Dear me!” said Holmes. “What was that?”

“A murder–a most dramatic and remarkable murder. I know how keen you
are upon these things, and I would take it as a great favour if you
would step down to Appledore Towers and give us the benefit of your
advice. It is no ordinary crime. We have had our eyes upon this Mr.
Milverton for some time, and, between ourselves, he was a bit of a
villain. He is known to have held papers which he used for
blackmailing purposes. These papers have all been burned by the
murderers. No article of value was taken, as it is probable that the
criminals were men of good position, whose sole object was to prevent
social exposure.”

“Criminals!” said Holmes. “Plural!”

“Yes, there were two of them. They were, as nearly as possible,
captured red-handed. We have their foot-marks, we have their
description; it’s ten to one that we trace them. The first fellow was
a bit too active, but the second was caught by the under-gardener and
only got away after a struggle. He was a middle-sized, strongly-built
man–square jaw, thick neck, moustache, a mask over his eyes.”

“That’s rather vague,” said Sherlock Holmes. “Why, it might be a
description of Watson!”

“It’s true,” said the inspector, with much amusement. “It might be a
description of Watson.”

“Well, I am afraid I can’t help you, Lestrade,” said Holmes. “The
fact is that I knew this fellow Milverton, that I considered him one
of the most dangerous men in London, and that I think there are
certain crimes which the law cannot touch, and which therefore, to
some extent, justify private revenge. No, it’s no use arguing. I have
made up my mind. My sympathies are with the criminals rather than
with the victim, and I will not handle this case.”

Holmes had not said one word to me about the tragedy which we had
witnessed, but I observed all the morning that he was in his most
thoughtful mood, and he gave me the impression, from his vacant eyes
and his abstracted manner, of a man who is striving to recall
something to his memory. We were in the middle of our lunch when he
suddenly sprang to his feet. “By Jove, Watson; I’ve got it!” he
cried. “Take your hat! Come with me!” He hurried at his top speed
down Baker Street and along Oxford Street, until we had almost
reached Regent Circus. Here on the left hand there stands a shop
window filled with photographs of the celebrities and beauties of the
day. Holmes’s eyes fixed themselves upon one of them, and following
his gaze I saw the picture of a regal and stately lady in Court
dress, with a high diamond tiara upon her noble head. I looked at
that delicately-curved nose, at the marked eyebrows, at the straight
mouth, and the strong little chin beneath it. Then I caught my breath
as I read the time-honoured title of the great nobleman and statesman
whose wife she had been. My eyes met those of Holmes, and he put his
finger to his lips as we turned away from the window.

It was no very unusual thing for Mr. Lestrade, of Scotland Yard, to
look in upon us of an evening, and his visits were welcome to
Sherlock Holmes, for they enabled him to keep in touch with all that
was going on at the police head-quarters. In return for the news
which Lestrade would bring, Holmes was always ready to listen with
attention to the details of any case upon which the detective was
engaged, and was able occasionally, without any active interference,
to give some hint or suggestion drawn from his own vast knowledge and
experience.

On this particular evening Lestrade had spoken of the weather and the
newspapers. Then he had fallen silent, puffing thoughtfully at his
cigar. Holmes looked keenly at him.

“Anything remarkable on hand?” he asked.

“Oh, no, Mr. Holmes, nothing very particular.”

“Then tell me about it.”

Lestrade laughed.

“Well, Mr. Holmes, there is no use denying that there is something on
my mind. And yet it is such an absurd business that I hesitated to
bother you about it. On the other hand, although it is trivial, it is
undoubtedly queer, and I know that you have a taste for all that is
out of the common. But in my opinion it comes more in Dr. Watson’s
line than ours.”

“Disease?” said I.

“Madness, anyhow. And a queer madness too! You wouldn’t think there
was anyone living at this time of day who had such a hatred of
Napoleon the First that he would break any image of him that he could
see.”

Holmes sank back in his chair.

“That’s no business of mine,” said he.

“Exactly. That’s what I said. But then, when the man commits burglary
in order to break images which are not his own, that brings it away
from the doctor and on to the policeman.”

Holmes sat up again.

“Burglary! This is more interesting. Let me hear the details.”

Lestrade took out his official note-book and refreshed his memory
from its pages.

“The first case reported was four days ago,” said he. “It was at the
shop of Morse Hudson, who has a place for the sale of pictures and
statues in the Kennington Road. The assistant had left the front shop
for an instant when he heard a crash, and hurrying in he found a
plaster bust of Napoleon, which stood with several other works of art
upon the counter, lying shivered into fragments. He rushed out into
the road, but, although several passers-by declared that they had
noticed a man run out of the shop, he could neither see anyone nor
could he find any means of identifying the rascal. It seemed to be
one of those senseless acts of Hooliganism which occur from time to
time, and it was reported to the constable on the beat as such. The
plaster cast was not worth more than a few shillings, and the whole
affair appeared to be too childish for any particular investigation.

“The second case, however, was more serious and also more singular.
It occurred only last night.

“In Kennington Road, and within a few hundred yards of Morse Hudson’s
shop, there lives a well-known medical practitioner, named Dr.
Barnicot, who has one of the largest practices upon the south side of
the Thames. His residence and principal consulting-room is at
Kennington Road, but he has a branch surgery and dispensary at Lower
Brixton Road, two miles away. This Dr. Barnicot is an enthusiastic
admirer of Napoleon, and his house is full of books, pictures, and
relics of the French Emperor. Some little time ago he purchased from
Morse Hudson two duplicate plaster casts of the famous head of
Napoleon by the French sculptor, Devine. One of these he placed in
his hall in the house at Kennington Road, and the other on the
mantelpiece of the surgery at Lower Brixton. Well, when Dr. Barnicot
came down this morning he was astonished to find that his house had
been burgled during the night, but that nothing had been taken save
the plaster head from the hall. It had been carried out and had been
dashed savagely against the garden wall, under which its splintered
fragments were discovered.”

Holmes rubbed his hands.

“This is certainly very novel,” said he.

“I thought it would please you. But I have not got to the end yet.
Dr. Barnicot was due at his surgery at twelve o’clock, and you can
imagine his amazement when, on arriving there, he found that the
window had been opened in the night, and that the broken pieces of
his second bust were strewn all over the room. It had been smashed to
atoms where it stood. In neither case were there any signs which
could give us a clue as to the criminal or lunatic who had done the
mischief. Now, Mr. Holmes, you have got the facts.”

“They are singular, not to say grotesque,” said Holmes. “May I ask
whether the two busts smashed in Dr. Barnicot’s rooms were the exact
duplicates of the one which was destroyed in Morse Hudson’s shop?”

“They were taken from the same mould.”

“Such a fact must tell against the theory that the man who breaks
them is influenced by any general hatred of Napoleon. Considering how
many hundreds of statues of the great Emperor must exist in London,
it is too much to suppose such a coincidence as that a promiscuous
iconoclast should chance to begin upon three specimens of the same
bust.”

“Well, I thought as you do,” said Lestrade. “On the other hand, this
Morse Hudson is the purveyor of busts in that part of London, and
these three were the only ones which had been in his shop for years.
So, although, as you say, there are many hundreds of statues in
London, it is very probable that these three were the only ones in
that district. Therefore, a local fanatic would begin with them. What
do you think, Dr. Watson?”

“There are no limits to the possibilities of monomania,” I answered.
“There is the condition which the modern French psychologists have
called the ‘idée fixe,’ which may be trifling in character, and
accompanied by complete sanity in every other way. A man who had read
deeply about Napoleon, or who had possibly received some hereditary
family injury through the great war, might conceivably form such an
idée fixe and under its influence be capable of any fantastic
outrage.”

“That won’t do, my dear Watson,” said Holmes, shaking his head; “for
no amount of idée fixe would enable your interesting monomaniac to
find out where these busts were situated.”

“Well, how do you explain it?”

“I don’t attempt to do so. I would only observe that there is a
certain method in the gentleman’s eccentric proceedings. For example,
in Dr. Barnicot’s hall, where a sound might arouse the family, the
bust was taken outside before being broken, whereas in the surgery,
where there was less danger of an alarm, it was smashed where it
stood. The affair seems absurdly trifling, and yet I dare call
nothing trivial when I reflect that some of my most classic cases
have had the least promising commencement. You will remember, Watson,
how the dreadful business of the Abernetty family was first brought
to my notice by the depth which the parsley had sunk into the butter
upon a hot day. I can’t afford, therefore, to smile at your three
broken busts, Lestrade, and I shall be very much obliged to you if
you will let me hear of any fresh developments of so singular a chain
of events.”

The development for which my friend had asked came in a quicker and
an infinitely more tragic form than he could have imagined. I was
still dressing in my bedroom next morning when there was a tap at the
door and Holmes entered, a telegram in his hand. He read it aloud:

“Come instantly, 131, Pitt Street, Kensington.
“Lestrade.”

“What is it, then?” I asked.

“Don’t know–may be anything. But I suspect it is the sequel of the
story of the statues. In that case our friend, the image-breaker, has
begun operations in another quarter of London. There’s coffee on the
table, Watson, and I have a cab at the door.”

In half an hour we had reached Pitt Street, a quiet little backwater
just beside one of the briskest currents of London life. No. 131 was
one of a row, all flat-chested, respectable, and most unromantic
dwellings. As we drove up we found the railings in front of the house
lined by a curious crowd. Holmes whistled.

“By George! it’s attempted murder at the least. Nothing less will
hold the London message-boy. There’s a deed of violence indicated in
that fellow’s round shoulders and outstretched neck. What’s this,
Watson? The top steps swilled down and the other ones dry. Footsteps
enough, anyhow! Well, well, there’s Lestrade at the front window, and
we shall soon know all about it.”

The official received us with a very grave face and showed us into a
sitting-room, where an exceedingly unkempt and agitated elderly man,
clad in a flannel dressing-gown, was pacing up and down. He was
introduced to us as the owner of the house–Mr. Horace Harker, of the
Central Press Syndicate.

“It’s the Napoleon bust business again,” said Lestrade. “You seemed
interested last night, Mr. Holmes, so I thought perhaps you would be
glad to be present now that the affair has taken a very much graver
turn.”

“What has it turned to, then?”

“To murder. Mr. Harker, will you tell these gentlemen exactly what
has occurred?”

The man in the dressing-gown turned upon us with a most melancholy
face.

“It’s an extraordinary thing,” said he, “that all my life I have been
collecting other people’s news, and now that a real piece of news has
come my own way I am so confused and bothered that I can’t put two
words together. If I had come in here as a journalist I should have
interviewed myself and had two columns in every evening paper. As it
is I am giving away valuable copy by telling my story over and over
to a string of different people, and I can make no use of it myself.
However, I’ve heard your name, Mr. Sherlock Holmes, and if you’ll
only explain this queer business I shall be paid for my trouble in
telling you the story.”

Holmes sat down and listened.

“It all seems to centre round that bust of Napoleon which I bought
for this very room about four months ago. I picked it up cheap from
Harding Brothers, two doors from the High Street Station. A great
deal of my journalistic work is done at night, and I often write
until the early morning. So it was to-day. I was sitting in my den,
which is at the back of the top of the house, about three o’clock,
when I was convinced that I heard some sounds downstairs. I listened,
but they were not repeated, and I concluded that they came from
outside. Then suddenly, about five minutes later, there came a most
horrible yell–the most dreadful sound, Mr. Holmes, that ever I
heard. It will ring in my ears as long as I live. I sat frozen with
horror for a minute or two. Then I seized the poker and went
downstairs. When I entered this room I found the window wide open,
and I at once observed that the bust was gone from the mantelpiece.
Why any burglar should take such a thing passes my understanding, for
it was only a plaster cast and of no real value whatever.

“You can see for yourself that anyone going out through that open
window could reach the front doorstep by taking a long stride. This
was clearly what the burglar had done, so I went round and opened the
door. Stepping out into the dark I nearly fell over a dead man who
was lying there. I ran back for a light, and there was the poor
fellow, a great gash in his throat and the whole place swimming in
blood. He lay on his back, his knees drawn up, and his mouth horribly
open. I shall see him in my dreams. I had just time to blow on my
police-whistle, and then I must have fainted, for I knew nothing more
until I found the policeman standing over me in the hall.”

“Well, who was the murdered man?” asked Holmes.

“There’s nothing to show who he was,” said Lestrade. “You shall see
the body at the mortuary, but we have made nothing of it up to now.
He is a tall man, sunburned, very powerful, not more than thirty. He
is poorly dressed, and yet does not appear to be a labourer. A
horn-handled clasp knife was lying in a pool of blood beside him.
Whether it was the weapon which did the deed, or whether it belonged
to the dead man, I do not know. There was no name on his clothing,
and nothing in his pockets save an apple, some string, a shilling map
of London, and a photograph. Here it is.”

It was evidently taken by a snap-shot from a small camera. It
represented an alert, sharp-featured simian man with thick eyebrows,
and a very peculiar projection of the lower part of the face like the
muzzle of a baboon.

“And what became of the bust?” asked Holmes, after a careful study of
this picture.

“We had news of it just before you came. It has been found in the
front garden of an empty house in Campden House Road. It was broken
into fragments. I am going round now to see it. Will you come?”

“Certainly. I must just take one look round.” He examined the carpet
and the window. “The fellow had either very long legs or was a most
active man,” said he. “With an area beneath, it was no mean feat to
reach that window-ledge and open that window. Getting back was
comparatively simple. Are you coming with us to see the remains of
your bust, Mr. Harker?”

The disconsolate journalist had seated himself at a writing-table.

“I must try and make something of it,” said he, “though I have no
doubt that the first editions of the evening papers are out already
with full details. It’s like my luck! You remember when the stand
fell at Doncaster? Well, I was the only journalist in the stand, and
my journal the only one that had no account of it, for I was too
shaken to write it. And now I’ll be too late with a murder done on my
own doorstep.”

As we left the room we heard his pen travelling shrilly over the
foolscap.

The spot where the fragments of the bust had been found was only a
few hundred yards away. For the first time our eyes rested upon this
presentment of the great Emperor, which seemed to raise such frantic
and destructive hatred in the mind of the unknown. It lay scattered
in splintered shards upon the grass. Holmes picked up several of them
and examined them carefully. I was convinced from his intent face and
his purposeful manner that at last he was upon a clue.

“Well?” asked Lestrade.

Holmes shrugged his shoulders.

“We have a long way to go yet,” said he. “And yet–and yet–well, we
have some suggestive facts to act upon. The possession of this
trifling bust was worth more in the eyes of this strange criminal
than a human life. That is one point. Then there is the singular fact
that he did not break it in the house, or immediately outside the
house, if to break it was his sole object.”

“He was rattled and bustled by meeting this other fellow. He hardly
knew what he was doing.”

“Well, that’s likely enough. But I wish to call your attention very
particularly to the position of this house in the garden of which the
bust was destroyed.”

Lestrade looked about him.

“It was an empty house, and so he knew that he would not be disturbed
in the garden.”

“Yes, but there is another empty house farther up the street which he
must have passed before he came to this one. Why did he not break it
there, since it is evident that every yard that he carried it
increased the risk of someone meeting him?”

“I give it up,” said Lestrade.

Holmes pointed to the street lamp above our heads.

“He could see what he was doing here and he could not there. That was
his reason.”

“By Jove! that’s true,” said the detective. “Now that I come to think
of it, Dr. Barnicot’s bust was broken not far from his red lamp.
Well, Mr. Holmes, what are we to do with that fact?”

“To remember it–to docket it. We may come on something later which
will bear upon it. What steps do you propose to take now, Lestrade?”

“The most practical way of getting at it, in my opinion, is to
identify the dead man. There should be no difficulty about that. When
we have found who he is and who his associates are, we should have a
good start in learning what he was doing in Pitt Street last night,
and who it was who met him and killed him on the doorstep of Mr.
Horace Harker. Don’t you think so?”

“No doubt; and yet it is not quite the way in which I should approach
the case.”

“What would you do, then?”

“Oh, you must not let me influence you in any way! I suggest that you
go on your line and I on mine. We can compare notes afterwards, and
each will supplement the other.”

“Very good,” said Lestrade.

“If you are going back to Pitt Street you might see Mr. Horace
Harker. Tell him from me that I have quite made up my mind, and that
it is certain that a dangerous homicidal lunatic with Napoleonic
delusions was in his house last night. It will be useful for his
article.”

Lestrade stared.

“You don’t seriously believe that?”

Holmes smiled.

“Don’t I? Well, perhaps I don’t. But I am sure that it will interest
Mr. Horace Harker and the subscribers of the Central Press Syndicate.
Now, Watson, I think that we shall find that we have a long and
rather complex day’s work before us. I should be glad, Lestrade, if
you could make it convenient to meet us at Baker Street at six
o’clock this evening. Until then I should like to keep this
photograph found in the dead man’s pocket. It is possible that I may
have to ask your company and assistance upon a small expedition which
will have be undertaken to-night, if my chain of reasoning should
prove to be correct. Until then, good-bye and good luck!”

Sherlock Holmes and I walked together to the High Street, where he
stopped at the shop of Harding Brothers, whence the bust had been
purchased. A young assistant informed us that Mr. Harding would be
absent until after noon, and that he was himself a newcomer who could
give us no information. Holmes’s face showed his disappointment and
annoyance.

“Well, well, we can’t expect to have it all our own way, Watson,” he
said, at last. “We must come back in the afternoon if Mr. Harding
will not be here until then. I am, as you have no doubt surmised,
endeavouring to trace these busts to their source, in order to find
if there is not something peculiar which may account for their
remarkable fate. Let us make for Mr. Morse Hudson, of the Kennington
Road, and see if he can throw any light upon the problem.”

A drive of an hour brought us to the picture-dealer’s establishment.
He was a small, stout man with a red face and a peppery manner.

“Yes, sir. On my very counter, sir,” said he. “What we pay rates and
taxes for I don’t know, when any ruffian can come in and break one’s
goods. Yes, sir, it was I who sold Dr. Barnicot his two statues.
Disgraceful, sir! A Nihilist plot, that’s what I make it. No one but
an Anarchist would go about breaking statues. Red republicans, that’s
what I call ’em. Who did I get the statues from? I don’t see what
that has to do with it. Well, if you really want to know, I got them
from Gelder & Co., in Church Street, Stepney. They are a well-known
house in the trade, and have been this twenty years. How many had I?
Three–two and one are three–two of Dr. Barnicot’s and one smashed
in broad daylight on my own counter. Do I know that photograph? No, I
don’t. Yes, I do, though. Why, it’s Beppo. He was a kind of Italian
piece-work man, who made himself useful in the shop. He could carve a
bit and gild and frame, and do odd jobs. The fellow left me last
week, and I’ve heard nothing of him since. No, I don’t know where he
came from nor where he went to. I have nothing against him while he
was here. He was gone two days before the bust was smashed.”

“Well, that’s all we could reasonably expect to get from Morse
Hudson,” said Holmes, as we emerged from the shop. “We have this
Beppo as a common factor, both in Kennington and in Kensington, so
that is worth a ten-mile drive. Now, Watson, let us make for Gelder &
Co., of Stepney, the source and origin of busts. I shall be surprised
if we don’t get some help down there.”

In rapid succession we passed through the fringe of fashionable
London, hotel London, theatrical London, literary London, commercial
London, and, finally, maritime London, till we came to a riverside
city of a hundred thousand souls, where the tenement houses swelter
and reek with the outcasts of Europe. Here, in a broad thoroughfare,
once the abode of wealthy City merchants, we found the sculpture
works for which we searched. Outside was a considerable yard full of
monumental masonry. Inside was a large room in which fifty workers
were carving or moulding. The manager, a big blond German, received
us civilly, and gave a clear answer to all Holmes’s questions. A
reference to his books showed that hundreds of casts had been taken
from a marble copy of Devine’s head of Napoleon, but that the three
which had been sent to Morse Hudson a year or so before had been half
of a batch of six, the other three being sent to Harding Brothers, of
Kensington. There was no reason why those six should be different to
any of the other casts. He could suggest no possible cause why anyone
should wish to destroy them–in fact, he laughed at the idea. Their
wholesale price was six shillings, but the retailer would get twelve
or more. The cast was taken in two moulds from each side of the face,
and then these two profiles of plaster of Paris were joined together
to make the complete bust. The work was usually done by Italians in
the room we were in. When finished the busts were put on a table in
the passage to dry, and afterwards stored. That was all he could tell
us.

But the production of the photograph had a remarkable effect upon the
manager. His face flushed with anger, and his brows knotted over his
blue Teutonic eyes.

“Ah, the rascal!” he cried. “Yes, indeed, I know him very well. This
has always been a respectable establishment, and the only time that
we have ever had the police in it was over this very fellow. It was
more than a year ago now. He knifed another Italian in the street,
and then he came to the works with the police on his heels, and he
was taken here. Beppo was his name–his second name I never knew.
Serve me right for engaging a man with such a face. But he was a good
workman, one of the best.”

“What did he get?”

“The man lived and he got off with a year. I have no doubt he is out
now; but he has not dared to show his nose here. We have a cousin of
his here, and I dare say he could tell you where he is.”

“No, no,” cried Holmes, “not a word to the cousin–not a word, I beg
you. The matter is very important, and the farther I go with it the
more important it seems to grow. When you referred in your ledger to
the sale of those casts I observed that the date was June 3rd of last
year. Could you give me the date when Beppo was arrested?”

“I could tell you roughly by the pay-list,” the manager answered.
“Yes,” he continued, after some turning over of pages, “he was paid
last on May 20th.”

“Thank you,” said Holmes. “I don’t think that I need intrude upon
your time and patience any more.” With a last word of caution that he
should say nothing as to our researches we turned our faces westward
once more.

The afternoon was far advanced before we were able to snatch a hasty
luncheon at a restaurant. A news-bill at the entrance announced
“Kensington Outrage. Murder by a Madman,” and the contents of the
paper showed that Mr. Horace Harker had got his account into print
after all. Two columns were occupied with a highly sensational and
flowery rendering of the whole incident. Holmes propped it against
the cruet-stand and read it while he ate. Once or twice he chuckled.

“This is all right, Watson,” said he. “Listen to this:

“It is satisfactory to know that there can be no difference of
opinion upon this case, since Mr. Lestrade, one of the most
experienced members of the official force, and Mr. Sherlock Holmes,
the well-known consulting expert, have each come to the conclusion
that the grotesque series of incidents, which have ended in so tragic
a fashion, arise from lunacy rather than from deliberate crime. No
explanation save mental aberration can cover the facts.

“The Press, Watson, is a most valuable institution if you only know
how to use it. And now, if you have quite finished, we will hark back
to Kensington and see what the manager of Harding Brothers has to say
to the matter.”

The founder of that great emporium proved to be a brisk, crisp little
person, very dapper and quick, with a clear head and a ready tongue.

“Yes, sir, I have already read the account in the evening papers. Mr.
Horace Harker is a customer of ours. We supplied him with the bust
some months ago. We ordered three busts of that sort from Gelder &
Co., of Stepney. They are all sold now. To whom? Oh, I dare say by
consulting our sales book we could very easily tell you. Yes, we have
the entries here. One to Mr. Harker, you see, and one to Mr. Josiah
Brown, of Laburnum Lodge, Laburnum Vale, Chiswick, and one to Mr.
Sandeford, of Lower Grove Road, Reading. No, I have never seen this
face which you show me in the photograph. You would hardly forget it,
would you, sir, for I’ve seldom seen an uglier. Have we any Italians
on the staff? Yes, sir, we have several among our workpeople and
cleaners. I dare say they might get a peep at that sales book if they
wanted to. There is no particular reason for keeping a watch upon
that book. Well, well, it’s a very strange business, and I hope that
you’ll let me know if anything comes of your inquiries.”

Holmes had taken several notes during Mr. Harding’s evidence, and I
could see that he was thoroughly satisfied by the turn which affairs
were taking. He made no remark, however, save that, unless we
hurried, we should be late for our appointment with Lestrade. Sure
enough, when we reached Baker Street the detective was already there,
and we found him pacing up and down in a fever of impatience. His
look of importance showed that his day’s work had not been in vain.

“Well?” he asked. “What luck, Mr. Holmes?”

“We have had a very busy day, and not entirely a wasted one,” my
friend explained. “We have seen both the retailers and also the
wholesale manufacturers. I can trace each of the busts now from the
beginning.”

“The busts!” cried Lestrade. “Well, well, you have your own methods,
Mr. Sherlock Holmes, and it is not for me to say a word against them,
but I think I have done a better day’s work than you. I have
identified the dead man.”

“You don’t say so?”

“And found a cause for the crime.”

“Splendid!”

“We have an inspector who makes a specialty of Saffron Hill and the
Italian quarter. Well, this dead man had some Catholic emblem round
his neck, and that, along with his colour, made me think he was from
the South. Inspector Hill knew him the moment he caught sight of him.
His name is Pietro Venucci, from Naples, and he is one of the
greatest cut-throats in London. He is connected with the Mafia,
which, as you know, is a secret political society, enforcing its
decrees by murder. Now you see how the affair begins to clear up. The
other fellow is probably an Italian also, and a member of the Mafia.
He has broken the rules in some fashion. Pietro is set upon his
track. Probably the photograph we found in his pocket is the man
himself, so that he may not knife the wrong person. He dogs the
fellow, he sees him enter a house, he waits outside for him, and in
the scuffle he receives his own death-wound. How is that, Mr.
Sherlock Holmes?”

Holmes clapped his hands approvingly.

“Excellent, Lestrade, excellent!” he cried. “But I didn’t quite
follow your explanation of the destruction of the busts.”

“The busts! You never can get those busts out of your head. After
all, that is nothing; petty larceny, six months at the most. It is
the murder that we are really investigating, and I tell you that I am
gathering all the threads into my hands.”

“And the next stage?”

“Is a very simple one. I shall go down with Hill to the Italian
quarter, find the man whose photograph we have got, and arrest him on
the charge of murder. Will you come with us?”

“I think not. I fancy we can attain our end in a simpler way. I can’t
say for certain, because it all depends–well, it all depends upon a
factor which is completely outside our control. But I have great
hopes–in fact, the betting is exactly two to one–that if you will
come with us to-night I shall be able to help you to lay him by the
heels.”

“In the Italian quarter?”

“No; I fancy Chiswick is an address which is more likely to find him.
If you will come with me to Chiswick to-night, Lestrade, I’ll promise
to go to the Italian quarter with you to-morrow, and no harm will be
done by the delay. And now I think that a few hours’ sleep would do
us all good, for I do not propose to leave before eleven o’clock, and
it is unlikely that we shall be back before morning. You’ll dine with
us, Lestrade, and then you are welcome to the sofa until it is time
for us to start. In the meantime, Watson, I should be glad if you
would ring for an express messenger, for I have a letter to send, and
it is important that it should go at once.”

Holmes spent the evening in rummaging among the files of the old
daily papers with which one of our lumber-rooms was packed. When at
last he descended it was with triumph in his eyes, but he said
nothing to either of us as to the result of his researches. For my
own part, I had followed step by step the methods by which he had
traced the various windings of this complex case, and, though I could
not yet perceive the goal which we would reach, I understood clearly
that Holmes expected this grotesque criminal to make an attempt upon
the two remaining busts, one of which, I remembered, was at Chiswick.
No doubt the object of our journey was to catch him in the very act,
and I could not but admire the cunning with which my friend had
inserted a wrong clue in the evening paper, so as to give the fellow
the idea that he could continue his scheme with impunity. I was not
surprised when Holmes suggested that I should take my revolver with
me. He had himself picked up the loaded hunting-crop which was his
favourite weapon.

A four-wheeler was at the door at eleven, and in it we drove to a
spot at the other side of Hammersmith Bridge. Here the cabman was
directed to wait. A short walk brought us to a secluded road fringed
with pleasant houses, each standing in its own grounds. In the light
of a street lamp we read “Laburnum Villa” upon the gate-post of one
of them. The occupants had evidently retired to rest, for all was
dark save for a fanlight over the hall door, which shed a single
blurred circle on to the garden path. The wooden fence which
separated the grounds from the road threw a dense black shadow upon
the inner side, and here it was that we crouched.

“I fear that you’ll have a long wait,” Holmes whispered. “We may
thank our stars that it is not raining. I don’t think we can even
venture to smoke to pass the time. However, it’s a two to one chance
that we get something to pay us for our trouble.”

It proved, however, that our vigil was not to be so long as Holmes
had led us to fear, and it ended in a very sudden and singular
fashion. In an instant, without the least sound to warn us of his
coming, the garden gate swung open, and a lithe, dark figure, as
swift and active as an ape, rushed up the garden path. We saw it
whisk past the light thrown from over the door and disappear against
the black shadow of the house. There was a long pause, during which
we held our breath, and then a very gentle creaking sound came to our
ears. The window was being opened. The noise ceased, and again there
was a long silence. The fellow was making his way into the house. We
saw the sudden flash of a dark lantern inside the room. What he
sought was evidently not there, for again we saw the flash through
another blind, and then through another.

“Let us get to the open window. We will nab him as he climbs out,”
Lestrade whispered.

But before we could move the man had emerged again. As he came out
into the glimmering patch of light we saw that he carried something
white under his arm. He looked stealthily all round him. The silence
of the deserted street reassured him. Turning his back upon us he
laid down his burden, and the next instant there was the sound of a
sharp tap, followed by a clatter and rattle. The man was so intent
upon what he was doing that he never heard our steps as we stole
across the grass plot. With the bound of a tiger Holmes was on his
back, and an instant later Lestrade and I had him by either wrist and
the handcuffs had been fastened. As we turned him over I saw a
hideous, sallow face, with writhing, furious features, glaring up at
us, and I knew that it was indeed the man of the photograph whom we
had secured.

But it was not our prisoner to whom Holmes was giving his attention.
Squatted on the doorstep, he was engaged in most carefully examining
that which the man had brought from the house. It was a bust of
Napoleon like the one which we had seen that morning, and it had been
broken into similar fragments. Carefully Holmes held each separate
shard to the light, but in no way did it differ from any other
shattered piece of plaster. He had just completed his examination
when the hall lights flew up, the door opened, and the owner of the
house, a jovial, rotund figure in shirt and trousers, presented
himself.

“Mr. Josiah Brown, I suppose?” said Holmes.

“Yes, sir; and you, no doubt, are Mr. Sherlock Holmes? I had the note
which you sent by the express messenger, and I did exactly what you
told me. We locked every door on the inside and awaited developments.
Well, I’m very glad to see that you have got the rascal. I hope,
gentlemen, that you will come in and have some refreshment.”

However, Lestrade was anxious to get his man into safe quarters, so
within a few minutes our cab had been summoned and we were all four
upon our way to London. Not a word would our captive say; but he
glared at us from the shadow of his matted hair, and once, when my
hand seemed within his reach, he snapped at it like a hungry wolf. We
stayed long enough at the police-station to learn that a search of
his clothing revealed nothing save a few shillings and a long sheath
knife, the handle of which bore copious traces of recent blood.

“That’s all right,” said Lestrade, as we parted. “Hill knows all
these gentry, and he will give a name to him. You’ll find that my
theory of the Mafia will work out all right. But I’m sure I am
exceedingly obliged to you, Mr. Holmes, for the workmanlike way in
which you laid hands upon him. I don’t quite understand it all yet.”

“I fear it is rather too late an hour for explanations,” said Holmes.
“Besides, there are one or two details which are not finished off,
and it is one of those cases which are worth working out to the very
end. If you will come round once more to my rooms at six o’clock
to-morrow I think I shall be able to show you that even now you have
not grasped the entire meaning of this business, which presents some
features which make it absolutely original in the history of crime.
If ever I permit you to chronicle any more of my little problems,
Watson, I foresee that you will enliven your pages by an account of
the singular adventure of the Napoleonic busts.”

When we met again next evening Lestrade was furnished with much
information concerning our prisoner. His name, it appeared, was
Beppo, second name unknown. He was a well-known ne’er-do-well among
the Italian colony. He had once been a skilful sculptor and had
earned an honest living, but he had taken to evil courses and had
twice already been in jail–once for a petty theft and once, as we
had already heard, for stabbing a fellow-countryman. He could talk
English perfectly well. His reasons for destroying the busts were
still unknown, and he refused to answer any questions upon the
subject; but the police had discovered that these same busts might
very well have been made by his own hands, since he was engaged in
this class of work at the establishment of Gelder & Co. To all this
information, much of which we already knew, Holmes listened with
polite attention; but I, who knew him so well, could clearly see that
his thoughts were elsewhere, and I detected a mixture of mingled
uneasiness and expectation beneath that mask which he was wont to
assume. At last he started in his chair and his eyes brightened.
There had been a ring at the bell. A minute later we heard steps upon
the stairs, and an elderly, red-faced man with grizzled side-whiskers
was ushered in. In his right hand he carried an old-fashioned
carpet-bag, which he placed upon the table.

“Is Mr. Sherlock Holmes here?”

My friend bowed and smiled. “Mr. Sandeford, of Reading, I suppose?”
said he.

“Yes, sir, I fear that I am a little late; but the trains were
awkward. You wrote to me about a bust that is in my possession.”

“Exactly.”

“I have your letter here. You said, ‘I desire to possess a copy of
Devine’s Napoleon, and am prepared to pay you ten pounds for the one
which is in your possession.’ Is that right?”

“Certainly.”

“I was very much surprised at your letter, for I could not imagine
how you knew that I owned such a thing.”

“Of course you must have been surprised, but the explanation is very
simple. Mr. Harding, of Harding Brothers, said that they had sold you
their last copy, and he gave me your address.”

“Oh, that was it, was it? Did he tell you what I paid for it?”

“No, he did not.”

“Well, I am an honest man, though not a very rich one. I only gave
fifteen shillings for the bust, and I think you ought to know that
before I take ten pounds from you.”

“I am sure the scruple does you honour, Mr. Sandeford. But I have
named that price, so I intend to stick to it.”

“Well, it is very handsome of you, Mr. Holmes. I brought the bust up
with me, as you asked me to do. Here it is!” He opened his bag, and
at last we saw placed upon our table a complete specimen of that bust
which we had already seen more than once in fragments.

Holmes took a paper from his pocket and laid a ten-pound note upon
the table.

“You will kindly sign that paper, Mr. Sandeford, in the presence of
these witnesses. It is simply to say that you transfer every possible
right that you ever had in the bust to me. I am a methodical man, you
see, and you never know what turn events might take afterwards. Thank
you, Mr. Sandeford; here is your money, and I wish you a very good
evening.”

When our visitor had disappeared Sherlock Holmes’s movements were
such as to rivet our attention. He began by taking a clean white
cloth from a drawer and laying it over the table. Then he placed his
newly-acquired bust in the centre of the cloth. Finally, he picked up
his hunting-crop and struck Napoleon a sharp blow on the top of the
head. The figure broke into fragments, and Holmes bent eagerly over
the shattered remains. Next instant, with a loud shout of triumph, he
held up one splinter, in which a round, dark object was fixed like a
plum in a pudding.

“Gentlemen,” he cried, “let me introduce you to the famous black
pearl of the Borgias.”

Lestrade and I sat silent for a moment, and then, with a spontaneous
impulse, we both broke out clapping as at the well-wrought crisis of
a play. A flush of colour sprang to Holmes’s pale cheeks, and he
bowed to us like the master dramatist who receives the homage of his
audience. It was at such moments that for an instant he ceased to be
a reasoning machine, and betrayed his human love for admiration and
applause. The same singularly proud and reserved nature which turned
away with disdain from popular notoriety was capable of being moved
to its depths by spontaneous wonder and praise from a friend.

“Yes, gentlemen,” said he, “it is the most famous pearl now existing
in the world, and it has been my good fortune, by a connected chain
of inductive reasoning, to trace it from the Prince of Colonna’s
bedroom at the Dacre Hotel, where it was lost, to the interior of
this, the last of the six busts of Napoleon which were manufactured
by Gelder & Co., of Stepney. You will remember, Lestrade, the
sensation caused by the disappearance of this valuable jewel, and the
vain efforts of the London police to recover it. I was myself
consulted upon the case; but I was unable to throw any light upon it.
Suspicion fell upon the maid of the Princess, who was an Italian, and
it was proved that she had a brother in London, but we failed to
trace any connection between them. The maid’s name was Lucretia
Venucci, and there is no doubt in my mind that this Pietro who was
murdered two nights ago was the brother. I have been looking up the
dates in the old files of the paper, and I find that the
disappearance of the pearl was exactly two days before the arrest of
Beppo for some crime of violence, an event which took place in the
factory of Gelder & Co., at the very moment when these busts were
being made. Now you clearly see the sequence of events, though you
see them, of course, in the inverse order to the way in which they
presented themselves to me. Beppo had the pearl in his possession. He
may have stolen it from Pietro, he may have been Pietro’s
confederate, he may have been the go-between of Pietro and his
sister. It is of no consequence to us which is the correct solution.

“The main fact is that he had the pearl, and at that moment, when it
was on his person, he was pursued by the police. He made for the
factory in which he worked, and he knew that he had only a few
minutes in which to conceal this enormously valuable prize, which
would otherwise be found on him when he was searched. Six plaster
casts of Napoleon were drying in the passage. One of them was still
soft. In an instant Beppo, a skilful workman, made a small hole in
the wet plaster, dropped in the pearl, and with a few touches covered
over the aperture once more. It was an admirable hiding-place. No one
could possibly find it. But Beppo was condemned to a year’s
imprisonment, and in the meanwhile his six busts were scattered over
London. He could not tell which contained his treasure. Only by
breaking them could he see. Even shaking would tell him nothing, for
as the plaster was wet it was probable that the pearl would adhere to
it–as, in fact, it has done. Beppo did not despair, and he conducted
his search with considerable ingenuity and perseverance. Through a
cousin who works with Gelder he found out the retail firms who had
bought the busts. He managed to find employment with Morse Hudson,
and in that way tracked down three of them. The pearl was not there.
Then, with the help of some Italian employe, he succeeded in finding
out where the other three busts had gone. The first was at Harker’s.
There he was dogged by his confederate, who held Beppo responsible
for the loss of the pearl, and he stabbed him in the scuffle which
followed.”

“If he was his confederate why should he carry his photograph?” I
asked.

“As a means of tracing him if he wished to inquire about him from any
third person. That was the obvious reason. Well, after the murder I
calculated that Beppo would probably hurry rather than delay his
movements. He would fear that the police would read his secret, and
so he hastened on before they should get ahead of him. Of course, I
could not say that he had not found the pearl in Harker’s bust. I had
not even concluded for certain that it was the pearl; but it was
evident to me that he was looking for something, since he carried the
bust past the other houses in order to break it in the garden which
had a lamp overlooking it. Since Harker’s bust was one in three the
chances were exactly as I told you, two to one against the pearl
being inside it. There remained two busts, and it was obvious that he
would go for the London one first. I warned the inmates of the house,
so as to avoid a second tragedy, and we went down with the happiest
results. By that time, of course, I knew for certain that it was the
Borgia pearl that we were after. The name of the murdered man linked
the one event with the other. There only remained a single bust–the
Reading one–and the pearl must be there. I bought it in your
presence from the owner–and there it lies.”

We sat in silence for a moment.

“Well,” said Lestrade, “I’ve seen you handle a good many cases, Mr.
Holmes, but I don’t know that I ever knew a more workmanlike one than
that. We’re not jealous of you at Scotland Yard. No, sir, we are very
proud of you, and if you come down to-morrow there’s not a man, from
the oldest inspector to the youngest constable, who wouldn’t be glad
to shake you by the hand.”

“Thank you!” said Holmes. “Thank you!” and as he turned away it
seemed to me that he was more nearly moved by the softer human
emotions than I had ever seen him. A moment later he was the cold and
practical thinker once more. “Put the pearl in the safe, Watson,”
said he, “and get out the papers of the Conk-Singleton forgery case.
Good-bye, Lestrade. If any little problem comes your way I shall be
happy, if I can, to give you a hint or two as to its solution.”

It was in the year ’95 that a combination of events, into which I
need not enter, caused Mr. Sherlock Holmes and myself to spend some
weeks in one of our great University towns, and it was during this
time that the small but instructive adventure which I am about to
relate befell us. It will be obvious that any details which would
help the reader to exactly identify the college or the criminal would
be injudicious and offensive. So painful a scandal may well be
allowed to die out. With due discretion the incident itself may,
however, be described, since it serves to illustrate some of those
qualities for which my friend was remarkable. I will endeavour in my
statement to avoid such terms as would serve to limit the events to
any particular place, or give a clue as to the people concerned.

We were residing at the time in furnished lodgings close to a library
where Sherlock Holmes was pursuing some laborious researches in early
English charters–researches which led to results so striking that
they may be the subject of one of my future narratives. Here it was
that one evening we received a visit from an acquaintance, Mr. Hilton
Soames, tutor and lecturer at the College of St. Luke’s. Mr. Soames
was a tall, spare man, of a nervous and excitable temperament. I had
always known him to be restless in his manner, but on this particular
occasion he was in such a state of uncontrollable agitation that it
was clear something very unusual had occurred.

“I trust, Mr. Holmes, that you can spare me a few hours of your
valuable time. We have had a very painful incident at St. Luke’s, and
really, but for the happy chance of your being in the town, I should
have been at a loss what to do.”

“I am very busy just now, and I desire no distractions,” my friend
answered. “I should much prefer that you called in the aid of the
police.”

“No, no, my dear sir; such a course is utterly impossible. When once
the law is evoked it cannot be stayed again, and this is just one of
those cases where, for the credit of the college, it is most
essential to avoid scandal. Your discretion is as well known as your
powers, and you are the one man in the world who can help me. I beg
you, Mr. Holmes, to do what you can.”

My friend’s temper had not improved since he had been deprived of the
congenial surroundings of Baker Street. Without his scrap-books, his
chemicals, and his homely untidiness, he was an uncomfortable man. He
shrugged his shoulders in ungracious acquiescence, while our visitor
in hurried words and with much excitable gesticulation poured forth
his story.

“I must explain to you, Mr. Holmes, that to-morrow is the first day
of the examination for the Fortescue Scholarship. I am one of the
examiners. My subject is Greek, and the first of the papers consists
of a large passage of Greek translation which the candidate has not
seen. This passage is printed on the examination paper, and it would
naturally be an immense advantage if the candidate could prepare it
in advance. For this reason great care is taken to keep the paper
secret.

“To-day about three o’clock the proofs of this paper arrived from the
printers. The exercise consists of half a chapter of Thucydides. I
had to read it over carefully, as the text must be absolutely
correct. At four-thirty my task was not yet completed. I had,
however, promised to take tea in a friend’s rooms, so I left the
proof upon my desk. I was absent rather more than an hour.

“You are aware, Mr. Holmes, that our college doors are double–a
green baize one within and a heavy oak one without. As I approached
my outer door I was amazed to see a key in it. For an instant I
imagined that I had left my own there, but on feeling in my pocket I
found that it was all right. The only duplicate which existed, so far
as I knew, was that which belonged to my servant, Bannister, a man
who has looked after my room for ten years, and whose honesty is
absolutely above suspicion. I found that the key was indeed his, that
he had entered my room to know if I wanted tea, and that he had very
carelessly left the key in the door when he came out. His visit to my
room must have been within a very few minutes of my leaving it. His
forgetfulness about the key would have mattered little upon any other
occasion, but on this one day it has produced the most deplorable
consequences.

“The moment I looked at my table I was aware that someone had
rummaged among my papers. The proof was in three long slips. I had
left them all together. Now, I found that one of them was lying on
the floor, one was on the side table near the window, and the third
was where I had left it.”

Holmes stirred for the first time.

“The first page on the floor, the second in the window, the third
where you left it,” said he.

“Exactly, Mr. Holmes. You amaze me. How could you possibly know
that?”

“Pray continue your very interesting statement.”

“For an instant I imagined that Bannister had taken the unpardonable
liberty of examining my papers. He denied it, however, with the
utmost earnestness, and I am convinced that he was speaking the
truth. The alternative was that someone passing had observed the key
in the door, had known that I was out, and had entered to look at the
papers. A large sum of money is at stake, for the scholarship is a
very valuable one, and an unscrupulous man might very well run a risk
in order to gain an advantage over his fellows.

“Bannister was very much upset by the incident. He had nearly fainted
when we found that the papers had undoubtedly been tampered with. I
gave him a little brandy and left him collapsed in a chair while I
made a most careful examination of the room. I soon saw that the
intruder had left other traces of his presence besides the rumpled
papers. On the table in the window were several shreds from a pencil
which had been sharpened. A broken tip of lead was lying there also.
Evidently the rascal had copied the paper in a great hurry, had
broken his pencil, and had been compelled to put a fresh point to
it.”

“Excellent!” said Holmes, who was recovering his good-humour as his
attention became more engrossed by the case. “Fortune has been your
friend.”

“This was not all. I have a new writing-table with a fine surface of
red leather. I am prepared to swear, and so is Bannister, that it was
smooth and unstained. Now I found a clean cut in it about three
inches long–not a mere scratch, but a positive cut. Not only this,
but on the table I found a small ball of black dough, or clay, with
specks of something which looks like sawdust in it. I am convinced
that these marks were left by the man who rifled the papers. There
were no footmarks and no other evidence as to his identity. I was at
my wits’ ends, when suddenly the happy thought occurred to me that
you were in the town, and I came straight round to put the matter
into your hands. Do help me, Mr. Holmes! You see my dilemma. Either I
must find the man or else the examination must be postponed until
fresh papers are prepared, and since this cannot be done without
explanation there will ensue a hideous scandal, which will throw a
cloud not only on the college, but on the University. Above all
things I desire to settle the matter quietly and discreetly.”

“I shall be happy to look into it and to give you such advice as I
can,” said Holmes, rising and putting on his overcoat. “The case is
not entirely devoid of interest. Had anyone visited you in your room
after the papers came to you?”

“Yes; young Daulat Ras, an Indian student who lives on the same
stair, came in to ask me some particulars about the examination.”

“For which he was entered?”

“Yes.”

“And the papers were on your table?”

“To the best of my belief they were rolled up.”

“But might be recognised as proofs?”

“Possibly.”

“No one else in your room?”

“No.”

“Did anyone know that these proofs would be there?”

“No one save the printer.”

“Did this man Bannister know?”

“No, certainly not. No one knew.”

“Where is Bannister now?”

“He was very ill, poor fellow. I left him collapsed in the chair. I
was in such a hurry to come to you.”

“You left your door open?”

“I locked up the papers first.”

“Then it amounts to this, Mr. Soames, that unless the Indian student
recognised the roll as being proofs, the man who tampered with them
came upon them accidentally without knowing that they were there.”

“So it seems to me.”

Holmes gave an enigmatic smile.

“Well,” said he, “let us go round. Not one of your cases,
Watson–mental, not physical. All right; come if you want to. Now,
Mr. Soames–at your disposal!”

The sitting-room of our client opened by a long, low, latticed
window on to the ancient lichen-tinted court of the old college. A
Gothic arched door led to a worn stone staircase. On the ground floor
was the tutor’s room. Above were three students, one on each story.
It was already twilight when we reached the scene of our problem.
Holmes halted and looked earnestly at the window. Then he approached
it, and, standing on tiptoe with his neck craned, he looked into the
room.

“He must have entered through the door. There is no opening except
the one pane,” said our learned guide.

“Dear me!” said Holmes, and he smiled in a singular way as he glanced
at our companion. “Well, if there is nothing to be learned here we
had best go inside.”

The lecturer unlocked the outer door and ushered us into his room. We
stood at the entrance while Holmes made an examination of the carpet.

“I am afraid there are no signs here,” said he. “One could hardly
hope for any upon so dry a day. Your servant seems to have quite
recovered. You left him in a chair, you say; which chair?”

“By the window there.”

“I see. Near this little table. You can come in now. I have finished
with the carpet. Let us take the little table first. Of course, what
has happened is very clear. The man entered and took the papers,
sheet by sheet, from the central table. He carried them over to the
window table, because from there he could see if you came across the
courtyard, and so could effect an escape.”

“As a matter of fact he could not,” said Soames, “for I entered by
the side door.”

“Ah, that’s good! Well, anyhow, that was in his mind. Let me see the
three strips. No finger impressions–no! Well, he carried over this
one first and he copied it. How long would it take him to do that,
using every possible contraction? A quarter of an hour, not less.
Then he tossed it down and seized the next. He was in the midst of
that when your return caused him to make a very hurried retreat–very
hurried, since he had not time to replace the papers which would tell
you that he had been there. You were not aware of any hurrying feet
on the stair as you entered the outer door?”

“No, I can’t say I was.”

“Well, he wrote so furiously that he broke his pencil, and had, as
you observe, to sharpen it again. This is of interest, Watson. The
pencil was not an ordinary one. It was above the usual size, with a
soft lead; the outer colour was dark blue, the maker’s name was
printed in silver lettering, and the piece remaining is only about an
inch and a half long. Look for such a pencil, Mr. Soames, and you
have got your man. When I add that he possesses a large and very
blunt knife, you have an additional aid.”

Mr. Soames was somewhat overwhelmed by this flood of information. “I
can follow the other points,” said he, “but really, in this matter of
the length–“

Holmes held out a small chip with the letters NN and a space of clear
wood after them.

“You see?”

“No, I fear that even now–“

“Watson, I have always done you an injustice. There are others. What
could this NN be? It is at the end of a word. You are aware that
Johann Faber is the most common maker’s name. Is it not clear that
there is just as much of the pencil left as usually follows the
Johann?” He held the small table sideways to the electric light. “I
was hoping that if the paper on which he wrote was thin some trace of
it might come through upon this polished surface. No, I see nothing.
I don’t think there is anything more to be learned here. Now for the
central table. This small pellet is, I presume, the black, doughy
mass you spoke of. Roughly pyramidal in shape and hollowed out, I
perceive. As you say, there appear to be grains of sawdust in it.
Dear me, this is very interesting. And the cut–a positive tear, I
see. It began with a thin scratch and ended in a jagged hole. I am
much indebted to you for directing my attention to this case, Mr.
Soames. Where does that door lead to?”

“To my bedroom.”

“Have you been in it since your adventure?”

“No; I came straight away for you.”

“I should like to have a glance round. What a charming, old-fashioned
room! Perhaps you will kindly wait a minute until I have examined the
floor. No, I see nothing. What about this curtain? You hang your
clothes behind it. If anyone were forced to conceal himself in this
room he must do it there, since the bed is too low and the wardrobe
too shallow. No one there, I suppose?”

As Holmes drew the curtain I was aware, from some little rigidity and
alertness of his attitude, that he was prepared for an emergency. As
a matter of fact the drawn curtain disclosed nothing but three or
four suits of clothes hanging from a line of pegs. Holmes turned away
and stooped suddenly to the floor.

“Halloa! What’s this?” said he.

It was a small pyramid of black, putty-like stuff, exactly like the
one upon the table of the study. Holmes held it out on his open palm
in the glare of the electric light.

“Your visitor seems to have left traces in your bedroom as well as in
your sitting-room, Mr. Soames.”

“What could he have wanted there?”

“I think it is clear enough. You came back by an unexpected way, and
so he had no warning until you were at the very door. What could he
do? He caught up everything which would betray him and he rushed into
your bedroom to conceal himself.”

“Good gracious, Mr. Holmes, do you mean to tell me that all the time
I was talking to Bannister in this room we had the man prisoner if we
had only known it?”

“So I read it.”

“Surely there is another alternative, Mr. Holmes. I don’t know
whether you observed my bedroom window?”

“Lattice-paned, lead framework, three separate windows, one swinging
on hinge and large enough to admit a man.”

“Exactly. And it looks out on an angle of the courtyard so as to be
partly invisible. The man might have effected his entrance there,
left traces as he passed through the bedroom, and, finally, finding
the door open have escaped that way.”

Holmes shook his head impatiently.

“Let us be practical,” said he. “I understand you to say that there
are three students who use this stair and are in the habit of passing
your door?”

“Yes, there are.”

“And they are all in for this examination?”

“Yes.”

“Have you any reason to suspect any one of them more than the
others?”

Soames hesitated.

“It is a very delicate question,” said he. “One hardly likes to throw
suspicion where there are no proofs.”

“Let us hear the suspicions. I will look after the proofs.”

“I will tell you, then, in a few words the character of the three men
who inhabit these rooms. The lower of the three is Gilchrist, a fine
scholar and athlete; plays in the Rugby team and the cricket team for
the college, and got his Blue for the hurdles and the long jump. He
is a fine, manly fellow. His father was the notorious Sir Jabez
Gilchrist, who ruined himself on the turf. My scholar has been left
very poor, but he is hard-working and industrious. He will do well.

“The second floor is inhabited by Daulat Ras, the Indian. He is a
quiet, inscrutable fellow, as most of those Indians are. He is well
up in his work, though his Greek is his weak subject. He is steady
and methodical.

“The top floor belongs to Miles McLaren. He is a brilliant fellow
when he chooses to work–one of the brightest intellects of the
University, but he is wayward, dissipated, and unprincipled. He was
nearly expelled over a card scandal in his first year. He has been
idling all this term, and he must look forward with dread to the
examination.”

“Then it is he whom you suspect?”

“I dare not go so far as that. But of the three he is perhaps the
least unlikely.”

“Exactly. Now, Mr. Soames, let us have a look at your servant,
Bannister.”

He was a little, white-faced, clean-shaven, grizzly-haired fellow of
fifty. He was still suffering from this sudden disturbance of the
quiet routine of his life. His plump face was twitching with his
nervousness, and his fingers could not keep still.

“We are investigating this unhappy business, Bannister,” said his
master.

“Yes, sir.”

“I understand,” said Holmes, “that you left your key in the door?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Was it not very extraordinary that you should do this on the very
day when there were these papers inside?”

“It was most unfortunate, sir. But I have occasionally done the same
thing at other times.”

“When did you enter the room?”

“It was about half-past four. That is Mr. Soames’s tea time.”

“How long did you stay?”

“When I saw that he was absent I withdrew at once.”

“Did you look at these papers on the table?”

“No, sir; certainly not.”

“How came you to leave the key in the door?”

“I had the tea-tray in my hand. I thought I would come back for the
key. Then I forgot.”

“Has the outer door a spring lock?”

“No, sir.”

“Then it was open all the time?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Anyone in the room could get out?”

“Yes, sir.”

“When Mr. Soames returned and called for you, you were very much
disturbed?”

“Yes, sir. Such a thing has never happened during the many years that
I have been here. I nearly fainted, sir.”

“So I understand. Where were you when you began to feel bad?”

“Where was I, sir? Why, here, near the door.”

“That is singular, because you sat down in that chair over yonder
near the corner. Why did you pass these other chairs?”

“I don’t know, sir. It didn’t matter to me where I sat.”

“I really don’t think he knew much about it, Mr. Holmes. He was
looking very bad–quite ghastly.”

“You stayed here when your master left?”

“Only for a minute or so. Then I locked the door and went to my
room.”

“Whom do you suspect?”

“Oh, I would not venture to say, sir. I don’t believe there is any
gentleman in this University who is capable of profiting by such an
action. No, sir, I’ll not believe it.”

“Thank you; that will do,” said Holmes. “Oh, one more word. You have
not mentioned to any of the three gentlemen whom you attend that
anything is amiss?”

“No, sir; not a word.”

“You haven’t seen any of them?”

“No, sir.”

“Very good. Now, Mr. Soames, we will take a walk in the quadrangle,
if you please.”

Three yellow squares of light shone above us in the gathering gloom.

“Your three birds are all in their nests,” said Holmes, looking up.
“Halloa! What’s that? One of them seems restless enough.”

It was the Indian, whose dark silhouette appeared suddenly upon his
blind. He was pacing swiftly up and down his room.

“I should like to have a peep at each of them,” said Holmes. “Is it
possible?”

“No difficulty in the world,” Soames answered. “This set of rooms is
quite the oldest in the college, and it is not unusual for visitors
to go over them. Come along, and I will personally conduct you.”

“No names, please!” said Holmes, as we knocked at Gilchrist’s door. A
tall, flaxen-haired, slim young fellow opened it, and made us welcome
when he understood our errand. There were some really curious pieces
of mediaeval domestic architecture within. Holmes was so charmed with
one of them that he insisted on drawing it on his note-book, broke
his pencil, had to borrow one from our host, and finally borrowed a
knife to sharpen his own. The same curious accident happened to him
in the rooms of the Indian–a silent, little, hook-nosed fellow, who
eyed us askance and was obviously glad when Holmes’s architectural
studies had come to an end. I could not see that in either case
Holmes had come upon the clue for which he was searching. Only at the
third did our visit prove abortive. The outer door would not open to
our knock, and nothing more substantial than a torrent of bad
language came from behind it. “I don’t care who you are. You can go
to blazes!” roared the angry voice. “To-morrow’s the exam, and I
won’t be drawn by anyone.”

“A rude fellow,” said our guide, flushing with anger as we withdrew
down the stair. “Of course, he did not realize that it was I who was
knocking, but none the less his conduct was very uncourteous, and,
indeed, under the circumstances rather suspicious.”

Holmes’s response was a curious one.

“Can you tell me his exact height?” he asked.

“Really, Mr. Holmes, I cannot undertake to say. He is taller than the
Indian, not so tall as Gilchrist. I suppose five foot six would be
about it.”

“That is very important,” said Holmes. “And now, Mr. Soames, I wish
you good-night.”

Our guide cried aloud in his astonishment and dismay. “Good gracious,
Mr. Holmes, you are surely not going to leave me in this abrupt
fashion! You don’t seem to realize the position. To-morrow is the
examination. I must take some definite action to-night. I cannot
allow the examination to be held if one of the papers has been
tampered with. The situation must be faced.”

“You must leave it as it is. I shall drop round early to-morrow
morning and chat the matter over. It is possible that I may be in a
position then to indicate some course of action. Meanwhile you change
nothing–nothing at all.”

“Very good, Mr. Holmes.”

“You can be perfectly easy in your mind. We shall certainly find some
way out of your difficulties. I will take the black clay with me,
also the pencil cuttings. Good-bye.”

When we were out in the darkness of the quadrangle we again looked up
at the windows. The Indian still paced his room. The others were
invisible.

“Well, Watson, what do you think of it?” Holmes asked, as we came out
into the main street. “Quite a little parlour game–sort of
three-card trick, is it not? There are your three men. It must be one
of them. You take your choice. Which is yours?”

“The foul-mouthed fellow at the top. He is the one with the worst
record. And yet that Indian was a sly fellow also. Why should he be
pacing his room all the time?”

“There is nothing in that. Many men do it when they are trying to
learn anything by heart.”

“He looked at us in a queer way.”

“So would you if a flock of strangers came in on you when you were
preparing for an examination next day, and every moment was of value.
No, I see nothing in that. Pencils, too, and knives–all was
satisfactory. But that fellow does puzzle me.”

“Who?”

“Why, Bannister, the servant. What’s his game in the matter?”

“He impressed me as being a perfectly honest man.”

“So he did me. That’s the puzzling part. Why should a perfectly
honest man–well, well, here’s a large stationer’s. We shall begin
our researches here.”

There were only four stationers of any consequence in the town, and
at each Holmes produced his pencil chips and bid high for a
duplicate. All were agreed that one could be ordered, but that it was
not a usual size of pencil and that it was seldom kept in stock. My
friend did not appear to be depressed by his failure, but shrugged
his shoulders in half-humorous resignation.

“No good, my dear Watson. This, the best and only final clue, has run
to nothing. But, indeed, I have little doubt that we can build up a
sufficient case without it. By Jove! my dear fellow, it is nearly
nine, and the landlady babbled of green peas at seven-thirty. What
with your eternal tobacco, Watson, and your irregularity at meals, I
expect that you will get notice to quit and that I shall share your
downfall–not, however, before we have solved the problem of the
nervous tutor, the careless servant, and the three enterprising
students.”

Holmes made no further allusion to the matter that day, though he
sat lost in thought for a long time after our belated dinner. At
eight in the morning he came into my room just as I finished my
toilet.

“Well, Watson,” said he, “it is time we went down to St. Luke’s. Can
you do without breakfast?”

“Certainly.”

“Soames will be in a dreadful fidget until we are able to tell him
something positive.”

“Have you anything positive to tell him?”

“I think so.”

“You have formed a conclusion?”

“Yes, my dear Watson; I have solved the mystery.”

“But what fresh evidence could you have got?”

“Aha! It is not for nothing that I have turned myself out of bed at
the untimely hour of six. I have put in two hours’ hard work and
covered at least five miles, with something to show for it. Look at
that!”

He held out his hand. On the palm were three little pyramids of
black, doughy clay.

“Why, Holmes, you had only two yesterday!”

“And one more this morning. It is a fair argument that wherever No. 3
came from is also the source of Nos. 1 and 2. Eh, Watson? Well, come
along and put friend Soames out of his pain.”

The unfortunate tutor was certainly in a state of pitiable agitation
when we found him in his chambers. In a few hours the examination
would commence, and he was still in the dilemma between making the
facts public and allowing the culprit to compete for the valuable
scholarship. He could hardly stand still, so great was his mental
agitation, and he ran towards Holmes with two eager hands
outstretched.

“Thank Heaven that you have come! I feared that you had given it up
in despair. What am I to do? Shall the examination proceed?”

“Yes; let it proceed by all means.”

“But this rascal–?”

“He shall not compete.”

“You know him?”

“I think so. If this matter is not to become public we must give
ourselves certain powers, and resolve ourselves into a small private
court-martial. You there, if you please, Soames! Watson, you here!
I’ll take the arm-chair in the middle. I think that we are now
sufficiently imposing to strike terror into a guilty breast. Kindly
ring the bell!”

Bannister entered, and shrunk back in evident surprise and fear at
our judicial appearance.

“You will kindly close the door,” said Holmes. “Now, Bannister, will
you please tell us the truth about yesterday’s incident?”

The man turned white to the roots of his hair.

“I have told you everything, sir.”

“Nothing to add?”

“Nothing at all, sir.”

“Well, then, I must make some suggestions to you. When you sat down
on that chair yesterday, did you do so in order to conceal some
object which would have shown who had been in the room?”

Bannister’s face was ghastly.

“No, sir; certainly not.”

“It is only a suggestion,” said Holmes, suavely. “I frankly admit
that I am unable to prove it. But it seems probable enough, since the
moment that Mr. Soames’s back was turned you released the man who was
hiding in that bedroom.”

Bannister licked his dry lips.

“There was no man, sir.”

“Ah, that’s a pity, Bannister. Up to now you may have spoken the
truth, but now I know that you have lied.”

The man’s face set in sullen defiance.

“There was no man, sir.”

“Come, come, Bannister!”

“No, sir; there was no one.”

“In that case you can give us no further information. Would you
please remain in the room? Stand over there near the bedroom door.
Now, Soames, I am going to ask you to have the great kindness to go
up to the room of young Gilchrist, and to ask him to step down into
yours.”

An instant later the tutor returned, bringing with him the student.
He was a fine figure of a man, tall, lithe, and agile, with a springy
step and a pleasant, open face. His troubled blue eyes glanced at
each of us, and finally rested with an expression of blank dismay
upon Bannister in the farther corner.

“Just close the door,” said Holmes. “Now, Mr. Gilchrist, we are all
quite alone here, and no one need ever know one word of what passes
between us. We can be perfectly frank with each other. We want to
know, Mr. Gilchrist, how you, an honourable man, ever came to commit
such an action as that of yesterday?”

The unfortunate young man staggered back and cast a look full of
horror and reproach at Bannister.

“No, no, Mr. Gilchrist, sir; I never said a word–never one word!”
cried the servant.

“No, but you have now,” said Holmes. “Now, sir, you must see that
after Bannister’s words your position is hopeless, and that your only
chance lies in a frank confession.”

For a moment Gilchrist, with upraised hand, tried to control his
writhing features. The next he had thrown himself on his knees beside
the table and, burying his face in his hands, he had burst into a
storm of passionate sobbing.

“Come, come,” said Holmes, kindly; “it is human to err, and at least
no one can accuse you of being a callous criminal. Perhaps it would
be easier for you if I were to tell Mr. Soames what occurred, and you
can check me where I am wrong. Shall I do so? Well, well, don’t
trouble to answer. Listen, and see that I do you no injustice.

“From the moment, Mr. Soames, that you said to me that no one, not
even Bannister, could have told that the papers were in your room,
the case began to take a definite shape in my mind. The printer one
could, of course, dismiss. He could examine the papers in his own
office. The Indian I also thought nothing of. If the proofs were in a
roll he could not possibly know what they were. On the other hand, it
seemed an unthinkable coincidence that a man should dare to enter the
room, and that by chance on that very day the papers were on the
table. I dismissed that. The man who entered knew that the papers
were there. How did he know?

“When I approached your room I examined the window. You amused me by
supposing that I was contemplating the possibility of someone having
in broad daylight, under the eyes of all these opposite rooms, forced
himself through it. Such an idea was absurd. I was measuring how tall
a man would need to be in order to see as he passed what papers were
on the central table. I am six feet high, and I could do it with an
effort. No one less than that would have a chance. Already you see I
had reason to think that if one of your three students was a man of
unusual height he was the most worth watching of the three.

“I entered and I took you into my confidence as to the suggestions of
the side table. Of the centre table I could make nothing, until in
your description of Gilchrist you mentioned that he was a
long-distance jumper. Then the whole thing came to me in an instant,
and I only needed certain corroborative proofs, which I speedily
obtained.

“What happened was this. This young fellow had employed his afternoon
at the athletic grounds, where he had been practising the jump. He
returned carrying his jumping shoes, which are provided, as you are
aware, with several sharp spikes. As he passed your window he saw, by
means of his great height, these proofs upon your table, and
conjectured what they were. No harm would have been done had it not
been that as he passed your door he perceived the key which had been
left by the carelessness of your servant. A sudden impulse came over
him to enter and see if they were indeed the proofs. It was not a
dangerous exploit, for he could always pretend that he had simply
looked in to ask a question.

“Well, when he saw that they were indeed the proofs, it was then that
he yielded to temptation. He put his shoes on the table. What was it
you put on that chair near the window?”

“Gloves,” said the young man.

Holmes looked triumphantly at Bannister. “He put his gloves on the
chair, and he took the proofs, sheet by sheet, to copy them. He
thought the tutor must return by the main gate, and that he would see
him. As we know, he came back by the side gate. Suddenly he heard him
at the very door. There was no possible escape. He forgot his gloves,
but he caught up his shoes and darted into the bedroom. You observe
that the scratch on that table is slight at one side, but deepens in
the direction of the bedroom door. That in itself is enough to show
us that the shoe had been drawn in that direction and that the
culprit had taken refuge there. The earth round the spike had been
left on the table, and a second sample was loosened and fell in the
bedroom. I may add that I walked out to the athletic grounds this
morning, saw that tenacious black clay is used in the jumping-pit,
and carried away a specimen of it, together with some of the fine tan
or sawdust which is strewn over it to prevent the athlete from
slipping. Have I told the truth, Mr. Gilchrist?”

The student had drawn himself erect.

“Yes, sir, it is true,” said he.

“Good heavens, have you nothing to add?” cried Soames.

“Yes, sir, I have, but the shock of this disgraceful exposure has
bewildered me. I have a letter here, Mr. Soames, which I wrote to you
early this morning in the middle of a restless night. It was before I
knew that my sin had found me out. Here it is, sir. You will see that
I have said, ‘I have determined not to go in for the examination. I
have been offered a commission in the Rhodesian Police, and I am
going out to South Africa at once.'”

“I am indeed pleased to hear that you did not intend to profit by
your unfair advantage,” said Soames. “But why did you change your
purpose?”

Gilchrist pointed to Bannister.

“There is the man who set me in the right path,” said he.

“Come now, Bannister,” said Holmes. “It will be clear to you from
what I have said that only you could have let this young man out,
since you were left in the room, and must have locked the door when
you went out. As to his escaping by that window, it was incredible.
Can you not clear up the last point in this mystery, and tell us the
reasons for your action?”

“It was simple enough, sir, if you only had known; but with all your
cleverness it was impossible that you could know. Time was, sir, when
I was butler to old Sir Jabez Gilchrist, this young gentleman’s
father. When he was ruined I came to the college as servant, but I
never forgot my old employer because he was down in the world. I
watched his son all I could for the sake of the old days. Well, sir,
when I came into this room yesterday when the alarm was given, the
very first thing I saw was Mr. Gilchrist’s tan gloves a-lying in that
chair. I knew those gloves well, and I understood their message. If
Mr. Soames saw them the game was up. I flopped down into that chair,
and nothing would budge me until Mr. Soames he went for you. Then out
came my poor young master, whom I had dandled on my knee, and
confessed it all to me. Wasn’t it natural, sir, that I should save
him, and wasn’t it natural also that I should try to speak to him as
his dead father would have done, and make him understand that he
could not profit by such a deed? Could you blame me, sir?”

“No, indeed,” said Holmes, heartily, springing to his feet. “Well,
Soames, I think we have cleared your little problem up, and our
breakfast awaits us at home. Come, Watson! As to you, sir, I trust
that a bright future awaits you in Rhodesia. For once you have fallen
low. Let us see in the future how high you can rise.”

When I look at the three massive manuscript volumes which contain our
work for the year 1894 I confess that it is very difficult for me,
out of such a wealth of material, to select the cases which are most
interesting in themselves and at the same time most conducive to a
display of those peculiar powers for which my friend was famous. As I
turn over the pages I see my notes upon the repulsive story of the
red leech and the terrible death of Crosby the banker. Here also I
find an account of the Addleton tragedy and the singular contents of
the ancient British barrow. The famous Smith-Mortimer succession case
comes also within this period, and so does the tracking and arrest of
Huret, the Boulevard assassin–an exploit which won for Holmes an
autograph letter of thanks from the French President and the Order of
the Legion of Honour. Each of these would furnish a narrative, but on
the whole I am of opinion that none of them unite so many singular
points of interest as the episode of Yoxley Old Place, which includes
not only the lamentable death of young Willoughby Smith, but also
those subsequent developments which threw so curious a light upon the
causes of the crime.

It was a wild, tempestuous night towards the close of November.
Holmes and I sat together in silence all the evening, he engaged with
a powerful lens deciphering the remains of the original inscription
upon a palimpsest, I deep in a recent treatise upon surgery. Outside
the wind howled down Baker Street, while the rain beat fiercely
against the windows. It was strange there in the very depths of the
town, with ten miles of man’s handiwork on every side of us, to feel
the iron grip of Nature, and to be conscious that to the huge
elemental forces all London was no more than the molehills that dot
the fields. I walked to the window and looked out on the deserted
street. The occasional lamps gleamed on the expanse of muddy road and
shining pavement. A single cab was splashing its way from the Oxford
Street end.

“Well, Watson, it’s as well we have not to turn out to-night,” said
Holmes, laying aside his lens and rolling up the palimpsest. “I’ve
done enough for one sitting. It is trying work for the eyes. So far
as I can make out it is nothing more exciting than an Abbey’s
accounts dating from the second half of the fifteenth century.
Halloa! halloa! halloa! What’s this?”

Amid the droning of the wind there had come the stamping of a horse’s
hoofs and the long grind of a wheel as it rasped against the kerb.
The cab which I had seen had pulled up at our door.

“What can he want?” I ejaculated, as a man stepped out of it.

“Want! He wants us. And we, my poor Watson, want overcoats and
cravats and galoshes, and every aid that man ever invented to fight
the weather. Wait a bit, though! There’s the cab off again! There’s
hope yet. He’d have kept it if he had wanted us to come. Run down, my
dear fellow, and open the door, for all virtuous folk have been long
in bed.”

When the light of the hall lamp fell upon our midnight visitor I had
no difficulty in recognising him. It was young Stanley Hopkins, a
promising detective, in whose career Holmes had several times shown a
very practical interest.

“Is he in?” he asked, eagerly.

“Come up, my dear sir,” said Holmes’s voice from above. “I hope you
have no designs upon us on such a night as this.”

The detective mounted the stairs, and our lamp gleamed upon his
shining waterproof. I helped him out of it while Holmes knocked a
blaze out of the logs in the grate.

“Now, my dear Hopkins, draw up and warm your toes,” said he. “Here’s
a cigar, and the doctor has a prescription containing hot water and a
lemon which is good medicine on a night like this. It must be
something important which has brought you out in such a gale.”

“It is indeed, Mr. Holmes. I’ve had a bustling afternoon, I promise
you. Did you see anything of the Yoxley case in the latest editions?”

“I’ve seen nothing later than the fifteenth century to-day.”

“Well, it was only a paragraph, and all wrong at that, so you have
not missed anything. I haven’t let the grass grow under my feet. It’s
down in Kent, seven miles from Chatham and three from the railway
line. I was wired for at three-fifteen, reached Yoxley Old Place at
five, conducted my investigation, was back at Charing Cross by the
last train, and straight to you by cab.”

“Which means, I suppose, that you are not quite clear about your
case?”

“It means that I can make neither head nor tail of it. So far as I
can see it is just as tangled a business as ever I handled, and yet
at first it seemed so simple that one couldn’t go wrong. There’s no
motive, Mr. Holmes. That’s what bothers me–I can’t put my hand on a
motive. Here’s a man dead–there’s no denying that–but, so far as I
can see, no reason on earth why anyone should wish him harm.”

Holmes lit his cigar and leaned back in his chair.

“Let us hear about it,” said he.

“I’ve got my facts pretty clear,” said Stanley Hopkins. “All I want
now is to know what they all mean. The story, so far as I can make it
out, is like this. Some years ago this country house, Yoxley Old
Place, was taken by an elderly man, who gave the name of Professor
Coram. He was an invalid, keeping his bed half the time, and the
other half hobbling round the house with a stick or being pushed
about the grounds by the gardener in a bath-chair. He was well liked
by the few neighbours who called upon him, and he has the reputation
down there of being a very learned man. His household used to consist
of an elderly housekeeper, Mrs. Marker, and of a maid, Susan Tarlton.
These have both been with him since his arrival, and they seem to be
women of excellent character. The Professor is writing a learned
book, and he found it necessary about a year ago to engage a
secretary. The first two that he tried were not successes; but the
third, Mr. Willoughby Smith, a very young man straight from the
University, seems to have been just what his employer wanted. His
work consisted in writing all the morning to the Professor’s
dictation, and he usually spent the evening in hunting up references
and passages which bore upon the next day’s work. This Willoughby
Smith has nothing against him either as a boy at Uppingham or as a
young man at Cambridge. I have seen his testimonials, and from the
first he was a decent, quiet, hardworking fellow, with no weak spot
in him at all. And yet this is the lad who has met his death this
morning in the Professor’s study under circumstances which can point
only to murder.”

The wind howled and screamed at the windows. Holmes and I drew closer
to the fire while the young inspector slowly and point by point
developed his singular narrative.

“If you were to search all England,” said he, “I don’t suppose you
could find a household more self-contained or free from outside
influences. Whole weeks would pass and not one of them go past the
garden gate. The Professor was buried in his work and existed for
nothing else. Young Smith knew nobody in the neighbourhood, and lived
very much as his employer did. The two women had nothing to take them
from the house. Mortimer the gardener, who wheels the bath-chair, is
an Army pensioner–an old Crimean man of excellent character. He does
not live in the house, but in a three-roomed cottage at the other end
of the garden. Those are the only people that you would find within
the grounds of Yoxley Old Place. At the same time, the gate of the
garden is a hundred yards from the main London to Chatham road. It
opens with a latch, and there is nothing to prevent anyone from
walking in.

“Now I will give you the evidence of Susan Tarlton, who is the only
person who can say anything positive about the matter. It was in the
forenoon, between eleven and twelve. She was engaged at the moment in
hanging some curtains in the upstairs front bedroom. Professor Coram
was still in bed, for when the weather is bad he seldom rises before
midday. The housekeeper was busied with some work in the back of the
house. Willoughby Smith had been in his bedroom, which he uses as a
sitting-room; but the maid heard him at that moment pass along the
passage and descend to the study immediately below her. She did not
see him, but she says that she could not be mistaken in his quick,
firm tread. She did not hear the study door close, but a minute or so
later there was a dreadful cry in the room below. It was a wild,
hoarse scream, so strange and unnatural that it might have come
either from a man or a woman. At the same instant there was a heavy
thud, which shook the old house, and then all was silence. The maid
stood petrified for a moment, and then, recovering her courage, she
ran downstairs. The study door was shut, and she opened it. Inside
young Mr. Willoughby Smith was stretched upon the floor. At first she
could see no injury, but as she tried to raise him she saw that blood
was pouring from the underside of his neck. It was pierced by a very
small but very deep wound, which had divided the carotid artery. The
instrument with which the injury had been inflicted lay upon the
carpet beside him. It was one of those small sealing-wax knives to be
found on old-fashioned writing-tables, with an ivory handle and a
stiff blade. It was part of the fittings of the Professor’s own desk.

“At first the maid thought that young Smith was already dead, but on
pouring some water from the carafe over his forehead he opened his
eyes for an instant. ‘The Professor,’ he murmured–‘it was she.’ The
maid is prepared to swear that those were the exact words. He tried
desperately to say something else, and he held his right hand up in
the air. Then he fell back dead.

“In the meantime the housekeeper had also arrived upon the scene, but
she was just too late to catch the young man’s dying words. Leaving
Susan with the body, she hurried to the Professor’s room. He was
sitting up in bed horribly agitated, for he had heard enough to
convince him that something terrible had occurred. Mrs. Marker is
prepared to swear that the Professor was still in his night-clothes,
and, indeed, it was impossible for him to dress without the help of
Mortimer, whose orders were to come at twelve o’clock. The Professor
declares that he heard the distant cry, but that he knows nothing
more. He can give no explanation of the young man’s last words, ‘The
Professor–it was she,’ but imagines that they were the outcome of
delirium. He believes that Willoughby Smith had not an enemy in the
world, and can give no reason for the crime. His first action was to
send Mortimer the gardener for the local police. A little later the
chief constable sent for me. Nothing was moved before I got there,
and strict orders were given that no one should walk upon the paths
leading to the house. It was a splendid chance of putting your
theories into practice, Mr. Sherlock Holmes. There was really nothing
wanting.”

“Except Mr. Sherlock Holmes,” said my companion, with a somewhat
bitter smile. “Well, let us hear about it. What sort of job did you
make of it?”

“I must ask you first, Mr. Holmes, to glance at this rough plan,
which will give you a general idea of the position of the Professor’s
study and the various points of the case. It will help you in
following my investigation.”

He unfolded the rough chart, which I here reproduce, and he laid it
across Holmes’s knee. I rose, and, standing behind Holmes, I studied
it over his shoulder.

[ Picture: Sketch of the building’s room and corridors ]

“It is very rough, of course, and it only deals with the points which
seem to me to be essential. All the rest you will see later for
yourself. Now, first of all, presuming that the assassin entered the
house, how did he or she come in? Undoubtedly by the garden path and
the back door, from which there is direct access to the study. Any
other way would have been exceedingly complicated. The escape must
have also been made along that line, for of the two other exits from
the room one was blocked by Susan as she ran downstairs and the other
leads straight to the Professor’s bedroom. I therefore directed my
attention at once to the garden path, which was saturated with recent
rain and would certainly show any footmarks.

“My examination showed me that I was dealing with a cautious and
expert criminal. No footmarks were to be found on the path. There
could be no question, however, that someone had passed along the
grass border which lines the path, and that he had done so in order
to avoid leaving a track. I could not find anything in the nature of
a distinct impression, but the grass was trodden down and someone had
undoubtedly passed. It could only have been the murderer, since
neither the gardener nor anyone else had been there that morning and
the rain had only begun during the night.”

“One moment,” said Holmes. “Where does this path lead to?”

“To the road.”

“How long is it?”

“A hundred yards or so.”

“At the point where the path passes through the gate you could surely
pick up the tracks?”

“Unfortunately, the path was tiled at that point.”

“Well, on the road itself?”

“No; it was all trodden into mire.”

“Tut-tut! Well, then, these tracks upon the grass, were they coming
or going?”

“It was impossible to say. There was never any outline.”

“A large foot or a small?”

“You could not distinguish.”

Holmes gave an ejaculation of impatience.

“It has been pouring rain and blowing a hurricane ever since,” said
he. “It will be harder to read now than that palimpsest. Well, well,
it can’t be helped. What did you do, Hopkins, after you had made
certain that you had made certain of nothing?”

“I think I made certain of a good deal, Mr. Holmes. I knew that
someone had entered the house cautiously from without. I next
examined the corridor. It is lined with cocoanut matting and had
taken no impression of any kind. This brought me into the study
itself. It is a scantily-furnished room. The main article is a large
writing-table with a fixed bureau. This bureau consists of a double
column of drawers with a central small cupboard between them. The
drawers were open, the cupboard locked. The drawers, it seems, were
always open, and nothing of value was kept in them. There were some
papers of importance in the cupboard, but there were no signs that
this had been tampered with, and the Professor assures me that
nothing was missing. It is certain that no robbery has been
committed.

“I come now to the body of the young man. It was found near the
bureau, and just to the left of it, as marked upon that chart. The
stab was on the right side of the neck and from behind forwards, so
that it is almost impossible that it could have been self-inflicted.”

“Unless he fell upon the knife,” said Holmes.

“Exactly. The idea crossed my mind. But we found the knife some feet
away from the body, so that seems impossible. Then, of course, there
are the man’s own dying words. And, finally, there was this very
important piece of evidence which was found clasped in the dead man’s
right hand.”

From his pocket Stanley Hopkins drew a small paper packet. He
unfolded it and disclosed a golden pince-nez, with two broken ends of
black silk cord dangling from the end of it. “Willoughby Smith had
excellent sight,” he added. “There can be no question that this was
snatched from the face or the person of the assassin.”

Sherlock Holmes took the glasses into his hand and examined them with
the utmost attention and interest. He held them on his nose,
endeavoured to read through them, went to the window and stared up
the street with them, looked at them most minutely in the full light
of the lamp, and finally, with a chuckle, seated himself at the table
and wrote a few lines upon a sheet of paper, which he tossed across
to Stanley Hopkins.

“That’s the best I can do for you,” said he. “It may prove to be of
some use.”

The astonished detective read the note aloud. It ran as follows:

“Wanted, a woman of good address, attired like a lady. She has a
remarkably thick nose, with eyes which are set close upon either side
of it. She has a puckered forehead, a peering expression, and
probably rounded shoulders. There are indications that she has had
recourse to an optician at least twice during the last few months. As
her glasses are of remarkable strength and as opticians are not very
numerous, there should be no difficulty in tracing her.”

Holmes smiled at the astonishment of Hopkins, which must have been
reflected upon my features.

“Surely my deductions are simplicity itself,” said he. “It would be
difficult to name any articles which afford a finer field for
inference than a pair of glasses, especially so remarkable a pair as
these. That they belong to a woman I infer from their delicacy, and
also, of course, from the last words of the dying man. As to her
being a person of refinement and well dressed, they are, as you
perceive, handsomely mounted in solid gold, and it is inconceivable
that anyone who wore such glasses could be slatternly in other
respects. You will find that the clips are too wide for your nose,
showing that the lady’s nose was very broad at the base. This sort of
nose is usually a short and coarse one, but there are a sufficient
number of exceptions to prevent me from being dogmatic or from
insisting upon this point in my description. My own face is a narrow
one, and yet I find that I cannot get my eyes into the centre, or
near the centre, of these glasses. Therefore the lady’s eyes are set
very near to the sides of the nose. You will perceive, Watson, that
the glasses are concave and of unusual strength. A lady whose vision
has been so extremely contracted all her life is sure to have the
physical characteristics of such vision, which are seen in the
forehead, the eyelids, and the shoulders.”

“Yes,” I said, “I can follow each of your arguments. I confess,
however, that I am unable to understand how you arrive at the double
visit to the optician.”

Holmes took the glasses in his hand.

“You will perceive,” he said, “that the clips are lined with tiny
bands of cork to soften the pressure upon the nose. One of these is
discoloured and worn to some slight extent, but the other is new.
Evidently one has fallen off and been replaced. I should judge that
the older of them has not been there more than a few months. They
exactly correspond, so I gather that the lady went back to the same
establishment for the second.”

“By George, it’s marvellous!” cried Hopkins, in an ecstasy of
admiration. “To think that I had all that evidence in my hand and
never knew it! I had intended, however, to go the round of the London
opticians.”

“Of course you would. Meanwhile, have you anything more to tell us
about the case?”

“Nothing, Mr. Holmes. I think that you know as much as I do
now–probably more. We have had inquiries made as to any stranger
seen on the country roads or at the railway station. We have heard of
none. What beats me is the utter want of all object in the crime. Not
a ghost of a motive can anyone suggest.”

“Ah! there I am not in a position to help you. But I suppose you want
us to come out to-morrow?”

“If it is not asking too much, Mr. Holmes. There’s a train from
Charing Cross to Chatham at six in the morning, and we should be at
Yoxley Old Place between eight and nine.”

“Then we shall take it. Your case has certainly some features of
great interest, and I shall be delighted to look into it. Well, it’s
nearly one, and we had best get a few hours’ sleep. I dare say you
can manage all right on the sofa in front of the fire. I’ll light my
spirit-lamp and give you a cup of coffee before we start.”

The gale had blown itself out next day, but it was a bitter morning
when we started upon our journey. We saw the cold winter sun rise
over the dreary marshes of the Thames and the long, sullen reaches of
the river, which I shall ever associate with our pursuit of the
Andaman Islander in the earlier days of our career. After a long and
weary journey we alighted at a small station some miles from Chatham.
While a horse was being put into a trap at the local inn we snatched
a hurried breakfast, and so we were all ready for business when we at
last arrived at Yoxley Old Place. A constable met us at the garden
gate.

“Well, Wilson, any news?”

“No, sir, nothing.”

“No reports of any stranger seen?”

“No, sir. Down at the station they are certain that no stranger
either came or went yesterday.”

“Have you had inquiries made at inns and lodgings?”

“Yes, sir; there is no one that we cannot account for.”

“Well, it’s only a reasonable walk to Chatham. Anyone might stay
there, or take a train without being observed. This is the garden
path of which I spoke, Mr. Holmes. I’ll pledge my word there was no
mark on it yesterday.”

“On which side were the marks on the grass?”

“This side, sir. This narrow margin of grass between the path and the
flower-bed. I can’t see the traces now, but they were clear to me
then.”

“Yes, yes; someone has passed along,” said Holmes, stooping over the
grass border. “Our lady must have picked her steps carefully, must
she not, since on the one side she would leave a track on the path,
and on the other an even clearer one on the soft bed?”

“Yes, sir, she must have been a cool hand.”

I saw an intent look pass over Holmes’s face.

“You say that she must have come back this way?”

“Yes, sir; there is no other.”

“On this strip of grass?”

“Certainly, Mr. Holmes.”

“Hum! It was a very remarkable performance–very remarkable. Well, I
think we have exhausted the path. Let us go farther. This garden door
is usually kept open, I suppose? Then this visitor had nothing to do
but to walk in. The idea of murder was not in her mind, or she would
have provided herself with some sort of weapon, instead of having to
pick this knife off the writing-table. She advanced along this
corridor, leaving no traces upon the cocoanut matting. Then she found
herself in this study. How long was she there? We have no means of
judging.”

“Not more than a few minutes, sir. I forgot to tell you that Mrs.
Marker, the housekeeper, had been in there tidying not very long
before–about a quarter of an hour, she says.”

“Well, that gives us a limit. Our lady enters this room and what does
she do? She goes over to the writing-table. What for? Not for
anything in the drawers. If there had been anything worth her taking
it would surely have been locked up. No; it was for something in that
wooden bureau. Halloa! what is that scratch upon the face of it? Just
hold a match, Watson. Why did you not tell me of this, Hopkins?”

The mark which he was examining began upon the brass work on the
right-hand side of the keyhole, and extended for about four inches,
where it had scratched the varnish from the surface.

“I noticed it, Mr. Holmes. But you’ll always find scratches round a
keyhole.”

“This is recent, quite recent. See how the brass shines where it is
cut. An old scratch would be the same colour as the surface. Look at
it through my lens. There’s the varnish, too, like earth on each side
of a furrow. Is Mrs. Marker there?”

A sad-faced, elderly woman came into the room.

“Did you dust this bureau yesterday morning?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Did you notice this scratch?”

“No, sir, I did not.”

“I am sure you did not, for a duster would have swept away these
shreds of varnish. Who has the key of this bureau?”

“The Professor keeps it on his watch-chain.”

“Is it a simple key?”

“No, sir; it is a Chubb’s key.”

“Very good. Mrs. Marker, you can go. Now we are making a little
progress. Our lady enters the room, advances to the bureau, and
either opens it or tries to do so. While she is thus engaged young
Willoughby Smith enters the room. In her hurry to withdraw the key
she makes this scratch upon the door. He seizes her, and she,
snatching up the nearest object, which happens to be this knife,
strikes at him in order to make him let go his hold. The blow is a
fatal one. He falls and she escapes, either with or without the
object for which she has come. Is Susan the maid there? Could anyone
have got away through that door after the time that you heard the
cry, Susan?”

“No sir; it is impossible. Before I got down the stair I’d have seen
anyone in the passage. Besides, the door never opened, for I would
have heard it.”

“That settles this exit. Then no doubt the lady went out the way she
came. I understand that this other passage leads only to the
Professor’s room. There is no exit that way?”

“No, sir.”

“We shall go down it and make the acquaintance of the Professor.
Halloa, Hopkins! this is very important, very important indeed. The
Professor’s corridor is also lined with cocoanut matting.”

“Well, sir, what of that?”

“Don’t you see any bearing upon the case? Well, well, I don’t insist
upon it. No doubt I am wrong. And yet it seems to me to be
suggestive. Come with me and introduce me.”

We passed down the passage, which was of the same length as that
which led to the garden. At the end was a short flight of steps
ending in a door. Our guide knocked, and then ushered us into the
Professor’s bedroom.

It was a very large chamber, lined with innumerable volumes, which
had overflowed from the shelves and lay in piles in the corners, or
were stacked all round at the base of the cases. The bed was in the
centre of the room, and in it, propped up with pillows, was the owner
of the house. I have seldom seen a more remarkable-looking person. It
was a gaunt, aquiline face which was turned towards us, with piercing
dark eyes, which lurked in deep hollows under overhung and tufted
brows. His hair and beard were white, save that the latter was
curiously stained with yellow around his mouth. A cigarette glowed
amid the tangle of white hair, and the air of the room was fetid with
stale tobacco-smoke. As he held out his hand to Holmes I perceived
that it also was stained yellow with nicotine.

“A smoker, Mr. Holmes?” said he, speaking well-chosen English with a
curious little mincing accent. “Pray take a cigarette. And you, sir?
I can recommend them, for I have them especially prepared by Ionides
of Alexandria. He sends me a thousand at a time, and I grieve to say
that I have to arrange for a fresh supply every fortnight. Bad, sir,
very bad, but an old man has few pleasures. Tobacco and my work–that
is all that is left to me.”

Holmes had lit a cigarette, and was shooting little darting glances
all over the room.

“Tobacco and my work, but now only tobacco,” the old man exclaimed.
“Alas! what a fatal interruption! Who could have foreseen such a
terrible catastrophe? So estimable a young man! I assure you that
after a few months’ training he was an admirable assistant. What do
you think of the matter, Mr. Holmes?”

“I have not yet made up my mind.”

“I shall indeed be indebted to you if you can throw a light where all
is so dark to us. To a poor bookworm and invalid like myself such a
blow is paralyzing. I seem to have lost the faculty of thought. But
you are a man of action–you are a man of affairs. It is part of the
everyday routine of your life. You can preserve your balance in every
emergency. We are fortunate indeed in having you at our side.”

Holmes was pacing up and down one side of the room whilst the old
Professor was talking. I observed that he was smoking with
extraordinary rapidity. It was evident that he shared our host’s
liking for the fresh Alexandrian cigarettes.

“Yes, sir, it is a crushing blow,” said the old man. “That is my
magnum opus–the pile of papers on the side table yonder. It is my
analysis of the documents found in the Coptic monasteries of Syria
and Egypt, a work which will cut deep at the very foundations of
revealed religion. With my enfeebled health I do not know whether I
shall ever be able to complete it now that my assistant has been
taken from me. Dear me, Mr. Holmes; why, you are even a quicker
smoker than I am myself.”

Holmes smiled.

“I am a connoisseur,” said he, taking another cigarette from the
box–his fourth–and lighting it from the stub of that which he had
finished. “I will not trouble you with any lengthy cross-examination,
Professor Coram, since I gather that you were in bed at the time of
the crime and could know nothing about it. I would only ask this.
What do you imagine that this poor fellow meant by his last words:
‘The Professor–it was she’?”

The Professor shook his head.

“Susan is a country girl,” said he, “and you know the incredible
stupidity of that class. I fancy that the poor fellow murmured some
incoherent delirious words, and that she twisted them into this
meaningless message.”

“I see. You have no explanation yourself of the tragedy?”

“Possibly an accident; possibly–I only breathe it among ourselves–a
suicide. Young men have their hidden troubles–some affair of the
heart, perhaps, which we have never known. It is a more probable
supposition than murder.”

“But the eye-glasses?”

“Ah! I am only a student–a man of dreams. I cannot explain the
practical things of life. But still, we are aware, my friend, that
love-gages may take strange shapes. By all means take another
cigarette. It is a pleasure to see anyone appreciate them so. A fan,
a glove, glasses–who knows what article may be carried as a token or
treasured when a man puts an end to his life? This gentleman speaks
of footsteps in the grass; but, after all, it is easy to be mistaken
on such a point. As to the knife, it might well be thrown far from
the unfortunate man as he fell. It is possible that I speak as a
child, but to me it seems that Willoughby Smith has met his fate by
his own hand.”

Holmes seemed struck by the theory thus put forward, and he continued
to walk up and down for some time, lost in thought and consuming
cigarette after cigarette.

“Tell me, Professor Coram,” he said, at last, “what is in that
cupboard in the bureau?”

“Nothing that would help a thief. Family papers, letters from my poor
wife, diplomas of Universities which have done me honour. Here is the
key. You can look for yourself.”

Holmes picked up the key and looked at it for an instant; then he
handed it back.

“No; I hardly think that it would help me,” said he. “I should prefer
to go quietly down to your garden and turn the whole matter over in
my head. There is something to be said for the theory of suicide
which you have put forward. We must apologize for having intruded
upon you, Professor Coram, and I promise that we won’t disturb you
until after lunch. At two o’clock we will come again and report to
you anything which may have happened in the interval.”

Holmes was curiously distrait, and we walked up and down the garden
path for some time in silence.

“Have you a clue?” I asked, at last.

“It depends upon those cigarettes that I smoked,” said he. “It is
possible that I am utterly mistaken. The cigarettes will show me.”

“My dear Holmes,” I exclaimed, “how on earth–“

“Well, well, you may see for yourself. If not, there’s no harm done.
Of course, we always have the optician clue to fall back upon, but I
take a short cut when I can get it. Ah, here is the good Mrs. Marker!
Let us enjoy five minutes of instructive conversation with her.”

I may have remarked before that Holmes had, when he liked, a
peculiarly ingratiating way with women, and that he very readily
established terms of confidence with them. In half the time which he
had named he had captured the housekeeper’s goodwill, and was
chatting with her as if he had known her for years.

“Yes, Mr. Holmes, it is as you say, sir. He does smoke something
terrible. All day and sometimes all night, sir. I’ve seen that room
of a morning–well, sir, you’d have thought it was a London fog. Poor
young Mr. Smith, he was a smoker also, but not as bad as the
Professor. His health–well, I don’t know that it’s better nor worse
for the smoking.”

“Ah!” said Holmes, “but it kills the appetite.”

“Well, I don’t know about that, sir.”

“I suppose the Professor eats hardly anything?”

“Well, he is variable. I’ll say that for him.”

“I’ll wager he took no breakfast this morning, and won’t face his
lunch after all the cigarettes I saw him consume.”

“Well, you’re out there, sir, as it happens, for he ate a remarkable
big breakfast this morning. I don’t know when I’ve known him make a
better one, and he’s ordered a good dish of cutlets for his lunch.
I’m surprised myself, for since I came into that room yesterday and
saw young Mr. Smith lying there on the floor I couldn’t bear to look
at food. Well, it takes all sorts to make a world, and the Professor
hasn’t let it take his appetite away.”

We loitered the morning away in the garden. Stanley Hopkins had gone
down to the village to look into some rumours of a strange woman who
had been seen by some children on the Chatham Road the previous
morning. As to my friend, all his usual energy seemed to have
deserted him. I had never known him handle a case in such a
half-hearted fashion. Even the news brought back by Hopkins that he
had found the children and that they had undoubtedly seen a woman
exactly corresponding with Holmes’s description, and wearing either
spectacles or eye-glasses, failed to rouse any sign of keen interest.
He was more attentive when Susan, who waited upon us at lunch,
volunteered the information that she believed Mr. Smith had been out
for a walk yesterday morning, and that he had only returned half an
hour before the tragedy occurred. I could not myself see the bearing
of this incident, but I clearly perceived that Holmes was weaving it
into the general scheme which he had formed in his brain. Suddenly he
sprang from his chair and glanced at his watch. “Two o’clock,
gentlemen,” said he. “We must go up and have it out with our friend
the Professor.”

The old man had just finished his lunch, and certainly his empty dish
bore evidence to the good appetite with which his housekeeper had
credited him. He was, indeed, a weird figure as he turned his white
mane and his glowing eyes towards us. The eternal cigarette
smouldered in his mouth. He had been dressed and was seated in an
arm-chair by the fire.

“Well, Mr. Holmes, have you solved this mystery yet?” He shoved the
large tin of cigarettes which stood on a table beside him towards my
companion. Holmes stretched out his hand at the same moment, and
between them they tipped the box over the edge. For a minute or two
we were all on our knees retrieving stray cigarettes from impossible
places. When we rose again I observed that Holmes’s eyes were shining
and his cheeks tinged with colour. Only at a crisis have I seen those
battle-signals flying.

“Yes,” said he, “I have solved it.”

Stanley Hopkins and I stared in amazement. Something like a sneer
quivered over the gaunt features of the old Professor.

“Indeed! In the garden?”

“No, here.”

“Here! When?”

“This instant.”

“You are surely joking, Mr. Sherlock Holmes. You compel me to tell
you that this is too serious a matter to be treated in such a
fashion.”

“I have forged and tested every link of my chain, Professor Coram,
and I am sure that it is sound. What your motives are or what exact
part you play in this strange business I am not yet able to say. In a
few minutes I shall probably hear it from your own lips. Meanwhile I
will reconstruct what is past for your benefit, so that you may know
the information which I still require.

“A lady yesterday entered your study. She came with the intention of
possessing herself of certain documents which were in your bureau.
She had a key of her own. I have had an opportunity of examining
yours, and I do not find that slight discolouration which the scratch
made upon the varnish would have produced. You were not an accessory,
therefore, and she came, so far as I can read the evidence, without
your knowledge to rob you.”

The Professor blew a cloud from his lips. “This is most interesting
and instructive,” said he. “Have you no more to add? Surely, having
traced this lady so far, you can also say what has become of her.”

“I will endeavour to do so. In the first place she was seized by your
secretary, and stabbed him in order to escape. This catastrophe I am
inclined to regard as an unhappy accident, for I am convinced that
the lady had no intention of inflicting so grievous an injury. An
assassin does not come unarmed. Horrified by what she had done she
rushed wildly away from the scene of the tragedy. Unfortunately for
her she had lost her glasses in the scuffle, and as she was extremely
short-sighted she was really helpless without them. She ran down a
corridor, which she imagined to be that by which she had come–both
were lined with cocoanut matting–and it was only when it was too
late that she understood that she had taken the wrong passage and
that her retreat was cut off behind her. What was she to do? She
could not go back. She could not remain where she was. She must go
on. She went on. She mounted a stair, pushed open a door, and found
herself in your room.”

The old man sat with his mouth open staring wildly at Holmes.
Amazement and fear were stamped upon his expressive features. Now,
with an effort, he shrugged his shoulders and burst into insincere
laughter.

“All very fine, Mr. Holmes,” said he. “But there is one little flaw
in your splendid theory. I was myself in my room, and I never left it
during the day.”

“I am aware of that, Professor Coram.”

“And you mean to say that I could lie upon that bed and not be aware
that a woman had entered my room?”

“I never said so. You were aware of it. You spoke with her. You
recognised her. You aided her to escape.”

Again the Professor burst into high-keyed laughter. He had risen to
his feet and his eyes glowed like embers.

“You are mad!” he cried. “You are talking insanely. I helped her to
escape? Where is she now?”

“She is there,” said Holmes, and he pointed to a high bookcase in the
corner of the room.

I saw the old man throw up his arms, a terrible convulsion passed
over his grim face, and he fell back in his chair. At the same
instant the bookcase at which Holmes pointed swung round upon a
hinge, and a woman rushed out into the room. “You are right!” she
cried, in a strange foreign voice. “You are right! I am here.”

She was brown with the dust and draped with the cobwebs which had
come from the walls of her hiding-place. Her face, too, was streaked
with grime, and at the best she could never have been handsome, for
she had the exact physical characteristics which Holmes had divined,
with, in addition, a long and obstinate chin. What with her natural
blindness, and what with the change from dark to light, she stood as
one dazed, blinking about her to see where and who we were. And yet,
in spite of all these disadvantages, there was a certain nobility in
the woman’s bearing, a gallantry in the defiant chin and in the
upraised head, which compelled something of respect and admiration.
Stanley Hopkins had laid his hand upon her arm and claimed her as his
prisoner, but she waved him aside gently, and yet with an
overmastering dignity which compelled obedience. The old man lay back
in his chair, with a twitching face, and stared at her with brooding
eyes.

“Yes, sir, I am your prisoner,” she said. “From where I stood I could
hear everything, and I know that you have learned the truth. I
confess it all. It was I who killed the young man. But you are right,
you who say it was an accident. I did not even know that it was a
knife which I held in my hand, for in my despair I snatched anything
from the table and struck at him to make him let me go. It is the
truth that I tell.”

“Madam,” said Holmes, “I am sure that it is the truth. I fear that
you are far from well.”

She had turned a dreadful colour, the more ghastly under the dark
dust-streaks upon her face. She seated herself on the side of the
bed; then she resumed.

“I have only a little time here,” she said, “but I would have you to
know the whole truth. I am this man’s wife. He is not an Englishman.
He is a Russian. His name I will not tell.”

For the first time the old man stirred. “God bless you, Anna!” he
cried. “God bless you!”

She cast a look of the deepest disdain in his direction. “Why should
you cling so hard to that wretched life of yours, Sergius?” said she.
“It has done harm to many and good to none–not even to yourself.
However, it is not for me to cause the frail thread to be snapped
before God’s time. I have enough already upon my soul since I crossed
the threshold of this cursed house. But I must speak or I shall be
too late.

“I have said, gentlemen, that I am this man’s wife. He was fifty and
I a foolish girl of twenty when we married. It was in a city of
Russia, a University–I will not name the place.”

“God bless you, Anna!” murmured the old man again.

“We were reformers–revolutionists–Nihilists, you understand. He and
I and many more. Then there came a time of trouble, a police officer
was killed, many were arrested, evidence was wanted, and in order to
save his own life and to earn a great reward my husband betrayed his
own wife and his companions. Yes, we were all arrested upon his
confession. Some of us found our way to the gallows and some to
Siberia. I was among these last, but my term was not for life. My
husband came to England with his ill-gotten gains, and has lived in
quiet ever since, knowing well that if the Brotherhood knew where he
was not a week would pass before justice would be done.”

The old man reached out a trembling hand and helped himself to a
cigarette. “I am in your hands, Anna,” said he. “You were always good
to me.”

“I have not yet told you the height of his villainy,” said she.
“Among our comrades of the Order there was one who was the friend of
my heart. He was noble, unselfish, loving–all that my husband was
not. He hated violence. We were all guilty–if that is guilt–but he
was not. He wrote for ever dissuading us from such a course. These
letters would have saved him. So would my diary, in which from day to
day I had entered both my feelings towards him and the view which
each of us had taken. My husband found and kept both diary and
letters. He hid them, and he tried hard to swear away the young man’s
life. In this he failed, but Alexis was sent a convict to Siberia,
where now, at this moment, he works in a salt mine. Think of that,
you villain, you villain; now, now, at this very moment, Alexis, a
man whose name you are not worthy to speak, works and lives like a
slave, and yet I have your life in my hands and I let you go.”

“You were always a noble woman, Anna,” said the old man, puffing at
his cigarette.

She had risen, but she fell back again with a little cry of pain.

“I must finish,” she said. “When my term was over I set myself to get
the diary and letters which, if sent to the Russian Government, would
procure my friend’s release. I knew that my husband had come to
England. After months of searching I discovered where he was. I knew
that he still had the diary, for when I was in Siberia I had a letter
from him once reproaching me and quoting some passages from its
pages. Yet I was sure that with his revengeful nature he would never
give it to me of his own free will. I must get it for myself. With
this object I engaged an agent from a private detective firm, who
entered my husband’s house as secretary–it was your second
secretary, Sergius, the one who left you so hurriedly. He found that
papers were kept in the cupboard, and he got an impression of the
key. He would not go farther. He furnished me with a plan of the
house, and he told me that in the forenoon the study was always
empty, as the secretary was employed up here. So at last I took my
courage in both hands and I came down to get the papers for myself. I
succeeded, but at what a cost!

“I had just taken the papers and was locking the cupboard when the
young man seized me. I had seen him already that morning. He had met
me in the road and I had asked him to tell me where Professor Coram
lived, not knowing that he was in his employ.”

“Exactly! exactly!” said Holmes. “The secretary came back and told
his employer of the woman he had met. Then in his last breath he
tried to send a message that it was she–the she whom he had just
discussed with him.”

“You must let me speak,” said the woman, in an imperative voice, and
her face contracted as if in pain. “When he had fallen I rushed from
the room, chose the wrong door, and found myself in my husband’s
room. He spoke of giving me up. I showed him that if he did so his
life was in my hands. If he gave me to the law I could give him to
the Brotherhood. It was not that I wished to live for my own sake,
but it was that I desired to accomplish my purpose. He knew that I
would do what I said–that his own fate was involved in mine. For
that reason and for no other he shielded me. He thrust me into that
dark hiding-place, a relic of old days, known only to himself. He
took his meals in his own room, and so was able to give me part of
his food. It was agreed that when the police left the house I should
slip away by night and come back no more. But in some way you have
read our plans.” She tore from the bosom of her dress a small packet.
“These are my last words,” said she; “here is the packet which will
save Alexis. I confide it to your honour and to your love of justice.
Take it! You will deliver it at the Russian Embassy. Now I have done
my duty, and–“

“Stop her!” cried Holmes. He had bounded across the room and had
wrenched a small phial from her hand.

“Too late!” she said, sinking back on the bed. “Too late! I took the
poison before I left my hiding-place. My head swims! I am going! I
charge you, sir, to remember the packet.”

“A simple case, and yet in some ways an instructive one,” Holmes
remarked, as we travelled back to town. “It hinged from the outset
upon the pince-nez. But for the fortunate chance of the dying man
having seized these I am not sure that we could ever have reached our
solution. It was clear to me from the strength of the glasses that
the wearer must have been very blind and helpless when deprived of
them. When you asked me to believe that she walked along a narrow
strip of grass without once making a false step I remarked, as you
may remember, that it was a noteworthy performance. In my mind I set
it down as an impossible performance, save in the unlikely case that
she had a second pair of glasses. I was forced, therefore, to
seriously consider the hypothesis that she had remained within the
house. On perceiving the similarity of the two corridors it became
clear that she might very easily have made such a mistake, and in
that case it was evident that she must have entered the Professor’s
room. I was keenly on the alert, therefore, for whatever would bear
out this supposition, and I examined the room narrowly for anything
in the shape of a hiding-place. The carpet seemed continuous and
firmly nailed, so I dismissed the idea of a trap-door. There might
well be a recess behind the books. As you are aware, such devices are
common in old libraries. I observed that books were piled on the
floor at all other points, but that one bookcase was left clear.
This, then, might be the door. I could see no marks to guide me, but
the carpet was of a dun colour, which lends itself very well to
examination. I therefore smoked a great number of those excellent
cigarettes, and I dropped the ash all over the space in front of the
suspected bookcase. It was a simple trick, but exceedingly effective.
I then went downstairs and I ascertained, in your presence, Watson,
without your perceiving the drift of my remarks, that Professor
Coram’s consumption of food had increased–as one would expect when
he is supplying a second person. We then ascended to the room again,
when, by upsetting the cigarette-box, I obtained a very excellent
view of the floor, and was able to see quite clearly, from the traces
upon the cigarette ash, that the prisoner had, in our absence, come
out from her retreat. Well, Hopkins, here we are at Charing Cross,
and I congratulate you on having brought your case to a successful
conclusion. You are going to head-quarters, no doubt. I think,
Watson, you and I will drive together to the Russian Embassy.”

We were fairly accustomed to receive weird telegrams at Baker Street,
but I have a particular recollection of one which reached us on a
gloomy February morning some seven or eight years ago and gave Mr.
Sherlock Holmes a puzzled quarter of an hour. It was addressed to
him, and ran thus:

“Please await me. Terrible misfortune. Right wing three-quarter
missing; indispensable to-morrow.
Overton.”

“Strand post-mark and dispatched ten-thirty-six,” said Holmes,
reading it over and over. “Mr. Overton was evidently considerably
excited when he sent it, and somewhat incoherent in consequence.
Well, well, he will be here, I dare say, by the time I have looked
through the times, and then we shall know all about it. Even the most
insignificant problem would be welcome in these stagnant days.”

Things had indeed been very slow with us, and I had learned to dread
such periods of inaction, for I knew by experience that my
companion’s brain was so abnormally active that it was dangerous to
leave it without material upon which to work. For years I had
gradually weaned him from that drug mania which had threatened once
to check his remarkable career. Now I knew that under ordinary
conditions he no longer craved for this artificial stimulus, but I
was well aware that the fiend was not dead, but sleeping; and I have
known that the sleep was a light one and the waking near when in
periods of idleness I have seen the drawn look upon Holmes’s ascetic
face, and the brooding of his deep-set and inscrutable eyes.
Therefore I blessed this Mr. Overton, whoever he might be, since he
had come with his enigmatic message to break that dangerous calm
which brought more peril to my friend than all the storms of his
tempestuous life.

As we had expected, the telegram was soon followed by its sender, and
the card of Mr. Cyril Overton, of Trinity College, Cambridge,
announced the arrival of an enormous young man, sixteen stone of
solid bone and muscle, who spanned the doorway with his broad
shoulders and looked from one of us to the other with a comely face
which was haggard with anxiety.

“Mr. Sherlock Holmes?”

My companion bowed.

“I’ve been down to Scotland Yard, Mr. Holmes. I saw Inspector Stanley
Hopkins. He advised me to come to you. He said the case, so far as he
could see, was more in your line than in that of the regular police.”

“Pray sit down and tell me what is the matter.”

“It’s awful, Mr. Holmes, simply awful! I wonder my hair isn’t grey.
Godfrey Staunton–you’ve heard of him, of course? He’s simply the
hinge that the whole team turns on. I’d rather spare two from the
pack and have Godfrey for my three-quarter line. Whether it’s
passing, or tackling, or dribbling, there’s no one to touch him; and
then, he’s got the head and can hold us all together. What am I to
do? That’s what I ask you, Mr. Holmes. There’s Moorhouse, first
reserve, but he is trained as a half, and he always edges right in on
to the scrum instead of keeping out on the touch-line. He’s a fine
place-kick, it’s true, but, then, he has no judgment, and he can’t
sprint for nuts. Why, Morton or Johnson, the Oxford fliers, could
romp round him. Stevenson is fast enough, but he couldn’t drop from
the twenty-five line, and a three-quarter who can’t either punt or
drop isn’t worth a place for pace alone. No, Mr. Holmes, we are done
unless you can help me to find Godfrey Staunton.”

My friend had listened with amused surprise to this long speech,
which was poured forth with extraordinary vigour and earnestness,
every point being driven home by the slapping of a brawny hand upon
the speaker’s knee. When our visitor was silent Holmes stretched out
his hand and took down letter “S” of his commonplace book. For once
he dug in vain into that mine of varied information.

“There is Arthur H. Staunton, the rising young forger,” said he, “and
there was Henry Staunton, whom I helped to hang, but Godfrey Staunton
is a new name to me.”

It was our visitor’s turn to look surprised.

“Why, Mr. Holmes, I thought you knew things,” said he. “I suppose,
then, if you have never heard of Godfrey Staunton you don’t know
Cyril Overton either?”

Holmes shook his head good-humouredly.

“Great Scot!” cried the athlete. “Why, I was first reserve for
England against Wales, and I’ve skippered the ‘Varsity all this year.
But that’s nothing! I didn’t think there was a soul in England who
didn’t know Godfrey Staunton, the crack three-quarter, Cambridge,
Blackheath, and five Internationals. Good Lord! Mr. Holmes, where
have you lived?”