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post Feb 6 2011, 11:22 AM
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The Return of Sherlock Holmes by Arthur Conan Doyle

It was in the spring of the year 1894 that all London was interested,
and the fashionable world dismayed, by the murder of the Honourable
Ronald Adair under most unusual and inexplicable circumstances.
The public has already learned those particulars of the crime which
came out in the police investigation, but a good deal was suppressed
upon that occasion, since the case for the prosecution was so overwhelmingly
strong that it was not necessary to bring forward all the facts. Only now,
at the end of nearly ten years, am I allowed to supply those missing
links which make up the whole of that remarkable chain. The crime
was of interest in itself, but that interest was as nothing to me
compared to the inconceivable sequel, which afforded me the
greatest shock and surprise of any event in my adventurous life.
Even now, after this long interval, I find myself thrilling as
I think of it, and feeling once more that sudden flood of joy,
amazement, and incredulity which utterly submerged my mind.
Let me say to that public, which has shown some interest in those
glimpses which I have occasionally given them of the thoughts
and actions of a very remarkable man, that they are not to blame
me if I have not shared my knowledge with them, for I should
have considered it my first duty to do so, had I not been barred
by a positive prohibition from his own lips, which was only
withdrawn upon the third of last month.
It can be imagined that my close intimacy with Sherlock Holmes
had interested me deeply in crime, and that after his
disappearance I never failed to read with care the various
problems which came before the public. And I even attempted,
more than once, for my own private satisfaction, to employ his
methods in their solution, though with indifferent success.
There was none, however, which appealed to me like this tragedy
of Ronald Adair. As I read the evidence at the inquest, which
led up to a verdict of willful murder against some person or
persons unknown, I realized more clearly than I had ever done
the loss which the community had sustained by the death of
Sherlock Holmes. There were points about this strange business
which would, I was sure, have specially appealed to him, and the
efforts of the police would have been supplemented, or more
probably anticipated, by the trained observation and the alert
mind of the first criminal agent in Europe. All day, as I drove
upon my round, I turned over the case in my mind and found no
explanation which appeared to me to be adequate. At the risk of
telling a twice-told tale, I will recapitulate the facts as they
were known to the public at the conclusion of the inquest.
The Honourable Ronald Adair was the second son of the Earl of
Maynooth, at that time governor of one of the Australian
colonies. Adair's mother had returned from Australia to undergo
the operation for cataract, and she, her son Ronald, and her
daughter Hilda were living together at 427 Park Lane. The youth
moved in the best society--had, so far as was known, no enemies
and no particular vices. He had been engaged to Miss Edith
Woodley, of Carstairs, but the engagement had been broken off by
mutual consent some months before, and there was no sign that it
had left any very profound feeling behind it. For the rest {sic}
the man's life moved in a narrow and conventional circle, for
his habits were quiet and his nature unemotional. Yet it was
upon this easy-going young aristocrat that death came, in most
strange and unexpected form, between the hours of ten and
eleven-twenty on the night of March 30, 1894.
Ronald Adair was fond of cards--playing continually, but never
for such stakes as would hurt him. He was a member of the
Baldwin, the Cavendish, and the Bagatelle card clubs. It was
shown that, after dinner on the day of his death, he had played
a rubber of whist at the latter club. He had also played there
in the afternoon. The evidence of those who had played with him--
Mr. Murray, Sir John Hardy, and Colonel Moran--showed that the
game was whist, and that there was a fairly equal fall of the
cards. Adair might have lost five pounds, but not more. His
fortune was a considerable one, and such a loss could not in any
way affect him. He had played nearly every day at one club or
other, but he was a cautious player, and usually rose a winner.
It came out in evidence that, in partnership with Colonel Moran,
he had actually won as much as four hundred and twenty pounds in
a sitting, some weeks before, from Godfrey Milner and Lord Balmoral.
So much for his recent history as it came out at the inquest.
On the evening of the crime, he returned from the club exactly
at ten. His mother and sister were out spending the evening with
a relation. The servant deposed that she heard him enter the
front room on the second floor, generally used as his
sitting-room. She had lit a fire there, and as it smoked she had
opened the window. No sound was heard from the room until
eleven-twenty, the hour of the return of Lady Maynooth and her
daughter. Desiring to say good-night, she attempted to enter her
son's room. The door was locked on the inside, and no answer
could be got to their cries and knocking. Help was obtained, and
the door forced. The unfortunate young man was found lying near
the table. His head had been horribly mutilated by an expanding
revolver bullet, but no weapon of any sort was to be found in
the room. On the table lay two banknotes for ten pounds each and
seventeen pounds ten in silver and gold, the money arranged in
little piles of varying amount. There were some figures also
upon a sheet of paper, with the names of some club friends
opposite to them, from which it was conjectured that before his
death he was endeavouring to make out his losses or winnings at cards.
A minute examination of the circumstances served only to make
the case more complex. In the first place, no reason could be
given why the young man should have fastened the door upon the
inside. There was the possibility that the murderer had done
this, and had afterwards escaped by the window. The drop was at
least twenty feet, however, and a bed of crocuses in full bloom
lay beneath. Neither the flowers nor the earth showed any sign
of having been disturbed, nor were there any marks upon the
narrow strip of grass which separated the house from the road.
Apparently, therefore, it was the young man himself who had
fastened the door. But how did he come by his death? No one
could have climbed up to the window without leaving traces.
Suppose a man had fired through the window, he would indeed be
a remarkable shot who could with a revolver inflict so deadly a
wound. Again, Park Lane is a frequented thoroughfare; there is
a cab stand within a hundred yards of the house. No one had
heard a shot. And yet there was the dead man and there the
revolver bullet, which had mushroomed out, as soft-nosed bullets
will, and so inflicted a wound which must have caused
instantaneous death. Such were the circumstances of the Park
Lane Mystery, which were further complicated by entire absence
of motive, since, as I have said, young Adair was not known to
have any enemy, and no attempt had been made to remove the money
or valuables in the room.
All day I turned these facts over in my mind, endeavouring to
hit upon some theory which could reconcile them all, and to find
that line of least resistance which my poor friend had declared
to be the starting-point of every investigation. I confess that
I made little progress. In the evening I strolled across the
Park, and found myself about six o'clock at the Oxford Street
end of Park Lane. A group of loafers upon the pavements, all
staring up at a particular window, directed me to the house
which I had come to see. A tall, thin man with coloured glasses,
whom I strongly suspected of being a plain-clothes detective,
was pointing out some theory of his own, while the others
crowded round to listen to what he said. I got as near him as I
could, but his observations seemed to me to be absurd, so I
withdrew again in some disgust. As I did so I struck against an
elderly, deformed man, who had been behind me, and I knocked
down several books which he was carrying. I remember that as I
picked them up, I observed the title of one of them, THE ORIGIN
OF TREE WORSHIP, and it struck me that the fellow must be some
poor bibliophile, who, either as a trade or as a hobby, was a
collector of obscure volumes. I endeavoured to apologize for the
accident, but it was evident that these books which I had so
unfortunately maltreated were very precious objects in the eyes
of their owner. With a snarl of contempt he turned upon his
heel, and I saw his curved back and white side-whiskers
disappear among the throng.
My observations of No. 427 Park Lane did little to clear up the
problem in which I was interested. The house was separated from
the street by a low wall and railing, the whole not more than
five feet high. It was perfectly easy, therefore, for anyone to
get into the garden, but the window was entirely inaccessible,
since there was no waterpipe or anything which could help the
most active man to climb it. More puzzled than ever, I retraced
my steps to Kensington. I had not been in my study five minutes
when the maid entered to say that a person desired to see me. To
my astonishment it was none other than my strange old book
collector, his sharp, wizened face peering out from a frame of
white hair, and his precious volumes, a dozen of them at least,
wedged under his right arm.

"You're surprised to see me, sir," said he, in a strange,
croaking voice.

I acknowledged that I was.

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

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

"Well, sir, if it isn't too great a liberty, I am a neighbour of
yours, for you'll find my little bookshop at the corner of
Church Street, and very happy to see you, I am sure. Maybe you
collect yourself, sir. Here's BRITISH BIRDS, and CATULLUS, and
THE HOLY WAR--a bargain, every one of them. With five volumes
you could just fill that gap on that second shelf. It looks
untidy, does it not, sir?"

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

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

I gripped him by the arms.

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

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

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

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

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

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

"You'll come with me to-night?"

"When you like and where you like."

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

"You never were in it?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"I had only one confidant--my brother Mycroft. I owe you many
apologies, my dear Watson, but it was all-important that it
should be thought I was dead, and it is quite certain that you
would not have written so convincing an account of my unhappy
end had you not yourself thought that it was true. Several times
during the last three years I have taken up my pen to write to
you, but always I feared lest your affectionate regard for me
should tempt you to some indiscretion which would betray my
secret. For that reason I turned away from you this evening when
you upset my books, for I was in danger at the time, and any
show of surprise and emotion upon your part might have drawn
attention to my identity and led to the most deplorable and
irreparable results. As to Mycroft, I had to confide in him in
order to obtain the money which I needed. The course of events
in London did not run so well as I had hoped, for the trial of
the Moriarty gang left two of its most dangerous members, my own
most vindictive enemies, at liberty. I travelled for two years
in Tibet, therefore, and amused myself by visiting Lhassa, and
spending some days with the head lama. You may have read of the
remarkable explorations of a Norwegian named Sigerson, but I am
sure that it never occurred to you that you were receiving news
of your friend. I then passed through Persia, looked in at
Mecca, and paid a short but interesting visit to the Khalifa at
Khartoum the results of which I have communicated to the Foreign
Office. Returning to France, I spent some months in a research
into the coal-tar derivatives, which I conducted in a laboratory
at Montpellier, in the south of France. Having concluded this to
my satisfaction and learning that only one of my enemies was now
left in London, I was about to return when my movements were
hastened by the news of this very remarkable Park Lane Mystery,
which not only appealed to me by its own merits, but which
seemed to offer some most peculiar personal opportunities. I
came over at once to London, called in my own person at Baker
Street, threw Mrs. Hudson into violent hysterics, and found that
Mycroft had preserved my rooms and my papers exactly as they had
always been. So it was, my dear Watson, that at two o'clock
to-day I found myself in my old armchair in my own old room, and
only wishing that I could have seen my old friend Watson in the
other chair which he has so often adorned."
Such was the remarkable narrative to which I listened on that
April evening--a narrative which would have been utterly
incredible to me had it not been confirmed by the actual sight
of the tall, spare figure and the keen, eager face, which I had
never thought to see again. In some manner he had learned of my
own sad bereavement, and his sympathy was shown in his manner
rather than in his words. "Work is the best antidote to sorrow,
my dear Watson," said he; "and I have a piece of work for us
both to-night which, if we can bring it to a successful
conclusion, will in itself justify a man's life on this planet."
In vain I begged him to tell me more. "You will hear and see
enough before morning," he answered. "We have three years of the
past to discuss. Let that suffice until half-past nine, when we
start upon the notable adventure of the empty house."
It was indeed like old times when, at that hour, I found myself
seated beside him in a hansom, my revolver in my pocket, and the
thrill of adventure in my heart. Holmes was cold and stern and
silent. As the gleam of the street-lamps flashed upon his
austere features, I saw that his brows were drawn down in
thought and his thin lips compressed. I knew not what wild beast
we were about to hunt down in the dark jungle of criminal
London, but I was well assured, from the bearing of this master
huntsman, that the adventure was a most grave one--while the
sardonic smile which occasionally broke through his ascetic
gloom boded little good for the object of our quest.
I had imagined that we were bound for Baker Street, but Holmes
stopped the cab at the corner of Cavendish Square. I observed
that as he stepped out he gave a most searching glance to right
and left, and at every subsequent street corner he took the
utmost pains to assure that he was not followed. Our route was
certainly a singular one. Holmes's knowledge of the byways of
London was extraordinary, and on this occasion he passed rapidly
and with an assured step through a network of mews and stables,
the very existence of which I had never known. We emerged at
last into a small road, lined with old, gloomy houses, which led
us into Manchester Street, and so to Blandford Street. Here he
turned swiftly down a narrow passage, passed through a wooden
gate into a deserted yard, and then opened with a key the back
door of a house. We entered together, and he closed it behind us.
Th place was pitch dark, but it was evident to me that it was
an empty house. Our feet creaked and crackled over the bare
planking, and my outstretched hand touched a wall from which the
paper was hanging in ribbons. Holmes's cold, thin fingers closed
round my wrist and led me forward down a long hall, until I
dimly saw the murky fanlight over the door. Here Holmes turned
suddenly to the right and we found ourselves in a large, square,
empty room, heavily shadowed in the corners, but faintly lit in
the centre from the lights of the street beyond. There was no
lamp near, and the window was thick with dust, so that we could
only just discern each other's figures within. My companion put
his hand upon my shoulder and his lips close to my ear.

"Do you know where we are?" he whispered.

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

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

"But why are we here?"

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

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

"Well?" said he.

"Good heavens!" I cried. "It is marvellous."

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

"I should be prepared to swear that it was you."

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

"But why?"

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

"And you thought the rooms were watched?"

"I KNEW that they were watched."

"By whom?"

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

"How do you know?"

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

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

"The shadow has moved!" I cried.

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

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

"Of course it has moved," said he. "Am I such a farcical
bungler, Watson, that I should erect an obvious dummy, and
expect that some of the sharpest men in Europe would be deceived
by it? We have been in this room two hours, and Mrs. Hudson has
made some change in that figure eight times, or once in every
quarter of an hour. She works it from the front, so that her
shadow may never be seen. Ah!" He drew in his breath with a
shrill, excited intake. In the dim light I saw his head thrown
forward, his whole attitude rigid with attention. Outside the
street was absolutely deserted. Those two men might still be
crouching in the doorway, but I could no longer see them. All
was still and dark, save only that brilliant yellow screen in
front of us with the black figure outlined upon its centre.
Again in the utter silence I heard that thin, sibilant note
which spoke of intense suppressed excitement. An instant later
he pulled me back into the blackest corner of the room, and I
felt his warning hand upon my lips. The fingers which clutched
me were quivering. Never had I known my friend more moved, and
yet the dark street still stretched lonely and motionless before us.
But suddenly I was aware of that which his keener senses had
already distinguished. A low, stealthy sound came to my ears,
not from the direction of Baker Street, but from the back of the
very house in which we lay concealed. A door opened and shut. An
instant later steps crept down the passage--steps which were
meant to be silent, but which reverberated harshly through the
empty house. Holmes crouched back against the wall, and I did
the same, my hand closing upon the handle of my revolver.
Peering through the gloom, I saw the vague outline of a man, a
shade blacker than the blackness of the open door. He stood for
an instant, and then he crept forward, crouching, menacing, into
the room. He was within three yards of us, this sinister figure,
and I had braced myself to meet his spring, before I realized
that he had no idea of our presence. He passed close beside us,
stole over to the window, and very softly and noiselessly raised
it for half a foot. As he sank to the level of this opening, the
light of the street, no longer dimmed by the dusty glass, fell
full upon his face. The man seemed to be beside himself with
excitement. His two eyes shone like stars, and his features were
working convulsively. He was an elderly man, with a thin,
projecting nose, a high, bald forehead, and a huge grizzled
moustache. An opera hat was pushed to the back of his head, and
an evening dress shirt-front gleamed out through his open
overcoat. His face was gaunt and swarthy, scored with deep,
savage lines. In his hand he carried what appeared to be a
stick, but as he laid it down upon the floor it gave a metallic
clang. Then from the pocket of his overcoat he drew a bulky
object, and he busied himself in some task which ended with a
loud, sharp click, as if a spring or bolt had fallen into its
place. Still kneeling upon the floor he bent forward and threw
all his weight and strength upon some lever, with the result
that there came a long, whirling, grinding noise, ending once
more in a powerful click. He straightened himself then, and I
saw that what he held in his hand was a sort of gun, with a
curiously misshapen butt. He opened it at the breech, put
something in, and snapped the breech-lock. Then, crouching down,
he rested the end of the barrel upon the ledge of the open
window, and I saw his long moustache droop over the stock and
his eye gleam as it peered along the sights. I heard a little
sigh of satisfaction as he cuddled the butt into his shoulder;
and saw that amazing target, the black man on the yellow ground,
standing clear at the end of his foresight. For an instant he
was rigid and motionless. Then his finger tightened on the
trigger. There was a strange, loud whiz and a long, silvery
tinkle of broken glass. At that instant Holmes sprang like a
tiger on to the marksman's back, and hurled him flat upon his
face. He was up again in a moment, and with convulsive strength
he seized Holmes by the throat, but I struck him on the head
with the butt of my revolver, and he dropped again upon the
floor. I fell upon him, and as I held him my comrade blew a
shrill call upon a whistle. There was the clatter of running
feet upon the pavement, and two policemen in uniform, with one
plain-clothes detective, rushed through the front entrance and
into the room.

"That you, Lestrade?" said Holmes.

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

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

We had all risen to our feet, our prisoner breathing hard, with
a stalwart constable on each side of him. Already a few
loiterers had begun to collect in the street. Holmes stepped up
to the window, closed it, and dropped the blinds. Lestrade had
produced two candles, and the policemen had uncovered their
lanterns. I was able at last to have a good look at our prisoner.
It was a tremendously virile and yet sinister face which was
turned towards us. With the brow of a philosopher above and the
jaw of a sensualist below, the man must have started with great
capacities for good or for evil. But one could not look upon his
cruel blue eyes, with their drooping, cynical lids, or upon the
fierce, aggressive nose and the threatening, deep-lined brow,
without reading Nature's plainest danger-signals. He took no
heed of any of us, but his eyes were fixed upon Holmes's face with
an expression in which hatred and amazement were equally blended.
"You fiend!" he kept on muttering. "You clever, clever fiend!"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Colonel Moran turned to the official detective.

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

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

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

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

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

"Only to ask what charge you intend to prefer?"

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

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

"Got him! Got whom, Mr. Holmes?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"The old SHIKARI'S nerves have not lost their steadiness, nor
his eyes their keenness," said he, with a laugh, as he inspected
the shattered forehead of his bust.

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

"No, I have not."

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

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

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

He handed over the book, and I read:

MORAN, SEBASTIAN, COLONEL. Unemployed. Formerly 1st Bangalore
Pioneers. Born London, 1840. Son of Sir Augustus Moran, C. B.,
once British Minister to Persia. Educated Eton and Oxford.
Served in Jowaki Campaign, Afghan Campaign, Charasiab
(despatches), Sherpur, and Cabul. Author of HEAVY GAME OF THE
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 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, 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
be pushed back his chair from the breakfast-table. "The
community is certainly the gainer, and no one the loser, save
the poor out-of-work specialist, whose occupation has gone. With
that man in the field, one's morning paper presented infinite
possibilities. Often it was only the smallest trace, Watson, the
faintest indication, and yet it was enough to tell me that the
great malignant brain was there, as the gentlest tremors of the
edges of the web remind one of the foul spider which lurks in
the centre. Petty thefts, wanton assaults, purposeless outrage--
to the man who held the clue all could be worked into one
connected whole. To the scientific student of the higher
criminal world, no capital in Europe offered the advantages
which London then possessed. But now----" He shrugged his
shoulders in humorous deprecation of the state of things which
he had himself done so much to produce.
At the time of which I speak, Holmes had been back for some
months, and I at his request had sold my practice and returned
to share the old quarters in Baker Street. A young doctor, named
Verner, had purchased my small Kensington practice, and given
with astonishingly little demur the highest price that I
ventured to ask--an incident which only explained itself some
years later, when I found that Verner was a distant relation of
Holmes, and that it was my friend who had really found the money.
Our months of partnership had not been so uneventful as he had
stated, for I find, on looking over my notes, that this period
includes the case of the papers of ex-President Murillo, and
also the shocking affair of the Dutch steamship FRIESLAND, which
so nearly cost us both our lives. His cold and proud nature was
always averse, however, from anything in the shape of public
applause, and he bound me in the most stringent terms to say no
further word of himself, his methods, or his successes--a
prohibition which, as I have explained, has only now been removed.
Mr. Sherlock Holmes was leaning back in his chair after his
whimsical protest, and was unfolding his morning paper in a
leisurely fashion, when our attention was arrested by a
tremendous ring at the bell, followed immediately by a hollow
drumming sound, as if someone were beating on the outer door
with his fist. As it opened there came a tumultuous rush into
the hall, rapid feet clattered up the stair, and an instant
later a wild-eyed and frantic young man, pale, disheveled, and
palpitating, burst into the room. He looked from one to the
other of us, and under our gaze of inquiry he became conscious
that some apology was needed for this unceremonious entry.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Our visitor stretched forward a quivering hand and picked up the
DAILY TELEGRAPH, which still lay upon Holmes's knee.

"If you had looked at it, sir, you would have seen at a glance
what the errand is on which I have come to you this morning.
I feel as if my name and my misfortune must be in every man's
mouth." He turned it over to expose the central page. "Here it
is, and with your permission I will read it to you. Listen to
this, Mr. Holmes. The headlines are: `Mysterious Affair at Lower
Norwood. Disappearance of a Well Known Builder. Suspicion of
Murder and Arson. A Clue to the Criminal.' That is the clue
which they are already following, Mr. Holmes, and I know that it
leads infallibly to me. I have been followed from London Bridge
Station, and I am sure that they are only waiting for the
warrant to arrest me. It will break my mother's heart--it will
break her heart!" He wrung his hands in an agony of
apprehension, and swayed backward and forward in his chair.
I looked with interest upon this man, who was accused of being
the perpetrator of a crime of violence. He was flaxen-haired and
handsome, in a washed-out negative fashion, with frightened blue
eyes, and a clean-shaven face, with a weak, sensitive mouth. His
age may have been about twenty-seven, his dress and bearing that
of a gentleman. From the pocket of his light summer overcoat
protruded the bundle of indorsed papers which proclaimed his

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

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

"Late last night, or early this morning, an incident occurred at
Lower Norwood which points, it is feared, to a serious crime.
Mr. Jonas Oldacre is a well known resident of that suburb, where
he has carried on his business as a builder for many years. Mr.
Oldacre is a bachelor, fifty-two years of age, and lives in Deep
Dene House, at the Sydenham end of the road of that name. He has
had the reputation of being a man of eccentric habits, secretive
and retiring. For some years he has practically withdrawn from
the business, in which he is said to have massed considerable
wealth. A small timber-yard still exists, however, at the back
of the house, and last night, about twelve o'clock, an alarm was
given that one of the stacks was on fire. The engines were soon
upon the spot, but the dry wood burned with great fury, and it
was impossible to arrest the conflagration until the stack had
been entirely consumed. Up to this point the incident bore the
appearance of an ordinary accident, but fresh indications seem
to point to serious crime. Surprise was expressed at the absence
of the master of the establishment from the scene of the fire,
and an inquiry followed, which showed that he had disappeared
from the house. An examination of his room revealed that the bed
had not been slept in, that a safe which stood in it was open,
that a number of important papers were scattered about the room,
and finally, that there were signs of a murderous struggle,
slight traces of blood being found within the room, and an oaken
walking-stick, which also showed stains of blood upon the
handle. It is known that Mr. Jonas Oldacre had received a late
visitor in his bedroom upon that night, and the stick found has
been identified as the property of this person, who is a young
London solicitor named John Hector McFarlane, junior partner of
Graham and McFarlane, of 426 Gresham Buildings, E. C. The police
believe that they have evidence in their possession which
supplies a very convincing motive for the crime, and altogether
it cannot be doubted that sensational developments will follow.

"LATER.--It is rumoured as we go to press that Mr. John Hector
McFarlane has actually been arrested on the charge of the murder
of Mr. Jonas Oldacre. It is at least certain that a warrant has
been issued. There have been further and sinister developments
in the investigation at Norwood. Besides the signs of a struggle
in the room of the unfortunate builder it is now known that the
French windows of his bedroom (which is on the ground floor)
were found to be open, that there were marks as if some bulky
object had been dragged across to the wood-pile, and, finally,
it is asserted that charred remains have been found among the
charcoal ashes of the fire. The police theory is that a most
sensational crime has been committed, that the victim was
clubbed to death in his own bedroom, his papers rifled, and his
dead body dragged across to the wood-stack, which was then
ignited so as to hide all traces of the crime. The conduct of
the criminal investigation has been left in the experienced
hands of Inspector Lestrade, of Scotland Yard, who is following
up the clues with his accustomed energy and sagacity."

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

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

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

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

"Mr. John Hector McFarlane?" said Lestrade.

Our unfortunate client rose with a ghastly face.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Lestrade looked at his watch. "I'll give you half an hour," said he.

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

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

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

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

"One moment!" said Holmes. "Who opened the door?"

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

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

"Exactly," said McFarlane.

"Pray proceed."

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

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

"Was the blind down?" asked Holmes.

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

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

"Not until I have been to Blackheath."

"You mean to Norwood," said Lestrade.

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

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

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

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

The official looked at them with a puzzled expression.

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

"What do you make of that?" said Holmes.

"Well, what do YOU make of it?"

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

Lestrade began to laugh.

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

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

"Well, he drew up his own death warrant at the same time," said

"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 not all this obvious?"

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

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

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

"Why should the tramp burn the body?"

"For the matter of that, why should McFarlane?"

"To hide some evidence."

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

"And why did the tramp take nothing?"

"Because they were papers that he could not negotiate."

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

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

My friend seemed struck by this remark.

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

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

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

"And why not Norwood?"

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

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

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

"Did you go to Blackheath?"

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

"`You knew him at that time?' said I.

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

"`Well,' said I, `at least he has forgiven you now, since he has
left all his property to your son.'

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Surely," said I, "the man's appearance would go far with any jury?"

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

"It is true."

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

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

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

It was from Norwood, and ran as follows:

Important fresh evidence to hand. McFarlane's guilt definitely
established. Advise you to abandon case.

"This sounds serious," said I.

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

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

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

"I have formed no conclusion whatever," my companion answered.

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

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

Lestrade laughed loudly.

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

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

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

"Look at that with your magnifying glass, Mr. Holmes."

"Yes, I am doing so."

"You are aware that no two thumb-marks are alike?"

"I have heard something of the kind."

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

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

"That is final," said Lestrade.

"Yes, that is final," I involuntarily echoed.

"It is final," said Holmes.

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

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

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

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

"By the way, Lestrade, who made this remarkable discovery?"

"It was the housekeeper, Mrs. Lexington, who drew the night
constable's attention to it."

"Where was the night constable?"

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

"But why didn't the police see this mark yesterday?"

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

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

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

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

"It is unquestionably the mark of his thumb."

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

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

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

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

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

"Indeed, Holmes! What is it?"

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

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

"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 gray 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."


"Just once more, gentlemen, and all together."

"Fire!" The shout must have rung over Norwood.

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

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

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

"What's this, then?" said Lestrade, at last. "What have you been
doing all this time, eh?"

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

"I have done no harm."

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

The wretched creature began to whimper.

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

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

Holmes smiled, and clapped Lestrade upon the shoulder.

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

"And you don't want your name to appear?"

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

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

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

"I'll take your advice. But how did you know of this place, Mr. Holmes?"

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

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

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

"But how?"

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

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

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

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

"Well, that's likely enough."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Holmes smiled indulgently.

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


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Yes, Mr. Holmes, I teach music."

"In the country, I presume, from your complexion."

"Yes, sir, near Farnham, on the borders of Surrey."

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

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

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

"Excuse me," said Holmes. "When was this interview?"

"Last December--four months ago."

"Pray proceed."

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

"Oh, Cyril is his name!" said Holmes, smiling.

The young lady blushed and laughed.

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

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

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

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

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

"Two or three minutes."

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


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

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

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

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

Holmes sat in silence for some little time.

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

"He is in the Midland Electrical Company, at Coventry."

"He would not pay you a surprise visit?"

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

"Have you had any other admirers?"

"Several before I knew Cyril."

"And since?"

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

"No one else?"

Our fair client seemed a little confused.

"Who was he?" asked Holmes.

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

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

"He is a rich man."

"No carriages or horses?"

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

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

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

"That he should appear only at that point?"

"Exactly. Our first effort must be to find who are the tenants
of Charlington Hall. Then, again, how about the connection
between Carruthers and Woodley, since they appear to be men of
such a different type? How came they BOTH to be so keen upon
looking up Ralph Smith's relations? One more point. What sort of
a 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
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 gray building with
its bristling Tudor chimneys, but the drive ran through a dense
shrubbery, and I saw no more of my man.

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

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

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

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

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

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

I am sure that you will respect my confidence, Mr. Holmes, when
I tell you that my place here has become difficult, owing to the
fact that my employer has proposed marriage to me. I am
convinced that his feelings are most deep and most honourable.
At the same time, my promise is of course given. He took my
refusal very seriously, but also very gently. You can
understand, however, that the situation is a little strained.
"Our young friend seems to be getting into deep waters," said
Holmes, thoughtfully, as he finished the letter. "The case
certainly presents more features of interest and more
possibility of development than I had originally thought. I
should be none the worse for a quiet, peaceful day in the
country, and I am inclined to run down this afternoon and test
one or two theories which I have formed."

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

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

I begged him to tell me what had occurred.

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

The Thursday brought us another letter from our client.

You will not be surprised, Mr. Holmes [said she] to hear that I
am leaving Mr. Carruthers's employment. Even the high pay cannot
reconcile me to the discomforts of my situation. On Saturday I
come up to town, and I do not intend to return. Mr. Carruthers
has got a trap, and so the dangers of the lonely road, if there
ever were any dangers, are now over.

As to the special cause of my leaving, it is not merely the
strained situation with Mr. Carruthers, but it is the
reappearance of that odious man, Mr. Woodley. He was always
hideous, but he looks more awful than ever now, for he appears
to have had an accident and he is much disfigured. I saw him out
of the window, but I am glad to say I did not meet him. He had
a long talk with Mr. Carruthers, who seemed much excited
afterwards. Woodley must be staying in the neighbourhood, for he
did not sleep here, and yet I caught a glimpse of him again this
morning, slinking about in the shrubbery. I would sooner have a
savage wild animal loose about the place. I loathe and fear him
more than I can say. How CAN Mr. Carruthers endure such a creature
for a moment? However, all my troubles will be over on Saturday.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"That's the man!" I gasped. A solitary cyclist was coming
towards us. His head was down and his shoulders rounded, as he
put every ounce of energy that he possessed on to the pedals. He
was flying like a racer. Suddenly he raised his bearded face,
saw us close to him, and pulled up, springing from his machine.
That coal-black beard was in singular contrast to 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 "Pull up, I say, or, by
George, I'll put a bullet into your horse."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"They didn't go to the house. Here are their marks on the left--
here, beside the laurel bushes. Ah! I said so."

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

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

We had broken suddenly into a lovely glade of greensward
surrounded by ancient trees. On the farther side of it, under
the shadow of a mighty oak, there stood a singular group of three
people. One was a woman, our client, drooping and faint, a
handkerchief round her mouth. Opposite her stood a brutal,
heavy-faced, red-moustached young man, his gaitered legs
parted wide, one arm akimbo, the other waving a riding crop, his
whole attitude suggestive of triumphant bravado. Between them an
elderly, gray-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

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

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

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

"You're too late. She's my wife."

"No, she's your widow."

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

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

"Who are you, then?"

"My name is Sherlock Holmes."

"Good Lord!"

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

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

"He will live," said I.

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

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

"I have been ordained," cried the old rascal.

"And also unfrocked."

"Once a clergyman, always a clergyman."

"I think not. How about the license?"

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

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

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

"Why didn't you tell her of her danger?"

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

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

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

"What cable?"

Carruthers took a telegram from his pocket "That's it," said he.

It was short and concise:

The old man is dead.

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

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

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

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

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

"What he says is true," said Carruthers.

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

Carruthers nodded and Williamson swore.

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

"Couldn't read or write," said Carruthers.

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

"We played cards for her on the voyage. He won."

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

"No, by George, I couldn't!"

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

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

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

In the whirl of our incessant activity, it has often been
difficult for me, as the reader has probably observed, to round
off my narratives, and to give those final details which the
curious might expect. Each case has been the prelude to another,
and the crisis once over, the actors have passed for ever out of
our busy lives. I find, however, a short note at the end of my
manuscript dealing with this case, in which I have put it upon
record that Miss Violet Smith did indeed inherit a large
fortune, and that she is now the wife of Cyril Morton, the
senior partner of Morton & Kennedy, the famous Westminster
electricians. Williamson and Woodley were both tried for
abduction and assault, the former getting seven years the latter
ten. Of the fate of Carruthers, I have no record, but I am sure
that his assault was not viewed very gravely by the court, since
Woodley had the reputation of being a most dangerous ruffian,
and I think that a few, months were sufficient to satisfy the
demands of justice.
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post Feb 6 2011, 11:23 AM
Post #2

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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

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 gray eyes looked up at us. An instant later the man had
scrambled on to his feet, his face crimson with shame.

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

"When you are quite restored----"

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

My friend shook his head.

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

"Important!" Our visitor threw up his hands. "Have you heard
nothing of the abduction of the only son of the Duke of

"What! the late Cabinet Minister?"

"Exactly. We had tried to keep it out of the papers, but there
was some rumor 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
check for five thousand pounds will be handed over to the person
who can tell him where his son is, and another thousand to him
who can name the man or men who have taken him."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"But there has been some official investigation?"

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

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

"It was entirely dropped."

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

"I feel it and admit it."

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

"None at all."

"Was he in the master's class?"

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

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


"Was any other bicycle missing?"


"Is that certain?"


"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?"


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

"I suppose he would."

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


"Did he get any letters?"

"Yes, one letter."

"From whom?"

"From his father."

"Do you open the boys' letters?"


"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?"


"Did he say so?"


"The Duke, then?"

"Good heaven, no!"

"Then how could you know?"

"I have had some confidential talks with Mr. James Wilder, his
Graces secretary. It was he who gave me the information about
Lord Saltire's feelings."

"I see. By the way, that last letter of the Dukes--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

"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?"


"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

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."



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

"But the bicycle?" I objected.

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

"But the bicycle?" I persisted.

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

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

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

"Where was it found?"

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

"How do they account for it?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Hurrah!" I cried. "We have it."

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

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

"The boy's, then?"

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

"Or towards it?"

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

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

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

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

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

"I congratulate you."

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

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

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

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

"A side-slip," I suggested.

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

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

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

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

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

"I could take a note back."

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

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

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

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

I assented.

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


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

"So it would seem."

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

"The other bicycle."

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

"Holmes," I cried, "this is impossible."

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

"He could not have fractured his skull in a fall?"

"In a morass, Watson?"

"I am at my 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 onward for some distance,
but soon the moor rose into a long, heather-tufted curve, and we
left the watercourse behind us. No further help from tracks
could be hoped for. At the spot where we saw the last of the
Dunlop tire it might equally have led to Holdernesse Hall, the
stately towers of which rose some miles to our left, or to a
low, gray 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."


"Because we bring him news of his lost son."

The landlord gave a very visible start.

"What, you're on his track?"

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

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

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

"Thank you," said Holmes. "Well 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, "well 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."


"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

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

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

"The Duke's secretary!" cried Holmes. "Come, Watson, let us see
what he does."

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

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

"It looks like a flight."

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

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

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

"The bar is on the other side."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"I must see the Duke, Mr. Wilder."

"But he is in his room."

"Then I must go to his room."

"I believe he is in his bed."

"I will see him there."

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

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

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

"Well, Mr. Holmes?" said he.

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

"I think, your Grace, that I could speak more freely in Mr.
Wilder's absence."

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

"If your Grace wishes----"

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

My friend waited until the door had closed behind the retreating

"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?"


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


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"What do you mean, then?"

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

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

"Where is he?" he gasped.

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

The Duke fell back in his chair.

"And whom do you accuse?"

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

"I accuse YOU," said he. "And now, your Grace, I'll trouble you
for that check."

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

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

"I saw you together last night."

"Does anyone else beside your friend know?"

"I have spoken to no one."

The Duke took a pen in his quivering fingers and opened his

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

"I hardly understand your Grace."

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

But Holmes smiled and shook his head.

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

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

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

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

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

"No, the murderer has escaped."

Sherlock Holmes smiled demurely.

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

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

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

"Your secretary?"

"No, sir, my son."

It was Holmes's turn to look astonished.

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

"I will conceal nothing from you. I agree with you that complete
frankness, however painful it may be to me, is the best policy
in this desperate situation to which James's folly and jealousy
have reduced us. When I was a very young man, Mr. Holmes, I
loved with such a love as comes only once in a lifetime. I
offered the lady marriage, but she refused it on the grounds
that such a match might mar my career. Had she lived, I would
certainly never have married anyone else. She died, and left
this one child, whom for her sake I have cherished and cared
for. I could not acknowledge the paternity to the world, but I
gave him the best of educations, and since he came to manhood I
have kept him near my person. He 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

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

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

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

The Duke bowed his assent.

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

"Under solemn promises----"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"And the first?"

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


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

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

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

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

"I drove to the butcher's and back."

"The butcher's?"

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

"I will not attempt it."

He chuckled as he poured out the coffee.

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

"Not for worlds. But why were you doing this?"

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

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

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

"And what had you to report?"

"Failure, sir, absolute failure."

"You have made no progress?"


"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 sealskin,--and he was an old sealer."

"But he had no pipe."

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

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

Stanley Hopkins drew a slip of paper from his pocket.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Meaning that you saw none?"

"I assure you, sir, that there were none."

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

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

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

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

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

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

"There was this tobacco-pouch upon the table."

"What part of the table?"

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

"Excellent! What more?"

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

"What do you make of these?" asked Holmes.

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

"Try Canadian Pacific Railway," said Holmes.

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Surely there is some discolouration here," said he.

"Yes, sir, it is a blood-stain. I told you that I picked the
book off the floor."

"Was the blood-stain above or below?"

"On the side next the boards."

"Which proves, of course, that the book was dropped after the
crime was committed."

"Exactly, Mr. Holmes. I appreciated that point, and I
conjectured that it was dropped by the murderer in his hurried
flight. It lay near the door."

"I suppose that none of these securities have been found among
the property of the dead man?"

"No, sir."

"Have you any reason to suspect robbery?"

"No, sir. Nothing seemed to have been touched."

"Dear me, it is certainly a very interesting case. Then there
was a knife, was there not?"

"A sheath-knife, still in its sheath. It lay at the feet of the
dead man. Mrs. Carey has identified it as being her husband's

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, gray-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.

Somone has been tampering with it," he said.

There could be no doubt of the fact. The woodwork was cut, and
the scratches showed white through the paint, as if they had
been that instant done. Holmes had been examining the window.

"Someone has tried to force this also. Whoever it was has failed
to make his way in. He must have been a very poor burglar."

"This is a most extraordinary thing," said the inspector, "I
could swear that these marks were not here yesterday evening."

"Some curious person from the village, perhaps," I suggested.

"Very unlikely. Few of them would dare to set foot in the
grounds, far less try to force their way into the cabin. What do
you think of it, Mr. Holmes?"

"I think that fortune is very kind to us."

"You mean that the person will come again?"

"It is very probable. He came expecting to find the door open.
He tried to get in with the blade of a very small penknife. He
could not manage it. What would he do?"

"Come again next night with a more useful tool."

"So I should say. It will be our fault if we are not there to
receive him. Meanwhile, let me see the inside of the cabin."

The traces of the tragedy had been removed, but the furniture
within the little room still stood as it had been on the night
of the crime. For two hours, with most intense concentration,
Holmes examined every object in turn, but his face showed that
his quest was not a successful one. Once only he paused in his
patient investigation.

"Have you taken anything off this shelf, Hopkins?"

"No, I have moved nothing."

"Something has been taken. There is less dust in this corner of
the shelf than elsewhere. It may have been a book lying on its
side. It may have been a box. Well, well, I can do nothing more.
Let us walk in these beautiful woods, Watson, and give a few
hours to the birds and the flowers. We shall meet you here
later, Hopkins, and see if we can come to closer quarters with
the gentleman who has paid this visit in the night."

It was past eleven o'clock when we formed our little ambuscade.
Hopkins was for leaving the door of the hut open, but Holmes was
of the opinion that this would rouse the suspicions of the
stranger. The lock was a perfectly simple one, and only a strong
blade was needed to push it back. Holmes also suggested that we
should wait, not inside the hut, but outside it, among the
bushes which grew round the farther window. In this way we
should be able to watch our man if he struck a light, and see
what his object was in this stealthy nocturnal visit.

It was a long and melancholy vigil, and yet brought with it
something of the thrill which the hunter feels when he lies
beside the water-pool, and waits for the coming of the thirsty
beast of prey. What savage creature was it which might steal
upon us out of the darkness? Was it a fierce tiger of crime,
which could only be taken fighting hard with flashing fang and
claw, or would it prove to be some skulking jackal, dangerous
only to the weak and unguarded?

In absolute silence we crouched amongst the bushes, waiting for
whatever might come. At first the steps of a few belated
villagers, or the sound of voices from the village, lightened
our vigil, but one by one these interruptions died away, and an
absolute stillness fell upon us, save for the chimes of the
distant church, which told us of the progress of the night, and
for the rustle and whisper of a fine rain falling amid the
foliage which roofed us in.

Half-past two had chimed, and it was the darkest hour which
precedes the dawn, when we all started as a low but sharp click
came from the direction of the gate. Someone had entered the
drive. Again there was a long silence, and I had begun to fear
that it was a false alarm, when a stealthy step was heard upon
the other side of the hut, and a moment later a metallic
scraping and clinking. The man was trying to force the lock.
This time his skill was greater or his tool was better, for
there was a sudden snap and the creak of the hinges. Then a
match was struck, and next instant the steady light from a
candle filled the interior of the hut. Through the gauze curtain
our eyes were all riveted upon the scene within.

The nocturnal visitor was a young man, frail and thin, with a
black moustache, which intensified the deadly pallor of his
face. He could not have been much above twenty years of age. I
have never seen any human being who appeared to be in such a
pitiable fright, for his teeth were visibly chattering, and he
was shaking in every limb. He was dressed like a gentleman, in
Norfolk jacket and knickerbockers, with a cloth cap upon his
head. We watched him staring round with frightened eyes. Then he
laid the candle-end upon the table and disappeared from our view
into one of the corners. He returned with a large book, one of
the logbooks which formed a line upon the shelves. Leaning on
the table, he rapidly turned over the leaves of this volume
until he came to the entry which he sought. Then, with an angry
gesture of his clenched hand, he closed the book, replaced it in
the corner, and put out the light. He had hardly turned to leave
the hut when Hopkin's hand was on the fellow's collar, and I heard
his loud gasp of terror as he understood that he was taken. The
candle was relit, and there was our wretched captive, shivering and
cowering in the grasp of the detective. He sank down upon the
sea-chest, and looked helplessly from one of us to the other.

"Now, my fine fellow," said Stanley Hopkins, "who are you, and
what do you want here?"

The man pulled himself together, and faced us with an effort at

"You are detectives, I suppose?" said he. "You imagine I am
connected with the death of Captain Peter Carey. I assure you
that I am innocent."

"We'll see about that," said Hopkins. "First of all, what is
your name?"

"It is John Hopley Neligan."

I saw Holmes and Hopkins exchange a quick glance.

"What are you doing here?"

"Can I speak confidentially?"

"No, certainly not."

"Why should I tell you?"

"If you have no answer, it may go badly with you at the trial."

The young man winced.

"Well, I will tell you," he said. "Why should I not? And yet I
hate to think of this old scandal gaining a new lease of life.
Did you ever hear of Dawson and Neligan?"

I could see, from Hopkins's face, that he never had, but Holmes
was keenly interested.

"You mean the West Country bankers," said he. "They failed for
a million, ruined half the county families of Cornwall, and
Neligan disappeared."

"Exactly. Neligan was my father."

At last we were getting something positive, and yet it seemed a
long gap between an absconding banker and Captain Peter Carey
pinned against the wall with one of his own harpoons. We all
listened intently to the young man's words.

"It was my father who was really concerned. Dawson had retired.
I was only ten years of age at the time, but I was old enough to
feel the shame and horror of it all. It has always been said
that my father stole all the securities and fled. It is not
true. It was his belief that if he were given time in which to
realize them, all would be well and every creditor paid in full.
He started in his little yacht for Norway just before the
warrant was issued for his arrest. I can remember that last
night when he bade farewell to my mother. He left us a list of
the securities he was taking, and he swore that he would come
back with his honour cleared, and that none who had trusted him
would suffer. Well, no word was ever heard from him again. Both
the yacht and he vanished utterly. We believed, my mother and I,
that he and it, with the securities that he had taken with him,
were at the bottom of the sea. We had a faithful friend,
however, who is a business man, and it was he who discovered
some time ago that some of the securities which my father had
with him had reappeared on the London market. You can imagine
our amazement. I spent months in trying to trace them, and at
last, after many doubtings and difficulties, I discovered that
the original seller had been Captain Peter Carey, the owner of
this hut.

"Naturally, I made some inquiries about the man. I found that he
had been in command of a whaler which was due to return from the
Arctic seas at the very time when my father was crossing to
Norway. The autumn of that year was a stormy one, and there was
a long succession of southerly gales. My father's yacht may well
have been blown to the north, and there met by Captain Peter
Carey's ship. If that were so, what had become of my father? In
any case, if I could prove from Peter Carey's evidence how these
securities came on the market it would be a proof that my father
had not sold them, and that he had no view to personal profit
when he took them.

"I came down to Sussex with the intention of seeing the captain,
but it was at this moment that his terrible death occurred. I
read at the inquest a description of his cabin, in which it
stated that the old logbooks of his vessel were preserved in it.
It struck me that if I could see what occurred in the month of
August, 1883, on board the SEA UNICORN, I might settle the
mystery of my father's fate. I tried last night to get at these
logbooks, but was unable to open the door. To-night I tried
again and succeeded, but I find that the pages which deal with
that month have been torn from the book. It was at that moment
I found myself a prisoner in your hands."

"Is that all?" asked Hopkins.

"Yes, that is all." His eyes shifted as he said it.

"You have nothing else to tell us?"

He hesitated.

"No, there is nothing."

"You have not been here before last night?"


"Then how do you account for THAT?" cried Hopkins, as he held up
the damning notebook, with the initials of our prisoner on the
first leaf and the blood-stain on the cover.

The wretched man collapsed. He sank his face in his hands, and
trembled all over.

"Where did you get it?" he groaned. "I did not know. I thought
I had lost it at the hotel."

"That is enough," said Hopkins, sternly. "Whatever else you have
to say, you must say in court. You will walk down with me now to
the police-station. Well, Mr. Holmes, I am very much obliged to
you and to your friend for coming down to help me. As it turns
out your presence was unnecessary, and I would have brought the
case to this successful issue without you, but, none the less,
I am grateful. Rooms have been reserved for you at the
Brambletye Hotel, so we can all walk down to the village together."

"Well, Watson, what do you think of it?" asked Holmes, as we
travelled back next morning.

"I can see that you are not satisfied."

"Oh, yes, my dear Watson, I am perfectly satisfied. At the same
time, Stanley Hopkins's methods do not commend themselves to me.
I am disappointed in Stanley Hopkins. I had hoped for better
things from him. One should always look for a possible
alternative, and provide against it. It is the first rule of
criminal investigation."

"What, then, is the alternative?"

"The line of investigation which I have myself been pursuing. It
may give us nothing. I cannot tell. But at least I shall follow
it to the end."

Several letters were waiting for Holmes at Baker Street. He
snatched one of them up, opened it, and burst out into a
triumphant chuckle of laughter.

"Excellent, Watson! The alternative develops. Have you telegraph
forms? Just write a couple of messages for me: `Sumner, Shipping
Agent, Ratcliff Highway. Send three men on, to arrive ten
to-morrow morning.--Basil.' That's my name in those parts. The
other is: `Inspector Stanley Hopkins, 46 Lord Street, Brixton.
Come breakfast to-morrow at nine-thirty. Important. Wire if
unable to come.--Sherlock Holmes.' There, Watson, this infernal
case has haunted me for ten days. I hereby banish it completely
from my presence. To-morrow, I trust that we shall hear the last
of it forever."

Sharp at the hour named Inspector Stanley Hopkins appeared, and
we sat down together to the excellent breakfast which Mrs.
Hudson had prepared. The young detective was in high spirits at
his success.

"You really think that your solution must be correct?" asked Holmes.

"I could not imagine a more complete case."

"It did not seem to me conclusive."

"You astonish me, Mr. Holmes. What more could one ask for?"

"Does your explanation cover every point?"

"Undoubtedly. I find that young Neligan arrived at the
Brambletye Hotel on the very day of the crime. He came on the
pretence of playing golf. His room was on the ground-floor, and
he could get out when he liked. That very night he went down to
Woodman's Lee, saw Peter Carey at the hut, quarrelled with him,
and killed him with the harpoon. Then, horrified by what he had
done, he fled out of the hut, dropping the notebook which he had
brought with him in order to question Peter Carey about these
different securities. You may have observed that some of them
were marked with ticks, and the others--the great majority--were
not. Those which are ticked have been traced on the London
market, but the others, presumably, were still in the possession
of Carey, and young Neligan, according to his own account, was
anxious to recover them in order to do the right thing by his
father's creditors. After his flight he did not dare to approach
the hut again for some time, but at last he forced himself to do
so in order to obtain the information which he needed. Surely
that is all simple and obvious?"

Holmes smiled and shook his head. "It seems to me to have only
one drawback, Hopkins, and that is that it is intrinsically
impossible. Have you tried to drive a harpoon through a body?
No? Tut, tut my dear sir, you must really pay attention to these
details. My friend Watson could tell you that I spent a whole
morning in that exercise. It is no easy matter, and requires a
strong and practised arm. But this blow was delivered with such
violence that the head of the weapon sank deep into the wall. Do
you imagine that this 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 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."


"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

"How came you there?" asked Holmes.

"I'll tell it you from the beginning. Just sit me up a little,
so as I can speak easy. It was in '83 that it happened--August
of that year. Peter Carey was master of the SEA UNICORN, and I
was spare harpooner. We were coming out of the ice-pack on our
way home, with head winds and a week's southerly gale, when we
picked up a little craft that had been blown north. There was
one man on her--a landsman. The crew had thought she would
founder and had made for the Norwegian coast in the dinghy. I
guess they were all drowned. Well, we took him on board, this
man, and he and the skipper had some long talks in the cabin.
All the baggage we took off with him was one tin box. So far as
I know, the man's name was never mentioned, and on the second
night he disappeared as if he had never been. It was given out
that he had either thrown himself overboard or fallen overboard
in the heavy weather that we were having. Only one man knew what
had happened to him, and that was me, for, with my own eyes, I
saw the skipper tip up his heels and put him over the rail in
the middle watch of a dark night, two days before we sighted the
Shetland Lights. "Well, I kept my knowledge to myself, and
waited to see what would come of it. When we got back to Scotland
it was easily hushed up, and nobody asked any questions. A
stranger died by accident and it was nobody's business to
inquire. Shortly after Peter Carey gave up the sea, and it was
long years before I could find where he was. I guessed that he
had done the deed for the sake of what was in that tin box, and
that he could afford now to pay me well for keeping my mouth
shut. "I found out where he was through a sailor man that had
met him in London, and down I went to squeeze him. The first
night he was reasonable enough, and was ready to give me what
would make me free of the sea for life. We were to fix it all
two nights later. When I came, I found him three parts drunk and
in a vile temper. We sat down and we drank and we yarned about
old times, but the more he drank the less I liked the look on
his face. I spotted that harpoon upon the wall, and I thought I
might need it before I was through. Then at last he broke out at
me, spitting and cursing, with murder in his eyes and a great
clasp-knife in his hand. He had not time to get it from the
sheath before I had the harpoon through him. Heavens! what a
yell he gave! and his face gets between me and my sleep. I stood
there, with his blood splashing round me, and I waited for a
bit, but all was quiet, so I took heart once more. I looked
round, and there was the tin box on the shelf. I had as much
right to it as Peter Carey, anyhow, so I took it with me and
left the hut. Like a fool I left my baccy-pouch upon the table.

"Now I'll tell you the queerest part of the whole story. I had
hardly got outside the hut when I heard someone coming, and I
hid among the bushes. A man came slinking along, went into the
hut, gave a cry as if he had seen a ghost, and legged it as hard
as he could run until he was out of sight. Who he was or what he
wanted is more than I can tell. For my part I walked ten miles,
got a train at Tunbridge Wells, and so reached London, and no
one the wiser.

"Well, when I came to examine the box I found there was no money
in it, and nothing but papers that I would not dare to sell. I
had lost my hold on Black Peter and was stranded in London
without a shilling. There was only my trade left. I saw these
advertisements about harpooners, and high wages, so I went to
the shipping agents, and they sent me here. That's all I know,
and I say again that if I killed Black Peter, the law should
give me thanks, for I saved them the rice 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

"Simply by having the good fortune to get the right clue from
the beginning. It is very possible if I had known about this
notebook it might have led away my thoughts, as it did yours.
But all I heard pointed in the one direction. The amazing
strength, the skill in the use of the harpoon, the rum and
water, the sealskin tobacco-pouch with the coarse tobacco--all
these pointed to a seaman, and one who had been a whaler. I was
convinced that the initials `P.C.' upon the pouch were a
coincidence, and not those of Peter Carey, since he seldom
smoked, and no pipe was found in his cabin. You remember that I
asked whether whisky and brandy were in the cabin. You said they
were. How many landsmen are there who would drink rum when they
could get these other spirits? Yes, I was certain it was a seaman."

"And how did you find him?"

"My dear sir, the problem had become a very simple one. If it
were a seaman, it could only be a seaman who had been with him
on the SEA UNICORN. So far as I could learn he had sailed in no
other ship. I spent three days in wiring to Dundee, and at the
end of that time I had ascertained the names of the crew of the
SEA UNICORN in 1883. When I found Patrick Cairns among the
harpooners, my research was nearing its end. I argued that the
man was probably in London, and that he would desire to leave the
country for a time. I therefore spent some days in the East End,
devised an Arctic expedition, put forth tempting terms for harpooners
who would serve under Captain Basil--and behold the result!"

"Wonderful!" cried Hopkins. "Wonderful!"

"You must obtain the release of young Neligan as soon as
possible," said Holmes. "I confess that I think you owe him some
apology. The tin box must be returned to him, but, of course,
the securities which Peter Carey has sold are lost forever.
There's the cab, Hopkins, and you can remove your man. If you
want me for the trial, my address and that of Watson will be
somewhere in Norway--I'll send particulars later."


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:

Appledore Towers,

"Who is he?" I asked.

"The worst man in London," Holmes answered, as he sat down and
stretched his legs before the fire. "Is anything on the back of
the card?"

I turned it over.

"Will call at 6:30--C.A.M.," I read.

"Hum! He's about due. Do you feel a creeping, shrinking
sensation, Watson, when you stand before the serpents in the
Zoo, and see the slithery, gliding, venomous creatures, with
their deadly eyes and wicked, flattened faces? Well, that's how
Milverton impresses me. I've had to do with fifty murderers in
my career, but the worst of them never gave me the repulsion
which I have for this fellow. And yet I can't get out of doing
business with him--indeed, he is here at my invitation."

"But who is he?"

"I'll tell you, Watson. He is the king of all the blackmailers.
Heaven help the man, and still more the woman, whose secret and
reputation come into the power of Milverton! With a smiling face
and a heart of marble, he will squeeze and squeeze until he has
drained them dry. The fellow is a genius in his way, and would
have made his mark in some more savoury trade. His method is as
follows: He allows it to be known that he is prepared to pay
very high sums for letters which compromise people of wealth and
position. He receives these wares not only from treacherous
valets or maids, but frequently from genteel ruffians, who have
gained the confidence and affection of trusting women. He deals
with no niggard hand. I happen to know that he paid seven
hundred pounds to a footman for a note two lines in length, and
that the ruin of a noble family was the result. Everything which
is in the market goes to Milverton, and there are hundreds in
this great city who turn white at his name. No one knows where
his grip may fall, for he is far too rich and far too cunning to
work from hand to mouth. He will hold a card back for years in
order to play it at the moment when the stake is best worth
winning. I have said that he is the worst man in London, and I
would ask you how could one compare the ruffian, who in hot
blood bludgeons his mate, with this man, who methodically and
at his leisure tortures the soul and wrings the nerves in order
to add to his already swollen money-bags?"

I had seldom heard my friend speak with such intensity of feeling.

"But surely," said I, "the fellow must be within the grasp of
the law?"

"Technically, no doubt, but practically not. What would it
profit a woman, for example, to get him a few months'
imprisonment if her own ruin must immediately follow? His
victims dare not hit back. If ever he blackmailed an innocent
person, then indeed we should have him, but he is as cunning as
the Evil One. No, no, we must find other ways to fight him."

"And why is he here?"

"Because an illustrious client has placed her piteous case in my
hands. It is the Lady Eva Blackwell, the most beautiful
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 astrakhan overcoat descended. A minute later he was in
the room.

Charles Augustus Milverton was a man of fifty, with a large,
intellectual head, a round, plump, hairless face, a perpetual
frozen smile, and two keen gray eyes, which gleamed brightly
from behind broad, gold-rimmed glasses. There was something of
Mr. Pickwick's benevolence in his appearance, marred only by the
insincerity of the fixed smile and by the hard glitter of those
restless and penetrating eyes. His voice was as smooth and suave
as his countenance, as he advanced with a plump little hand
extended, murmuring his regret for having missed us at his first
visit. Holmes disregarded the outstretched hand and looked at
him with a face of granite. Milverton's smile broadened, he
shrugged his shoulders removed his overcoat, folded it with
great deliberation over the back of a chair, and then took a seat.

"This gentleman?" said he, with a wave in my direction. "Is it
discreet? Is it right?"

"Dr. Watson is my friend and partner."

"Very good, Mr. Holmes. It is only in your client's interests
that I protested. The matter is so very delicate----"

"Dr. Watson has already heard of it."

"Then we can proceed to business. You say that you are acting
for Lady Eva. Has she empowered you to accept my terms?"

"What are your terms?"

"Seven thousand pounds."

"And the alternative?"

"My dear sir, it is painful for me to discuss it, but if the
money is not paid on the 14th, there certainly will be no
marriage on the 18th." His insufferable smile was more
complacent than ever.

Holmes thought for a little.

"You appear to me," he said, at last, "to be taking matters too
much for granted. I am, of course, familiar with the contents of
these letters. My client will certainly do what I may advise. I
shall counsel her to tell her future husband the whole story and
to trust to his generosity."

Milverton chuckled.

"You evidently do not know the Earl," said he.

From the baffled look upon Holmes's face, I could see clearly
that he did.

"What harm is there in the letters?" he asked.

"They are sprightly--very sprightly," Milverton answered. "The
lady was a charming correspondent. But I can assure you that the
Earl of Dovercourt would fail to appreciate them. However, since
you think otherwise, we will let it rest at that. It is purely
a matter of business. If you think that it is in the best
interests of your client that these letters should be placed in
the hands of the Earl, then you would indeed be foolish to pay
so large a sum of money to regain them." He rose and seized his
astrakhan coat.

Holmes was gray with anger and mortification.

"Wait a little," he said. "You go too fast. We should certainly
make every effort to avoid scandal in so delicate a matter."

Milverton relapsed into his chair.

"I was sure that you would see it in that light," he purred.

"At the same time," Holmes continued, "Lady Eva is not a wealthy
woman. I assure you that two thousand pounds would be a drain
upon her resources, and that the sum you name is utterly beyond
her power. I beg, therefore, that you will moderate your
demands, and that you will return the letters at the price I
indicate, which is, I assure you, the highest that you can get."

Milverton's smile broadened and his eyes twinkled humorously.

"I am aware that what you say is true about the lady's
resources," said he. "At the same time you must admit that the
occasion of a lady's marriage is a very suitable time for her
friends and relatives to make some little effort upon her
behalf. They may hesitate as to an acceptable wedding present.
Let me assure them that this little bundle of letters would give
more joy than all the candelabra and butter-dishes in London."

"It is impossible," said Holmes.

"Dear me, dear me, how unfortunate!" cried Milverton, taking out
a bulky pocketbook. "I cannot help thinking that ladies are
ill-advised in not making an effort. Look at this!" He held up
a little note with a coat-of-arms upon the envelope. "That
belongs to--well, perhaps it is hardly fair to tell the name
until to-morrow morning. But at that time it will be in the
hands of the lady's husband. And all because she will not find
a beggarly sum which she could get by turning her diamonds into
paste. It IS such a pity! Now, you remember the sudden end of
the engagement between the Honourable Miss Miles and Colonel
Dorking? Only two days before the wedding, there was a paragraph
in the MORNING POST to say that it was all off. And why? It is
almost incredible, but the absurd sum of twelve hundred pounds
would have settled the whole question. Is it not pitiful? And
here I find you, a man of sense, boggling about terms, when your
client's future and honour are at stake. You surprise me, Mr. Holmes."

"What I say is true," Holmes answered. "The money cannot be
found. Surely it is better for you to take the substantial sum
which I offer than to ruin this woman's career, which can profit
you in no way?"

"There you make a mistake, Mr. Holmes. An exposure would profit
me indirectly to a considerable extent. I have eight or ten
similar cases maturing. If it was circulated among them that I
had made a severe example of the Lady Eva, I should find all of
them much more open to reason. You see my point?"

Holmes sprang from his chair.

"Get behind him, Watson! Don't let him out! Now, sir, let us see
the contents of that notebook."

Milverton had glided as quick as a rat to the side of the room
and stood with his back against the wall.

"Mr. Holmes, Mr. Holmes," he said, turning the front of his coat
and exhibiting the butt of a large revolver, which projected
from the inside pocket. "I have been expecting you to do
something original. This has been done so often, and what good
has ever come from it? I assure you that I am armed to the
teeth, and I am perfectly prepared to use my weapons, knowing
that the law will support me. Besides, your supposition that I
would bring the letters here in a notebook is entirely mistaken.
I would do nothing so foolish. And now, gentlemen, I have one or
two little interviews this evening, and it is a long drive to
Hampstead." He stepped forward, took up his coat, laid his hand
on his revolver, and turned to the door. I picked up a chair,
but Holmes shook his head, and I laid it down again. With bow,
a smile, and a twinkle, Milverton was out of the room, and a few
moments after we heard the slam of the carriage door and the
rattle of the wheels as he drove away.

Holmes sat motionless by the fire, his hands buried deep in his
trouser pockets, his chin sunk upon his breast, his eyes fixed
upon the glowing embers. For half an hour he was silent and
still. Then, with the gesture of a man who has taken his
decision, he sprang to his feet and passed into his bedroom. A
little later a rakish young workman, with a goatee beard and a
swagger, lit his clay pipe at the lamp before descending into
the street. "I'll be back some time, Watson," said he, and
vanished into the night. I understood that he had opened his
campaign against Charles Augustus Milverton, but I little dreamed
the strange shape which that campaign was destined to take.

For some days Holmes came and went at all hours in this attire,
but beyond a remark that his time was spent at Hampstead, and
that it was not wasted, I knew nothing of what he was doing. At
last, however, on a wild, tempestuous evening, when the wind
screamed and rattled against the windows, he returned from his
last expedition, and having removed his disguise he sat before
the fire and laughed heartily in his silent inward fashion.

"You would not call me a marrying man, Watson?"

"No, indeed!"

"You'll be interested to hear that I'm engaged."

"My dear fellow! I congrat----"

"To Milverton's housemaid."

"Good heavens, Holmes!"

"I wanted information, Watson."

"Surely you have gone too far?"

"It was a most necessary step. I am a plumber with a rising
business, Escott, by name. I have walked out with her each
evening, and I have talked with her. Good heavens, those talks!
However, I have got all I wanted. I know Milverton's house as I
know the palm of my hand."

"But the girl, Holmes?"

He shrugged his shoulders.

"You can't help it, my dear Watson. You must play your cards as
best you can when such a stake is on the table. However, I
rejoice to say that I have a hated rival, who will certainly cut
me out the instant that my back is turned. What a splendid night
it is!"

"You like this weather?"

"It suits my purpose. Watson, I mean to burgle Milverton's house

I had a catching of the breath, and my skin went cold at the
words, which were slowly uttered in a tone of concentrated
resolution. As a flash of lightning in the night shows up in an
instant every detail of a wild landscape, so at one glance I
seemed to see every possible result of such an action--the
detection, the capture, the honoured career ending in
irreparable failure and disgrace, my friend himself lying
at the mercy of the odious Milverton.

"For heaven's sake, Holmes, think what you are doing," I cried.

"My dear fellow, I have given it every consideration. I am never
precipitate in my actions, nor would I adopt so energetic and,
indeed, so dangerous a course, if any other were possible. Let
us look at the matter clearly and fairly. I suppose that you
will admit that the action is morally justifiable, though
technically criminal. To burgle his house is no more than to
forcibly take his pocketbook--an action in which you were
prepared to aid me."

I turned it over in my mind.

"Yes," I said, "it is morally justifiable so long as our object
is to take no articles save those which are used for an illegal

Exactly. Since it is morally justifiable, I have only to
consider the question of personal risk. Surely a gentleman
should not lay much stress upon this, when a lady is in most
desperate need of his help?"

"You will be in such a false position."

"Well, that is part of the risk. There is no other possible way
of regaining these letters. The unfortunate lady has not the
money, and there are none of her people in whom she could
confide. To-morrow is the last day of grace, and unless we can
get the letters to-night, this villain will be as good as his
word and will bring about her ruin. I must, therefore, abandon
my client to her fate or I must play this last card. Between
ourselves, Watson, it's a sporting duel between this fellow
Milverton and me. He had, as you saw, the best of the first
exchanges, but my self-respect and my reputation are concerned
to fight it to a finish."

"Well, I don't like it, but I suppose it must be," said I. "When
do we start?"

"You are not coming."

"Then you are not going," said I. "I give you my word of honour--
and I never broke it in my life--that I will take a cab straight
to the police-station and give you away, unless you let me share
this adventure with you."

"You can't help me."

"How do you know that? You can't tell what may happen. Anyway,
my resolution is taken. Other people besides you have
self-respect, and even reputations."

Holmes had looked annoyed, but his brow cleared, and he clapped
me on the shoulder.

"Well, well, my dear fellow, be it so. We have shared this same
room for some years, and it would be amusing if we ended by
sharing the same cell. You know, Watson, I don't mind confessing
to you that I have always had an idea that I would have made a
highly efficient criminal. This is the chance of my lifetime in
that direction. See here!" He took a neat little leather case
out of a drawer, and opening it he exhibited a number of shining
instruments. "This is a first-class, up-to-date burgling kit,
with nickel-plated jemmy, diamond-tipped glass-cutter, adaptable
keys, and every modern improvement which the march of
civilization demands. Here, too, is my dark lantern. Everything
is in order. Have you a pair of silent shoes?"

"I have rubber-soled tennis shoes."

"Excellent! And a mask?"

"I can make a couple out of black silk."

"I can see that you have a strong, natural turn for this sort of
thing. Very good, do you make the masks. We shall have some cold
supper before we start. It is now nine-thirty. At eleven we
shall drive as far as Church Row. It is a quarter of an hour's
walk from there to Appledore Towers. We shall be at work before
midnight. Milverton is a heavy sleeper, and retires punctually
at ten-thirty. With any luck we should be back here by two, with
the Lady Eva's letters in my pocket."

Holmes and I put on our dress-clothes, so that we might appear
to be two theatre-goers homeward bound. In Oxford Street we
picked up a hansom and drove to an address in Hampstead. Here we
paid off our cab, and with our great coats buttoned up, for it
was bitterly cold, and the wind seemed to blow through us, we
walked along the edge of the heath.

"It's a business that needs delicate treatment," said Holmes.
"These documents are contained in a safe in the fellow's study,
and the study is the ante-room of his bed-chamber. On the other
hand, like all these stout, little men who do themselves well,
he is a plethoric sleeper. Agatha--that's my 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

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 as hard to read
by the flickering fire, and he drew out his little dark lantern,
for it was too dangerous, with Milverton in the next room, to
switch on the electric light. Suddenly I saw him halt, listen
intently, and then in an instant he had swung the door of the
safe to, picked up his coat, stuffed his tools into the pockets,
and darted behind the window curtain, motioning me to do the same.

It was only when I had joined him there that I heard what had
alarmed his quicker senses. There was a noise somewhere within
the house. A door slammed in the distance. Then a confused, dull
murmur broke itself into the measured thud of heavy footsteps
rapidly approaching. They were in the passage outside the room.
They paused at the door. The door opened. There was a sharp
snick as the electric light was turned on. The door closed once
more, and the pungent reek of a strong cigar was borne to our
nostrils. Then the footsteps continued backward and forward,
backward and forward, within a few yards of us. Finally there
was a creak from a chair, and the footsteps ceased. Then a key
clicked in a lock, and I heard the rustle of papers.

So far I had not dared to look out, but now I gently parted the
division of the curtains in front of me and peeped through. From
the pressure of Holmes's shoulder against mine, I knew that he
was sharing my observations. Right in front of us, and almost
within our reach, was the broad, rounded back of Milverton. It
was evident that we had entirely miscalculated his movements,
that he had never been to his bedroom, but that he had been
sitting up in some smoking or billiard room in the farther wing
of the house, the windows of which we had not seen. His broad,
grizzled head, with its shining patch of baldness, was in the
immediate foreground of our vision. He was leaning far back in
the red leather chair, his legs outstretched, a long, black
cigar projecting at an angle from his mouth. He wore a
semi-military smoking jacket, claret-coloured, with a black
velvet collar. In his hand he held a long, legal document which
he was reading in an indolent fashion, blowing rings of tobacco
smoke from his lips as he did so. There was no promise of a
speedy departure in his composed bearing and his comfortable

I felt Holmes's hand steal into mine and give me a reassuring
shake, as if to say that the situation was within his powers,
and that he was easy in his mind. I was not sure whether he had
seen what was only too obvious from my position, that the door
of the safe was imperfectly closed, and that Milverton might at
any moment observe it. In my own mind I had determined that if
I were sure, from the rigidity of his gaze, that it had caught
his eye, I would at once spring out, throw my great coat over
his head, pinion him, and leave the rest to Holmes. But
Milverton never looked up. He was languidly interested by the
papers in his hand, and page after page was turned as he
followed the argument of the lawyer. At least, I thought, when
he has finished the document and the cigar he will go to his
room, but before he had reached the end of either, there came a
remarkable development, which turned our thoughts into quite
another channel.

Several times I had observed that Milverton looked at his watch,
and once he had risen and sat down again, with a gesture of
impatience. The idea, however, that he might have an appointment
at so strange an hour never occurred to me until a faint sound
reached my ears from the veranda outside. Milverton dropped his
papers and sat rigid in his chair. The sound was repeated, and
then there came a gentle tap at the door. Milverton rose and
opened it.

"Well," said he, curtly, "you are nearly half an hour late."

So this was the explanation of the unlocked door and of the
nocturnal vigil of Milverton. There was the gentle rustle of a
woman's dress. I had closed the slit between the curtains as
Milverton's face had turned in our direction, but now I ventured
very carefully to open it once more. He had resumed his seat,
the cigar still projecting at an insolent angle from the corner
of his mouth. In front of him, in the full glare of the electric
light, there stood a tall, slim, dark woman, a veil over her
face, a mantle drawn round her chin. Her breath came quick and
fast, and every inch of the lithe figure was quivering with
strong emotion.

"Well," said Milverton, "you made me lose a good night's rest,
my dear. I hope you'll prove worth it. You couldn't come any
other time--eh?"

The woman shook her head.

"Well, if you couldn't you couldn't. If the Countess is a hard
mistress, you have your chance to get level with her now. Bless
the girl, what are you shivering about? That's right. Pull
yourself together. Now, let us get down to business." He took a
notebook from the drawer of his desk. "You say that you have
five letters which compromise the Countess d'Albert. You want to
sell them. I want to buy them. So far so good. It only remains
to fix a price. I should want to inspect the letters, of course.
If they are really good specimens--Great heavens, is it you?"

The woman, without a word, had raised her veil and dropped the
mantle from her chin. It was a dark, handsome, clear-cut face
which confronted Milverton--a face with a curved nose, strong,
dark eyebrows shading hard, glittering eyes, and a straight,
thin-lipped mouth set in a dangerous smile.

"It is I," she said, "the woman whose life you have ruined."

Milverton laughed, but fear vibrated in his voice. "You were so
very obstinate," said he. "Why did you drive me to such
extremities? I assure you I wouldn't hurt a fly of my own
accord, but every man has his business, and what was I to do? I
put the price well within your means. You would not pay."

"So you sent the letters to my husband, and he--the noblest
gentleman that ever lived, a man whose boots I was never worthy
to lace--he broke his gallant heart and died. You remember that
last night, when I came through that door, I begged and prayed
you for mercy, and you laughed in my face as you are trying to
laugh now, only your coward heart cannot keep your lips from
twitching. Yes, you never thought to see me here again, but it
was that night which taught me how I could meet you face to
face, and alone. Well, Charles Milverton, what have you to say?"

"Don't imagine that you can bully me," said he, rising to his
feet. "I have only to raise my voice and I could call my
servants and have you arrested. But I will make allowance for
your natural anger. Leave the room at once as you came, and I
will say no more."

The woman stood with her hand buried in her bosom, and the same
deadly smile on her thin lips.

"You will ruin no more lives as you have ruined mine. You will
wring no more hearts as you wrung mine. I will free the world of
a poisonous thing. Take that, you hound--and that!--and that!--
and that!"

She had drawn a little gleaming revolver, and emptied barrel
after barrel into Milverton's body, the muzzle within two feet
of his shirt front. He shrank away and then fell forward upon
the table, coughing furiously and clawing among the papers. Then
he staggered to his feet, received another shot, and rolled upon
the floor. "You've done me," he cried, and lay still. The woman
looked at him intently, and ground her heel into his upturned
face. She looked again, but there was no sound or movement. I
heard a sharp rustle, the night air blew into the heated room,
and the avenger was gone.

No interference upon our part could have saved the man from his
fate, but, as the woman poured bullet after bullet into
Milverton's shrinking body I was about to spring out, when I
felt Holmes's cold, strong grasp upon my wrist. I understood the
whole argument of that firm, restraining grip--that it was no
affair of ours, that justice had overtaken a villain, that we
had our own duties and our own objects, which were not to be
lost sight of. But hardly had the woman rushed from the room
when Holmes, with swift, silent steps, was over at the other
door. He turned the key in the lock. At the same instant we
heard voices in the house and the sound of hurrying feet. The
revolver shots had roused the household. With perfect coolness
Holmes slipped across to the safe, filled his two arms with
bundles of letters, and poured them all into the fire. Again and
again he did it, until the safe was empty. Someone turned the
handle and beat upon the outside of the door. Holmes looked
swiftly round. The letter which had been the messenger of death
for Milverton lay, all mottled with his blood, upon the table.
Holmes tossed it in among the blazing papers. Then he drew the
key from the outer door, passed through after me, and locked it
on the outside. "This way, Watson," said he, "we can scale the
garden wall in this direction."

I could not have believed that an alarm could have spread so
swiftly. Looking back, the huge house was one blaze of light.
The front door was open, and figures were rushing down the
drive. The whole garden was alive with people, and one fellow
raised a view-halloa as we emerged from the veranda and followed
hard at our heels. Holmes seemed to know the grounds perfectly,
and he threaded his way swiftly among a plantation of small
trees, I close at his heels, and our foremost pursuer panting
behind us. It was a six-foot wall which barred our path, but he
sprang to the top and over. As I did the same I felt the hand of
the man behind me grab at my ankle, but I kicked myself free and
scrambled over a grass-strewn coping. I fell upon my face among
some bushes, but Holmes had me on my feet in an instant, and
together we dashed away across the huge expanse of Hampstead
Heath. We had run two miles, I suppose, before Holmes at last
halted and listened intently. All was absolute silence behind
us. We had shaken off our pursuers and were safe.

We had breakfasted and were smoking our morning pipe on the day
after the remarkable experience which I have recorded, when Mr.
Lestrade, of Scotland Yard, very solemn and impressive, was
ushered into our modest sitting-room.

"Good-morning, Mr. Holmes," said he; "good-morning. May I ask if
you are very busy just now?"

"Not too busy to listen to you."

"I thought that, perhaps, if you had nothing particular on hand,
you might care to assist us in a most remarkable case, which
occurred only last night at Hampstead."

"Dear me!" said Holmes. "What was that?"

"A murder--a most dramatic and remarkable murder. I know how
keen you are upon these things, and I would take it as a great
favour if you would step down to Appledore Towers, and give us
the benefit of your advice. It is no ordinary crime. We have had
our eyes upon this Mr. Milverton for some time, and, between
ourselves, he was a bit of a villain. He is known to have held
papers which he used for blackmailing purposes. These papers
have all been burned by the murderers. No article of value was
taken, as it is probable that the criminals were men of good
position, whose sole object was to prevent social exposure."

"Criminals?" said Holmes. "Plural?"

"Yes, there were two of them. They were as nearly as possible
captured red-handed. We have their footmarks, we have their
description, it's ten to one that we trace them. The first
fellow was a bit too active, but the second was caught by the
under-gardener, and only got away after a struggle. He was a
middle-sized, strongly built man--square jaw, thick neck,
moustache, a mask over his eyes."

"That's rather vague," said Sherlock Holmes. "My, it might be a
description of Watson!"

"It's true," said the inspector, with amusement. "It might be a
description of Watson."

"Well, I'm afraid I can't help you, Lestrade," said Holmes. "The
fact is that I knew this fellow Milverton, that I considered him
one of the most dangerous men in London, and that I think there
are certain crimes which the law cannot touch, and which
therefore, to some extent, justify private revenge. No, it's no
use arguing. I have made up my mind. My sympathies are with the
criminals rather than with the victim, and I will not handle
this case."

Holmes had not said one word to me about the tragedy which we
had witnessed, but I observed all the morning that he was in his
most thoughtful mood, and he gave me the impression, from his
vacant eyes and his abstracted manner, of a man who is striving
to recall something to his memory. We were in the middle of our
lunch, when he suddenly sprang to his feet. "By Jove, Watson,
I've got it!" he cried. "Take your hat! Come with me!" He
hurried at his top speed down Baker Street and along Oxford
Street, until we had almost reached Regent Circus. Here, on the
left hand, there stands a shop window filled with photographs of
the celebrities and beauties of the day. Holmes's eyes fixed
themselves upon one of them, and following his gaze I saw the
picture of a regal and stately lady in Court dress, with a high
diamond tiara upon her noble head. I looked at that delicately
curved nose, at the marked eyebrows, at the straight mouth, and
the strong little chin beneath it. Then I caught my breath as I
read the time-honoured title of the great nobleman and statesman
whose wife she had been. My eyes met those of Holmes, and he put
his finger to his lips as we turned away from the window.


It was no very unusual thing for Mr. Lestrade, of Scotland Yard,
to look in upon us of an evening, and his visits were welcome to
Sherlock Holmes, for they enabled him to keep in touch with all
that was going on at the police headquarters. In return for the
news which Lestrade would bring, Holmes was always ready to
listen with attention to the details of any case upon which the
detective was engaged, and was able occasionally, without any
active interference, to give some hint or suggestion drawn from
his own vast knowledge and experience.

On this particular evening, Lestrade had spoken of the weather
and the newspapers. Then he had fallen silent, puffing
thoughtfully at his cigar. Holmes looked keenly at him.

"Anything remarkable on hand?" he asked.

"Oh, no, Mr. Holmes--nothing very particular."

"Then tell me about it."

Lestrade laughed.

"Well, Mr. Holmes, there is no use denying that there IS
something on my mind. And yet it is such an absurd business,
that I hesitated to bother you about it. On the other hand,
although it is trivial, it is undoubtedly queer, and I know that
you have a taste for all that is out of the common. But, in my
opinion, it comes more in Dr. Watson's line than ours."

"Disease?" said I.

"Madness, anyhow. And a queer madness, too. You wouldn't think
there was anyone living at this time of day who had such a
hatred of Napoleon the First that he would break any image of
him that he could see."

Holmes sank back in his chair.

"That's no business of mine," said he.

"Exactly. That's what I said. But then, when the man commits
burglary in order to break images which are not his own, that
brings it away from the doctor and on to the policeman."

Holmes sat up again.

"Burglary! This is more interesting. Let me hear the details."

Lestrade took out his official notebook and refreshed his memory
from its pages.

"The first case reported was four days ago," said he. "It was at
the shop of Morse Hudson, who has a place for the sale of
pictures and statues in the Kennington Road. The assistant had
left the front shop for an instant, when he heard a crash, and
hurrying in he found a plaster bust of Napoleon, which stood
with several other works of art upon the counter, lying shivered
into fragments. He rushed out into the road, but, although
several passers-by declared that they had noticed a man run out
of the shop, he could neither see anyone nor could he find any
means of identifying the rascal. It seemed to be one of those
senseless acts of Hooliganism which occur from time to time, and
it was reported to the constable on the beat as such. The
plaster cast was not worth more than a few shillings, and the
whole affair appeared to be too childish for any particular

"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 `IDEE 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 IDEE 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 IDEE FIXE would enable your interesting
monomaniac to find out where these busts were situated."

"Well, how do YOU explain it?"

"I don't attempt to do so. I would only observe that there is a
certain method in the gentleman's eccentric proceedings. For
example, in Dr. Barnicot's hall, where a sound might arouse the
family, the bust was taken outside before being broken, whereas
in the surgery, where there was less danger of an alarm, it was
smashed where it stood. The affair seems absurdly trifling, and
yet I dare call nothing trivial when I reflect that some of my
most classic cases have had the least promising commencement.
You will remember, Watson, how the dreadful business of the
Abernetty family was first brought to my notice by the depth
which the parsley had sunk into the butter upon a hot day. I
can't afford, therefore, to smile at your three broken busts,
Lestrade, and I shall be very much obliged to you if you will
let me hear of any fresh development of so singular a chain of

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.

"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

"By George! It's attempted murder at the least. Nothing less
will hold the London message-boy. There's a deed of violence
indicated in that fellow's round shoulders and outstretched
neck. What's this, Watson? The top steps swilled down and the
other ones dry. Footsteps enough, anyhow! Well, well, there's
Lestrade at the front window, and we shall soon know all about it."

The official received us with a very grave face and showed us
into a sitting-room, where an exceedingly unkempt and agitated
elderly man, clad in a flannel dressing-gown, was pacing up and
down. He was introduced to us as the owner of the house--Mr.
Horace Harker, of the Central Press Syndicate.

"It's the Napoleon bust business again," said Lestrade. "You
seemed interested last night, Mr. Holmes, so I thought perhaps
you would be glad to be present now that the affair has taken a
very much graver turn."

"What has it turned to, then?"

"To murder. Mr. Harker, will you tell these gentlemen exactly
what has occurred?"

The man in the dressing-gown turned upon us with a most
melancholy face.

"It's an extraordinary thing," said he, "that all my life I have
been collecting other people's news, and now that a real piece
of news has come my own way I am so confused and bothered that
I can't put two words together. If I had come in here as a
journalist, I should have interviewed myself and had two columns
in every evening paper. As it is, I am giving away valuable copy
by telling my story over and over to a string of different
people, and I can make no use of it myself. However, I've heard
your name, Mr. Sherlock Holmes, and if you'll only explain this
queer business, I shall be paid for my trouble in telling you
the story."

Holmes sat down and listened.

"It all seems to centre round that bust of Napoleon which I
bought for this very room about four months ago. I picked it up
cheap from Harding Brothers, two doors from the High Street
Station. A great deal of my journalistic work is done at night,
and I often write until the early morning. So it was to-day. I
was sitting in my den, which is at the back of the top of the
house, about three o'clock, when I was convinced that I heard
some sounds downstairs. I listened, but they were not repeated,
and I concluded that they came from outside. Then suddenly,
about five minutes later, there came a most horrible yell--the
most dreadful sound, Mr. Holmes, that ever I heard. It will ring
in my ears as long as I live. I sat frozen with horror for a
minute or two. Then I seized the poker and went downstairs. When
I entered this room I found the window wide open, and I at once
observed that the bust was gone from the mantelpiece. Why any
burglar should take such a thing passes my understanding, for it
was only a plaster cast and of no real value whatever.

"You can see for yourself that anyone going out through that
open window could reach the front doorstep by taking a long
stride. This was clearly what the burglar had done, so I went
round and opened the door. Stepping out into the dark, I nearly
fell over a dead man, who was lying there. I ran back for a
light and there was the poor fellow, a great gash in his throat
and the whole place swimming in blood. He lay on his back, his
knees drawn up, and his mouth horribly open. I shall see him in
my dreams. I had just time to blow on my police-whistle, and
then I must have fainted, for I knew nothing more until I found
the policeman standing over me in the hall."

"Well, who was the murdered man?" asked Holmes.

"There's nothing to show who he was," said Lestrade. "You shall
see the body at the mortuary, but we have made nothing of it up
to now. He is a tall man, sunburned, very powerful, not more
than thirty. He is poorly dressed, and yet does not appear to be
a labourer. A horn-handled clasp knife was lying in a pool of
blood beside him. Whether it was the weapon which did the deed,
or whether it belonged to the dead man, I do not know. There was
no name on his clothing, and nothing in his pockets save an
apple, some string, a shilling map of London, and a photograph.
Here it is."

It was evidently taken by a snapshot from a small camera. It
represented an alert, sharp-featured simian man, with thick
eyebrows and a very peculiar projection of the lower part of the
face, like the muzzle of a baboon.

"And what became of the bust?" asked Holmes, after a careful
study of this picture.

"We had news of it just before you came. It has been found in
the front garden of an empty house in Campden House Road. It was
broken into fragments. I am going round now to see it. Will you come?"

"Certainly. I must just take one look round." He examined the
carpet and the window. "The fellow had either very long legs or
was a most active man," said he. "With an area beneath, it was
no mean feat to reach that window ledge and open that window.
Getting back was comparatively simple. Are you coming with us to
see the remains of your bust, Mr. Harker?"

The disconsolate journalist had seated himself at a

"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 spat 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,

"The most practical way of getting at it, in my opinion, is to
identify the dead man. There should be no difficulty about that.
When we have found who he is and who his associates are, we
should have a good start in learning what he was doing in Pitt
Street last night, and who it was who met him and killed him on
the doorstep of Mr. Horace Harker. Don't you think so?"

"No doubt; and yet it is not quite the way in which I should
approach the case."

"What would you do then?"

"Oh, you must not let me influence you in any way. I suggest
that you go on your line and I on mine. We can compare notes
afterwards, and each will supplement the other."

"Very good," said Lestrade.

"If you are going back to Pitt Street, you might see Mr. Horace
Harker. Tell him for me that I have quite made up my mind, and
that it is certain that a dangerous homicidal lunatic, with
Napoleonic delusions, was in his house last night. It will be
useful for his article."

Lestrade stared.

"You don't seriously believe that?"

Holmes smiled.

"Don't I? Well, perhaps I don't. But I am sure that it will
interest Mr. Horace Harker and the subscribers of the Central
Press Syndicate. Now, Watson, I think that we shall find that we
have a long and rather complex day's work before us. I should be
glad, Lestrade, if you could make it convenient to meet us at
Baker Street at six o'clock this evening. Until then I should
like to keep this photograph, found in the dead man's pocket. It
is possible that I may have to ask your company and assistance
upon a small expedition which will have be undertaken to-night,
if my chain of reasoning should prove to be correct. Until then
good-bye and good luck!"

Sherlock Holmes and I walked together to the High Street, where
we stopped at the shop of Harding Brothers, whence the bust had
been purchased. A young assistant informed us that Mr. Harding
would be absent until afternoon, and that he was himself a
newcomer, who could give us no information. Holmes's face showed
his disappointment and annoyance.

"Well, well, we can't expect to have it all our own way,
Watson," he said, at last. "We must come back in the afternoon,
if Mr. Harding will not be here until then. I am, as you have no
doubt surmised, endeavouring to trace these busts to their
source, in order to find if there is not something peculiar
which may account for their remarkable fate. Let us make for Mr.
Morse Hudson, of the Kennington Road, and see if he can throw
any light upon the problem."

A drive of an hour brought us to the picture-dealer's
establishment. He was a small, stout man with a red face and a
peppery manner.

"Yes, sir. On my very counter, sir," said he. "What we pay rates
and taxes for I don't know, when any ruffian can come in and
break one's goods. Yes, sir, it was I who sold Dr. Barnicot his
two statues. Disgraceful, sir! A Nihilist plot--that's what I
make it. No one but an anarchist would go about breaking
statues. Red republicans--that's what I call 'em. Who did I get
the statues from? I don't see what that has to do with it. Well,
if you really want to know, I got them from Gelder & Co., in
Church Street, Stepney. They are a well-known house in the
trade, and have been this twenty years. How many had I? Three--
two and one are three--two of Dr. Barnicot's, and one smashed in
broad daylight on my own counter. Do I know that photograph? No,
I don't. Yes, I do, though. Why, it's Beppo. He was a kind of
Italian piece-work man, who made himself useful in the shop. He
could carve a bit, and gild and frame, and do odd jobs. The
fellow left me last week, and I've heard nothing of him since.
No, I don't know where he came from nor where he went to. I had
nothing against him while he was here. He was gone two days
before the bust was smashed."

"Well, that's all we could reasonably expect from Morse Hudson,"
said Holmes, as we emerged from the shop. We have this Beppo as
a common factor, both in Kennington and in Kensington, so that
is worth a ten-mile drive. Now, Watson, let us make for Gelder
& Co., of Stepney, the source and origin of the busts. I shall
be surprised if we don't get some help down there."

In rapid succession we passed through the fringe of fashionable
London, hotel London, theatrical London, literary London,
commercial London, and, finally, maritime London, till we came
to a riverside city of a hundred thousand souls, where the
tenement houses swelter and reek with the outcasts of Europe.
Here, in a broad thoroughfare, once the abode of wealthy City
merchants, we found the sculpture works for which we searched.
Outside was a considerable yard full of monumental masonry.
Inside was a large room in which fifty workers were carving or
moulding. The manager, a big blond German, received us civilly
and gave a clear answer to all Holmes's questions. A reference
to his books showed that hundreds of casts had been taken from
a marble copy of Devine's head of Napoleon, but that the three
which had been sent to Morse Hudson a year or so before had been
half of a batch of six, the other three being sent to Harding
Brothers, of Kensington. There was no reason why those six
should be different from any of the other casts. He could
suggest no possible cause why anyone should wish to destroy
them--in fact, he laughed at the idea. Their wholesale price was
six shillings, but the retailer would get twelve or more. The
cast was taken in two moulds from each side of the face, and
then these two profiles of plaster of Paris were joined together
to make the complete bust. The work was usually done by
Italians, in the room we were in. When finished, the busts were
put on a table in the passage to dry, and afterwards stored.
That was all he could tell us.

But the production of the photograph had a remarkable effect
upon the manager. His face flushed with anger, and his brows
knotted over his blue Teutonic eyes.

"Ah, the rascal!" he cried. "Yes, indeed, I know him very well.
This has always been a respectable establishment, and the only
time that we have ever had the police in it was over this very
fellow. It was more than a year ago now. He knifed another
Italian in the street, and then he came to the works with the
police on his heels, and he was taken here. Beppo was his name--
his second name I never knew. Serve me right for engaging a man
with such a face. But he was a good workman--one of the best."

"What did he get?"

"The man lived and he got off with a year. I have no doubt he is
out now, but he has not dared to show his nose here. We have a
cousin of his here, and I daresay he could tell you where he is."

"No, no," cried Holmes, "not a word to the cousin--not a word,
I beg of you. The matter is very important, and the farther I go
with it, the more important it seems to grow. When you referred
in your ledger to the sale of those casts I observed that the
date was June 3rd of last year. Could you give me the date when
Beppo was arrested?"

"I could tell you roughly by the pay-list," the manager
answered. "Yes," he continued, after some turning over of pages,
"he was paid last on May 20th."

"Thank you," said Holmes. "I don't think that I need intrude
upon your time and patience any more." With a last word of
caution that he should say nothing as to our researches, we
turned our faces westward once more.

The afternoon was far advanced before we were able to snatch a
hasty luncheon at a restaurant. A news-bill at the entrance
announced "Kensington Outrage. Murder by a Madman," and the
contents of the paper showed that Mr. Horace Harker had got his
account into print after all. Two columns were occupied with a
highly sensational and flowery rendering of the whole incident.
Holmes propped it against the cruet-stand and read it while he
ate. Once or twice he chuckled.

"This is all right, Watson," said he. "Listen to this:

"It is satisfactory to know that there can be no difference of
opinion upon this case, since Mr. Lestrade, one of the most
experienced members of the official force, and Mr. Sherlock
Holmes, the well known consulting expert, have each come to the
conclusion that the grotesque series of incidents, which have
ended in so tragic a fashion, arise from lunacy rather than from
deliberate crime. No explanation save mental aberration can
cover the facts.

The Press, Watson, is a most valuable institution, if you only
know how to use it. And now, if you have quite finished, we will
hark back to Kensington and see what the manager of Harding
Brothers has to say on the matter."

The founder of that great emporium proved to be a brisk, crisp
little person, very dapper and quick, with a clear head and a
ready tongue.

"Yes, sir, I have already read the account in the evening
papers. Mr. Horace Harker is a customer of ours. We supplied him
with the bust some months ago. We ordered three busts of that
sort from Gelder & Co., of Stepney. They are all sold now. To
whom? Oh, I daresay by consulting our sales book we could very
easily tell you. Yes, we have the entries here. One to Mr.
Harker you see, and one to Mr. Josiah Brown, of Laburnum Lodge,
Laburnum Vale, Chiswick, and one to Mr. Sandeford, of Lower Grove
Road, Reading. No, I have never seen this face which you show me
in the photograph. You would hardly forget it, would you, sir,
for I've seldom seen an uglier. Have we any Italians on the
staff? Yes, sir, we have several among our workpeople and
cleaners. I daresay they might get a peep at that sales book if
they wanted to. There is no particular reason for keeping a
watch upon that book. Well, well, it's a very strange business,
and I hope that you will let me know if anything comes of your

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."


"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

"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

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

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."


"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?"


"I was very much surprised at your letter, for I could not
imagine how you knew that I owned such a thing."

"Of course you must have been surprised, but the explanation is
very simple. Mr. Harding, of Harding Brothers, said that they
had sold you their last copy, and he gave me your address."

"Oh, that was it, was it? Did he tell you what I paid for it?"

"No, he did not."

"Well, I am an honest man, though not a very rich one. I only
gave fifteen shillings for the bust, and I think you ought to
know that before I take ten pounds from you.

"I am sure the scruple does you honour, Mr. Sandeford. But I
have named that price, so I intend to stick to it."

"Well, it is very handsome of you, Mr. Holmes. I brought the
bust up with me, as you asked me to do. Here it is!" He opened
his bag, and at last we saw placed upon our table a complete
specimen of that bust which we had already seen more than once
in fragments.

Holmes took a paper from his pocket and laid a ten-pound note
upon the table.

"You will kindly sign that paper, Mr. Sandeford, in the presence
of these witnesses. It is simply to say that you transfer every
possible right that you ever had in the bust to me. I am a
methodical man, you see, and you never know what turn events
might take afterwards. Thank you, Mr. Sandeford; here is your
money, and I wish you a very good evening."

When our visitor had disappeared, Sherlock Holmes's movements
were such as to rivet our attention. He began by taking a clean
white cloth from a drawer and laying it over the table. Then he
placed his newly acquired bust in the centre of the cloth.
Finally, he picked up his hunting-crop and struck Napoleon a
sharp blow on the top of the head. The figure broke into
fragments, and Holmes bent eagerly over the shattered remains.
Next instant, with a loud shout of triumph he held up one
splinter, in which a round, dark object was fixed like a plum in
a pudding.

"Gentlemen," he cried, "let me introduce you to the famous black
pearl of the Borgias."

Lestrade and I sat silent for a moment, and then, with a
spontaneous impulse, we both broke at clapping, as at the
well-wrought crisis of a play. A flush of colour sprang to
Holmes's pale cheeks, and he bowed to us like the master
dramatist who receives the homage of his audience. It was
at such moments that for an instant he ceased to be a
reasoning machine, and betrayed his human love for admiration
and applause. The same singularly proud and reserved nature
which turned away with disdain from popular notoriety was
capable of being moved to its depths by spontaneous wonder
and praise from a friend.

"Yes, gentlemen," said he, "it is the most famous pearl now
existing in the world, and it has been my good fortune, by a
connected chain of inductive reasoning, to trace it from the
Prince of Colonna's bedroom at the Dacre Hotel, where it was
lost, to the interior of this, the last of the six busts of
Napoleon which were manufactured by Gelder & Co., of Stepney.
You will remember, Lestrade, the sensation caused by the
disappearance of this valuable jewel and the vain efforts of the
London police to recover it. I was myself consulted upon the
case, but I was unable to throw any light upon it. Suspicion
fell upon the maid of the Princess, who was an Italian, and it
was proved that she had a brother in London, but we failed to
trace any connection between them. The maid's name was Lucretia
Venucci, and there is no doubt in my mind that this Pietro who
was murdered two nights ago was the brother. I have been looking
up the dates in the old files of the paper, and I find that the
disappearance of the pearl was exactly two days before the arrest
of Beppo, for some crime of violence--an event which took place in
the factory of Gelder & Co., at the very moment when these busts
were being made. Now you clearly see the sequence of events,
though you see them, of course, in the inverse order to the way
in which they presented themselves to me. Beppo had the pearl in
his possession. He may have stolen it from Pietro, he may have
been Pietro's confederate, he may have been the go-between of
Pietro and his sister. It is of no consequence to us which is
the correct solution.

"The main fact is that he HAD the pearl, and at that moment,
when it was on his person, he was pursued by the police. He made
for the factory in which he worked, and he knew that he had only a
few minutes in which to conceal this enormously valuable prize,
which would otherwise be found on him when he was searched. Six
plaster casts of Napoleon were drying in the passage. One of
them was still soft. In an instant Beppo, a skilful workman,
made a small hole in the wet plaster, dropped in the pearl, and
with a few touches covered over the aperture once more. It was
an admirable hiding-place. No one could possibly find it. But
Beppo was condemned to a year's imprisonment, and in the
meanwhile his six busts were scattered over London. He could not
tell which contained his treasure. Only by breaking them could
he see. Even shaking would tell him nothing, for as the plaster
was wet it was probable that the pearl would adhere to it--as, in
fact, it has done. Beppo did not despair, and he conducted his
search with considerable ingenuity and perseverance. Through a
cousin who works with Gelder, he found out the retail firms who
had bought the busts. He managed to find employment with Morse
Hudson, and in that way tracked down three of them. The pearl
was not there. Then, with the help of some Italian 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 exactly to identify the
college or the criminal would be injudicious and offensive. So
painful a scandal may well be allowed to die out. With due
discretion the incident itself may, however, be described, since
it serves to illustrate some of those qualities for which my
friend was remarkable. I will endeavour, in my statement, to
avoid such terms as would serve to limit the events to any
particular place, or give a clue as to the people concerned.

We were residing at the time in furnished lodgings close to a
library where Sherlock Holmes was pursuing some laborious
researches in early English charters--researches which led to
results so striking that they may be the subject of one of my
future narratives. Here it was that one evening we received a
visit from an acquaintance, Mr. Hilton Soames, tutor and
lecturer at the College of St. Luke's. Mr. Soames was a tall,
spare man, of a nervous and excitable temperament. I had always
known him to be restless in his manner, but on this particular
occasion he was in such a state of uncontrollable agitation that
it was clear something very unusual had occurred.

"I trust, Mr. Holmes, that you can spare me a few hours of your
valuable time. We have had a very painful incident at St.
Luke's, and really, but for the happy chance of your being in
town, I should have been at a loss what to do."

"I am very busy just now, and I desire no distractions," my
friend answered. "I should much prefer that you called in the
aid of the police."

"No, no, my dear sir; such a course is utterly impossible. When
once the law is evoked it cannot be stayed again, and this is
just one of those cases where, for the credit of the college, it
is most essential to avoid scandal. Your discretion is as well
known as your powers, and you are the one man in the world who
can help me. I beg you, Mr. Holmes, to do what you can."

My friend's temper had not improved since he had been deprived
of the congenial surroundings of Baker Street. Without his
scrapbooks, his chemicals, and his homely untidiness, he was an
uncomfortable man. He shrugged his shoulders in ungracious
acquiescence, while our visitor in hurried words and with much
excitable gesticulation poured forth his story.

"I must explain to you, Mr. Holmes, that to-morrow is the first
day of the examination for the Fortescue Scholarship. I am one
of the examiners. My subject is Greek, and the first of the
papers consists of a large passage of Greek translation which
the candidate has not seen. This passage is printed on the
examination paper, and it would naturally be an immense
advantage if the candidate could prepare it in advance. For this
reason, great care is taken to keep the paper secret.

"To-day, about three o'clock, the proofs of this paper arrived
from the printers. The exercise consists of half a chapter of
Thucydides. I had to read it over carefully, as the text must be
absolutely correct. At four-thirty my task was not yet
completed. I had, however, promised to take tea in a friend's
rooms, so I left the proof upon my desk. I was absent rather
more than an hour.

"You are aware, Mr. Holmes, that our college doors are double--a
green baize one within and a heavy oak one without. As I
approached my outer door, I was amazed to see a key in it. For
an instant I imagined that I had left my own there, but on
feeling in my pocket I found that it was all right. The only
duplicate which existed, so far as I knew, was that which
belonged to my servant, Bannister--a man who has looked after my
room for ten years, and whose honesty is absolutely above
suspicion. I found that the key was indeed his, that he had
entered my room to know if I wanted tea, and that he had very
carelessly left the key in the door when he came out. His visit
to my room must have been within a very few minutes of my
leaving it. His forgetfulness about the key would have mattered
little upon any other occasion, but on this one day it has
produced the most deplorable consequences.

"The moment I looked at my table, I was aware that someone had
rummaged among my papers. The proof was in three long slips. I
had left them all together. Now, I found that one of them was
lying on the floor, one was on the side table near the window,
and the third was where I had left it."

Holmes stirred for the first time.

"The first page on the floor, the second in the window, the
third where you left it," said he.

"Exactly, Mr. Holmes. You amaze me. How could you possibly know that?"

"Pray continue your very interesting statement."

"For an instant I imagined that Bannister had taken the
unpardonable liberty of examining my papers. He denied it,
however, with the utmost earnestness, and I am convinced that he
was speaking the truth. The alternative was that someone passing
had observed the key in the door, had known that I was out, and
had entered to look at the papers. A large sum of money is at
stake, for the scholarship is a very valuable one, and an
unscrupulous man might very well run a risk in order to gain an
advantage over his fellows.

"Bannister was very much upset by the incident. He had nearly
fainted when we found that the papers had undoubtedly been
tampered with. I gave him a little brandy and left him collapsed
in a chair, while I made a most careful examination of the room.
I soon saw that the intruder had left other traces of his
presence besides the rumpled papers. On the table in the window
were several shreds from a pencil which had been sharpened. A
broken tip of lead was lying there also. Evidently the rascal
had copied the paper in a great hurry, had broken his pencil,
and had been compelled to put a fresh point to it."

"Excellent!" said Holmes, who was recovering his good-humour as
his attention became more engrossed by the case. "Fortune has
been your friend."

"This was not all. I have a new writing-table with a fine
surface of red leather. I am prepared to swear, and so is
Bannister, that it was smooth and unstained. Now I found a clean
cut in it about three inches long--not a mere scratch, but a
positive cut. Not only this, but on the table I found a small
ball of black dough or clay, with specks of something which
looks like sawdust in it. I am convinced that these marks were
left by the man who rifled the papers. There were no footmarks
and no other evidence as to his identity. I was at my wit's end,
when suddenly the happy thought occurred to me that you were in
the town, and I came straight round to put the matter into your
hands. Do help me, Mr. Holmes. You see my dilemma. Either I must
find the man or else the examination must be postponed until
fresh papers are prepared, and since this cannot be done without
explanation, there will ensue a hideous scandal, which will
throw a cloud not only on the college, but on the university.
Above all things, I desire to settle the matter quietly and

"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?"


"And the papers were on your table?"

"To the best of my belief, they were rolled up."

"But might be recognized as proofs?"


"No one else in your room?"


"Did anyone know that these proofs would be there?"

"No one save the printer."

"Did this man Bannister know?"

"No, certainly not. No one knew."

"Where is Bannister now?"

"He was very ill, poor fellow. I left him collapsed in the
chair. I was in such a hurry to come to you."

"You left your door open?"

"I locked up the papers first."

"Then it amounts to this, Mr. Soames: that, unless the Indian
student recognized the roll as being proofs, the man who
tampered with them came upon them accidentally without knowing
that they were there."

"So it seems to me."

Holmes gave an enigmatic smile.

"Well," said he, "let us go round. Not one of your cases,
Watson--mental, not physical. All right; come if you want to.
Now, Mr. Soames--at your disposal!"

The sitting-room of our client opened by a long, low, latticed
window on to the ancient lichen-tinted court of the old college.
A Gothic arched door led to a worn stone staircase. On the
ground floor was the tutor's room. Above were three students,
one on each story. It was already twilight when we reached the
scene of our problem. Holmes halted and looked earnestly at the
window. Then he approached it, and, standing on tiptoe with his
neck craned, he looked into the room.

"He must have entered through the door. There is no opening
except the one pane," said our learned guide.

"Dear me!" said Holmes, and he smiled in a singular way as he
glanced at our companion. "Well, if there is nothing to be
learned here, we had best go inside."

The lecturer unlocked the outer door and ushered us into his
room. We stood at the entrance while Holmes made an examination
of the carpet.

"I am afraid there are no signs here," said he. "One could
hardly hope for any upon so dry a day. Your servant seems to
have quite recovered. You left him in a chair, you say. Which

"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

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?"


"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,

He was a little, white-faced, clean-shaven, grizzly-haired
fellow of fifty. He was still suffering from this sudden
disturbance of the quiet routine of his life. His plump face was
twitching with his nervousness, and his fingers could not keep still.

"We are investigating this unhappy business, Bannister," said
his master.

"Yes, sir."

"I understand," said Holmes, "that you left your key in the door?"

"Yes, sir."

"Was it not very extraordinary that you should do this on the
very day when there were these papers inside?"

"It was most unfortunate, sir. But I have occasionally done the
same thing at other times."

"When did you enter the room?"

"It was about half-past four. That is Mr. Soames' tea time."

"How long did you stay?"

"When I saw that he was absent, I withdrew at once."

"Did you look at these papers on the table?"

"No, sir--certainly not."

"How came you to leave the key in the door?"

"I had the tea-tray in my hand. I thought I would come back for
the key. Then I forgot."

"Has the outer door a spring lock?"

"No, sir."

"Then it was open all the time?"

"Yes, sir."

"Anyone in the room could get out?"

"Yes, sir."

"When Mr. Soames returned and called for you, you were very much

"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 in his notebook, broke his pencil, had to borrow one
from our host and finally borrowed a knife to sharpen his own.
The same curious accident happened to him in the rooms of the
Indian--a silent, little, hook-nosed fellow, who eyed us
askance, and was obviously glad when Holmes's architectural
studies had come to an end. I could not see that in either case
Holmes had come upon the clue for which he was searching. Only
at the third did our visit prove abortive. The outer door would
not open to our knock, and nothing more substantial than a
torrent of bad language came from behind it. "I don't care who
you are. You can go to blazes!" roared the angry voice.
"Tomorrow's the exam, and I won't be drawn by anyone."

"A rude fellow," said our guide, flushing with anger as we
withdrew down the stair. "Of course, he did not realize that it
was I who was knocking, but none the less his conduct was very
uncourteous, and, indeed, under the circumstances rather suspicious."

Holmes's response was a curious one.

"Can you tell me his exact height?" he asked.

"Really, Mr. Holmes, I cannot undertake to say. He is taller
than the Indian, not so tall as Gilchrist. I suppose five foot
six would be about it."

"That is very important," said Holmes. "And now, Mr. Soames, I
wish you good-night."

Our guide cried aloud in his astonishment and dismay. "Good
gracious, Mr. Holmes, you are surely not going to leave me in
this abrupt fashion! You don't seem to realize the position.
To-morrow is the examination. I must take some definite action
to-night. I cannot allow the examination to be held if one of
the papers has been tampered with. The situation must be faced."

"You must leave it as it is. I shall drop round early to-morrow
morning and chat the matter over. It is possible that I may be
in a position then to indicate some course of action. Meanwhile,
you change nothing--nothing at all."

"Very good, Mr. Holmes."

"You can be perfectly easy in your mind. We shall certainly find
some way out of your difficulties. I will take the black clay
with me, also the pencil cuttings. Good-bye."

When we were out in the darkness of the quadrangle, we again
looked up at the windows. The Indian still paced his room. The
others were invisible.

"Well, Watson, what do you think of it?" Holmes asked, as we
came out into the main street. "Quite a little parlour game--
sort of three-card trick, is it not? There are your three men.
It must be one of them. You take your choice. Which is yours?"

"The foul-mouthed fellow at the top. He is the one with the
worst record. And yet that Indian was a sly fellow also. Why
should he be pacing his room all the time?"

"There is nothing in that. Many men do it when they are trying
to learn anything by heart."

"He looked at us in a queer way."

"So would you, if a flock of strangers came in on you when you
were preparing for an examination next day, and every moment was
of value. No, I see nothing in that. Pencils, too, and knives--
all was satisfactory. But that fellow DOES puzzle me."


"Why, Bannister, the servant. What's his game in the matter?"

"He impressed me as being a perfectly honest man."

"So he did me. That's the puzzling part. Why should a perfectly
honest man--Well, well, here's a large stationer's. We shall
begin our researches here."

There were only four stationers of any consequences in the town,
and at each Holmes produced his pencil chips, and bid high for
a duplicate. All were agreed that one could be ordered, but that
it was not a usual size of pencil and that it was seldom kept in
stock. My friend did not appear to be depressed by his failure,
but shrugged his shoulders in half-humorous resignation.

"No good, my dear Watson. This, the best and only final clue,
has run to nothing. But, indeed, I have little doubt that we can
build up a sufficient case without it. By Jove! my dear fellow,
it is nearly nine, and the landlady babbled of green peas at
seven-thirty. What with your eternal tobacco, Watson, and your
irregularity at meals, I expect that you will get notice to
quit, and that I shall share your downfall--not, however, before
we have solved the problem of the nervous tutor, the careless
servant, and the three enterprising students."

Holmes made no further allusion to the matter that day, though
he sat lost in thought for a long time after our belated dinner.
At eight in the morning, he came into my room just as I finished
my toilet.

"Well, Watson," said he, "it is time we went down to St. Luke's.
Can you do without breakfast?"


"Soames will be in a dreadful fidget until we are able to tell
him something positive."

"Have you anything positive to tell him?"

"I think so."

"You have formed a conclusion?"

"Yes, my dear Watson, I have solved the mystery."

"But what fresh evidence could you have got?"

"Aha! It is not for nothing that I have turned myself out of bed
at the untimely hour of six. I have put in two hours' hard work
and covered at least five miles, with something to show for it.
Look at that!"

He held out his hand. On the palm were three little pyramids of
black, doughy clay.

"Why, Holmes, you had only two yesterday."

"And one more this morning. It is a fair argument that wherever
No. 3 came from is also the source of Nos. 1 and 2. Eh, Watson?
Well, come along and put friend Soames out of his pain."

The unfortunate tutor was certainly in a state of pitiable
agitation when we found him in his chambers. In a few hours
the examination would commence, and he was still in the dilemma
between making the facts public and allowing the culprit to
compete for the valuable scholarship. He could hardly stand
still so great was his mental agitation, and he ran towards
Holmes with two eager hands outstretched.

"Thank heaven that you have come! I feared that you had given it
up in despair. What am I to do? Shall the examination proceed?"

"Yes, let it proceed, by all means."

"But this rascal?"

"He shall not compete."

"You know him?"

"I think so. If this matter is not to become public, we must
give ourselves certain powers and resolve ourselves into a small
private court-martial. You there, if you please, Soames! Watson
you here! I'll take the armchair in the middle. I think that we
are now sufficiently imposing to strike terror into a guilty
breast. Kindly ring the bell!"

Bannister entered, and shrank back in evident surprise and fear
at our judicial appearance.

"You will kindly close the door," said Holmes. "Now, Bannister,
will you please tell us the truth about yesterday's incident?"

The man turned white to the roots of his hair.

"I have told you everything, sir."

"Nothing to add?"

"Nothing at all, sir."

"Well, then, I must make some suggestions to you. When you sat
down on that chair yesterday, did you do so in order to conceal
some object which would have shown who had been in the room?"

Bannister's face was ghastly.

"No, sir, certainly not."

"It is only a suggestion," said Holmes, suavely. "I frankly
admit that I am unable to prove it. But it seems probable
enough, since the moment that Mr. Soames's back was turned, you
released the man who was hiding in that bedroom."

Bannister licked his dry lips.

"There was no man, sir."

"Ah, that's a pity, Bannister. Up to now you may have spoken the
truth, but now I know that you have lied."

The man's face set in sullen defiance.

"There was no man, sir."

"Come, come, Bannister!"

"No, sir, there was no one."

"In that case, you can give us no further information. Would you
please remain in the room? Stand over there near the bedroom
door. Now, Soames, I am going to ask you to have the great
kindness to go up to the room of young Gilchrist, and to ask him
to step down into yours."

An instant later the tutor returned, bringing with him the
student. He was a fine figure of a man, tall, lithe, and agile,
with a springy step and a pleasant, open face. His troubled blue
eyes glanced at each of us, and finally rested with an
expression of blank dismay upon Bannister in the farther corner.

"Just close the door," said Holmes. "Now, Mr. Gilchrist, we are
all quite alone here, and no one need ever know one word of what
passes between us. We can be perfectly frank with each other. We
want to know, Mr. Gilchrist, how you, an honourable man, ever
came to commit such an action as that of yesterday?"

The unfortunate young man staggered back, and cast a look full
of horror and reproach at Bannister.

"No, no, Mr. Gilchrist, sir, I never said a word--never one
word!" cried the servant.

"No, but you have now," said Holmes. "Now, sir, you must see
that after Bannister's words your position is hopeless, and that
your only chance lies in a frank confession."

For a moment Gilchrist, with upraised hand, tried to control his
writhing features. The next he had thrown himself on his knees
beside the table, and burying his face in his hands, he had
burst into a storm of passionate sobbing.

"Come, come," said Holmes, kindly, "it is human to err, and at
least no one can accuse you of being a callous criminal. Perhaps
it would be easier for you if I were to tell Mr. Soames what
occurred, and you can check me where I am wrong. Shall I do so?
Well, well, don't trouble to answer. Listen, and see that I do
you no injustice.

"From the moment, Mr. Soames, that you said to me that no one,
not even Bannister, could have told that the papers were in your
room, the case began to take a definite shape in my mind. The
printer one could, of course, dismiss. He could examine the
papers in his own office. The Indian I also thought nothing of.
If the proofs were in a roll, he could not possibly know what
they were. On the other hand, it seemed an unthinkable
coincidence that a man should dare to enter the room, and that
by chance on that very day the papers were on the table. I
dismissed that. The man who entered knew that the papers were
there. How did he know?

"When I approached your room, I examined the window. You amused
me by supposing that I was contemplating the possibility of
someone having in broad daylight, under the eyes of all these
opposite rooms, forced himself through it. Such an idea was
absurd. I was measuring how tall a man would need to be in order
to see, as he passed, what papers were on the central table. I
am six feet high, and I could do it with an effort. No one less
than that would have a chance. Already you see I had reason to
think that, if one of your three students was a man of unusual
height, he was the most worth watching of the three.

"I entered, and I took you into my confidence as to the
suggestions of the side table. Of the centre table I could make
nothing, until in your description of Gilchrist you mentioned
that he was a long-distance jumper. Then the whole thing came to
me in an instant, and I only needed certain corroborative
proofs, which I speedily obtained.

"What happened with{sic} 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.

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 unites so many singular points of interest as the
episode of Yoxley Old Place, which includes not only the
lamentable death of young Willoughby Smith, but also those
subsequent developments which threw so curious a light upon the
causes of the crime.

It was a wild, tempestuous night, towards the close of November.
Holmes and I sat together in silence all the evening, he engaged
with a powerful lens deciphering the remains of the original
inscription upon a palimpsest, I deep in a recent treatise upon
surgery. Outside the wind howled down Baker Street, while the
rain beat fiercely against the windows. It was strange there, in
the very depths of the town, with ten miles of man's handiwork
on every side of us, to feel the iron grip of Nature, and to be
conscious that to the huge elemental forces all London was no
more than the molehills that dot the fields. I walked to the
window, and looked out on the deserted street. The occasional
lamps gleamed on the expanse of muddy road and shining pavement.
A single cab was splashing its way from the Oxford Street end.

"Well, Watson, it's as well we have not to turn out to-night,"
said Holmes, laying aside his lens and rolling up the
palimpsest. "I've done enough for one sitting. It is trying work
for the eyes. So far as I can make out, it is nothing more
exciting than an Abbey's accounts dating from the second half of
the fifteenth century. Halloa! halloa! halloa! What's this?"

Amid the droning of the wind there had come the stamping of a
horse's hoofs, and the long grind of a wheel as it rasped against
the curb. The cab which I had seen had pulled up at our door.

"What can he want?" I ejaculated, as a man stepped out of it.

"Want? He wants us. And we, my poor Watson, want overcoats and
cravats and goloshes, and every aid that man ever invented to
fight the weather. Wait a bit, though! There's the cab off
again! There's hope yet. He'd have kept it if he had wanted us
to come. Run down, my dear fellow, and open the door, for all
virtuous folk have been long in bed."

When the light of the hall lamp fell upon our midnight visitor,
I had no difficulty in recognizing him. It was young Stanley
Hopkins, a promising detective, in whose career Holmes had
several times shown a very practical interest.

"Is he in?" he asked, eagerly.

"Come up, my dear sir," said Holmes's voice from above. "I hope
you have no designs upon us such a night as this."

The detective mounted the stairs, and our lamp gleamed upon his
shining waterproof. I helped him out of it, while Holmes knocked
a blaze out of the logs in the grate.

"Now, my dear Hopkins, draw up and warm your toes," said he.
"Here's a cigar, and the doctor has a prescription containing
hot water and a lemon, which is good medicine on a night like
this. It must be something important which has brought you out
in such a gale."

"It is indeed, Mr. Holmes. I've had a bustling afternoon, I
promise you. Did you see anything of the Yoxley case in the
latest editions?"

"I've seen nothing later than the fifteenth century to-day."

"Well, it was only a paragraph, and all wrong at that, so you
have not missed anything. I haven't let the grass grow under my
feet. It's down in Kent, seven miles from Chatham and three from
the railway line. I was wired for at 3:15, reached Yoxley Old
Place at 5, conducted my investigation, was back at Charing
Cross by the last train, and straight to you by cab."

"Which means, I suppose, that you are not quite clear about your case?"

"It means that I can make neither head nor tail of it. So far as
I can see, it is just as tangled a business as ever I handled,
and yet at first it seemed so simple that one couldn't go wrong.
There's no motive, Mr. Holmes. That's what bothers me--I can't
put my hand on a motive. Here's a man dead--there's no denying
that--but, so far as I can see, no reason on earth why anyone
should wish him harm."

Holmes lit his cigar and leaned back in his chair.

"Let us hear about it," said he.

"I've got my facts pretty clear," said Stanley Hopkins. "All I
want now is to know what they all mean. The story, so far as I
can make it out, is like this. Some years ago this country
house, Yoxley Old Place, was taken by an elderly man, who gave
the name of Professor Coram. He was an invalid, keeping his bed
half the time, and the other half hobbling round the house with
a stick or being pushed about the grounds by the gardener in a
Bath chair. He was well liked by the few neighbours who called
upon him, and he has the reputation down there of being a very
learned man. His household used to consist of an elderly
housekeeper, Mrs. Marker, and of a maid, Susan Tarlton. These
have both been with him since his arrival, and they seem to be
women of excellent character. The professor is writing a learned
book, and he found it necessary, about a year ago, to engage a
secretary. The first two that he tried were not successes, but
the third, Mr. Willoughby Smith, a very young man straight from
the university, seems to have been just what his employer
wanted. His work consisted in writing all the morning to the
professor's dictation, and he usually spent the evening in
hunting up references and passages which bore upon the next
day's work. This Willoughby Smith has nothing against him,
either as a boy at Uppingham or as a young man at Cambridge. I
have seen his testimonials, and from the first he was a decent,
quiet, hard-working fellow, with no weak spot in him at all.
And yet this is the lad who has met his death this morning in
the professor's study under circumstances which can point only
to murder."

The wind howled and screamed at the windows. Holmes and I drew
closer to the fire, while the young inspector slowly and point
by point developed his singular narrative.

"If you were to search all England," said he, "I don't suppose
you could find a household more self-contained or freer from
outside influences. Whole weeks would pass, and not one of them
go past the garden gate. The professor was buried in his work
and existed for nothing else. Young Smith knew nobody in the
neighbourhood, and lived very much as his employer did. The two
women had nothing to take them from the house. Mortimer, the
gardener, who wheels the Bath chair, is an army pensioner--an
old Crimean man of excellent character. He does not live in the
house, but in a three-roomed cottage at the other end of the
garden. Those are the only people that you would find within the
grounds of Yoxley Old Place. At the same time, the gate of the
garden is a hundred yards from the main London to Chatham road.
It opens with a latch, and there is nothing to prevent anyone
from walking in.

"Now I will give you the evidence of Susan Tarlton, who is the
only person who can say anything positive about the matter. It
was in the forenoon, between eleven and twelve. She was engaged
at the moment in hanging some curtains in the upstairs front
bedroom. Professor Coram was still in bed, for when the weather
is bad he seldom rises before midday. The housekeeper was busied
with some work in the back of the house. Willoughby Smith had
been in his bedroom, which he uses as a sitting-room, but the
maid heard him at that moment pass along the passage and descend
to the study immediately below her. She did not see him, but she
says that she could not be mistaken in his quick, firm tread.
She did not hear the study door close, but a minute or so later
there was a dreadful cry in the room below. It was a wild,
hoarse scream, so strange and unnatural that it might have come
either from a man or a woman. At the same instant there was a
heavy thud, which shook the old house, and then all was silence.
The maid stood petrified for a moment, and then, recovering her
courage, she ran downstairs. The study door was shut and she
opened it. Inside, young Mr. Willoughby Smith was stretched upon
the floor. At first she could see no injury, but as she tried to
raise him she saw that blood was pouring from the underside of
his neck. It was pierced by a very small but very deep wound,
which had divided the carotid artery. The instrument with which
the injury had been inflicted lay upon the carpet beside him. It
was one of those small sealing-wax knives to be found on
old-fashioned writing-tables, with an ivory handle and a stiff
blade. It was part of the fittings of the professor's own desk.

"At first the maid thought that young Smith was already dead,
but on pouring some water from the carafe over his forehead he
opened his eyes for an instant. `The professor,' he
murmured--`it was she.' The maid is prepared to swear that those
were the exact words. He tried desperately to say something
else, and he held his right hand up in the air. Then he fell
back dead.

"In the meantime the housekeeper had also arrived upon the
scene, but she was just too late to catch the young man's dying
words. Leaving Susan with the body, she hurried to the
professors room. He was sitting up in bed, horribly agitated,
for he had heard enough to convince him that something terrible
had occurred. Mrs. Marker is prepared to swear that the
professor was still in his night-clothes, and indeed it was
impossible for him to dress without the help of Mortimer, whose
orders were to come at twelve o'clock. The professor declares
that he heard the distant cry, but that he knows nothing more.
He can give no explanation of the young man's last words, `The
professor--it was she,' but imagines that they were the outcome
of delirium. He believes that Willoughby Smith had not an enemy
in the world, and can give no reason for the crime. His first
action was to send Mortimer, the gardener, for the local police.
A little later the chief constable sent for me. Nothing was
moved before I got there, and strict orders were given that no
one should walk upon the paths leading to the house. It was a
splendid chance of putting your theories into practice, Mr.
Sherlock Holmes. There was really nothing wanting."

"Except Mr. Sherlock Holmes," said my companion, with a somewhat
bitter smile. "Well, let us hear about it. What sort of a job
did you make of it?"

"I must ask you first, Mr. Holmes, to glance at this rough plan,
which will give you a general idea of the position of the
professor's study and the various points of the case. It will
help you in following my investigation."

He unfolded the rough chart, which I here reproduce,


and he laid it across Holmes's knee. I rose and, standing
behind Holmes, studied it over his shoulder.

"It is very rough, of course, and it only deals with the points
which seem to me to be essential. All the rest you will see
later for yourself. Now, first of all, presuming that the
assassin entered the house, how did he or she come in?
Undoubtedly by the garden path and the back door, from which
there is direct access to the study. Any other way would have
been exceedingly complicated. The escape must have also been
made along that line, for of the two other exits from the room
one was blocked by Susan as she ran downstairs and the other
leads straight to the professor's bedroom. I therefore directed
my attention at once to the garden path, which was saturated
with recent rain, and would certainly show any footmarks.

"My examination showed me that I was dealing with a cautious and
expert criminal. No footmarks were to be found on the path.
There could be no question, however, that someone had passed
along the grass border which lines the path, and that he had
done so in order to avoid leaving a track. I could not find
anything in the nature of a distinct impression, but the grass
was trodden down, and someone had undoubtedly passed. It could
only have been the murderer, since neither the gardener nor
anyone else had been there that morning, and the rain had only
begun during the night."

"One moment," said Holmes. "Where does this path lead to?"

"To the road."

"How long is it?"

"A hundred yards or so."

"At the point where the path passes through the gate, you could
surely pick up the tracks?"

"Unfortunately, the path was tiled at that point."

"Well, on the road itself?"

"No, it was all trodden into mire."

"Tut-tut! Well, then, these tracks upon the grass, were they
coming or going?"

"It was impossible to say. There was never any outline."

"A large foot or a small?"

"You could not distinguish."

Holmes gave an ejaculation of impatience.

"It has been pouring rain and blowing a hurricane ever since,"
said he. "It will be harder to read now than that palimpsest.
Well, well, it can't be helped. What did you do, Hopkins, after
you had made certain that you had made certain of nothing?"

"I think I made certain of a good deal, Mr. Holmes. I knew that
someone had entered the house cautiously from without. I next
examined the corridor. It is lined with cocoanut matting and had
taken no impression of any kind. This brought me into the study
itself. It is a scantily furnished room. The main article is a
large writing-table with a fixed bureau. This bureau consists of
a double column of drawers, with a central small cupboard
between them. The drawers were open, the cupboard locked. The
drawers, it seems, were always open, and nothing of value was
kept in them. There were some papers of importance in the
cupboard, but there were no signs that this had been tampered
with, and the professor assures me that nothing was missing. It
is certain that no robbery has been committed.

"I come now to the body of the young man. It was found near the
bureau, and just to the left of it, as marked upon that chart.
The stab was on the right side of the neck and from behind
forward, so that it is almost impossible that it could have been

"Unless he fell upon the knife," said Holmes.

"Exactly. The idea crossed my mind. But we found the knife some
feet away from the body, so that seems impossible. Then, of
course, there are the man's own dying words. And, finally, there
was this very important piece of evidence which was found
clasped in the dead man's right hand."

From his pocket Stanley Hopkins drew a small paper packet. He
unfolded it and disclosed a golden pince-nez, with two broken
ends of black silk cord dangling from the end of it. "Willoughby
Smith had excellent sight," he added. "There can be no question
that this was snatched from the face or the person of the assassin."

Sherlock Holmes took the glasses into his hand, and examined
them with the utmost attention and interest. He held them on his
nose, endeavoured to read through them, went to the window and
stared up the street with them, looked at them most minutely in
the full light of the lamp, and finally, with a chuckle, seated
himself at the table and wrote a few lines upon a sheet of
paper, which he tossed across to Stanley Hopkins.

"That's the best I can do for you," said he. "It may prove to be
of some use."

The astonished detective read the note aloud. It ran as follows:

"Wanted, a woman of good address, attired like a lady. She has
a remarkably thick nose, with eyes which are set close upon
either side of it. She has a puckered forehead, a peering
expression, and probably rounded shoulders. There are
indications that she has had recourse to an optician at least
twice during the last few months. As her glasses are of
remarkable strength, and as opticians are not very numerous,
there should be no difficulty in tracing her."

Holmes smiled at the astonishment of Hopkins, which must have
been reflected upon my features. "Surely my deductions are
simplicity itself," said he. "It would be difficult to name any
articles which afford a finer field for inference than a pair of
glasses, especially so remarkable a pair as these. That they
belong to a woman I infer from their delicacy, and also, of
course, from the last words of the dying man. As to her being a
person of refinement and well dressed, they are, as you
perceive, handsomely mounted in solid gold, and it is
inconceivable that anyone who wore such glasses could be
slatternly in other respects. You will find that the clips are
too wide for your nose, showing that the lady's nose was very
broad at the base. This sort of nose is usually a short and
coarse one, but there is a sufficient number of exceptions to
prevent me from being dogmatic or from insisting upon this point
in my description. My own face is a narrow one, and yet I find
that I cannot get my eyes into the centre, nor near the centre,
of these glasses. Therefore, the lady's eyes are set very near
to the sides of the nose. You will perceive, Watson, that the
glasses are concave and of unusual strength. A lady whose vision
has been so extremely contracted all her life is sure to have
the physical characteristics of such vision, which are seen in
the forehead, the eyelids, and the shoulders."

"Yes," I said, "I can follow each of your arguments. I confess,
however, that I am unable to understand how you arrive at the
double visit to the optician."

Holmes took the glasses in his hand.

"You will perceive," he said, "that the clips are lined with
tiny bands of cork to soften the pressure upon the nose. One of
these is discoloured and worn to some slight extent, but the
other is new. Evidently one has fallen off and been replaced. I
should judge that the older of them has not been there more than
a few months. They exactly correspond, so I gather that the lady
went back to the same establishment for the second."

"By George, it's marvellous!" cried Hopkins, in an ecstasy of
admiration. "To think that I had all that evidence in my hand
and never knew it! I had intended, however, to go the round of
the London opticians."

"Of course you would. Meanwhile, have you anything more to tell
us about the case?"

"Nothing, Mr. Holmes. I think that you know as much as I do
now--probably more. We have had inquiries made as to any
stranger seen on the country roads or at the railway station. We
have heard of none. What beats me is the utter want of all
object in the crime. Not a ghost of a motive can anyone suggest."

"Ah! there I am not in a position to help you. But I suppose you
want us to come out to-morrow?"

"If it is not asking too much, Mr. Holmes. There's a train from
Charing Cross to Chatham at six in the morning, and we should be
at Yoxley Old Place between eight and nine."

"Then we shall take it. Your case has certainly some features of
great interest, and I shall be delighted to look into it. Well,
it's nearly one, and we had best get a few hours' sleep. I
daresay you can manage all right on the sofa in front of the
fire. I'll light my spirit lamp, and give you a cup of coffee
before we start."

The gale had blown itself out next day, but it was a bitter
morning when we started upon our journey. We saw the cold winter
sun rise over the dreary marshes of the Thames and the long,
sullen reaches of the river, which I shall ever associate with
our pursuit of the Andaman Islander in the earlier days of our
career. After a long and weary journey, we alighted at a small
station some miles from Chatham. While a horse was being put
into a trap at the local inn, we snatched a hurried breakfast,
and so we were all ready for business when we at last arrived at
Yoxley Old Place. A constable met us at the garden gate.

"Well, Wilson, any news?"

"No, sir--nothing."

"No reports of any stranger seen?"

"No, sir. Down at the station they are certain that no stranger
either came or went yesterday."

"Have you had inquiries made at inns and lodgings?"

"Yes, sir: there is no one that we cannot account for."

"Well, it's only a reasonable walk to Chatham. Anyone might stay
there or take a train without being observed. This is the garden
path of which I spoke, Mr. Holmes. I'll pledge my word there was
no mark on it yesterday."

"On which side were the marks on the grass?"

"This side, sir. This narrow margin of grass between the path
and the flower-bed. I can't see the traces now, but they were
clear to me then."

"Yes, yes: someone has passed along," said Holmes, stooping over
the grass border. "Our lady must have picked her steps
carefully, must she not, since on the one side she would leave
a track on the path, and on the other an even clearer one on the
soft bed?"

"Yes, sir, she must have been a cool hand."

I saw an intent look pass over Holmes's face.

"You say that she must have come back this way?"

"Yes, sir, there is no other."

"On this strip of grass?"

"Certainly, Mr. Holmes."

"Hum! It was a very remarkable performance--very remarkable.
Well, I think we have exhausted the path. Let us go farther.
This garden door is usually kept open, I suppose? Then this
visitor had nothing to do but to walk in. The idea of murder was
not in her mind, or she would have provided herself with some
sort of weapon, instead of having to pick this knife off the
writing-table. She advanced along this corridor, leaving no
traces upon the cocoanut matting. Then she found herself in this
study. How long was she there? We have no means of judging."

"Not more than a few minutes, sir. I forgot to tell you that
Mrs. Marker, the housekeeper, had been in there tidying not
very long before--about a quarter of an hour, she says."

"Well, that gives us a limit. Our lady enters this room, and
what does she do? She goes over to the writing-table. What for?
Not for anything in the drawers. If there had been anything
worth her taking, it would surely have been locked up. No, it
was for something in that wooden bureau. Halloa! what is that
scratch upon the face of it? Just hold a match, Watson. Why did
you not tell me of this, Hopkins?"

The mark which he was examining began upon the brass-work on the
right-hand side of the keyhole, and extended for about four
inches, where it had scratched the varnish from the surface.

"I noticed it, Mr. Holmes, but you'll always find scratches
round a keyhole."

"This is recent, quite recent. See how the brass shines where it
is cut. An old scratch would be the same colour as the surface.
Look at it through my lens. There's the varnish, too, like earth
on each side of a furrow. Is Mrs. Marker there?"

A sad-faced, elderly woman came into the room.

"Did you dust this bureau yesterday morning?"

"Yes, sir."

"Did you notice this scratch?"

"No, sir, I did not."

"I am sure you did not, for a duster would have swept away these
shreds of varnish. Who has the key of this bureau?"

"The Professor keeps it on his watch-chain."

"Is it a simple key?"

"No, sir, it is a Chubb's key."

"Very good. Mrs. Marker, you can go. Now we are making a little
progress. Our lady enters the room, advances to the bureau, and
either opens it or tries to do so. While she is thus engaged,
young Willoughby Smith enters the room. In her hurry to withdraw
the key, she makes this scratch upon the door. He seizes her,
and she, snatching up the nearest object, which happens to be
this knife, strikes at him in order to make him let go his hold.
The blow is a fatal one. He falls and she escapes, either with
or without the object for which she has come. Is Susan, the
maid, there? Could anyone have got away through that door after
the time that you heard the cry, Susan?"

"No sir, it is impossible. Before I got down the stair, I'd have
seen anyone in the passage. Besides, the door never opened, or
I would have heard it."

"That settles this exit. Then no doubt the lady went out the way
she came. I understand that this other passage leads only to the
professor's room. There is no exit that way?"

"No, sir."

"We shall go down it and make the acquaintance of the professor.
Halloa, Hopkins! this is very important, very important indeed.
The professor's corridor is also lined with cocoanut matting."

"Well, sir, what of that?"

"Don't you see any bearing upon the case? Well, well. I don't
insist upon it. No doubt I am wrong. And yet it seems to me to
be suggestive. Come with me and introduce me."

We passed down the passage, which was of the same length as that
which led to the garden. At the end was a short flight of steps
ending in a door. Our guide knocked, and then ushered us into
the professor's bedroom.

It was a very large chamber, lined with innumerable volumes,
which had overflowed from the shelves and lay in piles in the
corners, or were stacked all round at the base of the cases. The
bed was in the centre of the room, and in it, propped up with
pillows, was the owner of the house. I have seldom seen a more
remarkable-looking person. It was a gaunt, aquiline face which
was turned towards us, with piercing dark eyes, which lurked in
deep hollows under overhung and tufted brows. His hair and beard
were white, save that the latter was curiously stained with
yellow around his mouth. A cigarette glowed amid the tangle of
white hair, and the air of the room was fetid with stale tobacco
smoke. As he held out his hand to Holmes, I perceived that it
was also stained with yellow nicotine.

"A smoker, Mr. Holmes?" said he, speaking in well-chosen
English, with a curious little mincing accent. "Pray take a
cigarette. And you, sir? I can recommend them, for I have them
especially prepared by Ionides, of Alexandria. He sends me a
thousand at a time, and I grieve to say that I have to arrange
for a fresh supply every fortnight. Bad, sir, very bad, but an
old man has few pleasures. Tobacco and my work--that is all that
is left to me."

Holmes had lit a cigarette and was shooting little darting
glances all over the room.

"Tobacco and my work, but now only tobacco," the old man
exclaimed. "Alas! what a fatal interruption! Who could have
foreseen such a terrible catastrophe? So estimable a young man!
I assure you that, after a few months' training, he was an
admirable assistant. What do you think of the matter, Mr. Holmes?"

"I have not yet made up my mind."

"I shall indeed be indebted to you if you can throw a light
where all is so dark to us. To a poor bookworm and invalid like
myself such a blow is 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
foundation of revealed religion. With my enfeebled health I do
not know whether I shall ever be able to complete it, now that
my assistant has been taken from me. Dear me! Mr. Holmes, why,
you are even a quicker smoker than I am myself."

Holmes smiled.

"I am a connoisseur," said he, taking another cigarette from the
box--his fourth--and lighting it from the stub of that which he
had finished. "I will not trouble you with any lengthy
cross-examination, Professor Coram, since I gather that you were
in bed at the time of the crime, and could know nothing about
it. I would only ask this: What do you imagine that this poor
fellow meant by his last words: `The professor--it was she'?"

The professor shook his head.

"Susan is a country girl," said he, "and you know the incredible
stupidity of that class. I fancy that the poor fellow murmured
some incoherent delirious words, and that she twisted them into
this meaningless message."

"I see. You have no explanation yourself of the tragedy?"

"Possibly an accident, possibly--I only breathe it among
ourselves--a suicide. Young men have their hidden troubles--some
affair of the heart, perhaps, which we have never known. It is
a more probable supposition than murder."

"But the eyeglasses?"

"Ah! I am only a student--a man of dreams. I cannot explain the
practical things of life. But still, we are aware, my friend,
that love-gages may take strange shapes. By all means take
another cigarette. It is a pleasure to see anyone appreciate
them so. A fan, a glove, glasses--who knows what article may be
carried as a token or treasured when a man puts an end to his
life? This gentleman speaks of footsteps in the grass, but,
after all, it is easy to be mistaken on such a point. As to the
knife, it might well be thrown far from the unfortunate man as
he fell. It is possible that I speak as a child, but to me it
seems that Willoughby Smith has met his fate by his own hand."

Holmes seemed struck by the theory thus put forward, and he
continued to walk up and down for some time, lost in thought and
consuming cigarette after cigarette.

"Tell me, Professor Coram," he said, at last, "what is in that
cupboard in the bureau?"

"Nothing that would help a thief. Family papers, letters from my
poor wife, diplomas of universities which have done me honour.
Here is the key. You can look for yourself."

Holmes picked up the key, and looked at it for an instant, then
he handed it back.

"No, I hardly think that it would help me," said he. "I should
prefer to go quietly down to your garden, and turn the whole
matter over in my head. There is something to be said for the
theory of suicide which you have put forward. We must apologize
for having intruded upon you, Professor Coram, and I promise
that we won't disturb you until after lunch. At two o'clock we
will come again, and report to you anything which may have
happened in the interval."

Holmes was curiously distrait, and we walked up and down the
garden path for some time in silence.

"Have you a clue?" I asked, at last.

"It depends upon those cigarettes that I smoked," said he. "It is
possible that I am utterly mistaken. The cigarettes will show me."

"My dear Holmes," I exclaimed, "how on earth----"

"Well, well, you may see for yourself. If not, there's no harm
done. Of course, we always have the optician clue to fall back
upon, but I take a short cut when I can get it. Ah, here is the
good Mrs. Marker! Let us enjoy five minutes of instructive
conversation with her."

I may have remarked before that Holmes had, when he liked, a
peculiarly ingratiating way with women, and that he very readily
established terms of confidence with them. In half the time
which he had named, he had captured the housekeeper's goodwill
and was chatting with her as if he had known her for years.

"Yes, Mr. Holmes, it is as you say, sir. He does smoke something
terrible. All day and sometimes all night, sir. I've seen that
room of a morning--well, sir, you'd have thought it was a London
fog. Poor young Mr. Smith, he was a smoker also, but not as bad
as the professor. His health--well, I don't know that it's
better nor worse for the smoking."

"Ah!" said Holmes, "but it kills the appetite."

"Well, I don't know about that, sir."

"I suppose the professor eats hardly anything?"

"Well, he is variable. I'll say that for him."

"I'll wager he took no breakfast this morning, and won't face
his lunch after all the cigarettes I saw him consume."

"Well, you're out there, sir, as it happens, for he ate a
remarkable big breakfast this morning. I don't know when I've
known him make a better one, and he's ordered a good dish of
cutlets for his lunch. I'm surprised myself, for since I came
into that room yesterday and saw young Mr. Smith lying there on
the floor, I couldn't bear to look at food. Well, it takes all
sorts to make a world, and the professor hasn't let it take his
appetite away."

We loitered the morning away in the garden. Stanley Hopkins had
gone down to the village to look into some rumours of a strange
woman who had been seen by some children on the Chatham Road the
previous morning. As to my friend, all his usual energy seemed
to have deserted him. I had never known him handle a case in
such a half-hearted fashion. Even the news brought back by
Hopkins that he had found the children, and that they had
undoubtedly seen a woman exactly corresponding with Holmes's
description, and wearing either spectacles or eyeglasses, failed
to rouse any sign of keen interest. He was more attentive when
Susan, who waited upon us at lunch, volunteered the information
that she believed Mr. Smith had been out for a walk yesterday
morning, and that he had only returned half an hour before the
tragedy occurred. I could not myself see the bearing of this
incident, but I clearly perceived that Holmes was weaving it
into the general scheme which he had formed in his brain.
Suddenly he sprang from his chair and glanced at his watch. "Two
o'clock, gentlemen," said he. "We must go up and have it out
with our friend, the professor."

The old man had just finished his lunch, and certainly his empty
dish bore evidence to the good appetite with which his
housekeeper had credited him. He was, indeed, a weird figure as
he turned his white mane and his glowing eyes towards us. The
eternal cigarette smouldered in his mouth. He had been dressed
and was seated in an armchair by the fire.

"Well, Mr. Holmes, have you solved this mystery yet?" He shoved
the large tin of cigarettes which stood on a table beside him
towards my companion. Holmes stretched out his hand at the same
moment, and between them they tipped the box over the edge. For
a minute or two we were all on our knees retrieving stray
cigarettes from impossible places. When we rose again, I
observed Holmes's eyes were shining and his cheeks tinged with
colour. Only at a crisis have I seen those battle-signals flying.

"Yes," said he, "I have solved it."

Stanley Hopkins and I stared in amazement. Something like a
sneer quivered over the gaunt features of the old professor.

"Indeed! In the garden?"

"No, here."

"Here! When?"

"This instant."

"You are surely joking, Mr. Sherlock Holmes. You compel me to
tell you that this is too serious a matter to be treated in such
a fashion."

"I have forged and tested every link of my chain, Professor
Coram, and I am sure that it is sound. What your motives are, or
what exact part you play in this strange business, I am not yet
able to say. In a few minutes I shall probably hear it from your
own lips. Meanwhile I will reconstruct what is past for your
benefit, so that you may know the information which I still require.

"A lady yesterday entered your study. She came with the
intention of possessing herself of certain documents which were
in your bureau. She had a key of her own. I have had an
opportunity of examining yours, and I do not find that slight
discolouration which the scratch made upon the varnish would
have produced. You were not an accessory, therefore, and she
came, so far as I can read the evidence, without your knowledge
to rob you."

The professor blew a cloud from his lips. "This is most
interesting and instructive," said he. "Have you no more to add?
Surely, having traced this lady so far, you can also say what
has become of her."

"I will endeavour to do so. In the first place she was seized by
your secretary, and stabbed him in order to escape. This
catastrophe I am inclined to regard as an unhappy accident, for
I am convinced that the lady had no intention of inflicting so
grievous an injury. An assassin does not come unarmed. Horrified
by what she had done, she rushed wildly away from the scene of
the tragedy. Unfortunately for her, she had lost her glasses in
the scuffle, and as she was extremely short-sighted she was
really helpless without them. She ran down a corridor, which she
imagined to be that by which she had come--both were lined with
cocoanut matting--and it was only when it was too late that she
understood that she had taken the wrong passage, and that her
retreat was cut off behind her. What was she to do? She could
not go back. She could not remain where she was. She must go on.
She went on. She mounted a stair, pushed open a door, and found
herself in your room."

The old man sat with his mouth open, staring wildly at Holmes.
Amazement and fear were stamped upon his expressive features.
Now, with an effort, he shrugged his shoulders and burst into
insincere laughter.

"All very fine, Mr. Holmes," said he. "But there is one little
flaw in your splendid theory. I was myself in my room, and I
never left it during the day."

"I am aware of that, Professor Coram."

"And you mean to say that I could lie upon that bed and not be
aware that a woman had entered my room?"

"I never said so. You WERE aware of it. You spoke with her. You
recognized her. You aided her to escape."

Again the professor burst into high-keyed laughter. He had risen
to his feet, and his eyes glowed like embers.

"You are mad!" he cried. "You are talking insanely. I helped her
to escape? Where is she now?"

"She is there," said Holmes, and he pointed to a high bookcase
in the corner of the room.

I saw the old man throw up his arms, a terrible convulsion
passed over his grim face, and he fell back in his chair. At the
same instant the bookcase at which Holmes pointed swung round
upon a hinge, and a woman rushed out into the room. "You are
right!" she cried, in a strange foreign voice. "You are right!
I am here."

She was brown with the dust and draped with the cobwebs which
had come from the walls of her hiding-place. Her face, too, was
streaked with grime, and at the best she could never have been
handsome, for she had the exact physical characteristics which
Holmes had divined, with, in addition, a long and obstinate
chin. What with her natural blindness, and what with the change
from dark to light, she stood as one dazed, blinking about her
to see where and who we were. And yet, in spite of all these
disadvantages, there was a certain nobility in the woman's
bearing--a gallantry in the defiant chin and in the upraised
head, which compelled something of respect and admiration.

Stanley Hopkins had laid his hand upon her arm and claimed her
as his prisoner, but she waved him aside gently, and yet with an
over-mastering dignity which compelled obedience. The old man
lay back in his chair with a twitching face, and stared at her
with brooding eyes.

"Yes, sir, I am your prisoner," she said. "From where I stood I
could hear everything, and I know that you have learned the
truth. I confess it all. It was I who killed the young man. But
you are right--you who say it was an accident. I did not even
know that it was a knife which I held in my hand, for in my
despair I snatched anything from the table and struck at him to
make him let me go. It is the truth that I tell."

"Madam," said Holmes, "I am sure that it is the truth. I fear
that you are far from well."

She had turned a dreadful colour, the more ghastly under the
dark dust-streaks upon her face. She seated herself on the side
of the bed; then she resumed.

"I have only a little time here," she said, "but I would have
you to know the whole truth. I am this man's wife. He is not an
Englishman. He is a Russian. His name I will not tell."

For the first time the old man stirred. "God bless you, Anna!"
he cried. "God bless you!"

She cast a look of the deepest disdain in his direction. "Why
should you cling so hard to that wretched life of yours,
Sergius?" said she. "It has done harm to many and good to
none--not even to yourself. However, it is not for me to cause
the frail thread to be snapped before God's time. I have enough
already upon my soul since I crossed the threshold of this
cursed house. But I must speak or I shall be too late.

"I have said, gentlemen, that I am this man's wife. He was fifty
and I a foolish girl of twenty when we married. It was in a city
of Russia, a university--I will not name the place."

"God bless you, Anna!" murmured the old man again.

"We were reformers--revolutionists--Nihilists, you understand.
He and I and many more. Then there came a time of trouble, a
police officer was killed, many were arrested, evidence was
wanted, and in order to save his own life and to earn a great
reward, my husband betrayed his own wife and his companions.
Yes, we were all arrested upon his confession. Some of us found
our way to the gallows, and some to Siberia. I was among these
last, but my term was not for life. My husband came to England
with his ill-gotten gains and has lived in quiet ever since,
knowing well that if the Brotherhood knew where he was not a
week would pass before justice would be done."

The old man reached out a trembling hand and helped himself to
a cigarette. "I am in your hands, Anna," said he. "You were
always good to me."

"I have not yet told you the height of his villainy," said she.
"Among our comrades of the Order, there was one who was the
friend of my heart. He was noble, unselfish, loving--all that my
husband was not. He hated violence. We were all guilty--if that
is guilt--but he was not. He wrote forever dissuading us from
such a course. These letters would have saved him. So would my
diary, in which, from day to day, I had entered both my feelings
towards him and the view which each of us had taken. My husband
found and kept both diary and letters. He hid them, and he tried
hard to swear away the young man's life. In this he failed, but
Alexis was sent a convict to Siberia, where now, at this moment,
he works in a salt mine. Think of that, you villain, you
villain!--now, now, at this very moment, Alexis, a man whose
name you are not worthy to speak, works and lives like a slave,
and yet I have your life in my hands, and I let you go."

"You were always a noble woman, Anna," said the old man, puffing
at his cigarette.

She had risen, but she fell back again with a little cry of pain.

"I must finish," she said. "When my term was over I set myself
to get the diary and letters which, if sent to the Russian
government, would procure my friend's release. I knew that my
husband had come to England. After months of searching I
discovered where he was. I knew that he still had the diary, for
when I was in Siberia I had a letter from him once, reproaching
me and quoting some passages from its pages. Yet I was sure
that, with his revengeful nature, he would never give it to me
of his own free-will. I must get it for myself. With this object
I engaged an agent from a private detective firm, who entered my
husband's house as a secretary--it was your second secretary,
Sergius, the one who left you so hurriedly. He found that papers
were kept in the cupboard, and he got an impression of the key.
He would not go farther. He furnished me with a plan of the
house, and he told me that in the forenoon the study was always
empty, as the secretary was employed up here. So at last I took
my courage in both hands, and I came down to get the papers for
myself. I succeeded; but at what a cost!

"I had just taken the paper; and was locking the cupboard, when
the young man seized me. I had seen him already that morning. He
had met me on the road, and I had asked him to tell me where
Professor Coram lived, not knowing that he was in his employ."

"Exactly! Exactly!" said Holmes. "The secretary came back, and
told his employer of the woman he had met. Then, in his last
breath, he tried to send a message that it was she--the she whom
he had just discussed with him."

"You must let me speak," said the woman, in an imperative voice,
and her face contracted as if in pain. "When he had fallen I
rushed from the room, chose the wrong door, and found myself in
my husband's room. He spoke of giving me up. I showed him that
if he did so, his life was in my hands. If he gave me to the
law, I could give him to the Brotherhood. It was not that I
wished to live for my own sake, but it was that I desired to
accomplish my purpose. He knew that I would do what I said--that
his own fate was involved in mine. For that reason, and for no
other, he shielded me. He thrust me into that dark
hiding-place--a relic of old days, known only to himself. He
took his meals in his own room, and so was able to give me part
of his food. It was agreed that when the police left the house
I should slip away by night and come back no more. But in some
way you have read our plans." She tore from the bosom of her
dress a small packet. "These are my last words," said she; "here
is the packet which will save Alexis. I confide it to your
honour and to your love of justice. Take it! You will deliver it
at the Russian Embassy. Now, I have done my duty, and----"

"Stop her!" cried Holmes. He had bounded across the room and had
wrenched a small phial from her hand.

"Too late!" she said, sinking back on the bed. "Too late! I took
the poison before I left my hiding-place. My head swims! I am
going! I charge you, sir, to remember the packet."

"A simple case, and yet, in some ways, an instructive one,"
Holmes remarked, as we travelled back to town. "It hinged from
the outset upon the pince-nez. But for the fortunate chance of
the dying man having seized these, I am not sure that we could
ever have reached our solution. It was clear to me, from the
strength of the glasses, that the wearer must have been very
blind and helpless when deprived of them. When you asked me to
believe that she walked along a narrow strip of grass without
once making a false step, I remarked, as you may remember, that
it was a noteworthy performance. In my mind I set it down as an
impossible performance, save in the unlikely case that she had
a second pair of glasses. I was forced, therefore, to consider
seriously the hypothesis that she had remained within the house.
On perceiving the similarity of the two corridors, it became
clear that she might very easily have made such a mistake, and,
in that case, it was evident that she must have entered the
professor's room. I was keenly on the alert, therefore, for
whatever would bear out this supposition, and I examined the
room narrowly for anything in the shape of a hiding-place. The
carpet seemed continuous and firmly nailed, so I dismissed the
idea of a trap-door. There might well be a recess behind the
books. As you are aware, such devices are common in old
libraries. I observed that books were piled on the floor at all
other points, but that one bookcase was left clear. This, then,
might be the door. I could see no marks to guide me, but the
carpet was of a dun colour, which lends itself very well to
examination. I therefore smoked a great number of those
excellent cigarettes, and I dropped the ash all over the space
in front of the suspected bookcase. It was a simple trick, but
exceedingly effective. I then went downstairs, and I
ascertained, in your presence, Watson, without your perceiving
the drift of my remarks, that Professor Coram's consumption of
food had increased--as one would expect when he is supplying a
second person. We then ascended to the room again, when, by
upsetting the cigarette-box, I obtained a very excellent view of
the floor, and was able to see quite clearly, from the traces
upon the cigarette ash, that the prisoner had in our absence
come out from her retreat. Well, Hopkins, here we are at Charing
Cross, and I congratulate you on having brought your case to a
successful conclusion. You are going to headquarters, no doubt.
I think, Watson, you and I will drive together to the Russian Embassy."

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.

"Strand postmark, and dispatched ten thirty-six," said Holmes,
reading it over and over. "Mr. Overton was evidently
considerably excited when he sent it, and somewhat incoherent in
consequence. Well, well, he will be here, I daresay, by the time
I have looked through the TIMES, and then we shall know all
about it. Even the most insignificant problem would be welcome
in these stagnant days."

Things had indeed been very slow with us, and I had learned to
dread such periods of inaction, for I knew by experience that my
companion's brain was so abnormally active that it was dangerous
to leave it without material upon which to work. For years I had
gradually weaned him from that drug mania which had threatened
once to check his remarkable career. Now I knew that under
ordinary conditions he no longer craved for this artificial
stimulus, but I was well aware that the fiend was not dead but
sleeping, and I have known that the sleep was a light one and
the waking near when in periods of idleness I have seen the
drawn look upon Holmes's ascetic face, and the brooding of his
deep-set and inscrutable eyes. Therefore I blessed this Mr.
Overton whoever he might be, since he had come with his enigmatic
message to break that dangerous calm which brought more peril
to my friend than all the storms of his tempestuous life.

As we had expected, the telegram was soon followed by its
sender, and the card of Mr. Cyril Overton, Trinity College,
Cambridge, announced the arrival of an enormous young man,
sixteen stone of solid bone and muscle, who spanned the doorway
with his broad shoulders, and looked from one of us to the other
with a comely face which was haggard with anxiety.

"Mr. Sherlock Holmes?"

My companion bowed.

"I've been down to Scotland Yard, Mr. Holmes. I saw Inspector
Stanley Hopkins. He advised me to come to you. He said the case,
so far as he could see, was more in your line than in that of
the regular police."

"Pray sit down and tell me what is the matter."

"It's awful, Mr. Holmes--simply awfull I wonder my hair isn't
gray. Godfrey Staunton--you've heard of him, of course? He's
simply the hinge that the whole team turns on. I'd rather spare
two from the pack, and have Godfrey for my three-quarter line.
Whether it's passing, or tackling, or dribbling, there's no one
to touch him, and then, he's got the head, and can hold us all
together. What am I to do? That's what I ask you, Mr. Holmes.
There's Moorhouse, first reserve, but he is trained as a half,
and he always edges right in on to the scrum instead of keeping
out on the touchline. He's a fine place-kick, it's true, but
then he has no judgment, and he can't sprint for nuts. Why,
Morton or Johnson, the Oxford fliers, could romp round him.
Stevenson is fast enough, but he couldn't drop from the
twenty-five line, and a three-quarter who can't either punt or
drop isn't worth a place for pace alone. No, Mr. Holmes, we are
done unless you can help me to find Godfrey Staunton."

My friend had listened with amused surprise to this long speech,
which was poured forth with extraordinary vigour and
earnestness, every point being driven home by the slapping of a
brawny hand upon the speaker's knee. When our visitor was silent
Holmes stretched out his hand and took down letter "S" of his
commonplace book. For once he dug in vain into that mine of
varied information.

"There is Arthur H. Staunton, the rising young forger," said he,
"and there was Henry Staunton, whom I helped to hang, but
Godfrey Staunton is a new name to me."

It was our visitor's turn to look surprised.

"Why, Mr. Holmes, I thought you knew things," said he. "I
suppose, then, if you have never heard of Godfrey Staunton, you
don't know Cyril Overton either?"

Holmes shook his head good humouredly.

"Great Scott!" cried the athlete. "Why, I was first reserve for
England against Wales, and I've skippered the 'Varsity all this
year. But that's nothing! I didn't think there was a soul in
England who didn't know Godfrey Staunton, the crack
three-quarter, Cambridge, Blackheath, and five Internationals.
Good Lord! Mr. Holmes, where HAVE you lived?"

Holmes laughed at the young giant's naive astonishment.

"You live in a different world to me, Mr. Overton--a sweeter and
healthier one. My ramifications stretch out into many sections
of society, but never, I am happy to say, into amateur sport,
which is the best and soundest thing in England. However, your
unexpected visit this morning shows me that even in that world
of fresh air and fair play, there may be work for me to do. So
now, my good sir, I beg you to sit down and to tell me, slowly
and quietly, exactly what it is that has occurred, and how you
desire that I should help you."

Young Overton's face assumed the bothered look of the man who is
more accustomed to using his muscles than his wits, but by
degrees, with many repetitions and obscurities which I may omit
from his narrative, he laid his strange story before us.

"It's this way, Mr. Holmes. As I have said, I am the skipper of
the Rugger team of Cambridge 'Varsity, and Godfrey Staunton is
my best man. To-morrow we play Oxford. Yesterday we all came up,
and we settled at Bentley's private hotel. At ten o'clock I went
round and saw that all the fellows had gone to roost, for I
believe in strict training and plenty of sleep to keep a team
fit. I had a word or two with Godfrey before he turned in. He
seemed to me to be pale and bothered. I asked him what was the
matter. He said he was all right--just a touch of headache. I
bade him good-night and left him. Half an hour later, the porter
tells me that a rough-looking man with a beard called with a
note for Godfrey. He had not gone to bed, and the note was taken
to his room. Godfrey read it, and fell back in a chair as if he
had been pole-axed. The porter was so scared that he was going
to fetch me, but Godfrey stopped him, had a drink of water, and
pulled himself together. Then he went downstairs, said a few
words to the man who was waiting in the hall, and the two of
them went off together. The last that the porter saw of them,
they were almost running down the street in the direction of the
Strand. This morning Godfrey's room was empty, his bed had never
been slept in, and his things were all just as I had seen them
the night before. He had gone off at a moment's notice with this
stranger, and no word has come from him since. I don't believe
he will ever come back. He was a sportsman, was Godfrey, down to
his marrow, and he wouldn't have stopped his training and let in
his skipper if it were not for some cause that was too strong
for him. No: I feel as if he were gone for good, and we should
never see him again."

Sherlock Holmes listened with the deepest attention to this
singular narrative.

"What did you do?" he asked.

"I wired to Cambridge to learn if anything had been heard of him
there. I have had an answer. No one has seen him."

"Could he have got back to Cambridge?"

"Yes, there is a late train--quarter-past eleven."

"But, so far as you can ascertain, he did not take it?"

"No, he has not been seen."

"What did you do next?"

"I wired to Lord Mount-James."

"Why to Lord Mount-James?"

"Godfrey is an orphan, and Lord Mount-James is his nearest
relative--his uncle, I believe."

"Indeed. This throws new light upon the matter. Lord Mount-James
is one of the richest men in England."

"So I've heard Godfrey say."

"And your friend was closely related?"

"Yes, he was his heir, and the old boy is nearly eighty--cram
full of gout, too. They say he could chalk his billiard-cue with
his knuckles. He never allowed Godfrey a shilling in his life, for
he is an absolute miser, but it will all come to him right enough."

"Have you heard from Lord Mount-James?"


"What motive could your friend have in going to Lord

"Well, something was worrying him the night before, and if it
was to do with money it is possible that he would make for his
nearest relative, who had so much of it, though from all I have
heard he would not have much chance of getting it. Godfrey was
not fond of the old man. He would not go if he could help it."

"Well, we can soon determine that. If your friend was going to
his relative, Lord Mount-James, you have then to explain the
visit of this rough-looking fellow at so late an hour, and the
agitation that was caused by his coming."

Cyril Overton pressed his hands to his head. "I can make nothing
of it," said he.

"Well, well, I have a clear day, and I shall be happy to look
into the matter," said Holmes. "I should strongly recommend you
to make your preparations for your match without reference to
this young gentleman. It must, as you say, have been an
overpowering necessity which tore him away in such a fashion,
and the same necessity is likely to hold him away. Let us step
round together to the hotel, and see if the porter can throw any
fresh light upon the matter."

Sherlock Holmes was a past-master in the art of putting a humble
witness at his ease, and very soon, in the privacy of Godfrey
Staunton's abandoned room, he had extracted all that the porter
had to tell. The visitor of the night before was not a
gentleman, neither was he a workingman. He was simply what the
porter described as a "medium-looking chap," a man of fifty,
beard grizzled, pale face, quietly dressed. He seemed himself to
be agitated. The porter had observed his hand trembling when he
had held out the note. Godfrey Staunton had crammed the note
into his pocket. Staunton had not shaken hands with the man in
the hall. They had exchanged a few sentences, of which the
porter had only distinguished the one word "time." Then they had
hurried off in the manner described. It was just half-past ten
by the hall clock.

"Let me see," said Holmes, seating himself on Staunton's bed.
"You are the day porter, are you not?"

"Yes, sir, I go off duty at eleven."

"The night porter saw nothing, I suppose?"

"No, sir, one theatre party came in late. No one else."

"Were you on duty all day yesterday?"

"Yes, sir."

"Did you take any messages to Mr. Staunton?"

"Yes, sir, one telegram."

"Ah! that's interesting. What o'clock was this?"

"About six."

"Where was Mr. Staunton when he received it?"

"Here in his room."

"Were you present when he opened it?"

"Yes, sir, I waited to see if there was an answer."

"Well, was there?"

"Yes, sir, he wrote an answer."

"Did you take it?"

"No, he took it himself."

"But he wrote it in your presence."

"Yes, sir. I was standing by the door, and he with his back
turned at that table. When he had written it, he said: `All
right, porter, I will take this myself.'"

"What did he write it with?"

"A pen, sir."

"Was the telegraphic form one of these on the table?"

"Yes, sir, it was the top one."

Holmes rose. Taking the forms, he carried them over to the
window and carefully examined that which was uppermost.

"It is a pity he did not write in pencil," said he, throwing
them down again with a shrug of disappointment. "As you have no
doubt frequently observed, Watson, the impression usually goes
through--a fact which has dissolved many a happy marriage.
However, I can find no trace here. I rejoice, however, to
perceive that he wrote with a broad-pointed quill pen, and I can
hardly doubt that we will find some impression upon this
blotting-pad. Ah, yes, surely this is the very thing!"

He tore off a strip of the blotting-paper and turned towards us
the following hieroglyphic:


Cyril Overton was much excited. "Hold it to the glass!" he cried.

"That is unnecessary," said Holmes. "The paper is thin, and the
reverse will give the message. Here it is." He turned it over,
and we read:

GRAPHIC [Stand by us for Gods sake]

"So that is the tail end of the telegram which Godfrey Staunton
dispatched within a few hours of his disappearance. There are at
least six words of the message which have escaped us; but what
remains--`Stand by us for God's sake!'--proves that this young
man saw a formidable danger which approached him, and from which
someone else could protect him. `US,' mark you! Another person
was involved. Who should it be but the pale-faced, bearded man,
who seemed himself in so nervous a state? What, then, is the
connection between Godfrey Staunton and the bearded man? And
what is the third source from which each of them sought for help
against pressing danger? Our inquiry has already narrowed down
to that."

"We have only to find to whom that telegram is addressed," I

"Exactly, my dear Watson. Your reflection, though profound, had
already crossed my mind. But I daresay it may have come to your
notice that, counterfoil of another man's message, there may be
some disinclination on the part of the officials to oblige you.
There is so much red tape in these matters. However, I have no
doubt that with a little delicacy and finesse the end may be
attained. Meanwhile, I should like in your presence, Mr.
Overton, to go through these papers which have been left upon
the table."

There were a number of letters, bills, and notebooks, which
Holmes turned over and examined with quick, nervous fingers and
darting, penetrating eyes. "Nothing here," he said, at last. "By
the way, I suppose your friend was a healthy young
fellow--nothing amiss with him?"

"Sound as a bell."

"Have you ever known him ill?"

"Not a day. He has been laid up with a hack, and once he slipped
his knee-cap, but that was nothing."

"Perhaps he was not so strong as you suppose. I should think he
may have had some secret trouble. With your assent, I will put
one or two of these papers in my pocket, in case they should
bear upon our future inquiry."

"One moment--one moment!" cried a querulous voice, and we looked
up to find a queer little old man, jerking and twitching in the
doorway. He was dressed in rusty black, with a very
broad-brimmed top-hat and a loose white necktie--the whole
effect being that of a very rustic parson or of an undertaker's
mute. Yet, in spite of his shabby and even absurd appearance,
his voice had a sharp crackle, and his manner a quick intensity
which commanded attention.

"Who are you, sir, and by what right do you touch this
gentleman's papers?" he asked.

"I am a private detective, and I am endeavouring to explain his

"Oh, you are, are you? And who instructed you, eh?"

"This gentleman, Mr. Staunton's friend, was referred to me by
Scotland Yard."

"Who are you, sir?"

"I am Cyril Overton."

"Then it is you who sent me a telegram. My name is Lord
Mount-James. I came round as quickly as the Bayswater bus would
bring me. So you have instructed a detective?"

"Yes, sir."

"And are you prepared to meet the cost?"

"I have no doubt, sir, that my friend Godfrey, when we find him,
will be prepared to do that."

"But if he is never found, eh? Answer me that!"

"In that case, no doubt his family----"

"Nothing of the sort, sir!" screamed the little man. "Don't look
to me for a penny--not a penny! You understand that, Mr.
Detective! I am all the family that this young man has got, and
I tell you that I am not responsible. If he has any expectations
it is due to the fact that I have never wasted money, and I do
not propose to begin to do so now. As to those papers with which
you are making so free, I may tell you that in case there should
be anything of any value among them, you will be held strictly
to account for what you do with them."

"Very good, sir," said Sherlock Holmes. "May I ask, in the
meanwhile, whether you have yourself any theory to account for
this young man's disappearance?"

"No, sir, I have not. He is big enough and old enough to look
after himself, and if he is so foolish as to lose himself, I
entirely refuse to accept the responsibility of hunting for him."

"I quite understand your position," said Holmes, with a
mischievous twinkle in his eyes. "Perhaps you don't quite
understand mine. Godfrey Staunton appears to have been a poor
man. If he has been kidnapped, it could not have been for
anything which he himself possesses. The fame of your wealth has
gone abroad, Lord Mount-James, and it is entirely possible that
a gang of thieves have secured your nephew in order to gain from
him some information as to your house, your habits, and your treasure."

The face of our unpleasant little visitor turned as white as his

"Heavens, sir, what an idea! I never thought of such villainy!
What inhuman rogues there are in the world! But Godfrey is a
fine lad--a staunch lad. Nothing would induce him to give his
old uncle away. I'll have the plate moved over to the bank this
evening. In the meantime spare no pains, Mr. Detective! I beg
you to leave no stone unturned to bring him safely back. As to
money, well, so far as a fiver or even a tenner goes you can
always look to me."

Even in his chastened frame of mind, the noble miser could give
us no information which could help us, for he knew little of the
private life of his nephew. Our only clue lay in the truncated
telegram, and with a copy of this in his hand Holmes set forth
to find a second link for his chain. We had shaken off Lord
Mount-James, and Overton had gone to consult with the other
members of his team over the misfortune which had befallen them.

There was a telegraph-office at a short distance from the hotel.
We halted outside it.

"It's worth trying, Watson," said Holmes. "Of course, with a
warrant we could demand to see the counterfoils, but we have not
reached that stage yet. I don't suppose they remember faces in
so busy a place. Let us venture it."

"I am sorry to trouble you," said he, in his blandest manner, to
the young woman behind the grating; "there is some small mistake
about a telegram I sent yesterday. I have had no answer, and I
very much fear that I must have omitted to put my name at the
end. Could you tell me if this was so?"

The young woman turned over a sheaf of counterfoils.

"What o'clock was it?" she asked.

"A little after six."

"Whom was it to?"

Holmes put his finger to his lips and glanced at me. "The last
words in it were `For God's sake,'" he whispered,
confidentially; "I am very anxious at getting no answer."

The young woman separated one of the forms.

"This is it. There is no name," said she, smoothing it out upon
the counter.

"Then that, of course, accounts for my getting no answer," said
Holmes. "Dear me, how very stupid of me, to be sure!
Good-morning, miss, and many thanks for having relieved my
mind." He chuckled and rubbed his hands when we found ourselves
in the street once more.

"Well?" I asked.

"We progress, my dear Watson, we progress. I had seven different
schemes for getting a glimpse of that telegram, but I could
hardly hope to succeed the very first time."

"And what have you gained?"

"A starting-point for our investigation." He hailed a cab.
"King's Cross Station," said he.

"We have a journey, then?"

"Yes, I think we must run down to Cambridge together. All the
indications seem to me to point in that direction."

"Tell me," I asked, as we rattled up Gray's Inn Road, "have you
any suspicion yet as to the cause of the disappearance? I don't
think that among all our cases I have known one where the
motives are more obscure. Surely you don't really imagine that
he may be kidnapped in order to give information against his
wealthy uncle?"

"I confess, my dear Watson, that that does not appeal to me as
a very probable explanation. It struck me, however, as being the
one which was most likely to interest that exceedingly
unpleasant old person."

"It certainly did that; but what are your alternatives?"

"I could mention several. You must admit that it is curious and
suggestive that this incident should occur on the eve of this
important match, and should involve the only man whose presence
seems essential to the success of the side. It may, of course,
be a coincidence, but it is interesting. Amateur sport is free
from betting, but a good deal of outside betting goes on among
the public, and it is possible that it might be worth someone's
while to get at a player as the ruffians of the turf get at a
race-horse. There is one explanation. A second very obvious one
is that this young man really is the heir of a great property,
however modest his means may at present be, and it is not
impossible that a plot to hold him for ransom might be concocted."

"These theories take no account of the telegram."

"Quite true, Watson. The telegram still remains the only solid
thing with which we have to deal, and we must not permit our
attention to wander away from it. It is to gain light upon the
purpose of this telegram that we are now upon our way to
Cambridge. The path of our investigation is at present obscure,
but I shall be very much surprised if before evening we have not
cleared it up, or made a considerable advance along it."

It was already dark when we reached the old university city.
Holmes took a cab at the station and ordered the man to drive to
the house of Dr. Leslie Armstrong. A few minutes later, we had
stopped at a large mansion in the busiest thoroughfare. We were
shown in, and after a long wait were at last admitted into the
consulting-room, where we found the doctor seated behind his table.

It argues the degree in which I had lost touch with my
profession that the name of Leslie Armstrong was unknown to me.
Now I am aware that he is not only one of the heads of the
medical school of the university, but a thinker of European
reputation in more than one branch of science. Yet even without
knowing his brilliant record one could not fail to be impressed
by a mere glance at the man, the square, massive face, the
brooding eyes under the thatched brows, and the granite moulding
of the inflexible jaw. A man of deep character, a man with an
alert mind, grim, ascetic, self-contained, formidable--so I read
Dr. Leslie Armstrong. He held my friend's card in his hand, and
he looked up with no very pleased expression upon his dour features.

"I have heard your name, Mr. Sherlock Holmes, and I am aware of
your profession--one of which I by no means approve."

"In that, Doctor, you will find yourself in agreement with every
criminal in the country," said my friend, quietly.

"So far as your efforts are directed towards the suppression of
crime, sir, they must have the support of every reasonable
member of the community, though I cannot doubt that the official
machinery is amply sufficient for the purpose. Where your
calling is more open to criticism is when you pry into the
secrets of private individuals, when you rake up family matters
which are better hidden, and when you incidentally waste the
time of men who are more busy than yourself. At the present
moment, for example, I should be writing a treatise instead of
conversing with you."

"No doubt, Doctor; and yet the conversation may prove more
important than the treatise. Incidentally, I may tell you that
we are doing the reverse of what you very justly blame, and that
we are endeavouring to prevent anything like public exposure of
private matters which must necessarily follow when once the case
is fairly in the hands of the official police. You may look upon
me simply as an irregular pioneer, who goes in front of the
regular forces of the country. I have come to ask you about Mr.
Godfrey Staunton."

"What about him?"

"You know him, do you not?"

"He is an intimate friend of mine."

"You are aware that he has disappeared?"

"Ah, indeed!" There was no change of expression in the rugged
features of the doctor.

"He left his hotel last night--he has not been heard of."

"No doubt he will return."

"To-morrow is the 'Varsity football match."

"I have no sympathy with these childish games. The young man's
fate interests me deeply, since I know him and like him. The
football match does not come within my horizon at all."

"I claim your sympathy, then, in my investigation of Mr.
Staunton's fate. Do you know where he is?"

"Certainly not."

"You have not seen him since yesterday?"

"No, I have not."

"Was Mr. Staunton a healthy man?"


"Did you ever know him ill?"


Holmes popped a sheet of paper before the doctor's eyes. "Then
perhaps you will explain this receipted bill for thirteen
guineas, paid by Mr. Godfrey Staunton last month to Dr. Leslie
Armstrong, of Cambridge. I picked it out from among the papers
upon his desk."

The doctor flushed with anger.

"I do not feel that there is any reason why I should render an
explanation to you, Mr. Holmes."

Holmes replaced the bill in his notebook. "If you prefer a
public explanation, it must come sooner or later," said he. "I
have already told you that I can hush up that which others will
be bound to publish, and you would really be wiser to take me
into your complete confidence."

"I know nothing about it."

"Did you hear from Mr. Staunton in London?"

"Certainly not."

"Dear me, dear me--the postoffice again!" Holmes sighed,
wearily. "A most urgent telegram was dispatched to you from
London by Godfrey Staunton at six-fifteen yesterday evening--a
telegram which is undoubtedly associated with his disappearance--
and yet you have not had it. It is most culpable. I shall
certainly go down to the office here and register a complaint."

Dr. Leslie Armstrong sprang up from behind his desk, and his
dark face was crimson with fury.

"I'll trouble you to walk out of my house, sir," said he. "You
can tell your employer, Lord Mount-James, that I do not wish to
have anything to do either with him or with his agents. No,
sir--not another word!" He rang the bell furiously. "John, show
these gentlemen out!" A pompous butler ushered us severely to
the door, and we found ourselves in the street. Holmes burst out

"Dr. Leslie Armstrong is certainly a man of energy and
character," said he. "I have not seen a man who, if he turns his
talents that way, was more calculated to fill the gap left by
the illustrious Moriarty. And now, my poor Watson, here we are,
stranded and friendless in this inhospitable town, which we
cannot leave without abandoning our case. This little inn just
opposite Armstrong's house is singularly adapted to our needs.
If you would engage a front room and purchase the necessaries
for the night, I may have time to make a few inquiries."

These few inquiries proved, however, to be a more lengthy
proceeding than Holmes had imagined, for he did not return to
the inn until nearly nine o'clock. He was pale and dejected,
stained with dust, and exhausted with hunger and fatigue. A cold
supper was ready upon the table, and when his needs were
satisfied and his pipe alight he was ready to take that half
comic and wholly philosophic view which was natural to him when
his affairs were going awry. The sound of carriage wheels caused
him to rise and glance out of the window. A brougham and pair of
grays, under the glare of a gas-lamp, stood before the doctor's door.

"It's been out three hours," said Holmes; "started at half-past
six, and here it is back again. That gives a radius of ten or
twelve miles, and he does it once, or sometimes twice, a day."

"No unusual thing for a doctor in practice."

"But Armstrong is not really a doctor in practice. He is a
lecturer and a consultant, but he does not care for general
practice, which distracts him from his literary work. Why, then,
does he make these long journeys, which must be exceedingly
irksome to him, and who is it that he visits?"

"His coachman----"

"My dear Watson, can you doubt that it was to him that I first
applied? I do not know whether it came from his own innate
depravity or from the promptings of his master, but he was rude
enough to set a dog at me. Neither dog nor man liked the look of
my stick, however, and the matter fell through. Relations were
strained after that, and further inquiries out of the question.
All that I have learned I got from a friendly native in the yard
of our own inn. It was he who told me of the doctor's habits and
of his daily journey. At that instant, to give point to his
words, the carriage came round to the door."

"Could you not follow it?"

"Excellent, Watson! You are scintillating this evening. The idea
did cross my mind. There is, as you may have observed, a bicycle
shop next to our inn. Into this I rushed, engaged a bicycle, and
was able to get started before the carriage was quite out of
sight. I rapidly overtook it, and then, keeping at a discreet
distance of a hundred yards or so, I followed its lights until
we were clear of the town. We had got well out on the country
road, when a somewhat mortifying incident occurred. The carriage
stopped, the doctor alighted, walked swiftly back to where I had
also halted, and told me in an excellent sardonic fashion that
he feared the road was narrow, and that he hoped his carriage
did not impede the passage of my bicycle. Nothing could have
been more admirable than his way of putting it. I at once rode
past the carriage, and, keeping to the main road, I went on for
a few miles, and then halted in a convenient place to see if the
carriage passed. There was no sign of it, however, and so it
became evident that it had turned down one of several side roads
which I had observed. I rode back, but again saw nothing of the
carriage, and now, as you perceive, it has returned after me. Of
course, I had at the outset no particular reason to connect
these journeys with the disappearance of Godfrey Staunton, and
was only inclined to investigate them on the general grounds
that everything which concerns Dr. Armstrong is at present of
interest to us, but, now that I find he keeps so keen a look-out
upon anyone who may follow him on these excursions, the affair
appears more important, and I shall not be satisfied until I
have made the matter clear."

"We can follow him to-morrow."

"Can we? It is not so easy as you seem to think. You are not
familiar with Cambridgeshire scenery, are you? It does not lend
itself to concealment. All this country that I passed over
to-night is as flat and clean as the palm of your hand, and the
man we are following is no fool, as he very clearly showed
to-night. I have wired to Overton to let us know any fresh
London developments at this address, and in the meantime we can
only concentrate our attention upon Dr. Armstrong, whose name
the obliging young lady at the office allowed me to read upon
the counterfoil of Staunton's urgent message. He knows where the
young man is--to that I'll swear, and if he knows, then it must
be our own fault if we cannot manage to know also. At present it
must be admitted that the odd trick is in his possession, and,
as you are aware, Watson, it is not my habit to leave the game
in that condition."

And yet the next day brought us no nearer to the solution of the
mystery. A note was handed in after breakfast, which Holmes
passed across to me with a smile.

SIR [it ran]:

I can assure you that you are wasting your time in dogging my
movements. I have, as you discovered last night, a window at the
back of my brougham, and if you desire a twenty-mile ride which
will lead you to the spot from which you started, you have only
to follow me. Meanwhile, I can inform you that no spying upon me
can in any way help Mr. Godfrey Staunton, and I am convinced
that the best service you can do to that gentleman is to return
at once to London and to report to your employer that you are
unable to trace him. Your time in Cambridge will certainly be
Yours faithfully,

"An outspoken, honest antagonist is the doctor," said Holmes.
"Well, well, he excites my curiosity, and I must really know
before I leave him."

"His carriage is at his door now," said I. "There he is stepping
into it. I saw him glance up at our window as he did so. Suppose
I try my luck upon the bicycle?"

"No, no, my dear Watson! With all respect for your natural
acumen, I do not think that you are quite a match for the worthy
doctor. I think that possibly I can attain our end by some
independent explorations of my own. I am afraid that I must
leave you to your own devices, as the appearance of TWO
inquiring strangers upon a sleepy countryside might excite more
gossip than I care for. No doubt you will find some sights to
amuse you in this venerable city, and I hope to bring back a
more favourable report to you before evening."

Once more, however, my friend was destined to be disappointed.
He came back at night weary and unsuccessful.

"I have had a blank day, Watson. Having got the doctor's general
direction, I spent the day in visiting all the villages upon
that side of Cambridge, and comparing notes with publicans and
other local news agencies. I have covered some ground.
Chesterton, Histon, Waterbeach, and Oakington have each been
explored, and have each proved disappointing. The daily
appearance of a brougham and pair could hardly have been
overlooked in such Sleepy Hollows. The doctor has scored once
more. Is there a telegram for me?"

"Yes, I opened it. Here it is:

"Ask for Pompey from Jeremy Dixon, Trinity College.

I don't understand it."

"Oh, it is clear enough. It is from our friend Overton, and is
in answer to a question from me. I'll just send round a note to
Mr. Jeremy Dixon, and then I have no doubt that our luck will
turn. By the way, is there any news of the match?"

"Yes, the local evening paper has an excellent account in its
last edition. Oxford won by a goal and two tries. The last
sentences of the description say:

"The defeat of the Light Blues may be entirely attributed to the
unfortunate absence of the crack International, Godfrey
Staunton, whose want was felt at every instant of the game. The
lack of combination in the three-quarter line and their weakness
both in attack and defence more than neutralized the efforts of
a heavy and hard-working pack."

"Then our friend Overton's forebodings have been justified,"
said Holmes. "Personally I am in agreement with Dr. Armstrong,
and football does not come within my horizon. Early to bed
to-night, Watson, for I foresee that to-morrow may be an
eventful day."

I was horrified by my first glimpse of Holmes next morning, for
he sat by the fire holding his tiny hypodermic syringe. I
associated that instrument with the single weakness of his nature,
and I feared the worst when I saw it glittering in his hand. He
laughed at my expression of dismay and laid it upon the table.

"No, no, my dear fellow, there is no cause for alarm. It is not
upon this occasion the instrument of evil, but it will rather
prove to be the key which will unlock our mystery. On this
syringe I base all my hopes. I have just returned from a small
scouting expedition, and everything is favourable. Eat a good
breakfast, Watson, for I propose to get upon Dr. Armstrong's
trail to-day, and once on it I will not stop for rest or food
until I run him to his burrow."

"In that case," said I, "we had best carry our breakfast with
us, for he is making an early start. His carriage is at the door."

"Never mind. Let him go. He will be clever if he can drive where
I cannot follow him. When you have finished, come downstairs
with me, and I will introduce you to a detective who is a very
eminent specialist in the work that lies before us."

When we descended I followed Holmes into the stable yard, where
he opened the door of a loose-box and led out a squat, lop-eared,
white-and-tan dog, something between a beagle and a foxhound.

"Let me introduce you to Pompey," said he. "Pompey is the pride
of the local draghounds--no very great flier, as his build will
show, but a staunch hound on a scent. Well, Pompey, you may not
be fast, but I expect you will be too fast for a couple of
middle-aged London gentlemen, so I will take the liberty of
fastening this leather leash to your collar. Now, boy, come
along, and show what you can do." He led him across to the
doctor's door. The dog sniffed round for an instant, and then
with a shrill whine of excitement started off down the street,
tugging at his leash in his efforts to go faster. In half an
hour, we were clear of the town and hastening down a country road.

"What have you done, Holmes?" I asked.

"A threadbare and venerable device, but useful upon occasion. I
walked into the doctor's yard this morning, and shot my syringe
full of aniseed over the hind wheel. A draghound will follow
aniseed from here to John o'Groat's, and our friend, Armstrong,
would have to drive through the Cam before he would shake Pompey
off his trail. Oh, the cunning rascal! This is how he gave me
the slip the other night."

The dog had suddenly turned out of the main road into a
grass-grown lane. Half a mile farther this opened into another
broad road, and the trail turned hard to the right in the
direction of the town, which we had just quitted. The road took
a sweep to the south of the town, and continued in the opposite
direction to that in which we started.

"This DETOUR has been entirely for our benefit, then?" said
Holmes. "No wonder that my inquiries among those villagers led
to nothing. The doctor has certainly played the game for all it
is worth, and one would like to know the reason for such
elaborate deception. This should be the village of Trumpington
to the right of us. And, by Jove! here is the brougham coming
round the corner. Quick, Watson--quick, or we are done!"

He sprang through a gate into a field, dragging the reluctant
Pompey after him. We had hardly got under the shelter of the
hedge when the carriage rattled past. I caught a glimpse of Dr.
Armstrong within, his shoulders bowed, his head sunk on his
hands, the very image of distress. I could tell by my
companion's graver face that he also had seen.

"I fear there is some dark ending to our quest," said he. "It
cannot be long before we know it. Come, Pompey! Ah, it is the
cottage in the field!"

There could be no doubt that we had reached the end of our
journey. Pompey ran about and whined eagerly outside the gate,
where the marks of the brougham's wheels were still to be seen.
A footpath led across to the lonely cottage. Holmes tied the dog
to the hedge, and we hastened onward. My friend knocked at the
little rustic door, and knocked again without response. And yet
the cottage was not deserted, for a low sound came to our
ears--a kind of drone of misery and despair which was
indescribably melancholy. Holmes paused irresolute, and then he
glanced back at the road which he had just traversed. A brougham
was coming down it, and there could be no mistaking those gray horses.

"By Jove, the doctor is coming back!" cried Holmes. "That
settles it. We are bound to see what it means before he comes."

He opened the door, and we stepped into the hall. The droning
sound swelled louder upon our ears until it became one long,
deep wail of distress. It came from upstairs. Holmes darted up,
and I followed him. He pushed open a half-closed door, and we
both stood appalled at the sight before us.

A woman, young and beautiful, was lying dead upon the bed. Her
calm pale face, with dim, wide-opened blue eyes, looked upward
from amid a great tangle of golden hair. At the foot of the bed,
half sitting, half kneeling, his face buried in the clothes, was
a young man, whose frame was racked by his sobs. So absorbed was
he by his bitter grief, that he never looked up until Holmes's
hand was on his shoulder.

"Are you Mr. Godfrey Staunton?"

"Yes, yes, I am--but you are too late. She is dead."

The man was so dazed that he could not be made to understand
that we were anything but doctors who had been sent to his
assistance. Holmes was endeavouring to utter a few words of
consolation and to explain the alarm which had been caused to
his friends by his sudden disappearance when there was a step
upon the stairs, and there was the heavy, stern, questioning
face of Dr. Armstrong at the door.

"So, gentlemen," said he, "you have attained your end and have
certainly chosen a particularly delicate moment for your
intrusion. I would not brawl in the presence of death, but I can
assure you that if I were a younger man your monstrous conduct
would not pass with impunity."

"Excuse me, Dr. Armstrong, I think we are a little at
cross-purposes," said my friend, with dignity. "If you could
step downstairs with us, we may each be able to give some light
to the other upon this miserable affair."

A minute later, the grim doctor and ourselves were in the
sitting-room below.

"Well, sir?" said he.

"I wish you to understand, in the first place, that I am not
employed by Lord Mount-James, and that my sympathies in this
matter are entirely against that nobleman. When a man is lost it
is my duty to ascertain his fate, but having done so the matter
ends so far as I am concerned, and so long as there is nothing
criminal I am much more anxious to hush up private scandals than to
give them publicity. If, as I imagine, there is no breach of the
law in this matter, you can absolutely depend upon my discretion
and my cooperation in keeping the facts out of the papers."

Dr. Armstrong took a quick step forward and wrung Holmes by the hand.

"You are a good fellow," said he. "I had misjudged you. I thank
heaven that my compunction at leaving poor Staunton all alone in
this plight caused me to turn my carriage back and so to make
your acquaintance. Knowing as much as you do, the situation is
very easily explained. A year ago Godfrey Staunton lodged in
London for a time and became passionately attached to his
landlady's daughter, whom he married. She was as good as she was
beautiful and as intelligent as she was good. No man need be
ashamed of such a wife. But Godfrey was the heir to this crabbed
old nobleman, and it was quite certain that the news of his
marriage would have been the end of his inheritance. I knew the
lad well, and I loved him for his many excellent qualities. I
did all I could to help him to keep things straight. We did our
very best to keep the thing from everyone, for, when once such
a whisper gets about, it is not long before everyone has heard
it. Thanks to this lonely cottage and his own discretion,
Godfrey has up to now succeeded. Their secret was known to no
one save to me and to one excellent servant, who has at present
gone for assistance to Trumpington. But at last there came a
terrible blow in the shape of dangerous illness to his wife. It
was consumption of the most virulent kind. The poor boy was half
crazed with grief, and yet he had to go to London to play this
match, for he could not get out of it without explanations which
would expose his secret. I tried to cheer him up by wire, and he
sent me one in reply, imploring me to do all I could. This was
the telegram which you appear in some inexplicable way to have
seen. I did not tell him how urgent the danger was, for I knew
that he could do no good here, but I sent the truth to the
girl's father, and he very injudiciously communicated it to
Godfrey. The result was that he came straight away in a state
bordering on frenzy, and has remained in the same state,
kneeling at the end of her bed, until this morning death put an
end to her sufferings. That is all, Mr. Holmes, and I am sure
that I can rely upon your discretion and that of your friend."

Holmes grasped the doctor's hand.

"Come, Watson," said he, and we passed from that house of grief
into the pale sunlight of the winter day.


It was on a bitterly cold and frosty morning, towards the end of
the winter of '97, that I was awakened by a tugging at my shoulder.
It was Holmes. The candle in his hand shone upon his eager,
stooping face, and told me at a glance that something was amiss.

"Come, Watson, come!" he cried. "The game is afoot. Not a word!
Into your clothes and come!"

Ten minutes later we were both in a cab, and rattling through
the silent streets on our way to Charing Cross Station. The
first faint winter's dawn was beginning to appear, and we could
dimly see the occasional figure of an early workman as he passed
us, blurred and indistinct in the opalescent London reek. Holmes
nestled in silence into his heavy coat, and I was glad to do the
same, for the air was most bitter, and neither of us had broken
our fast.

It was not until we had consumed some hot tea at the station and
taken our places in the Kentish train that we were sufficiently
thawed, he to speak and I to listen. Holmes drew a note from his
pocket, and read aloud:

Abbey Grange, Marsham, Kent,
3:30 A.M.

I should be very glad of your immediate assistance in what
promises to be a most remarkable case. It is something quite in
your line. Except for releasing the lady I will see that
everything is kept exactly as I have found it, but I beg you not
to lose an instant, as it is difficult to leave Sir Eustace there.
Yours faithfully,

"Hopkins has called me in seven times, and on each occasion his
summons has been entirely justified," said Holmes. "I fancy that
every one of his cases has found its way into your collection,
and I must admit, Watson, that you have some power of selection,
which atones for much which I deplore in your narratives. Your
fatal habit of looking at everything from the point of view of
a story instead of as a scientific exercise has ruined what
might have been an instructive and even classical series of
demonstrations. You slur over work of the utmost finesse and
delicacy, in order to dwell upon sensational details which may
excite, but cannot possibly instruct, the reader."

"Why do you not write them yourself?" I said, with some bitterness.

"I will, my dear Watson, I will. At present I am, as you know,
fairly busy, but I propose to devote my declining years to the
composition of a textbook, which shall focus the whole art of
detection into one volume. Our present research appears to be a
case of murder."

"You think this Sir Eustace is dead, then?"

"I should say so. Hopkins's writing shows considerable
agitation, and he is not an emotional man. Yes, I gather there
has been violence, and that the body is left for our inspection.
A mere suicide would not have caused him to send for me. As to
the release of the lady, it would appear that she has been
locked in her room during the tragedy. We are moving in high
life, Watson, crackling paper, `E.B.' monogram, coat-of-arms,
picturesque address. I think that friend Hopkins will live up to
his reputation, and that we shall have an interesting morning.
The crime was committed before twelve last night."

"How can you possibly tell?"

"By an inspection of the trains, and by reckoning the time. The
local police had to be called in, they had to communicate with
Scotland Yard, Hopkins had to go out, and he in turn had to send
for me. All that makes a fair night's work. Well, here we are at
Chiselhurst Station, and we shall soon set our doubts at rest."

A drive of a couple of miles through narrow country lanes
brought us to a park gate, which was opened for us by an old
lodge-keeper, whose haggard face bore the reflection of some
great disaster. The avenue ran through a noble park, between
lines of ancient elms, and ended in a low, widespread house,
pillared in front after the fashion of Palladio. The central
part was evidently of a great age and shrouded in ivy, but the
large windows showed that modern changes had been carried out,
and one wing of the house appeared to be entirely new. The
youthful figure and alert, eager face of Inspector Stanley
Hopkins confronted us in the open doorway.

"I'm very glad you have come, Mr. Holmes. And you, too, Dr.
Watson. But, indeed, if I had my time over again, I should not
have troubled you, for since the lady has come to herself, she
has given so clear an account of the affair that there is not much
left for us to do. You remember that Lewisham gang of burglars?"

"What, the three Randalls?"

"Exactly; the father and two sons. It's their work. I have not
a doubt of it. They did a job at Sydenham a fortnight ago and
were seen and described. Rather cool to do another so soon and
so near, but it is they, beyond all doubt. It's a hanging matter
this time."

"Sir Eustace is dead, then?"

"Yes, his head was knocked in with his own poker."

"Sir Eustace Brackenstall, the driver tells me."

"Exactly--one of the richest men in Kent--Lady Brackenstall is
in the morning-room. Poor lady, she has had a most dreadful
experience. She seemed half dead when I saw her first. I think
you had best see her and hear her account of the facts. Then we
will examine the dining-room together."

Lady Brackenstall was no ordinary person. Seldom have I seen so
graceful a figure, so womanly a presence, and so beautiful a
face. She was a blonde, golden-haired, blue-eyed, and would no
doubt have had the perfect complexion which goes with such
colouring, had not her recent experience left her drawn and
haggard. Her sufferings were physical as well as mental, for
over one eye rose a hideous, plum-coloured swelling, which her
maid, a tall, austere woman, was bathing assiduously with
vinegar and water. The lady lay back exhausted upon a couch, but
her quick, observant gaze, as we entered the room, and the alert
expression of her beautiful features, showed that neither her
wits nor her courage had been shaken by her terrible experience.
She was enveloped in a loose dressing-gown of blue and silver,
but a black sequin-covered dinner-dress lay upon the couch
beside her.

"I have told you all that happened, Mr. Hopkins," she said,
wearily. "Could you not repeat it for me? Well, if you think it
necessary, I will tell these gentlemen what occurred. Have they
been in the dining-room yet?"

"I thought they had better hear your ladyship's story first."

"I shall be glad when you can arrange matters. It is horrible to
me to think of him still lying there." She shuddered and buried
her face in her hands. As she did so, the loose gown fell back
from her forearms. Holmes uttered an exclamation.

"You have other injuries, madam! What is this?" Two vivid red
spots stood out on one of the white, round limbs. She hastily
covered it.

"It is nothing. It has no connection with this hideous business
to-night. If you and your friend will sit down, I will tell you
all I can.

"I am the wife of Sir Eustace Brackenstall. I have been married
about a year. I suppose that it is no use my attempting to
conceal that our marriage has not been a happy one. I fear that
all our neighbours would tell you that, even if I were to
attempt to deny it. Perhaps the fault may be partly mine. I was
brought up in the freer, less conventional atmosphere of South
Australia, and this English life, with its proprieties and its
primness, is not congenial to me. But the main reason lies in
the one fact, which is notorious to everyone, and that is that
Sir Eustace was a confirmed drunkard. To be with such a man for
an hour is unpleasant. Can you imagine what it means for a
sensitive and high-spirited woman to be tied to him for day and
night? It is a sacrilege, a crime, a villainy to hold that such
a marriage is binding. I say that these monstrous laws of yours
will bring a curse upon the land--God will not let such
wickedness endure." For an instant she sat up, her cheeks
flushed, and her eyes blazing from under the terrible mark upon
her brow. Then the strong, soothing hand of the austere maid
drew her head down on to the cushion, and the wild anger died
away into passionate sobbing. At last she continued:

"I will tell you about last night. You are aware, perhaps, that
in this house all the servants sleep in the modern wing. This
central block is made up of the dwelling-rooms, with the kitchen
behind and our bedroom above. My maid, Theresa, sleeps above my
room. There is no one else, and no sound could alarm those who
are in the farther wing. This must have been well known to the
robbers, or they would not have acted as they did.

"Sir Eustace retired about half-past ten. The servants had
already gone to their quarters. Only my maid was up, and she had
remained in her room at the top of the house until I needed her
services. I sat until after eleven in this room, absorbed in a
book. Then I walked round to see that all was right before I
went upstairs. It was my custom to do this myself, for, as I
have explained, Sir Eustace was not always to be trusted. I went
into the kitchen, the butler's pantry, the gun-room, the
billiard-room, the drawing-room, and finally the dining-room. As
I approached the window, which is covered with thick curtains,
I suddenly felt the wind blow upon my face and realized that it
was open. I flung the curtain aside and found myself face to
face with a broad-shouldered elderly man, who had just stepped
into the room. The window is a long French one, which really
forms a door leading to the lawn. I held my bedroom candle lit
in my hand, and, by its light, behind the first man I saw two
others, who were in the act of entering. I stepped back, but the
fellow was on me in an instant. He caught me first by the wrist
and then by the throat. I opened my mouth to scream, but he
struck me a savage blow with his fist over the eye, and felled
me to the ground. I must have been unconscious for a few
minutes, for when I came to myself, I found that they had torn
down the bell-rope, and had secured me tightly to the oaken
chair which stands at the head of the dining-table. I was so
firmly bound that I could not move, and a handkerchief round my
mouth prevented me from uttering a sound. It was at this instant
that my unfortunate husband entered the room. He had evidently
heard some suspicious sounds, and he came prepared for such a
scene as he found. He was dressed in nightshirt and trousers,
with his favourite blackthorn cudgel in his hand. He rushed at
the burglars, but another--it was an elderly man--stooped,
picked the poker out of the grate and struck him a horrible blow
as he passed. He fell with a groan and never moved again. I
fainted once more, but again it could only have been for a very
few minutes during which I was insensible. When I opened my eyes
I found that they had collected the silver from the sideboard,
and they had drawn a bottle of wine which stood there. Each of
them had a glass in his hand. I have already told you, have I
not, that one was elderly, with a beard, and the others young,
hairless lads. They might have been a father with his two sons.
They talked together in whispers. Then they came over and made
sure that I was securely bound. Finally they withdrew, closing
the window after them. It was quite a quarter of an hour before
I got my mouth free. When I did so, my screams brought the maid
to my assistance. The other servants were soon alarmed, and we
sent for the local police, who instantly communicated with
London. That is really all that I can tell you, gentlemen, and
I trust that it will not be necessary for me to go over so
painful a story again."

"Any questions, Mr. Holmes?" asked Hopkins.

"I will not impose any further tax upon Lady Brackenstall's
patience and time," said Holmes. "Before I go into the
dining-room, I should like to hear your experience." He looked
at the maid.

"I saw the men before ever they came into the house," said she.
"As I sat by my bedroom window I saw three men in the moonlight
down by the lodge gate yonder, but I thought nothing of it at
the time. It was more than an hour after that I heard my
mistress scream, and down I ran, to find her, poor lamb, just as
she says, and him on the floor, with his blood and brains over
the room. It was enough to drive a woman out of her wits, tied
there, and her very dress spotted with him, but she never wanted
courage, did Miss Mary Fraser of Adelaide and Lady Brackenstall
of Abbey Grange hasn't learned new ways. You've questioned her
long enough, you gentlemen, and now she is coming to her own room,
just with her old Theresa, to get the rest that she badly needs."

With a motherly tenderness the gaunt woman put her arm round her
mistress and led her from the room.

"She has been with her all her life," said Hopkins. "Nursed her
as a baby, and came with her to England when they first left
Australia, eighteen months ago. Theresa Wright is her name, and
the kind of maid you don't pick up nowadays. This way, Mr.
Holmes, if you please!"

The keen interest had passed out of Holmes's expressive face,
and I knew that with the mystery all the charm of the case had
departed. There still remained an arrest to be effected, but
what were these commonplace rogues that he should soil his hands
with them? An abstruse and learned specialist who finds that he
has been called in for a case of measles would experience
something of the annoyance which I read in my friend's eyes. Yet
the scene in the dining-room of the Abbey Grange was
sufficiently strange to arrest his attention and to recall his
waning interest.

It was a very large and high chamber, with carved oak ceiling,
oaken panelling, and a fine array of deer's heads and ancient
weapons around the walls. At the further end from the door was
the high French window of which we had heard. Three smaller
windows on the right-hand side filled the apartment with cold
winter sunshine. On the left was a large, deep fireplace, with
a massive, overhanging oak mantelpiece. Beside the fireplace was
a heavy oaken chair with arms and cross-bars at the bottom. In
and out through the open woodwork was woven a crimson cord,
which was secured at each side to the crosspiece below. In
releasing the lady, the cord had been slipped off her, but the
knots with which it had been secured still remained. These
details only struck our attention afterwards, for our thoughts
were entirely absorbed by the terrible object which lay upon the
tigerskin hearthrug in front of the fire.

It was the body of a tall, well-made man, about forty years of
age. He lay upon his back, his face upturned, with his white
teeth grinning through his short, black beard. His two clenched
hands were raised above his head, and a heavy, blackthorn stick
lay across them. His dark, handsome, aquiline features were
convulsed into a spasm of vindictive hatred, which had set his
dead face in a terribly fiendish expression. He had evidently
been in his bed when the alarm had broken out, for he wore a
foppish, embroidered nightshirt, and his bare feet projected
from his trousers. His head was horribly injured, and the whole
room bore witness to the savage ferocity of the blow which had
struck him down. Beside him lay the heavy poker, bent into a
curve by the concussion. Holmes examined both it and the
indescribable wreck which it had wrought.

"He must be a powerful man, this elder Randall," he remarked.

"Yes," said Hopkins. "I have some record of the fellow, and he
is a rough customer."

"You should have no difficulty in getting him."

"Not the slightest. We have been on the look-out for him, and
there was some idea that he had got away to America. Now that we
know that the gang are here, I don't see how they can escape. We
have the news at every seaport already, and a reward will be
offered before evening. What beats me is how they could have
done so mad a thing, knowing that the lady could describe them
and that we could not fail to recognize the description."

"Exactly. One would have expected that they would silence Lady
Brackenstall as well."

"They may not have realized," I suggested, "that she had
recovered from her faint."

"That is likely enough. If she seemed to be senseless, they
would not take her life. What about this poor fellow, Hopkins?
I seem to have heard some queer stories about him."

"He was a good-hearted man when he was sober, but a perfect
fiend when he was drunk, or rather when he was half drunk, for
he seldom really went the whole way. The devil seemed to be in
him at such times, and he was capable of anything. From what I
hear, in spite of all his wealth and his title, he very nearly
came our way once or twice. There was a scandal about his
drenching a dog with petroleum and setting it on fire--her
ladyship's dog, to make the matter worse--and that was only
hushed up with difficulty. Then he threw a decanter at that
maid, Theresa Wright--there was trouble about that. On the
whole, and between ourselves, it will be a brighter house
without him. What are you looking at now?"

Holmes was down on his knees, examining with great attention the
knots upon the red cord with which the lady had been secured.
Then he carefully scrutinized the broken and frayed end where it
had snapped off when the burglar had dragged it down.

"When this was pulled down, the bell in the kitchen must have
rung loudly," he remarked.

"No one could hear it. The kitchen stands right at the back of
the house."

"How did the burglar know no one would hear it? How dared he
pull at a bell-rope in that reckless fashion?"

"Exactly, Mr. Holmes, exactly. You put the very question which
I have asked myself again and again. There can be no doubt that
this fellow must have known the house and its habits. He must
have perfectly understood that the servants would all be in bed
at that comparatively early hour, and that no one could possibly
hear a bell ring in the kitchen. Therefore, he must have been in
close league with one of the servants. Surely that is evident.
But there are eight servants, and all of good character."

"Other things being equal," said Holmes, "one would suspect the
one at whose head the master threw a decanter. And yet that
would involve treachery towards the mistress to whom this woman
seems devoted. Well, well, the point is a minor one, and when
you have Randall you will probably find no difficulty in
securing his accomplice. The lady's story certainly seems to be
corroborated, if it needed corroboration, by every detail which
we see before us." He walked to the French window and threw it
open. "There are no signs here, but the ground is iron hard,
and one would not expect them. I see that these candles in the
mantelpiece have been lighted."

"Yes, it was by their light and that of the lady's bedroom
candle, that the burglars saw their way about."

"And what did they take?"

"Well, they did not take much--only half a dozen articles of
plate off the sideboard. Lady Brackenstall thinks that they were
themselves so disturbed by the death of Sir Eustace that they
did not ransack the house, as they would otherwise have done."

"No doubt that is true, and yet they drank some wine, I understand."

"To steady their nerves."

"Exactly. These three glasses upon the sideboard have been
untouched, I suppose?"

"Yes, and the bottle stands as they left it."

"Let us look at it. Halloa, halloa! What is this?"

The three glasses were grouped together, all of them tinged with
wine, and one of them containing some dregs of beeswing. The
bottle stood near them, two-thirds full, and beside it lay a
long, deeply stained cork. Its appearance and the dust upon the
bottle showed that it was no common vintage which the murderers
had enjoyed.

A change had come over Holmes's manner. He had lost his listless
expression, and again I saw an alert light of interest in his
keen, deep-set eyes. He raised the cork and examined it minutely.

"How did they draw it?" he asked.

Hopkins pointed to a half-opened drawer. In it lay some table
linen and a large corkscrew.

"Did Lady Brackenstall say that screw was used?"

"No, you remember that she was senseless at the moment when the
bottle was opened."

"Quite so. As a matter of fact, that screw was not used. This
bottle was opened by a pocket screw, probably contained in a
knife, and not more than an inch and a half long. If you will
examine the top of the cork, you will observe that the screw was
driven in three times before the cork was extracted. It has
never been transfixed. This long screw would have transfixed it
and drawn it up with a single pull. When you catch this fellow,
you will find that he has one of these multiplex knives in his

"Excellent!" said Hopkins.

"But these glasses do puzzle me, I confess. Lady Brackenstall
actually SAW the three men drinking, did she not?"

"Yes; she was clear about that."

"Then there is an end of it. What more is to be said? And yet,
you must admit, that the three glasses are very remarkable,
Hopkins. What? You see nothing remarkable? Well, well, let it
pass. Perhaps, when a man has special knowledge and special
powers like my own, it rather encourages him to seek a complex
explanation when a simpler one is at hand. Of course, it must be
a mere chance about the glasses. Well, good-morning, Hopkins. I
don't see that I can be of any use to you, and you appear to
have your case very clear. You will let me know when Randall is
arrested, and any further developments which may occur. I trust
that I shall soon have to congratulate you upon a successful
conclusion. Come, Watson, I fancy that we may employ ourselves
more profitably at home."

During our return journey, I could see by Holmes's face that he
was much puzzled by something which he had observed. Every now
and then, by an effort, he would throw off the impression, and
talk as if the matter were clear, but then his doubts would
settle down upon him again, and his knitted brows and abstracted
eyes would show that his thoughts had gone back once more to the
great dining-room of the Abbey Grange, in which this midnight
tragedy had been enacted. At last, by a sudden impulse, just as
our train was crawling out of a suburban station, he sprang on
to the platform and pulled me out after him.

"Excuse me, my dear fellow," said he, as we watched the rear
carriages of our train disappearing round a curve, "I am sorry
to make you the victim of what may seem a mere whim, but on my
life, Watson, I simply CAN'T leave that case in this condition.
Every instinct that I possess cries out against it. It's wrong--
it's all wrong--I'll swear that it's wrong. And yet the lady's
story was complete, the maid's corroboration was sufficient, the
detail was fairly exact. What have I to put up against that?
Three wine-glasses, that is all. But if I had not taken things
for granted, if I had examined everything with care which I
should have shown had we approached the case DE NOVO and had no
cut-and-dried story to warp my mind, should I not then have
found something more definite to go upon? Of course I should.
Sit down on this bench, Watson, until a train for Chiselhurst
arrives, and allow me to lay the evidence before you, imploring
you in the first instance to dismiss from your mind the idea
that anything which the maid or her mistress may have said must
necessarily be true. The lady's charming personality must not be
permitted to warp our judgment.

"Surely there are details in her story which, if we looked at in
cold blood, would excite our suspicion. These burglars made a
considerable haul at Sydenham a fortnight ago. Some account of
them and of their appearance was in the papers, and would
naturally occur to anyone who wished to invent a story in which
imaginary robbers should play a part. As a matter of fact,
burglars who have done a good stroke of business are, as a rule,
only too glad to enjoy the proceeds in peace and quiet without
embarking on another perilous undertaking. Again, it is unusual
for burglars to operate at so early an hour, it is unusual for
burglars to strike a lady to prevent her screaming, since one
would imagine that was the sure way to make her scream, it is
unusual for them to commit murder when their numbers are
sufficient to overpower one man, it is unusual for them to be
content with a limited plunder when there was much more within
their reach, and finally, I should say, that it was very unusual
for such men to leave a bottle half empty. How do all these
unusuals strike you, Watson?"

"Their cumulative effect is certainly considerable, and yet each
of them is quite possible in itself. The most unusual thing of all,
as it seems to me, is that the lady should be tied to the chair."

"Well, I am not so clear about that, Watson, for it is evident
that they must either kill her or else secure her in such a way
that she could not give immediate notice of their escape. But at
any rate I have shown, have I not, that there is a certain
element of improbability about the lady's story? And now, on the
top of this, comes the incident of the wineglasses."

"What about the wineglasses?"

"Can you see them in your mind's eye?"

"I see them clearly."

"We are told that three men drank from them. Does that strike
you as likely?"

"Why not? There was wine in each glass."

"Exactly, but there was beeswing only in one glass. You must
have noticed that fact. What does that suggest to your mind?"

"The last glass filled would be most likely to contain beeswing."

"Not at all. The bottle was full of it, and it is inconceivable
that the first two glasses were clear and the third heavily
charged with it. There are two possible explanations, and only
two. One is that after the second glass was filled the bottle
was violently agitated, and so the third glass received the
beeswing. That does not appear probable. No, no, I am sure that
I am right."

"What, then, do you suppose?"

"That only two glasses were used, and that the dregs of both
were poured into a third glass, so as to give the false
impression that three people had been here. In that way all the
beeswing would be in the last glass, would it not? Yes, I am
convinced that this is so. But if I have hit upon the true
explanation of this one small phenomenon, then in an instant the
case rises from the commonplace to the exceedingly remarkable,
for it can only mean that Lady Brackenstall and her maid have
deliberately lied to us, that not one word of their story is to
be believed, that they have some very strong reason for covering
the real criminal, and that we must construct our case for
ourselves without any help from them. That is the mission which
now lies before us, and here, Watson, is the Sydenham train."

The household at the Abbey Grange were much surprised at our
return, but Sherlock Holmes, finding that Stanley Hopkins had
gone off to report to headquarters, took possession of the
dining-room, locked the door upon the inside, and devoted
himself for two hours to one of those minute and laborious
investigations which form the solid basis on which his brilliant
edifices of deduction were reared. Seated in a corner like an
interested student who observes the demonstration of his
professor, I followed every step of that remarkable research.
The window, the curtains, the carpet, the chair, the rope--each
in turn was minutely examined and duly pondered. The body of the
unfortunate baronet had been removed, and all else remained as
we had seen it in the morning. Finally, to my astonishment,
Holmes climbed up on to the massive mantelpiece. Far above his
head hung the few inches of red cord which were still attached
to the wire. For a long time he gazed upward at it, and then in
an attempt to get nearer to it he rested his knee upon a wooden
bracket on the wall. This brought his hand within a few inches
of the broken end of the rope, but it was not this so much as
the bracket itself which seemed to engage his attention.
Finally, he sprang down with an ejaculation of satisfaction.

"It's all right, Watson," said he. "We have got our case--one of
the most remarkable in our collection. But, dear me, how
slow-witted I have been, and how nearly I have committed the
blunder of my lifetime! Now, I think that, with a few missing
links, my chain is almost complete."

"You have got your men?"

"Man, Watson, man. Only one, but a very formidable person.
Strong as a lion--witness the blow that bent that poker! Six
foot three in height, active as a squirrel, dexterous with his
fingers, finally, remarkably quick-witted, for this whole
ingenious story is of his concoction. Yes, Watson, we have come
upon the handiwork of a very remarkable individual. And yet, in
that bell-rope, he has given us a clue which should not have
left us a doubt."

"Where was the clue?"

"Well, if you were to pull down a bell-rope, Watson, where would
you expect it to break? Surely at the spot where it is attached
to the wire. Why should it break three inches from the top, as
this one has done?"

"Because it is frayed there?"

"Exactly. This end, which we can examine, is frayed. He was
cunning enough to do that with his knife. But the other end is
not frayed. You could not observe that from here, but if you
were on the mantelpiece you would see that it is cut clean off
without any mark of fraying whatever. You can reconstruct what
occurred. The man needed the rope. He would not tear it down for
fear of giving the alarm by ringing the bell. What did he do? He
sprang up on the mantelpiece, could not quite reach it, put his
knee on the bracket--you will see the impression in the dust--
and so got his knife to bear upon the cord. I could not reach
the place by at least three inches--from which I infer that he
is at least three inches a bigger man than I. Look at that mark
upon the seat of the oaken chair! What is it?"


"Undoubtedly it is blood. This alone puts the lady's story out
of court. If she were seated on the chair when the crime was
done, how comes that mark? No, no, she was placed in the chair
AFTER the death of her husband. I'll wager that the black dress
shows a corresponding mark to this. We have not yet met our
Waterloo, Watson, but this is our Marengo, for it begins in
defeat and ends in victory. I should like now to have a few
words with the nurse, Theresa. We must be wary for a while, if
we are to get the information which we want."

She was an interesting person, this stern Australian nurse--
taciturn, suspicious, ungracious, it took some time before
Holmes's pleasant manner and frank acceptance of all that she
said thawed her into a corresponding amiability. She did not
attempt to conceal her hatred for her late employer.

"Yes, sir, it is true that he threw the decanter at me. I heard
him call my mistress a name, and I told him that he would not
dare to speak so if her brother had been there. Then it was that
he threw it at me. He might have thrown a dozen if he had but
left my bonny bird alone. He was forever ill-treating her, and
she too proud to complain. She will not even tell me all that he
has done to her. She never told me of those marks on her arm
that you saw this morning, but I know very well that they come
from a stab with a hatpin. The sly devil--God forgive me that I
should speak of him so, now that he is dead! But a devil he was,
if ever one walked the earth. He was all honey when first we met
him--only eighteen months ago, and we both feel as if it were
eighteen years. She had only just arrived in London. Yes, it was
her first voyage--she had never been from home before. He won
her with his title and his money and his false London ways. If
she made a mistake she has paid for it, if ever a woman did.
What month did we meet him? Well, I tell you it was just after
we arrived. We arrived in June, and it was July. They were
married in January of last year. Yes, she is down in the
morning-room again, and I have no doubt she will see you, but
you must not ask too much of her, for she has gone through all
that flesh and blood will stand."

Lady Brackenstall was reclining on the same couch, but looked
brighter than before. The maid had entered with us, and began
once more to foment the bruise upon her mistress's brow.

"I hope," said the lady, "that you have not come to
cross-examine me again?"

"No," Holmes answered, in his gentlest voice, "I will not cause
you any unnecessary trouble, Lady Brackenstall, and my whole
desire is to make things easy for you, for I am convinced that
you are a much-tried woman. If you will treat me as a friend and
trust me, you may find that I will justify your trust."

"What do you want me to do?"

"To tell me the truth."

"Mr. Holmes!"

"No, no, Lady Brackenstall--it is no use. You may have heard of
any little reputation which I possess. I will stake it all on
the fact that your story is an absolute fabrication."

Mistress and maid were both staring at Holmes with pale faces
and frightened eyes.

"You are an impudent fellow!" cried Theresa. "Do you mean to say
that my mistress has told a lie?"

Holmes rose from his chair.

"Have you nothing to tell me?"

"I have told you everything."

"Think once more, Lady Brackenstall. Would it not be better to
be frank?"

For an instant there was hesitation in her beautiful face. Then
some new strong thought caused it to set like a mask.

"I have told you all I know."

Holmes took his hat and shrugged his shoulders. "I am sorry," he
said, and without another word we left the room and the house.
There was a pond in the park, and to this my friend led the way.
It was frozen over, but a single hole was left for the
convenience of a solitary swan. Holmes gazed at it, and then
passed on to the lodge gate. There he scribbled a short note for
Stanley Hopkins, and left it with the lodge-keeper.

"It may be a hit, or it may be a miss, but we are bound to do
something for friend Hopkins, just to justify this second
visit," said he. "I will not quite take him into my confidence
yet. I think our next scene of operations must be the shipping
office of the Adelaide-Southampton line, which stands at the end
of Pall Mall, if I remember right. There is a second line of
steamers which connect South Australia with England, but we will
draw the larger cover first."

Holmes's card sent in to the manager ensured instant attention,
and he was not long in acquiring all the information he needed.
In June of '95, only one of their line had reached a home port.
It was the ROCK OF GIBRALTAR, their largest and best boat. A
reference to the passenger list showed that Miss Fraser, of
Adelaide, with her maid had made the voyage in her. The boat was
now somewhere south of the Suez Canal on her way to Australia.
Her officers were the same as in '95, with one exception. The
first officer, Mr. Jack Crocker, had been made a captain and was
to take charge of their new ship, the BASS ROCK, sailing in two
days' time from Southampton. He lived at Sydenham, but he was
likely to be in that morning for instructions, if we cared to
wait for him.

No, Mr. Holmes had no desire to see him, but would be glad to
know more about his record and character.

His record was magnificent. There was not an officer in the
fleet to touch him. As to his character, he was reliable on
duty, but a wild, desperate fellow off the deck of his ship--
hot-headed, excitable, but loyal, honest, and kind-hearted. That
was the pith of the information with which Holmes left the
office of the Adelaide-Southampton company. Thence he drove to
Scotland Yard, but, instead of entering, he sat in his cab with
his brows drawn down, lost in profound thought. Finally he drove
round to the Charing Cross telegraph office, sent off a message,
and then, at last, we made for Baker Street once more.

"No, I couldn't do it, Watson," said he, as we reentered our
room. "Once that warrant was made out, nothing on earth would
save him. Once or twice in my career I feel that I have done
more real harm by my discovery of the criminal than ever he had
done by his crime. I have learned caution now, and I had rather
play tricks with the law of England than with my own conscience.
Let us know a little more before we act."

Before evening, we had a visit from Inspector Stanley Hopkins.
Things were not going very well with him.

"I believe that you are a wizard, Mr. Holmes. I really do
sometimes think that you have powers that are not human. Now,
how on earth could you know that the stolen silver was at the
bottom of that pond?"

"I didn't know it."

"But you told me to examine it."

"You got it, then?"

"Yes, I got it."

"I am very glad if I have helped you."

"But you haven't helped me. You have made the affair far more
difficult. What sort of burglars are they who steal silver and
then throw it into the nearest pond?"

"It was certainly rather eccentric behaviour. I was merely going
on the idea that if the silver had been taken by persons who did
not want it--who merely took it for a blind, as it were--then
they would naturally be anxious to get rid of it."

"But why should such an idea cross your mind?"

"Well, I thought it was possible. When they came out through the
French window, there was the pond with one tempting little hole
in the ice, right in front of their noses. Could there be a
better hiding-place?"

"Ah, a hiding-place--that is better!" cried Stanley Hopkins.
"Yes, yes, I see it all now! It was early, there were folk upon
the roads, they were afraid of being seen with the silver, so
they sank it in the pond, intending to return for it when the
coast was clear. Excellent, Mr. Holmes--that is better than your
idea of a blind."

"Quite so, you have got an admirable theory. I have no doubt
that my own ideas were quite wild, but you must admit that they
have ended in discovering the silver."

"Yes, sir--yes. It was all your doing. But I have had a bad setback."

"A setback?"

"Yes, Mr. Holmes. The Randall gang were arrested in New York
this morning."

"Dear me, Hopkins! That is certainly rather against your theory
that they committed a murder in Kent last night."

"It is fatal, Mr. Holmes--absolutely fatal. Still, there are
other gangs of three besides the Randalls, or it may be some new
gang of which the police have never heard."

"Quite so, it is perfectly possible. What, are you off?"

Yes, Mr. Holmes, there is no rest for me until I have got to the
bottom of the business. I suppose you have no hint to give me?"

"I have given you one."


"Well, I suggested a blind."

"But why, Mr. Holmes, why?"

"Ah, that's the question, of course. But I commend the idea to
your mind. You might possibly find that there was something in
it. You won't stop for dinner? Well, good-bye, and let us know
how you get on."

Dinner was over, and the table cleared before Holmes alluded to
the matter again. He had lit his pipe and held his slippered
feet to the cheerful blaze of the fire. Suddenly he looked at
his watch.

"I expect developments, Watson."


"Now--within a few minutes. I dare say you thought I acted
rather badly to Stanley Hopkins just now?"

"I trust your judgment."

"A very sensible reply, Watson. You must look at it this way:
what I know is unofficial, what he knows is official. I have the
right to private judgment, but he has none. He must disclose
all, or he is a traitor to his service. In a doubtful case I
would not put him in so painful a position, and so I reserve my
information until my own mind is clear upon the matter."

"But when will that be?"

"The time has come. You will now be present at the last scene of
a remarkable little drama."

There was a sound upon the stairs, and our door was opened to
admit as fine a specimen of manhood as ever passed through it.
He was a very tall young man, golden-moustached, blue-eyed, with
a skin which had been burned by tropical suns, and a springy
step, which showed that the huge frame was as active as it was
strong. He closed the door behind him, and then he stood with
clenched hands and heaving breast, choking down some
overmastering emotion.

"Sit down, Captain Crocker. You got my telegram?"

Our visitor sank into an armchair and looked from one to the
other of us with questioning eyes.

"I got your telegram, and I came at the hour you said. I heard
that you had been down to the office. There was no getting away
from you. Let's hear the worst. What are you going to do with
me? Arrest me? Speak out, man! You can't sit there and play with
me like a cat with a mouse."

"Give him a cigar," said Holmes. "Bite on that, Captain Crocker,
and don't let your nerves run away with you. I should not sit
here smoking with you if I thought that you were a common
criminal, you may be sure of that. Be frank with me and we may
do some good. Play tricks with me, and I'll crush you."

"What do you wish me to do?"

"To give me a true account of all that happened at the Abbey
Grange last night--a TRUE account, mind you, with nothing added
and nothing taken off. I know so much already that if you go one
inch off the straight, I'll blow this police whistle from my
window and the affair goes out of my hands forever."

The sailor thought for a little. Then he struck his leg with his
great sunburned hand.

"I'll chance it," he cried. "I believe you are a man of your
word, and a white man, and I'll tell you the whole story. But
one thing I will say first. So far as I am concerned, I regret
nothing and I fear nothing, and I would do it all again and be
proud of the job. Damn the beast, if he had as many lives as a
cat, he would owe them all to me! But it's the lady, Mary--Mary
Fraser--for never will I call her by that accursed name. When I
think of getting her into trouble, I who would give my life just
to bring one smile to her dear face, it's that that turns my
soul into water. And yet--and yet--what less could I do? I'll
tell you my story, gentlemen, and then I'll ask you, as man to
man, what less could I do?

"I must go back a bit. You seem to know everything, so I expect
that you know that I met her when she was a passenger and I was
first officer of the ROCK OF GIBRALTAR. From the first day I met
her, she was the only woman to me. Every day of that voyage I
loved her more, and many a time since have I kneeled down in the
darkness of the night watch and kissed the deck of that ship
because I knew her dear feet had trod it. She was never engaged
to me. She treated me as fairly as ever a woman treated a man.
I have no complaint to make. It was all love on my side, and all
good comradeship and friendship on hers. When we parted she was
a free woman, but I could never again be a free man.

"Next time I came back from sea, I heard of her marriage. Well,
why shouldn't she marry whom she liked? Title and money--who
could carry them better than she? She was born for all that is
beautiful and dainty. I didn't grieve over her marriage. I was
not such a selfish hound as that. I just rejoiced that good luck
had come her way, and that she had not thrown herself away on a
penniless sailor. That's how I loved Mary Fraser.

"Well, I never thought to see her again, but last voyage I was
promoted, and the new boat was not yet launched, so I had to
wait for a couple of months with my people at Sydenham. One day
out in a country lane I met Theresa Wright, her old maid. She
told me all about her, about him, about everything. I tell you,
gentlemen, it nearly drove me mad. This drunken hound, that he
should dare to raise his hand to her, whose boots he was not
worthy to lick! I met Theresa again. Then I met Mary herself--
and met her again. Then she would meet me no more. But the other
day I had a notice that I was to start on my voyage within a
week, and I determined that I would see her once before I left.
Theresa was always my friend, for she loved Mary and hated this
villain almost as much as I did. From her I learned the ways of
the house. Mary used to sit up reading in her own little room
downstairs. I crept round there last night and scratched at the
window. At first she would not open to me, but in her heart I
know that now she loves me, and she could not leave me in the
frosty night. She whispered to me to come round to the big front
window, and I found it open before me, so as to let me into the
dining-room. Again I heard from her own lips things that made my
blood boil, and again I cursed this brute who mishandled the
woman I loved. Well, gentlemen, I was standing with her just
inside the window, in all innocence, as God is my judge, when he
rushed like a madman into the room, called her the vilest name
that a man could use to a woman, and welted her across the face
with the stick he had in his hand. I had sprung for the poker,
and it was a fair fight between us. See here, on my arm, where
his first blow fell. Then it was my turn, and I went through him
as if he had been a rotten pumpkin. Do you think I was sorry?
Not I! It was his life or mine, but far more than that, it was
his life or hers, for how could I leave her in the power of this
madman? That was how I killed him. Was I wrong? Well, then, what
would either of you gentlemen have done, if you had been in my position?"

"She had screamed when he struck her, and that brought old
Theresa down from the room above. There was a bottle of wine on
the sideboard, and I opened it and poured a little between
Mary's lips, for she was half dead with shock. Then I took a
drop myself. Theresa was as cool as ice, and it was her plot as
much as mine. We must make it appear that burglars had done the
thing. Theresa kept on repeating our story to her mistress,
while I swarmed up and cut the rope of the bell. Then I lashed
her in her chair, and frayed out the end of the rope to make it
look natural, else they would wonder how in the world a burglar
could have got up there to cut it. Then I gathered up a few
plates and pots of silver, to carry out the idea of the robbery,
and there I left them, with orders to give the alarm when I had
a quarter of an hour's start. I dropped the silver into the
pond, and made off for Sydenham, feeling that for once in my
life I had done a real good night's work. And that's the truth
and the whole truth, Mr. Holmes, if it costs me my neck."

Holmes smoked for some time in silence. Then he crossed the
room, and shook our visitor by the hand.

"That's what I think," said he. "I know that every word is true,
for you have hardly said a word which I did not know. No one but
an acrobat or a sailor could have got up to that bell-rope from
the bracket, and no one but a sailor could have made the knots
with which the cord was fastened to the chair. Only once had
this lady been brought into contact with sailors, and that was
on her voyage, and it was someone of her own class of life,
since she was trying hard to shield him, and so showing that she
loved him. You see how easy it was for me to lay my hands upon
you when once I had started upon the right trail."

"I thought the police never could have seen through our dodge."

"And the police haven't, nor will they, to the best of my
belief. Now, look here, Captain Crocker, this is a very serious
matter, though I am willing to admit that you acted under the
most extreme provocation to which any man could be subjected. I
am not sure that in defence of your own life your action will
not be pronounced legitimate. However, that is for a British
jury to decide. Meanwhile I have so much sympathy for you that,
if you choose to disappear in the next twenty-four hours, I will
promise you that no one will hinder you."

"And then it will all come out?"

"Certainly it will come out."

The sailor flushed with anger.

"What sort of proposal is that to make a man? I know enough of
law to understand that Mary would be held as accomplice. Do you
think I would leave her alone to face the music while I slunk
away? No, sir, let them do their worst upon me, but for heaven's
sake, Mr. Holmes, find some way of keeping my poor Mary out of
the courts."

Holmes for a second time held out his hand to the sailor.

"I was only testing you, and you ring true every time. Well, it
is a great responsibility that I take upon myself, but I have
given Hopkins an excellent hint and if he can't avail himself of
it I can do no more. See here, Captain Crocker, we'll do this in
due form of law. You are the prisoner. Watson, you are a British
jury, and I never met a man who was more eminently fitted to
represent one. I am the judge. Now, gentleman of the jury, you
have heard the evidence. Do you find the prisoner guilty or not guilty?"

"Not guilty, my lord," said I.

"VOX POPULI, VOX DEI. You are acquitted, Captain Crocker. So
long as the law does not find some other victim you are safe
from me. Come back to this lady in a year, and may her future
and yours justify us in the judgment which we have pronounced
this night!"


I had intended "The Adventure of the Abbey Grange" to be the
last of those exploits of my friend, Mr. Sherlock Holmes, which
I should ever communicate to the public. This resolution of mine
was not due to any lack of material, since I have notes of many
hundreds of cases to which I have never alluded, nor was it
caused by any waning interest on the part of my readers in the
singular personality and unique methods of this remarkable man.
The real reason lay in the reluctance which Mr. Holmes has shown
to the continued publication of his experiences. So long as he
was in actual professional practice the records of his successes
were of some practical value to him, but since he has definitely
retired from London and betaken himself to study and bee-farming
on the Sussex Downs, notoriety has become hateful to him, and he
has peremptorily requested that his wishes in this matter should
be strictly observed. It was only upon my representing to him
that I had given a promise that "The Adventure of the Second
Stain" should be published when the times were ripe, and
pointing out to him that it is only appropriate that this long
series of episodes should culminate in the most important
international case which he has ever been called upon to handle,
that I at last succeeded in obtaining his consent that a
carefully guarded account of the incident should at last be laid
before the public. If in telling the story I seem to be somewhat
vague in certain details, the public will readily understand
that there is an excellent reason for my reticence.

It was, then, in a year, and even in a decade, that shall be
nameless, that upon one Tuesday morning in autumn we found two
visitors of European fame within the walls of our humble room in
Baker Street. The one, austere, high-nosed, eagle-eyed, and
dominant, was none other than the illustrious Lord Bellinger,
twice Premier of Britain. The other, dark, clear-cut, and
elegant, hardly yet of middle age, and endowed with every beauty
of body and of mind, was the Right Honourable Trelawney Hope,
Secretary for European Affairs, and the most rising statesman in
the country. They sat side by side upon our paper-littered
settee, and it was easy to see from their worn and anxious faces
that it was business of the most pressing importance which had
brought them. The Premier's thin, blue-veined hands were clasped
tightly over the ivory head of his umbrella, and his gaunt,
ascetic face looked gloomily from Holmes to me. The European
Secretary pulled nervously at his moustache and fidgeted with
the seals of his watch-chain.

"When I discovered my loss, Mr. Holmes, which was at eight
o'clock this morning, I at once informed the Prime Minister.
It was at his suggestion that we have both come to you."

"Have you informed the police?"

"No, sir," said the Prime Minister, with the quick, decisive
manner for which he was famous. "We have not done so, nor is it
possible that we should do so. To inform the police must, in the
long run, mean to inform the public. This is what we
particularly desire to avoid."

"And why, sir?"

"Because the document in question is of such immense importance
that its publication might very easily--I might almost say
probably--lead to European complications of the utmost moment.
It is not too much to say that peace or war may hang upon the
issue. Unless its recovery can be attended with the utmost
secrecy, then it may as well not be recovered at all, for all
that is aimed at by those who have taken it is that its contents
should be generally known."

"I understand. Now, Mr. Trelawney Hope, I should be much obliged
if you would tell me exactly the circumstances under which this
document disappeared."

"That can be done in a very few words, Mr. Holmes. The letter--for
it was a letter from a foreign potentate--was received six days
ago. It was of such importance that I have never left it in my
safe, but have taken it across each evening to my house in Whitehall
Terrace, and kept it in my bedroom in a locked despatch-box. It was
there last night. Of that I am certain. I actually opened the box
while I was dressing for dinner and saw the document inside. This
morning it was gone. The despatch-box had stood beside the glass
upon my dressing-table all night. I am a light sleeper, and so is
my wife. We are both prepared to swear that no one could have
entered the room during the night. And yet I repeat that the
paper is gone."

"What time did you dine?"

"Half-past seven."

"How long was it before you went to bed?"

"My wife had gone to the theatre. I waited up for her. It was
half-past eleven before we went to our room."

"Then for four hours the despatch-box had lain unguarded?"

"No one is ever permitted to enter that room save the house-maid
in the morning, and my valet, or my wife's maid, during the rest
of the day. They are both trusty servants who have been with us
for some time. Besides, neither of them could possibly have
known that there was anything more valuable than the ordinary
departmental papers in my despatch-box."

"Who did know of the existence of that letter?"

"No one in the house."

"Surely your wife knew?"

"No, sir. I had said nothing to my wife until I missed the paper
this morning."

The Premier nodded approvingly.

"I have long known, sir, how high is your sense of public duty,"
said he. "I am convinced that in the case of a secret of this
importance it would rise superior to the most intimate domestic ties.

The European Secretary bowed.

"You do me no more than justice, sir. Until this morning I have
never breathed one word to my wife upon this matter."

"Could she have guessed?"

"No, Mr. Holmes, she could not have guessed--nor could anyone
have guessed."

"Have you lost any documents before?"

"No, sir."

"Who is there in England who did know of the existence of
this letter?"

"Each member of the Cabinet was informed of it yesterday, but
the pledge of secrecy which attends every Cabinet meeting was
increased by the solemn warning which was given by the Prime
Minister. Good heavens, to think that within a few hours I
should myself have lost it!" His handsome face was distorted
with a spasm of despair, and his hands tore at his hair. For a
moment we caught a glimpse of the natural man, impulsive,
ardent, keenly sensitive. The next the aristocratic mask was
replaced, and the gentle voice had returned. "Besides the
members of the Cabinet there are two, or possibly three,
departmental officials who know of the letter. No one else in
England, Mr. Holmes, I assure you."

"But abroad?"

"I believe that no one abroad has seen it save the man who wrote
it. I am well convinced that his Ministers--that the usual
official channels have not been employed."

Holmes considered for some little time.

"Now, sir, I must ask you more particularly what this document
is, and why its disappearance should have such momentous

The two statesmen exchanged a quick glance and the Premier's
shaggy eyebrows gathered in a frown.

"Mr. Holmes, the envelope is a long, thin one of pale blue
colour. There is a seal of red wax stamped with a crouching
lion. It is addressed in large, bold handwriting to----"

"I fear, sir," said Holmes, "that, interesting and indeed
essential as these details are, my inquiries must go more to the
root of things. What WAS the letter?"

"That is a State secret of the utmost importance, and I fear
that I cannot tell you, nor do I see that it is necessary. If by
the aid of the powers which you are said to possess you can find
such an envelope as I describe with its enclosure, you will have
deserved well of your country, and earned any reward which it
lies in our power to bestow."

Sherlock Holmes rose with a smile.

"You are two of the most busy men in the country," said he, "and
in my own small way I have also a good many calls upon me. I
regret exceedingly that I cannot help you in this matter, and
any continuation of this interview would be a waste of time."

The Premier sprang to his feet with that quick, fierce gleam of
his deep-set eyes before which a Cabinet has cowered. "I am not
accustomed, sir," he began, but mastered his anger and resumed
his seat. For a minute or more we all sat in silence. Then the
old statesman shrugged his shoulders.

"We must accept your terms, Mr. Holmes. No doubt you are right,
and it is unreasonable for us to expect you to act unless we
give you our entire confidence."

"I agree with you," said the younger statesman.

"Then I will tell you, relying entirely upon your honour and
that of your colleague, Dr. Watson. I may appeal to your
patriotism also, for I could not imagine a greater misfortune
for the country than that this affair should come out."

"You may safely trust us."

"The letter, then, is from a certain foreign potentate who has
been ruffled by some recent Colonial developments of this
country. It has been written hurriedly and upon his own
responsibility entirely. Inquiries have shown that his Ministers
know nothing of the matter. At the same time it is couched in so
unfortunate a manner, and certain phrases in it are of so
provocative a character, that its publication would undoubtedly
lead to a most dangerous state of feeling in this country. There
would be such a ferment, sir, that I do not hesitate to say that
within a week of the publication of that letter this country
would be involved in a great war."

Holmes wrote a name upon a slip of paper and handed it to the Premier.

"Exactly. It was he. And it is this letter--this letter which
may well mean the expenditure of a thousand millions and the
lives of a hundred thousand men--which has become lost in this
unaccountable fashion."

"Have you informed the sender?"

"Yes, sir, a cipher telegram has been despatched."

"Perhaps he desires the publication of the letter."

"No, sir, we have strong reason to believe that he already
understands that he has acted in an indiscreet and hot-headed
manner. It would be a greater blow to him and to his country
than to us if this letter were to come out."

"If this is so, whose interest is it that, the letter should
come out? Why should anyone desire to steal it or to publish it?"

"There, Mr. Holmes, you take me into regions of high
international politics. But if you consider the European
situation you will have no difficulty in perceiving the motive.
The whole of Europe is an armed camp. There is a double league
which makes a fair balance of military power. Great Britain
holds the scales. If Britain were driven into war with one
confederacy, it would assure the supremacy of the other
confederacy, whether they joined in the war or not.
Do you follow?"

"Very clearly. It is then the interest of the enemies of this
potentate to secure and publish this letter, so as to make a
breach between his country and ours?"

"Yes, sir."

"And to whom would this document be sent if it fell into the
hands of an enemy?"

"To any of the great Chancelleries of Europe. It is probably
speeding on its way thither at the present instant as fast as
steam can take it."

Mr. Trelawney Hope dropped his head on his chest and groaned
aloud. The Premier placed his hand kindly upon his shoulder.

"It is your misfortune, my dear fellow. No one can blame you.
There is no precaution which you have neglected. Now, Mr.
Holmes, you are in full possession of the facts. What course do
you recommend?"

Holmes shook his head mournfully.

"You think, sir, that unless this document is recovered there
will be war?"

"I think it is very probable."

"Then, sir, prepare for war."

"That is a hard saying, Mr. Holmes."

"Consider the facts, sir. It is inconceivable that it was taken
after eleven-thirty at night, since I understand that Mr. Hope
and his wife were both in the room from that hour until the loss
was found out. It was taken, then, yesterday evening between
seven-thirty and eleven-thirty, probably near the earlier hour,
since whoever took it evidently knew that it was there and would
naturally secure it as early as possible. Now, sir, if a
document of this importance were taken at that hour, where can
it be now? No one has any reason to retain it. It has been
passed rapidly on to those who need it. What chance have we now
to overtake or even to trace it? It is beyond our reach."

The Prime Minister rose from the settee.

"What you say is perfectly logical, Mr. Holmes. I feel that the
matter is indeed out of our hands."

"Let us presume, for argument's sake, that the document was
taken by the maid or by the valet----"

"They are both old and tried servants."

"I understand you to say that your room is on the second floor,
that there is no entrance from without, and that from within no
one could go up unobserved. It must, then, be somebody in the
house who has taken it. To whom would the thief take it? To one
of several international spies and secret agents, whose names
are tolerably familiar to me. There are three who may be said to
be the heads of their profession. I will begin my research by
going round and finding if each of them is at his post. If one
is missing--especially if he has disappeared since last night--
we will have some indication as to where the document has gone."

"Why should he be missing?" asked the European Secretary. "He
would take the letter to an Embassy in London, as likely as not."

"I fancy not. These agents work independently, and their
relations with the Embassies are often strained."

The Prime Minister nodded his acquiescence.

"I believe you are right, Mr. Holmes. He would take so valuable
a prize to headquarters with his own hands. I think that your
course of action is an excellent one. Meanwhile, Hope, we cannot
neglect all our other duties on account of this one misfortune.
Should there be any fresh developments during the day we shall
communicate with you, and you will no doubt let us know the
results of your own inquiries."

The two statesmen bowed and walked gravely from the room.

When our illustrious visitors had departed Holmes lit his pipe
in silence and sat for some time lost in the deepest thought. I
had opened the morning paper and was immersed in a sensational
crime which had occurred in London the night before, when my
friend gave an exclamation, sprang to his feet, and laid his
pipe down upon the mantelpiece.

"Yes," said he, "there is no better way of approaching it. The
situation is desperate, but not hopeless. Even now, if we could
be sure which of them has taken it, it is just possible that it
has not yet passed out of his hands. After all, it is a question
of money with these fellows, and I have the British treasury
behind me. If it's on the market I'll buy it--if it means
another penny on the income-tax. It is conceivable that the
fellow might hold it back to see what bids come from this side
before he tries his luck on the other. There are only those
three capable of playing so bold a game--there are Oberstein, La
Rothiere, and Eduardo Lucas. I will see each of them."

I glanced at my morning paper.

"Is that Eduardo Lucas of Godolphin Street?"


"You will not see him."

"Why not?"

"He was murdered in his house last night."

My friend has so often astonished me in the course of our
adventures that it was with a sense of exultation that I
realized how completely I had astonished him. He stared in
amazement, and then snatched the paper from my hands. This was
the paragraph which I had been engaged in reading when he rose
from his chair.


A crime of mysterious character was committed last night at 16
Godolphin Street, one of the old-fashioned and secluded rows of
eighteenth century houses which lie between the river and the
Abbey, almost in the shadow of the great Tower of the Houses of
Parliament. This small but select mansion has been inhabited for
some years by Mr. Eduardo Lucas, well known in society circles
both on account of his charming personality and because he has
the well-deserved reputation of being one of the best amateur
tenors in the country. Mr. Lucas is an unmarried man,
thirty-four years of age, and his establishment consists of Mrs.
Pringle, an elderly housekeeper, and of Mitton, his valet. The
former retires early and sleeps at the top of the house. The
valet was out for the evening, visiting a friend at Hammersmith.
From ten o'clock onward Mr. Lucas had the house to himself. What
occurred during that time has not yet transpired, but at a
quarter to twelve Police-constable Barrett, passing along
Godolphin Street observed that the door of No. 16 was ajar. He
knocked, but received no answer. Perceiving a light in the front
room, he advanced into the passage and again knocked, but
without reply. He then pushed open the door and entered. The
room was in a state of wild disorder, the furniture being all
swept to one side, and one chair lying on its back in the
centre. Beside this chair, and still grasping one of its legs,
lay the unfortunate tenant of the house. He had been stabbed to
the heart and must have died instantly. The knife with which the
crime had been committed was a curved Indian dagger, plucked
down from a trophy of Oriental arms which adorned one of the
walls. Robbery does not appear to have been the motive of the
crime, for there had been no attempt to remove the valuable
contents of the room. Mr. Eduardo Lucas was so well known and
popular that his violent and mysterious fate will arouse painful
interest and intense sympathy in a widespread circle of friends.

"Well, Watson, what do you make of this?" asked Holmes, after a
long pause.

"It is an amazing coincidence."

"A coincidence! Here is one of the three men whom we had named
as possible actors in this drama, and he meets a violent death
during the very hours when we know that that drama was being
enacted. The odds are enormous against its being coincidence. No
figures could express them. No, my dear Watson, the two events
are connected--MUST be connected. It is for us to find the

"But now the official police must know all."

"Not at all. They know all they see at Godolphin Street. They
know--and shall know--nothing of Whitehall Terrace. Only WE know
of both events, and can trace the relation between them. There
is one obvious point which would, in any case, have turned my
suspicions against Lucas. Godolphin Street, Westminster, is only
a few minutes' walk from Whitehall Terrace. The other secret
agents whom I have named live in the extreme West End. It was
easier, therefore, for Lucas than for the others to establish a
connection or receive a message from the European Secretary's
household--a small thing, and yet where events are compressed
into a few hours it may prove essential. Halloa! what have we here?"

Mrs. Hudson had appeared with a lady's card upon her salver.
Holmes glanced at it, raised his eyebrows, and handed it
over to me.

"Ask Lady Hilda Trelawney Hope if she will be kind enough to
step up," said he.

A moment later our modest apartment, already so distinguished
that morning, was further honoured by the entrance of the most
lovely woman in London. I had often heard of the beauty of the
youngest daughter of the Duke of Belminster, but no description
of it, and no contemplation of colourless photographs, had
prepared me for the subtle, delicate charm and the beautiful
colouring of that exquisite head. And yet as we saw it that
autumn morning, it was not its beauty which would be the first
thing to impress the observer. The cheek was lovely but it was
paled with emotion, the eyes were bright but it was the
brightness of fever, the sensitive mouth was tight and drawn in
an effort after self-command. Terror--not beauty--was what
sprang first to the eye as our fair visitor stood framed for an
instant in the open door.

"Has my husband been here, Mr. Holmes?"

"Yes, madam, he has been here."

"Mr. Holmes. I implore you not to tell him that I came here."
Holmes bowed coldly, and motioned the lady to a chair.

"Your ladyship places me in a very delicate position. I beg that
you will sit down and tell me what you desire, but I fear that
I cannot make any unconditional promise."

She swept across the room and seated herself with her back to
the window. It was a queenly presence--tall, graceful, and
intensely womanly. "Mr. Holmes," she said--and her white-gloved
hands clasped and unclasped as she spoke--"I will speak frankly
to you in the hopes that it may induce you to speak frankly in
return. There is complete confidence between my husband and me
on all matters save one. That one is politics. On this his lips
are sealed. He tells me nothing. Now, I am aware that there was
a most deplorable occurrence in our house last night. I know
that a paper has disappeared. But because the matter is
political my husband refuses to take me into his complete
confidence. Now it is essential--essential, I say--that I should
thoroughly understand it. You are the only other person, save
only these politicians, who knows the true facts. I beg you
then, Mr. Holmes, to tell me exactly what has happened and what
it will lead to. Tell me all, Mr. Holmes. Let no regard for your
client's interests keep you silent, for I assure you that his
interests, if he would only see it, would be best served by
taking me into his complete confidence. What was this paper
which was stolen?"

"Madam, what you ask me is really impossible."

She groaned and sank her face in her hands.

"You must see that this is so, madam. If your husband thinks fit
to keep you in the dark over this matter, is it for me, who has
only learned the true facts under the pledge of professional
secrecy, to tell what he has withheld? It is not fair to ask it.
It is him whom you must ask."

"I have asked him. I come to you as a last resource. But without
your telling me anything definite, Mr. Holmes, you may do a
great service if you would enlighten me on one point."

"What is it, madam?"

"Is my husband's political career likely to suffer through this

"Well, madam, unless it is set right it may certainly have a
very unfortunate effect."

"Ah!" She drew in her breath sharply as one whose doubts are resolved.

"One more question, Mr. Holmes. From an expression which my
husband dropped in the first shock of this disaster I understood
that terrible public consequences might arise from the loss of
this document."

"If he said so, I certainly cannot deny it."

"Of what nature are they?"

"Nay, madam, there again you ask me more than I can possibly answer."

"Then I will take up no more of your time. I cannot blame you,
Mr. Holmes, for having refused to speak more freely, and you on
your side will not, I am sure, think the worse of me because I
desire, even against his will, to share my husband's anxieties.
Once more I beg that you will say nothing of my visit."

She looked back at us from the door, and I had a last impression
of that beautiful haunted face, the startled eyes, and the drawn
mouth. Then she was gone.

"Now, Watson, the fair sex is your department," said Holmes,
with a smile, when the dwindling frou-frou of skirts had ended
in the slam of the front door. "What was the fair lady's game?
What did she really want?"

"Surely her own statement is clear and her anxiety very natural."

"Hum! Think of her appearance, Watson--her manner, her
suppressed excitement, her restlessness, her tenacity in asking
questions. Remember that she comes of a caste who do not lightly
show emotion."

"She was certainly much moved."

"Remember also the curious earnestness with which she assured us
that it was best for her husband that she should know all. What
did she mean by that? And you must have observed, Watson, how
she manoeuvred to have the light at her back. She did not wish
us to read her expression."

"Yes, she chose the one chair in the room."

"And yet the motives of women are so inscrutable. You remember
the woman at Margate whom I suspected for the same reason. No
powder on her nose--that proved to be the correct solution. How
can you build on such a quicksand? Their most trivial action may
mean volumes, or their most extraordinary conduct may depend
upon a hairpin or a curling tongs. Good-morning, Watson."

"You are off?"

"Yes, I will while away the morning at Godolphin Street with our
friends of the regular establishment. With Eduardo Lucas lies
the solution of our problem, though I must admit that I have not
an inkling as to what form it may take. It is a capital mistake
to theorize in advance of the facts. Do you stay on guard, my
good Watson, and receive any fresh visitors. I'll join you at
lunch if I am able."

All that day and the next and the next Holmes was in a mood
which his friends would call taciturn, and others morose. He ran
out and ran in, smoked incessantly, played snatches on his
violin, sank into reveries, devoured sandwiches at irregular
hours, and hardly answered the casual questions which I put to
him. It was evident to me that things were not going well with
him or his quest. He would say nothing of the case, and it was
from the papers that I learned the particulars of the inquest,
and the arrest with the subsequent release of John Mitton, the
valet of the deceased. The coroner's jury brought in the obvious
Wilful Murder, but the parties remained as unknown as ever. No
motive was suggested. The room was full of articles of value,
but none had been taken. The dead man's papers had not been
tampered with. They were carefully examined, and showed that he
was a keen student of international politics, an indefatigable
gossip, a remarkable linguist, and an untiring letter writer. He
had been on intimate terms with the leading politicians of
several countries. But nothing sensational was discovered among
the documents which filled his drawers. As to his relations with
women, they appeared to have been promiscuous but superficial.
He had many acquaintances among them, but few friends, and no
one whom he loved. His habits were regular, his conduct
inoffensive. His death was an absolute mystery and likely to
remain so.

As to the arrest of John Mitton, the valet, it was a council of
despair as an alternative to absolute inaction. But no case
could be sustained against him. He had visited friends in
Hammersmith that night. The ALIBI was complete. It is true that
he started home at an hour which should have brought him to
Westminster before the time when the crime was discovered, but
his own explanation that he had walked part of the way seemed
probable enough in view of the fineness of the night. He had
actually arrived at twelve o'clock, and appeared to be
overwhelmed by the unexpected tragedy. He had always been on
good terms with his master. Several of the dead man's
possessions--notably a small case of razors--had been found in
the valet's boxes, but he explained that they had been presents
from the deceased, and the housekeeper was able to corroborate
the story. Mitton had been in Lucas's employment for three
years. It was noticeable that Lucas did not take Mitton on the
Continent with him. Sometimes he visited Paris for three months
on end, but Mitton was left in charge of the Godolphin Street
house. As to the housekeeper, she had heard nothing on the night
of the crime. If her master had a visitor he had himself
admitted him.

So for three mornings the mystery remained, so far as I could
follow it in the papers. If Holmes knew more, he kept his own
counsel, but, as he told me that Inspector Lestrade had taken
him into him into his confidence in the case, I knew that he was
in close touch with every development. Upon the fourth day there
appeared a long telegram from Paris which seemed to solve the
whole question.

A discovery has just been made by the Parisian police [said the
DAILY TELEGRAPH] which raises the veil which hung round the
tragic fate of Mr. Eduardo Lucas, who met his death by violence
last Monday night at Godolphin Street, Westminster. Our readers
will remember that the deceased gentleman was found stabbed in
his room, and that some suspicion attached to his valet, but
that the case broke down on an ALIBI. Yesterday a lady, who has
been known as Mme. Henri Fournaye, occupying a small villa in
the Rue Austerlitz, was reported to the authorities by her
servants as being insane. An examination showed she had indeed
developed mania of a dangerous and permanent form. On inquiry,
the police have discovered that Mme. Henri Fournaye only
returned from a journey to London on Tuesday last, and there is
evidence to connect her with the crime at Westminster. A
comparison of photographs has proved conclusively that M. Henri
Fournaye and Eduardo Lucas were really one and the same person,
and that the deceased had for some reason lived a double life in
London and Paris. Mme. Fournaye, who is of Creole origin, is of
an extremely excitable nature, and has suffered in the past from
attacks of jealousy which have amounted to frenzy. It is
conjectured that it was in one of these that she committed the
terrible crime which has caused such a sensation in London. Her
movements upon the Monday night have not yet been traced, but it
is undoubted that a woman answering to her description attracted
much attention at Charing Cross Station on Tuesday morning by
the wildness of her appearance and the violence of her gestures.
It is probable, therefore, that the crime was either committed
when insane, or that its immediate effect was to drive the
unhappy woman out of her mind. At present she is unable to give
any coherent account of the past, and the doctors hold out no
hopes of the reestablishment of her reason. There is evidence
that a woman, who might have been Mme. Fournaye, was seen for
some hours upon Monday night watching the house in Godolphin Street.

"What do you think of that, Holmes?" I had read the account
aloud to him, while he finished his breakfast.

"My dear Watson," said he, as he rose from the table and paced
up and down the room, "You are most long-suffering, but if I
have told you nothing in the last three days, it is because
there is nothing to tell. Even now this report from Paris does
not help us much."

"Surely it is final as regards the man's death."

"The man's death is a mere incident--a trivial episode--in
comparison with our real task, which is to trace this document
and save a European catastrophe. Only one important thing has
happened in the last three days, and that is that nothing has
happened. I get reports almost hourly from the government, and
it is certain that nowhere in Europe is there any sign of
trouble. Now, if this letter were loose--no, it CAN'T be
loose--but if it isn't loose, where can it be? Who has it? Why
is it held back? That's the question that beats in my brain like
a hammer. Was it, indeed, a coincidence that Lucas should meet
his death on the night when the letter disappeared? Did the
letter ever reach him? If so, why is it not among his papers?
Did this mad wife of his carry it off with her? If so, is it in
her house in Paris? How could I search for it without the French
police having their suspicions aroused? It is a case, my dear
Watson, where the law is as dangerous to us as the criminals
are. Every man's hand is against us, and yet the interests at
stake are colossal. Should I bring it to a successful
conclusion, it will certainly represent the crowning glory of my
career. Ah, here is my latest from the front!" He glanced
hurriedly at the note which had been handed in. "Halloa!
Lestrade seems to have observed something of interest. Put on
your hat, Watson, and we will stroll down together to Westminster."

It was my first visit to the scene of the crime--a high, dingy,
narrow-chested house, prim, formal, and solid, like the century
which gave it birth. Lestrade's bulldog features gazed out at us
from the front window, and he greeted us warmly when a big
constable had opened the door and let us in. The room into which
we were shown was that in which the crime had been committed,
but no trace of it now remained save an ugly, irregular stain
upon the carpet. This carpet was a small square drugget in the
centre of the room, surrounded by a broad expanse of beautiful,
old-fashioned wood-flooring in square blocks, highly polished.
Over the fireplace was a magnificent trophy of weapons, one of
which had been used on that tragic night. In the window was a
sumptuous writing-desk, and every detail of the apartment, the
pictures, the rugs, and the hangings, all pointed to a taste
which was luxurious to the verge of effeminacy.

"Seen the Paris news?" asked Lestrade.

Holmes nodded.

"Our French friends seem to have touched the spot this time. No
doubt it's just as they say. She knocked at the door--surprise
visit, I guess, for he kept his life in water-tight
compartments--he let her in, couldn't keep her in the street.
She told him how she had traced him, reproached him. One thing
led to another, and then with that dagger so handy the end soon
came. It wasn't all done in an instant, though, for these chairs
were all swept over yonder, and he had one in his hand as if he
had tried to hold her off with it. We've got it all clear as if
we had seen it."

Holmes raised his eyebrows.

"And yet you have sent for me?"

"Ah, yes, that's another matter--a mere trifle, but the sort of
thing you take an interest in--queer, you know, and what you
might call freakish. It has nothing to do with the main
fact--can't have, on the face of it."

"What is it, then?"

"Well, you know, after a crime of this sort we are very careful
to keep things in their position. Nothing has been moved.
Officer in charge here day and night. This morning, as the man
was buried and the investigation over--so far as this room is
concerned--we thought we could tidy up a bit. This carpet. You
see, it is not fastened down, only just laid there. We had
occasion to raise it. We found----"

"Yes? You found----"

Holmes's face grew tense with anxiety.

"Well, I'm sure you would never guess in a hundred years what we
did find. You see that stain on the carpet? Well, a great deal
must have soaked through, must it not?"

"Undoubtedly it must."

"Well, you will be surprised to hear that there is no stain on
the white woodwork to correspond."

"No stain! But there must----"

"Yes, so you would say. But the fact remains that there isn't."

He took the corner of the carpet in his hand and, turning it
over, he showed that it was indeed as he said.

"But the under side is as stained as the upper. It must have
left a mark."

Lestrade chuckled with delight at having puzzled the famous expert.

"Now, I'll show you the explanation. There IS a second stain,
but it does not correspond with the other. See for yourself." As
he spoke he turned over another portion of the carpet, and
there, sure enough, was a great crimson spill upon the square
white facing of the old-fashioned floor. "What do you make of
that, Mr. Holmes?"

"Why, it is simple enough. The two stains did correspond, but
the carpet has been turned round. As it was square and
unfastened it was easily done."

The official police don't need you, Mr. Holmes, to tell them
that the carpet must have been turned round. That's clear
enough, for the stains lie above each other--if you lay it over
this way. But what I want to know is, who shifted the carpet,
and why?"

I could see from Holmes's rigid face that he was vibrating with
inward excitement.

"Look here, Lestrade," said he, "has that constable in the
passage been in charge of the place all the time?"

"Yes, he has."

"Well, take my advice. Examine him carefully. Don't do it before
us. Well wait here. You take him into the back room. You'll be
more likely to get a confession out of him alone. Ask him how he
dared to admit people and leave them alone in this room. Don't
ask him if he has done it. Take it for granted. Tell him you
KNOW someone has been here. Press him. Tell him that a full
confession is his only chance of forgiveness. Do exactly what I
tell you!"

"By George, if he knows I'll have it out of him!" cried
Lestrade. He darted into the hall, and a few moments later his
bullying voice sounded from the back room.

"Now, Watson, now!" cried Holmes with frenzied eagerness. All
the demoniacal force of the man masked behind that listless
manner burst out in a paroxysm of energy. He tore the drugget
from the floor, and in an instant was down on his hands and
knees clawing at each of the squares of wood beneath it. One
turned sideways as he dug his nails into the edge of it. It
hinged back like the lid of a box. A small black cavity opened
beneath it. Holmes plunged his eager hand into it and drew it
out with a bitter snarl of anger and disappointment. It was empty.

"Quick, Watson, quick! Get it back again!" The wooden lid was
replaced, and the drugget had only just been drawn straight when
Lestrade's voice was heard in the passage. He found Holmes
leaning languidly against the mantelpiece, resigned and patient,
endeavouring to conceal his irrepressible yawns.

"Sorry to keep you waiting, Mr. Holmes . I can see that you are
bored to death with the whole affair. Well, he has confessed,
all right. Come in here, MacPherson. Let these gentlemen hear of
your most inexcusable conduct."

The big constable, very hot and penitent, sidled into the room.

"I meant no harm, sir, I'm sure. The young woman came to the
door last evening--mistook the house, she did. And then we got
talking. It's lonesome, when you're on duty here all day."

"Well, what happened then?"

"She wanted to see where the crime was done--had read about it
in the papers, she said. She was a very respectable, well-spoken
young woman, sir, and I saw no harm in letting her have a peep.
When she saw that mark on the carpet, down she dropped on the
floor, and lay as if she were dead. I ran to the back and got
some water, but I could not bring her to. Then I went round the
corner to the Ivy Plant for some brandy, and by the time I had
brought it back the young woman had recovered and was
off--ashamed of herself, I daresay, and dared not face me."

"How about moving that drugget?"

"Well, sir, it was a bit rumpled, certainly, when I came back.
You see, she fell on it and it lies on a polished floor with
nothing to keep it in place. I straightened it out afterwards."

"It's a lesson to you that you can't deceive me, Constable
MacPherson," said Lestrade, with dignity. "No doubt you thought
that your breach of duty could never be discovered, and yet a
mere glance at that drugget was enough to convince me that
someone had been admitted to the room. It's lucky for you, my
man, that nothing is missing, or you would find yourself in
Queer Street. I'm sorry to have called you down over such a
petty business, Mr. Holmes, but I thought the point of the
second stain not corresponding with the first would interest you."

"Certainly, it was most interesting. Has this woman only been
here once, constable?"

"Yes, sir, only once."

"Who was she?"

"Don't know the name, sir. Was answering an advertisement about
typewriting and came to the wrong number--very pleasant, genteel
young woman, sir."

"Tall? Handsome?"

"Yes, sir, she was a well-grown young woman. I suppose you might
say she was handsome. Perhaps some would say she was very
handsome. `Oh, officer, do let me have a peep!' says she. She
had pretty, coaxing ways, as you might say, and I thought there
was no harm in letting her just put her head through the door."

"How was she dressed?"

"Quiet, sir--a long mantle down to her feet."

"What time was it?"

"It was just growing dusk at the time. They were lighting the
lamps as I came back with the brandy."

"Very good," said Holmes. "Come, Watson, I think that we have
more important work elsewhere."

As we left the house Lestrade remained in the front room, while
the repentant constable opened the door to let us out. Holmes
turned on the step and held up something in his hand. The
constable stared intently.

"Good Lord, sir!" he cried, with amazement on his face. Holmes
put his finger on his lips, replaced his hand in his breast
pocket, and burst out laughing as we turned down the street.
"Excellent!" said he. "Come, friend Watson, the curtain rings up
for the last act. You will be relieved to hear that there will
be no war, that the Right Honourable Trelawney Hope will suffer
no setback in his brilliant career, that the indiscreet
Sovereign will receive no punishment for his indiscretion, that
the Prime Minister will have no Europe an complication to deal
with, and that with a little tact and management upon our part
nobody will be a penny the worse for what might have been a very
ugly incident."

My mind filled with admiration for this extraordinary man.

"You have solved it!" I cried.

"Hardly that, Watson. There are some points which are as dark as
ever. But we have so much that it will be our own fault if we
cannot get the rest. We will go straight to Whitehall Terrace
and bring the matter to a head."

When we arrived at the residence of the European Secretary it
was for Lady Hilda Trelawney Hope that Sherlock Holmes inquired.
We were shown into the morning-room.

"Mr. Holmes!" said the lady, and her face was pink with her
indignation. "This is surely most unfair and ungenerous upon
your part. I desired, as I have explained, to keep my visit to
you a secret, lest my husband should think that I was intruding
into his affairs. And yet you compromise me by coming here and
so showing that there are business relations between us."

"Unfortunately, madam, I had no possible alternative. I have
been commissioned to recover this immensely important paper. I
must therefore ask you, madam, to be kind enough to place it in
my hands."

The lady sprang to her feet, with the colour all dashed in an
instant from her beautiful face. Her eyes glazed--she
tottered--I thought that she would faint. Then with a grand
effort she rallied from the shock, and a supreme astonishment
and indignation chased every other expression from her features.

"You--you insult me, Mr. Holmes."

"Come, come, madam, it is useless. Give up the letter."

She darted to the bell.

"The butler shall show you out."

"Do not ring, Lady Hilda. If you do, then all my earnest efforts
to avoid a scandal will be frustrated. Give up the letter and
all will be set right. If you will work with me I can arrange
everything. If you work against me I must expose you."

She stood grandly defiant, a queenly figure, her eyes fixed upon
his as if she would read his very soul. Her hand was on the
bell, but she had forborne to ring it.

"You are trying to frighten me. It is not a very manly thing,
Mr. Holmes, to come here and browbeat a woman. You say that you
know something. What is it that you know?"

"Pray sit down, madam. You will hurt yourself there if you fall.
I will not speak until you sit down. Thank you."

"I give you five minutes, Mr. Holmes."

"One is enough, Lady Hilda. I know of your visit to Eduardo
Lucas, of your giving him this document, of your ingenious
return to the room last night, and of the manner in which you
took the letter from the hiding-place under the carpet."

She stared at him with an ashen face and gulped twice before she
could speak.

"You are mad, Mr. Holmes--you are mad!" she cried, at last.

He drew a small piece of cardboard from his pocket. It was the
face of a woman cut out of a portrait.

"I have carried this because I thought it might be useful," said
he. "The policeman has recognized it."

She gave a gasp, and her head dropped back in the chair.

"Come, Lady Hilda. You have the letter. The matter may still be
adjusted. I have no desire to bring trouble to you. My duty ends
when I have returned the lost letter to your husband. Take my
advice and be frank with me. It is your only chance."

Her courage was admirable. Even now she would not own defeat.

"I tell you again, Mr. Holmes, that you are under some absurd illusion."

Holmes rose from his chair.

"I am sorry for you, Lady Hilda. I have done my best for you. I
can see that it is all in vain."

He rang the bell. The butler entered.

"Is Mr. Trelawney Hope at home?"

"He will be home, sir, at a quarter to one."

Holmes glanced at his watch.

"Still a quarter of an hour," said he. "Very good, I shall wait."

The butler had hardly closed the door behind him when Lady Hilda
was down on her knees at Holmes's feet, her hands outstretched,
her beautiful face upturned and wet with her tears.

"Oh, spare me, Mr. Holmes! Spare me!" she pleaded, in a frenzy
of supplication. "For heaven's sake, don't tell him! I love him
so! I would not bring one shadow on his life, and this I know
would break his noble heart."

Holmes raised the lady. "I am thankful, madam, that you have
come to your senses even at this last moment! There is not an
instant to lose. Where is the letter?"

She darted across to a writing-desk, unlocked it, and drew out
a long blue envelope.

"Here it is, Mr. Holmes. Would to heaven I had never seen it!"

"How can we return it?" Holmes muttered. "Quick, quick, we must
think of some way! Where is the despatch-box?"

"Still in his bedroom."

"What a stroke of luck! Quick, madam, bring it here!" A moment
later she had appeared with a red flat box in her hand.

"How did you open it before? You have a duplicate key? Yes, of
course you have. Open it!"

From out of her bosom Lady Hilda had drawn a small key. The box
flew open. It was stuffed with papers. Holmes thrust the blue
envelope deep down into the heart of them, between the leaves of
some other document. The box was shut, locked, and returned to
the bedroom.

"Now we are ready for him," said Holmes. "We have still ten
minutes. I am going far to screen you, Lady Hilda. In return you
will spend the time in telling me frankly the real meaning of
this extraordinary affair."

"Mr. Holmes, I will tell you everything," cried the lady. "Oh,
Mr. Holmes, I would cut off my right hand before I gave him a
moment of sorrow! There is no woman in all London who loves her
husband as I do, and yet if he knew how I have acted--how I have
been compelled to act--he would never forgive me. For his own
honour stands so high that he could not forget or pardon a lapse
in another. Help me, Mr. Holmes! My happiness, his happiness,
our very lives are at stake!"

"Quick, madam, the time grows short!"

"It was a letter of mine, Mr. Holmes, an indiscreet letter
written before my marriage--a foolish letter, a letter of an
impulsive, loving girl. I meant no harm, and yet he would have
thought it criminal. Had he read that letter his confidence
would have been forever destroyed. It is years since I wrote it.
I had thought that the whole matter was forgotten. Then at last
I heard from this man, Lucas, that it had passed into his hands,
and that he would lay it before my husband. I implored his
mercy. He said that he would return my letter if I would bring
him a certain document which he described in my husband's
despatch-box. He had some spy in the office who had told him of
its existence. He assured me that no harm could come to my
husband. Put yourself in my position, Mr. Holmes! What was I to do?"

"Take your husband into your confidence."

"I could not, Mr. Holmes, I could not! On the one side seemed
certain ruin, on the other, terrible as it seemed to take my
husband's paper, still in a matter of politics I could not
understand the consequences, while in a matter of love and trust
they were only too clear to me. I did it, Mr. Holmes! I took an
impression of his key. This man, Lucas, furnished a duplicate.
I opened his despatch-box, took the paper, and conveyed it to
Godolphin Street."

"What happened there, madam?"

"I tapped at the door as agreed. Lucas opened it. I followed him
into his room, leaving the hall door ajar behind me, for I
feared to be alone with the man. I remember that there was a
woman outside as I entered. Our business was soon done. He had
my letter on his desk, I handed him the document. He gave me the
letter. At this instant there was a sound at the door. There
were steps in the passage. Lucas quickly turned back the
drugget, thrust the document into some hiding-place there, and
covered it over.

"What happened after that is like some fearful dream. I have a
vision of a dark, frantic face, of a woman's voice, which
screamed in French, `My waiting is not in vain. At last, at last
I have found you with her!' There was a savage struggle. I saw
him with a chair in his hand, a knife gleamed in hers. I rushed
from the horrible scene, ran from the house, and only next
morning in the paper did I learn the dreadful result. That night
I was happy, for I had my letter, and I had not seen yet what
the future would bring.

"It was the next morning that I realized that I had only
exchanged one trouble for another. My husband's anguish at the
loss of his paper went to my heart. I could hardly prevent
myself from there and then kneeling down at his feet and telling
him what I had done. But that again would mean a confession of
the past. I came to you that morning in order to understand the
full enormity of my offence. From the instant that I grasped it
my whole mind was turned to the one thought of getting back my
husband's paper. It must still be where Lucas had placed it, for
it was concealed before this dreadful woman entered the room. If
it had not been for her coming, I should not have known where
his hiding-place was. How was I to get into the room? For two
days I watched the place, but the door was never left open. Last
night I made a last attempt. What I did and how I succeeded, you
have already learned. I brought the paper back with me, and
thought of destroying it, since I could see no way of returning
it without confessing my guilt to my husband. Heavens, I hear
his step upon the stair!"

The European Secretary burst excitedly into the room. "Any
news, Mr. Holmes, any news?" he cried.

"I have some hopes."

"Ah, thank heaven!" His face became radiant. "The Prime Minister
is lunching with me. May he share your hopes? He has nerves of
steel, and yet I know that he has hardly slept since this
terrible event. Jacobs, will you ask the Prime Minister to come
up? As to you, dear, I fear that this is a matter of politics.
We will join you in a few minutes in the dining-room."

The Prime Minister's manner was subdued, but I could see by the
gleam of his eyes and the twitchings of his bony hands that he
shared the excitement of his young colleague.

"I understand that you have something to report, Mr. Holmes?"

"Purely negative as yet," my friend answered. "I have inquired
at every point where it might be, and I am sure that there is no
danger to be apprehended."

"But that is not enough, Mr. Holmes. We cannot live forever on
such a volcano. We must have something definite."

"I am in hopes of getting it. That is why I am here. The more I
think of the matter the more convinced I am that the letter has
never left this house."

"Mr. Holmes!"

"If it had it would certainly have been public by now."

"But why should anyone take it in order to keep it in his house?"

"I am not convinced that anyone did take it."

"Then how could it leave the despatch-box?"

"I am not convinced that it ever did leave the despatch-box."

"Mr. Holmes, this joking is very ill-timed. You have my
assurance that it left the box."

"Have you examined the box since Tuesday morning?"

"No. It was not necessary."

"You may conceivably have overlooked it."

"Impossible, I say."

"But I am not convinced of it. I have known such things to
happen. I presume there are other papers there. Well, it may
have got mixed with them."

"It was on the top."

"Someone may have shaken the box and displaced it."

"No, no, I had everything out."

"Surely it is easily, decided, Hope," said the Premier. "Let us
have the despatch-box brought in."

The Secretary rang the bell.

"Jacobs, bring down my despatch-box. This is a farcical waste of
time, but still, if nothing else will satisfy you, it shall be
done. Thank you, Jacobs, put it here. I have always had the key
on my watch-chain. Here are the papers, you see. Letter from
Lord Merrow, report from Sir Charles Hardy, memorandum from
Belgrade, note on the Russo-German grain taxes, letter from
Madrid, note from Lord Flowers----Good heavens! what is this?
Lord Bellinger! Lord Bellinger!"

The Premier snatched the blue envelope from his hand.

"Yes, it is it--and the letter is intact. Hope, I congratulate you."

"Thank you! Thank you! What a weight from my heart. But this is
inconceivable--impossible. Mr. Holmes, you are a wizard, a
sorcerer! How did you know it was there?"

"Because I knew it was nowhere else."

"I cannot believe my eyes!" He ran wildly to the door. "Where is
my wife? I must tell her that all is well. Hilda! Hilda!" we
heard his voice on the stairs.

The Premier looked at Holmes with twinkling eyes.

"Come, sir," said he. "There is more in this than meets the eye.
How came the letter back in the box?"

Holmes turned away smiling from the keen scrutiny of those
wonderful eyes.

"We also have our diplomatic secrets," said he and, picking up
his hat, he turned to the door.

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