The Complete Sherlock Holmes Short Stories - Part 2

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The Complete Sherlock Holmes Short Stories - Part 2

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The Five Orange Pips 


hen I glance over my notes and 
records of the Sherlock Holmes cases 
between the years '82 and 'go, I 
am faced by so many which present 
strange and interesting features that it is no easy 
matter to know which to choose and which to 
leave. Some, however, have already gained public- 
ity through the papers, and others have not offered 
a field for those peculiar qualities which my friend 
possessed in so high a degree, and which it is the 
object of these papers to illustrate. Some, too, have 
baffled his analytical skill, and would be, as narra- 
tives, beginnings without an ending, while others 
have been but partially cleared up, and have their 
explanations founded rather upon conjecture and 
surmise than on that absolute logical proof which 
was so dear to him. There is, however, one of these 
last which was so remarkable in its details and so 
startling in its results that I am tempted to give 
some account of it in spite of the fact that there 
are points in connection with it which never have 
been, and probably never will be, entirely cleared 
up. 

The year '87 furnished us with a long series 
of cases of greater or less interest, of which I re- 
tain the records. Among my headings under this 
one twelve months I find an account of the adven- 
ture of the Paradol Chamber, of the Amateur Men- 
dicant Society, who held a luxurious club in the 
lower vault of a furniture warehouse, of the facts 
connected with the loss of the British barque "So- 
phy Anderson", of the singular adventures of the 
Grice Patersons in the island of Uffa, and finally 
of the Camberwell poisoning case. In the latter, as 
may be remembered, Sherlock Holmes was able, 
by winding up the dead man's watch, to prove 
that it had been wound up two hours before, and 
that therefore the deceased had gone to bed within 
that time — a deduction which was of the greatest 
importance in clearing up the case. All these I may 
sketch out at some future date, but none of them 
present such singular features as the strange train 
of circumstances which I have now taken up my 
pen to describe. 

It was in the latter days of September, and the 
equinoctial gales had set in with exceptional vi- 
olence. All day the wind had screamed and the 
rain had beaten against the windows, so that even 
here in the heart of great, hand-made London we 
were forced to raise our minds for the instant from 
the routine of life and to recognise the presence 
of those great elemental forces which shriek at 
mankind through the bars of his civilisation, like 
untamed beasts in a cage. As evening drew in, 
the storm grew higher and louder, and the wind 



cried and sobbed like a child in the chimney. Sher- 
lock Holmes sat moodily at one side of the fire- 
place cross-indexing his records of crime, while I 
at the other was deep in one of Clark Russell's fine 
sea-stories until the howl of the gale from without 
seemed to blend with the text, and the splash of 
the rain to lengthen out into the long swash of the 
sea waves. My wife was on a visit to her mother's, 
and for a few days I was a dweller once more in 
my old quarters at Baker Street. 

"Why," said I, glancing up at my companion, 
"that was surely the bell. Who could come to- 
night? Some friend of yours, perhaps?" 

"Except yourself I have none," he answered. "I 
do not encourage visitors." 

"A client, then?" 

"If so, it is a serious case. Nothing less would 
bring a man out on such a day and at such an hour. 
But I take it that it is more likely to be some crony 
of the landlady's." 

Sherlock Holmes was wrong in his conjecture, 
however, for there came a step in the passage and a 
tapping at the door. He stretched out his long arm 
to turn the lamp away from himself and towards 
the vacant chair upon which a newcomer must sit. 

"Come in!" said he. 

The man who entered was young, some two- 
and-twenty at the outside, well-groomed and 
trimly clad, with something of refinement and 
delicacy in his bearing. The streaming umbrella 
which he held in his hand, and his long shin- 
ing waterproof told of the fierce weather through 
which he had come. He looked about him anx- 
iously in the glare of the lamp, and I could see that 
his face was pale and his eyes heavy, like those of 
a man who is weighed down with some great anx- 
iety. 

"I owe you an apology," he said, raising his 
golden pince-nez to his eyes. "I trust that I am not 
intruding. I fear that I have brought some traces of 
the storm and rain into your snug chamber." 

"Give me your coat and umbrella," said 
Holmes. "They may rest here on the hook and 
will be dry presently. You have come up from the 
south-west, I see." 

"Yes, from Horsham." 

"That clay and chalk mixture which I see upon 
your toe caps is quite distinctive." 

"I have come for advice." 

"That is easily got." 

"And help." 

"That is not always so easy." 


175 



The Five Orange Pips 


"I have heard of you, Mr. Holmes. I heard 
from Major Prendergast how you saved him in the 
Tankerville Club scandal." 

"Ah, of course. He was wrongfully accused of 
cheating at cards." 

"He said that you could solve anything." 

"He said too much." 

"That you are never beaten." 

"I have been beaten four times — three times by 
men, and once by a woman." 

"But what is that compared with the number 
of your successes?" 

"It is true that I have been generally success- 
ful." 

"Then you may be so with me." 

"I beg that you will draw your chair up to the 
fire and favour me with some details as to your 
case." 

"It is no ordinary one." 

"None of those which come to me are. I am the 
last court of appeal." 

"And yet I question, sir, whether, in all your 
experience, you have ever listened to a more mys- 
terious and inexplicable chain of events than those 
which have happened in my own family." 

"You fill me with interest," said Holmes. "Pray 
give us the essential facts from the commence- 
ment, and I can afterwards question you as to 
those details which seem to me to be most impor- 
tant." 

The young man pulled his chair up and pushed 
his wet feet out towards the blaze. 

"My name," said he, "is John Openshaw, but 
my own affairs have, as far as I can understand, 
little to do with this awful business. It is a heredi- 
tary matter; so in order to give you an idea of the 
facts, I must go back to the commencement of the 
affair. 

"You must know that my grandfather had two 
sons — my uncle Elias and my father Joseph. My 
father had a small factory at Coventry, which he 
enlarged at the time of the invention of bicycling. 
He was a patentee of the Openshaw unbreakable 
tire, and his business met with such success that he 
was able to sell it and to retire upon a handsome 
competence. 

"My uncle Elias emigrated to America when he 
was a young man and became a planter in Florida, 
where he was reported to have done very well. At 
the time of the war he fought in Jackson's army, 
and afterwards under Hood, where he rose to be 


a colonel. When Lee laid down his arms my uncle 
returned to his plantation, where he remained for 
three or four years. About 1869 or 1870 he came 
back to Europe and took a small estate in Sussex, 
near Horsham. He had made a very considerable 
fortune in the States, and his reason for leaving 
them was his aversion to the negroes, and his dis- 
like of the Republican policy in extending the fran- 
chise to them. He was a singular man, fierce and 
quick-tempered, very foul-mouthed when he was 
angry, and of a most retiring disposition. During 
all the years that he lived at Horsham, I doubt 
if ever he set foot in the town. He had a gar- 
den and two or three fields round his house, and 
there he would take his exercise, though very often 
for weeks on end he would never leave his room. 
He drank a great deal of brandy and smoked very 
heavily, but he would see no society and did not 
want any friends, not even his own brother. 

"He didn't mind me; in fact, he took a fancy 
to me, for at the time when he saw me first I was 
a youngster of twelve or so. This would be in the 
year 1878, after he had been eight or nine years 
in England. He begged my father to let me live 
with him and he was very kind to me in his way. 
When he was sober he used to be fond of play- 
ing backgammon and draughts with me, and he 
would make me his representative both with the 
servants and with the tradespeople, so that by the 
time that I was sixteen I was quite master of the 
house. I kept all the keys and could go where I 
liked and do what 1 liked, so long as I did not dis- 
turb him in his privacy. There was one singular 
exception, however, for he had a single room, a 
lumber-room up among the attics, which was in- 
variably locked, and which he would never permit 
either me or anyone else to enter. With a boy's cu- 
riosity I have peeped through the keyhole, but I 
was never able to see more than such a collection 
of old trunks and bundles as would be expected in 
such a room. 

"One day — it was in March, 1883 — a letter with 
a foreign stamp lay upon the table in front of the 
colonel's plate. It was not a common thing for him 
to receive letters, for his bills were all paid in ready 
money, and he had no friends of any sort. 'From 
India!' said he as he took it up, 'Pondicherry post- 
mark! What can this be?' Opening it hurriedly, out 
there jumped five little dried orange pips, which 
pattered down upon his plate. I began to laugh 
at this, but the laugh was struck from my lips at 
the sight of his face. His lip had fallen, his eyes 
were protruding, his skin the colour of putty, and 
he glared at the envelope which he still held in his 


176 



The Five Orange Pips 


trembling hand, 'K. K. K.!' he shrieked, and then, 
'My God, my God, my sins have overtaken me!' 

" 'What is it, uncle?' I cried. 

" 'Death,' said he, and rising from the table he 
retired to his room, leaving me palpitating with 
horror. I took up the envelope and saw scrawled 
in red ink upon the inner flap, just above the gum, 
the letter K three times repeated. There was noth- 
ing else save the five dried pips. What could be 
the reason of his overpowering terror? I left the 
breakfast-table, and as I ascended the stair I met 
him coming down with an old rusty key, which 
must have belonged to the attic, in one hand, and 
a small brass box, like a cashbox, in the other. 

" 'They may do what they like, but I'll check- 
mate them still,' said he with an oath. 'Tell Mary 
that I shall want a fire in my room to-day, and send 
down to Fordham, the Florsham lawyer.' 

"I did as he ordered, and when the lawyer ar- 
rived I was asked to step up to the room. The fire 
was burning brightly, and in the grate there was 
a mass of black, fluffy ashes, as of burned paper, 
while the brass box stood open and empty beside 
it. As I glanced at the box I noticed, with a start, 
that upon the lid was printed the treble K which I 
had read in the morning upon the envelope. 

" 'I wish you, John,' said my uncle, 'to witness 
my will. I leave my estate, with all its advantages 
and all its disadvantages, to my brother, your fa- 
ther, whence it will, no doubt, descend to you. If 
you can enjoy it in peace, well and good! If you 
find you cannot, take my advice, my boy, and leave 
it to your deadliest enemy. I am sorry to give you 
such a two-edged thing, but I can't say what turn 
things are going to take. Kindly sign the paper 
where Mr. Fordham shows you.' 

"I signed the paper as directed, and the lawyer 
took it away with him. The singular incident 
made, as you may think, the deepest impression 
upon me, and I pondered over it and turned it ev- 
ery way in my mind without being able to make 
anything of it. Yet I could not shake off the vague 
feeling of dread which it left behind, though the 
sensation grew less keen as the weeks passed and 
nothing happened to disturb the usual routine of 
our lives. I could see a change in my uncle, how- 
ever. Fie drank more than ever, and he was less 
inclined for any sort of society. Most of his time 
he would spend in his room, with the door locked 
upon the inside, but sometimes he would emerge 
in a sort of drunken frenzy and would burst out 
of the house and tear about the garden with a 
revolver in his hand, screaming out that he was 
afraid of no man, and that he was not to be cooped 


up, like a sheep in a pen, by man or devil. When 
these hot fits were over, however, he would rush 
tumultuously in at the door and lock and bar it 
behind him, like a man who can brazen it out no 
longer against the terror which lies at the roots of 
his soul. At such times I have seen his face, even 
on a cold day, glisten with moisture, as though it 
were new raised from a basin. 

"Well, to come to an end of the matter, Mr. 
Holmes, and not to abuse your patience, there 
came a night when he made one of those drunken 
sallies from which he never came back. We found 
him, when we went to search for him, face down- 
ward in a little green-scummed pool, which lay 
at the foot of the garden. There was no sign of 
any violence, and the water was but two feet deep, 
so that the jury, having regard to his known ec- 
centricity, brought in a verdict of 'suicide.' But I, 
who knew how he winced from the very thought 
of death, had much ado to persuade myself that 
he had gone out of his way to meet it. The matter 
passed, however, and my father entered into pos- 
session of the estate, and of some £14,000, which 
lay to his credit at the bank." 

"One moment," Holmes interposed, "your 
statement is, I foresee, one of the most remarkable 
to which I have ever listened. Let me have the date 
of the reception by your uncle of the letter, and the 
date of his supposed suicide." 

"The letter arrived on March 10, 1883. His 
death was seven weeks later, upon the night of 
May 2nd." 

"Thank you. Pray proceed." 

"When my father took over the Horsham prop- 
erty, he, at my request, made a careful examina- 
tion of the attic, which had been always locked 
up. We found the brass box there, although its 
contents had been destroyed. On the inside of the 
cover was a paper label, with the initials of K. K. 
K. repeated upon it, and 'Letters, memoranda, re- 
ceipts, and a register' written beneath. These, we 
presume, indicated the nature of the papers which 
had been destroyed by Colonel Openshaw. For the 
rest, there was nothing of much importance in the 
attic save a great many scattered papers and note- 
books bearing upon my uncle's life in America. 
Some of them were of the war time and showed 
that he had done his duty well and had borne the 
repute of a brave soldier. Others were of a date 
during the reconstruction of the Southern states, 
and were mostly concerned with politics, for he 
had evidently taken a strong part in opposing the 
carpet-bag politicians who had been sent down 
from the North. 


177 



The Five Orange Pips 


"Well, it was the beginning of '84 when my fa- 
ther came to live at Horsham, and all went as well 
as possible with us until the January of '85. On 
the fourth day after the new year I heard my fa- 
ther give a sharp cry of surprise as we sat together 
at the breakfast-table. There he was, sitting with a 
newly opened envelope in one hand and five dried 
orange pips in the outstretched palm of the other 
one. He had always laughed at what he called 
my cock-and-bull story about the colonel, but he 
looked very scared and puzzled now that the same 
thing had come upon himself. 

" 'Why, what on earth does this mean, John?' 
he stammered. 

"My heart had turned to lead. 'It is K. K. K.,' 
said I. 

"He looked inside the envelope. 'So it is,' he 
cried. 'Here are the very letters. But what is this 
written above them?' 

" 'Put the papers on the sundial,' I read, peep- 
ing over his shoulder. 

" 'What papers? What sundial?' he asked. 

'" 'The sundial in the garden. There is no other, 
said I; 'but the papers must be those that are de- 
stroyed.' 

" 'Pooh!' said he, gripping hard at his courage. 
'We are in a civilised land here, and we can't have 
tomfoolery of this kind. Where does the thing 
come from?' 

" 'From Dundee,' I answered, glancing at the 
postmark. 

"'Some preposterous practical joke,' said he. 
'What have I to do with sundials and papers? I 
shall take no notice of such nonsense.' 

" 'I should certainly speak to the police,' I said. 

" 'And be laughed at for my pains. Nothing of 
the sort.' 

" 'Then let me do so?' 

" 'No, I forbid you. I won't have a fuss made 
about such nonsense.' 

"It was in vain to argue with him, for he was a 
very obstinate man. I went about, however, with a 
heart which was full of forebodings. 

"On the third day after the coming of the letter 
my father went from home to visit an old friend 
of his. Major Freebody, who is in command of one 
of the forts upon Portsdown Hill. I was glad that 
he should go, for it seemed to me that he was far- 
ther from danger when he was away from home. 
In that, however, I was in error. Upon the sec- 
ond day of his absence I received a telegram from 


the major, imploring me to come at once. My 
father had fallen over one of the deep chalk-pits 
which abound in the neighbourhood, and was ly- 
ing senseless, with a shattered skull. I hurried 
to him, but he passed away without having ever 
recovered his consciousness. He had, as it ap- 
pears, been returning from Fareham in the twi- 
light, and as the country was unknown to him, 
and the chalk-pit unfenced, the jury had no hes- 
itation in bringing in a verdict of 'death from ac- 
cidental causes.' Carefully as I examined every 
fact connected with his death, I was unable to find 
anything which could suggest the idea of murder. 
There were no signs of violence, no footmarks, no 
robbery, no record of strangers having been seen 
upon the roads. And yet I need not tell you that 
my mind was far from at ease, and that I was well- 
nigh certain that some foul plot had been woven 
round him. 

"In this sinister way I came into my inheritance. 
You will ask me why I did not dispose of it? I an- 
swer, because I was well convinced that our trou- 
bles were in some way dependent upon an inci- 
dent in my uncle's life, and that the danger would 
be as pressing in one house as in another. 

"It was in January, '85, that my poor father 
met his end, and two years and eight months have 
elapsed since then. During that time I have lived 
happily at Horsham, and I had begun to hope that 
this curse had passed away from the family, and 
that it had ended with the last generation. I had 
begun to take comfort too soon, however; yester- 
day morning the blow fell in the very shape in 
which it had come upon my father." 

The young man took from his waistcoat a 
crumpled envelope, and turning to the table he 
shook out upon it five little dried orange pips. 

"This is the envelope," he continued. "The 
postmark is London — eastern division. Within are 
the very words which were upon my father's last 
message: 'K. K. K.'; and then 'Put the papers on 
the sundial.' " 

"What have you done?" asked Holmes. 

"Nothing." 

"Nothing?" 

"To tell the truth" — he sank his face into his 
thin, white hands — "I have felt helpless. I have felt 
like one of those poor rabbits when the snake is 
writhing towards it. I seem to be in the grasp of 
some resistless, inexorable evil, which no foresight 
and no precautions can guard against." 


178 



The Five Orange Pips 


"Tut! tut!" cried Sherlock Holmes. "You must 
act, man, or you are lost. Nothing but energy can 
save you. This is no time for despair." 

"I have seen the police." 

"Ah!" 

"But they listened to my story with a smile. I 
am convinced that the inspector has formed the 
opinion that the letters are all practical jokes, and 
that the deaths of my relations were really acci- 
dents, as the jury stated, and were not to be con- 
nected with the warnings." 

Holmes shook his clenched hands in the air. 
"Incredible imbecility!" he cried. 

"They have, however, allowed me a policeman, 
who may remain in the house with me." 

"Has he come with you to-night?" 

"No. His orders were to stay in the house." 

Again Holmes raved in the air. 

"Why did you come to me," he cried, "and, 
above all, why did you not come at once?" 

"I did not know. It was only to-day that I spoke 
to Major Prendergast about my troubles and was 
advised by him to come to you." 

"It is really two days since you had the letter. 
We should have acted before this. You have no 
further evidence, I suppose, than that which you 
have placed before us — no suggestive detail which 
might help us?" 

"There is one thing," said John Openshaw. He 
rummaged in his coat pocket, and, drawing out a 
piece of discoloured, blue-tinted paper, he laid it 
out upon the table. "I have some remembrance," 
said he, "that on the day when my uncle burned 
the papers I observed that the small, unburned 
margins which lay amid the ashes were of this par- 
ticular colour. I found this single sheet upon the 
floor of his room, and I am inclined to think that 
it may be one of the papers which has, perhaps, 
fluttered out from among the others, and in that 
way has escaped destruction. Beyond the mention 
of pips, I do not see that it helps us much. I think 
myself that it is a page from some private diary. 
The writing is undoubtedly my uncle's." 

Holmes moved the lamp, and we both bent 
over the sheet of paper, which showed by its 
ragged edge that it had indeed been torn from a 
book. It was headed, "March, 1869," and beneath 
were the following enigmatical notices: 

4th. Hudson came. Same old platform. 

7th. Set the pips on McCauley, Paramore, and 
John Swain, of St. Augustine. 

9th. McCauley cleared. 


10th. John Swain cleared. 

12th. Visited Paramore. All well. 

"Thank you!" said Holmes, folding up the pa- 
per and returning it to our visitor. "And now you 
must on no account lose another instant. We can- 
not spare time even to discuss what you have told 
me. You must get home instantly and act." 

"What shall I do?" 

"There is but one thing to do. It must be done 
at once. You must put this piece of paper which 
you have shown us into the brass box which you 
have described. You must also put in a note to say 
that all the other papers were burned by your un- 
cle, and that this is the only one which remains. 
You must assert that in such words as will carry 
conviction with them. Having done this, you must 
at once put the box out upon the sundial, as di- 
rected. Do you understand?" 

"Entirely." 

"Do not think of revenge, or anything of the 
sort, at present. I think that we may gain that by 
means of the law; but we have our web to weave, 
while theirs is already woven. The first considera- 
tion is to remove the pressing danger which threat- 
ens you. The second is to clear up the mystery and 
to punish the guilty parties." 

"I thank you," said the young man, rising and 
pulling on his overcoat. "You have given me fresh 
life and hope. I shall certainly do as you advise." 

"Do not lose an instant. And, above all, take 
care of yourself in the meanwhile, for I do not 
think that there can be a doubt that you are threat- 
ened by a very real and imminent danger. How do 
you go back?" 

"By train from Waterloo." 

"It is not yet nine. The streets will be crowded, 
so I trust that you may be in safety. And yet you 
cannot guard yourself too closely." 

"I am armed." 

"That is well. To-morrow I shall set to work 
upon your case." 

"I shall see you at Horsham, then?" 

"No, your secret lies in London. It is there that 
I shall seek it." 

"Then I shall call upon you in a day, or in two 
days, with news as to the box and the papers. 
I shall take your advice in every particular." He 
shook hands with us and took his leave. Outside 
the wind still screamed and the rain splashed and 
pattered against the windows. This strange, wild 
story seemed to have come to us from amid the 
mad elements — blown in upon us like a sheet of 
sea-weed in a gale — and now to have been reab- 
sorbed by them once more. 


179 



The Five Orange Pips 


Sherlock Holmes sat for some time in silence, 
with his head sunk forward and his eyes bent upon 
the red glow of the fire. Then he lit his pipe, 
and leaning back in his chair he watched the blue 
smoke-rings as they chased each other up to the 
ceiling. 

"I think, Watson," he remarked at last, "that of 
all our cases we have had none more fantastic than 
this." 

"Save, perhaps, the Sign of Four." 

"Well, yes. Save, perhaps, that. And yet this 
John Openshaw seems to me to be walking amid 
even greater perils than did the Sholtos." 

"But have you," I asked, "formed any definite 
conception as to what these perils are?" 

"There can be no question as to their nature," 
he answered. 

"Then what are they? Who is this K. K. K., and 
why does he pursue this unhappy family?" 

Sherlock Holmes closed his eyes and placed his 
elbows upon the arms of his chair, with his finger- 
tips together. "The ideal reasoner," he remarked, 
"would, when he had once been shown a single 
fact in all its bearings, deduce from it not only all 
the chain of events which led up to it but also all 
the results which would follow from it. As Cu- 
vier could correctly describe a whole animal by 
the contemplation of a single bone, so the observer 
who has thoroughly understood one link in a se- 
ries of incidents should be able to accurately state 
all the other ones, both before and after. We have 
not yet grasped the results which the reason alone 
can attain to. Problems may be solved in the study 
which have baffled all those who have sought a so- 
lution by the aid of their senses. To carry the art, 
however, to its highest pitch, it is necessary that 
the reasoner should be able to utilise all the facts 
which have come to his knowledge; and this in it- 
self implies, as you will readily see, a possession 
of all knowledge, which, even in these days of free 
education and encyclopaedias, is a somewhat rare 
accomplishment. It is not so impossible, however, 
that a man should possess all knowledge which is 
likely to be useful to him in his work, and this I 
have endeavoured in my case to do. If I remember 
rightly, you on one occasion, in the early days of 
our friendship, defined my limits in a very precise 
fashion." 

"Yes," I answered, laughing. "It was a singu- 
lar document. Philosophy, astronomy, and politics 
were marked at zero, I remember. Botany vari- 
able, geology profound as regards the mud-stains 


from any region within fifty miles of town, chem- 
istry eccentric, anatomy unsystematic, sensational 
literature and crime records unique, violin-player, 
boxer, swordsman, lawyer, and self-poisoner by co- 
caine and tobacco. Those, I think, were the main 
points of my analysis." 

Holmes grinned at the last item. "Well," he 
said, "I say now, as I said then, that a man should 
keep his little brain-attic stocked with all the furni- 
ture that he is likely to use, and the rest he can put 
away in the lumber-room of his library, where he 
can get it if he wants it. Now, for such a case as the 
one which has been submitted to us to-night, we 
need certainly to muster all our resources. Kindly 
hand me down the letter K of the 'American En- 
cyclopaedia' which stands upon the shelf beside 
you. Thank you. Now let us consider the situa- 
tion and see what may be deduced from it. In the 
first place, we may start with a strong presumption 
that Colonel Openshaw had some very strong rea- 
son for leaving America. Men at his time of life do 
not change all their habits and exchange willingly 
the charming climate of Florida for the lonely life 
of an English provincial town. His extreme love 
of solitude in England suggests the idea that he 
was in fear of someone or something, so we may 
assume as a working hypothesis that it was fear 
of someone or something which drove him from 
America. As to what it was he feared, we can only 
deduce that by considering the formidable letters 
which were received by himself and his successors. 
Did you remark the postmarks of those letters?" 

"The first was from Pondicherry, the second 
from Dundee, and the third from London." 

"From East London. What do you deduce from 
that?" 

"They are all seaports. That the writer was on 
board of a ship." 

"Excellent. We have already a clue. There can 
be no doubt that the probability — the strong prob- 
ability — is that the writer was on board of a ship. 
And now let us consider another point. In the case 
of Pondicherry, seven weeks elapsed between the 
threat and its fulfilment, in Dundee it was only 
some three or four days. Does that suggest any- 
thing?" 

"A greater distance to travel." 

"But the letter had also a greater distance to 
come." 

"Then I do not see the point." 

"There is at least a presumption that the vessel 
in which the man or men are is a sailing-ship. It 


180 



The Five Orange Pips 


looks as if they always send their singular warn- 
ing or token before them when starting upon their 
mission. You see how quickly the deed followed 
the sign when it came from Dundee. If they had 
come from Pondicherry in a steamer they would 
have arrived almost as soon as their letter. But, as 
a matter of fact, seven weeks elapsed. I think that 
those seven weeks represented the difference be- 
tween the mail-boat which brought the letter and 
the sailing vessel which brought the writer." 

"It is possible." 

"More than that. It is probable. And now you 
see the deadly urgency of this new case, and why I 
urged young Openshaw to caution. The blow has 
always fallen at the end of the time which it would 
take the senders to travel the distance. But this 
one comes from London, and therefore we cannot 
count upon delay." 

"Good God!" I cried. "What can it mean, this 
relentless persecution?" 

"The papers which Openshaw carried are obvi- 
ously of vital importance to the person or persons 
in the sailing-ship. I think that it is quite clear that 
there must be more than one of them. A single 
man could not have carried out two deaths in such 
a way as to deceive a coroner's jury. There must 
have been several in it, and they must have been 
men of resource and determination. Their papers 
they mean to have, be the holder of them who it 
may. In this way you see K. K. K. ceases to be the 
initials of an individual and becomes the badge of 
a society." 

"But of what society?" 

"Have you never — " said Sherlock Holmes, 
bending forward and sinking his voice — "have you 
never heard of the Ku Klux Klan?" 

"I never have." 

Holmes turned over the leaves of the book 
upon his knee. "Here it is," said he presently: 

" 'Ku Klux Klan. A name derived from the 
fanciful resemblance to the sound produced 
by cocking a rifle. This terrible secret soci- 
ety was formed by some ex-Confederate sol- 
diers in the Southern states after the Civil 
War, and it rapidly formed local branches 
in different parts of the country, notably in 
Tennessee, Louisiana, the Carolinas, Geor- 
gia, and Florida. Its power was used for po- 
litical purposes, principally for the terroris- 
ing of the negro voters and the murdering 
and driving from the country of those who 
were opposed to its vieivs. Its outrages were 
usually preceded by a learning sent to the 


marked man in some fantastic but generally 
recognised shape — a sprig of oak-leaves in 
some parts, melon seeds or orange pips in 
others. On receiving this the victim might 
either openly abjure his former ways, or 
might fly from the country. If he braved the 
matter out, death would unfailingly come 
upon him, and usually in some strange and 
unforeseen manner. So perfect was the or- 
ganisation of the society, and so systematic 
its methods, that there is hardly a case upon 
record where any man succeeded in braving 
it with impunity, or in which any of its out- 
rages were traced home to the perpetrators. 

For some years the organisation flourished 
in spite of the efforts of the United States 
government and of the better classes of the 
community in the South. Eventually, in 
the year i86g, the movement rather sud- 
denly collapsed, although there have been 
sporadic outbreaks of the same sort since 
that date.' 

"You will observe," said Holmes, laying down the 
volume, "that the sudden breaking up of the so- 
ciety was coincident with the disappearance of 
Openshaw from America with their papers. It may 
well have been cause and effect. It is no wonder 
that he and his family have some of the more im- 
placable spirits upon their track. You can under- 
stand that this register and diary may implicate 
some of the first men in the South, and that there 
may be many who will not sleep easy at night until 
it is recovered." 

"Then the page we have seen — " 

"Is such as we might expect. It ran, if I remem- 
ber right, 'sent the pips to A, B, and C' — that is, 
sent the society's warning to them. Then there are 
successive entries that A and B cleared, or left the 
country, and finally that C was visited, with, I fear, 
a sinister result for C. Well, I think. Doctor, that we 
may let some light into this dark place, and I be- 
lieve that the only chance young Openshaw has in 
the meantime is to do what I have told him. There 
is nothing more to be said or to be done to-night, 
so hand me over my violin and let us try to forget 
for half an hour the miserable weather and the still 
more miserable ways of our fellow-men." 

It had cleared in the morning, and the sun was 
shining with a subdued brightness through the 
dim veil which hangs over the great city. Sher- 
lock Holmes was already at breakfast when I came 
down. 


181 



The Five Orange Pips 


"You will excuse me for not waiting for you," 
said he; "I have, I foresee, a very busy day be- 
fore me in looking into this case of young Open- 
shaw's." 

"What steps will you take?" I asked. 

"It will very much depend upon the results of 
my first inquiries. I may have to go down to Hor- 
sham, after all." 

"You will not go there first?" 

"No, I shall commence with the City. Just ring 
the bell and the maid will bring up your coffee." 

As I waited, I lifted the unopened newspaper 
from the table and glanced my eye over it. It rested 
upon a heading which sent a chill to my heart. 

"Holmes," I cried, "you are too late." 

"Ah!" said he, laying down his cup, "I feared 
as much. How was it done?" He spoke calmly, but 
I could see that he was deeply moved. 

"My eye caught the name of Openshaw, and 
the heading 'Tragedy Near Waterloo Bridge.' Here 
is the account: 

"Between nine and ten last night Police- 
Constable Cook, of the H Division, on duty 
near Waterloo Bridge, heard a cry for help 
and a splash in the water. The night, hozv- 
ever, was extremely dark and stormy, so 
that, in spite of the help of several passers- 
by, it was quite impossible to effect a res- 
cue. The alarm, however, was given, and, 
by the aid of the water-police, the body was 
eventually recovered. It proved to be that of 
a young gentleman ivhose name, as it ap- 
pears from an envelope which was found in 
his pocket, was John Openshaw, and ivhose 
residence is near Horsham. It is conjec- 
tured that he may have been hurrying down 
to catch the last train from Waterloo Sta- 
tion, and that in his haste and the extreme 
darkness he missed his path and walked 
over the edge of one of the small landing- 
places for river steamboats. The body ex- 
hibited no traces of violence, and there can 
be no doubt that the deceased had been the 
victim of an unfortunate accident, which 
should have the effect of calling the atten- 
tion of the authorities to the condition of 
the riverside landing-stages." 

We sat in silence for some minutes. Holmes more 
depressed and shaken than I had ever seen him. 

"That hurts my pride, Watson," he said at last. 
"It is a petty feeling, no doubt, but it hurts my 
pride. It becomes a personal matter with me now, 
and, if God sends me health, I shall set my hand 


upon this gang. That he should come to me for 
help, and that I should send him away to his 
death — !" He sprang from his chair and paced 
about the room in uncontrollable agitation, with a 
flush upon his sallow cheeks and a nervous clasp- 
ing and unclasping of his long thin hands. 

"They must be cunning devils," he exclaimed 
at last. "How could they have decoyed him down 
there? The Embankment is not on the direct line 
to the station. The bridge, no doubt, was too 
crowded, even on such a night, for their purpose. 
Well, Watson, we shall see who will win in the long 
run. I am going out now!" 

"To the police?" 

"No; I shall be my own police. When I have 
spun the web they may take the flies, but not be- 
fore." 

All day I was engaged in my professional work, 
and it was late in the evening before I returned 
to Baker Street. Sherlock Holmes had not come 
back yet. It was nearly ten o'clock before he en- 
tered, looking pale and worn. He walked up to 
the sideboard, and tearing a piece from the loaf he 
devoured it voraciously, washing it down with a 
long draught of water. 

"You are hungry," I remarked. 

"Starving. It had escaped my memory. I have 
had nothing since breakfast." 

"Nothing?" 

"Not a bite. I had no time to think of it." 

"And how have you succeeded?" 

"Well." 

"You have a clue?" 

"I have them in the hollow of my hand. Young 
Openshaw shall not long remain unavenged. Why, 
Watson, let us put their own devilish trade-mark 
upon them. It is well thought of!" 

"What do you mean?" 

He took an orange from the cupboard, and 
tearing it to pieces he squeezed out the pips upon 
the table. Of these he took five and thrust them 
into an envelope. On the inside of the flap he 
wrote "S. H. for J. O." Then he sealed it and ad- 
dressed it to "Captain James Calhoun, Barque Lone 
Star, Savannah, Georgia." 

"That will await him when he enters port," said 
he, chuckling. "It may give him a sleepless night. 
He will find it as sure a precursor of his fate as 
Openshaw did before him." 

"And who is this Captain Calhoun?" 

"The leader of the gang. I shall have the others, 
but he first." 

"How did you trace it, then?" 


182 



He took a large sheet of paper from his pocket, 
all covered with dates and names. 

"I have spent the whole day," said he, "over 
Lloyd's registers and files of the old papers, fol- 
lowing the future career of every vessel which 
touched at Pondicherry in January and February 
in '83. There were thirty-six ships of fair tonnage 
which were reported there during those months. 
Of these, one, the Lone Star, instantly attracted my 
attention, since, although it was reported as hav- 
ing cleared from London, the name is that which 
is given to one of the states of the Union." 

"Texas, I think." 

"I was not and am not sure which; but I knew 
that the ship must have an American origin." 

"What then?" 

"I searched the Dundee records, and when I 
found that the barque Lone Star was there in Jan- 
uary, '85, my suspicion became a certainty. I then 
inquired as to the vessels which lay at present in 
the port of London." 

"Yes?" 

"The Lone Star had arrived here last week. I 
went down to the Albert Dock and found that 
she had been taken down the river by the early 
tide this morning, homeward bound to Savannah. 
I wired to Gravesend and learned that she had 


passed some time ago, and as the wind is easterly 
I have no doubt that she is now past the Goodwins 
and not very far from the Isle of Wight." 

"What will you do, then?" 

"Oh, I have my hand upon him. He and the 
two mates, are as 1 learn, the only native-born 
Americans in the ship. The others are Finns and 
Germans. I know, also, that they were all three 
away from the ship last night. I had it from the 
stevedore who has been loading their cargo. By 
the time that their sailing-ship reaches Savannah 
the mail-boat will have carried this letter, and the 
cable will have informed the police of Savannah 
that these three gentlemen are badly wanted here 
upon a charge of murder." 

There is ever a flaw, however, in the best laid 
of human plans, and the murderers of John Open- 
shaw were never to receive the orange pips which 
would show them that another, as cunning and as 
resolute as themselves, was upon their track. Very 
long and very severe were the equinoctial gales 
that year. We waited long for news of the Lone Star 
of Savannah, but none ever reached us. We did at 
last hear that somewhere far out in the Atlantic a 
shattered stern-post of a boat was seen swinging 
in the trough of a wave, with the letters "L. S." 
carved upon it, and that is all which we shall ever 
know of the fate of the Lone Star. 



THE 7 CLOCKS 

I find recorded in my notebook that it was on the afternoon of Wednesday, the 16th of November, 1887, when the attention of my friend Mr. Sherlock Holmes 
was first drawn to the singular affair of the man who hated clocks. 

I have written elsewhere that I had heard only a vague account of this matter, since it occurred shortly after my marriage. Indeed, I have gone so far as to state that my 

first post-nuptial call on Holmes was in March of the following year. But the case in question was a matter of such extreme delicacy that I trust my readers will forgive 

its suppression by one whose pen has ever been guided by discretion rather than by sensationalism. 

A few weeks following my marriage, then, my wife was obliged to leave London on a matter which concerned Thaddeus Sholto and vitally affected our future fortunes. 
Finding our new home insupportable without her presence, for eight days I returned to the old rooms in Baker Street. Sherlock Holmes made me welcome without ques- 
tion or comment. Yet I must confess that the next day, the 16th of November, began inauspiciously. 

It was bitter, frosty weather. All morning the yellow-brown fog pressed against the windows. Lamps and gas-jets were burning, as well as a good fire, and their light 
shone on a breakfast-table uncleared at past midday. 

Sherlock Holmes was moody and distraught. Curled up in his arm-chair in the old mouse-coloured dressing-gown and with a cherry-wood pipe in his mouth, 
he scanned the morning newspapers, now and again uttering some derisive comment. 

"You find little of interest?" I asked. 

"My dear Watson," said he, "I begin to fear that life has become one flat and monotonous plain ever since the affair of the notorious Blessington." 

"And yet," I remonstrated, "surely this has been a year of memorable cases? You are over-stimulated, my dear fellow." 

" 'Pon my word, Watson, you are scarcely the man to preach on that subject. Last night, after I had ventured to offer you a bottle of Beaune at dinner, you held forth so 
interminably on the joys of wedlock that I feared you would never have done." 

"My dear fellow! You imply that I was over-stimulated with wine!" My friend regarded me in his singular fashion. 

"Not with wine, perhaps," said he. "However!" And he indicated the newspapers. "Have you glanced over the balderdash with which the press have seen fit to regale 
us!" 

"I fear not. This copy of the British Medical Journal—" 

"Well, well!" said he. "Here we find column upon column devoted to next year's racing season. For some reason it seems perpetually to astonish the British public 
that one horse can run faster than another. Again, for the dozenth time, we have the Nihilists hatching some dark plot against the Grand Duke Alexei at 
Odessa. One entire leading article is devoted to the doubtless trenchant question, 'Should Shop-Assistants Marry?' " 

I forbore to interrupt him, lest his bitterness increase. 

"Where is crime, Watson? Where is the weird, where that touch of the outre without which a problem in itself is as sand and dry grass? Have we lost them 
forever?" 

"Hark!" said I. "Surely that was the bell?" 

"And someone in a hurry, if we may judge from its clamour." 

With one accord we stepped to the window, and looked down into Baker Street. The fog had partly lifted. At the kerb before our door stood a handsome closed 
carriage. Atop-hatted coachman in livery was just closing the carriage-door, whose panel bore the letter "M." From below came the murmur of voices followed 
by light, quick footsteps on the stairs, and the door of our sitting-room was flung open. 

Both of us were surprised, I think, to perceive that our caller was a young lady: a girl, rather, since she could hardly have been as much as eighteen, and seldom in a 
young face have I seen such beauty and refinement as well as sensitiveness. Her large blue eyes regarded us with agitated appeal. Her abundant auburn 
hair was confined in a small hat; and over her travelling-dress she wore a dark-red jacket trimmed with strips of astrakhan. In one gloved hand she held a travelling- 
case with the letters "C.F." over some sort of label. Her other hand was pressed to her heart. 

"Oh, please, please forgive this intrusion!" she pleaded, in a breathless but low and melodious voice. "Which of you, I beg, is Mr. Sherlock Holmes?" 

My companion inclined his head. 

"I am Mr. Holmes. This is my friend and colleague, Dr. Watson." 

"Thank heaven I have found you at home! My errand—" 

But our visitor could go no further than "My errand." She stammered, a deep blush spread up over her face, and she lowered her eyes. Gently Sherlock Holmes 
took the travelling-case from her hand, and pushed an armchair towards the fire. 

"Pray be seated, madam, and compose yourself," said he, laying aside his cherry-wood pipe. 

"I thank you, Mr. Holmes," replied the young lady, shrinking into the chair and giving him a grateful look. "They say, sir, that you can read the human heart." 

"H'm! For poetry, I fear, you must address yourself to Watson." 

"That you can read the secrets of your clients, and even the— the errands upon which they come, when they have said not a single word!" 

"They over-estimate my powers," he answered, smiling. "Beyond the obvious facts that you are a lady's companion, that you seldom travel yet have recently 
returned from a journey to Switzerland, and that your errand here concerns a man who has engaged your affections, I can deduce nothing." 

The young lady gave a violent start, and I myself was taken aback. 

"Holmes," cried I, "this is too much. How could you possibly know this?" 

"How, indeed?" echoed the young lady. 

"I see it, I observe it. The travelling-case, though far from new, is neither worn nor battered by travel. Yet I need not insult your intelligence by calling attention to 
the paper label of the Hotel Splendide, at Grindelwald in Switzerland, which has been affixed with gum to the side of the case." 

"But the other point?" I insisted. 

"The lady's attire, though in impeccable taste, is neither new nor costly. Yet she has stayed at the best hotel in Grindelwald, and she arrives in a carriage of the well-to- 
do. Since her own initials, 'C.F.,' do not match the 'M.' on the carriage-panel, we may assume her to occupy a position of equality in some well-to-do family. Her youth 
precludes the position of governess, and we are left with a lady's companion. As for the man who has engaged her affections, her blushes and lowered eyelids 
proclaim as much. Absurd, is it not?" 

"But it is true, Mr. Holmes!" cried our visitor, clasping her hands together in even deeper agitation. "My name is Celia Forsythe, and for over a year I have been companion 
to Lady Mayo, of Groxton Low Hall, in Surrey. Charles—" 

"Charles? That is the name of the gentleman in question?" 

Miss Forsythe nodded her head without looking up. 

"If I hesitate to speak of him," she continued, "it is because I fear you may laugh at me. I fear you may think me mad; or, worse still, that poor Charles himself is mad." 
"And why should I think so, Miss Forsythe?" 

"Mr. Holmes, he cannot endure the sight of a clock!" 

"Of a clock?" 

"In the past fortnight, sir, and for no explicable reason, he has destroyed seven clocks. Two of them he smashed in public, and before my own eyes!" 

Sherlock Holmes rubbed his long, thin fingers together. 

"Come," said he, "this is most satis— most curious. Pray continue your narrative." 

"I despair of doing so, Mr. Holmes. Yet I will try. For the past year I have been very happy in the employ of Lady Mayo. I must tell you that both my parents are 
dead, but I received a good education and such references as I could obtain were fortunately satisfactory. Lady Mayo, I must acknowledge, is of somewhat forbidding 



appearance. She is of the old school, stately and austere. Yet to me she has been kindness itself. In fact, it was she who suggested that we take the holiday in 
Switzerland, fearing that the isolation of Groxton Low Hall might depress my spirits. In the train between Paris and Grindelwald we met— met Charles. I should 
say Mr. Charles Hendon.” 

Holmes had relapsed into the arm-chair, putting his finger-tips together as was his wont when he was in a judicial mood. 

"Then this was the first time you had met the gentleman?" he asked. 

"Oh, yes!” 

"I see. And how did the acquaintanceship come about?" 

"A trifling matter, Mr. Holmes. We three were alone in a first-class carriage. Charles's manners are so beautiful, his voice so fine, his smile so captivating—" 

"No doubt. But pray be precise as to details." 

Miss Forsythe opened wide her large blue eyes. 

"I believe it was the window," said she. "Charles (I may tell you that he has remarkable eyes and a heavy brown moustache) bowed and requested Lady Mayo's 
permission to lower the window. She assented, and in a few moments they were chatting together like old friends." 

"H'm! I see." 

"Lady Mayo, in turn, presented me to Charles. The journey to Grindelwald passed quickly and happily. And yet, no sooner had we entered the foyer of the 
Hotel Splendide, than there occurred the first of the horrible shocks which have since made my life wretched. 

"Despite its name, the hotel proved to be rather small and charming. Even then, I knew Mr. Hendon for a man of some importance, though he had described himself 
modestly as a single gentleman travelling with only one manservant. The manager of the hotel, M. Branger, approached and bowed deeply both to Lady Mayo and to 
Mr. Hendon. With M. Branger he exchanged some words in a low voice and the manager bowed deeply again. Whereupon Charles turned round, smiling, and then quite 
suddenly his whole demeanour altered. 

"I can still see him standing there, in his long coat and top hat, with a heavy malacca walking-stick under his arm. His back was turned towards an ornamental half- 
circle of ferns and evergreens surrounding a fireplace with a low mantelshelf on which stood a Swiss clock of exquisite design. 

"Up to this time I had not even observed the clock. But Charles, uttering a stifled cry, rushed towards the fireplace. Lifting the heavy walking-stick, he brought it 
crashing down on the hood of the clock, and rained blow after blow until the clock fell in tinkling ruins on the hearth. 

"Then he turned round and walked slowly back. Without a word of explanation he took out a pocketbook, gave to M. Branger a bank-note which would ten times 
over have paid for the clock, and began lightly to speak of other matters. 

"You may well imagine, Mr. Holmes, that we stood as though stunned. My impression was that Lady Mayo, for all her dignity, was frightened. Yet I swear 
Charles had not been frightened; he had been merely furious and determined. At this point I caught sight of Charles's manservant, who was standing in 
the background amid luggage. He is a small, spare man with mutton-chop whiskers; and upon his face there was an expression only of embarrassment and, 
though it hurts me to breathe the word, of deep shame. 

"No word was spoken at the time, and the incident was forgotten. For two days Charles was his usual serene self. On the third morning, when we met him in the 
dining-room for breakfast, it happened again. 

"The windows of the dining-room had their heavy curtains partly drawn against the dazzle of sun on the first snow. The room was fairly well filled with other guests taking 
breakfast. Only then did I remark that Charles, who had just returned from a morning walk, still carried the malacca stick in his hand. 

" 'Breathe this air, madame!' he was saying gaily to Lady Mayo. 'You will find it as invigorating as any food or drink!' 

"At this he paused, and glanced towards one of the windows. Plunging past us, he struck heavily at the curtain and then tore it aside to disclose the ruins of a large 
clock shaped like a smiling sun-face. I think I should have fainted if Lady Mayo had not grasped my arm." 

Miss Forsythe, who had removed her gloves, now pressed her hands against her cheeks. 

"But not only does Charles smash clocks," she went on. "He buries them in the snow, and even hides them in the cupboard of his own room." 

Sherlock Holmes had been leaning back in his chair with his eyes closed, and his head sunk into a cushion, but he now half opened his lids. 

"In the cupboard?" exclaimed he, frowning. "This is even more singular! How did you become aware of the circumstance?" 

"To my shame, Mr. Holmes, I was reduced to questioning his servant." 

"To your shame?" 

"I had no right to do so. In my humble position, Charles would never— that is, I could mean nothing to him! I had no right!" 

"You had every right, Miss Forsythe," answered Holmes kindly. "Then you questioned the servant, whom you describe as a small, spare man with muttonchop whiskers. 
His name?" 

"His name is Trepley, I believe. More than once I have heard Charles address him as ’Trep." And I vow, Mr. Holmes, he is the faithfullest creature alive. Even 
the sight of his dogged English face was a comfort to me. He knew, he felt, he sensed my— my interest, and he told me that his master had buried or concealed five other 
clocks. Though he refused to say so, I could tell he shared my fears. Yet Charles is not mad! He is not! You yourself must admit that, because of the final incident." 
"Yes?" 

"It took place only four days ago. You must know that Lady Mayo's suite included a small drawing-room containing a piano. I am passionately devoted to music, 
and it was my habit to play to Lady Mayo and Charles after tea. On this occasion I had scarcely begun to play when a hotel servant entered with a letter for 
Charles." 

"One moment. Did you observe the postmark?" 

"Yes; it was foreign." Miss Forsythe spoke in some surprise. "But surely it was of no importance, since you—" 

"Since I— what?" 

A sudden touch of bewilderment was manifest in our client's expression, and then, as though, to drive away some perplexity, she hurried on with her narrative. 
"Charles tore open the letter, read it, and turned deathly pale. With an incoherent exclamation he rushed from the room. When we descended half an hour 
later, it was only to discover that he and Trepley had departed with all his luggage. He left no message. He sent no word. I have not seen him since." 

Celia Forsythe lowered her head, and tears glimmered in her eyes. 

"Now, Mr. Holmes, I have been frank with you. I beg that you will be equally frank with me. What did you write in that letter?" 

The question was so startling that I, for one, leaned back in my chair. Sherlock Holmes's face was without expression. His long, nervous fingers reached out 
for the tobacco in the Persian slipper, and began to fill a clay pipe. 

"In the letter, you say," he stated rather than asked. 

"Yes! You wrote that letter. I saw your signature. That is why I am here!" 

"Dear me!" remarked Holmes. He was silent for several minutes, the blue smoke curling about him, and his eyes fixed vacantly upon the clock on the mantelshelf. 
"There are times, Miss Forsythe," he said at last, "when one must be guarded in one's replies. I have only one more question to ask you." 

"Well, Mr. Holmes?" 

"Did Lady Mayo still preserve her friendliness for Mr. Charles Hendon?" 

"Oh, yes! She became quite attached to him. More than once I heard her address him as Alec, apparently her nickname for him." Miss Forsythe paused, with an 
air of doubt, and even suspicion. "But what can you mean by such a question?" 

Holmes rose to his feet. 

"Only, madam, that I shall be happy to look into this matter for you. You return to Groxton Low Hall this evening?" 



"Yes. But surely you have more to say to me than this? You have answered not one of my questions!" 

"Well, well! I have my methods, as Watson here can tell you. But if you could find it convenient to come here, say a week from this day, at nine o'clock in the evening? 
Thank you. Then I shall hope to have some news for you." 

Palpably it was a dismissal. Miss Forsythe rose to her feet, and looked at him so forlornly that I felt the need to interpose some word of comfort. 

"Be of good cheer, madam!" I cried, gently taking her hand. "You may have every confidence in my friend Mr. Holmes; and, if I may say so, in myself as well." 

I was rewarded by a gracious and grateful smile. When the door had closed behind our fair visitor, I turned to my companion with some asperity. 

"I do feel, Holmes, that you might have treated the young lady with more sympathy." 

"Oh? Sets the wind in that quarter?" 

"Holmes, for shame!" said I, flinging myself into my chair. "The affair is trivial, no doubt. But why you should have written a letter to this clock-breaking madman I 
cannot conjecture." 

Holmes leaned across and laid his long, thin forefinger upon my knee. 

"Watson, I wrote no such letter." 

"What?" I exclaimed. 

"Tut, it is not the first time my name has been borrowed by others! There is devilry here, Watson, else I am much mistaken." 

"You take it seriously, then?" 

"So seriously that I leave for the Continent tonight." 

"For the Continent? For Switzerland?" 

"No, no; what have we to do with Switzerland? Our trail lies further afield." 

"Then where do you go?" 

"Surely that is obvious?" 

"My dear Holmes!" 

"Yet nearly all the data are before you, and, as I informed Miss Forsythe, you know my methods. Use them, Watson! Use them!" 

Already the first lamps were glimmering through the fog in Baker Street, when my friend's simple preparations were completed. He stood at the doorway of our sitting- 
room, tall and gaunt in his ear-flapped travelling-cap and long Inverness cape, his Gladstone bag at his feet, and regarded me with singular fixity. 

"One last word, Watson, since you still appear to see no light. I would remind you that Mr. Charles Hendon cannot endure the s— " 

"But that is clear enough! He cannot bear the sight of a clock." 

Holmes shook his head. 

"Not necessarily," said he. "I would further draw your attention to the other five clocks, as described by the servant." 

"Mr. Charles Hendon did not smash those clocks!" 

"That is why I draw your attention to them. Until nine o'clock this day week, Watson!" 

A moment more, and I was alone. 

During the dreary week which followed, I occupied myself as best I might. I played billiards with Thurston. I smoked many pipes of Ship's, and I pondered over 
the notes in the case of Mr. Charles Hendon. One does not associate for some years with Sherlock Holmes without becoming more observant than most. It seemed to 
me that some dark and sinister peril hung over that poor young lady, Miss Forsythe, nor did I trust either the too-handsome Charles Hendon or the enigmatic Lady 
Mayo. 

On Wednesday, November 23rd, my wife returned with the welcome news that our fortunes were in better order and that I should soon be able to buy a small 
practice. Her home-coming was a joyous one. That night, as we sat hand in hand before the fire in our lodgings, I told her something of the strange problem 
before me. I spoke of Miss Forsythe, touching on her parlous plight, and on her youth and beauty and refinement. My wife did not reply, but sat looking thoughtfully at the 
fire. 

It was the distant chime of Big Ben striking the half hour after eight, which roused me. 

"By Jove, Mary!" cried I. "I had all but forgotten!" 

"Forgotten?" repeated my wife, with a slight start. 

"I have promised to be in Baker Street at nine o'clock tonight. Miss Forsythe is to be there." 

My wife drew back her hand. 

"Then you had best be off at once," said she, with a coldness which astonished me. "You are always so interested in Mr. Sherlock Holmes's cases." 

Puzzled and somewhat hurt, I took my hat and my departure. It was a bitter-cold night, with no breath of fog, but with the roads ice-blocked in mud. Within the 
half hour a hansom set me down in Baker Street. With a thrill of excitement I observed that Sherlock Holmes had returned from his mission. The upper windows 
were lighted, and several times I saw his gaunt shadow pass and repass on the blinds. 

Letting myself in with a latch-key, I went softly up the stairs and opened the door of the sitting-room. Clearly Holmes had only just returned, for his cape, his 
cloth cap, and his old Gladstone bag were scattered about the room in his customary untidy fashion. 

He stood at his desk, his back towards me, and the light of the green-shaded desk-lamp falling over him as he ripped open envelopes in a small pile of 
correspondence. At the opening of the door he turned round, but his face fell. 

"Ah, Watson, it is you. I had hoped to see Miss Forsythe. She is late." 

"By heaven, Holmes! If those scoundrels have harmed the young lady, I swear they shall answer to me!' 

"Scoundrels?" 

"I refer to Mr. Charles Hendon, and, though it grieves me to say as much about a woman, to Lady Mayo as well." 

The harsh, eager lines of his face softened. "Good old Watson!" said he. "Always hurrying to the rescue of beauty in distress. And a pretty hash you have made of 
it, upon occasion." 

"Then I trust," I replied with dignity, "that your own mission on the Continent was a success?" 

"A touch, Watson! Pray forgive my outburst of nerves. No, my mission was not a success. It seemed to me that I had a direct summons to a certain European city 
whose name you will readily infer. I went there, and returned in what I fancy is record time." 

"Well?" 

"The— Mr. Hendon, Watson, is a badly frightened man. Yet he is not without wit. No sooner had he left Switzerland, than he must have divined that the false letter 
was a decoy to trap him. But I lost him. Where is he now? And be good enough to explain why you should call him a scoundrel." 

"I spoke, perhaps, in the heat of the moment. Yet I cannot help dislikinq the fellow." 

"Why?" 

"In one of doubtless exalted position, a certain elaborateness of manner is permissible. But he bows too much! He makes scenes in public. He affects the Con- 
tinental habit of addressing an English lady as 'madame,' instead of an honest 'madam.' Holmes, it is all confoundedly un-English!" 

My friend regarded me strangely, as though taken aback, and was about to reply when we heard the clatter of a four-wheeler drawing up outside our street- 
door. Less than a minute later Celia Forsythe was in the room, followed by a small, hard-looking, dogged man in a bowler hat with a curly brim. From his mutton- 
chop whiskers I deduced him to be Trepley, the man-servant. 

Miss Forsythe's face was aglow with the cold. She wore a short fur jacket, and carried a dainty muff. 



"Mr. Holmes," she burst out without preamble, "Charles is in England!" 

"So I had already supposed. And where is he?" 

"At Groxton Low Hall. I should have sent a telegram yesterday, save that Lady Mayo forbade me to do so." 

"Fool that I am!" said Holmes, striking his fist upon the desk. "You spoke of its isolation, I think. Watson! Will you oblige me with the large-scale map of Surrey? 
Thank you." His voice grew more harsh. "What's this, what's this?" 

"My dear fellow," I expostulated, "can you read villainy in a map?" 

"Open country, Watson! Fields. Woods. The nearest railway station fully three miles from Groxton Low Hall!" Holmes groaned. "Miss Forsythe, Miss Forsythe, you 
have much to answer for!" 

The young lady fell back a step in amazement. 

"I have much to answer for?" she cried. "Can you credit me, sir, when I tell you that so much continued mystery has all but driven the wits from my head? Neither 
Charles nor Lady Mayo will speak a word." 

"Of explanation?" 

"Precisely!" She nodded her head towards the servant. "Charles has sent Trepley to London with a letter, to be delivered by hand, and I am not even suffered to know its 
contents." 

"Sorry, miss," observed the little man, gruffly but deferentially. "That's orders." 

For the first time I noted that Trepley, who was dressed more like a groom than a manservant, jealously pressed an envelope flat between his hands as 
though he feared someone might snatch it away. His pale eyes, framed in the mutton-chop whiskers, moved slowly round the room. Sherlock Holmes 
advanced towards him. 

"You will be good enough to show me that envelope, my man," he said. 

I have often remarked that a stupid person is the most doggedly loyal. Trepley's eyes were almost those of a fanatic. 

"Begging your pardon, sir, but I will not. I will do as I have been ordered, come what may!" 

"I tell you, man, this is no time to hesitate. I don't wish to read the letter. I wish merely to see the address on the front and the seal on the back. 
Quickly, now! It may mean your master's life!" 

Trepley hesitated and moistened his lips. Gingerly, still gripping one corner of the envelope, he held it out without releasing it. Holmes whistled. 

"Come!" said he. "It is addressed to no less a personage than Sir Charles Warren, the Commissioner of Metropolitan Police. And the seal? Ah! Just as I 
thought. You are engaged to deliver this letter at once?" 

"Yes, Mr. Holmes." 

"Then off with you! But detain the four-wheeler, for the rest of us will want it presently." 

He did not speak until T repley had clattered down the stairs. But the old feverishness was again upon him. 

"And now, Watson, you might just look up the trams in Bradshaw. Are you armed?" 

"My stick." 

"For once, I fear, it may prove inadequate." And he opened the left-hand drawer of the desk-table. "Oblige me by slipping this into your greatcoat pocket. 
A .320 Webley, with Eley's No. 2 cartridges—" 

As the light gleamed on the barrel of the revolver, Celia Forsythe uttered a cry and put one hand on the mantelpiece to steady herself. 

"Mr. Holmes!" she began, and then seemed to change her mind. "There are frequent trains to Groxton station, which, as you say, is three miles from the 
Hall. Indeed, there is one in twenty minutes." 

"Excellent!" 

"But we must not take it" 

"Must not take it, madam?" 

"I have had no time to tell you, but Lady Mayo herself now appeals to you for help. Only this afternoon I persuaded her. Lady Mayo requests that we three take the 
10:25, which is the last train. She will meet us at Groxton station with the carriage." Miss Forsythe bit her lip. "Lady Mayo, despite her kindness, is— imperious. We 
must not miss that last train!" 

And yet we very nearly missed it. Having forgotten streets of frozen mud, and the crush of vehicles under blue, sputtering arc-lamps, we arrived at Waterloo only 
just in time. 

Presently, as the train emerged into open country, our dim-lit compartment took on a greater quality of eeriness with each click of the wheels. Holmes sat silent, bending 
slightly forward. I could see his hawk-like profile, under the fore and aft cap, clear-cut against the cold radiance of a full moon. It was nearly half-past eleven when 
we alighted at a wayside station whose village had long been lightless and asleep. 

Nothing stirred there. No dog barked. Near the station stood an open landau, without a clink of harness from the horses. Bolt upright sat the coachman, as 
motionless as the squat elderly lady who sat in the back of the landau, watching us stonily as we approached. 

Miss Forsythe eagerly began to speak, but the elderly lady, who was wrapped in grey furs and had a good deal of nose, raised a hand to forestall her. 

"Mr. Sherlock Holmes?" she said, in a singularly deep and musical voice, "and this other gentleman, I take it, is Dr. Watson. I am Lady Mayo." 

She scrutinized us for a moment with a pair of singularly sharp and penetrating eyes. 

"Pray enter the landau," she continued. "You will find quite a number of carriage-rugs. Though I deplore the necessity of offering an open conveyance on so 
cold a night, my coachman's fondness for fast driving," and she indicated the driver, who hunched up his shoulders, "has contrived to break the axle of the closed 
carriage. To the Hall, Billings! Make haste!" 

The whip cracked. With an uneasy swing of the rear wheels, our landau was off at a smart pace along a narrow road bordered with spiky hedgerows and skeleton 
trees. 

"But I did not mind," said Lady Mayo. "Lackaday, Mr. Holmes! I am a very old woman. My youth was a time of fast driving; ay, and of fast living too." 

"Was it also a time of fast dying?" asked my friend. "Such a death, for instance, as may overtake our young friend tonight?" 

The hoof-beats rang on the icy road. 

"I think, Mr. Sherlock Holmes," said she quietly, "that you and I understand each other." 

"I am sure of it, Lady Mayo. But you have not answered my question," 

"Have no fear, Mr. Holmes. He is safe now." 

"You are certain?" 

"I tell you, he is quite safe! The park at Groxton Low Hall is patrolled, and the house is guarded. They cannot attack him." 

Whether my own outburst was caused by the smart clip of the landau, the rushing wind past our ears, or the maddening nature of the problem itself, to this day I 
cannot say. 

"Forgive the bluntness of an old campaigner," cried I, "who has no answer for anything. But at least take pity on the poor young lady beside you! Who is 
Mr. Charles Hendon? Why does he smash clocks? For what reason should his life be in danger?" 

"Tut, Watson," said Holmes, with a touch of tartness. "You yourself staggered me by enumerating the points in which Mr. Charles Hendon, as you put it, is confoundedly 
un-English." 

"Well? And why does that assist us?" 



"Because the so-called 'Charles Hendon' is assuredly not English." 

"Not English?" said Celia Forsythe, stretching out her hand. "But he speaks English perfectly!" The breath died in her throat. "Too perfectly!" she whispered. 

"This young man," I exclaimed, "is not, then, of exalted station?" 

"On the contrary, my dear fellow. Your shrewdness never fails. He is of very exalted station indeed. Now name for me the one Imperial Court in Europe— ay, Watson, 
Imperial Court!— at which the speaking of English has all but superseded its own native language." 

"I cannot think. I don't know." 

"Then endeavour to remember what you do know. Shortly before Miss Forsythe first called upon us, I read aloud certain items from the daily press which at the time 
seemed tediously unimportant. One item stated that the Nihilists, that dangerous band of anarchists who would crush Imperial Russia to nothingness, were suspected of 
plotting against the life of the Grand Duke Alexei at Odessa. The Grand Duke Alexei, you perceive. Now Lady Mayo's nickname for 'Mr. Charles Hendon' 
was—" 

"Alec!" cried I. 

"It might have been the merest coincidence," observed Holmes, shrugging his shoulders. "However, when we reflect upon recent history, we recall that in an earlier 
attempt on the life of the late Tsar of all the Russias— who was blown to pieces in '81 , by the explosion of a dynamite bomb— the ticking of the bomb was drowned 
beneath the playing of a piano. Dynamite bombs, Watson, are of two kinds. One, iron-sheathed and fairly light, may be ignited on a short fuse and thrown. The other, 
also of iron, is exploded by means of a clockwork mechanism whose loud ticking alone betrays its presence." 

Crack went the coachman's whip, and the hedgerows seemed to unreel as in a dream. Holmes and I sat with our backs to the driver, vis-a-vis the moon-whitened 
faces of Lady Mayo and Celia Forsythe. 

"Holmes, all this is becoming as clear as crystal! That is why the young man cannot bear the sight of a clock!" 

"No, Watson. No! The sound of a clock!" 

"The sound?" 

"Precisely. When I attempted to tell you as much, your native impatience cut me short at the first letter. On the two occasions when he destroyed a clock in public, 
bear in mind that in neither case could he actually see the clock. In one instance, as Miss Forsythe informed us, it was hidden inside a screen of greenery; in the 
other, it was behind a curtain. Hearing only that significant ticking, he struck before he had time to take thought. His purpose, of course, was to smash the clockwork and 
draw the fangs of what he believed to be a bomb." 

"But surely," I protested, "those blows of a stick might well have ignited and exploded a bomb?" 

Again Holmes shrugged his shoulders. 

"Had it been a real bomb, who can tell? Yet, against an iron casing, I think the matter doubtful. In either event, we deal with a very courageous gentleman, haunted and 
hounded, who rushed and struck blindly. It is not unnatural that the memory of his father's death and the knowledge that the same organization was on his own 
trail should tend toward hasty action." 

"And then?" 

Yet Sherlock Holmes remained uneasy. I noticed that he glanced round more than once at the lonely sweep of the grey rolling country-side. 

"Well," said he, "having determined so much in my first interview with Miss Forsythe, it seemed clear that the forged letter was bait to draw the Grand Duke to 
Odessa, urging on him the pluck to face these implacable men. But, as I have told you, he must have suspected. Therefore he would go— where?" . 

"To England," said I. "Nay, more! To Groxton Low Hall, with the added inducement of an attractive young lady whom I urge to leave off weeping and dry her 
tears." 

Holmes looked exasperated. 

"At least I could say," replied he, "that the balance of probability lay in that direction. Surely it was obvious from the beginning that one in the position of Lady 
Mayo would never have entered so casually into railway-carriage conversation with a young man unless they had been, in Miss Forsythe's unwitting but illuminating 
phrase, 'old friends.' " 

"I underestimated your powers, Mr. Sherlock Holmes." Lady Mayo, who had been patting Celia's hand, spoke harshly. "Yes, I knew Alexei when he was a little 
boy in a sailor-suit at St. Petersburg." 

"Where your husband, I discovered, was First Secretary at the British Embassy. In Odessa I learned another fact of great interest." 

"Eh? What was that?" 

"The name of the Nihilists' chief agent, a daring, mad, and fanatical spirit who has been very close to the Grand Duke for some time." 

"Impossible!" 

"Yet true." 

For a moment Lady Mayo sat looking at him, her countenance far less stony, while the carriage bumped over a rut and veered. 

"Attend to me, Mr. Holmes. My own dear Alec has already written to the police, in the person of Sir Charles Warren, the Commissioner." 

"Thank you; I have seen the letter. I have also seen the Imperial Russian Arms on the seal." 

"Meanwhile," she continued, "I repeat that the park is patrolled, the house guarded—" 

"Yet a fox may escape the hounds none the less." 

"It is not only a question of guards! At this minute, Mr. Holmes, poor Alec sits in an old, thick-walled room, with its door double-locked on the inside. The 
windows are so closely barred that none could so much as stretch a hand inside. The chimney-piece is ancient and hooded, yet with so narrow an aperture 
that no man could climb down; and a fire burns there. How could an enemy attack him?" 

"How?" muttered Holmes, biting his lip and tapping his fingers on his knee. "It is true he may be safe for one night, since—" 

Lady Mayo made a slight gesture of triumph. 

"No precaution has been neglected," said she. "Even the roof is safeguarded. Alec's manservant, Trepley, after delivering the letter in London with 
commendable quickness, returned by an earlier train than yours, and borrowed a horse at the village. At this moment he is on the roof of the Hall, faithfully guarding 
his master." 

The effect of this speech was extraordinary. Sherlock Holmes leaped to his feet in the carriage, his cape rising in grotesque black silhouette as he clutched at the box- 
rail for balance. 

"On the roof?" he echoed. "On the roof?" 

Then he turned round, seizing the shoulders of the coachman. 

"Whip up the horses!" he shouted. "For God's sake, whip up the horses! We have not a second to lose!" 

Crack! Crack! went the whip over the ears of the leader. The horses, snorting, settled down to a gallop and plunged away. In the confusion, as we were all 
thrown together, rose Lady Mayo's angry voice. 

"Mr. Holmes, have you taken leave of your senses?" 

"You shall see whether I have. Miss Forsythe! Did you ever actually hear the Grand Duke address his man as Trepley?" 

"I— no!" faltered Celia Forsythe, shocked to alertness. "As I informed you, Char— oh, heaven help me!— the Grand Duke called him 'Trep.' I assumed—" 

"Exactly! You assumed. But his true name is Trepoff. From your first description I knew him to be a liar and a traitor." 

The hedgerows flashed past; bit and harness jingled; we flew with the wind. 



"You may recall,” pursued Holmes, "the man's consummate hypocrisy when his master smashed the first clock? It was a heavy look of embarrassment and shame, 
was it not? He would have you think Mr. Charles Hendon insane. How came you to know of the other five clocks, which were purely imaginary? Because Trepoff told you. 
To hide a clock or a live bomb in a cupboard would really have been madness, if in fact the Grand Duke Alexei had ever done so." 

"But, Holmes," I protested. "Since Trepoff is his personal servant—" 

"Faster, coachman! Faster! Yes, Watson!" 

"Surely T repoff must have had a hundred opportunities to kill his master, by knife or poison perhaps, without this spectacular addition of a bomb?" 

"This spectacular addition, as you call it, is the revolutionaries' stock-in-trade. They will not act without it. Their victim must be blown up in one fiery crash of ruin, else 
the world may not notice them or their power." 

"But the letter to Sir Charles Warren?" cried Lady Mayo. 

"Doubtless it was dropped down the nearest street drain. Ha! I think that must be Groxton Low Hall just ahead." 

The ensuing events of that night are somewhat confused in my mind. I recall a long, low-built Jacobean house, of mellow red brick with mullioned windows and a 
flat roof, which seemed to rush at us up a gravel drive. Carriage-rugs flew wide. Lady Mayo, thoroughly roused, called sharp instructions to a group of nervous servants. 
Then Holmes and I were hurrying after Miss Forsythe up a series of staircases, from a broad and carpeted oak stairway in the hall to a set of narrow steps which were 
little more than a ladder to the roof. At the foot of these, Holmes paused for a moment to lay his fingers on Miss Forsythe's arm. 

"You will stay here," he said quietly. 

There was a metallic click as he put his hand into his pocket, and for the first time I knew that Holmes was armed too. 

"Come, Watson," said he. 

I followed him up the narrow steps while he softly lifted the trap-door to the roof. 

"Not a sound, on your life!" he whispered. "Fire if you catch sight of him." 

"But how are we to find him?" 

The cold air again blew in our faces. We crept cautiously forward across the flat roof. All about us were chimneys, tall ghostly stacks and clusters of squat smoke- 
blackened pots, surrounding a great leaden cupola shining like silver under the moon. At the far end, where the roof-tree of an old gable rose against the sky, a 
dark shape seemed to crouch above a single moon-washed chimney. 

A sulphur-match flared blue, then burned with a cedar yellow glow and, an instant later, came the hissing of an ignited fuse followed by a clattering sound in the 
chimney. Holmes ran forward, twisting and turning through the maze of stacks and parapets, toward the hunched figure now hastily clawing away. 

"Fire, Watson! Fire!" 

Our pistols rang out together. I saw Trepoff's pale face jerk round toward us, and then in the same instant the whole chimney-stack rose straight up into the air in a 
solid pillar of white fire. The roof heaved beneath my feet, and I was dimly conscious of rolling over and over along the leads, while shards and splinters of broken 
brickwork whizzed overhead or clanged against the metal dome of the cupola. 

Holmes rose unsteadily to his feet. "Are you hurt, Watson?" he gasped. 

"Only a trifle winded," I replied. "But it was fortunate we were thrown on our faces. Otherwise—" I gestured toward the slashed and scarred stacks that rose about 
us. 

We had advanced only a few yards through a mist of gritty dust when we came upon the man whom we were seeking. 

"He must now answer to a greater tribunal," said Holmes, looking down at the dreadful object sprawled on the leads. "Our shots made him hesitate for that fatal 
second, and he took the full blast of the bomb up the chimney." My friend turned away. "Come," he added, and his voice was bitter with self-reproach. "We have 
been both too slow to save our client, and too late to avenge him through the machinery of human justice." 

Suddenly his expression altered, and he clutched my arm. 

"By Jove, Watson! A single chimney-stack saved our lives!" he cried. "What was the word the woman used! Hooded! That was it, hooded! Quickly; there's not 
a moment to lose!" 

We raced through the trap-door, and down the stairway to the main landing. At the far end, through a haze of acrid smoke, we could discern the ruins of a 
splintered door. An instant later we had rushed into the bedroom of the Grand Duke. Holmes groaned aloud at the scene which met our eyes. 

What was once a stately fireplace now yawned in a great jagged hole beneath the remnants of a heavy stone hood. The fire from the grate had been blasted into the 
room, and the air was foul with the stench of the carpet smouldering under its powder of red-hot ashes. Holmes darted forward through the smoke, and a moment 
later I saw him stoop behind the wreckage of a piano. 

"Quick, Watson!" he cried. "There is life in him yet! This is where I can do nothing, and you can do everything." 

But it was touch and go. For the remainder of the night the young Duke hovered between life and death in the old wainscotted bedroom to which we had carried 
him. Yet, as the sun rose above the trees in the park, I noted with satisfaction that the coma induced by shock was already passing into a natural sleep. 

"His wounds are superficial," I said. "But the shock alone could have proved fatal. Now that he is asleep, he will live, and I have no doubt that the presence of Miss 
Celia Forsythe will speed his recovery." 

"Should you record the facts of this little case," remarked Holmes a few minutes later, as we strolled across the dew-laden grass of the deer-park, all glittering and 
sparkling in the fresh beauty of the dawn, "then you must have the honesty to lay the credit where it is due." 

"But does not the credit lie with you?" 

"No, Watson. That the outcome was successful is owing entirely to the fact that our ancestors understood the art of building. The strength of a fireplace-hood two 
hundred years old saved that young man's head from being blown off his shoulders. It is fortunate for the Grand Duke Alexei of Russia, and for the reputation of 
Mr. Sherlock Holmes of Baker Street, that in the days of the good King James the householder never failed to allow for the violent predilections of his neighbour." 



THE RED WIDOW 

"Your conclusions are perfectly correct, my dear Watson," remarked my friend Sherlock Holmes. "Squalor and poverty is the natural matrix to crimes of violence." 
"Precisely so," I agreed. "Indeed, I was just thinking—" I broke off to stare at him in amazement. "Good heavens, Holmes," I cried, "this is too much. How could you 
possibly know my innermost thoughts!" 

My friend leaned back in his chair and, placing his finger-tips together, surveyed me from under his heavy, drooping eyelids. 

"I would do better justice, perhaps, to my limited powers by refusing to answer your question," he said, with a dry chuckle. "You have a certain flair, Watson, for 
concealing your failure to perceive the obvious by the cavalier manner in which you invariably accept the explanation of a sequence of simple but logical reasoning." 

"I do not see how logical reasoning can enable you to follow the course of my mental processes," I retorted, a trifle nettled by his superior manner. 

"There was no great difficulty. I have been watching you for the last few minutes. The expression on your face was quite vacant until, as your eyes roved about the 
room, they fell on the bookcase and came to rest on Hugo's Les Miserables which made so deep an impression upon you when you read it last year. You 
became thoughtful, your eyes narrowed, it was obvious that your mind was drifting again into that tremendous dreadful saga of human suffering; at length your gaze 
lifted to the window with its aspect of snow-flakes and grey sky and bleak, frozen roofs, and then, moving slowly on to the mantelpiece, settled on the jack-knife With which I 
skewer my unanswered correspondence. The frown darkened on your face and unconsciously you shook your head despondently. It was an association of ideas. Hugo's 
terrible sub-third stage, the winter cold of poverty in the slums and, above the warm glow of our own modest fire, the bare knife-blade. Your expression deepened into 
one of sadness, the melancholy that comes with an understanding of cause and effect in the unchanging human tragedy. It was then that I ventured to agree with you." 
"Well, I must confess that you followed my thoughts with extraordinary accuracy," I admitted. "A remarkable piece of reasoning, Holmes." 

"Elementary, my dear Watson." 

The year of 1887 was moving to its end. The iron grip of the great blizzards that commenced in the last week of December had closed on the land and beyond 
the windows of Holmes's lodgings in Baker Street lay a gloomy vista of grey, lowering sky and white-capped tiles dimly discernible through a curtain of snow-flakes. 
Though it had been a memorable year for my friend, it had been of yet greater importance to me, for it was but two months since that Miss Mary Morston had 
paid me the signal honour of joining her destiny to mine. The change from my bachelor existence as a half-pay, ex-Army surgeon into the state of wedded bliss had not 
been accomplished without some uncalled-for and ironic comments from Sherlock Holmes but, as my wife and I could thank him for the fact that we had found each other, 
we could afford to accept his cynical attitude with tolerance and even understanding. 

I had dropped in to our old lodgings on this afternoon, to be precise December 30th, to pass a few hours with my friend and enquire whether any new case of 
interest had come his way since my previous visit. I had found him pale and listless, his dressing-gown drawn round his shoulders and the room reeking with the 
smoke of his favorite black shag, through which the fire in the grate gleamed like a brazier in a fog. 

"Nothing, save a few routine enquiries, Watson," he had replied in a voice shrill with complaint. "Creative art in crime seems to have become atrophied since I 
disposed of the late-lamented Bert Stevens." Then lapsing into silence, he curled himself up morosely in his arm-chair, and not another word passed between us until 
my thoughts were suddenly interrupted by the observation that commenced this narrative. 

As I rose to go, he looked at me critically. 

"I perceive, Watson," said he, "that you are already paying the price. The slovenly state of your left jawbone bears regrettable testimony that somebody has changed 
the position of your shaving-mirror. Furthermore, you are indulging in extravagances." 

"You do me a gross injustice." 

"What, at the winter price of fivepence a blossom! Your buttonhole tells me that you were sporting a flower not later than yesterday." 

"This is the first time I have known you penurious, Holmes," I retorted with some bitterness. 

He broke into a hearty laugh. "My dear fellow, you must forgive me!" he cried. "It is most unfair that I should penalize you because a surfeit of unexpended mental 
energy tends to play upon my nerves. But hullo, what's this!" 

A heavy step was mounting the stairs. My friend waved me back into my chair. 

"Stay a moment, Watson," said he. "It is Gregson, and the old game may be afoot once more." 

"Gregson?" 

"There is no mistaking that regulation tread. Too heavy for Lestrade's and yet known to Mrs. Hudson or she would accompany him. It is Gregson." 

As he finished speaking, there came a knock on the door and a figure muffled to the ears in a heavy cape entered the room. Our visitor tossed his 
bowler on the nearest chair and unwinding the scarf wrapped around the lower part of his face, disclosed the flaxen hair and long, pale features of the 
Scotland Yard detective. 

"Ah, Gregson," greeted Holmes, with a sly glance in my direction. "It must be urgent business that brings you out in this inclement weather. But throw off your cape, 
man, and come over to the fire." 

The police-agent shook his head. "There is not a moment to lose," he replied, consulting a large silver turnip watch. "The train to Derbyshire leaves in half 
an hour and I have a hansom waiting below. Though the case should present no difficulties for an officer of my experience, nevertheless I shall be glad of your company." 
"Something of interest?" 

"Murder, Mr. Holmes," snapped Gregson curtly, "and a singular one at that, to judge from the telegram from the local police. It appears that Lord Jocelyn Cope, 
the Deputy-Lieutenant of the County, has been found butchered at Arnsworth Castle. The Yard is quite capable of solving crimes of this nature, but in view of the 
curious terms contained in the police telegram, it occurred to me that you might wish to accompany me. Will you come?" 

Holmes leaned forward, emptied the Persian slipper into his tobacco pouch and sprang to his feet. 

"Give me a moment to pack a clean collar and toothbrush," he cried. "I have a spare one for you, Watson. No, my dear fellow, not a word. Where would I be without 
your assistance? Scribble a note to your wife, and Mrs. Hudson will have it delivered. We should be back tomorrow. Now, Gregson, I'm your man and you can fill in 
the details during our journey." 

The guard's flag was already waving as we rushed up the platform at St. Pancras and tore open the door of the first empty smoker. Holmes had brought three 
travelling-rugs with him and as the train roared its way through the fading winter daylight we made ourselves comfortable enough in our respective corners. 

"Well, Gregson, I shall be interested to hear the details," remarked Holmes, his thin, eager face framed in the ear-flaps of his deer-stalker and a spiral of blue smoke 
rising from his pipe. 

"I know nothing beyond what I have already told you." 

"And yet you used the word 'singular' and referred to the telegram from the county police as 'curious.' Kindly explain." 

"I used both terms for the same reason. The wire from the local inspector advised that the officer from Scotland Yard should read the Derbyshire County Guide 
and the Gazeteer. A most extraordinary suggestion!" 

"I should say a wise one. What have you done about it?" 

"The Gazeteer states merely that Lord Jocelyn Cope is a Deputy-Lieutenant and county magnate, married, childless and noted for his bequests to local archeological 
societies. As for the Guide, I have it here." He drew a pamphlet from his pocket and thumbed over the pages. "Here we are," he continued. "Arnsworth Castle. Built 
reign of Edward III. Fifteenth-century stained-glass window to celebrate Battle of Agincourt. Cope family penalized for suspected Catholic leaning by Royal Visitation, 
1574. Museum open to public once a year. Contains large collection of martial and other relics including small guillotine built originally in Nimes during French Revo- 
lution for execution of a maternal ancestor of the present owner. Never used owing to escape of intended victim and later purchased as relic by family after 
Napoleonic Wars and brought to Arnsworth. Pshaw! That local inspector must be out of his senses, Mr. Holmes. There is nothing to help us here." 



"Let us reserve judgment. The man would not have made such a suggestion without reason. In the meantime, I would recommend to your attention the dusk now 
falling over the landscape. Every material object has become vague and indistinct and yet their solid existence remains, though almost hidden from our visual senses. 
There is much to be learned from the twilight." 

"Quite so, Mr. Holmes," grinned Gregson, with a wink at me. "Very poetical, I am sure. Well, I'm for a short nap." 

It was some three hours later that we alighted at a small wayside station. The snow had ceased and beyond the roofs of the hamlet the long desolate slopes of the 
Derbyshire moors, white and glistening under the light of a full moon, rolled away to the sky-line. A stocky, bow-legged man swathed in a shepherd's plaid hurried 
towards us along the platform. 

"You're from Scotland Yard, I take it?" He greeted us brusquely. "I got your wire in reply to mine and I have a carriage waiting outside. Yes, I'm Inspector 
Dawlish," he added in response to Gregson's question. "But who are these gentlemen?" 

"I considered that Mr. Sherlock Holmes's reputation—" began our companion. 

"I've never heard of him," interposed the local man, looking at us with a gleam of hostility in his dark eyes. "This is a serious affair and there is no room for amateurs. 
But it is too cold to stand arguing here and, if London approves his presence, who am I to gainsay him? This way, if you please." 

A closed carriage was standing before the station and a moment later we had swung out of the yard and were bowling swiftly but silently up the village high street. 
"There'll be accommodation for you at the Queen's Head," grunted Inspector Dawlish. "But first to the castle." 

"I shall be glad to hear the facts of this case," stated Gregson, "and the reason for the most irregular suggestion contained in your telegram." 

"The facts are simple enough," replied the other, with a grim smile. "His lordship has been murdered and we know who did it." 

"Ah!" 

"Captain Jasper Lothian, the murdered man's cousin, has disappeared in a hurry. It's common knowledge hereabouts that the man's got a touch of the devil in 
him, a hard hand with a bottle, a horse or the nearest woman. It's come as a surprise to none of us that Captain Jasper should end by slaughtering his benefactor 
and the head of his house. Aye, head's a well-chosen word," he ended softly. 

"If you've a clear case, then what's this nonsense about a guide-book?" 

Inspector Dawlish leaned forward while his voice sank almost to a whisper. "You've read it?" he said. "Then it may interest you to know that Lord Jocelyn Cope was 
put to death in his own ancestral guillotine." 

His words left us in a chilled silence. 

"What motive can you suggest for that murder and for the barbarous method employed?" asked Sherlock Holmes at last. 

"Probably a ferocious quarrel. Have I not told you already that Captain Jasper had a touch of the devil in him? But there's the castle, and a proper place it looks 
for deeds of violence and darkness." 

We had turned off the country road to enter a gloomy avenue that climbed between banked snow-drifts up a barren moorland slope. On the crest loomed a great 
building, its walls and turrets stark and grey against the night sky. A few minutes later, our carriage rumbled under the arch of the outer bailey and halted in a court- 
yard. 

At Inspector Dawlish's knock, a tall, stooping man in butler's livery opened the massive oaken door and, holding a candle above his head, peered out at us, the light 
shining on his weary red-rimmed eyes and ill-nourished beard. 

"What, four of you!" he cried querulously. "It b'aint right her ladyship should be bothered thiswaysat such a time of grief to us all." 

"That will do, Stephen. Where is her ladyship?" 

The candle flame trembled. "Still with him," came the reply, and there was something like a sob in the old voice. "She hasn't moved. Still sitting there in the big 
chair and staring at him, as though she had fallen fast asleep with them wonderful eyes wide open." 

"You've touched nothing, of course?" 

"Nothing. It's all as it was." 

"Then let us go first to the museum where the crime Was committed," said Dawlish. "It is on the other side of the courtyard." 

He was moving away towards a cleared path that ran across the cobble-stones when Holmes's hand closed upon his arm. "How is this!" he cried imperiously. "The 
museum is on the other side and yet you have allowed a carriage to drive across the courtyard and people to stampede over the ground like a herd of buffalo." 

"What then?" 

Holmes flung up his arms appealingly to the moon. "The snow, man, the snow! You have destroyed your best helpmate." 

"But I tell you the murder was committed in the museum. What has the snow to do with it?" 

Holmes gave vent to a most dismal groan and then we all followed the local detective across the yard to an arched door-way. 

I have seen many a grim spectacle during my association with Sherlock Holmes, but I can recall none to surpass in horror the sight that met our eyes within that grey 
Gothic chamber. It was a small room with a groined roof lit by clusters of tapers in iron sconces. The walls were hung with trophies of armour and mediaeval 
weapons and edged by glass-topped cases crammed with ancient parchments, thumb-rings, pieces of carved stonework and yawning man-traps. These details I noticed 
at a glance and then my whole attention was riveted to the object that occupied a low dais in the centre of the room. 

It was a guillotine, painted a faded red and, save for its smaller size, exactly similar to those that I had seen depicted in woodcuts of the French Revolution. Sprawling 
between the two uprights lay the body of a tall, thin man clad in a velvet smoking-jacket. His hands were tied behind him and a white cloth, hideously besmirched, 
concealed his head, or rather the place where his head had been. 

The light of the tapers, gleaming on a blood-spattered steel blade buried in the lunette, reached beyond to touch as with a halo the red-gold hair of the woman who 
sat beside that dreadful headless form. Regardless of our approach, she remained motionless in her high carved chair, her features an ivory mask from which two 
dark and brilliant eyes stared into the shadows with the unwinking fixity of a basilisk. In an experience of women covering three continents, I have never beheld a 
colder nor a more perfect face than that of the chatelaine of Castle Arnsworth keeping vigil in that chamber of death. 

Dawlish coughed. 

"You had best retire, my lady," he said bluntly. "Rest assured that Inspector Gregson here and I will see that justice is done." 

For the first time, she looked at us, and so uncertain was the light of the tapers that for an instant it seemed to me that some swift emotion more akin to mockery 
than grief gleamed and died in those wonderful eyes. 

"Stephen is not with you?" she asked incongruously. "But, of course, he would be in the library. Faithful Stephen." 

"I fear that his lordship's death—" 

She rose abruptly, her bosom heaving and one hand gripping the skirt of her black lace gown. 

"His damnation!" she hissed, and then, with a gesture of despair, she turned and glided slowly from the room. 

As the door closed, Sherlock Holmes dropped on one knee beside the guillotine and, raising the blood-soaked cloth, peered down at the terrible object beneath. "Dear 
me," he said quietly. "A blow of this force must have sent the head rolling across the room." 

"Probably." 

"I fail to understand. Surely you know where you found it?" 

"I didn't find it. There is no head." 

For a long moment, Holmes remained on his knee, staring up silently at the speaker. "It seems to me that you are taking a great deal for granted," he said 
at length, scrambling to his feet. "Let me hear your ideas on this singular crime." 



"It's plain enough. Sometime last night, the two men quarrelled and eventually came to blows. The younger overpowered the elder and then killed him by means of 
this instrument. The evidence that Lord Cope was still alive when placed in the guillotine is shown by the fact that Captain Lothian had to lash his hands. The crime 
was discovered this morning by the butler, Stephen, and a groom fetched me from the village whereupon I took the usual steps to identify the body of his lordship and 
listed the personal belongings found upon him. If you'd like to know how the murderer escaped, I can tell you that too. On the mare that's missing from the 
stable." 

"Most instructive," observed Holmes. "As I understand your theory, the two men engaged in a ferocious combat, being careful not to disarrange any furniture or 
smash the glass cases that clutter up the room. Then, having disposed of his opponent, the murderer rides into the night, a suit-case under one arm and his 
victim's head under the other. A truly remarkable performance." 

An angry flush suffused Dawlish's face. "It's easy enough to pick holes in other people's ideas, Mr. Sherlock Holmes," he sneered. "Perhaps you will give us your 
theory." 

"I have none. I am awaiting my facts. By the way, when was your last snowfall?" 

"Yesterday afternoon." 

"Then there is hope yet. But let us see if this room will yield us any information." 

For some ten minutes, we stood and watched him, Gregson and I with interest and Dawlish with an ill-concealed look of contempt on his weather-beaten face, as 
Holmes crawled slowly about the room on his hands and knees muttering and mumbling to himself and looking like some gigantic dun-coloured insect. He had drawn his 
magnifying-glass from his cape pocket and I noticed that not only the floor but the contents of the occasional tables were subjected to the closest scrutiny. Then, rising to 
his feet, he stood wrapped in thought, his back to the candlelight and his gaunt shadow falling across the faded red guillotine. 

"It won't do," he said suddenly. "The murder was premeditated." 

"How do you know?" 

"The cranking-handle is freshly oiled, and the victim was senseless. A single jerk would have loosed his hands." 

'Then why were they tied?" 

"Ah! There is no doubt, however, that the man was brought here unconscious with his hands already bound." 

"You're wrong there!" interposed Dawlish loudly. "The design on the lashing proves that it is a sash from one of these window-curtains." 

Holmes shook his head. "They are faded through exposure to daylight," said he, "and this is not. There can be little doubt that it comes from a door-curtain, of which 
there are none in this room. Well, there is little more to be learned here." 

The two police-agents conferred together and Gregson turned to Holmes. "As it is after midnight," said he, "we had better retire to the village hostelry and tomorrow 
pursue our enquiries separately. I cannot but agree with Inspector Dawlish that while we are theorizing here the murderer may reach the coast." 

"I wish to be clear on one point, Gregson. Am I officially employed on this case by the police?" 

"Impossible, Mr. Holmes!" 

"Quite so. Then I am free to use my own judgment. But give me five minutes in the courtyard and Doctor Watson and I will be with you." 

The bitter cold smote upon us as I slowly followed the gleam of Holmes's dark lantern along the path that, banked with thick snow, led across the courtyard to the 
front door. "Fools"! he cried, stooping over the powdered surface. "Look at it, Watson! A regiment would have done less damage Carriage-wheels in three places. 
And here's Dawlish's boots and a pair of hobnails, probably a groom. A woman now, and running. Of course, Lady Cope and the first alarm. Yes, certainly it is she. 
What was Stephen doing out here? There is no mistaking his square-toed shoes. Doubtless you observed them, Watson, when he opened the door to us. But 
what have we here?" The lantern paused and then moved slowly onwards. "Pumps pumps," he cried eagerly, "and coming from the front door. See, here he is 
again. Probably a tall man, from the size of his feet and carrying some heavy object. The stride is shortened and the toes more clearly marked than the heels. A 
burdened man always tends to throw his weight forward. He returns! Ah, just so, just so! Well, I think that we have earned our beds." 

My friend remained silent during our journey back to the village. But, as we separated from Inspector Dawlish at the door of the inn, he laid a hand on his 
shoulder. 

"The man who has done this deed is tall and spare," said he. "He is about fifty years of age with a turned-in left foot and strongly addicted to Turkish cigarettes which 
he smokes from a holder." 

"Captain Lothian!" grunted Dawlish. "I know nothing about feet or cigarette holders, but the rest of your description is accurate enough. But who told you his ap- 
pearance?" 

"I will set you a question in reply. Were the Copes ever a Catholic family?" 

The local inspector glanced significantly at Gregson and tapped his forehead. "Catholic? Well, now that you mention it, I believe they were in the old times. But what 
on earth—!" 

"Merely that I would recommend you to your own guide-book. Good night." 

On the following morning, after dropping my friend and myself at the castle gate, the two police-officers drove off to pursue their enquiries further afield. Holmes 
watched their departure with a twinkle in his eye. 

"I fear that I have done you injustice over the years, Watson," he commented somewhat enigmatically, as we turned away. 

The elderly manservant opened the door to us and, as we followed him into the great hall, it was painfully obvious that the honest fellow was still deeply 
afflicted by his master's death. 

"There is naught for you here," he cried shrilly. "My God, will you never leave us in peace?" 

I have remarked previously on Holmes's gift for putting others at their ease, and by degrees the old man recovered his composure. "I take it that this is the Agincourt win- 
dow," observed Holmes, staring up at a small but exquisitely coloured stained-glass casement through which the winter sunlight threw a pattern of brilliant colours on 
the ancient stone floor. 

"It is, sir. Only two in all England." 

"Doubtless you have served the family for many years," continued my friend gently. 

"Served 'em? Aye, me and mine for nigh two centuries. Ours is the dust that lies upon their funeral palls. 

"I fancy they have an interesting history." 

"They have that, sir." 

"I seem to have heard that this ill-omened guillotine was specially built for some ancestor of your late master?" 

"Aye, the Marquis de Rennes. Built by his own tenants, the varmints, hated him, they did, simply because he kept up old customs." 

"Indeed. What custom?" 

"Something about women, sir. The book in the library don't explain exactly." 

"Le droit du seigneur, perhaps." 

"Well, I don't speak heathern, but I believe them was the very words." 

"H'm. I should like to see this library." 

The old man's eyes slid to the door at the end of the hall. "See the library?" he grumbled. "What do you want there? Nothing but old books, and her ladyship don't 
like —Oh, very well." 

He led the way ungraciously into a long, low room lined to the ceiling with volumes and ending in a magnificent Gothic fireplace. Holmes, after strolling about listlessly, 
paused to light a cheroot. 



"Well, Watson, I think that well be getting back," said he. "Thank you, Stephen. It is a fine room, though I am surprised to see Indian rugs." 

"Indian!" protested the old man indignantly. They're antique Persian." 

"Surely Indian." 

"Persian, I tell you! Them marks are inscriptions, as a gentleman like you should know. Can't see without your spy-glass? Well, use it then. Now, drat it, if he hasn't 
spilled his matches!" 

As we rose to our feet after gathering up the scattered vestas, I was puzzled to account for the sudden flush of excitement in Holmes's sallow cheeks. 

"I was mistaken," said he. "They are Persian. Come, Watson, it is high time that we set out for the village and our train back to town." 

A few minutes later, we had left the castle. But to my surprise, on emerging from the outer bailey, Holmes led the way swiftly along a lane leading to the stables. 

"You intend to enquire about the missing horse," I suggested. 

"The horse? My dear fellow, I have no doubt that it is safely concealed in one of the home farms, while Gregson rushes all over the county. This is what I am looking for." 
He entered the first loose box and returned with his arms full of straw. "Another bundle for you, Watson, and it should be enough for our purpose." 

"But what is our purpose?" 

"Principally to reach the front door without being observed," he chuckled, as he shouldered his burden. 

Having retraced our footsteps, Holmes laid his finger on his lips and, cautiously opening the great door, slipped into a near-by closet, full of capes and sticks, where he 
proceeded to throw both our bundles on the floor. 

"It should be safe enough," he whispered, "for it is stone-built. Ah! These two mackintoshes will assist admirably. I have no doubt," he added, as he struck a match 
and dropped it into the pile, "that I shall have other occasions to use this modest stratagem." 

As the flames spread through the straw and reached the mackintoshes, thick black wreaths of smoke poured from the cloak-room door into the hall of Arnsworth 
Castle, accompanied by a hissing and crackling from the burning rubber. 

"Good heavens, Holmes," I gasped, the tears rolling down my face. "We shall be suffocated!" 

His fingers closed on my arm. 

"Wait," he muttered, and even as he spoke, there came a sudden rush of feet and a yell of horror. 

"Fire!" 

In that despairing wail, I recognized Stephen's voice. 

"Fire!" he shrieked again, and we caught the clatter of his footsteps as he fled across the hall. 

"Now!" whispered Holmes and, in an instant he was out of the cloak-room and running headlong for the library. The door was half open but, as we burst in, the 
man drumming with hysterical hands on the great fireplace did not even turn his head. 

"Fire! The house is on fire!" he shrieked. "Oh, my poor master! My lord! My lord!" 

Holmes's hand fell upon his shoulder. "A bucket of water in the cloak-room will meet the case," he said quietly. "It would be as well, however, if you would ask his 
lordship to join us." 

The old man sprang at him, his eyes blazing and his fingers crooked like the talons of a vulture. 

"A trick" he screamed. "I've betrayed him through your cursed tricks!" 

"Take him, Watson," said Holmes, holding him at arms' length. "There, there. You're a faithful fellow." 

"Faithful unto death," whispered a feeble voice. 

I started back involuntarily. The edge of the ancient fireplace had swung open and in the dark aperture thus disclosed there stood a tall, thin man, so powdered with 
dust that for the moment I seemed to be staring not at a human being but at a spectre. He was about fifty years of age, gaunt and high-nosed, with a pair of sombre 
eyes that waxed and waned feverishly on a face that was the colour of grey paper. 

"I fear that the dust is bothering you, Lord Cope," said Holmes very gently. "Would you not be better seated?" 

The man tottered forward to drop heavily into an arm chair. "You are the police, of course," he gasped. 

"No. I am a private investigator, but acting in the interests of justice." 

A bitter smile parted Lord Cope's lips. 

"Too late," said he. 

"You are ill?" 

"I am dying." Opening his fingers, he disclosed a small empty phial. "There is only a short time left to me." 

"Is there nothing to be done, Watson?" 

I laid my fingers upon the sick man’s wrist. His face was already livid and the pulse low and feeble. 

"Nothing, Holmes." 

Lord Cope straightened himself painfully. "Perhaps you will indulge a last curiosity by telling me how you discovered the truth," said he. "You must be a man of some 
perception." 

"I confess that at first there were difficulties," admitted Holmes, "though these discovered themselves later in the light of events. Obviously the whole key to the problem 
lay in a conjunction of two remarkable circumstances— the use of a guillotine and the disappearance of the murdered man's head. 

"Who, I asked myself, would use so clumsy and rare an instrument, except one to whom it possessed some strong symbolic significance and, if this were the case, then it 
was logical to suppose that the clue to that significance must lie in its past history." 

The nobleman nodded. 

"His own people built it for Rennes," he muttered, "in return for the infamy that their womenfolk had suffered at his hands. But pray proceed, and quickly." 

"So much for the first circumstance," continued Holmes, ticking off the points on his fingers. "The second threw a flood of light over the whole problem. This is not New 
Guinea. Why, then, should a murderer take his victim's head? The obvious answer was that he wished to conceal the dead man's true identity. By the way," he 
demanded sternly, "what have you done with Captain Lothian's head?" 

"Stephen and I buried it at midnight in the family vault," came the feeble reply. "And that with all reverence." 

"The rest was simple," went on Holmes. "As the body was easily identifiable as yours by the clothes and other personal belongings which were listed by the local in- 
spector, it followed naturally that there could have been no point in concealing the head unless the murderer had also changed clothes with the dead man. That the 
change had been effected before death was shown by the blood-stains. The victim had been incapacitated in advance, probably drugged, for it was plain 
from certain facts already explained to my friend Watson that there had been no struggle and that he had been carried to the museum from another part of the 
castle. Assuming my reasoning to be correct, then the murdered man could not be Lord Jocelyn. But was there not another missing, his lordship's cousin and 
alleged murderer, Captain Jasper Lothian?" 

"How could you give Dawlish a description of the wanted man?" I interposed. 

"By looking at the body of the victim, Watson. The two men must have borne a general resemblance to each other or the deception would not have been feasible from 
the start. An ash tray in the museum contained a cigarette stub, Turkish, comparatively fresh and smoked from a holder. None but an addict would have smoked under the 
terrible circumstances that must have accompanied that insignificant stump. The foot-marks in the snow showed that someone had come from the main building 
carrying a burden and had returned without that burden. I think I have covered the principal points." 

For a while, we sat in silence broken only by the moan of a rising wind at the windows and the short, sharp panting of the dying man's breath. 



"I owe you no explanation," he said at last, "for it is to my Maker, who alone knows the innermost recesses of the human heart, that I must answer for my deed. 
Nevertheless, though my story is one of shame and guilt, I shall tell you enough to enlist perhaps your forbearance in granting me my final request. 

"You must know, then, that following the scandal which brought his Army career to its close, my cousin Jasper Lothian has lived at Arnsworth. Though penniless 
and already notorious for his evil living, I welcomed him as a kinsman, affording him not only financial support but, what was perhaps more valuable, the social aegis of my 
position in the county. 

"As I look back now on the years that passed, I blame myself for my own lack of principle in my failure to put an end to his extravagance, his drinking and 
gaming and certain less honourable pursuits with which rumour already linked his name. I had thought him wild and injudicious. I was yet to learn that he was a 
creature so vile and utterly bereft of honour that he would tarnish the name of his own house. 

"I had married a woman considerably younger than myself, a woman as remarkable for her beauty as for her romantic yet singular temperament which she had in- 
herited from her Spanish forebears. It was the old story, and when at long last I awoke to the dreadful truth it was also to the knowledge that only one thing remained 
for me in life— vengeance. Vengeance against this man who had disgraced my name and abused the honour of my house. 

"On the night in question, Lothian and I sat late over our wine in this very room. I had contrived to drug his port and before the effects of the narcotic could deaden 
his senses I told him of my discovery and that death alone could wipe out the score. He sneered back at me that in killing him I would merely put myself on the scaffold 
and expose my wife's shame to the world. When I explained my plan, the sneer was gone from his face and the terror of death was freezing in his black heart. 
The rest you know. As the drug deprived him of his senses, I changed clothes with him, bound his hands with a sash torn from the door-curtain and carried him 
across the courtyard to the museum, to the virgin guillotine which had been built for another's infamy. 

"When it was over, I summoned Stephen and told him the truth. The old man never hesitated in his loyalty to his wretched master. Together we buried the 
head in the family vault and then, seizing a mare from the stable, he rode it across the moor to convey an impression of flight and finally left it concealed in a lonely 
farm owned by his sister. All that remained was for me to disappear. 

"Arnsworth, like many mansions belonging to families that had been Catholic in the olden times, possessed a priest's hole. There I have lain concealed, emerging only 
at night into the library to lay my final instructions upon my faithful servant." 

"Thereby confirming my suspicion as to your proximity," interposed Holmes, "by leaving no fewer than five smears of Turkish tobacco ash upon the rugs. But what was 
your ultimate intention?" 

"In taking vengeance for the greatest wrong which one man can do to another, I had successfully protected our name from the shame of the scaffold. I could rely on 
Stephen's loyalty. As for my wife, though she knew the truth she could not betray me without announcing to the world her own infidelity. Life held nothing more for me. I 
determined therefore to allow myself a day or two in which to get my affairs in order and then to die by my own hand. I assure you that your discovery of my hiding- 
place has advanced the event by only an hour or so. I had left a letter for Stephen, begging him as his final devoir that he would bury my body secretly in the 
vaults of my ancestors. 

"There, gentlemen, is my story. I am the last of the old line and it lies with you whether or not it shall go out in dishonour." 

Sherlock Holmes laid a hand upon his. 

"It is perhaps as well that it has been pointed out to us already that my friend Watson and I are here in an entirely private capacity," said he quietly. "I am 
about to summon Stephen, for I cannot help feeling that you would be more comfortable if he carried this chair into the priest's hole and closed the sliding panel 
after you." 

We had to bend our heads to catch Lord Jocelyn's response. 

"Then a higher tribunal will judge my crime," he whispered faintly, "and the tomb shall devour my secret. Farewell, and may a dying man's blessing rest upon you." 

Our journey back to London was both chilly and depressing. With nightfall, the snow had recommenced and Holmes was in his least communicative mood, staring out 
of the window at the scattered lights of villages and farm-houses that periodically flitted past in the darkness. 

"The old year is nodding to its fall," he remarked suddenly, "and in the hearts of all these kindly, simple folk awaiting the midnight chimes dwells the perennial 

anticipation that what is to come will be better than what has been. Hope, however ingenuous and disproven by past experience, remains the one supreme 

panacea for all the knocks and bruises which life metes out to us." He leaned back and began to stuff his pipe with shag. 

"Should you eventually write an account of this curious affair in Derbyshire," he went on, "I would suggest that a suitable title would be 'the Red Widow'." 

"Knowing your unreasonable aversion to women, Holmes, I am surprised that you noticed the colour of her hair." 

"I refer, Watson, to the popular sobriquet for a guillotine in the days of the French Revolution," he said severely. 

The hour was late when, at last, we reached our old lodgings in Baker Street where Holmes, after poking up the fire, lost not a moment in donning his mouse-coloured 
dressing-gown. 

"It is approaching midnight," I observed, "and as I would wish to be with my wife when this year of 1887 draws to its close, I must be on my way. Let me wish you 
a happy New Year, my dear fellow." 

"I heartily reciprocate your good wishes, Watson," he replied. "Pray bear my greetings to your wife and my apologies for your temporary absence." 

I had reached the deserted street and, pausing for a moment to raise my collar against the swirl of the snow-flakes, I was about to set out on my walk when my attention 
was arrested by the strains of a violin. Involuntarily, I raised my eyes to the window of our old sitting-room and there, sharply outlined against the lamplit blind, was 
the shadow of Sherlock Holmes. I could see that keen, hawk-like profile which I knew so well, the slight stoop of his shoulders as he bent over his fiddle, the rise 
and fall of the bow-tip. But surely this was no dreamy Italian air, no complicated improvisation of his own creation, that drifted down to me through the stillness of that 
bleak winter's night. 

Should auld acquaintance be forgot 
And never brought to min'? 

Should auld acquaintance be forgot 
And days o' auld lang syne. 

A snow-flake must have drifted into my eyes for, as I turned away, the gas-lamps glimmering down the desolate expanse of Baker Street seemed strangely 
blurred. My task is done. My note-books have been replaced in the black tin deed-box where they have been kept in recent years and, for the last time; I 
have dipped my pen in the ink-well. Through the window that overlooks the modest lawn of our farm-house, I can see Sherlock Holmes strolling among his 
beehives. His hair is quite white, but his long, thin form is as wiry and energetic as ever and there is a touch of healthy colour in his cheeks, placed there by 
Mother Nature and her clover-laden breezes that carry the scent of the sea amid these gentle Sussex Downs. Our lives are drawing towards eventide 
and old faces and old scenes are gone forever. And yet, as I lean back in my chair and close my eyes, for a while the past rises up to obscure the present 
and I see before me the yellow fogs of Baker Street and I hear once more the voice of the best and wisest man whom I have ever known. "Come, 
Watson, the game's afoot!" 



PART I. 


The Tragedy ofBirlstone 



The Valley Of Fear 


CHAPTER I. 

The Warning 


am inclined to think — " said I. 

"I should do so," Sherlock Holmes 
remarked impatiently. 

I believe that I am one of the most 
long-suffering of mortals; but I'll admit that I was 
annoyed at the sardonic interruption. 

"Really, Holmes," said I severely, "you are a lit- 
tle trying at times." 

He was too much absorbed with his own 
thoughts to give any immediate answer to my re- 
monstrance. He leaned upon his hand, with his 
untasted breakfast before him, and he stared at the 
slip of paper which he had just drawn from its en- 
velope. Then he took the envelope itself, held it 
up to the light, and very carefully studied both the 
exterior and the flap. 

"It is Porlock's writing," said he thoughtfully. 
"I can hardly doubt that it is Porlock's writing, 
though I have seen it only twice before. The Greek 
e with the peculiar top flourish is distinctive. But if 
it is Porlock, then it must be something of the very 
first importance." 

He was speaking to himself rather than to me; 
but my vexation disappeared in the interest which 
the words awakened. 

"Who then is Porlock?" I asked. 

"Porlock, Watson, is a nom-de-plume, a mere 
identification mark; but behind it lies a shifty and 
evasive personality. In a former letter he frankly 
informed me that the name was not his own, and 
defied me ever to trace him among the teeming 
millions of this great city. Porlock is important, 
not for himself, but for the great man with whom 
he is in touch. Picture to yourself the pilot fish 
with the shark, the jackal with the lion — anything 
that is insignificant in companionship with what is 
formidable: not only formidable, Watson, but sin- 
ister — in the highest degree sinister. That is where 
he comes within my purview. You have heard me 
speak of Professor Moriarty?" 

"The famous scientific criminal, as famous 
among crooks as — " 

"My blushes, Watson!" Holmes murmured in a 
deprecating voice. 

"I was about to say, as he is unknown to the 
public." 

"A touch! A distinct touch!" cried Holmes. 
"You are developing a certain unexpected vein 
of pawky humour, Watson, against which I must 



learn to guard myself. But in calling Moriarty a 
criminal you are uttering libel in the eyes of the 
law — and there lie the glory and the wonder of 
it! The greatest schemer of all time, the orga- 
nizer of every deviltry, the controlling brain of the 
underworld, a brain which might have made or 
marred the destiny of nations — that's the man! But 
so aloof is he from general suspicion, so immune 
from criticism, so admirable in his management 
and self-effacement, that for those very words that 
you have uttered he could hale you to a court and 
emerge with your year's pension as a solatium for 
his wounded character. Is he not the celebrated au- 
thor of The Dynamics of an Asteroid, a book which 
ascends to such rarefied heights of pure mathe- 
matics that it is said that there was no man in the 
scientific press capable of criticizing it? Is this a 
man to traduce? Foul-mouthed doctor and slan- 
dered professor — such would be your respective 
roles! That's genius, Watson. But if I am spared by 
lesser men, our day will surely come." 

"May I be there to see!" I exclaimed devoutly. 
"But you were speaking of this man Porlock." 

"Ah, yes — the so-called Porlock is a link in the 
chain some little way from its great attachment. 
Porlock is not quite a sound link — between our- 
selves. He is the only flaw in that chain so far as I 
have been able to test it." 

"But no chain is stronger than its weakest link." 

"Exactly, my dear Watson! Hence the extreme 
importance of Porlock. Led on by some rudi- 
mentary aspirations towards right, and encour- 
aged by the judicious stimulation of an occasional 
ten-pound note sent to him by devious meth- 
ods, he has once or twice given me advance in- 
formation which has been of value — that highest 
value which anticipates and prevents rather than 
avenges crime. I cannot doubt that, if we had the 
cipher, we should find that this communication is 
of the nature that I indicate." 

Again Holmes flattened out the paper upon his 
unused plate. I rose and, leaning over him, stared 
down at the curious inscription, which ran as fol- 
lows: 


534 C2 13 127 36 31 4 17 21 41 
DOUGLAS 109 293 5 37 BIRLSTONE 
26 BIRLSTONE 9 47 171 


665 



The Valley Of Fear 


"What do you make of it. Holmes?" 

"It is obviously an attempt to convey secret in- 
formation." 

"But what is the use of a cipher message with- 
out the cipher?" 

"In this instance, none at all." 

"Why do you say 'in this instance'?" 

"Because there are many ciphers which I would 
read as easily as I do the apocrypha of the agony 
column: such crude devices amuse the intelligence 
without fatiguing it. But this is different. It is 
clearly a reference to the words in a page of some 
book. Until I am told which page and which book 
I am powerless." 

"But why 'Douglas' and 'Birlstone'?" 

"Clearly because those are words which were 
not contained in the page in question." 

"Then why has he not indicated the book?" 

"Your native shrewdness, my dear Watson, 
that innate cunning which is the delight of your 
friends, would surely prevent you from inclosing 
cipher and message in the same envelope. Should 
it miscarry, you are undone. As it is, both have to 
go wrong before any harm comes from it. Our sec- 
ond post is now overdue, and I shall be surprised 
if it does not bring us either a further letter of ex- 
planation, or, as is more probable, the very volume 
to which these figures refer." 

Holmes's calculation was fulfilled within a very 
few minutes by the appearance of Billy, the page, 
with the very letter which we were expecting. 

"The same writing," remarked Holmes, as he 
opened the envelope, "and actually signed," he 
added in an exultant voice as he unfolded the epis- 
tle. "Come, we are getting on, Watson." His brow 
clouded, however, as he glanced over the contents. 

"Dear me, this is very disappointing! I fear, 
Watson, that all our expectations come to nothing. 
I trust that the man Porlock will come to no harm. 

"Dear Mr. Holmes [he says]: 

"I will go no further in this matter. 

It is too dangerous — he suspects me. I 
can see that he suspects me. He came 
to me quite unexpectedly after I had ac- 
tually addressed this envelope with the 
intention of sending you the key to the 
cipher. I was able to cover it up. If he 
had seen it, it would have gone hard 
with me. But I read suspicion in his 
eyes. Please burn the cipher message, 
which can now be of no use to you. 

"Fred Porlock." 


Holmes sat for some little time twisting this let- 
ter between his fingers, and frowning, as he stared 
into the fire. 

"After all," he said at last, "there may be noth- 
ing in it. It may be only his guilty conscience. 
Knowing himself to be a traitor, he may have read 
the accusation in the other's eyes." 

"The other being, I presume. Professor Mori- 
arty." 

"No less! When any of that party talk about 
'He' you know whom they mean. There is one 
predominant 'He' for all of them." 

"But what can he do?" 

"Hum! That's a large question. When you have 
one of the first brains of Europe up against you, 
and all the powers of darkness at his back, there 
are infinite possibilities. Anyhow, Friend Porlock 
is evidently scared out of his senses — kindly com- 
pare the writing in the note to that upon its en- 
velope; which was done, he tells us, before this 
ill-omened visit. The one is clear and firm. The 
other hardly legible." 

"Why did he write at all? Why did he not sim- 
ply drop it?" 

"Because he feared I would make some inquiry 
after him in that case, and possibly bring trouble 
on him." 

"No doubt," said I. "Of course." I had picked 
up the original cipher message and was bending 
my brows over it. "It's pretty maddening to think 
that an important secret may lie here on this slip 
of paper, and that it is beyond human power to 
penetrate it." 

Sherlock Holmes had pushed away his un- 
tasted breakfast and lit the unsavoury pipe which 
was the companion of his deepest meditations. "I 
wonder!" said he, leaning back and staring at the 
ceiling. "Perhaps there are points which have es- 
caped your Machiavellian intellect. Let us consider 
the problem in the light of pure reason. This man's 
reference is to a book. That is our point of depar- 
ture." 

"A somewhat vague one." 

"Let us see then if we can narrow it down. As 
I focus my mind upon it, it seems rather less im- 
penetrable. What indications have we as to this 
book?" 

"None." 

"Well, well, it is surely not quite so bad as that. 
The cipher message begins with a large 534, does 
it not? We may take it as a working hypothesis 
that 534 is the particular page to which the ci- 
pher refers. So our book has already become a 


666 



The Valley Of Fear 


large book which is surely something gained. What 
other indications have we as to the nature of this 
large book? The next sign is C2. What do you 
make of that, Watson?" 

"Chapter the second, no doubt." 

"Hardly that, Watson. You will, I am sure, 
agree with me that if the page be given, the num- 
ber of the chapter is immaterial. Also that if page 
534 finds us only in the second chapter, the length 
of the first one must have been really intolerable." 

"Column!" I cried. 

"Brilliant, Watson. You are scintillating this 
morning. If it is not column, then I am very much 
deceived. So now, you see, we begin to visual- 
ize a large book printed in double columns which 
are each of a considerable length, since one of the 
words is numbered in the document as the two 
hundred and ninety-third. Have we reached the 
limits of what reason can supply?" 

"I fear that we have." 

"Surely you do yourself an injustice. One more 
coruscation, my dear Watson — yet another brain- 
wave! Had the volume been an unusual one, he 
would have sent it to me. Instead of that, he had 
intended, before his plans were nipped, to send 
me the clue in this envelope. He says so in his 
note. This would seem to indicate that the book is 
one which he thought I would have no difficulty 
in finding for myself. He had it — and he imagined 
that I would have it, too. In short, Watson, it is a 
very common book." 

"What you say certainly sounds plausible." 

"So we have contracted our field of search to a 
large book, printed in double columns and in com- 
mon use." 

"The Bible!" I cried triumphantly. 

"Good, Watson, good! But not, if I may say so, 
quite good enough! Even if I accepted the compli- 
ment for myself I could hardly name any volume 
which would be less likely to lie at the elbow of 
one of Moriarty's associates. Besides, the editions 
of Holy Writ are so numerous that he could hardly 
suppose that two copies would have the same pag- 
ination. This is clearly a book which is standard- 
ized. He knows for certain that his page 534 will 
exactly agree with my page 534." 

"But very few books would correspond with 
that." 

"Exactly. Therein lies our salvation. Our search 
is narrowed down to standardized books which 
anyone may be supposed to possess." 

"Bradshaw!" 


"There are difficulties, Watson. The vocabulary 
of Bradshaw is nervous and terse, but limited. The 
selection of words would hardly lend itself to the 
sending of general messages. We will eliminate 
Bradshaw. The dictionary is, I fear, inadmissible 
for the same reason. What then is left?" 

"An almanac!" 

"Excellent, Watson! I am very much mistaken 
if you have not touched the spot. An almanac! Let 
us consider the claims of Whitaker's Almanac. It 
is in common use. It has the requisite number of 
pages. It is in double column. Though reserved 
in its earlier vocabulary, it becomes, if I remember 
right, quite garrulous towards the end." He picked 
the volume from his desk. "Here is page 534, col- 
umn two, a substantial block of print dealing, I 
perceive, with the trade and resources of British In- 
dia. Jot down the words, Watson! Number thirteen 
is 'Mahratta.' Not, I fear, a very auspicious begin- 
ning. Number one hundred and twenty-seven is 
'Government'; which at least makes sense, though 
somewhat irrelevant to ourselves and Professor 
Moriarty. Now let us try again. What does the 
Mahratta government do? Alas! the next word is 
'pig's-bristles.' We are undone, my good Watson! 
It is finished!" 

He had spoken in jesting vein, but the twitch- 
ing of his bushy eyebrows bespoke his disappoint- 
ment and irritation. I sat helpless and unhappy, 
staring into the fire. A long silence was broken by 
a sudden exclamation from Holmes, who dashed 
at a cupboard, from which he emerged with a sec- 
ond yellow-covered volume in his hand. 

"We pay the price, Watson, for being too up- 
to-date!" he cried. "We are before our time, and 
suffer the usual penalties. Being the seventh of 
January, we have very properly laid in the new 
almanac. It is more than likely that Porlock 
took his message from the old one. No doubt 
he would have told us so had his letter of ex- 
planation been written. Now let us see what 
page 534 has in store for us. Number thirteen 
is 'There,' which is much more promising. Num- 
ber one hundred and twenty-seven is 'is' — 'There 
is'" — Holmes's eyes were gleaming with excite- 
ment, and his thin, nervous fingers twitched as 
he counted the words — " 'danger.' Ha! Ha! Cap- 
ital! Put that down, Watson. 'There is danger — 
may — come — very — soon — one.' Then we have 
the name 'Douglas' — 'rich — country — now — at — 
Birlstone — House — Birlstone — confidence — is — 
pressing.' There, Watson! What do you think 
of pure reason and its fruit? If the greengrocer 
had such a thing as a laurel wreath, I should send 
Billy round for it." 


667 



The Valley Of Fear 


I was staring at the strange message which I 
had scrawled, as he deciphered it, upon a sheet of 
foolscap on my knee. 

"What a queer, scrambling way of expressing 
his meaning!" said I. 

"On the contrary, he has done quite remark- 
ably well," said Holmes. "When you search a sin- 
gle column for words with which to express your 
meaning, you can hardly expect to get everything 
you want. You are bound to leave something to 
the intelligence of your correspondent. The pur- 
port is perfectly clear. Some deviltry is intended 
against one Douglas, whoever he may be, resid- 
ing as stated, a rich country gentleman. He is 
sure — 'confidence' was as near as he could get to 
'confident' — that it is pressing. There is our re- 
sult — and a very workmanlike little bit of analysis 
it was!" 

Holmes had the impersonal joy of the true 
artist in his better work, even as he mourned 
darkly when it fell below the high level to which 
he aspired. He was still chuckling over his suc- 
cess when Billy swung open the door and Inspec- 
tor MacDonald of Scotland Yard was ushered into 
the room. 

Those were the early days at the end of the 
'8o's, when Alec MacDonald was far from hav- 
ing attained the national fame which he has now 
achieved. He was a young but trusted member 
of the detective force, who had distinguished him- 
self in several cases which had been entrusted to 
him. His tall, bony figure gave promise of excep- 
tional physical strength, while his great cranium 
and deep-set, lustrous eyes spoke no less clearly of 
the keen intelligence which twinkled out from be- 
hind his bushy eyebrows. He was a silent, precise 
man with a dour nature and a hard Aberdonian 
accent. 

Twice already in his career had Holmes helped 
him to attain success, his own sole reward being 


the intellectual joy of the problem. For this reason 
the affection and respect of the Scotchman for his 
amateur colleague were profound, and he showed 
them by the frankness with which he consulted 
Holmes in every difficulty. Mediocrity knows 
nothing higher than itself; but talent instantly rec- 
ognizes genius, and MacDonald had talent enough 
for his profession to enable him to perceive that 
there was no humiliation in seeking the assistance 
of one who already stood alone in Europe, both in 
his gifts and in his experience. Holmes was not 
prone to friendship, but he was tolerant of the big 
Scotchman, and smiled at the sight of him. 

"You are an early bird, Mr. Mac," said he. "I 
wish you luck with your worm. I fear this means 
that there is some mischief afoot." 

"If you said 'hope' instead of 'fear,' it would be 
nearer the truth, I'm thinking, Mr. Holmes," the 
inspector answered, with a knowing grin. "Well, 
maybe a wee nip would keep out the raw morning 
chill. No, I won't smoke, I thank you. I'll have 
to be pushing on my way; for the early hours of a 
case are the precious ones, as no man knows better 
than your own self. But — but — " 

The inspector had stopped suddenly, and was 
staring with a look of absolute amazement at a pa- 
per upon the table. It was the sheet upon which I 
had scrawled the enigmatic message. 

"Douglas!" he stammered. "Birlstone! What's 
this, Mr. Holmes? Man, it's witchcraft! Where in 
the name of all that is wonderful did you get those 
names?" 

"It is a cipher that Dr. Watson and I have had 
occasion to solve. But why — what's amiss with the 
names?" 

The inspector looked from one to the other of 
us in dazed astonishment. "Just this," said he, 
"that Mr. Douglas of Birlstone Manor House was 
horribly murdered last night!" 


CHAPTER II. 

Sherlock Holmes Discourses 


It was one of those dramatic moments for 
which my friend existed. It would be an overstate- 
ment to say that he was shocked or even excited 


by the amazing announcement. Without having a 
tinge of cruelty in his singular composition, he was 
undoubtedly callous from long over-stimulation. 


668 



The Valley Of Fear 


Yet, if his emotions were dulled, his intellectual 
perceptions were exceedingly active. There was 
no trace then of the horror which I had myself felt 
at this curt declaration; but his face showed rather 
the quiet and interested composure of the chemist 
who sees the crystals falling into position from his 
oversaturated solution. 

"Remarkable!" said he. "Remarkable!" 

"You don't seem surprised." 

"Interested, Mr. Mac, but hardly surprised. 
Why should I be surprised? I receive an anony- 
mous communication from a quarter which I know 
to be important, warning me that danger threatens 
a certain person. Within an hour I learn that this 
danger has actually materialized and that the per- 
son is dead. I am interested; but, as you observe, I 
am not surprised." 

In a few short sentences he explained to the in- 
spector the facts about the letter and the cipher. 
MacDonald sat with his chin on his hands and his 
great sandy eyebrows bunched into a yellow tan- 
gle. 

"I was going down to Birlstone this morning," 
said he. "I had come to ask you if you cared to 
come with me — you and your friend here. But 
from what you say we might perhaps be doing bet- 
ter work in London." 

"I rather think not," said Holmes. 

"Hang it all, Mr. Holmes!" cried the inspector. 
"The papers will be full of the Birlstone mystery in 
a day or two; but where's the mystery if there is a 
man in London who prophesied the crime before 
ever it occurred? We have only to lay our hands 
on that man, and the rest will follow." 

"No doubt, Mr. Mac. But how do you propose 
to lay your hands on the so-called Porlock?" 

MacDonald turned over the letter which 
Holmes had handed him. "Posted in Camber- 
well — that doesn't help us much. Name, you say, 
is assumed. Not much to go on, certainly. Didn't 
you say that you have sent him money?" 

"Twice." 

"And how?" 

"In notes to Camberwell post-office." 

"Did you ever trouble to see who called for 
them?" 

"No." 

The inspector looked surprised and a little 
shocked. "Why not?" 

"Because I always keep faith. I had promised 
when he first wrote that I would not try to trace 
him." 


"You think there is someone behind him?" 

"I know there is." 

"This professor that I've heard you mention?" 

"Exactly!" 

Inspector MacDonald smiled, and his eyelid 
quivered as he glanced towards me. "I won't con- 
ceal from you, Mr. Holmes, that we think in the 
C. I. D. that you have a wee bit of a bee in your 
bonnet over this professor. I made some inquiries 
myself about the matter. He seems to be a very 
respectable, learned, and talented sort of man." 

"I'm glad you've got so far as to recognize the 
talent." 

"Man, you can't but recognize it! After I heard 
your view I made it my business to see him. I 
had a chat with him on eclipses. How the talk got 
that way I canna think; but he had out a reflec- 
tor lantern and a globe, and made it all clear in a 
minute. He lent me a book; but I don't mind say- 
ing that it was a bit above my head, though I had 
a good Aberdeen upbringing. He'd have made a 
grand meenister with his thin face and gray hair 
and solemn-like way of talking. When he put his 
hand on my shoulder as we were parting, it was 
like a father's blessing before you go out into the 
cold, cruel world." 

Holmes chuckled and rubbed his hands. 
"Great!" he said. "Great! Tell me. Friend Mac- 
Donald, this pleasing and touching interview was, 
I suppose, in the professor's study?" 

"That's so." 

"A fine room, is it not?" 

"Very fine — very handsome indeed, Mr. 
Holmes." 

"You sat in front of his writing desk?" 

"Just so." 

"Sun in your eyes and his face in the shadow?" 

"Well, it was evening; but I mind that the lamp 
was turned on my face." 

"It would be. Did you happen to observe a pic- 
ture over the professor's head?" 

"I don't miss much, Mr. Holmes. Maybe I 
learned that from you. Yes, I saw the picture — a 
young woman with her head on her hands, peep- 
ing at you sideways." 

"That painting was by Jean Baptiste Greuze." 

The inspector endeavoured to look interested. 

"Jean Baptiste Greuze," Holmes continued, 
joining his finger tips and leaning well back in his 
chair, "was a French artist who flourished between 
the years 1750 and 1800. I allude, of course to his 
working career. Modern criticism has more than 


669 



The Valley Of Fear 


indorsed the high opinion formed of him by his 
contemporaries." 

The inspector's eyes grew abstracted. "Hadn't 
we better — " he said. 

"We are doing so," Holmes interrupted. "All 
that I am saying has a very direct and vital bearing 
upon what you have called the Birlstone Mystery. 
In fact, it may in a sense be called the very centre 
of it." 

MacDonald smiled feebly, and looked appeal- 
ingly to me. "Your thoughts move a bit too quick 
for me, Mr. Holmes. You leave out a link or two, 
and I can't get over the gap. What in the whole 
wide world can be the connection between this 
dead painting man and the affair at Birlstone?" 

"All knowledge comes useful to the detective," 
remarked Holmes. "Even the trivial fact that in 
the year 1865 a picture by Greuze entitled La Je- 
une Fille a l'Agneau fetched one million two hun- 
dred thousand francs — more than forty thousand 
pounds — at the Portalis sale may start a train of 
reflection in your mind." 

It was clear that it did. The inspector looked 
honestly interested. 

"I may remind you," Holmes continued, "that 
the professor's salary can be ascertained in several 
trustworthy books of reference. It is seven hun- 
dred a year." 

"Then how could he buy — " 

"Quite so! How could he?" 

"Ay, that's remarkable," said the inspector 
thoughtfully. "Talk away, Mr. Holmes. I'm just 
loving it. It's fine!" 

Holmes smiled. He was always warmed by 
genuine admiration — the characteristic of the real 
artist. "What about Birlstone?" he asked. 

"We've time yet," said the inspector, glancing 
at his watch. "I've a cab at the door, and it won't 
take us twenty minutes to Victoria. But about this 
picture: I thought you told me once, Mr. Holmes, 
that you had never met Professor Moriarty." 

"No, I never have." 

"Then how do you know about his rooms?" 

"Ah, that's another matter. I have been three 
times in his rooms, twice waiting for him un- 
der different pretexts and leaving before he came. 
Once — well, I can hardly tell about the once to an 
official detective. It was on the last occasion that I 
took the liberty of running over his papers — with 
the most unexpected results." 

"You found something compromising?" 


"Absolutely nothing. That was what amazed 
me. However, you have now seen the point of the 
picture. It shows him to be a very wealthy man. 
How did he acquire wealth? He is unmarried. His 
younger brother is a station master in the west of 
England. His chair is worth seven hundred a year. 
And he owns a Greuze." 

"Well?" 

"Surely the inference is plain." 

"You mean that he has a great income and that 
he must earn it in an illegal fashion?" 

"Exactly. Of course I have other reasons for 
thinking so — dozens of exiguous threads which 
lead vaguely up towards the centre of the web 
where the poisonous, motionless creature is lurk- 
ing. I only mention the Greuze because it brings 
the matter within the range of your own observa- 
tion." 

"Well, Mr. Holmes, I admit that what you say 
is interesting: it's more than interesting — it's just 
wonderful. But let us have it a little clearer if you 
can. Is it forgery, coining, burglary — where does 
the money come from?" 

"Have you ever read of Jonathan Wild?" 

"Well, the name has a familiar sound. Some- 
one in a novel, was he not? I don't take much 
stock of detectives in novels — chaps that do things 
and never let you see how they do them. That's 
just inspiration: not business." 

"Jonathan Wild wasn't a detective, and he 
wasn't in a novel. He was a master criminal, and 
he lived last century — 1750 or thereabouts." 

"Then he's no use to me. I'm a practical man." 

"Mr. Mac, the most practical thing that you ever 
did in your life would be to shut yourself up for 
three months and read twelve hours a day at the 
annals of crime. Everything comes in circles — even 
Professor Moriarty. Jonathan Wild was the hidden 
force of the London criminals, to whom he sold his 
brains and his organization on a fifteen per cent 
commission. The old wheel turns, and the same 
spoke comes up. It's all been done before, and 
will be again. I'll tell you one or two things about 
Moriarty which may interest you." 

"You'll interest me, right enough." 

"I happen to know who is the first link in his 
chain — a chain with this Napoleon-gone-wrong at 
one end, and a hundred broken fighting men, pick- 
pockets, blackmailers, and card sharpers at the 
other, with every sort of crime in between. His 
chief of staff is Colonel Sebastian Moran, as aloof 
and guarded and inaccessible to the law as him- 
self. What do you think he pays him?" 

"I'd like to hear." 


670 



The Valley Of Fear 


"Six thousand a year. That's paying for brains, 
you see — the American business principle. I 
learned that detail quite by chance. It's more than 
the Prime Minister gets. That gives you an idea 
of Moriarty's gains and of the scale on which he 
works. Another point: I made it my business to 
hunt down some of Moriarty's checks lately — just 
common innocent checks that he pays his house- 
hold bills with. They were drawn on six different 
banks. Does that make any impression on your 
mind?" 

"Queer, certainly! But what do you gather from 

it?" 

"That he wanted no gossip about his wealth. 
No single man should know what he had. I have 
no doubt that he has twenty banking accounts; the 
bulk of his fortune abroad in the Deutsche Bank 
or the Credit Lyonnais as likely as not. Sometime 
when you have a year or two to spare I commend 
to you the study of Professor Moriarty." 

Inspector MacDonald had grown steadily more 
impressed as the conversation proceeded. Pie had 
lost himself in his interest. Now his practical 
Scotch intelligence brought him back with a snap 
to the matter in hand. 

"Pie can keep, anyhow," said he. "You've got 
us side-tracked with your interesting anecdotes, 
Mr. Plolmes. What really counts is your remark 
that there is some connection between the profes- 
sor and the crime. That you get from the warning 
received through the man Porlock. Can we for our 
present practical needs get any further than that?" 

"We may form some conception as to the mo- 
tives of the crime. It is, as I gather from your orig- 
inal remarks, an inexplicable, or at least an unex- 
plained, murder. Now, presuming that the source 
of the crime is as we suspect it to be, there might be 
two different motives. In the first place, I may tell 
you that Moriarty rules with a rod of iron over his 
people. Plis discipline is tremendous. There is only 
one punishment in his code. It is death. Now we 
might suppose that this murdered man — this Dou- 
glas whose approaching fate was known by one 
of the arch-criminal's subordinates — had in some 
way betrayed the chief. Plis punishment followed, 
and would be known to all — if only to put the fear 
of death into them." 

"Well, that is one suggestion, Mr. Plolmes." 

"The other is that it has been engineered by 
Moriarty in the ordinary course of business. Was 
there any robbery?" 

"I have not heard." 


"If so, it would, of course, be against the first 
hypothesis and in favour of the second. Mori- 
arty may have been engaged to engineer it on a 
promise of part spoils, or he may have been paid 
so much down to manage it. Either is possible. But 
whichever it may be, or if it is some third combi- 
nation, it is down at Birlstone that we must seek 
the solution. I know our man too well to suppose 
that he has left anything up here which may lead 
us to him." 

"Then to Birlstone we must go!" cried MacDon- 
ald, jumping from his chair. "My word! it's later 
than I thought. I can give you, gentlemen, five 
minutes for preparation, and that is all." 

"And ample for us both," said Plolmes, as he 
sprang up and hastened to change from his dress- 
ing gown to his coat. "While we are on our way, 
Mr. Mac, I will ask you to be good enough to tell 
me all about it." 

"All about it" proved to be disappointingly lit- 
tle, and yet there was enough to assure us that 
the case before us might well be worthy of the ex- 
pert's closest attention. Pie brightened and rubbed 
his thin hands together as he listened to the mea- 
gre but remarkable details. A long series of sterile 
weeks lay behind us, and here at last there was a 
fitting object for those remarkable powers which, 
like all special gifts, become irksome to their owner 
when they are not in use. That razor brain blunted 
and rusted with inaction. 

Sherlock Plolmes's eyes glistened, his pale 
cheeks took a warmer hue, and his whole eager 
face shone with an inward light when the call for 
work reached him. Leaning forward in the cab, 
he listened intently to MacDonald's short sketch 
of the problem which awaited us in Sussex. The 
inspector was himself dependent, as he explained 
to us, upon a scribbled account forwarded to him 
by the milk train in the early hours of the morn- 
ing. White Mason, the local officer, was a per- 
sonal friend, and hence MacDonald had been noti- 
fied much more promptly than is usual at Scotland 
Yard when provincials need their assistance. It is 
a very cold scent upon which the Metropolitan ex- 
pert is generally asked to run. 

"Dear Inspector MacDonald [said 
the letter which he read to us]: 

"Official requisition for your services 
is in separate envelope. This is for your 
private eye. Wire me what train in the 
morning you can get for Birlstone, and 
I will meet it — or have it met if I am too 
occupied. This case is a snorter. Don't 
waste a moment in getting started. If 


671 



The Valley Of Fear 


you can bring Mr. Holmes, please do 
so; for he will find something after his 
own heart. We would think the whole 
thing had been fixed up for theatrical 
effect if there wasn't a dead man in the 
middle of it. My word! it is a snorter." 

"Your friend seems to be no fool," remarked 
Holmes. 

"No, sir. White Mason is a very live man, if I 
am any judge." 

"Well, have you anything more?" 

"Only that he will give us every detail when 
we meet." 

"Then how did you get at Mr. Douglas and the 
fact that he had been horribly murdered?" 


"That was in the enclosed official report. It 
didn't say 'horrible': that's not a recognized offi- 
cial term. It gave the name John Douglas. It men- 
tioned that his injuries had been in the head, from 
the discharge of a shotgun. It also mentioned the 
hour of the alarm, which was close on to midnight 
last night. It added that the case was undoubtedly 
one of murder, but that no arrest had been made, 
and that the case was one which presented some 
very perplexing and extraordinary features. That's 
absolutely all we have at present, Mr. Holmes." 

"Then, with your permission, we will leave it at 
that, Mr. Mac. The temptation to form premature 
theories upon insufficient data is the bane of our 
profession. I can see only two things for certain at 
present — a great brain in London, and a dead man 
in Sussex. It's the chain between that we are going 
to trace." 


CHAPTER III. 

The Tragedy of Birlstone 


Now for a moment I will ask leave to remove 
my own insignificant personality and to describe 
events which occurred before we arrived upon the 
scene by the light of knowledge which came to us 
afterwards. Only in this way can I make the reader 
appreciate the people concerned and the strange 
setting in which their fate was cast. 

The village of Birlstone is a small and very 
ancient cluster of half-timbered cottages on the 
northern border of the county of Sussex. For cen- 
turies it had remained unchanged; but within the 
last few years its picturesque appearance and situ- 
ation have attracted a number of well-to-do res- 
idents, whose villas peep out from the woods 
around. These woods are locally supposed to 
be the extreme fringe of the great Weald forest, 
which thins away until it reaches the northern 
chalk downs. A number of small shops have come 
into being to meet the wants of the increased pop- 
ulation; so there seems some prospect that Birl- 
stone may soon grow from an ancient village into 
a modern town. It is the centre for a considerable 
area of country, since Tunbridge Wells, the nearest 
place of importance, is ten or twelve miles to the 
eastward, over the borders of Kent. 


About half a mile from the town, standing in 
an old park famous for its huge beech trees, is the 
ancient Manor House of Birlstone. Part of this ven- 
erable building dates back to the time of the first 
crusade, when Hugo de Capus built a fortalice in 
the centre of the estate, which had been granted to 
him by the Red King. This was destroyed by fire 
in 1543, and some of its smoke-blackened corner 
stones were used when, in Jacobean times, a brick 
country house rose upon the ruins of the feudal 
castle. 

The Manor House, with its many gables and 
its small diamond-paned windows, was still much 
as the builder had left it in the early seventeenth 
century. Of the double moats which had guarded 
its more warlike predecessor, the outer had been 
allowed to dry up, and served the humble func- 
tion of a kitchen garden. The inner one was still 
there, and lay forty feet in breadth, though now 
only a few feet in depth, round the whole house. 
A small stream fed it and continued beyond it, so 
that the sheet of water, though turbid, was never 
ditch-like or unhealthy. The ground floor windows 
were within a foot of the surface of the water. 

The only approach to the house was over a 


672 



The Valley Of Fear 


drawbridge, the chains and windlass of which had 
long been rusted and broken. The latest tenants 
of the Manor House had, however, with charac- 
teristic energy, set this right, and the drawbridge 
was not only capable of being raised, but actually 
was raised every evening and lowered every morn- 
ing. By thus renewing the custom of the old feu- 
dal days the Manor House was converted into an 
island during the night — a fact which had a very 
direct bearing upon the mystery which was soon 
to engage the attention of all England. 

The house had been untenanted for some years 
and was threatening to moulder into a picturesque 
decay when the Douglases took possession of 
it. This family consisted of only two individu- 
als — John Douglas and his wife. Douglas was a 
remarkable man, both in character and in person. 
In age he may have been about fifty, with a strong- 
jawed, rugged face, a grizzling moustache, pecu- 
liarly keen gray eyes, and a wiry, vigorous figure 
which had lost nothing of the strength and activ- 
ity of youth. He was cheery and genial to all, but 
somewhat offhand in his manners, giving the im- 
pression that he had seen life in social strata on 
some far lower horizon than the county society of 
Sussex. 

Yet, though looked at with some curiosity and 
reserve by his more cultivated neighbours, he soon 
acquired a great popularity among the villagers, 
subscribing handsomely to all local objects, and 
attending their smoking concerts and other func- 
tions, where, having a remarkably rich tenor voice, 
he was always ready to oblige with an excellent 
song. He appeared to have plenty of money, which 
was said to have been gained in the California gold 
fields, and it was clear from his own talk and that 
of his wife that he had spent a part of his life in 
America. 

The good impression which had been pro- 
duced by his generosity and by his democratic 
manners was increased by a reputation gained for 
utter indifference to danger. Though a wretched 
rider, he turned out at every meet, and took the 
most amazing falls in his determination to hold 
his own with the best. When the vicarage caught 
fire he distinguished himself also by the fearless- 
ness with which he reentered the building to save 
property, after the local fire brigade had given it 
up as impossible. Thus it came about that John 
Douglas of the Manor House had within five years 
won himself quite a reputation in Birlstone. 

His wife, too, was popular with those who had 
made her acquaintance; though, after the English 
fashion, the callers upon a stranger who settled in 


the county without introductions were few and far 
between. This mattered the less to her, as she was 
retiring by disposition, and very much absorbed, 
to all appearance, in her husband and her domestic 
duties. It was known that she was an English lady 
who had met Mr. Douglas in London, he being at 
that time a widower. She was a beautiful woman, 
tall, dark, and slender, some twenty years younger 
than her husband, a disparity which seemed in no 
wise to mar the contentment of their family life. 

It was remarked sometimes, however, by those 
who knew them best, that the confidence between 
the two did not appear to be complete, since the 
wife was either very reticent about her husband's 
past life, or else, as seemed more likely, was im- 
perfectly informed about it. It had also been noted 
and commented upon by a few observant people 
that there were signs sometimes of some nerve- 
strain upon the part of Mrs. Douglas, and that 
she would display acute uneasiness if her absent 
husband should ever be particularly late in his 
return. On a quiet countryside, where all gos- 
sip is welcome, this weakness of the lady of the 
Manor House did not pass without remark, and 
it bulked larger upon people's memory when the 
events arose which gave it a very special signifi- 
cance. 

There was yet another individual whose resi- 
dence under that roof was, it is true, only an inter- 
mittent one, but whose presence at the time of the 
strange happenings which will now be narrated 
brought his name prominently before the pub- 
lic. This was Cecil James Barker, of Hales Lodge, 
Hampstead. 

Cecil Barker's tall, loose-jointed figure was a 
familiar one in the main street of Birlstone village; 
for he was a frequent and welcome visitor at the 
Manor House. He was the more noticed as be- 
ing the only friend of the past unknown life of Mr. 
Douglas who was ever seen in his new English sur- 
roundings. Barker was himself an undoubted En- 
glishman; but by his remarks it was clear that he 
had first known Douglas in America and had there 
lived on intimate terms with him. He appeared to 
be a man of considerable wealth, and was reputed 
to be a bachelor. 

In age he was rather younger than 
Douglas — forty-five at the most — a tall, straight, 
broad-chested fellow with a clean-shaved, prize- 
fighter face, thick, strong, black eyebrows, and a 
pair of masterful black eyes which might, even 
without the aid of his very capable hands, clear a 
way for him through a hostile crowd. He neither 
rode nor shot, but spent his days in wandering 


673 



The Valley Of Fear 


round the old village with his pipe in his mouth, 
or in driving with his host, or in his absence with 
his hostess, over the beautiful countryside. "An 
easy-going, free-handed gentleman," said Ames, 
the butler. "But, my word! I had rather not be the 
man that crossed him!" He was cordial and inti- 
mate with Douglas, and he was no less friendly 
with his wife — a friendship which more than once 
seemed to cause some irritation to the husband, 
so that even the servants were able to perceive his 
annoyance. Such was the third person who was 
one of the family when the catastrophe occurred. 

As to the other denizens of the old building, 
it will suffice out of a large household to mention 
the prim, respectable, and capable Ames, and Mrs. 
Allen, a buxom and cheerful person, who relieved 
the lady of some of her household cares. The other 
six servants in the house bear no relation to the 
events of the night of January 6th. 

It was at eleven forty-five that the first alarm 
reached the small local police station, in charge of 
Sergeant Wilson of the Sussex Constabulary. Ce- 
cil Barker, much excited, had rushed up to the 
door and pealed furiously upon the bell. A terri- 
ble tragedy had occurred at the Manor House, and 
John Douglas had been murdered. That was the 
breathless burden of his message. He had hurried 
back to the house, followed within a few minutes 
by the police sergeant, who arrived at the scene of 
the crime a little after twelve o'clock, after taking 
prompt steps to warn the county authorities that 
something serious was afoot. 

On reaching the Manor House, the sergeant 
had found the drawbridge down, the windows 
lighted up, and the whole household in a state of 
wild confusion and alarm. The white-faced ser- 
vants were huddling together in the hall, with the 
frightened butler wringing his hands in the door- 
way. Only Cecil Barker seemed to be master of 
himself and his emotions; he had opened the door 
which was nearest to the entrance and he had 
beckoned to the sergeant to follow him. At that 
moment there arrived Dr. Wood, a brisk and ca- 
pable general practitioner from the village. The 
three men entered the fatal room together, while 
the horror-stricken butler followed at their heels, 
closing the door behind him to shut out the terri- 
ble scene from the maid servants. 

The dead man lay on his back, sprawling with 
outstretched limbs in the centre of the room. He 
was clad only in a pink dressing gown, which cov- 
ered his night clothes. There were carpet slippers 
on his bare feet. The doctor knelt beside him and 
held down the hand lamp which had stood on 


the table. One glance at the victim was enough 
to show the healer that his presence could be dis- 
pensed with. The man had been horribly injured. 
Lying across his chest was a curious weapon, a 
shotgun with the barrel sawed off a foot in front 
of the triggers. It was clear that this had been 
fired at close range and that he had received the 
whole charge in the face, blowing his head almost 
to pieces. The triggers had been wired together, so 
as to make the simultaneous discharge more de- 
structive. 

The country policeman was unnerved and 
troubled by the tremendous responsibility which 
had come so suddenly upon him. "We will touch 
nothing until my superiors arrive," he said in a 
hushed voice, staring in horror at the dreadful 
head. 

"Nothing has been touched up to now," said 
Cecil Barker. "I'll answer for that. You see it all 
exactly as I found it." 

"When was that?" The sergeant had drawn out 
his notebook. 

"It was just half-past eleven. I had not begun 
to undress, and I was sitting by the fire in my bed- 
room when I heard the report. It was not very 
loud — it seemed to be muffled. I rushed down — I 
don't suppose it was thirty seconds before I was in 
the room." 

"Was the door open?" 

"Yes, it was open. Poor Douglas was lying as 
you see him. His bedroom candle was burning on 
the table. It was I who lit the lamp some minutes 
afterward." 

"Did you see no one?" 

"No. I heard Mrs. Douglas coming down the 
stair behind me, and I rushed out to prevent her 
from seeing this dreadful sight. Mrs. Allen, the 
housekeeper, came and took her away. Ames 
had arrived, and we ran back into the room once 
more." 

"But surely I have heard that the drawbridge is 
kept up all night." 

"Yes, it was up until I lowered it." 

"Then how could any murderer have got away? 
It is out of the question! Mr. Douglas must have 
shot himself." 

"That was our first idea. But see!" Barker 
drew aside the curtain, and showed that the long, 
diamond-paned window was open to its full ex- 
tent. "And look at this!" He held the lamp down 
and illuminated a smudge of blood like the mark 
of a boot-sole upon the wooden sill. "Someone has 
stood there in getting out." 


674 



The Valley Of Fear 


"You mean that someone waded across the 
moat?" 

"Exactly!" 

"Then if you were in the room within half a 
minute of the crime, he must have been in the wa- 
ter at that very moment." 

"I have not a doubt of it. I wish to heaven 
that I had rushed to the window! But the curtain 
screened it, as you can see, and so it never occurred 
to me. Then I heard the step of Mrs. Douglas, and 
I could not let her enter the room. It would have 
been too horrible." 

"Horrible enough!" said the doctor, looking at 
the shattered head and the terrible marks which 
surrounded it. "I've never seen such injuries since 
the Birlstone railway smash." 

"But, I say," remarked the police sergeant, 
whose slow, bucolic common sense was still pon- 
dering the open window. "It's all very well your 
saying that a man escaped by wading this moat, 
but what I ask you is, how did he ever get into the 
house at all if the bridge was up?" 

"Ah, that's the question," said Barker. 

"At what o'clock was it raised?" 

"It was nearly six o'clock," said Ames, the but- 
ler. 

"I've heard," said the sergeant, "that it was 
usually raised at sunset. That would be nearer 
half-past four than six at this time of year." 

"Mrs. Douglas had visitors to tea," said Ames. 
"I couldn't raise it until they went. Then I wound 
it up myself." 

"Then it comes to this," said the sergeant: 
"If anyone came from outside — if they did — they 
must have got in across the bridge before six and 
been in hiding ever since, until Mr. Douglas came 
into the room after eleven." 

"That is so! Mr. Douglas went round the house 
every night the last thing before he turned in to 
see that the lights were right. That brought him in 
here. The man was waiting and shot him. Then 
he got away through the window and left his gun 
behind him. That's how I read it; for nothing else 
will fit the facts." 

The sergeant picked up a card which lay beside 
the dead man on the floor. The initials V. V. and 
under them the number 341 were rudely scrawled 
in ink upon it. 

"What's this?" he asked, holding it up. 

Barker looked at it with curiosity. "I never no- 
ticed it before," he said. "The murderer must have 
left it behind him." 


"V. V. — 341. I can make no sense of that." 

The sergeant kept turning it over in his big fin- 
gers. "What's V. V.? Somebody's initials, maybe. 
What have you got there. Dr. Wood?" 

It was a good-sized hammer which had been 
lying on the rug in front of the fireplace — a 
substantial, workmanlike hammer. Cecil Barker 
pointed to a box of brass-headed nails upon the 
mantelpiece. 

"Mr. Douglas was altering the pictures yester- 
day," he said. "I saw him myself, standing upon 
that chair and fixing the big picture above it. That 
accounts for the hammer." 

"We'd best put it back on the rug where we 
found it," said the sergeant, scratching his puzzled 
head in his perplexity. "It will want the best brains 
in the force to get to the bottom of this thing. It will 
be a London job before it is finished." He raised 
the hand lamp and walked slowly round the room. 
"Hullo!" he cried, excitedly, drawing the window 
curtain to one side. "What o'clock were those cur- 
tains drawn?" 

"When the lamps were lit," said the butler. "It 
would be shortly after four." 

"Someone had been hiding here, sure enough." 
He held down the light, and the marks of muddy 
boots were very visible in the corner. "I'm bound 
to say this bears out your theory, Mr. Barker. It 
looks as if the man got into the house after four 
when the curtains were drawn and before six when 
the bridge was raised. He slipped into this room, 
because it was the first that he saw. There was no 
other place where he could hide, so he popped in 
behind this curtain. That all seems clear enough. It 
is likely that his main idea was to burgle the house; 
but Mr. Douglas chanced to come upon him, so he 
murdered him and escaped." 

"That's how I read it," said Barker. "But, I say, 
aren't we wasting precious time? Couldn't we start 
out and scour the country before the fellow gets 
away?" 

The sergeant considered for a moment. 

"There are no trains before six in the morning; 
so he can't get away by rail. If he goes by road 
with his legs all dripping, it's odds that someone 
will notice him. Anyhow, I can't leave here myself 
until I am relieved. But I think none of you should 
go until we see more clearly how we all stand." 

The doctor had taken the lamp and was nar- 
rowly scrutinizing the body. "What's this mark?" 
he asked. "Could this have any connection with 
the crime?" 


675 



The Valley Of Fear 


The dead man's right arm was thrust out from 
his dressing gown, and exposed as high as the el- 
bow. About halfway up the forearm was a curious 
brown design, a triangle inside a circle, standing 
out in vivid relief upon the lard-coloured skin. 

"It's not tattooed," said the doctor, peering 
through his glasses. "I never saw anything like it. 
The man has been branded at some time as they 
brand cattle. What is the meaning of this?" 

"I don't profess to know the meaning of it," 
said Cecil Barker; "but I have seen the mark on 
Douglas many times this last ten years." 

"And so have I," said the butler. "Many a time 
when the master has rolled up his sleeves I have 
noticed that very mark. I've often wondered what 
it could be." 

"Then it has nothing to do with the crime, any- 
how," said the sergeant. "But it's a rum thing all 
the same. Everything about this case is rum. Well, 
what is it now?" 

The butler had given an exclamation of aston- 
ishment and was pointing at the dead man's out- 
stretched hand. 

"They've taken his wedding ring!" he gasped. 

"What!" 


"Yes, indeed. Master always wore his plain 
gold wedding ring on the little finger of his left 
hand. That ring with the rough nugget on it was 
above it, and the twisted snake ring on the third 
finger. There's the nugget and there's the snake, 
but the wedding ring is gone." 

"He's right," said Barker. 

"Do you tell me," said the sergeant, "that the 
wedding ring was below the other?" 

"Always!" 

"Then the murderer, or whoever it was, first 
took off this ring you call the nugget ring, then the 
wedding ring, and afterwards put the nugget ring 
back again." 

"That is so!" 

The worthy country policeman shook his head. 
"Seems to me the sooner we get London on to this 
case the better," said he. "White Mason is a smart 
man. No local job has ever been too much for 
White Mason. It won't be long now before he is 
here to help us. But I expect we'll have to look to 
London before we are through. Anyhow, I'm not 
ashamed to say that it is a deal too thick for the 
likes of me." 


CHAPTER IV. 

Darkness 


At three in the morning the chief Sussex detec- 
tive, obeying the urgent call from Sergeant Wilson 
of Birlstone, arrived from headquarters in a light 
dog-cart behind a breathless trotter. By the five- 
forty train in the morning he had sent his message 
to Scotland Yard, and he was at the Birlstone sta- 
tion at twelve o'clock to welcome us. White Ma- 
son was a quiet, comfortable-looking person in a 
loose tweed suit, with a clean-shaved, ruddy face, 
a stoutish body, and powerful bandy legs adorned 
with gaiters, looking like a small farmer, a retired 
gamekeeper, or anything upon earth except a very 
favourable specimen of the provincial criminal of- 
ficer. 

"A real downright snorter, Mr. MacDonald!" he 
kept repeating. "We'll have the pressmen down 
like flies when they understand it. I'm hoping 


we will get our work done before they get pok- 
ing their noses into it and messing up all the trails. 
There has been nothing like this that I can remem- 
ber. There are some bits that will come home to 
you, Mr. Holmes, or I am mistaken. And you also. 
Dr. Watson; for the medicos will have a word to 
say before we finish. Your room is at the Westville 
Arms. There's no other place; but I hear that it 
is clean and good. The man will carry your bags. 
This way, gentlemen, if you please." 

He was a very bustling and genial person, this 
Sussex detective. In ten minutes we had all found 
our quarters. In ten more we were seated in the 
parlour of the inn and being treated to a rapid 
sketch of those events which have been outlined in 
the previous chapter. MacDonald made an occa- 
sional note, while Holmes sat absorbed, with the 


676 



The Valley Of Fear 


expression of surprised and reverent admiration 
with which the botanist surveys the rare and pre- 
cious bloom. 

"Remarkable!" he said, when the story was un- 
folded, "most remarkable! I can hardly recall any 
case where the features have been more peculiar." 

"I thought you would say so, Mr. Holmes," said 
White Mason in great delight. "We're well up with 
the times in Sussex. I've told you now how mat- 
ters were, up to the time when I took over from 
Sergeant Wilson between three and four this morn- 
ing. My word! I made the old mare go! But I need 
not have been in such a hurry, as it turned out; 
for there was nothing immediate that I could do. 
Sergeant Wilson had all the facts. I checked them 
and considered them and maybe added a few of 
my own." 

"What were they?" asked Holmes eagerly. 

"Well, I first had the hammer examined. There 
was Dr. Wood there to help me. We found no signs 
of violence upon it. I was hoping that if Mr. Dou- 
glas defended himself with the hammer, he might 
have left his mark upon the murderer before he 
dropped it on the mat. But there was no stain." 

"That, of course, proves nothing at all," re- 
marked Inspector MacDonald. "There has been 
many a hammer murder and no trace on the ham- 
mer." 

"Quite so. It doesn't prove it wasn't used. But 
there might have been stains, and that would have 
helped us. As a matter of fact there were none. 
Then I examined the gun. They were buckshot car- 
tridges, and, as Sergeant Wilson pointed out, the 
triggers were wired together so that, if you pulled 
on the hinder one, both barrels were discharged. 
Whoever fixed that up had made up his mind that 
he was going to take no chances of missing his 
man. The sawed gun was not more than two foot 
long — one could carry it easily under one's coat. 
There was no complete maker's name; but the 
printed letters P-E-N were on the fluting between 
the barrels, and the rest of the name had been cut 
off by the saw." 

"A big P with a flourish above it, E and N 
smaller?" asked Holmes. 

"Exactly." 

"Pennsylvania Small Arms Company — well- 
known American firm," said Holmes. 

White Mason gazed at my friend as the little 
village practitioner looks at the Harley Street spe- 
cialist who by a word can solve the difficulties that 
perplex him. 


"That is very helpful, Mr. Holmes. No doubt 
you are right. Wonderful! Wonderful! Do you 
carry the names of all the gun makers in the world 
in your memory?" 

Holmes dismissed the subject with a wave. 

"No doubt it is an American shotgun," White 
Mason continued. "I seem to have read that a 
sawed-off shotgun is a weapon used in some parts 
of America. Apart from the name upon the barrel, 
the idea had occurred to me. There is some evi- 
dence then, that this man who entered the house 
and killed its master was an American." 

MacDonald shook his head. "Man, you are 
surely travelling overfast," said he. "I have heard 
no evidence yet that any stranger was ever in the 
house at all." 

"The open window, the blood on the sill, the 
queer card, the marks of boots in the corner, the 
gun!" 

"Nothing there that could not have been ar- 
ranged. Mr. Douglas was an American, or had 
lived long in America. So had Mr. Barker. You 
don't need to import an American from outside in 
order to account for American doings." 

"Ames, the butler — " 

"What about him? Is he reliable?" 

"Ten years with Sir Charles Chandos — as solid 
as a rock. He has been with Douglas ever since 
he took the Manor House five years ago. He has 
never seen a gun of this sort in the house." 

"The gun was made to conceal. That's why 
the barrels were sawed. It would fit into any box. 
How could he swear there was no such gun in the 
house?" 

"Well, anyhow, he had never seen one." 

MacDonald shook his obstinate Scotch head. 
"I'm not convinced yet that there was ever anyone 
in the house," said he. "I'm asking you to con- 
seedar" (his accent became more Aberdonian as 
he lost himself in his argument) "I'm asking you to 
conseedar what it involves if you suppose that this 
gun was ever brought into the house, and that all 
these strange things were done by a person from 
outside. Oh, man, it's just inconceivable! It's clean 
against common sense! I put it to you, Mr. Holmes, 
judging it by what we have heard." 

"Well, state your case, Mr. Mac," said Holmes 
in his most judicial style. 

"The man is not a burglar, supposing that he 
ever existed. The ring business and the card point 
to premeditated murder for some private reason. 
Very good. Here is a man who slips into a house 


677 



The Valley Of Fear 


with the deliberate intention of committing mur- 
der. He knows, if he knows anything, that he 
will have a deeficulty in making his escape, as the 
house is surrounded with water. What weapon 
would he choose? You would say the most silent in 
the world. Then he could hope when the deed was 
done to slip quickly from the window, to wade the 
moat, and to get away at his leisure. That's under- 
standable. But is it understandable that he should 
go out of his way to bring with him the most noisy 
weapon he could select, knowing well that it will 
fetch every human being in the house to the spot 
as quick as they can run, and that it is all odds that 
he will be seen before he can get across the moat? 
Is that credible, Mr. Holmes?" 

"Well, you put the case strongly," my friend 
replied thoughtfully. "It certainly needs a good 
deal of justification. May I ask, Mr. White Mason, 
whether you examined the farther side of the moat 
at once to see if there were any signs of the man 
having climbed out from the water?" 

"There were no signs, Mr. Holmes. But it is a 
stone ledge, and one could hardly expect them." 

"No tracks or marks?" 

"None." 

"Ha! Would there be any objection, Mr. White 
Mason, to our going down to the house at once? 
There may possibly be some small point which 
might be suggestive." 

"I was going to propose it, Mr. Holmes; but I 
thought it well to put you in touch with all the 
facts before we go. I suppose if anything should 
strike you — " White Mason looked doubtfully at 
the amateur. 

"I have worked with Mr. Holmes before," said 
Inspector MacDonald. "He plays the game." 

"My own idea of the game, at any rate," said 
Holmes, with a smile. "I go into a case to help the 
ends of justice and the work of the police. If I have 
ever separated myself from the official force, it is 
because they have first separated themselves from 
me. I have no wish ever to score at their expense. 
At the same time, Mr. White Mason, I claim the 
right to work in my own way and give my results 
at my own time — complete rather than in stages." 

"I am sure we are honoured by your presence 
and to show you all we know," said White Mason 
cordially. "Come along. Dr. Watson, and when the 
time comes we'll all hope for a place in your book." 

We walked down the quaint village street with 
a row of pollarded elms on each side of it. Just 
beyond were two ancient stone pillars, weather- 
stained and lichen-blotched bearing upon their 


summits a shapeless something which had once 
been the rampant lion of Capus of Birlstone. A 
short walk along the winding drive with such 
sward and oaks around it as one only sees in rural 
England, then a sudden turn, and the long, low Ja- 
cobean house of dingy, liver-coloured brick lay be- 
fore us, with an old-fashioned garden of cut yews 
on each side of it. As we approached it, there was 
the wooden drawbridge and the beautiful broad 
moat as still and luminous as quicksilver in the 
cold, winter sunshine. 

Three centuries had flowed past the old Manor 
House, centuries of births and of homecomings, of 
country dances and of the meetings of fox hunters. 
Strange that now in its old age this dark business 
should have cast its shadow upon the venerable 
walls! And yet those strange, peaked roofs and 
quaint, overhung gables were a fitting covering 
to grim and terrible intrigue. As I looked at the 
deep-set windows and the long sweep of the dull- 
coloured, water-lapped front, I felt that no more 
fitting scene could be set for such a tragedy. 

"That's the window," said White Mason, "that 
one on the immediate right of the drawbridge. It's 
open just as it was found last night." 

"It looks rather narrow for a man to pass." 

"Well, it wasn't a fat man, anyhow. We don't 
need your deductions, Mr. Holmes, to tell us that. 
But you or I could squeeze through all right." 

Holmes walked to the edge of the moat and 
looked across. Then he examined the stone ledge 
and the grass border beyond it. 

"I've had a good look, Mr. Holmes," said White 
Mason. "There is nothing there, no sign that any- 
one has landed — but why should he leave any 
sign?" 

"Exactly. Why should he? Is the water always 
turbid?" 

"Generally about this colour. The stream 
brings down the clay." 

"How deep is it?" 

"About two feet at each side and three in the 
middle." 

"So we can put aside all idea of the man having 
been drowned in crossing." 

"No, a child could not be drowned in it." 

We walked across the drawbridge, and were 
admitted by a quaint, gnarled, dried-up person, 
who was the butler, Ames. The poor old fellow 
was white and quivering from the shock. The vil- 
lage sergeant, a tall, formal, melancholy man, still 
held his vigil in the room of Fate. The doctor had 
departed. 


678 



The Valley Of Fear 


"Anything fresh. Sergeant Wilson?" asked 
White Mason. 

"No, sir." 

"Then you can go home. You've had enough. 
We can send for you if we want you. The butler 
had better wait outside. Tell him to warn Mr. Ce- 
cil Barker, Mrs. Douglas, and the housekeeper that 
we may want a word with them presently. Now, 
gentlemen, perhaps you will allow me to give you 
the views I have formed first, and then you will be 
able to arrive at your own." 

He impressed me, this country specialist. He 
had a solid grip of fact and a cool, clear, common- 
sense brain, which should take him some way in 
his profession. Holmes listened to him intently, 
with no sign of that impatience which the official 
exponent too often produced. 

"Is it suicide, or is it murder — that's our first 
question, gentlemen, is it not? If it were suicide, 
then we have to believe that this man began by tak- 
ing off his wedding ring and concealing it; that he 
then came down here in his dressing gown, tram- 
pled mud into a corner behind the curtain in or- 
der to give the idea someone had waited for him, 
opened the window, put blood on the — " 

"We can surely dismiss that," said MacDonald. 

"So I think. Suicide is out of the question. Then 
a murder has been done. What we have to deter- 
mine is, whether it was done by someone outside 
or inside the house." 

"Well, let's hear the argument." 

"There are considerable difficulties both ways, 
and yet one or the other it must be. We will sup- 
pose first that some person or persons inside the 
house did the crime. They got this man down here 
at a time when everything was still and yet no one 
was asleep. They then did the deed with the queer- 
est and noisiest weapon in the world so as to tell 
everyone what had happened — a weapon that was 
never seen in the house before. That does not seem 
a very likely start, does it?" 

"No, it does not." 

"Well, then, everyone is agreed that after the 
alarm was given only a minute at the most had 
passed before the whole household — not Mr. Ce- 
cil Barker alone, though he claims to have been 
the first, but Ames and all of them were on the 
spot. Do you tell me that in that time the guilty 
person managed to make footmarks in the corner, 
open the window, mark the sill with blood, take 
the wedding ring off the dead man's finger, and 
all the rest of it? It's impossible!" 


"You put it very clearly," said Holmes. "I am 
inclined to agree with you." 

"Well, then, we are driven back to the theory 
that it was done by someone from outside. We 
are still faced with some big difficulties; but any- 
how they have ceased to be impossibilities. The 
man got into the house between four-thirty and 
six; that is to say, between dusk and the time when 
the bridge was raised. There had been some vis- 
itors, and the door was open; so there was noth- 
ing to prevent him. He may have been a common 
burglar, or he may have had some private grudge 
against Mr. Douglas. Since Mr. Douglas has spent 
most of his life in America, and this shotgun seems 
to be an American weapon, it would seem that 
the private grudge is the more likely theory. He 
slipped into this room because it was the first he 
came to, and he hid behind the curtain. There 
he remained until past eleven at night. At that 
time Mr. Douglas entered the room. It was a short 
interview, if there were any interview at all; for 
Mrs. Douglas declares that her husband had not 
left her more than a few minutes when she heard 
the shot." 

"The candle shows that," said Holmes. 

"Exactly. The candle, which was a new one, 
is not burned more than half an inch. He must 
have placed it on the table before he was attacked; 
otherwise, of course, it would have fallen when he 
fell. This shows that he was not attacked the in- 
stant that he entered the room. When Mr. Barker 
arrived the candle was lit and the lamp was out." 

"That's all clear enough." 

"Well, now, we can reconstruct things on those 
lines. Mr. Douglas enters the room. He puts down 
the candle. A man appears from behind the cur- 
tain. He is armed with this gun. He demands 
the wedding ring — Heaven only knows why, but 
so it must have been. Mr. Douglas gave it up. 
Then either in cold blood or in the course of a 
struggle — Douglas may have gripped the hammer 
that was found upon the mat — he shot Douglas 
in this horrible way. He dropped his gun and 
also it would seem this queer card — V. V. 341, 
whatever that may mean — and he made his escape 
through the window and across the moat at the 
very moment when Cecil Barker was discovering 
the crime. How's that, Mr. Holmes?" 

"Very interesting, but just a little unconvinc- 
ing." 

"Man, it would be absolute nonsense if it 
wasn't that anything else is even worse!" cried 
MacDonald. "Somebody killed the man, and who- 
ever it was I could clearly prove to you that he 


679 



The Valley Of Fear 


should have done it some other way. What does 
he mean by allowing his retreat to be cut off like 
that? What does he mean by using a shotgun when 
silence was his one chance of escape? Come, Mr. 
Holmes, it's up to you to give us a lead, since you 
say Mr. White Mason's theory is unconvincing." 

Holmes had sat intently observant during this 
long discussion, missing no word that was said, 
with his keen eyes darting to right and to left, and 
his forehead wrinkled with speculation. 

"I should like a few more facts before I get so 
far as a theory, Mr. Mac," said he, kneeling down 
beside the body. "Dear me! these injuries are re- 
ally appalling. Can we have the butler in for a mo- 
ment? . . . Ames, I understand that you have often 
seen this very unusual mark — a branded triangle 
inside a circle — upon Mr. Douglas's forearm?" 

"Frequently, sir." 

"You never heard any speculation as to what it 
meant?" 

"No, sir." 

"It must have caused great pain when it was in- 
flicted. It is undoubtedly a burn. Now, I observe, 
Ames, that there is a small piece of plaster at the 
angle of Mr. Douglas's jaw. Did you observe that 
in life?" 

"Yes, sir, he cut himself in shaving yesterday 
morning." 

"Did you ever know him to cut himself in shav- 
ing before?" 

"Not for a very long time, sir." 

"Suggestive!" said Holmes. "It may, of course, 
be a mere coincidence, or it may point to some ner- 
vousness which would indicate that he had reason 
to apprehend danger. Had you noticed anything 
unusual in his conduct, yesterday, Ames?" 

"It struck me that he was a little restless and 
excited, sir." 

"Ha! The attack may not have been entirely un- 
expected. We do seem to make a little progress, do 
we not? Perhaps you would rather do the ques- 
tioning, Mr. Mac?" 

"No, Mr. Holmes, it's in better hands than 
mine." 

"Well, then, we will pass to this card — V. V. 341. 
It is rough cardboard. Have you any of the sort in 
the house?" 

"I don't think so." 

Holmes walked across to the desk and dabbed 
a little ink from each bottle on to the blotting pa- 
per. "It was not printed in this room," he said; 


"this is black ink and the other purplish. It was 
done by a thick pen, and these are fine. No, it was 
done elsewhere, I should say. Can you make any- 
thing of the inscription, Ames?" 

"No, sir, nothing." 

"What do you think, Mr. Mac?" 

"It gives me the impression of a secret society 
of some sort; the same with his badge upon the 
forearm." 

"That's my idea, too," said White Mason. 

"Well, we can adopt it as a working hypothe- 
sis and then see how far our difficulties disappear. 
An agent from such a society makes his way into 
the house, waits for Mr. Douglas, blows his head 
nearly off with this weapon, and escapes by wad- 
ing the moat, after leaving a card beside the dead 
man, which will when mentioned in the papers, 
tell other members of the society that vengeance 
has been done. That all hangs together. But why 
this gun, of all weapons?" 

"Exactly." 

"And why the missing ring?" 

"Quite so." 

"And why no arrest? It's past two now. I 
take it for granted that since dawn every consta- 
ble within forty miles has been looking out for a 
wet stranger?" 

"That is so, Mr. Holmes." 

"Well, unless he has a burrow close by or a 
change of clothes ready, they can hardly miss him. 
And yet they have missed him up to now!" Holmes 
had gone to the window and was examining with 
his lens the blood mark on the sill. "It is clearly the 
tread of a shoe. It is remarkably broad; a splay- 
foot, one would say. Curious, because, so far as 
one can trace any footmark in this mud-stained 
corner, one would say it was a more shapely sole. 
However, they are certainly very indistinct. What's 
this under the side table?" 

"Mr. Douglas's dumb-bells," said Ames. 

"Dumb-bell — there's only one. Where's the 
other?" 

"I don't know, Mr. Holmes. There may have 
been only one. I have not noticed them for 
months." 

"One dumb-bell — " Holmes said seriously; but 
his remarks were interrupted by a sharp knock at 
the door. 

A tall, sunburned, capable-looking, clean- 
shaved man looked in at us. I had no difficulty 
in guessing that it was the Cecil Barker of whom 
I had heard. His masterful eyes travelled quickly 
with a questioning glance from face to face. 


680 



The Valley Of Fear 


"Sorry to interrupt your consultation," said he, 
"but you should hear the latest news." 

"An arrest?" 

"No such luck. But they've found his bicycle. 
The fellow left his bicycle behind him. Come and 
have a look. It is within a hundred yards of the 
hall door." 

We found three or four grooms and idlers 
standing in the drive inspecting a bicycle which 
had been drawn out from a clump of evergreens 
in which it had been concealed. It was a well used 
Rudge-Whitworth, splashed as from a consider- 


able journey. There was a saddlebag with spanner 
and oilcan, but no clue as to the owner. 

"It would be a grand help to the police," said 
the inspector, "if these things were numbered and 
registered. But we must be thankful for what 
we've got. If we can't find where he went to, at 
least we are likely to get where he came from. But 
what in the name of all that is wonderful made the 
fellow leave it behind? And how in the world has 
he got away without it? We don't seem to get a 
gleam of light in the case, Mr. Holmes." 

"Don't we?" my friend answered thoughtfully. 
"I wonder!" 


CHAPTER V. 

The People Of the Drama 


"Have you seen all you want of the study?" 
asked White Mason as we reentered the house. 

"For the time," said the inspector, and Holmes 
nodded. 

"Then perhaps you would now like to hear the 
evidence of some of the people in the house. We 
could use the dining-room, Ames. Please come 
yourself first and tell us what you know." 

The butler's account was a simple and a clear 
one, and he gave a convincing impression of sin- 
cerity. He had been engaged five years before, 
when Douglas first came to Birlstone. He under- 
stood that Mr. Douglas was a rich gentleman who 
had made his money in America. He had been 
a kind and considerate employer — not quite what 
Ames was used to, perhaps; but one can't have ev- 
erything. He never saw any signs of apprehension 
in Mr. Douglas: on the contrary, he was the most 
fearless man he had ever known. He ordered the 
drawbridge to be pulled up every night because it 
was the ancient custom of the old house, and he 
liked to keep the old ways up. 

Mr. Douglas seldom went to London or left the 
village; but on the day before the crime he had 
been shopping at Tunbridge Wells. He (Ames) had 
observed some restlessness and excitement on the 
part of Mr. Douglas that day; for he had seemed 
impatient and irritable, which was unusual with 
him. He had not gone to bed that night; but was in 


the pantry at the back of the house, putting away 
the silver, when he heard the bell ring violently. 
He heard no shot; but it was hardly possible he 
would, as the pantry and kitchens were at the very 
back of the house and there were several closed 
doors and a long passage between. The house- 
keeper had come out of her room, attracted by the 
violent ringing of the bell. They had gone to the 
front of the house together. 

As they reached the bottom of the stair he had 
seen Mrs. Douglas coming down it. No, she was 
not hurrying; it did not seem to him that she was 
particularly agitated. Just as she reached the bot- 
tom of the stair Mr. Barker had rushed out of the 
study. He had stopped Mrs. Douglas and begged 
her to go back. 

"For God's sake, go back to your room!" he 
cried. "Poor Jack is dead! You can do nothing. 
For God's sake, go back!" 

After some persuasion upon the stairs Mrs. 
Douglas had gone back. She did not scream. She 
made no outcry whatever. Mrs. Allen, the house- 
keeper, had taken her upstairs and stayed with her 
in the bedroom. Ames and Mr. Barker had then re- 
turned to the study, where they had found every- 
thing exactly as the police had seen it. The candle 
was not lit at that time; but the lamp was burn- 
ing. They had looked out of the window; but the 
night was very dark and nothing could be seen 


68 1 



The Valley Of Fear 


or heard. They had then rushed out into the hall, 
where Ames had turned the windlass which low- 
ered the drawbridge. Mr. Barker had then hurried 
off to get the police. 

Such, in its essentials, was the evidence of the 
butler. 

The account of Mrs. Allen, the housekeeper, 
was, so far as it went, a corroboration of that of 
her fellow servant. The housekeeper's room was 
rather nearer to the front of the house than the 
pantry in which Ames had been working. She 
was preparing to go to bed when the loud ring- 
ing of the bell had attracted her attention. She was 
a little hard of hearing. Perhaps that was why she 
had not heard the shot; but in any case the study 
was a long way off. She remembered hearing some 
sound which she imagined to be the slamming of 
a door. That was a good deal earlier — half an hour 
at least before the ringing of the bell. When Mr. 
Ames ran to the front she went with him. She 
saw Mr. Barker, very pale and excited, come out 
of the study. He intercepted Mrs. Douglas, who 
was coming down the stairs. He entreated her to 
go back, and she answered him, but what she said 
could not be heard. 

"Take her up! Stay with her!" he had said to 
Mrs. Allen. 

She had therefore taken her to the bedroom, 
and endeavoured to soothe her. She was greatly 
excited, trembling all over, but made no other at- 
tempt to go downstairs. She just sat in her dress- 
ing gown by her bedroom fire, with her head sunk 
in her hands. Mrs. Allen stayed with her most of 
the night. As to the other servants, they had all 
gone to bed, and the alarm did not reach them un- 
til just before the police arrived. They slept at the 
extreme back of the house, and could not possibly 
have heard anything. 

So far the housekeeper could add nothing on 
cross-examination save lamentations and expres- 
sions of amazement. 

Cecil Barker succeeded Mrs. Allen as a witness. 
As to the occurrences of the night before, he had 
very little to add to what he had already told the 
police. Personally, he was convinced that the mur- 
derer had escaped by the window. The bloodstain 
was conclusive, in his opinion, on that point. Be- 
sides, as the bridge was up, there was no other 
possible way of escaping. He could not explain 
what had become of the assassin or why he had 
not taken his bicycle, if it were indeed his. He 
could not possibly have been drowned in the moat, 
which was at no place more than three feet deep. 


In his own mind he had a very definite the- 
ory about the murder. Douglas was a reticent 
man, and there were some chapters in his life of 
which he never spoke. He had emigrated to Amer- 
ica when he was a very young man. He had 
prospered well, and Barker had first met him in 
California, where they had become partners in a 
successful mining claim at a place called Benito 
Canyon. They had done very well; but Douglas 
had suddenly sold out and started for England. 
He was a widower at that time. Barker had af- 
terwards realized his money and come to live in 
London. Thus they had renewed their friendship. 

Douglas had given him the impression that 
some danger was hanging over his head, and he 
had always looked upon his sudden departure 
from California, and also his renting a house in 
so quiet a place in England, as being connected 
with this peril. He imagined that some secret so- 
ciety, some implacable organization, was on Dou- 
glas's track, which would never rest until it killed 
him. Some remarks of his had given him this idea; 
though he had never told him what the society 
was, nor how he had come to offend it. He could 
only suppose that the legend upon the placard had 
some reference to this secret society. 

"How long were you with Douglas in Califor- 
nia?" asked Inspector MacDonald. 

"Five years altogether." 

"He was a bachelor, you say?" 

"A widower." 

"Have you ever heard where his first wife came 
from?" 

"No, I remember his saying that she was of 
German extraction, and I have seen her portrait. 
She was a very beautiful woman. She died of ty- 
phoid the year before I met him." 

"You don't associate his past with any particu- 
lar part of America?" 

"I have heard him talk of Chicago. He knew 
that city well and had worked there. I have heard 
him talk of the coal and iron districts. He had trav- 
elled a good deal in his time." 

"Was he a politician? Had this secret society to 
do with politics?" 

"No, he cared nothing about politics." 

"You have no reason to think it was criminal?" 

"On the contrary, I never met a straighter man 
in my life." 

"Was there anything curious about his life in 
California?" 

"He liked best to stay and to work at our claim 
in the mountains. He would never go where other 
men were if he could help it. That's why I first 


682 



The Valley Of Fear 


thought that someone was after him. Then when 
he left so suddenly for Europe I made sure that it 
was so. I believe that he had a warning of some 
sort. Within a week of his leaving half a dozen 
men were inquiring for him." 

"What sort of men?" 

"Well, they were a mighty hard-looking crowd. 
They came up to the claim and wanted to know 
where he was. I told them that he was gone to Eu- 
rope and that I did not know where to find him. 
They meant him no good — it was easy to see that." 

"Were these men Americans — Californians?" 

"Well, I don't know about Californians. They 
were Americans, all right. But they were not min- 
ers. I don't know what they were, and was very 
glad to see their backs." 

"That was six years ago?" 

"Nearer seven." 

"And then you were together five years in Cal- 
ifornia, so that this business dates back not less 
than eleven years at the least?" 

"That is so." 

"It must be a very serious feud that would be 
kept up with such earnestness for as long as that. 
It would be no light thing that would give rise to 
it." 

"I think it shadowed his whole life. It was 
never quite out of his mind." 

"But if a man had a danger hanging over him, 
and knew what it was, don't you think he would 
turn to the police for protection?" 

"Maybe it was some danger that he could not 
be protected against. There's one thing you should 
know. He always went about armed. His revolver 
was never out of his pocket. But, by bad luck, he 
was in his dressing gown and had left it in the bed- 
room last night. Once the bridge was up, I guess 
he thought he was safe." 

"I should like these dates a little clearer," said 
MacDonald. "It is quite six years since Douglas 
left California. You followed him next year, did 
you not?" 

"That is so." 

"And he had been married five years. You must 
have returned about the time of his marriage." 

"About a month before. I was his best man." 

"Did you know Mrs. Douglas before her mar- 
riage?" 

"No, I did not. I had been away from England 
for ten years." 


"But you have seen a good deal of her since." 

Barker looked sternly at the detective. "I have 
seen a good deal of him since," he answered. "If I 
have seen her, it is because you cannot visit a man 
without knowing his wife. If you imagine there is 
any connection — " 

"I imagine nothing, Mr. Barker. I am bound to 
make every inquiry which can bear upon the case. 
But I mean no offense." 

"Some inquiries are offensive," Barker an- 
swered angrily. 

"It's only the facts that we want. It is in your 
interest and everyone's interest that they should be 
cleared up. Did Mr. Douglas entirely approve your 
friendship with his wife?" 

Barker grew paler, and his great, strong hands 
were clasped convulsively together. "You have no 
right to ask such questions!" he cried. "What has 
this to do with the matter you are investigating?" 

"I must repeat the question." 

"Well, I refuse to answer." 

"You can refuse to answer; but you must be 
aware that your refusal is in itself an answer, for 
you would not refuse if you had not something to 
conceal." 

Barker stood for a moment with his face set 
grimly and his strong black eyebrows drawn low 
in intense thought. Then he looked up with a 
smile. "Well, I guess you gentlemen are only do- 
ing your clear duty after all, and I have no right 
to stand in the way of it. I'd only ask you not to 
worry Mrs. Douglas over this matter; for she has 
enough upon her just now. I may tell you that 
poor Douglas had just one fault in the world, and 
that was his jealousy. He was fond of me — no man 
could be fonder of a friend. And he was devoted 
to his wife. He loved me to come here, and was 
forever sending for me. And yet if his wife and I 
talked together or there seemed any sympathy be- 
tween us, a kind of wave of jealousy would pass 
over him, and he would be off the handle and say- 
ing the wildest things in a moment. More than 
once I've sworn off coming for that reason, and 
then he would write me such penitent, imploring 
letters that I just had to. But you can take it from 
me, gentlemen, if it was my last word, that no man 
ever had a more loving, faithful wife — and I can 
say also no friend could be more loyal than I!" 

It was spoken with fervour and feeling, and yet 
Inspector MacDonald could not dismiss the sub- 
ject. 

"You are aware," said he, "that the dead man's 
wedding ring has been taken from his finger?" 

"So it appears," said Barker. 


683 



The Valley Of Fear 


"What do you mean by 'appears'? You know it 
as a fact." 

The man seemed confused and undecided. 
"When I said 'appears' I meant that it was con- 
ceivable that he had himself taken off the ring." 

"The mere fact that the ring should be absent, 
whoever may have removed it, would suggest to 
anyone's mind, would it not, that the marriage and 
the tragedy were connected?" 

Barker shrugged his broad shoulders. "I can't 
profess to say what it means." he answered. "But 
if you mean to hint that it could reflect in any way 
upon this lady's honour" — his eyes blazed for an 
instant, and then with an evident effort he got a 
grip upon his own emotions — "well, you are on 
the wrong track, that's all." 

"I don't know that I've anything else to ask you 
at present," said MacDonald, coldly. 

"There was one small point," remarked Sher- 
lock Holmes. "When you entered the room there 
was only a candle lighted on the table, was there 
not?" 

"Yes, that was so." 

"By its light you saw that some terrible incident 
had occurred?" 

"Exactly." 

"You at once rang for help?" 

"Yes." 

"And it arrived very speedily?" 

"Within a minute or so." 

"And yet when they arrived they found that 
the candle was out and that the lamp had been 
lighted. That seems very remarkable." 

Again Barker showed some signs of indecision. 
"I don't see that it was remarkable, Mr. Holmes," 
he answered after a pause. "The candle threw a 
very bad light. My first thought was to get a better 
one. The lamp was on the table; so I lit it." 

"And blew out the candle?" 

"Exactly." 

Holmes asked no further question, and Barker, 
with a deliberate look from one to the other of us, 
which had, as it seemed to me, something of defi- 
ance in it, turned and left the room. 

Inspector MacDonald had sent up a note to 
the effect that he would wait upon Mrs. Douglas 
in her room; but she had replied that she would 
meet us in the dining room. She entered now, a 
tall and beautiful woman of thirty, reserved and 
self-possessed to a remarkable degree, very dif- 
ferent from the tragic and distracted figure I had 


pictured. It is true that her face was pale and 
drawn, like that of one who has endured a great 
shock; but her manner was composed, and the 
finely moulded hand which she rested upon the 
edge of the table was as steady as my own. Her 
sad, appealing eyes travelled from one to the other 
of us with a curiously inquisitive expression. That 
questioning gaze transformed itself suddenly into 
abrupt speech. 

"Have you found anything out yet?" she asked. 

Was it my imagination that there was an under- 
tone of fear rather than of hope in the question? 

"We have taken every possible step, Mrs. Dou- 
glas," said the inspector. "You may rest assured 
that nothing will be neglected." 

"Spare no money," she said in a dead, even 
tone. "It is my desire that every possible effort 
should be made." 

"Perhaps you can tell us something which may 
throw some light upon the matter." 

"I fear not; but all I know is at your service." 

"We have heard from Mr. Cecil Barker that you 
did not actually see — that you were never in the 
room where the tragedy occurred?" 

"No, he turned me back upon the stairs. He 
begged me to return to my room." 

"Quite so. You had heard the shot, and you 
had at once come down." 

"I put on my dressing gown and then came 
down." 

"How long was it after hearing the shot that 
you were stopped on the stair by Mr. Barker?" 

"It may have been a couple of minutes. It is 
so hard to reckon time at such a moment. He im- 
plored me not to go on. He assured me that I could 
do nothing. Then Mrs. Allen, the housekeeper, led 
me upstairs again. It was all like some dreadful 
dream." 

"Can you give us any idea how long your hus- 
band had been downstairs before you heard the 
shot?" 

"No, I cannot say. He went from his dressing 
room, and I did not hear him go. He did the round 
of the house every night, for he was nervous of 
fire. It is the only thing that I have ever known 
him nervous of." 

"That is just the point which I want to come 
to, Mrs. Douglas. You have known your husband 
only in England, have you not?" 

"Yes, we have been married five years." 

"Have you heard him speak of anything which 
occurred in America and might bring some danger 
upon him?" 


684 



The Valley Of Fear 


Mrs. Douglas thought earnestly before she an- 
swered. "Yes." she said at last, "I have always felt 
that there was a danger hanging over him. He re- 
fused to discuss it with me. It was not from want 
of confidence in me — there was the most complete 
love and confidence between us — but it was out 
of his desire to keep all alarm away from me. He 
thought I should brood over it if I knew all, and so 
he was silent." 

"How did you know it, then?" 

Mrs. Douglas's face lit with a quick smile. "Can 
a husband ever carry about a secret all his life and 
a woman who loves him have no suspicion of it? I 
knew it by his refusal to talk about some episodes 
in his American life. I knew it by certain precau- 
tions he took. I knew it by certain words he let 
fall. I knew it by the way he looked at unexpected 
strangers. I was perfectly certain that he had some 
powerful enemies, that he believed they were on 
his track, and that he was always on his guard 
against them. I was so sure of it that for years I 
have been terrified if ever he came home later than 
was expected." 

"Might I ask," asked Holmes, "what the words 
were which attracted your attention?" 

"The Valley of Fear," the lady answered. "That 
was an expression he has used when I questioned 
him. 'I have been in the Valley of Fear. I am not 
out of it yet.' — 'Are we never to get out of the Val- 
ley of Fear?' I have asked him when I have seen 
him more serious than usual. 'Sometimes I think 
that we never shall,' he has answered." 

"Surely you asked him what he meant by the 
Valley of Fear?" 

"I did; but his face would become very grave 
and he would shake his head. 'It is bad enough 
that one of us should have been in its shadow,' he 
said. 'Please God it shall never fall upon you!' It 
was some real valley in which he had lived and in 
which something terrible had occurred to him, of 
that I am certain; but I can tell you no more." 

"And he never mentioned any names?" 

"Yes, he was delirious with fever once when he 
had his hunting accident three years ago. Then I 
remember that there was a name that came contin- 
ually to his lips. He spoke it with anger and a sort 
of horror. McGinty was the name — Bodymaster 
McGinty. I asked him when he recovered who 
Bodymaster McGinty was, and whose body he was 
master of. 'Never of mine, thank God!' he an- 
swered with a laugh, and that was all I could get 
from him. But there is a connection between Body- 
master McGinty and the Valley of Fear." 


"There is one other point," said Inspector Mac- 
Donald. "You met Mr. Douglas in a boarding 
house in London, did you not, and became en- 
gaged to him there? Was there any romance, any- 
thing secret or mysterious, about the wedding?" 

"There was romance. There is always romance. 
There was nothing mysterious." 

"He had no rival?" 

"No, I was quite free." 

"You have heard, no doubt, that his wedding 
ring has been taken. Does that suggest anything 
to you? Suppose that some enemy of his old life 
had tracked him down and committed this crime, 
what possible reason could he have for taking his 
wedding ring?" 

For an instant I could have sworn that the 
faintest shadow of a smile flickered over the 
woman's lips. 

"I really cannot tell," she answered. "It is cer- 
tainly a most extraordinary thing." 

"Well, we will not detain you any longer, and 
we are sorry to have put you to this trouble at such 
a time," said the inspector. "There are some other 
points, no doubt; but we can refer to you as they 
arise." 

She rose, and I was again conscious of that 
quick, questioning glance with which she had just 
surveyed us. "What impression has my evidence 
made upon you?" The question might as well have 
been spoken. Then, with a bow, she swept from 
the room. 

"She's a beautiful woman — a very beautiful 
woman," said MacDonald thoughtfully, after the 
door had closed behind her. "This man Barker has 
certainly been down here a good deal. He is a 
man who might be attractive to a woman. He ad- 
mits that the dead man was jealous, and maybe he 
knew best himself what cause he had for jealousy. 
Then there's that wedding ring. You can't get past 
that. The man who tears a wedding ring off a dead 
man's — What do you say to it, Mr. Holmes?" 

My friend had sat with his head upon his 
hands, sunk in the deepest thought. Now he rose 
and rang the bell. "Ames," he said, when the but- 
ler entered, "where is Mr. Cecil Barker now?" 

"I'll see, sir." 

He came back in a moment to say that Barker 
was in the garden. 

"Can you remember, Ames, what Mr. Barker 
had on his feet last night when you joined him in 
the study?" 

"Yes, Mr. Holmes. He had a pair of bedroom 
slippers. I brought him his boots when he went for 
the police." 


685 



The Valley Of Fear 


"Where are the slippers now?" 

"They are still under the chair in the hall." 

"Very good, Ames. It is, of course, important 
for us to know which tracks may be Mr. Barker's 
and which from outside." 

"Yes, sir. I may say that I noticed that the slip- 
pers were stained with blood — so indeed were my 
own." 

"That is natural enough, considering the con- 
dition of the room. Very good, Ames. We will ring 
if we want you." 

A few minutes later we were in the study. 
Holmes had brought with him the carpet slippers 
from the hall. As Ames had observed, the soles of 
both were dark with blood. 

"Strange!" murmured Holmes, as he stood 
in the light of the window and examined them 
minutely. "Very strange indeed!" 


Stooping with one of his quick feline pounces, 
he placed the slipper upon the blood mark on the 
sill. It exactly corresponded. He smiled in silence 
at his colleagues. 

The inspector was transfigured with excite- 
ment. His native accent rattled like a stick upon 
railings. 

"Man," he cried, "there's not a doubt of it! 
Barker has just marked the window himself. It's a 
good deal broader than any bootmark. I mind that 
you said it was a splay-foot, and here's the expla- 
nation. But what's the game, Mr. Holmes — what's 
the game?" 

"Ay, what's the game?" my friend repeated 
thoughtfully. 

White Mason chuckled and rubbed his fat 
hands together in his professional satisfaction. "I 
said it was a snorter!" he cried. "And a real snorter 
it is!" 


CHAPTER VL 

A Dawning Light 


The three detectives had many matters of de- 
tail into which to inquire; so I returned alone to 
our modest quarters at the village inn. But before 
doing so I took a stroll in the curious old-world 
garden which flanked the house. Rows of very an- 
cient yew trees cut into strange designs girded it 
round. Inside was a beautiful stretch of lawn with 
an old sundial in the middle, the whole effect so 
soothing and restful that it was welcome to my 
somewhat jangled nerves. 

In that deeply peaceful atmosphere one could 
forget, or remember only as some fantastic night- 
mare, that darkened study with the sprawling, 
bloodstained figure on the floor. And yet, as I 
strolled round it and tried to steep my soul in its 
gentle balm, a strange incident occurred, which 
brought me back to the tragedy and left a sinis- 
ter impression in my mind. 

I have said that a decoration of yew trees circled 
the garden. At the end farthest from the house 
they thickened into a continuous hedge. On the 
other side of this hedge, concealed from the eyes 
of anyone approaching from the direction of the 


house, there was a stone seat. As I approached 
the spot I was aware of voices, some remark in the 
deep tones of a man, answered by a little ripple of 
feminine laughter. 

An instant later I had come round the end of 
the hedge and my eyes lit upon Mrs. Douglas and 
the man Barker before they were aware of my pres- 
ence. Her appearance gave me a shock. In the 
dining-room she had been demure and discreet. 
Now all pretense of grief had passed away from 
her. Her eyes shone with the joy of living, and 
her face still quivered with amusement at some re- 
mark of her companion. He sat forward, his hands 
clasped and his forearms on his knees, with an an- 
swering smile upon his bold, handsome face. In an 
instant — but it was just one instant too late — they 
resumed their solemn masks as my figure came 
into view. A hurried word or two passed between 
them, and then Barker rose and came towards me. 

"Excuse me, sir," said he, "but am I addressing 
Dr. Watson?" 

I bowed with a coldness which showed, I dare 
say, very plainly the impression which had been 


686 



The Valley Of Fear 


produced upon my mind. 

"We thought that it was probably you, as your 
friendship with Mr. Sherlock Holmes is so well 
known. Would you mind coming over and speak- 
ing to Mrs. Douglas for one instant?" 

I followed him with a dour face. Very clearly 
I could see in my mind's eye that shattered fig- 
ure on the floor. Here within a few hours of the 
tragedy were his wife and his nearest friend laugh- 
ing together behind a bush in the garden which 
had been his. I greeted the lady with reserve. I had 
grieved with her grief in the dining-room. Now I 
met her appealing gaze with an unresponsive eye. 

"I fear that you think me callous and hard- 
hearted," said she. 

I shrugged my shoulders. "It is no business of 
mine," said I. 

"Perhaps some day you will do me justice. If 
you only realized — " 

"There is no need why Dr. Watson should real- 
ize," said Barker quickly. "As he has himself said, 
it is no possible business of his." 

"Exactly," said I, "and so I will beg leave to re- 
sume my walk." 

"One moment. Dr. Watson," cried the woman 
in a pleading voice. "There is one question which 
you can answer with more authority than anyone 
else in the world, and it may make a very great dif- 
ference to me. You know Mr. Holmes and his re- 
lations with the police better than anyone else can. 
Supposing that a matter were brought confiden- 
tially to his knowledge, is it absolutely necessary 
that he should pass it on to the detectives?" 

"Yes, that's it," said Barker eagerly. "Is he on 
his own or is he entirely in with them?" 

"I really don't know that I should be justified 
in discussing such a point." 

"I beg — I implore that you will. Dr. Watson! I 
assure you that you will be helping us — helping 
me greatly if you will guide us on that point." 

There was such a ring of sincerity in the 
woman's voice that for the instant I forgot all about 
her levity and was moved only to do her will. 

"Mr. Holmes is an independent investigator," 
I said. "He is his own master, and would act as 
his own judgment directed. At the same time, he 
would naturally feel loyalty towards the officials 
who were working on the same case, and he would 
not conceal from them anything which would help 
them in bringing a criminal to justice. Beyond this 
I can say nothing, and I would refer you to Mr. 
Holmes himself if you wanted fuller information." 


So saying I raised my hat and went upon my 
way, leaving them still seated behind that conceal- 
ing hedge. I looked back as I rounded the far 
end of it, and saw that they were still talking very 
earnestly together, and, as they were gazing after 
me, it was clear that it was our interview that was 
the subject of their debate. 

"I wish none of their confidences," said 
Holmes, when I reported to him what had oc- 
curred. He had spent the whole afternoon at the 
Manor House in consultation with his two col- 
leagues, and returned about five with a ravenous 
appetite for a high tea which I had ordered for 
him. "No confidences, Watson; for they are mighty 
awkward if it comes to an arrest for conspiracy and 
murder." 

"You think it will come to that?" 

He was in his most cheerful and debonair hu- 
mour. "My dear Watson, when I have extermi- 
nated that fourth egg I shall be ready to put you in 
touch with the whole situation. I don't say that we 
have fathomed it — far from it — but when we have 
traced the missing dumb-bell — " 

"The dumb-bell!" 

"Dear me, Watson, is it possible that you have 
not penetrated the fact that the case hangs upon 
the missing dumb-bell? Well, well, you need not 
be downcast; for between ourselves I don't think 
that either Inspector Mac or the excellent local 
practitioner has grasped the overwhelming impor- 
tance of this incident. One dumb-bell, Watson! 
Consider an athlete with one dumb-bell! Picture to 
yourself the unilateral development, the imminent 
danger of a spinal curvature. Shocking, Watson, 
shocking!" 

He sat with his mouth full of toast and his 
eyes sparkling with mischief, watching my intel- 
lectual entanglement. The mere sight of his excel- 
lent appetite was an assurance of success, for I had 
very clear recollections of days and nights with- 
out a thought of food, when his baffled mind had 
chafed before some problem while his thin, eager 
features became more attenuated with the asceti- 
cism of complete mental concentration. Finally he 
lit his pipe, and sitting in the inglenook of the old 
village inn he talked slowly and at random about 
his case, rather as one who thinks aloud than as 
one who makes a considered statement. 

"A lie, Watson — a great, big, thumping, obtru- 
sive, uncompromising lie — that's what meets us 
on the threshold! There is our starting point. The 
whole story told by Barker is a lie. But Barker's 
story is corroborated by Mrs. Douglas. Therefore 


687 



The Valley Of Fear 


she is lying also. They are both lying, and in a con- 
spiracy. So now we have the clear problem. Why 
are they lying, and what is the truth which they are 
trying so hard to conceal? Let us try, Watson, you 
and I, if we can get behind the lie and reconstruct 
the truth. 

"How do I know that they are lying? Because it 
is a clumsy fabrication which simply could not be 
true. Consider! According to the story given to us, 
the assassin had less than a minute after the mur- 
der had been committed to take that ring, which 
was under another ring, from the dead man's fin- 
ger, to replace the other ring — a thing which he 
would surely never have done — and to put that 
singular card beside his victim. I say that this was 
obviously impossible. 

"You may argue — blit I have too much respect 
for your judgment, Watson, to think that you will 
do so — that the ring may have been taken before 
the man was killed. The fact that the candle had 
been lit only a short time shows that there had 
been no lengthy interview. Was Douglas, from 
what we hear of his fearless character, a man who 
would be likely to give up his wedding ring at such 
short notice, or could we conceive of his giving it 
up at all? No, no, Watson, the assassin was alone 
with the dead man for some time with the lamp 
lit. Of that I have no doubt at all. 

"But the gunshot was apparently the cause of 
death. Therefore the shot must have been fired 
some time earlier than we are told. But there could 
be no mistake about such a matter as that. We are 
in the presence, therefore, of a deliberate conspir- 
acy upon the part of the two people who heard 
the gunshot — of the man Barker and of the woman 
Douglas. When on the top of this I am able to show 
that the blood mark on the windowsill was delib- 
erately placed there by Barker, in order to give a 
false clue to the police, you will admit that the case 
grows dark against him. 

"Now we have to ask ourselves at what hour 
the murder actually did occur. Up to half-past ten 
the servants were moving about the house; so it 
was certainly not before that time. At a quarter to 
eleven they had all gone to their rooms with the 
exception of Ames, who was in the pantry. I have 
been trying some experiments after you left us this 
afternoon, and I find that no noise which MacDon- 
ald can make in the study can penetrate to me in 
the pantry when the doors are all shut. 

"It is otherwise, however, from the house- 
keeper's room. It is not so far down the corridor, 
and from it I could vaguely hear a voice when it 
was very loudly raised. The sound from a shotgun 


is to some extent muffled when the discharge is at 
very close range, as it undoubtedly was in this in- 
stance. It would not be very loud, and yet in the si- 
lence of the night it should have easily penetrated 
to Mrs. Allen's room. She is, as she has told us, 
somewhat deaf; but none the less she mentioned 
in her evidence that she did hear something like a 
door slamming half an hour before the alarm was 
given. Half an hour before the alarm was given 
would be a quarter to eleven. I have no doubt that 
what she heard was the report of the gun, and that 
this was the real instant of the murder. 

"If this is so, we have now to determine what 
Barker and Mrs. Douglas, presuming that they are 
not the actual murderers, could have been doing 
from quarter to eleven, when the sound of the 
shot brought them down, until quarter past eleven, 
when they rang the bell and summoned the ser- 
vants. What were they doing, and why did they 
not instantly give the alarm? That is the question 
which faces us, and when it has been answered 
we shall surely have gone some way to solve our 
problem." 

"I am convinced myself," said I, "that there is 
an understanding between those two people. She 
must be a heartless creature to sit laughing at some 
jest within a few hours of her husband's murder." 

"Exactly. She does not shine as a wife even 
in her own account of what occurred. I am not 
a whole-souled admirer of womankind, as you 
are aware, Watson, but my experience of life has 
taught me that there are few wives, having any re- 
gard for their husbands, who would let any man's 
spoken word stand between them and that hus- 
band's dead body. Should I ever marry, Watson, I 
should hope to inspire my wife with some feeling 
which would prevent her from being walked off by 
a housekeeper when my corpse was lying within a 
few yards of her. It was badly stage-managed; for 
even the rawest investigators must be struck by the 
absence of the usual feminine ululation. If there 
had been nothing else, this incident alone would 
have suggested a prearranged conspiracy to my 
mind." 

"You think then, definitely, that Barker and 
Mrs. Douglas are guilty of the murder?" 

"There is an appalling directness about your 
questions, Watson," said Holmes, shaking his pipe 
at me. "They come at me like bullets. If you put 
it that Mrs. Douglas and Barker know the truth 
about the murder, and are conspiring to conceal it, 
then I can give you a whole-souled answer. I am 
sure they do. But your more deadly proposition 
is not so clear. Let us for a moment consider the 
difficulties which stand in the way. 


688 



The Valley Of Fear 


"We will suppose that this couple are united 
by the bonds of a guilty love, and that they have 
determined to get rid of the man who stands be- 
tween them. It is a large supposition; for discreet 
inquiry among servants and others has failed to 
corroborate it in any way On the contrary, there 
is a good deal of evidence that the Douglases were 
very attached to each other." 

"That, I am sure, cannot he true." said I, think- 
ing of the beautiful smiling face in the garden. 

"Well at least they gave that impression. How- 
ever, we will suppose that they are an extraordi- 
narily astute couple, who deceive everyone upon 
this point, and conspire to murder the husband. 
He happens to be a man over whose head some 
danger hangs — " 

"We have only their word for that." 

Holmes looked thoughtful. "I see, Watson. You 
are sketching out a theory by which everything 
they say from the beginning is false. According 
to your idea, there was never any hidden men- 
ace, or secret society, or Valley of Fear, or Boss 
MacSomebody, or anything else. Well, that is a 
good sweeping generalization. Let us see what 
that brings us to. They invent this theory to ac- 
count for the crime. They then play up to the idea 
by leaving this bicycle in the park as proof of the 
existence of some outsider. The stain on the win- 
dowsill conveys the same idea. So does the card on 
the body, which might have been prepared in the 
house. That all fits into your hypothesis, Watson. 
But now we come on the nasty, angular, uncom- 
promising bits which won't slip into their places. 
Why a cut-off shotgun of all weapons — and an 
American one at that? How could they be so sure 
that the sound of it would not bring someone on 
to them? It's a mere chance as it is that Mrs. Allen 
did not start out to inquire for the slamming door. 
Why did your guilty couple do all this, Watson?" 

"I confess that I can't explain it." 

"Then again, if a woman and her lover conspire 
to murder a husband, are they going to advertise 
their guilt by ostentatiously removing his wedding 
ring after his death? Does that strike you as very 
probable, Watson?" 

"No, it does not." 

"And once again, if the thought of leaving a 
bicycle concealed outside had occurred to you, 
would it really have seemed worth doing when the 
dullest detective would naturally say this is an ob- 
vious blind, as the bicycle is the first thing which 
the fugitive needed in order to make his escape." 

"I can conceive of no explanation." 


"And yet there should be no combination of 
events for which the wit of man cannot conceive 
an explanation. Simply as a mental exercise, with- 
out any assertion that it is true, let me indicate a 
possible line of thought. It is, I admit, mere imagi- 
nation; but how often is imagination the mother of 
truth? 

"We will suppose that there was a guilty secret, 
a really shameful secret in the life of this man Dou- 
glas. This leads to his murder by someone who is, 
we will suppose, an avenger, someone from out- 
side. This avenger, for some reason which I con- 
fess I am still at a loss to explain, took the dead 
man's wedding ring. The vendetta might conceiv- 
ably date back to the man's first marriage, and the 
ring be taken for some such reason. 

"Before this avenger got away. Barker and the 
wife had reached the room. The assassin con- 
vinced them that any attempt to arrest him would 
lead to the publication of some hideous scandal. 
They were converted to this idea, and preferred to 
let him go. For this purpose they probably lowered 
the bridge, which can be done quite noiselessly, 
and then raised it again. He made his escape, and 
for some reason thought that he could do so more 
safely on foot than on the bicycle. He therefore left 
his machine where it would not be discovered un- 
til he had got safely away. So far we are within the 
bounds of possibility, are we not?" 

"Well, it is possible, no doubt," said I, with 
some reserve. 

"We have to remember, Watson, that what- 
ever occurred is certainly something very extraor- 
dinary. Well, now, to continue our supposititious 
case, the couple — not necessarily a guilty cou- 
ple — realize after the murderer is gone that they 
have placed themselves in a position in which it 
may be difficult for them to prove that they did 
not themselves either do the deed or connive at 
it. They rapidly and rather clumsily met the situ- 
ation. The mark was put by Barker 's bloodstained 
slipper upon the window-sill to suggest how the 
fugitive got away. They obviously were the two 
who must have heard the sound of the gun; so 
they gave the alarm exactly as they would have 
done, but a good half hour after the event." 

"And how do you propose to prove all this?" 

"Well, if there were an outsider, he may be 
traced and taken. That would be the most effec- 
tive of all proofs. But if not — well, the resources 
of science are far from being exhausted. I think 
that an evening alone in that study would help me 
much." 

"An evening alone!" 


689 



The Valley Of Fear 


"I propose to go up there presently. I have ar- 
ranged it with the estimable Ames, who is by no 
means whole-hearted about Barker. I shall sit in 
that room and see if its atmosphere brings me in- 
spiration. I'm a believer in the genius loci. You 
smile. Friend Watson. Well, we shall see. By the 
way, you have that big umbrella of yours, have you 
not?" 

"It is here." 

"Well, I'll borrow that if I may." 

"Certainly — but what a wretched weapon! If 
there is danger — " 

"Nothing serious, my dear Watson, or I should 
certainly ask for your assistance. But I'll take the 
umbrella. At present I am only awaiting the return 
of our colleagues from Tunbridge Wells, where 
they are at present engaged in trying for a likely 
owner to the bicycle." 

It was nightfall before Inspector MacDonald 
and White Mason came back from their expedi- 
tion, and they arrived exultant, reporting a great 
advance in our investigation. 

"Man, I'll admeet that I had my doubts if there 
was ever an outsider," said MacDonald, "but that's 
all past now. We've had the bicycle identified, and 
we have a description of our man; so that's a long 
step on our journey." 

"It sounds to me like the beginning of the end," 
said Flolmes. "I'm sure I congratulate you both 
with all my heart." 

"Well, I started from the fact that Mr. Dou- 
glas had seemed disturbed since the day before, 
when he had been at Tunbridge Wells. It was at 
Tunbridge Wells then that he had become con- 
scious of some danger. It was clear, therefore, 
that if a man had come over with a bicycle it was 
from Tunbridge Wells that he might be expected to 
have come. We took the bicycle over with us and 
showed it at the hotels. It was identified at once by 
the manager of the Eagle Commercial as belonging 
to a man named Flargrave, who had taken a room 
there two days before. This bicycle and a small 
valise were his whole belongings. Fie had regis- 
tered his name as coming from London, but had 
given no address. The valise was London made, 
and the contents were British; but the man himself 
was undoubtedly an American." 

"Well, well," said Flolmes gleefully, "you have 
indeed done some solid work while I have been 
sitting spinning theories with my friend! It's a les- 
son in being practical, Mr. Mac." 

"Ay, it's just that, Mr. Flolmes," said the inspec- 
tor with satisfaction. 


"But this may all fit in with your theories," I 
remarked. 

"That may or may not be. But let us hear the 
end, Mr. Mac. Was there nothing to identify this 
man?" 

"So little that it was evident that he had care- 
fully guarded himself against identification. There 
were no papers or letters, and no marking upon 
the clothes. A cycle map of the county lay on his 
bedroom table. Fie had left the hotel after break- 
fast yesterday morning on his bicycle, and no more 
was heard of him until our inquiries." 

"That's what puzzles me, Mr. Flolmes," said 
White Mason. "If the fellow did not want the hue 
and cry raised over him, one would imagine that 
he would have returned and remained at the hotel 
as an inoffensive tourist. As it is, he must know 
that he will be reported to the police by the hotel 
manager and that his disappearance will be con- 
nected with the murder." 

"So one would imagine. Still, he has been jus- 
tified of his wisdom up to date, at any rate, since 
he has not been taken. But his description — what 
of that?" 

MacDonald referred to his notebook. "Flere we 
have it so far as they could give it. They don't seem 
to have taken any very particular stock of him; but 
still the porter, the clerk, and the chambermaid are 
all agreed that this about covers the points. Fie 
was a man about five foot nine in height, fifty or 
so years of age, his hair slightly grizzled, a grayish 
moustache, a curved nose, and a face which all of 
them described as fierce and forbidding." 

"Well, bar the expression, that might almost be 
a description of Douglas himself," said Flolmes. 
"Fie is just over fifty, with grizzled hair and mous- 
tache, and about the same height. Did you get 
anything else?" 

"Fie was dressed in a heavy gray suit with a 
reefer jacket, and he wore a short yellow overcoat 
and a soft cap." 

"What about the shotgun?" 

"It is less than two feet long. It could very well 
have fitted into his valise. Fie could have carried it 
inside his overcoat without difficulty." 

"And how do you consider that all this bears 
upon the general case?" 

"Well, Mr. Flolmes," said MacDonald, "when 
we have got our man — and you may be sure that I 
had his description on the wires within five min- 
utes of hearing it — we shall be better able to judge. 
But, even as it stands, we have surely gone a long 
way. We know that an American calling himself 
Flargrave came to Tunbridge Wells two days ago 


690 



The Valley Of Fear 


with bicycle and valise. In the latter was a sawed- 
off shotgun; so he came with the deliberate pur- 
pose of crime. Yesterday morning he set off for 
this place on his bicycle, with his gun concealed 
in his overcoat. No one saw him arrive, so far 
as we can learn; but he need not pass through 
the village to reach the park gates, and there are 
many cyclists upon the road. Presumably he at 
once concealed his cycle among the laurels where 
it was found, and possibly lurked there himself, 
with his eye on the house, waiting for Mr. Douglas 
to come out. The shotgun is a strange weapon to 
use inside a house; but he had intended to use it 
outside, and there it has very obvious advantages, 
as it would be impossible to miss with it, and the 
sound of shots is so common in an English sport- 
ing neighbourhood that no particular notice would 
be taken." 

"That is all very clear," said Holmes. 

"Well, Mr. Douglas did not appear. What was 
he to do next? He left his bicycle and approached 
the house in the twilight. He found the bridge 
down and no one about. He took his chance, in- 
tending, no doubt, to make some excuse if he met 
anyone. He met no one. He slipped into the first 
room that he saw, and concealed himself behind 
the curtain. Thence he could see the drawbridge 
go up, and he knew that his only escape was 
through the moat. He waited until quarter-past 
eleven, when Mr. Douglas upon his usual nightly 
round came into the room. He shot him and es- 
caped, as arranged. He was aware that the bicycle 
would be described by the hotel people and be a 
clue against him; so he left it there and made his 
way by some other means to London or to some 
safe hiding place which he had already arranged. 
How is that, Mr. Holmes?" 

"Well, Mr. Mac, it is very good and very clear 
so far as it goes. That is your end of the story. 
My end is that the crime was committed half an 
hour earlier than reported; that Mrs. Douglas and 
Barker are both in a conspiracy to conceal some- 
thing; that they aided the murderer's escape — or 


at least that they reached the room before he es- 
caped — and that they fabricated evidence of his 
escape through the window, whereas in all proba- 
bility they had themselves let him go by lowering 
the bridge. That's my reading of the first half." 

The two detectives shook their heads. 

"Well, Mr. Holmes, if this is true, we only tum- 
ble out of one mystery into another," said the Lon- 
don inspector. 

"And in some ways a worse one," added White 
Mason. "The lady has never been in America in all 
her life. What possible connection could she have 
with an American assassin which would cause her 
to shelter him?" 

"I freely admit the difficulties," said Holmes. "I 
propose to make a little investigation of my own 
to-night, and it is just possible that it may con- 
tribute something to the common cause." 

"Can we help you, Mr. Holmes?" 

"No, no! Darkness and Dr. Watson's um- 
brella — my wants are simple. And Ames, the faith- 
ful Ames, no doubt he will stretch a point for me. 
All my lines of thought lead me back invariably 
to the one basic question — why should an athletic 
man develop his frame upon so unnatural an in- 
strument as a single dumb-bell?" 

It was late that night when Holmes returned 
from his solitary excursion. We slept in a double- 
bedded room, which was the best that the little 
country inn could do for us. I was already asleep 
when I was partly awakened by his entrance. 

"Well, Holmes," I murmured, "have you found 
anything out?" 

He stood beside me in silence, his candle in his 
hand. Then the tall, lean figure inclined towards 
me. "I say, Watson," he whispered, "would you 
be afraid to sleep in the same room with a lunatic, 
a man with softening of the brain, an idiot whose 
mind has lost its grip?" 

"Not in the least," I answered in astonishment. 

"Ah, that's lucky," he said, and not another 
word would he utter that night. 


691 



The Valley Of Fear 


CHAPTER VIE 

The Solution 


Next morning, after breakfast, we found In- 
spector MacDonald and White Mason seated in 
close consultation in the small parlour of the local 
police sergeant. On the table in front of them were 
piled a number of letters and telegrams, which 
they were carefully sorting and docketing. Three 
had been placed on one side. 

"Still on the track of the elusive bicyclist?" 
Holmes asked cheerfully. "What is the latest news 
of the ruffian?" 

MacDonald pointed ruefully to his heap of cor- 
respondence. 

"He is at present reported from Leicester, Not- 
tingham, Southampton, Derby, East Ham, Rich- 
mond, and fourteen other places. In three of 
them — East Ham, Leicester, and Liverpool — there 
is a clear case against him, and he has actually 
been arrested. The country seems to be full of the 
fugitives with yellow coats." 

"Dear me!" said Holmes sympathetically. 
"Now, Mr. Mac and you, Mr. White Mason, I wish 
to give you a very earnest piece of advice. When 
I went into this case with you I bargained, as you 
will no doubt remember, that I should not present 
you with half-proved theories, but that I should re- 
tain and work out my own ideas until I had satis- 
fied myself that they were correct. For this reason 
I am not at the present moment telling you all that 
is in my mind. On the other hand, I said that I 
would play the game fairly by you, and I do not 
think it is a fair game to allow you for one un- 
necessary moment to waste your energies upon a 
profitless task. Therefore I am here to advise you 
this morning, and my advice to you is summed up 
in three words — abandon the case." 

MacDonald and White Mason stared in amaze- 
ment at their celebrated colleague. 

"You consider it hopeless!" cried the inspector. 

"I consider your case to be hopeless. I do not 
consider that it is hopeless to arrive at the truth." 

"But this cyclist. He is not an invention. We 
have his description, his valise, his bicycle. The 
fellow must be somewhere. Why should we not 
get him?" 

"Yes, yes, no doubt he is somewhere, and no 
doubt we shall get him; but I would not have you 
waste your energies in East Ham or Liverpool. I 
am sure that we can find some shorter cut to a re- 
sult." 


"You are holding something back. It's hardly 
fair of you, Mr. Holmes." The inspector was an- 
noyed. 

"You know my methods of work, Mr. Mac. But 
I will hold it back for the shortest time possible. I 
only wish to verify my details in one way, which 
can very readily be done, and then I make my bow 
and return to London, leaving my results entirely 
at your service. I owe you too much to act other- 
wise; for in all my experience I cannot recall any 
more singular and interesting study." 

"This is clean beyond me, Mr. Holmes. We saw 
you when we returned from Tunbridge Wells last 
night, and you were in general agreement with our 
results. What has happened since then to give you 
a completely new idea of the case?" 

"Well, since you ask me, I spent, as I told you 
that I would, some hours last night at the Manor 
House." 

"Well, what happened?" 

"Ah, I can only give you a very general answer 
to that for the moment. By the way, I have been 
reading a short but clear and interesting account 
of the old building, purchasable at the modest sum 
of one penny from the local tobacconist." 

Here Holmes drew a small tract, embellished 
with a rude engraving of the ancient Manor 
House, from his waistcoat pocket. 

"It immensely adds to the zest of an investiga- 
tion, my dear Mr. Mac, when one is in conscious 
sympathy with the historical atmosphere of one's 
surroundings. Don't look so impatient; for I as- 
sure you that even so bald an account as this raises 
some sort of picture of the past in one's mind. Per- 
mit me to give you a sample. 'Erected in the fifth 
year of the reign of James I, and standing upon the 
site of a much older building, the Manor House of 
Birlstone presents one of the finest surviving ex- 
amples of the moated Jacobean residence — ' " 

"You are making fools of us, Mr. Holmes!" 

"Tut, tut, Mr. Mac! — the first sign of temper I 
have detected in you. Well, I won't read it verba- 
tim, since you feel so strongly upon the subject. 
But when I tell you that there is some account of 
the taking of the place by a parliamentary colonel 
in 1644, of the concealment of Charles for several 
days in the course of the Civil War, and finally of 
a visit there by the second George, you will ad- 
mit that there are various associations of interest 
connected with this ancient house." 


692 



The Valley Of Fear 


"I don't doubt it, Mr. Holmes; but that is no 
business of ours." 

"Is it not? Is it not? Breadth of view, my dear 
Mr. Mac, is one of the essentials of our profes- 
sion. The interplay of ideas and the oblique uses of 
knowledge are often of extraordinary interest. You 
will excuse these remarks from one who, though a 
mere connoisseur of crime, is still rather older and 
perhaps more experienced than yourself." 

"I'm the first to admit that," said the detective 
heartily. "You get to your point, I admit; but you 
have such a deuced round-the-corner way of doing 
it." 

"Well, well. I'll drop past history and get down 
to present-day facts. I called last night, as I have 
already said, at the Manor House. I did not see 
either Barker or Mrs. Douglas. I saw no neces- 
sity to disturb them; but I was pleased to hear that 
the lady was not visibly pining and that she had 
partaken of an excellent dinner. My visit was spe- 
cially made to the good Mr. Ames, with whom I 
exchanged some amiabilities, which culminated in 
his allowing me, without reference to anyone else, 
to sit alone for a time in the study." 

"What! With that?" I ejaculated. 

"No, no, everything is now in order. You gave 
permission for that, Mr. Mac, as I am informed. 
The room was in its normal state, and in it I passed 
an instructive quarter of an hour." 

"What were you doing?" 

"Well, not to make a mystery of so simple a 
matter, I was looking for the missing dumb-bell. It 
has always bulked rather large in my estimate of 
the case. I ended by finding it." 

"Where?" 

"Ah, there we come to the edge of the unex- 
plored. Let me go a little further, a very little fur- 
ther, and I will promise that you shall share every- 
thing that I know." 

"Well, we're bound to take you on your own 
terms," said the inspector; "but when it comes to 
telling us to abandon the case — why in the name 
of goodness should we abandon the case?" 

"For the simple reason, my dear Mr. Mac, that 
you have not got the first idea what it is that you 
are investigating." 

"We are investigating the murder of Mr. John 
Douglas of Birlstone Manor." 

"Yes, yes, so you are. But don't trouble to trace 
the mysterious gentleman upon the bicycle. I as- 
sure you that it won't help you." 

"Then what do you suggest that we do?" 


"I will tell you exactly what to do, if you will 
do it." 

"Well, I'm bound to say I've always found you 
had reason behind all your queer ways. I'll do 
what you advise." 

"And you, Mr. White Mason?" 

The country detective looked helplessly from 
one to the other. Holmes and his methods were 
new to him. "Well, if it is good enough for the in- 
spector, it is good enough for me," he said at last. 

"Capital!" said Holmes. "Well, then, I should 
recommend a nice, cheery country walk for both 
of you. They tell me that the views from Birlstone 
Ridge over the Weald are very remarkable. No 
doubt lunch could be got at some suitable hostelry; 
though my ignorance of the country prevents me 
from recommending one. In the evening, tired but 
happy — " 

"Man, this is getting past a joke!" cried Mac- 
Donald, rising angrily from his chair. 

"Well, well, spend the day as you like," said 
Holmes, patting him cheerfully upon the shoul- 
der. "Do what you like and go where you will, but 
meet me here before dusk without fail — without 
fail, Mr. Mac." 

"That sounds more like sanity." 

"All of it was excellent advice; but I don't in- 
sist, so long as you are here when I need you. But 
now, before we part, I want you to write a note to 
Mr. Barker." 

"Well?" 

"I'll dictate it, if you like. Ready? 

"Dear Sir: 

"It has struck me that it is our duty 
to drain the moat, in the hope that we 
may find some — " 

"It's impossible," said the inspector. "I've 
made inquiry." 

"Tut, tut! My dear sir, please do what I ask 
you." 

"Well, go on." 

" — in the hope that we may find 
something which may bear upon our 
investigation. I have made arrange- 
ments, and the workmen will be at 
work early to-morrow morning divert- 
ing the stream — " 

"Impossible!" 

" — diverting the stream; so I thought 
it best to explain matters beforehand. 


693 



The Valley Of Fear 


"Now sign that, and send it by hand about four 
o'clock. At that hour we shall meet again in this 
room. Until then we may each do what we like; 
for I can assure you that this inquiry has come to 
a definite pause." 

Evening was drawing in when we reassembled. 
Holmes was very serious in his manner, myself cu- 
rious, and the detectives obviously critical and an- 
noyed. 

"Well, gentlemen," said my friend gravely, "I 
am asking you now to put everything to the 
test with me, and you will judge for yourselves 
whether the observations I have made justify the 
conclusions to which I have come. It is a chill 
evening, and I do not know how long our expe- 
dition may last; so I beg that you will wear your 
warmest coats. It is of the first importance that we 
should be in our places before it grows dark; so 
with your permission we shall get started at once." 

We passed along the outer bounds of the 
Manor House park until we came to a place where 
there was a gap in the rails which fenced it. 
Through this we slipped, and then in the gathering 
gloom we followed Holmes until we had reached 
a shrubbery which lies nearly opposite to the main 
door and the drawbridge. The latter had not been 
raised. Holmes crouched down behind the screen 
of laurels, and we all three followed his example. 

"Well, what are we to do now?" asked Mac- 
Donald with some gruffness. 

"Possess our souls in patience and make as lit- 
tle noise as possible," Holmes answered. 

"What are we here for at all? I really think that 
you might treat us with more frankness." 

Holmes laughed. "Watson insists that I am the 
dramatist in real life," said he. "Some touch of 
the artist wells up within me, and calls insistently 
for a well-staged performance. Surely our profes- 
sion, Mr. Mac, would be a drab and sordid one if 
we did not sometimes set the scene so as to glo- 
rify our results. The blunt accusation, the bru- 
tal tap upon the shoulder — what can one make of 
such a denouement ? But the quick inference, the 
subtle trap, the clever forecast of coming events, 
the triumphant vindication of bold theories — are 
these not the pride and the justification of our life's 
work? At the present moment you thrill with the 
glamour of the situation and the anticipation of the 
hunt. Where would be that thrill if I had been as 
definite as a timetable? I only ask a little patience, 
Mr. Mac, and all will be clear to you." 

"Well, I hope the pride and justification and the 
rest of it will come before we all get our death of 


cold," said the London detective with comic resig- 
nation. 

We all had good reason to join in the aspiration; 
for our vigil was a long and bitter one. Slowly the 
shadows darkened over the long, sombre face of 
the old house. A cold, damp reek from the moat 
chilled us to the bones and set our teeth chatter- 
ing. There was a single lamp over the gateway and 
a steady globe of light in the fatal study. Every- 
thing else was dark and still. 

"How long is this to last?" asked the inspector 
finally. "And what is it we are watching for?" 

"I have no more notion than you how long it is 
to last," Holmes answered with some asperity. "If 
criminals would always schedule their movements 
like railway trains, it would certainly be more con- 
venient for all of us. As to what it is we — Well, 
that's what we are watching for!" 

As he spoke the bright, yellow light in the 
study was obscured by somebody passing to and 
fro before it. The laurels among which we lay 
were immediately opposite the window and not 
more than a hundred feet from it. Presently it was 
thrown open with a whining of hinges, and we 
could dimly see the dark outline of a man's head 
and shoulders looking out into the gloom. For 
some minutes he peered forth in furtive, stealthy 
fashion, as one who wishes to be assured that he 
is unobserved. Then he leaned forward, and in the 
intense silence we were aware of the soft lapping 
of agitated water. He seemed to be stirring up the 
moat with something which he held in his hand. 
Then suddenly he hauled something in as a fisher- 
man lands a fish — some large, round object which 
obscured the light as it was dragged through the 
open casement. 

"Now!" cried Holmes. "Now!" 

We were all upon our feet, staggering after 
him with our stiffened limbs, while he ran swiftly 
across the bridge and rang violently at the bell. 
There was the rasping of bolts from the other 
side, and the amazed Ames stood in the entrance. 
Holmes brushed him aside without a word and, 
followed by all of us, rushed into the room which 
had been occupied by the man whom we had been 
watching. 

The oil lamp on the table represented the glow 
which we had seen from outside. It was now in the 
hand of Cecil Barker, who held it towards us as we 
entered. Its light shone upon his strong, resolute, 
clean-shaved face and his menacing eyes. 

"What the devil is the meaning of all this?" he 
cried. "What are you after, anyhow?" 


694 



The Valley Of Fear 


Holmes took a swift glance round, and then 
pounced upon a sodden bundle tied together with 
cord which lay where it had been thrust under the 
writing table. 

"This is what we are after, Mr. Barker — this 
bundle, weighted with a dumb-bell, which you 
have just raised from the bottom of the moat." 

Barker stared at Holmes with amazement in his 
face. "How in thunder came you to know anything 
about it?" he asked. 

"Simply that I put it there." 

"You put it there! You!" 

"Perhaps I should have said 'replaced it 
there/ " said Holmes. "You will remember. Inspec- 
tor MacDonald, that I was somewhat struck by the 
absence of a dumb-bell. I drew your attention to 
it; but with the pressure of other events you had 
hardly the time to give it the consideration which 
would have enabled you to draw deductions from 
it. When water is near and a weight is missing 
it is not a very far-fetched supposition that some- 
thing has been sunk in the water. The idea was 
at least worth testing; so with the help of Ames, 
who admitted me to the room, and the crook of 
Dr. Watson's umbrella, I was able last night to fish 
up and inspect this bundle. 

"It was of the first importance, however, that 
we should be able to prove who placed it there. 
This we accomplished by the very obvious device 
of announcing that the moat would be dried to- 
morrow, which had, of course, the effect that who- 
ever had hidden the bundle would most certainly 
withdraw it the moment that darkness enabled 
him to do so. We have no less than four witnesses 
as to who it was who took advantage of the op- 
portunity, and so, Mr. Barker, I think the word lies 
now with you." 

Sherlock Holmes put the sopping bundle upon 
the table beside the lamp and undid the cord 
which bound it. From within he extracted a dumb- 
bell, which he tossed down to its fellow in the cor- 
ner. Next he drew forth a pair of boots. "Ameri- 
can, as you perceive," he remarked, pointing to the 
toes. Then he laid upon the table a long, deadly, 
sheathed knife. Finally he unravelled a bundle 
of clothing, comprising a complete set of under- 
clothes, socks, a gray tweed suit, and a short yel- 
low overcoat. 

"The clothes are commonplace," remarked 
Holmes, "save only the overcoat, which is full of 
suggestive touches." He held it tenderly towards 
the light. "Here, as you perceive, is the inner 
pocket prolonged into the lining in such fashion 


as to give ample space for the truncated fowling 
piece. The tailor's tab is on the neck — 'Neal, Out- 
fitter, Vermissa, U. S. A.' I have spent an instruc- 
tive afternoon in the rector's library, and have en- 
larged my knowledge by adding the fact that Ver- 
missa is a flourishing little town at the head of 
one of the best known coal and iron valleys in the 
United States. I have some recollection, Mr. Barker, 
that you associated the coal districts with Mr. Dou- 
glas's first wife, and it would surely not be too far- 
fetched an inference that the V. V. upon the card by 
the dead body might stand for Vermissa Valley, or 
that this very valley which sends forth emissaries 
of murder may be that Valley of Fear of which we 
have heard. So much is fairly clear. And now, Mr. 
Barker, I seem to be standing rather in the way of 
your explanation." 

It was a sight to see Cecil Barker's expressive 
face during this exposition of the great detective. 
Anger, amazement, consternation, and indecision 
swept over it in turn. Finally he took refuge in a 
somewhat acrid irony. 

"You know such a lot, Mr. Holmes, perhaps 
you had better tell us some more," he sneered. 

"I have no doubt that I could tell you a great 
deal more, Mr. Barker; but it would come with a 
better grace from you." 

"Oh, you think so, do you? Well, all I can say 
is that if there's any secret here it is not my secret, 
and I am not the man to give it away." 

"Well, if you take that line, Mr. Barker," said the 
inspector quietly, "we must just keep you in sight 
until we have the warrant and can hold you." 

"You can do what you damn please about 
that," said Barker defiantly. 

The proceedings seemed to have come to a def- 
inite end so far as he was concerned; for one had 
only to look at that granite face to realize that no 
peine forte et dure would ever force him to plead 
against his will. The deadlock was broken, how- 
ever, by a woman's voice. Mrs. Douglas had been 
standing listening at the half opened door, and 
now she entered the room. 

"You have done enough for now, Cecil," said 
she. "Whatever comes of it in the future, you have 
done enough." 

"Enough and more than enough," remarked 
Sherlock Holmes gravely. "I have every sympa- 
thy with you, madam, and should strongly urge 
you to have some confidence in the common sense 
of our jurisdiction and to take the police volun- 
tarily into your complete confidence. It may be 
that I am myself at fault for not following up the 


695 



The Valley Of Fear 


hint which you conveyed to me through my friend. 
Dr. Watson; but, at that time I had every reason 
to believe that you were directly concerned in the 
crime. Now I am assured that this is not so. At 
the same time, there is much that is unexplained, 
and I should strongly recommend that you ask Mr. 
Douglas to tell us his own story." 

Mrs. Douglas gave a cry of astonishment at 
Holmes's words. The detectives and I must have 
echoed it, when we were aware of a man who 
seemed to have emerged from the wall, who ad- 
vanced now from the gloom of the corner in which 
he had appeared. Mrs. Douglas turned, and in 
an instant her arms were round him. Barker had 
seized his outstretched hand. 

"It's best this way. Jack," his wife repeated; "I 
am sure that it is best." 

"Indeed, yes, Mr. Douglas," said Sherlock 
Holmes, "I am sure that you will find it best." 

The man stood blinking at us with the dazed 
look of one who comes from the dark into the light. 
It was a remarkable face, bold gray eyes, a strong, 
short-clipped, grizzled moustache, a square, pro- 
jecting chin, and a humorous mouth. He took a 
good look at us all, and then to my amazement he 
advanced to me and handed me a bundle of paper. 

"I've heard of you," said he in a voice which 
was not quite English and not quite American, but 
was altogether mellow and pleasing. "You are the 
historian of this bunch. Well, Dr. Watson, you've 
never had such a story as that pass through your 
hands before, and I'll lay my last dollar on that. 
Tell it your own way; but there are the facts, and 
you can't miss the public so long as you have those. 
I've been cooped up two days, and I've spent the 
daylight hours — as much daylight as I could get 
in that rat trap — in putting the thing into words. 
You're welcome to them — you and your public. 
There's the story of the Valley of Fear." 

"That's the past, Mr. Douglas," said Sherlock 
Holmes quietly. "What we desire now is to hear 
your story of the present." 

"You'll have it, sir," said Douglas. "May I 
smoke as I talk? Well, thank you, Mr. Holmes. 
You're a smoker yourself, if I remember right, and 
you'll guess what it is to be sitting for two days 
with tobacco in your pocket and afraid that the 
smell will give you away." He leaned against the 
mantelpiece and sucked at the cigar which Holmes 
had handed him. "I've heard of you, Mr. Holmes. 
I never guessed that I should meet you. But be- 
fore you are through with that," he nodded at my 
papers, "you will say I've brought you something 
fresh." 


Inspector MacDonald had been staring at the 
newcomer with the greatest amazement. "Well, 
this fairly beats me!" he cried at last. "If you are 
Mr. John Douglas of Birlstone Manor, then whose 
death have we been investigating for these two 
days, and where in the world have you sprung 
from now? You seemed to me to come out of the 
floor like a jack-in-a-box." 

"Ah, Mr. Mac," said Holmes, shaking a reprov- 
ing forefinger, "you would not read that excel- 
lent local compilation which described the conceal- 
ment of King Charles. People did not hide in those 
days without excellent hiding places, and the hid- 
ing place that has once been used may be again. 
I had persuaded myself that we should find Mr. 
Douglas under this roof." 

"And how long have you been playing this 
trick upon us, Mr. Holmes?" said the inspector an- 
grily. "How long have you allowed us to waste 
ourselves upon a search that you knew to be an 
absurd one?" 

"Not one instant, my dear Mr. Mac. Only last 
night did I form my views of the case. As they 
could not be put to the proof until this evening, I 
invited you and your colleague to take a holiday 
for the day. Pray what more could I do? When I 
found the suit of clothes in the moat, it at once be- 
came apparent to me that the body we had found 
could not have been the body of Mr. John Douglas 
at all, but must be that of the bicyclist from Tun- 
bridge Wells. No other conclusion was possible. 
Therefore I had to determine where Mr. John Dou- 
glas himself could be, and the balance of probabil- 
ity was that with the connivance of his wife and 
his friend he was concealed in a house which had 
such conveniences for a fugitive, and awaiting qui- 
eter times when he could make his final escape." 

"Well, you figured it out about right," said 
Douglas approvingly. "I thought I'd dodge your 
British law; for I was not sure how I stood un- 
der it, and also I saw my chance to throw these 
hounds once for all off my track. Mind you, from 
first to last I have done nothing to be ashamed of, 
and nothing that I would not do again; but you'll 
judge that for yourselves when I tell you my story. 
Never mind warning me. Inspector: I'm ready to 
stand pat upon the truth. 

"Pm not going to begin at the beginning. That's 
all there," he indicated my bundle of papers, "and 
a mighty queer yarn you'll find it. It all comes 
down to this: That there are some men that have 
good cause to hate me and would give their last 
dollar to know that they had got me. So long as 
I am alive and they are alive, there is no safety in 
this world for me. They hunted me from Chicago 


696 



The Valley Of Fear 


to California, then they chased me out of Amer- 
ica; but when I married and settled down in this 
quiet spot I thought my last years were going to be 
peaceable. 

"I never explained to my wife how things were. 
Why should I pull her into it? She would never 
have a quiet moment again; but would always be 
imagining trouble. I fancy she knew something, 
for I may have dropped a word here or a word 
there; but until yesterday, after you gentlemen had 
seen her, she never knew the rights of the mat- 
ter. She told you all she knew, and so did Barker 
here; for on the night when this thing happened 
there was mighty little time for explanations. She 
knows everything now, and I would have been a 
wiser man if I had told her sooner. But it was a 
hard question, dear," he took her hand for an in- 
stant in his own, "and I acted for the best. 

"Well, gentlemen, the day before these hap- 
penings I was over in Tunbridge Wells, and I got 
a glimpse of a man in the street. It was only a 
glimpse; but I have a quick eye for these things, 
and I never doubted who it was. It was the worst 
enemy I had among them all — one who has been 
after me like a hungry wolf after a caribou all these 
years. I knew there was trouble coming, and I 
came home and made ready for it. I guessed I'd 
fight through it all right on my own, my luck was 
a proverb in the States about '76. I never doubted 
that it would be with me still. 

"I was on my guard all that next day, and never 
went out into the park. It's as well, or he'd have 
had the drop on me with that buckshot gun of his 
before ever I could draw on him. After the bridge 
was up — my mind was always more restful when 
that bridge was up in the evenings — I put the thing 
clear out of my head. I never dreamed of his get- 
ting into the house and waiting for me. But when 
I made my round in my dressing gown, as was 
my habit, I had no sooner entered the study than I 
scented danger. I guess when a man has had dan- 
gers in his life — and I've had more than most in 
my time — there is a kind of sixth sense that waves 
the red flag. I saw the signal clear enough, and 
yet I couldn't tell you why. Next instant I spotted 
a boot under the window curtain, and then I saw 
why plain enough. 

"I'd just the one candle that was in my hand; 
but there was a good light from the hall lamp 
through the open door. I put down the candle and 
jumped for a hammer that I'd left on the mantel. 
At the same moment he sprang at me. I saw the 
glint of a knife, and I lashed at him with the ham- 
mer. I got him somewhere; for the knife tinkled 


down on the floor. He dodged round the table as 
quick as an eel, and a moment later he'd got his 
gun from under his coat. I heard him cock it; but I 
had got hold of it before he could fire. I had it by 
the barrel, and we wrestled for it all ends up for a 
minute or more. It was death to the man that lost 
his grip. 

"He never lost his grip; but he got it butt down- 
ward for a moment too long. Maybe it was I that 
pulled the trigger. Maybe we just jolted it off be- 
tween us. Anyhow, he got both barrels in the face, 
and there I was, staring down at all that was left 
of Ted Baldwin. I'd recognized him in the town- 
ship, and again when he sprang for me; but his 
own mother wouldn't recognize him as I saw him 
then. I'm used to rough work; but I fairly turned 
sick at the sight of him. 

"I was hanging on the side of the table when 
Barker came hurrying down. I heard my wife com- 
ing, and I ran to the door and stopped her. It was 
no sight for a woman. I promised I'd come to her 
soon. I said a word or two to Barker — he took it all 
in at a glance — and we waited for the rest to come 
along. But there was no sign of them. Then we un- 
derstood that they could hear nothing, and that all 
that had happened was known only to ourselves. 

"It was at that instant that the idea came to me. 
I was fairly dazzled by the brilliance of it. The 
man's sleeve had slipped up and there was the 
branded mark of the lodge upon his forearm. See 
here!" 

The man whom we had known as Douglas 
turned up his own coat and cuff to show a brown 
triangle within a circle exactly like that which we 
had seen upon the dead man. 

"It was the sight of that which started me on it. 
I seemed to see it all clear at a glance. There were 
his height and hair and figure, about the same as 
my own. No one could swear to his face, poor 
devil! I brought down this suit of clothes, and in a 
quarter of an hour Barker and I had put my dress- 
ing gown on him and he lay as you found him. We 
tied all his things into a bundle, and I weighted 
them with the only weight I could find and put 
them through the window. The card he had meant 
to lay upon my body was lying beside his own. 

"My rings were put on his finger; but when it 
came to the wedding ring," he held out his mus- 
cular hand, "you can see for yourselves that I had 
struck the limit. I have not moved it since the day I 
was married, and it would have taken a file to get it 
off. I don't know, anyhow, that I should have cared 
to part with it; but if I had wanted to I couldn't. So 
we just had to leave that detail to take care of itself. 


697 



The Valley Of Fear 


On the other hand, I brought a bit of plaster down 
and put it where I am wearing one myself at this 
instant. You slipped up there, Mr. Holmes, clever 
as you are; for if you had chanced to take off that 
plaster you would have found no cut underneath 
it. 

"Well, that was the situation. If I could lie low 
for a while and then get away where I could be 
joined by my 'widow' we should have a chance 
at last of living in peace for the rest of our lives. 
These devils would give me no rest so long as I 
was above ground; but if they saw in the papers 
that Baldwin had got his man, there would be an 
end of all my troubles. I hadn't much time to make 
it all clear to Barker and to my wife; but they un- 
derstood enough to be able to help me. I knew all 
about this hiding place, so did Ames; but it never 
entered his head to connect it with the matter. I 
retired into it, and it was up to Barker to do the 
rest. 

"I guess you can fill in for yourselves what he 
did. He opened the window and made the mark 
on the sill to give an idea of how the murderer es- 
caped. It was a tall order, that; but as the bridge 
was up there was no other way. Then, when ev- 
erything was fixed, he rang the bell for all he was 
worth. What happened afterward you know. And 
so, gentlemen, you can do what you please; but 
I've told you the truth and the whole truth, so help 
me God! What I ask you now is how do I stand by 
the English law?" 

There was a silence which was broken by Sher- 
lock Holmes. 


"The English law is in the main a just law. You 
will get no worse than your deserts from that, Mr. 
Douglas. But I would ask you how did this man 
know that you lived here, or how to get into your 
house, or where to hide to get you?" 

"I know nothing of this." 

Holmes's face was very white and grave. "The 
story is not over yet, I fear," said he. "You may find 
worse dangers than the English law, or even than 
your enemies from America. I see trouble before 
you, Mr. Douglas. You'll take my advice and still 
be on your guard." 

And now, my long-suffering readers, I will ask 
you to come away with me for a time, far from 
the Sussex Manor House of Birlstone, and far also 
from the year of grace in which we made our 
eventful journey which ended with the strange 
story of the man who had been known as John 
Douglas. I wish you to journey back some twenty 
years in time, and westward some thousands of 
miles in space, that I may lay before you a singular 
and terrible narrative — so singular and so terrible 
that you may find it hard to believe that even as I 
tell it, even so did it occur. 

Do not think that I intrude one story before an- 
other is finished. As you read on you will find that 
this is not so. And when I have detailed those dis- 
tant events and you have solved this mystery of the 
past, we shall meet once more in those rooms on 
Baker Street, where this, like so many other won- 
derful happenings, will find its end. 


698 



The Valley Of Fear 


CHAPTER IIX. 


The police trial had passed, in which the case 
of John Douglas was referred to a higher court. So 
had the Quarter Sessions, at which he was acquit- 
ted as having acted in self-defense. 

"Get him out of England at any cost," wrote 
Holmes to the wife. "There are forces here which 
may be more dangerous than those he has escaped. 
There is no safety for your husband in England." 

Two months had gone by, and the case had to 
some extent passed from our minds. Then one 
morning there came an enigmatic note slipped into 
our letter box. "Dear me, Mr. Holmes. Dear me!" 
said this singular epistle. There was neither su- 
perscription nor signature. I laughed at the quaint 
message; but Holmes showed unwonted serious- 
ness. 

"Deviltry, Watson!" he remarked, and sat long 
with a clouded brow. 

Late last night Mrs. Hudson, our landlady, 
brought up a message that a gentleman wished to 
see Holmes, and that the matter was of the utmost 
importance. Close at the heels of his messenger 
came Cecil Barker, our friend of the moated Manor 
House. His face was drawn and haggard. 

"I've had bad news — terrible news, Mr. 
Holmes," said he. 

"I feared as much," said Holmes. 

"You have not had a cable, have you?" 

"I have had a note from someone who has." 

"It's poor Douglas. They tell me his name 
is Edwards; but he will always be Jack Douglas 
of Benito Canyon to me. I told you that they 
started together for South Africa in the Palmyra 
three weeks ago." 


"Exactly." 

"The ship reached Cape Town last night. I re- 
ceived this cable from Mrs. Douglas this morn- 
ing:— 

"Jack has been lost overboard in gale 
off St. Helena. No one knows how ac- 
cident occurred. — "Ivy Douglas." 

"Ha! It came like that, did it?" said Holmes, 
thoughtfully. "Well, I've no doubt it was well 
stage-managed." 

"You mean that you think there was no acci- 
dent?" 

"None in the world." 

"He was murdered?" 

"Surely!" 

"So I think also. These infernal Scowrers, this 
cursed vindictive nest of criminals — " 

"No, no, my good sir," said Holmes. "There is 
a master hand here. It is no case of sawed-off shot- 
guns and clumsy six-shooters. You can tell an old 
master by the sweep of his brush. I can tell a Mo- 
riarty when I see one. This crime is from London, 
not from America." 

"But for what motive?" 

"Because it is done by a man who cannot af- 
ford to fail — one whose whole unique position de- 
pends upon the fact that all he does must succeed. 
A great brain and a huge organization have been 
turned to the extinction of one man. It is crushing 
the nut with the hammer — an absurd extravagance 
of energy — but the nut is very effectually crushed 
all the same." 

"How came this man to have anything to do 
with it?" 


737 



"I can only say that the first word that ever 
came to us of the business was from one of his lieu- 
tenants. These Americans were well advised. Hav- 
ing an English job to do, they took into partner- 
ship, as any foreign criminal could do, this great 
consultant in crime. From that moment their man 
was doomed. At first he would content himself by 
using his machinery in order to find their victim. 
Then he would indicate how the matter might be 
treated. Finally, when he read in the reports of 
the failure of this agent, he would step in himself 
with a master touch. You heard me warn this man 
at Birlstone Manor House that the coming danger 


was greater than the past. Was I right?" 

Barker beat his head with his clenched fist in 
his impotent anger. 

"Do you tell me that we have to sit down un- 
der this? Do you say that no one can ever get level 
with this king-devil?" 

"No, I don't say that," said Holmes, and his 
eyes seemed to be looking far into the future. "I 
don't say that he can't be beat. But you must give 
me time — you must give me time!" 

We all sat in silence for some minutes, while 
those fateful eyes still strained to pierce the veil. 



The Adventure of the Beryl Coronet 


K olmes," said I as I stood one morn- 
■ ing in our bow-window looking down 
I the street, "here is a madman coming 
along. It seems rather sad that his rel- 
atives should allow him to come out alone." 

My friend rose lazily from his armchair and 
stood with his hands in the pockets of his dressing- 
gown, looking over my shoulder. It was a bright, 
crisp February morning, and the snow of the day 
before still lay deep upon the ground, shimmer- 
ing brightly in the wintry sun. Down the centre 
of Baker Street it had been ploughed into a brown 
crumbly band by the traffic, but at either side and 
on the heaped-up edges of the foot-paths it still 
lay as white as when it fell. The grey pavement 
had been cleaned and scraped, but was still dan- 
gerously slippery, so that there were fewer pas- 
sengers than usual. Indeed, from the direction of 
the Metropolitan Station no one was coming save 
the single gentleman whose eccentric conduct had 
drawn my attention. 

He was a man of about fifty, tall, portly, and 
imposing, with a massive, strongly marked face 
and a commanding figure. He was dressed in a 
sombre yet rich style, in black frock-coat, shining 
hat, neat brown gaiters, and well-cut pearl-grey 
trousers. Yet his actions were in absurd contrast 
to the dignity of his dress and features, for he was 
running hard, with occasional little springs, such 
as a weary man gives who is little accustomed to 
set any tax upon his legs. As he ran he jerked 
his hands up and down, waggled his head, and 
writhed his face into the most extraordinary con- 
tortions. 

"What on earth can be the matter with him?" 
I asked. "He is looking up at the numbers of the 
houses." 

"I believe that he is coming here," said Holmes, 
rubbing his hands. 

"Here?" 

"Yes; I rather think he is coming to consult me 
professionally. I think that I recognise the symp- 
toms. Ha! did I not tell you?" As he spoke, the 
man, puffing and blowing, rushed at our door and 
pulled at our bell until the whole house resounded 
with the clanging. 

A few moments later he was in our room, still 
puffing, still gesticulating, but with so fixed a look 
of grief and despair in his eyes that our smiles were 
turned in an instant to horror and pity. For a while 
he could not get his words out, but swayed his 
body and plucked at his hair like one who has 
been driven to the extreme limits of his reason. 


Then, suddenly springing to his feet, he beat his 
head against the wall with such force that we both 
rushed upon him and tore him away to the centre 
of the room. Sherlock Holmes pushed him down 
into the easy-chair and, sitting beside him, patted 
his hand and chatted with him in the easy, sooth- 
ing tones which he knew so well how to employ. 

"You have come to me to tell your story, have 
you not?" said he. "You are fatigued with your 
haste. Pray wait until you have recovered yourself, 
and then I shall be most happy to look into any 
little problem which you may submit to me." 

The man sat for a minute or more with a heav- 
ing chest, fighting against his emotion. Then he 
passed his handkerchief over his brow, set his lips 
tight, and turned his face towards us. 

"No doubt you think me mad?" said he. 

"I see that you have had some great trouble," 
responded Holmes. 

"God knows I have! — a trouble which is 
enough to unseat my reason, so sudden and so 
terrible is it. Public disgrace I might have faced, 
although I am a man whose character has never 
yet borne a stain. Private affliction also is the lot 
of every man; but the two coming together, and 
in so frightful a form, have been enough to shake 
my very soul. Besides, it is not I alone. The very 
noblest in the land may suffer unless some way be 
found out of this horrible affair." 

"Pray compose yourself, sir," said Holmes, 
"and let me have a clear account of who you are 
and what it is that has befallen you." 

"My name," answered our visitor, "is proba- 
bly familiar to your ears. I am Alexander Holder, 
of the banking firm of Holder & Stevenson, of 
Threadneedle Street." 

The name was indeed well known to us as be- 
longing to the senior partner in the second largest 
private banking concern in the City of London. 
What could have happened, then, to bring one 
of the foremost citizens of London to this most 
pitiable pass? We waited, all curiosity, until with 
another effort he braced himself to tell his story. 

"I feel that time is of value," said he; "that is 
why I hastened here when the police inspector 
suggested that I should secure your co-operation. 
I came to Baker Street by the Underground and 
hurried from there on foot, for the cabs go slowly 
through this snow. That is why I was so out of 
breath, for I am a man who takes very little ex- 
ercise. I feel better now, and I will put the facts 
before you as shortly and yet as clearly as I can. 

"It is, of course, well known to you that in 
a successful banking business as much depends 


251 



The Adventure of the Beryl Coronet 


upon our being able to find remunerative invest- 
ments for our funds as upon our increasing our 
connection and the number of our depositors. One 
of our most lucrative means of laying out money is 
in the shape of loans, where the security is unim- 
peachable. We have done a good deal in this direc- 
tion during the last few years, and there are many 
noble families to whom we have advanced large 
sums upon the security of their pictures, libraries, 
or plate. 

"Yesterday morning I was seated in my office 
at the bank when a card was brought in to me by 
one of the clerks. I started when I saw the name, 
for it was that of none other than — well, perhaps 
even to you I had better say no more than that it 
was a name which is a household word all over 
the earth — one of the highest, noblest, most ex- 
alted names in England. I was overwhelmed by 
the honour and attempted, when he entered, to say 
so, but he plunged at once into business with the 
air of a man who wishes to hurry quickly through 
a disagreeable task. 

" 'Mr. Holder/ said he, 'I have been informed 
that you are in the habit of advancing money.' 

"'The firm does so when the security is good.' 
I answered. 

" 'It is absolutely essential to me,' said he, 'that 
I should have £50,000 at once. I could, of course, 
borrow so trifling a sum ten times over from my 
friends, but I much prefer to make it a matter of 
business and to carry out that business myself. In 
my position you can readily understand that it is 
unwise to place one's self under obligations.' 

" 'For how long, may I ask, do you want this 
sum?' I asked. 

" 'Next Monday I have a large sum due to me, 
and I shall then most certainly repay what you ad- 
vance, with whatever interest you think it right 
to charge. But it is very essential to me that the 
money should be paid at once.' 

" 'I should be happy to advance it without fur- 
ther parley from my own private purse,' said I, 
'were it not that the strain would be rather more 
than it could bear. If, on the other hand, I am to 
do it in the name of the firm, then in justice to my 
partner I must insist that, even in your case, every 
businesslike precaution should be taken.' 

" 'I should much prefer to have it so,' said he, 
raising up a square, black morocco case which he 
had laid beside his chair. 'You have doubtless 
heard of the Beryl Coronet?' 

" 'One of the most precious public possessions 
of the empire,' said I. 


" 'Precisely.' He opened the case, and there, 
imbedded in soft, flesh-coloured velvet, lay the 
magnificent piece of jewellery which he had 
named. 'There are thirty-nine enormous beryls,' 
said he, 'and the price of the gold chasing is incal- 
culable. The lowest estimate would put the worth 
of the coronet at double the sum which I have 
asked. I am prepared to leave it with you as my 
security.' 

"I took the precious case into my hands and 
looked in some perplexity from it to my illustrious 
client. 

" 'You doubt its value?' he asked. 

" 'Not at all. I only doubt — ' 

" 'The propriety of my leaving it. You may set 
your mind at rest about that. I should not dream 
of doing so were it not absolutely certain that I 
should be able in four days to reclaim it. It is a 
pure matter of form. Is the security sufficient?' 

" 'Ample.' 

" 'You understand, Mr. Holder, that I am giv- 
ing you a strong proof of the confidence which I 
have in you, founded upon all that I have heard 
of you. I rely upon you not only to be discreet 
and to refrain from all gossip upon the matter but, 
above all, to preserve this coronet with every pos- 
sible precaution because I need not say that a great 
public scandal would be caused if any harm were 
to befall it. Any injury to it would be almost as se- 
rious as its complete loss, for there are no beryls in 
the world to match these, and it would be impos- 
sible to replace them. I leave it with you, however, 
with every confidence, and I shall call for it in per- 
son on Monday morning.' 

"Seeing that my client was anxious to leave, I 
said no more but, calling for my cashier, I ordered 
him to pay over fifty £1000 notes. When I was 
alone once more, however, with the precious case 
lying upon the table in front of me, I could not 
but think with some misgivings of the immense 
responsibility which it entailed upon me. There 
could be no doubt that, as it was a national posses- 
sion, a horrible scandal would ensue if any misfor- 
tune should occur to it. I already regretted having 
ever consented to take charge of it. However, it 
was too late to alter the matter now, so I locked it 
up in my private safe and turned once more to my 
work. 

"When evening came I felt that it would be an 
imprudence to leave so precious a thing in the of- 
fice behind me. Bankers' safes had been forced 
before now, and why should not mine be? If 
so, how terrible would be the position in which 


252 



The Adventure of the Beryl Coronet 


I should find myself! I determined, therefore, that 
for the next few days I would always carry the case 
backward and forward with me, so that it might 
never be really out of my reach. With this inten- 
tion, I called a cab and drove out to my house 
at Streatham, carrying the jewel with me. I did 
not breathe freely until I had taken it upstairs and 
locked it in the bureau of my dressing-room. 

"And now a word as to my household, Mr. 
Holmes, for I wish you to thoroughly understand 
the situation. My groom and my page sleep out 
of the house, and may be set aside altogether. I 
have three maid-servants who have been with me 
a number of years and whose absolute reliability 
is quite above suspicion. Another, Lucy Parr, the 
second waiting-maid, has only been in my service 
a few months. She came with an excellent charac- 
ter, however, and has always given me satisfaction. 
She is a very pretty girl and has attracted admirers 
who have occasionally hung about the place. That 
is the only drawback which we have found to her, 
but we believe her to be a thoroughly good girl in 
every way. 

"So much for the servants. My family itself is 
so small that it will not take me long to describe it. 
I am a widower and have an only son, Arthur. He 
has been a disappointment to me, Mr. Holmes — a 
grievous disappointment. I have no doubt that I 
am myself to blame. People tell me that I have 
spoiled him. Very likely I have. When my dear 
wife died I felt that he was all I had to love. I could 
not bear to see the smile fade even for a moment 
from his face. I have never denied him a wish. Per- 
haps it would have been better for both of us had 
I been sterner, but I meant it for the best. 

"It was naturally my intention that he should 
succeed me in my business, but he was not of a 
business turn. He was wild, wayward, and, to 
speak the truth, I could not trust him in the han- 
dling of large sums of money. When he was young 
he became a member of an aristocratic club, and 
there, having charming manners, he was soon the 
intimate of a number of men with long purses and 
expensive habits. He learned to play heavily at 
cards and to squander money on the turf, until he 
had again and again to come to me and implore 
me to give him an advance upon his allowance, 
that he might settle his debts of honour. He tried 
more than once to break away from the dangerous 
company which he was keeping, but each time the 
influence of his friend. Sir George Burnwell, was 
enough to draw him back again. 

"And, indeed, I could not wonder that such a 
man as Sir George Burnwell should gain an in- 
fluence over him, for he has frequently brought 


him to my house, and I have found myself that I 
could hardly resist the fascination of his manner. 
He is older than Arthur, a man of the world to his 
finger-tips, one who had been everywhere, seen 
everything, a brilliant talker, and a man of great 
personal beauty. Yet when I think of him in cold 
blood, far away from the glamour of his presence, 
I am convinced from his cynical speech and the 
look which I have caught in his eyes that he is one 
who should be deeply distrusted. So I think, and 
so, too, thinks my little Mary, who has a woman's 
quick insight into character. 

"And now there is only she to be described. 
She is my niece; but when my brother died five 
years ago and left her alone in the world I adopted 
her, and have looked upon her ever since as my 
daughter. She is a sunbeam in my house — sweet, 
loving, beautiful, a wonderful manager and house- 
keeper, yet as tender and quiet and gentle as a 
woman could be. She is my right hand. I do not 
know what I could do without her. In only one 
matter has she ever gone against my wishes. Twice 
my boy has asked her to marry him, for he loves 
her devotedly, but each time she has refused him. 
I think that if anyone could have drawn him into 
the right path it would have been she, and that his 
marriage might have changed his whole life; but 
now, alas! it is too late — forever too late! 

"Now, Mr. Holmes, you know the people who 
live under my roof, and I shall continue with my 
miserable story. 

"When we were taking coffee in the drawing- 
room that night after dinner, I told Arthur and 
Mary my experience, and of the precious trea- 
sure which we had under our roof, suppressing 
only the name of my client. Lucy Parr, who had 
brought in the coffee, had, I am sure, left the room; 
but I cannot swear that the door was closed. Mary 
and Arthur were much interested and wished to 
see the famous coronet, but I thought it better not 
to disturb it. 

" 'Where have you put it?' asked Arthur. 

" 'In my own bureau.' 

" 'Well, I hope to goodness the house won't be 
burgled during the night.' said he. 

" 'It is locked up,' I answered. 

" 'Oh, any old key will fit that bureau. When I 
was a youngster I have opened it myself with the 
key of the box-room cupboard.' 

"He often had a wild way of talking, so that I 
thought little of what he said. He followed me to 
my room, however, that night with a very grave 
face. 


253 



The Adventure of the Beryl Coronet 


" 'Look here, dad/ said he with his eyes cast 
down, 'can you let me have £200?' 

" 'No, I cannot!' I answered sharply. 'I have 
been far too generous with you in money matters.' 

" 'You have been very kind,' said he, 'but I must 
have this money, or else I can never show my face 
inside the club again.' 

" 'And a very good thing, too!' I cried. 

" 'Yes, but you would not have me leave it a 
dishonoured man,' said he. 'I could not bear the 
disgrace. I must raise the money in some way, and 
if you will not let me have it, then I must try other 
means.' 

"I was very angry, for this was the third de- 
mand during the month. 'You shall not have a 
farthing from me/ 1 cried, on which he bowed and 
left the room without another word. 

"When he was gone I unlocked my bureau, 
made sure that my treasure was safe, and locked it 
again. Then I started to go round the house to see 
that all was secure — a duty which I usually leave 
to Mary but which I thought it well to perform 
myself that night. As I came down the stairs I saw 
Mary herself at the side window of the hall, which 
she closed and fastened as I approached. 

" 'Tell me, dad/ said she, looking, I thought, a 
little disturbed, 'did you give Lucy, the maid, leave 
to go out to-night?' 

" 'Certainly not.' 

" 'She came in just now by the back door. I have 
no doubt that she has only been to the side gate to 
see someone, but I think that it is hardly safe and 
should be stopped.' 

" 'You must speak to her in the morning, or I 
will if you prefer it. Are you sure that everything 
is fastened?' 

" 'Quite sure, dad.' 

" 'Then, good-night.' I kissed her and went up 
to my bedroom again, where I was soon asleep. 

"I am endeavouring to tell you everything, Mr. 
Holmes, which may have any bearing upon the 
case, but I beg that you will question me upon any 
point which I do not make clear." 

"On the contrary, your statement is singularly 
lucid." 

"I come to a part of my story now in which I 
should wish to be particularly so. I am not a very 
heavy sleeper, and the anxiety in my mind tended, 
no doubt, to make me even less so than usual. 
About two in the morning, then, I was awakened 
by some sound in the house. It had ceased ere 


I was wide awake, but it had left an impression 
behind it as though a window had gently closed 
somewhere. I lay listening with all my ears. Sud- 
denly, to my horror, there was a distinct sound of 
footsteps moving softly in the next room. I slipped 
out of bed, all palpitating with fear, and peeped 
round the corner of my dressing-room door. 

"'Arthur!' I screamed, 'you villain! you thief! 
How dare you touch that coronet?' 

"The gas was half up, as I had left it, and 
my unhappy boy, dressed only in his shirt and 
trousers, was standing beside the light, holding the 
coronet in his hands. He appeared to be wrench- 
ing at it, or bending it with all his strength. At 
my cry he dropped it from his grasp and turned 
as pale as death. I snatched it up and examined it. 
One of the gold corners, with three of the beryls in 
it, was missing. 

" 'You blackguard!' I shouted, beside myself 
with rage. 'You have destroyed it! You have dis- 
honoured me forever! Where are the jewels which 
you have stolen?' 

" 'Stolen!' he cried. 

" 'Yes, thief!' I roared, shaking him by the 
shoulder. 

" 'There are none missing. There cannot be any 
missing/ said he. 

" 'There are three missing. And you know 
where they are. Must I call you a liar as well as 
a thief? Did I not see you trying to tear off another 
piece?' 

" 'You have called me names enough/ said he, 
'I will not stand it any longer. I shall not say 
another word about this business, since you have 
chosen to insult me. I will leave your house in the 
morning and make my own way in the world.' 

" 'You shall leave it in the hands of the police!' 
I cried half-mad with grief and rage. 'I shall have 
this matter probed to the bottom.' 

" 'You shall learn nothing from me,' said he 
with a passion such as I should not have thought 
was in his nature. 'If you choose to call the police, 
let the police find what they can.' 

"By this time the whole house was astir, for I 
had raised my voice in my anger. Mary was the 
first to rush into my room, and, at the sight of the 
coronet and of Arthur's face, she read the whole 
story and, with a scream, fell down senseless on 
the ground. I sent the house-maid for the police 
and put the investigation into their hands at once. 
When the inspector and a constable entered the 
house, Arthur, who had stood sullenly with his 


254 



The Adventure of the Beryl Coronet 


arms folded, asked me whether it was my inten- 
tion to charge him with theft. I answered that it 
had ceased to be a private matter, but had become 
a public one, since the ruined coronet was national 
property. I was determined that the law should 
have its way in everything. 

" 'At least/ said he, 'you will not have me ar- 
rested at once. It would be to your advantage as 
well as mine if I might leave the house for five min- 
utes.' 

" 'That you may get away, or perhaps that you 
may conceal what you have stolen/ said I. And 
then, realising the dreadful position in which I was 
placed, I implored him to remember that not only 
my honour but that of one who was far greater 
than I was at stake; and that he threatened to raise 
a scandal which would convulse the nation. He 
might avert it all if he would but tell me what he 
had done with the three missing stones. 

"'You may as well face the matter/ said I; 
'you have been caught in the act, and no confes- 
sion could make your guilt more heinous. If you 
but make such reparation as is in your power, by 
telling us where the beryls are, all shall be forgiven 
and forgotten.' 

" 'Keep your forgiveness for those who ask for 
it/ he answered, turning away from me with a 
sneer. I saw that he was too hardened for any 
words of mine to influence him. There was but 
one way for it. I called in the inspector and gave 
him into custody. A search was made at once not 
only of his person but of his room and of every 
portion of the house where he could possibly have 
concealed the gems; but no trace of them could 
be found, nor would the wretched boy open his 
mouth for all our persuasions and our threats. 
This morning he was removed to a cell, and I, af- 
ter going through all the police formalities, have 
hurried round to you to implore you to use your 
skill in unravelling the matter. The police have 
openly confessed that they can at present make 
nothing of it. You may go to any expense which 
you think necessary. I have already offered a re- 
ward of £1000. My God, what shall I do! I have lost 
my honour, my gems, and my son in one night. 
Oh, what shall I do!" 

He put a hand on either side of his head and 
rocked himself to and fro, droning to himself like 
a child whose grief has got beyond words. 

Sherlock Holmes sat silent for some few min- 
utes, with his brows knitted and his eyes fixed 
upon the fire. 

"Do you receive much company?" he asked. 


"None save my partner with his family and an 
occasional friend of Arthur's. Sir George Burnwell 
has been several times lately. No one else, I think." 

"Do you go out much in society?" 

"Arthur does. Mary and I stay at home. We 
neither of us care for it. " 

"That is unusual in a young girl." 

"She is of a quiet nature. Besides, she is not so 
very young. She is four-and-twenty." 

"This matter, from what you say, seems to have 
been a shock to her also." 

"Terrible! She is even more affected than I." 

"You have neither of you any doubt as to your 
son's guilt?" 

"How can we have when I saw him with my 
own eyes with the coronet in his hands." 

"I hardly consider that a conclusive proof. Was 
the remainder of the coronet at all injured?" 

"Yes, it was twisted." 

"Do you not think, then, that he might have 
been trying to straighten it?" 

"God bless you! You are doing what you can 
for him and for me. But it is too heavy a task. 
What was he doing there at all? If his purpose 
were innocent, why did he not say so?" 

"Precisely. And if it were guilty, why did he 
not invent a lie? His silence appears to me to cut 
both ways. There are several singular points about 
the case. What did the police think of the noise 
which awoke you from your sleep?" 

"They considered that it might be caused by 
Arthur's closing his bedroom door." 

"A likely story! As if a man bent on felony 
would slam his door so as to wake a household. 
What did they say, then, of the disappearance of 
these gems?" 

"They are still sounding the planking and 
probing the furniture in the hope of finding them." 

"Have they thought of looking outside the 
house?" 

"Yes, they have shown extraordinary energy. 
The whole garden has already been minutely ex- 
amined." 

"Now, my dear sir," said Holmes, "is it not 
obvious to you now that this matter really strikes 
very much deeper than either you or the police 
were at first inclined to think? It appeared to you 
to be a simple case; to me it seems exceedingly 
complex. Consider what is involved by your the- 
ory. You suppose that your son came down from 
his bed, went, at great risk, to your dressing-room, 
opened your bureau, took out your coronet, broke 
off by main force a small portion of it, went off 


255 



The Adventure of the Beryl Coronet 


to some other place, concealed three gems out of 
the thirty-nine, with such skill that nobody can 
find them, and then returned with the other thirty- 
six into the room in which he exposed himself to 
the greatest danger of being discovered. I ask you 
now, is such a theory tenable?" 

"But what other is there?" cried the banker 
with a gesture of despair. "If his motives were in- 
nocent, why does he not explain them?" 

"It is our task to find that out," replied Holmes; 
"so now, if you please, Mr. Holder, we will set 
off for Streatham together, and devote an hour to 
glancing a little more closely into details." 

My friend insisted upon my accompanying 
them in their expedition, which I was eager 
enough to do, for my curiosity and sympathy were 
deeply stirred by the story to which we had lis- 
tened. I confess that the guilt of the banker's 
son appeared to me to be as obvious as it did to 
his unhappy father, but still I had such faith in 
Holmes' judgment that I felt that there must be 
some grounds for hope as long as he was dissat- 
isfied with the accepted explanation. He hardly 
spoke a word the whole way out to the southern 
suburb, but sat with his chin upon his breast and 
his hat drawn over his eyes, sunk in the deepest 
thought. Our client appeared to have taken fresh 
heart at the little glimpse of hope which had been 
presented to him, and he even broke into a desul- 
tory chat with me over his business affairs. A 
short railway journey and a shorter walk brought 
us to Fairbank, the modest residence of the great 
financier. 

Fairbank was a good-sized square house of 
white stone, standing back a little from the road. 
A double carriage-sweep, with a snow-clad lawn, 
stretched down in front to two large iron gates 
which closed the entrance. On the right side was 
a small wooden thicket, which led into a narrow 
path between two neat hedges stretching from the 
road to the kitchen door, and forming the trades- 
men's entrance. On the left ran a lane which 
led to the stables, and was not itself within the 
grounds at all, being a public, though little used, 
thoroughfare. Holmes left us standing at the door 
and walked slowly all round the house, across the 
front, down the tradesmen's path, and so round by 
the garden behind into the stable lane. So long was 
he that Mr. Holder and I went into the dining-room 
and waited by the fire until he should return. We 
were sitting there in silence when the door opened 
and a young lady came in. She was rather above 
the middle height, slim, with dark hair and eyes. 


which seemed the darker against the absolute pal- 
lor of her skin. I do not think that I have ever seen 
such deadly paleness in a woman's face. Her lips, 
too, were bloodless, but her eyes were flushed with 
crying. As she swept silently into the room she 
impressed me with a greater sense of grief than 
the banker had done in the morning, and it was 
the more striking in her as she was evidently a 
woman of strong character, with immense capac- 
ity for self-restraint. Disregarding my presence, 
she went straight to her uncle and passed her hand 
over his head with a sweet womanly caress. 

"You have given orders that Arthur should be 
liberated, have you not, dad?" she asked. 

"No, no, my girl, the matter must be probed to 
the bottom." 

"But I am so sure that he is innocent. You know 
what woman's instincts are. I know that he has 
done no harm and that you will be sorry for hav- 
ing acted so harshly." 

"Why is he silent, then, if he is innocent?" 

"Who knows? Perhaps because he was so an- 
gry that you should suspect him." 

"How could I help suspecting him, when I ac- 
tually saw him with the coronet in his hand?" 

"Oh, but he had only picked it up to look at 
it. Oh, do, do take my word for it that he is inno- 
cent. Let the matter drop and say no more. It is so 
dreadful to think of our dear Arthur in a prison!" 

"I shall never let it drop until the gems are 
found — never, Mary! Your affection for Arthur 
blinds you as to the awful consequences to me. Far 
from hushing the thing up, I have brought a gen- 
tleman down from London to inquire more deeply 
into it." 

"This gentleman?" she asked, facing round to 

me. 

"No, his friend. He wished us to leave him 
alone. He is round in the stable lane now." 

"The stable lane?" She raised her dark eye- 
brows. "What can he hope to find there? Ah! this, 
I suppose, is he. I trust, sir, that you will succeed 
in proving, what I feel sure is the truth, that my 
cousin Arthur is innocent of this crime." 

"I fully share your opinion, and I trust, with 
you, that we may prove it," returned Holmes, go- 
ing back to the mat to knock the snow from his 
shoes. "I believe I have the honour of addressing 
Miss Mary Holder. Might I ask you a question or 
two?" 

"Pray do, sir, if it may help to clear this horrible 
affair up." 


256 



The Adventure of the Beryl Coronet 


"You heard nothing yourself last night?" 

"Nothing, until my uncle here began to speak 
loudly I heard that, and I came down." 

"You shut up the windows and doors the night 
before. Did you fasten all the windows?" 

"Yes." 

"Were they all fastened this morning?" 

"Yes." 

"You have a maid who has a sweetheart? I 
think that you remarked to your uncle last night 
that she had been out to see him?" 

"Yes, and she was the girl who waited in the 
drawing-room, and who may have heard uncle's 
remarks about the coronet." 

"I see. You infer that she may have gone out 
to tell her sweetheart, and that the two may have 
planned the robbery." 

"But what is the good of all these vague theo- 
ries," cried the banker impatiently, "when I have 
told you that I saw Arthur with the coronet in his 
hands?" 

"Wait a little, Mr. Holder. We must come back 
to that. About this girl. Miss Holder. You saw her 
return by the kitchen door, I presume?" 

"Yes; when I went to see if the door was fas- 
tened for the night I met her slipping in. I saw the 
man, too, in the gloom." 

"Do you know him?" 

"Oh, yes! he is the green-grocer who brings our 
vegetables round. His name is Francis Prosper." 

"He stood," said Holmes, "to the left of the 
door — that is to say, farther up the path than is 
necessary to reach the door?" 

"Yes, he did." 

"And he is a man with a wooden leg?" 

Something like fear sprang up in the young 
lady's expressive black eyes. "Why, you are like 
a magician," said she. "How do you know that?" 
She smiled, but there was no answering smile in 
Holmes' thin, eager face. 

"I should be very glad now to go upstairs," said 
he. "I shall probably wish to go over the outside of 
the house again. Perhaps I had better take a look 
at the lower windows before I go up." 

He walked swiftly round from one to the other, 
pausing only at the large one which looked from 
the hall onto the stable lane. This he opened and 
made a very careful examination of the sill with 
his powerful magnifying lens. "Now we shall go 
upstairs," said he at last. 


The banker's dressing-room was a plainly fur- 
nished little chamber, with a grey carpet, a large 
bureau, and a long mirror. Holmes went to the 
bureau first and looked hard at the lock. 

"Which key was used to open it?" he asked. 

"That which my son himself indicated — that of 
the cupboard of the lumber-room." 

"Have you it here?" 

"That is it on the dressing-table." 

Sherlock Holmes took it up and opened the bu- 
reau. 

"It is a noiseless lock," said he. "It is no won- 
der that it did not wake you. This case, I presume, 
contains the coronet. We must have a look at it." 
He opened the case, and taking out the diadem he 
laid it upon the table. It was a magnificent speci- 
men of the jeweller's art, and the thirty-six stones 
were the finest that I have ever seen. At one side 
of the coronet was a cracked edge, where a corner 
holding three gems had been torn away. 

"Now, Mr. Holder," said Holmes, "here is the 
corner which corresponds to that which has been 
so unfortunately lost. Might I beg that you will 
break it off." 

The banker recoiled in horror. "I should not 
dream of trying," said he. 

"Then I will." Holmes suddenly bent his 
strength upon it, but without result. "I feel it give 
a little," said he; "but, though I am exceptionally 
strong in the fingers, it would take me all my time 
to break it. An ordinary man could not do it. Now, 
what do you think would happen if I did break it, 
Mr. Holder? There would be a noise like a pistol 
shot. Do you tell me that all this happened within 
a few yards of your bed and that you heard noth- 
ing of it?" 

"I do not know what to think. It is all dark to 
me." 

"But perhaps it may grow lighter as we go. 
What do you think. Miss Holder?" 

"I confess that I still share my uncle's perplex- 
ity." 

"Your son had no shoes or slippers on when 
you saw him?" 

"He had nothing on save only his trousers and 
shirt." 

"Thank you. We have certainly been favoured 
with extraordinary luck during this inquiry, and it 
will be entirely our own fault if we do not succeed 
in clearing the matter up. With your permission, 
Mr. Holder, I shall now continue my investigations 
outside." 

He went alone, at his own request, for he 
explained that any unnecessary footmarks might 


257 



The Adventure of the Beryl Coronet 


make his task more difficult. For an hour or more 
he was at work, returning at last with his feet 
heavy with snow and his features as inscrutable 
as ever. 

"I think that I have seen now all that there is to 
see, Mr. Holder," said he; "I can serve you best by 
returning to my rooms." 

"But the gems, Mr. Holmes. Where are they?" 

"I cannot tell." 

The banker wrung his hands. "I shall never see 
them again!" he cried. "And my son? You give me 
hopes?" 

"My opinion is in no way altered." 

"Then, for God's sake, what was this dark busi- 
ness which was acted in my house last night?" 

"If you can call upon me at my Baker Street 
rooms to-morrow morning between nine and ten I 
shall be happy to do what I can to make it clearer. I 
understand that you give me carte blanche to act for 
you, provided only that I get back the gems, and 
that you place no limit on the sum I may draw." 

"I would give my fortune to have them back." 

"Very good. I shall look into the matter be- 
tween this and then. Good-bye; it is just possible 
that I may have to come over here again before 
evening." 

It was obvious to me that my companion's 
mind was now made up about the case, although 
what his conclusions were was more than I could 
even dimly imagine. Several times during our 
homeward journey I endeavoured to sound him 
upon the point, but he always glided away to some 
other topic, until at last I gave it over in despair. 
It was not yet three when we found ourselves in 
our rooms once more. He hurried to his cham- 
ber and was down again in a few minutes dressed 
as a common loafer. With his collar turned up, 
his shiny, seedy coat, his red cravat, and his worn 
boots, he was a perfect sample of the class. 

"I think that this should do," said he, glancing 
into the glass above the fireplace. "I only wish that 
you could come with me, Watson, but I fear that it 
won't do. I may be on the trail in this matter, or 
I may be following a will-o'-the-wisp, but I shall 
soon know which it is. I hope that I may be back 
in a few hours." He cut a slice of beef from the 
joint upon the sideboard, sandwiched it between 
two rounds of bread, and thrusting this rude meal 
into his pocket he started off upon his expedition. 

I had just finished my tea when he returned, 
evidently in excellent spirits, swinging an old 


elastic-sided boot in his hand. He chucked it down 
into a corner and helped himself to a cup of tea. 

"I only looked in as I passed," said he. "I am 
going right on." 

"Where to?" 

"Oh, to the other side of the West End. It may 
be some time before I get back. Don't wait up for 
me in case I should be late." 

"How are you getting on?" 

"Oh, so so. Nothing to complain of. I have been 
out to Streatham since I saw you last, but I did not 
call at the house. It is a very sweet little problem, 
and I would not have missed it for a good deal. 
However, I must not sit gossiping here, but must 
get these disreputable clothes off and return to my 
highly respectable self." 

I could see by his manner that he had stronger 
reasons for satisfaction than his words alone 
would imply. His eyes twinkled, and there was 
even a touch of colour upon his sallow cheeks. He 
hastened upstairs, and a few minutes later I heard 
the slam of the hall door, which told me that he 
was off once more upon his congenial hunt. 

I waited until midnight, but there was no sign 
of his return, so I retired to my room. It was no 
uncommon thing for him to be away for days and 
nights on end when he was hot upon a scent, so 
that his lateness caused me no surprise. I do not 
know at what hour he came in, but when I came 
down to breakfast in the morning there he was 
with a cup of coffee in one hand and the paper 
in the other, as fresh and trim as possible. 

"You will excuse my beginning without you, 
Watson," said he, "but you remember that our 
client has rather an early appointment this morn- 
ing." 

"Why, it is after nine now," I answered. "I 
should not be surprised if that were he. I thought 
I heard a ring." 

It was, indeed, our friend the financier. I was 
shocked by the change which had come over him, 
for his face which was naturally of a broad and 
massive mould, was now pinched and fallen in, 
while his hair seemed to me at least a shade whiter. 
He entered with a weariness and lethargy which 
was even more painful than his violence of the 
morning before, and he dropped heavily into the 
armchair which I pushed forward for him. 

"I do not know what I have done to be so 
severely tried," said he. "Only two days ago I was 
a happy and prosperous man, without a care in 


258 



The Adventure of the Beryl Coronet 


the world. Now I am left to a lonely and dishon- 
oured age. One sorrow comes close upon the heels 
of another. My niece, Mary, has deserted me." 

"Deserted you?" 

"Yes. Her bed this morning had not been slept 
in, her room was empty, and a note for me lay 
upon the hall table. I had said to her last night, in 
sorrow and not in anger, that if she had married 
my boy all might have been well with him. Per- 
haps it was thoughtless of me to say so. It is to 
that remark that she refers in this note: 

" 'My dearest Uncle: 

" 'I feel that I have brought trouble 
upon you, and that if I had acted dif- 
ferently this terrible misfortune might 
never have occurred. I cannot, with 
this thought in my mind, ever again be 
happy under your roof, and I feel that 
I must leave you forever. Do not worry 
about my future, for that is provided 
for; and, above all, do not search for 
me, for it will be fruitless labour and 
an ill-service to me. In life or in death, 

I am ever 

" 'Your loving 
" 'Mary/ 

"What could she mean by that note, Mr. 
Holmes? Do you think it points to suicide?" 

"No, no, nothing of the kind. It is perhaps the 
best possible solution. I trust, Mr. Holder, that you 
are nearing the end of your troubles." 

"Ha! You say so! You have heard something, 
Mr. Holmes; you have learned something! Where 
are the gems?" 

"You would not think £1000 pounds apiece an 
excessive sum for them?" 

"I would pay ten." 

"That would be unnecessary. Three thousand 
will cover the matter. And there is a little reward, 
I fancy. Have you your check-book? Here is a pen. 
Better make it out for £4000." 

With a dazed face the banker made out the re- 
quired check. Holmes walked over to his desk, 
took out a little triangular piece of gold with three 
gems in it, and threw it down upon the table. 

With a shriek of joy our client clutched it up. 

"You have it!" he gasped. "I am saved! I am 
saved!" 

The reaction of joy was as passionate as his 
grief had been, and he hugged his recovered gems 
to his bosom. 


"There is one other thing you owe, Mr. Holder," 
said Sherlock Holmes rather sternly. 

"Owe!" He caught up a pen. "Name the sum, 
and I will pay it. " 

"No, the debt is not to me. You owe a very 
humble apology to that noble lad, your son, who 
has carried himself in this matter as I should be 
proud to see my own son do, should I ever chance 
to have one." 

"Then it was not Arthur who took them?" 

"I told you yesterday, and I repeat to-day, that 
it was not." 

"You are sure of it! Then let us hurry to him at 
once to let him know that the truth is known." 

"He knows it already. When I had cleared it all 
up I had an interview with him, and finding that 
he would not tell me the story, I told it to him, on 
which he had to confess that I was right and to 
add the very few details which were not yet quite 
clear to me. Your news of this morning, however, 
may open his lips." 

"For heaven's sake, tell me, then, what is this 
extraordinary mystery!" 

"I will do so, and I will show you the steps by 
which I reached it. And let me say to you, first, 
that which it is hardest for me to say and for you 
to hear: there has been an understanding between 
Sir George Burnwell and your niece Mary. They 
have now fled together." 

"My Mary? Impossible!" 

"It is unfortunately more than possible; it is cer- 
tain. Neither you nor your son knew the true char- 
acter of this man when you admitted him into your 
family circle. He is one of the most dangerous men 
in England — a ruined gambler, an absolutely des- 
perate villain, a man without heart or conscience. 
Your niece knew nothing of such men. When he 
breathed his vows to her, as he had done to a hun- 
dred before her, she flattered herself that she alone 
had touched his heart. The devil knows best what 
he said, but at least she became his tool and was 
in the habit of seeing him nearly every evening." 

"I cannot, and I will not, believe it!" cried the 
banker with an ashen face. 

"I will tell you, then, what occurred in your 
house last night. Your niece, when you had, as 
she thought, gone to your room, slipped down 
and talked to her lover through the window which 
leads into the stable lane. His footmarks had 
pressed right through the snow, so long had he 
stood there. She told him of the coronet. His 
wicked lust for gold kindled at the news, and he 
bent her to his will. I have no doubt that she loved 
you, but there are women in whom the love of a 


259 



The Adventure of the Beryl Coronet 


lover extinguishes all other loves, and I think that 
she must have been one. She had hardly listened to 
his instructions when she saw you coming down- 
stairs, on which she closed the window rapidly 
and told you about one of the servants' escapade 
with her wooden-legged lover, which was all per- 
fectly true. 

"Your boy, Arthur, went to bed after his inter- 
view with you but he slept badly on account of 
his uneasiness about his club debts. In the mid- 
dle of the night he heard a soft tread pass his 
door, so he rose and, looking out, was surprised 
to see his cousin walking very stealthily along the 
passage until she disappeared into your dressing- 
room. Petrified with astonishment, the lad slipped 
on some clothes and waited there in the dark to see 
what would come of this strange affair. Presently 
she emerged from the room again, and in the light 
of the passage-lamp your son saw that she car- 
ried the precious coronet in her hands. She passed 
down the stairs, and he, thrilling with horror, ran 
along and slipped behind the curtain near your 
door, whence he could see what passed in the hall 
beneath. He saw her stealthily open the window, 
hand out the coronet to someone in the gloom, and 
then closing it once more hurry back to her room, 
passing quite close to where he stood hid behind 
the curtain. 

"As long as she was on the scene he could not 
take any action without a horrible exposure of the 
woman whom he loved. But the instant that she 
was gone he realised how crushing a misfortune 
this would be for you, and how all-important it 
was to set it right. He rushed down, just as he 
was, in his bare feet, opened the window, sprang 
out into the snow, and ran down the lane, where 
he could see a dark figure in the moonlight. Sir 
George Burnwell tried to get away, but Arthur 
caught him, and there was a struggle between 
them, your lad tugging at one side of the coro- 
net, and his opponent at the other. In the scuffle, 
your son struck Sir George and cut him over the 
eye. Then something suddenly snapped, and your 
son, finding that he had the coronet in his hands, 
rushed back, closed the window, ascended to your 
room, and had just observed that the coronet had 
been twisted in the struggle and was endeavour- 
ing to straighten it when you appeared upon the 
scene." 

"Is it possible?" gasped the banker. 

"You then roused his anger by calling him 
names at a moment when he felt that he had de- 
served your warmest thanks. He could not explain 
the true state of affairs without betraying one who 


certainly deserved little enough consideration at 
his hands. He took the more chivalrous view, how- 
ever, and preserved her secret." 

"And that was why she shrieked and fainted 
when she saw the coronet," cried Mr. Holder. "Oh, 
my God! what a blind fool I have been! And his 
asking to be allowed to go out for five minutes! 
The dear fellow wanted to see if the missing piece 
were at the scene of the struggle. How cruelly I 
have misjudged him!" 

"When I arrived at the house," continued 
Holmes, "I at once went very carefully round it to 
observe if there were any traces in the snow which 
might help me. I knew that none had fallen since 
the evening before, and also that there had been 
a strong frost to preserve impressions. I passed 
along the tradesmen's path, but found it all tram- 
pled down and indistinguishable. Just beyond it, 
however, at the far side of the kitchen door, a 
woman had stood and talked with a man, whose 
round impressions on one side showed that he had 
a wooden leg. I could even tell that they had been 
disturbed, for the woman had run back swiftly to 
the door, as was shown by the deep toe and light 
heel marks, while Wooden-leg had waited a little, 
and then had gone away. I thought at the time 
that this might be the maid and her sweetheart, 
of whom you had already spoken to me, and in- 
quiry showed it was so. I passed round the garden 
without seeing anything more than random tracks, 
which I took to be the police; but when I got into 
the stable lane a very long and complex story was 
written in the snow in front of me. 

"There was a double line of tracks of a booted 
man, and a second double line which I saw with 
delight belonged to a man with naked feet. I was 
at once convinced from what you had told me that 
the latter was your son. The first had walked both 
ways, but the other had run swiftly, and as his 
tread was marked in places over the depression 
of the boot, it was obvious that he had passed af- 
ter the other. I followed them up and found they 
led to the hall window, where Boots had worn 
all the snow away while waiting. Then I walked 
to the other end, which was a hundred yards or 
more down the lane. I saw where Boots had faced 
round, where the snow was cut up as though there 
had been a struggle, and, finally, where a few 
drops of blood had fallen, to show me that I was 
not mistaken. Boots had then run down the lane, 
and another little smudge of blood showed that it 
was he who had been hurt. When he came to the 
highroad at the other end, I found that the pave- 
ment had been cleared, so there was an end to that 
clue. 


260 



"On entering the house, however, I examined, 
as you remember, the sill and framework of the 
hall window with my lens, and I could at once 
see that someone had passed out. I could distin- 
guish the outline of an instep where the wet foot 
had been placed in coming in. I was then begin- 
ning to be able to form an opinion as to what had 
occurred. A man had waited outside the window; 
someone had brought the gems; the deed had been 
overseen by your son; he had pursued the thief; 
had struggled with him; they had each tugged at 
the coronet, their united strength causing injuries 
which neither alone could have effected. He had 
returned with the prize, but had left a fragment in 
the grasp of his opponent. So far I was clear. The 
question now was, who was the man and who was 
it brought him the coronet? 

"It is an old maxim of mine that when you have 
excluded the impossible, whatever remains, how- 
ever improbable, must be the truth. Now, I knew 
that it was not you who had brought it down, so 
there only remained your niece and the maids. But 
if it were the maids, why should your son allow 
himself to be accused in their place? There could 
be no possible reason. As he loved his cousin, 
however, there was an excellent explanation why 
he should retain her secret — the more so as the se- 
cret was a disgraceful one. When I remembered 
that you had seen her at that window, and how 
she had fainted on seeing the coronet again, my 
conjecture became a certainty. 

"And who could it be who was her confeder- 
ate? A lover evidently, for who else could out- 
weigh the love and gratitude which she must feel 
to you? I knew that you went out little, and that 
your circle of friends was a very limited one. But 
among them was Sir George Burnwell. I had heard 
of him before as being a man of evil reputation 
among women. It must have been he who wore 
those boots and retained the missing gems. Even 
though he knew that Arthur had discovered him, 
he might still flatter himself that he was safe, for 
the lad could not say a word without compromis- 
ing his own family. 

"Well, your own good sense will suggest what 
measures I took next. I went in the shape of a 
loafer to Sir George's house, managed to pick up 


an acquaintance with his valet, learned that his 
master had cut his head the night before, and, fi- 
nally, at the expense of six shillings, made all sure 
by buying a pair of his cast-off shoes. With these 
I journeyed down to Streatham and saw that they 
exactly fitted the tracks." 

"I saw an ill-dressed vagabond in the lane yes- 
terday evening," said Mr. Holder. 

"Precisely. It was 1. 1 found that I had my man, 
so I came home and changed my clothes. It was 
a delicate part which I had to play then, for I saw 
that a prosecution must be avoided to avert scan- 
dal, and I knew that so astute a villain would see 
that our hands were tied in the matter. I went and 
saw him. At first, of course, he denied everything. 
But when I gave him every particular that had oc- 
curred, he tried to bluster and took down a life- 
preserver from the wall. I knew my man, however, 
and I clapped a pistol to his head before he could 
strike. Then he became a little more reasonable. I 
told him that we would give him a price for the 
stones he held — £1000 apiece. That brought out 
the first signs of grief that he had shown. 'Why, 
dash it all!' said he, 'I've let them go at six hun- 
dred for the three!' I soon managed to get the ad- 
dress of the receiver who had them, on promising 
him that there would be no prosecution. Off I set 
to him, and after much chaffering I got our stones 
at 1000 pounds apiece. Then I looked in upon your 
son, told him that all was right, and eventually got 
to my bed about two o'clock, after what I may call 
a really hard day's work." 

"A day which has saved England from a great 
public scandal," said the banker, rising. "Sir, I can- 
not find words to thank you, but you shall not find 
me ungrateful for what you have done. Your skill 
has indeed exceeded all that I have heard of it. 
And now I must fly to my dear boy to apologise to 
him for the wrong which I have done him. As to 
what you tell me of poor Mary, it goes to my very 
heart. Not even your skill can inform me where 
she is now." 

"I think that we may safely say," returned 
Holmes, "that she is wherever Sir George Burnwell 
is. It is equally certain, too, that whatever her sins 
are, they will soon receive a more than sufficient 
punishment." 



A Scandal in Bohemia 


CHAPTER I. 


o Sherlock Holmes she is always the 
woman. I have seldom heard him men- 
tion her under any other name. In his 
eyes she eclipses and predominates the 
whole of her sex. It was not that he felt any emo- 
tion akin to love for Irene Adler. All emotions, and 
that one particularly, were abhorrent to his cold, 
precise but admirably balanced mind. He was, I 
take it, the most perfect reasoning and observing 
machine that the world has seen, but as a lover 
he would have placed himself in a false position. 
He never spoke of the softer passions, save with a 
gibe and a sneer. They were admirable things for 
the observer — excellent for drawing the veil from 
men's motives and actions. But for the trained rea- 
soner to admit such intrusions into his own del- 
icate and finely adjusted temperament was to in- 
troduce a distracting factor which might throw a 
doubt upon all his mental results. Grit in a sensi- 
tive instrument, or a crack in one of his own high- 
power lenses, would not be more disturbing than 
a strong emotion in a nature such as his. And yet 
there was but one woman to him, and that woman 
was the late Irene Adler, of dubious and question- 
able memory. 

I had seen little of Holmes lately. My marriage 
had drifted us away from each other. My own 
complete happiness, and the home-centred inter- 
ests which rise up around the man who first finds 
himself master of his own establishment, were suf- 
ficient to absorb all my attention, while Holmes, 
who loathed every form of society with his whole 
Bohemian soul, remained in our lodgings in Baker 
Street, buried among his old books, and alternat- 
ing from week to week between cocaine and am- 
bition, the drowsiness of the drug, and the fierce 
energy of his own keen nature. He was still, as 
ever, deeply attracted by the study of crime, and 
occupied his immense faculties and extraordinary 
powers of observation in following out those clues, 
and clearing up those mysteries which had been 
abandoned as hopeless by the official police. From 
time to time I heard some vague account of his 
doings: of his summons to Odessa in the case of 
the Trepoff murder, of his clearing up of the sin- 
gular tragedy of the Atkinson brothers at Trinco- 
malee, and finally of the mission which he had ac- 
complished so delicately and successfully for the 
reigning family of Holland. Beyond these signs of 
his activity, however, which I merely shared with 
all the readers of the daily press, I knew little of 
my former friend and companion. 

One night — it was on the twentieth of March, 



1888 — I was returning from a journey to a patient 
(for I had now returned to civil practice), when my 
way led me through Baker Street. As I passed the 
well-remembered door, which must always be as- 
sociated in my mind with my wooing, and with 
the dark incidents of the Study in Scarlet, I was 
seized with a keen desire to see Holmes again, and 
to know how he was employing his extraordinary 
powers. His rooms were brilliantly lit, and, even as 
I looked up, I saw his tall, spare figure pass twice 
in a dark silhouette against the blind. He was pac- 
ing the room swiftly, eagerly, with his head sunk 
upon his chest and his hands clasped behind him. 
To me, who knew his every mood and habit, his at- 
titude and manner told their own story. He was at 
work again. He had risen out of his drug-created 
dreams and was hot upon the scent of some new 
problem. I rang the bell and was shown up to the 
chamber which had formerly been in part my own. 

His manner was not effusive. It seldom was; 
but he was glad, I think, to see me. With hardly 
a word spoken, but with a kindly eye, he waved 
me to an armchair, threw across his case of cigars, 
and indicated a spirit case and a gasogene in the 
corner. Then he stood before the fire and looked 
me over in his singular introspective fashion. 

"Wedlock suits you," he remarked. "I think, 
Watson, that you have put on seven and a half 
pounds since I saw you." 

"Seven!" I answered. 

"Indeed, I should have thought a little more. 
Just a trifle more, I fancy, Watson. And in prac- 
tice again, I observe. You did not tell me that you 
intended to go into harness." 

"Then, how do you know?" 

"I see it, I deduce it. How do I know that you 
have been getting yourself very wet lately, and that 
you have a most clumsy and careless servant girl?" 

"My dear Holmes," said I, "this is too much. 
You would certainly have been burned, had you 
lived a few centuries ago. It is true that I had a 
country walk on Thursday and came home in a 
dreadful mess, but as I have changed my clothes I 
can't imagine how you deduce it. As to Mary Jane, 
she is incorrigible, and my wife has given her no- 
tice, but there, again, I fail to see how you work it 
out." 

He chuckled to himself and rubbed his long, 
nervous hands together. 

"It is simplicity itself," said he; "my eyes tell 
me that on the inside of your left shoe, just where 


123 



A Scandal in Bohemia 


the firelight strikes it, the leather is scored by 
six almost parallel cuts. Obviously they have 
been caused by someone who has very carelessly 
scraped round the edges of the sole in order to re- 
move crusted mud from it. Hence, you see, my 
double deduction that you had been out in vile 
weather, and that you had a particularly malignant 
boot-slitting specimen of the London slavey. As to 
your practice, if a gentleman walks into my rooms 
smelling of iodoform, with a black mark of nitrate 
of silver upon his right forefinger, and a bulge on 
the right side of his top-hat to show where he has 
secreted his stethoscope, I must be dull, indeed, if 
I do not pronounce him to be an active member of 
the medical profession." 

I could not help laughing at the ease with 
which he explained his process of deduction. 
"When I hear you give your reasons," I remarked, 
"the thing always appears to me to be so ridicu- 
lously simple that I could easily do it myself, 
though at each successive instance of your rea- 
soning I am baffled until you explain your pro- 
cess. And yet I believe that my eyes are as good as 
yours." 

"Quite so," he answered, lighting a cigarette, 
and throwing himself down into an armchair. 
"You see, but you do not observe. The distinction 
is clear. For example, you have frequently seen the 
steps which lead up from the hall to this room." 

"Frequently." 

"How often?" 

"Well, some hundreds of times." 

"Then how many are there?" 

"How many? I don't know." 

"Quite so! You have not observed. And yet 
you have seen. That is just my point. Now, I know 
that there are seventeen steps, because I have both 
seen and observed. By-the-way, since you are in- 
terested in these little problems, and since you are 
good enough to chronicle one or two of my tri- 
fling experiences, you may be interested in this." 
He threw over a sheet of thick, pink-tinted note- 
paper which had been lying open upon the table. 
"It came by the last post," said he. "Read it aloud." 

The note was undated, and without either sig- 
nature or address. 

"There will call upon you to-night, at a quar- 
ter to eight o'clock," it said, "a gentleman who 
desires to consult you upon a matter of the very 
deepest moment. Your recent services to one of 
the royal houses of Europe have shown that you 
are one who may safely be trusted with matters 
which are of an importance which can hardly be 


exaggerated. This account of you we have from all 
quarters received. Be in your chamber then at that 
hour, and do not take it amiss if your visitor wear 
a mask." 

"This is indeed a mystery," I remarked. "What 
do you imagine that it means?" 

"I have no data yet. It is a capital mistake to 
theorize before one has data. Insensibly one begins 
to twist facts to suit theories, instead of theories to 
suit facts. But the note itself. What do you deduce 
from it?" 

I carefully examined the writing, and the paper 
upon which it was written. 

"The man who wrote it was presumably well 
to do," I remarked, endeavouring to imitate my 
companion's processes. "Such paper could not be 
bought under half a crown a packet. It is pecu- 
liarly strong and stiff." 

"Peculiar — that is the very word," said Holmes. 
"It is not an English paper at all. Hold it up to the 
light." 

I did so, and saw a large "E" with a small "g," 
a "P," and a large "G" with a small "t" woven into 
the texture of the paper. 

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

"The name of the maker, no doubt; or his 
monogram, rather." 

"Not at all. The 'G' with the small 't' stands 
for 'Gesellschaft,' which is the German for 'Com- 
pany.' It is a customary contraction like our 'Co.' 
'P,' of course, stands for 'Papier.' Now for the 
'Eg.' Let us glance at our Continental Gazetteer." 
He took down a heavy brown volume from his 
shelves. "Eglow, Eglonitz — here we are, Egria. It 
is in a German-speaking country — in Bohemia, not 
far from Carlsbad. 'Remarkable as being the scene 
of the death of Wallenstein, and for its numerous 
glass-factories and paper-mills.' Ha, ha, my boy, 
what do you make of that?" His eyes sparkled, and 
he sent up a great blue triumphant cloud from his 
cigarette. 

"The paper was made in Bohemia," I said. 

"Precisely. And the man who wrote the note 
is a German. Do you note the peculiar construc- 
tion of the sentence — 'This account of you we have 
from all quarters received.' A Frenchman or Rus- 
sian could not have written that. It is the German 
who is so uncourteous to his verbs. It only re- 
mains, therefore, to discover what is wanted by 
this German who writes upon Bohemian paper 
and prefers wearing a mask to showing his face. 
And here he comes, if I am not mistaken, to re- 
solve all our doubts." 


124 



A Scandal in Bohemia 


As he spoke there was the sharp sound of 
horses' hoofs and grating wheels against the curb, 
followed by a sharp pull at the bell. Holmes whis- 
tled. 

"A pair, by the sound," said he. "Yes," he con- 
tinued, glancing out of the window. "A nice little 
brougham and a pair of beauties. A hundred and 
fifty guineas apiece. There's money in this case, 
Watson, if there is nothing else." 

"I think that I had better go. Holmes." 

"Not a bit. Doctor. Stay where you are. I am 
lost without my Boswell. And this promises to be 
interesting. It would be a pity to miss it." 

"But your client — " 

"Never mind him. I may want your help, and 
so may he. Here he comes. Sit down in that arm- 
chair, Doctor, and give us your best attention." 

A slow and heavy step, which had been heard 
upon the stairs and in the passage, paused imme- 
diately outside the door. Then there was a loud 
and authoritative tap. 

"Come in!" said Holmes. 

A man entered who could hardly have been 
less than six feet six inches in height, with the chest 
and limbs of a Hercules. His dress was rich with a 
richness which would, in England, be looked upon 
as akin to bad taste. Heavy bands of astrakhan 
were slashed across the sleeves and fronts of his 
double-breasted coat, while the deep blue cloak 
which was thrown over his shoulders was lined 
with flame-coloured silk and secured at the neck 
with a brooch which consisted of a single flam- 
ing beryl. Boots which extended halfway up his 
calves, and which were trimmed at the tops with 
rich brown fur, completed the impression of bar- 
baric opulence which was suggested by his whole 
appearance. He carried a broad-brimmed hat in 
his hand, while he wore across the upper part of 
his face, extending down past the cheekbones, a 
black vizard mask, which he had apparently ad- 
justed that very moment, for his hand was still 
raised to it as he entered. From the lower part of 
the face he appeared to be a man of strong charac- 
ter, with a thick, hanging lip, and a long, straight 
chin suggestive of resolution pushed to the length 
of obstinacy. 

"You had my note?" he asked with a deep 
harsh voice and a strongly marked German accent. 
"I told you that I would call." He looked from one 
to the other of us, as if uncertain which to address. 


"Pray take a seat," said Holmes. "This is my 
friend and colleague. Dr. Watson, who is occasion- 
ally good enough to help me in my cases. Whom 
have I the honour to address?" 

"You may address me as the Count Von 
Kramm, a Bohemian nobleman. I understand that 
this gentleman, your friend, is a man of honour 
and discretion, whom I may trust with a matter 
of the most extreme importance. If not, I should 
much prefer to communicate with you alone." 

I rose to go, but Holmes caught me by the wrist 
and pushed me back into my chair. "It is both, or 
none," said he. "You may say before this gentle- 
man anything which you may say to me." 

The Count shrugged his broad shoulders. 
"Then I must begin," said he, "by binding you 
both to absolute secrecy for two years; at the end of 
that time the matter will be of no importance. At 
present it is not too much to say that it is of such 
weight it may have an influence upon European 
history." 

"I promise," said Holmes. 

"And I." 

"You will excuse this mask," continued our 
strange visitor. "The august person who employs 
me wishes his agent to be unknown to you, and I 
may confess at once that the title by which I have 
just called myself is not exactly my own." 

"I was aware of it," said Holmes dryly. 

"The circumstances are of great delicacy, and 
every precaution has to be taken to quench what 
might grow to be an immense scandal and seri- 
ously compromise one of the reigning families of 
Europe. To speak plainly, the matter implicates the 
great House of Ormstein, hereditary kings of Bo- 
hemia." 

"I was also aware of that," murmured Holmes, 
settling himself down in his armchair and closing 
his eyes. 

Our visitor glanced with some apparent sur- 
prise at the languid, lounging figure of the man 
who had been no doubt depicted to him as the 
most incisive reasoner and most energetic agent 
in Europe. Holmes slowly reopened his eyes and 
looked impatiently at his gigantic client. 

"If your Majesty would condescend to state 
your case," he remarked, "I should be better able 
to advise you." 

The man sprang from his chair and paced up 
and down the room in uncontrollable agitation. 
Then, with a gesture of desperation, he tore the 
mask from his face and hurled it upon the ground. 


125 



A Scandal in Bohemia 


"You are right," he cried; "I am the King. Why 
should I attempt to conceal it?" 

"Why, indeed?" murmured Holmes. "Your 
Majesty had not spoken before I was aware that 
I was addressing Wilhelm Gottsreich Sigismond 
von Ormstein, Grand Duke of Cassel-Felstein, and 
hereditary King of Bohemia." 

"But you can understand," said our strange vis- 
itor, sitting down once more and passing his hand 
over his high white forehead, "you can understand 
that I am not accustomed to doing such business in 
my own person. Yet the matter was so delicate that 
I could not confide it to an agent without putting 
myself in his power. I have come incognito from 
Prague for the purpose of consulting you." 

"Then, pray consult," said Holmes, shutting his 
eyes once more. 

"The facts are briefly these: Some five years 
ago, during a lengthy visit to Warsaw, I made the 
acquaintance of the well-known adventuress, Irene 
Adler. The name is no doubt familiar to you." 

"Kindly look her up in my index. Doctor," mur- 
mured Holmes without opening his eyes. For 
many years he had adopted a system of docket- 
ing all paragraphs concerning men and things, so 
that it was difficult to name a subject or a person 
on which he could not at once furnish information. 
In this case I found her biography sandwiched in 
between that of a Hebrew rabbi and that of a staff- 
commander who had written a monograph upon 
the deep-sea fishes. 

"Let me see!" said Holmes. "Hum! Born in 
New Jersey in the year 1858. Contralto — hum! La 
Scala, hum! Prima donna Imperial Opera of War- 
saw — yes! Retired from operatic stage — ha! Living 
in London — quite so! Your Majesty, as I under- 
stand, became entangled with this young person, 
wrote her some compromising letters, and is now 
desirous of getting those letters back." 

"Precisely so. But how — " 

"Was there a secret marriage?" 

"None." 

"No legal papers or certificates?" 

"None." 

"Then I fail to follow your Majesty. If this 
young person should produce her letters for black- 
mailing or other purposes, how is she to prove 
their authenticity?" 

"There is the writing." 

"Pooh, pooh! Forgery." 

"My private note-paper." 


"Stolen." 

"My own seal." 

"Imitated." 

"My photograph." 

"Bought." 

"We were both in the photograph." 

"Oh, dear! That is very bad! Your Majesty has 
indeed committed an indiscretion." 

"I was mad — insane." 

"You have compromised yourself seriously." 

"I was only Crown Prince then. I was young. I 
am but thirty now." 

"It must be recovered." 

"We have tried and failed." 

"Your Majesty must pay. It must be bought." 

"She will not sell." 

"Stolen, then." 

"Five attempts have been made. Twice burglars 
in my pay ransacked her house. Once we diverted 
her luggage when she travelled. Twice she has 
been waylaid. There has been no result." 

"No sign of it?" 

"Absolutely none." 

Holmes laughed. "It is quite a pretty little 
problem," said he. 

"But a very serious one to me," returned the 
King reproachfully. 

"Very, indeed. And what does she propose to 
do with the photograph?" 

"To ruin me." 

"But how?" 

"I am about to be married." 

"So I have heard." 

"To Clotilde Lothman von Saxe-Meningen, sec- 
ond daughter of the King of Scandinavia. You may 
know the strict principles of her family. She is her- 
self the very soul of delicacy. A shadow of a doubt 
as to my conduct would bring the matter to an 
end." 

"And Irene Adler?" 

"Threatens to send them the photograph. And 
she will do it. I know that she will do it. You do 
not know her, but she has a soul of steel. She has 
the face of the most beautiful of women, and the 
mind of the most resolute of men. Rather than I 
should marry another woman, there are no lengths 
to which she would not go — none." 

"You are sure that she has not sent it yet?" 

"I am sure." 

"And why?" 


126 



A Scandal in Bohemia 


"Because she has said that she would send it 
on the day when the betrothal was publicly pro- 
claimed. That will be next Monday." 

"Oh, then we have three days yet," said Holmes 
with a yawn. "That is very fortunate, as I have one 
or two matters of importance to look into just at 
present. Your Majesty will, of course, stay in Lon- 
don for the present?" 

"Certainly. You will find me at the Langham 
under the name of the Count Von Kramm." 

"Then I shall drop you a line to let you know 
how we progress." 

"Pray do so. I shall be all anxiety." 

"Then, as to money?" 

"You have carte blanche." 

"Absolutely?" 

"I tell you that I would give one of the 
provinces of my kingdom to have that photo- 
graph." 

"And for present expenses?" 


The King took a heavy chamois leather bag 
from under his cloak and laid it on the table. 

"There are three hundred pounds in gold and 
seven hundred in notes," he said. 

Holmes scribbled a receipt upon a sheet of his 
note-book and handed it to him. 

"And Mademoiselle's address?" he asked. 

"Is Briony Lodge, Serpentine Avenue, St. John's 
Wood." 

Holmes took a note of it. "One other question," 
said he. "Was the photograph a cabinet?" 

"It was." 

"Then, good-night, your Majesty, and I trust 
that we shall soon have some good news for you. 
And good-night, Watson," he added, as the wheels 
of the royal brougham rolled down the street. "If 
you will be good enough to call to-morrow after- 
noon at three o'clock I should like to chat this little 
matter over with you." 


CHAPTER II. 


At three o'clock precisely I was at Baker Street, 
but Holmes had not yet returned. The landlady 
informed me that he had left the house shortly af- 
ter eight o'clock in the morning. I sat down be- 
side the fire, however, with the intention of await- 
ing him, however long he might be. I was already 
deeply interested in his inquiry, for, though it was 
surrounded by none of the grim and strange fea- 
tures which were associated with the two crimes 
which I have already recorded, still, the nature of 
the case and the exalted station of his client gave it 
a character of its own. Indeed, apart from the na- 
ture of the investigation which my friend had on 
hand, there was something in his masterly grasp 
of a situation, and his keen, incisive reasoning, 
which made it a pleasure to me to study his sys- 
tem of work, and to follow the quick, subtle meth- 
ods by which he disentangled the most inextrica- 
ble mysteries. So accustomed was I to his invari- 
able success that the very possibility of his failing 
had ceased to enter into my head. 

It was close upon four before the door opened, 
and a drunken-looking groom, ill-kempt and side- 


whiskered, with an inflamed face and disreputable 
clothes, walked into the room. Accustomed as I 
was to my friend's amazing powers in the use of 
disguises, I had to look three times before I was 
certain that it was indeed he. With a nod he van- 
ished into the bedroom, whence he emerged in five 
minutes tweed-suited and respectable, as of old. 
Putting his hands into his pockets, he stretched out 
his legs in front of the fire and laughed heartily for 
some minutes. 

"Well, really!" he cried, and then he choked 
and laughed again until he was obliged to lie back, 
limp and helpless, in the chair. 

"What is it?" 

"It's quite too funny. I am sure you could never 
guess how I employed my morning, or what I 
ended by doing." 

"I can't imagine. I suppose that you have been 
watching the habits, and perhaps the house, of 
Miss Irene Adler." 

"Quite so; but the sequel was rather unusual. I 
will tell you, however. I left the house a little af- 
ter eight o'clock this morning in the character of a 


127 



A Scandal in Bohemia 


groom out of work. There is a wonderful sym- 
pathy and freemasonry among horsey men. Be 
one of them, and you will know all that there is 
to know. I soon found Briony Lodge. It is a bijou 
villa, with a garden at the back, but built out in 
front right up to the road, two stories. Chubb lock 
to the door. Large sitting-room on the right side, 
well furnished, with long windows almost to the 
floor, and those preposterous English window fas- 
teners which a child could open. Behind there was 
nothing remarkable, save that the passage window 
could be reached from the top of the coach-house. 
I walked round it and examined it closely from ev- 
ery point of view, but without noting anything else 
of interest. 

"I then lounged down the street and found, as 
I expected, that there was a mews in a lane which 
runs down by one wall of the garden. I lent the 
ostlers a hand in rubbing down their horses, and 
received in exchange twopence, a glass of half and 
half, two fills of shag tobacco, and as much infor- 
mation as I could desire about Miss Adler, to say 
nothing of half a dozen other people in the neigh- 
bourhood in whom I was not in the least inter- 
ested, but whose biographies I was compelled to 
listen to." 

"And what of Irene Adler?" I asked. 

"Oh, she has turned all the men's heads down 
in that part. She is the daintiest thing under a bon- 
net on this planet. So say the Serpentine-mews, to 
a man. She lives quietly, sings at concerts, drives 
out at five every day, and returns at seven sharp 
for dinner. Seldom goes out at other times, except 
when she sings. Has only one male visitor, but 
a good deal of him. He is dark, handsome, and 
dashing, never calls less than once a day, and often 
twice. He is a Mr. Godfrey Norton, of the Inner 
Temple. See the advantages of a cabman as a con- 
fidant. They had driven him home a dozen times 
from Serpentine-mews, and knew all about him. 
When I had listened to all they had to tell, I be- 
gan to walk up and down near Briony Lodge once 
more, and to think over my plan of campaign. 

"This Godfrey Norton was evidently an impor- 
tant factor in the matter. He was a lawyer. That 
sounded ominous. What was the relation between 
them, and what the object of his repeated visits? 
Was she his client, his friend, or his mistress? If the 
former, she had probably transferred the photo- 
graph to his keeping. If the latter, it was less likely. 
On the issue of this question depended whether 
I should continue my work at Briony Lodge, or 
turn my attention to the gentleman's chambers in 
the Temple. It was a delicate point, and it widened 


the field of my inquiry. I fear that I bore you with 
these details, but I have to let you see my little dif- 
ficulties, if you are to understand the situation." 

"I am following you closely," I answered. 

"I was still balancing the matter in my mind 
when a hansom cab drove up to Briony Lodge, 
and a gentleman sprang out. He was a remark- 
ably handsome man, dark, aquiline, and mous- 
tached — evidently the man of whom I had heard. 
He appeared to be in a great hurry, shouted to the 
cabman to wait, and brushed past the maid who 
opened the door with the air of a man who was 
thoroughly at home. 

"He was in the house about half an hour, and 
I could catch glimpses of him in the windows of 
the sitting-room, pacing up and down, talking ex- 
citedly, and waving his arms. Of her I could see 
nothing. Presently he emerged, looking even more 
flurried than before. As he stepped up to the cab, 
he pulled a gold watch from his pocket and looked 
at it earnestly, 'Drive like the devil,' he shouted, 
'first to Gross & Hankey's in Regent Street, and 
then to the Church of St. Monica in the Edgeware 
Road. Half a guinea if you do it in twenty min- 
utes!' 

"Away they went, and I was just wondering 
whether I should not do well to follow them when 
up the lane came a neat little landau, the coach- 
man with his coat only half-buttoned, and his tie 
under his ear, while all the tags of his harness were 
sticking out of the buckles. It hadn't pulled up be- 
fore she shot out of the hall door and into it. I only 
caught a glimpse of her at the moment, but she 
was a lovely woman, with a face that a man might 
die for. 

" 'The Church of St. Monica, John,' she cried, 
'and half a sovereign if you reach it in twenty min- 
utes.' 

"This was quite too good to lose, Watson. I 
was just balancing whether I should run for it, or 
whether I should perch behind her landau when 
a cab came through the street. The driver looked 
twice at such a shabby fare, but I jumped in before 
he could object. 'The Church of St. Monica,' said I, 
'and half a sovereign if you reach it in twenty min- 
utes.' It was twenty-five minutes to twelve, and of 
course it was clear enough what was in the wind. 

"My cabby drove fast. I don't think I ever drove 
faster, but the others were there before us. The cab 
and the landau with their steaming horses were 
in front of the door when I arrived. I paid the 
man and hurried into the church. There was not a 
soul there save the two whom I had followed and 


128 



A Scandal in Bohemia 


a surpliced clergyman, who seemed to be expostu- 
lating with them. They were all three standing in 
a knot in front of the altar. I lounged up the side 
aisle like any other idler who has dropped into a 
church. Suddenly, to my surprise, the three at the 
altar faced round to me, and Godfrey Norton came 
running as hard as he could towards me. 

" 'Thank God/ he cried. 'You'll do. Come! 
Come!' 

" 'What then?' I asked. 

" 'Come, man, come, only three minutes, or it 
won't be legal.' 

"I was half-dragged up to the altar, and be- 
fore I knew where I was I found myself mumbling 
responses which were whispered in my ear, and 
vouching for things of which I knew nothing, and 
generally assisting in the secure tying up of Irene 
Adler, spinster, to Godfrey Norton, bachelor. It 
was all done in an instant, and there was the gen- 
tleman thanking me on the one side and the lady 
on the other, while the clergyman beamed on me 
in front. It was the most preposterous position in 
which I ever found myself in my life, and it was the 
thought of it that started me laughing just now. It 
seems that there had been some informality about 
their license, that the clergyman absolutely refused 
to marry them without a witness of some sort, and 
that my lucky appearance saved the bridegroom 
from having to sally out into the streets in search 
of a best man. The bride gave me a sovereign, and 
I mean to wear it on my watch-chain in memory 
of the occasion." 

"This is a very unexpected turn of affairs," said 
I; "and what then?" 

"Well, I found my plans very seriously men- 
aced. It looked as if the pair might take an imme- 
diate departure, and so necessitate very prompt 
and energetic measures on my part. At the church 
door, however, they separated, he driving back to 
the Temple, and she to her own house. 'I shall 
drive out in the park at five as usual,' she said as 
she left him. I heard no more. They drove away 
in different directions, and I went off to make my 
own arrangements." 

"Which are?" 

"Some cold beef and a glass of beer," he an- 
swered, ringing the bell. "I have been too busy 
to think of food, and I am likely to be busier still 
this evening. By the way. Doctor, I shall want your 
co-operation." 

"I shall be delighted." 

"You don't mind breaking the law?" 


"Not in the least." 

"Nor running a chance of arrest?" 

"Not in a good cause." 

"Oh, the cause is excellent!" 

"Then I am your man." 

"I was sure that I might rely on you." 

"But what is it you wish?" 

"When Mrs. Turner has brought in the tray I 
will make it clear to you. Now," he said as he 
turned hungrily on the simple fare that our land- 
lady had provided, "I must discuss it while I eat, 
for I have not much time. It is nearly five now. In 
two hours we must be on the scene of action. Miss 
Irene, or Madame, rather, returns from her drive at 
seven. We must be at Briony Lodge to meet her." 

"And what then?" 

"You must leave that to me. I have already ar- 
ranged what is to occur. There is only one point on 
which I must insist. You must not interfere, come 
what may. You understand?" 

"I am to be neutral?" 

"To do nothing whatever. There will probably 
be some small unpleasantness. Do not join in it. 
It will end in my being conveyed into the house. 
Four or five minutes afterwards the sitting-room 
window will open. You are to station yourself 
close to that open window." 

"Yes." 

"You are to watch me, for I will be visible to 
you." 

"Yes." 

"And when I raise my hand — so — you will 
throw into the room what I give you to throw, and 
will, at the same time, raise the cry of fire. You 
quite follow me?" 

"Entirely." 

"It is nothing very formidable," he said, tak- 
ing a long cigar-shaped roll from his pocket. "It is 
an ordinary plumber's smoke-rocket, fitted with a 
cap at either end to make it self-lighting. Your task 
is confined to that. When you raise your cry of fire, 
it will be taken up by quite a number of people. 
You may then walk to the end of the street, and I 
will rejoin you in ten minutes. I hope that I have 
made myself clear?" 

"I am to remain neutral, to get near the win- 
dow, to watch you, and at the signal to throw in 
this object, then to raise the cry of fire, and to wait 
you at the corner of the street." 

"Precisely." 

"Then you may entirely rely on me." 

"That is excellent. I think, perhaps, it is almost 
time that I prepare for the new role I have to play." 


129 



A Scandal in Bohemia 


He disappeared into his bedroom and returned 
in a few minutes in the character of an amiable and 
simple-minded Nonconformist clergyman. His 
broad black hat, his baggy trousers, his white tie, 
his sympathetic smile, and general look of peer- 
ing and benevolent curiosity were such as Mr. John 
Hare alone could have equalled. It was not merely 
that Holmes changed his costume. His expression, 
his manner, his very soul seemed to vary with ev- 
ery fresh part that he assumed. The stage lost a 
fine actor, even as science lost an acute reasoner, 
when he became a specialist in crime. 

It was a quarter past six when we left Baker 
Street, and it still wanted ten minutes to the hour 
when we found ourselves in Serpentine Avenue. 
It was already dusk, and the lamps were just be- 
ing lighted as we paced up and down in front of 
Briony Lodge, waiting for the coming of its occu- 
pant. The house was just such as I had pictured 
it from Sherlock Holmes' succinct description, but 
the locality appeared to be less private than I ex- 
pected. Qn the contrary, for a small street in a 
quiet neighbourhood, it was remarkably animated. 
There was a group of shabbily dressed men smok- 
ing and laughing in a corner, a scissors-grinder 
with his wheel, two guardsmen who were flirting 
with a nurse-girl, and several well-dressed young 
men who were lounging up and down with cigars 
in their mouths. 

"You see," remarked Holmes, as we paced to 
and fro in front of the house, "this marriage rather 
simplifies matters. The photograph becomes a 
double-edged weapon now. The chances are that 
she would be as averse to its being seen by Mr. 
Godfrey Norton, as our client is to its coming to 
the eyes of his princess. Now the question is. 
Where are we to find the photograph?" 

"Where, indeed?" 

"It is most unlikely that she carries it about 
with her. It is cabinet size. Too large for easy 
concealment about a woman's dress. She knows 
that the King is capable of having her waylaid and 
searched. Two attempts of the sort have already 
been made. We may take it, then, that she does 
not carry it about with her." 

"Where, then?" 

"Her banker or her lawyer. There is that dou- 
ble possibility. But I am inclined to think neither. 
Women are naturally secretive, and they like to do 
their own secreting. Why should she hand it over 
to anyone else? She could trust her own guardian- 
ship, but she could not tell what indirect or po- 
litical influence might be brought to bear upon a 
business man. Besides, remember that she had 


resolved to use it within a few days. It must be 
where she can lay her hands upon it. It must be in 
her own house." 

"But it has twice been burgled." 

"Pshaw! They did not know how to look." 

"But how will you look?" 

"I will not look." 

"What then?" 

"I will get her to show me." 

"But she will refuse." 

"She will not be able to. But I hear the rumble 
of wheels. It is her carriage. Now carry out my 
orders to the letter." 

As he spoke the gleam of the side-lights of a 
carriage came round the curve of the avenue. It 
was a smart little landau which rattled up to the 
door of Briony Lodge. As it pulled up, one of the 
loafing men at the corner dashed forward to open 
the door in the hope of earning a copper, but was 
elbowed away by another loafer, who had rushed 
up with the same intention. A fierce quarrel broke 
out, which was increased by the two guardsmen, 
who took sides with one of the loungers, and by 
the scissors-grinder, who was equally hot upon the 
other side. A blow was struck, and in an instant 
the lady, who had stepped from her carriage, was 
the centre of a little knot of flushed and struggling 
men, who struck savagely at each other with their 
fists and sticks. Holmes dashed into the crowd 
to protect the lady; but just as he reached her he 
gave a cry and dropped to the ground, with the 
blood running freely down his face. At his fall 
the guardsmen took to their heels in one direction 
and the loungers in the other, while a number of 
better-dressed people, who had watched the scuf- 
fle without taking part in it, crowded in to help 
the lady and to attend to the injured man. Irene 
Adler, as I will still call her, had hurried up the 
steps; but she stood at the top with her superb fig- 
ure outlined against the lights of the hall, looking 
back into the street. 

"Is the poor gentleman much hurt?" she asked. 

"He is dead," cried several voices. 

"No, no, there's life in him!" shouted another. 
"But he'll be gone before you can get him to hos- 
pital." 

"He's a brave fellow," said a woman. "They 
would have had the lady's purse and watch if it 
hadn't been for him. They were a gang, and a 
rough one, too. Ah, he's breathing now." 

"He can't lie in the street. May we bring him 
in, marm?" 

"Surely. Bring him into the sitting-room. There 
is a comfortable sofa. This way, please!" 


130 



A Scandal in Bohemia 


Slowly and solemnly he was borne into Briony 
Lodge and laid out in the principal room, while I 
still observed the proceedings from my post by the 
window. The lamps had been lit, but the blinds 
had not been drawn, so that I could see Holmes as 
he lay upon the couch. I do not know whether he 
was seized with compunction at that moment for 
the part he was playing, but I know that I never felt 
more heartily ashamed of myself in my life than 
when I saw the beautiful creature against whom 
I was conspiring, or the grace and kindliness with 
which she waited upon the injured man. And yet it 
would be the blackest treachery to Holmes to draw 
back now from the part which he had intrusted to 
me. I hardened my heart, and took the smoke- 
rocket from under my ulster. After all, I thought, 
we are not injuring her. We are but preventing her 
from injuring another. 

Holmes had sat up upon the couch, and I saw 
him motion like a man who is in need of air. A 
maid rushed across and threw open the window. 
At the same instant I saw him raise his hand and 
at the signal I tossed my rocket into the room with 
a cry of "Fire!" The word was no sooner out of my 
mouth than the whole crowd of spectators, well 
dressed and ill — gentlemen, ostlers, and servant- 
maids — joined in a general shriek of "Fire!" Thick 
clouds of smoke curled through the room and 
out at the open window. I caught a glimpse of 
rushing figures, and a moment later the voice of 
Holmes from within assuring them that it was a 
false alarm. Slipping through the shouting crowd 
I made my way to the corner of the street, and in 
ten minutes was rejoiced to find my friend's arm in 
mine, and to get away from the scene of uproar. He 
walked swiftly and in silence for some few min- 
utes until we had turned down one of the quiet 
streets which lead towards the Edgeware Road. 

"You did it very nicely. Doctor," he remarked. 
"Nothing could have been better. It is all right." 

"You have the photograph?" 

"I know where it is." 

"And how did you find out?" 

"She showed me, as I told you she would." 

"I am still in the dark." 

"I do not wish to make a mystery," said he, 
laughing. "The matter was perfectly simple. You, 
of course, saw that everyone in the street was 
an accomplice. They were all engaged for the 
evening." 

"I guessed as much." 

"Then, when the row broke out, I had a little 
moist red paint in the palm of my hand. I rushed 


forward, fell down, clapped my hand to my face, 
and became a piteous spectacle. It is an old trick." 

"That also I could fathom." 

"Then they carried me in. She was bound to 
have me in. What else could she do? And into 
her sitting-room, which was the very room which 
I suspected. It lay between that and her bedroom, 
and I was determined to see which. They laid me 
on a couch, I motioned for air, they were com- 
pelled to open the window, and you had your 
chance." 

"How did that help you?" 

"It was all-important. When a woman thinks 
that her house is on fire, her instinct is at once to 
rush to the thing which she values most. It is a per- 
fectly overpowering impulse, and I have more than 
once taken advantage of it. In the case of the Dar- 
lington substitution scandal it was of use to me, 
and also in the Arnsworth Castle business. A mar- 
ried woman grabs at her baby; an unmarried one 
reaches for her jewel-box. Now it was clear to me 
that our lady of to-day had nothing in the house 
more precious to her than what we are in quest of. 
She would rush to secure it. The alarm of fire was 
admirably done. The smoke and shouting were 
enough to shake nerves of steel. She responded 
beautifully. The photograph is in a recess behind 
a sliding panel just above the right bell-pull. She 
was there in an instant, and I caught a glimpse of 
it as she half-drew it out. When I cried out that it 
was a false alarm, she replaced it, glanced at the 
rocket, rushed from the room, and I have not seen 
her since. I rose, and, making my excuses, escaped 
from the house. I hesitated whether to attempt to 
secure the photograph at once; but the coachman 
had come in, and as he was watching me narrowly 
it seemed safer to wait. A little over-precipitance 
may ruin all." 

"And now?" I asked. 

"Our quest is practically finished. I shall call 
with the King to-morrow, and with you, if you 
care to come with us. We will be shown into the 
sitting-room to wait for the lady, but it is probable 
that when she comes she may find neither us nor 
the photograph. It might be a satisfaction to his 
Majesty to regain it with his own hands." 

"And when will you call?" 

"At eight in the morning. She will not be up, so 
that we shall have a clear field. Besides, we must 
be prompt, for this marriage may mean a complete 
change in her life and habits. I must wire to the 
King without delay." 


131 



A Scandal in Bohemia 


We had reached Baker Street and had stopped 
at the door. He was searching his pockets for the 
key when someone passing said: 

"Good-night, Mister Sherlock Holmes." 

There were several people on the pavement at 


the time, but the greeting appeared to come from 
a slim youth in an ulster who had hurried by. 

"I've heard that voice before," said Holmes, 
staring down the dimly lit street. "Now, I wonder 
who the deuce that could have been." 


CHAPTER IIP 


I slept at Baker Street that night, and we were 
engaged upon our toast and coffee in the morning 
when the King of Bohemia rushed into the room. 

"You have really got it!" he cried, grasping 
Sherlock Holmes by either shoulder and looking 
eagerly into his face. 

"Not yet." 

"But you have hopes?" 

"I have hopes." 

"Then, come. I am all impatience to be gone." 

"We must have a cab." 

"No, my brougham is waiting." 

"Then that will simplify matters." We de- 
scended and started off once more for Briony 
Lodge. 

"Irene Adler is married," remarked Holmes. 

"Married! When?" 

"Yesterday." 

"But to whom?" 

"To an English lawyer named Norton." 

"But she could not love him." 

"I am in hopes that she does." 

"And why in hopes?" 

"Because it would spare your Majesty all fear of 
future annoyance. If the lady loves her husband, 
she does not love your Majesty. If she does not love 
your Majesty, there is no reason why she should 
interfere with your Majesty's plan." 

"It is true. And yet — Well! I wish she had been 
of my own station! What a queen she would have 
made!" He relapsed into a moody silence, which 
was not broken until we drew up in Serpentine 
Avenue. 

The door of Briony Lodge was open, and an el- 
derly woman stood upon the steps. She watched 


us with a sardonic eye as we stepped from the 
brougham. 

"Mr. Sherlock Holmes, I believe?" said she. 

"I am Mr. Holmes," answered my companion, 
looking at her with a questioning and rather star- 
tled gaze. 

"Indeed! My mistress told me that you were 
likely to call. She left this morning with her hus- 
band by the 5.15 train from Charing Cross for the 
Continent." 

"What!" Sherlock Holmes staggered back, 
white with chagrin and surprise. "Do you mean 
that she has left England?" 

"Never to return." 

"And the papers?" asked the King hoarsely. 
"All is lost." 

"We shall see." He pushed past the servant 
and rushed into the drawing-room, followed by 
the King and myself. The furniture was scattered 
about in every direction, with dismantled shelves 
and open drawers, as if the lady had hurriedly ran- 
sacked them before her flight. Holmes rushed at 
the bell-pull, tore back a small sliding shutter, and, 
plunging in his hand, pulled out a photograph and 
a letter. The photograph was of Irene Adler her- 
self in evening dress, the letter was superscribed to 
"Sherlock Holmes, Esq. To be left till called for." 
My friend tore it open and we all three read it to- 
gether. It was dated at midnight of the preceding 
night and ran in this way: 


132 



"Irene Norton, nee Adler." 


My dear Mr. Sherlock Holmes: 

"You really did it very well. You 
took me in completely. Until after the "What a woman — oh, what a woman!" cried 


alarm of fire, I had not a suspicion. 
But then, when I found how I had be- 
trayed myself, I began to think. I had 
been warned against you months ago. 
I had been told that if the King em- 
ployed an agent it would certainly be 
you. And your address had been given 
me. Yet, with all this, you made me re- 
veal what you wanted to know. Even 
after I became suspicious, I found it 
hard to think evil of such a dear, kind 
old clergyman. But, you know, I have 
been trained as an actress myself. Male 
costume is nothing new to me. I often 
take advantage of the freedom which 
it gives. I sent John, the coachman, 
to watch you, ran up stairs, got into 
my walking-clothes, as I call them, and 
came down just as you departed. 

"Well, I followed you to your door, 
and so made sure that I was really an 
object of interest to the celebrated Mr. 
Sherlock Holmes. Then I, rather im- 
prudently, wished you good-night, and 
started for the Temple to see my hus- 
band. 

"We both thought the best resource 
was flight, when pursued by so 
formidable an antagonist; so you will 
find the nest empty when you call to- 
morrow. As to the photograph, your 
client may rest in peace. I love and 
am loved by a better man than he. 
The King may do what he will with- 
out hindrance from one whom he has 
cruelly wronged. I keep it only to 
safeguard myself, and to preserve a 
weapon which will always secure me 
from any steps which he might take in 
the future. 1 leave a photograph which 
he might care to possess; and I remain, 
dear Mr. Sherlock Holmes, 

"Very truly yours. 


the King of Bohemia, when we had all three read 
this epistle. "Did I not tell you how quick and 
resolute she was? Would she not have made an 
admirable queen? Is it not a pity that she was not 
on my level?" 

"From what I have seen of the lady she seems 
indeed to be on a very different level to your 
Majesty," said Holmes coldly. "I am sorry that I 
have not been able to bring your Majesty's busi- 
ness to a more successful conclusion." 

"On the contrary, my dear sir," cried the King; 
"nothing could be more successful. I know that 
her word is inviolate. The photograph is now as 
safe as if it were in the fire." 

"I am glad to hear your Majesty say so." 

"I am immensely indebted to you. Pray tell me 
in what way I can reward you. This ring — " He 
slipped an emerald snake ring from his finger and 
held it out upon the palm of his hand. 

"Your Majesty has something which I should 
value even more highly," said Holmes. 

"You have but to name it." 

"This photograph!" 

The King stared at him in amazement. 

"Irene's photograph!" he cried. "Certainly, if 
you wish it." 

"I thank your Majesty. Then there is no more 
to be done in the matter. I have the honour to wish 
you a very good-morning." He bowed, and, turn- 
ing away without observing the hand which the 
King had stretched out to him, he set off in my 
company for his chambers. 

And that was how a great scandal threatened 
to affect the kingdom of Bohemia, and how the 
best plans of Mr. Sherlock Holmes were beaten by 
a woman's wit. He used to make merry over the 
cleverness of women, but I have not heard him do 
it of late. And when he speaks of Irene Adler, or 
when he refers to her photograph, it is always un- 
der the honourable title of the woman. 



The Yellow Face 


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

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

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

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

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

"Yes, sir." 

"Didn't you ask him in?" 


"Yes, sir; he came in." 

"How long did he wait?" 

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

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

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

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

"Anything else?" I asked, for Holmes was turn- 
ing the pipe about in his hand, and staring at it in 
his peculiar pensive way. 

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

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

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

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


295 



The Yellow Face 


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

"And the other points?" 

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

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

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

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

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

"You wish to employ me as a consulting detec- 
tive?" 

"Not that only. I want your opinion as a judi- 
cious man — as a man of the world. I want to know 
what I ought to do next. I hope to God you'll be 
able to tell me." 

He spoke in little, sharp, jerky outbursts, and it 
seemed to me that to speak at all was very painful 


to him, and that his will all through was overriding 
his inclinations. 

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

"My dear Mr. Grant Munro — " began Holmes. 

Our visitor sprang from his char. "What!" he 
cried, "you know my mane?" 

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

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

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

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


296 



The Yellow Face 


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

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

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

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

"'Jack/ said she, 'when you took my money 
you said that if ever I wanted any I was to ask you 
for it.' 

" 'Certainly/ said I. 'It's all your own.' 

" 'Well/ said she, 'I want a hundred pounds.' 

"I was a bit staggered at this, for I had imag- 
ined it was simply a new dress or something of the 
kind that she was after. 

" 'What on earth for?' I asked. 


" 'Oh/ said she, in her playful way, 'you said 
that you were only my banker, and bankers never 
ask questions, you know.' 

" 'If you really mean it, of course you shall have 
the money/ said I. 

" 'Oh, yes, I really mean it.' 

" 'And you won't tell me what you want it for?' 

" 'Some day, perhaps, but not just at present. 
Jack.' 

"So I had to be content with that, thought it 
was the first time that there had ever been any se- 
cret between us. I gave her a check, and I never 
thought any more of the matter. It may have noth- 
ing to do with what came afterwards, but I thought 
it only right to mention it. 

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

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

"I don't know what there was about that face, 
Mr. Holmes, but it seemed to send a chill right 
down my back. I was some little way off, so that 
I could not make out the features, but there was 
something unnatural and inhuman about the face. 
That was the impression that I had, and I moved 
quickly forwards to get a nearer view of the per- 
son who was watching me. But as I did so the face 
suddenly disappeared, so suddenly that it seemed 
to have been plucked away into the darkness of the 
room. I stood for five minutes thinking the busi- 
ness over, and trying to analyze my impressions. 
I could not tell if the face were that of a man or 
a woman. It had been too far from me for that. 
But its color was what had impressed me most. It 
was of a livid chalky white, and with something 


297 



The Yellow Face 


set and rigid about it which was shockingly un- 
natural. So disturbed was I that I determined to 
see a little more of the new inmates of the cottage. 
I approached and knocked at the door, which was 
instantly opened by a tall, gaunt woman with a 
harsh, forbidding face. 

" 'What may you be wantin'?' she asked, in a 
Northern accent. 

" 'I am your neighbor over yonder,' said I, nod- 
ding towards my house. 'I see that you have only 
just moved in, so I thought that if I could be of any 
help to you in any — ' 

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

"I am usually an extremely sound sleeper. It 
has been a standing jest in the family that noth- 
ing could ever wake me during the night. And 
yet somehow on that particular night, whether 
it may have been the slight excitement produced 
by my little adventure or not I know not, but 
I slept much more lightly than usual. Half in 
my dreams I was dimly conscious that something 
was going on in the room, and gradually became 
aware that my wife had dressed herself and was 
slipping on her mantle and her bonnet. My lips 
were parted to murmur out some sleepy words of 
surprise or remonstrance at this untimely prepa- 
ration, when suddenly my half-opened eyes fell 
upon her face, illuminated by the candle-light, and 
astonishment held me dumb. She wore an expres- 
sion such as I had never seen before — such as I 
should have thought her incapable of assuming. 
She was deadly pale and breathing fast, glancing 
furtively towards the bed as she fastened her man- 
tle, to see if she had disturbed me. Then, think- 
ing that I was still asleep, she slipped noiselessly 
from the room, and an instant later I heard a sharp 
creaking which could only come from the hinges 
of the front door. I sat up in bed and rapped my 
knuckles against the rail to make certain that I was 
truly awake. Then I took my watch from under the 
pillow. It was three in the morning. What on this 


earth could my wife be doing out on the country 
road at three in the morning? 

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

" 'Where in the world have you been, Effie?' I 
asked as she entered. 

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

" 'You awake. Jack!' she cried, with a nervous 
laugh. 'Why, I thought that nothing could awake 
you.' 

" 'Where have you been?' I asked, more sternly. 

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

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

"I should have gone to the City that day, but 
I was too disturbed in my mind to be able to pay 
attention to business matters. My wife seemed to 
be as upset as myself, and I could see from the 
little questioning glances which she kept shooting 
at me that she understood that I disbelieved her 
statement, and that she was at her wits' end what 


298 



The Yellow Face 


to do. We hardly exchanged a word during break- 
fast, and immediately afterwards I went out for a 
walk, that I might think the matter out in the fresh 
morning air. 

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

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

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

" 'So,' said I, 'this is where you went during the 
night.' 

" 'What do you mean?' she cried. 

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

" 'I have not been here before.' 

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

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

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

" 'Trust me. Jack!' she cried. 'Trust me only this 
once. You will never have cause to regret it. You 
know that I would not have a secret from you if it 
were not for your own sake. Our whole lives are 
at stake in this. If you come home with me, all will 


be well. If you force your way into that cottage, all 
is over between us.' 

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

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

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

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

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

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

" 'Where is your mistress?' I asked. 

" 'I think that she has gone out for a walk,' she 
answered. 

"My mind was instantly filled with suspicion. 
I rushed upstairs to make sure that she was not in 
the house. As I did so I happened to glance out of 
one of the upper windows, and saw the maid with 
whom I had just been speaking running across the 
field in the direction of the cottage. Then of course 
I saw exactly what it all meant. My wife had gone 
over there, and had asked the servant to call her 
if I should return. Tingling with anger, I rushed 
down and hurried across, determined to end the 
matter once and forever. I saw my wife and the 
maid hurrying back along the lane, but I did not 
stop to speak with them. In the cottage lay the 


299 



The Yellow Face 


secret which was casting a shadow over my life. I 
vowed that, come what might, it should be a secret 
no longer. I did not even knock when I reached it, 
but turned the handle and rushed into the passage. 

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

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

" 'I am sorry that I broke my promise. Jack/ 
said she; 'but if you knew all the circumstances I 
am sure that you would forgive me.' 

" 'Tell me everything, then/ said I. 

" 'I cannot. Jack, I cannot/ she cried. 

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

Holmes and I had listened with the utmost in- 
terest to this extraordinary statement, which had 
been delivered in the jerky, broken fashion of a 


man who is under the influence of extreme emo- 
tions. My companion sat silent for some time, with 
his chin upon his hand, lost in thought. 

"Tell me," said he at last, "could you swear that 
this was a man's face which you saw at the win- 
dow?" 

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

"You appear, however, to have been disagree- 
ably impressed by it." 

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

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

"Nearly two months." 

"Have you ever seen a photograph of her first 
husband?" 

"No; there was a great fire at Atlanta very 
shortly after his death, and all her papers were de- 
stroyed." 

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

"Yes; she got a duplicate after the fire." 

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

"No." 

"Did she ever talk of revisiting the place?" 

"No." 

"Or get letters from it?" 

"No." 

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

"And if it is still empty?" 

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


300 



The Yellow Face 


"I am afraid that this is a bad business, Wat- 
son," said my companion, as he returned after ac- 
companying Mr. Grant Munro to the door. "What 
do you make of it?" 

"It had an ugly sound," I answered. 

"Yes. There's blackmail in it, or I am much mis- 
taken." 

"And who is the blackmailer?" 

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

"You have a theory?" 

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

"Why do you think so?" 

"How else can we explain her frenzied anxi- 
ety that her second one should not enter it? The 
facts, as I read them, are something like this: This 
woman was married in America. Her husband 
developed some hateful qualities; or shall we say 
that he contracted some loathsome disease, and 
became a leper or an imbecile? She flies from him 
at last, returns to England, changes her name, and 
starts her life, as she thinks, afresh. She has been 
married three years, and believes that her posi- 
tion is quite secure, having shown her husband the 
death certificate of some man whose name she has 
assumed, when suddenly her whereabouts is dis- 
covered by her first husband; or, we may suppose, 
by some unscrupulous woman who has attached 
herself to the invalid. They write to the wife, and 
threaten to come and expose her. She asks for a 
hundred pounds, and endeavors to buy them off. 
They come in spite of it, and when the husband 
mentions casually to the wife that there a new- 
comers in the cottage, she knows in some way that 
they are her pursuers. She waits until her husband 
is asleep, and then she rushes down to endeavor 
to persuade them to leave her in peace. Having 
no success, she goes again next morning, and her 
husband meets her, as he has told us, as she comes 
out. She promises him then not to go there again, 
but two days afterwards the hope of getting rid of 
those dreadful neighbors was too strong for her, 
and she made another attempt, taking down with 
her the photograph which had probably been de- 
manded from her. In the midst of this interview 
the maid rushed in to say that the master had come 
home, on which the wife, knowing that he would 


come straight down to the cottage, hurried the in- 
mates out at the back door, into the grove of fir- 
trees, probably, which was mentioned as standing 
near. In this way he found the place deserted. I 
shall be very much surprised, however, if it still so 
when he reconnoitres it this evening. What do you 
think of my theory?" 

"It is all surmise." 

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

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

"The cottage is still tenanted," it said. 
"Have seen the face again at the win- 
dow. Will meet the seven o'clock train, 
and will take no steps until you arrive." 

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

"They are still there, Mr. Holmes," said he, lay- 
ing his hand hard upon my friend's sleeve. "I saw 
lights in the cottage as I came down. We shall set- 
tle it now once and for all." 

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

"I am going to force my way in and see for my- 
self who is in the house. I wish you both to be 
there as witnesses." 

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

"Yes, I am determined." 

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

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

"There are the lights of my house," he mur- 
mured, pointing to a glimmer among the trees. 
"And here is the cottage which I am going to en- 
ter." 


301 



The Yellow Face 


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"I will tell you the meaning of it," cried the 
lady, sweeping into the room with a proud, set 
face. "You have forced me, against my own judg- 
ment, to tell you, and now we must both make the 


best of it. My husband died at Atlanta. My child 
survived." 

"Your child?" 

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

"I understood that it did not open." 

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

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


302 



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

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


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

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

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

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

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



THE SEALED ROOM 

My wife had a slight cold as my notebook records when on that morning of 12 April 1888; we were introduced in such dramatic fashion to one of the most singular 
problems in the annals of my friend Mr. Sherlock Holmes. At this time, as I have elsewhere recorded, my medical practice was in the Paddington district. Being young and 
active, I was in the habit of arising betimes; and eight o'clock found me downstairs, distressing the maid by lighting the fire in the hall, when I was startled by a ring 
at the street-door. 

A patient at this hour could have come on no trivial errand. And, when I had opened the door to the clear April sunlight, I was struck no less by the 
pallor and agitation than by the youth and beauty of the young lady who stood swaying on my humble threshold. 

"Dr. Watson?" asked she, raising her veil. 

"I am he, madam." 

"Pray forgive this early intrusion. I have come to— I have come to—" 

"Be good enough to step into the consulting-room," said I, leading the way with a vigorous step, and meanwhile studying the young lady closely. It is as well for a 
medical man to impress his patients by deducing their symptoms, and hence their ailments, before they have spoken at all. 

"The weather is warm for this season of the year," I continued, when we reached the consulting-room, "yet there is always the possibility of a chill, unless the room 
be well sealed against draughts." 

The effect of this remark was extraordinary. For a moment my visitor stared at me with the grey eyes widening in her beautiful face. 

"A sealed room!" she cried. "Oh, my God, a sealed room!" 

Her cry became a shriek which ran through the house, and then she collapsed on the hearth-rug in a dead faint. 

Horrified, I poured some water from a carafe, dashed brandy into the water, and, after lifting my patient gently into a chair, persuaded her to swallow it. Scarcely had 
I done so when the noise of that cry brought my wife downstairs and into the consulting-room. 

"Good heavens, John, what in the world—?" And here she broke off. "Why, it’s Cora Murray!" 

"You know the young lady, then?" 

"Know her! I should think I do! I knew Cora Murray in India. Her father and mine were friends for years; and I wrote to her when you and I were married." 

"You wrote to India?" 

"No, no; she lives in England now. Cora is the very closest friend of Eleanor Grand, who married that rather crotchety Colonel Warburton. Cora lives with Colonel 
and Mrs. Warburton at some address in Cambridge Terrace." 

As my wife finished speaking, our visitor opened her eyes. My wife patted her hand. 

"Gently, Cora," said she. "I was only telling my husband that you lived in Cambridge Terrace with Colonel and Mrs. Warburton." 

"No longer!" cried Miss Murray wildly. "Colonel Warburton is dead, and his wife so horribly wounded that she may be dying at this moment! When I saw them 
lying there under that terrifying death-mask, I felt the evil thing itself had driven Colonel Warburton mad. He must have been mad! Why else should he have shot 
his wife and then himself in a locked room? And yet I cannot believe he would have done this dreadful action." 

Grasping my wife's hand with both of hers, she looked up at me with pathetic appeal. 

"Oh, Dr. Watson, I did so hope you would help! Is there nothing your friend Mr. Sherlock Holmes can do!" 

You may well believe that my wife and I listened with amazement to this tale of domestic tragedy. 

"But you tell me that Colonel Warburton is dead," I demurred gently. 

"Yet the shadow remains on his name. Oh, is my errand so hopeless?" 

"Nothing is ever hopeless, Cora," said my wife. "John, what shall you do?" 

"Do?" cried I, glancing at my watch. "Why, a hansom-cab to Baker Street at once! We shall just catch Holmes before breakfast!" 

As I had expected, Sherlock Holmes was moodily awaiting his breakfast, the room acrid with the tang of his first daily pipe, which was composed of left-over dottles 
from the day before. His Bohemian disposition saw nothing strange in Miss Murray's and my arrival at this early hour, though he was inclined to be querulous. 

"The fact is, Holmes," said I, "that I was interrupted this morning—" 

"Quite so, my dear fellow," said he, "as you were engaged in your usual practice of lighting the fire. Your left thumb proclaims as much." Then he caught sight of 
Miss Murray's grief-stricken countenance, and his harsh face softened. 

"But I think," he added, "that you could both do with a little breakfast before we discuss the shock which this young lady so obviously has had." 

And not a word would he permit us to speak until I had consumed some food, though Miss Murray could touch only a cup of coffee. 

"H'm!" said Holmes, with a shade of disappointment on his face after our fair client had faltered out as much of her story as she had told me.'This is indeed a 
grievous tragedy, madam. But I cannot see what service I can render you. A certain Colonel Warburton goes mad; he shoots first his wife and then himself. I 
presume there is no doubt of these facts?" 

Miss Murray groaned. 

"Unhappily, none," replied she. "Though at first we had hoped it might be the work of a burglar." 

"You hoped it might be the work of a burglar?" 

I was much annoyed by the acidity of Holmes's tone, though I could not help divining its cause. Ever since, in the previous month, he had been outwitted and 
beaten by Mrs. Godfrey Norton, nee Irene Adler, his attitude towards the whole female sex had become more bitter than ever. 

"Really, Holmes," I protested with some asperity, "Miss Murray meant only that the work of a burglar-murderer would have saved Colonel Warburton's name from 
the stigma of suicide. I hope you will not hold her responsible for an unfortunate choice of words." 

"An unfortunate choice of words, Watson, has hanged a murderer ere this. Well, well, we shall not distress the young lady! But is it possible, madam, for you to be ex- 
plicit?" 

To my surprise, a smile of singular wistfulness as well as strength illuminated the pale face of our visitor. 

"My father, Mr. Holmes, was Captain Murray of the Sepoy Mutiny. You will see whether I can be explicit." 

"Come, this is distinctly better!— Well?" 

"Colonel Warburton and his wife," said she, "lived at number Nine Cambridge Terrace. You will have seen many such prosperous, solid houses in the Hyde Park 
district. On either side of the front door, behind a small strip of rock-garden, there is a room with two French windows. Colonel Warburton and my dear Eleanor were 
alone in the room to the left of the front door, called the curio room. The time was just after dinner last night. The door of that room was locked on the inside. 
Each of the French windows was double-bolted on the inside though the curtains remained undrawn. No other person was there or hidden there; nor was there any 
other access to the room. A pistol lay at the colonel's right hand. There had been no tampering with any bolt or fastening; the room was locked like a fortress. These 
things, Mr. Holmes, you may accept as facts." 

And, as I am now able to testify, Miss Murray spoke the literal truth. 

"Yes, distinctly this is more satisfactory!" said Holmes, rubbing his long, thin fingers together. "Was it Colonel Warburton's habit to bolt the door upon himself and his 
wife— in the curio room, you said?— each evening after dinner?" 

A sudden perplexity showed in our visitor's face, 

"Good heavens, no!" she answered. "I never thought of it." 

"Still, I fear it cannot affect the issue. On the contrary, it strengthens the indications of madness." 

Cora Murray's grey eyes were steady now. 



"No one, Mr. Holmes, is better aware of it than I. If it had been Colonel Warburton's wish to destroy Eleanor and himself— well, can I deny he would have bolted the 
door?" 

"If I may say so, madam," remarked Sherlock Holmes, "you are a young lady of uncommon good sense. Apart from his Indian curios, would you say that the colonel 
was a man of conventional habits?" 

"Eminently so. And yet..." 

"You would speak of feminine intuition?" 

"Sir, what are your own boasted judgements but masculine intuition?" 

"They are logic, madam! However, pray forgive my irascible temper of a morning." 

Miss Murray bowed her head graciously. 

"The household was roused by the two shots," she continued after a moment. "When we looked through the window, and saw those two crumpled figures lying on the 
floor and the light of the shaded lamps striking a cold blue glitter from the lapis-lazuli eyes of that horrible death-mask, I was seized with superstitious dread." 
Holmes was lounging back in his arm-chair, his old mouse-coloured dressing-gown drawn about his shoulders, in a bored and discontented fashion. 

"My dear Watson," said he, "you will find the cigars in the coal-scuttle. Be good enough to pass me the box: that is, if Miss Murray has no objection to the smoke 
of a cigar?" 

"The daughter of an Anglo-Indian, Mr. Holmes," said our fair visitor, "would scarcely object to that." She hesitated, biting her lip. 

"Indeed, when Major Earnshaw and Captain Lasher and I burst into that locked room, my most distinct memory is the smell of Colonel Warburton's cigar." 

This casual remark was followed by a moment of intense silence. Sherlock Holmes had sprung to his feet, the cigar-box in his hand, and was staring down at Miss 
Murray. 

"I would not distress you, madam, but are you quite sure of what you say?" 

"Mr. Sherlock Holmes," retorted the lady, "I am not in the habit of meaningless speech. I remember even the incongruous thought flashing through my mind that in- 
cense would have been more suitable than cigar-smoke in a room glimmering with brasswork and wooden idols and rose-coloured lamps." 

For a moment Holmes stood motionless before the fire. "It is possible that there may be a hundred and forty-first sort," he observed thoughtfully. "At the same time, 
Miss Murray, I should like to hear a little more of what happened. For example, you mentioned a Major Earnshaw and a Captain Lasher. Were these gentlemen also 
guests at the house?" 

"Major Earnshaw has been a guest for some time, yes. But Captain Lasher"— was it my fancy, or did a blush tinge Cora Murray's face at the mention of the 
captain's name?— "Captain Lasher merely paid a brief call. He is Colonel Warburton's nephew, his only relative, in fact, and is— is much younger than Major 
Earnshaw." 

"But your account of last night, madam?" 

Cora Murray paused for a time as though marshalling her thoughts, and then began to speak in a low but intense voice. 

"Eleanor Warburton was my best friend in India. She is an exceptionally beautiful woman, and I am not being unkind when I say we were all surprised when she 
consented to become the wife of Colonel Warburton. He was a soldier of distinguished reputation and strong character; but not, I should judge, an easy man with whom 
to share one's domestic life. He was inclined to be fussy and short-tempered, especially about his large collection of Indian antiquities. 

"Please understand that I liked George well enough, else I should not be here now. And, though their life was not without its quarrels— in fact, there was a quarrel 
last night— there was nothing, I swear, to account for this present horror! 

"When they left India, I accompanied them to the house in Cambridge Terrace. There we lived almost as though we were at a hill-station in India, even to the 
white-dad figure of Chundra Lai, George's native butler, in a house full of strange gods and perhaps strange influences too. 

"Last night, after dinner, Eleanor demanded to speak with her husband. They retired to the curio room, while Major Earnshaw and I were sitting in a little study called 
the den." 

"One moment," interposed Sherlock Holmes, who had made a note on his shirt-cuff. "A while ago you stated that the house had two rooms facing the front 
garden, one of these being Colonel Warburton's curio room. Was the other front room this den?" 

"No; the other front room is the dining-room. The den lies behind it, and the two do not communicate. Major Earnshaw was holding forth rather wearisomely when 
Jack hurried in. Jack... ." 

"A welcome arrival?" interposed Holmes. "I take it you refer to Captain Lasher?" 

Our visitor raised her frank, clear eyes. 

"A very welcome arrival," she smiled. Then her face clouded. "He told us that on his way through the hall, he had heard the sounds of a quarrel between his 
uncle and Eleanor. Poor Jack, how annoyed he was. 'Here I've come all the way from Kensington to see the old man,' he cried, 'and now I daren't interrupt them. 
What keeps them quarrelling all the time?' 

"I protested that he was doing them an injustice. 

" 'Well, I hate rows,' he replied, 'and I do feel, if only for uncle's sake, that Eleanor might make more effort to get on with the family.' 

" 'She is devoted to your uncle,’ I said, 'and, as for yourself, it is only that she feels as we all do that you live your life too recklessly.’ 

"When Major Earnshaw suggested three-handed whist, at twopence a point, I'm afraid Jack wasn't very courteous. If he must be reckless, he said, he 
preferred to drink a glass of port in the dining-room. So Major Earnshaw and I settled down to a game of bezique." 

"Did either you or Major Earnshaw leave the room after that?" 

"Yes! As a matter of fact, the major did say something about fetching his snuff-box from upstairs." Under other circumstances I felt Cora Murray might have 
laughed. "He rushed out, fumbling in all his pockets, and swearing he couldn't settle to cards without his snuff. 

"I sat there, Mr. Holmes, with the cards in my hand and as I waited in that silent room it seemed as though all the nameless fears of the night gathered 
slowly round me. I remembered the glitter in Eleanor's eyes at dinner. I remembered the brown face of Chundra Lai, the native butler, who has seemed to 
gloat ever since the death-mask was brought into the house. At that precise moment, Mr. Holmes, I heard the two revolver shots." 

In her agitation, Cora Murray had risen to her feet. 

"Oh, please don't think I was mistaken! Don't think I was misled by some other noise, or that these were not the shots which killed George and . . ." 
Drawing a deep breath, she sat down again. 

"For a moment, I was absolutely petrified. Then I ran out into the hall and almost collided with Major Earnshaw. He was muttering some incoherent reply 
to my questions when Jack Lasher came out of the dining-room with the decanter of port in his hand. 'You'd better stay back, Cora,' Jack said to me; 'there 
may be a burglar about.' 

"The two men ran across to the door of the curio room. 

" 'Locked, curse it,' I remember Major Earnshaw crying out. 'Lend a hand, my lad, and well have this door down.' 

" 'Look here, sir,' said Jack; 'you'd want siege-artillery against a door like that. Hold hard while I dash round and try the French windows.’ As a result, all of us ran 
outside . . ." 

"All of you?" 

"Major Earnshaw, Jack Lasher, Chundra Lai, and myself. One glimpse through the nearest window showed us George and Eleanor Warburton lying face upwards 
against the red Brussels carpet. Blood was still flowing from a wound in Eleanor's breast." 

"And then?" 



"You may recall my saying that the front garden is a rock-garden?” 

"I made a mental note of it." 

"A rock-garden with gravel soil. Calling out to the others to guard the doors and make certain no burglar escaped, Jack picked up a huge stone and smashed a 
window. But there was no burglar, Mr. Holmes. A single glance had shown me that both French windows were still double-bolted on the inside. Immediately 
afterwards, before anyone had gone near the door, I went to it and found the door locked on the inside. You see, I think I knew there could be no burglar." 

"You knew it?" 

"It was George's fear for his collection," Miss Murray answered simply. "Even the fireplace in that room is bricked up. Chundra Lai looked inscrutably at the hard 
blue eyes of the death-mask on the wall, and Major Earnshaw's foot kicked the revolver lying near George's hand. 'Bad business, this,' said Major Earnshaw; 'we'd 
better send for a doctor.’ That, I think, is all of my story." 

For a time after she had finished speaking Holmes still stood motionless before the fire, his hand toying with the knife whose blade transfixed his unanswered 
correspondence to the middle of the wooden mantelshelf. 

"H'm!" said he. "And the position now?" 

"Poor Eleanor lies badly wounded in a nursing home in Bayswater. She may not even recover. George's body has been removed to the mortuary. Even 
when I left Cambridge Terrace this morning, with some wild hope of enlisting your aid through Dr. Watson, the police had arrived in the person of an 
Inspector MacDonald. But what can he do?" 

"What, indeed?" echoed Holmes. But his deep-set eyes gleamed, and he lifted the knife and brought it down like a weapon against the envelopes. "Still- 
Inspector Mac! That is much better. I could not have endured Lestrade or Gregson this morning. If the young lady will forgive me while I don coat and hat, 
we shall just go round to Cambridge Terrace." 

"Holmes," cried I in protest, "it would be monstrous to encourage false hopes in Miss Murray!" 

My friend looked at me in his coldly imperious fashion. 

"My dear Watson, I neither encourage hope nor do I discourage it. I examine evidence. Voila tout." 

Yet I noticed that he slipped his lens into his pocket; and he was moodily thoughtful, biting at his lip, as a four-wheeler carried us through the streets. 

Cambridge Terrace, on that sunny April morning, stretched silent and deserted. Behind the stone wall, and the narrow strip of rock-garden, lay the stone 
house with its white window-facings and green-painted front door. It gave me something of a shock to see, near the windows towards the left of the entrance, the 
white-dressed figure and turban of a native butler. Chundra Lai stood there as motionless as one of his own idols, looking at us; then he melted into the 
house through one of the French windows. 

Sherlock Holmes, it was clear, had been similarly affected. I saw his shoulders stiffen under the frock-coat as he watched the retreating figure of the Indian 
servant. Though the window immediately to the left of the front door was intact, a gap in the rock-garden showed where a large stone had been prised out; and 
the other window, further to the left, had been smashed to bits. It was through this opening that the native butler, on silent feet, had moved inside. 

Holmes whistled, but he did not speak until Cora Murray had left us. 

"Tell me, Watson," said he. "You saw nothing strange or inconsistent in the narrative of Miss Murray?" 

"Strange, horrible, yes!" I confessed. "But inconsistent? Surely not!" 

"Yet you yourself have been the first to protest about it." 

"My dear fellow, I have uttered not one word of protest this morning!" 

"Not this morning, perhaps," said Sherlock Holmes. "Ah, Inspector Mac! We are met upon the occasion of another problem." 

In the shattered window, stepping carefully over fallen shards of glass, appeared a freckled-faced, sandy-haired young man with the dogged stamp of the police-officer. 
"Great Scott, Mr. Holmes, you don't call this a problem?" exclaimed Inspector MacDonald, raising his eyebrows. "Unless the question is why Colonel Warburton went 
mad?" 

"Well, well!" said Holmes good-naturedly. "I presume you will allow us to enter?" 

"Aye, and welcome!" retorted the young Scot. 

We found ourselves in a lofty, narrow room which, though furnished with comfortable chairs, conveyed the impression of a barbaric museum. Mounted on an ebony 
cabinet facing the windows stood an extraordinary object: the effigy of a human face, brown and gilded, with two great eyes of some hard and glittering blue stone. 
"Pretty little thing, isn't it?" grunted young MacDonald. "That's the death-mask that seems to affect 'em like a hieland spell. Major Earnshaw and Captain Lasher 
are in the den now, talking their heads off." 

To my surprise Holmes scarcely glanced at the hideous object. 

"I take it, Inspector Mac," said he, as he wandered about the room peering into the glass cases and display cabinets, "you have already questioned all the 
inmates of this house?" 

"Mon, I've done nothing else!" groaned Inspector MacDonald. "But what can they tell me? This room was locked up. The only man who committed a crime, in shooting 
himself and his wife, is dead. So far as the police are concerned, the case is closed. What now, Mr. Holmes?" 

My friend had stooped suddenly. 

"Hullo, what's this?" he cried, examining a small object which he had picked up off the floor. 

"Merely the stub of Colonel Warburton's cigar which, as you see, burnt a hole in the carpet," replied MacDonald. 

"Ah. Quite so." 

Even as he spoke the door burst open and there entered a portly, elderly man whom I presumed to be Major Earnshaw. Behind him, accompanied by Cora Murray, 
her hand on his arm, came a tall young man with a bronzed, high-nosed face and a guardsman's moustache. 

"I understand, sir, that you are Mr. Sherlock Holmes," began Major Earnshaw stiffly. "I must say at once that I cannot perceive the reason why Miss Murray 
should have called you into this private tragedy." 

"Others might perceive the reason," replied Holmes quietly. "Did your uncle always smoke the same brand of cigar, Captain Lasher?" 

"Yes, sir," replied the young man with a puzzled glance at Holmes. "There is the box on the side-table." 

We all watched Sherlock Holmes in silence as he went across and picked up the box of cigars. For a moment, he peered at the contents and then, lifting the box to 
his nose, he sniffed deeply. 

"Dutch," he said. "Miss Murray, you are quite right in your affirmation! Colonel Warburton was not mad." 

Major Earnshaw uttered a loud snort, while the younger man, with better manners than his senior, attempted to hide his amusement by smoothing his moustache. 
"Deuce knows we are all very relieved to have your assurance, Mr. Holmes," said he. "Doubtless you deduce it from the colonel's taste in cigars." 

"Partly," my friend answered gravely. "Dr. Watson can inform you that I have given some attention to the study of tobacco and that I have even ventured to embody my 
views in a small monograph listing 140 separate varieties of tobacco ash. Colonel Warburton's taste in cigars merely confirms the other evidence. Well, MacDonald?" 

A frown had settled on the Scotland Yard man's face and his small, light-blue eyes peered at Holmes suspiciously from beneath his sandy eyebrows. 

"Evidence? What are ye driving at, mon!" he cried suddenly. "Why, it's as plain as a pikestaff. The colonel and his wife are both shot in a room that is locked, bolted 
and barred from the inside. Do you deny it?" 

"No." 

"Then, let us stick to the facts, Mr. Holmes." 



My friend had strolled across to the ebony cabinet and with his hands behind his back was now engaged in contemplating the hideous painted face that stared above his 
head. 

"By all means," he replied. "What is your theory to account for the locked door, Inspector Mac?" 

"That the colonel himself locked it for privacy." 

"Quite so. A most suggestive circumstance." 

"It is suggestive merely of the madness that drove Colonel Warburton to his dreadful deed," answered MacDonald. 

"Come, Mr. Holmes," interposed young Lasher. "We all know your reputation for serving justice through your own clever methods and naturally we are as keen as 
mustard to clear poor uncle's name. But, devil take it, there is no way round the evidence and whether we like it or not we are forced to agree with the 
Inspector here that Colonel Warburton was the victim of his own insanity." 

Holmes raised one long, thin hand. 

"Colonel Warburton was the victim of a singularly cold-blooded murder," he stated quietly. 

His words were followed by a tense silence as we all stared at each other. 

"By God, sir, whom are you accusing?" roared Major Earnshaw. "I'll have you know that there are slander laws in this country." 

"Well, well," said Holmes good-humoredly. "I will take you into my confidence, Major, by telling you that my case rests largely on all those broken portions 
of glass from the French window which, you will perceive, I have gathered up into the fireplace. When I return tomorrow morning to piece them together, I 
trust that I will then be able to prove my case to your satisfaction. By the way, Inspector Mac, I take it that you eat oysters?" 

MacDonald's face reddened. 

"Mr. Holmes, I have had aye a liking and a respect for ye," he said sharply. "But there are times when it is neither douce nor seemly in a man to— what 
the deil have oysters to do with it?" 

"Merely that to eat them you would presumably take the oyster fork nearest to hand. To the trained observer, surely there would be something significant if 
you reached instead for the fork beside your neighbor's plate. I give you the thought for what it is worth." 

For a long moment MacDonald stared intently at my friend. 

"Aye, Mr. Holmes," he said at length. "Verra interesting. I should be glad of your suggestions." 

"I would advise that you have the broken window boarded up," replied Holmes. "Apart from that, let nothing be touched until we all meet again tomorrow 
morning. Come, Watson, I see that it is already past one o'clock. A dish of calamare alia siciliana at Pelligrini's would not come amiss." 

During the afternoon, I was busy upon my belated medical round and it was not until the early evening that I found myself once more in Baker Street. Mrs. 
Hudson opened the door to me and I had paused on the stairs to answer her enquiry whether I would be staying for dinner when a loud report rang through the 
house. Mrs. Hudson clutched at the banister. 

"There, sir, he's at it again," she wailed. "Them dratted pistols. And not six months since he blew the points off the mantelpiece! In the interests of justice, Mr. Holmes 
said. Oh, Dr. Watson, sir, if you don't get up there quick, like as not it will be that expensive gasogene that will have gone this time." 

Throwing the worthy woman a word of comfort, I raced up the stairs and threw open the door of our old sitting-room just as a second report rang out. Through a 
cloud of pungent black powder-smoke, I caught a glimpse of Sherlock Holmes. He was lounging back in his arm-chair, clad in a dressing-gown, with a cigar between 
his lips and a smoking revolver poised in his right hand. 

"Ah, Watson," he said languidly. 

"Good heavens, Holmes, this is really intolerable," I cried. "The place smells like a rifle range. If you care nothing for the damage, I beg of you to consider the 
effect on Mrs. Hudson's nerves and those of your clients." I threw wide the windows and was relieved to observe that the noisy stream of passing hansoms and 
carriages had apparently concealed the sound of the shots. "The atmosphere is most unhealthy," I added severely. 

Holmes stretched up an arm and placed the revolver on the mantelpiece. 

"Really Watson, I don't know what I would do without you," he remarked. "As I have had occasion to observe before, you have a certain genius for supplying the element of 
a touchstone to the higher workings of the trained mind." 

"A touchstone that has, to my knowledge, broken the law three times in order to be of assistance to you," I replied a trifle bitterly. 

"My dear fellow," said he, and there was that in his voice that banished all resentment and mollified my ruffled feelings. 

"It is some time since I saw you smoking a cigar," I pronounced, as I threw myself into my old chair. 

"It is a matter of mood, Watson. In this instance, I took the liberty of purloining one from the stock of the late Colonel Warburton." He broke off to glance 
at the clock on the mantelpiece. "H'm. We have an hour to spare," he concluded. "So let us exchange the problems of Man's manifold wickedness for the 
expression of that higher power that exists even in the worst of us. Watson, the Stradivarius. It is in the corner behind you." 

It was nearly eight o'clock and I had just lit the gas when there came a knock on the door and Inspector MacDonald, his long, angular figure wrapped in a 

plaid over-coat, bustled into the room. 

"I got your message, Mr. Holmes," he cried, "and everything has been carried out in accordance with your suggestions. There'll be a constable in the front 
garden at midnight. Don’t worry about the French window; we can get in without rousing the house." 

Holmes rubbed his thin fingers together. 

"Excellent, excellent! You have a gift for promptly carrying out— eh— suggestions that will take you far," he said warmly. "Mrs. Hudson will serve us supper here 
and afterwards a pipe or two may help to fill in the time. I consider that it might be fatal to my plans should we take up our positions before midnight. Now, 

Mr. Mac, draw up your chair and try this shag. Watson can tell you that it has marked characteristics of its own." 

The evening passed pleasantly enough. Sherlock Holmes, who was in his most genial mood, lent an attentive ear to the Scotland Yard man's account 
of a gang of French coiners whose operations were actually threatening the stability of the louis d'or, and thereafter proceeded to bemuse the Scotsman with 
a highly ingenious theory as to the effects of runic lore upon the development of the highland clans. It was the striking of midnight which brought us back 
at last to the grim realities of the night. 

Holmes crossed to his desk and, in the pool of light cast by the green-shaded reading lamp, I caught the grave expression on his face as he opened a 
drawer and took out a life-preserver. 

"Slip this into your pocket, Watson," said he. "I fancy that our man may be inclined to violence. Now, Mr. Mac, as Mrs. Hudson has probably been in bed an 
hour since, if you are ready we will step downstairs and hail the first hansom." 

It was a clear starlit night, and a short drive through a network of small streets carried us across Edgeware Road. At a word from Holmes, the cabby pulled up at 
a corner and as we alighted I saw the long expanse of Cambridge Terrace stretching away before us in an empty desolation of lamplight and shadow. We hurried 
down the street and turned through the gate leading to our destination. 

MacDonald nodded towards the planks which now blocked the shattered window. 

"They're loose on one side," he whispered. "But move carefully." 

There was a slight creaking and, an instant later, we had squeezed our way past the boards to find ourselves in the utter darkness of Colonel Warburton's curio 
room. 

Holmes had produced a dark lantern from the pocket of his Inverness and following its faint beam we groped our way along the wall until we came to an alcove con- 
taining a couch. 

"This will do," whispered my friend. "We might have found a worse roost and it is near enough to the fireplace for our purposes." 



The night was singularly quiet and, as it turned out, our vigil a dreary one. Once, some belated revellers went by in a hansom, the sound of their singing and the clip- 
clop of the horse's hoofs gradually dying away towards Hyde Park and, an hour or so later, there came to us the deep rumbling gallop of a fire-engine tearing furiously 
along Edgeware Road with a clamour of bells and the sharp pistol-shot cracking of the driver's whip. Otherwise, the silence was unbroken save for the ticking of a 
grandfather clock at the other end of the room. 

The atmosphere, which was heavy with the aromatic mustiness of an Oriental museum, began to weigh me down with an increasing lethargy until I had to concen- 
trate all my faculties to keep myself from falling asleep. 

I have referred to the utter darkness, but as my eyes grew accustomed to the conditions I became aware of a pale reflection of light from some distant street-lamp 
stealing through the unboarded French window and I was idly following its path when my gaze fell upon something that brought a chill to my senses. A face, faint and 
nebulous yet dreadful as the figment of a nightmare, was glaring down at me from the far end of that dim radiance. I must have started involuntarily, for I felt Holmes 
lean toward me. 

"The mask," he whispered. "Our own trophy is likely to be less impressive but rather more dangerous." 

Leaning back in my seat I tried to relax, but the sight of that grisly relic had turned my thoughts into a new field of conjecture. The sinister white-clad figure of 
Chundra Lai, Colonel Warburton's Indian servant, arose in my mind's eye and I attempted to recall the exact words used by Miss Murray in describing the effect of the 
death-mask upon the man. Perhaps even more than Holmes, I knew enough about India to realize that religious fanaticism and a sense of sacrilege would not only 
justify any crime but inspire in the devotee a cunning of execution which might well baffle the preconceptions of our Western minds, however experienced in the ways of 
our fellow-men. 

I was considering whether I should open the subject to my companions when my attention was arrested by the low creak of a door-hinge. There was not a 
moment to lose in warning Holmes that somebody was entering the room. But when I stretched out my hand it was only to find that my friend was no longer beside 
me. 

There followed a period of complete stillness and then a stooping figure, its footsteps muffled by the carpet, whisked across the faint ray of light from the French 
window and vanished into the shadows immediately in front of me. I had a fleeting impression of a high-collared cape and the dull glitter of some long, thin object 
grasped in a half-raised hand. An instant later, there came a gleam of light in the fireplace, as though the shutter of a dark lantern had been slid back, and then a 
gentle tapping and tinkling. 

I was rising to my feet when a smothered yell rang through the room followed instantly by the sounds of a furious struggle. 

"Watson! Watson!" 

With a thrill of horror I recognized Holmes's voice in that half-choked cry, and plunging forward through the darkness, I hurled myself upon a writhing mass that 
loomed suddenly before me. 

A grip like steel closed round my throat and as I raised my arm to force back the head of my dimly seen assailant he buried his teeth in my forearm like some 
savage hound. The man possessed the strength of a madman and it was not until MacDonald, having lit a gas-jet, sprang to our assistance that we succeeded in 
mastering his struggles. Holmes, his face strained and bloodless, leaned back against the wall, his hand clasping his shoulder where he had been hit with a heavy 
brass poker that now lay in the fireplace amid the splintered shards of window-glass which he had placed there on our previous visit. 

"There's your man, MacDonald!" he gasped. "You can arrest him for the murder of Colonel Warburton and for the attempted murder of his wife." 

MacDonald flung back our assailant's cape and for a moment I stared in silence before an exclamation of amazement broke from my lips. For, in that first glance, I 
had failed to recognize in those lowering features and vicious, baleful eyes the bronzed, handsome countenance of Captain Jack Lasher. 

The first streaks of dawn were glimmering through the window when my friend and I found ourselves back in Baker Street. 

I poured out two stiff brandy-and-sodas and handed one to Holmes. As he leaned back in his chair, the gaslight beside the mantelpiece threw his keen 
aquiline features into bold relief and I was glad to observe that a little colour was stealing into his face. 

"Really, Watson, I owe you an apology," said he. "Captain Jack was a dangerous man. How is your arm where he savaged you?" 

"A little painful," I admitted. "But nothing that iodine and a bandage cannot repair. I am far more concerned about your shoulder, my dear fellow, for he gave you 

an ugly blow with that poker. You must allow me to look at it." 

"Later, later, Watson. I assure you that it is nothing worse than a bruise," he replied, with a touch of impatience. "Well, I can confess now that there were mo- 

ments tonight when I had the gravest doubts that our man would walk into the trap." 

"Trap?" 

"A baited trap, Watson, and had he not swallowed my dainty morsel it would have gone hard with us to bring Captain Lasher to book. I gambled on the 
fact that a murderer's fears will sometimes override his intelligence. And so it turned out." 

"Frankly, I do not understand even now how you unravelled this case." 

Holmes leant back in his chair and put his finger tips together. 

"My dear fellow, there was no great difficulty in the problem. The facts were obvious enough but the delicacy of the matter lay in the need that the murderer himself 
should confirm them by some overtact. Circumstantial evidence is the bane of the trained reasoner." 

"I have observed nothing." 

"You observed everything but failed to reason. In the course of Miss Murray's narrative, she mentioned that the door of the curio room was locked and yet the window- 
curtains were not drawn, not drawn, mark you, Watson, in a ground-floor room overlooking the public street. A most unusual proceeding. You may recall that I 
interrupted Miss Murray to enquire as to Colonel Warburton's conventional habits. 

"The circumstances suggested to my mind the possibility that Colonel Warburton might have been expecting a visitor and that the nature of that visit was such that 
either he or the caller preferred that it should occur privately by the French windows rather than the front door. This elderly soldier was recently married to 
a young and beautiful wife and I therefore discarded the idea of a vulgar assignation. If I was right in my theory, then the visitor must be a man whose private 
interview with Colonel Warburton would be resented by some other member of the household and hence the obvious step of joining the colonel via the French windows." 
"But they were locked," I objected. 

"Naturally. Miss Murray stated that Mrs. Warburton accompanied her husband to the curio room immediately after dinner and apparently a quarrel arose between them. 
It occurred to me that, if the colonel was expecting a visitor, then what more natural than he would leave the curtains undrawn so that his caller should observe that 
he was not alone. At first, of course, these were all mere conjectures that could possibly fit the facts." 

"And the identity of this mysterious visitor?" 

"Again, a conjecture, Watson. We knew that Mrs. Warburton disapproved of Captain Lasher, her husband's nephew. I give you these vagaries as they first occurred 
to me during the earlier part of Miss Murray's narrative. I could not have moved in the matter, had not the latter part of her story contained the one singular fact 
that changed the slightest of suspicions into the absolute certainty that we were in the presence of a cold-blooded and calculated murder." 

"I must say that I cannot recall..." 

"Yet you yourself underlined it, Watson, when you used the term 'intolerable.' " 

"Great heavens, Holmes," I burst out. "Then, it was Miss Murray's remark about the smell of the colonel's cigar..." 

"In a room in which two shots had just been fired! It would have reeked of black powder. I knew, then, that no shots had been fired within the curio room." 

"But the reports were heard by the household." 



"The shots were fired from outside through the closed windows. The murderer was an excellent marksman and therefore conceivably a military man. Here, at last, was 
something to work upon and, later on, I received confirmation from your own lips, Watson, when having lit one of the colonel's cigars I waited until I heard 
you below and then fired two shots from the same calibre revolver as that which killed Warburton." 

"In any case, there should have been powder burns," I said thoughtfully. 

"Not necessarily. The powder from a cartridge is a tricky element and the absence of burns proved nothing. The smell of the cigar was of far greater importance. I 
must add, however, that useful though your confirmation was, my visit to the house had already elucidated the whole case in my mind." 

"You were startled at the appearance of the Indian servant," I rejoined, somewhat nettled at the trace of self-satisfaction which I discerned in his manner. 

"No Watson, I was startled at the broken window through which he retreated." 

"But Miss Murray had told us that Captain Lasher broke the window in order to enter the room." 

"It is an unfortunate fact, Watson, that a woman will invariably omit from her narrative that exact precision of detail which is as essential to the trained observer as 
bricks and mortar to a builder. If you will recall, she stated that Captain Lasher ran out of the house, looked through the French window and then, picking up a stone 
from the rock-garden, smashed the glass and entered." 

"Quite so." 

"The reason that I started when I saw the Indian was because the man was retreating through the wreckage of the far French window, while that nearer to the 
front door remained unbroken. As we hurried forward to the house, I observed the gap in the rockery immediately under the first window where Lasher had picked 
up the stone. Why, then, should he run on to the second window and smash it, unless it was that the glass bore its own story? Hence my broad hint to MacDonald 
of the oyster and the nearest fork. The groundwork of my case was complete when I sniffed the contents of Colonel Warburton's cigar box. They were Dutch, among 
the weakest in aroma of all cigars." 

"All this is now quite clear to me," I said. "But in telling the whole household of your plans to piece together the glass of the broken window it seems to me that 
you were risking the very evidence on which your case was based." 

Holmes reached for the Persian slipper and began to fill his pipe with black shag. 

"My dear Watson, it would have been virtually impossible for me to reconstruct those shattered panes to the degree that would prove the existence of two small bullet 
holes. No, it was a question of bluff, my dear fellow, a gambler's throw. Should somebody make an attempt to destroy still further those shards from the window, then 
that person was the murderer of Colonel Warburton. I showed my hand deliberately. The rest is known to you. Our man came, armed with a poker, having let 
himself in with the duplicate latch-key which we discovered in his cape pocket. I think there is nothing to add." 

"But the reason, Holmes," I cried. 

"We have not far to look, Watson. We are told that, until Colonel Warburton's marriage, Lasher was his only relative and therefore, we may assume, his heir. Mrs. 
Warburton, according to Miss Murray's statement, disapproved of the younger man on the grounds of his extravagant living. It is obvious from this that the wife's 
influence must represent a very real danger to the interests of Captain Jack. 

"On the night in question, our man came openly to the house and, having spoken with Miss Murray and Major Earnshaw, retired ostensibly to drink a port in 
the dining-room. In fact, however, he merely passed through the dining-room window, which opens on the front garden, walked to the French windows of the curio room 
and there shot Colonel Warburton and his wife through the glass. 

"It would require no more than a few seconds to rush back by the way that he had come, seize a decanter from the sideboard and hurry out into the hall. But he 
cut it fine, for you will recall that he appeared a moment or two after the others. To complete the illusion of Colonel Warburton's madness, it merely remained for him 
to eliminate the bullet holes by smashing the window and, on entering, drop the revolver by the hand of his victim." 

"And if Mrs. Warburton had not been there and he had been able to keep his rendezvous with his uncle, what then?" I asked. 

"Ah, Watson, there we can only guess. But the fact that he came armed presupposes the worst. I have no doubt that when he comes to trial it will be 
found that Lasher was pressed for money and, as we have ample reason to know, he is a young man who would not shrink from taking his own measures to 
remove any obstacles that stood in the way of his needs. Well, my dear fellow, it is high time that you were on your way home. Pray, convey my apologies 
to your wife for any small interruption I may have caused in the tranquillity of your menage." 

"But your shoulder, Holmes," I expostulated. "I must apply some liniment before you retire for a few hours' rest." 

"Tut, Watson," my friend replied. "You should have learned by now that the mind is the master of the body. I have a small problem on hand concerning a 
solution of potash and so if you would have the goodness to hand me that pipette—" 



The Sign of the Four 


CHAPTER I. 

The Science of Deduction 


S herlock Holmes took his bottle from 
the corner of the mantelpiece and his hy- 
podermic syringe from its neat morocco 
case. With his long, white, nervous fin- 
gers he adjusted the delicate needle, and rolled 
back his left shirt-cuff. For some little time his 
eyes rested thoughtfully upon the sinewy forearm 
and wrist all dotted and scarred with innumer- 
able puncture-marks. Finally he thrust the sharp 
point home, pressed down the tiny piston, and 
sank back into the velvet-lined arm-chair with a 
long sigh of satisfaction. 

Three times a day for many months I had wit- 
nessed this performance, but custom had not rec- 
onciled my mind to it. On the contrary, from day 
to day I had become more irritable at the sight, and 
my conscience swelled nightly within me at the 
thought that I had lacked the courage to protest. 
Again and again I had registered a vow that I 
should deliver my soul upon the subject, but there 
was that in the cool, nonchalant air of my com- 
panion which made him the last man with whom 
one would care to take anything approaching to 
a liberty. His great powers, his masterly manner, 
and the experience which I had had of his many 
extraordinary qualities, all made me diffident and 
backward in crossing him. 

Yet upon that afternoon, whether it was the 
Beaune which I had taken with my lunch, or the 
additional exasperation produced by the extreme 
deliberation of his manner, I suddenly felt that I 
could hold out no longer. 

"Which is it to-day?" I asked, — "morphine or 
cocaine?" 

He raised his eyes languidly from the old 
black-letter volume which he had opened. "It 
is cocaine," he said, — "a seven-per-cent solution. 
Would you care to try it?" 

"No, indeed," I answered, brusquely. "My con- 
stitution has not got over the Afghan campaign 
yet. I cannot afford to throw any extra strain upon 
it." 

He smiled at my vehemence. "Perhaps you are 
right, Watson," he said. "I suppose that its influ- 
ence is physically a bad one. I find it, however, 
so transcendently stimulating and clarifying to the 
mind that its secondary action is a matter of small 
moment." 

"But consider!" I said, earnestly. "Count the 
cost! Your brain may, as you say, be roused and ex- 
cited, but it is a pathological and morbid process. 


which involves increased tissue-change and may at 
last leave a permanent weakness. You know, too, 
what a black reaction comes upon you. Surely the 
game is hardly worth the candle. Why should you, 
for a mere passing pleasure, risk the loss of those 
great powers with which you have been endowed? 
Remember that I speak not only as one comrade 
to another, but as a medical man to one for whose 
constitution he is to some extent answerable." 

He did not seem offended. On the contrary, he 
put his fingertips together and leaned his elbows 
on the arms of his chair, like one who has a relish 
for conversation. 

"My mind," he said, "rebels at stagnation. Give 
me problems, give me work, give me the most ab- 
struse cryptogram or the most intricate analysis, 
and I am in my own proper atmosphere. I can dis- 
pense then with artificial stimulants. But I abhor 
the dull routine of existence. I crave for mental 
exaltation. That is why I have chosen my own par- 
ticular profession, — or rather created it, for I am 
the only one in the world." 

"The only unofficial detective?" I said, raising 
my eyebrows. 

"The only unofficial consulting detective," he 
answered. "I am the last and highest court of ap- 
peal in detection. When Gregson or Lestrade or 
Athelney Jones are out of their depths — which, by 
the way, is their normal state — the matter is laid 
before me. I examine the data, as an expert, and 
pronounce a specialist's opinion. I claim no credit 
in such cases. My name figures in no newspa- 
per. The work itself, the pleasure of finding a 
field for my peculiar powers, is my highest reward. 
But you have yourself had some experience of my 
methods of work in the Jefferson Hope case." 

"Yes, indeed," said I, cordially. "I was never so 
struck by anything in my life. I even embodied it 
in a small brochure with the somewhat fantastic 
title of 'A Study in Scarlet.' " 

He shook his head sadly. "I glanced over it," 
said he. "Honestly, I cannot congratulate you upon 
it. Detection is, or ought to be, an exact science, 
and should be treated in the same cold and un- 
emotional manner. You have attempted to tinge it 
with romanticism, which produces much the same 
effect as if you worked a love-story or an elope- 
ment into the fifth proposition of Euclid." 

"But the romance was there," I remonstrated. 
"I could not tamper with the facts." 


67 



The Sign of the Four 


"Some facts should be suppressed, or at least 
a just sense of proportion should be observed in 
treating them. The only point in the case which 
deserved mention was the curious analytical rea- 
soning from effects to causes by which I succeeded 
in unraveling it." 

I was annoyed at this criticism of a work which 
had been specially designed to please him. I con- 
fess, too, that I was irritated by the egotism which 
seemed to demand that every line of my pamphlet 
should be devoted to his own special doings. More 
than once during the years that I had lived with 
him in Baker Street I had observed that a small 
vanity underlay my companion's quiet and didac- 
tic manner. I made no remark, however, but sat 
nursing my wounded leg. I had a Jezail bullet 
through it some time before, and, though it did 
not prevent me from walking, it ached wearily at 
every change of the weather. 

"My practice has extended recently to the Con- 
tinent," said Holmes, after a while, filling up his 
old brier-root pipe. "I was consulted last week by 
Francois Le Villard, who, as you probably know, 
has come rather to the front lately in the French de- 
tective service. He has all the Celtic power of quick 
intuition, but he is deficient in the wide range of 
exact knowledge which is essential to the higher 
developments of his art. The case was concerned 
with a will, and possessed some features of inter- 
est. I was able to refer him to two parallel cases, 
the one at Riga in 1857, and the other at St. Louis 
in 1871, which have suggested to him the true so- 
lution. Here is the letter which I had this morning 
acknowledging my assistance." He tossed over, as 
he spoke, a crumpled sheet of foreign notepaper. I 
glanced my eyes down it, catching a profusion of 
notes of admiration, with stray magnifiques, coup- 
de-mattres and tours-de-force, all testifying to the ar- 
dent admiration of the Frenchman. 

"He speaks as a pupil to his master," said I. 

"Oh, he rates my assistance too highly," said 
Sherlock Holmes, lightly. "He has considerable 
gifts himself. He possesses two out of the three 
qualities necessary for the ideal detective. He has 
the power of observation and that of deduction. 
He is only wanting in knowledge; and that may 
come in time. He is now translating my small 
works into French." 

"Your works?" 

"Oh, didn't you know?" he cried, laughing. 
"Yes, I have been guilty of several monographs. 
They are all upon technical subjects. Here, for 
example, is one ‘Upon the Distinction betzveen the 
Ashes of the Various Tobaccoes.’ In it I enumerate a 


hundred and forty forms of cigar-, cigarette-, and 
pipe-tobacco, with colored plates illustrating the 
difference in the ash. It is a point which is con- 
tinually turning up in criminal trials, and which 
is sometimes of supreme importance as a clue. If 
you can say definitely, for example, that some mur- 
der has been done by a man who was smoking an 
Indian liinkah, it obviously narrows your field of 
search. To the trained eye there is as much differ- 
ence between the black ash of a Trichinopoly and 
the white fluff of bird's-eye as there is between a 
cabbage and a potato." 

"You have an extraordinary genius for minu- 
tiae," I remarked. 

"I appreciate their importance. Here is my 
monograph upon the tracing of footsteps, with 
some remarks upon the uses of plaster of Paris 
as a preserver of impresses. Here, too, is a cu- 
rious little work upon the influence of a trade 
upon the form of the hand, with lithotypes of the 
hands of slaters, sailors, corkcutters, compositors, 
weavers, and diamond-polishers. That is a mat- 
ter of great practical interest to the scientific detec- 
tive, — especially in cases of unclaimed bodies, or 
in discovering the antecedents of criminals. But I 
weary you with my hobby." 

"Not at all," I answered, earnestly. "It is of the 
greatest interest to me, especially since I have had 
the opportunity of observing your practical appli- 
cation of it. But you spoke just now of observation 
and deduction. Surely the one to some extent im- 
plies the other." 

"Why, hardly," he answered, leaning back lux- 
uriously in his armchair, and sending up thick blue 
wreaths from his pipe. "For example, observa- 
tion shows me that you have been to the Wigmore 
Street Post-Office this morning, but deduction lets 
me know that when there you dispatched a tele- 
gram." 

"Right!" said I. "Right on both points! But I 
confess that I don't see how you arrived at it. It 
was a sudden impulse upon my part, and I have 
mentioned it to no one." 

"It is simplicity itself," he remarked, chuckling 
at my surprise, — "so absurdly simple that an ex- 
planation is superfluous; and yet it may serve to 
define the limits of observation and of deduction. 
Observation tells me that you have a little reddish 
mould adhering to your instep. Just opposite the 
Seymour Street Office they have taken up the pave- 
ment and thrown up some earth which lies in such 
a way that it is difficult to avoid treading in it in 
entering. The earth is of this peculiar reddish tint 
which is found, as far as I know, nowhere else in 


68 



The Sign of the Four 


the neighborhood. So much is observation. The 
rest is deduction." 

"How, then, did you deduce the telegram?" 

"Why, of course I knew that you had not writ- 
ten a letter, since I sat opposite to you all morning. 
I see also in your open desk there that you have a 
sheet of stamps and a thick bundle of postcards. 
What could you go into the post-office for, then, 
but to send a wire? Eliminate all other factors, and 
the one which remains must be the truth." 

"In this case it certainly is so," I replied, after a 
little thought. "The thing, however, is, as you say, 
of the simplest. Would yo think me impertinent if 
I were to put your theories to a more severe test?" 

"On the contrary," he answered, "it would pre- 
vent me from taking a second dose of cocaine. 
I should be delighted to look into any problem 
which you might submit to me." 

"I have heard you say that it is difficult for a 
man to have any object in daily use without leav- 
ing the impress of his individuality upon it in such 
a way that a trained observer might read it. Now, 
I have here a watch which has recently come into 
my possession. Would you have the kindness to let 
me have an opinion upon the character or habits of 
the late owner?" 

I handed him over the watch with some slight 
feeling of amusement in my heart, for the test 
was, as I thought, an impossible one, and I in- 
tended it as a lesson against the somewhat dog- 
matic tone which he occasionally assumed. He 
balanced the watch in his hand, gazed hard at the 
dial, opened the back, and examined the works, 
first with his naked eyes and then with a power- 
ful convex lens. I could hardly keep from smiling 
at his crestfallen face when he finally snapped the 
case to and handed it back. 

"There are hardly any data," he remarked. 
"The watch has been recently cleaned, which robs 
me of my most suggestive facts." 

"You are right," I answered. "It was cleaned be- 
fore being sent to me." In my heart I accused my 
companion of putting forward a most lame and 
impotent excuse to cover his failure. What data 
could he expect from an uncleaned watch? 

"Though unsatisfactory, my research has not 
been entirely barren," he observed, staring up at 
the ceiling with dreamy, lack-lustre eyes. "Subject 
to your correction, I should judge that the watch 
belonged to your elder brother, who inherited it 
from your father." 

"That you gather, no doubt, from the H. W. 
upon the back?" 


"Quite so. The W. suggests your own name. 
The date of the watch is nearly fifty years back, 
and the initials are as old as the watch: so it was 
made for the last generation. Jewelry usually de- 
scents to the eldest son, and he is most likely to 
have the same name as the father. Your father 
has, if I remember right, been dead many years. 
It has, therefore, been in the hands of your eldest 
brother." 

"Right, so far," said I. "Anything else?" 

"He was a man of untidy habits, — very untidy 
and careless. He was left with good prospects, but 
he threw away his chances, lived for some time in 
poverty with occasional short intervals of prosper- 
ity, and finally, taking to drink, he died. That is all 
I can gather." 

I sprang from my chair and limped impatiently 
about the room with considerable bitterness in my 
heart. 

"This is unworthy of you. Holmes," I said. "I 
could not have believed that you would have de- 
scended to this. You have made inquires into the 
history of my unhappy brother, and you now pre- 
tend to deduce this knowledge in some fanciful 
way. You cannot expect me to believe that you have 
read all this from his old watch! It is unkind, and, 
to speak plainly, has a touch of charlatanism in it." 

"My dear doctor," said he, kindly, "pray accept 
my apologies. Viewing the matter as an abstract 
problem, I had forgotten how personal and painful 
a thing it might be to you. I assure you, however, 
that I never even know that you had a brother until 
you handed me the watch." 

"Then how in the name of all that is wonder- 
ful did you get these facts? They are absolutely 
correct in every particular." 

"Ah, that is good luck. I could only say what 
was the balance of probability. I did not at all ex- 
pect to be so accurate." 

"But it was not mere guess-work?" 

"No, no: I never guess. It is a shocking 
habit, — destructive to the logical faculty. What 
seems strange to you is only so because you do not 
follow my train of thought or observe the small 
facts upon which large inferences may depend. 
For example, I began by stating that your brother 
was careless. When you observe the lower part 
of that watch-case you notice that it is not only 
dinted in two places, but it is cut and marked all 
over from the habit of keeping other hard objects, 
such as coins or keys, in the same pocket. Surely 
it is no great feat to assume that a man who treats 
a fifty-guinea watch so cavalierly must be a care- 
less man. Neither is it a very far-fetched inference 


69 



The Sign of the Four 


that a man who inherits one article of such value 
is pretty well provided for in other respects." 

I nodded, to show that I followed his reasoning. 

"It is very customary for pawnbrokers in Eng- 
land, when they take a watch, to scratch the num- 
ber of the ticket with a pin-point upon the inside 
of the case. It is more handy than a label, as there 
is no risk of the number being lost or transposed. 
There are no less than four such numbers visible to 
my lens on the inside of this case. Inference, — that 
your brother was often at low water. Secondary 
inference, — that he had occasional bursts of pros- 
perity, or he could not have redeemed the pledge. 
Finally, I ask you to look at the inner plate, which 
contains the key-hole. Look at the thousands of 
scratches all round the hole, — marks where the key 
has slipped. What sober man's key could have 
scored those grooves? But you will never see a 
drunkard's watch without them. Fie winds it at 
night, and he leaves these traces of his unsteady 
hand. Where is the mystery in all this?" 

"It is as clear as daylight," I answered. "I re- 
gret the injustice which I did you. I should have 
had more faith in your marvellous faculty. May I 


ask whether you have any professional inquiry on 
foot at present?" 

"None. Flence the cocaine. I cannot live with- 
out brain-work. What else is there to live for? 
Stand at the window here. Was ever such a dreary, 
dismal, unprofitable world? See how the yellow 
fog swirls down the street and drifts across the 
duncolored houses. What could be more hope- 
lessly prosaic and material? What is the use of 
having powers, doctor, when one has no field upon 
which to exert them? Crime is commonplace, exis- 
tence is commonplace, and no qualities save those 
which are commonplace have any function upon 
earth." 

I had opened my mouth to reply to this tirade, 
when with a crisp knock our landlady entered, 
bearing a card upon the brass salver. 

"A young lady for you, sir," she said, address- 
ing my companion. 

"Miss Mary Morstan," he read. "Flum! I have 
no recollection of the name. Ask the young lady to 
step up, Mrs. Hudson. Don't go, doctor. I should 
prefer that you remain." 


CHAPTER II. 

The Statement of the Case 


Miss Morstan entered the room with a firm 
step and an outward composure of manner. She 
was a blonde young lady, small, dainty, well 
gloved, and dressed in the most perfect taste. 
There was, however, a plainness and simplicity 
about her costume which bore with it a sugges- 
tion of limited means. The dress was a sombre 
grayish beige, untrimmed and unbraided, and she 
wore a small turban of the same dull hue, re- 
lieved only by a suspicion of white feather in the 
side. Her face had neither regularity of feature 
nor beauty of complexion, but her expression was 
sweet and amiable, and her large blue eyes were 
singularly spiritual and sympathetic. In an experi- 
ence of women which extends over many nations 
and three separate continents, I have never looked 
upon a face which gave a clearer promise of a re- 
fined and sensitive nature. I could not but observe 
that as she took the seat which Sherlock Holmes 


placed for her, her lip trembled, her hand quiv- 
ered, and she showed every sign of intense inward 
agitation. 

"I have come to you, Mr. Holmes," she said, 
"because you once enabled my employer, Mrs. Ce- 
cil Forrester, to unravel a little domestic complica- 
tion. She was much impressed by your kindness 
and skill." 

"Mrs. Cecil Forrester," he repeated thought- 
fully. "I believe that I was of some slight service 
to her. The case, however, as I remember it, was a 
very simple one." 

"She did not think so. But at least you cannot 
say the same of mine. I can hardly imagine any- 
thing more strange, more utterly inexplicable, than 
the situation in which I find myself." 

Holmes rubbed his hands, and his eyes glis- 
tened. He leaned forward in his chair with an ex- 
pression of extraordinary concentration upon his 


70 



The Sign of the Four 


clear-cut, hawklike features. "State your case," 
said he, in brisk, business tones. 

I felt that my position was an embarrassing 
one. "You will, I am sure, excuse me," I said, rising 
from my chair. 

To my surprise, the young lady held up her 
gloved hand to detain me. "If your friend," she 
said, "would be good enough to stop, he might be 
of inestimable service to me." 

I relapsed into my chair. 

"Briefly," she continued, "the facts are these. 
My father was an officer in an Indian regiment 
who sent me home when I was quite a child. My 
mother was dead, and I had no relative in England. 
I was placed, however, in a comfortable boarding 
establishment at Edinburgh, and there I remained 
until I was seventeen years of age. In the year 1878 
my father, who was senior captain of his regiment, 
obtained twelve months' leave and came home. He 
telegraphed to me from London that he had ar- 
rived all safe, and directed me to come down at 
once, giving the Langham Hotel as his address. 
His message, as I remember, was full of kindness 
and love. On reaching London I drove to the Lang- 
ham, and was informed that Captain Morstan was 
staying there, but that he had gone out the night 
before and had not yet returned. I waited all day 
without news of him. That night, on the advice 
of the manager of the hotel, I communicated with 
the police, and next morning we advertised in all 
the papers. Our inquiries let to no result; and from 
that day to this no word has ever been heard of my 
unfortunate father. He came home with his heart 
full of hope, to find some peace, some comfort, and 
instead — " She put her hand to her throat, and a 
choking sob cut short the sentence. 

"The date?" asked Holmes, opening his note- 
book. 

"He disappeared upon the 3d of December, 
1878, — nearly ten years ago." 

"His luggage?" 

"Remained at the hotel. There was nothing in 
it to suggest a clue, — some clothes, some books, 
and a considerable number of curiosities from the 
Andaman Islands. He had been one of the officers 
in charge of the convict-guard there." 

"Had he any friends in town?" 

"Only one that we know of, — Major Sholto, 
of his own regiment, the 34th Bombay Infantry. 
The major had retired some little time before, and 
lived at Upper Norwood. We communicated with 
him, of course, but he did not even know that his 
brother officer was in England." 


"A singular case," remarked Holmes. 

"I have not yet described to you the most sin- 
gular part. About six years ago — to be exact, upon 
the 4th of May, 1882 — an advertisement appeared 
in the Times asking for the address of Miss Mary 
Morstan and stating that it would be to her ad- 
vantage to come forward. There was no name or 
address appended. I had at that time just entered 
the family of Mrs. Cecil Forrester in the capacity 
of governess. By her advice I published my ad- 
dress in the advertisement column. The same day 
there arrived through the post a small card-board 
box addressed to me, which I found to contain a 
very large and lustrous pearl. No word of writing 
was enclosed. Since then every year upon the same 
date there has always appeared a similar box, con- 
taining a similar pearl, without any clue as to the 
sender. They have been pronounced by an expert 
to be of a rare variety and of considerable value. 
You can see for yourselves that they are very hand- 
some." She opened a flat box as she spoke, and 
showed me six of the finest pearls that I had ever 
seen. 

"Your statement is most interesting," said Sher- 
lock Holmes. "Has anything else occurred to 
you?" 

"Yes, and no later than to-day. That is why I 
have come to you. This morning I received this 
letter, which you will perhaps read for yourself." 

"Thank you," said Holmes. "The envelope 
too, please. Postmark, London, S.W. Date, July 7. 
Hum! Man's thumb-mark on corner, — probably 
postman. Best quality paper. Envelopes at six- 
pence a packet. Particular man in his stationery. 
No address. 'Be at the third pillar from the left out- 
side the Lyceum Theatre to-night at seven o'clock. 
If you are distrustful, bring two friends. You are 
a wronged woman, and shall have justice. Do not 
bring police. If you do, all will be in vain. Your 
unknown friend.' Well, really, this is a very pretty 
little mystery. What do you intend to do. Miss 
Morstan?" 

"That is exactly what I want to ask you." 

"Then we shall most certainly go. You and I 
and — yes, why. Dr. Watson is the very man. Your 
correspondent says two friends. He and I have 
worked together before." 

"But would he come?" she asked, with some- 
thing appealing in her voice and expression. 

"I should be proud and happy," said I, fer- 
vently, "if I can be of any service." 

"You are both very kind," she answered. "I 
have led a retired life, and have no friends whom 


71 



The Sign of the Four 


I could appeal to. If I am here at six it will do, I 
suppose?" 

"You must not be later," said Holmes. "There 
is one other point, however. Is this handwriting 
the same as that upon the pearl-box addresses?" 

"I have them here," she answered, producing 
half a dozen pieces of paper. 

"You are certainly a model client. You have the 
correct intuition. Let us see, now." He spread out 
the papers upon the table, and gave little darting 
glances from one to the other. "They are disguised 
hands, except the letter," he said, presently, "but 
there can be no question as to the authorship. See 
how the irrepressible Greek e will break out, and 
see the twirl of the final s. They are undoubtedly 
by the same person. I should not like to suggest 
false hopes. Miss Morstan, but is there any resem- 
blance between this hand and that of your father?" 

"Nothing could be more unlike." 

"I expected to hear you say so. We shall look 
out for you, then, at six. Pray allow me to keep the 
papers. I may look into the matter before then. It 
is only half-past three. Au revoir, then." 

"Au revoir," said our visitor, and, with a bright, 
kindly glance from one to the other of us, she re- 
placed her pearl-box in her bosom and hurried 
away. Standing at the window, I watched her walk- 
ing briskly down the street, until the gray turban 
and white feather were but a speck in the sombre 
crowd. 

"What a very attractive woman!" I exclaimed, 
turning to my companion. 

He had lit his pipe again, and was leaning 
back with drooping eyelids. "Is she?" he said, lan- 
guidly. "I did not observe." 

"You really are an automaton, — a calculating- 
machine!" I cried. "There is something positively 
inhuman in you at times." 

He smiled gently. "It is of the first importance," 
he said, "not to allow your judgment to be biased 
by personal qualities. A client is to me a mere 
unit, — a factor in a problem. The emotional qual- 
ities are antagonistic to clear reasoning. I assure 


you that the most winning woman I ever knew 
was hanged for poisoning three little children for 
their insurance-money, and the most repellant man 
of my acquaintance is a philanthropist who has 
spent nearly a quarter of a million upon the Lon- 
don poor." 

"In this case, however — " 

"I never make exceptions. An exception dis- 
proves the rule. Have you ever had occasion to 
study character in handwriting? What do you 
make of this fellow's scribble?" 

"It is legible and regular," I answered. "A man 
of business habits and some force of character." 

Holmes shook his head. "Look at his long let- 
ters," he said. "They hardly rise above the com- 
mon herd. That d might be an a, and that l an 
e. Men of character always differentiate their long 
letters, however illegibly they may write. There is 
vacillation in his k's and self-esteem in his capitals. 
I am going out now. I have some few references 
to make. Let me recommend this book, — one of 
the most remarkable ever penned. It is Winwood 
Reade's Martyrdom of Man. I shall be back in an 
hour." 

I sat in the window with the volume in my 
hand, but my thoughts were far from the daring 
speculations of the writer. My mind ran upon 
our late visitor, — her smiles, the deep rich tones 
of her voice, the strange mystery which overhung 
her life. If she were seventeen at the time of 
her father's disappearance she must be seven-and- 
twenty now, — a sweet age, when youth has lost its 
self-consciousness and become a little sobered by 
experience. So I sat and mused, until such dan- 
gerous thoughts came into my head that I hur- 
ried away to my desk and plunged furiously into 
the latest treatise upon pathology. What was I, 
an army surgeon with a weak leg and a weaker 
banking-account, that I should dare to think of 
such things? She was a unit, a factor, — nothing 
more. If my future were black, it was better surely 
to face it like a man than to attempt to brighten it 
by mere will-o'-the-wisps of the imagination. 


7 2 



The Sign of the Four 


CHAPTER III. 

In Quest of a Solution 


It was half-past five before Holmes returned. 
He was bright, eager, and in excellent spirits, — a 
mood which in his case alternated with fits of the 
blackest depression. 

"There is no great mystery in this matter," he 
said, taking the cup of tea which I had poured out 
for him. "The facts appear to admit of only one 
explanation." 

"What! you have solved it already?" 

"Well, that would be too much to say. I have 
discovered a suggestive fact, that is all. It is, how- 
ever, very suggestive. The details are still to be 
added. I have just found, on consulting the back 
files of the Times, that Major Sholto, of Upper Nor- 
word, late of the 34th Bombay Infantry, died upon 
the 28th of April, 1882." 

"I may be very obtuse. Holmes, but I fail to see 
what this suggests." 

"No? You surprise me. Look at it in this way, 
then. Captain Morstan disappears. The only per- 
son in London whom he could have visited is Ma- 
jor Sholto. Major Sholto denies having heard that 
he was in London. Four years later Sholto dies. 
Within a week of his death Captain Morstan's daugh- 
ter receives a valuable present, which is repeated 
from year to year, and now culminates in a letter 
which describes her as a wronged woman. What 
wrong can it refer to except this deprivation of 
her father? And why should the presents begin 
immediately after Sholto's death, unless it is that 
Sholto's heir knows something of the mystery and 
desires to make compensation? Have you any al- 
ternative theory which will meet the facts?" 

"But what a strange compensation! And how 
strangely made! Why, too, should he write a letter 
now, rather than six years ago? Again, the letter 
speaks of giving her justice. What justice can she 
have? It is too much to suppose that her father is 
still alive. There is no other injustice in her case 
that you know of." 

"There are difficulties; there are certainly dif- 
ficulties," said Sherlock Holmes, pensively. "But 
our expedition of to-night will solve them all. Ah, 
here is a four-wheeler, and Miss Morstan is inside. 
Are you all ready? Then we had better go down, 
for it is a little past the hour." 

I picked up my hat and my heaviest stick, but 
I observed that Holmes took his revolver from his 
drawer and slipped it into his pocket. It was clear 


that he thought that our night's work might be a 
serious one. 

Miss Morstan was muffled in a dark cloak, 
and her sensitive face was composed, but pale. 
She must have been more than woman if she 
did not feel some uneasiness at the strange enter- 
prise upon which we were embarking, yet her self- 
control was perfect, and she readily answered the 
few additional questions which Sherlock Holmes 
put to her. 

"Major Sholto was a very particular friend of 
papa's," she said. "His letters were full of allu- 
sions to the major. He and papa were in command 
of the troops at the Andaman Islands, so they were 
thrown a great deal together. By the way, a curi- 
ous paper was found in papa's desk which no one 
could understand. I don't suppose that it is of the 
slightest importance, but I thought you might care 
to see it, so I brought it with me. It is here." 

Holmes unfolded the paper carefully and 
smoothed it out upon his knee. He then very 
methodically examined it all over with his double 
lens. 

"It is paper of native Indian manufacture," he 
remarked. "It has at some time been pinned to a 
board. The diagram upon it appears to be a plan of 
part of a large building with numerous halls, cor- 
ridors, and passages. At one point is a small cross 
done in red ink, and above it is '3.37 from left,' 
in faded pencil-writing. In the left-hand corner is 
a curious hieroglyphic like four crosses in a line 
with their arms touching. Beside it is written, in 
very rough and coarse characters, 'The sign of the 
four, — Jonathan Small, Mahomet Singh, Abdullah 
Khan, Dost Akbar.' No, I confess that I do not see 
how this bears upon the matter. Yet it is evidently 
a document of importance. It has been kept care- 
fully in a pocket-book; for the one side is as clean 
as the other." 

"It was in his pocket-book that we found it." 

"Preserve it carefully, then. Miss Morstan, for 
it may prove to be of use to us. I begin to suspect 
that this matter may turn out to be much deeper 
and more subtle than I at first supposed. I must 
reconsider my ideas." He leaned back in the cab, 
and I could see by his drawn brow and his vacant 
eye that he was thinking intently. Miss Morstan 
and I chatted in an undertone about our present 
expedition and its possible outcome, but our com- 
panion maintained his impenetrable reserve until 
the end of our journey. 


73 



The Sign of the Four 


It was a September evening, and not yet seven 
o'clock, but the day had been a dreary one, 
and a dense drizzly fog lay low upon the great 
city Mud-colored clouds drooped sadly over the 
muddy streets. Down the Strand the lamps were 
but misty splotches of diffused light which threw a 
feeble circular glimmer upon the slimy pavement. 
The yellow glare from the shop-windows streamed 
out into the steamy, vaporous air, and threw a 
murky, shifting radiance across the crowded thor- 
oughfare. There was, to my mind, something 
eerie and ghost-like in the endless procession of 
faces which flitted across these narrow bars of 
light, — sad faces and glad, haggard and merry. 
Like all human kind, they flitted from the gloom 
into the light, and so back into the gloom once 
more. I am not subject to impressions, but the dull, 
heavy evening, with the strange business upon 
which we were engaged, combined to make me 
nervous and depressed. I could see from Miss 
Morstan's manner that she was suffering from the 
same feeling. Holmes alone could rise superior to 
petty influences. He held his open note-book upon 
his knee, and from time to time he jotted down 
figures and memoranda in the light of his pocket- 
lantern. 

At the Lyceum Theatre the crowds were al- 
ready thick at the side-entrances. In front a 
continuous stream of hansoms and four-wheelers 
were rattling up, discharging their cargoes of 
shirt-fronted men and beshawled, bediamonded 
women. We had hardly reached the third pillar, 
which was our rendezvous, before a small, dark, 
brisk man in the dress of a coachman accosted us. 

"Are you the parties who come with Miss 
Morstan?" he asked. 

"I am Miss Morstan, and these two gentlemen 
are my friends," said she. 

He bent a pair of wonderfully penetrating and 
questioning eyes upon us. "You will excuse me, 
miss," he said with a certain dogged manner, "but 
I was to ask you to give me your word that neither 
of your companions is a police-officer." 

"I give you my word on that," she answered. 

He gave a shrill whistle, on which a street Arab 
led across a four-wheeler and opened the door. 
The man who had addressed us mounted to the 
box, while we took our places inside. We had 
hardly done so before the driver whipped up his 
horse, and we plunged away at a furious pace 
through the foggy streets. 

The situation was a curious one. We were 
driving to an unknown place, on an unknown 
errand. Yet our invitation was either a com- 
plete hoax, — which was an inconceivable hypoth- 
esis, — or else we had good reason to think that im- 
portant issues might hang upon our journey. Miss ^ 


Morstan's demeanor was as resolute and collected 
as ever. I endeavored to cheer and amuse her by 
reminiscences of my adventures in Afghanistan; 
but, to tell the truth, I was myself so excited at our 
situation and so curious as to our destination that 
my stories were slightly involved. To this day she 
declares that I told her one moving anecdote as to 
how a musket looked into my tent at the dead of 
night, and how I fired a double-barrelled tiger cub 
at it. At first I had some idea as to the direction 
in which we were driving; but soon, what with 
our pace, the fog, and my own limited knowledge 
of London, I lost my bearings, and knew nothing, 
save that we seemed to be going a very long way. 
Sherlock Holmes was never at fault, however, and 
he muttered the names as the cab rattled through 
squares and in and out by tortuous by-streets. 

"Rochester Row," said he. "Now Vincent 
Square. Now we come out on the Vauxhall Bridge 
Road. We are making for the Surrey side, appar- 
ently. Yes, I thought so. Now we are on the bridge. 
You can catch glimpses of the river." 

We did indeed bet a fleeting view of a stretch 
of the Thames with the lamps shining upon the 
broad, silent water; but our cab dashed on, and 
was soon involved in a labyrinth of streets upon 
the other side. 

"Wordsworth Road," said my companion. 
"Priory Road. Lark Hall Lane. Stockwell Place. 
Robert Street. Cold Harbor Lane. Our quest does 
not appear to take us to very fashionable regions." 

We had, indeed, reached a questionable and 
forbidding neighborhood. Long lines of dull brick 
houses were only relieved by the coarse glare and 
tawdry brilliancy of public houses at the corner. 
Then came rows of two-storied villas each with a 
fronting of miniature garden, and then again inter- 
minable lines of new staring brick buildings, — the 
monster tentacles which the giant city was throw- 
ing out into the country. At last the cab drew 
up at the third house in a new terrace. None 
of the other houses were inhabited, and that at 
which we stopped was as dark as its neighbors, 
save for a single glimmer in the kitchen window. 
On our knocking, however, the door was instantly 
thrown open by a Hindoo servant clad in a yellow 
turban, white loose-fitting clothes, and a yellow 
sash. There was something strangely incongruous 
in this Oriental figure framed in the commonplace 
door-way of a third-rate suburban dwelling-house. 

"The Sahib awaits you," said he, and even as he 
spoke there came a high piping voice from some 
inner room. "Show them in to me, khitmutgar," it 
cried. "Show them straight in to me." 



The Sign of the Four 


CHAPTER IV. 

The Story of the Bald-Headed Man 


We followed the Indian down a sordid and 
common passage, ill lit and worse furnished, un- 
til he came to a door upon the right, which he 
threw open. A blaze of yellow light streamed out 
upon us, and in the centre of the glare there stood 
a small man with a very high head, a bristle of 
red hair all round the fringe of it, and a bald, 
shining scalp which shot out from among it like 
a mountain-peak from fir-trees. He writhed his 
hands together as he stood, and his features were 
in a perpetual jerk, now smiling, now scowling, 
but never for an instant in repose. Nature had 
given him a pendulous lip, and a too visible line 
of yellow and irregular teeth, which he strove fee- 
bly to conceal by constantly passing his hand over 
the lower part of his face. In spite of his obtru- 
sive baldness, he gave the impression of youth. In 
point of fact he had just turned his thirtieth year. 

"Your servant. Miss Morstan," he kept repeat- 
ing, in a thin, high voice. "Your servant, gentle- 
men. Pray step into my little sanctum. A small 
place, miss, but furnished to my own liking. An 
oasis of art in the howling desert of South Lon- 
don." 

We were all astonished by the appearance o the 
apartment into which he invited us. In that sorry 
house it looked as out of place as a diamond of 
the first water in a setting of brass. The richest 
and glossiest of curtains and tapestries draped the 
walls, looped back here and there to expose some 
richly-mounted painting or Oriental vase. The car- 
pet was of amber-and-black, so soft and so thick 
that the foot sank pleasantly into it, as into a bed 
of moss. Two great tiger-skins thrown athwart it 
increased the suggestion of Eastern luxury, as did 
a huge hookah which stood upon a mat in the cor- 
ner. A lamp in the fashion of a silver dove was 
hung from an almost invisible golden wire in the 
centre of the room. As it burned it filled the air 
with a subtle and aromatic odor. 

"Mr. Thaddeus Sholto," said the little man, still 
jerking and smiling. "That is my name. You are 
Miss Morstan, of course. And these gentlemen — " 

"This is Mr. Sherlock Holmes, and this is Dr. 
Watson." 

"A doctor, eh?" cried he, much excited. "Have 
you your stethoscope? Might I ask you — would 
you have the kindness? I have grave doubts as 
to my mitral valve, if you would be so very good. 
The aortic I may rely upon, but I should value your 
opinion upon the mitral." 


I listened to his heart, as requested, but was 
unable to find anything amiss, save indeed that he 
was in an ecstasy of fear, for he shivered from head 
to foot. "It appears to be normal," I said. "You 
have no cause for uneasiness." 

"You will excuse my anxiety. Miss Morstan," 
he remarked, airily. "I am a great sufferer, and I 
have long had suspicions as to that valve. I am 
delighted to hear that they are unwarranted. Had 
your father. Miss Morstan, refrained from throw- 
ing a strain upon his heart, he might have been 
alive now." 

I could have struck the man across the face, so 
hot was I at this callous and off-hand reference to 
so delicate a matter. Miss Morstan sat down, and 
her face grew white to the lips. "I knew in my 
heart that he was dead," said she. 

"I can give you every information," said he, 
"and, what is more, I can do you justice; and I 
will, too, whatever Brother Bartholomew may say. 
I am so glad to have your friends here, not only 
as an escort to you, but also as witnesses to what 
I am about to do and say. The three of us can 
show a bold front to Brother Bartholomew. But 
let us have no outsiders, — no police or officials. 
We can settle everything satisfactorily among our- 
selves, without any interference. Nothing would 
annoy Brother Bartholomew more than any pub- 
licity." He sat down upon a low settee and blinked 
at us inquiringly with his weak, watery blue eyes. 

"For my part," said Holmes, "whatever you 
may choose to say will go no further." 

I nodded to show my agreement. 

"That is well! That is well!" said he. "May I 
offer you a glass of Chianti, Miss Morstan? Or of 
Tokay? I keep no other wines. Shall I open a flask? 
No? Well, then, I trust that you have no objection 
to tobacco-smoke, to the mild balsamic odor of the 
Eastern tobacco. I am a little nervous, and I find 
my hookah an invaluable sedative." He applied a 
taper to the great bowl, and the smoke bubbled 
merrily through the rose-water. We sat all three 
in a semicircle, with our heads advanced, and our 
chins upon our hands, while the strange, jerky lit- 
tle fellow, with his high, shining head, puffed un- 
easily in the centre. 

"When I first determined to make this commu- 
nication to you," said he, "I might have given you 
my address, but I feared that you might disregard 
my request and bring unpleasant people with you. 


75 



The Sign of the Four 


I took the liberty, therefore, of making an appoint- 
ment in such a way that my man Williams might 
be able to see you first. I have complete confidence 
in his discretion, and he had orders, if he were dis- 
satisfied, to proceed no further in the matter. You 
will excuse these precautions, but I am a man of 
somewhat retiring, and I might even say refined, 
tastes, and there is nothing more unaesthetic than 
a policeman. I have a natural shrinking from all 
forms of rough materialism. I seldom come in 
contact with the rough crowd. 1 live, as you see, 
with some little atmosphere of elegance around 
me. I may call myself a patron of the arts. It is 
my weakness. The landscape is a genuine Corot, 
and, though a connoisseur might perhaps throw a 
doubt upon that Salvator Rosa, there cannot be the 
least question about the Bouguereau. I am partial 
to the modern French school." 

"You will excuse me, Mr. Sholto," said Miss 
Morstan, "but I am here at your request to learn 
something which you desire to tell me. It is very 
late, and I should desire the interview to be as 
short as possible." 

"At the best it must take some time," he an- 
swered; "for we shall certainly have to go to Nor- 
wood and see Brother Bartholomew. We shall all 
go and try if we can get the better of Brother 
Bartholomew. Fie is very angry with me for tak- 
ing the course which has seemed right to me. I 
had quite high words with him last night. You 
cannot imagine what a terrible fellow he is when 
he is angry." 

"If we are to go to Norwood it would perhaps 
be as well to start at once," I ventured to remark. 

Fie laughed until his ears were quite red. "That 
would hardly do," he cried. "I don't know what 
he would say if I brought you in that sudden way. 
No, I must prepare you by showing you how we 
all stand to each other. In the first place, I must 
tell you that there are several points in the story 
of which I am myself ignorant. I can only lay the 
facts before you as far as I know them myself. 

"My father was, as you may have guessed. Ma- 
jor John Sholto, once of the Indian army. Fie re- 
tired some eleven years ago, and came to live at 
Pondicherry Lodge in Upper Norwood. Fie had 
prospered in India, and brought back with him 
a considerable sum of money, a large collection 
of valuable curiosities, and a staff of native ser- 
vants. With these advantages he bought himself a 
house, and lived in great luxury. My twin-brother 
Bartholomew and I were the only children. 

"I very well remember the sensation which was 
caused by the disappearance of Captain Morstan. 


We read the details in the papers, and, knowing 
that he had been a friend of our father's, we dis- 
cussed the case freely in his presence. Fie used 
to join in our speculations as to what could have 
happened. Never for an instant did we suspect 
that he had the whole secret hidden in his own 
breast, — that of all men he alone knew the fate of 
Arthur Morstan. 

"We did know, however, that some mys- 
tery — some positive danger — overhung our father. 
Fie was very fearful of going out alone, and he al- 
ways employed two prize-fighters to act as porters 
at Pondicherry Lodge. Williams, who drove you 
to-night, was one of them. Fie was once light- 
weight champion of England. Our father would 
never tell us what it was he feared, but he had a 
most marked aversion to men with wooden legs. 
On one occasion he actually fired his revolver at a 
wooden-legged man, who proved to be a harmless 
tradesman canvassing for orders. We had to pay a 
large sum to hush the matter up. My brother and I 
used to think this a mere whim of my father 's, but 
events have since led us to change our opinion. 

"Early in 1882 my father received a letter from 
India which was a great shock to him. Fie nearly 
fainted at the breakfast-table when he opened it, 
and from that day he sickened to his death. What 
was in the letter we could never discover, but I 
could see as he held it that it was short and writ- 
ten in a scrawling hand. Fie had suffered for 
years from an enlarged spleen, but he now became 
rapidly worse, and towards the end of April we 
were informed that he was beyond all hope, and 
that he wished to make a last communication to 
us. 

"When we entered his room he was propped 
up with pillows and breathing heavily. Fie be- 
sought us to lock the door and to come upon ei- 
ther side of the bed. Then, grasping our hands, 
he made a remarkable statement to us, in a voice 
which was broken as much by emotion as by pain. 
I shall try and give it to you in his own very words. 

" 'I have only one thing,' he said, 'which weighs 
upon my mind at this supreme moment. It is my 
treatment of poor Morstan's orphan. The cursed 
greed which has been my besetting sin through life 
has withheld from her the treasure, half at least of 
which should have been hers. And yet I have made 
no use of it myself, — so blind and foolish a thing 
is avarice. The mere feeling of possession has been 
so dear to me that I could not bear to share it with 
another. See that chaplet dipped with pearls be- 
side the quinine-bottle. Even that I could not bear 


76 



The Sign of the Four 


to part with, although I had got it out with the de- 
sign of sending it to her. You, my sons, will give 
her a fair share of the Agra treasure. But send her 
nothing — not even the chaplet — until I am gone. 
After all, men have been as bad as this and have 
recovered. 

" 'I will tell you how Morstan died,' he contin- 
ued. 'He had suffered for years from a weak heart, 
but he concealed it from every one. I alone knew 
it. When in India, he and I, through a remark- 
able chain of circumstances, came into possession 
of a considerable treasure. I brought it over to Eng- 
land, and on the night of Morstan's arrival he came 
straight over here to claim his share. He walked 
over from the station, and was admitted by my 
faithful Lai Chowdar, who is now dead. Morstan 
and I had a difference of opinion as to the divi- 
sion of the treasure, and we came to heated words. 
Morstan had sprung out of his chair in a parox- 
ysm of anger, when he suddenly pressed his hand 
to his side, his face turned a dusky hue, and he 
fell backwards, cutting his head against the corner 
of the treasure-chest. When I stooped over him I 
found, to my horror, that he was dead. 

" 'For a long time I sat half distracted, wonder- 
ing what I should do. My first impulse was, of 
course, to call for assistance; but I could not but 
recognize that there was every chance that I would 
be accused of his murder. His death at the moment 
of a quarrel, and the gash in his head, would be 
black against me. Again, an official inquiry could 
not be made without bringing out some facts about 
the treasure, which I was particularly anxious to 
keep secret. He had told me that no soul upon 
earth knew where he had gone. There seemed to 
be no necessity why any soul ever should know. 

" 'I was still pondering over the matter, when, 
looking up, I saw my servant, Lai Chowdar, in the 
doorway. He stole in and bolted the door behind 
him. "Do not fear. Sahib," he said. "No one need 
know that you have killed him. Let us hide him 
away, and who is the wiser?" "I did not kill him," 
said I. Lai Chowdar shook his head and smiled. "I 
heard it all. Sahib," said he. "I heard you quar- 
rel, and I heard the blow. But my lips are sealed. 
All are asleep in the house. Let us put him away 
together." That was enough to decide met. If my 
own servant could not believe my innocence, how 
could I hope to make it good before twelve fool- 
ish tradesmen in a jury-box? Lai Chowdar and I 
disposed of the body that night, and within a few 
days the London papers were full of the mysteri- 
ous disappearance of Captain Morstan. You will 
see from what I say that I can hardly be blamed 


in the matter. My fault lies in the fact that we con- 
cealed not only the body, but also the treasure, and 
that I have clung to Morstan's share as well as to 
my own. I wish you, therefore, to make restitution. 
Put your ears down to my mouth. The treasure is 
hidden in — At this instant a horrible change came 
over his expression; his eyes stared wildly, his jaw 
dropped, and he yelled, in a voice which I can 
never forget, 'Keep him out! For Christ's sake keep 
him out'! We both stared round at the window be- 
hind us upon which his gaze was fixed. A face 
was looking in at us out of the darkness. We could 
see the whitening of the nose where it was pressed 
against the glass. It was a bearded, hairy face, with 
wild cruel eyes and an expression of concentrated 
malevolence. My brother and I rushed towards 
the window, but the man was gone. When we re- 
turned to my father his head had dropped and his 
pulse had ceased to beat. 

"We searched the garden that night, but found 
no sign of the intruder, save that just under the 
window a single footmark was visible in the 
flower-bed. But for that one trace, we might have 
thought that our imaginations had conjured up 
that wild, fierce face. We soon, however, had an- 
other and a more striking proof that there were 
secret agencies at work all round us. The window 
of my father 's room was found open in the morn- 
ing, his cupboards and boxes had been rifled, and 
upon his chest was fixed a torn piece of paper, with 
the words 'The sign of the four' scrawled across it. 
What the phrase meant, or who our secret visitor 
may have been, we never knew. As far as we can 
judge, none of my father's property had been ac- 
tually stolen, though everything had been turned 
out. My brother and I naturally associated this 
peculiar incident with the fear which haunted my 
father during his life; but it is still a complete mys- 
tery to us." 

The little man stopped to relight his hookah 
and puffed thoughtfully for a few moments. We 
had all sat absorbed, listening to his extraordi- 
nary narrative. At the short account of her father's 
death Miss Morstan had turned deadly white, and 
for a moment I feared that she was about to faint. 
She rallied however, on drinking a glass of water 
which I quietly poured out for her from a Vene- 
tian carafe upon the side-table. Sherlock Holmes 
leaned back in his chair with an abstracted ex- 
pression and the lids drawn low over his glittering 
eyes. As I glanced at him I could not but think 
how on that very day he had complained bitterly 
of the commonplaceness of life. Here at least was 
a problem which would tax his sagacity to the ut- 
most. Mr. Thaddeus Sholto looked from one to 


77 



The Sign of the Four 


the other of us with an obvious pride at the effect 
which his story had produced, and then continued 
between the puffs of his overgrown pipe. 

"My brother and I," said he, "were, as you may 
imagine, much excited as to the treasure which my 
father had spoken of. For weeks and for months 
we dug and delved in every part of the garden, 
without discovering its whereabouts. It was mad- 
dening to think that the hiding-place was on his 
very lips at the moment that he died. We could 
judge the splendor of the missing riches by the 
chaplet which he had taken out. Over this chaplet 
my brother Bartholomew and I had some little dis- 
cussion. The pearls were evidently of great value, 
and he was averse to part with them, for, between 
friends, my brother was himself a little inclined 
to my father's fault. He thought, too, that if we 
parted with the chaplet it might give rise to gossip 
and finally bring us into trouble. It was all that I 
could do to persuade him to let me find out Miss 
Morstan's address and send her a detached pearl 
at fixed intervals, so that at least she might never 
feel destitute." 

"It was a kindly thought," said our companion, 
earnestly. "It was extremely good of you." 

The little man waved his hand deprecatingly. 
"We were your trustees," he said. "That was 
the view which I took of it, though Brother 
Bartholomew could not altogether see it in that 
light. We had plenty of money ourselves. I desired 
no more. Besides, it would have been such bad 
taste to have treated a young lady in so scurvy 
a fashion. ‘Le mauvais goiit mene an crime.' The 
French have a very neat way of putting these 
things. Our difference of opinion on this subject 
went so far that I thought it best to set up rooms for 
myself: so I left Pondicherry Lodge, taking the old 
khitmutgar and Williams with me. Yesterday, how- 
ever, I learn that an event of extreme importance 
has occurred. The treasure has been discovered. I 
instantly communicated with Miss Morstan, and it 
only remains for us to drive out to Norwood and 
demand our share. I explained my views last night 
to Brother Bartholomew: so we shall be expected, 
if not welcome, visitors." 

Mr. Thaddeus Sholto ceased, and sat twitching 
on his luxurious settee. We all remained silent, 
with our thoughts upon the new development 
which the mysterious business had taken. Holmes 
was the first to spring to his feet. 

"You have done well, sir, from first to last," 
said he. "It is possible that we may be able to 
make you some small return by throwing some 
light upon that which is still dark to you. But, as 


Miss Morstan remarked just now, it is late, and we 
had best put the matter through without delay." 

Our new acquaintance very deliberately coiled 
up the tube of his hookah, and produced from 
behind a curtain a very long befrogged topcoat 
with Astrakhan collar and cuffs. This he buttoned 
tightly up, in spite of the extreme closeness of 
the night, and finished his attire by putting on a 
rabbit-skin cap with hanging lappets which cov- 
ered the ears, so that no part of him was visible 
save his mobile and peaky face. "My health is 
somewhat fragile," he remarked, as he led the way 
down the passage. "I am compelled to be a vale- 
tudinarian." 

Our cab was awaiting us outside, and our pro- 
gramme was evidently prearranged, for the driver 
started off at once at a rapid pace. Thaddeus 
Sholto talked incessantly, in a voice which rose 
high above the rattle of the wheels. 

"Bartholomew is a clever fellow," said he. 
"How do you think he found out where the trea- 
sure was? He had come to the conclusion that 
it was somewhere indoors: so he worked out all 
the cubic space of the house, and made measure- 
ments everywhere, so that not one inch should be 
unaccounted for. Among other things, he found 
that the height of the building was seventy-four 
feet, but on adding together the heights of all the 
separate rooms, and making every allowance for 
the space between, which he ascertained by bor- 
ings, he could not bring the total to more than 
seventy feet. There were four feet unaccounted 
for. These could only be at the top of the build- 
ing. He knocked a hole, therefore, in the lath-and- 
plaster ceiling of the highest room, and there, sure 
enough, he came upon another little garret above 
it, which had been sealed up and was known to 
no one. In the centre stood the treasure-chest, rest- 
ing upon two rafters. He lowered it through the 
hole, and there it lies. He computes the value of 
the jewels at not less than half a million sterling." 

At the mention of this gigantic sum we all 
stared at one another open-eyed. Miss Morstan, 
could we secure her rights, would change from a 
needy governess to the richest heiress in England. 
Surely it was the place of a loyal friend to rejoice 
at such news; yet I am ashamed to say that self- 
ishness took me by the soul, and that my heart 
turned as heavy as lead within me. I stammered 
out some few halting words of congratulation, 
and then sat downcast, with my head drooped, 
deaf to the babble of our new acquaintance. He 
was clearly a confirmed hypochondriac, and I was 


78 



The Sign of the Four 


dreamily conscious that he was pouring forth in- 
terminable trains of symptoms, and imploring in- 
formation as to the composition and action of in- 
numerable quack nostrums, some of which he bore 
about in a leather case in his pocket. I trust that 
he may not remember any of the answers which I 
gave him that night. Holmes declares that he over- 
heard me caution him against the great danger of 


taking more than two drops of castor oil, while I 
recommended strychnine in large doses as a seda- 
tive. However that may be, I was certainly relieved 
when our cab pulled up with a jerk and the coach- 
man sprang down to open the door. 

"This, Miss Morstan, is Pondicherry Lodge," 
said Mr. Thaddeus Sholto, as he handed her out. 


CHAPTER V. 

The Tragedy of Pondicherry Lodge 


It was nearly eleven o'clock when we reached 
this final stage of our night's adventures. We had 
left the damp fog of the great city behind us, and 
the night was fairly fine. A warm wind blew from 
the westward, and heavy clouds moved slowly 
across the sky, with half a moon peeping occasion- 
ally through the rifts. It was clear enough to see 
for some distance, but Thaddeus Sholto took down 
one of the side-lamps from the carriage to give us 
a better light upon our way. 

Pondicherry Lodge stood in its own grounds, 
and was girt round with a very high stone wall 
topped with broken glass. A single narrow iron- 
clamped door formed the only means of en- 
trance. On this our guide knocked with a peculiar 
postman-like rat-tat. 

"Who is there?" cried a gruff voice from within. 

"It is I, McMurdo. You surely know my knock 
by this time." 

There was a grumbling sound and a clanking 
and jarring of keys. The door swung heavily back, 
and a short, deep-chested man stood in the open- 
ing, with the yellow light of the lantern shining 
upon his protruded face and twinkling distrustful 
eyes. 

"That you, Mr. Thaddeus? But who are the oth- 
ers? I had no orders about them from the master." 

"No, McMurdo? You surprise me! I told my 
brother last night that I should bring some friends. 

"He ain't been out o' his room to-day, Mr. 
Thaddeus, and I have no orders. You know very 
well that I must stick to regulations. I can let you 
in, but your friends must just stop where they are." 


This was an unexpected obstacle. Thaddeus 
Sholto looked about him in a perplexed and help- 
less manner. "This is too bad of you, McMurdo!" 
he said. "If I guarantee them, that is enough for 
you. There is the young lady, too. She cannot wait 
on the public road at this hour." 

"Very sorry, Mr. Thaddeus," said the porter, in- 
exorably. "Folk may be friends o' yours, and yet 
no friends o' the master's. He pays me well to do 
my duty, and my duty I'll do. I don't know none 
o' your friends." 

"Oh, yes you do, McMurdo," cried Sherlock 
Holmes, genially. "I don't think you can have for- 
gotten me. Don't you remember the amateur who 
fought three rounds with you at Alison's rooms on 
the night of your benefit four years back?" 

"Not Mr. Sherlock Holmes!" roared the prize- 
fighter. "God's truth! how could I have mistook 
you? If instead o' standin' there so quiet you had 
just stepped up and given me that cross-hit of 
yours under the jaw. I'd ha' known you without 
a question. Ah, you're one that has wasted your 
gifts, you have! You might have aimed high, if you 
had joined the fancy." 

"You see, Watson, if all else fails me I have still 
one of the scientific professions open to me," said 
Holmes, laughing. "Our friend won't keep us out 
in the cold now, I am sure." 

"In you come, sir, in you come, — you and your 
friends," he answered. "Very sorry, Mr. Thaddeus, 
but orders are very strict. Had to be certain of your 
friends before I let them in." 

Inside, a gravel path wound through deso- 
late grounds to a huge clump of a house, square 


79 



The Sign of the Four 


and prosaic, all plunged in shadow save where a 
moonbeam struck one corner and glimmered in 
a garret window. The vast size of the building, 
with its gloom and its deathly silence, struck a chill 
to the heart. Even Thaddeus Sholto seemed ill at 
ease, and the lantern quivered and rattled in his 
hand. 

"I cannot understand it," he said. "There must 
be some mistake. I distinctly told Bartholomew 
that we should be here, and yet there is no light in 
his window. I do not know what to make of it." 

"Does he always guard the premises in this 
way?" asked Holmes. 

"Yes; he has followed my father's custom. He 
was the favorite son, you know, and I sometimes 
think that my father may have told him more than 
he ever told me. That is Bartholomew's window 
up there where the moonshine strikes. It is quite 
bright, but there is no light from within, I think." 

"None," said Holmes. "But I see the glint of a 
light in that little window beside the door." 

"Ah, that is the housekeeper's room. That is 
where old Mrs. Bernstone sits. She can tell us all 
about it. But perhaps you would not mind wait- 
ing here for a minute or two, for if we all go in 
together and she has no word of our coming she 
may be alarmed. But hush! what is that?" 

He held up the lantern, and his hand shook 
until the circles of light flickered and wavered all 
round us. Miss Morstan seized my wrist, and 
we all stood with thumping hearts, straining our 
ears. From the great black house there sounded 
through the silent night the saddest and most piti- 
ful of sounds, — the shrill, broken whimpering of a 
frightened woman. 

"It is Mrs. Bernstone," said Sholto. "She is the 
only woman in the house. Wait here. I shall be 
back in a moment." He hurried for the door, and 
knocked in his peculiar way. We could see a tall 
old woman admit him, and sway with pleasure at 
the very sight of him. 

"Oh, Mr. Thaddeus, sir, I am so glad you have 
come! I am so glad you have come, Mr. Thaddeus, 
sir!" We heard her reiterated rejoicings until the 
door was closed and her voice died away into a 
muffled monotone. 

Our guide had left us the lantern. Holmes 
swung it slowly round, and peered keenly at the 
house, and at the great rubbish-heaps which cum- 
bered the grounds. Miss Morstan and I stood to- 
gether, and her hand was in mine. A wondrous 
subtle thing is love, for here were we two who 
had never seen each other before that day, between 


whom no word or even look of affection had ever 
passed, and yet now in an hour of trouble our 
hands instinctively sought for each other. I have 
marvelled at it since, but at the time it seemed the 
most natural thing that I should go out to her so, 
and, as she has often told me, there was in her also 
the instinct to turn to me for comfort and protec- 
tion. So we stood hand in hand, like two children, 
and there was peace in our hearts for all the dark 
things that surrounded us. 

"What a strange place!" she said, looking 
round. 

"It looks as though all the moles in England 
had been let loose in it. I have seen something of 
the sort on the side of a hill near Ballarat, where 
the prospectors had been at work." 

"And from the same cause," said Holmes. 
"These are the traces of the treasure-seekers. You 
must remember that they were six years looking 
for it. No wonder that the grounds look like a 
gravel-pit." 

At that moment the door of the house burst 
open, and Thaddeus Sholto came running out, 
with his hands thrown forward and terror in his 
eyes. 

"There is something amiss with Bartholomew!" 
he cried. "I am frightened! My nerves cannot 
stand it." He was, indeed, half blubbering with 
fear, and his twitching feeble face peeping out 
from the great Astrakhan collar had the helpless 
appealing expression of a terrified child. 

"Come into the house," said Holmes, in his 
crisp, firm way. 

"Yes, do!" pleaded Thaddeus Sholto. "I really 
do not feel equal to giving directions." 

We all followed him into the housekeeper's 
room, which stood upon the left-hand side of the 
passage. The old woman was pacing up and down 
with a scared look and restless picking fingers, 
but the sight of Miss Morstan appeared to have 
a soothing effect upon her. 

"God bless your sweet calm face!" she cried, 
with an hysterical sob. "It does me good to see 
you. Oh, but I have been sorely tried this day!" 

Our companion patted her thin, work-worn 
hand, and murmured some few words of kindly 
womanly comfort which brought the color back 
into the others bloodless cheeks. 

"Master has locked himself in and will now an- 
swer me," she explained. "All day I have waited to 
hear from him, for he often likes to be alone; but 
an hour ago I feared that something was amiss, so 


80 



The Sign of the Four 


I went up and peeped through the key-hole. You 
must go up, Mr. Thaddeus, — you must go up and 
look for yourself. I have seen Mr. Bartholomew 
Sholto in joy and in sorrow for ten long years, but 
I never saw him with such a face on him as that." 

Sherlock Holmes took the lamp and led the 
way, for Thaddeus Sholto's teeth were chattering 
in his head. So shaken was he that I had to pass 
my hand under his arm as we went up the stairs, 
for his knees were trembling under him. Twice 
as we ascended Holmes whipped his lens out of 
his pocket and carefully examined marks which 
appeared to me to be mere shapeless smudges of 
dust upon the cocoa-nut matting which served as 
a stair-carpet. He walked slowly from step to step, 
holding the lamp, and shooting keen glances to 
right and left. Miss Morstan had remained behind 
with the frightened housekeeper. 

The third flight of stairs ended in a straight pas- 
sage of some length, with a great picture in Indian 
tapestry upon the right of it and three doors upon 
the left. Holmes advanced along it in the same 
slow and methodical way, while we kept close at 
his heels, with our long black shadows stream- 
ing backwards down the corridor. The third door 
was that which we were seeking. Holmes knocked 
without receiving any answer, and then tried to 
turn the handle and force it open. It was locked 
on the inside, however, and by a broad and pow- 
erful bolt, as we could see when we set our lamp 
up against it. The key being turned, however, the 
hole was not entirely closed. Sherlock Holmes bent 
down to it, and instantly rose again with a sharp 
intaking of the breath. 

"There is something devilish in this, Watson," 
said he, more moved than I had ever before seen 
him. "What do you make of it?" 

I stooped to the hole, and recoiled in horror. 
Moonlight was streaming into the room, and it was 
bright with a vague and shifty radiance. Look- 
ing straight at me, and suspended, as it were, in 
the air, for all beneath was in shadow, there hung 
a face, — the very face of our companion Thad- 
deus. There was the same high, shining head, the 
same circular bristle of red hair, the same bloodless 
countenance. The features were set, however, in a 
horrible smile, a fixed and unnatural grin, which 
in that still and moonlit room was more jarring 
to the nerves than any scowl or contortion. So like 
was the face to that of our little friend that I looked 
round at him to make sure that he was indeed with 
us. Then I recalled to mind that he had mentioned 
to us that his brother and he were twins. 


"This is terrible!" I said to Holmes. "What is to 
be done?" 

"The door must come down," he answered, 
and, springing against it, he put all his weight 
upon the lock. It creaked and groaned, but did not 
yield. Together we flung ourselves upon it once 
more, and this time it gave way with a sudden 
snap, and we found ourselves within Bartholomew 
Sholto's chamber. 

It appeared to have been fitted up as a chemical 
laboratory. A double line of glass-stoppered bot- 
tles was drawn up upon the wall opposite the door, 
and the table was littered over with Bunsen burn- 
ers, test-tubes, and retorts. In the corners stood 
carboys of acid in wicker baskets. One of these ap- 
peared to leak or to have been broken, for a stream 
of dark-colored liquid had trickled out from it, and 
the air was heavy with a peculiarly pungent, tar- 
like odor. A set of steps stood at one side of the 
room, in the midst of a litter of lath and plaster, 
and above them there was an opening in the ceil- 
ing large enough for a man to pass through. At 
the foot of the steps a long coil of rope was thrown 
carelessly together. 

By the table, in a wooden arm-chair, the mas- 
ter of the house was seated all in a heap, with 
his head sunk upon his left shoulder, and that 
ghastly, inscrutable smile upon his face. He was 
stiff and cold, and had clearly been dead many 
hours. It seemed to me that not only his features 
but all his limbs were twisted and turned in the 
most fantastic fashion. By his hand upon the table 
there lay a peculiar instrument, — a brown, close- 
grained stick, with a stone head like a hammer, 
rudely lashed on with coarse twine. Beside it 
was a torn sheet of note-paper with some words 
scrawled upon it. Holmes glanced at it, and then 
handed it to me. 

"You see," he said, with a significant raising of 
the eyebrows. 

In the light of the lantern I read, with a thrill of 
horror, "The sign of the four." 

"In God's name, what does it all mean?" I 
asked. 

"It means murder," said he, stooping over the 
dead man. "Ah, I expected it. Look here!" He 
pointed to what looked like a long, dark thorn 
stuck in the skin just above the ear. 

"It looks like a thorn," said I. 

"It is a thorn. You may pick it out. But be care- 
ful, for it is poisoned." 

I took it up between my finger and thumb. It 
came away from the skin so readily that hardly 


81 



The Sign of the Four 


any mark was left behind. One tiny speck of blood 
showed where the puncture had been. 

"This is all an insoluble mystery to me," said I. 
"It grows darker instead of clearer." 

"On the contrary/' he answered, "it clears ev- 
ery instant. I only require a few missing links to 
have an entirely connected case." 

We had almost forgotten our companion's pres- 
ence since we entered the chamber. He was still 
standing in the door-way, the very picture of terror, 
wringing his hands and moaning to himself. Sud- 
denly, however, he broke out into a sharp, queru- 
lous cry. 

"The treasure is gone!" he said. "They have 
robbed him of the treasure! There is the hole 
through which we lowered it. I helped him to do 
it! I was the last person who saw him! I left him 
here last night, and I heard him lock the door as I 
came down-stairs." 


"What time was that?" 

"It was ten o'clock. And now he is dead, and 
the police will be called in, and I shall be sus- 
pected of having had a hand in it. Oh, yes, I am 
sure I shall. But you don't think so, gentlemen? 
Surely you don't think that it was I? Is it likely 
that I would have brought you here if it were I? 
Oh, dear! oh, dear! I know that I shall go mad!" 
He jerked his arms and stamped his feet in a kind 
of convulsive frenzy. 

"You have no reason for fear, Mr. Sholto," said 
Holmes, kindly, putting his hand upon his shoul- 
der. "Take my advice, and drive down to the sta- 
tion to report this matter to the police. Offer to 
assist them in every way. We shall wait here until 
your return." 

The little man obeyed in a half-stupefied fash- 
ion, and we heard him stumbling down the stairs 
in the dark. 


CHAPTER VL 

Sherlock Holmes Gives a Demonstration 


"Now, Watson," said Holmes, rubbing his 
hands, "we have half an hour to ourselves. Let 
us make good use of it. My case is, as I have told 
you, almost complete; but we must not err on the 
side of over-confidence. Simple as the case seems 
now, there may be something deeper underlying 
it." 

"Simple!" I ejaculated. 

"Surely," said he, with something of the air of 
a clinical professor expounding to his class. "Just 
sit in the corner there, that your footprints may 
not complicate matters. Now to work! In the first 
place, how did these folk come, and how did they 
go? The door has not been opened since last night. 
How of the window?" He carried the lamp across 
to it, muttering his observations aloud the while, 
but addressing them to himself rather than to me. 
"Window is snibbed on the inner side. Framework 
is solid. No hinges at the side. Let us open it. No 
water-pipe near. Roof quite out of reach. Yet a 
man has mounted by the window. It rained a lit- 
tle last night. Here is the print of a foot in mould 
upon the sill. And here is a circular muddy mark. 


and here again upon the floor, and here again by 
the table. See here, Watson! This is really a very 
pretty demonstration." 

I looked at the round, well-defined muddy 
discs. "This is not a footmark," said I. 

"It is something much more valuable to us. It 
is the impression of a wooden stump. You see here 
on the sill is the boot-mark, a heavy boot with the 
broad metal heel, and beside it is the mark of the 
timber-toe." 

"It is the wooden-legged man." 

"Quite so. But there has been some one else, — a 
very able and efficient ally. Could you scale that 
wall, doctor?" 

I looked out of the open window. The moon 
still shone brightly on that angle of the house. We 
were a good sixty feet from the round, and, look 
where I would, I could see no foothold, nor as 
much as a crevice in the brick-work. 

"It is absolutely impossible," I answered. 

"Without aid it is so. But suppose you had a 
friend up here who lowered you this good stout 


82 



The Sign of the Four 


rope which I see in the corner, securing one end 
of it to this great hook in the wall. Then, I think, 
if you were an active man, you might swarm up, 
wooden leg and all. You would depart, of course, 
in the same fashion, and your ally would draw up 
the rope, untie it from the hook, shut the window, 
snib it on the inside, and get away in the way that 
he originally came. As a minor point it may be 
noted," he continued, fingering the rope, "that our 
wooden-legged friend, though a fair climber, was 
not a professional sailor. His hands were far from 
horny. My lens discloses more than one blood- 
mark, especially towards the end of the rope, from 
which I gather that he slipped down with such ve- 
locity that he took the skin off his hand." 

"This is all very well," said I, "but the thing be- 
comes more unintelligible than ever. How about 
this mysterious ally? How came he into the 
room?" 

"Yes, the ally!" repeated Holmes, pensively. 
"There are features of interest about this ally. He 
lifts the case from the regions of the commonplace. 
I fancy that this ally breaks fresh ground in the 
annals of crime in this country, — though parallel 
cases suggest themselves from India, and, if my 
memory serves me, from Senegambia." 

"How came he, then?" I reiterated. "The door 
is locked, the window is inaccessible. Was it 
through the chimney?" 

"The grate is much too small," he answered. "I 
had already considered that possibility." 

"How then?" I persisted. 

"You will not apply my precept," he said, shak- 
ing his head. "How often have I said to you 
that when you have eliminated the impossible 
whatever remains, however improbable, must be the 
truth? We know that he did not come through the 
door, the window, or the chimney. We also know 
that he could not have been concealed in the room, 
as there is no concealment possible. Whence, then, 
did he come?" 

"He came through the hole in the roof," I cried. 

"Of course he did. He must have done so. If 
you will have the kindness to hold the lamp for 
me, we shall now extend our researches to the 
room above, — the secret room in which the trea- 
sure was found." 

He mounted the steps, and, seizing a rafter 
with either hand, he swung himself up into the 
garret. Then, lying on his face, he reached down 
for the lamp and held it while I followed him. 

The chamber in which we found ourselves was 
about ten feet one way and six the other. The 


floor was formed by the rafters, with thin lath-and- 
plaster between, so that in walking one had to step 
from beam to beam. The roof ran up to an apex, 
and was evidently the inner shell of the true roof 
of the house. There was no furniture of any sort, 
and the accumulated dust of years lay thick upon 
the floor. 

"Here you are, you see," said Sherlock Holmes, 
putting his hand against the sloping wall. "This is 
a trap-door which leads out on to the roof. I can 
press it back, and here is the roof itself, sloping 
at a gentle angle. This, then, is the way by which 
Number One entered. Let us see if we can find one 
other traces of his individuality." 

He held down the lamp to the floor, and as he 
did so I saw for the second time that night a star- 
tled, surprised look come over his face. For my- 
self, as I followed his gaze my skin was cold under 
my clothes. The floor was covered thickly with the 
prints of a naked foot, — clear, well defined, per- 
fectly formed, but scarce half the size of those of 
an ordinary man. 

"Holmes," I said, in a whisper, "a child has 
done the horrid thing." 

He had recovered his self-possession in an in- 
stant. "I was staggered for the moment," he said, 
"but the thing is quite natural. My memory failed 
me, or I should have been able to foretell it. There 
is nothing more to be learned here. Let us go 
down." 

"What is your theory, then, as to those foot- 
marks?" I asked, eagerly, when we had regained 
the lower room once more. 

"My dear Watson, try a little analysis yourself," 
said he, with a touch of impatience. "You know 
my methods. Apply them, and it will be instruc- 
tive to compare results." 

"I cannot conceive anything which will cover 
the facts," I answered. 

"It will be clear enough to you soon," he said, 
in an off-hand way. "I think that there is noth- 
ing else of importance here, but I will look." He 
whipped out his lens and a tape measure, and hur- 
ried about the room on his knees, measuring, com- 
paring, examining, with his long thin nose only a 
few inches from the planks, and his beady eyes 
gleaming and deep-set like those of a bird. So 
swift, silent, and furtive were his movements, like 
those of a trained blood-hound picking out a scent, 
that I could not but think what a terrible criminal 
he would have made had he turned his energy and 
sagacity against the law, instead of exerting them 


83 



The Sign of the Four 


in its defense. As he hunted about, he kept mut- 
tering to himself, and finally he broke out into a 
loud crow of delight. 

"We are certainly in luck," said he. "We ought 
to have very little trouble now. Number One has 
had the misfortune to tread in the creosote. You 
can see the outline of the edge of his small foot 
here at the side of this evil-smelling mess. The car- 
boy has been cracked. You see, and the stuff has 
leaked out." 

"What then?" I asked. 

"Why, we have got him, that's all," said he. "I 
know a dog that would follow that scent to the 
world's end. If a pack can track a trailed her- 
ring across a shire, how far can a specially-trained 
hound follow so pungent a smell as this? It sounds 
like a sum in the rule of three. The answer should 
give us the — But halloo! here are the accredited 
representatives of the law." 

Heavy steps and the clamor of loud voices were 
audible from below, and the hall door shut with a 
loud crash. 

"Before they come," said Holmes, "just put 
your hand here on this poor fellow's arm, and here 
on his leg. What do you feel?" 

"The muscles are as hard as a board," I an- 
swered. 

"Quite so. They are in a state of extreme con- 
traction, far exceeding the usual rigor mortis. Cou- 
pled with this distortion of the face, this Hippo- 
cratic smile, or 'risus sardonicus,' as the old writers 
called it, what conclusion would it suggest to your 
mind?" 

"Death from some powerful vegetable alka- 
loid," I answered, — "some strychnine-like sub- 
stance which would produce tetanus." 

"That was the idea which occurred to me the 
instant I saw the drawn muscles of the face. On 
getting into the room I at once looked for the 
means by which the poison had entered the sys- 
tem. As you saw, I discovered a thorn which had 
been driven or shot with no great force into the 
scalp. You observe that the part struck was that 
which would be turned towards the hole in the 
ceiling if the man were erect in his chair. Now ex- 
amine the thorn." 

I took it up gingerly and held it in the light of 
the lantern. It was long, sharp, and black, with a 
glazed look near the point as though some gummy 
substance had dried upon it. The blunt end had 
been trimmed and rounded off with a knife. 

"Is that an English thorn?" he asked. 


"No, it certainly is not." 

"With all these data you should be able to draw 
some just inference. But here are the regulars: so 
the auxiliary forces may beat a retreat." 

As he spoke, the steps which had been coming 
nearer sounded loudly on the passage, and a very 
stout, portly man in a gray suit strode heavily into 
the room. He was red-faced, burly and plethoric, 
with a pair of very small twinkling eyes which 
looked keenly out from between swollen and puffy 
pouches. He was closely followed by an inspector 
in uniform, and by the still palpitating Thaddeus 
Sholto. 

"Here's a business!" he cried, in a muffled, 
husky voice. "Here's a pretty business! But who 
are all these? Why, the house seems to be as full 
as a rabbit-warren!" 

"I think you must recollect me, Mr. Athelney 
Jones," said Holmes, quietly. 

"Why, of course I do!" he wheezed. "It's Mr. 
Sherlock Holmes, the theorist. Remember you! I'll 
never forget how you lectured us all on causes and 
inferences and effects in the Bishopgate jewel case. 
It's true you set us on the right track; but you'll 
own now that it was more by good luck than good 
guidance." 

"It was a piece of very simple reasoning." 

"Oh, come, now, come! Never be ashamed to 
own up. But what is all this? Bad business! Bad 
business! Stern facts here, — no room for theories. 
How lucky that I happened to be out at Norwood 
over another case! I was at the station when the 
message arrived. What d'you think the man died 
of?" 

"Oh, this is hardly a case for me to theorize 
over," said Holmes, dryly. 

"No, no. Still, we can't deny that you hit the 
nail on the head sometimes. Dear me! Door 
locked, I understand. Jewels worth half a million 
missing. How was the window?" 

"Fastened; but there are steps on the sill." 

"Well, well, if it was fastened the steps could 
have nothing to do with the matter. That's com- 
mon sense. Man might have died in a fit; but then 
the jewels are missing. Ha! I have a theory. These 
flashes come upon me at times. — Just step outside, 
sergeant, and you, Mr. Sholto. Your friend can re- 
main. — What do you think of this. Holmes? Sholto 
was, on his own confession, with his brother last 
night. The brother died in a fit, on which Sholto 
walked off with the treasure. How's that?" 


84 



The Sign of the Four 


"On which the dead man very considerately 
got up and locked the door on the inside." 

"Hum! There's a flaw there. Let us apply com- 
mon sense to the matter. This Thaddeus Sholto 
was with his brother; there was a quarrel; so much 
we know. The brother is dead and the jewels are 
gone. So much also we know. No one saw the 
brother from the time Thaddeus left him. His bed 
had not been slept in. Thaddeus is evidently in 
a most disturbed state of mind. His appearance 
is — well, not attractive. You see that I am weaving 
my web round Thaddeus. The net begins to close 
upon him." 

"You are not quite in possession of the facts 
yet," said Holmes. "This splinter of wood, which I 
have every reason to believe to be poisoned, was in 
the man's scalp where you still see the mark; this 
card, inscribed as you see it, was on the table; and 
beside it lay this rather curious stone-headed in- 
strument. How does all that fit into your theory?" 

"Confirms it in every respect," said the fat de- 
tective, pompously. "House is full of Indian cu- 
riosities. Thaddeus brought this up, and if this 
splinter be poisonous Thaddeus may as well have 
made murderous use of it as any other man. The 
card is some hocus-pocus, — a blind, as like as not. 
The only question is, how did he depart? Ah, of 
course, here is a hole in the roof." With great ac- 
tivity, considering his bulk, he sprang up the steps 
and squeezed through into the garret, and imme- 
diately afterwards we heard his exulting voice pro- 
claiming that he had found the trap-door. 

"He can find something," remarked Holmes, 
shrugging his shoulders. "He has occasional glim- 
merings of reason. II n'y a pas des sots si incommodes 
qne cenx qui ont de Vesprit!" 

"You see!" said Athelney Jones, reappearing 
down the steps again. "Facts are better than mere 
theories, after all. My view of the case is con- 
firmed. There is a trap-door communicating with 
the roof, and it is partly open." 

"It was I who opened it." 

"Oh, indeed! You did notice it, then?" He 
seemed a little crestfallen at the discovery. "Well, 
whoever noticed it, it shows how our gentleman 
got away. Inspector!" 

"Yes, sir," from the passage. 

"Ask Mr. Sholto to step this way. — Mr. Sholto, it 
is my duty to inform you that anything which you 
may say will be used against you. I arrest you in 
the queen's name as being concerned in the death 
of your brother." 


"There, now! Didn't I tell you!" cried the poor 
little man, throwing out his hands, and looking 
from one to the other of us. 

"Don't trouble yourself about it, Mr. Sholto," 
said Holmes. "I think that I can engage to clear 
you of the charge." 

"Don't promise too much, Mr. Theorist, — don't 
promise too much!" snapped the detective. "You 
may find it a harder matter than you think." 

"Not only will I clear him, Mr. Jones, but I will 
make you a free present of the name and descrip- 
tion of one of the two people who were in this 
room last night. His name, I have every reason to 
believe, is Jonathan Small. He is a poorly-educated 
man, small, active, with his right leg off, and wear- 
ing a wooden stump which is worn away upon the 
inner side. His left boot has a coarse, square-toed 
sole, with an iron band round the heel. He is a 
middle-aged man, much sunburned, and has been 
a convict. These few indications may be of some 
assistance to you, coupled with the fact that there 
is a good deal of skin missing from the palm of his 
hand. The other man — " 

"Ah! the other man — ?" asked Athelney Jones, 
in a sneering voice, but impressed none the less, 
as I could easily see, by the precision of the other's 
manner. 

"Is a rather curious person," said Sherlock 
Holmes, turning upon his heel. "I hope before 
very long to be able to introduce you to the pair 
of them. A word with you, Watson." 

He led me out to the head of the stair. "This 
unexpected occurrence," he said, "has caused us 
rather to lose sight of the original purpose of our 
journey." 

"I have just been thinking so," I answered. "It 
is not right that Miss Morstan should remain in 
this stricken house." 

"No. You must escort her home. She lives with 
Mrs. Cecil Forrester, in Lower Camberwell: so it is 
not very far. I will wait for you here if you will 
drive out again. Or perhaps you are too tired?" 

"By no means. I don't think I could rest until I 
know more of this fantastic business. I have seen 
something of the rough side of life, but I give you 
my word that this quick succession of strange sur- 
prises to-night has shaken my nerve completely. 
I should like, however, to see the matter through 
with you, now that I have got so far." 

"Your presence will be of great service to me," 
he answered. "We shall work the case out inde- 
pendently, and leave this fellow Jones to exult over 
any mare's-nest which he may choose to construct. 


85 



The Sign of the Four 


When you have dropped Miss Morstan I wish you 
to go on to No. 3 Pinchin Lane, down near the 
water's edge at Lambeth. The third house on the 
right-hand side is a bird-stuffer's: Sherman is the 
name. You will see a weasel holding a young rab- 
bit in the window. Knock old Sherman up, and 
tell him, with my compliments, that I want Toby 
at once. You will bring Toby back in the cab with 
you." 

"A dog, I suppose." 

"Yes, — a queer mongrel, with a most amazing 
power of scent. I would rather have Toby's help 


than that of the whole detective force of London." 

"I shall bring him, then," said I. "It is one now. 
I ought to be back before three, if I can get a fresh 
horse." 

"And I," said Holmes, "shall see what I can 
learn from Mrs. Bernstone, and from the Indian 
servant, who, Mr. Thaddeus tell me, sleeps in the 
next garret. Then I shall study the great Jones's 
methods and listen to his not too delicate sarcasms. 
'Wir sind geivohnt, dafi die Menschen verhohnen was 
sie nicht verstehen.' Goethe is always pithy." 


CHAPTER VIE 

The Episode of the Barrel 


The police had brought a cab with them, and 
in this I escorted Miss Morstan back to her home. 
After the angelic fashion of women, she had borne 
trouble with a calm face as long as there was 
some one weaker than herself to support, and I 
had found her bright and placid by the side of 
the frightened housekeeper. In the cab, however, 
she first turned faint, and then burst into a pas- 
sion of weeping, — so sorely had she been tried by 
the adventures of the night. She has told me since 
that she thought me cold and distant upon that 
journey. She little guessed the struggle within my 
breast, or the effort of self-restraint which held me 
back. My sympathies and my love went out to 
her, even as my hand had in the garden. I felt 
that years of the conventionalities of life could not 
teach me to know her sweet, brave nature as had 
this one day of strange experiences. Yet there were 
two thoughts which sealed the words of affection 
upon my lips. She was weak and helpless, shaken 
in mind and nerve. It was to take her at a disad- 
vantage to obtrude love upon her at such a time. 
Worse still, she was rich. If Holmes's researches 
were successful, she would be an heiress. Was 
it fair, was it honorable, that a half-pay surgeon 
should take such advantage of an intimacy which 
chance had brought about? Might she not look 
upon me as a mere vulgar fortune-seeker? I could 
not bear to risk that such a thought should cross 
her mind. This Agra treasure intervened like an 
impassable barrier between us. 


It was nearly two o'clock when we reached 
Mrs. Cecil Forrester's. The servants had retired 
hours ago, but Mrs. Forrester had been so inter- 
ested by the strange message which Miss Morstan 
had received that she had sat up in the hope of 
her return. She opened the door herself, a middle- 
aged, graceful woman, and it gave me joy to see 
how tenderly her arm stole round the other 's waist 
and how motherly was the voice in which she 
greeted her. She was clearly no mere paid depen- 
dant, but an honored friend. I was introduced, and 
Mrs. Forrester earnestly begged me to step in and 
tell her our adventures. I explained, however, the 
importance of my errand, and promised faithfully 
to call and report any progress which we might 
make with the case. As we drove away I stole a 
glance back, and I still seem to see that little group 
on the step, the two graceful, clinging figures, the 
half-opened door, the hall light shining through 
stained glass, the barometer, and the bright stair- 
rods. It was soothing to catch even that passing 
glimpse of a tranquil English home in the midst of 
the wild, dark business which had absorbed us. 

And the more I thought of what had happened, 
the wilder and darker it grew. I reviewed the 
whole extraordinary sequence of events as I rat- 
tled on through the silent gas-lit streets. There was 
the original problem: that at least was pretty clear 
now. The death of Captain Morstan, the sending 
of the pearls, the advertisement, the letter, — we 
had had light upon all those events. They had 


86 



The Sign of the Four 


only led us, however, to a deeper and far more 
tragic mystery. The Indian treasure, the curious 
plan found among Morstan's baggage, the strange 
scene at Major Sholto's death, the rediscovery of 
the treasure immediately followed by the murder 
of the discoverer, the very singular accompani- 
ments to the crime, the footsteps, the remarkable 
weapons, the words upon the card, corresponding 
with those upon Captain Morstan's chart, — here 
was indeed a labyrinth in which a man less singu- 
larly endowed than my fellow-lodger might well 
despair of ever finding the clue. 

Pinchin Lane was a row of shabby two-storied 
brick houses in the lower quarter of Lambeth. I 
had to knock for some time at No. 3 before I could 
make my impression. At last, however, there was 
the glint of a candle behind the blind, and a face 
looked out at the upper window. 

"Go on, you drunken vagabone," said the face. 
"If you kick up any more row I'll open the kennels 
and let out forty-three dogs upon you." 

"If you'll let one out it's just what I have come 
for," said I. 

"Go on!" yelled the voice. "So help me gra- 
cious, I have a wiper in the bag, an' I'll drop it on 
your 'ead if you don't hook it." 

"But I want a dog," I cried. 

"I won't be argued with!" shouted Mr. Sher- 
man. "Now stand clear, for when I say 'three,' 
down goes the wiper." 

"Mr. Sherlock Holmes — " I began, but the 
words had a most magical effect, for the window 
instantly slammed down, and within a minute the 
door was unbarred and open. Mr. Sherman was 
a lanky, lean old man, with stooping shoulders, a 
stringy neck, and blue-tinted glasses. 

"A friend of Mr. Sherlock is always welcome," 
said he. "Step in, sir. Keep clear of the badger; for 
he bites. Ah, naughty, naughty, would you take a 
nip at the gentleman?" This to a stoat which thrust 
its wicked head and red eyes between the bars of 
its cage. "Don't mind that, sir: it's only a slow- 
worm. It hain't got no fangs, so I gives it the run 
o' the room, for it keeps the bettles down. You 
must not mind my bein' just a little short wi' you at 
first, for I'm guyed at by the children, and there's 
many a one just comes down this lane to knock me 
up. What was it that Mr. Sherlock Holmes wanted, 
sir?" 

"He wanted a dog of yours." 

"Ah! that would be Toby." 

"Yes, Toby was the name." 


"Toby lives at No. 7 on the left here." He moved 
slowly forward with his candle among the queer 
animal family which he had gathered round him. 
In the uncertain, shadowy light I could see dimly 
that there were glancing, glimmering eyes peeping 
down at us from every cranny and corner. Even 
the rafters above our heads were lined by solemn 
fowls, who lazily shifted their weight from one leg 
to the other as our voices disturbed their slumbers. 

Toby proved to an ugly, long-haired, lop-eared 
creature, half spaniel and half lurcher, brown- 
and-white in color, with a very clumsy waddling 
gait. It accepted after some hesitation a lump 
of sugar which the old naturalist handed to me, 
and, having thus sealed an alliance, it followed 
me to the cab, and made no difficulties about ac- 
companying me. It had just struck three on the 
Palace clock when I found myself back once more 
at Pondicherry Lodge. The ex-prize-fighter Mc- 
Murdo had, I found, been arrested as an accessory, 
and both he and Mr. Sholto had been marched off 
to the station. Two constables guarded the narrow 
gate, but they allowed me to pass with the dog on 
my mentioning the detective's name. 

Holmes was standing on the door-step, with 
his hands in his pockets, smoking his pipe. 

"Ah, you have him there!" said he. "Good dog, 
then! Athelney Jones has gone. We have had an 
immense display of energy since you left. He has 
arrested not only friend Thaddeus, but the gate- 
keeper, the housekeeper, and the Indian servant. 
We have the place to ourselves, but for a sergeant 
up-stairs. Leave the dog here, and come up." 

We tied Toby to the hall table, and reascended 
the stairs. The room was as he had left it, save that 
a sheet had been draped over the central figure. A 
weary-looking police-sergeant reclined in the cor- 
ner. 

"Lend me your bull's-eye, sergeant," said my 
companion. "Now tie this bit of card round my 
neck, so as to hang it in front of me. Thank you. 
Now I must kick off my boots and stockings. — Just 
you carry them down with you, Watson. I am go- 
ing to do a little climbing. And dip my handker- 
chief into the creasote. That will do. Now come 
up into the garret with me for a moment." 

We clambered up through the hole. Holmes 
turned his light once more upon the footsteps in 
the dust. 

"I wish you particularly to notice these foot- 
marks," he said. "Do you observe anything note- 
worthy about them?" 


87 



The Sign of the Four 


"They belong," I said, "to a child or a small 
woman." 

"Apart from their size, though. Is there nothing 
else?" 

"They appear to be much as other footmarks." 

"Not at all. Look here! This is the print of a 
right foot in the dust. Now I make one with my 
naked foot beside it. What is the chief difference?" 

"Your toes are all cramped together. The other 
print has each toe distinctly divided." 

"Quite so. That is the point. Bear that in mind. 
Now, would you kindly step over to that flap- 
window and smell the edge of the wood-work? I 
shall stay here, as I have this handkerchief in my 
hand." 

I did as he directed, and was instantly con- 
scious of a strong tarry smell. 

"That is where he put his foot in getting out. 
If you can trace him, I should think that Toby will 
have no difficulty. Now run down-stairs, loose the 
dog, and look out for Blondin." 

By the time that I got out into the grounds 
Sherlock Holmes was on the roof, and I could see 
him like an enormous glow-worm crawling very 
slowly along the ridge. I lost sight of him behind 
a stack of chimneys, but he presently reappeared, 
and then vanished once more upon the opposite 
side. When I made my way round there I found 
him seated at one of the corner eaves. 

"That You, Watson?" he cried. 

"Yes." 

"This is the place. What is that black thing 
down there?" 

"A water-barrel." 

"Top on it?" 

"Yes." 

"No sign of a ladder?" 

"No." 

"Confound the fellow! It's a most break-neck 
place. I ought to be able to come down where he 
could climb up. The water-pipe feels pretty firm. 
Here goes, anyhow." 

There was a scuffling of feet, and the lantern 
began to come steadily down the side of the wall. 
Then with a light spring he came on to the barrel, 
and from there to the earth. 

"It was easy to follow him," he said, drawing 
on his stockings and boots. "Tiles were loosened 
the whole way along, and in his hurry he had 


dropped this. It confirms my diagnosis, as you 
doctors express it." 

The object which he held up to me was a small 
pocket or pouch woven out of colored grasses and 
with a few tawdry beads strung round it. In shape 
and size it was not unlike a cigarette-case. Inside 
were half a dozen spines of dark wood, sharp at 
one end and rounded at the other, like that which 
had struck Bartholomew Sholto. 

"They are hellish things," said he. "Look out 
that you don't prick yourself. I'm delighted to 
have them, for the chances are that they are all he 
has. There is the less fear of you or me finding 
one in our skin before long. I would sooner face a 
Martini bullet, myself. Are you game for a six-mile 
trudge, Watson?" 

"Certainly," I answered. 

"Your leg will stand it?" 

"Oh, yes." 

"Here you are, doggy! Good old Toby! Smell 
it, Toby, smell it!" He pushed the creasote hand- 
kerchief under the dog's nose, while the creature 
stood with its fluffy legs separated, and with a 
most comical cock to its head, like a connoisseur 
sniffing the bouquet of a famous vintage. Holmes 
then threw the handkerchief to a distance, fastened 
a stout cord to the mongrel's collar, and let him to 
the foot of the water-barrel. The creature instantly 
broke into a succession of high, tremulous yelps, 
and, with his nose on the ground, and his tail in 
the air, pattered off upon the trail at a pace which 
strained his leash and kept us at the top of our 
speed. 

The east had been gradually whitening, and we 
could now see some distance in the cold gray light. 
The square, massive house, with its black, empty 
windows and high, bare walls, towered up, sad 
and forlorn, behind us. Our course let right across 
the grounds, in and out among the trenches and 
pits with which they were scarred and intersected. 
The whole place, with its scattered dirt-heaps and 
ill-grown shrubs, had a blighted, ill-omened look 
which harmonized with the black tragedy which 
hung over it. 

On reaching the boundary wall Toby ran along, 
whining eagerly, underneath its shadow, and 
stopped finally in a corner screened by a young 
beech. Where the two walls joined, several bricks 
had been loosened, and the crevices left were worn 
down and rounded upon the lower side, as though 
they had frequently been used as a ladder. Holmes 
clambered up, and, taking the dog from me, he 
dropped it over upon the other side. 


88 



The Sign of the Four 


"There's the print of wooden-leg's hand," he 
remarked, as I mounted up beside him. "You see 
the slight smudge of blood upon the white plaster. 
What a lucky thing it is that we have had no very 
heavy rain since yesterday! The scent will lie upon 
the road in spite of their eight-and-twenty hours' 
start." 

I confess that I had my doubts myself when I 
reflected upon the great traffic which had passed 
along the London road in the interval. My fears 
were soon appeased, however. Toby never hes- 
itated or swerved, but waddled on in his pecu- 
liar rolling fashion. Clearly, the pungent smell of 
the creasote rose high above all other contending 
scents. 

"Do not imagine," said Holmes, "that I depend 
for my success in this case upon the mere chance 
of one of these fellows having put his foot in the 
chemical. I have knowledge now which would 
enable me to trace them in many different ways. 
This, however, is the readiest and, since fortune 
has put it into our hands, I should be culpable if 
I neglected it. It has, however, prevented the case 
from becoming the pretty little intellectual prob- 
lem which it at one time promised to be. There 
might have been some credit to be gained out of it, 
but for this too palpable clue." 

"There is credit, and to spare," said I. "I as- 
sure you. Holmes, that I marvel at the means by 
which you obtain your results in this case, even 
more than I did in the Jefferson Hope Murder. The 
thing seems to me to be deeper and more inexpli- 
cable. How, for example, could you describe with 
such confidence the wooden-legged man?" 

"Pshaw, my dear boy! it was simplicity itself. 
I don't wish to be theatrical. It is all patent and 
above-board. Two officers who are in command 
of a convict-guard learn an important secret as 
to buried treasure. A map is drawn for them by 
an Englishman named Jonathan Small. You re- 
member that we saw the name upon the chart in 
Captain Morstan's possession. He had signed it 
in behalf of himself and his associates, — the sign 
of the four, as he somewhat dramatically called 
it. Aided by this chart, the officers — or one of 
them — gets the treasure and brings it to England, 
leaving, we will suppose, some condition under 
which he received it unfulfilled. Now, then, why 
did not Jonathan Small get the treasure himself? 
The answer is obvious. The chart is dated at a time 
when Morstan was brought into close association 
with convicts. Jonathan Small did not get the trea- 
sure because he and his associates were themselves 
convicts and could not get away." 


"But that is mere speculation," said I. 

"It is more than that. It is the only hypothesis 
which covers the facts. Let us see how it fits in 
with the sequel. Major Sholto remains at peace for 
some years, happy in the possession of his trea- 
sure. Then he receives a letter from India which 
gives him a great fright. What was that?" 

"A letter to say that the men whom he had 
wronged had been set free." 

"Or had escaped. That is much more likely, for 
he would have known what their term of impris- 
onment was. It would not have been a surprise 
to him. What does he do then? He guards him- 
self against a wooden-legged man, — a white man, 
mark you, for he mistakes a white tradesman for 
him, and actually fires a pistol at him. Now, only 
one white man's name is on the chart. The oth- 
ers are Hindoos or Mohammedans. There is no 
other white man. Therefore we may say with con- 
fidence that the wooden-legged man is identical 
with Jonathan Small. Does the reasoning strike yo 
as being faulty?" 

"No: it is clear and concise." 

"Well, now, let us put ourselves in the place of 
Jonathan Small. Let us look at it from his point of 
view. He comes to England with the double idea of 
regaining what he would consider to be his rights 
and of having his revenge upon the man who had 
wronged him. He found out where Sholto lived, 
and very possibly he established communications 
with some one inside the house. There is this but- 
ler, Lai Rao, whom we have not seen. Mrs. Bern- 
stone gives him far from a good character. Small 
could not find out, however, where the treasure 
was hid, for no one ever knew, save the major 
and one faithful servant who had died. Suddenly 
Small learns that the major is on his death-bed. In 
a frenzy lest the secret of the treasure die with him, 
he runs the gauntlet of the guards, makes his way 
to the dying man's window, and is only deterred 
from entering by the presence of his two sons. 
Mad with hate, however, against the dead man, 
he enters the room that night, searches his private 
papers in the hope of discovering some memoran- 
dum relating to the treasure, and finally leaves a 
momenta of his visit in the short inscription upon 
the card. He had doubtless planned beforehand 
that should he slay the major he would leave some 
such record upon the body as a sign that it was 
not a common murder, but, from the point of view 
of the four associates, something in the nature of 
an act of justice. Whimsical and bizarre conceits 
of this kind are common enough in the annals of 


89 



The Sign of the Four 


crime, and usually afford valuable indications as 
to the criminal. Do you follow all this?" 

"Very clearly." 

"Now, what could Jonathan Small do? He 
could only continue to keep a secret watch upon 
the efforts made to find the treasure. Possibly 
he leaves England and only comes back at inter- 
vals. Then comes the discovery of the garret, and 
he is instantly informed of it. We again trace the 
presence of some confederate in the household. 
Jonathan, with his wooden leg, is utterly unable 
to reach the lofty room of Bartholomew Sholto. 
He takes with him, however, a rather curious as- 
sociate, who gets over this difficulty, but dips his 
naked foot into creasote, whence come Toby, and a 
six-mile limp for a half-pay officer with a damaged 
tendo Achillis." 

"But it was the associate, and not Jonathan, 
who committed the crime." 

"Quite so. And rather to Jonathan's disgust, 
to judge by the way the stamped about when he 
got into the room. He bore no grudge against 
Bartholomew Sholto, and would have preferred if 
he could have been simply bound and gagged. He 
did not wish to put his head in a halter. There was 
no help for it, however: the savage instincts of his 
companion had broken out, and the poison had 
done its work: so Jonathan Small left his record, 
lowered the treasure-box to the ground, and fol- 
lowed it himself. That was the train of events as 
far as I can decipher them. Of course as to his 
personal appearance he must be middle-aged, and 
must be sunburned after serving his time in such 
an oven as the Andamans. His height is readily 
calculated from the length of his stride, and we 
know that he was bearded. His hairiness was the 
one point which impressed itself upon Thaddeus 
Sholto when he saw him at the window. I don't 
know that there is anything else." 

"The associate?" 

"Ah, well, there is no great mystery in that. 
But you will know all about it soon enough. How 
sweet the morning air is! See how that one little 
cloud floats like a pink feather from some gigantic 
flamingo. Now the red rim of the sun pushes itself 
over the London cloud-bank. It shines on a good 
many folk, but on none, I dare bet, who are on a 
stranger errand than you and I. How small we feel 
with our petty ambitions and strivings in the pres- 
ence of the great elemental forces of nature! Are 
you well up in your Jean Paul?" 

"Fairly so. I worked back to him through Car- 
lyle." 


"That was like following the brook to the par- 
ent lake. He makes one curious but profound re- 
mark. It is that the chief proof of man's real great- 
ness lies in his perception of his own smallness. 
It argues, you see, a power of comparison and of 
appreciation which is in itself a proof of nobility. 
There is much food for thought in Richter. You 
have not a pistol, have you?" 

"I have my stick." 

"It is just possible that we may need something 
of the sort if we get to their lair. Jonathan I shall 
leave to you, but if the other turns nasty I shall 
shoot him dead." He took out his revolver as he 
spoke, and, having loaded two of the chambers, he 
put it back into the right-hand pocket of his jacket. 

We had during this time been following the 
guidance of Toby down the half-rural villa-lined 
roads which lead to the metropolis. Now, however, 
we were beginning to come among continuous 
streets, where laborers and dockmen were already 
astir, and slatternly women were taking down 
shutters and brushing door-steps. At the square- 
topped corner public houses business was just be- 
ginning, and rough-looking men were emerging, 
rubbing their sleeves across their beards after their 
morning wet. Strange dogs sauntered up and 
stared wonderingly at us as we passed, but our 
inimitable Toby looked neither to the right nor 
to the left, but trotted onwards with his nose to 
the ground and an occasional eager whine which 
spoke of a hot scent. 

We had traversed Streatham, Brixton, Cam- 
berwell, and now found ourselves in Kennington 
Lane, having borne away through the side-streets 
to the east of the Oval. The men whom we pursued 
seemed to have taken a curiously zigzag road, 
with the idea probably of escaping observation. 
They had never kept to the main road if a parallel 
side-street would serve their turn. At the foot of 
Kennington Lane they had edged away to the left 
through Bond Street and Miles Street. Where the 
latter street turns into Knight's Place, Toby ceased 
to advance, but began to run backwards and for- 
wards with one ear cocked and the other droop- 
ing, the very picture of canine indecision. Then he 
waddled round in circles, looking up to us from 
time to time, as if to ask for sympathy in his em- 
barrassment. 

"What the deuce is the matter with the dog?" 
growled Holmes. "They surely would not take a 
cab, or go off in a balloon." 

"Perhaps they stood here for some time," I sug- 
gested. 


90 



The Sign of the Four 


"Ah! it's all right. He's off again," said my 
companion, in a tone of relief. 

He was indeed off, for after sniffing round 
again he suddenly made up his mind, and darted 
away with an energy and determination such as he 
had not yet shown. The scent appeared to be much 
hotter than before, for he had not even to put his 
nose on the ground, but tugged at his leash and 
tried to break into a run. I cold see by the gleam 
in Holmes's eyes that he thought we were nearing 
the end of our journey. 

Our course now ran down Nine Elms until we 
came to Broderick and Nelson's large timber-yard, 
just past the White Eagle tavern. Here the dog, 
frantic with excitement, turned down through the 


side-gate into the enclosure, where the sawyers 
were already at work. On the dog raced through 
sawdust and shavings, down an alley, round a pas- 
sage, between two wood-piles, and finally, with a 
triumphant yelp, sprang upon a large barrel which 
still stood upon the hand-trolley on which it had 
been brought. With lolling tongue and blinking 
eyes, Toby stood upon the cask, looking from one 
to the other of us for some sign of appreciation. 
The staves of the barrel and the wheels of the 
trolley were smeared with a dark liquid, and the 
whole air was heavy with the smell of creasote. 

Sherlock Holmes and I looked blankly at each 
other, and then burst simultaneously into an un- 
controllable fit of laughter. 


CHAPTER VIII. 

The Baker Street Irregulars 


"What now?" I asked. "Toby has lost his char- 
acter for infallibility." 

"He acted according to his lights," said 
Holmes, lifting him down from the barrel and 
walking him out of the timber-yard. "If you con- 
sider how much creasote is carted about London in 
one day, it is no great wonder that our trail should 
have been crossed. It is much used now, especially 
for the seasoning of wood. Poor Toby is not to 
blame." 

"We must get on the main scent again, I sup- 
pose." 

"Yes. And, fortunately, we have no distance to 
go. Evidently what puzzled the dog at the corner 
of Knight's Place was that there were two different 
trails running in opposite directions. We took the 
wrong one. It only remains to follow the other." 

There was no difficulty about this. On lead- 
ing Toby to the place where he had committed 
his fault, he cast about in a wide circle and finally 
dashed off in a fresh direction. 

"We must take care that he does not now bring 
us to the place where the creasote-barrel came 
from," I observed. 

"I had thought of that. But you notice that he 
keeps on the pavement, whereas the barrel passed 


down the roadway. No, we are on the true scent 
now." 

It tended down towards the river-side, running 
through Belmont Place and Prince's Street. At the 
end of Broad Street it ran right down to the wa- 
ter 's edge, where there was a small wooden wharf. 
Toby led us to the very edge of this, and there 
stood whining, looking out on the dark current be- 
yond. 

"We are out of luck," said Holmes. "They have 
taken to a boat here." Several small punts and 
skiffs were lying about in the water and on the 
edge of the wharf. We took Toby round to each in 
turn, but, though he sniffed earnestly, he made no 
sign. 

Close to the rude landing-stage was a small 
brick house, with a wooden placard slung out 
through the second window. "Mordecai Smith" 
was printed across it in large letters, and, under- 
neath, "Boats to hire by the hour or day." A sec- 
ond inscription above the door informed us that 
a steam launch was kept, — a statement which was 
confirmed by a great pile of coke upon the jetty. 
Sherlock Holmes looked slowly round, and his 
face assumed an ominous expression. 

"This looks bad," said he. "These fellows are 
sharper than I expected. They seem to have cov- 


9i 



The Sign of the Four 


ered their tracks. There has, I fear, been precon- 
certed management here." 

He was approaching the door of the house, 
when it opened, and a little, curly-headed lad of 
six came running out, followed by a stoutish, red- 
faced woman with a large sponge in her hand. 

"You come back and be washed. Jack," she 
shouted. "Come back, you young imp; for if your 
father comes home and finds you like that, he'll let 
us hear of it." 

"Dear little chap!" said Holmes, strategically. 
"What a rosy-cheeked young rascal! Now, Jack, is 
there anything you would like?" 

The youth pondered for a moment. "I'd like a 
shillin'," said he. 

"Nothing you would like better?" 

"I'd like two shillin' better," the prodigy an- 
swered, after some thought. 

"Here you are, then! Catch! — A fine child, Mrs. 
Smith!" 

"Lor' bless you, sir, he is that, and forward. He 
gets a'most too much for me to manage, 'specially 
when my man is away days at a time." 

"Away, is he?" said Holmes, in a disappointed 
voice. "I am sorry for that, for I wanted to speak 
to Mr. Smith." 

"He's been away since yesterday mornin', sir, 
and, truth to tell, I am beginnin' to feel frightened 
about him. But if it was about a boat, sir, maybe I 
could serve as well." 

"I wanted to hire his steam launch." 

"Why, bless you, sir, it is in the steam launch 
that he has gone. That's what puzzles me; for 
I know there ain't more coals in her than would 
take her to about Woolwich and back. If he'd been 
away in the barge I'd ha' thought nothin'; for many 
a time a job has taken him as far as Gravesend, 
and then if there was much doin' there he might 
ha' stayed over. But what good is a steam launch 
without coals?" 

"He might have bought some at a wharf down 
the river." 

"He might, sir, but it weren't his way. Many 
a time I've heard him call out at the prices they 
charge for a few odd bags. Besides, I don't like 
that wooden-legged man, wi' his ugly face and 
outlandish talk. What did he want always knockin' 
about here for?" 

"A wooden-legged man?" said Holmes, with 
bland surprise. 


"Yes, sir, a brown, monkey-faced chap that's 
called more'n once for my old man. It was him 
that roused him up yesternight, and, what's more, 
my man knew he was cornin', for he had steam up 
in the launch. I tell you straight, sir, I don't feel 
easy in my mind about it." 

"But, my dear Mrs. Smith," said Holmes, 
shrugging his shoulders, "You are frightening 
yourself about nothing. How could you possibly 
tell that it was the wooden-legged man who came 
in the night? I don't quite understand how you 
can be so sure." 

"His voice, sir. I knew his voice, which 
is kind o' thick and foggy. He tapped at the 
winder, — about three it would be. 'Show a leg, 
matey,' says he: 'time to turn out guard.' My old 
man woke up Jim, — that's my eldest, — and away 
they went, without so much as a word to me. I 
could hear the wooden leg clackin' on the stones." 

"And was this wooden-legged man alone?" 

"Couldn't say, I am sure, sir. I didn't hear no 
one else." 

"I am sorry, Mrs. Smith, for I wanted a steam 
launch, and I have heard good reports of the — Let 
me see, what is her name?" 

"The Aurora, sir." 

"Ah! She's not that old green launch with a 
yellow line, very broad in the beam?" 

"No, indeed. She's as trim a little thing as any 
on the river. She's been fresh painted, black with 
two red streaks." 

"Thanks. I hope that you will hear soon from 
Mr. Smith. I am going down the river; and if I 
should see anything of the Aurora I shall let him 
know that you are uneasy. A black funnel, you 
say?" 

"No, sir. Black with a white band." 

"Ah, of course. It was the sides which were 
black. Good-morning, Mrs. Smith. — There is a 
boatman here with a wherry, Watson. We shall 
take it and cross the river. 

"The main thing with people of that sort," said 
Holmes, as we sat in the sheets of the wherry, "is 
never to let them think that their information can 
be of the slightest importance to you. If you do, 
they will instantly shut up like an oyster. If you 
listen to them under protest, as it were, you are 
very likely to get what you want." 

"Our course now seems pretty clear," said I. 

"What would you do, then?" 

"I would engage a launch and go down the 
river on the track of the Aurora." 


92 



The Sign of the Four 


"My dear fellow, it would be a colossal task. 
She may have touched at any wharf on either side 
of the stream between here and Greenwich. Below 
the bridge there is a perfect labyrinth of landing- 
places for miles. It would take you days and days 
to exhaust them, if you set about it alone." 

"Employ the police, then." 

"No. I shall probably call Athelney Jones in 
at the last moment. He is not a bad fellow, and I 
should not like to do anything which would injure 
him professionally. But I have a fancy for working 
it out myself, now that we have gone so far." 

"Could we advertise, then, asking for informa- 
tion from wharfingers?" 

"Worse and worse! Our men would know that 
the chase was hot at their heels, and they would 
be off out of the country. As it is, they are likely 
enough to leave, but as long as they think they are 
perfectly safe they will be in no hurry. Jones's en- 
ergy will be of use to us there, for his view of the 
case is sure to push itself into the daily press, and 
the runaways will think that every one is off on the 
wrong scent." 

"What are we to do, then?" I asked, as we 
landed near Millbank Penitentiary. 

"Take this hansom, drive home, have some 
breakfast, and get an hour's sleep. It is quite on 
the cards that we may be afoot to-night again. Stop 
at a telegraph-office, cabby! We will keep Toby, for 
he may be of use to us yet." 

We pulled up at the Great Peter Street post- 
office, and Holmes despatched his wire. "Whom 
do you think that is to?" he asked, as we resumed 
our journey. 

"I am sure I don't know." 

"You remember the Baker Street division of the 
detective police force whom I employed in the Jef- 
ferson Hope case?" 

"Well," said I, laughing. 

"This is just the case where they might be in- 
valuable. If they fail, I have other resources; but 
I shall try them first. That wire was to my dirty 
little lieutenant, Wiggins, and I expect that he and 
his gang will be with us before we have finished 
our breakfast." 

It was between eight and nine o'clock now, and 
I was conscious of a strong reaction after the suc- 
cessive excitements of the night. I was limp and 
weary, befogged in mind and fatigued in body. I 
had not the professional enthusiasm which carried 
my companion on, nor could I look at the matter 
as a mere abstract intellectual problem. As far as 


the death of Bartholomew Sholto went, I had heard 
little good of him, and could feel no intense antipa- 
thy to his murderers. The treasure, however, was a 
different matter. That, or part of it, belonged right- 
fully to Miss Morstan. While there was a chance of 
recovering it I was ready to devote my life to the 
one object. True, if I found it it would probably 
put her forever beyond my reach. Yet it would be 
a petty and selfish love which would be influenced 
by such a thought as that. If Holmes could work to 
find the criminals, I had a tenfold stronger reason 
to urge me on to find the treasure. 

A bath at Baker Street and a complete change 
freshened me up wonderfully. When I came down 
to our room I found the breakfast laid and Holmes 
pouring out the coffee. 

"Here it is," said he, laughing, and pointing to 
an open newspaper. "The energetic Jones and the 
ubiquitous reporter have fixed it up between them. 
But you have had enough of the case. Better have 
your ham and eggs first." 

I took the paper from him and read the short 
notice, which was headed "Mysterious Business at 
Upper Norwood." 

"About twelve o'clock last night," said 
the Standard, "Mr. Bartholomew Sholto, of 
Pondicherry Lodge, Upper Norwood, was found 
dead in his room under circumstances which point 
to foul play. As far as we can learn, no actual 
traces of violence were found upon Mr. Sholto's 
person, but a valuable collection of Indian gems 
which the deceased gentleman had inherited from 
his father has been carried off. The discovery was 
first made by Mr. Sherlock Holmes and Dr. Wat- 
son, who had called at the house with Mr. Thad- 
deus Sholto, brother of the deceased. By a singu- 
lar piece of good fortune, Mr. Athelney Jones, the 
well-known member of the detective police force, 
happened to be at the Norwood Police Station, and 
was on the ground within half an hour of the first 
alarm. His trained and experienced faculties were 
at once directed towards the detection of the crim- 
inals, with the gratifying result that the brother, 
Thaddeus Sholto, has already been arrested, to- 
gether with the housekeeper, Mrs. Bernstone, an 
Indian butler named Lai Rao, and a porter, or gate- 
keeper, named McMurdo. It is quite certain that 
the thief or thieves were well acquainted with the 
house, for Mr. Jones's well-known technical knowl- 
edge and his powers of minute observation have 
enabled him to prove conclusively that the mis- 
creants could not have entered by the door or by 
the window, but must have made their way across 


93 



The Sign of the Four 


the roof of the building, and so through a trap- 
door into a room which communicated with that 
in which the body was found. This fact, which 
has been very clearly made out, proves conclu- 
sively that it was no mere haphazard burglary 
The prompt and energetic action of the officers 
of the law shows the great advantage of the pres- 
ence on such occasions of a single vigorous and 
masterful mind. We cannot but think that it sup- 
plies an argument to those who would wish to see 
our detectives more decentralized, and so brought 
into closer and more effective touch with the cases 
which it is their duty to investigate." 

"Isn't it gorgeous!" said Holmes, grinning over 
his coffee-cup. "What do you think of it?" 

"I think that we have had a close shave our- 
selves of being arrested for the crime." 

"So do 1. 1 wouldn't answer for our safety now, 
if he should happen to have another of his attacks 
of energy." 

At this moment there was a loud ring at the 
bell, and I could hear Mrs. Hudson, our landlady, 
raising her voice in a wail of expostulation and dis- 
may. 

"By heaven. Holmes," I said, half rising, "I be- 
lieve that they are really after us." 

"No, it's not quite so bad as that. It is the un- 
official force, — the Baker Street irregulars." 

As he spoke, there came a swift pattering of 
naked feet upon the stairs, a clatter of high voices, 
and in rushed a dozen dirty and ragged little 
street- Arabs. There was some show of discipline 
among them, despite their tumultuous entry, for 
they instantly drew up in line and stood facing us 
with expectant faces. One of their number, taller 
and older than the others, stood forward with an 
air of lounding superiority which was very funny 
in such a disreputable little carecrow. 

"Got your message, sir," said he, "and brought 
'em on sharp. Three bob and a tanner for tickets." 

"Here you are," said Holmes, producing some 
silver. "In future they can report to you, Wiggins, 
and you to me. I cannot have the house invaded 
in this way. However, it is just as well that you 
should all hear the instructions. I want to find the 
whereabouts of a steam launch called the Aurora, 
owner Mordecai Smith, black with two red streaks, 
funnel black with a white band. She is down the 
river somewhere. I want one boy to be at Morde- 
cai Smith's landing-stage opposite Millbank to say 
if the boat comes back. You must divide it out 
among yourselves, and do both banks thoroughly. 


Let me know the moment you have news. Is that 
all clear?" 

"Yes, guv'nor," said Wiggins. 

"The old scale of pay, and a guinea to the boy 
who finds the boat. Here's a day in advance. Now 
off you go!" He handed them a shilling each, and 
away they buzzed down the stairs, and I saw them 
a moment later streaming down the street. 

"If the launch is above water they will find her," 
said Holmes, as he rose from the table and lit his 
pipe. "They can go everywhere, see everything, 
overhear every one. I expect to hear before evening 
that they have spotted her. In the mean while, we 
can do nothing but await results. We cannot pick 
up the broken trail until we find either the Aurora 
or Mr. Mordecai Smith." 

"Toby could eat these scraps, I dare say. Are 
you going to bed. Holmes?" 

"No: I am not tired. I have a curious consti- 
tution. I never remember feeling tired by work, 
though idleness exhausts me completely. I am go- 
ing to smoke and to think over this queer busi- 
ness to which my fair client has introduced us. If 
ever man had an easy task, this of ours ought to 
be. Wooden-legged men are not so common, but 
the other man must, I should think, be absolutely 
unique." 

"That other man again!" 

"I have no wish to make a mystery of him, — to 
you, anyway. But you must have formed your own 
opinion. Now, do consider the data. Diminutive 
footmarks, toes never fettered by boots, naked feet, 
stone-headed wooden mace, great agility, small 
poisoned darts. What do you make of all this?" 

"A savage!" I exclaimed. "Perhaps one of 
those Indians who were the associates of Jonathan 
Small." 

"Hardly that," said he. "When first I saw signs 
of strange weapons I was inclined to think so; but 
the remarkable character of the footmarks caused 
me to reconsider my views. Some of the inhabi- 
tants of the Indian Peninsula are small men, but 
none could have left such marks as that. The Hin- 
doo proper has long and thin feet. The sandal- 
wearing Mohammedan has the great toe well sep- 
arated from the others, because the thong is com- 
monly passed between. These little darts, too, 
could only be shot in one way. They are from a 
blow-pipe. Now, then, where are we to find our 
savage?" 

"South American," I hazarded. 

He stretched his hand up, and took down a 
bulky volume from the shelf. "This is the first vol- 
ume of a gazetteer which is now being published. 


94 



The Sign of the Four 


It may be looked upon as the very latest author- 
ity What have we here? 'Andaman Islands, situ- 
ated 340 miles to the north of Sumatra, in the Bay 
of Bengal.' Hum! hum! What's all this? Moist 
climate, coral reefs, sharks. Port Blair, convict- 
barracks, Rutland Island, cottonwoods — Ah, here 
we are. 'The aborigines of the Andaman Islands 
may perhaps claim the distinction of being the 
smallest race upon this earth, though some an- 
thropologists prefer the Bushmen of Africa, the 
Digger Indians of America, and the Terra del Fue- 
gians. The average height is rather below four feet, 
although many full-grown adults may be found 
who are very much smaller than this. They are a 
fierce, morose, and intractable people, though ca- 
pable of forming most devoted friendships when 
their confidence has once been gained.' Mark that, 
Watson. Now, then, listen to this. 'They are nat- 
urally hideous, having large, misshapen heads, 
small, fierce eyes, and distorted features. Their 
feet and hands, however, are remarkably small. 
So intractable and fierce are they that all the ef- 
forts of the British official have failed to win them 
over in any degree. They have always been a terror 
to shipwrecked crews, braining the survivors with 
their stone-headed clubs, or shooting them with 


their poisoned arrows. These massacres are invari- 
ably concluded by a cannibal feast.' Nice, amiable 
people, Watson! If this fellow had been left to his 
own unaided devices this affair might have taken 
an even more ghastly turn. I fancy that, even as it 
is, Jonathan Small would give a good deal not to 
have employed him." 

"But how came he to have so singular a com- 
panion?" 

"Ah, that is more than I can tell. Since, how- 
ever, we had already determined that Small had 
come from the Andamans, it is not so very won- 
derful that this islander should be with him. No 
doubt we shall know all about it in time. Look 
here, Watson; you look regularly done. Lie down 
there on the sofa, and see if I can put you to sleep." 

He took up his violin from the corner, and as 
I stretched myself out he began to play some low, 
dreamy, melodious air, — his own, no doubt, for he 
had a remarkable gift for improvisation. I have a 
vague remembrance of his gaunt limbs, his earnest 
face, and the rise and fall of his bow. Then I 
seemed to be floated peacefully away upon a soft 
sea of sound, until I found myself in dream-land, 
with the sweet face of Mary Morstan looking down 
upon me. 


CHAPTER IX. 

A Break in the Chain 


It was late in the afternoon before I woke, 
strengthened and refreshed. Sherlock Holmes still 
sat exactly as I had left him, save that he had laid 
aside his violin and was deep in a book. He looked 
across at me, as I stirred, and I noticed that his face 
was dark and troubled. 

"You have slept soundly," he said. "I feared 
that our talk would wake you." 

"I heard nothing," I answered. "Have you had 
fresh news, then?" 

"Unfortunately, no. I confess that I am sur- 
prised and disappointed. I expected something 
definite by this time. Wiggins has just been up 
to report. He says that no trace can be found of 
the launch. It is a provoking check, for every hour 
is of importance." 


"Can I do anything? I am perfectly fresh now, 
and quite ready for another night's outing." 

"No, we can do nothing. We can only wait. If 
we go ourselves, the message might come in our 
absence, and delay be caused. You can do what 
you will, but I must remain on guard." 

"Then I shall run over to Camberwell and call 
upon Mrs. Cecil Forrester. She asked me to, yes- 
terday." 

"On Mrs. Cecil Forrester?" asked Holmes, with 
the twinkle of a smile in his eyes. 

"Well, of course Miss Morstan too. They were 
anxious to hear what happened." 

"I would not tell them too much," said Holmes. 
"Women are never to be entirely trusted, — not the 
best of them." 


95 



The Sign of the Four 


I did not pause to argue over this atrocious sen- 
timent. "I shall be back in an hour or two," I re- 
marked. 

"All right! Good luck! But, I say, if you are 
crossing the river you may as well return Toby, for 
I don't think it is at all likely that we shall have any 
use for him now." 

I took our mongrel accordingly, and left him, 
together with a half-sovereign, at the old natural- 
ist's in Pinchin Lane. At Camberwell I found Miss 
Morstan a little weary after her night's adventures, 
but very eager to hear the news. Mrs. Forrester, 
too, was full of curiosity. I told them all that we 
had done, suppressing, however, the more dread- 
ful parts of the tragedy. Thus, although I spoke 
of Mr. Sholto's death, I said nothing of the exact 
manner and method of it. With all my omissions, 
however, there was enough to startle and amaze 
them. 

"It is a romance!" cried Mrs. Forrester. "An 
injured lady, half a million in treasure, a black can- 
nibal, and a wooden-legged ruffian. They take the 
place of the conventional dragon or wicked earl." 

"And two knight-errants to the rescue," added 
Miss Morstan, with a bright glance at me. 

"Why, Mary, your fortune depends upon the is- 
sue of this search. I don't think that you are nearly 
excited enough. Just imagine what it must be to be 
so rich, and to have the world at your feet!" 

It sent a little thrill of joy to my heart to notice 
that she showed no sign of elation at the prospect. 
On the contrary, she gave a toss of her proud head, 
as though the matter were one in which she took 
small interest. 

"It is for Mr. Thaddeus Sholto that I am anx- 
ious," she said. "Nothing else is of any conse- 
quence; but I think that he has behaved most 
kindly and honorably throughout. It is our duty to 
clear him of this dreadful and unfounded charge." 

It was evening before I left Camberwell, and 
quite dark by the time I reached home. My com- 
panion's book and pipe lay by his chair, but he had 
disappeared. I looked about in the hope of seeing 
a note, but there was none. 

"I suppose that Mr. Sherlock Flolmes has gone 
out," I said to Mrs. Fludson as she came up to 
lower the blinds. 

"No, sir. Fie has gone to his room, sir. Do you 
know, sir," sinking her voice into an impressive 
whisper, "I am afraid for his health?" 

"Why so, Mrs. Fludson?" 


"Well, he's that strange, sir. After you was gone 
he walked and he walked, up and down, and up 
and down, until I was weary of the sound of his 
footstep. Then I heard him talking to himself and 
muttering, and every time the bell rang out he 
came on the stairhead, with 'What is that, Mrs. 
Fludson?' And now he has slammed off to his 
room, but I can hear him walking away the same as 
ever. I hope he's not going to be ill, sir. I ventured 
to say something to him about cooling medicine, 
but he turned on me, sir, with such a look that I 
don't know how ever I got out of the room." 

"I don't think that you have any cause to be 
uneasy, Mrs. Fludson," I answered. "I have seen 
him like this before. Fie has some small matter 
upon his mind which makes him restless." I tried 
to speak lightly to our worthy landlady, but I was 
myself somewhat uneasy when through the long 
night I still from time to time heard the dull sound 
of his tread, and knew how his keen spirit was 
chafing against this involuntary inaction. 

At breakfast-time he looked worn and haggard, 
with a little fleck of feverish color upon either 
cheek. 

"You are knocking yourself up, old man," I 
remarked. "I heard you marching about in the 
night." 

"No, I could not sleep," he answered. "This in- 
fernal problem is consuming me. It is too much 
to be balked by so petty an obstacle, when all else 
had been overcome. I know the men, the launch, 
everything; and yet I can get no news. I have set 
other agencies at work, and used every means at 
my disposal. The whole river has been searched 
on either side, but there is no news, nor has Mrs. 
Smith heard of her husband. I shall come to the 
conclusion soon that they have scuttled the craft. 
But there are objections to that." 

"Or that Mrs. Smith has put us on a wrong 
scent." 

"No, I think that may be dismissed. I had in- 
quiries made, and there is a launch of that descrip- 
tion." 

"Could it have gone up the river?" 

"I have considered that possibility too, and 
there is a search-party who will work up as far as 
Richmond. If no news comes to-day, I shall start 
off myself to-morrow, and go for the men rather 
than the boat. But surely, surely, we shall hear 
something." 

We did not, however. Not a word came to us 
either from Wiggins or from the other agencies. 
There were articles in most of the papers upon the 


96 



The Sign of the Four 


Norwood tragedy. They all appeared to be rather 
hostile to the unfortunate Thaddeus Sholto. No 
fresh details were to be found, however, in any of 
them, save that an inquest was to be held upon the 
following day I walked over to Camberwell in the 
evening to report our ill success to the ladies, and 
on my return I found Holmes dejected and some- 
what morose. He would hardly reply to my ques- 
tions, and busied himself all evening in an abstruse 
chemical analysis which involved much heating of 
retorts and distilling of vapors, ending at last in a 
smell which fairly drove me out of the apartment. 
Up to the small hours of the morning I could hear 
the clinking of his test-tubes which told me that he 
was still engaged in his malodorous experiment. 

In the early dawn I woke with a start, and 
was surprised to find him standing by my bed- 
side, clad in a rude sailor dress with a pea-jacket, 
and a coarse red scarf round his neck. 

"I am off down the river, Watson," said he. "I 
have been turning it over in my mind, and I can 
see only one way out of it. It is worth trying, at all 
events." 

"Surely I can come with you, then?" said I. 

"No; you can be much more useful if you will 
remain here as my representative. I am loath to 
go, for it is quite on the cards that some message 
may come during the day, though Wiggins was de- 
spondent about it last night. I want you to open all 
notes and telegrams, and to act on your own judg- 
ment if any news should come. Can I rely upon 
you?" 

"Most certainly." 

"I am afraid that you will not be able to wire to 
me, for I can hardly tell yet where I may find my- 
self. If I am in luck, however, I may not be gone so 
very long. I shall have news of some sort or other 
before I get back." 

I had heard nothing of him by breakfast- time. 
On opening the Standard, however, I found that 
there was a fresh allusion to the business. 

"With reference to the Upper Norzvood 
tragedy ," it remarked, "we have reason to 
believe that the matter promises to be even 
more complex and mysterious than was 
originally supposed. Fresh evidence has 
shozvn that it is quite impossible that Mr. 
Thaddeus Sholto could have been in any 
way concerned in the matter. He and the 
housekeeper, Mrs. Bernstone, were both re- 
leased yesterday evening. It is believed, 
however, that the police have a clue as to 


the real cidprits, and that it is being pros- 
ecuted by Mr. Athelney Jones, of Scotland 
Yard, with all his well-known energy and 
sagacity. Further arrests may be expected 
at any moment." 

"That is satisfactory so far as it goes," thought I. 
"Friend Sholto is safe, at any rate. I wonder what 
the fresh clue may be; though it seems to be a 
stereotyped form whenever the police have made 
a blunder." 

I tossed the paper down upon the table, but at 
that moment my eye caught an advertisement in 
the agony column. It ran in this way: 

"Lost. — Whereas Mordecai Smith, boat- 
man, and his son, Jim, left Smith's Wharf 
at or about three o'clock last Tuesday morn- 
ing in the steam launch Aurora, black with 
two red stripes, funnel black with a white 
band, the sum of five pounds will be paid to 
any one who can give information to Mrs. 
Smith, at Smith's Wharf, or at 221B Baker 
Street, as to the whereabouts of the said 
Mordecai Smith and the launch Aurora.” 

This was clearly Holmes's doing. The Baker Street 
address was enough to prove that. It struck me as 
rather ingenious, because it might be read by the 
fugitives without their seeing in it more than the 
natural anxiety of a wife for her missing husband. 

It was a long day. Every time that a knock 
came to the door, or a sharp step passed in the 
street, I imagined that it was either Holmes return- 
ing or an answer to his advertisement. I tried to 
read, but my thoughts would wander off to our 
strange quest and to the ill-assorted and villainous 
pair whom we were pursuing. Could there be, I 
wondered, some radical flaw in my companion's 
reasoning. Might he be suffering from some huge 
self-deception? Was it not possible that his nimble 
and speculative mind had built up this wild the- 
ory upon faulty premises? I had never known him 
to be wrong; and yet the keenest reasoner may oc- 
casionally be deceived. He was likely, I thought, to 
fall into error through the over-refinement of his 
logic, — his preference for a subtle and bizarre ex- 
planation when a plainer and more commonplace 
one lay ready to his hand. Yet, on the other hand, I 
had myself seen the evidence, and I had heard the 
reasons for his deductions. When I looked back on 
the long chain of curious circumstances, many of 
them trivial in themselves, but all tending in the 
same direction, I could not disguise from myself 
that even if Holmes's explanation were incorrect 
the true theory must be equally outre and startling. 


97 



The Sign of the Four 


At three o'clock in the afternoon there was a 
loud peal at the bell, an authoritative voice in the 
hall, and, to my surprise, no less a person than Mr. 
Athelney Jones was shown up to me. Very differ- 
ent was he, however, from the brusque and master- 
ful professor of common sense who had taken over 
the case so confidently at Upper Norwood. His ex- 
pression was downcast, and his bearing meek and 
even apologetic. 

"Good-day, sir; good-day," said he. "Mr. Sher- 
lock Holmes is out, I understand." 

"Yes, and I cannot be sure when he will be 
back. But perhaps you would care to wait. Take 
that chair and try one of these cigars." 

"Thank you; I don't mind if I do," said he, 
mopping his face with a red bandanna handker- 
chief. 

"And a whiskey-and-soda?" 

"Well, half a glass. It is very hot for the time 
of year; and I have had a good deal to worry and 
try me. You know my theory about this Norwood 
case?" 

"I remember that you expressed one." 

"Well, I have been obliged to reconsider it. I 
had my net drawn tightly round Mr. Sholto, sir, 
when pop he went through a hole in the middle of 
it. He was able to prove an alibi which could not 
be shaken. From the time that he left his brother's 
room he was never out of sight of some one or 
other. So it could not be he who climbed over roofs 
and through trap-doors. It's a very dark case, and 
my professional credit is at stake. I should be very 
glad of a little assistance." 

"We all need help sometimes," said I. 

"Your friend Mr. Sherlock Holmes is a wonder- 
ful man, sir," said he, in a husky and confidential 
voice. "He's a man who is not to be beat. I have 
known that young man go into a good many cases, 
but I never saw the case yet that he could not throw 
a light upon. He is irregular in his methods, and 
a little quick perhaps in jumping at theories, but, 
on the whole, I think he would have made a most 
promising officer, and I don't care who knows it. I 
have had a wire from him this morning, by which I 
understand that he has got some clue to this Sholto 
business. Here is the message." 

He took the telegram out of his pocket, and 
handed it to me. It was dated from Poplar at 
twelve o'clock. "Go to Baker Street at once," it 
said. "If I have not returned, wait for me. I am 
close on the track of the Sholto gang. You can come 
with us to-night if you want to be in at the finish." 


"This sounds well. He has evidently picked up 
the scent again," said I. 

"Ah, then he has been at fault too," exclaimed 
Jones, with evident satisfaction. "Even the best of 
us are thrown off sometimes. Of course this may 
prove to be a false alarm; but it is my duty as an 
officer of the law to allow no chance to slip. But 
there is some one at the door. Perhaps this is he." 

A heavy step was heard ascending the stair, 
with a great wheezing and rattling as from a man 
who was sorely put to it for breath. Once or twice 
he stopped, as though the climb were too much 
for him, but at last he made his way to our door 
and entered. His appearance corresponded to the 
sounds which we had heard. He was an aged man, 
clad in seafaring garb, with an old pea-jacket but- 
toned up to his throat. His back was bowed, his 
knees were shaky, and his breathing was painfully 
asthmatic. As he leaned upon a thick oaken cudgel 
his shoulders heaved in the effort to draw the air 
into his lungs. He had a colored scarf round his 
chin, and I could see little of his face save a pair of 
keen dark eyes, overhung by bushy white brows, 
and long gray side-whiskers. Altogether he gave 
me the impression of a respectable master mariner 
who had fallen into years and poverty. 

"What is it, my man?" I asked. 

He looked about him in the slow methodical 
fashion of old age. 

"Is Mr. Sherlock Holmes here?" said he. 

"No; but I am acting for him. You can tell me 
any message you have for him." 

"It was to him himself I was to tell it," said he. 

"But I tell you that I am acting for him. Was it 
about Mordecai Smith's boat?" 

"Yes. I knows well where it is. An' I knows 
where the men he is after are. An' I knows where 
the treasure is. I knows all about it." 

"Then tell me, and I shall let him know." 

"It was to him I was to tell it," he repeated, 
with the petulant obstinacy of a very old man. 

"Well, you must wait for him." 

"No, no; I ain't goin' to lose a whole day to 
please no one. If Mr. Holmes ain't here, then Mr. 
Holmes must find it all out for himself. I don't care 
about the look of either of you, and I won't tell a 
word." 

He shuffled towards the door, but Athelney 
Jones got in front of him. 

"Wait a bit, my friend," said he. "You have im- 
portant information, and you must not walk off. 
We shall keep you, whether you like or not, until 
our friend returns." 


98 



The Sign of the Four 


The old man made a little run towards the 
door, but, as Athelney Jones put his broad back 
up against it, he recognized the uselessness of re- 
sistance. 

"Pretty sort o' treatment this!" he cried, stamp- 
ing his stick. "I come here to see a gentleman, and 
you two, who I never saw in my life, seize me and 
treat me in this fashion!" 

"You will be none the worse," I said. "We shall 
recompense you for the loss of your time. Sit over 
here on the sofa, and you will not have long to 
wait." 

He came across sullenly enough, and seated 
himself with his face resting on his hands. Jones 
and I resumed our cigars and our talk. Suddenly, 
however, Holmes's voice broke in upon us. 

"I think that you might offer me a cigar too," 
he said. 

We both started in our chairs. There was 
Holmes sitting close to us with an air of quiet 
amusement. 

"Holmes!" I exclaimed. "You here! But where 
is the old man?" 

"Here is the old man," said he, holding out a 
heap of white hair. "Here he is, — wig, whiskers, 
eyebrows, and all. I thought my disguise was 
pretty good, but I hardly expected that it would 
stand that test." 

"Ah, you rogue!" cried Jones, highly delighted. 
"You would have made an actor, and a rare one. 
You had the proper workhouse cough, and those 
weak legs of yours are worth ten pound a week. I 
thought I knew the glint of your eye, though. You 
didn't get away from us so easily, you see." 

"I have been working in that get-up all day," 
said he, lighting his cigar. "You see, a good 
many of the criminal classes begin to know 
me, — especially since our friend here took to pub- 
lishing some of my cases: so I can only go on 
the war-path under some simple disguise like this. 
You got my wire?" 

"Yes; that was what brought me here." 

"How has your case prospered?" 

"It has all come to nothing. I have had to re- 
lease two of my prisoners, and there is no evidence 
against the other two." 


"Never mind. We shall give you two others in 
the place of them. But you must put yourself un- 
der my orders. You are welcome to all the official 
credit, but you must act on the line that I point out. 
Is that agreed?" 

"Entirely, if you will help me to the men." 

"Well, then, in the first place I shall want a fast 
police-boat — a steam launch — to be at the West- 
minster Stairs at seven o'clock." 

"That is easily managed. There is always one 
about there; but I can step across the road and tele- 
phone to make sure." 

"Then I shall want two stanch men, in case of 
resistance." 

"There will be two or three in the boat. What 
else?" 

"When we secure the men we shall get the trea- 
sure. I think that it would be a pleasure to my 
friend here to take the box round to the young 
lady to whom half of it rightfully belongs. Let her 
be the first to open it. — Eh, Watson?" 

"It would be a great pleasure to me." 

"Rather an irregular proceeding," said Jones, 
shaking his head. "However, the whole thing is 
irregular, and I suppose we must wink at it. The 
treasure must afterwards be handed over to the 
authorities until after the official investigation." 

"Certainly. That is easily managed. One other 
point. I should much like to have a few details 
about this matter from the lips of Jonathan Small 
himself. You know I like to work the detail of 
my cases out. There is no objection to my hav- 
ing an unofficial interview with him, either here in 
my rooms or elsewhere, as long as he is efficiently 
guarded?" 

"Well, you are master of the situation. I have 
had no proof yet of the existence of this Jonathan 
Small. However, if you can catch him I don't see 
how I can refuse you an interview with him." 

"That is understood, then?" 

"Perfectly. Is there anything else?" 

"Only that I insist upon your dining with us. It 
will be ready in half an hour. I have oysters and 
a brace of grouse, with something a little choice in 
white wines. — Watson, you have never yet recog- 
nized my merits as a housekeeper." 


99 



The Sign of the Four 


CHAPTER X. 

The End of the Islander 


Our meal was a merry one. Holmes coud talk 
exceedingly well when he chose, and that night 
he did choose. He appeared to be in a state of 
nervous exaltation. I have never known him so 
brilliant. He spoke on a quick succession of sub- 
jects, — on miracle-plays, on medieval pottery, on 
Stradivarius violins, on the Buddhism of Ceylon, 
and on the war-ships of the future, — handling each 
as though he had made a special study of it. His 
bright humor marked the reaction from his black 
depression of the preceding days. Athelney Jones 
proved to be a sociable soul in his hours of relax- 
ation, and face his dinner with the air of a bon in- 
i’ ant. For myself, I felt elated at the thought that 
we were nearing the end of our task, and I caught 
something of Holmes's gaiety. None of us alluded 
during dinner to the cause which had brought us 
together. 

When the cloth was cleared. Holmes glanced 
at this watch, and filled up three glasses with port. 
"One bumper," said he, "to the success of our little 
expedition. And now it is high time we were off. 
Have you a pistol, Watson?" 

"I have my old service-revolver in my desk." 

"You had best take it, then. It is well to be pre- 
pared. I see that the cab is at the door. I ordered it 
for half-past six." 

It was a little past seven before we reached the 
Westminster wharf, and found our launch await- 
ing us. Holmes eyed it critically. 

"Is there anything to mark it as a police-boat?" 

"Yes, — that green lamp at the side." 

"Then take it off." 

The small change was made, we stepped on 
board, and the ropes were cast off. Jones, Holmes, 
and I sat in the stern. There was one man at the 
rudder, one to tend the engines, and two burly 
police-inspectors forward. 

"Where to?" asked Jones. 

"To the Tower. Tell them to stop opposite Ja- 
cobson's Yard." 

Our craft was evidently a very fast one. We 
shot past the long lines of loaded barges as though 
they were stationary. Holmes smiled with satisfac- 
tion as we overhauled a river steamer and left her 
behind us. 

"We ought to be able to catch anything on the 
river," he said. 


"Well, hardly that. But there are not many 
launches to beat us." 

"We shall have to catch the Aurora, and she has 
a name for being a clipper. I will tell you how the 
land lies, Watson. You recollect how annoyed I was 
at being balked by so small a thing?" 

"Yes." 

"Well, I gave my mind a thorough rest by 
plunging into a chemical analysis. One of our 
greatest statesmen has said that a change of work 
is the best rest. So it is. When I had succeeded in 
dissolving the hydrocarbon which I was at work 
at, I came back to our problem of the Sholtos, and 
thought the whole matter out again. My boys had 
been up the river and down the river without re- 
sult. The launch was not at any landing-stage or 
wharf, nor had it returned. Yet it could hardly 
have been scuttled to hide their traces, — though 
that always remained as a possible hypothesis if 
all else failed. I knew this man Small had a certain 
degree of low cunning, but I did not think him ca- 
pable of anything in the nature of delicate finesse. 
That is usually a product of higher education. I 
then reflected that since he had certainly been in 
London some time — as we had evidence that he 
maintained a continual watch over Pondicherry 
Lodge — he could hardly leave at a moment's no- 
tice, but would need some little time, if it were 
only a day, to arrange his affairs. That was the 
balance of probability, at any rate." 

"It seems to me to be a little weak," said I. "It 
is more probable that he had arranged his affairs 
before ever he set out upon his expedition." 

"No, I hardly think so. This lair of his would 
be too valuable a retreat in case of need for him 
to give it up until he was sure that he could 
do without it. But a second consideration struck 
me. Jonathan Small must have felt that the pecu- 
liar appearance of his companion, however much 
he may have top-coated him, would give rise to 
gossip, and possibly be associated with this Nor- 
wood tragedy. He was quite sharp enough to see 
that. They had started from their head-quarters 
under cover of darkness, and he would wish to 
get back before it was broad light. Now, it was 
past three o'clock, according to Mrs. Smith, when 
they got the boat. It would be quite bright, and 
people would be about in an hour or so. There- 
fore, I argued, they did not go very far. They paid 
Smith well to hold his tongue, reserved his launch 


100 



The Sign of the Four 


for the final escape, and hurried to their lodg- 
ings with the treasure-box. In a couple of nights, 
when they had time to see what view the papers 
took, and whether there was any suspicion, they 
would make their way under cover of darkness to 
some ship at Gravesend or in the Downs, where 
no doubt they had already arranged for passages 
to America or the Colonies." 

"But the launch? They could not have taken 
that to their lodgings." 

"Quite so. I argued that the launch must be 
no great way off, in spite of its invisibility. I then 
put myself in the place of Small, and looked at it 
as a man of his capacity would. He would prob- 
ably consider that to send back the launch or to 
keep it at a wharf would make pursuit easy if the 
police did happen to get on his track. How, then, 
could he conceal the launch and yet have her at 
hand when wanted? I wondered what I should do 
myself if I were in his shoes. I could only think of 
one way of doing it. I might land the launch over 
to some boat-builder or repairer, with directions to 
make a trifling change in her. She would then be 
removed to his shed or hard, and so be effectually 
concealed, while at the same time I could have her 
at a few hours' notice." 

"That seems simple enough." 

"It is just these very simple things which are 
extremely liable to be overlooked. However, I de- 
termined to act on the idea. I started at once in 
this harmless seaman's rig and inquired at all the 
yards down the river. I drew blank at fifteen, but at 
the sixteenth — Jacobson's — I learned that the Au- 
rora had been handed over to them two days ago 
by a wooden-legged man, with some trivial direc- 
tions as to her rudder. 'There ain't naught amiss 
with her rudder,' said the foreman. 'There she 
lies, with the red streaks.' At that moment who 
should come down but Mordecai Smith, the miss- 
ing owner? He was rather the worse for liquor. I 
should not, of course, have known him, but he bel- 
lowed out his name and the name of his launch. 'I 
want her to-night at eight o'clock,' said he, — 'eight 
o'clock sharp, mind, for I have two gentlemen who 
won't be kept waiting.' They had evidently paid 
him well, for he was very flush of money, chucking 
shillings about to the men. I followed him some 
distance, but he subsided into an ale-house: so I 
went back to the yard, and, happening to pick up 
one of my boys on the way, I stationed him as a 
sentry over the launch. He is to stand at water's 
edge and wave his handkerchief to us when they 
start. We shall be lying off in the stream, and it will 


be a strange thing if we do not take men, treasure, 
and all." 

"You have planned it all very neatly, whether 
they are the right men or not," said Jones; "but 
if the affair were in my hands I should have had 
a body of police in Jacobson's Yard, and arrested 
them when they came down." 

"Which would have been never. This man 
Small is a pretty shrewd fellow. He would send 
a scout on ahead, and if anything made him sus- 
picious lie snug for another week." 

"But you might have stuck to Mordecai Smith, 
and so been led to their hiding-place," said I. 

"In that case I should have wasted my day. I 
think that it is a hundred to one against Smith 
knowing where they live. As long as he has liquor 
and good pay, why should he ask questions? They 
send him messages what to do. No, I thought over 
every possible course, and this is the best." 

While this conversation had been proceeding, 
we had been shooting the long series of bridges 
which span the Thames. As we passed the City 
the last rays of the sun were gilding the cross upon 
the summit of St. Paul's. It was twilight before we 
reached the Tower. 

"That is Jacobson's Yard," said Holmes, point- 
ing to a bristle of masts and rigging on the Sur- 
rey side. "Cruise gently up and down here under 
cover of this string of lighters." He took a pair of 
night-glasses from his pocket and gazed some time 
at the shore. "I see my sentry at his post," he re- 
marked, "but no sign of a handkerchief." 

"Suppose we go down-stream a short way and 
lie in wait for them," said Jones, eagerly. We were 
all eager by this time, even the policemen and stok- 
ers, who had a very vague idea of what was going 
forward. 

"We have no right to take anything for 
granted," Holmes answered. "It is certainly ten 
to one that they go down-stream, but we cannot 
be certain. From this point we can see the entrance 
of the yard, and they can hardly see us. It will 
be a clear night and plenty of light. We must stay 
where we are. See how the folk swarm over yon- 
der in the gaslight." 

"They are coming from work in the yard." 

"Dirty-looking rascals, but I suppose every one 
has some little immortal spark concealed about 
him. You would not think it, to look at them. There 
is no a priori probability about it. A strange enigma 
is man!" 

"Some one calls him a soul concealed in an an- 
imal," I suggested. 


101 



The Sign of the Four 


"Winwood Reade is good upon the subject," 
said Holmes. "He remarks that, while the individ- 
ual man is an insoluble puzzle, in the aggregate 
he becomes a mathematical certainty. You can, for 
example, never foretell what any one man will do, 
but you can say with precision what an average 
number will be up to. Individuals vary, but per- 
centages remain constant. So says the statistician. 
But do I see a handkerchief? Surely there is a white 
flutter over yonder." 

"Yes, it is your boy," I cried. "I can see him 
plainly." 

"And there is the Aurora," exclaimed Holmes, 
"and going like the devil! Full speed ahead, en- 
gineer. Make after that launch with the yellow 
light. By heaven, I shall never forgive myself if 
she proves to have the heels of us!" 

She had slipped unseen through the yard- 
entrance and passed behind two or three small 
craft, so that she had fairly got her speed up before 
we saw her. Now she was flying down the stream, 
near in to the shore, going at a tremendous rate. 
Jones looked gravely at her and shook his head. 

"She is very fast," he said. "I doubt if we shall 
catch her." 

"We must catch her!" cried Holmes, between 
his teeth. "Heap it on, stokers! Make her do all 
she can! If we burn the boat we must have them!" 

We were fairly after her now. The furnaces 
roared, and the powerful engines whizzed and 
clanked, like a great metallic heart. Her sharp, 
steep prow cut through the river-water and sent 
two rolling waves to right and to left of us. With 
every throb of the engines we sprang and quivered 
like a living thing. One great yellow lantern in 
our bows threw a long, flickering funnel of light in 
front of us. Right ahead a dark blur upon the wa- 
ter showed where the Aurora lay, and the swirl of 
white foam behind her spoke of the pace at which 
she was going. We flashed past barges, steamers, 
merchant-vessels, in and out, behind this one and 
round the other. Voices hailed us out of the dark- 
ness, but still the Aurora thundered on, and still we 
followed close upon her track. 

"Pile it on, men, pile it on!" cried Holmes, look- 
ing down into the engine-room, while the fierce 
glow from below beat upon his eager, aquiline 
face. "Get every pound of steam you can." 

"I think we gain a little," said Jones, with his 
eyes on thea Aurora. 

"I am sure of it," said I. "We shall be up with 
her in a very few minutes." 


At that moment, however, as our evil fate 
would have it, a tug with three barges in tow blun- 
dered in between us. It was only by putting our 
helm hard down that we avoided a collision, and 
before we could round them and recover our way 
the Aurora had gained a good two hundred yards. 
She was still, however, well in view, and the murky 
uncertain twilight was setting into a clear starlit 
night. Our boilers were strained to their utmost, 
and the frail shell vibrated and creaked with the 
fierce energy which was driving us along. We had 
shot through the Pool, past the West India Docks, 
down the long Deptford Reach, and up again af- 
ter rounding the Isle of Dogs. The dull blur in 
front of us resolved itself now clearly enough into 
the dainty Aurora. Jones turned our search-light 
upon her, so that we could plainly see the figures 
upon her deck. One man sat by the stern, with 
something black between his knees over which he 
stooped. Beside him lay a dark mass which looked 
like a Newfoundland dog. The boy held the tiller, 
while against the red glare of the furnace I could 
see old Smith, stripped to the waist, and shovel- 
ling coals for dear life. They may have had some 
doubt at first as to whether we were really pur- 
suing them, but now as we followed every wind- 
ing and turning which they took there could no 
longer be any question about it. At Greenwich 
we were about three hundred paces behind them. 
At Blackwall we could not have been more than 
two hundred and fifty. I have coursed many crea- 
tures in many countries during my checkered ca- 
reer, but never did sport give me such a wild thrill 
as this mad, flying man-hunt down the Thames. 
Steadily we drew in upon them, yard by yard. In 
the silence of the night we could hear the panting 
and clanking of their machinery. The man in the 
stern still crouched upon the deck, and his arms 
were moving as though he were busy, while ev- 
ery now and then he would look up and measure 
with a glance the distance which still separated us. 
Nearer we came and nearer. Jones yelled to them 
to stop. We were not more than four boat's lengths 
behind them, both boats flying at a tremendous 
pace. It was a clear reach of the river, with Bark- 
ing Level upon one side and the melancholy Plum- 
stead Marshes upon the other. At our hail the man 
in the stern sprang up from the deck and shook 
his two clinched fists at us, cursing the while in a 
high, cracked voice. He was a good-sized, pow- 
erful man, and as he stood poising himself with 
legs astride I could see that from the thigh down- 
wards there was but a wooden stump upon the 
right side. At the sound of his strident, angry cries 
there was movement in the huddled bundle upon 


102 



The Sign of the Four 


the deck. It straightened itself into a little black 
man — the smallest I have ever seen — with a great, 
misshapen head and a shock of tangled, dishev- 
elled hair. Holmes had already drawn his revolver, 
and I whipped out mine at the sight of this sav- 
age, distorted creature. He was wrapped in some 
sort of dark ulster or blanket, which left only his 
face exposed; but that face was enough to give a 
man a sleepless night. Never have I seen features 
so deeply marked with all bestiality and cruelty. 
His small eyes glowed and burned with a sombre 
light, and his thick lips were writhed back from 
his teeth, which grinned and chattered at us with 
a half animal fury. 

"Fire if he raises his hand," said Holmes, qui- 
etly. We were within a boat's-length by this time, 
and almost within touch of our quarry. I can see 
the two of them now as they stood, the white man 
with his legs far apart, shrieking out curses, and 
the unhallowed dwarf with his hideous face, and 
his strong yellow teeth gnashing at us in the light 
of our lantern. 

It was well that we had so clear a view of him. 
Even as we looked he plucked out from under 
his covering a short, round piece of wood, like a 
school-ruler, and clapped it to his lips. Our pis- 
tols rang out together. He whirled round, threw 
up his arms, and with a kind of choking cough fell 
sideways into the stream. I caught one glimpse of 
his venomous, menacing eyes amid the white swirl 
of the waters. At the same moment the wooden- 
legged man threw himself upon the rudder and 
put it hard down, so that his boat made straight 
in for the southern bank, while we shot past her 
stern, only clearing her by a few feet. We were 
round after her in an instant, but she was already 
nearly at the bank. It was a wild and desolate 
place, where the moon glimmered upon a wide ex- 
panse of marsh-land, with pools of stagnant water 


and beds of decaying vegetation. The launch with 
a dull thud ran up upon the mud-bank, with her 
bow in the air and her stern flush with the water. 
The fugitive sprang out, but his stump instantly 
sank its whole length into the sodden soil. In vain 
he struggled and writhed. Not one step could he 
possibly take either forwards or backwards. He 
yelled in impotent rage, and kicked frantically into 
the mud with his other foot, but his struggles only 
bored his wooden pin the deeper into the sticky 
bank. When we brought our launch alongside he 
was so firmly anchored that it was only by throw- 
ing the end of a rope over his shoulders that we 
were able to haul him out, and to drag him, like 
some evil fish, over our side. The two Smiths, 
father and son, sat sullenly in their launch, but 
came aboard meekly enough when commanded. 
The Aurora herself we hauled off and made fast 
to our stern. A solid iron chest of Indian work- 
manship stood upon the deck. This, there could 
be no question, was the same that had contained 
the ill-omened treasure of the Sholtos. There was 
no key, but it was of considerable weight, so we 
transferred it carefully to our own little cabin. As 
we steamed slowly up-stream again, we flashed 
our search-light in every direction, but there was 
no sign of the Islander. Somewhere in the dark 
ooze at the bottom of the Thames lie the bones of 
that strange visitor to our shores. 

"See here," said Holmes, pointing to the 
wooden hatchway. "We were hardly quick enough 
with our pistols." There, sure enough, just behind 
where we had been standing, stuck one of those 
murderous darts which we knew so well. It must 
have whizzed between us at the instant that we 
fired. Holmes smiled at it and shrugged his shoul- 
ders in his easy fashion, but I confess that it turned 
me sick to think of the horrible death which had 
passed so close to us that night. 


CHAPTER XL 

The Great Agra Treasure 


Our captive sat in the cabin opposite to the 
iron box which he had done so much and waited 
so long to gain. He was a sunburned, reckless- 
eyed fellow, with a net-work of lines and wrinkles 


all over his mahogany features, which told of a 
hard, open-air life. There was a singular promi- 
nence about his bearded chin which marked a man 
who was not to be easily turned from his purpose. 


103 



The Sign of the Four 


His age may have been fifty or thereabouts, for his 
black, curly hair was thickly shot with gray. His 
face in repose was not an unpleasing one, though 
his heavy brows and aggressive chin gave him, 
as I had lately seen, a terrible expression when 
moved to anger. He sat now with his handcuffed 
hands upon his lap, and his head sunk upon his 
breast, while he looked with his keen, twinkling 
eyes at the box which had been the cause of his 
ill-doings. It seemed to me that there was more 
sorrow than anger in his rigid and contained coun- 
tenance. Once he looked up at me with a gleam of 
something like humor in his eyes. 

"Well, Jonathan Small," said Holmes, lighting 
a cigar, "I am sorry that it has come to this." 

"And so am I, sir," he answered, frankly. "I 
don't believe that I can swing over the job. I give 
you my word on the book that I never raised hand 
against Mr. Sholto. It was that little hell-hound 
Tonga who shot one of his cursed darts into him. 
I had no part in it, sir. I was as grieved as if it had 
been my blood-relation. I welted the little devil 
with the slack end of the rope for it, but it was 
done, and I could not undo it again." 

"Have a cigar," said Holmes; "and you had best 
take a pull out of my flask, for you are very wet. 
How could you expect so small and weak a man 
as this black fellow to overpower Mr. Sholto and 
hold him while you were climbing the rope?" 

"You seem to know as much about it as if you 
were there, sir. The truth is that I hoped to find 
the room clear. I knew the habits of the house 
pretty well, and it was the time when Mr. Sholto 
usually went down to his supper. I shall make 
no secret of the business. The best defence that 
I can make is just the simple truth. Now, if it 
had been the old major I would have swung for 
him with a light heart. I would have thought no 
more of knifing him than of smoking this cigar. 
But it's cursed hard that I should be lagged over 
this young Sholto, with whom I had no quarrel 
whatever." 

"You are under the charge of Mr. Athelney 
Jones, of Scotland Yard. He is going to bring you 
up to my rooms, and I shall ask you for a true ac- 
count of the matter. You must make a clean breast 
of it, for if you do I hope that I may be of use 
to you. I think I can prove that the poison acts 
so quickly that the man was dead before ever you 
reached the room." 

"That he was, sir. I never got such a turn in 
my life as when I saw him grinning at me with 
his head on his shoulder as I climbed through the 
window. It fairly shook me, sir. I'd have half killed 


Tonga for it if he had not scrambled off. That was 
how he came to leave his club, and some of his 
darts too, as he tells me, which I dare say helped 
to put you on our track; though how you kept on 
it is more than I can tell. I don't feel no mal- 
ice against you for it. But it does seem a queer 
thing," he added, with a bitter smile, "that I who 
have a fair claim to nigh upon half a million of 
money should spend the first half of my life build- 
ing a breakwater in the Andamans, and am like to 
spend the other half digging drains at Dartmoor. 
It was an evil day for me when first I clapped eyes 
upon the merchant Achmet and had to do with the 
Agra treasure, which never brought anything but 
a curse yet upon the man who owned it. To him 
it brought murder, to Major Sholto it brought fear 
and guilt, to me it has meant slavery for life." 

At this moment Athelney Jones thrust his 
broad face and heavy shoulders into the tiny cabin. 
"Quite a family party," he remarked. "I think I 
shall have a pull at that flask. Holmes. Well, I think 
we may all congratulate each other. Pity we didn't 
take the other alive; but there was no choice. I say. 
Holmes, you must confess that you cut it rather 
fine. It was all we could do to overhaul her." 

"All is well that ends well," said Holmes. "But 
I certainly did not know that the Aurora was such 
a clipper." 

"Smith says she is one of the fastest launches 
on the river, and that if he had had another man to 
help him with the engines we should never have 
caught her. He swears he knew nothing of this 
Norwood business." 

"Neither he did," cried our prisoner, — "not a 
word. I chose his launch because I heard that she 
was a flier. We told him nothing, but we paid him 
well, and he was to get something handsome if we 
reached our vessel, the Esmeralda, at Gravesend, 
outward bound for the Brazils." 

"Well, if he has done no wrong we shall see that 
no wrong comes to him. If we are pretty quick in 
catching our men, we are not so quick in condemn- 
ing them." It was amusing to notice how the conse- 
quential Jones was already beginning to give him- 
self airs on the strength of the capture. From the 
slight smile which played over Sherlock Holmes's 
face, I could see that the speech had not been lost 
upon him. 

"We will be at Vauxhall Bridge presently," said 
Jones, "and shall land you. Dr. Watson, with the 
treasure-box. I need hardly tell you that I am tak- 
ing a very grave responsibility upon myself in do- 
ing this. It is most irregular; but of course an 
agreement is an agreement. I must, however, as 


104 



The Sign of the Four 


a matter of duty, send an inspector with you, since 
you have so valuable a charge. You will drive, no 
doubt?" 

"Yes, I shall drive." 

"It is a pity there is no key, that we may make 
an inventory first. You will have to break it open. 
Where is the key, my man?" 

"At the bottom of the river," said Small, shortly. 

"Hum! There was no use your giving this un- 
necessary trouble. We have had work enough al- 
ready through you. However, doctor, I need not 
warn you to be careful. Bring the box back with 
you to the Baker Street rooms. You will find us 
there, on our way to the station." 

They landed me at Vauxhall, with my heavy 
iron box, and with a bluff, genial inspector as my 
companion. A quarter of an hour's drive brought 
us to Mrs. Cecil Forrester's. The servant seemed 
surprised at so late a visitor. Mrs. Cecil Forrester 
was out for the evening, she explained, and likely 
to be very late. Miss Morstan, however, was in 
the drawing-room: so to the drawing-room I went, 
box in hand, leaving the obliging inspector in the 
cab. 

She was seated by the open window, dressed 
in some sort of white diaphanous material, with a 
little touch of scarlet at the neck and waist. The 
soft light of a shaded lamp fell upon her as she 
leaned back in the basket chair, playing over her 
sweet, grave face, and tinting with a dull, metal- 
lic sparkle the rich coils of her luxuriant hair. One 
white arm and hand drooped over the side of the 
chair, and her whole pose and figure spoke of an 
absorbing melancholy. At the sound of my foot- 
fall she sprang to her feet, however, and a bright 
flush of surprise and of pleasure colored her pale 
cheeks. 

"I heard a cab drive up," she said. "I thought 
that Mrs. Forrester had come back very early, but 
I never dreamed that it might be you. What news 
have you brought me?" 

"I have brought something better than news," 
said I, putting down the box upon the table and 
speaking jovially and boisterously, though my 
heart was heavy within me. "I have brought you 
something which is worth all the news in the 
world. I have brought you a fortune." 

She glanced at iron box. "Is that the treasure, 
then?" she asked, coolly enough. 

"Yes, this is the great Agra treasure. Half of it 
is yours and half is Thaddeus Sholto's. You will 
have a couple of hundred thousand each. Think of 
that! An annuity of ten thousand pounds. There 


will be few richer young ladies in England. Is it 
not glorious?" 

I think that I must have been rather overacting 
my delight, and that she detected a hollow ring in 
my congratulations, for I saw her eyebrows rise a 
little, and she glanced at me curiously. 

"If I have it," said she, "I owe it to you." 

"No, no," I answered, "not to me, but to my 
friend Sherlock Holmes. With all the will in the 
world, I could never have followed up a clue which 
has taxed even his analytical genius. As it was, we 
very nearly lost it at the last moment." 

"Pray sit down and tell me all about it. Dr. Wat- 
son," said she. 

I narrated briefly what had occurred since I had 
seen her last, — Holmes's new method of search, 
the discovery of the Aurora, the appearance of 
Athelney Jones, our expedition in the evening, and 
the wild chase down the Thames. She listened 
with parted lips and shining eyes to my recital of 
our adventures. When I spoke of the dart which 
had so narrowly missed us, she turned so white 
that I feared that she was about to faint. 

"It is nothing," she said, as I hastened to pour 
her out some water. "I am all right again. It was a 
shock to me to hear that I had placed my friends 
in such horrible peril." 

"That is all over," I answered. "It was nothing. 
I will tell you no more gloomy details. Let us turn 
to something brighter. There is the treasure. What 
could be brighter than that? I got leave to bring it 
with me, thinking that it would interest you to be 
the first to see it." 

"It would be of the greatest interest to me," she 
said. There was no eagerness in her voice, how- 
ever. It had struck her, doubtless, that it might 
seem ungracious upon her part to be indifferent to 
a prize which had cost so much to win. 

"What a pretty box!" she said, stooping over it. 
"This is Indian work, I suppose?" 

"Yes; it is Benares metal-work." 

"And so heavy!" she exclaimed, trying to raise 
it. "The box alone must be of some value. Where 
is the key?" 

"Small threw it into the Thames," I answered. 
"I must borrow Mrs. Forrester's poker." There was 
in the front a thick and broad hasp, wrought in 
the image of a sitting Buddha. Under this I thrust 
the end of the poker and twisted it outward as a 
lever. The hasp sprang open with a loud snap. 
With trembling fingers I flung back the lid. We 
both stood gazing in astonishment. The box was 
empty! 


10 5 



The Sign of the Four 


No wonder that it was heavy. The iron-work 
was two-thirds of an inch thick all round. It was 
massive, well made, and solid, like a chest con- 
structed to carry things of great price, but not one 
shred or crumb of metal or jewelry lay within it. It 
was absolutely and completely empty. 

"The treasure is lost," said Miss Morstan, 
calmly. 

As I listened to the words and realized what 
they meant, a great shadow seemed to pass from 
my soul. I did not know how this Agra treasure 
had weighed me down, until now that it was fi- 
nally removed. It was selfish, no doubt, disloyal, 
wrong, but I could realize nothing save that the 


golden barrier was gone from between us. "Thank 
God!" I ejaculated from my very heart. 

She looked at me with a quick, questioning 
smile. "Why do you say that?" she asked. 

"Because you are within my reach again," I 
said, taking her hand. She did not withdraw it. 
"Because I love you, Mary, as truly as ever a man 
loved a woman. Because this treasure, these riches, 
sealed my lips. Now that they are gone I can tell 
you how I love you. That is why I said, 'Thank 
God.' " 

"Then I say, 'Thank God,' too," she whispered, 
as I drew her to my side. Whoever had lost a trea- 
sure, I knew that night that I had gained one. 


CHAPTER XII. 

The Strange Story of Jonathan Small 


A very patient man was that inspector in the 
cab, for it was a weary time before I rejoined him. 
His face clouded over when I showed him the 
empty box. 

"There goes the reward!" said he, gloomily. 
"Where there is no money there is no pay. This 
night's work would have been worth a tenner each 
to Sam Brown and me if the treasure had been 
there." 

"Mr. Thaddeus Sholto is a rich man," I said. 
"He will see that you are rewarded, treasure or 
no." 

The inspector shook his head despondently, 
however. "It's a bad job," he repeated; "and so 
Mr. Athelney Jones will think." 

His forecast proved to be correct, for the de- 
tective looked blank enough when I got to Baker 
Street and showed him the empty box. They had 
only just arrived. Holmes, the prisoner, and he, for 
they had changed their plans so far as to report 
themselves at a station upon the way. My compan- 
ion lounged in his arm-chair with his usual list- 
less expression, while Small sat stolidly opposite 
to him with his wooden leg cocked over his sound 
one. As I exhibited the empty box he leaned back 
in his chair and laughed aloud. 

"This is your doing. Small," said Athelney 
Jones, angrily. 


"Yes, I have put it away where you shall never 
lay hand upon it," he cried, exultantly. "It is my 
treasure; and if I can't have the loot I'll take darned 
good care that no one else does. I tell you that no 
living man has any right to it, unless it is three 
men who are in the Andaman convict-barracks 
and myself. I know now that I cannot have the 
use of it, and I know that they cannot. I have 
acted all through for them as much as for myself. 
It's been the sign of four with us always. Well I 
know that they would have had me do just what I 
have done, and throw the treasure into the Thames 
rather than let it go to kith or kin of Sholto or of 
Morstan. It was not to make them rich that we did 
for Achmet. You'll find the treasure where the key 
is, and where little Tonga is. When I saw that your 
launch must catch us, I put the loot away in a safe 
place. There are no rupees for you this journey." 

"You are deceiving us. Small," said Athelney 
Jones, sternly. "If you had wished to throw the 
treasure into the Thames it would have been eas- 
ier for you to have thrown box and all." 

"Easier for me to throw, and easier for you to 
recover," he answered, with a shrewd, sidelong 
look. "The man that was clever enough to hunt me 
down is clever enough to pick an iron box from the 
bottom of a river. Now that they are scattered over 
five miles or so, it may be a harder job. It went to 
my heart to do it, though. I was half mad when 


106 



The Sign of the Four 


you came up with us. However, there's no good 
grieving over it. I've had ups in my life, and I've 
had downs, but I've learned not to cry over spilled 
milk." 

"This is a very serious matter. Small," said the 
detective. "If you had helped justice, instead of 
thwarting it in this way, you would have had a 
better chance at your trial." 

"Justice!" snarled the ex-convict. "A pretty jus- 
tice! Whose loot is this, if it is not ours? Where 
is the justice that I should give it up to those who 
have never earned it? Look how I have earned 
it! Twenty long years in that fever-ridden swamp, 
all day at work under the mangrove-tree, all night 
chained up in the filthy convict-huts, bitten by 
mosquitoes, racked with ague, bullied by every 
cursed black-faced policeman who loved to take 
it out of a white man. That was how I earned the 
Agra treasure; and you talk to me of justice be- 
cause I cannot bear to feel that I have paid this 
price only that another may enjoy it! I would 
rather swing a score of times, or have one of 
Tonga's darts in my hide, than live in a convict's 
cell and feel that another man is at his ease in a 
palace with the money that should be mine." Small 
had dropped his mask of stoicism, and all this 
came out in a wild whirl of words, while his eyes 
blazed, and the handcuffs clanked together with 
the impassioned movement of his hands. I could 
understand, as I saw the fury and the passion of 
the man, that it was no groundless or unnatural 
terror which had possessed Major Sholto when he 
first learned that the injured convict was upon his 
track. 

"You forget that we know nothing of all this," 
said Holmes quietly. "We have not heard your 
story, and we cannot tell how far justice may orig- 
inally have been on your side." 

"Well, sir, you have been very fair-spoken to 
me, though I can see that I have you to thank that 
I have these bracelets upon my wrists. Still, I bear 
no grudge for that. It is all fair and above-board. If 
you want to hear my story I have no wish to hold it 
back. What I say to you is God's truth, every word 
of it. Thank you; you can put the glass beside me 
here, and I'll put my lips to it if I am dry. 

"I am a Worcestershire man myself, — born near 
Pershore. I dare say you would find a heap of 
Smalls living there now if you were to look. I have 
often thought of taking a look round there, but the 
truth is that I was never much of a credit to the 
family, and I doubt if they would be so very glad 
to see me. They were all steady, chapel-going folk, 
small farmers, well known and respected over the 


country-side, while I was always a bit of a rover. At 
last, however, when I was about eighteen, I gave 
them no more trouble, for I got into a mess over 
a girl, and could only get out of it again by tak- 
ing the queen's shilling and joining the 3d Buffs, 
which was just starting for India. 

"I wasn't destined to do much soldiering, how- 
ever. I had just got past the goose-step, and 
learned to handle my musket, when I was fool 
enough to go swimming in the Ganges. Luckily 
for me, my company sergeant, John Holder, was 
in the water at the same time, and he was one of 
the finest swimmers in the service. A crocodile 
took me, just as I was half-way across, and nipped 
off my right leg as clean as a surgeon could have 
done it, just above the knee. What with the shock 
and the loss of blood, I fainted, and should have 
drowned if Holder had not caught hold of me and 
paddled for the bank. I was five months in hospital 
over it, and when at last I was able to limp out of it 
with this timber toe strapped to my stump I found 
myself invalided out of the army and unfitted for 
any active occupation. 

"I was, as you can imagine, pretty down on my 
luck at this time, for I was a useless cripple though 
not yet in my twentieth year. However, my misfor- 
tune soon proved to be a blessing in disguise. A 
man named Abelwhite, who had come out there as 
an indigo-planter, wanted an overseer to look after 
his coolies and keep them up to their work. He 
happened to be a friend of our colonel's, who had 
taken an interest in me since the accident. To make 
a long story short, the colonel recommended me 
strongly for the post and, as the work was mostly 
to be done on horseback, my leg was no great ob- 
stacle, for I had enough knee left to keep good grip 
on the saddle. What I had to do was to ride over 
the plantation, to keep an eye on the men as they 
worked, and to report the idlers. The pay was 
fair, I had comfortable quarters, and altogether I 
was content to spend the remainder of my life in 
indigo-planting. Mr. Abelwhite was a kind man, 
and he would often drop into my little shanty and 
smoke a pipe with me, for white folk out there feel 
their hearts warm to each other as they never do 
here at home. 

"Well, I was never in luck's way long. Sud- 
denly, without a note of warning, the great mutiny 
broke upon us. One month India lay as still and 
peaceful, to all appearance, as Surrey or Kent; the 
next there were two hundred thousand black dev- 
ils let loose, and the country was a perfect hell. Of 
course you know all about it, gentlemen, — a deal 
more than I do, very like, since reading is not in 


107 



The Sign of the Four 


my line. I only know what I saw with my own 
eyes. Our plantation was at a place called Muttra, 
near the border of the Northwest Provinces. Night 
after night the whole sky was alight with the burn- 
ing bungalows, and day after day we had small 
companies of Europeans passing through our es- 
tate with their wives and children, on their way 
to Agra, where were the nearest troops. Mr. Abel- 
white was an obstinate man. He had it in his head 
that the affair had been exaggerated, and that it 
would blow over as suddenly as it had sprung up. 
There he sat on his veranda, drinking whiskey- 
pegs and smoking cheroots, while the country was 
in a blaze about him. Of course we stuck by him, 
I and Dawson, who, with his wife, used to do the 
book-work and the managing. Well, one fine day 
the crash came. I had been away on a distant plan- 
tation, and was riding slowly home in the evening, 
when my eye fell upon something all huddled to- 
gether at the bottom of a steep nullah. I rode down 
to see what it was, and the cold struck through my 
heart when I found it was Dawson's wife, all cut 
into ribbons, and half eaten by jackals and native 
dogs. A little further up the road Dawson him- 
self was lying on his face, quite dead, with an 
empty revolver in his hand and four Sepoys lying 
across each other in front of him. I reined up my 
horse, wondering which way I should turn, but at 
that moment I saw thick smoke curling up from 
Abelwhite's bungalow and the flames beginning 
to burst through the roof. I knew then that I could 
do my employer no good, but would only throw 
my own life away if I meddled in the matter. From 
where I stood I could see hundreds of the black 
fiends, with their red coats still on their backs, 
dancing and howling round the burning house. 
Some of them pointed at me, and a couple of bul- 
lets sang past my head; so I broke away across the 
paddy-fields, and found myself late at night safe 
within the walls at Agra. 

"As it proved, however, there was no great 
safety there, either. The whole country was up 
like a swarm of bees. Wherever the English could 
collect in little bands they held just the ground 
that their guns commanded. Everywhere else they 
were helpless fugitives. It was a fight of the mil- 
lions against the hundreds; and the cruellest part 
of it was that these men that we fought against, 
foot, horse, and gunners, were our own picked 
troops, whom we had taught and trained, han- 
dling our own weapons, and blowing our own 
bugle-calls. At Agra there were the 3d Bengal 
Fusiliers, some Sikhs, two troops of horse, and a 
battery of artillery. A volunteer corps of clerks 
and merchants had been formed, and this I joined. 


wooden leg and all. We went out to meet the rebels 
at Shahgunge early in July, and we beat them back 
for a time, but our powder gave out, and we had 
to fall back upon the city. Nothing but the worst 
news came to us from every side, — which is not to 
be wondered at, for if you look at the map you will 
see that we were right in the heart of it. Lucknow 
is rather better than a hundred miles to the east, 
and Cawnpore about as far to the south. From ev- 
ery point on the compass there was nothing but 
torture and murder and outrage. 

"The city of Agra is a great place, swarming 
with fanatics and fierce devil-worshippers of all 
sorts. Our handful of men were lost among the 
narrow, winding streets. Our leader moved across 
the river, therefore, and took up his position in the 
old fort at Agra. I don't know if any of you gentle- 
men have ever read or heard anything of that old 
fort. It is a very queer place, — the queerest that 
ever I was in, and I have been in some rum corners, 
too. First of all, it is enormous in size. I should 
think that the enclosure must be acres and acres. 
There is a modern part, which took all our garri- 
son, women, children, stores, and everything else, 
with plenty of room over. But the modern part 
is nothing like the size of the old quarter, where 
nobody goes, and which is given over to the scor- 
pions and the centipedes. It is all full of great de- 
serted halls, and winding passages, and long cor- 
ridors twisting in and out, so that it is easy enough 
for folk to get lost in it. For this reason it was sel- 
dom that any one went into it, though now and 
again a party with torches might go exploring. 

"The river washes along the front of the old 
fort, and so protects it, but on the sides and be- 
hind there are many doors, and these had to be 
guarded, of course, in the old quarter as well as in 
that which was actually held by our troops. We 
were short-handed, with hardly men enough to 
man the angles of the building and to serve the 
guns. It was impossible for us, therefore, to sta- 
tion a strong guard at every one of the innumer- 
able gates. What we did was to organize a cen- 
tral guard-house in the middle of the fort, and 
to leave each gate under the charge of one white 
man and two or three natives. I was selected to 
take charge during certain hours of the night of 
a small isolated door upon the southwest side of 
the building. Two Sikh troopers were placed un- 
der my command, and I was instructed if anything 
went wrong to fire my musket, when I might rely 
upon help coming at once from the central guard. 
As the guard was a good two hundred paces away, 
however, and as the space between was cut up into 
a labyrinth of passages and corridors, I had great 


108 



The Sign of the Four 


doubts as to whether they could arrive in time to 
be of any use in case of an actual attack. 

"Well, I was pretty proud at having this small 
command given me, since I was a raw recruit, and 
a game-legged one at that. For two nights I kept 
the watch with my Punjaubees. They were tall, 
fierce-looking chaps, Mahomet Singh and Abdul- 
lah Khan by name, both old fighting-men who had 
borne arms against us at Chilian-wallah. They 
could talk English pretty well, but I could get little 
out of them. They preferred to stand together and 
jabber all night in their queer Sikh lingo. For my- 
self, I used to stand outside the gate-way, looking 
down on the broad, winding river and on the twin- 
kling lights of the great city. The beating of drums, 
the rattle of tomtoms, and the yells and howls of 
the rebels, drunk with opium and with bang, were 
enough to remind us all night of our dangerous 
neighbors across the stream. Every two hours the 
officer of the night used to come round to all the 
posts, to make sure that all was well. 

"The third night of my watch was dark and 
dirty, with a small, driving rain. It was dreary 
work standing in the gate-way hour after hour in 
such weather. I tried again and again to make my 
Sikhs talk, but without much success. At two in 
the morning the rounds passed, and broke for a 
moment the weariness of the night. Finding that 
my companions would not be led into conversa- 
tion, I took out my pipe, and laid down my mus- 
ket to strike the match. In an instant the two Sikhs 
were upon me. One of them snatched my firelock 
up and levelled it at my head, while the other held 
a great knife to my throat and swore between his 
teeth that he would plunge it into me if I moved a 
step. 

"My first thought was that these fellows were 
in league with the rebels, and that this was the 
beginning of an assault. If our door were in the 
hands of the Sepoys the place must fall, and the 
women and children be treated as they were in 
Cawnpore. Maybe you gentlemen think that I am 
just making out a case for myself, but I give you 
my word that when I thought of that, though I 
felt the point of the knife at my throat, I opened 
my mouth with the intention of giving a scream, 
if it was my last one, which might alarm the main 
guard. The man who held me seemed to know 
my thoughts; for, even as I braced myself to it, he 
whispered, 'Don't make a noise. The fort is safe 
enough. There are no rebel dogs on this side of 
the river.' There was the ring of truth in what he 
said, and I knew that if I raised my voice I was a 
dead man. I could read it in the fellow's brown 


eyes. I waited, therefore, in silence, to see what it 
was that they wanted from me. 

" 'Listen to me. Sahib/ said the taller and fiercer 
of the pair, the one whom they called Abdullah 
Khan. 'You must either be with us now or you 
must be silenced forever. The thing is too great 
a one for us to hesitate. Either you are heart and 
soul with us on your oath on the cross of the Chris- 
tians, or your body this night shall be thrown into 
the ditch and we shall pass over to our brothers in 
the rebel army. There is no middle way. Which is 
it to be, death or life? We can only give you three 
minutes to decide, for the time is passing, and all 
must be done before the rounds come again.' 

" 'Flow can I decide?' said I. 'You have not told 
me what you want of me. But I tell you know that 
if it is anything against the safety of the fort I will 
have no truck with it, so you can drive home your 
knife and welcome.' 

" 'It is nothing against the fort,' said he. 'We 
only ask you to do that which your countrymen 
come to this land for. We ask you to be rich. If you 
will be one of us this night, we will swear to you 
upon the naked knife, and by the threefold oath 
which no Sikh was ever known to break, that you 
shall have your fair share of the loot. A quarter of 
the treasure shall be yours. We can say no fairer.' 

" 'But what is the treasure, then?' I asked. 'I 
am as ready to be rich as you can be, if you will 
but show me how it can be done.' 

" 'You will swear, then,' said he, 'by the bones 
of your father, by the honor of your mother, by the 
cross of your faith, to raise no hand and speak no 
word against us, either now or afterwards?' 

" 'I will swear it,' I answered, 'provided that the 
fort is not endangered.' 

" 'Then my comrade and I will swear that you 
shall have a quarter of the treasure which shall be 
equally divided among the four of us.' 

" 'There are but three,' said I. 

" 'No; Dost Akbar must have his share. We can 
tell the tale to you while we await them. Do you 
stand at the gate, Mahomet Singh, and give no- 
tice of their coming. The thing stands thus. Sahib, 
and I tell it to you because I know that an oath is 
binding upon a Feringhee, and that we may trust 
you. Had you been a lying Hindoo, though you 
had sworn by all the gods in their false temples, 
your blood would have been upon the knife, and 
your body in the water. But the Sikh knows the 
Englishman, and the Englishman knows the Sikh. 
Hearken, then, to what I have to say. 


109 



The Sign of the Four 


" 'There is a rajah in the northern provinces 
who has much wealth, though his lands are small. 
Much has come to him from his father, and more 
still he has set by himself, for he is of a low nature 
and hoards his gold rather than spend it. When 
the troubles broke out he would be friends both 
with the lion and the tiger, — with the Sepoy and 
with the Company's raj. Soon, however, it seemed 
to him that the white men's day was come, for 
through all the land he could hear of nothing but 
of their death and their overthrow. Yet, being a 
careful man, he made such plans that, come what 
might, half at least of his treasure should be left to 
him. That which was in gold and silver he kept by 
him in the vaults of his palace, but the most pre- 
cious stones and the choicest pearls that he had he 
put in an iron box, and sent it by a trusty servant 
who, under the guise of a merchant, should take it 
to the fort at Agra, there to lie until the land is at 
peace. Thus, if the rebels won he would have his 
money, but if the Company conquered his jewels 
would be saved to him. Having thus divided his 
hoard, he threw himself into the cause of the Se- 
poys, since they were strong upon his borders. By 
doing this, mark you. Sahib, his property becomes 
the due of those who have been true to their salt. 

" 'This pretended merchant, who travels under 
the name of Achmet, is now in the city of Agra, 
and desires to gain his way into the fort. He 
has with him as travelling-companion my foster- 
brother Dost Akbar, who knows his secret. Dost 
Akbar has promised this night to lead him to a 
side-postern of the fort, and has chosen this one for 
his purpose. Here he will come presently, and here 
he will find Mahomet Singh and myself awaiting 
him. The place is lonely, and none shall know of 
his coming. The world shall know of the merchant 
Achmet no more, but the great treasure of the ra- 
jah shall be divided among us. What say you to it. 
Sahib?' 

"In Worcestershire the life of a man seems a 
great and a sacred thing; but it is very different 
when there is fire and blood all round you and 
you have been used to meeting death at every turn. 
Whether Achmet the merchant lived or died was 
a thing as light as air to me, but at the talk about 
the treasure my heart turned to it, and I thought 
of what I might do in the old country with it, 
and how my folk would stare when they saw their 
ne'er-do-well coming back with his pockets full of 
gold moidores. I had, therefore, already made up 
my mind. Abdullah Khan, however, thinking that 
I hesitated, pressed the matter more closely. 

" 'Consider, Sahib,' said he, 'that if this man is 
taken by the commandant he will be hung or shot. 


and his jewels taken by the government, so that no 
man will be a rupee the better for them. Now, since 
we do the taking of him, why should we not do the 
rest as well? The jewels will be as well with us as 
in the Company's coffers. There will be enough 
to make every one of us rich men and great chiefs. 
No one can know about the matter, for here we are 
cut off from all men. What could be better for the 
purpose? Say again, then. Sahib, whether you are 
with us, or if we must look upon you as an enemy.' 

" 'I am with you heart and soul,' said I. 

" 'It is well,' he answered, handing me back my 
firelock. 'You see that we trust you, for your word, 
like ours, is not to be broken. We have now only 
to wait for my brother and the merchant.' 

" 'Does your brother know, then, of what you 
will do?' I asked. 

" 'The plan is his. He has devised it. We will 
go to the gate and share the watch with Mahomet 
Singh.' 

"The rain was still falling steadily, for it was 
just the beginning of the wet season. Brown, heavy 
clouds were drifting across the sky, and it was hard 
to see more than a stone-cast. A deep moat lay 
in front of our door, but the water was in places 
nearly dried up, and it could easily be crossed. It 
was strange to me to be standing there with those 
two wild Punjaubees waiting for the man who was 
coming to his death. 

"Suddenly my eye caught the glint of a shaded 
lantern at the other side of the moat. It van- 
ished among the mound-heaps, and then appeared 
again coming slowly in our direction. 

" 'Here they are!' I exclaimed. 

" 'You will challenge him. Sahib, as usual,' 
whispered Abdullah. 'Give him no cause for fear. 
Send us in with him, and we shall do the rest while 
you stay here on guard. Have the lantern ready to 
uncover, that we may be sure that it is indeed the 
man.' 

"The light had flickered onwards, now stop- 
ping and now advancing, until I could see two 
dark figures upon the other side of the moat. I 
let them scramble down the sloping bank, splash 
through the mire, and climb half-way up to the 
gate, before I challenged them. 

" 'Who goes there?' said I, in a subdued voice. 

" 'Friends,' came the answer. I uncovered my 
lantern and threw a flood of light upon them. The 
first was an enormous Sikh, with a black beard 
which swept nearly down to his cummerbund. 
Outside of a show I have never seen so tall a man. 
The other was a little, fat, round fellow, with a 
great yellow turban, and a bundle in his hand. 


no 



The Sign of the Four 


done up in a shawl. He seemed to be all in a quiver 
with fear, for his hands twitched as if he had the 
ague, and his head kept turning to left and right 
with two bright little twinkling eyes, like a mouse 
when he ventures out from his hole. It gave me the 
chills to think of killing him, but I thought of the 
treasure, and my heart set as hard as a flint within 
me. When he saw my white face he gave a little 
chirrup of joy and came running up towards me. 

"'Your protection. Sahib/ he panted, — 'your 
protection for the unhappy merchant Achmet. I 
have travelled across Rajpootana that I might seek 
the shelter of the fort at Agra. I have been robbed 
and beaten and abused because I have been the 
friend of the Company. It is a blessed night this 
when I am once more in safety, — I and my poor 
possessions.' 

" 'What have you in the bundle?' I asked. 

" 'An iron box/ he answered, 'which contains 
one or two little family matters which are of no 
value to others, but which I should be sorry to 
lose. Yet I am not a beggar; and I shall reward 
you, young Sahib, and your governor also, if he 
will give me the shelter I ask.' 

"I could not trust myself to speak longer with 
the man. The more I looked at his fat, frightened 
face, the harder did it seem that we should slay 
him in cold blood. It was best to get it over. 

" 'Take him to the main guard/ said I. The two 
Sikhs closed in upon him on each side, and the gi- 
ant walked behind, while they marched in through 
the dark gate- way. Never was a man so compassed 
round with death. I remained at the gate-way with 
the lantern. 

"I could hear the measured tramp of their foot- 
steps sounding through the lonely corridors. Sud- 
denly it ceased, and I heard voices, and a scuffle, 
with the sound of blows. A moment later there 
came, to my horror, a rush of footsteps coming in 
my direction, with the loud breathing of a running 
man. I turned my lantern down the long, straight 
passage, and there was the fat man, running like 
the wind, with a smear of blood across his face, 
and close at his heels, bounding like a tiger, the 
great black-bearded Sikh, with a knife flashing in 
his hand. I have never seen a man run so fast as 
that little merchant. He was gaining on the Sikh, 
and I could see that if he once passed me and got 
to the open air he would save himself yet. My 
heart softened to him, but again the thought of 
his treasure turned me hard and bitter. I cast my 
firelock between his legs as he raced past, and he 
rolled twice over like a shot rabbit. Ere he could 
stagger to his feet the Sikh was upon him, and 


buried his knife twice in his side. The man never 
uttered moan nor moved muscle, but lay were he 
had fallen. I think myself that he may have broken 
his neck with the fall. You see, gentlemen, that I 
am keeping my promise. I am telling you every 
work of the business just exactly as it happened, 
whether it is in my favor or not." 

He stopped, and held out his manacled hands 
for the whiskey-and-water which Holmes had 
brewed for him. For myself, I confess that I had 
now conceived the utmost horror of the man, not 
only for this cold-blooded business in which he 
had been concerned, but even more for the some- 
what flippant and careless way in which he nar- 
rated it. Whatever punishment was in store for 
him, I felt that he might expect no sympathy from 
me. Sherlock Holmes and Jones sat with their 
hands upon their knees, deeply interested in the 
story, but with the same disgust written upon their 
faces. He may have observed it, for there was a 
touch of defiance in his voice and manner as he 
proceeded. 

"It was all very bad, no doubt," said he. "I 
should like to know how many fellows in my 
shoes would have refused a share of this loot when 
they knew that they would have their throats cut 
for their pains. Besides, it was my life or his when 
once he was in the fort. If he had got out, the 
whole business would come to light, and I should 
have been court-martialled and shot as likely as 
not; for people were not very lenient at a time like 
that." 

"Go on with your story," said Holmes, shortly. 

"Well, we carried him in, Abdullah, Akbar, and 
I. A fine weight he was, too, for all that he was so 
short. Mahomet Singh was left to guard the door. 
We took him to a place which the Sikhs had al- 
ready prepared. It was some distance off, where a 
winding passage leads to a great empty hall, the 
brick walls of which were all crumbling to pieces. 
The earth floor had sunk in at one place, making 
a natural grave, so we left Achmet the merchant 
there, having first covered him over with loose 
bricks. This done, we all went back to the treasure. 

"It lay where he had dropped it when he was 
first attacked. The box was the same which now 
lies open upon your table. A key was hung by 
a silken cord to that carved handle upon the top. 
We opened it, and the light of the lantern gleamed 
upon a collection of gems such as I have read of 
and thought about when I was a little lad at Per- 
shore. It was blinding to look upon them. When 
we had feasted our eyes we took them all out and 
made a list of them. There were one hundred and 


ill 



The Sign of the Four 


forty-three diamonds of the first water, including 
one which has been called, I believe, 'the Great 
Mogul' and is said to be the second largest stone 
in existence. Then there were ninety-seven very 
fine emeralds, and one hundred and seventy ru- 
bies, some of which, however, were small. There 
were forty carbuncles, two hundred and ten sap- 
phires, sixty-one agates, and a great quantity of 
beryls, onyxes, cats'-eyes, turquoises, and other 
stones, the very names of which I did not know 
at the time, though I have become more familiar 
with them since. Besides this, there were nearly 
three hundred very fine pearls, twelve of which 
were set in a gold coronet. By the way, these last 
had been taken out of the chest and were not there 
when I recovered it. 

"After we had counted our treasures we put 
them back into the chest and carried them to the 
gate-way to show them to Mahomet Singh. Then 
we solemnly renewed our oath to stand by each 
other and be true to our secret. We agreed to 
conceal our loot in a safe place until the country 
should be at peace again, and then to divide it 
equally among ourselves. There was no use di- 
viding it at present, for if gems of such value were 
found upon us it would cause suspicion, and there 
was no privacy in the fort nor any place where 
we could keep them. We carried the box, there- 
fore, into the same hall where we had buried the 
body, and there, under certain bricks in the best- 
preserved wall, we made a hollow and put our 
treasure. We made careful note of the place, and 
next day I drew four plans, one for each of us, and 
put the sign of the four of us at the bottom, for we 
had sworn that we should each always act for all, 
so that none might take advantage. That is an oath 
that I can put my hand to my heart and swear that 
I have never broken. 

"Well, there's no use my telling you gentle- 
men what came of the Indian mutiny. After Wil- 
son took Delhi and Sir Colin relieved Lucknow the 
back of the business was broken. Fresh troops 
came pouring in, and Nana Sahib made himself 
scarce over the frontier. A flying column under 
Colonel Greathed came round to Agra and cleared 
the Pandies away from it. Peace seemed to be set- 
tling upon the country, and we four were begin- 
ning to hope that the time was at hand when we 
might safely go off with our shares of the plunder. 
In a moment, however, our hopes were shattered 
by our being arrested as the murderers of Achmet. 

"It came about in this way. When the rajah put 
his jewels into the hands of Achmet he did it be- 
cause he knew that he was a trusty man. They 


are suspicious folk in the East, however: so what 
does this rajah do but take a second even more 
trusty servant and set him to play the spy upon 
the first? This second man was ordered never to 
let Achmet out of his sight, and he followed him 
like his shadow. Fie went after him that night and 
saw him pass through the doorway. Of course 
he thought he had taken refuge in the fort, and 
applied for admission there himself next day, but 
could find no trace of Achmet. This seemed to him 
so strange that he spoke about it to a sergeant of 
guides, who brought it to the ears of the comman- 
dant. A thorough search was quickly made, and 
the body was discovered. Thus at the very mo- 
ment that we thought that all was safe we were 
all four seized and brought to trial on a charge of 
murder, — three of us because we had held the gate 
that night, and the fourth because he was known 
to have been in the company of the murdered man. 
Not a word about the jewels came out at the trial, 
for the rajah had been deposed and driven out 
of India: so no one had any particular interest in 
them. The murder, however, was clearly made out, 
and it was certain that we must all have been con- 
cerned in it. The three Sikhs got penal servitude 
for life, and I was condemned to death, though my 
sentence was afterwards commuted into the same 
as the others. 

"It was rather a queer position that we found 
ourselves in then. There we were all four tied by 
the leg and with precious little chance of ever get- 
ting out again, while we each held a secret which 
might have put each of us in a palace if we could 
only have made use of it. It was enough to make 
a man eat his heart out to have to stand the kick 
and the cuff of every petty jack-in-office, to have 
rice to eat and water to drink, when that gorgeous 
fortune was ready for him outside, just waiting to 
be picked up. It might have driven me mad; but I 
was always a pretty stubborn one, so I just held on 
and bided my time. 

"At last it seemed to me to have come. I was 
changed from Agra to Madras, and from there to 
Blair Island in the Andamans. There are very few 
white convicts at this settlement, and, as I had be- 
haved well from the first, I soon found myself a 
sort of privileged person. I was given a hut in 
Hope Town, which is a small place on the slopes 
of Mount Harriet, and I was left pretty much to 
myself. It is a dreary, fever-stricken place, and all 
beyond our little clearings was infested with wild 
cannibal natives, who were ready enough to blow 
a poisoned dart at us if they saw a chance. There 
was digging, and ditching, and yam-planting, and 
a dozen other things to be done, so we were busy 


112 



The Sign of the Four 


enough all day; though in the evening we had a 
little time to ourselves. Among other things, I 
learned to dispense drugs for the surgeon, and 
picked up a smattering of his knowledge. All the 
time I was on the lookout for a chance of escape; 
but it is hundreds of miles from any other land, 
and there is little or no wind in those seas: so it 
was a terribly difficult job to get away. 

"The surgeon. Dr. Somerton, was a fast, sport- 
ing young chap, and the other young officers 
would meet in his rooms of an evening and play 
cards. The surgery, where I used to make up my 
drugs, was next to his sitting-room, with a small 
window between us. Often, if I felt lonesome, 
I used to turn out the lamp in the surgery, and 
then, standing there, I could hear their talk and 
watch their play. I am fond of a hand at cards 
myself, and it was almost as good as having one 
to watch the others. There was Major Sholto, Cap- 
tain Morstan, and Lieutenant Bromley Brown, who 
were in command of the native troops, and there 
was the surgeon himself, and two or three prison- 
officials, crafty old hands who played a nice sly 
safe game. A very snug little party they used to 
make. 

"Well, there was one thing which very soon 
struck me, and that was that the soldiers used al- 
ways to lose and the civilians to win. Mind, I don't 
say that there was anything unfair, but so it was. 
These prison-chaps had done little else than play 
cards ever since they had been at the Andamans, 
and they knew each other's game to a point, while 
the others just played to pass the time and threw 
their cards down anyhow. Night after night the 
soldiers got up poorer men, and the poorer they 
got the more keen they were to play. Major Sholto 
was the hardest hit. He used to pay in notes and 
gold at first, but soon it came to notes of hand 
and for big sums. He sometimes would win for a 
few deals, just to give him heart, and then the luck 
would set in against him worse than ever. All day 
he would wander about as black as thunder, and 
he took to drinking a deal more than was good for 
him. 

"One night he lost even more heavily than 
usual. I was sitting in my hut when he and Cap- 
tain Morstan came stumbling along on the way to 
their quarters. They were bosom friends, those 
two, and never far apart. The major was raving 
about his losses. 

" 'It's all up, Morstan,' he was saying, as they 
passed my hut. 'I shall have to send in my papers. 
I am a ruined man.' 


" 'Nonsense, old chap!' said the other, slapping 
him upon the shoulder. 'I've had a nasty facer my- 
self, but — ' That was all I could hear, but it was 
enough to set me thinking. 

A couple of days later Major Sholto was 
strolling on the beach: so I took the chance of 
speaking to him. 

" 'I wish to have your advice, major,' said I. 

" 'Well, Small, what is it?' he asked, taking his 
cheroot from his lips. 

" 'I wanted to ask you, sir,' said I, 'who is the 
proper person to whom hidden treasure should be 
handed over. I know where half a million worth 
lies, and, as I cannot use it myself, I thought per- 
haps the best thing that I could do would be to 
hand it over to the proper authorities, and then 
perhaps they would get my sentence shortened for 
me.' 

" 'Half a million. Small?' he gasped, looking 
hard at me to see if I was in earnest. 

" 'Quite that, sir, — in jewels and pearls. It lies 
there ready for anyone. And the queer thing about 
it is that the real owner is outlawed and cannot 
hold property, so that it belongs to the first comer.' 

" 'To government. Small,' he stammered, — 'to 
government.' But he said it in a halting fashion, 
and I knew in my heart that I had got him. 

" 'You think, then, sir, that I should give the 
information to the Governor-General?' said I, qui- 
etly. 

" 'Well, well, you must not do anything rash, 
or that you might repent. Let me hear all about it. 
Small. Give me the facts.' 

"I told him the whole story, with small changes 
so that he could not identify the places. When 
I had finished he stood stock still and full of 
thought. I could see by the twitch of his lip that 
there was a struggle going on within him. 

" 'This is a very important matter. Small,' he 
said, at last. 'You must not say a word to any one 
about it, and I shall see you again soon.' 

"Two nights later he and his friend Captain 
Morstan came to my hut in the dead of the night 
with a lantern. 

" 'I want you just to let Captain Morstan hear 
that story from your own lips. Small,' said he. 

"I repeated it as I had told it before. 

" 'It rings true, eh?' said he. 'It's good enough 
to act upon?' 

"Captain Morstan nodded. 


113 



The Sign of the Four 


" 'Look here. Small/ said the major. 'We have 
been talking it over, my friend here and I, and 
we have come to the conclusion that this secret of 
yours is hardly a government matter, after all, but 
is a private concern of your own, which of course 
you have the power of disposing of as you think 
best. Now, the question is, what price would you 
ask for it? We might be inclined to take it up, and 
at least look into it, if we could agree as to terms.' 
He tried to speak in a cool, careless way, but his 
eyes were shining with excitement and greed. 

" 'Why, as to that, gentlemen/ I answered, try- 
ing also to be cool, but feeling as excited as he 
did, 'there is only one bargain which a man in my 
position can make. I shall want yo to help me to 
my freedom, and to help my three companions to 
theirs. We shall then take yo into partnership, and 
give you a fifth share to divide between you.' 

"'Hum!' said he. 'A fifth share! That is not 
very tempting.' 

" 'It would come to fifty thousand apiece,' said 

I. 

" 'But how can we gain your freedom? You 
know very well that you ask an impossibility.' 

" 'Nothing of the sort,' I answered. 'I have 
thought it all out to the last detail. The only bar 
to our escape is that we can get no boat fit for the 
voyage, and no provisions to last us for so long a 
time. There are plenty of little yachts and yawls 
at Calcutta or Madras which would serve our turn 
well. Do you bring one over. We shall engage to 
get aboard her by night, and if you will drop us 
on any part of the Indian coast you will have done 
your part of the bargain.' 

" 'If there were only one/ he said. 

" 'None or all/ I answered. 'We have sworn it. 
The four of us must always act together.' 

" 'You see, Morstan/ said he, 'Small is a man 
of his word. He does not flinch from his friend. I 
think we may very well trust him.' 

" 'It's a dirty business/ the other answered. 
'Yet, as you say, the money would save our com- 
missions handsomely.' 

" 'Well, Small/ said the major, 'we must, I sup- 
pose, try and meet you. We must first, of course, 
test the truth of your story. Tell me where the box 
is hid, and I shall get leave of absence and go back 
to India in the monthly relief-boat to inquire into 
the affair.' 

" 'Not so fast/ said I, growing colder as he got 
hot. 'I must have the consent of my three com- 
rades. I tell you that it is four or none with us.' 


" 'Nonsense!' he broke in. 'What have three 
black fellows to do with our agreement?' 

" 'Black or blue/ said I, 'they are in with me, 
and we all go together.' 

"Well, the matter ended by a second meeting, 
at which Mahomet Singh, Abdullah Khan, and 
Dost Akbar were all present. We talked the matter 
over again, and at last we came to an arrangement. 
We were to provide both the officers with charts of 
the part of the Agra fort and mark the place in the 
wall where the treasure was hid. Major Sholto was 
to go to India to test our story. If he found the box 
he was to leave it there, to send out a small yacht 
provisioned for a voyage, which was to lie off Rut- 
land Island, and to which we were to make our 
way, and finally to return to his duties. Captain 
Morstan was then to apply for leave of absence, to 
meet us at Agra, and there we were to have a fi- 
nal division of the treasure, he taking the major's 
share as well as his own. All this we sealed by the 
most solemn oaths that the mind could think or 
the lips utter. I sat up all night with paper and ink, 
and by the morning I had the two charts all ready, 
signed with the sign of four, — that is, of Abdullah, 
Akbar, Mahomet, and myself. 

"Well, gentlemen, I weary you with my long 
story, and I know that my friend Mr. Jones is im- 
patient to get me safely stowed in chokey. I'll 
make it as short as I can. The villain Sholto 
went off to India, but he never came back again. 
Captain Morstan showed me his name among a 
list of passengers in one of the mail-boats very 
shortly afterwards. His uncle had died, leaving 
him a fortune, and he had left the army, yet he 
could stoop to treat five men as he had treated 
us. Morstan went over to Agra shortly afterwards, 
and found, as we expected, that the treasure was 
indeed gone. The scoundrel had stolen it all, with- 
out carrying out one of the conditions on which 
we had sold him the secret. From that day I lived 
only for vengeance. I thought of it by day and 
I nursed it by night. It became an overpower- 
ing, absorbing passion with me. I cared nothing 
for the law, — nothing for the gallows. To escape, 
to track down Sholto, to have my hand upon his 
throat, — that was my one thought. Even the Agra 
treasure had come to be a smaller thing in my 
mind than the slaying of Sholto. 

"Well, I have set my mind on many things in 
this life, and never one which I did not carry out. 
But it was weary years before my time came. I 
have told you that I had picked up something of 
medicine. One day when Dr. Somerton was down 
with a fever a little Andaman Islander was picked 


114 



The Sign of the Four 


up by a convict-gang in the woods. He was sick 
to death, and had gone to a lonely place to die. 
I took him in hand, though he was as venomous 
as a young snake, and after a couple of months I 
got him all right and able to walk. He took a kind 
of fancy to me then, and would hardly go back to 
his woods, but was always hanging about my hut. 
I learned a little of his lingo from him, and this 
made him all the fonder of me. 

"Tonga — for that was his name — was a fine 
boatman, and owned a big, roomy canoe of his 
own. When I found that he was devoted to me and 
would do anything to serve me, I saw my chance 
of escape. I talked it over with him. He was to 
bring his boat round on a certain night to an old 
wharf which was never guarded, and there he was 
to pick me up. I gave him directions to have sev- 
eral gourds of water and a lot of yams, cocoa-nuts, 
and sweet potatoes. 

"He was stanch and true, was little Tonga. No 
man ever had a more faithful mate. At the night 
named he had his boat at the wharf. As it chanced, 
however, there was one of the convict-guard down 
there, — a vile Pathan who had never missed a 
chance of insulting and injuring me. I had always 
vowed vengeance, and now I had my chance. It 
was as if fate had placed him in my way that I 
might pay my debt before I left the island. He 
stood on the bank with his back to me, and his car- 
bine on his shoulder. 1 looked about for a stone to 
beat out his brains with, but none could I see. Then 
a queer thought came into my head and showed 
me where I could lay my hand on a weapon. I sat 
down in the darkness and unstrapped my wooden 
leg. With three long hops I was on him. He put 
his carbine to his shoulder, but I struck him full, 
and knocked the whole front of his skull in. You 
can see the split in the wood now where I hit him. 
We both went down together, for I could not keep 
my balance, but when I got up I found him still 
lying quiet enough. I made for the boat, and in an 
hour we were well out at sea. Tonga had brought 
all his earthly possessions with him, his arms and 
his gods. Among other things, he had a long bam- 
boo spear, and some Andaman cocoa-nut matting, 
with which I make a sort of sail. For ten days 
we were beating about, trusting to luck, and on 
the eleventh we were picked up by a trader which 
was going from Singapore to Jiddah with a cargo 
of Malay pilgrims. They were a rum crowd, and 
Tonga and I soon managed to settle down among 
them. They had one very good quality: they let 
you alone and asked no questions. 

"Well, if I were to tell you all the adventures 
that my little chum and I went through, you would 


not thank me, for I would have you here until the 
sun was shining. Here and there we drifted about 
the world, something always turning up to keep 
us from London. All the time, however, I never 
lost sight of my purpose. I would dream of Sholto 
at night. A hundred times I have killed him in my 
sleep. At last, however, some three or four years 
ago, we found ourselves in England. I had no great 
difficulty in finding where Sholto lived, and I set 
to work to discover whether he had realized the 
treasure, or if he still had it. I made friends with 
someone who could help me, — I name no names, 
for I don't want to get any one else in a hole, — and 
I soon found that he still had the jewels. Then I 
tried to get at him in many ways; but he was pretty 
sly, and had always two prize-fighters, besides his 
sons and his khitmutgar, on guard over him. 

"One day, however, I got word that he was dy- 
ing. I hurried at once to the garden, mad that 
he should slip out of my clutches like that, and, 
looking through the window, I saw him lying in 
his bed, with his sons on each side of him. I'd 
have come through and taken my chance with the 
three of them, only even as 1 looked at him his jaw 
dropped, and I knew that he was gone. I got into 
his room that same night, though, and I searched 
his papers to see if there was any record of where 
he had hidden our jewels. There was not a line, 
however: so I came away, bitter and savage as a 
man could be. Before I left I bethought me that 
if I ever met my Sikh friends again it would be a 
satisfaction to know that I had left some mark of 
our hatred: so I scrawled down the sign of the four 
of us, as it had been on the chart, and I pinned it 
on his bosom. It was too much that he should be 
taken to the grave without some token from the 
men whom he had robbed and befooled. 

"We earned a living at this time by my exhibit- 
ing poor Tonga at fairs and other such places as 
the black cannibal. He would eat raw meat and 
dance his war-dance: so we always had a hatful 
of pennies after a day's work. I still heard all the 
news from Pondicherry Lodge, and for some years 
there was no news to hear, except that they were 
hunting for the treasure. At last, however, came 
what we had waited for so long. The treasure had 
been found. It was up at the top of the house, in 
Mr. Bartholomew Sholto's chemical laboratory. I 
came at once and had a look at the place, but I 
could not see how with my wooden leg I was to 
make my way up to it. I learned, however, about a 
trap-door in the roof, and also about Mr. Sholto's 
supper-hour. It seemed to me that I could manage 
the thing easily through Tonga. I brought him out 
with me with a long rope wound round his waist. 


115 



The Sign of the Four 


He could climb like a cat, and he soon made his 
way through the roof, but, as ill luck would have 
it, Bartholomew Sholto was still in the room, to 
his cost. Tonga thought he had done something 
very clever in killing him, for when I came up by 
the rope I found him strutting about as proud as 
a peacock. Very much surprised was he when I 
made at him with the rope's end and cursed him 
for a little blood-thirsty imp. I took the treasure- 
box and let it down, and then slid down myself, 
having first left the sign of the four upon the ta- 
ble, to show that the jewels had come back at last 
to those who had most right to them. Tonga then 
pulled up the rope, closed the window, and made 
off the way that he had come. 

"I don't know that I have anything else to tell 
you. I had heard a waterman speak of the speed of 
Smith's launch, the Aurora, so I thought she would 
be a handy craft for our escape. I engaged with 
old Smith, and was to give him a big sum if he 
got us safe to our ship. He knew, no doubt, that 
there was some screw loose, but he was not in our 
secrets. All this is the truth, and if I tell it to you, 
gentlemen, it is not to amuse you, — for you have 
not done me a very good turn, — but it is because I 
believe the best defence I can make is just to hold 
back nothing, but let all the wold know how badly 
I have myself been served by Major Sholto, and 
how innocent I am of the death of his son." 

"A very remarkable account," said Sherlock 
Holmes. "A fitting wind-up to an extremely in- 
teresting case. There is nothing at all new to me 
in the latter part of your narrative, except that you 
brought your own rope. That I did not know. By 
the way, I had hoped that Tonga had lost all his 
darts; yet he managed to shoot one at us in the 
boat." 

"He had lost them all, sir, except the one which 
was in his blow-pipe at the time." 

"Ah, of course," said Holmes. "I had not 
thought of that." 

"Is there any other point which you would like 
to ask about?" asked the convict, affably. 

"I think not, thank you," my companion an- 
swered. 

"Well, Holmes," said Athelney Jones, "You are 
a man to be humored, and we all know that you 
are a connoisseur of crime, but duty is duty, and I 
have gone rather far in doing what you and your 
friend asked me. I shall feel more at ease when 
we have our story-teller here safe under lock and 
key. The cab still waits, and there are two inspec- 
tors down-stairs. I am much obliged to you both 
for your assistance. Of course you will be wanted 
at the trial. Good-night to you." 


"Good-night, gentlemen both," said Jonathan 
Small. 

"You first. Small," remarked the wary Jones as 
they left the room. "I'll take particular care that 
you don't club me with your wooden leg, what- 
ever you may have done to the gentleman at the 
Andaman Isles." 

"Well, and there is the end of our little drama," 
I remarked, after we had set some time smoking in 
silence. "I fear that it may be the last investigation 
in which I shall have the chance of studying your 
methods. Miss Morstan has done me the honor to 
accept me as a husband in prospective." 

He gave a most dismal groan. "I feared as 
much," said he. "I really cannot congratulate you." 

I was a little hurt. "Have you any reason to be 
dissatisfied with my choice?" I asked. 

"Not at all. I think she is one of the most 
charming young ladies I ever met, and might have 
been most useful in such work as we have been do- 
ing. She had a decided genius that way: witness 
the way in which she preserved that Agra plan 
from all the other papers of her father. But love 
is an emotional thing, and whatever is emotional 
is opposed to that true cold reason which I place 
above all things. I should never marry myself, lest 
I bias my judgment." 

"I trust," said I, laughing, "that my judgment 
may survive the ordeal. But you look weary." 

"Yes, the reaction is already upon me. I shall 
be as limp as a rag for a week." 

"Strange," said I, "how terms of what in an- 
other man I should call laziness alternate with 
your fits of splendid energy and vigor." 

"Yes," he answered, "there are in me the mak- 
ings of a very fine loafer and also of a pretty spry 
sort of fellow. I often think of those lines of old 
Goethe, — 

Schade, dafl die Natur nur 
einen Mensch aits Dir schnf, 

Denn znm iviirdigen Mann zvar 
und zum Schelmen der Stoff. 

"By the way, a propos of this Norwood busi- 
ness, you see that they had, as I surmised, a con- 
federate in the house, who could be none other 
than Lai Rao, the butler: so Jones actually has the 
undivided honor of having caught one fish in his 
great haul." 

"The division seems rather unfair," I remarked. 
"You have done all the work in this business. I get 
a wife out of it, Jones gets the credit, pray what 
remains for you?" 

"For me," said Sherlock Holmes, "there still 
remains the cocaine-bottle." And he stretched his 
long white hand up for it. 


116 



The Stock-Broker's Clerk 


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

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

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

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

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

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

"I trust that you don't consider your collection 
closed." 

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

"To-day, for example?" 

"Yes, to-day, if you like." 

"And as far off as Birmingham?" 

"Certainly, if you wish it." 

"And the practice?" 


"I do my neighbor's when he goes. He is al- 
ways ready to work off the debt." 

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

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

"So you have. You look remarkably robust." 

"How, then, did you know of it?" 

"My dear fellow, you know my methods." 

"You deduced it, then?" 

"Certainly." 

"And from what?" 

"From your slippers." 

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

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

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

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

"Certainly. What is the case?" 

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

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

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

"Yes; he bought a practice as I did." 

"An old-established one?" 

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


307 



The Stock-Broker's Clerk 


"Ah! Then you got hold of the best of the two." 

"I think I did. But how do you know?" 

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

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

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

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

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

"I used to have a billet at Coxon & Wood- 
house's, of Draper's Gardens, but they were let in 
early in the spring through the Venezuelan loan, as 
no doubt you remember, and came a nasty crop- 
per. I had been with them five years, and old 
Coxon gave me a ripping good testimonial when 
the smash came, but of course we clerks were all 
turned adrift, the twenty-seven of us. I tried here 


and tried there, but there were lots of other chaps 
on the same lay as myself, and it was a perfect frost 
for a long time. I had been taking three pounds a 
week at Coxon's, and I had saved about seventy 
of them, but I soon worked my way through that 
and out at the other end. I was fairly at the end of 
my tether at last, and could hardly find the stamps 
to answer the advertisements or the envelopes to 
stick them to. I had worn out my boots paddling 
up office stairs, and I seemed just as far from get- 
ting a billet as ever. 

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

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

" 'Mr. Hall Pycroft, I believe?' said he. 

" 'Yes, sir,' I answered, pushing a chair towards 
him. 

" 'Lately engaged at Coxon & Woodhouse's?' 

" 'Yes, sir.' 

" 'And now on the staff of Mawson's.' 

" 'Quite so.' 

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


308 



The Stock-Broker's Clerk 


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

" 'You have a good memory?' said he. 

" 'Pretty fair/ I answered, modestly. 

" 'Have you kept in touch with the market 
while you have been out of work?' he asked. 

" 'Yes. I read the stock exchange list every 
morning.' 

" 'Now that shows real application!' he cried. 
'That is the way to prosper! You won't mind my 
testing you, will you? Let me see. How are Ayr- 
shires?' 

" 'A hundred and six and a quarter to a hun- 
dred and five and seven-eighths.' 

" 'And New Zealand consolidated?' 

" 'A hundred and four.' 

" 'And British Broken Hills?' 

" 'Seven to seven-and-six.' 

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

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

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

" 'On Monday.' 

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

" 'Not go to Mawson's?' 

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

"This took my breath away. 'I never heard of 
it,' said I. 

" 'Very likely not. It has been kept very quiet, 
for the capital was all privately subscribed, and it's 
too good a thing to let the public into. My brother. 


Harry Pinner, is promoter, and joins the board af- 
ter allotment as managing director. He knew I was 
in the swim down here, and asked me to pick up 
a good man cheap. A young, pushing man with 
plenty of snap about him. Parker spoke of you, 
and that brought me here tonight. We can only 
offer you a beggarly five hundred to start with.' 

" 'Five hundred a year!' I shouted. 

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

" 'But I know nothing about hardware.' 

" 'Tut, my boy; you know about figures.' 

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

" 'I must be frank with you,' said I. 'Mawson 
only gives me two hundred, but Mawson is safe. 
Now, really, I know so little about your company 
that — ' 

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

" 'That is very handsome,' said I. 'When should 
I take over my new duties?' 

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

" 'Really, I hardly know how to express my 
gratitude, Mr. Pinner,' said I. 

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

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

" 'There is one other detail,' said he. 'What do 
you intend to do about Mawson's?' 

"I had forgotten all about Mawson's in my joy. 
'I'll write and resign,' said I. 


309 



The Stock-Broker's Clerk 


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

" ' "He would rather have our small price than 
your big one," said he. 

" ' "I'll lay you a fiver," said I, "that when he 
has my offer you'll never so much as hear from 
him again." 

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

" 'The impudent scoundrel!' I cried. 'I've never 
so much as seen him in my life. Why should I con- 
sider him in any way? I shall certainly not write if 
you would rather I didn't.' 

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

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

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

" 'Are you Mr. Hall Pycroft?' he asked. 

" 'Yes,' said I. 


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

" 'I was just looking for the offices when you 
came.' 

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

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

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

"I gave it to him, and her read it over very care- 
fully. 

" 'You seem to have made a vast impression 
upon my brother Arthur,' said he; 'and I know 
that he is a pretty shrewd judge. Hew swears by 
London, you know; and I by Birmingham; but this 
time I shall follow his advice. Pray consider your- 
self definitely engaged.' 

" 'What are my duties?' I asked. 

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

" 'How?' 

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

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

" 'Surely there are classified lists?' I suggested. 

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


310 



The Stock-Broker's Clerk 


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

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

" 'It took some time,' said I. 

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

" 'Very good.' 

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

Sherlock Holmes rubbed his hands with de- 
light, and I stared with astonishment at our client. 

"You may well look surprised. Dr. Watson; but 
it is this way," said he: "When I was speaking 
to the other chap in London, at the time that he 
laughed at my not going to Mawson's, I happened 
to notice that his tooth was stuffed in this very 
identical fashion. The glint of the gold in each 
case caught my eye, you see. When I put that 
with the voice and figure being the same, and only 
those things altered which might be changed by a 
razor or a wig, I could not doubt that it was the 
same man. Of course you expect two brothers to 
be alike, but not that they should have the same 
tooth stuffed in the same way. He bowed me out, 
and I found myself in the street, hardly knowing 
whether I was on my head or my heels. Back I 
went to my hotel, put my head in a basin of cold 
water, and tried to think it out. Why had he sent 
me from London to Birmingham? Why had he got 
there before me? And why had he written a let- 
ter from himself to himself? It was altogether too 


much for me, and I could make no sense of it. And 
then suddenly it struck me that what was dark to 
me might be very light to Mr. Sherlock Holmes. I 
had just time to get up to town by the night train to 
see him this morning, and to bring you both back 
with me to Birmingham." 

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

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

"But how can we do it?" I asked. 

"Oh, easily enough," said Hall Pycroft, cheer- 
ily. "You are two friends of mine who are in want 
of a billet, and what could be more natural than 
that I should bring you both round to the manag- 
ing director?" 

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

At seven o'clock that evening we were walk- 
ing, the three of us, down Corporation Street to 
the company's offices. 

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

"That is suggestive," remarked Holmes. 

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

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

"There he goes!" cried Hall Pycroft. "These 
are the company's offices into which he has gone. 
Come with me, and I'll fix it up as easily as possi- 
ble." 


3 11 



The Stock-Broker's Clerk 


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

"You look ill, Mr. Pinner!" he exclaimed. 

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

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

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

"I am an accountant," said Holmes. 

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

"A clerk," said I. 

"I have every hope that the company may ac- 
commodate you. I will let you know about it as 
soon as we come to any conclusion. And now I 
beg that you will go. For God's sake leave me to 
myself!" 

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

"You forget, Mr. Pinner, that I am here by ap- 
pointment to receive some directions from you," 
said he. 


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

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

"Impossible," answered Pycroft. 

"Why so?" 

"That door leads into an inner room." 

"There is no exit?" 

"None." 

"Is it furnished?" 

"It was empty yesterday." 

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

"He suspects that we are detectives," I sug- 
gested. 

"That's it," cried Pycroft. 

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

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

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

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

But it was only for a moment that we were 
at fault. At one corner, the corner nearest the 
room which we had left, there was a second door. 
Holmes sprang to it and pulled it open. A coat 
and waistcoat were lying on the floor, and from 
a hook behind the door, with his own braces 
round his neck, was hanging the managing di- 
rector of the Franco-Midland Hardware Company. 


312 



The Stock-Broker's Clerk 


His knees were drawn up, his head hung at a 
dreadful angle to his body, and the clatter of his 
heels against the door made the noise which had 
broken in upon our conversation. In an instant I 
had caught him round the waist, and held him up 
while Holmes and Pycroft untied the elastic bands 
which had disappeared between the livid creases 
of skin. Then we carried him into the other room, 
where he lay with a clay-colored face, puffing his 
purple lips in and out with every breath — a dread- 
ful wreck of all that he had been but five minutes 
before. 

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

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

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

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

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

"It's a blessed mystery to me," cried Pycroft, 
scratching his head. "Whatever they wanted to 
bring me all the way up here for, and then — " 

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

"You understand the rest, then?" 

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

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

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

"What do you make of them?" 

"Well, the whole thing hinges upon two points. 
The first is the making of Pycroft write a declara- 
tion by which he entered the service of this pre- 
posterous company. Do you not see how very sug- 
gestive that is?" 

"I am afraid I miss the point." 


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

"And why?" 

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

"My God!" cried our client, "what a blind bee- 
tle I have been!" 

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

"Not a soul," groaned Hall Pycroft. 

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

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

"Well, that is pretty clear also. There are ev- 
idently only two of them in it. The other is im- 
personating you at the office. This one acted as 
your engager, and then found that he could not 
find you an employer without admitting a third 
person into his plot. That he was most unwill- 
ing to do. He changed his appearance as far as 
he could, and trusted that the likeness, which you 
could not fail to observe, would be put down to a 


313 



The Stock-Broker's Clerk 


family resemblance. But for the happy chance of 
the gold stuffing, your suspicions would probably 
never have been aroused." 

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

"We must wire to Mawson's." 

"They shut at twelve on Saturdays." 

"Never mind. There may be some door-keeper 
or attendant — " 

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

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

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

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

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

“A desperate attempt at robbery, culminat- 
ing in the death of one man and the cap- 
ture of the criminal, occurred this afternoon 
in the City. For some time back Mawson 
& Williams, the famous financial house, 
have been the guardians of securities zvhich 
amount in the aggregate to a sum of con- 
siderably over a million sterling. So con- 
scious was the manager of the responsibility 
zvhich devolved upon him in consequence 
of the great interests at stake that safes of 
the very latest construction have been em- 
ployed, and an armed watchman has been 


left day and night in the building. It ap- 
pears that last week a nezv clerk named Hall 
Pycroft was engaged by the firm. This per- 
son appears to have been none other that 
Beddington, the famous forger and cracks- 
man, zvho, with his brother, had only re- 
cently emerged from a five years' spell of 
penal servitude. By some mean, zvhich are 
not yet clear, he succeeded in winning, un- 
der a false name, this official position in 
the office, zvhich he utilized in order to ob- 
tain moulding of various locks, and a thor- 
ough knozvledge of the position of the strong 
room and the safes. 

" It is customary at Mazvson's for the clerks 
to leave at midday on Saturday. Sergeant 
Tuson, of the City Police, zvas somezvhat 
surprised, therefore to see a gentleman with 
a carpet bag come dozvn the steps at tzventy 
minutes past one. His suspicions being 
aroused, the sergeant followed the man, and 
with the aid of Constable Pollack succeeded, 
after a most desperate resistance, in arrest- 
ing him. It zvas at once clear that a daring 
and gigantic robbery had been committed. 
Nearly a hundred thousand pounds’ zvorth 
of American railway bonds, with a large 
amount of scrip in mines and other compa- 
nies, zvas discovered in the bag. On exam- 
ining the premises the body of the unfortu- 
nate watchman zvas found doubled up and 
thrust into the largest of the safes, where it 
would not have been discovered until Mon- 
day morning had it not been for the prompt 
action of Sergeant Tuson. The man's skidl 
had been shattered by a blozv from a poker 
delivered from behind. There could be no 
doubt that Beddington had obtained en- 
trance by pretending that he had left some- 
thing behind him, and having murdered the 
watchman, rapidly rifled the large safe, and 
then made off with his booty. His brother, 
zvho usually zvorks with him, has not ap- 
peared in this job as far as can at present be 
ascertained, although the police are making 
energetic inquiries as to his whereabouts." 

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


3M 



The Greek Interpreter 


uring my long and intimate acquain- 
tance with Mr. Sherlock Holmes I had 
never heard him refer to his relations, 
and hardly ever to his own early life. 
This reticence upon his part had increased the 
somewhat inhuman effect which he produced 
upon me, until sometimes I found myself regard- 
ing him as an isolated phenomenon, a brain with- 
out a heart, as deficient in human sympathy as he 
was pre-eminent in intelligence. His aversion to 
women and his disinclination to form new friend- 
ships were both typical of his unemotional charac- 
ter, but not more so than his complete suppression 
of every reference to his own people. I had come 
to believe that he was an orphan with no relatives 
living, but one day, to my very great surprise, he 
began to talk to me about his brother. 

It was after tea on a summer evening, and the 
conversation, which had roamed in a desultory, 
spasmodic fashion from golf clubs to the causes 
of the change in the obliquity of the ecliptic, came 
round at last to the question of atavism and hered- 
itary aptitudes. The point under discussion was, 
how far any singular gift in an individual was due 
to his ancestry and how far to his own early train- 
ing. 

"In your own case," said I, "from all that you 
have told me, it seems obvious that your faculty of 
observation and your peculiar facility for deduc- 
tion are due to your own systematic training." 

"To some extent," he answered, thoughtfully. 
"My ancestors were country squires, who appear 
to have led much the same life as is natural to their 
class. But, none the less, my turn that way is in my 
veins, and may have come with my grandmother, 
who was the sister of Vernet, the French artist. Art 
in the blood is liable to take the strangest forms." 

"But how do you know that it is hereditary?" 

"Because my brother Mycroft possesses it in a 
larger degree than I do." 

This was news to me indeed. If there were 
another man with such singular powers in Eng- 
land, how was it that neither police nor public had 
heard of him? I put the question, with a hint that 
it was my companion's modesty which made him 
acknowledge his brother as his superior. Holmes 
laughed at my suggestion. 

"My dear Watson," said he, "I cannot agree 
with those who rank modesty among the virtues. 
To the logician all things should be seen exactly 
as they are, and to underestimate one's self is 
as much a departure from truth as to exaggerate 
one's own powers. When I say, therefore, that My- 
croft has better powers of observation than I, you 



may take it that I am speaking the exact and literal 
truth." 

"Is he your junior?" 

"Seven years my senior." 

"How comes it that he is unknown?" 

"Oh, he is very well known in his own circle." 

"Where, then?" 

"Well, in the Diogenes Club, for example." 

I had never heard of the institution, and my 
face must have proclaimed as much, for Sherlock 
Holmes pulled out his watch. 

"The Diogenes Club is the queerest club in 
London, and Mycroft one of the queerest men. 
He's always there from quarter to five to twenty 
to eight. It's six now, so if you care for a stroll this 
beautiful evening I shall be very happy to intro- 
duce you to two curiosities." 

Five minutes later we were in the street, walk- 
ing towards Regent's Circus. 

"You wonder," said my companion, "why it is 
that Mycroft does not use his powers for detective 
work. He is incapable of it." 

"But I thought you said — " 

"I said that he was my superior in observation 
and deduction. If the art of the detective began 
and ended in reasoning from an arm-chair, my 
brother would be the greatest criminal agent that 
ever lived. But he has no ambition and no en- 
ergy. He will not even go out of his way to verify 
his own solution, and would rather be considered 
wrong than take the trouble to prove himself right. 
Again and again I have taken a problem to him, 
and have received an explanation which has after- 
wards proved to be the correct one. And yet he 
was absolutely incapable of working out the prac- 
tical points which must be gone into before a case 
could be laid before a judge or jury." 

"It is not his profession, then?" 

"By no means. What is to me a means of liveli- 
hood is to him the merest hobby of a dilettante. He 
has an extraordinary faculty for figures, and audits 
the books in some of the government departments. 
Mycroft lodges in Pall Mall, and he walks round 
the corner into Whitehall every morning and back 
every evening. From year's end to year's end he 
takes no other exercise, and is seen nowhere else, 
except only in the Diogenes Club, which is just op- 
posite his rooms." 

"I cannot recall the name." 

"Very likely not. There are many men in Lon- 
don, you know, who, some from shyness, some 
from misanthropy, have no wish for the company 


375 



The Greek Interpreter 


of their fellows. Yet they are not averse to com- 
fortable chairs and the latest periodicals. It is for 
the convenience of these that the Diogenes Club 
was started, and it now contains the most unsocia- 
ble and unclubable men in town. No member is 
permitted to take the least notice of any other one. 
Save in the Stranger's Room, no talking is, under 
any circumstances, allowed, and three offences, if 
brought to the notice of the committee, render the 
talker liable to expulsion. My brother was one of 
the founders, and I have myself found it a very 
soothing atmosphere." 

We had reached Pall Mall as we talked, and 
were walking down it from the St. James's end. 
Sherlock Holmes stopped at a door some little dis- 
tance from the Carlton, and, cautioning me not 
to speak, he led the way into the hall. Through 
the glass paneling I caught a glimpse of a large 
and luxurious room, in which a considerable num- 
ber of men were sitting about and reading papers, 
each in his own little nook. Holmes showed me 
into a small chamber which looked out into Pall 
Mall, and then, leaving me for a minute, he came 
back with a companion whom I knew could only 
be his brother. 

Mycroft Holmes was a much larger and stouter 
man than Sherlock. His body was absolutely cor- 
pulent, but his face, though massive, had pre- 
served something of the sharpness of expression 
which was so remarkable in that of his brother. His 
eyes, which were of a peculiarly light, watery gray, 
seemed to always retain that far-away, introspec- 
tive look which I had only observed in Sherlock's 
when he was exerting his full powers. 

"I am glad to meet you, sir," said he, putting 
out a broad, fat hand like the flipper of a seal. 
"I hear of Sherlock everywhere since you became 
his chronicler. By the way, Sherlock, I expected to 
see you round last week, to consult me over that 
Manor House case. I thought you might be a little 
out of your depth." 

"No, I solved it," said my friend, smiling. 

"It was Adams, of course." 

"Yes, it was Adams." 

"I was sure of it from the first." The two sat 
down together in the bow- window of the club. 
"To any one who wishes to study mankind this is 
the spot," said Mycroft. "Look at the magnificent 
types! Look at these two men who are coming to- 
wards us, for example." 

"The billiard-marker and the other?" 

"Precisely. What do you make of the other?" 


The two men had stopped opposite the win- 
dow. Some chalk marks over the waistcoat pocket 
were the only signs of billiards which I could see 
in one of them. The other was a very small, dark 
fellow, with his hat pushed back and several pack- 
ages under his arm. 

"An old soldier, I perceive," said Sherlock. 

"And very recently discharged," remarked the 
brother. 

"Served in India, I see." 

"And a non-commissioned officer." 

"Royal Artillery, I fancy," said Sherlock. 

"And a widower." 

"But with a child." 

"Children, my dear boy, children." 

"Come," said I, laughing, "this is a little too 
much." 

"Surely," answered Holmes, "it is not hard to 
say that a man with that bearing, expression of au- 
thority, and sunbaked skin, is a soldier, is more 
than a private, and is not long from India." 

"That he has not left the service long is shown 
by his still wearing is ammunition boots, as they 
are called," observed Mycroft. 

"He had not the cavalry stride, yet he wore his 
hat on one side, as is shown by the lighter skin 
of that side of his brow. His weight is against his 
being a sapper. He is in the artillery." 

"Then, of course, his complete mourning 
shows that he has lost some one very dear. The 
fact that he is doing his own shopping looks as 
though it were his wife. He has been buying things 
for children, you perceive. There is a rattle, which 
shows that one of them is very young. The wife 
probably died in childbed. The fact that he has 
a picture-book under his arm shows that there is 
another child to be thought of." 

I began to understand what my friend meant 
when he said that his brother possessed even 
keener faculties that he did himself. He glanced 
across at me and smiled. Mycroft took snuff from 
a tortoise-shell box, and brushed away the wan- 
dering grains from his coat front with a large, red 
silk handkerchief. 

"By the way, Sherlock," said he, "I have had 
something quite after your own heart — a most sin- 
gular problem — submitted to my judgment. I re- 
ally had not the energy to follow it up save in a 
very incomplete fashion, but it gave me a basis for 
some pleasing speculation. If you would care to 
hear the facts — " 

"My dear Mycroft, I should be delighted." 


376 



The Greek Interpreter 


The brother scribbled a note upon a leaf of his 
pocket-book, and, ringing the bell, he handed it to 
the waiter. 

"I have asked Mr. Melas to step across," said 
he. "He lodges on the floor above me, and I have 
some slight acquaintance with him, which led him 
to come to me in his perplexity. Mr. Melas is a 
Greek by extraction, as I understand, and he is a 
remarkable linguist. He earns his living partly as 
interpreter in the law courts and partly by acting 
as guide to any wealthy Orientals who may visit 
the Northumberland Avenue hotels. I think I will 
leave him to tell his very remarkable experience in 
his own fashion." 

A few minutes later we were joined by a short, 
stout man whose olive face and coal-black hair 
proclaimed his Southern origin, though his speech 
was that of an educated Englishman. He shook 
hands eagerly with Sherlock Holmes, and his dark 
eyes sparkled with pleasure when he understood 
that the specialist was anxious to hear his story. 

"I do not believe that the police credit me — on 
my word, I do not," said he in a wailing voice. 
"Just because they have never heard of it before, 
they think that such a thing cannot be. But I 
know that I shall never be easy in my mind un- 
til I know what has become of my poor man with 
the sticking-plaster upon his face." 

"I am all attention," said Sherlock Holmes. 

"This is Wednesday evening," said Mr. Melas. 
"Well then, it was Monday night — only two days 
ago, you understand — that all this happened. I 
am an interpreter, as perhaps my neighbor there 
has told you. I interpret all languages — or nearly 
all — but as I am a Greek by birth and with a Gre- 
cian name, it is with that particular tongue that I 
am principally associated. For many years I have 
been the chief Greek interpreter in London, and 
my name is very well known in the hotels. 

It happens not unfrequently that I am sent for 
at strange hours by foreigners who get into diffi- 
culties, or by travelers who arrive late and wish my 
services. I was not surprised, therefore, on Mon- 
day night when a Mr. Latimer, a very fashionably 
dressed young man, came up to my rooms and 
asked me to accompany him in a cab which was 
waiting at the door. A Greek friend had come to 
see him upon business, he said, and as he could 
speak nothing but his own tongue, the services of 
an interpreter were indispensable. He gave me to 
understand that his house was some little distance 
off, in Kensington, and he seemed to be in a great 
hurry, bustling me rapidly into the cab when we 
had descended to the street. 


"I say into the cab, but I soon became doubtful 
as to whether it was not a carriage in which I found 
myself. It was certainly more roomy than the ordi- 
nary four-wheeled disgrace to London, and the fit- 
tings, though frayed, were of rich quality. Mr. La- 
timer seated himself opposite to me and we started 
off through Charing Cross and up the Shaftesbury 
Avenue. We had come out upon Oxford Street and 
I had ventured some remark as to this being a 
roundabout way to Kensington, when my words 
were arrested by the extraordinary conduct of my 
companion. 

"He began by drawing a most formidable- 
looking bludgeon loaded with lead from his 
pocket, and switching it backward and forward 
several times, as if to test its weight and strength. 
Then he placed it without a word upon the seat 
beside him. Having done this, he drew up the 
windows on each side, and I found to my aston- 
ishment that they were covered with paper so as 
to prevent my seeing through them. 

" 'I am sorry to cut off your view, Mr. Melas/ 
said he. 'The fact is that I have no intention that 
you should see what the place is to which we are 
driving. It might possibly be inconvenient to me if 
you could find your way there again.' 

"As you can imagine, I was utterly taken aback 
by such an address. My companion was a pow- 
erful, broad-shouldered young fellow, and, apart 
from the weapon, I should not have had the slight- 
est chance in a struggle with him. 

" 'This is very extraordinary conduct, Mr. La- 
timer/ I stammered. 'You must be aware that what 
you are doing is quite illegal.' 

" 'It is somewhat of a liberty, no doubt/ said 
he, 'but we'll make it up to you. I must warn you, 
however, Mr. Melas, that if at any time to-night you 
attempt to raise an alarm or do anything which is 
against my interests, you will find it a very serious 
thing. I beg you to remember that no one knows 
where you are, and that, whether you are in this 
carriage or in my house, you are equally in my 
power.' 

"His words were quiet, but he had a rasping 
way of saying them which was very menacing. I 
sat in silence wondering what on earth could be 
his reason for kidnapping me in this extraordinary 
fashion. Whatever it might be, it was perfectly 
clear that there was no possible use in my resist- 
ing, and that I could only wait to see what might 
befall. 

"For nearly two hours we drove without my 
having the least clue as to where we were going. 


377 



The Greek Interpreter 


Sometimes the rattle of the stones told of a paved 
causeway, and at others our smooth, silent course 
suggested asphalt; but, save by this variation in 
sound, there was nothing at all which could in the 
remotest way help me to form a guess as to where 
we were. The paper over each window was im- 
penetrable to light, and a blue curtain was drawn 
across the glass work in front. It was a quarter- 
past seven when we left Pall Mall, and my watch 
showed me that it was ten minutes to nine when 
we at last came to a standstill. My companion let 
down the window, and I caught a glimpse of a 
low, arched doorway with a lamp burning above 
it. As I was hurried from the carriage it swung 
open, and I found myself inside the house, with a 
vague impression of a lawn and trees on each side 
of me as I entered. Whether these were private 
grounds, however, or bona-fide country was more 
than I could possibly venture to say. 

"There was a colored gas-lamp inside which 
was turned so low that I could see little save that 
the hall was of some size and hung with pictures. 
In the dim light I could make out that the per- 
son who had opened the door was a small, mean- 
looking, middle-aged man with rounded shoul- 
ders. As he turned towards us the glint of the light 
showed me that he was wearing glasses. 

" 'Is this Mr. Melas, Harold?' said he. 

" 'Yes.' 

" 'Well done, well done! No ill-will, Mr. Melas, 
I hope, but we could not get on without you. If 
you deal fair with us you'll not regret it, but if you 
try any tricks, God help you!' He spoke in a ner- 
vous, jerky fashion, and with little giggling laughs 
in between, but somehow he impressed me with 
fear more than the other. 

" 'What do you want with me?' I asked. 

" 'Only to ask a few questions of a Greek gen- 
tleman who is visiting us, and to let us have the 
answers. But say no more than you are told to say, 
or — ' here came the nervous giggle again — 'you 
had better never have been born.' 

"As he spoke he opened a door and showed 
the way into a room which appeared to be very 
richly furnished, but again the only light was af- 
forded by a single lamp half-turned down. The 
chamber was certainly large, and the way in which 
my feet sank into the carpet as I stepped across it 
told me of its richness. I caught glimpses of vel- 
vet chairs, a high white marble mantel-piece, and 
what seemed to be a suit of Japanese armor at one 
side of it. There was a chair just under the lamp, 
and the elderly man motioned that I should sit 


in it. The younger had left us, but he suddenly 
returned through another door, leading with him 
a gentleman clad in some sort of loose dressing- 
gown who moved slowly towards us. As he came 
into the circle of dim light which enables me to see 
him more clearly I was thrilled with horror at his 
appearance. He was deadly pale and terribly ema- 
ciated, with the protruding, brilliant eyes of a man 
whose spirit was greater than his strength. But 
what shocked me more than any signs of physical 
weakness was that his face was grotesquely criss- 
crossed with sticking-plaster, and that one large 
pad of it was fastened over his mouth. 

" 'Have you the slate, Harold?' cried the older 
man, as this strange being fell rather than sat down 
into a chair. 'Are his hands loose? Now, then, give 
him the pencil. You are to ask the questions, Mr. 
Melas, and he will write the answers. Ask him first 
of all whether he is prepared to sign the papers?' 

"The man's eyes flashed fire. 

" 'Never!' he wrote in Greek upon the slate. 

" 'On no condition?' I asked, at the bidding of 
our tyrant. 

" 'Only if I see her married in my presence by 
a Greek priest whom I know.' 

"The man giggled in his venomous way. 

" 'You know what awaits you, then?' 

" 'I care nothing for myself.' 

"These are samples of the questions and an- 
swers which made up our strange half-spoken, 
half-written conversation. Again and again I had 
to ask him whether he would give in and sign the 
documents. Again and again I had the same in- 
dignant reply. But soon a happy thought came to 
me. I took to adding on little sentences of my 
own to each question, innocent ones at first, to 
test whether either of our companions knew any- 
thing of the matter, and then, as I found that they 
showed no signs I played a more dangerous game. 
Our conversation ran something like this: 

" 'You can do no good by this obstinacy. Who 
are yon?' 

" 'I care not. I am a stranger in London.’ 

" 'Your fate will be upon your own head. Hozv 
long have yon been here?' 

" 'Let it be so. Three weeks.' 

" 'The property can never be yours. What ails 
you?’ 

" 'It shall not go to villains. They are starving 
me.’ 

" 'You shall go free if you sign. What house is 
this?’ 

" 'I will never sign. I do not know.’ 


378 



The Greek Interpreter 


" 'You are not doing her any service. What is 
your name?' 

" 'Let me hear her say so. Kratides.' 

" 'You shall see her if you sign. Where are you 
from?’ 

" 'Then I shall never see her. Athens.' 

"Another five minutes, Mr. Holmes, and I 
should have wormed out the whole story under 
their very noses. My very next question might 
have cleared the matter up, but at that instant the 
door opened and a woman stepped into the room. 
I could not see her clearly enough to know more 
than that she was tall and graceful, with black hair, 
and clad in some sort of loose white gown. 

" 'Harold/ said she, speaking English with a 
broken accent. 'I could not stay away longer. It is 
so lonely up there with only — Oh, my God, it is 
Paul!' 

"These last words were in Greek, and at the 
same instant the man with a convulsive effort tore 
the plaster from his lips, and screaming out 'So- 
phy! Sophy!' rushed into the woman's arms. Their 
embrace was but for an instant, however, for the 
younger man seized the woman and pushed her 
out of the room, while the elder easily overpow- 
ered his emaciated victim, and dragged him away 
through the other door. For a moment I was left 
alone in the room, and I sprang to my feet with 
some vague idea that I might in some way get 
a clue to what this house was in which I found 
myself. Fortunately, however, I took no steps, for 
looking up I saw that the older man was standing 
in the door-way with his eyes fixed upon me. 

" 'That will do, Mr. Melas,' said he. 'You 
perceive that we have taken you into our confi- 
dence over some very private business. We should 
not have troubled you, only that our friend who 
speaks Greek and who began these negotiations 
has been forced to return to the East. It was quite 
necessary for us to find some one to take his place, 
and we were fortunate in hearing of your powers.' 

"I bowed. 

" 'There are five sovereigns here,' said he, walk- 
ing up to me, 'which will, I hope, be a sufficient 
fee. But remember,' he added, tapping me lightly 
on the chest and giggling, 'if you speak to a human 
soul about this — one human soul, mind — well, 
may God have mercy upon your soul!' 

"I cannot tell you the loathing and horror with 
which this insignificant-looking man inspired me. 
I could see him better now as the lamp-light shone 
upon him. His features were peaky and sallow. 


and his little pointed beard was thready and ill- 
nourished. He pushed his face forward as he 
spoke and his lips and eyelids were continually 
twitching like a man with St. Vitus's dance. I 
could not help thinking that his strange, catchy 
little laugh was also a symptom of some nervous 
malady. The terror of his face lay in his eyes, how- 
ever, steel gray, and glistening coldly with a malig- 
nant, inexorable cruelty in their depths. 

" 'We shall know if you speak of this,' said he. 
'We have our own means of information. Now you 
will find the carriage waiting, and my friend will 
see you on your way.' 

"I was hurried through the hall and into the ve- 
hicle, again obtaining that momentary glimpse of 
trees and a garden. Mr. Latimer followed closely at 
my heels, and took his place opposite to me with- 
out a word. In silence we again drove for an inter- 
minable distance with the windows raised, until at 
last, just after midnight, the carriage pulled up. 

" 'You will get down here, Mr. Melas,' said my 
companion. 'I am sorry to leave you so far from 
your house, but there is no alternative. Any at- 
tempt upon your part to follow the carriage can 
only end in injury to yourself.' 

"He opened the door as he spoke, and I had 
hardly time to spring out when the coachman 
lashed the horse and the carriage rattled away. I 
looked around me in astonishment. I was on some 
sort of a heathy common mottled over with dark 
clumps of furze-bushes. Far away stretched a line 
of houses, with a light here and there in the upper 
windows. On the other side I saw the red signal- 
lamps of a railway. 

"The carriage which had brought me was al- 
ready out of sight. I stood gazing round and won- 
dering where on earth I might be, when I saw 
some one coming towards me in the darkness. As 
he came up to me I made out that he was a railway 
porter. 

" 'Can you tell me what place this is?' I asked. 

" 'Wandsworth Common,' said he. 

" 'Can I get a train into town?' 

" 'If you walk on a mile or so to Clapham Junc- 
tion,' said he, 'you'll just be in time for the last to 
Victoria.' 

"So that was the end of my adventure, Mr. 
Holmes. I do not know where I was, nor whom 
I spoke with, nor anything save what I have told 
you. But I know that there is foul play going on, 
and I want to help that unhappy man if I can. I 
told the whole story to Mr. Mycroft Holmes next 
morning, and subsequently to the police." 


379 



The Greek Interpreter 


We all sat in silence for some little time after lis- 
tening to this extraordinary narrative. Then Sher- 
lock looked across at his brother. 

"Any steps?" he asked. 

Mycroft picked up the Daily Nezvs, which was 
lying on the side-table. 

" Anybody supplying any information as 
to the whereabouts of a Greek gentleman 
named Paul Kratides, from Athens, who is 
unable to speak English, will be rewarded. 

A similar reward paid to any one giving 
information about a Greek lady ivhose first 
name is Sophy. X 2473. 

"That was in all the dailies. No answer." 

"How about the Greek Legation?" 

"I have inquired. They know nothing." 

"A wire to the head of the Athens police, 
then?" 

"Sherlock has all the energy of the family," said 
Mycroft, turning to me. "Well, you take the case 
up by all means, and let me know if you do any 
good." 

"Certainly," answered my friend, rising from 
his chair. " I'll let you know, and Mr. Melas also. In 
the meantime, Mr. Melas, I should certainly be on 
my guard, if I were you, for of course they must 
know through these advertisements that you have 
betrayed them." 

As we walked home together. Holmes stopped 
at a telegraph office and sent off several wires. 

"You see, Watson," he remarked, "our evening 
has been by no means wasted. Some of my most 
interesting cases have come to me in this way 
through Mycroft. The problem which we have just 
listened to, although it can admit of but one expla- 
nation, has still some distinguishing features." 

"You have hopes of solving it?" 

"Well, knowing as much as we do, it will be 
singular indeed if we fail to discover the rest. You 
must yourself have formed some theory which will 
explain the facts to which we have listened." 

"In a vague way, yes." 

"What was your idea, then?" 

"It seemed to me to be obvious that this Greek 
girl had been carried off by the young Englishman 
named Harold Latimer." 

"Carried off from where?" 

"Athens, perhaps." 

Sherlock Holmes shook his head. "This young 
man could not talk a word of Greek. The lady 
could talk English fairly well. Inference — that she 


had been in England some little time, but he had 
not been in Greece." 

"Well, then, we will presume that she had come 
on a visit to England, and that this Harold had per- 
suaded her to fly with him." 

"That is more probable." 

"Then the brother — for that, I fancy, must be 
the relationship — comes over from Greece to inter- 
fere. He imprudently puts himself into the power 
of the young man and his older associate. They 
seize him and use violence towards him in or- 
der to make him sign some papers to make over 
the girl's fortune — of which he may be trustee — to 
them. This he refuses to do. In order to negotiate 
with him they have to get an interpreter, and they 
pitch upon this Mr. Melas, having used some other 
one before. The girl is not told of the arrival of her 
brother, and finds it out by the merest accident." 

"Excellent, Watson!" cried Holmes. "I really 
fancy that you are not far from the truth. You see 
that we hold all the cards, and we have only to fear 
some sudden act of violence on their part. If they 
give us time we must have them." 

"But how can we find where this house lies?" 

"Well, if our conjecture is correct and the girl's 
name is or was Sophy Kratides, we should have 
no difficulty in tracing her. That must be our 
main hope, for the brother is, of course, a com- 
plete stranger. It is clear that some time has 
elapsed since this Harold established these rela- 
tions with the girl — some weeks, at any rate — since 
the brother in Greece has had time to hear of it and 
come across. If they have been living in the same 
place during this time, it is probable that we shall 
have some answer to Mycroft's advertisement." 

We had reached our house in Baker Street 
while we had been talking. Holmes ascended the 
stair first, and as he opened the door of our room 
he gave a start of surprise. Looking over his shoul- 
der, I was equally astonished. His brother Mycroft 
was sitting smoking in the arm-chair. 

"Come in, Sherlock! Come in, sir," said he 
blandly, smiling at our surprised faces. "You don't 
expect such energy from me, do you, Sherlock? 
But somehow this case attracts me." 

"How did you get here?" 

"I passed you in a hansom." 

"There has been some new development?" 

"I had an answer to my advertisement." 

"Ah!" 

"Yes, it came within a few minutes of your leav- 
ing." 


380 



The Greek Interpreter 


"And to what effect?" 

Mycroft Holmes took out a sheet of paper. 

"Here it is," said he, "written with a J pen on 
royal cream paper by a middle-aged man with a 
weak constitution. 

"Sir [he says]: 

"In answer to your advertisement of 
to-day's date, I beg to inform you that I 
know the young lady in question very 
well. If you should care to call upon 
me I could give you some particulars 
as to her painful history. She is living 
at present at The Myrtles, Beckenham. 

"Yours faithfully, 

"J. Davenport. 

"He writes from Lower Brixton," said Mycroft 
Holmes. "Do you not think that we might drive to 
him now, Sherlock, and learn these particulars?" 

"My dear Mycroft, the brother's life is more 
valuable than the sister's story. I think we should 
call at Scotland Yard for Inspector Gregson, and go 
straight out to Beckenham. We know that a man is 
being done to death, and every hour may be vital." 

"Better pick up Mr. Melas on our way," I sug- 
gested. "We may need an interpreter." 

"Excellent," said Sherlock Holmes. "Send the 
boy for a four-wheeler, and we shall be off at 
once." He opened the table-drawer as he spoke, 
and I noticed that he slipped his revolver into his 
pocket. "Yes," said he, in answer to my glance; "I 
should say from what we have heard, that we are 
dealing with a particularly dangerous gang." 

It was almost dark before we found ourselves 
in Pall Mall, at the rooms of Mr. Melas. A gentle- 
man had just called for him, and he was gone. 

"Can you tell me where?" asked Mycroft 
Holmes. 

"I don't know, sir," answered the woman who 
had opened the door; "I only know that he drove 
away with the gentleman in a carriage." 

"Did the gentleman give a name?" 

"No, sir." 

"He wasn't a tall, handsome, dark young 
man?" 

"Oh, no, sir. He was a little gentleman, with 
glasses, thin in the face, but very pleasant in his 
ways, for he was laughing al the time that he was 
talking." 

"Come along!" cried Sherlock Holmes, 
abruptly. "This grows serious," he observed, as 


we drove to Scotland Yard. "These men have got 
hold of Melas again. He is a man of no physical 
courage, as they are well aware from their experi- 
ence the other night. This villain was able to ter- 
rorize him the instant that he got into his presence. 
No doubt they want his professional services, but, 
having used him, they may be inclined to punish 
him for what they will regard as his treachery." 

Our hope was that, by taking train, we might 
get to Beckenham as soon or sooner than the car- 
riage. On reaching Scotland Yard, however, it was 
more than an hour before we could get Inspec- 
tor Gregson and comply with the legal formali- 
ties which would enable us to enter the house. It 
was a quarter to ten before we reached London 
Bridge, and half past before the four of us alighted 
on the Beckenham platform. A drive of half a mile 
brought us to The Myrtles — a large, dark house 
standing back from the road in its own grounds. 
Here we dismissed our cab, and made our way up 
the drive together. 

"The windows are all dark," remarked the in- 
spector. "The house seems deserted." 

"Our birds are flown and the nest empty," said 
Holmes. 

"Why do you say so?" 

"A carriage heavily loaded with luggage has 
passed out during the last hour." 

The inspector laughed. "I saw the wheel-tracks 
in the light of the gate-lamp, but where does the 
luggage come in?" 

"You may have observed the same wheel-tracks 
going the other way. But the outward-bound ones 
were very much deeper — so much so that we can 
say for a certainty that there was a very consider- 
able weight on the carriage." 

"You get a trifle beyond me there," said the in- 
spector, shrugging his shoulder. "It will not be an 
easy door to force, but we will try if we cannot 
make some one hear us." 

He hammered loudly at the knocker and pulled 
at the bell, but without any success. Holmes had 
slipped away, but he came back in a few minutes. 

"I have a window open," said he. 

"It is a mercy that you are on the side of the 
force, and not against it, Mr. Holmes," remarked 
the inspector, as he noted the clever way in which 
my friend had forced back the catch. "Well, I think 
that under the circumstances we may enter with- 
out an invitation." 

One after the other we made our way into 
a large apartment, which was evidently that in 


381 



The Greek Interpreter 


which Mr. Melas had found himself. The inspec- 
tor had lit his lantern, and by its light we could 
see the two doors, the curtain, the lamp, and the 
suit of Japanese mail as he had described them. On 
the table lay two glasses, and empty brandy-bottle, 
and the remains of a meal. 

"What is that?" asked Holmes, suddenly. 

We all stood still and listened. A low moan- 
ing sound was coming from somewhere over our 
heads. Holmes rushed to the door and out into 
the hall. The dismal noise came from upstairs. He 
dashed up, the inspector and I at his heels, while 
his brother Mycroft followed as quickly as his great 
bulk would permit. 

Three doors faced up upon the second floor, 
and it was from the central of these that the sinis- 
ter sounds were issuing, sinking sometimes into a 
dull mumble and rising again into a shrill whine. 
It was locked, but the key had been left on the out- 
side. Holmes flung open the door and rushed in, 
but he was out again in an instant, with his hand 
to his throat. 

"It's charcoal," he cried. "Give it time. It will 
clear." 

Peering in, we could see that the only light 
in the room came from a dull blue flame which 
flickered from a small brass tripod in the centre. 
It threw a livid, unnatural circle upon the floor, 
while in the shadows beyond we saw the vague 
loom of two figures which crouched against the 
wall. From the open door there reeked a horri- 
ble poisonous exhalation which set us gasping and 
coughing. Holmes rushed to the top of the stairs 
to draw in the fresh air, and then, dashing into 
the room, he threw up the window and hurled the 
brazen tripod out into the garden. 

"We can enter in a minute," he gasped, darting 
out again. "Where is a candle? I doubt if we could 
strike a match in that atmosphere. Hold the light 
at the door and we shall get them out, Mycroft, 
now!" 

With a rush we got to the poisoned men and 
dragged them out into the well-lit hall. Both 
of them were blue-lipped and insensible, with 
swollen, congested faces and protruding eyes. In- 
deed, so distorted were their features that, save for 
his black beard and stout figure, we might have 
failed to recognize in one of them the Greek inter- 
preter who had parted from us only a few hours 
before at the Diogenes Club. His hands and feet 
were securely strapped together, and he bore over 
one eye the marks of a violent blow. The other, 
who was secured in a similar fashion, was a tall 


man in the last stage of emaciation, with several 
strips of sticking-plaster arranged in a grotesque 
pattern over his face. He had ceased to moan as we 
laid him down, and a glance showed me that for 
him at least our aid had come too late. Mr. Melas, 
however, still lived, and in less than an hour, with 
the aid of ammonia and brandy I had the satisfac- 
tion of seeing him open his eyes, and of knowing 
that my hand had drawn him back from that dark 
valley in which all paths meet. 

It was a simple story which he had to tell, and 
one which did but confirm our own deductions. 
His visitor, on entering his rooms, had drawn 
a life-preserver from his sleeve, and had so im- 
pressed him with the fear of instant and inevitable 
death that he had kidnapped him for the second 
time. Indeed, it was almost mesmeric, the effect 
which this giggling ruffian had produced upon the 
unfortunate linguist, for he could not speak of him 
save with trembling hands and a blanched cheek. 
He had been taken swiftly to Beckenham, and had 
acted as interpreter in a second interview, even 
more dramatic than the first, in which the two En- 
glishmen had menaced their prisoner with instant 
death if he did not comply with their demands. Fi- 
nally, finding him proof against every threat, they 
had hurled him back into his prison, and after 
reproaching Melas with his treachery, which ap- 
peared from the newspaper advertisement, they 
had stunned him with a blow from a stick, and 
he remembered nothing more until he found us 
bending over him. 

And this was the singular case of the Grecian 
Interpreter, the explanation of which is still in- 
volved in some mystery. We were able to find 
out, by communicating with the gentleman who 
had answered the advertisement, that the unfortu- 
nate young lady came of a wealthy Grecian family, 
and that she had been on a visit to some friends 
in England. While there she had met a young man 
named Harold Latimer, who had acquired an as- 
cendancy over her and had eventually persuaded 
her to fly with him. Her friends, shocked at the 
event, had contented themselves with informing 
her brother at Athens, and had then washed their 
hands of the matter. The brother, on his arrival 
in England, had imprudently placed himself in 
the power of Latimer and of his associate, whose 
name was Wilson Kemp — a man of the foulest an- 
tecedents. These two, finding that through his ig- 
norance of the language he was helpless in their 
hands, had kept him a prisoner, and had endeav- 
ored by cruelty and starvation to make him sign 
away his own and his sister's property. They had 


382 



kept him in the house without the girl's knowl- 
edge, and the plaster over the face had been for the 
purpose of making recognition difficult in case she 
should ever catch a glimpse of him. Her feminine 
perception, however, had instantly seen through 
the disguise when, on the occasion of the inter- 
preter's visit, she had seen him for the first time. 
The poor girl, however, was herself a prisoner, 
for there was no one about the house except the 
man who acted as coachman, and his wife, both of 
whom were tools of the conspirators. Finding that 
their secret was out, and that their prisoner was 
not to be coerced, the two villains with the girl had 
fled away at a few hours' notice from the furnished 


house which they had hired, having first, as they 
thought, taken vengeance both upon the man who 
had defied and the one who had betrayed them. 

Months afterwards a curious newspaper cut- 
ting reached us from Buda-Pesth. It told how two 
Englishmen who had been traveling with a woman 
had met with a tragic end. They had each been 
stabbed, it seems, and the Hungarian police were 
of opinion that they had quarreled and had in- 
flicted mortal injuries upon each other. Holmes, 
however, is, I fancy, of a different way of thinking, 
and holds to this day that, if one could find the 
Grecian girl, one might learn how the wrongs of 
herself and her brother came to be avenged. 



Silver Blaze 


am afraid, Watson, that I shall have to 
go," said Holmes, as we sat down to- 
gether to our breakfast one morning. 

"Go! Where to?" 

"To Dartmoor; to King's Pyland." 

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Nor have I. But the telegraph posts upon this 
line are sixty yards apart, and the calculation is a 


simple one. I presume that you have looked into 
this matter of the murder of John Straker and the 
disappearance of Silver Blaze?" 

"I have seen what the Telegraph and the Chroni- 
cle have to say." 

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

"Tuesday evening!" I exclaimed. "And this is 
Thursday morning. Why didn't you go down yes- 
terday?" 

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

"You have formed a theory, then?" 

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

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




Silver Blaze 


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

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

"On that evening the horses had been exercised 
and watered as usual, and the stables were locked 
up at nine o'clock. Two of the lads walked up to 
the trainer 's house, where they had supper in the 
kitchen, while the third, Ned Hunter, remained 
on guard. At a few minutes after nine the maid, 
Edith Baxter, carried down to the stables his sup- 
per, which consisted of a dish of curried mutton. 
She took no liquid, as there was a water-tap in the 
stables, and it was the rule that the lad on duty 


should drink nothing else. The maid carried a 
lantern with her, as it was very dark and the path 
ran across the open moor. 

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

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

" 'You are close to the King's Pyland training- 
stables,' said she. 

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

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

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

" 'What business have you here?' asked the lad. 

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

" 'So, you're one of those damned touts!' cried 
the lad. 'I'll show you how we serve them in King's 
Pyland.' He sprang up and rushed across the sta- 
ble to unloose the dog. The girl fled away to the 
house, but as she ran she looked back and saw 


282 



Silver Blaze 


that the stranger was leaning through the window. 
A minute later, however, when Hunter rushed out 
with the hound he was gone, and though he ran 
all round the buildings he failed to find any trace 
of him." 

"One moment," I asked. "Did the stable-boy, 
when he ran out with the dog, leave the door un- 
locked behind him?" 

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

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

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

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


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

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

"Inspector Gregory, to whom the case has 
been committed, is an extremely competent officer. 
Were he but gifted with imagination he might rise 
to great heights in his profession. On his arrival 
he promptly found and arrested the man upon 
whom suspicion naturally rested. There was lit- 
tle difficulty in finding him, for he inhabited one 
of those villas which I have mentioned. His name, 
it appears, was Fitzroy Simpson. He was a man 
of excellent birth and education, who had squan- 
dered a fortune upon the turf, and who lived now 
by doing a little quiet and genteel book-making in 
the sporting clubs of London. An examination of 
his betting-book shows that bets to the amount of 
five thousand pounds had been registered by him 
against the favorite. On being arrested he volun- 
teered that statement that he had come down to 
Dartmoor in the hope of getting some information 


283 



Silver Blaze 


about the King's Pyland horses, and also about 
Desborough, the second favorite, which was in 
charge of Silas Brown at the Mapleton stables. He 
did not attempt to deny that he had acted as de- 
scribed upon the evening before, but declared that 
he had no sinister designs, and had simply wished 
to obtain first-hand information. When confronted 
with his cravat, he turned very pale, and was ut- 
terly unable to account for its presence in the hand 
of the murdered man. His wet clothing showed 
that he had been out in the storm of the night be- 
fore, and his stick, which was a Penang-lawyer 
weighted with lead, was just such a weapon as 
might, by repeated blows, have inflicted the ter- 
rible injuries to which the trainer had succumbed. 
On the other hand, there was no wound upon his 
person, while the state of Straker's knife would 
show that one at least of his assailants must bear 
his mark upon him. There you have it all in a nut- 
shell, Watson, and if you can give me any light I 
shall be infinitely obliged to you." 

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

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

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

"And yet," said I, "even now I fail to under- 
stand what the theory of the police can be." 

"I am afraid that whatever theory we state has 
very grave objections to it," returned my compan- 
ion. "The police imagine, I take it, that this Fitzroy 
Simpson, having drugged the lad, and having in 
some way obtained a duplicate key, opened the 
stable door and took out the horse, with the in- 
tention, apparently, of kidnapping him altogether. 
His bridle is missing, so that Simpson must have 
put this on. Then, having left the door open be- 
hind him, he was leading the horse away over the 
moor, when he was either met or overtaken by the 
trainer. A row naturally ensued. Simpson beat out 
the trainer's brains with his heavy stick without 
receiving any injury from the small knife which 
Straker used in self-defence, and then the thief ei- 
ther led the horse on to some secret hiding-place, 
or else it may have bolted during the struggle, and 
be now wandering out on the moors. That is the 


case as it appears to the police, and improbable as 
it is, all other explanations are more improbable 
still. However, I shall very quickly test the mat- 
ter when I am once upon the spot, and until then 
I cannot really see how we can get much further 
than our present position." 

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

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

"Have there been any fresh developments?" 
asked Holmes. 

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

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

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

"How about Straker's knife?" 

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

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


284 



Silver Blaze 


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

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

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

"What does he say about the cravat?" 

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

Holmes pricked up his ears. 

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

"It is certainly possible." 

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

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

"Yes, and that is a factor which we must cer- 
tainly not neglect. As Desborough, their horse, 
was second in the betting, they had an interest in 
the disappearance of the favorite. Silas Brown, the 
trainer, is known to have had large bets upon the 


event, and he was no friend to poor Straker. We 
have, however, examined the stables, and there is 
nothing to connect him with the affair. " 

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

"Nothing at all." 

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

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

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

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

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

"He has been in your service some years. 
Colonel Ross?" 

"I have always found him an excellent servant." 

"I presume that you made an inventory of what 
he had in this pockets at the time of his death. In- 
spector?" 

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

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


285 



Silver Blaze 


knife with a very delicate, inflexible blade marked 
Weiss & Co., London. 

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

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

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

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

"Very possible. How about these papers?" 

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

"Madam Derbyshire had somewhat expensive 
tastes," remarked Holmes, glancing down the ac- 
count. "Twenty-two guineas is rather heavy for a 
single costume. However there appears to be noth- 
ing more to learn, and we may now go down to the 
scene of the crime." 

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

"Have you got them? Have you found them?" 
she panted. 

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

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

"No, sir; you are mistaken." 

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


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

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

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

"None; but very heavy rain." 

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

"Yes, it was laid across the bush." 

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

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

"Excellent." 

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

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

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

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

"What! You expected to find it?" 

"I thought it not unlikely." 

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

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

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


286 



Silver Blaze 


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

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

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

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

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

"Where is he, then?" 

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

We had been walking briskly during this con- 
versation, and a few more minutes brought us 


to the hollow in question. At Holmes' request I 
walked down the bank to the right, and he to the 
left, but I had not taken fifty paces before I heard 
him give a shout, and saw him waving his hand to 
me. The track of a horse was plainly outlined in 
the soft earth in front of him, and the shoe which 
he took from his pocket exactly fitted the impres- 
sion. 

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

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

"The horse was alone before," I cried. 

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

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

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

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

"We don't want any loiterers about here," said 
he. 

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

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

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


287 



Silver Blaze 


"What's this, Dawson!" he cried. "No gossip- 
ing! Go about your business! And you, what the 
devil do you want here?" 

"Ten minutes' talk with you, my good sir," said 
Holmes in the sweetest of voices. 

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

Holmes leaned forward and whispered some- 
thing in the trainer's ear. He started violently and 
flushed to the temples. 

"It's a lie!" he shouted, "an infernal lie!" 

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

"Oh, come in if you wish to." 

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

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

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

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

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

Holmes thought a little and then burst out 
laughing. "No, don't," said he; "I shall write to 
you about it. No tricks, now, or — " 

"Oh, you can trust me, you can trust me!" 

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

"A more perfect compound of the bully, cow- 
ard, and sneak than Master Silas Brown I have sel- 
dom met with," remarked Holmes as we trudged 
along together. 

"He has the horse, then?" 

"He tried to bluster out of it, but I described to 
him so exactly what his actions had been upon that 
morning that he is convinced that I was watching 


him. Of course you observed the peculiarly square 
toes in the impressions, and that his own boots ex- 
actly corresponded to them. Again, of course no 
subordinate would have dared to do such a thing. 
I described to him how, when according to his cus- 
tom he was the first down, he perceived a strange 
horse wandering over the moor. How he went out 
to it, and his astonishment at recognizing, from 
the white forehead which has given the favorite its 
name, that chance had put in his power the only 
horse which could beat the one upon which he had 
put his money. Then I described how his first im- 
pulse had been to lead him back to King's Pyland, 
and how the devil had shown him how he could 
hide the horse until the race was over, and how 
he had led it back and concealed it at Mapleton. 
When I told him every detail he gave it up and 
thought only of saving his own skin." 

"But his stables had been searched?" 

"Oh, and old horse-fakir like him has many a 
dodge." 

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

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

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

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

"Certainly not without your permission." 

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

"And you will devote yourself to that?" 

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

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


288 



Silver Blaze 


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"I do, sir." 

"Have you noticed anything amiss with them 
of late?" 

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

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

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

Colonel Ross still wore an expression which 
showed the poor opinion which he had formed 


of my companion's ability, but I saw by the In- 
spector's face that his attention had been keenly 
aroused. 

"You consider that to be important?" he asked. 

"Exceedingly so." 

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

"To the curious incident of the dog in the night- 
time." 

"The dog did nothing in the night-time." 

"That was the curious incident," remarked 
Sherlock Holmes. 

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

"I have seen nothing of my horse," said he. 

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

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

"How is the betting?" 

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

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

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

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

1. Mr. Heath Newton's The Negro. Red cap. 
Cinnamon jacket. 

2. Colonel Wardlaw's Pugilist. Pink cap. Blue 
and black jacket. 

3. Lord Backwater's Desborough. Yellow cap 
and sleeves. 

4. Colonel Ross's Silver Blaze. Black cap. Red 
jacket. 

5. Duke of Balmoral's Iris. Yellow and black 
stripes. 

6. Lord Singleford's Rasper. Purple cap. Black 
sleeves. 


289 



Silver Blaze 


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

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

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

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

"Only five have passed. This must be he." 

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

"That's not my horse," cried the owner. "That 
beast has not a white hair upon its body. What is 
this that you have done, Mr. Fiolmes?" 

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

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

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

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

"You take my breath away!" 

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


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

"I have done so," said Holmes quietly. 

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

"He is here." 

"Here! Where?" 

"In my company at the present moment." 

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

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

"The horse!" cried both the Colonel and myself. 

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

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

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

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


290 



Silver Blaze 


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

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

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

"And they did so. You cannot have forgotten 
the singular knife which was found in the dead 
man's hand, a knife which certainly no sane man 
would choose for a weapon. It was, as Dr. Wat- 
son told us, a form of knife which is used for the 
most delicate operations known in surgery. And it 
was to be used for a delicate operation that night. 
You must know, with your wide experience of turf 
matters. Colonel Ross, that it is possible to make 


a slight nick upon the tendons of a horse's ham, 
and to do it subcutaneously, so as to leave abso- 
lutely no trace. A horse so treated would develop 
a slight lameness, which would be put down to 
a strain in exercise or a touch of rheumatism, but 
never to foul play." 

"Villain! Scoundrel!" cried the Colonel. 

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

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

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

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

"Wonderful!" cried the Colonel. "Wonderful! 
You might have been there!" 

"My final shot was, I confess a very long one. 
It struck me that so astute a man as Straker would 
not undertake this delicate tendon-nicking with- 
out a little practice. What could he practice on? 


291 



My eyes fell upon the sheep, and I asked a ques- 
tion which, rather to my surprise, showed that my 
surmise was correct. 

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


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

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



The Adventure of the Noble Bachelor 


he Lord St. Simon marriage, and its cu- 
rious termination, have long ceased to 
be a subject of interest in those exalted 
circles in which the unfortunate bride- 
groom moves. Fresh scandals have eclipsed it, and 
their more piquant details have drawn the gos- 
sips away from this four-year-old drama. As I 
have reason to believe, however, that the full facts 
have never been revealed to the general public, and 
as my friend Sherlock Holmes had a considerable 
share in clearing the matter up, I feel that no mem- 
oir of him would be complete without some little 
sketch of this remarkable episode. 

It was a few weeks before my own marriage, 
during the days when I was still sharing rooms 
with Holmes in Baker Street, that he came home 
from an afternoon stroll to find a letter on the table 
waiting for him. I had remained indoors all day, 
for the weather had taken a sudden turn to rain, 
with high autumnal winds, and the Jezail bullet 
which I had brought back in one of my limbs as a 
relic of my Afghan campaign throbbed with dull 
persistence. With my body in one easy-chair and 
my legs upon another, I had surrounded myself 
with a cloud of newspapers until at last, saturated 
with the news of the day, I tossed them all aside 
and lay listless, watching the huge crest and mono- 
gram upon the envelope upon the table and won- 
dering lazily who my friend's noble correspondent 
could be. 

"Here is a very fashionable epistle," I remarked 
as he entered. "Your morning letters, if I remem- 
ber right, were from a fish-monger and a tide- 
waiter." 

"Yes, my correspondence has certainly the 
charm of variety," he answered, smiling, "and the 
humbler are usually the more interesting. This 
looks like one of those unwelcome social sum- 
monses which call upon a man either to be bored 
or to lie." 

He broke the seal and glanced over the con- 
tents. 

"Oh, come, it may prove to be something of in- 
terest, after all." 

"Not social, then?" 

"No, distinctly professional." 

"And from a noble client?" 

"One of the highest in England." 

"My dear fellow, I congratulate you." 

"I assure you, Watson, without affectation, that 
the status of my client is a matter of less moment 
to me than the interest of his case. It is just possi- 
ble, however, that that also may not be wanting in 



this new investigation. You have been reading the 
papers diligently of late, have you not?" 

"It looks like it," said I ruefully, pointing to a 
huge bundle in the corner. "I have had nothing 
else to do." 

"It is fortunate, for you will perhaps be able 
to post me up. I read nothing except the criminal 
news and the agony column. The latter is always 
instructive. But if you have followed recent events 
so closely you must have read about Lord St. Si- 
mon and his wedding?" 

"Oh, yes, with the deepest interest." 

"That is well. The letter which I hold in my 
hand is from Lord St. Simon. I will read it to you, 
and in return you must turn over these papers and 
let me have whatever bears upon the matter. This 
is what he says: 

" 'My dear Mr. Sherlock Holmes: 

" 'Lord Backwater tells me that I may 
place implicit reliance upon your judg- 
ment and discretion. I have deter- 
mined, therefore, to call upon you and 
to consult you in reference to the very 
painful event which has occurred in 
connection with my wedding. Mr. 
Lestrade, of Scotland Yard, is acting 
already in the matter, but he assures 
me that he sees no objection to your 
co-operation, and that he even thinks 
that it might be of some assistance. I 
will call at four o'clock in the after- 
noon, and, should you have any other 
engagement at that time, I hope that 
you will postpone it, as this matter is 
of paramount importance. 

" 'Yours faithfully, 

" 'St. Simon.' 

"It is dated from Grosvenor Mansions, written 
with a quill pen, and the noble lord has had the 
misfortune to get a smear of ink upon the outer 
side of his right little finger," remarked Holmes as 
he folded up the epistle. 

"He says four o'clock. It is three now. He will 
be here in an hour." 

"Then I have just time, with your assistance, 
to get clear upon the subject. Turn over those 
papers and arrange the extracts in their order of 
time, while I take a glance as to who our client 
is." He picked a red-covered volume from a line of 
books of reference beside the mantelpiece. "Here 
he is," said he, sitting down and flattening it out 
upon his knee. " 'Lord Robert Walsingham de Vere 


239 



The Adventure of the Noble Bachelor 


St. Simon, second son of the Duke of Balmoral.' 
Hum! 'Arms: Azure, three caltrops in chief over 
a fess sable. Born in 1846.' He's forty-one years 
of age, which is mature for marriage. Was Under- 
secretary for the colonies in a late administration. 
The Duke, his father, was at one time Secretary for 
Foreign Affairs. They inherit Plantagenet blood by 
direct descent, and Tudor on the distaff side. Ha! 
Well, there is nothing very instructive in all this. 
I think that I must turn to you Watson, for some- 
thing more solid." 

"I have very little difficulty in finding what I 
want," said I, "for the facts are quite recent, and 
the matter struck me as remarkable. I feared to re- 
fer them to you, however, as I knew that you had 
an inquiry on hand and that you disliked the in- 
trusion of other matters." 

"Oh, you mean the little problem of the 
Grosvenor Square furniture van. That is quite 
cleared up now — though, indeed, it was obvious 
from the first. Pray give me the results of your 
newspaper selections." 

"Here is the first notice which I can find. It is 
in the personal column of the Morning Post, and 
dates, as you see, some weeks back: 

"'A marriage has been arranged [it says] 
and will, if rumour is correct, very shortly 
take place, between Lord Robert St. Simon, 
second son of the Duke of Balmoral, and 
Miss Hatty Doran, the only daughter of 
Aloysius Doran. Esq., of San Francisco, 

Cal., U.S.A.' 

That is all." 

"Terse and to the point," remarked Holmes, 
stretching his long, thin legs towards the fire. 

"There was a paragraph amplifying this in one 
of the society papers of the same week. Ah, here it 
is: 

" ‘There zvill soon be a call for protection 
in the marriage market, for the present 
free-trade principle appears to tell heavily 
against our home product. One by one the 
management of the noble houses of Great 
Britain is passing into the hands of our 
fair cousins from across the Atlantic. An 
important addition has been made during 
the last week to the list of the prizes which 
have been borne away by these charming 
invaders. Lord St. Simon, who has shown 
himself for over twenty years proof against 
the little god's arrows, has now definitely 
announced his approaching marriage with 


Miss Hatty Doran, the fascinating daugh- 
ter of a California millionaire. Miss Do- 
ran, whose graceful figure and striking face 
attracted much attention at the Westbury 
House festivities, is an only child, and it is 
currently reported that her doivry will run 
to considerably over the six figures, with 
expectancies for the future. As it is an open 
secret that the Duke of Balmoral has been 
compelled to sell his pictures within the last 
few years, and as Lord St. Simon has no 
property of his own save the small estate 
of Birchmoor, it is obvious that the Califor- 
nian heiress is not the only gainer by an 
alliance which will enable her to make the 
easy and common transition from a Repub- 
lican lady to a British peeress.' " 

"Anything else?" asked Holmes, yawning. 

"Oh, yes; plenty. Then there is another note in 
the Morning Post to say that the marriage would 
be an absolutely quiet one, that it would be at St. 
George's, Hanover Square, that only half a dozen 
intimate friends would be invited, and that the 
party would return to the furnished house at Lan- 
caster Gate which has been taken by Mr. Aloysius 
Doran. Two days later — that is, on Wednesday 
last — there is a curt announcement that the wed- 
ding had taken place, and that the honeymoon 
would be passed at Lord Backwater's place, near 
Petersfield. Those are all the notices which ap- 
peared before the disappearance of the bride." 

"Before the what?" asked Holmes with a start. 

"The vanishing of the lady." 

"When did she vanish, then?" 

"At the wedding breakfast." 

"Indeed. This is more interesting than it 
promised to be; quite dramatic, in fact." 

"Yes; it struck me as being a little out of the 
common." 

"They often vanish before the ceremony, and 
occasionally during the honeymoon; but I cannot 
call to mind anything quite so prompt as this. Pray 
let me have the details." 

"I warn you that they are very incomplete." 

"Perhaps we may make them less so." 

"Such as they are, they are set forth in a sin- 
gle article of a morning paper of yesterday, which 
I will read to you. It is headed, 'Singular Occur- 
rence at a Fashionable Wedding': 


240 



The Adventure of the Noble Bachelor 


" 'The family of Lord Robert St. Simon has 
been throivn into the greatest consterna- 
tion by the strange and painful episodes 
which have taken place in connection with 
his ivedding. The ceremony, as shortly 
announced in the papers of yesterday, oc- 
curred on the previous morning; but it is 
only now that it has been possible to con- 
firm the strange rumours ivhich have been 
so persistently floating about. In spite of 
the attempts of the friends to hush the mat- 
ter up, so much public attention has now 
been drawn to it that no good purpose can 
be served by affecting to disregard what is 
a common subject for conversation. 

" 'The ceremony, which was performed at 
St. George's, Hanover Square, was a very 
quiet one, no one being present save the 
father of the bride, Mr. Aloysius Doran, 
the Duchess of Balmoral, Lord Backwater, 
Lord Eustace and Lady Clara St. Simon 
(the younger brother and sister of the bride- 
groom), and Lady Alicia Whittington. The 
whole party proceeded afterwards to the 
house of Mr. Aloysius Doran, at Lancaster 
Gate, where breakfast had been prepared. It 
appears that some little trouble was caused 
by a woman, zvhose name has not been 
ascertained, who endeavoured to force her 
way into the house after the bridal party, 
alleging that she had some claim upon Lord 
St. Simon. It was only after a painful 
and prolonged scene that she was ejected 
by the butler and the footman. The bride, 
who had fortunately entered the house be- 
fore this unpleasant interruption, had sat 
doivn to breakfast with the rest, when she 
complained of a sudden indisposition and 
retired to her room. Her prolonged absence 
having caused some comment, her father 
followed her, but learned from her maid that 
she had only come up to her chamber for 
an instant, caught up an idster and bon- 
net, and hurried doivn to the passage. One 
of the footmen declared that he had seen a 
lady leave the house thus apparelled, but 
had refused to credit that it was his mis- 
tress, believing her to be with the com- 
pany. On ascertaining that his daughter 
had disappeared, Mr. Aloysius Doran, in 
conjunction with the bridegroom, instantly 
put themselves in communication with the 
police, and very energetic inquiries are be- 
ing made, ivhich will probably residt in 
a speedy clearing up of this very singu- 


lar business. Up to a late hour last night, 
however, nothing had transpired as to the 
whereabouts of the missing lady. There are 
rumours of foul play in the matter, and it is 
said that the police have caused the arrest of 
the woman who had caused the original dis- 
turbance, in the belief that, from jealousy or 
some other motive, she may have been con- 
cerned in the strange disappearance of the 
bride.' " 

"And is that all?" 

"Only one little item in another of the morning 
papers, but it is a suggestive one." 

"And it is — " 

"That Miss Flora Millar, the lady who had 
caused the disturbance, has actually been arrested. 
It appears that she was formerly a danseuse at the 
Allegro, and that she has known the bridegroom 
for some years. There are no further particulars, 
and the whole case is in your hands now — so far 
as it has been set forth in the public press." 

"And an exceedingly interesting case it appears 
to be. I would not have missed it for worlds. But 
there is a ring at the bell, Watson, and as the clock 
makes it a few minutes after four, I have no doubt 
that this will prove to be our noble client. Do not 
dream of going, Watson, for I very much prefer 
having a witness, if only as a check to my own 
memory." 

"Lord Robert St. Simon," announced our page- 
boy, throwing open the door. A gentleman en- 
tered, with a pleasant, cultured face, high-nosed 
and pale, with something perhaps of petulance 
about the mouth, and with the steady, well-opened 
eye of a man whose pleasant lot it had ever been 
to command and to be obeyed. His manner was 
brisk, and yet his general appearance gave an un- 
due impression of age, for he had a slight for- 
ward stoop and a little bend of the knees as he 
walked. His hair, too, as he swept off his very 
curly-brimmed hat, was grizzled round the edges 
and thin upon the top. As to his dress, it was care- 
ful to the verge of foppishness, with high collar, 
black frock-coat, white waistcoat, yellow gloves, 
patent-leather shoes, and light-coloured gaiters. 
He advanced slowly into the room, turning his 
head from left to right, and swinging in his right 
hand the cord which held his golden eyeglasses. 

"Good-day, Lord St. Simon," said Holmes, ris- 
ing and bowing. "Pray take the basket-chair. This 
is my friend and colleague. Dr. Watson. Draw up a 
little to the fire, and we will talk this matter over." 


241 



The Adventure of the Noble Bachelor 


"A most painful matter to me, as you can most 
readily imagine, Mr. Holmes. I have been cut to the 
quick. I understand that you have already man- 
aged several delicate cases of this sort, sir, though 
I presume that they were hardly from the same 
class of society." 

"No, I am descending." 

"I beg pardon." 

"My last client of the sort was a king." 

"Oh, really! I had no idea. And which king?" 

"The King of Scandinavia." 

"What! Had he lost his wife?" 

"You can understand," said Holmes suavely, 
"that I extend to the affairs of my other clients the 
same secrecy which I promise to you in yours." 

"Of course! Very right! very right! I'm sure 
I beg pardon. As to my own case, I am ready to 
give you any information which may assist you in 
forming an opinion." 

"Thank you. I have already learned all that is 
in the public prints, nothing more. I presume that 
I may take it as correct — this article, for example, 
as to the disappearance of the bride." 

Lord St. Simon glanced over it. "Yes, it is cor- 
rect, as far as it goes." 

"But it needs a great deal of supplementing be- 
fore anyone could offer an opinion. I think that I 
may arrive at my facts most directly by question- 
ing you." 

"Pray do so." 

"When did you first meet Miss Hatty Doran?" 

"In San Francisco, a year ago." 

"You were travelling in the States?" 

"Yes." 

"Did you become engaged then?" 

"No." 

"But you were on a friendly footing?" 

"I was amused by her society, and she could 
see that I was amused." 

"Her father is very rich?" 

"He is said to be the richest man on the Pacific 
slope." 

"And how did he make his money?" 

"In mining. He had nothing a few years ago. 
Then he struck gold, invested it, and came up by 
leaps and bounds." 

"Now, what is your own impression as to the 
young lady's — your wife's character?" 


The nobleman swung his glasses a little faster 
and stared down into the fire. "You see, Mr. 
Holmes," said he, "my wife was twenty before her 
father became a rich man. During that time she 
ran free in a mining camp and wandered through 
woods or mountains, so that her education has 
come from Nature rather than from the schoolmas- 
ter. She is what we call in England a tomboy, with 
a strong nature, wild and free, unfettered by any 
sort of traditions. She is impetuous — volcanic, I 
was about to say. She is swift in making up her 
mind and fearless in carrying out her resolutions. 
On the other hand, I would not have given her the 
name which I have the honour to bear" — he gave 
a little stately cough — "had not I thought her to 
be at bottom a noble woman. I believe that she 
is capable of heroic self-sacrifice and that anything 
dishonourable would be repugnant to her." 

"Have you her photograph?" 

"I brought this with me." He opened a locket 
and showed us the full face of a very lovely 
woman. It was not a photograph but an ivory 
miniature, and the artist had brought out the full 
effect of the lustrous black hair, the large dark 
eyes, and the exquisite mouth. Holmes gazed long 
and earnestly at it. Then he closed the locket and 
handed it back to Lord St. Simon. 

"The young lady came to London, then, and 
you renewed your acquaintance?" 

"Yes, her father brought her over for this last 
London season. I met her several times, became 
engaged to her, and have now married her." 

"She brought, I understand, a considerable 
dowry?" 

"A fair dowry. Not more than is usual in my 
family." 

"And this, of course, remains to you, since the 
marriage is a fait accompli?" 

"I really have made no inquiries on the sub- 
ject." 

"Very naturally not. Did you see Miss Doran 
on the day before the wedding?" 

"Yes." 

"Was she in good spirits?" 

"Never better. She kept talking of what we 
should do in our future lives." 

"Indeed! That is very interesting. And on the 
morning of the wedding?" 

"She was as bright as possible — at least until 
after the ceremony." 

"And did you observe any change in her then?" 

"Well, to tell the truth, I saw then the first signs 
that I had ever seen that her temper was just a lit- 
tle sharp. The incident however, was too trivial to 


242 



The Adventure of the Noble Bachelor 


relate and can have no possible bearing upon the 
case." 

"Pray let us have it, for all that." 

"Oh, it is childish. She dropped her bouquet 
as we went towards the vestry. She was passing 
the front pew at the time, and it fell over into 
the pew. There was a moment's delay, but the 
gentleman in the pew handed it up to her again, 
and it did not appear to be the worse for the fall. 
Yet when I spoke to her of the matter, she an- 
swered me abruptly; and in the carriage, on our 
way home, she seemed absurdly agitated over this 
trifling cause." 

"Indeed! You say that there was a gentleman in 
the pew. Some of the general public were present, 
then?" 

"Oh, yes. It is impossible to exclude them when 
the church is open." 

"This gentleman was not one of your wife's 
friends?" 

"No, no; I call him a gentleman by courtesy, but 
he was quite a common-looking person. I hardly 
noticed his appearance. But really I think that we 
are wandering rather far from the point." 

"Lady St. Simon, then, returned from the wed- 
ding in a less cheerful frame of mind than she had 
gone to it. What did she do on re-entering her fa- 
ther's house?" 

"I saw her in conversation with her maid." 

"And who is her maid?" 

"Alice is her name. She is an American and 
came from California with her." 

"A confidential servant?" 

"A little too much so. It seemed to me that her 
mistress allowed her to take great liberties. Still, of 
course, in America they look upon these things in 
a different way." 

"How long did she speak to this Alice?" 

"Oh, a few minutes. I had something else to 
think of." 

"You did not overhear what they said?" 

"Lady St. Simon said something about 'jump- 
ing a claim.' She was accustomed to use slang of 
the kind. I have no idea what she meant." 

"American slang is very expressive sometimes. 
And what did your wife do when she finished 
speaking to her maid?" 

"She walked into the breakfast-room." 

"On your arm?" 


"No, alone. She was very independent in lit- 
tle matters like that. Then, after we had sat down 
for ten minutes or so, she rose hurriedly, muttered 
some words of apology, and left the room. She 
never came back." 

"But this maid, Alice, as I understand, deposes 
that she went to her room, covered her bride's 
dress with a long ulster, put on a bonnet, and went 
out." 

"Quite so. And she was afterwards seen walk- 
ing into Hyde Park in company with Flora Millar, 
a woman who is now in custody, and who had 
already made a disturbance at Mr. Doran's house 
that morning." 

"Ah, yes. I should like a few particulars as to 
this young lady, and your relations to her." 

Lord St. Simon shrugged his shoulders and 
raised his eyebrows. "We have been on a friendly 
footing for some years — I may say on a very 
friendly footing. She used to be at the Allegro. I 
have not treated her ungenerously, and she had no 
just cause of complaint against me, but you know 
what women are, Mr. Holmes. Flora was a dear 
little thing, but exceedingly hot-headed and devot- 
edly attached to me. She wrote me dreadful letters 
when she heard that I was about to be married, 
and, to tell the truth, the reason why I had the 
marriage celebrated so quietly was that I feared 
lest there might be a scandal in the church. She 
came to Mr. Doran's door just after we returned, 
and she endeavoured to push her way in, utter- 
ing very abusive expressions towards my wife, and 
even threatening her, but I had foreseen the possi- 
bility of something of the sort, and I had two police 
fellows there in private clothes, who soon pushed 
her out again. She was quiet when she saw that 
there was no good in making a row." 

"Did your wife hear all this?" 

"No, thank goodness, she did not." 

"And she was seen walking with this very 
woman afterwards?" 

"Yes. That is what Mr. Lestrade, of Scotland 
Yard, looks upon as so serious. It is thought that 
Flora decoyed my wife out and laid some terrible 
trap for her." 

"Well, it is a possible supposition." 

"You think so, too?" 

"I did not say a probable one. But you do not 
yourself look upon this as likely?" 

"I do not think Flora would hurt a fly." 


243 



The Adventure of the Noble Bachelor 


"Still, jealousy is a strange transformer of char- 
acters. Pray what is your own theory as to what 
took place?" 

"Well, really, I came to seek a theory, not to 
propound one. I have given you all the facts. Since 
you ask me, however, I may say that it has occurred 
to me as possible that the excitement of this affair, 
the consciousness that she had made so immense 
a social stride, had the effect of causing some little 
nervous disturbance in my wife." 

"In short, that she had become suddenly de- 
ranged?" 

"Well, really, when I consider that she has 
turned her back — I will not say upon me, but upon 
so much that many have aspired to without suc- 
cess — I can hardly explain it in any other fashion." 

"Well, certainly that is also a conceivable hy- 
pothesis," said Holmes, smiling. "And now. Lord 
St. Simon, I think that I have nearly all my 
data. May I ask whether you were seated at the 
breakfast-table so that you could see out of the 
window?" 

"We could see the other side of the road and 
the Park." 

"Quite so. Then I do not think that I need to 
detain you longer. I shall communicate with you." 

"Should you be fortunate enough to solve this 
problem," said our client, rising. 

"I have solved it." 

"Eh? What was that?" 

"I say that I have solved it." 

"Where, then, is my wife?" 

"That is a detail which I shall speedily supply." 

Lord St. Simon shook his head. "I am 
afraid that it will take wiser heads than yours or 
mine," he remarked, and bowing in a stately, old- 
fashioned manner he departed. 

"It is very good of Lord St. Simon to honour my 
head by putting it on a level with his own," said 
Sherlock Holmes, laughing. "I think that I shall 
have a whisky and soda and a cigar after all this 
cross-questioning. I had formed my conclusions as 
to the case before our client came into the room." 

"My dear Holmes!" 

"I have notes of several similar cases, though 
none, as I remarked before, which were quite as 
prompt. My whole examination served to turn 
my conjecture into a certainty. Circumstantial ev- 
idence is occasionally very convincing, as when 
you find a trout in the milk, to quote Thoreau's 
example." 


"But I have heard all that you have heard." 

"Without, however, the knowledge of pre- 
existing cases which serves me so well. There was 
a parallel instance in Aberdeen some years back, 
and something on very much the same lines at 
Munich the year after the Franco-Prussian War. It 
is one of these cases — but, hullo, here is Lestrade! 
Good-afternoon, Lestrade! You will find an extra 
tumbler upon the sideboard, and there are cigars 
in the box." 

The official detective was attired in a pea-jacket 
and cravat, which gave him a decidedly nautical 
appearance, and he carried a black canvas bag in 
his hand. With a short greeting he seated himself 
and lit the cigar which had been offered to him. 

"What's up, then?" asked Holmes with a twin- 
kle in his eye. "You look dissatisfied." 

"And I feel dissatisfied. It is this infernal St. 
Simon marriage case. I can make neither head nor 
tail of the business." 

"Really! You surprise me." 

"Who ever heard of such a mixed affair? Every 
clue seems to slip through my fingers. I have been 
at work upon it all day." 

"And very wet it seems to have made you," 
said Holmes laying his hand upon the arm of the 
pea-jacket. 

"Yes, I have been dragging the Serpentine." 

"In heaven's name, what for?" 

"In search of the body of Lady St. Simon." 

Sherlock Holmes leaned back in his chair and 
laughed heartily. 

"Have you dragged the basin of Trafalgar 
Square fountain?" he asked. 

"Why? What do you mean?" 

"Because you have just as good a chance of 
finding this lady in the one as in the other." 

Lestrade shot an angry glance at my compan- 
ion. "I suppose you know all about it," he snarled. 

"Well, I have only just heard the facts, but my 
mind is made up." 

"Oh, indeed! Then you think that the Serpen- 
tine plays no part in the matter?" 

"I think it very unlikely." 

"Then perhaps you will kindly explain how it 
is that we found this in it?" He opened his bag as 
he spoke, and tumbled onto the floor a wedding- 
dress of watered silk, a pair of white satin shoes 
and a bride's wreath and veil, all discoloured and 
soaked in water. "There," said he, putting a new 
wedding-ring upon the top of the pile. "There is a 
little nut for you to crack. Master Holmes." 


244 



The Adventure of the Noble Bachelor 


"Oh, indeed!" said my friend, blowing blue 
rings into the air. "You dragged them from the 
Serpentine?" 

"No. They were found floating near the mar- 
gin by a park-keeper. They have been identified as 
her clothes, and it seemed to me that if the clothes 
were there the body would not be far off." 

"By the same brilliant reasoning, every man's 
body is to be found in the neighbourhood of his 
wardrobe. And pray what did you hope to arrive 
at through this?" 

"At some evidence implicating Flora Millar in 
the disappearance." 

"I am afraid that you will find it difficult." 

"Are you, indeed, now?" cried Lestrade with 
some bitterness. "I am afraid. Holmes, that you 
are not very practical with your deductions and 
your inferences. You have made two blunders in 
as many minutes. This dress does implicate Miss 
Flora Millar." 

"And how?" 

"In the dress is a pocket. In the pocket is a 
card-case. In the card-case is a note. And here is 
the very note." He slapped it down upon the table 
in front of him. "Listen to this: 


" 'You will see me when all is ready. 
Come at once. 


" 'F.H.M.' 


Now my theory all along has been that Lady St. 
Simon was decoyed away by Flora Millar, and that 
she, with confederates, no doubt, was responsible 
for her disappearance. Here, signed with her ini- 
tials, is the very note which was no doubt quietly 
slipped into her hand at the door and which lured 
her within their reach." 

"Very good, Lestrade," said Holmes, laughing. 
"You really are very fine indeed. Let me see it." He 
took up the paper in a listless way, but his attention 
instantly became riveted, and he gave a little cry of 
satisfaction. "This is indeed important," said he. 

"Ha! you find it so?" 

"Extremely so. I congratulate you warmly." 

Lestrade rose in his triumph and bent his head 
to look. "Why," he shrieked, "you're looking at the 
wrong side!" 

"On the contrary, this is the right side." 

"The right side? You're mad! Here is the note 
written in pencil over here." 

"And over here is what appears to be the frag- 
ment of a hotel bill, which interests me deeply." 

"There's nothing in it. I looked at it before," 
said Lestrade. 


" 'Oct. 4th, rooms 8s., breakfast 2s. 

6d., cocktail is., lunch 2s. 6d., glass 
sherry, 8d.' I see nothing in that." 

"Very likely not. It is most important, all the 
same. As to the note, it is important also, or at 
least the initials are, so I congratulate you again." 

"I've wasted time enough," said Lestrade, ris- 
ing. "I believe in hard work and not in sitting 
by the fire spinning fine theories. Good-day, Mr. 
Holmes, and we shall see which gets to the bottom 
of the matter first." He gathered up the garments, 
thrust them into the bag, and made for the door. 

"Just one hint to you, Lestrade," drawled 
Holmes before his rival vanished; "I will tell you 
the true solution of the matter. Lady St. Simon is a 
myth. There is not, and there never has been, any 
such person." 

Lestrade looked sadly at my companion. Then 
he turned to me, tapped his forehead three times, 
shook his head solemnly, and hurried away. 

He had hardly shut the door behind him when 
Holmes rose to put on his overcoat. "There is 
something in what the fellow says about outdoor 
work," he remarked, "so I think, Watson, that I 
must leave you to your papers for a little." 

It was after five o'clock when Sherlock Holmes 
left me, but I had no time to be lonely, for within 
an hour there arrived a confectioner's man with a 
very large flat box. This he unpacked with the help 
of a youth whom he had brought with him, and 
presently, to my very great astonishment, a quite 
epicurean little cold supper began to be laid out 
upon our humble lodging-house mahogany. There 
were a couple of brace of cold woodcock, a pheas- 
ant, a pate de foie gras pie with a group of ancient 
and cobwebby bottles. Having laid out all these 
luxuries, my two visitors vanished away, like the 
genii of the Arabian Nights, with no explanation 
save that the things had been paid for and were 
ordered to this address. 

Just before nine o'clock Sherlock Holmes 
stepped briskly into the room. His features were 
gravely set, but there was a light in his eye which 
made me think that he had not been disappointed 
in his conclusions. 

"They have laid the supper, then," he said, rub- 
bing his hands. 

"You seem to expect company. They have laid 
for five." 

"Yes, I fancy we may have some company drop- 
ping in," said he. "I am surprised that Lord St. 


245 



The Adventure of the Noble Bachelor 


Simon has not already arrived. Ha! I fancy that I 
hear his step now upon the stairs." 

It was indeed our visitor of the afternoon who 
came bustling in, dangling his glasses more vigor- 
ously than ever, and with a very perturbed expres- 
sion upon his aristocratic features. 

"My messenger reached you, then?" asked 
Holmes. 

"Yes, and I confess that the contents startled 
me beyond measure. Have you good authority for 
what you say?" 

"The best possible." 

Lord St. Simon sank into a chair and passed his 
hand over his forehead. 

"What will the Duke say," he murmured, 
"when he hears that one of the family has been 
subjected to such humiliation?" 

"It is the purest accident. I cannot allow that 
there is any humiliation." 

"Ah, you look on these things from another 
standpoint." 

"I fail to see that anyone is to blame. I can 
hardly see how the lady could have acted other- 
wise, though her abrupt method of doing it was 
undoubtedly to be regretted. Having no mother, 
she had no one to advise her at such a crisis." 

"It was a slight, sir, a public slight," said Lord 
St. Simon, tapping his fingers upon the table. 

"You must make allowance for this poor girl, 
placed in so unprecedented a position." 

"I will make no allowance. I am very angry 
indeed, and I have been shamefully used." 

"I think that I heard a ring," said Holmes. "Yes, 
there are steps on the landing. If I cannot persuade 
you to take a lenient view of the matter. Lord St. 
Simon, I have brought an advocate here who may 
be more successful." He opened the door and ush- 
ered in a lady and gentleman. "Lord St. Simon," 
said he "allow me to introduce you to Mr. and Mrs. 
Francis Hay Moulton. The lady, I think, you have 
already met." 

At the sight of these newcomers our client had 
sprung from his seat and stood very erect, with his 
eyes cast down and his hand thrust into the breast 
of his frock-coat, a picture of offended dignity. The 
lady had taken a quick step forward and had held 
out her hand to him, but he still refused to raise 
his eyes. It was as well for his resolution, perhaps, 
for her pleading face was one which it was hard to 
resist. 

"You're angry, Robert," said she. "Well, I guess 
you have every cause to be." 


"Pray make no apology to me," said Lord St. 
Simon bitterly. 

"Oh, yes, I know that I have treated you real 
bad and that I should have spoken to you before I 
went; but I was kind of rattled, and from the time 
when I saw Frank here again I just didn't know 
what I was doing or saying. I only wonder I didn't 
fall down and do a faint right there before the al- 
tar." 

"Perhaps, Mrs. Moulton, you would like my 
friend and me to leave the room while you explain 
this matter?" 

"If I may give an opinion," remarked the 
strange gentleman, "we've had just a little too 
much secrecy over this business already. For my 
part, I should like all Europe and America to hear 
the rights of it." He was a small, wiry, sunburnt 
man, clean-shaven, with a sharp face and alert 
manner. 

"Then I'll tell our story right away," said the 
lady. "Frank here and I met in '84, in McQuire's 
camp, near the Rockies, where pa was working 
a claim. We were engaged to each other, Frank 
and I; but then one day father struck a rich pocket 
and made a pile, while poor Frank here had a 
claim that petered out and came to nothing. The 
richer pa grew the poorer was Frank; so at last 
pa wouldn't hear of our engagement lasting any 
longer, and he took me away to 'Frisco. Frank 
wouldn't throw up his hand, though; so he fol- 
lowed me there, and he saw me without pa know- 
ing anything about it. It would only have made 
him mad to know, so we just fixed it all up for 
ourselves. Frank said that he would go and make 
his pile, too, and never come back to claim me un- 
til he had as much as pa. So then I promised to 
wait for him to the end of time and pledged my- 
self not to marry anyone else while he lived. 'Why 
shouldn't we be married right away, then/ said he, 
'and then I will feel sure of you; and I won't claim 
to be your husband until I come back?' Well, we 
talked it over, and he had fixed it all up so nicely, 
with a clergyman all ready in waiting, that we just 
did it right there; and then Frank went off to seek 
his fortune, and I went back to pa. 

"The next I heard of Frank was that he was 
in Montana, and then he went prospecting in Ari- 
zona, and then I heard of him from New Mexico. 
After that came a long newspaper story about how 
a miners' camp had been attacked by Apache In- 
dians, and there was my Frank's name among the 
killed. I fainted dead away, and I was very sick 
for months after. Pa thought I had a decline and 
took me to half the doctors in 'Frisco. Not a word 


246 



The Adventure of the Noble Bachelor 


of news came for a year and more, so that I never 
doubted that Frank was really dead. Then Lord St. 
Simon came to 'Frisco, and we came to London, 
and a marriage was arranged, and pa was very 
pleased, but I felt all the time that no man on this 
earth would ever take the place in my heart that 
had been given to my poor Frank. 

"Still, if I had married Lord St. Simon, of course 
I'd have done my duty by him. We can't command 
our love, but we can our actions. I went to the al- 
tar with him with the intention to make him just 
as good a wife as it was in me to be. But you may 
imagine what I felt when, just as I came to the al- 
tar rails, I glanced back and saw Frank standing 
and looking at me out of the first pew. I thought 
it was his ghost at first; but when I looked again 
there he was still, with a kind of question in his 
eyes, as if to ask me whether I were glad or sorry 
to see him. I wonder I didn't drop. I know that ev- 
erything was turning round, and the words of the 
clergyman were just like the buzz of a bee in my 
ear. I didn't know what to do. Should I stop the 
service and make a scene in the church? I glanced 
at him again, and he seemed to know what I was 
thinking, for he raised his finger to his lips to tell 
me to be still. Then I saw him scribble on a piece of 
paper, and I knew that he was writing me a note. 
As I passed his pew on the way out I dropped my 
bouquet over to him, and he slipped the note into 
my hand when he returned me the flowers. It was 
only a line asking me to join him when he made 
the sign to me to do so. Of course I never doubted 
for a moment that my first duty was now to him, 
and I determined to do just whatever he might di- 
rect. 

"When I got back I told my maid, who had 
known him in California, and had always been his 
friend. I ordered her to say nothing, but to get a 
few things packed and my ulster ready. I know I 
ought to have spoken to Lord St. Simon, but it was 
dreadful hard before his mother and all those great 
people. I just made up my mind to run away and 
explain afterwards. I hadn't been at the table ten 
minutes before I saw Frank out of the window at 
the other side of the road. Fie beckoned to me and 
then began walking into the Park. I slipped out, 
put on my things, and followed him. Some woman 
came talking something or other about Lord St. Si- 
mon to me — seemed to me from the little I heard 
as if he had a little secret of his own before mar- 
riage also — but I managed to get away from her 
and soon overtook Frank. We got into a cab to- 
gether, and away we drove to some lodgings he 
had taken in Gordon Square, and that was my true 
wedding after all those years of waiting. Frank had 


been a prisoner among the Apaches, had escaped, 
came on to 'Frisco, found that I had given him up 
for dead and had gone to England, followed me 
there, and had come upon me at last on the very 
morning of my second wedding." 

"I saw it in a paper," explained the American. 
"It gave the name and the church but not where 
the lady lived." 

"Then we had a talk as to what we should 
do, and Frank was all for openness, but I was so 
ashamed of it all that I felt as if I should like to van- 
ish away and never see any of them again — just 
sending a line to pa, perhaps, to show him that 
I was alive. It was awful to me to think of all 
those lords and ladies sitting round that breakfast- 
table and waiting for me to come back. So Frank 
took my wedding-clothes and things and made a 
bundle of them, so that I should not be traced, 
and dropped them away somewhere where no one 
could find them. It is likely that we should have 
gone on to Paris to-morrow, only that this good 
gentleman, Mr. Flolmes, came round to us this 
evening, though how he found us is more than 
I can think, and he showed us very clearly and 
kindly that I was wrong and that Frank was right, 
and that we should be putting ourselves in the 
wrong if we were so secret. Then he offered to give 
us a chance of talking to Lord St. Simon alone, and 
so we came right away round to his rooms at once. 
Now, Robert, you have heard it all, and I am very 
sorry if I have given you pain, and I hope that you 
do not think very meanly of me." 

Lord St. Simon had by no means relaxed his 
rigid attitude, but had listened with a frowning 
brow and a compressed lip to this long narrative. 

"Excuse me," he said, "but it is not my custom 
to discuss my most intimate personal affairs in this 
public manner." 

"Then you won't forgive me? You won't shake 
hands before I go?" 

"Oh, certainly, if it would give you any plea- 
sure." Fie put out his hand and coldly grasped that 
which she extended to him. 

"I had hoped," suggested Flolmes, "that you 
would have joined us in a friendly supper." 

"I think that there you ask a little too much," 
responded his Lordship. "I may be forced to acqui- 
esce in these recent developments, but I can hardly 
be expected to make merry over them. I think that 
with your permission I will now wish you all a 
very good-night." Fie included us all in a sweep- 
ing bow and stalked out of the room. 


247 



"Then I trust that you at least will honour me 
with your company," said Sherlock Holmes. "It is 
always a joy to meet an American, Mr. Moulton, 
for I am one of those who believe that the folly 
of a monarch and the blundering of a minister in 
far-gone years will not prevent our children from 
being some day citizens of the same world-wide 
country under a flag which shall be a quartering 
of the Union Jack with the Stars and Stripes." 

"The case has been an interesting one," re- 
marked Holmes when our visitors had left us, "be- 
cause it serves to show very clearly how simple the 
explanation may be of an affair which at first sight 
seems to be almost inexplicable. Nothing could be 
more natural than the sequence of events as nar- 
rated by this lady, and nothing stranger than the 
result when viewed, for instance, by Mr. Lestrade 
of Scotland Yard." 

"You were not yourself at fault at all, then?" 

"From the first, two facts were very obvious 
to me, the one that the lady had been quite will- 
ing to undergo the wedding ceremony, the other 
that she had repented of it within a few minutes 
of returning home. Obviously something had oc- 
curred during the morning, then, to cause her to 
change her mind. What could that something be? 
She could not have spoken to anyone when she 
was out, for she had been in the company of the 
bridegroom. Had she seen someone, then? If she 
had, it must be someone from America because 
she had spent so short a time in this country that 
she could hardly have allowed anyone to acquire 
so deep an influence over her that the mere sight of 
him would induce her to change her plans so com- 
pletely. You see we have already arrived, by a pro- 
cess of exclusion, at the idea that she might have 
seen an American. Then who could this American 
be, and why should he possess so much influence 
over her? It might be a lover; it might be a hus- 
band. Her young womanhood had, I knew, been 
spent in rough scenes and under strange condi- 
tions. So far I had got before I ever heard Lord 
St. Simon's narrative. When he told us of a man 
in a pew, of the change in the bride's manner, of 
so transparent a device for obtaining a note as the 
dropping of a bouquet, of her resort to her confi- 
dential maid, and of her very significant allusion to 


claim-jumping — which in miners' parlance means 
taking possession of that which another person has 
a prior claim to — the whole situation became ab- 
solutely clear. She had gone off with a man, and 
the man was either a lover or was a previous hus- 
band — the chances being in favour of the latter." 

"And how in the world did you find them?" 

"It might have been difficult, but friend 
Lestrade held information in his hands the value 
of which he did not himself know. The initials 
were, of course, of the highest importance, but 
more valuable still was it to know that within a 
week he had settled his bill at one of the most se- 
lect London hotels." 

"How did you deduce the select?" 

"By the select prices. Eight shillings for a bed 
and eightpence for a glass of sherry pointed to one 
of the most expensive hotels. There are not many 
in London which charge at that rate. In the sec- 
ond one which I visited in Northumberland Av- 
enue, I learned by an inspection of the book that 
Francis H. Moulton, an American gentleman, had 
left only the day before, and on looking over the 
entries against him, I came upon the very items 
which I had seen in the duplicate bill. His let- 
ters were to be forwarded to 226 Gordon Square; 
so thither I travelled, and being fortunate enough 
to find the loving couple at home, I ventured to 
give them some paternal advice and to point out 
to them that it would be better in every way that 
they should make their position a little clearer both 
to the general public and to Lord St. Simon in par- 
ticular. I invited them to meet him here, and, as 
you see, I made him keep the appointment." 

"But with no very good result," I remarked. 
"His conduct was certainly not very gracious." 

"Ah, Watson," said Holmes, smiling, "perhaps 
you would not be very gracious either, if, after all 
the trouble of wooing and wedding, you found 
yourself deprived in an instant of wife and of for- 
tune. I think that we may judge Lord St. Simon 
very mercifully and thank our stars that we are 
never likely to find ourselves in the same position. 
Draw your chair up and hand me my violin, for 
the only problem we have still to solve is how to 
while away these bleak autumnal evenings." 



A Case of Identity 


S y dear fellow," said Sherlock Holmes 
as we sat on either side of the fire in 
his lodgings at Baker Street, "life is in- 
finitely stranger than anything which 
the mind of man could invent. We would not 
dare to conceive the things which are really mere 
commonplaces of existence. If we could fly out of 
that window hand in hand, hover over this great 
city, gently remove the roofs, and peep in at the 
queer things which are going on, the strange co- 
incidences, the plannings, the cross-purposes, the 
wonderful chains of events, working through gen- 
erations, and leading to the most outre results, it 
would make all fiction with its conventionalities 
and foreseen conclusions most stale and unprof- 
itable." 

"And yet I am not convinced of it," I answered. 
"The cases which come to light in the papers are, 
as a rule, bald enough, and vulgar enough. We 
have in our police reports realism pushed to its ex- 
treme limits, and yet the result is, it must be con- 
fessed, neither fascinating nor artistic." 

"A certain selection and discretion must be 
used in producing a realistic effect," remarked 
Holmes. "This is wanting in the police report, 
where more stress is laid, perhaps, upon the plat- 
itudes of the magistrate than upon the details, 
which to an observer contain the vital essence of 
the whole matter. Depend upon it, there is noth- 
ing so unnatural as the commonplace." 

I smiled and shook my head. "I can quite un- 
derstand your thinking so." I said. "Of course, in 
your position of unofficial adviser and helper to 
everybody who is absolutely puzzled, throughout 
three continents, you are brought in contact with 
all that is strange and bizarre. But here" — I picked 
up the morning paper from the ground — "let us 
put it to a practical test. Here is the first heading 
upon which I come. 'A husband's cruelty to his 
wife.' There is half a column of print, but I know 
without reading it that it is all perfectly familiar 
to me. There is, of course, the other woman, the 
drink, the push, the blow, the bruise, the sympa- 
thetic sister or landlady. The crudest of writers 
could invent nothing more crude." 

"Indeed, your example is an unfortunate one 
for your argument," said Holmes, taking the pa- 
per and glancing his eye down it. "This is the 
Dundas separation case, and, as it happens, I was 
engaged in clearing up some small points in con- 
nection with it. The husband was a teetotaler, there 
was no other woman, and the conduct complained 
of was that he had drifted into the habit of wind- 
ing up every meal by taking out his false teeth and 


hurling them at his wife, which, you will allow, is 
not an action likely to occur to the imagination of 
the average story-teller. Take a pinch of snuff. Doc- 
tor, and acknowledge that I have scored over you 
in your example." 

He held out his snuffbox of old gold, with a 
great amethyst in the centre of the lid. Its splen- 
dour was in such contrast to his homely ways and 
simple life that I could not help commenting upon 
it. 

"Ah," said he, "I forgot that I had not seen you 
for some weeks. It is a little souvenir from the King 
of Bohemia in return for my assistance in the case 
of the Irene Adler papers." 

"And the ring?" I asked, glancing at a remark- 
able brilliant which sparkled upon his finger. 

"It was from the reigning family of Holland, 
though the matter in which I served them was of 
such delicacy that I cannot confide it even to you, 
who have been good enough to chronicle one or 
two of my little problems." 

"And have you any on hand just now?" I asked 
with interest. 

"Some ten or twelve, but none which present 
any feature of interest. They are important, you 
understand, without being interesting. Indeed, I 
have found that it is usually in unimportant mat- 
ters that there is a field for the observation, and for 
the quick analysis of cause and effect which gives 
the charm to an investigation. The larger crimes 
are apt to be the simpler, for the bigger the crime 
the more obvious, as a rule, is the motive. In these 
cases, save for one rather intricate matter which 
has been referred to me from Marseilles, there is 
nothing which presents any features of interest. It 
is possible, however, that I may have something 
better before very many minutes are over, for this 
is one of my clients, or I am much mistaken." 

He had risen from his chair and was standing 
between the parted blinds gazing down into the 
dull neutral-tinted London street. Looking over 
his shoulder, I saw that on the pavement opposite 
there stood a large woman with a heavy fur boa 
round her neck, and a large curling red feather 
in a broad-brimmed hat which was tilted in a co- 
quettish Duchess of Devonshire fashion over her 
ear. From under this great panoply she peeped up 
in a nervous, hesitating fashion at our windows, 
while her body oscillated backward and forward, 
and her fingers fidgeted with her glove buttons. 
Suddenly, with a plunge, as of the swimmer who 
leaves the bank, she hurried across the road, and 
we heard the sharp clang of the bell. 


1 5 1 



A Case of Identity 


"I have seen those symptoms before," said 
Holmes, throwing his cigarette into the fire. "Os- 
cillation upon the pavement always means an af- 
faire de coenr. She would like advice, but is not 
sure that the matter is not too delicate for commu- 
nication. And yet even here we may discriminate. 
When a woman has been seriously wronged by a 
man she no longer oscillates, and the usual symp- 
tom is a broken bell wire. Here we may take it that 
there is a love matter, but that the maiden is not so 
much angry as perplexed, or grieved. But here she 
comes in person to resolve our doubts." 

As he spoke there was a tap at the door, and 
the boy in buttons entered to announce Miss Mary 
Sutherland, while the lady herself loomed behind 
his small black figure like a full-sailed merchant- 
man behind a tiny pilot boat. Sherlock Holmes 
welcomed her with the easy courtesy for which he 
was remarkable, and, having closed the door and 
bowed her into an armchair, he looked her over in 
the minute and yet abstracted fashion which was 
peculiar to him. 

"Do you not find," he said, "that with your 
short sight it is a little trying to do so much type- 
writing?" 

"I did at first," she answered, "but now I know 
where the letters are without looking." Then, sud- 
denly realising the full purport of his words, she 
gave a violent start and looked up, with fear and 
astonishment upon her broad, good-humoured 
face. "You've heard about me, Mr. Holmes," she 
cried, "else how could you know all that?" 

"Never mind," said Holmes, laughing; "it is 
my business to know things. Perhaps I have 
trained myself to see what others overlook. If not, 
why should you come to consult me?" 

"I came to you, sir, because I heard of you from 
Mrs. Etherege, whose husband you found so easy 
when the police and everyone had given him up 
for dead. Oh, Mr. Holmes, I wish you would do as 
much for me. I'm not rich, but still I have a hun- 
dred a year in my own right, besides the little that 
I make by the machine, and I would give it all to 
know what has become of Mr. Hosmer Angel." 

"Why did you come away to consult me in such 
a hurry?" asked Sherlock Holmes, with his finger- 
tips together and his eyes to the ceiling. 

Again a startled look came over the some- 
what vacuous face of Miss Mary Sutherland. "Yes, 
I did bang out of the house," she said, "for it 
made me angry to see the easy way in which Mr. 
Windibank — that is, my father — took it all. He 
would not go to the police, and he would not go 


to you, and so at last, as he would do nothing and 
kept on saying that there was no harm done, it 
made me mad, and I just on with my things and 
came right away to you." 

"Your father," said Holmes, "your stepfather, 
surely, since the name is different." 

"Yes, my stepfather. I call him father, though 
it sounds funny, too, for he is only five years and 
two months older than myself." 

"And your mother is alive?" 

"Oh, yes, mother is alive and well. I wasn't 
best pleased, Mr. Holmes, when she married again 
so soon after father's death, and a man who was 
nearly fifteen years younger than herself. Father 
was a plumber in the Tottenham Court Road, and 
he left a tidy business behind him, which mother 
carried on with Mr. Hardy, the foreman; but when 
Mr. Windibank came he made her sell the busi- 
ness, for he was very superior, being a traveller in 
wines. They got £4700 for the goodwill and in- 
terest, which wasn't near as much as father could 
have got if he had been alive." 

I had expected to see Sherlock Holmes impa- 
tient under this rambling and inconsequential nar- 
rative, but, on the contrary, he had listened with 
the greatest concentration of attention. 

"Your own little income," he asked, "does it 
come out of the business?" 

"Oh, no, sir. It is quite separate and was left 
me by my uncle Ned in Auckland. It is in New 
Zealand stock, paying \ \ per cent. Two thousand 
five hundred pounds was the amount, but I can 
only touch the interest." 

"You interest me extremely," said Holmes. 
"And since you draw so large a sum as a hun- 
dred a year, with what you earn into the bargain, 
you no doubt travel a little and indulge yourself in 
every way. I believe that a single lady can get on 
very nicely upon an income of about £60." 

"I could do with much less than that, Mr. 
Holmes, but you understand that as long as I live 
at home I don't wish to be a burden to them, and 
so they have the use of the money just while I am 
staying with them. Of course, that is only just for 
the time. Mr. Windibank draws my interest every 
quarter and pays it over to mother, and I find that I 
can do pretty well with what I earn at typewriting. 
It brings me twopence a sheet, and I can often do 
from fifteen to twenty sheets in a day." 

"You have made your position very clear to 
me," said Holmes. "This is my friend. Dr. Watson, 
before whom you can speak as freely as before my- 
self. Kindly tell us now all about your connection 
with Mr. Hosmer Angel." 


1 5 2 



A Case of Identity 


A flush stole over Miss Sutherland's face, and 
she picked nervously at the fringe of her jacket. 
"I met him first at the gasfitters' ball," she said. 
"They used to send father tickets when he was 
alive, and then afterwards they remembered us, 
and sent them to mother. Mr. Windibank did not 
wish us to go. He never did wish us to go any- 
where. He would get quite mad if I wanted so 
much as to join a Sunday-school treat. But this 
time I was set on going, and I would go; for what 
right had he to prevent? He said the folk were not 
fit for us to know, when all father's friends were 
to be there. And he said that I had nothing fit to 
wear, when I had my purple plush that I had never 
so much as taken out of the drawer. At last, when 
nothing else would do, he went off to France upon 
the business of the firm, but we went, mother and 
I, with Mr. Hardy, who used to be our foreman, 
and it was there I met Mr. Hosmer Angel." 

"I suppose," said Holmes, "that when Mr. 
Windibank came back from France he was very an- 
noyed at your having gone to the ball." 

"Oh, well, he was very good about it. He 
laughed, I remember, and shrugged his shoulders, 
and said there was no use denying anything to a 
woman, for she would have her way." 

"I see. Then at the gasfitters' ball you met, as 
I understand, a gentleman called Mr. Hosmer An- 
gel." 

"Yes, sir. I met him that night, and he called 
next day to ask if we had got home all safe, and af- 
ter that we met him — that is to say, Mr. Holmes, I 
met him twice for walks, but after that father came 
back again, and Mr. Hosmer Angel could not come 
to the house any more." 

"No?" 

"Well, you know father didn't like anything of 
the sort. He wouldn't have any visitors if he could 
help it, and he used to say that a woman should be 
happy in her own family circle. But then, as I used 
to say to mother, a woman wants her own circle to 
begin with, and I had not got mine yet." 

"But how about Mr. Hosmer Angel? Did he 
make no attempt to see you?" 

"Well, father was going off to France again in 
a week, and Hosmer wrote and said that it would 
be safer and better not to see each other until he 
had gone. We could write in the meantime, and he 
used to write every day. I took the letters in in the 
morning, so there was no need for father to know." 

"Were you engaged to the gentleman at this 
time?" 


"Oh, yes, Mr. Holmes. We were engaged af- 
ter the first walk that we took. Hosmer — Mr. 
Angel — was a cashier in an office in Leadenhall 
Street — and — " 

"What office?" 

"That's the worst of it, Mr. Holmes, I don't 
know." 

"Where did he live, then?" 

"He slept on the premises." 

"And you don't know his address?" 

"No — except that it was Leadenhall Street." 

"Where did you address your letters, then?" 

"To the Leadenhall Street Post Office, to be left 
till called for. He said that if they were sent to 
the office he would be chaffed by all the other 
clerks about having letters from a lady, so I of- 
fered to typewrite them, like he did his, but he 
wouldn't have that, for he said that when I wrote 
them they seemed to come from me, but when 
they were typewritten he always felt that the ma- 
chine had come between us. That will just show 
you how fond he was of me, Mr. Holmes, and the 
little things that he would think of." 

"It was most suggestive," said Holmes. "It has 
long been an axiom of mine that the little things 
are infinitely the most important. Can you remem- 
ber any other little things about Mr. Hosmer An- 
gel?" 

"He was a very shy man, Mr. Holmes. He 
would rather walk with me in the evening than 
in the daylight, for he said that he hated to be con- 
spicuous. Very retiring and gentlemanly he was. 
Even his voice was gentle. He'd had the quinsy 
and swollen glands when he was young, he told 
me, and it had left him with a weak throat, and a 
hesitating, whispering fashion of speech. He was 
always well dressed, very neat and plain, but his 
eyes were weak, just as mine are, and he wore 
tinted glasses against the glare." 

"Well, and what happened when Mr. 
Windibank, your stepfather, returned to France?" 

"Mr. Hosmer Angel came to the house again 
and proposed that we should marry before father 
came back. He was in dreadful earnest and made 
me swear, with my hands on the Testament, that 
whatever happened I would always be true to him. 
Mother said he was quite right to make me swear, 
and that it was a sign of his passion. Mother was 
all in his favour from the first and was even fonder 
of him than I was. Then, when they talked of mar- 
rying within the week, I began to ask about fa- 
ther; but they both said never to mind about fa- 
ther, but just to tell him afterwards, and mother 


153 



A Case of Identity 


said she would make it all right with him. I didn't 
quite like that, Mr. Holmes. It seemed funny that 
I should ask his leave, as he was only a few years 
older than me; but I didn't want to do anything on 
the sly, so I wrote to father at Bordeaux, where the 
company has its French offices, but the letter came 
back to me on the very morning of the wedding." 

"It missed him, then?" 

"Yes, sir; for he had started to England just be- 
fore it arrived." 

"Ha! that was unfortunate. Your wedding was 
arranged, then, for the Friday. Was it to be in 
church?" 

"Yes, sir, but very quietly. It was to be at St. 
Saviour's, near King's Cross, and we were to have 
breakfast afterwards at the St. Pancras Hotel. Hos- 
mer came for us in a hansom, but as there were 
two of us he put us both into it and stepped him- 
self into a four-wheeler, which happened to be 
the only other cab in the street. We got to the 
church first, and when the four-wheeler drove up 
we waited for him to step out, but he never did, 
and when the cabman got down from the box and 
looked there was no one there! The cabman said 
that he could not imagine what had become of 
him, for he had seen him get in with his own eyes. 
That was last Friday, Mr. Holmes, and I have never 
seen or heard anything since then to throw any 
light upon what became of him." 

"It seems to me that you have been very shame- 
fully treated," said Holmes. 

"Oh, no, sir! He was too good and kind to 
leave me so. Why, all the morning he was saying to 
me that, whatever happened, I was to be true; and 
that even if something quite unforeseen occurred 
to separate us, I was always to remember that I 
was pledged to him, and that he would claim his 
pledge sooner or later. It seemed strange talk for 
a wedding-morning, but what has happened since 
gives a meaning to it." 

"Most certainly it does. Your own opinion is, 
then, that some unforeseen catastrophe has oc- 
curred to him?" 

"Yes, sir. I believe that he foresaw some dan- 
ger, or else he would not have talked so. And then 
I think that what he foresaw happened." 

"But you have no notion as to what it could 
have been?" 

"None." 

"One more question. How did your mother 
take the matter?" 


"She was angry, and said that I was never to 
speak of the matter again." 

"And your father? Did you tell him?" 

"Yes; and he seemed to think, with me, that 
something had happened, and that I should hear 
of Hosmer again. As he said, what interest could 
anyone have in bringing me to the doors of the 
church, and then leaving me? Now, if he had bor- 
rowed my money, or if he had married me and got 
my money settled on him, there might be some 
reason, but Hosmer was very independent about 
money and never would look at a shilling of mine. 
And yet, what could have happened? And why 
could he not write? Oh, it drives me half-mad to 
think of it, and I can't sleep a wink at night." She 
pulled a little handkerchief out of her muff and 
began to sob heavily into it. 

"I shall glance into the case for you," said 
Holmes, rising, "and I have no doubt that we shall 
reach some definite result. Let the weight of the 
matter rest upon me now, and do not let your mind 
dwell upon it further. Above all, try to let Mr. Hos- 
mer Angel vanish from your memory, as he has 
done from your life." 

"Then you don't think I'll see him again?" 

"I fear not." 

"Then what has happened to him?" 

"You will leave that question in my hands. I 
should like an accurate description of him and any 
letters of his which you can spare." 

"I advertised for him in last Saturday's Chron- 
icle," said she. "Here is the slip and here are four 
letters from him." 

"Thank you. And your address?" 

"No. 31 Lyon Place, Camberwell." 

"Mr. Angel's address you never had, I under- 
stand. Where is your father's place of business?" 

"He travels for Westhouse & Marbank, the 
great claret importers of Fenchurch Street." 

"Thank you. You have made your statement 
very clearly. You will leave the papers here, and 
remember the advice which I have given you. Let 
the whole incident be a sealed book, and do not 
allow it to affect your life." 

"You are very kind, Mr. Holmes, but I cannot 
do that. I shall be true to Hosmer. He shall find 
me ready when he comes back." 

For all the preposterous hat and the vacuous 
face, there was something noble in the simple faith 
of our visitor which compelled our respect. She 
laid her little bundle of papers upon the table and 


154 



A Case of Identity 


went her way, with a promise to come again when- 
ever she might be summoned. 

Sherlock Holmes sat silent for a few minutes 
with his fingertips still pressed together, his legs 
stretched out in front of him, and his gaze directed 
upward to the ceiling. Then he took down from 
the rack the old and oily clay pipe, which was to 
him as a counsellor, and, having lit it, he leaned 
back in his chair, with the thick blue cloud-wreaths 
spinning up from him, and a look of infinite lan- 
guor in his face. 

"Quite an interesting study, that maiden," he 
observed. "I found her more interesting than her 
little problem, which, by the way, is rather a trite 
one. You will find parallel cases, if you consult my 
index, in Andover in '77, and there was something 
of the sort at The Hague last year. Old as is the 
idea, however, there were one or two details which 
were new to me. But the maiden herself was most 
instructive." 

"You appeared to read a good deal upon her 
which was quite invisible to me," I remarked. 

"Not invisible but unnoticed, Watson. You did 
not know where to look, and so you missed all 
that was important. I can never bring you to re- 
alise the importance of sleeves, the suggestiveness 
of thumb-nails, or the great issues that may hang 
from a boot-lace. Now, what did you gather from 
that woman's appearance? Describe it." 

"Well, she had a slate-coloured, broad- 
brimmed straw hat, with a feather of a brickish 
red. Her jacket was black, with black beads sewn 
upon it, and a fringe of little black jet ornaments. 
Her dress was brown, rather darker than coffee 
colour, with a little purple plush at the neck and 
sleeves. Her gloves were greyish and were worn 
through at the right forefinger. Her boots I didn't 
observe. She had small round, hanging gold ear- 
rings, and a general air of being fairly well-to-do 
in a vulgar, comfortable, easy-going way." 

Sherlock Holmes clapped his hands softly to- 
gether and chuckled. 

"'Pon my word, Watson, you are coming along 
wonderfully. You have really done very well in- 
deed. It is true that you have missed everything 
of importance, but you have hit upon the method, 
and you have a quick eye for colour. Never trust 
to general impressions, my boy, but concentrate 
yourself upon details. My first glance is always 
at a woman's sleeve. In a man it is perhaps bet- 
ter first to take the knee of the trouser. As you 
observe, this woman had plush upon her sleeves, 
which is a most useful material for showing traces. 


The double line a little above the wrist, where the 
typewritist presses against the table, was beauti- 
fully defined. The sewing-machine, of the hand 
type, leaves a similar mark, but only on the left 
arm, and on the side of it farthest from the thumb, 
instead of being right across the broadest part, as 
this was. I then glanced at her face, and, observing 
the dint of a pince-nez at either side of her nose, I 
ventured a remark upon short sight and typewrit- 
ing, which seemed to surprise her." 

"It surprised me." 

"But, surely, it was obvious. I was then much 
surprised and interested on glancing down to ob- 
serve that, though the boots which she was wear- 
ing were not unlike each other, they were really 
odd ones; the one having a slightly decorated toe- 
cap, and the other a plain one. One was buttoned 
only in the two lower buttons out of five, and the 
other at the first, third, and fifth. Now, when you 
see that a young lady, otherwise neatly dressed, 
has come away from home with odd boots, half- 
buttoned, it is no great deduction to say that she 
came away in a hurry." 

"And what else?" I asked, keenly interested, as 
I always was, by my friend's incisive reasoning. 

"I noted, in passing, that she had written a note 
before leaving home but after being fully dressed. 
You observed that her right glove was torn at the 
forefinger, but you did not apparently see that both 
glove and finger were stained with violet ink. She 
had written in a hurry and dipped her pen too 
deep. It must have been this morning, or the mark 
would not remain clear upon the finger. All this is 
amusing, though rather elementary, but I must go 
back to business, Watson. Would you mind read- 
ing me the advertised description of Mr. Hosmer 
Angel?" 

I held the little printed slip to the light. 

"Missing," it said, "on the morning 
of the fourteenth, a gentleman named 
Hosmer Angel. About five ft. seven in. 
in height; strongly built, sallow com- 
plexion, black hair, a little bald in the 
centre, bushy, black side-whiskers and 
moustache; tinted glasses, slight infir- 
mity of speech. Was dressed, when 
last seen, in black frock-coat faced with 
silk, black waistcoat, gold Albert chain, 
and grey Harris tweed trousers, with 
brown gaiters over elastic-sided boots. 
Known to have been employed in an 
office in Leadenhall Street. Anybody 
bringing — " 


155 



A Case of Identity 


"That will do," said Holmes. "As to the let- 
ters," he continued, glancing over them, "they are 
very commonplace. Absolutely no clue in them to 
Mr. Angel, save that he quotes Balzac once. There 
is one remarkable point, however, which will no 
doubt strike you." 

"They are typewritten," I remarked. 

"Not only that, but the signature is typewrit- 
ten. Look at the neat little 'Hosmer Angel' at the 
bottom. There is a date, you see, but no super- 
scription except Leadenhall Street, which is rather 
vague. The point about the signature is very sug- 
gestive — in fact, we may call it conclusive." 

"Of what?" 

"My dear fellow, is it possible you do not see 
how strongly it bears upon the case?" 

"I cannot say that I do unless it were that he 
wished to be able to deny his signature if an ac- 
tion for breach of promise were instituted." 

"No, that was not the point. However, I shall 
write two letters, which should settle the matter. 
One is to a firm in the City, the other is to the 
young lady's stepfather, Mr. Windibank, asking 
him whether he could meet us here at six o'clock 
tomorrow evening. It is just as well that we should 
do business with the male relatives. And now. 
Doctor, we can do nothing until the answers to 
those letters come, so we may put our little prob- 
lem upon the shelf for the interim." 

I had had so many reasons to believe in my 
friend's subtle powers of reasoning and extraordi- 
nary energy in action that I felt that he must have 
some solid grounds for the assured and easy de- 
meanour with which he treated the singular mys- 
tery which he had been called upon to fathom. 
Once only had I known him to fail, in the case of 
the King of Bohemia and of the Irene Adler photo- 
graph; but when I looked back to the weird busi- 
ness of the Sign of Four, and the extraordinary cir- 
cumstances connected with the Study in Scarlet, I 
felt that it would be a strange tangle indeed which 
he could not unravel. 

I left him then, still puffing at his black clay 
pipe, with the conviction that when I came again 
on the next evening I would find that he held in 
his hands all the clues which would lead up to the 
identity of the disappearing bridegroom of Miss 
Mary Sutherland. 

A professional case of great gravity was engag- 
ing my own attention at the time, and the whole of 
next day I was busy at the bedside of the sufferer. 
It was not until close upon six o'clock that I found 
myself free and was able to spring into a hansom 


and drive to Baker Street, half afraid that I might 
be too late to assist at the denouement of the lit- 
tle mystery. I found Sherlock Holmes alone, how- 
ever, half asleep, with his long, thin form curled 
up in the recesses of his armchair. A formidable 
array of bottles and test-tubes, with the pungent 
cleanly smell of hydrochloric acid, told me that he 
had spent his day in the chemical work which was 
so dear to him. 

"Well, have you solved it?" I asked as I entered. 

"Yes. It was the bisulphate of baryta." 

"No, no, the mystery!" I cried. 

"Oh, that! I thought of the salt that I have 
been working upon. There was never any mystery 
in the matter, though, as I said yesterday, some 
of the details are of interest. The only drawback 
is that there is no law, I fear, that can touch the 
scoundrel." 

"Who was he, then, and what was his object in 
deserting Miss Sutherland?" 

The question was hardly out of my mouth, and 
Holmes had not yet opened his lips to reply, when 
we heard a heavy footfall in the passage and a tap 
at the door. 

"This is the girl's stepfather, Mr. James 
Windibank," said Holmes. "He has written to me 
to say that he would be here at six. Come in!" 

The man who entered was a sturdy, middle- 
sized fellow, some thirty years of age, clean- 
shaven, and sallow-skinned, with a bland, insin- 
uating manner, and a pair of wonderfully sharp 
and penetrating grey eyes. He shot a questioning 
glance at each of us, placed his shiny top-hat upon 
the sideboard, and with a slight bow sidled down 
into the nearest chair. 

"Good-evening, Mr. James Windibank," said 
Holmes. "I think that this typewritten letter is 
from you, in which you made an appointment 
with me for six o'clock?" 

"Yes, sir. I am afraid that I am a little late, but I 
am not quite my own master, you know. I am sorry 
that Miss Sutherland has troubled you about this 
little matter, for I think it is far better not to wash 
linen of the sort in public. It was quite against my 
wishes that she came, but she is a very excitable, 
impulsive girl, as you may have noticed, and she 
is not easily controlled when she has made up her 
mind on a point. Of course, I did not mind you 
so much, as you are not connected with the offi- 
cial police, but it is not pleasant to have a family 
misfortune like this noised abroad. Besides, it is a 
useless expense, for how could you possibly find 
this Hosmer Angel?" 


1.56 



A Case of Identity 


"On the contrary/' said Holmes quietly; "I have 
every reason to believe that I will succeed in dis- 
covering Mr. Hosmer Angel." 

Mr. Windibank gave a violent start and 
dropped his gloves. "I am delighted to hear it," 
he said. 

"It is a curious thing," remarked Holmes, "that 
a typewriter has really quite as much individual- 
ity as a man's handwriting. Unless they are quite 
new, no two of them write exactly alike. Some let- 
ters get more worn than others, and some wear 
only on one side. Now, you remark in this note 
of yours, Mr. Windibank, that in every case there 
is some little slurring over of the 'e,' and a slight 
defect in the tail of the 'r.' There are fourteen other 
characteristics, but those are the more obvious." 

"We do all our correspondence with this ma- 
chine at the office, and no doubt it is a little worn," 
our visitor answered, glancing keenly at Holmes 
with his bright little eyes. 

"And now I will show you what is really a very 
interesting study, Mr. Windibank," Holmes contin- 
ued. "I think of writing another little monograph 
some of these days on the typewriter and its rela- 
tion to crime. It is a subject to which I have devoted 
some little attention. I have here four letters which 
purport to come from the missing man. They are 
all typewritten. In each case, not only are the 'e's' 
slurred and the 'r's' tailless, but you will observe, 
if you care to use my magnifying lens, that the 
fourteen other characteristics to which I have al- 
luded are there as well." 

Mr. Windibank sprang out of his chair and 
picked up his hat. "I cannot waste time over this 
sort of fantastic talk, Mr. Holmes," he said. "If you 
can catch the man, catch him, and let me know 
when you have done it." 

"Certainly," said Holmes, stepping over and 
turning the key in the door. "I let you know, then, 
that I have caught him!" 

"What! where?" shouted Mr. Windibank, turn- 
ing white to his lips and glancing about him like a 
rat in a trap. 

"Oh, it won't do — really it won't," said Holmes 
suavely. "There is no possible getting out of it, Mr. 
Windibank. It is quite too transparent, and it was 
a very bad compliment when you said that it was 
impossible for me to solve so simple a question. 
That's right! Sit down and let us talk it over." 

Our visitor collapsed into a chair, with a 
ghastly face and a glitter of moisture on his brow. 
"It — it's not actionable," he stammered. 


"I am very much afraid that it is not. But be- 
tween ourselves, Windibank, it was as cruel and 
selfish and heartless a trick in a petty way as ever 
came before me. Now, let me just run over the 
course of events, and you will contradict me if I go 
wrong." 

The man sat huddled up in his chair, with his 
head sunk upon his breast, like one who is utterly 
crushed. Holmes stuck his feet up on the corner of 
the mantelpiece and, leaning back with his hands 
in his pockets, began talking, rather to himself, as 
it seemed, than to us. 

"The man married a woman very much older 
than himself for her money," said he, "and he en- 
joyed the use of the money of the daughter as 
long as she lived with them. It was a consid- 
erable sum, for people in their position, and the 
loss of it would have made a serious difference. It 
was worth an effort to preserve it. The daughter 
was of a good, amiable disposition, but affection- 
ate and warm-hearted in her ways, so that it was 
evident that with her fair personal advantages, and 
her little income, she would not be allowed to re- 
main single long. Now her marriage would mean, 
of course, the loss of a hundred a year, so what 
does her stepfather do to prevent it? He takes 
the obvious course of keeping her at home and 
forbidding her to seek the company of people of 
her own age. But soon he found that that would 
not answer forever. She became restive, insisted 
upon her rights, and finally announced her posi- 
tive intention of going to a certain ball. What does 
her clever stepfather do then? He conceives an 
idea more creditable to his head than to his heart. 
With the connivance and assistance of his wife he 
disguised himself, covered those keen eyes with 
tinted glasses, masked the face with a moustache 
and a pair of bushy whiskers, sunk that clear voice 
into an insinuating whisper, and doubly secure on 
account of the girl's short sight, he appears as Mr. 
Hosmer Angel, and keeps off other lovers by mak- 
ing love himself." 

"It was only a joke at first," groaned our visi- 
tor. "We never thought that she would have been 
so carried away." 

"Very likely not. However that may be, the 
young lady was very decidedly carried away, and, 
having quite made up her mind that her step- 
father was in France, the suspicion of treachery 
never for an instant entered her mind. She was 
flattered by the gentleman's attentions, and the 
effect was increased by the loudly expressed ad- 
miration of her mother. Then Mr. Angel began 
to call, for it was obvious that the matter should 


157 



be pushed as far as it would go if a real effect 
were to be produced. There were meetings, and 
an engagement, which would finally secure the 
girl's affections from turning towards anyone else. 
But the deception could not be kept up forever. 
These pretended journeys to France were rather 
cumbrous. The thing to do was clearly to bring 
the business to an end in such a dramatic manner 
that it would leave a permanent impression upon 
the young lady's mind and prevent her from look- 
ing upon any other suitor for some time to come. 
Hence those vows of fidelity exacted upon a Tes- 
tament, and hence also the allusions to a possibil- 
ity of something happening on the very morning 
of the wedding. James Windibank wished Miss 
Sutherland to be so bound to Hosmer Angel, and 
so uncertain as to his fate, that for ten years to 
come, at any rate, she would not listen to another 
man. As far as the church door he brought her, 
and then, as he could go no farther, he conve- 
niently vanished away by the old trick of stepping 
in at one door of a four-wheeler and out at the 
other. I think that was the chain of events, Mr. 
Windibank!" 

Our visitor had recovered something of his as- 
surance while Holmes had been talking, and he 
rose from his chair now with a cold sneer upon his 
pale face. 

"It may be so, or it may not, Mr. Holmes," said 
he, "but if you are so very sharp you ought to be 
sharp enough to know that it is you who are break- 
ing the law now, and not me. I have done nothing 
actionable from the first, but as long as you keep 
that door locked you lay yourself open to an action 
for assault and illegal constraint." 

"The law cannot, as you say, touch you," said 
Holmes, unlocking and throwing open the door, 
"yet there never was a man who deserved punish- 
ment more. If the young lady has a brother or a 
friend, he ought to lay a whip across your shoul- 
ders. By Jove!" he continued, flushing up at the 
sight of the bitter sneer upon the man's face, "it 
is not part of my duties to my client, but here's a 
hunting crop handy, and I think I shall just treat 
myself to — " He took two swift steps to the whip, 
but before he could grasp it there was a wild clat- 
ter of steps upon the stairs, the heavy hall door 
banged, and from the window we could see Mr. 
James Windibank running at the top of his speed 
down the road. 


"There's a cold-blooded scoundrel!" said 
Holmes, laughing, as he threw himself down into 
his chair once more. "That fellow will rise from 
crime to crime until he does something very bad, 
and ends on a gallows. The case has, in some re- 
spects, been not entirely devoid of interest." 

"I cannot now entirely see all the steps of your 
reasoning," I remarked. 

"Well, of course it was obvious from the first 
that this Mr. Hosmer Angel must have some strong 
object for his curious conduct, and it was equally 
clear that the only man who really profited by the 
incident, as far as we could see, was the stepfa- 
ther. Then the fact that the two men were never 
together, but that the one always appeared when 
the other was away, was suggestive. So were the 
tinted spectacles and the curious voice, which both 
hinted at a disguise, as did the bushy whiskers. 
My suspicions were all confirmed by his pecu- 
liar action in typewriting his signature, which, of 
course, inferred that his handwriting was so famil- 
iar to her that she would recognise even the small- 
est sample of it. You see all these isolated facts, 
together with many minor ones, all pointed in the 
same direction." 

"And how did you verify them?" 

"Having once spotted my man, it was easy 
to get corroboration. I knew the firm for which 
this man worked. Having taken the printed de- 
scription. I eliminated everything from it which 
could be the result of a disguise — the whiskers, 
the glasses, the voice, and I sent it to the firm, with 
a request that they would inform me whether it 
answered to the description of any of their trav- 
ellers. I had already noticed the peculiarities of 
the typewriter, and I wrote to the man himself at 
his business address asking him if he would come 
here. As I expected, his reply was typewritten and 
revealed the same trivial but characteristic defects. 
The same post brought me a letter from Westhouse 
& Marbank, of Fenchurch Street, to say that the de- 
scription tallied in every respect with that of their 
employee, James Windibank. Voila tout!" 

"And Miss Sutherland?" 

"If I tell her she will not believe me. You may 
remember the old Persian saying, 'There is dan- 
ger for him who taketh the tiger cub, and danger 
also for whoso snatches a delusion from a woman.' 
There is as much sense in Hafiz as in Horace, and 
as much knowledge of the world."