The Complete Sherlock Holmes Short Stories - Part 3

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The Complete Sherlock Holmes Short Stories - Part 3

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The Adventure of Charles Augustus Milverton 


t is years since the incidents of which 
I speak took place, and yet it is with 
diffidence that 1 allude to them. For a 
’ • ‘ long time, even with the utmost discre- 

tion and reticence, it would have been impossible 
to make the facts public; but now the principal per- 
son concerned is beyond the reach of human law, 
and with due suppression the story may be told in 
such fashion as to injure no one. It records an abso- 
lutely unique experience in the career both of Mr. 
Sherlock Holmes and of myself. The reader will 
excuse me if I conceal the date or any other fact by 
which he might trace the actual occurrence. 

We had been out for one of our evening ram- 
bles, Holmes and I, and had returned about six 
o'clock on a cold, frosty winter's evening. As 
Holmes turned up the lamp the light fell upon a 
card on the table. He glanced at it, and then, with 
an ejaculation of disgust, threw it on the floor. I 
picked it up and read: — 

Charles Augustus Milverton, 

Appledore Towers, 
Hampstead. 

Agent. 

"Who is he?" I asked. 

"The worst man in London," Holmes an- 
swered, as he sat down and stretched his legs be- 
fore the fire. "Is anything on the back of the card?" 

I turned it over. 

"Will call at 6.30— C.A.M.," I read. 

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

"But who is he?" 

"I'll tell you, Watson. He is the king of all the 
blackmailers. Heaven help the man, and still more 
the woman, whose secret and reputation come into 
the power of Milverton. With a smiling face and a 
heart of marble he will squeeze and squeeze until 
he has drained them dry. The fellow is a genius in 
his way, and would have made his mark in some 
more savoury trade. His method is as follows: He 
allows it to be known that he is prepared to pay 
very high sums for letters which compromise peo- 
ple of wealth or position. He receives these wares 


not only from treacherous valets or maids, but fre- 
quently from genteel ruffians who have gained the 
confidence and affection of trusting women. He 
deals with no niggard hand. I happen to know 
that he paid seven hundred pounds to a footman 
for a note two lines in length, and that the ruin of 
a noble family was the result. Everything which 
is in the market goes to Milverton, and there are 
hundreds in this great city who turn white at his 
name. No one knows where his grip may fall, for 
he is far too rich and far too cunning to work from 
hand to mouth. He will hold a card back for years 
in order to play it at the moment when the stake 
is best worth winning. I have said that he is the 
worst man in London, and I would ask you how 
could one compare the ruffian who in hot blood 
bludgeons his mate with this man, who methodi- 
cally and at his leisure tortures the soul and wrings 
the nerves in order to add to his already swollen 
money-bags?" 

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

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

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

"And why is he here?" 

"Because an illustrious client has placed her 
piteous case in my hands. It is the Lady Eva Brack- 
well, the most beautiful debutante of last season. 
She is to be married in a fortnight to the Earl of 
Dovercourt. This fiend has several imprudent let- 
ters — imprudent, Watson, nothing worse — which 
were written to an impecunious young squire in 
the country. They would suffice to break off the 
match. Milverton will send the letters to the Earl 
unless a large sum of money is paid him. I have 
been commissioned to meet him, and — to make 
the best terms I can." 

At that instant there was a clatter and a rattle 
in the street below. Looking down I saw a stately 
carriage and pair, the brilliant lamps gleaming on 
the glossy haunches of the noble chestnuts. A foot- 
man opened the door, and a small, stout man in a 
shaggy astrachan overcoat descended. A minute 
later he was in the room. 

Charles Augustus Milverton was a man of fifty, 
with a large, intellectual head, a round, plump. 


499 



The Adventure of Charles Augustus Milverton 


hairless face, a perpetual frozen smile, and two 
keen grey eyes, which gleamed brightly from be- 
hind broad, golden-rimmed glasses. There was 
something of Mr. Pickwick's benevolence in his 
appearance, marred only by the insincerity of the 
fixed smile and by the hard glitter of those rest- 
less and penetrating eyes. His voice was as smooth 
and suave as his countenance, as he advanced with 
a plump little hand extended, murmuring his re- 
gret for having missed us at his first visit. Holmes 
disregarded the outstretched hand and looked at 
him with a face of granite. Milverton's smile 
broadened; he shrugged his shoulders, removed 
his overcoat, folded it with great deliberation over 
the back of a chair, and then took a seat. 

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

"Dr. Watson is my friend and partner." 

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

"Dr. Watson has already heard of it." 

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

"What are your terms?" 

"Seven thousand pounds." 

"And the alternative?" 

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

Holmes thought for a little. 

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

Milverton chuckled. 

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

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

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

"They are sprightly — very sprightly," Milver- 
ton answered. "The lady was a charming corre- 
spondent. But I can assure you that the Earl of 
Dovercourt would fail to appreciate them. How- 
ever, since you think otherwise, we will let it rest 
at that. It is purely a matter of business. If you 
think that it is in the best interests of your client 


that these letters should be placed in the hands of 
the Earl, then you would indeed be foolish to pay 
so large a sum of money to regain them." He rose 
and seized his astrachan coat. 

Holmes was grey with anger and mortification. 

"Wait a little," he said. "You go too fast. We 
would certainly make every effort to avoid scan- 
dal in so delicate a matter." 

Milverton relapsed into his chair. 

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

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

Milverton's smile broadened and his eyes twin- 
kled humorously. 

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

"It is impossible," said Holmes. 

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


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The Adventure of Charles Augustus Milverton 


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

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

Holmes sprang from his chair. 

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

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

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

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

For some days Holmes came and went at all 
hours in this attire, but beyond a remark that his 


time was spent at Hampstead, and that it was not 
wasted, I knew nothing of what he was doing. 
At last, however, on a wild, tempestuous evening, 
when the wind screamed and rattled against the 
windows, he returned from his last expedition, 
and having removed his disguise he sat before the 
fire and laughed heartily in his silent inward fash- 
ion. 

"You would not call me a marrying man, Wat- 
son?" 

"No, indeed!" 

"You'll be interested to hear that I am en- 
gaged." 

"My dear fellow! I congrat — " 

"To Milverton's housemaid." 

"Good heavens. Holmes!" 

"I wanted information, Watson." 

"Surely you have gone too far?" 

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

"But the girl. Holmes?" 

He shrugged his shoulders. 

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

"You like this weather?" 

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

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

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

"My dear fellow, I have given it every consid- 
eration. I am never precipitate in my actions, nor 
would I adopt so energetic and indeed so danger- 
ous a course if any other were possible. Let us 
look at the matter clearly and fairly. I suppose that 
you will admit that the action is morally justifiable. 


5 01 



The Adventure of Charles Augustus Milverton 


though technically criminal. To burgle his house is 
no more than to forcibly take his pocket-book — an 
action in which you were prepared to aid me." 

I turned it over in my mind. 

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

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

"You will be in such a false position." 

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

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

"You are not coming." 

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

"You can't help me." 

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

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

"Well, well, my dear fellow, be it so. We 
have shared the same room for some years, and 
it would be amusing if we ended by sharing the 
same cell. You know, Watson, I don't mind con- 
fessing to you that I have always had an idea 
that I would have made a highly efficient crimi- 
nal. This is the chance of my lifetime in that di- 
rection. See here!" He took a neat little leather 
case out of a drawer, and opening it he exhib- 
ited a number of shining instruments. "This is 


a first-class, up-to-date burgling kit, with nickel- 
plated jemmy, diamond-tipped glass-cutter, adapt- 
able keys, and every modern improvement which 
the march of civilization demands. Here, too, is 
my dark lantern. Everything is in order. Have you 
a pair of silent shoes?" 

"I have rubber-soled tennis shoes." 

"Excellent. And a mask?" 

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

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

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

"It's a business that needs delicate treatment," 
said Holmes. "These documents are contained in 
a safe in the fellow's study, and the study is the 
ante-room of his bed-chamber. On the other hand, 
like all these stout, little men who do themselves 
well, he is a plethoric sleeper. Agatha — that's my 
fiancee — says it is a joke in the servants' hall that 
it's impossible to wake the master. He has a sec- 
retary who is devoted to his interests and never 
budges from the study all day. That's why we are 
going at night. Then he has a beast of a dog which 
roams the garden. I met Agatha late the last two 
evenings, and she locks the brute up so as to give 
me a clear run. This is the house, this big one 
in its own grounds. Through the gate — now to 
the right among the laurels. We might put on our 
masks here, I think. You see, there is not a glimmer 
of light in any of the windows, and everything is 
working splendidly." 

With our black silk face-coverings, which 
turned us into two of the most truculent figures in 
London, we stole up to the silent, gloomy house. 
A sort of tiled veranda extended along one side of 
it, lined by several windows and two doors. 

"That's his bedroom," Holmes whispered. 
"This door opens straight into the study. It would 


502 



The Adventure of Charles Augustus Milverton 


suit us best, but it is bolted as well as locked, and 
we should make too much noise getting in. Come 
round here. There's a greenhouse which opens 
into the drawing-room." 

The place was locked, but Holmes removed a 
circle of glass and turned the key from the inside. 
An instant afterwards he had closed the door be- 
hind us, and we had become felons in the eyes of 
the law. The thick, warm air of the conservatory 
and the rich, choking fragrance of exotic plants 
took us by the throat. He seized my hand in the 
darkness and led me swiftly past banks of shrubs 
which brushed against our faces. Holmes had re- 
markable powers, carefully cultivated, of seeing in 
the dark. Still holding my hand in one of his he 
opened a door, and I was vaguely conscious that 
we had entered a large room in which a cigar had 
been smoked not long before. He felt his way 
among the furniture, opened another door, and 
closed it behind us. Putting out my hand I felt 
several coats hanging from the wall, and I under- 
stood that I was in a passage. We passed along it, 
and Holmes very gently opened a door upon the 
right-hand side. Something rushed out at us and 
my heart sprang into my mouth, but I could have 
laughed when I realized that it was the cat. A fire 
was burning in this new room, and again the air 
was heavy with tobacco smoke. Holmes entered 
on tiptoe, waited for me to follow, and then very 
gently closed the door. We were in Milverton's 
study, and a portiere at the farther side showed the 
entrance to his bedroom. 

It was a good fire, and the room was illumi- 
nated by it. Near the door I saw the gleam of an 
electric switch, but it was unnecessary, even if it 
had been safe, to turn it on. At one side of the fire- 
place was a heavy curtain, which covered the bay 
window we had seen from outside. On the other 
side was the door which communicated with the 
veranda. A desk stood in the centre, with a turn- 
ing chair of shining red leather. Opposite was a 
large bookcase, with a marble bust of Athene on 
the top. In the corner between the bookcase and 
the wall there stood a tall green safe, the firelight 
flashing back from the polished brass knobs upon 
its face. Holmes stole across and looked at it. Then 
he crept to the door of the bedroom, and stood 
with slanting head listening intently. No sound 
came from within. Meanwhile it had struck me 
that it would be wise to secure our retreat through 
the outer door, so I examined it. To my amazement 
it was neither locked nor bolted! I touched Holmes 
on the arm, and he turned his masked face in that 
direction. I saw him start, and he was evidently as 
surprised as I. 


"I don't like it," he whispered, putting his lips 
to my very ear. "I can't quite make it out. Anyhow, 
we have no time to lose." 

"Can I do anything?" 

"Yes; stand by the door. If you hear anyone 
come, bolt it on the inside, and we can get away 
as we came. If they come the other way, we can 
get through the door if our job is done, or hide 
behind these window curtains if it is not. Do you 
understand?" 

I nodded and stood by the door. My first feel- 
ing of fear had passed away, and I thrilled now 
with a keener zest than I had ever enjoyed when 
we were the defenders of the law instead of its 
defiers. The high object of our mission, the con- 
sciousness that it was unselfish and chivalrous, the 
villainous character of our opponent, all added to 
the sporting interest of the adventure. Far from 
feeling guilty, I rejoiced and exulted in our dan- 
gers. With a glow of admiration I watched Holmes 
unrolling his case of instruments and choosing his 
tool with the calm, scientific accuracy of a surgeon 
who performs a delicate operation. I knew that 
the opening of safes was a particular hobby with 
him, and I understood the joy which it gave him 
to be confronted with this green and gold mon- 
ster, the dragon which held in its maw the repu- 
tations of many fair ladies. Turning up the cuffs 
of his dress-coat — he had placed his overcoat on a 
chair — Holmes laid out two drills, a jemmy, and 
several skeleton keys. I stood at the centre door 
with my eyes glancing at each of the others, ready 
for any emergency; though, indeed, my plans were 
somewhat vague as to what I should do if we were 
interrupted. For half an hour Holmes worked with 
concentrated energy, laying down one tool, pick- 
ing up another, handling each with the strength 
and delicacy of the trained mechanic. Finally I 
heard a click, the broad green door swung open, 
and inside I had a glimpse of a number of paper 
packets, each tied, sealed, and inscribed. Holmes 
picked one out, but it was hard to read by the flick- 
ering fire, and he drew out his little dark lantern, 
for it was too dangerous, with Milverton in the 
next room, to switch on the electric light. Suddenly 
I saw him halt, listen intently, and then in an in- 
stant he had swung the door of the safe to, picked 
up his coat, stuffed his tools into the pockets, and 
darted behind the window curtain, motioning me 
to do the same. 

It was only when I had joined him there that I 
heard what had alarmed his quicker senses. There 
was a noise somewhere within the house. A door 
slammed in the distance. Then a confused, dull 


503 



The Adventure of Charles Augustus Milverton 


murmur broke itself into the measured thud of 
heavy footsteps rapidly approaching. They were in 
the passage outside the room. They paused at the 
door. The door opened. There was a sharp snick 
as the electric light was turned on. The door closed 
once more, and the pungent reek of a strong cigar 
was borne to our nostrils. Then the footsteps con- 
tinued backwards and forwards, backwards and 
forwards, within a few yards of us. Finally, there 
was a creak from a chair, and the footsteps ceased. 
Then a key clicked in a lock and I heard the rustle 
of papers. 

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

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


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

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

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

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

The woman shook her head. 

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

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

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

Milverton laughed, but fear vibrated in his 
voice. "You were so very obstinate," said he. "Why 
did you drive me to such extremities? I assure you 


504 



The Adventure of Charles Augustus Milverton 


I wouldn't hurt a fly of my own accord, but every 
man has his business, and what was I to do? I put 
the price well within your means. You would not 
pay" 

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

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

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

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

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

No interference upon our part could have 
saved the man from his fate; but as the woman 
poured bullet after bullet into Milverton's shrink- 
ing body I was about to spring out, when I felt 
Holmes's cold, strong grasp upon my wrist. I 
understood the whole argument of that firm, re- 
straining grip — that it was no affair of ours; that 
justice had overtaken a villain; that we had our 
own duties and our own objects which were not 
to be lost sight of. But hardly had the woman 
rushed from the room when Holmes, with swift, 
silent steps, was over at the other door. He turned 


the key in the lock. At the same instant we heard 
voices in the house and the sound of hurrying 
feet. The revolver shots had roused the house- 
hold. With perfect coolness Holmes slipped across 
to the safe, filled his two arms with bundles of let- 
ters, and poured them all into the fire. Again and 
again he did it, until the safe was empty. Some- 
one turned the handle and beat upon the outside 
of the door. Holmes looked swiftly round. The 
letter which had been the messenger of death for 
Milverton lay, all mottled with his blood, upon the 
table. Holmes tossed it in among the blazing pa- 
pers. Then he drew the key from the outer door, 
passed through after me, and locked it on the out- 
side. "This way, Watson," said he; "we can scale 
the garden wall in this direction." 

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

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

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

"Not too busy to listen to you." 

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

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


505 



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

"Criminals!" said Holmes. "Plural!" 

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

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

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

"Well, I am afraid I can't help you, Lestrade," 
said Holmes. "The fact is that I knew this fellow 
Milverton, that I considered him one of the most 
dangerous men in London, and that I think there 


are certain crimes which the law cannot touch, and 
which therefore, to some extent, justify private re- 
venge. No, it's no use arguing. I have made up 
my mind. My sympathies are with the criminals 
rather than with the victim, and I will not handle 
this case." 

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



The Boscombe Valley Mystery 


e were seated at breakfast one morn- 
ing, my wife and I, when the maid 
brought in a telegram. It was from 
Sherlock Holmes and ran in this way: 

"Have you a couple of days to spare? 

Have just been wired for from the 
west of England in connection with 
Boscombe Valley tragedy Shall be glad 
if you will come with me. Air and 
scenery perfect. Leave Paddington by 
the 11.15." 

"What do you say, dear?" said my wife, looking 
across at me. "Will you go?" 

"I really don't know what to say. I have a fairly 
long list at present." 

"Oh, Anstruther would do your work for you. 
You have been looking a little pale lately. I think 
that the change would do you good, and you 
are always so interested in Mr. Sherlock Holmes' 
cases." 

"I should be ungrateful if I were not, seeing 
what I gained through one of them," I answered. 
"But if I am to go, I must pack at once, for I have 
only half an hour. " 

My experience of camp life in Afghanistan had 
at least had the effect of making me a prompt 
and ready traveller. My wants were few and sim- 
ple, so that in less than the time stated I was in 
a cab with my valise, rattling away to Padding- 
ton Station. Sherlock Holmes was pacing up and 
down the platform, his tall, gaunt figure made 
even gaunter and taller by his long grey travelling- 
cloak and close-fitting cloth cap. 

"It is really very good of you to come, Wat- 
son," said he. "It makes a considerable difference 
to me, having someone with me on whom I can 
thoroughly rely. Local aid is always either worth- 
less or else biassed. If you will keep the two corner 
seats I shall get the tickets." 

We had the carriage to ourselves save for an im- 
mense litter of papers which Holmes had brought 
with him. Among these he rummaged and read, 
with intervals of note-taking and of meditation, 
until we were past Reading. Then he suddenly 
rolled them all into a gigantic ball and tossed them 
up onto the rack. 

"Have you heard anything of the case?" he 
asked. 

"Not a word. I have not seen a paper for some 
days." 

"The London press has not had very full ac- 
counts. I have just been looking through all the 



recent papers in order to master the particulars. It 
seems, from what I gather, to be one of those sim- 
ple cases which are so extremely difficult." 

"That sounds a little paradoxical." 

"But it is profoundly true. Singularity is al- 
most invariably a clue. The more featureless and 
commonplace a crime is, the more difficult it is to 
bring it home. In this case, however, they have es- 
tablished a very serious case against the son of the 
murdered man." 

"It is a murder, then?" 

"Well, it is conjectured to be so. I shall take 
nothing for granted until I have the opportunity of 
looking personally into it. I will explain the state 
of things to you, as far as I have been able to un- 
derstand it, in a very few words. 

"Boscombe Valley is a country district not very 
far from Ross, in Herefordshire. The largest 
landed proprietor in that part is a Mr. John Turner, 
who made his money in Australia and returned 
some years ago to the old country. One of the 
farms which he held, that of Hatherley, was let 
to Mr. Charles McCarthy, who was also an ex- 
Australian. The men had known each other in the 
colonies, so that it was not unnatural that when 
they came to settle down they should do so as 
near each other as possible. Turner was apparently 
the richer man, so McCarthy became his tenant 
but still remained, it seems, upon terms of per- 
fect equality, as they were frequently together. Mc- 
Carthy had one son, a lad of eighteen, and Turner 
had an only daughter of the same age, but nei- 
ther of them had wives living. They appear to 
have avoided the society of the neighbouring En- 
glish families and to have led retired lives, though 
both the McCarthys were fond of sport and were 
frequently seen at the race-meetings of the neigh- 
bourhood. McCarthy kept two servants — a man 
and a girl. Turner had a considerable household, 
some half-dozen at the least. That is as much as I 
have been able to gather about the families. Now 
for the facts. 

"On June 3rd, that is, on Monday last, Mc- 
Carthy left his house at Hatherley about three in 
the afternoon and walked down to the Boscombe 
Pool, which is a small lake formed by the spread- 
ing out of the stream which runs down the 
Boscombe Valley. He had been out with his 
serving-man in the morning at Ross, and he had 
told the man that he must hurry, as he had an ap- 
pointment of importance to keep at three. From 
that appointment he never came back alive. 

"From Hatherley Farm-house to the Boscombe 
Pool is a quarter of a mile, and two people saw 


161 



The Boscombe Valley Mystery 


him as he passed over this ground. One was an 
old woman, whose name is not mentioned, and 
the other was William Crowder, a game-keeper in 
the employ of Mr. Turner. Both these witnesses 
depose that Mr. McCarthy was walking alone. The 
game-keeper adds that within a few minutes of his 
seeing Mr. McCarthy pass he had seen his son, Mr. 
James McCarthy, going the same way with a gun 
under his arm. To the best of his belief, the father 
was actually in sight at the time, and the son was 
following him. He thought no more of the matter 
until he heard in the evening of the tragedy that 
had occurred. 

"The two McCarthys were seen after the time 
when William Crowder, the game-keeper, lost 
sight of them. The Boscombe Pool is thickly 
wooded round, with just a fringe of grass and of 
reeds round the edge. A girl of fourteen. Patience 
Moran, who is the daughter of the lodge-keeper 
of the Boscombe Valley estate, was in one of the 
woods picking flowers. She states that while she 
was there she saw, at the border of the wood and 
close by the lake, Mr. McCarthy and his son, and 
that they appeared to be having a violent quar- 
rel. She heard Mr. McCarthy the elder using very 
strong language to his son, and she saw the lat- 
ter raise up his hand as if to strike his father. She 
was so frightened by their violence that she ran 
away and told her mother when she reached home 
that she had left the two McCarthys quarrelling 
near Boscombe Pool, and that she was afraid that 
they were going to fight. She had hardly said the 
words when young Mr. McCarthy came running 
up to the lodge to say that he had found his fa- 
ther dead in the wood, and to ask for the help 
of the lodge-keeper. He was much excited, with- 
out either his gun or his hat, and his right hand 
and sleeve were observed to be stained with fresh 
blood. On following him they found the dead 
body stretched out upon the grass beside the pool. 
The head had been beaten in by repeated blows of 
some heavy and blunt weapon. The injuries were 
such as might very well have been inflicted by the 
butt-end of his son's gun, which was found lying 
on the grass within a few paces of the body. Under 
these circumstances the young man was instantly 
arrested, and a verdict of 'wilful murder' having 
been returned at the inquest on Tuesday, he was 
on Wednesday brought before the magistrates at 
Ross, who have referred the case to the next As- 
sizes. Those are the main facts of the case as they 
came out before the coroner and the police-court. " 

"I could hardly imagine a more damning case," 
I remarked. "If ever circumstantial evidence 
pointed to a criminal it does so here." 


"Circumstantial evidence is a very tricky 
thing," answered Holmes thoughtfully. "It may 
seem to point very straight to one thing, but if you 
shift your own point of view a little, you may find 
it pointing in an equally uncompromising manner 
to something entirely different. It must be con- 
fessed, however, that the case looks exceedingly 
grave against the young man, and it is very pos- 
sible that he is indeed the culprit. There are sev- 
eral people in the neighbourhood, however, and 
among them Miss Turner, the daughter of the 
neighbouring landowner, who believe in his inno- 
cence, and who have retained Lestrade, whom you 
may recollect in connection with the Study in Scar- 
let, to work out the case in his interest. Lestrade, 
being rather puzzled, has referred the case to me, 
and hence it is that two middle-aged gentlemen 
are flying westward at fifty miles an hour instead 
of quietly digesting their breakfasts at home." 

"I am afraid," said I, "that the facts are so obvi- 
ous that you will find little credit to be gained out 
of this case." 

"There is nothing more deceptive than an ob- 
vious fact," he answered, laughing. "Besides, we 
may chance to hit upon some other obvious facts 
which may have been by no means obvious to Mr. 
Lestrade. You know me too well to think that I 
am boasting when I say that I shall either confirm 
or destroy his theory by means which he is quite 
incapable of employing, or even of understanding. 
To take the first example to hand, I very clearly 
perceive that in your bedroom the window is upon 
the right-hand side, and yet I question whether Mr. 
Lestrade would have noted even so self-evident a 
thing as that." 

"How on earth — " 

"My dear fellow, I know you well. I know the 
military neatness which characterises you. You 
shave every morning, and in this season you shave 
by the sunlight; but since your shaving is less and 
less complete as we get farther back on the left 
side, until it becomes positively slovenly as we get 
round the angle of the jaw, it is surely very clear 
that that side is less illuminated than the other. I 
could not imagine a man of your habits looking at 
himself in an equal light and being satisfied with 
such a result. I only quote this as a trivial ex- 
ample of observation and inference. Therein lies 
my metier, and it is just possible that it may be of 
some service in the investigation which lies before 
us. There are one or two minor points which were 
brought out in the inquest, and which are worth 
considering." 

"What are they?" 


162 



The Boscombe Valley Mystery 


"It appears that his arrest did not take place at 
once, but after the return to Hatherley Farm. On 
the inspector of constabulary informing him that 
he was a prisoner, he remarked that he was not 
surprised to hear it, and that it was no more than 
his deserts. This observation of his had the nat- 
ural effect of removing any traces of doubt which 
might have remained in the minds of the coroner's 
jury." 

"It was a confession," I ejaculated. 

"No, for it was followed by a protestation of 
innocence." 

"Coming on the top of such a damning series of 
events, it was at least a most suspicious remark." 

"On the contrary," said Holmes, "it is the 
brightest rift which I can at present see in the 
clouds. However innocent he might be, he could 
not be such an absolute imbecile as not to see that 
the circumstances were very black against him. 
Had he appeared surprised at his own arrest, or 
feigned indignation at it, I should have looked 
upon it as highly suspicious, because such sur- 
prise or anger would not be natural under the cir- 
cumstances, and yet might appear to be the best 
policy to a scheming man. His frank acceptance 
of the situation marks him as either an innocent 
man, or else as a man of considerable self-restraint 
and firmness. As to his remark about his deserts, 
it was also not unnatural if you consider that he 
stood beside the dead body of his father, and that 
there is no doubt that he had that very day so far 
forgotten his filial duty as to bandy words with 
him, and even, according to the little girl whose 
evidence is so important, to raise his hand as if to 
strike him. The self-reproach and contrition which 
are displayed in his remark appear to me to be 
the signs of a healthy mind rather than of a guilty 
one." 

I shook my head. "Many men have been 
hanged on far slighter evidence," I remarked. 

"So they have. And many men have been 
wrongfully hanged." 

"What is the young man's own account of the 
matter?" 

"It is, I am afraid, not very encouraging to his 
supporters, though there are one or two points in 
it which are suggestive. You will find it here, and 
may read it for yourself." 

He picked out from his bundle a copy of the lo- 
cal Herefordshire paper, and having turned down 
the sheet he pointed out the paragraph in which 
the unfortunate young man had given his own 
statement of what had occurred. I settled myself 


down in the corner of the carriage and read it very 
carefully. It ran in this way: 

"Mr. James McCarthy, the only son of the 
deceased, was then called and gave evidence 
as follows: 'I had been azvay from home for 
three days at Bristol, and had only just re- 
turned upon the morning of last Monday, 
the 3rd. My father was absent from home at 
the time of my arrival, and I was informed 
by the maid that he had driven over to Ross 
with John Cobb, the groom. Shortly after 
my return I heard the wheels of his trap 
in the yard, and, looking out of my win- 
dow, I sazv him get out and zvalk rapidly 
out of the yard, though I zvas not azvare in 
which direction he zvas going. I then took 
my gun and strolled out in the direction 
of the Boscombe Pool, with the intention 
of visiting the rabbit zvarren zvhich is upon 
the other side. On my zvay I sazv William 
Crozvder, the game-keeper, as he had stated 
in his evidence; but he is mistaken in think- 
ing that I zvas follozving my father. I had 
no idea that he zvas in front of me. When 
about a hundred yards from the pool I heard 
a cry of "Cooee!” zvhich zvas a usual signal 
betzveen my father and myself. I then hur- 
ried forzvard, and found him standing by 
the pool. He appeared to be much surprised 
at seeing me and asked me rather roughly 
zvhat I zvas doing there. A conversation en- 
sued zvhich led to high zvords and almost to 
blozvs, for my father zvas a man of a very 
violent temper. Seeing that his passion zvas 
becoming ungovernable, I left him and re- 
turned tozvards Hatherley Farm. I had not 
gone more than 130 yards, hozvever, zvhen 
I heard a hideous outcry behind me, zvhich 
caused me to run back again. I found my 
father expiring upon the ground, with his 
head terribly injured. I dropped my gun 
and held him in my arms, but he almost 
instantly expired. I knelt beside him for 
some minutes, and then made my zvay to 
Mr. Turner's lodge-keeper, his house being 
the nearest, to ask for assistance. I sazv no 
one near my father zvhen I returned, and 
I have no idea hozv he came by his injuries. 

He zvas not a popular man, being somewhat 
cold and forbidding in his manners, but he 
had, as far as I knozv, no active enemies. I 
knozv nothing further of the matter.’ 

"The Coroner: Did your father make any 
statement to you before he died? 

"Witness: He mumbled afezv zvords, but I 


163 



The Boscombe Valley Mystery 


could only catch some allusion to a rat. 
"The Coroner: What did you understand 
by that? 

“ Witness : It conveyed no meaning to me. I 
thought that he was delirious. 

"The Coroner: What was the point upon 
which you and your father had this final 
quarrel? 

"Witness: I should prefer not to answer. 
"The Coroner: I am afraid that I must press 
it. 

"Witness: It is really impossible for me to 
tell you. I can assure you that it has noth- 
ing to do with the sad tragedy which fol- 
lowed. 

"The Coroner: That is for the court to de- 
cide. I need not point out to you that 
your refusal to answer will prejudice your 
case considerably in any future proceedings 
which may arise. 

"Witness: I must still refuse. 

"The Coroner: I understand that the cry of 
'Cooee' was a common signal between you 
and your father? 

"Witness: It was. 

"The Coroner: How was it, then, that he 
uttered it before he saw you, and before he 
even knew that you had returned from Bris- 
tol? 

"Witness (with considerable confusion): I 
do not know. 

“A Juryman: Did you see nothing which 
aroused your suspicions when you returned 
on hearing the cry and found your father 
fatally injured? 

"Witness: Nothing definite. 

"The Coroner: What do you mean ? 
"Witness: I was so disturbed and excited 
as I rushed out into the open, that I could 
think of nothing except of my father. Yet I 
have a vague impression that as I ran for- 
ward something lay upon the ground to the 
left of me. It seemed to me to be something 
grey in colour, a coat of some sort, or a 
plaid perhaps. When I rose from my father 
I looked round for it, but it was gone. 

" ‘Do you mean that it disappeared before 
you went for help?’ 

" 'Yes, it was gone.' 

" 'You cannot say what it was?’ 

" 'No, I had a feeling something was there.' 
" ‘How far from the body?' 

" 'A dozen yards or so.’ 


" 'And how far from the edge of the wood?' 

" 'About the same.' 

" 'Then if it was removed it was while you 
were within a dozen yards of it?’ 

"'Yes, but with my back toivards it.' 

"This concluded the examination of the 
witness.” 

"I see," said I as I glanced down the column, "that 
the coroner in his concluding remarks was rather 
severe upon young McCarthy. He calls attention, 
and with reason, to the discrepancy about his fa- 
ther having signalled to him before seeing him, 
also to his refusal to give details of his conversa- 
tion with his father, and his singular account of his 
father's dying words. They are all, as he remarks, 
very much against the son." 

Holmes laughed softly to himself and stretched 
himself out upon the cushioned seat. "Both you 
and the coroner have been at some pains," said 
he, "to single out the very strongest points in the 
young man's favour. Don't you see that you alter- 
nately give him credit for having too much imagi- 
nation and too little? Too little, if he could not in- 
vent a cause of quarrel which would give him the 
sympathy of the jury; too much, if he evolved from 
his own inner consciousness anything so outre as 
a dying reference to a rat, and the incident of the 
vanishing cloth. No, sir, I shall approach this case 
from the point of view that what this young man 
says is true, and we shall see whither that hypoth- 
esis will lead us. And now here is my pocket Pe- 
trarch, and not another word shall I say of this case 
until we are on the scene of action. We lunch at 
Swindon, and I see that we shall be there in twenty 
minutes." 

It was nearly four o'clock when we at last, af- 
ter passing through the beautiful Stroud Valley, 
and over the broad gleaming Severn, found our- 
selves at the pretty little country- town of Ross. A 
lean, ferret-like man, furtive and sly-looking, was 
waiting for us upon the platform. In spite of the 
light brown dustcoat and leather-leggings which 
he wore in deference to his rustic surroundings, I 
had no difficulty in recognising Lestrade, of Scot- 
land Yard. With him we drove to the Hereford 
Arms where a room had already been engaged for 
us. 

"I have ordered a carriage," said Lestrade as we 
sat over a cup of tea. "I knew your energetic na- 
ture, and that you would not be happy until you 
had been on the scene of the crime." 

"It was very nice and complimentary of you," 
Holmes answered. "It is entirely a question of 
barometric pressure." 


164 



The Boscombe Valley Mystery 


Lestrade looked startled. "I do not quite fol- 
low," he said. 

"How is the glass? Twenty-nine, I see. No 
wind, and not a cloud in the sky. I have a ease- 
ful of cigarettes here which need smoking, and the 
sofa is very much superior to the usual country ho- 
tel abomination. I do not think that it is probable 
that I shall use the carriage to-night." 

Lestrade laughed indulgently. "You have, no 
doubt, already formed your conclusions from the 
newspapers," he said. "The case is as plain as a 
pikestaff, and the more one goes into it the plainer 
it becomes. Still, of course, one can't refuse a lady, 
and such a very positive one, too. She has heard 
of you, and would have your opinion, though I 
repeatedly told her that there was nothing which 
you could do which I had not already done. Why, 
bless my soul! here is her carriage at the door." 

He had hardly spoken before there rushed into 
the room one of the most lovely young women that 
I have ever seen in my life. Her violet eyes shining, 
her lips parted, a pink flush upon her cheeks, all 
thought of her natural reserve lost in her overpow- 
ering excitement and concern. 

"Oh, Mr. Sherlock Holmes!" she cried, glanc- 
ing from one to the other of us, and finally, with a 
woman's quick intuition, fastening upon my com- 
panion, "I am so glad that you have come. I have 
driven down to tell you so. I know that James 
didn't do it. I know it, and I want you to start 
upon your work knowing it, too. Never let your- 
self doubt upon that point. We have known each 
other since we were little children, and I know his 
faults as no one else does; but he is too tender- 
hearted to hurt a fly. Such a charge is absurd to 
anyone who really knows him." 

"I hope we may clear him. Miss Turner," said 
Sherlock Holmes. "You may rely upon my doing 
all that I can." 

"But you have read the evidence. You have 
formed some conclusion? Do you not see some 
loophole, some flaw? Do you not yourself think 
that he is innocent?" 

"I think that it is very probable." 

"There, now!" she cried, throwing back her 
head and looking defiantly at Lestrade. "You hear! 
He gives me hopes." 

Lestrade shrugged his shoulders. "I am afraid 
that my colleague has been a little quick in form- 
ing his conclusions," he said. 

"But he is right. Oh! I know that he is right. 
James never did it. And about his quarrel with his 
father, I am sure that the reason why he would not 


speak about it to the coroner was because I was 
concerned in it." 

"In what way?" asked Holmes. 

"It is no time for me to hide anything. James 
and his father had many disagreements about me. 
Mr. McCarthy was very anxious that there should 
be a marriage between us. James and I have al- 
ways loved each other as brother and sister; but of 
course he is young and has seen very little of life 
yet, and — and — well, he naturally did not wish to 
do anything like that yet. So there were quarrels, 
and this, I am sure, was one of them." 

"And your father?" asked Holmes. "Was he in 
favour of such a union?" 

"No, he was averse to it also. No one but 
Mr. McCarthy was in favour of it." A quick blush 
passed over her fresh young face as Holmes shot 
one of his keen, questioning glances at her. 

"Thank you for this information," said he. 
"May I see your father if I call to-morrow?" 

"I am afraid the doctor won't allow it." 

"The doctor?" 

"Yes, have you not heard? Poor father has 
never been strong for years back, but this has bro- 
ken him down completely. He has taken to his bed, 
and Dr. Willows says that he is a wreck and that his 
nervous system is shattered. Mr. McCarthy was 
the only man alive who had known dad in the old 
days in Victoria." 

"Ha! In Victoria! That is important." 

"Yes, at the mines." 

"Quite so; at the gold-mines, where, as I under- 
stand, Mr. Turner made his money." 

"Yes, certainly." 

"Thank you. Miss Turner. You have been of 
material assistance to me." 

"You will tell me if you have any news to- 
morrow. No doubt you will go to the prison to 
see James. Oh, if you do, Mr. Holmes, do tell him 
that I know him to be innocent." 

"I will. Miss Turner." 

"I must go home now, for dad is very ill, and 
he misses me so if I leave him. Good-bye, and 
God help you in your undertaking." She hurried 
from the room as impulsively as she had entered, 
and we heard the wheels of her carriage rattle off 
down the street. 

"I am ashamed of you. Holmes," said Lestrade 
with dignity after a few minutes' silence. "Why 
should you raise up hopes which you are bound 
to disappoint? I am not over-tender of heart, but I 
call it cruel." 


1.65 



The Boscombe Valley Mystery 


"I think that I see my way to clearing James 
McCarthy," said Holmes. "Have you an order to 
see him in prison?" 

"Yes, but only for you and me." 

"Then I shall reconsider my resolution about 
going out. We have still time to take a train to 
Hereford and see him to-night?" 

"Ample." 

"Then let us do so. Watson, I fear that you will 
find it very slow, but I shall only be away a couple 
of hours." 

I walked down to the station with them, and 
then wandered through the streets of the little 
town, finally returning to the hotel, where I lay 
upon the sofa and tried to interest myself in a 
yellow-backed novel. The puny plot of the story 
was so thin, however, when compared to the deep 
mystery through which we were groping, and I 
found my attention wander so continually from 
the action to the fact, that I at last flung it across the 
room and gave myself up entirely to a considera- 
tion of the events of the day. Supposing that this 
unhappy young man's story were absolutely true, 
then what hellish thing, what absolutely unfore- 
seen and extraordinary calamity could have oc- 
curred between the time when he parted from his 
father, and the moment when, drawn back by his 
screams, he rushed into the glade? It was some- 
thing terrible and deadly. What could it be? Might 
not the nature of the injuries reveal something to 
my medical instincts? I rang the bell and called 
for the weekly county paper, which contained a 
verbatim account of the inquest. In the surgeon's 
deposition it was stated that the posterior third of 
the left parietal bone and the left half of the occip- 
ital bone had been shattered by a heavy blow from 
a blunt weapon. I marked the spot upon my own 
head. Clearly such a blow must have been struck 
from behind. That was to some extent in favour of 
the accused, as when seen quarrelling he was face 
to face with his father. Still, it did not go for very 
much, for the older man might have turned his 
back before the blow fell. Still, it might be worth 
while to call Holmes' attention to it. Then there 
was the peculiar dying reference to a rat. What 
could that mean? It could not be delirium. A man 
dying from a sudden blow does not commonly be- 
come delirious. No, it was more likely to be an 
attempt to explain how he met his fate. But what 
could it indicate? I cudgelled my brains to find 
some possible explanation. And then the incident 
of the grey cloth seen by young McCarthy. If that 
were true the murderer must have dropped some 
part of his dress, presumably his overcoat, in his 


flight, and must have had the hardihood to return 
and to carry it away at the instant when the son 
was kneeling with his back turned not a dozen 
paces off. What a tissue of mysteries and improb- 
abilities the whole thing was! I did not wonder at 
Lestrade's opinion, and yet I had so much faith in 
Sherlock Holmes' insight that I could not lose hope 
as long as every fresh fact seemed to strengthen his 
conviction of young McCarthy's innocence. 

It was late before Sherlock Holmes returned. 
He came back alone, for Lestrade was staying in 
lodgings in the town. 

"The glass still keeps very high," he remarked 
as he sat down. "It is of importance that it should 
not rain before we are able to go over the ground. 
On the other hand, a man should be at his very 
best and keenest for such nice work as that, and I 
did not wish to do it when fagged by a long jour- 
ney. I have seen young McCarthy." 

"And what did you learn from him?" 

"Nothing." 

"Could he throw no light?" 

"None at all. I was inclined to think at one time 
that he knew who had done it and was screen- 
ing him or her, but I am convinced now that he 
is as puzzled as everyone else. He is not a very 
quick-witted youth, though comely to look at and, 
I should think, sound at heart." 

"I cannot admire his taste," I remarked, "if it is 
indeed a fact that he was averse to a marriage with 
so charming a young lady as this Miss Turner." 

"Ah, thereby hangs a rather painful tale. This 
fellow is madly, insanely, in love with her, but 
some two years ago, when he was only a lad, and 
before he really knew her, for she had been away 
five years at a boarding-school, what does the idiot 
do but get into the clutches of a barmaid in Bristol 
and marry her at a registry office? No one knows a 
word of the matter, but you can imagine how mad- 
dening it must be to him to be upbraided for not 
doing what he would give his very eyes to do, but 
what he knows to be absolutely impossible. It was 
sheer frenzy of this sort which made him throw 
his hands up into the air when his father, at their 
last interview, was goading him on to propose to 
Miss Turner. On the other hand, he had no means 
of supporting himself, and his father, who was by 
all accounts a very hard man, would have thrown 
him over utterly had he known the truth. It was 
with his barmaid wife that he had spent the last 
three days in Bristol, and his father did not know 
where he was. Mark that point. It is of impor- 
tance. Good has come out of evil, however, for the 


166 



The Boscombe Valley Mystery 


barmaid, finding from the papers that he is in se- 
rious trouble and likely to be hanged, has thrown 
him over utterly and has written to him to say that 
she has a husband already in the Bermuda Dock- 
yard, so that there is really no tie between them. 
I think that that bit of news has consoled young 
McCarthy for all that he has suffered." 

"But if he is innocent, who has done it?" 

"Ah! who? I would call your attention very 
particularly to two points. One is that the mur- 
dered man had an appointment with someone at 
the pool, and that the someone could not have 
been his son, for his son was away, and he did not 
know when he would return. The second is that 
the murdered man was heard to cry 'Cooee!' be- 
fore he knew that his son had returned. Those are 
the crucial points upon which the case depends. 
And now let us talk about George Meredith, if you 
please, and we shall leave all minor matters until 
to-morrow." 

There was no rain, as Holmes had foretold, 
and the morning broke bright and cloudless. At 
nine o'clock Lestrade called for us with the car- 
riage, and we set off for Hatherley Farm and the 
Boscombe Pool. 

"There is serious news this morning," Lestrade 
observed. "It is said that Mr. Turner, of the Hall, is 
so ill that his life is despaired of." 

"An elderly man, I presume?" said Holmes. 

"About sixty; but his constitution has been 
shattered by his life abroad, and he has been in 
failing health for some time. This business has had 
a very bad effect upon him. He was an old friend 
of McCarthy's, and, I may add, a great benefactor 
to him, for I have learned that he gave him Hather- 
ley Farm rent free." 

"Indeed! That is interesting," said Holmes. 

"Oh, yes! In a hundred other ways he has 
helped him. Everybody about here speaks of his 
kindness to him." 

"Really! Does it not strike you as a little singu- 
lar that this McCarthy, who appears to have had 
little of his own, and to have been under such 
obligations to Turner, should still talk of marry- 
ing his son to Turner's daughter, who is, presum- 
ably, heiress to the estate, and that in such a very 
cocksure manner, as if it were merely a case of a 
proposal and all else would follow? It is the more 
strange, since we know that Turner himself was 
averse to the idea. The daughter told us as much. 
Do you not deduce something from that?" 

"We have got to the deductions and the infer- 
ences," said Lestrade, winking at me. "I find it 


hard enough to tackle facts. Holmes, without fly- 
ing away after theories and fancies." 

"You are right," said Holmes demurely; "you 
do find it very hard to tackle the facts." 

"Anyhow, I have grasped one fact which you 
seem to find it difficult to get hold of," replied 
Lestrade with some warmth. 

"And that is — " 

"That McCarthy senior met his death from Mc- 
Carthy junior and that all theories to the contrary 
are the merest moonshine." 

"Well, moonshine is a brighter thing than fog," 
said Holmes, laughing. "But I am very much mis- 
taken if this is not Hatherley Farm upon the left." 

"Yes, that is it." It was a widespread, 
comfortable-looking building, two-storied, slate- 
roofed, with great yellow blotches of lichen upon 
the grey walls. The drawn blinds and the smoke- 
less chimneys, however, gave it a stricken look, as 
though the weight of this horror still lay heavy 
upon it. We called at the door, when the maid, at 
Holmes' request, showed us the boots which her 
master wore at the time of his death, and also a 
pair of the son's, though not the pair which he had 
then had. Having measured these very carefully 
from seven or eight different points. Holmes de- 
sired to be led to the court-yard, from which we all 
followed the winding track which led to Boscombe 
Pool. 

Sherlock Holmes was transformed when he 
was hot upon such a scent as this. Men who 
had only known the quiet thinker and logician of 
Baker Street would have failed to recognise him. 
His face flushed and darkened. His brows were 
drawn into two hard black lines, while his eyes 
shone out from beneath them with a steely glit- 
ter. His face was bent downward, his shoulders 
bowed, his lips compressed, and the veins stood 
out like whipcord in his long, sinewy neck. His 
nostrils seemed to dilate with a purely animal lust 
for the chase, and his mind was so absolutely con- 
centrated upon the matter before him that a ques- 
tion or remark fell unheeded upon his ears, or, at 
the most, only provoked a quick, impatient snarl in 
reply. Swiftly and silently he made his way along 
the track which ran through the meadows, and so 
by way of the woods to the Boscombe Pool. It 
was damp, marshy ground, as is all that district, 
and there were marks of many feet, both upon the 
path and amid the short grass which bounded it 
on either side. Sometimes Holmes would hurry 
on, sometimes stop dead, and once he made quite 
a little detour into the meadow. Lestrade and I 


167 



The Boscombe Valley Mystery 


walked behind him, the detective indifferent and 
contemptuous, while I watched my friend with the 
interest which sprang from the conviction that ev- 
ery one of his actions was directed towards a defi- 
nite end. 

The Boscombe Pool, which is a little reed-girt 
sheet of water some fifty yards across, is situ- 
ated at the boundary between the Hatherley Farm 
and the private park of the wealthy Mr. Turner. 
Above the woods which lined it upon the farther 
side we could see the red, jutting pinnacles which 
marked the site of the rich landowner's dwelling. 
On the Hatherley side of the pool the woods grew 
very thick, and there was a narrow belt of sodden 
grass twenty paces across between the edge of the 
trees and the reeds which lined the lake. Lestrade 
showed us the exact spot at which the body had 
been found, and, indeed, so moist was the ground, 
that I could plainly see the traces which had been 
left by the fall of the stricken man. To Holmes, 
as I could see by his eager face and peering eyes, 
very many other things were to be read upon the 
trampled grass. He ran round, like a dog who is 
picking up a scent, and then turned upon my com- 
panion. 

"What did you go into the pool for?" he asked. 

"I fished about with a rake. I thought there 
might be some weapon or other trace. But how on 
earth — " 

"Oh, tut, tut! I have no time! That left foot of 
yours with its inward twist is all over the place. A 
mole could trace it, and there it vanishes among 
the reeds. Oh, how simple it would all have been 
had I been here before they came like a herd of 
buffalo and wallowed all over it. Here is where 
the party with the lodge-keeper came, and they 
have covered all tracks for six or eight feet round 
the body. But here are three separate tracks of the 
same feet." He drew out a lens and lay down upon 
his waterproof to have a better view, talking all 
the time rather to himself than to us. "These are 
young McCarthy's feet. Twice he was walking, and 
once he ran swiftly, so that the soles are deeply 
marked and the heels hardly visible. That bears 
out his story. He ran when he saw his father on 
the ground. Then here are the father's feet as he 
paced up and down. What is this, then? It is the 
butt-end of the gun as the son stood listening. And 
this? Ha, ha! What have we here? Tiptoes! tiptoes! 
Square, too, quite unusual boots! They come, they 
go, they come again — of course that was for the 
cloak. Now where did they come from?" He ran 
up and down, sometimes losing, sometimes find- 
ing the track until we were well within the edge of 


the wood and under the shadow of a great beech, 
the largest tree in the neighbourhood. Holmes 
traced his way to the farther side of this and lay 
down once more upon his face with a little cry of 
satisfaction. For a long time he remained there, 
turning over the leaves and dried sticks, gathering 
up what seemed to me to be dust into an envelope 
and examining with his lens not only the ground 
but even the bark of the tree as far as he could 
reach. A jagged stone was lying among the moss, 
and this also he carefully examined and retained. 
Then he followed a pathway through the wood un- 
til he came to the highroad, where all traces were 
lost. 

"It has been a case of considerable interest," 
he remarked, returning to his natural manner. "I 
fancy that this grey house on the right must be the 
lodge. I think that I will go in and have a word 
with Moran, and perhaps write a little note. Hav- 
ing done that, we may drive back to our luncheon. 
You may walk to the cab, and I shall be with you 
presently." 

It was about ten minutes before we regained 
our cab and drove back into Ross, Holmes still car- 
rying with him the stone which he had picked up 
in the wood. 

"This may interest you, Lestrade," he re- 
marked, holding it out. "The murder was done 
with it." 

"I see no marks." 

"There are none." 

"How do you know, then?" 

"The grass was growing under it. It had only 
lain there a few days. There was no sign of a place 
whence it had been taken. It corresponds with the 
injuries. There is no sign of any other weapon." 

"And the murderer?" 

"Is a tall man, left-handed, limps with the right 
leg, wears thick-soled shooting-boots and a grey 
cloak, smokes Indian cigars, uses a cigar-holder, 
and carries a blunt pen-knife in his pocket. There 
are several other indications, but these may be 
enough to aid us in our search." 

Lestrade laughed. "I am afraid that I am still a 
sceptic," he said. "Theories are all very well, but 
we have to deal with a hard-headed British jury." 

"Nous verrons," answered Holmes calmly. 
"You work your own method, and I shall work 
mine. I shall be busy this afternoon, and shall 
probably return to London by the evening train." 

"And leave your case unfinished?" 

"No, finished." 

"But the mystery?" 

"It is solved." 


168 



The Boscombe Valley Mystery 


"Who was the criminal, then?" 

"The gentleman I describe." 

"But who is he?" 

"Surely it would not be difficult to find out. 
This is not such a populous neighbourhood." 

Lestrade shrugged his shoulders. "I am a prac- 
tical man," he said, "and I really cannot undertake 
to go about the country looking for a left-handed 
gentleman with a game leg. I should become the 
laughing-stock of Scotland Yard." 

"All right," said Holmes quietly. "I have given 
you the chance. Here are your lodgings. Good- 
bye. I shall drop you a line before 1 leave." 

Having left Lestrade at his rooms, we drove to 
our hotel, where we found lunch upon the table. 
Holmes was silent and buried in thought with a 
pained expression upon his face, as one who finds 
himself in a perplexing position. 

"Look here, Watson," he said when the cloth 
was cleared "just sit down in this chair and let me 
preach to you for a little. I don't know quite what 
to do, and I should value your advice. Light a cigar 
and let me expound." 

"Pray do so." 

"Well, now, in considering this case there 
are two points about young McCarthy's narrative 
which struck us both instantly, although they im- 
pressed me in his favour and you against him. One 
was the fact that his father should, according to his 
account, cry 'Cooee!' before seeing him. The other 
was his singular dying reference to a rat. He mum- 
bled several words, you understand, but that was 
all that caught the son's ear. Now from this double 
point our research must commence, and we will 
begin it by presuming that what the lad says is ab- 
solutely true." 

"What of this 'Cooee!' then?" 

"Well, obviously it could not have been meant 
for the son. The son, as far as he knew, was in Bris- 
tol. It was mere chance that he was within earshot. 
The 'Cooee!' was meant to attract the attention 
of whoever it was that he had the appointment 
with. But 'Cooee' is a distinctly Australian cry, and 
one which is used between Australians. There is 
a strong presumption that the person whom Mc- 
Carthy expected to meet him at Boscombe Pool 
was someone who had been in Australia." 

"What of the rat, then?" 

Sherlock Holmes took a folded paper from his 
pocket and flattened it out on the table. "This is a 
map of the Colony of Victoria," he said. "I wired 


to Bristol for it last night." He put his hand over 
part of the map. "What do you read?" 

"ARAT," I read. 

"And now?" He raised his hand. 

"BALLARAT." 

"Quite so. That was the word the man uttered, 
and of which his son only caught the last two syl- 
lables. He was trying to utter the name of his mur- 
derer. So and so, of Ballarat." 

"It is wonderful!" I exclaimed. 

"It is obvious. And now, you see, I had nar- 
rowed the field down considerably. The possession 
of a grey garment was a third point which, grant- 
ing the son's statement to be correct, was a cer- 
tainty. We have come now out of mere vagueness 
to the definite conception of an Australian from 
Ballarat with a grey cloak." 

"Certainly." 

"And one who was at home in the district, for 
the pool can only be approached by the farm or by 
the estate, where strangers could hardly wander." 

"Quite so." 

"Then comes our expedition of to-day. By an 
examination of the ground I gained the trifling de- 
tails which I gave to that imbecile Lestrade, as to 
the personality of the criminal." 

"But how did you gain them?" 

"You know my method. It is founded upon the 
observation of trifles." 

"His height I know that you might roughly 
judge from the length of his stride. His boots, too, 
might be told from their traces." 

"Yes, they were peculiar boots." 

"But his lameness?" 

"The impression of his right foot was always 
less distinct than his left. He put less weight upon 
it. Why? Because he limped — he was lame." 

"But his left-handedness." 

"You were yourself struck by the nature of the 
injury as recorded by the surgeon at the inquest. 
The blow was struck from immediately behind, 
and yet was upon the left side. Now, how can 
that be unless it were by a left-handed man? He 
had stood behind that tree during the interview 
between the father and son. He had even smoked 
there. I found the ash of a cigar, which my spe- 
cial knowledge of tobacco ashes enables me to pro- 
nounce as an Indian cigar. I have, as you know, 
devoted some attention to this, and written a little 
monograph on the ashes of 140 different varieties 
of pipe, cigar, and cigarette tobacco. Having found 
the ash, I then looked round and discovered the 
stump among the moss where he had tossed it. It 


169 



The Boscombe Valley Mystery 


was an Indian cigar, of the variety which are rolled 
in Rotterdam." 

"And the cigar-holder?" 

"I could see that the end had not been in his 
mouth. Therefore he used a holder. The tip had 
been cut off, not bitten off, but the cut was not a 
clean one, so I deduced a blunt pen-knife." 

"Holmes," I said, "you have drawn a net round 
this man from which he cannot escape, and you 
have saved an innocent human life as truly as if 
you had cut the cord which was hanging him. I 
see the direction in which all this points. The cul- 
prit is — " 

"Mr. John Turner," cried the hotel waiter, open- 
ing the door of our sitting-room, and ushering in 
a visitor. 

The man who entered was a strange and im- 
pressive figure. His slow, limping step and bowed 
shoulders gave the appearance of decrepitude, and 
yet his hard, deep-lined, craggy features, and his 
enormous limbs showed that he was possessed of 
unusual strength of body and of character. His tan- 
gled beard, grizzled hair, and outstanding, droop- 
ing eyebrows combined to give an air of dignity 
and power to his appearance, but his face was of 
an ashen white, while his lips and the corners of 
his nostrils were tinged with a shade of blue. It 
was clear to me at a glance that he was in the grip 
of some deadly and chronic disease. 

"Pray sit down on the sofa," said Holmes gen- 
tly. "You had my note?" 

"Yes, the lodge-keeper brought it up. You said 
that you wished to see me here to avoid scandal." 

"I thought people would talk if I went to the 
Hall." 

"And why did you wish to see me?" He looked 
across at my companion with despair in his weary 
eyes, as though his question was already an- 
swered. 

"Yes," said Holmes, answering the look rather 
than the words. "It is so. I know all about Mc- 
Carthy." 

The old man sank his face in his hands. "God 
help me!" he cried. "But I would not have let the 
young man come to harm. I give you my word that 
I would have spoken out if it went against him at 
the Assizes." 

"I am glad to hear you say so," said Holmes 
gravely. 

"I would have spoken now had it not been for 
my dear girl. It would break her heart — it will 
break her heart when she hears that I am arrested." 


"It may not come to that," said Holmes. 

"What?" 

"I am no official agent. I understand that it was 
your daughter who required my presence here, 
and I am acting in her interests. Young McCarthy 
must be got off, however." 

"I am a dying man," said old Turner. "I have 
had diabetes for years. My doctor says it is a ques- 
tion whether I shall live a month. Yet I would 
rather die under my own roof than in a jail." 

Holmes rose and sat down at the table with his 
pen in his hand and a bundle of paper before him. 
"Just tell us the truth," he said. "I shall jot down 
the facts. You will sign it, and Watson here can 
witness it. Then I could produce your confession 
at the last extremity to save young McCarthy. I 
promise you that I shall not use it unless it is ab- 
solutely needed." 

"It's as well," said the old man; "it's a question 
whether I shall live to the Assizes, so it matters 
little to me, but I should wish to spare Alice the 
shock. And now I will make the thing clear to 
you; it has been a long time in the acting, but will 
not take me long to tell. 

"You didn't know this dead man, McCarthy. 
He was a devil incarnate. I tell you that. God keep 
you out of the clutches of such a man as he. His 
grip has been upon me these twenty years, and he 
has blasted my life. I'll tell you first how I came to 
be in his power. 

"It was in the early '6o's at the diggings. I 
was a young chap then, hot-blooded and reckless, 
ready to turn my hand at anything; I got among 
bad companions, took to drink, had no luck with 
my claim, took to the bush, and in a word became 
what you would call over here a highway robber. 
There were six of us, and we had a wild, free life 
of it, sticking up a station from time to time, or 
stopping the wagons on the road to the diggings. 
Black Jack of Ballarat was the name I went under, 
and our party is still remembered in the colony as 
the Ballarat Gang. 

"One day a gold convoy came down from Bal- 
larat to Melbourne, and we lay in wait for it and 
attacked it. There were six troopers and six of us, 
so it was a close thing, but we emptied four of their 
saddles at the first volley. Three of our boys were 
killed, however, before we got the swag. I put my 
pistol to the head of the wagon-driver, who was 
this very man McCarthy. I wish to the Lord that I 
had shot him then, but I spared him, though I saw 
his wicked little eyes fixed on my face, as though 
to remember every feature. We got away with the 


170 



gold, became wealthy men, and made our way 
over to England without being suspected. There 
I parted from my old pals and determined to set- 
tle down to a quiet and respectable life. I bought 
this estate, which chanced to be in the market, and 
I set myself to do a little good with my money, to 
make up for the way in which I had earned it. I 
married, too, and though my wife died young she 
left me my dear little Alice. Even when she was 
just a baby her wee hand seemed to lead me down 
the right path as nothing else had ever done. In 
a word, I turned over a new leaf and did my best 
to make up for the past. All was going well when 
McCarthy laid his grip upon me. 

"I had gone up to town about an investment, 
and I met him in Regent Street with hardly a coat 
to his back or a boot to his foot. 

" 'Here we are. Jack/ says he, touching me on 
the arm; 'we'll be as good as a family to you. 
There's two of us, me and my son, and you can 
have the keeping of us. If you don't — it's a fine, 
law-abiding country is England, and there's al- 
ways a policeman within hail.' 

"Well, down they came to the west country, 
there was no shaking them off, and there they have 
lived rent free on my best land ever since. There 
was no rest for me, no peace, no forgetfulness; turn 
where I would, there was his cunning, grinning 
face at my elbow. It grew worse as Alice grew up, 
for he soon saw I was more afraid of her knowing 
my past than of the police. Whatever he wanted he 
must have, and whatever it was I gave him with- 
out question, land, money, houses, until at last he 
asked a thing which I could not give. He asked for 
Alice. 

"His son, you see, had grown up, and so had 
my girl, and as I was known to be in weak health, 
it seemed a fine stroke to him that his lad should 
step into the whole property. But there I was 
firm. I would not have his cursed stock mixed 
with mine; not that I had any dislike to the lad, 
but his blood was in him, and that was enough. I 
stood firm. McCarthy threatened. I braved him to 
do his worst. We were to meet at the pool midway 
between our houses to talk it over. 

"When I went down there I found him talk- 
ing with his son, so I smoked a cigar and waited 
behind a tree until he should be alone. But as I 
listened to his talk all that was black and bitter in 
me seemed to come uppermost. He was urging 
his son to marry my daughter with as little regard 
for what she might think as if she were a slut from 


off the streets. It drove me mad to think that I and 
all that I held most dear should be in the power of 
such a man as this. Could I not snap the bond? I 
was already a dying and a desperate man. Though 
clear of mind and fairly strong of limb, I knew that 
my own fate was sealed. But my memory and my 
girl! Both could be saved if I could but silence that 
foul tongue. I did it, Mr. Holmes. I would do it 
again. Deeply as I have sinned, I have led a life of 
martyrdom to atone for it. But that my girl should 
be entangled in the same meshes which held me 
was more than I could suffer. I struck him down 
with no more compunction than if he had been 
some foul and venomous beast. His cry brought 
back his son; but I had gained the cover of the 
wood, though I was forced to go back to fetch the 
cloak which I had dropped in my flight. That is 
the true story, gentlemen, of all that occurred." 

"Well, it is not for me to judge you," said 
Holmes as the old man signed the statement which 
had been drawn out. "I pray that we may never be 
exposed to such a temptation." 

"I pray not, sir. And what do you intend to 
do?" 

"In view of your health, nothing. You are 
yourself aware that you will soon have to answer 
for your deed at a higher court than the Assizes. 
I will keep your confession, and if McCarthy is 
condemned I shall be forced to use it. If not, it 
shall never be seen by mortal eye; and your secret, 
whether you be alive or dead, shall be safe with 
us." 

"Farewell, then," said the old man solemnly. 
"Your own deathbeds, when they come, will be the 
easier for the thought of the peace which you have 
given to mine." Tottering and shaking in all his gi- 
ant frame, he stumbled slowly from the room. 

"God help us!" said Holmes after a long si- 
lence. "Why does fate play such tricks with poor, 
helpless worms? I never hear of such a case as 
this that I do not think of Baxter 's words, and say, 
'There, but for the grace of God, goes Sherlock 
Holmes.' " 

James McCarthy was acquitted at the Assizes 
on the strength of a number of objections which 
had been drawn out by Holmes and submitted 
to the defending counsel. Old Turner lived for 
seven months after our interview, but he is now 
dead; and there is every prospect that the son and 
daughter may come to live happily together in ig- 
norance of the black cloud which rests upon their 
past. 



The Man with the Twisted Lip 


sa Whitney, brother of the late Elias 
Whitney, D.D., Principal of the Theolog- 
ical College of St. George's, was much 
addicted to opium. The habit grew 
upon him, as I understand, from some foolish 
freak when he was at college; for having read De 
Quincey's description of his dreams and sensa- 
tions, he had drenched his tobacco with laudanum 
in an attempt to produce the same effects. He 
found, as so many more have done, that the prac- 
tice is easier to attain than to get rid of, and for 
many years he continued to be a slave to the drug, 
an object of mingled horror and pity to his friends 
and relatives. I can see him now, with yellow, 
pasty face, drooping lids, and pin-point pupils, all 
huddled in a chair, the wreck and ruin of a noble 
man. 

One night — it was in June, '89 — there came a 
ring to my bell, about the hour when a man gives 
his first yawn and glances at the clock. I sat up in 
my chair, and my wife laid her needle-work down 
in her lap and made a little face of disappointment. 

"A patient!" said she. "You'll have to go out." 

I groaned, for I was newly come back from a 
weary day. 

We heard the door open, a few hurried words, 
and then quick steps upon the linoleum. Our own 
door flew open, and a lady, clad in some dark- 
coloured stuff, with a black veil, entered the room. 

"You will excuse my calling so late," she began, 
and then, suddenly losing her self-control, she ran 
forward, threw her arms about my wife's neck, 
and sobbed upon her shoulder. "Oh, I'm in such 
trouble!" she cried; "I do so want a little help." 

"Why," said my wife, pulling up her veil, "it is 
Kate Whitney. How you startled me, Kate! I had 
not an idea who you were when you came in." 

"I didn't know what to do, so I came straight to 
you." That was always the way. Folk who were in 
grief came to my wife like birds to a light-house. 

"It was very sweet of you to come. Now, you 
must have some wine and water, and sit here com- 
fortably and tell us all about it. Or should you 
rather that I sent James off to bed?" 

"Oh, no, no! I want the doctor's advice and 
help, too. It's about Isa. He has not been home for 
two days. I am so frightened about him!" 

It was not the first time that she had spoken to 
us of her husband's trouble, to me as a doctor, to 
my wife as an old friend and school companion. 
We soothed and comforted her by such words as 
we could find. Did she know where her husband 



was? Was it possible that we could bring him back 
to her? 

It seems that it was. She had the surest in- 
formation that of late he had, when the fit was 
on him, made use of an opium den in the far- 
thest east of the City. Hitherto his orgies had al- 
ways been confined to one day, and he had come 
back, twitching and shattered, in the evening. But 
now the spell had been upon him eight-and-forty 
hours, and he lay there, doubtless among the dregs 
of the docks, breathing in the poison or sleeping 
off the effects. There he was to be found, she was 
sure of it, at the Bar of Gold, in Upper Swandam 
Lane. But what was she to do? How could she, a 
young and timid woman, make her way into such 
a place and pluck her husband out from among 
the ruffians who surrounded him? 

There was the case, and of course there was 
but one way out of it. Might I not escort her to 
this place? And then, as a second thought, why 
should she come at all? I was Isa Whitney's medi- 
cal adviser, and as such I had influence over him. I 
could manage it better if I were alone. I promised 
her on my word that I would send him home in 
a cab within two hours if he were indeed at the 
address which she had given me. And so in ten 
minutes I had left my armchair and cheery sitting- 
room behind me, and was speeding eastward in a 
hansom on a strange errand, as it seemed to me at 
the time, though the future only could show how 
strange it was to be. 

But there was no great difficulty in the first 
stage of my adventure. Upper Swandam Lane is a 
vile alley lurking behind the high wharves which 
line the north side of the river to the east of Lon- 
don Bridge. Between a slop-shop and a gin-shop, 
approached by a steep flight of steps leading down 
to a black gap like the mouth of a cave, I found the 
den of which I was in search. Ordering my cab to 
wait, I passed down the steps, worn hollow in the 
centre by the ceaseless tread of drunken feet; and 
by the light of a flickering oil-lamp above the door 
I found the latch and made my way into a long, 
low room, thick and heavy with the brown opium 
smoke, and terraced with wooden berths, like the 
forecastle of an emigrant ship. 

Through the gloom one could dimly catch a 
glimpse of bodies lying in strange fantastic poses, 
bowed shoulders, bent knees, heads thrown back, 
and chins pointing upward, with here and there a 
dark, lack-lustre eye turned upon the newcomer. 
Out of the black shadows there glimmered little 
red circles of light, now bright, now faint, as the 
burning poison waxed or waned in the bowls of 


187 



The Man with the Twisted Lip 


the metal pipes. The most lay silent, but some mut- 
tered to themselves, and others talked together in a 
strange, low, monotonous voice, their conversation 
coming in gushes, and then suddenly tailing off 
into silence, each mumbling out his own thoughts 
and paying little heed to the words of his neigh- 
bour. At the farther end was a small brazier of 
burning charcoal, beside which on a three-legged 
wooden stool there sat a tall, thin old man, with 
his jaw resting upon his two fists, and his elbows 
upon his knees, staring into the fire. 

As I entered, a sallow Malay attendant had hur- 
ried up with a pipe for me and a supply of the 
drug, beckoning me to an empty berth. 

"Thank you. I have not come to stay," said I. 
"There is a friend of mine here, Mr. Isa Whitney, 
and I wish to speak with him." 

There was a movement and an exclamation 
from my right, and peering through the gloom, I 
saw Whitney, pale, haggard, and unkempt, staring 
out at me. 

"My God! It's Watson," said he. He was in 
a pitiable state of reaction, with every nerve in a 
twitter. "I say, Watson, what o'clock is it?" 

"Nearly eleven." 

"Of what day?" 

"Of Friday, June 19th." 

"Good heavens! I thought it was Wednesday. It 
is Wednesday. What d'you want to frighten a chap 
for?" He sank his face onto his arms and began to 
sob in a high treble key. 

"I tell you that it is Friday, man. Your wife has 
been waiting this two days for you. You should be 
ashamed of yourself!" 

"So I am. But you've got mixed, Watson, for I 
have only been here a few hours, three pipes, four 
pipes — I forget how many. But I'll go home with 
you. I wouldn't frighten Kate — poor little Kate. 
Give me your hand! Have you a cab?" 

"Yes, I have one waiting." 

"Then I shall go in it. But I must owe some- 
thing. Find what I owe, Watson. I am all off colour. 
I can do nothing for myself." 

I walked down the narrow passage between 
the double row of sleepers, holding my breath to 
keep out the vile, stupefying fumes of the drug, 
and looking about for the manager. As I passed 
the tall man who sat by the brazier I felt a sud- 
den pluck at my skirt, and a low voice whispered, 
"Walk past me, and then look back at me." The 
words fell quite distinctly upon my ear. I glanced 
down. They could only have come from the old 


man at my side, and yet he sat now as absorbed 
as ever, very thin, very wrinkled, bent with age, 
an opium pipe dangling down from between his 
knees, as though it had dropped in sheer lassi- 
tude from his fingers. I took two steps forward 
and looked back. It took all my self-control to pre- 
vent me from breaking out into a cry of astonish- 
ment. He had turned his back so that none could 
see him but I. His form had filled out, his wrinkles 
were gone, the dull eyes had regained their fire, 
and there, sitting by the fire and grinning at my 
surprise, was none other than Sherlock Holmes. 
He made a slight motion to me to approach him, 
and instantly, as he turned his face half round to 
the company once more, subsided into a dodder- 
ing, loose-lipped senility. 

"Holmes!" I whispered, "what on earth are you 
doing in this den?" 

"As low as you can," he answered; "I have ex- 
cellent ears. If you would have the great kindness 
to get rid of that sottish friend of yours I should be 
exceedingly glad to have a little talk with you." 

"I have a cab outside." 

"Then pray send him home in it. You may 
safely trust him, for he appears to be too limp to 
get into any mischief. I should recommend you 
also to send a note by the cabman to your wife to 
say that you have thrown in your lot with me. If 
you will wait outside, I shall be with you in five 
minutes." 

It was difficult to refuse any of Sherlock 
Holmes' requests, for they were always so exceed- 
ingly definite, and put forward with such a quiet 
air of mastery. I felt, however, that when Whitney 
was once confined in the cab my mission was prac- 
tically accomplished; and for the rest, I could not 
wish anything better than to be associated with my 
friend in one of those singular adventures which 
were the normal condition of his existence. In a 
few minutes I had written my note, paid Whit- 
ney's bill, led him out to the cab, and seen him 
driven through the darkness. In a very short time a 
decrepit figure had emerged from the opium den, 
and I was walking down the street with Sherlock 
Holmes. For two streets he shuffled along with 
a bent back and an uncertain foot. Then, glanc- 
ing quickly round, he straightened himself out and 
burst into a hearty fit of laughter. 

"I suppose, Watson," said he, "that you imag- 
ine that I have added opium-smoking to cocaine 
injections, and all the other little weaknesses on 
which you have favoured me with your medical 
views." 


188 



The Man with the Twisted Lip 


"I was certainly surprised to find you there." 

"But not more so than I to find you." 

"I came to find a friend." 

"And I to find an enemy." 

"An enemy?" 

"Yes; one of my natural enemies, or, shall I say, 
my natural prey. Briefly, Watson, I am in the midst 
of a very remarkable inquiry, and I have hoped 
to find a clue in the incoherent ramblings of these 
sots, as I have done before now. Had I been recog- 
nised in that den my life would not have been 
worth an hour's purchase; for I have used it be- 
fore now for my own purposes, and the rascally 
Lascar who runs it has sworn to have vengeance 
upon me. There is a trap-door at the back of that 
building, near the corner of Paul's Wharf, which 
could tell some strange tales of what has passed 
through it upon the moonless nights." 

"What! You do not mean bodies?" 

"Ay, bodies, Watson. We should be rich men if 
we had £1000 for every poor devil who has been 
done to death in that den. It is the vilest murder- 
trap on the whole riverside, and I fear that Neville 
St. Clair has entered it never to leave it more. But 
our trap should be here." He put his two fore- 
fingers between his teeth and whistled shrilly — a 
signal which was answered by a similar whistle 
from the distance, followed shortly by the rattle of 
wheels and the clink of horses' hoofs. 

"Now, Watson," said Holmes, as a tall dog- 
cart dashed up through the gloom, throwing out 
two golden tunnels of yellow light from its side 
lanterns. "You'll come with me, won't you?" 

"If I can be of use." 

"Oh, a trusty comrade is always of use; and a 
chronicler still more so. My room at The Cedars is 
a double-bedded one." 

"The Cedars?" 

"Yes; that is Mr. St. Clair's house. I am staying 
there while I conduct the inquiry." 

"Where is it, then?" 

"Near Lee, in Kent. We have a seven-mile drive 
before us." 

"But I am all in the dark." 

"Of course you are. You'll know all about it 
presently. Jump up here. All right, John; we shall 
not need you. Here's half a crown. Look out for 
me to-morrow, about eleven. Give her her head. 
So long, then!" 

He flicked the horse with his whip, and 
we dashed away through the endless succession 


of sombre and deserted streets, which widened 
gradually, until we were flying across a broad 
balustraded bridge, with the murky river flow- 
ing sluggishly beneath us. Beyond lay another 
dull wilderness of bricks and mortar, its silence 
broken only by the heavy, regular footfall of the 
policeman, or the songs and shouts of some be- 
lated party of revellers. A dull wrack was drift- 
ing slowly across the sky, and a star or two twin- 
kled dimly here and there through the rifts of the 
clouds. Holmes drove in silence, with his head 
sunk upon his breast, and the air of a man who 
is lost in thought, while I sat beside him, curi- 
ous to learn what this new quest might be which 
seemed to tax his powers so sorely, and yet afraid 
to break in upon the current of his thoughts. We 
had driven several miles, and were beginning to 
get to the fringe of the belt of suburban villas, 
when he shook himself, shrugged his shoulders, 
and lit up his pipe with the air of a man who has 
satisfied himself that he is acting for the best. 

"You have a grand gift of silence, Watson," said 
he. "It makes you quite invaluable as a compan- 
ion. 'Pon my word, it is a great thing for me to 
have someone to talk to, for my own thoughts are 
not over-pleasant. I was wondering what I should 
say to this dear little woman to-night when she 
meets me at the door." 

"You forget that I know nothing about it." 

"I shall just have time to tell you the facts of 
the case before we get to Lee. It seems absurdly 
simple, and yet, somehow I can get nothing to go 
upon. There's plenty of thread, no doubt, but I 
can't get the end of it into my hand. Now, I'll state 
the case clearly and concisely to you, Watson, and 
maybe you can see a spark where all is dark to 
me." 

"Proceed, then." 

"Some years ago — to be definite, in May, 
1884 — there came to Lee a gentleman, Neville St. 
Clair by name, who appeared to have plenty of 
money. He took a large villa, laid out the grounds 
very nicely, and lived generally in good style. By 
degrees he made friends in the neighbourhood, 
and in 1887 he married the daughter of a local 
brewer, by whom he now has two children. He 
had no occupation, but was interested in several 
companies and went into town as a rule in the 
morning, returning by the 5.14 from Cannon Street 
every night. Mr. St. Clair is now thirty-seven years 
of age, is a man of temperate habits, a good hus- 
band, a very affectionate father, and a man who 
is popular with all who know him. I may add 
that his whole debts at the present moment, as far 


189 



The Man with the Twisted Lip 


as we have been able to ascertain, amount to £88 
ios., while he has £220 standing to his credit in the 
Capital and Counties Bank. There is no reason, 
therefore, to think that money troubles have been 
weighing upon his mind. 

"Last Monday Mr. Neville St. Clair went into 
town rather earlier than usual, remarking before 
he started that he had two important commis- 
sions to perform, and that he would bring his lit- 
tle boy home a box of bricks. Now, by the mer- 
est chance, his wife received a telegram upon this 
same Monday, very shortly after his departure, to 
the effect that a small parcel of considerable value 
which she had been expecting was waiting for her 
at the offices of the Aberdeen Shipping Company. 
Now, if you are well up in your London, you will 
know that the office of the company is in Fresno 
Street, which branches out of Upper Swandam 
Lane, where you found me to-night. Mrs. St. Clair 
had her lunch, started for the City, did some shop- 
ping, proceeded to the company's office, got her 
packet, and found herself at exactly 4.35 walking 
through Swandam Lane on her way back to the 
station. Have you followed me so far?" 

"It is very clear." 

"If you remember, Monday was an exceedingly 
hot day, and Mrs. St. Clair walked slowly, glancing 
about in the hope of seeing a cab, as she did not 
like the neighbourhood in which she found her- 
self. While she was walking in this way down 
Swandam Lane, she suddenly heard an ejacula- 
tion or cry, and was struck cold to see her hus- 
band looking down at her and, as it seemed to her, 
beckoning to her from a second-floor window. The 
window was open, and she distinctly saw his face, 
which she describes as being terribly agitated. He 
waved his hands frantically to her, and then van- 
ished from the window so suddenly that it seemed 
to her that he had been plucked back by some ir- 
resistible force from behind. One singular point 
which struck her quick feminine eye was that al- 
though he wore some dark coat, such as he had 
started to town in, he had on neither collar nor 
necktie. 

"Convinced that something was amiss with 
him, she rushed down the steps — for the house 
was none other than the opium den in which you 
found me to-night — and running through the front 
room she attempted to ascend the stairs which led 
to the first floor. At the foot of the stairs, however, 
she met this Lascar scoundrel of whom I have spo- 
ken, who thrust her back and, aided by a Dane, 
who acts as assistant there, pushed her out into the 
street. Filled with the most maddening doubts and 


fears, she rushed down the lane and, by rare good- 
fortune, met in Fresno Street a number of consta- 
bles with an inspector, all on their way to their 
beat. The inspector and two men accompanied her 
back, and in spite of the continued resistance of 
the proprietor, they made their way to the room in 
which Mr. St. Clair had last been seen. There was 
no sign of him there. In fact, in the whole of that 
floor there was no one to be found save a crippled 
wretch of hideous aspect, who, it seems, made his 
home there. Both he and the Lascar stoutly swore 
that no one else had been in the front room dur- 
ing the afternoon. So determined was their denial 
that the inspector was staggered, and had almost 
come to believe that Mrs. St. Clair had been de- 
luded when, with a cry, she sprang at a small deal 
box which lay upon the table and tore the lid from 
it. Out there fell a cascade of children's bricks. It 
was the toy which he had promised to bring home. 

"This discovery, and the evident confusion 
which the cripple showed, made the inspector re- 
alise that the matter was serious. The rooms were 
carefully examined, and results all pointed to an 
abominable crime. The front room was plainly fur- 
nished as a sitting-room and led into a small bed- 
room, which looked out upon the back of one of 
the wharves. Between the wharf and the bedroom 
window is a narrow strip, which is dry at low tide 
but is covered at high tide with at least four and 
a half feet of water. The bedroom window was 
a broad one and opened from below. On exam- 
ination traces of blood were to be seen upon the 
windowsill, and several scattered drops were visi- 
ble upon the wooden floor of the bedroom. Thrust 
away behind a curtain in the front room were all 
the clothes of Mr. Neville St. Clair, with the excep- 
tion of his coat. His boots, his socks, his hat, and 
his watch — all were there. There were no signs of 
violence upon any of these garments, and there 
were no other traces of Mr. Neville St. Clair. Out 
of the window he must apparently have gone for 
no other exit could be discovered, and the ominous 
bloodstains upon the sill gave little promise that he 
could save himself by swimming, for the tide was 
at its very highest at the moment of the tragedy. 

"And now as to the villains who seemed to be 
immediately implicated in the matter. The Lascar 
was known to be a man of the vilest antecedents, 
but as, by Mrs. St. Clair's story, he was known to 
have been at the foot of the stair within a very 
few seconds of her husband's appearance at the 
window, he could hardly have been more than an 
accessory to the crime. His defence was one of 
absolute ignorance, and he protested that he had 
no knowledge as to the doings of Hugh Boone, 


190 



The Man with the Twisted Lip 


his lodger, and that he could not account in any 
way for the presence of the missing gentleman's 
clothes. 

"So much for the Lascar manager. Now for the 
sinister cripple who lives upon the second floor 
of the opium den, and who was certainly the last 
human being whose eyes rested upon Neville St. 
Clair. His name is Hugh Boone, and his hideous 
face is one which is familiar to every man who 
goes much to the City. He is a professional beggar, 
though in order to avoid the police regulations he 
pretends to a small trade in wax vestas. Some little 
distance down Threadneedle Street, upon the left- 
hand side, there is, as you may have remarked, a 
small angle in the wall. Here it is that this crea- 
ture takes his daily seat, cross-legged with his tiny 
stock of matches on his lap, and as he is a piteous 
spectacle a small rain of charity descends into the 
greasy leather cap which lies upon the pavement 
beside him. I have watched the fellow more than 
once before ever I thought of making his profes- 
sional acquaintance, and I have been surprised at 
the harvest which he has reaped in a short time. 
His appearance, you see, is so remarkable that no 
one can pass him without observing him. A shock 
of orange hair, a pale face disfigured by a horrible 
scar, which, by its contraction, has turned up the 
outer edge of his upper lip, a bulldog chin, arid a 
pair of very penetrating dark eyes, which present a 
singular contrast to the colour of his hair, all mark 
him out from amid the common crowd of mendi- 
cants and so, too, does his wit, for he is ever ready 
with a reply to any piece of chaff which may be 
thrown at him by the passers-by. This is the man 
whom we now learn to have been the lodger at the 
opium den, and to have been the last man to see 
the gentleman of whom we are in quest." 

"But a cripple!" said I. "What could he have 
done single-handed against a man in the prime of 
life?" 

"He is a cripple in the sense that he walks with 
a limp; but in other respects he appears to be 
a powerful and well-nurtured man. Surely your 
medical experience would tell you, Watson, that 
weakness in one limb is often compensated for by 
exceptional strength in the others." 

"Pray continue your narrative." 

"Mrs. St. Clair had fainted at the sight of the 
blood upon the window, and she was escorted 
home in a cab by the police, as her presence could 
be of no help to them in their investigations. In- 
spector Barton, who had charge of the case, made 
a very careful examination of the premises, but 
without finding anything which threw any light 


upon the matter. One mistake had been made in 
not arresting Boone instantly, as he was allowed 
some few minutes during which he might have 
communicated with his friend the Lascar, but this 
fault was soon remedied, and he was seized and 
searched, without anything being found which 
could incriminate him. There were, it is true, 
some blood-stains upon his right shirt-sleeve, but 
he pointed to his ring-finger, which had been cut 
near the nail, and explained that the bleeding came 
from there, adding that he had been to the win- 
dow not long before, and that the stains which had 
been observed there came doubtless from the same 
source. He denied strenuously having ever seen 
Mr. Neville St. Clair and swore that the presence 
of the clothes in his room was as much a mystery 
to him as to the police. As to Mrs. St. Clair's as- 
sertion that she had actually seen her husband at 
the window, he declared that she must have been 
either mad or dreaming. He was removed, loudly 
protesting, to the police-station, while the inspec- 
tor remained upon the premises in the hope that 
the ebbing tide might afford some fresh clue. 

"And it did, though they hardly found upon 
the mud-bank what they had feared to find. It was 
Neville St. Clair's coat, and not Neville St. Clair, 
which lay uncovered as the tide receded. And 
what do you think they found in the pockets?" 

"I cannot imagine." 

"No, I don't think you would guess. Every 
pocket stuffed with pennies and half-pennies — 421 
pennies and 270 half-pennies. It was no wonder 
that it had not been swept away by the tide. But a 
human body is a different matter. There is a fierce 
eddy between the wharf and the house. It seemed 
likely enough that the weighted coat had remained 
when the stripped body had been sucked away 
into the river." 

"But I understand that all the other clothes 
were found in the room. Would the body be 
dressed in a coat alone?" 

"No, sir, but the facts might be met speciously 
enough. Suppose that this man Boone had thrust 
Neville St. Clair through the window, there is no 
human eye which could have seen the deed. What 
would he do then? It would of course instantly 
strike him that he must get rid of the tell-tale gar- 
ments. He would seize the coat, then, and be in 
the act of throwing it out, when it would occur to 
him that it would swim and not sink. He has little 
time, for he has heard the scuffle downstairs when 
the wife tried to force her way up, and perhaps 
he has already heard from his Lascar confederate 
that the police are hurrying up the street. There is 


191 



The Man with the Twisted Lip 


not an instant to be lost. He rushes to some secret 
hoard, where he has accumulated the fruits of his 
beggary, and he stuffs all the coins upon which he 
can lay his hands into the pockets to make sure of 
the coat's sinking. He throws it out, and would 
have done the same with the other garments had 
not he heard the rush of steps below, and only just 
had time to close the window when the police ap- 
peared." 

"It certainly sounds feasible." 

"Well, we will take it as a working hypothesis 
for want of a better. Boone, as I have told you, 
was arrested and taken to the station, but it could 
not be shown that there had ever before been any- 
thing against him. He had for years been known 
as a professional beggar, but his life appeared to 
have been a very quiet and innocent one. There the 
matter stands at present, and the questions which 
have to be solved — what Neville St. Clair was do- 
ing in the opium den, what happened to him when 
there, where is he now, and what Hugh Boone had 
to do with his disappearance — are all as far from 
a solution as ever. I confess that I cannot recall 
any case within my experience which looked at 
the first glance so simple and yet which presented 
such difficulties." 

While Sherlock Holmes had been detailing this 
singular series of events, we had been whirling 
through the outskirts of the great town until the 
last straggling houses had been left behind, and 
we rattled along with a country hedge upon either 
side of us. Just as he finished, however, we drove 
through two scattered villages, where a few lights 
still glimmered in the windows. 

"We are on the outskirts of Lee," said my com- 
panion. "We have touched on three English coun- 
ties in our short drive, starting in Middlesex, pass- 
ing over an angle of Surrey, and ending in Kent. 
See that light among the trees? That is The Cedars, 
and beside that lamp sits a woman whose anxious 
ears have already, I have little doubt, caught the 
clink of our horse's feet." 

"But why are you not conducting the case from 
Baker Street?" I asked. 

"Because there are many inquiries which must 
be made out here. Mrs. St. Clair has most kindly 
put two rooms at my disposal, and you may rest 
assured that she will have nothing but a welcome 
for my friend and colleague. I hate to meet her, 
Watson, when I have no news of her husband. 
Here we are. Whoa, there, whoa!" 

We had pulled up in front of a large villa which 
stood within its own grounds. A stable-boy had 


run out to the horse's head, and springing down, 
I followed Holmes up the small, winding gravel- 
drive which led to the house. As we approached, 
the door flew open, and a little blonde woman 
stood in the opening, clad in some sort of light 
mousseline de soie, with a touch of fluffy pink 
chiffon at her neck and wrists. She stood with 
her figure outlined against the flood of light, one 
hand upon the door, one half-raised in her eager- 
ness, her body slightly bent, her head and face pro- 
truded, with eager eyes and parted lips, a standing 
question. 

"Well?" she cried, "well?" And then, seeing 
that there were two of us, she gave a cry of hope 
which sank into a groan as she saw that my com- 
panion shook his head and shrugged his shoul- 
ders. 

"No good news?" 

"None." 

"No bad?" 

"No." 

"Thank God for that. But come in. You must 
be weary, for you have had a long day." 

"This is my friend. Dr. Watson. He has been of 
most vital use to me in several of my cases, and a 
lucky chance has made it possible for me to bring 
him out and associate him with this investigation." 

"I am delighted to see you," said she, press- 
ing my hand warmly. "You will, I am sure, for- 
give anything that may be wanting in our arrange- 
ments, when you consider the blow which has 
come so suddenly upon us." 

"My dear madam," said I, "I am an old cam- 
paigner, and if I were not I can very well see that 
no apology is needed. If I can be of any assistance, 
either to you or to my friend here, I shall be indeed 
happy." 

"Now, Mr. Sherlock Holmes," said the lady as 
we entered a well-lit dining-room, upon the ta- 
ble of which a cold supper had been laid out, "I 
should very much like to ask you one or two plain 
questions, to which I beg that you will give a plain 
answer." 

"Certainly, madam." 

"Do not trouble about my feelings. I am not 
hysterical, nor given to fainting. I simply wish to 
hear your real, real opinion." 

"Upon what point?" 

"In your heart of hearts, do you think that 
Neville is alive?" 

Sherlock Holmes seemed to be embarrassed by 
the question. "Frankly, now!" she repeated, stand- 
ing upon the rug and looking keenly down at him 
as he leaned back in a basket-chair. 


192 



The Man with the Twisted Lip 


"Frankly, then, madam, I do not." 

"You think that he is dead?" 

"I do." 

"Murdered?" 

"I don't say that. Perhaps." 

"And on what day did he meet his death?" 

"On Monday." 

"Then perhaps, Mr. Holmes, you will be good 
enough to explain how it is that I have received a 
letter from him to-day." 

Sherlock Holmes sprang out of his chair as if 
he had been galvanised. 

"What!" he roared. 

"Yes, to-day." She stood smiling, holding up a 
little slip of paper in the air. 

"May I see it?" 

"Certainly." 

He snatched it from her in his eagerness, and 
smoothing it out upon the table he drew over the 
lamp and examined it intently. I had left my chair 
and was gazing at it over his shoulder. The enve- 
lope was a very coarse one and was stamped with 
the Gravesend postmark and with the date of that 
very day, or rather of the day before, for it was 
considerably after midnight. 

"Coarse writing," murmured Holmes. "Surely 
this is not your husband's writing, madam." 

"No, but the enclosure is." 

"I perceive also that whoever addressed the en- 
velope had to go and inquire as to the address." 

"How can you tell that?" 

"The name, you see, is in perfectly black ink, 
which has dried itself. The rest is of the greyish 
colour, which shows that blotting-paper has been 
used. If it had been written straight off, and then 
blotted, none would be of a deep black shade. This 
man has written the name, and there has then been 
a pause before he wrote the address, which can 
only mean that he was not familiar with it. It is, of 
course, a trifle, but there is nothing so important 
as trifles. Let us now see the letter. Ha! there has 
been an enclosure here!" 

"Yes, there was a ring. His signet-ring." 

"And you are sure that this is your husband's 
hand?" 

"One of his hands." 

"One?" 

"His hand when he wrote hurriedly. It is very 
unlike his usual writing, and yet I know it well." 


"Dearest do not be frightened. All 
will come well. There is a huge error 
which it may take some little time to 
rectify. Wait in patience. 

"Neville. 

Written in pencil upon the fly-leaf of a book, 
octavo size, no water-mark. Hum! Posted to-day 
in Gravesend by a man with a dirty thumb. Ha! 
And the flap has been gummed, if I am not very 
much in error, by a person who had been chewing 
tobacco. And you have no doubt that it is your 
husband's hand, madam?" 

"None. Neville wrote those words." 

"And they were posted to-day at Gravesend. 
Well, Mrs. St. Clair, the clouds lighten, though I 
should not venture to say that the danger is over." 

"But he must be alive, Mr. Holmes." 

"Unless this is a clever forgery to put us on the 
wrong scent. The ring, after all, proves nothing. It 
may have been taken from him." 

"No, no; it is, it is his very own writing!" 

"Very well. It may, however, have been written 
on Monday and only posted to-day." 

"That is possible." 

"If so, much may have happened between." 

"Oh, you must not discourage me, Mr. Holmes. 
I know that all is well with him. There is so keen 
a sympathy between us that I should know if evil 
came upon him. On the very day that I saw him 
last he cut himself in the bedroom, and yet I in the 
dining-room rushed upstairs instantly with the ut- 
most certainty that something had happened. Do 
you think that I would respond to such a trifle and 
yet be ignorant of his death?" 

"I have seen too much not to know that the im- 
pression of a woman may be more valuable than 
the conclusion of an analytical reasoner. And in 
this letter you certainly have a very strong piece of 
evidence to corroborate your view. But if your hus- 
band is alive and able to write letters, why should 
he remain away from you?" 

"I cannot imagine. It is unthinkable." 

"And on Monday he made no remarks before 
leaving you?" 

"No." 

"And you were surprised to see him in Swan- 
dam Lane?" 

"Very much so." 

"Was the window open?" 

"Yes." 

"Then he might have called to you?" 

"He might." 


193 



The Man with the Twisted Lip 


"He only, as I understand, gave an inarticulate 
cry?" 

"Yes." 

"A call for help, you thought?" 

"Yes. He waved his hands." 

"But it might have been a cry of surprise. As- 
tonishment at the unexpected sight of you might 
cause him to throw up his hands?" 

"It is possible." 

"And you thought he was pulled back?" 

"He disappeared so suddenly." 

"He might have leaped back. You did not see 
anyone else in the room?" 

"No, but this horrible man confessed to having 
been there, and the Lascar was at the foot of the 
stairs." 

"Quite so. Your husband, as far as you could 
see, had his ordinary clothes on?" 

"But without his collar or tie. I distinctly saw 
his bare throat." 

"Had he ever spoken of Swandam Lane?" 

"Never." 

"Had he ever showed any signs of having taken 
opium?" 

"Never." 

"Thank you, Mrs. St. Clair. Those are the prin- 
cipal points about which I wished to be abso- 
lutely clear. We shall now have a little supper and 
then retire, for we may have a very busy day to- 
morrow." 

A large and comfortable double-bedded room 
had been placed at our disposal, and I was quickly 
between the sheets, for I was weary after my night 
of adventure. Sherlock Holmes was a man, how- 
ever, who, when he had an unsolved problem 
upon his mind, would go for days, and even for 
a week, without rest, turning it over, rearranging 
his facts, looking at it from every point of view 
until he had either fathomed it or convinced him- 
self that his data were insufficient. It was soon 
evident to me that he was now preparing for an 
all-night sitting. He took off his coat and waist- 
coat, put on a large blue dressing-gown, and then 
wandered about the room collecting pillows from 
his bed and cushions from the sofa and armchairs. 
With these he constructed a sort of Eastern divan, 
upon which he perched himself cross-legged, with 
an ounce of shag tobacco and a box of matches laid 
out in front of him. In the dim light of the lamp 
I saw him sitting there, an old briar pipe between 
his lips, his eyes fixed vacantly upon the corner of 


the ceiling, the blue smoke curling up from him, 
silent, motionless, with the light shining upon his 
strong-set aquiline features. So he sat as I dropped 
off to sleep, and so he sat when a sudden ejac- 
ulation caused me to wake up, and I found the 
summer sun shining into the apartment. The pipe 
was still between his lips, the smoke still curled 
upward, and the room was full of a dense tobacco 
haze, but nothing remained of the heap of shag 
which I had seen upon the previous night. 

"Awake, Watson?" he asked. 

"Yes." 

"Game for a morning drive?" 

"Certainly." 

"Then dress. No one is stirring yet, but I know 
where the stable-boy sleeps, and we shall soon 
have the trap out." He chuckled to himself as he 
spoke, his eyes twinkled, and he seemed a dif- 
ferent man to the sombre thinker of the previous 
night. 

As I dressed I glanced at my watch. It was no 
wonder that no one was stirring. It was twenty- 
five minutes past four. I had hardly finished when 
Holmes returned with the news that the boy was 
putting in the horse. 

"I want to test a little theory of mine," said he, 
pulling on his boots. "I think, Watson, that you are 
now standing in the presence of one of the most 
absolute fools in Europe. I deserve to be kicked 
from here to Charing Cross. But I think I have the 
key of the affair now." 

"And where is it?" I asked, smiling. 

"In the bathroom," he answered. "Oh, yes, I 
am not joking," he continued, seeing my look of 
incredulity. "I have just been there, and I have 
taken it out, and I have got it in this Gladstone 
bag. Come on, my boy, and we shall see whether 
it will not fit the lock." 

We made our way downstairs as quietly as pos- 
sible, and out into the bright morning sunshine. 
In the road stood our horse and trap, with the 
half-clad stable-boy waiting at the head. We both 
sprang in, and away we dashed down the London 
Road. A few country carts were stirring, bearing in 
vegetables to the metropolis, but the lines of villas 
on either side were as silent and lifeless as some 
city in a dream. 

"It has been in some points a singular case," 
said Holmes, flicking the horse on into a gallop. "I 
confess that I have been as blind as a mole, but it 
is better to learn wisdom late than never to learn 
it at all." 

In town the earliest risers were just begin- 
ning to look sleepily from their windows as we 


194 



The Man with the Twisted Lip 


drove through the streets of the Surrey side. Pass- 
ing down the Waterloo Bridge Road we crossed 
over the river, and dashing up Wellington Street 
wheeled sharply to the right and found ourselves 
in Bow Street. Sherlock Holmes was well known 
to the force, and the two constables at the door 
saluted him. One of them held the horse's head 
while the other led us in. 

"Who is on duty?" asked Holmes. 

"Inspector Bradstreet, sir." 

"Ah, Bradstreet, how are you?" A tall, stout of- 
ficial had come down the stone-flagged passage, in 
a peaked cap and frogged jacket. "I wish to have a 
quiet word with you, Bradstreet." "Certainly, Mr. 
Holmes. Step into my room here." It was a small, 
office-like room, with a huge ledger upon the ta- 
ble, and a telephone projecting from the wall. The 
inspector sat down at his desk. 

"What can I do for you, Mr. Holmes?" 

"I called about that beggarman, Boone — the 
one who was charged with being concerned in the 
disappearance of Mr. Neville St. Clair, of Lee." 

"Yes. He was brought up and remanded for 
further inquiries." 

"So I heard. You have him here?" 

"In the cells." 

"Is he quiet?" 

"Oh, he gives no trouble. But he is a dirty 
scoundrel." 

"Dirty?" 

"Yes, it is all we can do to make him wash his 
hands, and his face is as black as a tinker's. Well, 
when once his case has been settled, he will have 
a regular prison bath; and I think, if you saw him, 
you would agree with me that he needed it." 

"I should like to see him very much." 

"Would you? That is easily done. Come this 
way. You can leave your bag." 

"No, I think that I'll take it." 

"Very good. Come this way, if you please." 
He led us down a passage, opened a barred door, 
passed down a winding stair, and brought us to a 
whitewashed corridor with a line of doors on each 
side. 

"The third on the right is his," said the inspec- 
tor. "Here it is!" He quietly shot back a panel in 
the upper part of the door and glanced through. 

"He is asleep," said he. "You can see him very 
well." 


We both put our eyes to the grating. The pris- 
oner lay with his face towards us, in a very deep 
sleep, breathing slowly and heavily. He was a 
middle-sized man, coarsely clad as became his 
calling, with a coloured shirt protruding through 
the rent in his tattered coat. He was, as the inspec- 
tor had said, extremely dirty, but the grime which 
covered his face could not conceal its repulsive ug- 
liness. A broad wheal from an old scar ran right 
across it from eye to chin, and by its contraction 
had turned up one side of the upper lip, so that 
three teeth were exposed in a perpetual snarl. A 
shock of very bright red hair grew low over his 
eyes and forehead. 

"He's a beauty, isn't he?" said the inspector. 

"He certainly needs a wash," remarked 
Holmes. "I had an idea that he might, and I 
took the liberty of bringing the tools with me." He 
opened the Gladstone bag as he spoke, and took 
out, to my astonishment, a very large bath-sponge. 

"He! he! You are a funny one," chuckled the 
inspector. 

"Now, if you will have the great goodness to 
open that door very quietly, we will soon make 
him cut a much more respectable figure." 

"Well, I don't know why not," said the inspec- 
tor. "He doesn't look a credit to the Bow Street 
cells, does he?" He slipped his key into the lock, 
and we all very quietly entered the cell. The 
sleeper half turned, and then settled down once 
more into a deep slumber. Holmes stooped to the 
water-jug, moistened his sponge, and then rubbed 
it twice vigorously across and down the prisoner 's 
face. 

"Let me introduce you," he shouted, "to Mr. 
Neville St. Clair, of Lee, in the county of Kent." 

Never in my life have I seen such a sight. The 
man's face peeled off under the sponge like the 
bark from a tree. Gone was the coarse brown tint! 
Gone, too, was the horrid scar which had seamed 
it across, and the twisted lip which had given 
the repulsive sneer to the face! A twitch brought 
away the tangled red hair, and there, sitting up 
in his bed, was a pale, sad-faced, refined-looking 
man, black-haired and smooth-skinned, rubbing 
his eyes and staring about him with sleepy bewil- 
derment. Then suddenly realising the exposure, 
he broke into a scream and threw himself down 
with his face to the pillow. 

"Great heavens!" cried the inspector, "it is, in- 
deed, the missing man. I know him from the pho- 
tograph." 


195 



The Man with the Twisted Lip 


The prisoner turned with the reckless air of a 
man who abandons himself to his destiny. "Be it 
so," said he. "And pray what am I charged with?" 

"With making away with Mr. Neville St. — Oh, 
come, you can't be charged with that unless they 
make a case of attempted suicide of it," said the 
inspector with a grin. "Well, I have been twenty- 
seven years in the force, but this really takes the 
cake." 

"If I am Mr. Neville St. Clair, then it is obvi- 
ous that no crime has been committed, and that, 
therefore, I am illegally detained." 

"No crime, but a very great error has been com- 
mitted," said Holmes. "You would have done bet- 
ter to have trusted your wife." 

"It was not the wife; it was the children," 
groaned the prisoner. "God help me, I would not 
have them ashamed of their father. My God! What 
an exposure! What can I do?" 

Sherlock Holmes sat down beside him on the 
couch and patted him kindly on the shoulder. 

"If you leave it to a court of law to clear the 
matter up," said he, "of course you can hardly 
avoid publicity. On the other hand, if you convince 
the police authorities that there is no possible case 
against you, I do not know that there is any reason 
that the details should find their way into the pa- 
pers. Inspector Bradstreet would, I am sure, make 
notes upon anything which you might tell us and 
submit it to the proper authorities. The case would 
then never go into court at all." 

"God bless you!" cried the prisoner passion- 
ately. "I would have endured imprisonment, ay, 
even execution, rather than have left my miserable 
secret as a family blot to my children. 

"You are the first who have ever heard my 
story. My father was a schoolmaster in Chester- 
field, where I received an excellent education. I 
travelled in my youth, took to the stage, and fi- 
nally became a reporter on an evening paper in 
London. One day my editor wished to have a se- 
ries of articles upon begging in the metropolis, and 
I volunteered to supply them. There was the point 
from which all my adventures started. It was only 
by trying begging as an amateur that I could get 
the facts upon which to base my articles. When 
an actor I had, of course, learned all the secrets 
of making up, and had been famous in the green- 
room for my skill. I took advantage now of my 
attainments. I painted my face, and to make my- 
self as pitiable as possible I made a good scar and 
fixed one side of my lip in a twist by the aid of 
a small slip of flesh-coloured plaster. Then with a 


red head of hair, and an appropriate dress, I took 
my station in the business part of the city, osten- 
sibly as a match-seller but really as a beggar. For 
seven hours I plied my trade, and when I returned 
home in the evening I found to my surprise that I 
had received no less than 26s. 4d. 

"I wrote my articles and thought little more of 
the matter until, some time later, I backed a bill for 
a friend and had a writ served upon me for £25. I 
was at my wit's end where to get the money, but 
a sudden idea came to me. I begged a fortnight's 
grace from the creditor, asked for a holiday from 
my employers, and spent the time in begging in 
the City under my disguise. In ten days I had the 
money and had paid the debt. 

"Well, you can imagine how hard it was to set- 
tle down to arduous work at £2 a week when I 
knew that I could earn as much in a day by smear- 
ing my face with a little paint, laying my cap on 
the ground, and sitting still. It was a long fight 
between my pride and the money, but the dollars 
won at last, and I threw up reporting and sat day 
after day in the corner which I had first chosen, 
inspiring pity by my ghastly face and filling my 
pockets with coppers. Only one man knew my se- 
cret. He was the keeper of a low den in which 
I used to lodge in Swandam Lane, where I could 
every morning emerge as a squalid beggar and in 
the evenings transform myself into a well-dressed 
man about town. This fellow, a Lascar, was well 
paid by me for his rooms, so that I knew that my 
secret was safe in his possession. 

"Well, very soon I found that I was saving con- 
siderable sums of money. I do not mean that any 
beggar in the streets of London could earn £700 a 
year — which is less than my average takings — but 
I had exceptional advantages in my power of mak- 
ing up, and also in a facility of repartee, which 
improved by practice and made me quite a recog- 
nised character in the City. All day a stream of 
pennies, varied by silver, poured in upon me, and 
it was a very bad day in which I failed to take £2. 

"As I grew richer I grew more ambitious, took 
a house in the country, and eventually married, 
without anyone having a suspicion as to my real 
occupation. My dear wife knew that I had busi- 
ness in the City. She little knew what. 

"Last Monday I had finished for the day and 
was dressing in my room above the opium den 
when I looked out of my window and saw, to my 
horror and astonishment, that my wife was stand- 
ing in the street, with her eyes fixed full upon me. 
I gave a cry of surprise, threw up my arms to cover 
my face, and, rushing to my confidant, the Lascar, 


196 



entreated him to prevent anyone from coming up 
to me. I heard her voice downstairs, but I knew 
that she could not ascend. Swiftly I threw off my 
clothes, pulled on those of a beggar, and put on my 
pigments and wig. Even a wife's eyes could not 
pierce so complete a disguise. But then it occurred 
to me that there might be a search in the room, 
and that the clothes might betray me. I threw open 
the window, reopening by my violence a small cut 
which I had inflicted upon myself in the bedroom 
that morning. Then I seized my coat, which was 
weighted by the coppers which I had just trans- 
ferred to it from the leather bag in which I carried 
my takings. I hurled it out of the window, and it 
disappeared into the Thames. The other clothes 
would have followed, but at that moment there 
was a rush of constables up the stair, and a few 
minutes after I found, rather, I confess, to my re- 
lief, that instead of being identified as Mr. Neville 
St. Clair, I was arrested as his murderer. 

"I do not know that there is anything else for 
me to explain. I was determined to preserve my 
disguise as long as possible, and hence my prefer- 
ence for a dirty face. Knowing that my wife would 
be terribly anxious, I slipped off my ring and con- 
fided it to the Lascar at a moment when no con- 
stable was watching me, together with a hurried 
scrawl, telling her that she had no cause to fear." 

"That note only reached her yesterday," said 
Holmes. 


"Good God! What a week she must have 
spent!" 

"The police have watched this Lascar," said In- 
spector Bradstreet, "and I can quite understand 
that he might find it difficult to post a letter un- 
observed. Probably he handed it to some sailor 
customer of his, who forgot all about it for some 
days." 

"That was it," said Holmes, nodding approv- 
ingly; "I have no doubt of it. But have you never 
been prosecuted for begging?" 

"Many times; but what was a fine to me?" 

"It must stop here, however," said Bradstreet. 
"If the police are to hush this thing up, there must 
be no more of Hugh Boone." 

"I have sworn it by the most solemn oaths 
which a man can take." 

"In that case I think that it is probable that no 
further steps may be taken. But if you are found 
again, then all must come out. I am sure, Mr. 
Holmes, that we are very much indebted to you 
for having cleared the matter up. I wish I knew 
how you reach your results." 

"I reached this one," said my friend, "by sit- 
ting upon five pillows and consuming an ounce of 
shag. I think, Watson, that if we drive to Baker 
Street we shall just be in time for breakfast." 



The Adventure of the Engineer's Thumb 


f all the problems which have been 
submitted to my friend, Mr. Sherlock 
Holmes, for solution during the years of 
our intimacy, there were only two which 
I was the means of introducing to his notice — that 
of Mr. Hatherley's thumb, and that of Colonel War- 
burton's madness. Of these the latter may have 
afforded a finer field for an acute and original ob- 
server, but the other was so strange in its inception 
and so dramatic in its details that it may be the 
more worthy of being placed upon record, even if 
it gave my friend fewer openings for those deduc- 
tive methods of reasoning by which he achieved 
such remarkable results. The story has, I believe, 
been told more than once in the newspapers, but, 
like all such narratives, its effect is much less strik- 
ing when set forth en bloc in a single half-column 
of print than when the facts slowly evolve before 
your own eyes, and the mystery clears gradually 
away as each new discovery furnishes a step which 
leads on to the complete truth. At the time the cir- 
cumstances made a deep impression upon me, and 
the lapse of two years has hardly served to weaken 
the effect. 

It was in the summer of '89, not long after 
my marriage, that the events occurred which I 
am now about to summarise. I had returned to 
civil practice and had finally abandoned Holmes 
in his Baker Street rooms, although I continually 
visited him and occasionally even persuaded him 
to forgo his Bohemian habits so far as to come 
and visit us. My practice had steadily increased, 
and as I happened to live at no very great distance 
from Paddington Station, I got a few patients from 
among the officials. One of these, whom I had 
cured of a painful and lingering disease, was never 
weary of advertising my virtues and of endeavour- 
ing to send me on every sufferer over whom he 
might have any influence. 

One morning, at a little before seven o'clock, I 
was awakened by the maid tapping at the door to 
announce that two men had come from Padding- 
ton and were waiting in the consulting-room. I 
dressed hurriedly, for I knew by experience that 
railway cases were seldom trivial, and hastened 
downstairs. As I descended, my old ally, the 
guard, came out of the room and closed the door 
tightly behind him. 

"I've got him here," he whispered, jerking his 
thumb over his shoulder; "he's all right." 



"It's a new patient," he whispered. "I thought 
I'd bring him round myself; then he couldn't slip 
away. There he is, all safe and sound. I must go 
now. Doctor; I have my dooties, just the same as 
you." And off he went, this trusty tout, without 
even giving me time to thank him. 

I entered my consulting-room and found a 
gentleman seated by the table. He was quietly 
dressed in a suit of heather tweed with a soft 
cloth cap which he had laid down upon my books. 
Round one of his hands he had a handkerchief 
wrapped, which was mottled all over with blood- 
stains. He was young, not more than five-and- 
twenty, I should say, with a strong, masculine face; 
but he was exceedingly pale and gave me the im- 
pression of a man who was suffering from some 
strong agitation, which it took all his strength of 
mind to control. 

"I am sorry to knock you up so early. Doctor," 
said he, "but I have had a very serious accident 
during the night. I came in by train this morn- 
ing, and on inquiring at Paddington as to where I 
might find a doctor, a worthy fellow very kindly 
escorted me here. I gave the maid a card, but I see 
that she has left it upon the side-table." 

I took it up and glanced at it. "Mr. Victor 
Hatherley, hydraulic engineer, 16A, Victoria Street 
(3rd floor)." That was the name, style, and abode 
of my morning visitor. "I regret that I have kept 
you waiting," said I, sitting down in my library- 
chair. "You are fresh from a night journey, I un- 
derstand, which is in itself a monotonous occupa- 
tion." 

"Oh, my night could not be called 
monotonous," said he, and laughed. He laughed 
very heartily, with a high, ringing note, leaning 
back in his chair and shaking his sides. All my 
medical instincts rose up against that laugh. 

"Stop it!" I cried; "pull yourself together!" and 
I poured out some water from a caraffe. 

It was useless, however. He was off in one 
of those hysterical outbursts which come upon a 
strong nature when some great crisis is over and 
gone. Presently he came to himself once more, 
very weary and pale-looking. 

"I have been making a fool of myself," he 
gasped. 

"Not at all. Drink this." I dashed some brandy 
into the water, and the colour began to come back 
to his bloodless cheeks. 


"What is it, then?" I asked, for his manner sug- 
gested that it was some strange creature which he 
had caged up in my room. 


"That's better!" said he. "And now. Doctor, 
perhaps you would kindly attend to my thumb, or 
rather to the place where my thumb used to be." 


227 




The Adventure of the Engineer's Thumb 


He unwound the handkerchief and held out his 
hand. It gave even my hardened nerves a shudder 
to look at it. There were four protruding fingers 
and a horrid red, spongy surface where the thumb 
should have been. It had been hacked or torn right 
out from the roots. 

"Good heavens!" I cried, "this is a terrible in- 
jury. It must have bled considerably." 

"Yes, it did. I fainted when it was done, and 
I think that I must have been senseless for a long 
time. When I came to I found that it was still bleed- 
ing, so I tied one end of my handkerchief very 
tightly round the wrist and braced it up with a 
twig." 

"Excellent! You should have been a surgeon." 

"It is a question of hydraulics, you see, and 
came within my own province." 

"This has been done," said I, examining the 
wound, "by a very heavy and sharp instrument." 

"A thing like a cleaver," said he. 

"An accident, I presume?" 

"By no means." 

"What! a murderous attack?" 

"Very murderous indeed." 

"You horrify me." 

I sponged the wound, cleaned it, dressed it, 
and finally covered it over with cotton wadding 
and carbolised bandages. He lay back without 
wincing, though he bit his lip from time to time. 

"How is that?" I asked when I had finished. 

"Capital! Between your brandy and your ban- 
dage, I feel a new man. I was very weak, but I have 
had a good deal to go through." 

"Perhaps you had better not speak of the mat- 
ter. It is evidently trying to your nerves." 

"Oh, no, not now. I shall have to tell my tale to 
the police; but, between ourselves, if it were not for 
the convincing evidence of this wound of mine, I 
should be surprised if they believed my statement, 
for it is a very extraordinary one, and I have not 
much in the way of proof with which to back it 
up; and, even if they believe me, the clues which 
I can give them are so vague that it is a question 
whether justice will be done." 

"Ha!" cried I, "if it is anything in the nature of 
a problem which you desire to see solved, I should 
strongly recommend you to come to my friend, 
Mr. Sherlock Holmes, before you go to the official 
police." 

"Oh, I have heard of that fellow," answered my 
visitor, "and I should be very glad if he would take 


the matter up, though of course I must use the of- 
ficial police as well. Would you give me an intro- 
duction to him?" 

"I'll do better. I'll take you round to him my- 
self." 

"I should be immensely obliged to you." 

"We'll call a cab and go together. We shall just 
be in time to have a little breakfast with him. Do 
you feel equal to it?" 

"Yes; I shall not feel easy until I have told my 
story." 

"Then my servant will call a cab, and I shall 
be with you in an instant." I rushed upstairs, ex- 
plained the matter shortly to my wife, and in five 
minutes was inside a hansom, driving with my 
new acquaintance to Baker Street. 

Sherlock Holmes was, as I expected, lounging 
about his sitting-room in his dressing-gown, read- 
ing the agony column of The Times and smoking 
his before-breakfast pipe, which was composed of 
all the plugs and dottles left from his smokes of the 
day before, all carefully dried and collected on the 
corner of the mantelpiece. He received us in his 
quietly genial fashion, ordered fresh rashers and 
eggs, and joined us in a hearty meal. When it was 
concluded he settled our new acquaintance upon 
the sofa, placed a pillow beneath his head, and laid 
a glass of brandy and water within his reach. 

"It is easy to see that your experience has been 
no common one, Mr. Hatherley," said he. "Pray, lie 
down there and make yourself absolutely at home. 
Tell us what you can, but stop when you are tired 
and keep up your strength with a little stimulant." 

"Thank you," said my patient, "but I have felt 
another man since the doctor bandaged me, and I 
think that your breakfast has completed the cure. 
I shall take up as little of your valuable time as 
possible, so I shall start at once upon my peculiar 
experiences." 

Holmes sat in his big armchair with the weary, 
heavy-lidded expression which veiled his keen 
and eager nature, while I sat opposite to him, and 
we listened in silence to the strange story which 
our visitor detailed to us. 

"You must know," said he, "that I am an or- 
phan and a bachelor, residing alone in lodgings 
in London. By profession I am a hydraulic engi- 
neer, and I have had considerable experience of 
my work during the seven years that I was ap- 
prenticed to Venner & Matheson, the well-known 
firm, of Greenwich. Two years ago, having served 
my time, and having also come into a fair sum 


228 



The Adventure of the Engineer's Thumb 


of money through my poor father's death, I de- 
termined to start in business for myself and took 
professional chambers in Victoria Street. 

"I suppose that everyone finds his first inde- 
pendent start in business a dreary experience. To 
me it has been exceptionally so. During two years 
I have had three consultations and one small job, 
and that is absolutely all that my profession has 
brought me. My gross takings amount to £27 10s. 
Every day, from nine in the morning until four in 
the afternoon, I waited in my little den, until at last 
my heart began to sink, and I came to believe that 
I should never have any practice at all. 

"Yesterday, however, just as I was thinking of 
leaving the office, my clerk entered to say there 
was a gentleman waiting who wished to see me 
upon business. He brought up a card, too, with the 
name of 'Colonel Lysander Stark' engraved upon 
it. Close at his heels came the colonel himself, a 
man rather over the middle size, but of an exceed- 
ing thinness. I do not think that I have ever seen 
so thin a man. His whole face sharpened away 
into nose and chin, and the skin of his cheeks was 
drawn quite tense over his outstanding bones. Yet 
this emaciation seemed to be his natural habit, and 
due to no disease, for his eye was bright, his step 
brisk, and his bearing assured. He was plainly but 
neatly dressed, and his age, I should judge, would 
be nearer forty than thirty. 

" 'Mr. Hatherley?' said he, with something of a 
German accent. 'You have been recommended to 
me, Mr. Hatherley, as being a man who is not only 
proficient in his profession but is also discreet and 
capable of preserving a secret.' 

"I bowed, feeling as flattered as any young man 
would at such an address. 'May I ask who it was 
who gave me so good a character?' 

" 'Well, perhaps it is better that I should not tell 
you that just at this moment. I have it from the 
same source that you are both an orphan and a 
bachelor and are residing alone in London.' 

" 'That is quite correct,' I answered; 'but you 
will excuse me if I say that I cannot see how all 
this bears upon my professional qualifications. I 
understand that it was on a professional matter 
that you wished to speak to me?' 

" 'Undoubtedly so. But you will find that all 
I say is really to the point. I have a professional 
commission for you, but absolute secrecy is quite 
essential — absolute secrecy, you understand, and 
of course we may expect that more from a man 
who is alone than from one who lives in the bo- 
som of his family.' 


" 'If I promise to keep a secret,' said I, 'you may 
absolutely depend upon my doing so.' 

"He looked very hard at me as I spoke, and it 
seemed to me that I had never seen so suspicious 
and questioning an eye. 

" 'Do you promise, then?' said he at last. 

" 'Yes, I promise.' 

" 'Absolute and complete silence before, dur- 
ing, and after? No reference to the matter at all, 
either in word or writing?' 

" 'I have already given you my word.' 

" 'Very good.' He suddenly sprang up, and 
darting like lightning across the room he flung 
open the door. The passage outside was empty. 

" 'That's all right,' said he, coming back. 'I 
know that clerks are sometimes curious as to their 
master's affairs. Now we can talk in safety.' He 
drew up his chair very close to mine and began to 
stare at me again with the same questioning and 
thoughtful look. 

"A feeling of repulsion, and of something akin 
to fear had begun to rise within me at the strange 
antics of this fleshless man. Even my dread of los- 
ing a client could not restrain me from showing 
my impatience. 

" 'I beg that you will state your business, sir,' 
said I; 'my time is of value.' Heaven forgive me for 
that last sentence, but the words came to my lips. 

" 'How would fifty guineas for a night's work 
suit you?' he asked. 

" 'Most admirably.' 

" 'I say a night's work, but an hour's would be 
nearer the mark. I simply want your opinion about 
a hydraulic stamping machine which has got out 
of gear. If you show us what is wrong we shall 
soon set it right ourselves. What do you think of 
such a commission as that?' 

" 'The work appears to be light and the pay mu- 
nificent.' 

" 'Precisely so. We shall want you to come to- 
night by the last train.' 

" 'Where to?' 

" 'To Eyford, in Berkshire. It is a little place 
near the borders of Oxfordshire, and within seven 
miles of Reading. There is a train from Paddington 
which would bring you there at about 11.15.' 

" 'Very good.' 

" 'I shall come down in a carriage to meet you.' 

" 'There is a drive, then?' 

" 'Yes, our little place is quite out in the country. 
It is a good seven miles from Eyford Station.' 

" 'Then we can hardly get there before mid- 
night. I suppose there would be no chance of 


229 



The Adventure of the Engineer's Thumb 


a train back. I should be compelled to stop the 
night.' 

" 'Yes, we could easily give you a shake-down.' 

" 'That is very awkward. Could I not come at 
some more convenient hour?' 

" 'We have judged it best that you should come 
late. It is to recompense you for any inconvenience 
that we are paying to you, a young and unknown 
man, a fee which would buy an opinion from the 
very heads of your profession. Still, of course, if 
you would like to draw out of the business, there 
is plenty of time to do so.' 

"I thought of the fifty guineas, and of how very 
useful they would be to me. 'Not at all,' said I, 
'I shall be very happy to accommodate myself to 
your wishes. I should like, however, to understand 
a little more clearly what it is that you wish me to 
do.' 

" 'Quite so. It is very natural that the pledge of 
secrecy which we have exacted from you should 
have aroused your curiosity. I have no wish to 
commit you to anything without your having it all 
laid before you. I suppose that we are absolutely 
safe from eavesdroppers?' 

" 'Entirely.' 

" 'Then the matter stands thus. You are proba- 
bly aware that fuller 's-earth is a valuable product, 
and that it is only found in one or two places in 
England?' 

" 'I have heard so.' 

" 'Some little time ago I bought a small 
place — a very small place — within ten miles of 
Reading. I was fortunate enough to discover that 
there was a deposit of fuller 's-earth in one of my 
fields. On examining it, however, I found that this 
deposit was a comparatively small one, and that it 
formed a link between two very much larger ones 
upon the right and left — both of them, however, in 
the grounds of my neighbours. These good peo- 
ple were absolutely ignorant that their land con- 
tained that which was quite as valuable as a gold- 
mine. Naturally, it was to my interest to buy their 
land before they discovered its true value, but un- 
fortunately I had no capital by which I could do 
this. I took a few of my friends into the secret, 
however, and they suggested that we should qui- 
etly and secretly work our own little deposit and 
that in this way we should earn the money which 
would enable us to buy the neighbouring fields. 
This we have now been doing for some time, and 
in order to help us in our operations we erected a 
hydraulic press. This press, as I have already ex- 
plained, has got out of order, and we wish your 


advice upon the subject. We guard our secret very 
jealously, however, and if it once became known 
that we had hydraulic engineers coming to our lit- 
tle house, it would soon rouse inquiry, and then, 
if the facts came out, it would be good-bye to any 
chance of getting these fields and carrying out our 
plans. That is why I have made you promise me 
that you will not tell a human being that you are 
going to Eyford to-night. I hope that I make it all 
plain?' 

" 'I quite follow you,' said I. 'The only point 
which I could not quite understand was what use 
you could make of a hydraulic press in excavating 
fuller 's-earth, which, as I understand, is dug out 
like gravel from a pit.' 

" 'Ah!' said he carelessly, 'we have our own 
process. We compress the earth into bricks, so as 
to remove them without revealing what they are. 
But that is a mere detail. I have taken you fully 
into my confidence now, Mr. Hatherley, and I have 
shown you how I trust you.' He rose as he spoke. 
'I shall expect you, then, at Eyford at 11.15.' 

" 'I shall certainly be there.' 

"'And not a word to a soul.' He looked at 
me with a last long, questioning gaze, and then, 
pressing my hand in a cold, dank grasp, he hur- 
ried from the room. 

"Well, when I came to think it all over in cool 
blood I was very much astonished, as you may 
both think, at this sudden commission which had 
been intrusted to me. On the one hand, of course, 
I was glad, for the fee was at least tenfold what I 
should have asked had I set a price upon my own 
services, and it was possible that this order might 
lead to other ones. On the other hand, the face and 
manner of my patron had made an unpleasant im- 
pression upon me, and I could not think that his 
explanation of the fuller 's-earth was sufficient to 
explain the necessity for my coming at midnight, 
and his extreme anxiety lest I should tell anyone 
of my errand. However, I threw all fears to the 
winds, ate a hearty supper, drove to Paddington, 
and started off, having obeyed to the letter the in- 
junction as to holding my tongue. 

"At Reading I had to change not only my car- 
riage but my station. However, I was in time for 
the last train to Eyford, and I reached the little 
dim-lit station after eleven o'clock. I was the only 
passenger who got out there, and there was no one 
upon the platform save a single sleepy porter with 
a lantern. As I passed out through the wicket gate, 
however, I found my acquaintance of the morning 
waiting in the shadow upon the other side. With- 
out a word he grasped my arm and hurried me 


230 



The Adventure of the Engineer's Thumb 


into a carriage, the door of which was standing 
open. He drew up the windows on either side, 
tapped on the wood-work, and away we went as 
fast as the horse could go." 

"One horse?" interjected Holmes. 

"Yes, only one." 

"Did you observe the colour?" 

"Yes, I saw it by the side-lights when I was step- 
ping into the carriage. It was a chestnut." 

"Tired-looking or fresh?" 

"Oh, fresh and glossy." 

"Thank you. I am sorry to have interrupted 
you. Pray continue your most interesting state- 
ment." 

"Away we went then, and we drove for at least 
an hour. Colonel Lysander Stark had said that it 
was only seven miles, but I should think, from the 
rate that we seemed to go, and from the time that 
we took, that it must have been nearer twelve. He 
sat at my side in silence all the time, and I was 
aware, more than once when I glanced in his di- 
rection, that he was looking at me with great in- 
tensity. The country roads seem to be not very 
good in that part of the world, for we lurched and 
jolted terribly. I tried to look out of the windows 
to see something of where we were, but they were 
made of frosted glass, and I could make out noth- 
ing save the occasional bright blur of a passing 
light. Now and then I hazarded some remark to 
break the monotony of the journey, but the colonel 
answered only in monosyllables, and the conversa- 
tion soon flagged. At last, however, the bumping 
of the road was exchanged for the crisp smooth- 
ness of a gravel-drive, and the carriage came to a 
stand. Colonel Lysander Stark sprang out, and, 
as I followed after him, pulled me swiftly into a 
porch which gaped in front of us. We stepped, as it 
were, right out of the carriage and into the hall, so 
that I failed to catch the most fleeting glance of the 
front of the house. The instant that I had crossed 
the threshold the door slammed heavily behind us, 
and I heard faintly the rattle of the wheels as the 
carriage drove away. 

"It was pitch dark inside the house, and the 
colonel fumbled about looking for matches and 
muttering under his breath. Suddenly a door 
opened at the other end of the passage, and a long, 
golden bar of light shot out in our direction. It 
grew broader, and a woman appeared with a lamp 
in her hand, which she held above her head, push- 
ing her face forward and peering at us. I could see 
that she was pretty, and from the gloss with which 
the light shone upon her dark dress I knew that it 


was a rich material. She spoke a few words in a 
foreign tongue in a tone as though asking a ques- 
tion, and when my companion answered in a gruff 
monosyllable she gave such a start that the lamp 
nearly fell from her hand. Colonel Stark went up 
to her, whispered something in her ear, and then, 
pushing her back into the room from whence she 
had come, he walked towards me again with the 
lamp in his hand. 

" 'Perhaps you will have the kindness to wait 
in this room for a few minutes/ said he, throwing 
open another door. It was a quiet, little, plainly 
furnished room, with a round table in the centre, 
on which several German books were scattered. 
Colonel Stark laid down the lamp on the top of 
a harmonium beside the door. 'I shall not keep 
you waiting an instant/ said he, and vanished into 
the darkness. 

"I glanced at the books upon the table, and in 
spite of my ignorance of German I could see that 
two of them were treatises on science, the others 
being volumes of poetry. Then I walked across 
to the window, hoping that I might catch some 
glimpse of the country-side, but an oak shutter, 
heavily barred, was folded across it. It was a won- 
derfully silent house. There was an old clock tick- 
ing loudly somewhere in the passage, but other- 
wise everything was deadly still. A vague feeling 
of uneasiness began to steal over me. Who were 
these German people, and what were they doing 
living in this strange, out-of-the-way place? And 
where was the place? I was ten miles or so from 
Eyford, that was all I knew, but whether north, 
south, east, or west I had no idea. For that mat- 
ter, Reading, and possibly other large towns, were 
within that radius, so the place might not be so 
secluded, after all. Yet it was quite certain, from 
the absolute stillness, that we were in the country. 
I paced up and down the room, humming a tune 
under my breath to keep up my spirits and feeling 
that I was thoroughly earning my fifty-guinea fee. 

"Suddenly, without any preliminary sound in 
the midst of the utter stillness, the door of my 
room swung slowly open. The woman was stand- 
ing in the aperture, the darkness of the hall behind 
her, the yellow light from my lamp beating upon 
her eager and beautiful face. I could see at a glance 
that she was sick with fear, and the sight sent a 
chill to my own heart. She held up one shaking 
finger to warn me to be silent, and she shot a few 
whispered words of broken English at me, her eyes 
glancing back, like those of a frightened horse, into 
the gloom behind her. 

" 'I would go/ said she, trying hard, as it 
seemed to me, to speak calmly; 'I would go. I 


231 



The Adventure of the Engineer's Thumb 


should not stay here. There is no good for you 
to do.' 

" 'But, madam/ said I, 'I have not yet done 
what I came for. I cannot possibly leave until I 
have seen the machine.' 

" 'It is not worth your while to wait/ she went 
on. 'You can pass through the door; no one hin- 
ders.' And then, seeing that I smiled and shook 
my head, she suddenly threw aside her constraint 
and made a step forward, with her hands wrung 
together. 'For the love of Heaven!' she whispered, 
'get away from here before it is too late!' 

"But I am somewhat headstrong by nature, and 
the more ready to engage in an affair when there 
is some obstacle in the way. I thought of my fifty- 
guinea fee, of my wearisome journey, and of the 
unpleasant night which seemed to be before me. 
Was it all to go for nothing? Why should I slink 
away without having carried out my commission, 
and without the payment which was my due? This 
woman might, for all I knew, be a monomaniac. 
With a stout bearing, therefore, though her man- 
ner had shaken me more than I cared to confess, 
I still shook my head and declared my intention 
of remaining where I was. She was about to re- 
new her entreaties when a door slammed over- 
head, and the sound of several footsteps was heard 
upon the stairs. She listened for an instant, threw 
up her hands with a despairing gesture, and van- 
ished as suddenly and as noiselessly as she had 
come. 

"The newcomers were Colonel Lysander Stark 
and a short thick man with a chinchilla beard 
growing out of the creases of his double chin, who 
was introduced to me as Mr. Ferguson. 

" 'This is my secretary and manager/ said the 
colonel. 'By the way, I was under the impression 
that I left this door shut just now. I fear that you 
have felt the draught.' 

"'On the contrary/ said I, 'I opened the door 
myself because I felt the room to be a little close.' 

"He shot one of his suspicious looks at me. 
'Perhaps we had better proceed to business, then/ 
said he. 'Mr. Ferguson and I will take you up to 
see the machine.' 

" 'I had better put my hat on, I suppose.' 

" 'Oh, no, it is in the house.' 

" 'What, you dig fuller 's-earth in the house?' 

" 'No, no. This is only where we compress it. 
But never mind that. All we wish you to do is to 
examine the machine and to let us know what is 
wrong with it.' 


"We went upstairs together, the colonel first 
with the lamp, the fat manager and I behind him. 
It was a labyrinth of an old house, with corri- 
dors, passages, narrow winding staircases, and lit- 
tle low doors, the thresholds of which were hol- 
lowed out by the generations who had crossed 
them. There were no carpets and no signs of any 
furniture above the ground floor, while the plas- 
ter was peeling off the walls, and the damp was 
breaking through in green, unhealthy blotches. I 
tried to put on as unconcerned an air as possible, 
but I had not forgotten the warnings of the lady, 
even though I disregarded them, and I kept a keen 
eye upon my two companions. Ferguson appeared 
to be a morose and silent man, but I could see from 
the little that he said that he was at least a fellow- 
countryman. 

"Colonel Lysander Stark stopped at last before 
a low door, which he unlocked. Within was a 
small, square room, in which the three of us could 
hardly get at one time. Ferguson remained out- 
side, and the colonel ushered me in. 

" 'We are now/ said he, 'actually within the hy- 
draulic press, and it would be a particularly un- 
pleasant thing for us if anyone were to turn it on. 
The ceiling of this small chamber is really the end 
of the descending piston, and it comes down with 
the force of many tons upon this metal floor. There 
are small lateral columns of water outside which 
receive the force, and which transmit and multi- 
ply it in the manner which is familiar to you. The 
machine goes readily enough, but there is some 
stiffness in the working of it, and it has lost a little 
of its force. Perhaps you will have the goodness 
to look it over and to show us how we can set it 
right.' 

"I took the lamp from him, and I examined 
the machine very thoroughly. It was indeed a gi- 
gantic one, and capable of exercising enormous 
pressure. When I passed outside, however, and 
pressed down the levers which controlled it, I 
knew at once by the whishing sound that there 
was a slight leakage, which allowed a regurgita- 
tion of water through one of the side cylinders. An 
examination showed that one of the india-rubber 
bands which was round the head of a driving-rod 
had shrunk so as not quite to fill the socket along 
which it worked. This was clearly the cause of the 
loss of power, and I pointed it out to my compan- 
ions, who followed my remarks very carefully and 
asked several practical questions as to how they 
should proceed to set it right. When I had made 
it clear to them, I returned to the main chamber of 
the machine and took a good look at it to satisfy 


232 



The Adventure of the Engineer's Thumb 


my own curiosity. It was obvious at a glance that 
the story of the fuller 's-earth was the merest fab- 
rication, for it would be absurd to suppose that so 
powerful an engine could be designed for so inad- 
equate a purpose. The walls were of wood, but the 
floor consisted of a large iron trough, and when I 
came to examine it I could see a crust of metallic 
deposit all over it. I had stooped and was scraping 
at this to see exactly what it was when I heard a 
muttered exclamation in German and saw the ca- 
daverous face of the colonel looking down at me. 

" 'What are you doing there?' he asked. 

"I felt angry at having been tricked by so elab- 
orate a story as that which he had told me. 'I was 
admiring your fuller's-earth,' said I; 'I think that 
I should be better able to advise you as to your 
machine if I knew what the exact purpose was for 
which it was used.' 

"The instant that I uttered the words I regretted 
the rashness of my speech. His face set hard, and 
a baleful light sprang up in his grey eyes. 

" 'Very well,' said he, 'you shall know all about 
the machine.' He took a step backward, slammed 
the little door, and turned the key in the lock. I 
rushed towards it and pulled at the handle, but it 
was quite secure, and did not give in the least to 
my kicks and shoves. 'Hullo!' I yelled. 'Hullo! 
Colonel! Let me out!' 

"And then suddenly in the silence I heard a 
sound which sent my heart into my mouth. It 
was the clank of the levers and the swish of the 
leaking cylinder. He had set the engine at work. 
The lamp still stood upon the floor where I had 
placed it when examining the trough. By its light 
I saw that the black ceiling was coming down 
upon me, slowly, jerkily, but, as none knew bet- 
ter than myself, with a force which must within 
a minute grind me to a shapeless pulp. I threw 
myself, screaming, against the door, and dragged 
with my nails at the lock. I implored the colonel 
to let me out, but the remorseless clanking of the 
levers drowned my cries. The ceiling was only a 
foot or two above my head, and with my hand up- 
raised I could feel its hard, rough surface. Then 
it flashed through my mind that the pain of my 
death would depend very much upon the position 
in which I met it. If I lay on my face the weight 
would come upon my spine, and I shuddered to 
think of that dreadful snap. Easier the other way, 
perhaps; and yet, had I the nerve to lie and look up 
at that deadly black shadow wavering down upon 
me? Already I was unable to stand erect, when 
my eye caught something which brought a gush 
of hope back to my heart. 


"I have said that though the floor and ceiling 
were of iron, the walls were of wood. As I gave a 
last hurried glance around, I saw a thin line of yel- 
low light between two of the boards, which broad- 
ened and broadened as a small panel was pushed 
backward. For an instant I could hardly believe 
that here was indeed a door which led away from 
death. The next instant I threw myself through, 
and lay half-fainting upon the other side. The 
panel had closed again behind me, but the crash of 
the lamp, and a few moments afterwards the clang 
of the two slabs of metal, told me how narrow had 
been my escape. 

"I was recalled to myself by a frantic plucking 
at my wrist, and I found myself lying upon the 
stone floor of a narrow corridor, while a woman 
bent over me and tugged at me with her left hand, 
while she held a candle in her right. It was the 
same good friend whose warning I had so fool- 
ishly rejected. 

" 'Come! come!' she cried breathlessly. 'They 
will be here in a moment. They will see that you 
are not there. Oh, do not waste the so-precious 
time, but come!' 

"This time, at least, I did not scorn her advice. 
I staggered to my feet and ran with her along the 
corridor and down a winding stair. The latter led 
to another broad passage, and just as we reached it 
we heard the sound of running feet and the shout- 
ing of two voices, one answering the other from 
the floor on which we were and from the one be- 
neath. My guide stopped and looked about her 
like one who is at her wit's end. Then she threw 
open a door which led into a bedroom, through the 
window of which the moon was shining brightly. 

" 'It is your only chance,' said she. 'It is high, 
but it may be that you can jump it.' 

"As she spoke a light sprang into view at the 
further end of the passage, and I saw the lean 
figure of Colonel Lysander Stark rushing forward 
with a lantern in one hand and a weapon like a 
butcher's cleaver in the other. I rushed across the 
bedroom, flung open the window, and looked out. 
How quiet and sweet and wholesome the garden 
looked in the moonlight, and it could not be more 
than thirty feet down. I clambered out upon the 
sill, but I hesitated to jump until I should have 
heard what passed between my saviour and the 
ruffian who pursued me. If she were ill-used, then 
at any risks I was determined to go back to her as- 
sistance. The thought had hardly flashed through 
my mind before he was at the door, pushing his 
way past her; but she threw her arms round him 
and tried to hold him back. 


233 



The Adventure of the Engineer's Thumb 


" 'Fritz! Fritz!' she cried in English, 'remem- 
ber your promise after the last time. You said it 
should not be again. He will be silent! Oh, he will 
be silent!' 

" 'You are mad, Elise!' he shouted, struggling 
to break away from her. 'You will be the ruin of 
us. He has seen too much. Let me pass, I say!' He 
dashed her to one side, and, rushing to the win- 
dow, cut at me with his heavy weapon. I had let 
myself go, and was hanging by the hands to the 
sill, when his blow fell. I was conscious of a dull 
pain, my grip loosened, and I fell into the garden 
below. 

"I was shaken but not hurt by the fall; so 
I picked myself up and rushed off among the 
bushes as hard as I could run, for I understood 
that I was far from being out of danger yet. Sud- 
denly, however, as I ran, a deadly dizziness and 
sickness came over me. I glanced down at my 
hand, which was throbbing painfully, and then, for 
the first time, saw that my thumb had been cut off 
and that the blood was pouring from my wound. 
I endeavoured to tie my handkerchief round it, 
but there came a sudden buzzing in my ears, and 
next moment I fell in a dead faint among the rose- 
bushes. 

"How long I remained unconscious I cannot 
tell. It must have been a very long time, for 
the moon had sunk, and a bright morning was 
breaking when I came to myself. My clothes 
were all sodden with dew, and my coat-sleeve was 
drenched with blood from my wounded thumb. 
The smarting of it recalled in an instant all the par- 
ticulars of my night's adventure, and I sprang to 
my feet with the feeling that I might hardly yet be 
safe from my pursuers. But to my astonishment, 
when I came to look round me, neither house nor 
garden were to be seen. I had been lying in an an- 
gle of the hedge close by the highroad, and just 
a little lower down was a long building, which 
proved, upon my approaching it, to be the very 
station at which I had arrived upon the previous 
night. Were it not for the ugly wound upon my 
hand, all that had passed during those dreadful 
hours might have been an evil dream. 

"Half dazed, I went into the station and asked 
about the morning train. There would be one to 
Reading in less than an hour. The same porter 
was on duty, I found, as had been there when I 
arrived. I inquired of him whether he had ever 
heard of Colonel Lysander Stark. The name was 
strange to him. Had he observed a carriage the 
night before waiting for me? No, he had not. Was 


there a police-station anywhere near? There was 
one about three miles off. 

"It was too far for me to go, weak and ill as I 
was. I determined to wait until I got back to town 
before telling my story to the police. It was a lit- 
tle past six when I arrived, so I went first to have 
my wound dressed, and then the doctor was kind 
enough to bring me along here. I put the case into 
your hands and shall do exactly what you advise." 

We both sat in silence for some little time af- 
ter listening to this extraordinary narrative. Then 
Sherlock Holmes pulled down from the shelf one 
of the ponderous commonplace books in which he 
placed his cuttings. 

"Here is an advertisement which will interest 
you," said he. "It appeared in all the papers about 
a year ago. Listen to this: 

" 'Lost, on the gth inst., Mr. Jeremiah 
Hayling, aged twenty-six, a hydraulic en- 
gineer. Left his lodgings at ten o'clock at 
night, and has not been heard of since. Was 
dressed in — ' 

etc., etc. Ha! That represents the last time that the 
colonel needed to have his machine overhauled, I 
fancy." 

"Good heavens!" cried my patient. "Then that 
explains what the girl said." 

"Undoubtedly. It is quite clear that the colonel 
was a cool and desperate man, who was absolutely 
determined that nothing should stand in the way 
of his little game, like those out-and-out pirates 
who will leave no survivor from a captured ship. 
Well, every moment now is precious, so if you feel 
equal to it we shall go down to Scotland Yard at 
once as a preliminary to starting for Eyford." 

Some three hours or so afterwards we were 
all in the train together, bound from Reading to 
the little Berkshire village. There were Sherlock 
Holmes, the hydraulic engineer. Inspector Brad- 
street, of Scotland Yard, a plain-clothes man, and 
myself. Bradstreet had spread an ordnance map 
of the county out upon the seat and was busy with 
his compasses drawing a circle with Eyford for its 
centre. 

"There you are," said he. "That circle is drawn 
at a radius of ten miles from the village. The place 
we want must be somewhere near that line. You 
said ten miles, I think, sir." 

"It was an hour's good drive." 

"And you think that they brought you back all 
that way when you were unconscious?" 


234 



The Adventure of the Engineer's Thumb 


"They must have done so. I have a confused 
memory, too, of having been lifted and conveyed 
somewhere." 

"What I cannot understand," said I, "is why 
they should have spared you when they found you 
lying fainting in the garden. Perhaps the villain 
was softened by the woman's entreaties." 

"I hardly think that likely. I never saw a more 
inexorable face in my life." 

"Oh, we shall soon clear up all that," said Brad- 
street. "Well, I have drawn my circle, and I only 
wish I knew at what point upon it the folk that we 
are in search of are to be found." 

"I think I could lay my finger on it," said 
Holmes quietly. 

"Really, now!" cried the inspector, "you have 
formed your opinion! Come, now, we shall see 
who agrees with you. I say it is south, for the 
country is more deserted there." 

"And I say east," said my patient. 

"I am for west," remarked the plain-clothes 
man. "There are several quiet little villages up 
there." 

"And I am for north," said I, "because there are 
no hills there, and our friend says that he did not 
notice the carriage go up any." 

"Come," cried the inspector, laughing; "it's a 
very pretty diversity of opinion. We have boxed 
the compass among us. Who do you give your 
casting vote to?" 

"You are all wrong." 

"But we can't all be." 

"Oh, yes, you can. This is my point." He placed 
his finger in the centre of the circle. "This is where 
we shall find them." 

"But the twelve-mile drive?" gasped Hatherley. 

"Six out and six back. Nothing simpler. You 
say yourself that the horse was fresh and glossy 
when you got in. How could it be that if it had 
gone twelve miles over heavy roads?" 

"Indeed, it is a likely ruse enough," observed 
Bradstreet thoughtfully. "Of course there can be 
no doubt as to the nature of this gang." 

"None at all," said Holmes. "They are coin- 
ers on a large scale, and have used the machine 
to form the amalgam which has taken the place of 
silver." 

"We have known for some time that a clever 
gang was at work," said the inspector. "They have 
been turning out half-crowns by the thousand. We 
even traced them as far as Reading, but could get 


no farther, for they had covered their traces in a 
way that showed that they were very old hands. 
But now, thanks to this lucky chance, I think that 
we have got them right enough." 

But the inspector was mistaken, for those crim- 
inals were not destined to fall into the hands of 
justice. As we rolled into Eyford Station we saw a 
gigantic column of smoke which streamed up from 
behind a small clump of trees in the neighbour- 
hood and hung like an immense ostrich feather 
over the landscape. 

"A house on fire?" asked Bradstreet as the train 
steamed off again on its way. 

"Yes, sir!" said the station-master. 

"When did it break out?" 

"I hear that it was during the night, sir, but it 
has got worse, and the whole place is in a blaze." 

"Whose house is it?" 

"Dr. Becher's." 

"Tell me," broke in the engineer, "is Dr. Becher 
a German, very thin, with a long, sharp nose?" 

The station-master laughed heartily. "No, sir. 
Dr. Becher is an Englishman, and there isn't a man 
in the parish who has a better-lined waistcoat. But 
he has a gentleman staying with him, a patient, 
as I understand, who is a foreigner, and he looks 
as if a little good Berkshire beef would do him no 
harm." 

The station-master had not finished his speech 
before we were all hastening in the direction of the 
fire. The road topped a low hill, and there was 
a great widespread whitewashed building in front 
of us, spouting fire at every chink and window, 
while in the garden in front three fire-engines were 
vainly striving to keep the flames under. 

"That's it!" cried Hatherley, in intense excite- 
ment. "There is the gravel-drive, and there are the 
rose-bushes where I lay. That second window is 
the one that I jumped from." 

"Well, at least," said Holmes, "you have had 
your revenge upon them. There can be no ques- 
tion that it was your oil-lamp which, when it was 
crushed in the press, set fire to the wooden walls, 
though no doubt they were too excited in the chase 
after you to observe it at the time. Now keep your 
eyes open in this crowd for your friends of last 
night, though I very much fear that they are a good 
hundred miles off by now." 

And Holmes' fears came to be realised, for 
from that day to this no word has ever been heard 
either of the beautiful woman, the sinister German, 
or the morose Englishman. Early that morning 
a peasant had met a cart containing several peo- 
ple and some very bulky boxes driving rapidly in 


235 



the direction of Reading, but there all traces of the 
fugitives disappeared, and even Holmes' ingenu- 
ity failed ever to discover the least clue as to their 
whereabouts. 

The firemen had been much perturbed at 
the strange arrangements which they had found 
within, and still more so by discovering a newly 
severed human thumb upon a window-sill of the 
second floor. About sunset, however, their ef- 
forts were at last successful, and they subdued 
the flames, but not before the roof had fallen in, 
and the whole place been reduced to such abso- 
lute ruin that, save some twisted cylinders and 
iron piping, not a trace remained of the machinery 
which had cost our unfortunate acquaintance so 
dearly. Large masses of nickel and of tin were dis- 
covered stored in an out-house, but no coins were 
to be found, which may have explained the pres- 
ence of those bulky boxes which have been already 
referred to. 

How our hydraulic engineer had been con- 


veyed from the garden to the spot where he re- 
covered his senses might have remained forever a 
mystery were it not for the soft mould, which told 
us a very plain tale. He had evidently been car- 
ried down by two persons, one of whom had re- 
markably small feet and the other unusually large 
ones. On the whole, it was most probable that the 
silent Englishman, being less bold or less murder- 
ous than his companion, had assisted the woman 
to bear the unconscious man out of the way of dan- 
ger. 

"Well," said our engineer ruefully as we took 
our seats to return once more to London, "it has 
been a pretty business for me! I have lost my 
thumb and I have lost a fifty-guinea fee, and what 
have I gained?" 

"Experience," said Holmes, laughing. "Indi- 
rectly it may be of value, you know; you have only 
to put it into words to gain the reputation of be- 
ing excellent company for the remainder of your 
existence." 



The Crooked Man 


ne summer night, a few months after 
my marriage, I was seated by my own 
hearth smoking a last pipe and nodding 
over a novel, for my day's work had been 
an exhausting one. My wife had already gone up- 
stairs, and the sound of the locking of the hall door 
some time before told me that the servants had 
also retired. I had risen from my seat and was 
knocking out the ashes of my pipe when I sud- 
denly heard the clang of the bell. 

I looked at the clock. It was a quarter to twelve. 
This could not be a visitor at so late an hour. A 
patient, evidently, and possibly an all-night sit- 
ting. With a wry face I went out into the hall and 
opened the door. To my astonishment it was Sher- 
lock Holmes who stood upon my step. 

"Ah, Watson," said he, "I hoped that I might 
not be too late to catch you." 

"My dear fellow, pray come in." 

"You look surprised, and no wonder! Relieved, 
too, I fancy! Hum! You still smoke the Arcadia 
mixture of your bachelor days then! There's no 
mistaking that fluffy ash upon your coat. It's easy 
to tell that you have been accustomed to wear a 
uniform, Watson. You'll never pass as a pure-bred 
civilian as long as you keep that habit of carrying 
your handkerchief in your sleeve. Could you put 
me up tonight?" 

"With pleasure." 

"You told me that you had bachelor quarters 
for one, and I see that you have no gentleman visi- 
tor at present. Your hat-stand proclaims as much." 

"I shall be delighted if you will stay." 

"Thank you. I'll fill the vacant peg then. Sorry 
to see that you've had the British workman in the 
house. He's a token of evil. Not the drains, I 
hope?" 

"No, the gas." 

"Ah! He has left two nail-marks from his boot 
upon your linoleum just where the light strikes it. 
No, thank you, I had some supper at Waterloo, but 
I'll smoke a pipe with you with pleasure." 

I handed him my pouch, and he seated himself 
opposite to me and smoked for some time in si- 
lence. I was well aware that nothing but business 
of importance would have brought him to me at 
such an hour, so I waited patiently until he should 
come round to it. 

"I see that you are professionally rather busy 
just now," said he, glancing very keenly across at 
me. 



"Yes, I've had a busy day," I answered. "It may 
seem very foolish in your eyes," I added, "but re- 
ally I don't know how you deduced it." 

Holmes chuckled to himself. 

"I have the advantage of knowing your habits, 
my dear Watson," said he. "When your round is a 
short one you walk, and when it is a long one you 
use a hansom. As I perceive that your boots, al- 
though used, are by no means dirty, I cannot doubt 
that you are at present busy enough to justify the 
hansom." 

"Excellent!" I cried. 

"Elementary," said he. "It is one of those in- 
stances where the reasoner can produce an effect 
which seems remarkable to his neighbor, because 
the latter has missed the one little point which 
is the basis of the deduction. The same may be 
said, my dear fellow, for the effect of some of these 
little sketches of yours, which is entirely meretri- 
cious, depending as it does upon your retaining 
in your own hands some factors in the problem 
which are never imparted to the reader. Now, at 
present I am in the position of these same readers, 
for I hold in this hand several threads of one of 
the strangest cases which ever perplexed a man's 
brain, and yet I lack the one or two which are 
needful to complete my theory. But I'll have them, 
Watson, I'll have them!" His eyes kindled and a 
slight flush sprang into his thin cheeks. For an 
instant the veil had lifted upon his keen, intense 
nature, but for an instant only. When I glanced 
again his face had resumed that red-Indian com- 
posure which had made so many regard him as a 
machine rather than a man. 

"The problem presents features of interest," 
said he. "I may even say exceptional features of 
interest. I have already looked into the matter, and 
have come, as I think, within sight of my solution. 
If you could accompany me in that last step you 
might be of considerable service to me." 

"I should be delighted." 

"Could you go as far as Aldershot to-morrow?" 

"I have no doubt Jackson would take my prac- 
tice." 

"Very good. I want to start by the 11.10 from 
Waterloo." 

"That would give me time." 

"Then, if you are not too sleepy, I will give you 
a sketch of what has happened, and of what re- 
mains to be done." 

"I was sleepy before you came. I am quite 
wakeful now." 

"I will compress the story as far as may be done 
without omitting anything vital to the case. It is 


353 




The Crooked Man 


conceivable that you may even have read some ac- 
count of the matter. It is the supposed murder of 
Colonel Barclay, of the Royal Munsters, at Aider- 
shot, which I am investigating." 

"I have heard nothing of it." 

"It has not excited much attention yet, except 
locally. The facts are only two days old. Briefly 
they are these: 

"The Royal Munsters is, as you know, one of 
the most famous Irish regiments in the British 
army. It did wonders both in the Crimea and the 
Mutiny, and has since that time distinguished itself 
upon every possible occasion. It was commanded 
up to Monday night by James Barclay, a gallant 
veteran, who started as a full private, was raised 
to commissioned rank for his bravery at the time 
of the Mutiny, and so lived to command the regi- 
ment in which he had once carried a musket. 

"Colonel Barclay had married at the time when 
he was a sergeant, and his wife, whose maiden 
name was Miss Nancy Devoy, was the daughter of 
a former color-sergeant in the same corps. There 
was, therefore, as can be imagined, some little so- 
cial friction when the young couple (for they were 
still young) found themselves in their new sur- 
roundings. They appear, however, to have quickly 
adapted themselves, and Mrs. Barclay has always, 
I understand, been as popular with the ladies of 
the regiment as her husband was with his brother 
officers. I may add that she was a woman of great 
beauty, and that even now, when she has been mar- 
ried for upwards of thirty years, she is still of a 
striking and queenly appearance. 

"Colonel Barclay's family life appears to have 
been a uniformly happy one. Major Murphy, to 
whom I owe most of my facts, assures me that he 
has never heard of any misunderstanding between 
the pair. On the whole, he thinks that Barclay's 
devotion to his wife was greater than his wife's 
to Barclay. He was acutely uneasy if he were ab- 
sent from her for a day. She, on the other hand, 
though devoted and faithful, was less obtrusively 
affectionate. But they were regarded in the regi- 
ment as the very model of a middle-aged couple. 
There was absolutely nothing in their mutual rela- 
tions to prepare people for the tragedy which was 
to follow. 

"Colonel Barclay himself seems to have had 
some singular traits in his character. He was a 
dashing, jovial old solder in his usual mood, but 
there were occasions on which he seemed to show 
himself capable of considerable violence and vin- 
dictiveness. This side of his nature, however, ap- 
pears never to have been turned towards his wife. 


Another fact, which had struck Major Murphy and 
three out of five of the other officers with whom 
I conversed, was the singular sort of depression 
which came upon him at times. As the major ex- 
pressed it, the smile had often been struck from 
his mouth, as if by some invisible hand, when he 
has been joining the gaieties and chaff of the mess- 
table. For days on end, when the mood was on 
him, he has been sunk in the deepest gloom. This 
and a certain tinge of superstition were the only 
unusual traits in his character which his brother 
officers had observed. The latter peculiarity took 
the form of a dislike to being left alone, especially 
after dark. This puerile feature in a nature which 
was conspicuously manly had often given rise to 
comment and conjecture. 

"The first battalion of the Royal Munsters 
(which is the old 117th) has been stationed at 
Aldershot for some years. The married officers live 
out of barracks, and the Colonel has during all this 
time occupied a villa called Lachine, about half a 
mile from the north camp. The house stands in its 
own grounds, but the west side of it is not more 
than thirty yards from the high-road. A coachman 
and two maids form the staff of servants. These 
with their master and mistress were the sole occu- 
pants of Lachine, for the Barclays had no children, 
nor was it usual for them to have resident visitors. 

"Now for the events at Lachine between nine 
and ten on the evening of last Monday. 

"Mrs. Barclay was, it appears, a member of the 
Roman Catholic Church, and had interested her- 
self very much in the establishment of the Guild of 
St. George, which was formed in connection with 
the Watt Street Chapel for the purpose of supply- 
ing the poor with cast-off clothing. A meeting of 
the Guild had been held that evening at eight, and 
Mrs. Barclay had hurried over her dinner in order 
to be present at it. When leaving the house she 
was heard by the coachman to make some com- 
monplace remark to her husband, and to assure 
him that she would be back before very long. She 
then called for Miss Morrison, a young lady who 
lives in the next villa, and the two went off to- 
gether to their meeting. It lasted forty minutes, 
and at a quarter-past nine Mrs. Barclay returned 
home, having left Miss Morrison at her door as 
she passed. 

"There is a room which is used as a morning- 
room at Lachine. This faces the road and opens by 
a large glass folding-door on to the lawn. The lawn 
is thirty yards across, and is only divided from the 
highway by a low wall with an iron rail above it. It 
was into this room that Mrs. Barclay went upon 


354 



The Crooked Man 


her return. The blinds were not down, for the 
room was seldom used in the evening, but Mrs. 
Barclay herself lit the lamp and then rang the bell, 
asking Jane Stewart, the house-maid, to bring her 
a cup of tea, which was quite contrary to her usual 
habits. The Colonel had been sitting in the dining- 
room, but hearing that his wife had returned he 
joined her in the morning-room. The coachman 
saw him cross the hall and enter it. He was never 
seen again alive. 

"The tea which had been ordered was brought 
up at the end of ten minutes; but the maid, as 
she approached the door, was surprised to hear 
the voices of her master and mistress in furious al- 
tercation. She knocked without receiving any an- 
swer, and even turned the handle, but only to find 
that the door was locked upon the inside. Natu- 
rally enough she ran down to tell the cook, and 
the two women with the coachman came up into 
the hall and listened to the dispute which was still 
raging. They all agreed that only two voices were 
to be heard, those of Barclay and of his wife. Bar- 
clay's remarks were subdued and abrupt, so that 
none of them were audible to the listeners. The 
lady's, on the other hand, were most bitter, and 
when she raised her voice could be plainly heard. 
'You coward!' she repeated over and over again. 
'What can be done now? What can be done now? 
Give me back my life. I will never so much as 
breathe the same air with you again! You coward! 
You Coward!' Those were scraps of her conversa- 
tion, ending in a sudden dreadful cry in the man's 
voice, with a crash, and a piercing scream from 
the woman. Convinced that some tragedy had 
occurred, the coachman rushed to the door and 
strove to force it, while scream after scream issued 
from within. He was unable, however, to make his 
way in, and the maids were too distracted with 
fear to be of any assistance to him. A sudden 
thought struck him, however, and he ran through 
the hall door and round to the lawn upon which 
the long French windows open. One side of the 
window was open, which I understand was quite 
usual in the summer-time, and he passed without 
difficulty into the room. His mistress had ceased to 
scream and was stretched insensible upon a couch, 
while with his feet tilted over the side of an arm- 
chair, and his head upon the ground near the cor- 
ner of the fender, was lying the unfortunate soldier 
stone dead in a pool of his own blood. 

"Naturally, the coachman's first thought, on 
finding that he could do nothing for his master, 
was to open the door. But here an unexpected 
and singular difficulty presented itself. The key 
was not in the inner side of the door, nor could 


he find it anywhere in the room. He went out 
again, therefore, through the window, and having 
obtained the help of a policeman and of a med- 
ical man, he returned. The lady, against whom 
naturally the strongest suspicion rested, was re- 
moved to her room, still in a state of insensibility. 
The Colonel's body was then placed upon the sofa, 
and a careful examination made of the scene of the 
tragedy. 

"The injury from which the unfortunate vet- 
eran was suffering was found to be a jagged cut 
some two inches long at the back part of his head, 
which had evidently been caused by a violent 
blow from a blunt weapon. Nor was it difficult 
to guess what that weapon may have been. Upon 
the floor, close to the body, was lying a singular 
club of hard carved wood with a bone handle. The 
Colonel possessed a varied collection of weapons 
brought from the different countries in which he 
had fought, and it is conjectured by the police that 
his club was among his trophies. The servants 
deny having seen it before, but among the numer- 
ous curiosities in the house it is possible that it may 
have been overlooked. Nothing else of importance 
was discovered in the room by the police, save the 
inexplicable fact that neither upon Mrs. Barclay's 
person nor upon that of the victim nor in any part 
of the room was the missing key to be found. The 
door had eventually to be opened by a locksmith 
from Aldershot. 

"That was the state of things, Watson, when 
upon the Tuesday morning I, at the request of Ma- 
jor Murphy, went down to Aldershot to supple- 
ment the efforts of the police. I think that you will 
acknowledge that the problem was already one of 
interest, but my observations soon made me real- 
ize that it was in truth much more extraordinary 
than would at first sight appear. 

"Before examining the room I cross-questioned 
the servants, but only succeeded in eliciting the 
facts which I have already stated. One other detail 
of interest was remembered by Jane Stewart, the 
housemaid. You will remember that on hearing 
the sound of the quarrel she descended and re- 
turned with the other servants. On that first occa- 
sion, when she was alone, she says that the voices 
of her master and mistress were sunk so low that 
she could hear hardly anything, and judged by 
their tones rather than their words that they had 
fallen out. On my pressing her, however, she re- 
membered that she heard the word David uttered 
twice by the lady. The point is of the utmost im- 
portance as guiding us towards the reason of the 
sudden quarrel. The Colonel's name, you remem- 
ber, was James. 


355 



The Crooked Man 


"There was one thing in the case which had 
made the deepest impression both upon the ser- 
vants and the police. This was the contortion of 
the Colonel's face. It had set, according to their 
account, into the most dreadful expression of fear 
and horror which a human countenance is capa- 
ble of assuming. More than one person fainted at 
the mere sight of him, so terrible was the effect. It 
was quite certain that he had foreseen his fate, and 
that it had caused him the utmost horror. This, of 
course, fitted in well enough with the police the- 
ory, if the Colonel could have seen his wife making 
a murderous attack upon him. Nor was the fact of 
the wound being on the back of his head a fatal 
objection to this, as he might have turned to avoid 
the blow. No information could be got from the 
lady herself, who was temporarily insane from an 
acute attack of brain-fever. 

"From the police I learned that Miss Morri- 
son, who you remember went out that evening 
with Mrs. Barclay, denied having any knowledge 
of what it was which had caused the ill-humor in 
which her companion had returned. 

"Having gathered these facts, Watson, I 
smoked several pipes over them, trying to sepa- 
rate those which were crucial from others which 
were merely incidental. There could be no ques- 
tion that the most distinctive and suggestive point 
in the case was the singular disappearance of the 
door-key. A most careful search had failed to dis- 
cover it in the room. Therefore it must have been 
taken from it. But neither the Colonel nor the 
Colonel's wife could have taken it. That was per- 
fectly clear. Therefore a third person must have 
entered the room. And that third person could 
only have come in through the window. It seemed 
to me that a careful examination of the room and 
the lawn might possibly reveal some traces of this 
mysterious individual. You know my methods, 
Watson. There was not one of them which I did 
not apply to the inquiry. And it ended by my dis- 
covering traces, but very different ones from those 
which I had expected. There had been a man in the 
room, and he had crossed the lawn coming from 
the road. I was able to obtain five very clear im- 
pressions of his foot-marks: one in the roadway 
itself, at the point where he had climbed the low 
wall, two on the lawn, and two very faint ones 
upon the stained boards near the window where 
he had entered. He had apparently rushed across 
the lawn, for his toe-marks were much deeper than 
his heels. But it was not the man who surprised 
me. It was his companion." 

"His companion!" 


Holmes pulled a large sheet of tissue-paper out 
of his pocket and carefully unfolded it upon his 
knee. 

"What do you make of that?" he asked. 

The paper was covered with he tracings of the 
foot-marks of some small animal. It had five well- 
marked foot-pads, an indication of long nails, and 
the whole print might be nearly as large as a 
dessert-spoon. 

"It's a dog," said I. 

"Did you ever hear of a dog running up a cur- 
tain? I found distinct traces that this creature had 
done so." 

"A monkey, then?" 

"But it is not the print of a monkey." 

"What can it be, then?" 

"Neither dog nor cat nor monkey nor any crea- 
ture that we are familiar with. I have tried to re- 
construct it from the measurements. Here are four 
prints where the beast has been standing motion- 
less. You see that it is no less than fifteen inches 
from fore-foot to hind. Add to that the length of 
neck and head, and you get a creature not much 
less than two feet long — probably more if there 
is any tail. But now observe this other measure- 
ment. The animal has been moving, and we have 
the length of its stride. In each case it is only about 
three inches. You have an indication, you see, of a 
long body with very short legs attached to it. It 
has not been considerate enough to leave any of 
its hair behind it. But its general shape must be 
what I have indicated, and it can run up a curtain, 
and it is carnivorous." 

"How do you deduce that?" 

"Because it ran up the curtain. A canary's cage 
was hanging in the window, and its aim seems to 
have been to get at the bird." 

"Then what was the beast?" 

"Ah, if I could give it a name it might go a 
long way towards solving the case. On the whole, 
it was probably some creature of the weasel and 
stoat tribe — and yet it is larger than any of these 
that I have seen." 

"But what had it to do with the crime?" 

"That, also, is still obscure. But we have 
learned a good deal, you perceive. We know that 
a man stood in the road looking at the quarrel be- 
tween the Barclays — the blinds were up and the 
room lighted. We know, also, that he ran across the 
lawn, entered the room, accompanied by a strange 
animal, and that he either struck the Colonel or, 
as is equally possible, that the Colonel fell down 
from sheer fright at the sight of him, and cut his 
head on the corner of the fender. Finally, we have 


356 



The Crooked Man 


the curious fact that the intruder carried away the 
key with him when he left." 

"Your discoveries seem to have left the business 
more obscure that it was before," said I. 

"Quite so. They undoubtedly showed that the 
affair was much deeper than was at first conjec- 
tured. I thought the matter over, and I came to the 
conclusion that I must approach the case from an- 
other aspect. But really, Watson, I am keeping you 
up, and I might just as well tell you all this on our 
way to Aldershot to-morrow." 

"Thank you, you have gone rather too far to 
stop." 

"It is quite certain that when Mrs. Barclay left 
the house at half-past seven she was on good terms 
with her husband. She was never, as I think I 
have said, ostentatiously affectionate, but she was 
heard by the coachman chatting with the Colonel 
in a friendly fashion. Now, it was equally certain 
that, immediately on her return, she had gone to 
the room in which she was least likely to see her 
husband, had flown to tea as an agitated woman 
will, and finally, on his coming in to her, had bro- 
ken into violent recriminations. Therefore some- 
thing had occurred between seven-thirty and nine 
o'clock which had completely altered her feelings 
towards him. But Miss Morrison had been with 
her during the whole of that hour and a half. It 
was absolutely certain, therefore, in spite of her 
denial, that she must know something of the mat- 
ter. 

"My first conjecture was, that possibly there 
had been some passages between this young lady 
and the old soldier, which the former had now 
confessed to the wife. That would account for 
the angry return, and also for the girl's denial 
that anything had occurred. Nor would it be en- 
tirely incompatible with most of the words over- 
head. But there was the reference to David, and 
there was the known affection of the Colonel for 
his wife, to weigh against it, to say nothing of the 
tragic intrusion of this other man, which might, 
of course, be entirely disconnected with what had 
gone before. It was not easy to pick one's steps, 
but, on the whole, I was inclined to dismiss the 
idea that there had been anything between the 
Colonel and Miss Morrison, but more than ever 
convinced that the young lady held the clue as to 
what it was which had turned Mrs. Barclay to ha- 
tred of her husband. I took the obvious course, 
therefore, of calling upon Miss M., of explaining 
to her that I was perfectly certain that she held the 
facts in her possession, and of assuring her that 
her friend, Mrs. Barclay, might find herself in the 


dock upon a capital charge unless the matter were 
cleared up. 

"Miss Morrison is a little ethereal slip of a girl, 
with timid eyes and blond hair, but I found her 
by no means wanting in shrewdness and common- 
sense. She sat thinking for some time after I had 
spoken, and then, turning to me with a brisk air of 
resolution, she broke into a remarkable statement 
which I will condense for your benefit. 

" 'I promised my friend that I would say noth- 
ing of the matter, and a promise is a promise,' 
said she; 'but if I can really help her when so 
serious a charge is laid against her, and when 
her own mouth, poor darling, is closed by illness, 
then I think I am absolved from my promise. I 
will tell you exactly what happened upon Monday 
evening. 

" 'We were returning from the Watt Street Mis- 
sion about a quarter to nine o'clock. On our way 
we had to pass through Hudson Street, which is a 
very quiet thoroughfare. There is only one lamp in 
it, upon the left-hand side, and as we approached 
this lamp I saw a man coming towards us with 
is back very bent, and something like a box slung 
over one of his shoulders. He appeared to be de- 
formed, for he carried his head low and walked 
with his knees bent. We were passing him when 
he raised his face to look at us in the circle of light 
thrown by the lamp, and as he did so he stopped 
and screamed out in a dreadful voice, "My God, 
it's Nancy!" Mrs. Barclay turned as white as death, 
and would have fallen down had the dreadful- 
looking creature not caught hold of her. I was go- 
ing to call for the police, but she, to my surprise, 
spoke quite civilly to the fellow. 

" ' "I thought you had been dead this thirty 
years, Henry," said she, in a shaking voice. 

" ' "So I have," said he, and it was awful to hear 
the tones that he said it in. He had a very dark, 
fearsome face, and a gleam in his eyes that comes 
back to me in my dreams. His hair and whiskers 
were shot with gray, and his face was all crinkled 
and puckered like a withered apple. 

" ' "Just walk on a little way, dear," said Mrs. 
Barclay; "I want to have a word with this man. 
There is nothing to be afraid of." She tried to speak 
boldly, but she was still deadly pale and could 
hardly get her words out for the trembling of her 
lips. 

" 'I did as she asked me, and they talked to- 
gether for a few minutes. Then she came down 
the street with her eyes blazing, and I saw the crip- 
pled wretch standing by the lamp-post and shak- 
ing his clenched fists in the air as if he were made 


357 



The Crooked Man 


with rage. She never said a word until we were at 
the door here, when she took me by the hand and 
begged me to tell no one what had happened. 

" ' "It's an old acquaintance of mine who has 
come down in the world," said she. When I 
promised her I would say nothing she kissed me, 
and I have never seen her since. I have told you 
now the whole truth, and if I withheld it from the 
police it is because I did not realize then the danger 
in which my dear friend stood. I know that it can 
only be to her advantage that everything should 
be known.' 

"There was her statement, Watson, and to me, 
as you can imagine, it was like a light on a dark 
night. Everything which had been disconnected 
before began at once to assume its true place, and 
I had a shadowy presentiment of the whole se- 
quence of events. My next step obviously was to 
find the man who had produced such a remark- 
able impression upon Mrs. Barclay. If he were still 
in Aldershot it should not be a very difficult mat- 
ter. There are not such a very great number of 
civilians, and a deformed man was sure to have 
attracted attention. I spent a day in the search, and 
by evening — this very evening, Watson — I had run 
him down. The man's name is Henry Wood, and 
he lives in lodgings in this same street in which 
the ladies met him. He has only been five days in 
the place. In the character of a registration-agent 
I had a most interesting gossip with his landlady. 
The man is by trade a conjurer and performer, go- 
ing round the canteens after nightfall, and giving a 
little entertainment at each. He carries some crea- 
ture about with him in that box; about which the 
landlady seemed to be in considerable trepidation, 
for she had never seen an animal like it. He uses 
it in some of his tricks according to her account. 
So much the woman was able to tell me, and also 
that it was a wonder the man lived, seeing how 
twisted he was, and that he spoke in a strange 
tongue sometimes, and that for the last two nights 
she had heard him groaning and weeping in his 
bedroom. He was all right, as far as money went, 
but in his deposit he had given her what looked 
like a bad florin. She showed it to me, Watson, 
and it was an Indian rupee. 

"So now, my dear fellow, you see exactly how 
we stand and why it is I want you. It is perfectly 
plain that after the ladies parted from this man he 
followed them at a distance, that he saw the quar- 
rel between husband and wife through the win- 
dow, that he rushed in, and that the creature which 
he carried in his box got loose. That is all very cer- 
tain. But he is the only person in this world who 
can tell us exactly what happened in that room." 


"And you intend to ask him?" 

"Most certainly — but in the presence of a wit- 
ness." 

"And I am the witness?" 

"If you will be so good. If he can clear the mat- 
ter up, well and good. If he refuses, we have no 
alternative but to apply for a warrant." 

"But how do you know he'll be there when we 
return?" 

"You may be sure that I took some precau- 
tions. I have one of my Baker Street boys mounting 
guard over him who would stick to him like a burr, 
go where he might. We shall find him in Hudson 
Street to-morrow, Watson, and meanwhile I should 
be the criminal myself if I kept you out of bed any 
longer." 

It was midday when we found ourselves at the 
scene of the tragedy, and, under my companion's 
guidance, we made our way at once to Hudson 
Street. In spite of his capacity for concealing his 
emotions, I could easily see that Holmes was in a 
state of suppressed excitement, while I was myself 
tingling with that half-sporting, half-intellectual 
pleasure which I invariably experienced when I as- 
sociated myself with him in his investigations. 

"This is the street," said he, as we turned into 
a short thoroughfare lined with plain two-storied 
brick houses. "Ah, here is Simpson to report." 

"He's in all right, Mr. Holmes," cried a small 
street Arab, running up to us. 

"Good, Simpson!" said Holmes, patting him 
on the head. "Come along, Watson. This is the 
house." He sent in his card with a message that he 
had come on important business, and a moment 
later we were face to face with the man whom we 
had come to see. In spite of the warm weather he 
was crouching over a fire, and the little room was 
like an oven. The man sat all twisted and hud- 
dled in his chair in a way which gave an indescrib- 
ably impression of deformity; but the face which 
he turned towards us, though worn and swarthy, 
must at some time have been remarkable for its 
beauty. He looked suspiciously at us now out of 
yellow-shot, bilious eyes, and, without speaking or 
rising, he waved towards two chairs. 

"Mr. Henry Wood, late of India, I believe," said 
Holmes, affably. "I've come over this little matter 
of Colonel Barclay's death." 

"What should I know about that?" 

"That's what I want to ascertain. You know, I 
suppose, that unless the matter is cleared up, Mrs. 
Barclay, who is an old friend of yours, will in all 
probability be tried for murder." 


358 



The Crooked Man 


The man gave a violent start. 

"I don't know who you are," he cried, "nor 
how you come to know what you do know, but 
will you swear that this is true that you tell me?" 

"Why, they are only waiting for her to come to 
her senses to arrest her." 

"My God! Are you in the police yourself?" 

"No." 

"What business is it of yours, then?" 

"It's every man's business to see justice done." 

"You can take my word that she is innocent." 

"Then you are guilty." 

"No, I am not." 

"Who killed Colonel James Barclay, then?" 

"It was a just providence that killed him. But, 
mind you this, that if I had knocked his brains 
out, as it was in my heart to do, he would have 
had no more than his due from my hands. If his 
own guilty conscience had not struck him down it 
is likely enough that I might have had his blood 
upon my soul. You want me to tell the story. Well, 
I don't know why I shouldn't, for there's no cause 
for me to be ashamed of it. 

"It was in this way, sir. You see me now with 
my back like a camel and by ribs all awry, but there 
was a time when Corporal Henry Wood was the 
smartest man in the 117th foot. We were in India 
then, in cantonments, at a place we'll call Bhurtee. 
Barclay, who died the other day, was sergeant in 
the same company as myself, and the belle of the 
regiment, ay, and the finest girl that ever had the 
breath of life between her lips, was Nancy Devoy, 
the daughter of the color-sergeant. There were two 
men that loved her, and one that she loved, and 
you'll smile when you look at this poor thing hud- 
dled before the fire, and hear me say that it was 
for my good looks that she loved me. 

"Well, though I had her heart, her father was 
set upon her marrying Barclay. I was a harum- 
scarum, reckless lad, and he had had an educa- 
tion, and was already marked for the sword-belt. 
But the girl held true to me, and it seemed that I 
would have had her when the Mutiny broke out, 
and all hell was loose in the country. 

"We were shut up in Bhurtee, the regiment of 
us with half a battery of artillery, a company of 
Sikhs, and a lot of civilians and women-folk. There 
were ten thousand rebels round us, and they were 
as keen as a set of terriers round a rat-cage. About 
the second week of it our water gave out, and it 
was a question whether we could communicate 
with General Neill's column, which was moving 


up country. It was our only chance, for we could 
not hope to fight our way out with all the women 
and children, so I volunteered to go out and to 
warn General Neill of our danger. My offer was 
accepted, and I talked it over with Sergeant Bar- 
clay, who was supposed to know the ground better 
than any other man, and who drew up a route by 
which I might get through the rebel lines. At ten 
o'clock the same night I started off upon my jour- 
ney. There were a thousand lives to save, but it was 
of only one that I was thinking when I dropped 
over the wall that night. 

"My way ran down a dried-up watercourse, 
which we hoped would screen me from the en- 
emy's sentries; but as I crept round the corner of it 
I walked right into six of them, who were crouch- 
ing down in the dark waiting for me. In an instant 
I was stunned with a blow and bound hand and 
foot. But the real blow was to my heart and not to 
my head, for as I came to and listened to as much 
as I could understand of their talk, I heard enough 
to tell me that my comrade, the very man who had 
arranged the way that I was to take, had betrayed 
me by means of a native servant into the hands of 
the enemy. 

"Well, there's no need for me to dwell on that 
part of it. You know now what James Barclay was 
capable of. Bhurtee was relieved by Neill next day, 
but the rebels took me away with them in their re- 
treat, and it was many a long year before ever I 
saw a white face again. I was tortured and tried to 
get away, and was captured and tortured again. 
You can see for yourselves the state in which I 
was left. Some of them that fled into Nepal took 
me with them, and then afterwards I was up past 
Darjeeling. The hill-folk up there murdered the 
rebels who had me, and I became their slave for a 
time until I escaped; but instead of going south I 
had to go north, until I found myself among the 
Afghans. There I wandered about for many a year, 
and at last came back to the Punjaub, where I lived 
mostly among the natives and picked up a living 
by the conjuring tricks that I had learned. What 
use was it for me, a wretched cripple, to go back 
to England or to make myself known to my old 
comrades? Even my wish for revenge would not 
make me do that. I had rather that Nancy and 
my old pals should think of Harry Wood as hav- 
ing died with a straight back, than see him living 
and crawling with a stick like a chimpanzee. They 
never doubted that I was dead, and I meant that 
they never should. I heard that Barclay had mar- 
ried Nancy, and that he was rising rapidly in the 
regiment, but even that did not make me speak. 


359 



"But when one gets old one has a longing for 
home. For years I've been dreaming of the bright 
green fields and the hedges of England. At last 
I determined to see them before I died. I saved 
enough to bring me across, and then I came here 
where the soldiers are, for I know their ways and 
how to amuse them and so earn enough to keep 
me." 

"Your narrative is most interesting," said Sher- 
lock Holmes. "I have already heard of your meet- 
ing with Mrs. Barclay, and your mutual recogni- 
tion. You then, as I understand, followed her home 
and saw through the window an altercation be- 
tween her husband and her, in which she doubt- 
less cast his conduct to you in his teeth. Your 
own feelings overcame you, and you ran across the 
lawn and broke in upon them." 

"I did, sir, and at the sight of me he looked as 
I have never seen a man look before, and over he 
went with his head on the fender. But he was dead 
before he fell. I read death on his face as plain as 
I can read that text over the fire. The bare sight of 
me was like a bullet through his guilty heart." 

"And then?" 

"Then Nancy fainted, and I caught up the key 
of the door from her hand, intending to unlock it 
and get help. But as I was doing it it seemed to me 
better to leave it alone and get away, for the thing 
might look black against me, and any way my se- 
cret would be out if I were taken. In my haste I 
thrust the key into my pocket, and dropped my 
stick while I was chasing Teddy, who had run up 
the curtain. When I got him into his box, from 
which he had slipped, I was off as fast as I could 
run." 

"Who's Teddy?" asked Holmes. 

The man leaned over and pulled up the front 
of a kind of hutch in the corner. In an instant out 
there slipped a beautiful reddish-brown creature, 
thin and lithe, with the legs of a stoat, a long, thin 
nose, and a pair of the finest red eyes that ever I 
saw in an animal's head. 

"It's a mongoose," I cried. 

"Well, some call them that, and some call them 
ichneumon," said the man. "Snake-catcher is what 


I call them, and Teddy is amazing quick on co- 
bras. I have one here without the fangs, and Teddy 
catches it every night to please the folk in the can- 
teen. 

"Any other point, sir?" 

"Well, we may have to apply to you again if 
Mrs. Barclay should prove to be in serious trou- 
ble." 

"In that case, of course. I'd come forward." 

"But if not, there is no object in raking up this 
scandal against a dead man, foully as he has acted. 
You have at least the satisfaction of knowing that 
for thirty years of his life his conscience bitterly 
reproached him for this wicked deed. Ah, there 
goes Major Murphy on the other side of the street. 
Good-bye, Wood. I want to learn if anything has 
happened since yesterday." 

We were in time to overtake the major before 
he reached the corner. 

"Ah, Holmes," he said: "I suppose you have 
heard that all this fuss has come to nothing?" 

"What then?" 

"The inquest is just over. The medical evi- 
dence showed conclusively that death was due to 
apoplexy. You see it was quite a simple case after 
all." 

"Oh, remarkably superficial," said Holmes, 
smiling. "Come, Watson, I don't think we shall 
be wanted in Aldershot any more." 

"There's one thing," said I, as we walked down 
to the station. "If the husband's name was James, 
and the other was Henry, what was this talk about 
David?" 

"That one word, my dear Watson, should have 
told me the whole story had I been the ideal rea- 
soner which you are so fond of depicting. It was 
evidently a term of reproach." 

"Of reproach?" 

"Yes; David strayed a little occasionally, you 
know, and on one occasion in the same direction as 
Sergeant James Barclay. You remember the small 
affair of Uriah and Bathsheba? My biblical knowl- 
edge is a trifle rusty, I fear, but you will find the 
story in the first or second of Samuel." 



The Naval Treaty 


he July which immediately succeeded 
my marriage was made memorable by 
three cases of interest, in which I had the 
privilege of being associated with Sher- 
lock Holmes and of studying his methods. I find 
them recorded in my notes under the headings of 
"The Adventure of the Second Stain," "The Ad- 
venture of the Naval Treaty," and "The Adventure 
of the Tired Captain." The first of these, however, 
deals with interest of such importance and impli- 
cates so many of the first families in the kingdom 
that for many years it will be impossible to make 
it public. No case, however, in which Holmes was 
engaged has ever illustrated the value of his ana- 
lytical methods so clearly or has impressed those 
who were associated with him so deeply. I still 
retain an almost verbatim report of the interview 
in which he demonstrated the true facts of the 
case to Monsieur Dubugue of the Paris police, and 
Fritz von Waldbaum, the well-known specialist of 
Dantzig, both of whom had wasted their energies 
upon what proved to be side-issues. The new cen- 
tury will have come, however, before the story can 
be safely told. Meanwhile I pass on to the second 
on my list, which promised also at one time to be 
of national importance, and was marked by several 
incidents which give it a quite unique character. 

During my school-days I had been intimately 
associated with a lad named Percy Phelps, who 
was of much the same age as myself, though he 
was two classes ahead of me. He was a very 
brilliant boy, and carried away every prize which 
the school had to offer, finished his exploits by 
winning a scholarship which sent him on to con- 
tinue his triumphant career at Cambridge. He was, 
I remember, extremely well connected, and even 
when we were all little boys together we knew 
that his mother's brother was Lord Holdhurst, the 
great conservative politician. This gaudy relation- 
ship did him little good at school. On the contrary, 
it seemed rather a piquant thing to us to chevy him 
about the playground and hit him over the shins 
with a wicket. But it was another thing when he 
came out into the world. I heard vaguely that his 
abilities and the influences which he commanded 
had won him a good position at the Foreign Office, 
and then he passed completely out of my mind un- 
til the following letter recalled his existence: 



Briarbrae, Woking. 

My dear Watson: 

I have no doubt that you can remem- 
ber "Tadpole" Phelps, who was in the 
fifth form when you were in the third. 


It is possible even that you may have 
heard that through my uncle's influ- 
ence I obtained a good appointment at 
the Foreign Office, and that I was in a 
situation of trust and honor until a hor- 
rible misfortune came suddenly to blast 
my career. 

There is no use writing of the details 
of that dreadful event. In the event 
of your acceding to my request it is 
probably that I shall have to narrate 
them to you. I have only just recovered 
from nine weeks of brain-fever, and am 
still exceedingly weak. Do you think 
that you could bring your friend Mr. 
Holmes down to see me? I should like 
to have his opinion of the case, though 
the authorities assure me that nothing 
more can be done. Do try to bring him 
down, and as soon as possible. Every 
minute seems an hour while I live in 
this state of horrible suspense. Assure 
him that if I have not asked his advice 
sooner it was not because I did not ap- 
preciate his talents, but because I have 
been off my head ever since the blow 
fell. Now I am clear again, though I 
dare not think of it too much for fear of 
a relapse. I am still so weak that I have 
to write, as you see, by dictating. Do 
try to bring him. 

Your old school-fellow, 
Percy Phelps. 

There was something that touched me as I read 
this letter, something pitiable in the reiterated ap- 
peals to bring Holmes. So moved was I that even 
had it been a difficult matter I should have tried 
it, but of course I knew well that Holmes loved his 
art, so that he was ever as ready to bring his aid 
as his client could be to receive it. My wife agreed 
with me that not a moment should be lost in lay- 
ing the matter before him, and so within an hour 
of breakfast-time I found myself back once more 
in the old rooms in Baker Street. 

Holmes was seated at his side-table clad in his 
dressing-gown, and working hard over a chemical 
investigation. A large curved retort was boiling fu- 
riously in the bluish flame of a Bunsen burner, and 
the distilled drops were condensing into a two-litre 
measure. My friend hardly glanced up as I en- 
tered, and I, seeing that his investigation must be 
of importance, seated myself in an arm-chair and 
waited. He dipped into this bottle or that, draw- 
ing out a few drops of each with his glass pipette. 


387 



The Naval Treaty 


and finally brought a test-tube containing a solu- 
tion over to the table. In his right hand he held a 
slip of litmus-paper. 

"You come at a crisis, Watson," said he. "If this 
paper remains blue, all is well. If it turns red, it 
means a man's life." He dipped it into the test- 
tube and it flushed at once into a dull, dirty crim- 
son. "Hum! I thought as much!" he cried. "I will 
be at your service in an instant, Watson. You will 
find tobacco in the Persian slipper." He turned to 
his desk and scribbled off several telegrams, which 
were handed over to the page-boy. Then he threw 
himself down into the chair opposite, and drew up 
his knees until his fingers clasped round his long, 
thin shins. 

"A very commonplace little murder," said he. 
"You've got something better, I fancy. You are the 
stormy petrel of crime, Watson. What is it?" 

I handed him the letter, which he read with the 
most concentrated attention. 

"It does not tell us very much, does it?" he re- 
marked, as he handed it back to me. 

"Hardly anything." 

"And yet the writing is of interest." 

"But the writing is not his own." 

"Precisely. It is a woman's." 

"A man's surely," I cried. 

"No, a woman's, and a woman of rare charac- 
ter. You see, at the commencement of an investiga- 
tion it is something to know that your client is in 
close contact with some one who, for good or evil, 
has an exceptional nature. My interest is already 
awakened in the case. If you are ready we will 
start at once for Woking, and see this diplomatist 
who is in such evil case, and the lady to whom he 
dictates his letters." 

We were fortunate enough to catch an early 
train at Waterloo, and in a little under an hour 
we found ourselves among the fir-woods and the 
heather of Woking. Briarbrae proved to be a large 
detached house standing in extensive grounds 
within a few minutes' walk of the station. On 
sending in our cards we were shown into an el- 
egantly appointed drawing-room, where we were 
joined in a few minutes by a rather stout man 
who received us with much hospitality. His age 
may have been nearer forty than thirty, but his 
cheeks were so ruddy and his eyes so merry that 
he still conveyed the impression of a plump and 
mischievous boy. 

"I am so glad that you have come," said he, 
shaking our hands with effusion. "Percy has been 


inquiring for you all morning. Ah, poor old chap, 
he clings to any straw! His father and his mother 
asked me to see you, for the mere mention of the 
subject is very painful to them." 

"We have had no details yet," observed 
Holmes. "I perceive that you are not yourself a 
member of the family." 

Our acquaintance looked surprised, and then, 
glancing down, he began to laugh. 

"Of course you saw the J H monogram on my 
locket," said he. "For a moment I thought you 
had done something clever. Joseph Harrison is 
my name, and as Percy is to marry my sister An- 
nie I shall at least be a relation by marriage. You 
will find my sister in his room, for she has nursed 
him hand-and-foot this two months back. Perhaps 
we'd better go in at once, for I know how impatient 
he is." 

The chamber in which we were shown was on 
the same floor as the drawing-room. It was fur- 
nished partly as a sitting and partly as a bedroom, 
with flowers arranged daintily in every nook and 
corner. A young man, very pale and worn, was 
lying upon a sofa near the open window, through 
which came the rich scent of the garden and the 
balmy summer air. A woman was sitting beside 
him, who rose as we entered. 

"Shall I leave, Percy?" she asked. 

He clutched her hand to detain her. "How are 
you, Watson?" said he, cordially. "I should never 
have known you under that moustache, and I dare 
say you would not be prepared to swear to me. 
This I presume is your celebrated friend, Mr. Sher- 
lock Holmes?" 

I introduced him in a few words, and we both 
sat down. The stout young man had left us, but his 
sister still remained with her hand in that of the 
invalid. She was a striking-looking woman, a little 
short and thick for symmetry, but with a beautiful 
olive complexion, large, dark, Italian eyes, and a 
wealth of deep black hair. Her rich tints made the 
white face of her companion the more worn and 
haggard by the contrast. 

"I won't waste your time," said he, raising him- 
self upon the sofa. "I'll plunge into the matter 
without further preamble. I was a happy and suc- 
cessful man, Mr. Holmes, and on the eve of being 
married, when a sudden and dreadful misfortune 
wrecked all my prospects in life. 

"I was, as Watson may have told you, in the 
Foreign Office, and through the influences of my 


388 



The Naval Treaty 


uncle. Lord Holdhurst, I rose rapidly to a responsi- 
ble position. When my uncle became foreign min- 
ister in this administration he gave me several mis- 
sions of trust, and as I always brought them to a 
successful conclusion, he came at last to have the 
utmost confidence in my ability and tact. 

"Nearly ten weeks ago — to be more accurate, 
on the twenty-third of May — he called me into his 
private room, and, after complimenting me on the 
good work which I had done, he informed me that 
he had a new commission of trust for me to exe- 
cute. 

"'This/ said he, taking a gray roll of paper 
from his bureau, 'is the original of that secret treaty 
between England and Italy of which, I regret to 
say, some rumors have already got into the public 
press. It is of enormous importance that nothing 
further should leak out. The French or the Russian 
embassy would pay an immense sum to learn the 
contents of these papers. They should not leave 
my bureau were it not that it is absolutely neces- 
sary to have them copied. You have a desk in your 
office?' 

" 'Yes, sir.' 

" 'Then take the treaty and lock it up there. I 
shall give directions that you may remain behind 
when the others go, so that you may copy it at your 
leisure without fear of being overlooked. When 
you have finished, relock both the original and the 
draft in the desk, and hand them over to me per- 
sonally to-morrow morning.' 

"I took the papers and — " 

"Excuse me an instant," said Holmes. "Were 
you alone during this conversation?" 

"Absolutely." 

"In a large room?" 

"Thirty feet each way." 

"In the centre?" 

"Yes, about it." 

"And speaking low?" 

"My uncle's voice is always remarkably low. I 
hardly spoke at all." 

"Thank you," said Holmes, shutting his eyes; 
"pray go on." 

"I did exactly what he indicated, and waited 
until the other clerks had departed. One of them in 
my room, Charles Gorot, had some arrears of work 
to make up, so I left him there and went out to 
dine. When I returned he was gone. I was anxious 
to hurry my work, for I knew that Joseph — the Mr. 
Harrison whom you saw just now — was in town. 


and that he would travel down to Woking by the 
eleven-o'clock train, and I wanted if possible to 
catch it. 

"When I came to examine the treaty I saw at 
once that it was of such importance that my un- 
cle had been guilty of no exaggeration in what he 
had said. Without going into details, I may say 
that it defined the position of Great Britain towards 
the Triple Alliance, and fore-shadowed the policy 
which this country would pursue in the event of 
the French fleet gaining a complete ascendancy 
over that of Italy in the Mediterranean. The ques- 
tions treated in it were purely naval. At the end 
were the signatures of the high dignitaries who 
had signed it. I glanced my eyes over it, and then 
settled down to my task of copying. 

"It was a long document, written in the French 
language, and containing twenty-six separate ar- 
ticles. I copied as quickly as I could, but at nine 
o'clock I had only done nine articles, and it seemed 
hopeless for me to attempt to catch my train. I was 
feeling drowsy and stupid, partly from my dinner 
and also from the effects of a long day's work. A 
cup of coffee would clear my brain. A commission- 
aire remains all night in a little lodge at the foot of 
the stairs, and is in the habit of making coffee at 
his spirit-lamp for any of the officials who may be 
working over time. I rang the bell, therefore, to 
summon him. 

"To my surprise, it was a woman who an- 
swered the summons, a large, coarse-faced, elderly 
woman, in an apron. She explained that she was 
the commissionaire's wife, who did the charing, 
and I gave her the order for the coffee. 

"I wrote two more articles and then, feeling 
more drowsy than ever, I rose and walked up and 
down the room to stretch my legs. My coffee had 
not yet come, and I wondered what was the cause 
of the delay could be. Opening the door, I started 
down the corridor to find out. There was a straight 
passage, dimly lighted, which led from the room 
in which I had been working, and was the only 
exit from it. It ended in a curving staircase, with 
the commissionaire's lodge in the passage at the 
bottom. Half way down this staircase is a small 
landing, with another passage running into it at 
right angles. This second one leads by means of a 
second small stair to a side door, used by servants, 
and also as a short cut by clerks when coming from 
Charles Street. Here is a rough chart of the place." 

"Thank you. I think that I quite follow you," 
said Sherlock Holmes. 

"It is of the utmost importance that you should 
notice this point. I went down the stairs and into 


389 



The Naval Treaty 


the hall, where I found the commissionaire fast 
asleep in his box, with the kettle boiling furiously 
upon the spirit-lamp. I took off the kettle and blew 
out the lamp, for the water was spurting over the 
floor. Then I put out my hand and was about 
to shake the man, who was still sleeping soundly, 
when a bell over his head rang loudly, and he woke 
with a start. 

"'Mr. Phelps, sir!' said he, looking at me in 
bewilderment. 

" 'I came down to see if my coffee was ready.' 

" 'I was boiling the kettle when I fell asleep, sir.' 
He looked at me and then up at the still quivering 
bell with an ever-growing astonishment upon his 
face. 

" 'If you was here, sir, then who rang the bell?' 
he asked. 

" 'The bell!' I cried. 'What bell is it?' 

"'It's the bell of the room you were working 
in.' 

"A cold hand seemed to close round my heart. 
Some one, then, was in that room where my pre- 
cious treaty lay upon the table. I ran frantically up 
the stair and along the passage. There was no one 
in the corridors, Mr. Holmes. There was no one in 
the room. All was exactly as I left it, save only that 
the papers which had been committed to my care 
had been taken from the desk on which they lay. 
The copy was there, and the original was gone." 

Holmes sat up in his chair and rubbed his 
hands. I could see that the problem was entirely 
to his heart. "Pray, what did you do then?" he 
murmured. 

"I recognized in an instant that the thief must 
have come up the stairs from the side door. Of 
course I must have met him if he had come the 
other way." 

"You were satisfied that he could not have 
been concealed in the room all the time, or in the 
corridor which you have just described as dimly 
lighted?" 

"It is absolutely impossible. A rat could not 
conceal himself either in the room or the corridor. 
There is no cover at all." 

"Thank you. Pray proceed." 

"The commissionaire, seeing by my pale face 
that something was to be feared, had followed me 
upstairs. Now we both rushed along the corridor 
and down the steep steps which led to Charles 
Street. The door at the bottom was closed, but 
unlocked. We flung it open and rushed out. I 
can distinctly remember that as we did so there 


came three chimes from a neighboring clock. It 
was quarter to ten." 

"That is of enormous importance," said 
Holmes, making a note upon his shirt-cuff. 

"The night was very dark, and a thin, warm 
rain was falling. There was no one in Charles 
Street, but a great traffic was going on, as usual, 
in Whitehall, at the extremity. We rushed along 
the pavement, bare-headed as we were, and at the 
far corner we found a policeman standing. 

" 'A robbery has been committed,' I gasped. 'A 
document of immense value has been stolen from 
the Foreign Office. Has any one passed this way?' 

" 'I have been standing here for a quarter of an 
hour, sir,' said he; 'only one person has passed dur- 
ing that time — a woman, tall and elderly, with a 
Paisley shawl.' 

" 'Ah, that is only my wife,' cried the commis- 
sionaire; 'has no one else passed?' 

" 'No one.' 

" 'Then it must be the other way that the thief 
took,' cried the fellow, tugging at my sleeve. 

"But I was not satisfied, and the attempts 
which he made to draw me away increased my 
suspicions. 

" 'Which way did the woman go?' I cried. 

" 'I don't know, sir. I noticed her pass, but I had 
no special reason for watching her. She seemed to 
be in a hurry.' 

" 'How long ago was it?' 

" 'Oh, not very many minutes.' 

" 'Within the last five?' 

" 'Well, it could not be more than five.' 

" 'You're only wasting your time, sir, and every 
minute now is of importance,' cried the commis- 
sionaire; 'take my word for it that my old woman 
has nothing to do with it, and come down to the 
other end of the street. Well, if you won't, I will.' 
And with that he rushed off in the other direction. 

"But I was after him in an instant and caught 
him by the sleeve. 

" 'Where do you live?' said I. 

" '16 Ivy Lane, Brixton,' he answered. 'But 
don't let yourself be drawn away upon a false 
scent, Mr. Phelps. Come to the other end of the 
street and let us see if we can hear of anything.' 

"Nothing was to be lost by following his ad- 
vice. With the policeman we both hurried down, 
but only to find the street full of traffic, many peo- 
ple coming and going, but all only too eager to get 
to a place of safety upon so wet a night. There was 
no lounger who could tell us who had passed. 


390 



The Naval Treaty 


"Then we returned to the office, and searched 
the stairs and the passage without result. The cor- 
ridor which led to the room was laid down with a 
kind of creamy linoleum which shows an impres- 
sion very easily. We examined it very carefully, but 
found no outline of any footmark." 

"Had it been raining all evening?" 

"Since about seven." 

"How is it, then, that the woman who came 
into the room about nine left no traces with her 
muddy boots?" 

"I am glad you raised the point. It occurred to 
me at the time. The charwomen are in the habit 
of taking off their boots at the commissionaire's 
office, and putting on list slippers." 

"That is very clear. There were no marks, then, 
though the night was a wet one? The chain of 
events is certainly one of extraordinary interest. 
What did you do next?" 

"We examined the room also. There is no pos- 
sibility of a secret door, and the windows are quite 
thirty feet from the ground. Both of them were fas- 
tened on the inside. The carpet prevents any pos- 
sibility of a trap-door, and the ceiling is of the ordi- 
nary whitewashed kind. I will pledge my life that 
whoever stole my papers could only have come 
through the door." 

"How about the fireplace?" 

"They use none. There is a stove. The bell-rope 
hangs from the wire just to the right of my desk. 
Whoever rang it must have come right up to the 
desk to do it. But why should any criminal wish 
to ring the bell? It is a most insoluble mystery." 

"Certainly the incident was unusual. What 
were your next steps? You examined the room, 
I presume, to see if the intruder had left any 
traces — any cigar-end or dropped glove or hairpin 
or other trifle?" 

"There was nothing of the sort." 

"No smell?" 

"Well, we never thought of that." 

"Ah, a scent of tobacco would have been worth 
a great deal to us in such an investigation." 

"I never smoke myself, so I think I should have 
observed it if there had been any smell of tobacco. 
There was absolutely no clue of any kind. The 
only tangible fact was that the commissionaire's 
wife — Mrs. Tangey was the name — had hurried 
out of the place. He could give no explanation 
save that it was about the time when the woman 
always went home. The policeman and I agreed 
that our best plan would be to seize the woman 


before she could get rid of the papers, presuming 
that she had them. 

"The alarm had reached Scotland Yard by this 
time, and Mr. Forbes, the detective, came round at 
once and took up the case with a great deal of en- 
ergy. We hired a hansom, and in half an hour we 
were at the address which had been given to us. 
A young woman opened the door, who proved to 
be Mrs. Tangey's eldest daughter. Her mother had 
not come back yet, and we were shown into the 
front room to wait. 

"About ten minutes later a knock came at the 
door, and here we made the one serious mistake 
for which I blame myself. Instead of opening the 
door ourselves, we allowed the girl to do so. We 
heard her say, 'Mother, there are two men in the 
house waiting to see you,' and an instant after- 
wards we heard the patter of feet rushing down 
the passage. Forbes flung open the door, and we 
both ran into the back room or kitchen, but the 
woman had got there before us. She stared at us 
with defiant eyes, and then, suddenly recognizing 
me, an expression of absolute astonishment came 
over her face. 

" 'Why, if it isn't Mr. Phelps, of the office!' she 
cried. 

" 'Come, come, who did you think we were 
when you ran away from us?' asked my compan- 
ion. 

" 'I thought you were the brokers,' said she, 'we 
have had some trouble with a tradesman.' 

" 'That's not quite good enough,' answered 
Forbes. 'We have reason to believe that you have 
taken a paper of importance from the Foreign Of- 
fice, and that you ran in here to dispose of it. You 
must come back with us to Scotland Yard to be 
searched.' 

"It was in vain that she protested and resisted. 
A four-wheeler was brought, and we all three 
drove back in it. We had first made an examina- 
tion of the kitchen, and especially of the kitchen 
fire, to see whether she might have made away 
with the papers during the instant that she was 
alone. There were no signs, however, of any ashes 
or scraps. When we reached Scotland Yard she 
was handed over at once to the female searcher. 
I waited in an agony of suspense until she came 
back with her report. There were no signs of the 
papers. 

"Then for the first time the horror of my situa- 
tion came in its full force. Hitherto I had been act- 
ing, and action had numbed thought. I had been 
so confident of regaining the treaty at once that I 


391 



The Naval Treaty 


had not dared to think of what would be the con- 
sequence if I failed to do so. But now there was 
nothing more to be done, and I had leisure to re- 
alize my position. It was horrible. Watson there 
would tell you that I was a nervous, sensitive boy 
at school. It is my nature. I thought of my uncle 
and of his colleagues in the Cabinet, of the shame 
which I had brought upon him, upon myself, upon 
every one connected with me. What though I was 
the victim of an extraordinary accident? No al- 
lowance is made for accidents where diplomatic 
interests are at stake. I was ruined, shamefully, 
hopelessly ruined. I don't know what I did. I fancy 
I must have made a scene. I have a dim recollection 
of a group of officials who crowded round me, en- 
deavoring to soothe me. One of them drove down 
with me to Waterloo, and saw me into the Wok- 
ing train. I believe that he would have come all the 
way had it not been that Dr. Ferrier, who lives near 
me, was going down by that very train. The doctor 
most kindly took charge of me, and it was well he 
did so, for I had a fit in the station, and before we 
reached home I was practically a raving maniac. 

"You can imagine the state of things here when 
they were roused from their beds by the doctor's 
ringing and found me in this condition. Poor An- 
nie here and my mother were broken-hearted. Dr. 
Ferrier had just heard enough from the detective at 
the station to be able to give an idea of what had 
happened, and his story did not mend matters. It 
was evident to all that I was in for a long illness, 
so Joseph was bundled out of this cheery bedroom, 
and it was turned into a sick-room for me. Flere I 
have lain, Mr. Flolmes, for over nine weeks, uncon- 
scious, and raving with brain-fever. If it had not 
been for Miss Flarrison here and for the doctor's 
care I should not be speaking to you now. She has 
nursed me by day and a hired nurse has looked 
after me by night, for in my mad fits I was capable 
of anything. Slowly my reason has cleared, but it 
is only during the last three days that my memory 
has quite returned. Sometimes I wish that it never 
had. The first thing that I did was to wire to Mr. 
Forbes, who had the case in hand. Fie came out, 
and assures me that, though everything has been 
done, no trace of a clue has been discovered. The 
commissionaire and his wife have been examined 
in every way without any light being thrown upon 
the matter. The suspicions of the police then rested 
upon young Gorot, who, as you may remember, 
stayed over time in the office that night. Flis re- 
maining behind and his French name were really 
the only two points which could suggest suspicion; 
but, as a matter of fact, I did not begin work until 
he had gone, and his people are of Fluguenot ex- 


traction, but as English in sympathy and tradition 
as you and I are. Nothing was found to implicate 
him in any way, and there the matter dropped. 
I turn to you, Mr. Flolmes, as absolutely my last 
hope. If you fail me, then my honor as well as my 
position are forever forfeited." 

The invalid sank back upon his cushions, tired 
out by this long recital, while his nurse poured him 
out a glass of some stimulating medicine. Flolmes 
sat silently, with his head thrown back and his eyes 
closed, in an attitude which might seem listless to 
a stranger, but which I knew betokened the most 
intense self-absorption. 

"You statement has been so explicit," said he at 
last, "that you have really left me very few ques- 
tions to ask. There is one of the very utmost im- 
portance, however. Did you tell any one that you 
had this special task to perform?" 

"No one." 

"Not Miss Flarrison here, for example?" 

"No. I had not been back to Woking between 
getting the order and executing the commission." 

"And none of your people had by chance been 
to see you?" 

"None." 

"Did any of them know their way about in the 
office?" 

"Oh, yes, all of them had been shown over it." 

"Still, of course, if you said nothing to any one 
about the treaty these inquiries are irrelevant." 

"I said nothing." 

"Do you know anything of the commission- 
aire?" 

"Nothing except that he is an old soldier." 

"What regiment?" 

"Oh, I have heard — Coldstream Guards." 

"Thank you. I have no doubt I can get de- 
tails from Forbes. The authorities are excellent 
at amassing facts, though they do not always use 
them to advantage. What a lovely thing a rose is!" 

Fie walked past the couch to the open window, 
and held up the drooping stalk of a moss-rose, 
looking down at the dainty blend of crimson and 
green. It was a new phase of his character to me, 
for I had never before seen him show any keen 
interest in natural objects. 

"There is nothing in which deduction is so nec- 
essary as in religion," said he, leaning with his 
back against the shutters. "It can be built up as an 
exact science by the reasoner. Our highest assur- 
ance of the goodness of Providence seems to me 
to rest in the flowers. All other things, our pow- 
ers our desires, our food, are all really necessary 


392 



The Naval Treaty 


for our existence in the first instance. But this rose 
is an extra. Its smell and its color are an embel- 
lishment of life, not a condition of it. It is only 
goodness which gives extras, and so I say again 
that we have much to hope from the flowers." 

Percy Phelps and his nurse looked at Holmes 
during this demonstration with surprise and a 
good deal of disappointment written upon their 
faces. He had fallen into a reverie, with the moss- 
rose between his fingers. It had lasted some min- 
utes before the young lady broke in upon it. 

"Do you see any prospect of solving this mys- 
tery, Mr. Holmes?" she asked, with a touch of as- 
perity in her voice. 

"Oh, the mystery!" he answered, coming back 
with a start to the realities of life. "Well, it would 
be absurd to deny that the case is a very abstruse 
and complicated one, but I can promise you that 
I will look into the matter and let you know any 
points which may strike me." 

"Do you see any clue?" 

"You have furnished me with seven, but, of 
course, I must test them before I can pronounce 
upon their value." 

"You suspect some one?" 

"I suspect myself." 

"What!" 

"Of coming to conclusions too rapidly." 

"Then go to London and test your conclu- 
sions." 

"Your advice is very excellent. Miss Harrison," 
said Holmes, rising. "I think, Watson, we cannot 
do better. Do not allow yourself to indulge in false 
hopes, Mr. Phelps. The affair is a very tangled 
one." 

"I shall be in a fever until I see you again," cried 
the diplomatist. 

"Well, I'll come out be the same train to- 
morrow, though it's more than likely that my re- 
port will be a negative one." 

"God bless you for promising to come," cried 
our client. "It gives me fresh life to know that 
something is being done. By the way, I have had a 
letter from Lord Holdhurst." 

"Ha! What did he say?" 

"He was cold, but not harsh. I dare say my 
severe illness prevented him from being that. He 
repeated that the matter was of the utmost impor- 
tance, and added that no steps would be taken 
about my future — by which he means, of course. 


my dismissal — until my health was restored and I 
had an opportunity of repairing my misfortune." 

"Well, that was reasonable and considerate," 
said Holmes. "Come, Watson, for we have a goody 
day's work before us in town." 

Mr. Joseph Harrison drove us down to the 
station, and we were soon whirling up in a 
Portsmouth train. Holmes was sunk in profound 
thought, and hardly opened his mouth until we 
had passed Clapham Junction. 

"It's a very cheery thing to come into London 
by any of these lines which run high, and allow 
you to look down upon the houses like this." 

I thought he was joking, for the view was sor- 
did enough, but he soon explained himself. 

"Look at those big, isolated clumps of building 
rising up above the slates, like brick islands in a 
lead-colored sea." 

"The board-schools." 

"Light-houses, my boy! Beacons of the future! 
Capsules with hundreds of bright little seeds in 
each, out of which will spring the wise, better Eng- 
land of the future. I suppose that man Phelps does 
not drink?" 

"I should not think so." 

"Nor should I, but we are bound to take every 
possibility into account. The poor devil has cer- 
tainly got himself into very deep water, and it's a 
question whether we shall ever be able to get him 
ashore. What did you think of Miss Harrison?" 

"A girl of strong character." 

"Yes, but she is a good sort, or I am mistaken. 
She and her brother are the only children of an 
iron-master somewhere up Northumberland way. 
He got engaged to her when traveling last winter, 
and she came down to be introduced to his people, 
with her brother as escort. Then came the smash, 
and she stayed on to nurse her lover, while brother 
Joseph, finding himself pretty snug, stayed on too. 
I've been making a few independent inquiries, you 
see. But to-day must be a day of inquiries." 

"My practice — " I began. 

"Oh, if you find your own cases more interest- 
ing than mine — " said Holmes, with some asperity. 

"I was going to say that my practice could get 
along very well for a day or two, since it is the 
slackest time in the year." 

"Excellent," said he, recovering his good- 
humor. "Then we'll look into this matter together. 
I think that we should begin be seeing Forbes. He 
can probably tell us all the details we want un- 
til we know from what side the case is to be ap- 
proached." 

"You said you had a clue?" 


393 



The Naval Treaty 


"Well, we have several, but we can only test 
their value by further inquiry The most difficult 
crime to track is the one which is purposeless. 
Now this is not purposeless. Who is it who profits 
by it? There is the French ambassador, there is the 
Russian, there is who-ever might sell it to either of 
these, and there is Lord Holdhurst." 

"Lord Holdhurst!" 

"Well, it is just conceivable that a statesman 
might find himself in a position where he was not 
sorry to have such a document accidentally de- 
stroyed." 

"Not a statesman with the honorable record of 
Lord Holdhurst?" 

"It is a possibility and we cannot afford to dis- 
regard it. We shall see the noble lord to-day and 
find out if he can tell us anything. Meanwhile I 
have already set inquiries on foot." 

"Already?" 

"Yes, I sent wires from Woking station to every 
evening paper in London. This advertisement will 
appear in each of them." 

He handed over a sheet torn from a note-book. 
On it was scribbled in pencil: 

"£io reward. The number of the cab 
which dropped a fare at or about the 
door of the Foreign Office in Charles 
Street at quarter to ten in the evening 
of May 23d. Apply 221B, Baker Street." 

"You are confident that the thief came in a 
cab?" 

"If not, there is no harm done. But if Mr. Phelps 
is correct in stating that there is no hiding-place ei- 
ther in the room or the corridors, then the person 
must have come from outside. If he came from 
outside on so wet a night, and yet left no trace 
of damp upon the linoleum, which was examined 
within a few minutes of his passing, then it is ex- 
ceeding probably that he came in a cab. Yes, I think 
that we may safely deduce a cab." 

"It sounds plausible." 

"That is one of the clues of which I spoke. It 
may lead us to something. And then, of course, 
there is the bell — which is the most distinctive fea- 
ture of the case. Why should the bell ring? Was it 
the thief who did it out of bravado? Or was it some 
one who was with the thief who did it in order to 
prevent the crime? Or was it an accident? Or was 
it — ?" He sank back into the state of intense and 
silent thought from which he had emerged; but 


it seemed to me, accustomed as I was to his ev- 
ery mood, that some new possibility had dawned 
suddenly upon him. 

It was twenty past three when we reached our 
terminus, and after a hasty luncheon at the buffet 
we pushed on at once to Scotland Yard. Holmes 
had already wired to Forbes, and we found him 
waiting to receive us — a small, foxy man with a 
sharp but by no means amiable expression. He 
was decidedly frigid in his manner to us, espe- 
cially when he heard the errand upon which we 
had come. 

"I've heard of your methods before now, Mr. 
Holmes," said he, tartly. "You are ready enough 
to use all the information that the police can lay at 
your disposal, and then you try to finish the case 
yourself and bring discredit on them." 

"On the contrary," said Holmes, "out of my 
last fifty-three cases my name has only appeared 
in four, and the police have had all the credit in 
forty-nine. I don't blame you for not knowing this, 
for you are young and inexperienced, but if you 
wish to get on in your new duties you will work 
with me and not against me." 

"I'd be very glad of a hint or two," said the de- 
tective, changing his manner. "I've certainly had 
no credit from the case so far." 

"What steps have you taken?" 

"Tangey, the commissionaire, has been shad- 
owed. He left the Guards with a good character 
and we can find nothing against him. His wife is 
a bad lot, though. I fancy she knows more about 
this than appears." 

"Have you shadowed her?" 

"We have set one of our women on to her. Mrs. 
Tangey drinks, and our woman has been with her 
twice when she was well on, but she could get 
nothing out of her." 

"I understand that they have had brokers in the 
house?" 

"Yes, but they were paid off." 

"Where did the money come from?" 

"That was all right. His pension was due. They 
have not shown any sign of being in funds." 

"What explanation did she give of having an- 
swered the bell when Mr. Phelps rang for the cof- 
fee?" 

"She said that he husband was very tired and 
she wished to relieve him." 

"Well, certainly that would agree with his be- 
ing found a little later asleep in his chair. There is 


394 



The Naval Treaty 


nothing against them then but the woman's char- 
acter. Did you ask her why she hurried away that 
night? Her haste attracted the attention of the po- 
lice constable." 

"She was later than usual and wanted to get 
home." 

"Did you point out to her that you and Mr. 
Phelps, who started at least twenty minutes after 
he, got home before her?" 

"She explains that by the difference between a 
'bus and a hansom." 

"Did she make it clear why, on reaching her 
house, she ran into the back kitchen?" 

"Because she had the money there with which 
to pay off the brokers." 

"She has at least an answer for everything. Did 
you ask her whether in leaving she met any one or 
saw any one loitering about Charles Street?" 

"She saw no one but the constable." 

"Well, you seem to have cross-examined her 
pretty thoroughly. What else have you done?" 

"The clerk Gorot has been shadowed all these 
nine weeks, but without result. We can show noth- 
ing against him." 

"Anything else?" 

"Well, we have nothing else to go upon — no ev- 
idence of any kind." 

"Have you formed a theory about how that bell 
rang?" 

"Well, I must confess that it beats me. It was 
a cool hand, whoever it was, to go and give the 
alarm like that." 

"Yes, it was a queer thing to do. Many thanks 
to you for what you have told me. If I can put 
the man into your hands you shall hear from me. 
Come along, Watson." 

"Where are we going to now?" I asked, as we 
left the office. 

"We are now going to interview Lord Hold- 
hurst, the cabinet minister and future premier of 
England." 

We were fortunate in finding that Lord Hold- 
hurst was still in his chambers in Downing Street, 
and on Holmes sending in his card we were in- 
stantly shown up. The statesman received us 
with that old-fashioned courtesy for which he is 
remarkable, and seated us on the two luxuriant 
lounges on either side of the fireplace. Standing on 
the rug between us, with his slight, tall figure, his 
sharp features, thoughtful face, and curling hair 


prematurely tinged with gray, he seemed to repre- 
sent that not to common type, a nobleman who is 
in truth noble. 

"Your name is very familiar to me, Mr. 
Holmes," said he, smiling. "And, of course, I can- 
not pretend to be ignorant of the object of your 
visit. There has only been one occurrence in these 
offices which could call for your attention. In 
whose interest are you acting, may I ask?" 

"In that of Mr. Percy Phelps," answered 
Holmes. 

"Ah, my unfortunate nephew! You can under- 
stand that our kinship makes it the more impossi- 
ble for me to screen him in any way. I fear that the 
incident must have a very prejudicial effect upon 
his career." 

"But if the document is found?" 

"Ah, that, of course, would be different." 

"I had one or two questions which I wished to 
ask you. Lord Holdhurst." 

"I shall be happy to give you any information 
in my power." 

"Was it in this room that you gave your instruc- 
tions as to the copying of the document?" 

"It was." 

"Then you could hardly have been overheard?" 

"It is out of the question." 

"Did you ever mention to any one that it was 
your intention to give any one the treaty to be 
copied?" 

"Never." 

"You are certain of that?" 

"Absolutely." 

"Well, since you never said so, and Mr. Phelps 
never said so, and nobody else knew anything of 
the matter, then the thief's presence in the room 
was purely accidental. He saw his chance and he 
took it." 

The statesman smiled. "You take me out of my 
province there," said he. 

Holmes considered for a moment. "There is an- 
other very important point which I wish to discuss 
with you," said he. "You feared, as I understand, 
that very grave results might follow from the de- 
tails of this treaty becoming known." 

A shadow passed over the expressive face of 
the statesman. "Very grave results indeed." 

"Any have they occurred?" 

"Not yet." 

"If the treaty had reached, let us say, the French 
or Russian Foreign Office, you would expect to 
hear of it?" 


395 



The Naval Treaty 


"I should," said Lord Holdhurst, with a wry 
face. 

"Since nearly ten weeks have elapsed, then, 
and nothing has been heard, it is not unfair to 
suppose that for some reason the treaty has not 
reached them." 

Lord Holdhurst shrugged his shoulders. 

"We can hardly suppose, Mr. Holmes, that the 
thief took the treaty in order to frame it and hang 
it up." 

"Perhaps he is waiting for a better price." 

"If he waits a little longer he will get no price 
at all. The treaty will cease to be secret in a few 
months." 

"That is most important," said Holmes. "Of 
course, it is a possible supposition that the thief 
has had a sudden illness — " 

"An attack of brain-fever, for example?" asked 
the statesman, flashing a swift glance at him. 

"I did not say so," said Holmes, imperturbably. 
"And now. Lord Holdhurst, we have already taken 
up too much of your valuable time, and we shall 
wish you good-day." 

"Every success to your investigation, be the 
criminal who it may," answered the nobleman, as 
he bowed us out the door. 

"He's a fine fellow," said Holmes, as we came 
out into Whitehall. "But he has a struggle to keep 
up his position. He is far from rich and has many 
calls. You noticed, of course, that his boots had 
been resoled. Now, Watson, I won't detain you 
from your legitimate work any longer. I shall do 
nothing more to-day, unless I have an answer to 
my cab advertisement. But I should be extremely 
obliged to you if you would come down with me 
to Woking to-morrow, by the same train which we 
took yesterday." 

I met him accordingly next morning and we 
traveled down to Woking together. He had had 
no answer to his advertisement, he said, and no 
fresh light had been thrown upon the case. He 
had, when he so willed it, the utter immobility of 
countenance of a red Indian, and I could not gather 
from his appearance whether he was satisfied or 
not with the position of the case. His conversa- 
tion, I remember, was about the Bertillon system 
of measurements, and he expressed his enthusias- 
tic admiration of the French savant. 

We found our client still under the charge of 
his devoted nurse, but looking considerably better 
than before. He rose from the sofa and greeted us 
without difficulty when we entered. 


"Any news?" he asked, eagerly. 

"My report, as I expected, is a negative one," 
said Holmes. "I have seen Forbes, and I have seen 
your uncle, and I have set one or two trains of in- 
quiry upon foot which may lead to something." 

"You have not lost heart, then?" 

"By no means." 

"God bless you for saying that!" cried Miss 
Harrison. "If we keep our courage and our pa- 
tience the truth must come out." 

"We have more to tell you than you have for 
us," said Phelps, reseating himself upon the couch. 

"I hoped you might have something." 

"Yes, we have had an adventure during the 
night, and one which might have proved to be a 
serious one." His expression grew very grave as 
he spoke, and a look of something akin to fear 
sprang up in his eyes. "Do you know," said he, 
"that I begin to believe that I am the unconscious 
centre of some monstrous conspiracy, and that my 
life is aimed at as well as my honor?" 

"Ah!" cried Holmes. 

"It sounds incredible, for I have not, as far as I 
know, an enemy in the world. Yet from last night's 
experience I can come to no other conclusion." 

"Pray let me hear it." 

"You must know that last night was the very 
first night that I have ever slept without a nurse in 
the room. I was so much better that I thought I 
could dispense with one. I had a night-light burn- 
ing, however. Well, about two in the morning I 
had sunk into a light sleep when I was suddenly 
aroused by a slight noise. It was like the sound 
which a mouse makes when it is gnawing a plank, 
and I lay listening to it for some time under the im- 
pression that it must come from that cause. Then 
it grew louder, and suddenly there came from the 
window a sharp metallic snick. I sat up in amaze- 
ment. There could be no doubt what the sounds 
were now. The first ones had been caused by 
some one forcing an instrument through the slit 
between the sashes, and the second by the catch 
being pressed back. 

"There was a pause then for about ten minutes, 
as if the person were waiting to see whether the 
noise had awakened me. Then I heard a gentle 
creaking as the window was very slowly opened. 
I could stand it no longer, for my nerves are not 
what they used to be. I sprang out of bed and 
flung open the shutters. A man was crouching at 
the window. I could see little of him, for he was 
gone like a flash. He was wrapped in some sort 


396 



The Naval Treaty 


of cloak which came across the lower part of his 
face. One thing only I am sure of, and that is that 
he had some weapon in his hand. It looked to me 
like a long knife. I distinctly saw the gleam of it as 
he turned to run." 

"This is most interesting," said Holmes. "Pray 
what did you do then?" 

"I should have followed him through the open 
window if I had been stronger. As it was, I rang 
the bell and roused the house. It took me some 
little time, for the bell rings in the kitchen and the 
servants all sleep upstairs. I shouted, however, and 
that brought Joseph down, and he roused the oth- 
ers. Joseph and the groom found marks on the 
bed outside the window, but the weather has been 
so dry lately that they found it hopeless to follow 
the trail across the grass. There's a place, however, 
on the wooden fence which skirts the road which 
shows signs, they tell me, as if some one had got 
over, and had snapped the top of the rail in doing 
so. I have said nothing to the local police yet, for I 
thought I had best have your opinion first." 

This tale of our client's appeared to have an ex- 
traordinary effect upon Sherlock Holmes. He rose 
from his chair and paced about the room in uncon- 
trollable excitement. 

"Misfortunes never come single," said Phelps, 
smiling, though it was evident that his adventure 
had somewhat shaken him. 

"You have certainly had your share," said 
Holmes. "Do you think you could walk round the 
house with me?" 

"Oh, yes, I should like a little sunshine. Joseph 
will come, too." 

"And I also," said Miss Harrison. 

"I am afraid not," said Holmes, shaking his 
head. "I think I must ask you to remain sitting 
exactly where you are." 

The young lady resumed her seat with an air of 
displeasure. Her brother, however, had joined us 
and we set off all four together. We passed round 
the lawn to the outside of the young diploma- 
tist's window. There were, as he had said, marks 
upon the bed, but they were hopelessly blurred 
and vague. Holmes stopped over them for an in- 
stant, and then rose shrugging his shoulders. 

"I don't think any one could make much of 
this," said he. "Let us go round the house and see 
why this particular room was chose by the burglar. 
I should have thought those larger windows of the 
drawing-room and dining-room would have had 
more attractions for him." 


"They are more visible from the road," sug- 
gested Mr. Joseph Harrison. 

"Ah, yes, of course. There is a door here which 
he might have attempted. What is it for?" 

"It is the side entrance for trades-people. Of 
course it is locked at night." 

"Have you ever had an alarm like this before?" 

"Never," said our client. 

"Do you keep plate in the house, or anything 
to attract burglars?" 

"Nothing of value." 

Holmes strolled round the house with his 
hands in his pockets and a negligent air which was 
unusual with him. 

"By the way," said he to Joseph Harrison, "you 
found some place, I understand, where the fellow 
scaled the fence. Let us have a look at that!" 

The plump young man led us to a spot where 
the top of one of the wooden rails had been 
cracked. A small fragment of the wood was hang- 
ing down. Holmes pulled it off and examined it 
critically. 

"Do you think that was done last night? It 
looks rather old, does it not?" 

"Well, possibly so." 

"There are no marks of any one jumping down 
upon the other side. No, I fancy we shall get no 
help here. Let us go back to the bedroom and talk 
the matter over." 

Percy Phelps was walking very slowly, leaning 
upon the arm of his future brother-in-law. Holmes 
walked swiftly across the lawn, and we were at 
the open window of the bedroom long before the 
others came up. 

"Miss Harrison," said Holmes, speaking with 
the utmost intensity of manner, "you must stay 
where you are all day. Let nothing prevent you 
from staying where you are all day. It is of the 
utmost importance." 

"Certainly, if you wish it, Mr. Holmes," said the 
girl in astonishment. 

"When you go to bed lock the door of this room 
on the outside and keep the key. Promise to do 
this." 

"But Percy?" 

"He will come to London with us." 

"And am I to remain here?" 

"It is for his sake. You can serve him. Quick! 
Promise!" 

She gave a quick nod of assent just as the other 
two came up. 

"Why do you sit moping there, Annie?" cried 
her brother. "Come out into the sunshine!" 


397 



The Naval Treaty 


"No, thank you, Joseph. I have a slight 
headache and this room is deliciously cool and 
soothing." 

"What do you propose now, Mr. Holmes?" 
asked our client. 

"Well, in investigating this minor affair we 
must not lose sight of our main inquiry. It would 
be a very great help to me if you would come up 
to London with us." 

"At once?" 

"Well, as soon as you conveniently can. Say in 
an hour." 

"I feel quite strong enough, if I can really be of 
any help." 

"The greatest possible." 

"Perhaps you would like me to stay there to- 
night?" 

"I was just going to propose it." 

"Then, if my friend of the night comes to revisit 
me, he will find the bird flown. We are all in your 
hands, Mr. Holmes, and you must tell us exactly 
what you would like done. Perhaps you would 
prefer that Joseph came with us so as to look after 
me?" 

"Oh, no; my friend Watson is a medical man, 
you know, and he'll look after you. We'll have our 
lunch here, if you will permit us, and then we shall 
all three set off for town together." 

It was arranged as he suggested, though Miss 
Harrison excused herself from leaving the bed- 
room, in accordance with Holmes's suggestion. 
What the object of my friend's manoeuvres was I 
could not conceive, unless it were to keep the lady 
away from Phelps, who, rejoiced by his return- 
ing health and by the prospect of action, lunched 
with us in the dining-room. Holmes had still more 
startling surprise for us, however, for, after accom- 
panying us down to the station and seeing us into 
our carriage, he calmly announced that he had no 
intention of leaving Woking. 

"There are one or two small points which I 
should desire to clear up before I go," said he. 
"Your absence, Mr. Phelps, will in some ways 
rather assist me. Watson, when you reach London 
you would oblige me by driving at once to Baker 
Street with our friend here, and remaining with 
him until I see you again. It is fortunate that you 
are old school-fellows, as you must have much to 
talk over. Mr. Phelps can have the spare bedroom 
to-night, and I will be with you in time for break- 
fast, for there is a train which will take me into 
Waterloo at eight." 


"But how about our investigation in London?" 
asked Phelps, ruefully. 

"We can do that to-morrow. I think that just at 
present I can be of more immediate use here." 

"You might tell them at Briarbrae that I hope 
to be back to-morrow night," cried Phelps, as we 
began to move from the platform. 

"I hardly expect to go back to Briarbrae," an- 
swered Holmes, and waved his hand to us cheerily 
as we shot out from the station. 

Phelps and I talked it over on our journey, but 
neither of us could devise a satisfactory reason for 
this new development. 

"I suppose he wants to find out some clue as 
to the burglary last night, if a burglar it was. For 
myself, I don't believe it was an ordinary thief." 

"What is your own idea, then?" 

"Upon my word, you may put it down to my 
weak nerves or not, but I believe there is some 
deep political intrigue going on around me, and 
that for some reason that passes my understanding 
my life is aimed at by the conspirators. It sounds 
high-flown and absurd, but consider the fats! Why 
should a thief try to break in at a bedroom win- 
dow, where there could be no hope of any plunder, 
and why should he come with a long knife in his 
hand?" 

"You are sure it was not a house-breaker's 
jimmy?" 

"Oh, no, it was a knife. I saw the flash of the 
blade quite distinctly." 

"But why on earth should you be pursued with 
such animosity?" 

"Ah, that is the question." 

"Well, if Holmes takes the same view, that 
would account for his action, would it not? Pre- 
suming that your theory is correct, if he can lay 
his hands upon the man who threatened you last 
night he will have gone a long way towards finding 
who took the naval treaty. It is absurd to suppose 
that you have two enemies, one of whom robs you, 
while the other threatens your life." 

"But Holmes said that he was not going to Bri- 
arbrae." 

"I have known him for some time," said I, 
"but I never knew him do anything yet without a 
very good reason," and with that our conversation 
drifted off on to other topics. 

But it was a weary day for me. Phelps was 
still weak after his long illness, and his misfortune 
made him querulous and nervous. In vain I en- 
deavored to interest him in Afghanistan, in India, 
in social questions, in anything which might take 
his mind out of the groove. He would always come 


398 



The Naval Treaty 


back to his lost treaty, wondering, guessing, spec- 
ulating, as to what Holmes was doing, what steps 
Lord Holdhurst was taking, what news we should 
have in the morning. As the evening wore on his 
excitement became quite painful. 

"You have implicit faith in Holmes?" he asked. 

"I have seen him do some remarkable things." 

"But he never brought light into anything quite 
so dark as this?" 

"Oh, yes, I have known him solve questions 
which presented fewer clues than yours." 

"But not where such large interests are at 
stake?" 

"I don't know that. To my certain knowledge 
he has acted on behalf of three of the reigning 
houses of Europe in very vital matters." 

"But you know him well, Watson. He is such 
an inscrutable fellow that I never quite know what 
to make of him. Do you think he is hopeful? Do 
you think he expects to make a success of it?" 

"He has said nothing." 

"That is a bad sign." 

"On the contrary, I have noticed that when he 
is off the trail he generally says so. It is when he is 
on a scent and is not quite absolutely sure yet that 
it is the right one that he is most taciturn. Now, 
my dear fellow, we can't help matters by making 
ourselves nervous about them, so let me implore 
you to go to bed and so be fresh for whatever may 
await us to-morrow." 

I was able at last to persuade my companion 
to take my advice, though I knew from his excited 
manner that there was not much hope of sleep for 
him. Indeed, his mood was infectious, for I lay 
tossing half the night myself, brooding over this 
strange problem, and inventing a hundred theo- 
ries, each of which was more impossible than the 
last. Why had Holmes remained at Woking? Why 
had he asked Miss Harrison to remain in the sick- 
room all day? Why had he been so careful not to 
inform the people at Briarbrae that he intended to 
remain near them? I cudgelled my brains until I 
fell asleep in the endeavor to find some explana- 
tion which would cover all these facts. 

It was seven o'clock when I awoke, and I set 
off at once for Phelps's room, to find him haggard 
and spent after a sleepless night. His first question 
was whether Holmes had arrived yet. 

"He'll be here when he promised," said I, "and 
not an instant sooner or later." 

And my words were true, for shortly after eight 
a hansom dashed up to the door and our friend 


got out of it. Standing in the window we saw that 
his left hand was swathed in a bandage and that 
his face was very grim and pale. He entered the 
house, but it was some little time before he came 
upstairs. 

"He looks like a beaten man," cried Phelps. 

I was forced to confess that he was right. "Af- 
ter all," said I, "the clue of the matter lies probably 
here in town." 

Phelps gave a groan. 

"I don't know how it is," said he, "but I had 
hoped for so much from his return. But surely his 
hand was not tied up like that yesterday. What can 
be the matter?" 

"You are not wounded. Holmes?" I asked, as 
my friend entered the room. 

"Tut, it is only a scratch through my own clum- 
siness," he answered, nodding his good-mornings 
to us. "This case of yours, Mr. Phelps, is certainly 
one of the darkest which I have ever investigated." 

"I feared that you would find it beyond you." 

"It has been a most remarkable experience." 

"That bandage tells of adventures," said I. 
"Won't you tell us what has happened?" 

"After breakfast, my dear Watson. Remember 
that I have breathed thirty miles of Surrey air this 
morning. I suppose that there has been no answer 
from my cabman advertisement? Well, well, we 
cannot expect to score every time." 

The table was all laid, and just as I was about to 
ring Mrs. Hudson entered with the tea and coffee. 
A few minutes later she brought in three covers, 
and we all drew up to the table. Holmes ravenous, 
I curious, and Phelps in the gloomiest state of de- 
pression. 

"Mrs. Hudson has risen to the occasion," said 
Holmes, uncovering a dish of curried chicken. 
"Her cuisine is a little limited, but she has as good 
an idea of breakfast as a Scotch-woman. What 
have you here, Watson?" 

"Ham and eggs," I answered. 

"Good! What are you going to take, Mr. 
Phelps — curried fowl or eggs, or will you help 
yourself?" 

"Thank you. I can eat nothing," said Phelps. 

"Oh, come! Try the dish before you." 

"Thank you, I would really rather not." 

"Well, then," said Holmes, with a mischievous 
twinkle, "I suppose that you have no objection to 
helping me?" 

Phelps raised the cover, and as he did so he ut- 
tered a scream, and sat there staring with a face as 
white as the plate upon which he looked. Across 


399 



The Naval Treaty 


the centre of it was lying a little cylinder of blue- 
gray paper. He caught it up, devoured it with 
his eyes, and then danced madly about the room, 
passing it to his bosom and shrieking out in his de- 
light. Then he fell back into an arm-chair so limp 
and exhausted with his own emotions that we had 
to pour brandy down his throat to keep him from 
fainting. 

"There! there!" said Holmes, soothing, patting 
him upon the shoulder. "It was too bad to spring 
it on you like this, but Watson here will tell you 
that I never can resist a touch of the dramatic." 

Phelps seized his hand and kissed it. "God 
bless you!" he cried. "You have saved my honor." 

"Well, my own was at stake, you know," said 
Holmes. "I assure you it is just as hateful to me to 
fail in a case as it can be to you to blunder over a 
commission." 

Phelps thrust away the precious document into 
the innermost pocket of his coat. 

"I have not the heart to interrupt your breakfast 
any further, and yet I am dying to know how you 
got it and where it was." 

Sherlock Holmes swallowed a cup of coffee, 
and turned his attention to the ham and eggs. 
Then he rose, lit his pipe, and settled himself down 
into his chair. 

"I'll tell you what I did first, and how I came 
to do it afterwards," said he. "After leaving you 
at the station I went for a charming walk through 
some admirable Surrey scenery to a pretty little 
village called Ripley, where I had my tea at an inn, 
and took the precaution of filling my flask and of 
putting a paper of sandwiches in my pocket. There 
I remained until evening, when I set off for Woking 
again, and found myself in the high-road outside 
Briarbrae just after sunset. 

"Well, I waited until the road was clear — it 
is never a very frequented one at any time, I 
fancy — and then I clambered over the fence into 
the grounds." 

"Surely the gate was open!" ejaculated Phelps. 

"Yes, but I have a peculiar taste in these mat- 
ters. I chose the place where the three fir-trees 
stand, and behind their screen I got over with- 
out the least chance of any one in the house be- 
ing able to see me. I crouched down among 
the bushes on the other side, and crawled from 
one to the other — witness the disreputable state of 
my trouser knees — until I had reached the clump 
of rhododendrons just opposite to your bedroom 
window. There I squatted down and awaited de- 
velopments. 


"The blind was not down in your room, and I 
could see Miss Harrison sitting there reading by 
the table. It was quarter-past ten when she closed 
her book, fastened the shutters, and retired. 

"I heard her shut the door, and felt quite sure 
that she had turned the key in the lock." 

"The key!" ejaculated Phelps. 

"Yes, I had given Miss Harrison instructions to 
lock the door on the outside and take the key with 
her when she went to bed. She carried out every 
one of my injunctions to the letter, and certainly 
without her cooperation you would not have that 
paper in you coat-pocket. She departed then and 
the lights went out, and I was left squatting in the 
rhododendron-bush. 

"The night was fine, but still it was a very 
weary vigil. Of course it has the sort of excite- 
ment about it that the sportsman feels when he 
lies beside the water-course and waits for the big 
game. It was very long, though — almost as long, 
Watson, as when you and I waited in that deadly 
room when we looked into the little problem of the 
Speckled Band. There was a church-clock down at 
Woking which struck the quarters, and I thought 
more than once that it had stopped. At last how- 
ever about two in the morning, I suddenly heard 
the gentle sound of a bolt being pushed back and 
the creaking of a key. A moment later the ser- 
vant's door was opened, and Mr. Joseph Harrison 
stepped out into the moonlight." 

"Joseph!" ejaculated Phelps. 

"He was bare-headed, but he had a black coat 
thrown over his shoulder so that he could conceal 
his face in an instant if there were any alarm. He 
walked on tiptoe under the shadow of the wall, 
and when he reached the window he worked a 
long-bladed knife through the sash and pushed 
back the catch. Then he flung open the window, 
and putting his knife through the crack in the shut- 
ters, he thrust the bar up and swung them open. 

"From where I lay I had a perfect view of the 
inside of the room and of every one of his move- 
ments. He lit the two candles which stood upon 
the mantelpiece, and then he proceeded to turn 
back the corner of the carpet in the neighborhood 
of the door. Presently he stopped and picked out a 
square piece of board, such as is usually left to 
enable plumbers to get at the joints of the gas- 
pipes. This one covered, as a matter of fact, the 
T joint which gives off the pipe which supplies 
the kitchen underneath. Out of this hiding-place 
he drew that little cylinder of paper, pushed down 


400 



The Naval Treaty 


the board, rearranged the carpet, blew out the can- 
dles, and walked straight into my arms as I stood 
waiting for him outside the window. 

"Well, he has rather more viciousness than I 
gave him credit for, has Master Joseph. He flew at 
me with his knife, and I had to grasp him twice, 
and got a cut over the knuckles, before I had the 
upper hand of him. He looked murder out of the 
only eye he could see with when we had finished, 
but he listened to reason and gave up the papers. 
Having got them I let my man go, but I wired full 
particulars to Forbes this morning. If he is quick 
enough to catch is bird, well and good. But if, as 
I shrewdly suspect, he finds the nest empty before 
he gets there, why, all the better for the govern- 
ment. I fancy that Lord Holdhurst for one, and Mr. 
Percy Phelps for another, would very much rather 
that the affair never got as far as a police-court. 

"My God!" gasped our client. "Do you tell 
me that during these long ten weeks of agony the 
stolen papers were within the very room with me 
all the time?" 

"So it was." 

"And Joseph! Joseph a villain and a thief!" 

"Hum! I am afraid Joseph's character is a 
rather deeper and more dangerous one than one 
might judge from his appearance. From what I 
have heard from him this morning, I gather that he 
has lost heavily in dabbling with stocks, and that 
he is ready to do anything on earth to better his 
fortunes. Being an absolutely selfish man, when a 
chance presented itself he did not allow either his 
sister's happiness or your reputation to hold his 
hand." 

Percy Phelps sank back in his chair. "My head 
whirls," said he. "Your words have dazed me." 

"The principal difficulty in your case," re- 
marked Holmes, in his didactic fashion, "lay in 
the fact of there being too much evidence. What 
was vital was overlaid and hidden by what was 
irrelevant. Of all the facts which were presented 
to us we had to pick just those which we deemed 
to be essential, and then piece them together in 
their order, so as to reconstruct this very remark- 
able chain of events. I had already begun to sus- 
pect Joseph, from the fact that you had intended 
to travel home with him that night, and that there- 
fore it was a likely enough thing that he should call 
for you, knowing the Foreign Office well, upon his 
way. When I heard that some one had been so anx- 
ious to get into the bedroom, in which no one but 
Joseph could have concealed anything — you told 
us in your narrative how you had turned Joseph 


out when you arrived with the doctor — my suspi- 
cions all changed to certainties, especially as the 
attempt was made on the first night upon which 
the nurse was absent, showing that the intruder 
was well acquainted with the ways of the house." 

"How blind I have been!" 

"The facts of the case, as far as I have worked 
them out, are these: this Joseph Harrison entered 
the office through the Charles Street door, and 
knowing his way he walked straight into your 
room the instant after you left it. Finding no one 
there he promptly rang the bell, and at the instant 
that he did so his eyes caught the paper upon the 
table. A glance showed him that chance had put in 
his way a State document of immense value, and 
in an instant he had thrust it into his pocket and 
was gone. A few minutes elapsed, as you remem- 
ber, before the sleepy commissionaire drew your 
attention to the bell, and those were just enough to 
give the thief time to make his escape. 

"He made his way to Woking by the first train, 
and having examined his booty and assured him- 
self that it really was of immense value, he had 
concealed it in what he thought was a very safe 
place, with the intention of taking it out again in a 
day or two, and carrying it to the French embassy, 
or wherever he thought that a long price was to 
be had. Then came your sudden return. He, with- 
out a moment's warning, was bundled out of his 
room, and from that time onward there were al- 
ways at least two of you there to prevent him from 
regaining his treasure. The situation to him must 
have been a maddening one. But at last he thought 
he saw his chance. He tried to steal in, but was baf- 
fled by your wakefulness. You remember that you 
did not take your usual draught that night." 

"I remember." 

"I fancy that he had taken steps to make that 
draught efficacious, and that he quite relied upon 
your being unconscious. Of course, I understood 
that he would repeat the attempt whenever it 
could be done with safety. Your leaving the room 
gave him the chance he wanted. I kept Miss Har- 
rison in it all day so that he might not anticipate 
us. Then, having given him the idea that the coast 
was clear, I kept guard as I have described. I al- 
ready knew that the papers were probably in the 
room, but I had no desire to rip up all the planking 
and skirting in search of them. I let him take them, 
therefore, from the hiding-place, and so saved my- 
self an infinity of trouble. Is there any other point 
which I can make clear?" 


401 



"Why did he try the window on the first oc- 
casion," I asked, "when he might have entered by 
the door?" 

"In reaching the door he would have to pass 
seven bedrooms. On the other hand, he could get 
out on to the lawn with ease. Anything else?" 

"You do not think," asked Phelps, "that he had 


any murderous intention? The knife was only 
meant as a tool." 

"It may be so," answered Holmes, shrugging 
his shoulders. "I can only say for certain that Mr. 
Joseph Harrison is a gentleman to whose mercy I 
should be extremely unwilling to trust." 



The Adventure of the Second Stain 


HAD ' n ton dc'd "The Adventure of the 
' Abbey Grange" to be the last of those 

exploits of my friend, Mr. Sherlock 
, Holmes, which I should ever communi- 
cate to the public. This resolution of mine was not 
due to any lack of material, since I have notes of 
many hundreds of cases to which I have never al- 
luded, nor was it caused by any waning interest on 
the part of my readers in the singular personality 
and unique methods of this remarkable man. The 
real reason lay in the reluctance which Mr. Holmes 
has shown to the continued publication of his ex- 
periences. So long as he was in actual professional 
practice the records of his successes were of some 
practical value to him; but since he has definitely 
retired from London and betaken himself to study 
and bee-farming on the Sussex Downs, notoriety 
has become hateful to him, and he has perempto- 
rily requested that his wishes in this matter should 
be strictly observed. It was only upon my rep- 
resenting to him that I had given a promise that 
"The Adventure of the Second Stain" should be 
published when the times were ripe, and pointing 
out to him that it is only appropriate that this long 
series of episodes should culminate in the most im- 
portant international case which he has ever been 
called upon to handle, that I at last succeeded in 
obtaining his consent that a carefully-guarded ac- 
count of the incident should at last be laid before 
the public. If in telling the story I seem to be some- 
what vague in certain details the public will read- 
ily understand that there is an excellent reason for 
my reticence. 

It was, then, in a year, and even in a decade, 
that shall be nameless, that upon one Tuesday 
morning in autumn we found two visitors of Euro- 
pean fame within the walls of our humble room in 
Baker Street. The one, austere, high-nosed, eagle- 
eyed, and dominant, was none other than the il- 
lustrious Lord Bellinger, twice Premier of Britain. 
The other, dark, clear-cut, and elegant, hardly yet 
of middle age, and endowed with every beauty 
of body and of mind, was the Right Honourable 
Trelawney Hope, Secretary for European Affairs, 
and the most rising statesman in the country. They 
sat side by side upon our paper-littered settee, and 
it was easy to see from their worn and anxious 
faces that it was business of the most pressing im- 
portance which had brought them. The Premier's 
thin, blue-veined hands were clasped tightly over 
the ivory head of his umbrella, and his gaunt, as- 
cetic face looked gloomily from Holmes to me. The 
European Secretary pulled nervously at his mous- 
tache and fidgeted with the seals of his watch- 
chain. 


"When I discovered my loss, Mr. Holmes, 
which was at eight o'clock this morning, I at once 
informed the Prime Minister. It was at his sugges- 
tion that we have both come to you." 

"Have you informed the police?" 

"No, sir," said the Prime Minister, with the 
quick, decisive manner for which he was famous. 
"We have not done so, nor is it possible that we 
should do so. To inform the police must, in the 
long run, mean to inform the public. This is what 
we particularly desire to avoid." 

"And why, sir?" 

"Because the document in question is of such 
immense importance that its publication might 
very easily — I might almost say probably — lead to 
European complications of the utmost moment. It 
is not too much to say that peace or war may hang 
upon the issue. Unless its recovery can be attended 
with the utmost secrecy, then it may as well not be 
recovered at all, for all that is aimed at by those 
who have taken it is that its contents should be 
generally known." 

"I understand. Now, Mr. Trelawney Hope, I 
should be much obliged if you would tell me ex- 
actly the circumstances under which this docu- 
ment disappeared." 

"That can be done in a very few words, Mr. 
Holmes. The letter — for it was a letter from a for- 
eign potentate — was received six days ago. It was 
of such importance that I have never left it in my 
safe, but I have taken it across each evening to my 
house in Whitehall Terrace, and kept it in my bed- 
room in a locked despatch-box. It was there last 
night. Of that I am certain. I actually opened the 
box while I was dressing for dinner, and saw the 
document inside. This morning it was gone. The 
despatch-box had stood beside the glass upon my 
dressing-table all night. I am a light sleeper, and so 
is my wife. We are both prepared to swear that no 
one could have entered the room during the night. 
And yet I repeat that the paper is gone." 

"What time did you dine?" 

"Half-past seven." 

"How long was it before you went to bed?" 

"My wife had gone to the theatre. I waited up 
for her. It was half-past eleven before we went to 
our room." 

"Then for four hours the despatch-box had lain 
unguarded?" 

"No one is ever permitted to enter that room 
save the housemaid in the morning, and my valet, 
or my wife's maid, during the rest of the day. They 
are both trusty servants who have been with us for 
some time. Besides, neither of them could possibly 


571 



The Adventure of the Second Stain 


have known that there was anything more valu- 
able than the ordinary departmental papers in my 
despatch-box." 

"Who did know of the existence of that letter?" 

"No one in the house." 

"Surely your wife knew?" 

"No, sir; I had said nothing to my wife until I 
missed the paper this morning." 

The Premier nodded approvingly. 

"I have long known, sir, how high is your sense 
of public duty," said he. "I am convinced that in 
the case of a secret of this importance it would rise 
superior to the most intimate domestic ties." 

The European Secretary bowed. 

"You do me no more than justice, sir. Until this 
morning I have never breathed one word to my 
wife upon this matter." 

"Could she have guessed?" 

"No, Mr. Holmes, she could not have 
guessed — nor could anyone have guessed." 

"Have you lost any documents before?" 

"No, sir." 

"Who is there in England who did know of the 
existence of this letter?" 

"Each member of the Cabinet was informed of 
it yesterday; but the pledge of secrecy which at- 
tends every Cabinet meeting was increased by the 
solemn warning which was given by the Prime 
Minister. Good heavens, to think that within a few 
hours I should myself have lost it!" His handsome 
face was distorted with a spasm of despair, and his 
hands tore at his hair. For a moment we caught 
a glimpse of the natural man, impulsive, ardent, 
keenly sensitive. The next the aristocratic mask 
was replaced, and the gentle voice had returned. 
"Besides the members of the Cabinet there are two, 
or possibly three, departmental officials who know 
of the letter. No one else in England, Mr. Holmes, 
I assure you." 

"But abroad?" 

"I believe that no one abroad has seen it save 
the man who wrote it. I am well convinced that 
his Ministers — that the usual official channels have 
not been employed." 

Holmes considered for some little time. 

"Now, sir, I must ask you more particularly 
what this document is, and why its disappearance 
should have such momentous consequences?" 

The two statesmen exchanged a quick glance 
and the Premier's shaggy eyebrows gathered in a 
frown. 


"Mr. Holmes, the envelope is a long, thin one 
of pale blue colour. There is a seal of red wax 
stamped with a crouching lion. It is addressed in 
large, bold handwriting to — " 

"I fear, sir," said Holmes, "that, interesting and 
indeed essential as these details are, my inquiries 
must go more to the root of things. What was the 
letter?" 

"That is a State secret of the utmost importance, 
and I fear that I cannot tell you, nor do I see that 
it is necessary. If by the aid of the powers which 
you are said to possess you can find such an enve- 
lope as I describe with its enclosure, you will have 
deserved well of your country, and earned any re- 
ward which it lies in our power to bestow." 

Sherlock Holmes rose with a smile. 

"You are two of the most busy men in the coun- 
try," said he, "and in my own small way I have 
also a good many calls upon me. I regret exceed- 
ingly that I cannot help you in this matter, and any 
continuation of this interview would be a waste of 
time." 

The Premier sprang to his feet with that quick, 
fierce gleam of his deep-set eyes before which a 
Cabinet has cowered. "I am not accustomed, sir — " 
he began, but mastered his anger and resumed his 
seat. For a minute or more we all sat in silence. 
Then the old statesman shrugged his shoulders. 

"We must accept your terms, Mr. Holmes. No 
doubt you are right, and it is unreasonable for us 
to expect you to act unless we give you our entire 
confidence." 

"I agree with you, sir," said the younger states- 
man. 

"Then I will tell you, relying entirely upon your 
honour and that of your colleague. Dr. Watson. I 
may appeal to your patriotism also, for I could not 
imagine a greater misfortune for the country than 
that this affair should come out." 

"You may safely trust us." 

"The letter, then, is from a certain foreign po- 
tentate who has been ruffled by some recent Colo- 
nial developments of this country. It has been 
written hurriedly and upon his own responsibility 
entirely. Inquiries have shown that his Ministers 
know nothing of the matter. At the same time it is 
couched in so unfortunate a manner, and certain 
phrases in it are of so provocative a character, that 
its publication would undoubtedly lead to a most 
dangerous state of feeling in this country. There 
would be such a ferment, sir, that I do not hesi- 
tate to say that within a week of the publication 
of that letter this country would be involved in a 
great war." 


572 



The Adventure of the Second Stain 


Holmes wrote a name upon a slip of paper and 
handed it to the Premier. 

"Exactly. It was he. And it is this letter — this 
letter which may well mean the expenditure of a 
thousand millions and the lives of a hundred thou- 
sand men — which has become lost in this unac- 
countable fashion." 

"Have you informed the sender?" 

"Yes, sir, a cipher telegram has been 
despatched." 

"Perhaps he desires the publication of the let- 
ter." 

"No, sir, we have strong reason to believe that 
he already understands that he has acted in an in- 
discreet and hot-headed manner. It would be a 
greater blow to him and to his country than to us 
if this letter were to come out." 

"If this is so, whose interest is it that the letter 
should come out? Why should anyone desire to 
steal it or to publish it?" 

"There, Mr. Holmes, you take me into regions 
of high international politics. But if you consider 
the European situation you will have no difficulty 
in perceiving the motive. The whole of Europe is 
an armed camp. There is a double league which 
makes a fair balance of military power. Great 
Britain holds the scales. If Britain were driven 
into war with one confederacy, it would assure the 
supremacy of the other confederacy, whether they 
joined in the war or not. Do you follow?" 

"Very clearly. It is then the interest of the en- 
emies of this potentate to secure and publish this 
letter, so as to make a breach between his country 
and ours?" 

"Yes, sir." 

"And to whom would this document be sent if 
it fell into the hands of an enemy?" 

"To any of the great Chancelleries of Europe. 
It is probably speeding on its way thither at the 
present instant as fast as steam can take it." 

Mr. Trelawney Hope dropped his head on his 
chest and groaned aloud. The Premier placed his 
hand kindly upon his shoulder. 

"It is your misfortune, my dear fellow. No one 
can blame you. There is no precaution which you 
have neglected. Now, Mr. Holmes, you are in full 
possession of the facts. What course do you rec- 
ommend?" 

Holmes shook his head mournfully. 

"You think, sir, that unless this document is re- 
covered there will be war?" 


"I think it is very probable." 

"Then, sir, prepare for war." 

"That is a hard saying, Mr. Holmes." 

"Consider the facts, sir. It is inconceivable that 
it was taken after eleven-thirty at night, since I un- 
derstand that Mr. Hope and his wife were both in 
the room from that hour until the loss was found 
out. It was taken, then, yesterday evening between 
seven-thirty and eleven-thirty, probably near the 
earlier hour, since whoever took it evidently knew 
that it was there and would naturally secure it as 
early as possible. Now, sir, if a document of this 
importance were taken at that hour, where can it 
be now? No one has any reason to retain it. It 
has been passed rapidly on to those who need it. 
What chance have we now to overtake or even to 
trace it? It is beyond our reach." 

The Prime Minister rose from the settee. 

"What you say is perfectly logical, Mr. Holmes. 
I feel that the matter is indeed out of our hands." 

"Let us presume, for argument's sake, that 
the document was taken by the maid or by the 
valet — " 

"They are both old and tried servants." 

"I understand you to say that your room is on 
the second floor, that there is no entrance from 
without, and that from within no one could go up 
unobserved. It must, then, be somebody in the 
house who has taken it. To whom would the thief 
take it? To one of several international spies and 
secret agents, whose names are tolerably familiar 
to me. There are three who may be said to be the 
heads of their profession. I will begin my research 
by going round and finding if each of them is at 
his post. If one is missing — especially if he has 
disappeared since last night — we will have some 
indication as to where the document has gone." 

"Why should he be missing?" asked the Euro- 
pean Secretary. "He would take the letter to an 
Embassy in London, as likely as not." 

"I fancy not. These agents work independently, 
and their relations with the Embassies are often 
strained." 

The Prime Minister nodded his acquiescence. 

"I believe you are right, Mr. Holmes. He would 
take so valuable a prize to head-quarters with his 
own hands. I think that your course of action is 
an excellent one. Meanwhile, Hope, we cannot ne- 
glect all our other duties on account of this one 
misfortune. Should there be any fresh develop- 
ments during the day we shall communicate with 


573 



The Adventure of the Second Stain 


you, and you will no doubt let us know the results 
of your own inquiries." 

The two statesmen bowed and walked gravely 
from the room. 

When our illustrious visitors had departed 
Holmes lit his pipe in silence, and sat for some 
time lost in the deepest thought. I had opened the 
morning paper and was immersed in a sensational 
crime which had occurred in London the night be- 
fore, when my friend gave an exclamation, sprang 
to his feet, and laid his pipe down upon the man- 
telpiece. 

"Yes," said he, "there is no better way of ap- 
proaching it. The situation is desperate, but not 
hopeless. Even now, if we could be sure which 
of them has taken it, it is just possible that it has 
not yet passed out of his hands. After all, it is a 
question of money with these fellows, and I have 
the British Treasury behind me. If it's on the mar- 
ket I'll buy it — if it means another penny on the 
income-tax. It is conceivable that the fellow might 
hold it back to see what bids come from this side 
before he tries his luck on the other. There are 
only those three capable of playing so bold a game; 
there are Oberstein, La Rothiere, and Eduardo Lu- 
cas. I will see each of them." 

I glanced at my morning paper. 

"Is that Eduardo Lucas of Godolphin Street?" 

"Yes." 

"You will not see him." 

"Why not?" 

"He was murdered in his house last night." 

My friend has so often astonished me in the 
course of our adventures that it was with a sense of 
exultation that I realized how completely I had as- 
tonished him. He stared in amazement, and then 
snatched the paper from my hands. This was the 
paragraph which I had been engaged in reading 
when he rose from his chair: 

Murder in Westminster 
A crime of mysterious character was com- 
mitted last night at 16, Godolphin Street, 
one of the old-fashioned and secluded rows 
of eighteenth-century houses which lie be- 
tween the river and the Abbey, almost in 
the shadozv of the great Tower of the Houses 
of Parliament. This small but select man- 
sion has been inhabited for some years by 
Mr. Eduardo Lucas, well known in soci- 
ety circles both on account of his charm- 
ing personality and because he has the well- 
deserved reputation of being one of the best 


amateur tenors in the country. Mr. Lucas 
is an unmarried man, thirty-four years of 
age, and his establishment consists of Mrs. 
Pringle, an elderly housekeeper, and ofMit- 
ton, his valet. The former retires early and 
sleeps at the top of the house. The valet 
was out for the evening, visiting a friend at 
Hammersmith. From ten o'clock omvards 
Mr. Lucas had the house to himself. What 
occurred during that time has not yet tran- 
spired, but at a quarter to twelve Police- 
constable Barrett, passing along Godolphin 
Street, observed that the door of No. 16 was 
ajar. He knocked, but received no answer. 
Perceiving a light in the front room he ad- 
vanced into the passage and again knocked, 
but without reply. He then pushed open 
the door and entered. The room was in a 
state of wild disorder, the furniture being 
all swept to one side, and one chair lying 
on its back in the centre. Beside this chair, 
and still grasping one of its legs, lay the un- 
fortunate tenant of the house. He had been 
stabbed to the heart and must have died in- 
stantly. The knife zvith which the crime had 
been committed was a curved Indian dag- 
ger, plucked down from a trophy of Orien- 
tal arms which adorned one of the zvalls. 
Robbery does not appear to have been the 
motive of the crime, for there had been no 
attempt to remove the valuable contents of 
the room. Mr. Eduardo Lucas was so well 
knoivn and popular that his violent and 
mysterious fate will arouse painful inter- 
est and intense sympathy in a wide-spread 
circle of friends. 

"Well, Watson, what do you make of this?" asked 
Holmes, after a long pause. 

"It is an amazing coincidence." 

"A coincidence! Here is one of the three men 
whom we had named as possible actors in this 
drama, and he meets a violent death during the 
very hours when we know that that drama was 
being enacted. The odds are enormous against 
its being coincidence. No figures could express 
them. No, my dear Watson, the two events are 
connected — must be connected. It is for us to find 
the connection." 

"But now the official police must know all." 

"Not at all. They know all they see 
at Godolphin Street. They know — and shall 
know — nothing of Whitehall Terrace. Only we 
know of both events, and can trace the relation 
between them. There is one obvious point which 


574 



The Adventure of the Second Stain 


would, in any case, have turned my suspicions 
against Lucas. Godolphin Street, Westminster, is 
only a few minutes' walk from Whitehall Terrace. 
The other secret agents whom I have named live 
in the extreme West-end. It was easier, therefore, 
for Lucas than for the others to establish a connec- 
tion or receive a message from the European Sec- 
retary's household — a small thing, and yet where 
events are compressed into a few hours it may 
prove essential. Halloa! what have we here?" 

Mrs. Hudson had appeared with a lady's card 
upon her salver. Holmes glanced at it, raised his 
eyebrows, and handed it over to me. 

"Ask Lady Hilda Trelawney Hope if she will be 
kind enough to step up," said he. 

A moment later our modest apartment, already 
so distinguished that morning, was further hon- 
oured by the entrance of the most lovely woman 
in London. I had often heard of the beauty of 
the youngest daughter of the Duke of Belmin- 
ster, but no description of it, and no contempla- 
tion of colourless photographs, had prepared me 
for the subtle, delicate charm and the beautiful 
colouring of that exquisite head. And yet as we 
saw it that autumn morning, it was not its beauty 
which would be the first thing to impress the ob- 
server. The cheek was lovely, but it was paled 
with emotion; the eyes were bright, but it was the 
brightness of fever; the sensitive mouth was tight 
and drawn in an effort after self-command. Ter- 
ror — not beauty — was what sprang first to the eye 
as our fair visitor stood framed for an instant in 
the open door. 

"Has my husband been here, Mr. Holmes?" 

"Yes, madam, he has been here." 

"Mr. Holmes, I implore you not to tell him that 
I came here." Holmes bowed coldly, and motioned 
the lady to a chair. 

"Your ladyship places me in a very delicate po- 
sition. I beg that you will sit down and tell me 
what you desire; but I fear that I cannot make any 
unconditional promise." 

She swept across the room and seated herself 
with her back to the window. It was a queenly 
presence — tall, graceful, and intensely womanly. 

"Mr. Holmes," she said, and her white-gloved 
hands clasped and unclasped as she spoke — "I will 
speak frankly to you in the hope that it may in- 
duce you to speak frankly in return. There is com- 
plete confidence between my husband and me on 
all matters save one. That one is politics. On this 
his lips are sealed. He tells me nothing. Now, I 


am aware that there was a most deplorable occur- 
rence in our house last night. I know that a paper 
has disappeared. But because the matter is polit- 
ical my husband refuses to take me into his com- 
plete confidence. Now it is essential — essential, I 
say — that I should thoroughly understand it. You 
are the only other person, save only these politi- 
cians, who knows the true facts. I beg you, then, 
Mr. Holmes, to tell me exactly what has happened 
and what it will lead to. Tell me all, Mr. Holmes. 
Let no regard for your client's interests keep you 
silent, for I assure you that his interests, if he 
would only see it, would be best served by tak- 
ing me into his complete confidence. What was 
this paper which was stolen?" 

"Madam, what you ask me is really impossi- 
ble." 

She groaned and sank her face in her hands. 

"You must see that this is so, madam. If your 
husband thinks fit to keep you in the dark over this 
matter, is it for me, who has only learned the true 
facts under the pledge of professional secrecy, to 
tell what he has withheld? It is not fair to ask it. It 
is him whom you must ask." 

"I have asked him. I come to you as a last re- 
source. But without your telling me anything def- 
inite, Mr. Holmes, you may do a great service if 
you would enlighten me on one point." 

"What is it, madam?" 

"Is my husband's political career likely to suf- 
fer through this incident?" 

"Well, madam, unless it is set right it may cer- 
tainly have a very unfortunate effect." 

"Ah!" She drew in her breath sharply as one 
whose doubts are resolved. 

"One more question, Mr. Holmes. From an ex- 
pression which my husband dropped in the first 
shock of this disaster I understood that terrible 
public consequences might arise from the loss of 
this document." 

"If he said so, I certainly cannot deny it." 

"Of what nature are they?" 

"Nay, madam, there again you ask me more 
than I can possibly answer." 

"Then I will take up no more of your time. I 
cannot blame you, Mr. Holmes, for having refused 
to speak more freely, and you on your side will 
not, I am sure, think the worse of me because I de- 
sire, even against his will, to share my husband's 
anxieties. Once more I beg that you will say noth- 
ing of my visit." She looked back at us from the 
door, and I had a last impression of that beauti- 
ful haunted face, the startled eyes, and the drawn 
mouth. Then she was gone. 


575 



The Adventure of the Second Stain 


"Now, Watson, the fair sex is your depart- 
ment," said Holmes, with a smile, when the dwin- 
dling frou-frou of skirts had ended in the slam of 
the front door. "What was the fair lady's game? 
What did she really want?" 

"Surely her own statement is clear and her anx- 
iety very natural." 

"Hum! Think of her appearance, Watson — her 
manner, her suppressed excitement, her restless- 
ness, her tenacity in asking questions. Remember 
that she comes of a caste who do not lightly show 
emotion." 

"She was certainly much moved." 

"Remember also the curious earnestness with 
which she assured us that it was best for her hus- 
band that she should know all. What did she mean 
by that? And you must have observed, Watson, 
how she manoeuvred to have the light at her back. 
She did not wish us to read her expression." 

"Yes; she chose the one chair in the room." 

"And yet the motives of women are so in- 
scrutable. You remember the woman at Margate 
whom I suspected for the same reason. No pow- 
der on her nose — that proved to be the correct 
solution. How can you build on such a quick- 
sand? Their most trivial action may mean vol- 
umes, or their most extraordinary conduct may 
depend upon a hairpin or a curling-tongs. Good 
morning, Watson." 

"You are off?" 

"Yes; I will wile away the morning at Godol- 
phin Street with our friends of the regular estab- 
lishment. With Eduardo Lucas lies the solution of 
our problem, though I must admit that I have not 
an inkling as to what form it may take. It is a cap- 
ital mistake to theorize in advance of the facts. Do 
you stay on guard, my good Watson, and receive 
any fresh visitors. I'll join you at lunch if I am 
able." 

All that day and the next and the next Holmes 
was in a mood which his friends would call taci- 
turn, and others morose. He ran out and ran in, 
smoked incessantly, played snatches on his violin, 
sank into reveries, devoured sandwiches at irreg- 
ular hours, and hardly answered the casual ques- 
tions which I put to him. It was evident to me 
that things were not going well with him or his 
quest. He would say nothing of the case, and it 
was from the papers that I learned the particulars 
of the inquest, and the arrest with the subsequent 
release of John Mitton, the valet of the deceased. 
The coroner's jury brought in the obvious "Wilful 
Murder," but the parties remained as unknown as 


ever. No motive was suggested. The room was 
full of articles of value, but none had been taken. 
The dead man's papers had not been tampered 
with. They were carefully examined, and showed 
that he was a keen student of international poli- 
tics, an indefatigable gossip, a remarkable linguist, 
and an untiring letter-writer. He had been on inti- 
mate terms with the leading politicians of several 
countries. But nothing sensational was discovered 
among the documents which filled his drawers. As 
to his relations with women, they appeared to have 
been promiscuous but superficial. He had many 
acquaintances among them, but few friends, and 
no one whom he loved. His habits were regular, 
his conduct inoffensive. His death was an abso- 
lute mystery, and likely to remain so. 

As to the arrest of John Mitton, the valet, it 
was a counsel of despair as an alternative to ab- 
solute inaction. But no case could be sustained 
against him. He had visited friends in Hammer- 
smith that night. The alibi was complete. It is true 
that he started home at an hour which should have 
brought him to Westminster before the time when 
the crime was discovered, but his own explana- 
tion that he had walked part of the way seemed 
probable enough in view of the fineness of the 
night. He had actually arrived at twelve o'clock, 
and appeared to be overwhelmed by the unex- 
pected tragedy. He had always been on good 
terms with his master. Several of the dead man's 
possessions — notably a small case of razors — had 
been found in the valet's boxes, but he explained 
that they had been presents from the deceased, 
and the housekeeper was able to corroborate the 
story. Mitton had been in Lucas's employment for 
three years. It was noticeable that Lucas did not 
take Mitton on the Continent with him. Some- 
times he visited Paris for three months on end, but 
Mitton was left in charge of the Godolphin Street 
house. As to the housekeeper, she had heard noth- 
ing on the night of the crime. If her master had a 
visitor he had himself admitted him. 

So for three mornings the mystery remained, 
so far as I could follow it in the papers. If Holmes 
knew more he kept his own counsel, but, as he 
told me that Inspector Lestrade had taken him into 
his confidence in the case, I knew that he was in 
close touch with every development. Upon the 
fourth day there appeared a long telegram from 
Paris which seemed to solve the whole question. 

A discovery has just been made by the 
Parisian police [said the Daily Telegraph] 
which raises the veil which hung round the 
tragic fate of Mr. Eduardo Lucas, who met 
his death by violence last Monday night at 


576 



The Adventure of the Second Stain 


Godolphin Street, Westminster. Our read- 
ers zvill remember that the deceased gentle- 
man was found stabbed in Ins room, and 
that some suspicion attached to his valet, 
but that the case broke doivn on an alibi. 
Yesterday a lady, who has been known as 
Mme. Henri Fournaye, occupying a small 
villa in the Rue Austerlitz, was reported 
to the authorities by her servants as being 
insane. An examination shozved that she 
had indeed developed mania of a dangerous 
and permanent form. On inquiry the police 
have discovered that Mme. Henri Fournaye 
only returned from a journey to London on 
Tuesday last, and there is evidence to con- 
nect her with the crime at Westminster. A 
comparison of photographs has proved con- 
clusively that M. Henri Fournaye and Ed- 
uardo Lucas were really one and the same 
person, and that the deceased had for some 
reason lived a double life in London and 
Paris. Mme. Fournaye, who is of Creole 
origin, is of an extremely excitable nature, 
and has suffered in the past from attacks of 
jealousy which have amounted to frenzy. It 
is conjectured that it was in one of these 
that she committed the terrible crime which 
has caused such a sensation in London. Her 
movements upon the Monday night have 
not yet been traced, but it is undoubted 
that a woman answering to her description 
attracted much attention at Charing Cross 
Station on Tuesday morning by the wild- 
ness of her appearance and the violence of 
her gestures. It is probable, therefore, that 
the crime was either committed when in- 
sane, or that its immediate effect was to 
drive the unhappy woman out of her mind. 

At present she is unable to give any co- 
herent account of the past, and the doctors 
hold out no hopes of the re-establishment 
of her reason. There is evidence that a 
woman, zvho might have been Mme. Four- 
naye, zvas seen for some hours on Mon- 
day night watching the house in Godolphin 
Street. 

"What do you think of that. Holmes?" I had read 
the account aloud to him, while he finished his 
breakfast. 

"My dear Watson," said he, as he rose from the 
table and paced up and down the room, "you are 
most long-suffering, but if I have told you nothing 
in the last three days it is because there is nothing 
to tell. Even now this report from Paris does not 
help us much." 


"Surely it is final as regards the man's death." 

"The man's death is a mere incident — a triv- 
ial episode — in comparison with our real task, 
which is to trace this document and save a Eu- 
ropean catastrophe. Only one important thing 
has happened in the last three days, and that is 
that nothing has happened. I get reports almost 
hourly from the Government, and it is certain 
that nowhere in Europe is there any sign of trou- 
ble. Now, if this letter were loose — no, it can't be 
loose — but if it isn't loose, where can it be? Who 
has it? Why is it held back? That's the question 
that beats in my brain like a hammer. Was it, in- 
deed, a coincidence that Lucas should meet his 
death on the night when the letter disappeared? 
Did the letter ever reach him? If so, why is it not 
among his papers? Did this mad wife of his carry 
it off with her? If so, is it in her house in Paris? 
How could I search for it without the French po- 
lice having their suspicions aroused? It is a case, 
my dear Watson, where the law is as dangerous 
to us as the criminals are. Every man's hand is 
against us, and yet the interests at stake are colos- 
sal. Should I bring it to a successful conclusion 
it will certainly represent the crowning glory of 
my career. Ah, here is my latest from the front!" 
He glanced hurriedly at the note which had been 
handed in. "Halloa! Lestrade seems to have ob- 
served something of interest. Put on your hat, Wat- 
son, and we will stroll down together to Westmin- 
ster." 

It was my first visit to the scene of the crime — a 
high, dingy, narrow-chested house, prim, formal, 
and solid, like the century which gave it birth. 
Lestrade's bulldog features gazed out at us from 
the front window, and he greeted us warmly when 
a big constable had opened the door and let us in. 
The room into which we were shown was that in 
which the crime had been committed, but no trace 
of it now remained, save an ugly, irregular stain 
upon the carpet. This carpet was a small square 
drugget in the centre of the room, surrounded by 
a broad expanse of beautiful, old-fashioned wood- 
flooring in square blocks highly polished. Over 
the fireplace was a magnificent trophy of weapons, 
one of which had been used on that tragic night. In 
the window was a sumptuous writing-desk, and 
every detail of the apartment, the pictures, the 
rugs, and the hangings, all pointed to a taste which 
was luxurious to the verge of effeminacy. 

"Seen the Paris news?" asked Lestrade. 

Holmes nodded. 

"Our French friends seem to have touched the 
spot this time. No doubt it's just as they say. She 


577 



The Adventure of the Second Stain 


knocked at the door — surprise visit, I guess, for he 
kept his life in water-tight compartments. He let 
her in — couldn't keep her in the street. She told 
him how she had traced him, reproached him, one 
thing led to another, and then with that dagger so 
handy the end soon came. It wasn't all done in 
an instant, though, for these chairs were all swept 
over yonder, and he had one in his hand as if he 
had tried to hold her off with it. We've got it all 
clear as if we had seen it." 

Holmes raised his eyebrows. 

"And yet you have sent for me?" 

"Ah, yes, that's another matter — a mere trifle, 
but the sort of thing you take an interest in — queer, 
you know, and what you might call freakish. It has 
nothing to do with the main fact — can't have, on 
the face of it." 

"What is it, then?" 

"Well, you know, after a crime of this sort we 
are very careful to keep things in their position. 
Nothing has been moved. Officer in charge here 
day and night. This morning, as the man was 
buried and the investigation over — so far as this 
room is concerned — we thought we could tidy up 
a bit. This carpet. You see, it is not fastened down; 
only just laid there. We had occasion to raise it. 
We found — " 

"Yes? You found — " 

Holmes's face grew tense with anxiety. 

"Well, I'm sure you would never guess in a 
hundred years what we did find. You see that stain 
on the carpet? Well, a great deal must have soaked 
through, must it not?" 

"Undoubtedly it must." 

"Well, you will be surprised to hear that there 
is no stain on the white woodwork to correspond." 

"No stain! But there must — " 

"Yes; so you would say. But the fact remains 
that there isn't." 

He took the corner of the carpet in his hand 
and, turning it over, he showed that it was indeed 
as he said. 

"But the underside is as stained as the upper. 
It must have left a mark." 

Lestrade chuckled with delight at having puz- 
zled the famous expert. 

"Now I'll show you the explanation. There is a 
second stain, but it does not correspond with the 
other. See for yourself." As he spoke he turned 
over another portion of the carpet, and there, sure 
enough, was a great crimson spill upon the square 


white facing of the old-fashioned floor. "What do 
you make of that, Mr. Holmes?" 

"Why, it is simple enough. The two stains 
did correspond, but the carpet has been turned 
round. As it was square and unfastened it was 
easily done." 

"The official police don't need you, Mr. 
Holmes, to tell them that the carpet must have 
been turned round. That's clear enough, for the 
stains lie above each other — if you lay it over this 
way. But what I want to know is, who shifted the 
carpet, and why?" 

I could see from Holmes's rigid face that he 
was vibrating with inward excitement. 

"Look here, Lestrade," said he, "has that con- 
stable in the passage been in charge of the place all 
the time?" 

"Yes, he has." 

"Well, take my advice. Examine him carefully. 
Don't do it before us. We'll wait here. You take 
him into the back room. You'll be more likely to 
get a confession out of him alone. Ask him how 
he dared to admit people and leave them alone in 
this room. Don't ask him if he has done it. Take it 
for granted. Tell him you knoiv someone has been 
here. Press him. Tell him that a full confession is 
his only chance of forgiveness. Do exactly what I 
tell you!" 

"By George, if he knows I'll have it out of him!" 
cried Lestrade. He darted into the hall, and a few 
moments later his bullying voice sounded from the 
back room. 

"Now, Watson, now!" cried Holmes, with fren- 
zied eagerness. All the demoniacal force of the 
man masked behind that listless manner burst out 
in a paroxysm of energy. He tore the drugget from 
the floor, and in an instant was down on his hands 
and knees clawing at each of the squares of wood 
beneath it. One turned sideways as he dug his 
nails into the edge of it. It hinged back like the lid 
of a box. A small black cavity opened beneath it. 
Holmes plunged his eager hand into it, and drew 
it out with a bitter snarl of anger and disappoint- 
ment. It was empty. 

"Quick, Watson, quick! Get it back again!" 
The wooden lid was replaced, and the drugget 
had only just been drawn straight when Lestrade's 
voice was heard in the passage. He found Holmes 
leaning languidly against the mantelpiece, re- 
signed and patient, endeavouring to conceal his 
irrepressible yawns. 

"Sorry to keep you waiting, Mr. Holmes. I can 
see that you are bored to death with the whole af- 
fair. Well, he has confessed, all right. Come in 


578 



The Adventure of the Second Stain 


here, MacPherson. Let these gentlemen hear of 
your most inexcusable conduct." 

The big constable, very hot and penitent, sidled 
into the room. 

"I meant no harm, sir, I'm sure. The young 
woman came to the door last evening — mistook 
the house, she did. And then we got talking. It's 
lonesome, when you're on duty here all day." 

"Well, what happened then?" 

"She wanted to see where the crime was 
done — had read about it in the papers, she said. 
She was a very respectable, well-spoken young 
woman, sir, and I saw no harm in letting her have 
a peep. When she saw that mark on the carpet, 
down she dropped on the floor, and lay as if she 
were dead. I ran to the back and got some water, 
but I could not bring her to. Then I went round the 
corner to the Ivy Plant for some brandy, and by the 
time I had brought it back the young woman had 
recovered and was off — ashamed of herself, I dare 
say, and dared not face me." 

"How about moving that drugget?" 

"Well, sir, it was a bit rumpled, certainly, when 
I came back. You see, she fell on it, and it lies on 
a polished floor with nothing to keep it in place. I 
straightened it out afterwards." 

"It's a lesson to you that you can't deceive me. 
Constable MacPherson," said Lestrade, with dig- 
nity. "No doubt you thought that your breach of 
duty could never be discovered, and yet a mere 
glance at that drugget was enough to convince me 
that someone had been admitted to the room. It's 
lucky for you, my man, that nothing is missing, 
or you would find yourself in Queer Street. I'm 
sorry to have called you down over such a petty 
business, Mr. Holmes, but I thought the point of 
the second stain not corresponding with the first 
would interest you." 

"Certainly, it was most interesting. Has this 
woman only been here once, constable?" 

"Yes, sir, only once." 

"Who was she?" 

"Don't know the name, sir. Was answering 
an advertisement about type- writing, and came to 
the wrong number — very pleasant, genteel young 
woman, sir." 

"Tall? Handsome?" 

"Yes, sir; she was a well-grown young woman. 
I suppose you might say she was handsome. Per- 
haps some would say she was very handsome. 
'Oh, officer, do let me have a peep!' says she. She 
had pretty, coaxing ways, as you might say, and I 


thought there was no harm in letting her just put 
her head through the door." 

"How was she dressed?" 

"Quiet, sir — a long mantle down to her feet." 

"What time was it?" 

"It was just growing dusk at the time. They 
were lighting the lamps as I came back with the 
brandy." 

"Very good," said Holmes. "Come, Watson, 
I think that we have more important work else- 
where." 

As we left the house Lestrade remained in the 
front room, while the repentant constable opened 
the door to let us out. Holmes turned on the step 
and held up something in his hand. The constable 
stared intently. 

"Good Lord, sir!" he cried, with amazement on 
his face. Holmes put his finger on his lips, re- 
placed his hand in his breast-pocket, and burst out 
laughing as we turned down the street. "Excel- 
lent!" said he. "Come, friend Watson, the curtain 
rings up for the last act. You will be relieved to 
hear that there will be no war, that the Right Hon- 
ourable Trelawney Hope will suffer no set-back in 
his brilliant career, that the indiscreet Sovereign 
will receive no punishment for his indiscretion, 
that the Prime Minister will have no European 
complication to deal with, and that with a little 
tact and management upon our part nobody will 
be a penny the worse for what might have been a 
very ugly incident." 

My mind filled with admiration for this ex- 
traordinary man. 

"You have solved it!" I cried. 

"Hardly that, Watson. There are some points 
which are as dark as ever. But we have so much 
that it will be our own fault if we cannot get the 
rest. We will go straight to Whitehall Terrace and 
bring the matter to a head." 

When we arrived at the residence of the Euro- 
pean Secretary it was for Lady Hilda Trelawney 
Hope that Sherlock Holmes inquired. We were 
shown into the morning-room. 

"Mr. Holmes!" said the lady, and her face was 
pink with her indignation, "this is surely most un- 
fair and ungenerous upon your part. I desired, as 
I have explained, to keep my visit to you a secret, 
lest my husband should think that I was intruding 
into his affairs. And yet you compromise me by 
coming here and so showing that there are busi- 
ness relations between us." 

"Unfortunately, madam, I had no possible al- 
ternative. I have been commissioned to recover 
this immensely important paper. I must therefore 


579 



The Adventure of the Second Stain 


ask you, madam, to be kind enough to place it in 
my hands." 

The lady sprang to her feet, with the colour 
all dashed in an instant from her beautiful face. 
Her eyes glazed — she tottered — I thought that she 
would faint. Then with a grand effort she rallied 
from the shock, and a supreme astonishment and 
indignation chased every other expression from 
her features. 

"You — you insult me, Mr. Holmes." 

"Come, come, madam, it is useless. Give up 
the letter." 

She darted to the bell. 

"The butler shall show you out." 

"Do not ring. Lady Hilda. If you do, then all 
my earnest efforts to avoid a scandal will be frus- 
trated. Give up the letter and all will be set right. 
If you will work with me I can arrange everything. 
If you work against me I must expose you." 

She stood grandly defiant, a queenly figure, her 
eyes fixed upon his as if she would read his very 
soul. Her hand was on the bell, but she had for- 
borne to ring it. 

"You are trying to frighten me. It is not a very 
manly thing, Mr. Holmes, to come here and brow- 
beat a woman. You say that you know something. 
What is it that you know?" 

"Pray sit down, madam. You will hurt your- 
self there if you fall. I will not speak until you sit 
down. Thank you." 

"I give you five minutes, Mr. Holmes." 

"One is enough. Lady Hilda. I know of your 
visit to Eduardo Lucas, of your giving him this 
document, of your ingenious return to the room 
last night, and of the manner in which you took 
the letter from the hiding-place under the carpet." 

She stared at him with an ashen face and 
gulped twice before she could speak. 

"You are mad, Mr. Holmes — you are mad!" she 
cried, at last. 

He drew a small piece of cardboard from his 
pocket. It was the face of a woman cut out of a 
portrait. 

"I have carried this because I thought it might 
be useful," said he. "The policeman has recog- 
nised it." 

She gave a gasp and her head dropped back in 
the chair. 

"Come, Lady Hilda. You have the letter. The 
matter may still be adjusted. I have no desire to 
bring trouble to you. My duty ends when I have 


returned the lost letter to your husband. Take 
my advice and be frank with me; it is your only 
chance." 

Her courage was admirable. Even now she 
would not own defeat. 

"I tell you again, Mr. Holmes, that you are un- 
der some absurd illusion." 

Holmes rose from his chair. 

"I am sorry for you. Lady Hilda. I have done 
my best for you; I can see that it is all in vain." 

He rang the bell. The butler entered. 

"Is Mr. Trelawney Hope at home?" 

"He will be home, sir, at a quarter to one." 

Holmes glanced at his watch. 

"Still a quarter of an hour," said he. "Very 
good, I shall wait." 

The butler had hardly closed the door behind 
him when Lady Hilda was down on her knees at 
Holmes's feet, her hands out-stretched, her beau- 
tiful face upturned and wet with her tears. 

"Oh, spare me, Mr. Holmes! Spare me!" she 
pleaded, in a frenzy of supplication. "For Heaven's 
sake, don't tell him! I love him so! I would not 
bring one shadow on his life, and this I know 
would break his noble heart." 

Holmes raised the lady. "I am thankful, 
madam, that you have come to your senses even 
at this last moment! There is not an instant to lose. 
Where is the letter?" 

She darted across to a writing-desk, unlocked 
it, and drew out a long blue envelope. 

"Here it is, Mr. Holmes. Would to Heaven I 
had never seen it!" 

"How can we return it?" Holmes muttered. 
"Quick, quick, we must think of some way! Where 
is the despatch-box?" 

"Still in his bedroom." 

"What a stroke of luck! Quick, madam, bring 
it here!" 

A moment later she had appeared with a red 
flat box in her hand. 

"How did you open it before? You have a du- 
plicate key? Yes, of course you have. Open it!" 

From out of her bosom Lady Hilda had drawn 
a small key. The box flew open. It was stuffed with 
papers. Holmes thrust the blue envelope deep 
down into the heart of them, between the leaves of 
some other document. The box was shut, locked, 
and returned to the bedroom. 

"Now we are ready for him," said Holmes; "we 
have still ten minutes. I am going far to screen you. 
Lady Hilda. In return you will spend the time in 


580 



The Adventure of the Second Stain 


telling me frankly the real meaning of this extraor- 
dinary affair." 

"Mr. Holmes, I will tell you everything," cried 
the lady. "Oh, Mr. Holmes, I would cut off my 
right hand before I gave him a moment of sor- 
row! There is no woman in all London who loves 
her husband as I do, and yet if he knew how I 
have acted — how I have been compelled to act — he 
would never forgive me. For his own honour 
stands so high that he could not forget or pardon 
a lapse in another. Help me, Mr. Holmes! My hap- 
piness, his happiness, our very lives are at stake!" 

"Quick, madam, the time grows short!" 

"It was a letter of mine, Mr. Holmes, an indis- 
creet letter written before my marriage — a foolish 
letter, a letter of an impulsive, loving girl. I meant 
no harm, and yet he would have thought it crimi- 
nal. Had he read that letter his confidence would 
have been for ever destroyed. It is years since I 
wrote it. I had thought that the whole matter was 
forgotten. Then at last I heard from this man, Lu- 
cas, that it had passed into his hands, and that he 
would lay it before my husband. I implored his 
mercy. He said that he would return my letter if 
I would bring him a certain document which he 
described in my husband's despatch-box. He had 
some spy in the office who had told him of its ex- 
istence. He assured me that no harm could come 
to my husband. Put yourself in my position, Mr. 
Holmes! What was I to do?" 

"Take your husband into your confidence." 

"I could not, Mr. Holmes, I could not! On the 
one side seemed certain ruin; on the other, terrible 
as it seemed to take my husband's paper, still in a 
matter of politics I could not understand the con- 
sequences, while in a matter of love and trust they 
were only too clear to me. I did it, Mr. Holmes! 
I took an impression of his key; this man Lu- 
cas furnished a duplicate. I opened his despatch- 
box, took the paper, and conveyed it to Godolphin 
Street." 

"What happened there, madam?" 

"I tapped at the door as agreed. Lucas opened 
it. I followed him into his room, leaving the hall 
door ajar behind me, for I feared to be alone with 
the man. I remember that there was a woman out- 
side as I entered. Our business was soon done. He 
had my letter on his desk; I handed him the docu- 
ment. He gave me the letter. At this instant there 
was a sound at the door. There were steps in the 
passage. Lucas quickly turned back the drugget, 
thrust the document into some hiding-place there, 
and covered it over. 


"What happened after that is like some fearful 
dream. I have a vision of a dark, frantic face, of 
a woman's voice, which screamed in French, 'My 
waiting is not in vain. At last, at last I have found 
you with her!' There was a savage struggle. I saw 
him with a chair in his hand, a knife gleamed in 
hers. I rushed from the horrible scene, ran from 
the house, and only next morning in the paper did 
I learn the dreadful result. That night I was happy, 
for I had my letter, and I had not seen yet what the 
future would bring. 

"It was the next morning that I realized that I 
had only exchanged one trouble for another. My 
husband's anguish at the loss of his paper went to 
my heart. I could hardly prevent myself from there 
and then kneeling down at his feet and telling him 
what I had done. But that again would mean a 
confession of the past. I came to you that morning 
in order to understand the full enormity of my of- 
fence. From the instant that I grasped it my whole 
mind was turned to the one thought of getting 
back my husband's paper. It must still be where 
Lucas had placed it, for it was concealed before 
this dreadful woman entered the room. If it had 
not been for her coming, I should not have known 
where his hiding-place was. How was I to get into 
the room? For two days I watched the place, but 
the door was never left open. Last night I made a 
last attempt. What I did and how I succeeded, you 
have already learned. I brought the paper back 
with me, and thought of destroying it since I could 
see no way of returning it, without confessing my 
guilt to my husband. Heavens, I hear his step upon 
the stair!" 

The European Secretary burst excitedly into the 
room. 

"Any news, Mr. Holmes, any news?" he cried. 

"I have some hopes." 

"Ah, thank heaven!" His face became radiant. 
"The Prime Minister is lunching with me. May he 
share your hopes? He has nerves of steel, and yet 
I know that he has hardly slept since this terrible 
event. Jacobs, will you ask the Prime Minister to 
come up? As to you, dear, I fear that this is a mat- 
ter of politics. We will join you in a few minutes in 
the dining-room." 

The Prime Minister's manner was subdued, 
but I could see by the gleam of his eyes and the 
twitchings of his bony hands that he shared the 
excitement of his young colleague. 

"I understand that you have something to re- 
port, Mr. Holmes?" 


581 



"Purely negative as yet," my friend answered. 
"I have inquired at every point where it might be, 
and I am sure that there is no danger to be appre- 
hended." 

"But that is not enough, Mr. Holmes. We can- 
not live for ever on such a volcano. We must have 
something definite." 

"I am in hopes of getting it. That is why I am 
here. The more I think of the matter the more 
convinced I am that the letter has never left this 
house." 

"Mr. Holmes!" 

"If it had it would certainly have been public 
by now." 

"But why should anyone take it in order to 
keep it in his house?" 

"I am not convinced that anyone did take it." 

"Then how could it leave the despatch-box?" 

"I am not convinced that it ever did leave the 
despatch-box." 

"Mr. Holmes, this joking is very ill-timed. You 
have my assurance that it left the box." 

"Have you examined the box since Tuesday 
morning?" 

"No; it was not necessary." 

"You may conceivably have overlooked it." 

"Impossible, I say." 

"But I am not convinced of it; I have known 
such things to happen. I presume there are other 
papers there. Well, it may have got mixed with 
them." 

"It was on the top." 

"Someone may have shaken the box and dis- 
placed it." 

"No, no; I had everything out." 


"Surely it is easily decided, Hope," said the 
Premier. "Let us have the despatch-box brought 
in." 

The Secretary rang the bell. 

"Jacobs, bring down my despatch-box. This is 
a farcical waste of time, but still, if nothing else 
will satisfy you, it shall be done. Thank you, Ja- 
cobs; put it here. I have always had the key on my 
watch-chain. Here are the papers, you see. Letter 
from Lord Merrow, report from Sir Charles Hardy, 
memorandum from Belgrade, note on the Russo- 
German grain taxes, letter from Madrid, note from 
Lord Flowers — good heavens! what is this? Lord 
Bellinger! Lord Bellinger!" 

The Premier snatched the blue envelope from 
his hand. 

"Yes, it is it — and the letter is intact. Hope, I 
congratulate you." 

"Thank you! Thank you! What a weight from 
my heart. But this is inconceivable — impossible. 
Mr. Holmes, you are a wizard, a sorcerer! How 
did you know it was there?" 

"Because I knew it was nowhere else." 

"I cannot believe my eyes!" He ran wildly to 
the door. "Where is my wife? I must tell her that 
all is well. Hilda! Hilda!" we heard his voice on 
the stairs. 

The Premier looked at Holmes with twinkling 
eyes. 

"Come, sir," said he. "There is more in this 
than meets the eye. How came the letter back in 
the box?" 

Holmes turned away smiling from the keen 
scrutiny of those wonderful eyes. 

"We also have our diplomatic secrets," said he, 
and picking up his hat he turned to the door. 



THE BLACK BARONET 

"Yes, Holmes, the autumn is a melancholy time. But you are in need of this holiday. After all, you should be interested in such a country type as that man we 
see from the window." 

My friend Mr. Sherlock Holmes, closing the book in his hands, glanced languidly out of the window of our private sitting-room at the inn near East Grinstead. 

"Pray be explicit, Watson," said he. "Do you refer to the cobbler or to the farmer?" 

In the country road past the inn, I could see a man on the driver's seat of a market-cart, clearly a farmer. But otherwise there was only an elderly workman in corduroy 
trousers, plodding towards the cart with his head down. 

"Surely a cobbler," observed Holmes, answering my thought rather than my words. "He is left-handed, I perceive." 

"Holmes, you would have been accused of wizardry in another age from ours! Why the man should be a cobbler I cannot conceive, but a left-handed 
cobbler? You cannot have deduced it." 

"My dear fellow, observe the marks across the corduroy trousers where the cobbler rests his lap stone. The left hand side, you will remark, is far more worn than 
the right. He used his left hand for hammering the leather. Would that all our problems were so simple!" 

That year of 1889 had brought some significant successes to Sherlock Holmes, which had added further laurels to his already formidable reputation. But 
the strain of almost unremitting work had left its mark upon him, and I was sincerely relieved when he had fallen in with my proposal that we should exchange the 
October fogs of Baker Street for the rich autumnal beauty of the Sussex country-side. 

My friend possessed a marked resilience, and the few days of relaxation had already put back the old nervous spring in his step and a touch of colour in his cheeks. 
Indeed, I welcomed even his occasional outbursts of impatience as a sign that his vigorous nature had shaken off the lassitude which had followed upon his last 
case. 

Holmes had lit his pipe, and I had picked up my book when there came a knock on the door and the landlord entered. 

"There be a gentleman to see you, Mr. Holmes, sir," he said in his soft Sussex burr, "and so hurried-like that up I must come without even taking off me apron. Ah! 
Here he is now." 

A tall, fair-haired man, wearing a heavy ulster and a Scotch plaid swathed round his throat, rushed into the room, threw his Gladstone bag into the nearest corner, 
and, curtly dismissing the landlord, closed the door behind him. Then he nodded to us both. 

"Ah, Gregson," said Holmes, "there must be something unusual in the wind to bring you so far afield!" 

"What a case!" cried Inspector Tobias Gregson, sinking into the chair which I had pushed towards him. "Whew! What a case! As soon as we had the 

telegram at the Yard, I thought it would do no harm to have a word with you in Baker Street— unofficial, of course, Mr. Holmes. Then, when Mrs. Hudson gave me 

your address, I decided to come on down. It's less than thirty miles from here to the place in Kent where the murder was committed." He mopped at his 

forehead. "One of the oldest families in the county, they tell me. By heaven, just wait till the papers get hold of it!" 

"My dear Holmes," I interposed, "you are here on a rest." 

"Yes, yes, Watson," said my friend hurriedly, "but it will do no harm to hear the details. Well, Gregson?" 

"I know no more than the bare facts given in this telegram from the county police. Colonel Jocelyn Daley, who was a guest of Sir Reginald Lavington at 
Lavington Court, has been stabbed to death in the banqueting-hall. The butler found him there at about ten-thirty this morning. He'd just died; blood still 
flowing." 

Holmes put down his book on the table. "Suicide? Murder? What?" he asked. 

"It couldn't be suicide; no weapon was discovered. But I've had a second telegram, and there's new evidence. It appears to implicate Sir Reginald 
Lavington himself. Colonel Daley was well known in sporting circles, but with none too good a reputation. This is crime in high life, Mr. Holmes, 
and there is no room for mistakes." 

"Lavington— Lavington?". mused Holmes. "Surely, Watson, when we drove last week to visit the Bodiam Ruins, did we not pass through a village of 
that name? I seem to recall a house lying in a hollow." 

I nodded. In my mind rose the memory of a moated manor-house, almost stifled amid yew trees, from which a sense of oppressiveness had seemed 
to weigh upon me. 

"That's right, Mr. Holmes," agreed Gregson. "A house in a hollow. My guide-book says that at Lavington the past is more real than the present. Will 
you come with me?" 

My friend leapt from his chair. "By all means," he cried. "No, Watson, not a word!" 

The excellent establishment of Mr. John Hoath again supplied us with a carriage in which for two hours we were driven through the narrow, deep-rutted 
Sussex lanes. By the time that we had crossed the Kent border, the chill in the air made us glad of our rugs. We had turned off the main road, and were 
descending a steep lane when the coachman pointed with his whip at a moat-girdled house spread out below us in the grey dusk. 

"Lavington Court," said he. 

A few minutes later we had alighted from our carriage. As we crossed the causeway to the front door, I had a sombre impression of dead leaves on dark, 
sullen water and a great battlemented tower looming through the twilight. Holmes struck a match and stooped over the gravelled surface of the causeway. 
"H'm, ha! Four sets of footprints. Hullo, what's this? The hoof-marks of a horse, and furiously ridden, to judge by their depth. Probably the first summons to the police. 
Well, Gregson, there's not much to be gained here. Let us hope that the scene of the crime may yield more interesting results." 

As Holmes finished speaking, the door was opened. I must confess to reassurance at the sight of the stolid, and red-faced butler who ushered us into a stone- 
flagged hall, mellow and beautiful in the light of old-fashioned, many-branched candlesticks. At the far end a stairway led up to an oaken gallery on the floor above. 

A thin, ginger-haired man, who had been warming his coat-tails before the fire, hurried towards us. 

"Inspector Gregson?" he asked. "Thank the Lord you've come, sir!" 

"I take it that you are Sergeant Bassett of the Kent County Constabulary?" 

The ginger-haired man nodded. "That will do, Gillings. Well ring when we need you. This is a dreadful business, sir, dreadful!" he went on, as the butler departed. "And 
now it's worse than ever. Here's a famous gambler stabbed when he was drinking a toast to his best racehorse, and Sir Reginald claims to have been absent at the 
time, and yet the knife—" The local detective broke off and looked at us. "Who are these gentlemen?" 

"They are Mr. Sherlock Holmes and Dr. Watson. You may speak freely." 

"Well, Mr. Holmes, I've heard of your clever reputation," remarked Sergeant Bassett doubtfully. "But there's not much mystery about this affair, and I hope the police 
will receive the credit." 

"Gregson can tell you that I play the game for the game's sake," my friend replied. "Officially, I prefer not to appear in this case." 

"Very fair, I'm sure, Mr. Holmes. Then, gentlemen, please to come this way." 

He picked up a four-branched candlestick, and we were following him across the hall when there came a most unexpected interruption. 

I have had considerable experience of women in many parts of the world, but never have I beheld a more queenly presence than the woman now descending 
the stairs. As she paused with her hand on the banister, the candlelight falling warmly on her soft copper-coloured hair and her heavy-lidded green eyes, I 
gained an impression of a beauty once radiant but now pale under the stress of some dreadful event which she could not understand. 

"I heard your name in the hall, Mr. Holmes," she cried. "I know very little, but of one thing I am certain. My husband is innocent! I beg that you will 
think of that first." 

For a moment Holmes looked at her intently, as though that melodious voice had struck some chord in his memory. 



"I will bear your suggestion in mind, Lady Lavington. But surely your marriage has deprived the stage of—" 

"Then you recognize Margaret Montpensier?" For the first time a touch of colour came into her face. "Yes, that was when I first met Colonel Daley. But 
my husband had no reason for jealousy — !" She paused in consternation. 

"How's this, my lady?" exclaimed Gregson. "Jealousy?" 

The two detectives exchanged glances. 

"We hadn't got a motive before," muttered Bassett. 

Lady Lavington, formerly that great actress Margaret Montpensier, had said what she had never intended to say. Holmes bowed gravely, and we followed the 
sergeant towards an arched door. 

Though the room we entered was in complete darkness, I had a sense of height and size. 

"There are no lights here except from this candlestick, gentlemen," came Bassett's voice. "Stand in the door for a moment, please." 

As he moved forward, the reflection of four candle-flames followed him along the surface of a great refectory table, with its narrow side towards the door. At 
the far end the light flashed back from a tall silver goblet with a human hand lying motionless on either side. Bassett thrust forward the candelabrum. 

"Look at this, Inspector Gregson!" he cried. 

Seated at the head of the table, his cheek resting upon the surface, a man lay sprawled forward with his arms outflung on either side of the cup. Against a welter of 
blood and wine his fair hair shone under the candle-flames. 

"His throat's been cut," snapped Bassett. "And here," he cried, darting to the wall, "was the dagger that did it!" 

We hastened forward to where he was holding up his light against the old wainscotting. Amid a trophy of arms, two small metal hooks showed where some weapon had 
hung. 

"How do you know that it was a dagger?" asked Gregson. 

Bassett pointed to a slight scratch on the woodwork some six inches below. Holmes nodded approvingly. 

"Good, Sergeant!" said he. "But you have other proof besides the scratch on the panelling?" 

"Yes! Ask that butler, Gillings! It’s an old hunting-dagger: hung there for years. Now look at the wound in Colonel Daley's throat." 

Inured though I was to scenes of violence, I stepped back. Bassett, laying hold of that yellow hair which was tinged with grey at the temples, raised the dead man's 
head. Even in death it was an eagle face, with a great curving nose above a remorseless mouth. 

"The dagger, yes," said Holmes. "But surely an odd direction for the blow? It appears to strike upwards from beneath." 

The local detective smiled grimly. "Not so odd, Mr. Holmes, if the murderer struck when his victim raised that heavy cup to drink. Colonel Daley would have had to 
use both hands. We know already that he and Sir Reginald were drinking in here to the success of the colonel's horse at Leopardstown next week." 

We all looked at the great wine-vessel, fully twelve inches high. It was of ancient silver, richly embossed and chased, girded below the lip with a circlet of 
garnets. 

As it stood there amid the crimson stains and the scratches of finger-nails on that dreadful table-top, I noticed the twin silver figures carved like owls that decorated the 
tops of the handles on either side. 

"The Luck of Lavington," said Bassett with a short laugh. "You can see those owls in the family arms. Well, it brought no luck to Colonel Daley. Somebody 
stabbed him when he raised it to drink." 

"Somebody?" said a voice in the background. 

Holmes had lifted the cup and, after examining it closely, was looking at the scratches and wine-stains which had seeped beneath it, when the shock 
of this interruption made us all turn towards the far end of the banqueting-hall. 

A man was standing near the door. The light of a single taper which he had raised above his head illumined a pair of dark, brooding eyes that glowered at 
us from a face as black-browed and swarthy as that of some Andalusian gipsy. There was an impression of formidable strength in the spread of his shoulders, and in 
his bull neck above an old-fashioned black satin stock. 

"How's this?" he challenged in a rumbling voice, advancing on us with silent steps. "Who are ye? A pretty state of affairs, Bassett, when ye drag a set of strangers 
into the house of your own landlord!" 

"I would remind you, Sir Reginald, that a serious crime has been committed," replied the local detective sternly. "This is Inspector Gregson from London; and 
these gentlemen are Mr. Sherlock Holmes and Dr. Watson." 

A shade of uneasiness seemed to flit across the dark face of the baronet as he looked at Holmes. 

"I've heard of ye," he growled. His gaze moved towards the dead man. "Yes, Buck Daley's dead, and probably damned. I know his reputation now. Wine, horses, women 
—well, there have been Lavingtons like that. Mayhap, Mr. Holmes, ye have the wit to recognize a mischance when others talk of murder." 

To my amazement Holmes seemed seriously to consider this monstrous statement. "Were it not for one circumstance, Sir Reginald," he said at length, "I should 
probably agree with you." 

Gregson smiled sourly. "We're all aware of that circumstance. The missing knife—" 

"I did not say that it was the knife." 

"There was no need for you to say so, Mr. Holmes. Can a man cut his own throat by accident and afterwards conceal the weapon?" 

Seizing the candelabrum from the sergeant, Gregson held it up to the trophy of arms which glittered against the dark panelling. His stern eyes met those of 
the baronet. 

"Where is the dagger that hung here?" he demanded. 

"I took it," said Sir Reginald. 

"Oh, you did, did you? Why?" 

"I've told Sergeant Bassett there. I was fishing this morninq. I used that old blade to gut the pike; ay, as my fathers did before me." 

"Then you have it?" 

"No; must I tell the police a dozen times? I lost it from my creel. Mayhap at the river, or on my way home." 

Gregson drew the sergeant to one side. 

"I think there's little more we need," I heard him mutter. "His wife has given us the motive, and we have it from his own lips that he took the weapon. Sir Reginald 
Lavington," he said with authority, advancing upon the baronet, "I must ask you to accompany me to Maidstone Police Station. There you will be formally 
charged with—" 

Holmes darted forward. "One moment, Gregson!" he cried. "You must really give us twenty-four hours to think this over. For your own sake I tell you that any good 
counsel would tear your case to pieces." 

"I think not, Mr. Holmes; especially with her ladyship in the witness-box." 

Sir Reginald started violently, while a livid pallor mottled the swarthiness of his features. 

"I warn ye not to drag my wife into this! Whatever she's said, she can't testify against her husband!" 

"We would not ask her to do so. It is sufficient that she repeat what she has already stated in the presence of police witnesses. However, Mr. Holmes," 
Gregson added, "in return for one or two small favours you've done us in the past, I see no harm in— well! in delaying matters for a few more hours. As for you, Sir 
Reginald, should you attempt to leave this house, you will be arrested at once. Well, Mr. Holmes, what now?" 

My friend had dropped to his knees, and by the light of a candle was peering closely at the horrible splashes of blood and wine which dabbled the oaken floor. 



"Perhaps you would have the goodness, Watson, to pull that bell-rope," he said, as he scrambled to his feet. "A word with the butler, who discovered the body, 
would not come amiss before we seek accommodation at the village inn. Let us adjourn to the hall." 

I think that each of us was glad to leave that black, vaulted room with its terrible occupant, and to find ourselves once more before the log fire blazing on the hearth. 
Lady Lavington, pale but beautiful in a gown of bronze velvet with a collar of Brussels lace, rose from a chair. 

For a moment her eyes seemed to search each one of us with a mute, intense questioning, and then she had swept to her husband's side. 

"In God's name, Margaret, what have ye been saying?" he demanded, the veins swelling in his thick neck. "Ye'll have me at the rope's end yet!" 

"Whatever the sacrifice, I swear you shall not suffer! Surely it is better that—" She whispered a few agitated words in his ear. 

"Never! Never!" retorted her husband fiercely. "What? You here, Gillings? Have you too been condemning your master?" 

None of us had heard the butler's approach, but now he stepped into the circle of fire-light, with a troubled expression on his honest face. 

"Heaven forbid, Sir Reginald!" Gillings replied warmly. "I told Sergeant Bassett only what I saw and heard. Colonel Daley called for a bottle of port. He was in the ban- 
queting-hall. He— he said he wished to drink a toast with you from the Luck of Lavington, to the victory of his horse in the Leopardstown races next week. 
Since there was port in the decanter on the buffet, I poured it into the great cup. I remember how the colonel laughed as he dismissed me." 

"He laughed, you say?" said Sherlock Holmes quickly. "When did you actually see Sir Reginald with the colonel?" 

"I did not actually see him, sir. But the colonel said—" 

"And laughed when he said it," interposed Holmes. "Perhaps Lady Lavington would tell us whether Colonel Daley was a frequent guest under this roof?" 

It seemed to me that some swift emotion glowed for an instant in those wonderful green eyes. 

"For some years past, a frequent guest," she said. "But my husband was not even in the house this morning! Has he not told you so already?" 

"Excuse me, my lady," doggedly interrupted Sergeant Bassett. "Sir Reginald says he was at the river, but he admits he can't prove it." 

"Quite so," said Holmes. "Well, Watson, there is nothing more to be done here tonight." 

We found comfortable accommodation at the Three Owls in the village of Lavington. Holmes was moody and preoccupied. When I attempted to 
question him, he cut me short with the statement that he had nothing further to add until he had visited Maidstone on the morrow. I must confess that I could 
not understand my friend's attitude. It was evident that Sir Reginald Lavington was a dangerous man, and that our visit appeared to have made him 
more so but when I pointed out to Holmes that his duty lay at Lavington Court rather than in the county town of Maidstone, he replied merely with the 
incongruous observation that the Lavingtons were a historic family. 

I passed a restless morning. The wild weather kept me indoors over a week-old newspaper, and it was not until four o'clock in the afternoon that Holmes 
burst into our private sitting-room. His cape was dripping and rain-sodden, but his eyes glittered and his cheeks were flushed with some intense inner 
excitement. 

"Good heavens!" I said. "You look as though you have found the answer to our problem." 

Before my friend could reply, there came a knock and the door of our sitting-room had swung open. Holmes rose from the chair into which he had just relapsed. 

"Ah, Lady Lavington," said he, "we are honoured by your visit." 

Though her features were heavily veiled, there was no mistaking that tall, gracious figure now hesitating on our threshold. 

"I received your note, Mr. Holmes," she replied in a low voice, "and I came at once." Sinking into the chair which I had wheeled forward, she raised her veil and let 
her head rest back among the cushions. "I came at once," she repeated wearily. 

The fire-light threw her face into strong relief, and, as I studied her features, still beautiful despite the almost waxen pallor and restless brilliance of her eyes, I dis- 
cerned in them the shock of the event that had shattered the peace of her life and the privacy of her home. A sense of compassion prompted me to speak. 

"You may have complete confidence in my friend Sherlock Holmes," I said gently. "This is indeed a painful time for you, Lady Lavington, but rest assured that 
everything will turn out for the best." 

She thanked me with a glance. But, when I rose to leave them together, she held up her hand. 

"I would much prefer that you stayed, Dr. Watson," she begged. "Your presence gives me confidence. Why have you sent for me, Mr. Holmes?" 

My friend, sitting back, had closed his eyes: "Shall we say that you are here in your husband's interests?" he murmured. "You will not object if I ask you to 
elucidate a few small points which are still obscure to me?" 

Lady Lavington rose to her feet. 

"Mr. Holmes, this is unworthy," she said coldly. "You are trying to trick me into condemning my own husband! He is innocent, I tell you!" 

"So I believe. Nevertheless, I pray that you will compose yourself and answer my questions. I understand that this Buck Daley has been an intimate friend of 
Sir Reginald for some years past." 

Lady Lavington stared at him, and then began to laugh. She laughed most heartily, but with a note in her mirth that jarred on me as a medical man. 

"Friend?" she cried at last. "Why, he was unworthy to black my husband's boots!" 

"I am relieved to hear you say so. And yet it is fair to suppose that both men moved in the same circles during the London seasons, and, perhaps 
unknown to you, might have shared interests in common— possibly of a sporting nature? When did your husband first introduce Colonel Daley to you?" 

"You are pitiably wrong in all your suppositions! I knew Colonel Daley for years before my marriage. It was I who introduced him to my husband. Buck Daley 
was a creature of society: ambitious, worldly, merciless, and yet with all the charm of his kind. What interest could such as he share in common with a rough but 
honourable man whose world begins and ends with the boundaries of his own ancestral lands?" 

"A woman's love," said Holmes quietly. 

Lady Lavington's eyes dilated. Then, dropping the veil over her face, she rushed from the room. 

Fora long time Holmes smoked in silence, his brows drawn down and his gaze fixed thoughtfully upon the fire. I knew from the expression on his face that he had 
reached some final decision. Then he drew from his pocket a crumpled sheet of paper. 

"A while ago, Watson, you asked whether I had found the answer to our problem. In one sense, my dear fellow, I have. Listen closely to the vital evidence I 
shall read to you. It is from the records in the Maidstone County Registry." 

"I am all attention." 

"This is a little transcription which I have put into comprehensible English. It was originally written in the year 1485, when the House of Lancaster triumphed at last 
over the House of York. 

"And it came to pass that on the field of Bosworth Sir John Lavington did take prisoner two knights and a squire, and carried them with him to Lavington 
Court. For he would take no ransom from any who had raised banner for the House of York. 

"That night, after Sir John had supped, each was brought to the table and offered the Choice. One knight, he who was a kinsman of Sir John, drank from the 
Life and departed without ransom. And one knight and the squire drank from the Death. It was a deed most un-Christian, for they were unconfessed, and thereafter 
men spake far and wide of the Luck of Lavington." 

For a while we sat in silence after the reading of this extraordinary document, while the wind lashed the rain against the windows and boomed in the ancient chimney. 
"Holmes," I said at last, "I seem to sense something monstrous here. Yet what connection can there be between the murder of a profligate gambler and the violence 
that followed on a battle four hundred years ago? Only the room has remained the same." 

"This, Watson, is the second most important thing that! have discovered." 

"And the first?" 

"We shall find it at Lavington Court. A black baronet, Watson! Might it not also suggest blackmail?" 



"You mean that Sir Reginald was being blackmailed?" My friend ignored the question. 

"I have promised to meet Gregson at the house. Would you care to accompany me?" 

"What is in your mind? I have seldom seen you so grave." 

"It is already growing dark," said Sherlock Holmes. "The dagger that killed Colonel Daley must do no further harm." 

It was a wild, blustering evening. As we walked through the dusk to the old manor-house, the air was filled with the creaking of tree-branches and I felt the cold 
touch of a blown leaf against my cheek. Lavington Court was as shadowy as the hollow in which it lay; but, as Gillings opened the door to us, a gleam of light showed 
in the direction of the banqueting-hall. 

"Inspector Gregson has been asking for you, sir," said the butler, helping us off with our wraps. 

We hurried towards the light. Gregson, with a look of deep agitation, was pacing up and down beside the table. He glanced at the now-empty chair beyond 
the great cup. 

"Thank God you've come, Mr. Holmes!" he burst out. "Sir Reginald was telling the truth. I didn't believe it, but he is innocent! Bassett has dug up two 
farmers who met him walking from the river at ten-thirty yesterday morning. Why couldn't he have said he met them?" 

There was a singular light in Holmes's eyes as he looked at Gregson. 

"There are such men," he said. 

"Did you know this all the time?" 

"I did not know of the witnesses, no. But I hoped that you would find a witness, since for other reasons I was convinced of his innocence." 

"Then we're back where we started!" 

"Hardly that. Had you thought, Gregson, of reconstructing this crime after the French fashion?" 

"How do you mean?" 

Holmes moved to the end of the table, which still bore the marks of the recent tragedy. "Let us suppose that I am Colonel Daley— a tall man, standing 
here at the head of the table. I am about to drink with someone, who means to stab me. I pick up the cup like this, and with both hands I lift it to my 
mouth. So! Gregson, we will suppose that you are the murderer. Stab me in the throat!" 

"What the devil do you mean?" 

"Grasp an imaginary dagger in your right hand. That's it! Don't hesitate, man; stab me in the throat!" 

Gregson, as though half-hypnotised, took a step forward with his hand raised, and stopped. 

"But it can't be done, Mr. Holmes! Not like this, anyway!" 

"Why not?" 

"The direction of the colonel's wound was straight upwards through the throat. Nobody could strike upwards from underneath, across the breadth of the 
table. It's impossible!" 

My friend, who had been standing with his head back and the heavy cup lifted to his lips by both handles, now straightened up and offered it to the Scotland Yard 
man. "Good!" said he. "Now, Gregson, imagine that you are Colonel Daley. I am the murderer. Take my place, and lift the Luck of Lavington." 

"Very well. What next?" 

"Do exactly what I did. But don't put the cup to your lips. That's it, Gregson; that's it! Mark well what I say: don't put it to your lips!" 

The light flashed back from the great drinking-vessel as it tilted. 

"No, man, no!" shouted Holmes suddenly. "Not another inch, if you value your life!" 

Even as he spoke, there came a click and a metallic slither. A slim, sharp blade shot from the lower edge of the cup with the speed of a striking snake. Gregson 
sprang back with an oath, while the vessel, falling from his hands, crashed and jangled across the floor. 

"My God!" I cried. 

"My God!" echoed a voice which struck across my own. Sir Reginald Lavington, his dark features now livid, was standing behind us with one hand partly raised as 
though to ward off a blow. Then, with a groan, he buried his face in his hands. We stared at each other in horror-struck silence. 

"If you hadn't warned me, the blade would have been through my throat," said Gregson in a shaking voice. 

"Our ancestors had a neat way of eliminating their enemies," observed Holmes, lifting the heavy cup and once more examining it closely. "With such a toy in the 
house, it is a dangerous thing for a guest to drink in his host's absence." 

"Then this was only an appalling accident!" I exclaimed. "Daley was the innocent victim of a trap fashioned four centuries ago!" 

"Observe the cunning of this mechanism, very much as I suspected yesterday afternoon—" 

"Mr. Holmes," burst out the baronet, "I have never asked favour of any man in my life—" 

"Perhaps it would be as well, Sir Reginald, if you left the explanation to me," interrupted Holmes quietly, his long, thin fingers moving over the chased surface of the 
cup. "The blade cannot strike unless the cup be lifted fully to the lips, when the full pressure of both hands is exerted on the handles. Then the handles themselves 
act as triggers for the spring-mechanism, to which the old blade is attached. You will perceive the minute slot just below the circlet of jewels and cleverly disguised by 
the carving." 

There was awe in Gregson's face as he gazed down at the ancient vessel. 

"Then you mean," he stated somberly, "that the person who drinks from the Luck of Lavington is a dead man?" 

"By no means. I would draw your attention to the small silver owl-figures on the crest of the handles. If you look closely, you will see that the right-hand one 
turns on a pivot. I believe this to act in the same way as a safety-catch on a rifle. Unfortunately, these old mechanisms are apt to become unreliable with the 
passage of the centuries." 

Gregson whistled. 

"It was an accident, right enough!" he stated. "Your reference to a mischance, Sir Reginald, has proved to be a lucky shot in the dark. I suspected it all the time. 
But one moment! Why didn't we see the blade when we first saw the cup?" 

"Let us suppose, Gregson," replied Holmes, "that there is some form of recoil-spring." 

"But surely, Holmes," I cried, "there could be no such—" 

"As you were about to say, Watson, there was no such description of the cup as I had hoped to find in the Maidstone County Registry. However, it did yield me the 
interesting document I read you." 

"Well, well, Mr. Holmes, you can give me the historic details later," said Gregson, turning to the baronet. "In regard to this affair, Sir Reginald, you can think yourself 
lucky that there are some sharp men hereabouts. Your possession of this dangerous relic might have caused a serious miscarriage of justice. Either you must have the 
mechanism removed, or entrust it to Scotland Yard." 

Sir Reginald Lavington, who had been biting his lip as though to suppress some overmastering emotion, looked dazedly from Holmes to Gregson. 

"Right willingly," he said at length. "But the Luck of Lavington has been in our family for over four hundred years. If it passes beyond this door, then I feel it 
should go to Mr. Sherlock Holmes." 

Holmes's eyes met those of the baronet. 

"I will accept it as a memento of a very gallant man," my friend replied gravely. 

As Holmes and I made our way up the steep lane in the wind-swept darkness, we turned at the brow of the hill and looked down on the old manor-house with 
its lights dimly reflected in the moat. 



"I do feel, Holmes," said I, somewhat nettled, "that you owe me an explanation. When I tried to point to you an error in your case, you indicated plainly that you 
wished me to speak no further." 

"What error, Watson?" 

"Your explanation of how the cup worked. By the release of a powerful spring from a trigger controlled by the handles, it would have been quite easy to make the 
blade strike. But to push it back again, unless this were done by hand so that the blade could be caught again in the mechanism— that, my dear fellow, is quite a 
different thing." 

For a moment Holmes did not reply. He stood gaunt and lonely, his gaze fixed on the ancient tower of Lavington. 

"Surely it was apparent from the first," said he, "that no living murderer could have stabbed Daley, and that something was wrong with the appearance of the crime 
as we saw it?" 

"You deduced this from the direction of the wound?" 

"That, yes. But there were other facts equally indicative." 

"Your behaviour suggested as much at the time! Yet I cannot see what facts." 

"The scratches on the table, Watson! And the wine spilled on both table and floor." 

"Pray be good enough to explain." 

"Colonel Daley's finger-nails," replied Holmes, "had clawed at the table-top in his death-throes, and all the wine had been spilled. You remarked that? Good! Taking 
as a working hypothesis the theory that he was killed by a blade in the cup, what must follow? The blade would strike. Then—?" 

"Then the cup would fall, spilling the wine. I grant that." 

"But is it reasonable that the cup, in falling, should land upright on the table— as we found it? This was overwhelmingly unlikely. Further evidence made it impossible. 
I lifted the cup, if you recall, when I first examined it. Underneath it, covered by it, you saw—?" 

"Scratches!" I interrupted. "Scratches and spilled wine!" 

"Precisely. Daley would die soon, but not instantly. If the cup fell from his hands, are we to assume that it hung suspended in the air, and afterwards descended over 
the scratches and the wine? No, Watson. There was, as you pointed out, no recoil-mechanism. With Daley dead, some living hand picked up the cup from the floor. Some 
living hand pushed back the blade into the cup, and set it upright on the table." 

A gust of rain blew out of the dreary sky, but my companion remained motionless. 

"Holmes," said I, "according to the butler—" 

"According to the butler? Yes?" 

"Sir Reginald Lavington was drinking with the colonel. At least, Daley is reported to have said so." 

"And, as he said so," commented Holmes, "gave so curious a laugh that Gillings could not forget it. Had the laugh an ulterior meaning, Watson? But I had better say 
no more, lest I make you an accessory after the fact like myself." 

"You do me less than justice, Holmes, should I become accessory after the fact in a good cause!" 

"In my judgement," said Sherlock Holmes, "one of the best of causes." 

"Then you may rely on my silence." 

"Be it so, Watson! Now consider the behaviour of Sir Reginald Lavington. For an innocent man, he acted very strangely." 

"You mean that Sir Reginald—" 

"Pray don't interrupt. Though he had witnesses that he had not been drinking with Daley, he would not produce them. He preferred to be arrested. Why should 
Daley, a man of such different character from his host, pay frequent visits to this house? What was Daley doing there? Interpret the meaning of Lavington's statement, 1 
know his character now!' We saw the answers to these questions played out in deadly pantomime. To me it suggested the blackest of all crimes, blackmail." 

"Sir Reginald," I exclaimed, "was guilty after all! He was a dangerous man, as I remarked—" 

"A dangerous man, yes," agreed Holmes. "But you have seen his character. He might kill. But he would not kill and conceal." 

"Conceal what?" 

"Reflect again, Watson. Though we know that he was not drinking with Daley in the banqueting-hall, he might have returned from the river just in time to find Daley 
dead. That was when he thrust the blade back into the cup, and set it upright again. But guilt? No. His behaviour, his willingness to be arrested, can be 
understood only if he had been shielding someone else." 

I followed my friend's gaze, which had never moved from the direction of Lavington Court. 

"Holmes," I cried, "then who set the diabolical mechanism?" 

"Think, Watson! Who was the only person who uttered that one word, 'jealousy'? Let us suppose a woman has erred before a marriage, but never after it. Let us 
suppose, moreover, that she believes her husband, a man of the old school, would not understand. She is at the mercy of that most vicious of all parasites, a society 
blackmailer. She is present when the blackmailer drinks a toast— by his own choice— from the Luck of Lavington. But, since she is obliged to slip away at the 
entrance of the butler, the blackmailer laughed and died. Say no more, Watson. Let the past sleep." 

"As you wish, lam silent." 

"It is a cardinal error, my dear fellow, to theorize without data. And yet, when we first entered Lavington Court yesterday evening, I had a glimpse of the truth." 
"But what did you see?" 

As we turned away towards our inn and the comforting light of a fire, Sherlock Holmes nodded over his shoulder. 

"I saw a pale, beautiful woman descend a staircase as once I had seen her on the staqe. Have you forgotten another ancient manor, and a hostess named Lady 
Macbeth?" 



The Hound of the Baskervilles 


CHAPTER I. 

Mr. Sherlock Holmes 


r. Sherlock Holmes, who was usually 
very late in the mornings, save upon 
those not infrequent occasions when he 
was up all night, was seated at the 
breakfast table. I stood upon the hearth-rug and 
picked up the stick which our visitor had left be- 
hind him the night before. It was a fine, thick 
piece of wood, bulbous-headed, of the sort which 
is known as a "Penang lawyer." Just under the 
head was a broad silver band nearly an inch across. 
"To James Mortimer, M.R.C.S., from his friends of 
the C.C.H.," was engraved upon it, with the date 
"1884." It was just such a stick as the old-fashioned 
family practitioner used to carry — dignified, solid, 
and reassuring. 

"Well, Watson, what do you make of it?" 

Holmes was sitting with his back to me, and I 
had given him no sign of my occupation. 

"How did you know what I was doing? I be- 
lieve you have eyes in the back of your head." 

"I have, at least, a well-polished, silver-plated 
coffee-pot in front of me," said he. "But, tell me, 
Watson, what do you make of our visitor's stick? 
Since we have been so unfortunate as to miss him 
and have no notion of his errand, this accidental 
souvenir becomes of importance. Let me hear you 
reconstruct the man by an examination of it." 

"I think," said I, following as far as I could the 
methods of my companion, "that Dr. Mortimer is 
a successful, elderly medical man, well-esteemed 
since those who know him give him this mark of 
their appreciation." 

"Good!" said Holmes. "Excellent!" 

"I think also that the probability is in favour of 
his being a country practitioner who does a great 
deal of his visiting on foot." 

"Why so?" 

"Because this stick, though originally a very 
handsome one has been so knocked about that I 
can hardly imagine a town practitioner carrying it. 
The thick-iron ferrule is worn down, so it is evi- 
dent that he has done a great amount of walking 
with it." 

"Perfectly sound!" said Holmes. 

"And then again, there is the 'friends of the 
C.C.H.' I should guess that to be the Something 
Hunt, the local hunt to whose members he has 
possibly given some surgical assistance, and which 
has made him a small presentation in return." 



"Really, Watson, you excel yourself," said 
Holmes, pushing back his chair and lighting a 
cigarette. "I am bound to say that in all the ac- 
counts which you have been so good as to give 
of my own small achievements you have habitu- 
ally underrated your own abilities. It may be that 
you are not yourself luminous, but you are a con- 
ductor of light. Some people without possessing 
genius have a remarkable power of stimulating it. 
I confess, my dear fellow, that I am very much in 
your debt." 

He had never said as much before, and I must 
admit that his words gave me keen pleasure, for 
I had often been piqued by his indifference to my 
admiration and to the attempts which I had made 
to give publicity to his methods. I was proud, too, 
to think that I had so far mastered his system as to 
apply it in a way which earned his approval. He 
now took the stick from my hands and examined it 
for a few minutes with his naked eyes. Then with 
an expression of interest he laid down his cigarette, 
and carrying the cane to the window, he looked 
over it again with a convex lens. 

"Interesting, though elementary," said he as 
he returned to his favourite corner of the settee. 
"There are certainly one or two indications upon 
the stick. It gives us the basis for several deduc- 
tions." 

"Has anything escaped me?" I asked with some 
self-importance. "I trust that there is nothing of 
consequence which I have overlooked?" 

"I am afraid, my dear Watson, that most of 
your conclusions were erroneous. When I said that 
you stimulated me I meant, to be frank, that in 
noting your fallacies I was occasionally guided to- 
wards the truth. Not that you are entirely wrong 
in this instance. The man is certainly a country 
practitioner. And he walks a good deal." 

"Then I was right." 

"To that extent." 

"But that was all." 

"No, no, my dear Watson, not all — by no 
means all. I would suggest, for example, that a 
presentation to a doctor is more likely to come 
from a hospital than from a hunt, and that when 
the initials 'C.C.' are placed before that hospital 
the words 'Charing Cross' very naturally suggest 
themselves." 

"You may be right." 

"The probability lies in that direction. And if 
we take this as a working hypothesis we have a 


587 



The Hound of the Baskervilles 


fresh basis from which to start our construction of 
this unknown visitor." 

"Well, then, supposing that 'C.C.H.' does stand 
for 'Charing Cross Hospital/ what further infer- 
ences may we draw?" 

"Do none suggest themselves? You know my 
methods. Apply them!" 

"I can only think of the obvious conclusion that 
the man has practised in town before going to the 
country." 

"I think that we might venture a little farther 
than this. Look at it in this light. On what occasion 
would it be most probable that such a presentation 
would be made? When would his friends unite to 
give him a pledge of their good will? Obviously 
at the moment when Dr. Mortimer withdrew from 
the service of the hospital in order to start in prac- 
tice for himself. We know there has been a presen- 
tation. We believe there has been a change from 
a town hospital to a country practice. Is it, then, 
stretching our inference too far to say that the pre- 
sentation was on the occasion of the change?" 

"It certainly seems probable." 

"Now, you will observe that he could not have 
been on the staff of the hospital, since only a 
man well-established in a London practice could 
hold such a position, and such a one would not 
drift into the country. What was he, then? If he 
was in the hospital and yet not on the staff he 
could only have been a house-surgeon or a house- 
physician — little more than a senior student. And 
he left five years ago — the date is on the stick. So 
your grave, middle-aged family practitioner van- 
ishes into thin air, my dear Watson, and there 
emerges a young fellow under thirty, amiable, un- 
ambitious, absent-minded, and the possessor of a 
favourite dog, which I should describe roughly as 
being larger than a terrier and smaller than a mas- 
tiff." 

I laughed incredulously as Sherlock Holmes 
leaned back in his settee and blew little wavering 
rings of smoke up to the ceiling. 

"As to the latter part, I have no means of check- 
ing you," said I, "but at least it is not difficult to 
find out a few particulars about the man's age and 
professional career." From my small medical shelf 
I took down the Medical Directory and turned up 
the name. There were several Mortimers, but only 
one who could be our visitor. I read his record 
aloud. 


"Mortimer, James, M.R.C.S., 1882, 
Grimpen, Dartmoor, Devon. House- 
surgeon, from 1882 to 1884, at Char- 
ing Cross Hospital. Winner of the Jack- 
son prize for Comparative Pathology, 
with essay entitled 'Is Disease a Rever- 
sion?' Corresponding member of the 
Swedish Pathological Society. Author 
of 'Some Freaks of Atavism' ( Lancet 
1882). 'Do We Progress?' ( Journal of 
Psychology, March, 1883). Medical Offi- 
cer for the parishes of Grimpen, Thors- 
ley, and High Barrow." 

"No mention of that local hunt, Watson," said 
Holmes with a mischievous smile, "but a country 
doctor, as you very astutely observed. I think that 
I am fairly justified in my inferences. As to the 
adjectives, I said, if I remember right, amiable, un- 
ambitious, and absent-minded. It is my experience 
that it is only an amiable man in this world who re- 
ceives testimonials, only an unambitious one who 
abandons a London career for the country, and 
only an absent-minded one who leaves his stick 
and not his visiting-card after waiting an hour in 
your room." 

"And the dog?" 

"Has been in the habit of carrying this stick be- 
hind his master. Being a heavy stick the dog has 
held it tightly by the middle, and the marks of his 
teeth are very plainly visible. The dog's jaw, as 
shown in the space between these marks, is too 
broad in my opinion for a terrier and not broad 
enough for a mastiff. It may have been — yes, by 
Jove, it is a curly-haired spaniel." 

He had risen and paced the room as he spoke. 
Now he halted in the recess of the window. There 
was such a ring of conviction in his voice that I 
glanced up in surprise. 

"My dear fellow, how can you possibly be so 
sure of that?" 

"For the very simple reason that I see the dog 
himself on our very door-step, and there is the ring 
of its owner. Don't move, I beg you, Watson. He 
is a professional brother of yours, and your pres- 
ence may be of assistance to me. Now is the dra- 
matic moment of fate, Watson, when you hear a 
step upon the stair which is walking into your life, 
and you know not whether for good or ill. What 
does Dr. James Mortimer, the man of science, ask 
of Sherlock Holmes, the specialist in crime? Come 
in!" 

The appearance of our visitor was a surprise 
to me, since I had expected a typical country 


588 



The Hound of the Baskervilles 


practitioner. He was a very tall, thin man, with 
a long nose like a beak, which jutted out be- 
tween two keen, gray eyes, set closely together 
and sparkling brightly from behind a pair of gold- 
rimmed glasses. He was clad in a professional 
but rather slovenly fashion, for his frock-coat was 
dingy and his trousers frayed. Though young, his 
long back was already bowed, and he walked with 
a forward thrust of his head and a general air of 
peering benevolence. As he entered his eyes fell 
upon the stick in Holmes's hand, and he ran to- 
wards it with an exclamation of joy. "I am so very 
glad," said he. "I was not sure whether I had left 
it here or in the Shipping Office. I would not lose 
that stick for the world." 

"A presentation, I see," said Holmes. 

"Yes, sir." 

"From Charing Cross Hospital?" 

"From one or two friends there on the occasion 
of my marriage." 

"Dear, dear, that's bad!" said Holmes, shaking 
his head. 

Dr. Mortimer blinked through his glasses in 
mild astonishment. 

"Why was it bad?" 

"Only that you have disarranged our little de- 
ductions. Your marriage, you say?" 

"Yes, sir. I married, and so left the hospital, 
and with it all hopes of a consulting practice. It 
was necessary to make a home of my own." 

"Come, come, we are not so far wrong, after 
all," said Holmes. "And now. Dr. James Mor- 
timer — " 

"Mister, sir. Mister — a humble M.R.C.S." 

"And a man of precise mind, evidently." 

"A dabbler in science, Mr. Holmes, a picker up 
of shells on the shores of the great unknown ocean. 
I presume that it is Mr. Sherlock Holmes whom I 
am addressing and not — " 

"No, this is my friend Dr. Watson." 

"Glad to meet you, sir. I have heard your name 
mentioned in connection with that of your friend. 
You interest me very much, Mr. Holmes. I had 
hardly expected so dolichocephalic a skull or such 
well-marked supra-orbital development. Would 


you have any objection to my running my finger 
along your parietal fissure? A cast of your skull, 
sir, until the original is available, would be an or- 
nament to any anthropological museum. It is not 
my intention to be fulsome, but I confess that I 
covet your skull." 

Sherlock Holmes waved our strange visitor into 
a chair. "You are an enthusiast in your line of 
thought, I perceive, sir, as I am in mine," said 
he. "I observe from your forefinger that you make 
your own cigarettes. Have no hesitation in lighting 
one." 

The man drew out paper and tobacco and 
twirled the one up in the other with surprising 
dexterity. He had long, quivering fingers as agile 
and restless as the antennae of an insect. 

Holmes was silent, but his little darting glances 
showed me the interest which he took in our curi- 
ous companion. 

"I presume, sir," said he at last, "that it was 
not merely for the purpose of examining my skull 
that you have done me the honour to call here last 
night and again to-day?" 

"No, sir, no; though I am happy to have had 
the opportunity of doing that as well. I came to 
you, Mr. Holmes, because I recognized that I am 
myself an unpractical man and because I am sud- 
denly confronted with a most serious and extraor- 
dinary problem. Recognizing, as I do, that you are 
the second highest expert in Europe — " 

"Indeed, sir! May I inquire who has the honour 
to be the first?" asked Holmes with some asperity. 

"To the man of precisely scientific mind the 
work of Monsieur Bertillon must always appeal 
strongly." 

"Then had you not better consult him?" 

"I said, sir, to the precisely scientific mind. But 
as a practical man of affairs it is acknowledged that 
you stand alone. I trust, sir, that I have not inad- 
vertently — " 

"Just a little," said Holmes. "I think. Dr. Mor- 
timer, you would do wisely if without more ado 
you would kindly tell me plainly what the exact 
nature of the problem is in which you demand my 
assistance." 


589 



The Hound of the Baskervilles 


CHAPTER II. 

The Curse of the Baskervilles 


"I have in my pocket a manuscript," said Dr. 
James Mortimer. 

"I observed it as you entered the room," said 
Holmes. 

"It is an old manuscript." 

"Early eighteenth century, unless it is a 
forgery." 

"How can you say that, sir?" 

"You have presented an inch or two of it to my 
examination all the time that you have been talk- 
ing. It would be a poor expert who could not give 
the date of a document within a decade or so. You 
may possibly have read my little monograph upon 
the subject. I put that at 1730." 

"The exact date is 1742." Dr. Mortimer drew 
it from his breast-pocket. "This family paper was 
committed to my care by Sir Charles Baskerville, 
whose sudden and tragic death some three months 
ago created so much excitement in Devonshire. I 
may say that I was his personal friend as well as 
his medical attendant. He was a strong-minded 
man, sir, shrewd, practical, and as unimaginative 
as I am myself. Yet he took this document very 
seriously, and his mind was prepared for just such 
an end as did eventually overtake him." 

Holmes stretched out his hand for the 
manuscript and flattened it upon his knee. 

"You will observe, Watson, the alternative use 
of the long s and the short. It is one of several 
indications which enabled me to fix the date." 

I looked over his shoulder at the yellow paper 
and the faded script. At the head was written: 
"Baskerville Hall," and below in large, scrawling 
figures: "1742." 

"It appears to be a statement of some sort." 

"Yes, it is a statement of a certain legend which 
runs in the Baskerville family." 

"But I understand that it is something more 
modern and practical upon which you wish to 
consult me?" 

"Most modern. A most practical, pressing mat- 
ter, which must be decided within twenty-four 
hours. But the manuscript is short and is inti- 
mately connected with the affair. With your per- 
mission I will read it to you." 

Holmes leaned back in his chair, placed his 
finger-tips together, and closed his eyes, with 
an air of resignation. Dr. Mortimer turned the 


manuscript to the light and read in a high, crack- 
ing voice the following curious, old-world narra- 
tive: — 

"Of the origin of the Hound of the 
Baskervilles there have been many state- 
ments, yet as I come in a direct line from 
Hugo Baskerville, and as I had the story 
from my father, who also had it from his, 

I have set it doivn with all belief that it 
occurred even as is here set forth. And I 
would have you believe, my sons, that the 
same Justice which punishes sin may also 
most graciously forgive it, and that no ban 
is so heavy but that by prayer and repen- 
tance it may be removed. Learn then from 
this story not to fear the fruits of the past, 
but rather to be circumspect in the future, 
that those foul passions whereby our family 
has suffered so grievously may not again be 
loosed to our undoing. 

" Know then that in the time of the Great 
Rebellion (the history of which by the 
learned Lord Clarendon I most earnestly 
commend to your attention) this Manor of 
Baskerville was held by Hugo of that name, 
nor can it be gainsaid that he was a most 
wild, profane, and godless man. This, in 
truth, his neighbours might have pardoned, 
seeing that saints have never flourished in 
those parts, but there was in him a cer- 
tain wanton and cruel humour which made 
his name a byword through the West. It 
chanced that this Hugo came to love (if, in- 
deed, so dark a passion may be known un- 
der so bright a name) the daughter of a yeo- 
man who held lands near the Baskerville es- 
tate. But the young maiden, being discreet 
and of good repute, would ever avoid him, 
for she feared his evil name. So it came to 
pass that one Michaelmas this Hugo, with 
five or six of his idle and wicked compan- 
ions, stole doivn upon the farm and carried 
off the maiden, her father and brothers be- 
ing from home, as he well knew. When they 
had brought her to the Hall the maiden was 
placed in an upper chamber, while Hugo 
and his friends sat doivn to a long carouse, 
as was their nightly custom. Now, the 
poor lass upstairs was like to have her wits 
turned at the singing and shouting and ter- 
rible oaths which came up to her from be- 


590 



The Hound of the Baskervilles 


low, for they say that the words used by 
Hugo Baskerville, when he was in wine, 
were such as might blast the man who said 
them. At last in the stress of her fear she did 
that which might have daunted the bravest 
or most active man, for by the aid of the 
groivth of ivy which covered (and still cov- 
ers) the south wall she came down from un- 
der the eaves, and so homeward across the 
moor, there being three leagues betwixt the 
Hall and her father's farm. 

"It chanced that some little time later 
Hugo left his guests to carry food and 
drink — with other worse things, per- 
chance — to his captive, and so found the 
cage empty and the bird escaped. Then, 
as it woidd seem, he became as one that 
hath a devil, for, rushing down the stairs 
into the dining-hall, he sprang upon the 
great table, flagons and trenchers flying be- 
fore him, and he cried aloud before all the 
company that he zvoidd that very night ren- 
der his body and sold to the Powers of Evil 
if he might but overtake the wench. And 
while the revellers stood aghast at the fury 
of the man, one more wicked or, it may 
be, more drunken than the rest, cried out 
that they should put the hounds upon her. 
Whereat Hugo ran from the house, crying 
to his grooms that they should saddle his 
mare and unkennel the pack, and giving the 
hounds a kerchief of the maid's, he swung 
them to the line, and so off full cry in the 
moonlight over the moor. 

"Now, for some space the revellers stood 
agape, unable to understand all that had 
been done in such haste. But anon their be- 
mused wits awoke to the nature of the deed 
which was like to be done upon the moor- 
lands. Everything was nozv in an uproar, 
some calling for their pistols, some for their 
horses, and some for another flask ofzvine. 
But at length some sense came back to their 
crazed minds, and the zvhole of them, thir- 
teen in number, took horse and started in 
pursuit. The moon shone clear above them, 
and they rode szviftly abreast, taking that 
course which the maid must needs have 
taken if she zvere to reach her ozvn home. 

"They had gone a mile or tzvo when they 
passed one of the night shepherds upon the 
moorlands, and they cried to him to knozv 
if he had seen the hunt. And the man, 
as the story goes, zvas so crazed with fear 


that he could scarce speak, but at last he 
said that he had indeed seen the unhappy 
maiden, with the hounds upon her track. 
‘But I have seen more than that,' said he, 
for Hugo Baskerzhlle passed me upon his 
black mare, and there ran mute behind him 
such a hound of hell as God forbid should 
ever be at my heels.' So the drunken squires 
cursed the shepherd and rode onzvard. But 
soon their skins turned cold, for there came 
a galloping across the moor, and the black 
mare, dabbled with white froth, zvent past 
with trailing bridle and empty saddle. Then 
the revellers rode close together, for a great 
fear zvas on them, but they still followed 
over the moor, though each, had he been 
alone, zvould have been right glad to have 
turned his horse's head. Riding slowly in 
this fashion they came at last upon the 
hounds. These, though knozvnfor their val- 
our and their breed, zvere whimpering in a 
cluster at the head of a deep dip or goyal, 
as zve call it, upon the moor, some slinking 
azvay and some, with starting hackles and 
staring eyes, gazing dozvn the narrow val- 
ley before them. 

"The company had come to a halt, more 
sober men, as you may guess, than zvhen 
they started. The most of them zvould by no 
means advance, but three of them, the bold- 
est, or it may be the most drunken, rodefor- 
zvard dozvn the goyal. Nozv, it opened into 
a broad space in which stood tzvo of those 
great stones, still to be seen there, zvhich 
zvere set by certain forgotten peoples in the 
days of old. The moon zvas shining bright 
upon the clearing, and there in the centre 
lay the unhappy maid zvhere she had fallen, 
dead of fear and of fatigue. But it zvas not 
the sight of her body, nor yet zvas it that 
of the body of Hugo Baskerville lying near 
her, zvhich raised the hair upon the heads 
of these three daredevil roysterers, but it 
zvas that, standing over Hugo, and pluck- 
ing at his throat, there stood afoul thing, 
a great, black beast, shaped like a hound, 
yet larger than any hound that ever mor- 
tal eye has rested upon. And even as they 
looked the thing tore the throat out of Hugo 
Baskerville, on zvhich, as it turned its blaz- 
ing eyes and dripping jazvs upon them, the 
three shrieked with fear and rode for dear 
life, still screaming, across the moor. One, 
it is said, died that very night of zvhat he 
had seen, and the other tzvain zvere but bro- 


59i 



The Hound of the Baskervilles 


ken men for the rest of their days. 

" Such is the tale, my sons, of the coming 
of the hound which is said to have plagued 
the family so sorely ever since. If I have set 
it down it is because that which is clearly 
known hath less terror than that which is 
but hinted at and guessed. Nor can it be 
denied that many of the family have been 
unhappy in their deaths, which have been 
sudden, bloody, and mysterious. Yet may 
we shelter ourselves in the infinite good- 
ness of Providence, which zvoidd not for- 
ever punish the innocent beyond that third 
or fourth generation which is threatened in 
Holy Writ. To that Providence, my sons, I 
hereby commend you, and I counsel you by 
way of caution to forbear from crossing the 
moor in those dark hours when the powers 
of evil are exalted. 

“[This from Hugo Baskerville to his sons 
Rodger and John, with instructions that 
they say nothing thereof to their sister Eliz- 
abeth.]" 

When Dr. Mortimer had finished reading this 
singular narrative he pushed his spectacles up on 
his forehead and stared across at Mr. Sherlock 
Holmes. The latter yawned and tossed the end of 
his cigarette into the fire. 

"Well?" said he. 

"Do you not find it interesting?" 

"To a collector of fairy tales." 

Dr. Mortimer drew a folded newspaper out of 
his pocket. 

"Now, Mr. Holmes, we will give you some- 
thing a little more recent. This is the Devon County 
Chronicle of May 14th of this year. It is a short ac- 
count of the facts elicited at the death of Sir Charles 
Baskerville which occurred a few days before that 
date." 

My friend leaned a little forward and his ex- 
pression became intent. Our visitor readjusted his 
glasses and began: — 

“The recent sudden death of Sir Charles 
Baskerville, ivhose name has been men- 
tioned as the probable Liberal candidate for 
Mid-Devon at the next election, has cast a 
gloom over the county. Though Sir Charles 
had resided at Baskerville Hall for a com- 
paratively short period his amiability of 
character and extreme generosity had zvon 
the affection and respect of all zvho had 
been brought into contact with him. In 


these days of nouveaux riches it is refresh- 
ing to find a case zvhere the scion of an old 
county family zvhich has fallen upon evil 
days is able to make his own fortune and to 
bring it back with him to restore the fallen 
grandeur of his line. Sir Charles, as is zvell 
knozvn, made large sums of money in South 
African speculation. More zvise than those 
zvho go on until the zvheel turns against 
them, he realized his gains and returned to 
England with them. It is only tzvo years 
since he took up his residence at Baskerville 
Hall, and it is common talk hozv large zvere 
those schemes of reconstruction and im- 
provement zvhich have been interrupted by 
his death. Being himself childless, it zvas 
his openly expressed desire that the zvhole 
country-side should, within his ozvn life- 
time, profit by his good fortune, and many 
zvill have personal reasons for bezvailing his 
untimely end. His generous donations to 
local and county charities have been fre- 
quently chronicled in these columns. 

"The circumstances connected with the 
death of Sir Charles cannot be said to have 
been entirely cleared up by the inquest, but 
at least enough has been done to dispose 
of those rumours to zvhich local supersti- 
tion has given rise. There is no reason 
zvhatever to suspect foul play, or to imag- 
ine that death could be from any but nat- 
ural causes. Sir Charles zvas a zvidozver, 
and a man zvho may be said to have been in 
some zvays of an eccentric habit of mind. In 
spite of his considerable zvealth he zvas sim- 
ple in his personal tastes, and his indoor 
servants at Baskerz’ille Hall consisted of a 
married couple named Barrymore, the hus- 
band acting as butler and the zvife as house- 
keeper. Their evidence, corroborated by that 
of several friends, tends to shozv that Sir 
Charles's health has for some time been im- 
paired, and points especially to some af- 
fection of the heart, manifesting itself in 
changes of colour, breathlessness, and acute 
attacks of nervous depression. Dr. James 
Mortimer, the friend and medical attendant 
of the deceased, has given evidence to the 
same effect. 

"The facts of the case are simple. Sir 
Charles Baskerville zvas in the habit every 
night before going to bed ofzvalking dozvn 
the famous Yezv Alley of Baskerville Hall. 
The evidence of the Barrymores shozvs that 
this had been his custom. On the qth of 


592 



The Hound of the Baskervilles 


May Sir Charles had declared his inten- 
tion of starting next day for London, and 
had ordered Barrymore to prepare his lug- 
gage. That night he went out as usual for 
his nocturnal zvalk, in the course of which 
he was in the habit of smoking a cigar. 
He never returned. At twelve o'clock Bar- 
rymore, finding the hall door still open, 
became alarmed, and, lighting a lantern, 
went in search of his master. The day had 
been wet, and Sir Charles's footmarks were 
easily traced down the Alley. Half-way 
down this zvalk there is a gate zvhich leads 
out on to the moor. There zvere indications 
that Sir Charles had stood for some little 
time here. He then proceeded dozvn the Al- 
ley, and it zvas at the far end of it that his 
body zvas discovered. One fact zvhich has 
not been explained is the statement of Bar- 
rymore that his master's footprints altered 
their character from the time that he passed 
the moor-gate, and that he appeared from 
thence onzvard to have been zvalking upon 
his toes. One Murphy, a gipsy horse-dealer, 
zvas on the moor at no great distance at the 
time, but he appears by his ozvn confession 
to have been the zvorse for drink. He de- 
clares that he heard cries, but is unable to 
state from what direction they came. No 
signs of violence zvere to be discovered upon 
Sir Charles's person, and though the doc- 
tor's evidence pointed to an almost incredi- 
ble facial distortion — so great that Dr. Mor- 
timer refused at first to believe that it zvas 
indeed his friend and patient zvho lay before 
him — it zvas explained that that is a symp- 
tom zvhich is not unusual in cases of dys- 
pnoea and death from cardiac exhaustion. 
This explanation zvas borne out by the post- 
mortem examination, zvhich shozved long- 
standing organic disease, and the coroner's 
jury returned a verdict in accordance with 
the medical evidence. It is zvell that this is 
so, for it is obviously of the utmost impor- 
tance that Sir Charles's heir should settle at 
the Hall and continue the good zvork zvhich 
has been so sadly interrupted. Had the pro- 
saic finding of the coroner not finally put an 
end to the romantic stories zvhich have been 
whispered in connection with the affair, it 
might have been difficidt to find a tenant 
for Baskerville Hall. It is understood that 
the next of kin is Mr. Henry Baskerville, 
if he be still alive, the son of Sir Charles 
Baskerville's younger brother. The young 


man when last heard of zvas in America, 
and inquiries are being instituted with a 
viezv to informing him of his good fortune." 

Dr. Mortimer refolded his paper and replaced 
it in his pocket. 

"Those are the public facts, Mr. Holmes, in con- 
nection with the death of Sir Charles Baskerville." 

"I must thank you," said Sherlock Holmes, 
"for calling my attention to a case which certainly 
presents some features of interest. I had observed 
some newspaper comment at the time, but I was 
exceedingly preoccupied by that little affair of the 
Vatican cameos, and in my anxiety to oblige the 
Pope I lost touch with several interesting English 
cases. This article, you say, contains all the public 
facts?" 

"It does." 

"Then let me have the private ones." He leaned 
back, put his finger-tips together, and assumed his 
most impassive and judicial expression. 

"In doing so," said Dr. Mortimer, who had be- 
gun to show signs of some strong emotion, "I am 
telling that which I have not confided to anyone. 
My motive for withholding it from the coroner's 
inquiry is that a man of science shrinks from plac- 
ing himself in the public position of seeming to in- 
dorse a popular superstition. I had the further mo- 
tive that Baskerville Hall, as the paper says, would 
certainly remain untenanted if anything were done 
to increase its already rather grim reputation. For 
both these reasons I thought that I was justified in 
telling rather less than I knew, since no practical 
good could result from it, but with you there is no 
reason why I should not be perfectly frank. 

"The moor is very sparsely inhabited, and 
those who live near each other are thrown very 
much together. For this reason I saw a good deal 
of Sir Charles Baskerville. With the exception of 
Mr. Frankland, of Latter Hall, and Mr. Stapleton, 
the naturalist, there are no other men of education 
within many miles. Sir Charles was a retiring man, 
but the chance of his illness brought us together, 
and a community of interests in science kept us so. 
He had brought back much scientific information 
from South Africa, and many a charming evening 
we have spent together discussing the comparative 
anatomy of the Bushman and the Hottentot. 

"Within the last few months it became increas- 
ingly plain to me that Sir Charles's nervous system 
was strained to the breaking point. He had taken 
this legend which I have read you exceedingly to 
heart — so much so that, although he would walk 
in his own grounds, nothing would induce him to 


593 



The Hound of the Baskervilles 


go out upon the moor at night. Incredible as it 
may appear to you, Mr. Holmes, he was honestly 
convinced that a dreadful fate overhung his fam- 
ily, and certainly the records which he was able to 
give of his ancestors were not encouraging. The 
idea of some ghastly presence constantly haunted 
him, and on more than one occasion he has asked 
me whether I had on my medical journeys at night 
ever seen any strange creature or heard the baying 
of a hound. The latter question he put to me sev- 
eral times, and always with a voice which vibrated 
with excitement. 

"I can well remember driving up to his house 
in the evening some three weeks before the fatal 
event. He chanced to be at his hall door. I had 
descended from my gig and was standing in front 
of him, when I saw his eyes fix themselves over 
my shoulder, and stare past me with an expres- 
sion of the most dreadful horror. I whisked round 
and had just time to catch a glimpse of something 
which I took to be a large black calf passing at the 
head of the drive. So excited and alarmed was he 
that I was compelled to go down to the spot where 
the animal had been and look around for it. It was 
gone, however, and the incident appeared to make 
the worst impression upon his mind. I stayed with 
him all the evening, and it was on that occasion, 
to explain the emotion which he had shown, that 
he confided to my keeping that narrative which 
I read to you when first I came. I mention this 
small episode because it assumes some importance 
in view of the tragedy which followed, but I was 
convinced at the time that the matter was entirely 
trivial and that his excitement had no justification. 

"It was at my advice that Sir Charles was about 
to go to London. His heart was, I knew, affected, 
and the constant anxiety in which he lived, how- 
ever chimerical the cause of it might be, was ev- 


idently having a serious effect upon his health. I 
thought that a few months among the distractions 
of town would send him back a new man. Mr. Sta- 
pleton, a mutual friend who was much concerned 
at his state of health, was of the same opinion. At 
the last instant came this terrible catastrophe. 

"On the night of Sir Charles's death Barrymore 
the butler, who made the discovery, sent Perkins 
the groom on horseback to me, and as I was sitting 
up late I was able to reach Baskerville Hall within 
an hour of the event. I checked and corroborated 
all the facts which were mentioned at the inquest. 
I followed the footsteps down the Yew Alley, I saw 
the spot at the moor-gate where he seemed to have 
waited, I remarked the change in the shape of the 
prints after that point, I noted that there were no 
other footsteps save those of Barrymore on the soft 
gravel, and finally I carefully examined the body, 
which had not been touched until my arrival. Sir 
Charles lay on his face, his arms out, his fingers 
dug into the ground, and his features convulsed 
with some strong emotion to such an extent that I 
could hardly have sworn to his identity. There was 
certainly no physical injury of any kind. But one 
false statement was made by Barrymore at the in- 
quest. He said that there were no traces upon the 
ground round the body. He did not observe any. 
But I did — some little distance off, but fresh and 
clear." 

"Footprints?" 

"Footprints." 

"A man's or a woman's?" 

Dr. Mortimer looked strangely at us for an in- 
stant, and his voice sank almost to a whisper as he 
answered: — 

"Mr. Holmes, they were the footprints of a gi- 
gantic hound!" 


CHAPTER IIP 

The Problem 


I confess at these words a shudder passed 
through me. There was a thrill in the doctor's 
voice which showed that he was himself deeply 
moved by that which he told us. Holmes leaned 
forward in his excitement and his eyes had the 


hard, dry glitter which shot from them when he 
was keenly interested. 

"You saw this?" 

"As clearly as I see you." 

"And you said nothing?" 


594 



The Hound of the Baskervilles 


"What was the use?" 

"How was it that no one else saw it?" 

"The marks were some twenty yards from the 
body and no one gave them a thought. I don't sup- 
pose I should have done so had I not known this 
legend." 

"There are many sheep-dogs on the moor?" 

"No doubt, but this was no sheep-dog." 

"You say it was large?" 

"Enormous." 

"But it had not approached the body?" 

"No." 

"What sort of night was it?" 

"Damp and raw." 

"But not actually raining?" 

"No." 

"What is the Alley like?" 

"There are two lines of old yew hedge, twelve 
feet high and impenetrable. The walk in the centre 
is about eight feet across." 

"Is there anything between the hedges and the 
walk?" 

"Yes, there is a strip of grass about six feet 
broad on either side." 

"I understand that the yew hedge is penetrated 
at one point by a gate?" 

"Yes, the wicket-gate which leads on to the 
moor." 

"Is there any other opening?" 

"None." 

"So that to reach the Yew Alley one either has 
to come down it from the house or else to enter it 
by the moor-gate?" 

"There is an exit through a summer-house at 
the far end." 

"Had Sir Charles reached this?" 

"No; he lay about fifty yards from it." 

"Now, tell me. Dr. Mortimer — and this is im- 
portant — the marks which you saw were on the 
path and not on the grass?" 

"No marks could show on the grass." 

"Were they on the same side of the path as the 
moor-gate?" 

"Yes; they were on the edge of the path on the 
same side as the moor-gate." 

"You interest me exceedingly. Another point. 
Was the wicket-gate closed?" 

"Closed and padlocked." 


"How high was it?" 

"About four feet high." 

"Then anyone could have got over it?" 

"Yes." 

"And what marks did you see by the wicket- 
gate?" 

"None in particular." 

"Good heaven! Did no one examine?" 

"Yes, I examined myself." 

"And found nothing?" 

"It was all very confused. Sir Charles had evi- 
dently stood there for five or ten minutes." 

"How do you know that?" 

"Because the ash had twice dropped from his 
cigar." 

"Excellent! This is a colleague, Watson, after 
our own heart. But the marks?" 

"He had left his own marks all over that small 
patch of gravel. I could discern no others." 

Sherlock Holmes struck his hand against his 
knee with an impatient gesture. 

"If I had only been there!" he cried. "It is ev- 
idently a case of extraordinary interest, and one 
which presented immense opportunities to the sci- 
entific expert. That gravel page upon which I 
might have read so much has been long ere this 
smudged by the rain and defaced by the clogs of 
curious peasants. Oh, Dr. Mortimer, Dr. Mortimer, 
to think that you should not have called me in! You 
have indeed much to answer for." 

"I could not call you in, Mr. Holmes, without 
disclosing these facts to the world, and I have al- 
ready given my reasons for not wishing to do so. 
Besides, besides — " 

"Why do you hesitate?" 

"There is a realm in which the most acute and 
most experienced of detectives is helpless." 

"You mean that the thing is supernatural?" 

"I did not positively say so." 

"No, but you evidently think it." 

"Since the tragedy, Mr. Holmes, there have 
come to my ears several incidents which are hard 
to reconcile with the settled order of Nature." 

"For example?" 

"I find that before the terrible event occurred 
several people had seen a creature upon the moor 
which corresponds with this Baskerville demon, 
and which could not possibly be any animal 
known to science. They all agreed that it was 
a huge creature, luminous, ghastly, and spectral. 
I have cross-examined these men, one of them a 


595 



The Hound of the Baskervilles 


hard-headed countryman, one a farrier, and one a 
moorland farmer, who all tell the same story of this 
dreadful apparition, exactly corresponding to the 
hell-hound of the legend. I assure you that there 
is a reign of terror in the district, and that it is a 
hardy man who will cross the moor at night." 

"And you, a trained man of science, believe it 
to be supernatural?" 

"I do not know what to believe." 

Holmes shrugged his shoulders. 

"I have hitherto confined my investigations to 
this world," said he. "In a modest way I have com- 
bated evil, but to take on the Father of Evil himself 
would, perhaps, be too ambitious a task. Yet you 
must admit that the footmark is material." 

"The original hound was material enough to 
tug a man's throat out, and yet he was diabolical 
as well." 

"I see that you have quite gone over to the su- 
pernaturalists. But now. Dr. Mortimer, tell me this. 
If you hold these views, why have you come to 
consult me at all? You tell me in the same breath 
that it is useless to investigate Sir Charles's death, 
and that you desire me to do it." 

"I did not say that I desired you to do it." 

"Then, how can I assist you?" 

"By advising me as to what I should do with 
Sir Henry Baskerville, who arrives at Waterloo Sta- 
tion" — Dr. Mortimer looked at his watch — "in ex- 
actly one hour and a quarter." 

"He being the heir?" 

"Yes. On the death of Sir Charles we inquired 
for this young gentleman and found that he had 
been farming in Canada. From the accounts which 
have reached us he is an excellent fellow in every 
way. I speak not as a medical man but as a trustee 
and executor of Sir Charles's will." 

"There is no other claimant, I presume?" 

"None. The only other kinsman whom we 
have been able to trace was Rodger Baskerville, 
the youngest of three brothers of whom poor Sir 
Charles was the elder. The second brother, who 
died young, is the father of this lad Henry. The 
third, Rodger, was the black sheep of the family. 
He came of the old masterful Baskerville strain, 
and was the very image, they tell me, of the family 
picture of old Hugo. He made England too hot to 
hold him, fled to Central America, and died there 
in 1876 of yellow fever. Henry is the last of the 
Baskervilles. In one hour and five minutes I meet 
him at Waterloo Station. I have had a wire that he 
arrived at Southampton this morning. Now, Mr. 


Holmes, what would you advise me to do with 
him?" 

"Why should he not go to the home of his fa- 
thers?" 

"It seems natural, does it not? And yet, con- 
sider that every Baskerville who goes there meets 
with an evil fate. I feel sure that if Sir Charles 
could have spoken with me before his death he 
would have warned me against bringing this, the 
last of the old race, and the heir to great wealth, 
to that deadly place. And yet it cannot be de- 
nied that the prosperity of the whole poor, bleak 
country-side depends upon his presence. All the 
good work which has been done by Sir Charles 
will crash to the ground if there is no tenant of the 
Hall. I fear lest I should be swayed too much by 
my own obvious interest in the matter, and that is 
why I bring the case before you and ask for your 
advice." 

Holmes considered for a little time. 

"Put into plain words, the matter is this," said 
he. "In your opinion there is a diabolical agency 
which makes Dartmoor an unsafe abode for a 
Baskerville — that is your opinion?" 

"At least I might go the length of saying that 
there is some evidence that this may be so." 

"Exactly. But surely, if your supernatural the- 
ory be correct, it could work the young man evil 
in London as easily as in Devonshire. A devil with 
merely local powers like a parish vestry would be 
too inconceivable a thing." 

"You put the matter more flippantly, Mr. 
Holmes, than you would probably do if you were 
brought into personal contact with these things. 
Your advice, then, as I understand it, is that the 
young man will be as safe in Devonshire as in Lon- 
don. He comes in fifty minutes. What would you 
recommend?" 

"I recommend, sir, that you take a cab, call 
off your spaniel who is scratching at my front 
door, and proceed to Waterloo to meet Sir Henry 
Baskerville." 

"And then?" 

"And then you will say nothing to him at all 
until I have made up my mind about the matter." 

"How long will it take you to make up your 
mind?" 

"Twenty-four hours. At ten o'clock to-morrow. 
Dr. Mortimer, I will be much obliged to you if you 
will call upon me here, and it will be of help to 
me in my plans for the future if you will bring Sir 
Henry Baskerville with you." 

"I will do so, Mr. Holmes." He scribbled the 
appointment on his shirtcuff and hurried off in his 


596 



The Hound of the Baskervilles 


strange, peering, absent-minded fashion. Holmes 
stopped him at the head of the stair. 

"Only one more question. Dr. Mortimer. You 
say that before Sir Charles Baskerville's death sev- 
eral people saw this apparition upon the moor?" 

"Three people did." 

"Did any see it after?" 

"I have not heard of any." 

"Thank you. Good morning." 

Holmes returned to his seat with that quiet 
look of inward satisfaction which meant that he 
had a congenial task before him. 

"Going out, Watson?" 

"Unless I can help you." 

"No, my dear fellow, it is at the hour of action 
that I turn to you for aid. But this is splendid, re- 
ally unique from some points of view. When you 
pass Bradley's, would you ask him to send up a 
pound of the strongest shag tobacco? Thank you. 
It would be as well if you could make it convenient 
not to return before evening. Then I should be 
very glad to compare impressions as to this most 
interesting problem which has been submitted to 
us this morning." 

I knew that seclusion and solitude were very 
necessary for my friend in those hours of intense 
mental concentration during which he weighed 
every particle of evidence, constructed alternative 
theories, balanced one against the other, and made 
up his mind as to which points were essential and 
which immaterial. I therefore spent the day at 
my club and did not return to Baker Street until 
evening. It was nearly nine o'clock when I found 
myself in the sitting-room once more. 

My first impression as I opened the door was 
that a fire had broken out, for the room was so 
filled with smoke that the light of the lamp upon 
the table was blurred by it. As I entered, how- 
ever, my fears were set at rest, for it was the acrid 
fumes of strong coarse tobacco which took me by 
the throat and set me coughing. Through the haze 
I had a vague vision of Holmes in his dressing- 
gown coiled up in an armchair with his black clay 
pipe between his lips. Several rolls of paper lay 
around him. 

"Caught cold, Watson?" said he. 

"No, it's this poisonous atmosphere." 

"I suppose it is pretty thick, now that you men- 
tion it." 

"Thick! It is intolerable." 


"Open the window, then! You have been at 
your club all day, I perceive." 

"My dear Holmes!" 

"Am I right?" 

"Certainly, but how?" 

He laughed at my bewildered expression. 

"There is a delightful freshness about you, Wat- 
son, which makes it a pleasure to exercise any 
small powers which I possess at your expense. A 
gentleman goes forth on a showery and miry day. 
He returns immaculate in the evening with the 
gloss still on his hat and his boots. He has been 
a fixture therefore all day. He is not a man with in- 
timate friends. Where, then, could he have been? 
Is it not obvious?" 

"Well, it is rather obvious." 

"The world is full of obvious things which no- 
body by any chance ever observes. Where do you 
think that I have been?" 

"A fixture also." 

"On the contrary, I have been to Devonshire." 

"In spirit?" 

"Exactly. My body has remained in this arm- 
chair and has, I regret to observe, consumed in my 
absence two large pots of coffee and an incredible 
amount of tobacco. After you left I sent down to 
Stamford's for the Ordnance map of this portion of 
the moor, and my spirit has hovered over it all day. 
I flatter myself that I could find my way about." 

"A large scale map, I presume?" 

"Very large." He unrolled one section and held 
it over his knee. "Here you have the particular dis- 
trict which concerns us. That is Baskerville Hall in 
the middle." 

"With a wood round it?" 

"Exactly. I fancy the Yew Alley, though not 
marked under that name, must stretch along this 
line, with the moor, as you perceive, upon the right 
of it. This small clump of buildings here is the 
hamlet of Grimpen, where our friend Dr. Mortimer 
has his headquarters. Within a radius of five miles 
there are, as you see, only a very few scattered 
dwellings. Here is Lafter Hall, which was men- 
tioned in the narrative. There is a house indicated 
here which may be the residence of the natural- 
ist — Stapleton, if I remember right, was his name. 
Here are two moorland farm-houses. High Tor and 
Foulmire. Then fourteen miles away the great con- 
vict prison of Princetown. Between and around 
these scattered points extends the desolate, lifeless 
moor. This, then, is the stage upon which tragedy 
has been played, and upon which we may help to 
play it again." 

"It must be a wild place." 


597 



The Hound of the Baskervilles 


"Yes, the setting is a worthy one. If the devil 
did desire to have a hand in the affairs of men — " 

"Then you are yourself inclining to the super- 
natural explanation." 

"The devil's agents may be of flesh and blood, 
may they not? There are two questions waiting for 
us at the outset. The one is whether any crime has 
been committed at all; the second is, what is the 
crime and how was it committed? Of course, if 
Dr. Mortimer's surmise should be correct, and we 
are dealing with forces outside the ordinary laws 
of Nature, there is an end of our investigation. But 
we are bound to exhaust all other hypotheses be- 
fore falling back upon this one. I think we'll shut 
that window again, if you don't mind. It is a sin- 
gular thing, but I find that a concentrated atmo- 
sphere helps a concentration of thought. I have 
not pushed it to the length of getting into a box to 
think, but that is the logical outcome of my con- 
victions. Have you turned the case over in your 
mind?" 

"Yes, I have thought a good deal of it in the 
course of the day." 

"What do you make of it?" 

"It is very bewildering." 

"It has certainly a character of its own. There 
are points of distinction about it. That change in 
the footprints, for example. What do you make of 
that?" 

"Mortimer said that the man had walked on 
tiptoe down that portion of the alley." 

"He only repeated what some fool had said at 
the inquest. Why should a man walk on tiptoe 
down the alley?" 

"What then?" 


"He was running, Watson — running desper- 
ately, running for his life, running until he burst 
his heart and fell dead upon his face." 

"Running from what?" 

"There lies our problem. There are indications 
that the man was crazed with fear before ever he 
began to run." 

"How can you say that?" 

"I am presuming that the cause of his fears 
came to him across the moor. If that were so, and 
it seems most probable, only a man who had lost 
his wits would have run from the house instead of 
towards it. If the gipsy's evidence may be taken 
as true, he ran with cries for help in the direction 
where help was least likely to be. Then, again, 
whom was he waiting for that night, and why was 
he waiting for him in the Yew Alley rather than in 
his own house?" 

"You think that he was waiting for someone?" 

"The man was elderly and infirm. We can 
understand his taking an evening stroll, but the 
ground was damp and the night inclement. Is it 
natural that he should stand for five or ten min- 
utes, as Dr. Mortimer, with more practical sense 
than I should have given him credit for, deduced 
from the cigar ash?" 

"But he went out every evening." 

"I think it unlikely that he waited at the moor- 
gate every evening. On the contrary, the evidence 
is that he avoided the moor. That night he waited 
there. It was the night before he made his depar- 
ture for London. The thing takes shape, Watson. 
It becomes coherent. Might I ask you to hand 
me my violin, and we will postpone all further 
thought upon this business until we have had the 
advantage of meeting Dr. Mortimer and Sir Henry 
Baskerville in the morning." 


CHAPTER IV. 

Sir Henry Baskerville 


Our breakfast-table was cleared early, and 
Holmes waited in his dressing-gown for the 
promised interview. Our clients were punctual to 
their appointment, for the clock had just struck 
ten when Dr. Mortimer was shown up, followed 


by the young baronet. The latter was a small, alert, 
dark-eyed man about thirty years of age, very stur- 
dily built, with thick black eyebrows and a strong, 
pugnacious face. He wore a ruddy-tinted tweed 
suit and had the weather-beaten appearance of one 


598 



The Hound of the Baskervilles 


who has spent most of his time in the open air, and 
yet there was something in his steady eye and the 
quiet assurance of his bearing which indicated the 
gentleman. 

"This is Sir Henry Baskerville," said Dr. Mor- 
timer. 

"Why, yes," said he, "and the strange thing is, 
Mr. Sherlock Holmes, that if my friend here had 
not proposed coming round to you this morning 
I should have come on my own account. I under- 
stand that you think out little puzzles, and I've had 
one this morning which wants more thinking out 
than I am able to give it." 

"Pray take a seat. Sir Henry. Do I under- 
stand you to say that you have yourself had some 
remarkable experience since you arrived in Lon- 
don?" 

"Nothing of much importance, Mr. Holmes. 
Only a joke, as like as not. It was this letter, if you 
can call it a letter, which reached me this morn- 
ing." 

He laid an envelope upon the table, and we 
all bent over it. It was of common quality, gray- 
ish in colour. The address, "Sir Henry Baskerville, 
Northumberland Hotel," was printed in rough 
characters; the postmark "Charing Cross," and the 
date of posting the preceding evening. 

"Who knew that you were going to the 
Northumberland Hotel?" asked Holmes, glancing 
keenly across at our visitor. 

"No one could have known. We only decided 
after I met Dr. Mortimer." 

"But Dr. Mortimer was no doubt already stop- 
ping there?" 

"No, I had been staying with a friend," said the 
doctor. "There was no possible indication that we 
intended to go to this hotel." 

"Hum! Someone seems to be very deeply in- 
terested in your movements." Out of the envelope 
he took a half-sheet of foolscap paper folded into 
four. This he opened and spread flat upon the ta- 
ble. Across the middle of it a single sentence had 
been formed by the expedient of pasting printed 
words upon it. It ran: 

As you value your life or your reason 
keep away from the moor. 

The word "moor" only was printed in ink. 

"Now," said Sir Henry Baskerville, "perhaps 
you will tell me, Mr. Holmes, what in thunder is 
the meaning of that, and who it is that takes so 
much interest in my affairs?" 


"What do you make of it. Dr. Mortimer? You 
must allow that there is nothing supernatural 
about this, at any rate?" 

"No, sir, but it might very well come from 
someone who was convinced that the business is 
supernatural." 

"What business?" asked Sir Henry sharply. "It 
seems to me that all you gentlemen know a great 
deal more than I do about my own affairs." 

"You shall share our knowledge before you 
leave this room. Sir Henry. I promise you that," 
said Sherlock Holmes. "We will confine ourselves 
for the present with your permission to this very 
interesting document, which must have been put 
together and posted yesterday evening. Have you 
yesterday's Times, Watson?" 

"It is here in the corner." 

"Might I trouble you for it — the inside page, 
please, with the leading articles?" He glanced 
swiftly over it, running his eyes up and down the 
columns. "Capital article this on free trade. Permit 
me to give you an extract from it. 

" 'You may be cajoled into imagining that 
your own special trade or your own indus- 
try ivill be encouraged by a protective tar- 
iff, but it stands to reason that such legisla- 
tion must in the long run keep away wealth 
from the country, diminish the value of our 
imports, and lozver the general conditions 
of life in this island.' 

"What do you think of that, Watson?" cried 
Holmes in high glee, rubbing his hands together 
with satisfaction. "Don't you think that is an ad- 
mirable sentiment?" 

Dr. Mortimer looked at Holmes with an air 
of professional interest, and Sir Henry Baskerville 
turned a pair of puzzled dark eyes upon me. 

"I don't know much about the tariff and things 
of that kind," said he; "but it seems to me we've 
got a bit off the trail so far as that note is con- 
cerned." 

"On the contrary, I think we are particularly 
hot upon the trail. Sir Henry. Watson here knows 
more about my methods than you do, but I fear 
that even he has not quite grasped the significance 
of this sentence." 

"No, I confess that I see no connection." 

"And yet, my dear Watson, there is so very 
close a connection that the one is extracted out 
of the other. 'You,' 'your,' 'your,' 'life,' 'reason,' 
'value,' 'keep away,' 'from the.' Don't you see now 
whence these words have been taken?" 

"By thunder, you're right! Well, if that isn't 
smart!" cried Sir Henry. 


599 



The Hound of the Baskervilles 


"If any possible doubt remained it is settled by 
the fact that 'keep away' and 'from the' are cut out 
in one piece." 

"Well, now — so it is!" 

"Really, Mr. Holmes, this exceeds anything 
which I could have imagined," said Dr. Mortimer, 
gazing at my friend in amazement. "I could under- 
stand anyone saying that the words were from a 
newspaper; but that you should name which, and 
add that it came from the leading article, is really 
one of the most remarkable things which I have 
ever known. How did you do it?" 

"I presume. Doctor, that you could tell the skull 
of a negro from that of an Esquimau?" 

"Most certainly." 

"But how?" 

"Because that is my special hobby. The differ- 
ences are obvious. The supra-orbital crest, the fa- 
cial angle, the maxillary curve, the — " 

"But this is my special hobby, and the differ- 
ences are equally obvious. There is as much dif- 
ference to my eyes between the leaded bourgeois 
type of a Times article and the slovenly print of 
an evening half-penny paper as there could be be- 
tween your negro and your Esquimau. The de- 
tection of types is one of the most elementary 
branches of knowledge to the special expert in 
crime, though I confess that once when I was very 
young I confused the Leeds Mercury with the West- 
ern Morning Nezvs. But a Times leader is entirely 
distinctive, and these words could have been taken 
from nothing else. As it was done yesterday the 
strong probability was that we should find the 
words in yesterday's issue." 

"So far as I can follow you, then, Mr. Holmes," 
said Sir Henry Baskerville, "someone cut out this 
message with a scissors — " 

"Nail-scissors," said Holmes. "You can see that 
it was a very short-bladed scissors, since the cutter 
had to take two snips over 'keep away.' " 

"That is so. Someone, then, cut out the mes- 
sage with a pair of short-bladed scissors, pasted it 
with paste — " 

"Gum," said Holmes. 

"With gum on to the paper. But I want to know 
why the word 'moor' should have been written?" 

"Because he could not find it in print. The other 
words were all simple and might be found in any 
issue, but 'moor' would be less common." 

"Why, of course, that would explain it. Have 
you read anything else in this message, Mr. 
Holmes?" 


"There are one or two indications, and yet the 
utmost pains have been taken to remove all clues. 
The address, you observe is printed in rough char- 
acters. But the Times is a paper which is seldom 
found in any hands but those of the highly edu- 
cated. We may take it, therefore, that the letter 
was composed by an educated man who wished 
to pose as an uneducated one, and his effort to 
conceal his own writing suggests that that writ- 
ing might be known, or come to be known, by 
you. Again, you will observe that the words are 
not gummed on in an accurate line, but that some 
are much higher than others. 'Life,' for example 
is quite out of its proper place. That may point to 
carelessness or it may point to agitation and hurry 
upon the part of the cutter. On the whole I incline 
to the latter view, since the matter was evidently 
important, and it is unlikely that the composer of 
such a letter would be careless. If he were in a 
hurry it opens up the interesting question why he 
should be in a hurry, since any letter posted up 
to early morning would reach Sir Henry before he 
would leave his hotel. Did the composer fear an 
interruption — and from whom?" 

"We are coming now rather into the region of 
guesswork," said Dr. Mortimer. 

"Say, rather, into the region where we balance 
probabilities and choose the most likely. It is the 
scientific use of the imagination, but we have al- 
ways some material basis on which to start our 
speculation. Now, you would call it a guess, no 
doubt, but I am almost certain that this address 
has been written in a hotel." 

"How in the world can you say that?" 

"If you examine it carefully you will see that 
both the pen and the ink have given the writer 
trouble. The pen has spluttered twice in a single 
word, and has run dry three times in a short ad- 
dress, showing that there was very little ink in the 
bottle. Now, a private pen or ink-bottle is seldom 
allowed to be in such a state, and the combination 
of the two must be quite rare. But you know the 
hotel ink and the hotel pen, where it is rare to get 
anything else. Yes, I have very little hesitation in 
saying that could we examine the waste-paper bas- 
kets of the hotels around Charing Cross until we 
found the remains of the mutilated Times leader 
we could lay our hands straight upon the person 
who sent this singular message. Halloa! Halloa! 
What's this?" 

He was carefully examining the foolscap, upon 
which the words were pasted, holding it only an 
inch or two from his eyes. 

"Well?" 


600 



The Hound of the Baskervilles 


"Nothing," said he, throwing it down. "It is 
a blank half-sheet of paper, without even a water- 
mark upon it. I think we have drawn as much 
as we can from this curious letter; and now. Sir 
Henry, has anything else of interest happened to 
you since you have been in London?" 

"Why, no, Mr. Holmes. I think not." 

"You have not observed anyone follow or 
watch you?" 

"I seem to have walked right into the thick of 
a dime novel," said our visitor. "Why in thunder 
should anyone follow or watch me?" 

"We are coming to that. You have nothing else 
to report to us before we go into this matter?" 

"Well, it depends upon what you think worth 
reporting." 

"I think anything out of the ordinary routine of 
life well worth reporting." 

Sir Henry smiled. 

"I don't know much of British life yet, for I 
have spent nearly all my time in the States and in 
Canada. But I hope that to lose one of your boots is 
not part of the ordinary routine of life over here." 

"You have lost one of your boots?" 

"My dear sir," cried Dr. Mortimer, "it is only 
mislaid. You will find it when you return to the 
hotel. What is the use of troubling Mr. Holmes 
with trifles of this kind?" 

"Well, he asked me for anything outside the or- 
dinary routine." 

"Exactly," said Holmes, "however foolish the 
incident may seem. You have lost one of your 
boots, you say?" 

"Well, mislaid it, anyhow. I put them both out- 
side my door last night, and there was only one in 
the morning. I could get no sense out of the chap 
who cleans them. The worst of it is that I only 
bought the pair last night in the Strand, and I have 
never had them on." 

"If you have never worn them, why did you 
put them out to be cleaned?" 

"They were tan boots and had never been var- 
nished. That was why I put them out." 

"Then I understand that on your arrival in Lon- 
don yesterday you went out at once and bought a 
pair of boots?" 

"I did a good deal of shopping. Dr. Mortimer 
here went round with me. You see, if I am to 
be squire down there I must dress the part, and 
it may be that I have got a little careless in my 
ways out West. Among other things I bought these 


brown boots — gave six dollars for them — and had 
one stolen before ever I had them on my feet." 

"It seems a singularly useless thing to steal," 
said Sherlock Holmes. "I confess that I share Dr. 
Mortimer 's belief that it will not be long before the 
missing boot is found." 

"And, now, gentlemen," said the baronet with 
decision, "it seems to me that I have spoken quite 
enough about the little that I know. It is time that 
you kept your promise and gave me a full account 
of what we are all driving at." 

"Your request is a very reasonable one," 
Holmes answered. "Dr. Mortimer, I think you 
could not do better than to tell your story as you 
told it to us." 

Thus encouraged, our scientific friend drew his 
papers from his pocket, and presented the whole 
case as he had done upon the morning before. Sir 
Henry Baskerville listened with the deepest atten- 
tion, and with an occasional exclamation of sur- 
prise. 

"Well, I seem to have come into an inheritance 
with a vengeance," said he when the long narrative 
was finished. "Of course, I've heard of the hound 
ever since I was in the nursery. It's the pet story 
of the family, though I never thought of taking it 
seriously before. But as to my uncle's death — well, 
it all seems boiling up in my head, and I can't get 
it clear yet. You don't seem quite to have made up 
your mind whether it's a case for a policeman or a 
clergyman." 

"Precisely." 

"And now there's this affair of the letter to me 
at the hotel. I suppose that fits into its place." 

"It seems to show that someone knows more 
than we do about what goes on upon the moor," 
said Dr. Mortimer. 

"And also," said Holmes, "that someone is not 
ill-disposed towards you, since they warn you of 
danger." 

"Or it may be that they wish, for their own pur- 
poses, to scare me away." 

"Well, of course, that is possible also. I am very 
much indebted to you. Dr. Mortimer, for introduc- 
ing me to a problem which presents several inter- 
esting alternatives. But the practical point which 
we now have to decide. Sir Henry, is whether it 
is or is not advisable for you to go to Baskerville 
Hall." 

"Why should I not go?" 

"There seems to be danger." 

"Do you mean danger from this family fiend or 
do you mean danger from human beings?" 

"Well, that is what we have to find out." 


601 



The Hound of the Baskervilles 


"Whichever it is, my answer is fixed. There is 
no devil in hell, Mr. Holmes, and there is no man 
upon earth who can prevent me from going to the 
home of my own people, and you may take that to 
be my final answer." His dark brows knitted and 
his face flushed to a dusky red as he spoke. It was 
evident that the fiery temper of the Baskervilles 
was not extinct in this their last representative. 
"Meanwhile," said he, "I have hardly had time to 
think over all that you have told me. It's a big 
thing for a man to have to understand and to de- 
cide at one sitting. I should like to have a quiet 
hour by myself to make up my mind. Now, look 
here, Mr. Holmes, it's half-past eleven now and I 
am going back right away to my hotel. Suppose 
you and your friend. Dr. Watson, come round and 
lunch with us at two. I'll be able to tell you more 
clearly then how this thing strikes me." 

"Is that convenient to you, Watson?" 

"Perfectly." 

"Then you may expect us. Shall I have a cab 
called?" 

"I'd prefer to walk, for this affair has flurried 
me rather." 

"I'll join you in a walk, with pleasure," said his 
companion. 

"Then we meet again at two o'clock. Au revoir, 
and good-morning!" 

We heard the steps of our visitors descend the 
stair and the bang of the front door. In an instant 
Holmes had changed from the languid dreamer to 
the man of action. 

"Your hat and boots, Watson, quick! Not a 
moment to lose!" He rushed into his room in his 
dressing-gown and was back again in a few sec- 
onds in a frock-coat. We hurried together down 
the stairs and into the street. Dr. Mortimer and 
Baskerville were still visible about two hundred 
yards ahead of us in the direction of Oxford Street. 

"Shall I run on and stop them?" 

"Not for the world, my dear Watson. I am per- 
fectly satisfied with your company if you will tol- 
erate mine. Our friends are wise, for it is certainly 
a very fine morning for a walk." 

He quickened his pace until we had decreased 
the distance which divided us by about half. Then, 
still keeping a hundred yards behind, we followed 
into Oxford Street and so down Regent Street. 
Once our friends stopped and stared into a shop 
window, upon which Holmes did the same. An 
instant afterwards he gave a little cry of satisfac- 
tion, and, following the direction of his eager eyes. 


I saw that a hansom cab with a man inside which 
had halted on the other side of the street was now 
proceeding slowly onward again. 

"There's our man, Watson! Come along! We'll 
have a good look at him, if we can do no more." 

At that instant I was aware of a bushy black 
beard and a pair of piercing eyes turned upon us 
through the side window of the cab. Instantly 
the trapdoor at the top flew up, something was 
screamed to the driver, and the cab flew madly off 
down Regent Street. Holmes looked eagerly round 
for another, but no empty one was in sight. Then 
he dashed in wild pursuit amid the stream of the 
traffic, but the start was too great, and already the 
cab was out of sight. 

"There now!" said Holmes bitterly as he 
emerged panting and white with vexation from the 
tide of vehicles. "Was ever such bad luck and such 
bad management, too? Watson, Watson, if you are 
an honest man you will record this also and set it 
against my successes!" 

"Who was the man?" 

"I have not an idea." 

"A spy?" 

"Well, it was evident from what we have heard 
that Baskerville has been very closely shadowed 
by someone since he has been in town. How 
else could it be known so quickly that it was the 
Northumberland Hotel which he had chosen? If 
they had followed him the first day I argued that 
they would follow him also the second. You may 
have observed that I twice strolled over to the win- 
dow while Dr. Mortimer was reading his legend." 

"Yes, I remember." 

"I was looking out for loiterers in the street, 
but I saw none. We are dealing with a clever man, 
Watson. This matter cuts very deep, and though 
I have not finally made up my mind whether it 
is a benevolent or a malevolent agency which is in 
touch with us, I am conscious always of power and 
design. When our friends left I at once followed 
them in the hopes of marking down their invisible 
attendant. So wily was he that he had not trusted 
himself upon foot, but he had availed himself of 
a cab so that he could loiter behind or dash past 
them and so escape their notice. His method had 
the additional advantage that if they were to take 
a cab he was all ready to follow them. It has, how- 
ever, one obvious disadvantage." 

"It puts him in the power of the cabman." 

"Exactly." 

"What a pity we did not get the number!" 

"My dear Watson, clumsy as I have been, you 
surely do not seriously imagine that I neglected to 


602 



The Hound of the Baskervilles 


get the number? No. 2704 is our man. But that is 
no use to us for the moment." 

"I fail to see how you could have done more." 

"On observing the cab I should have instantly 
turned and walked in the other direction. I should 
then at my leisure have hired a second cab and 
followed the first at a respectful distance, or, bet- 
ter still, have driven to the Northumberland Hotel 
and waited there. When our unknown had fol- 
lowed Baskerville home we should have had the 
opportunity of playing his own game upon him- 
self and seeing where he made for. As it is, by 
an indiscreet eagerness, which was taken advan- 
tage of with extraordinary quickness and energy 
by our opponent, we have betrayed ourselves and 
lost our man." 

We had been sauntering slowly down Regent 
Street during this conversation, and Dr. Mortimer, 
with his companion, had long vanished in front of 
us. 

"There is no object in our following them," said 
Holmes. "The shadow has departed and will not 
return. We must see what further cards we have 
in our hands and play them with decision. Could 
you swear to that man's face within the cab?" 

"I could swear only to the beard." 

"And so could I — from which I gather that in 
all probability it was a false one. A clever man 
upon so delicate an errand has no use for a beard 
save to conceal his features. Come in here, Wat- 
son!" 

He turned into one of the district messenger 
offices, where he was warmly greeted by the man- 
ager. 

"Ah, Wilson, I see you have not forgotten the 
little case in which I had the good fortune to help 
you?" 

"No, sir, indeed I have not. You saved my good 
name, and perhaps my life." 

"My dear fellow, you exaggerate. I have some 
recollection, Wilson, that you had among your 
boys a lad named Cartwright, who showed some 
ability during the investigation." 

"Yes, sir, he is still with us." 


"Could you ring him up? — thank you! And I 
should be glad to have change of this five-pound 
note." 

A lad of fourteen, with a bright, keen face, had 
obeyed the summons of the manager. He stood 
now gazing with great reverence at the famous de- 
tective. 

"Let me have the Hotel Directory," said 
Holmes. "Thank you! Now, Cartwright, there are 
the names of twenty-three hotels here, all in the 
immediate neighbourhood of Charing Cross. Do 
you see?" 

"Yes, sir." 

"You will visit each of these in turn." 

"Yes, sir." 

"You will begin in each case by giving the out- 
side porter one shilling. Here are twenty-three 
shillings." 

"Yes, sir." 

"You will tell him that you want to see the 
waste-paper of yesterday. You will say that an im- 
portant telegram has miscarried and that you are 
looking for it. You understand?" 

"Yes, sir." 

"But what you are really looking for is the cen- 
tre page of the Times with some holes cut in it with 
scissors. Here is a copy of the Times. It is this page. 
You could easily recognize it, could you not?" 

"Yes, sir." 

"In each case the outside porter will send for 
the hall porter, to whom also you will give a 
shilling. Here are twenty-three shillings. You 
will then learn in possibly twenty cases out of the 
twenty-three that the waste of the day before has 
been burned or removed. In the three other cases 
you will be shown a heap of paper and you will 
look for this page of the Times among it. The odds 
are enormously against your finding it. There 
are ten shillings over in case of emergencies. Let 
me have a report by wire at Baker Street before 
evening. And now, Watson, it only remains for us 
to find out by wire the identity of the cabman. No. 
2704, and then we will drop into one of the Bond 
Street picture galleries and fill in the time until we 
are due at the hotel." 


603 



The Hound of the Baskervilles 


CHAPTER V. 

Three Broken Threads 


Sherlock Holmes had, in a very remarkable 
degree, the power of detaching his mind at will. 
For two hours the strange business in which we 
had been involved appeared to be forgotten, and 
he was entirely absorbed in the pictures of the 
modern Belgian masters. He would talk of noth- 
ing but art, of which he had the crudest ideas, from 
our leaving the gallery until we found ourselves at 
the Northumberland Hotel. 

"Sir Henry Baskerville is upstairs expecting 
you," said the clerk. "He asked me to show you 
up at once when you came." 

"Have you any objection to my looking at your 
register?" said Holmes. 

"Not in the least." 

The book showed that two names had been 
added after that of Baskerville. One was 
Theophilus Johnson and family, of Newcastle; the 
other Mrs. Oldmore and maid, of High Lodge, Al- 
ton. 

"Surely that must be the same Johnson whom 
I used to know," said Holmes to the porter. "A 
lawyer, is he not, gray-headed, and walks with a 
limp?" 

"No, sir; this is Mr. Johnson, the coal-owner, a 
very active gentleman, not older than yourself." 

"Surely you are mistaken about his trade?" 

"No, sir! he has used this hotel for many years, 
and he is very well known to us." 

"Ah, that settles it. Mrs. Oldmore, too; I seem 
to remember the name. Excuse my curiosity, but 
often in calling upon one friend one finds an- 
other." 

"She is an invalid lady, sir. Her husband was 
once mayor of Gloucester. She always comes to us 
when she is in town." 

"Thank you; I am afraid I cannot claim her ac- 
quaintance. We have established a most important 
fact by these questions, Watson," he continued in 
a low voice as we went upstairs together. "We 
know now that the people who are so interested 
in our friend have not settled down in his own ho- 
tel. That means that while they are, as we have 
seen, very anxious to watch him, they are equally 
anxious that he should not see them. Now, this is 
a most suggestive fact." 

"What does it suggest?" 

"It suggests — halloa, my dear fellow, what on 
earth is the matter?" 


As we came round the top of the stairs we had 
run up against Sir Henry Baskerville himself. His 
face was flushed with anger, and he held an old 
and dusty boot in one of his hands. So furious was 
he that he was hardly articulate, and when he did 
speak it was in a much broader and more Western 
dialect than any which we had heard from him in 
the morning. 

"Seems to me they are playing me for a sucker 
in this hotel," he cried. "They'll find they've 
started in to monkey with the wrong man unless 
they are careful. By thunder, if that chap can't find 
my missing boot there will be trouble. I can take 
a joke with the best, Mr. Holmes, but they've got a 
bit over the mark this time." 

"Still looking for your boot?" 

"Yes, sir, and mean to find it." 

"But, surely, you said that it was a new brown 
boot?" 

"So it was, sir. And now it's an old black one." 

"What! you don't mean to say — ?" 

"That's just what I do mean to say. I only had 
three pairs in the world — the new brown, the old 
black, and the patent leathers, which I am wearing. 
Last night they took one of my brown ones, and 
to-day they have sneaked one of the black. Well, 
have you got it? Speak out, man, and don't stand 
staring!" 

An agitated German waiter had appeared upon 
the scene. 

"No, sir; I have made inquiry all over the hotel, 
but I can hear no word of it." 

"Well, either that boot comes back before sun- 
down or I'll see the manager and tell him that I go 
right straight out of this hotel." 

"It shall be found, sir — I promise you that if 
you will have a little patience it will be found." 

"Mind it is, for it's the last thing of mine that I'll 
lose in this den of thieves. Well, well, Mr. Holmes, 
you'll excuse my troubling you about such a tri- 
fle—" 

"I think it's well worth troubling about." 

"Why, you look very serious over it." 

"How do you explain it?" 

"I just don't attempt to explain it. It seems the 
very maddest, queerest thing that ever happened 
to me." 

"The queerest perhaps — " said Holmes, 
thoughtfully. 


604 



The Hound of the Baskervilles 


"What do you make of it yourself?" 

"Well, I don't profess to understand it yet. This 
case of yours is very complex. Sir Henry When 
taken in conjunction with your uncle's death I am 
not sure that of all the five hundred cases of cap- 
ital importance which I have handled there is one 
which cuts so deep. But we hold several threads 
in our hands, and the odds are that one or other of 
them guides us to the truth. We may waste time 
in following the wrong one, but sooner or later we 
must come upon the right." 

We had a pleasant luncheon in which little 
was said of the business which had brought us 
together. It was in the private sitting-room to 
which we afterwards repaired that Holmes asked 
Baskerville what were his intentions. 

"To go to Baskerville Hall." 

"And when?" 

"At the end of the week. " 

"On the whole," said Holmes, "I think that 
your decision is a wise one. I have ample evidence 
that you are being dogged in London, and amid 
the millions of this great city it is difficult to dis- 
cover who these people are or what their object can 
be. If their intentions are evil they might do you 
a mischief, and we should be powerless to prevent 
it. You did not know. Dr. Mortimer, that you were 
followed this morning from my house?" 

Dr. Mortimer started violently. 

"Followed! By whom?" 

"That, unfortunately, is what I cannot tell you. 
Have you among your neighbours or acquain- 
tances on Dartmoor any man with a black, full 
beard?" 

"No — or, let me see — why, yes. Barrymore, Sir 
Charles's butler, is a man with a full, black beard." 

"Ha! Where is Barrymore?" 

"He is in charge of the Hall." 

"We had best ascertain if he is really there, or 
if by any possibility he might be in London." 

"How can you do that?" 

"Give me a telegraph form. 'Is all ready for Sir 
Henry?' That will do. Address to Mr. Barrymore, 
Baskerville Hall. What is the nearest telegraph- 
office? Grimpen. Very good, we will send a second 
wire to the postmaster, Grimpen: 'Telegram to Mr. 
Barrymore to be delivered into his own hand. If 
absent, please return wire to Sir Henry Baskerville, 
Northumberland Hotel.' That should let us know 
before evening whether Barrymore is at his post in 
Devonshire or not." 


"That's so," said Baskerville. "By the way. Dr. 
Mortimer, who is this Barrymore, anyhow?" 

"He is the son of the old caretaker, who is dead. 
They have looked after the Hall for four genera- 
tions now. So far as I know, he and his wife are as 
respectable a couple as any in the county." 

"At the same time," said Baskerville, "it's clear 
enough that so long as there are none of the family 
at the Hall these people have a mighty fine home 
and nothing to do." 

"That is true." 

"Did Barrymore profit at all by Sir Charles's 
will?" asked Holmes. 

"He and his wife had five hundred pounds 
each." 

"Ha! Did they know that they would receive 
this?" 

"Yes; Sir Charles was very fond of talking about 
the provisions of his will." 

"That is very interesting." 

"I hope," said Dr. Mortimer, "that you do not 
look with suspicious eyes upon everyone who re- 
ceived a legacy from Sir Charles, for I also had a 
thousand pounds left to me." 

"Indeed! And anyone else?" 

"There were many insignificant sums to indi- 
viduals, and a large number of public charities. 
The residue all went to Sir Henry." 

"And how much was the residue?" 

"Seven hundred and forty thousand pounds." 

Holmes raised his eyebrows in surprise. "I had 
no idea that so gigantic a sum was involved," said 
he. 

"Sir Charles had the reputation of being rich, 
but we did not know how very rich he was until 
we came to examine his securities. The total value 
of the estate was close on to a million." 

"Dear me! It is a stake for which a man might 
well play a desperate game. And one more ques- 
tion, Dr. Mortimer. Supposing that anything hap- 
pened to our young friend here — you will for- 
give the unpleasant hypothesis! — who would in- 
herit the estate?" 

"Since Rodger Baskerville, Sir Charles's 
younger brother died unmarried, the estate would 
descend to the Desmonds, who are distant cousins. 
James Desmond is an elderly clergyman in West- 
moreland." 

"Thank you. These details are all of great inter- 
est. Have you met Mr. James Desmond?" 

"Yes; he once came down to visit Sir Charles. 
He is a man of venerable appearance and of saintly 
life. I remember that he refused to accept any 


605 



The Hound of the Baskervilles 


settlement from Sir Charles, though he pressed it 
upon him." 

"And this man of simple tastes would be the 
heir to Sir Charles's thousands." 

"He would be the heir to the estate because 
that is entailed. He would also be the heir to 
the money unless it were willed otherwise by the 
present owner, who can, of course, do what he 
likes with it." 

"And have you made your will. Sir Henry?" 

"No, Mr. Holmes, I have not. I've had no time, 
for it was only yesterday that I learned how mat- 
ters stood. But in any case I feel that the money 
should go with the title and estate. That was my 
poor uncle's idea. How is the owner going to re- 
store the glories of the Baskervilles if he has not 
money enough to keep up the property? House, 
land, and dollars must go together." 

"Quite so. Well, Sir Henry, I am of one mind 
with you as to the advisability of your going down 
to Devonshire without delay. There is only one 
provision which I must make. You certainly must 
not go alone." 

"Dr. Mortimer returns with me." 

"But Dr. Mortimer has his practice to attend 
to, and his house is miles away from yours. With 
all the good will in the world he may be unable 
to help you. No, Sir Henry, you must take with 
you someone, a trusty man, who will be always by 
your side." 

"Is it possible that you could come yourself, Mr. 
Holmes?" 

"If matters came to a crisis I should endeavour 
to be present in person; but you can understand 
that, with my extensive consulting practice and 
with the constant appeals which reach me from 
many quarters, it is impossible for me to be absent 
from London for an indefinite time. At the present 
instant one of the most revered names in England 
is being besmirched by a blackmailer, and only I 
can stop a disastrous scandal. You will see how 
impossible it is for me to go to Dartmoor." 

"Whom would you recommend, then?" 

Holmes laid his hand upon my arm. 

"If my friend would undertake it there is no 
man who is better worth having at your side when 
you are in a tight place. No one can say so more 
confidently than I." 

The proposition took me completely by sur- 
prise, but before I had time to answer, Baskerville 
seized me by the hand and wrung it heartily. 


"Well, now, that is real kind of you. Dr. Wat- 
son," said he. "You see how it is with me, and 
you know just as much about the matter as I do. 
If you will come down to Baskerville Hall and see 
me through I'll never forget it." 

The promise of adventure had always a fascina- 
tion for me, and I was complimented by the words 
of Holmes and by the eagerness with which the 
baronet hailed me as a companion. 

"I will come, with pleasure," said I. "I do not 
know how I could employ my time better." 

"And you will report very carefully to me," 
said Holmes. "When a crisis comes, as it will do, 
I will direct how you shall act. I suppose that by 
Saturday all might be ready?" 

"Would that suit Dr. Watson?" 

"Perfectly." 

"Then on Saturday, unless you hear to the 
contrary, we shall meet at the 10.30 train from 
Paddington." 

We had risen to depart when Baskerville gave a 
cry, of triumph, and diving into one of the corners 
of the room he drew a brown boot from under a 
cabinet. 

"My missing boot!" he cried. 

"May all our difficulties vanish as easily!" said 
Sherlock Holmes. 

"But it is a very singular thing," Dr. Mortimer 
remarked. "I searched this room carefully before 
lunch." 

"And so did I," said Baskerville. "Every inch 
of it." 

"There was certainly no boot in it then." 

"In that case the waiter must have placed it 
there while we were lunching." 

The German was sent for but professed to 
know nothing of the matter, nor could any in- 
quiry clear it up. Another item had been added 
to that constant and apparently purposeless se- 
ries of small mysteries which had succeeded each 
other so rapidly. Setting aside the whole grim 
story of Sir Charles's death, we had a line of in- 
explicable incidents all within the limits of two 
days, which included the receipt of the printed 
letter, the black-bearded spy in the hansom, the 
loss of the new brown boot, the loss of the old 
black boot, and now the return of the new brown 
boot. Holmes sat in silence in the cab as we drove 
back to Baker Street, and I knew from his drawn 
brows and keen face that his mind, like my own, 
was busy in endeavouring to frame some scheme 


606 



The Hound of the Baskervilles 


into which all these strange and apparently dis- 
connected episodes could be fitted. All afternoon 
and late into the evening he sat lost in tobacco and 
thought. 

Just before dinner two telegrams were handed 
in. The first ran: 

Have just heard that Barrymore is at 
the Hall. — Baskerville. 

The second: 

Visited twenty-three hotels as directed, 
but sorry to report unable to trace cut 
sheet of Times. — Cartwright. 

"There go two of my threads, Watson. There 
is nothing more stimulating than a case where ev- 
erything goes against you. We must cast round for 
another scent." 

"We have still the cabman who drove the spy." 

"Exactly. I have wired to get his name and ad- 
dress from the Official Registry. I should not be 
surprised if this were an answer to my question." 

The ring at the bell proved to be something 
even more satisfactory than an answer, however, 
for the door opened and a rough-looking fellow 
entered who was evidently the man himself. 

"I got a message from the head office that a 
gent at this address had been inquiring for 2704," 
said he. "I've driven my cab this seven years and 
never a word of complaint. I came here straight 
from the Yard to ask you to your face what you 
had against me." 

"I have nothing in the world against you, my 
good man," said Holmes. "On the contrary, I have 
half a sovereign for you if you will give me a clear 
answer to my questions." 

"Well, I've had a good day and no mistake," 
said the cabman, with a grin. "What was it you 
wanted to ask, sir?" 

"First of all your name and address, in case I 
want you again." 

"John Clayton, 3 Turpey Street, the Borough. 
My cab is out of Shipley's Yard, near Waterloo Sta- 
tion." 

Sherlock Holmes made a note of it. 

"Now, Clayton, tell me all about the fare who 
came and watched this house at ten o'clock this 
morning and afterwards followed the two gentle- 
men down Regent Street." 

The man looked surprised and a little embar- 
rassed. "Why, there's no good my telling you 
things, for you seem to know as much as I do al- 
ready," said he. "The truth is that the gentleman 


told me that he was a detective and that I was to 
say nothing about him to anyone." 

"My good fellow, this is a very serious busi- 
ness, and you may find yourself in a pretty bad 
position if you try to hide anything from me. You 
say that your fare told you that he was a detec- 
tive?" 

"Yes, he did." 

"When did he say this?" 

"When he left me." 

"Did he say anything more?" 

"He mentioned his name." 

Holmes cast a swift glance of triumph at me. 
"Oh, he mentioned his name, did he? That was im- 
prudent. What was the name that he mentioned?" 

"His name," said the cabman, "was Mr. Sher- 
lock Holmes." 

Never have I seen my friend more completely 
taken aback than by the cabman's reply. For an 
instant he sat in silent amazement. Then he burst 
into a hearty laugh. 

"A touch, Watson — an undeniable touch!" said 
he. "I feel a foil as quick and supple as my own. 
He got home upon me very prettily that time. So 
his name was Sherlock Holmes, was it?" 

"Yes, sir, that was the gentleman's name." 

"Excellent! Tell me where you picked him up 
and all that occurred." 

"He hailed me at half-past nine in Trafalgar 
Square. He said that he was a detective, and he 
offered me two guineas if I would do exactly what 
he wanted all day and ask no questions. I was 
glad enough to agree. First we drove down to 
the Northumberland Hotel and waited there un- 
til two gentlemen came out and took a cab from 
the rank. We followed their cab until it pulled up 
somewhere near here." 

"This very door," said Holmes. 

"Well, I couldn't be sure of that, but I dare say 
my fare knew all about it. We pulled up half-way 
down the street and waited an hour and a half. 
Then the two gentlemen passed us, walking, and 
we followed down Baker Street and along — " 

"I know," said Holmes. 

"Until we got three-quarters down Regent 
Street. Then my gentleman threw up the trap, and 
he cried that I should drive right away to Water- 
loo Station as hard as I could go. I whipped up 
the mare and we were there under the ten min- 
utes. Then he paid up his two guineas, like a good 
one, and away he went into the station. Only just 
as he was leaving he turned round and he said: 
'It might interest you to know that you have been 


607 



The Hound of the Baskervilles 


driving Mr. Sherlock Holmes.' That's how I come 
to know the name." 

"I see. And you saw no more of him?" 

"Not after he went into the station." 

"And how would you describe Mr. Sherlock 
Holmes?" 

The cabman scratched his head. "Well, he 
wasn't altogether such an easy gentleman to de- 
scribe. I'd put him at forty years of age, and he 
was of a middle height, two or three inches shorter 
than you, sir. He was dressed like a toff, and he 
had a black beard, cut square at the end, and a 
pale face. I don't know as I could say more than 
that." 

"Colour of his eyes?" 

"No, I can't say that." 

"Nothing more that you can remember?" 

"No, sir; nothing." 

"Well, then, here is your half-sovereign. There's 
another one waiting for you if you can bring any 
more information. Good night!" 


"Good night, sir, and thank you!" 

John Clayton departed chuckling, and Holmes 
turned to me with a shrug of his shoulders and a 
rueful smile. 

"Snap goes our third thread, and we end where 
we began," said he. "The cunning rascal! He knew 
our number, knew that Sir Henry Baskerville had 
consulted me, spotted who I was in Regent Street, 
conjectured that I had got the number of the cab 
and would lay my hands on the driver, and so sent 
back this audacious message. I tell you, Watson, 
this time we have got a foeman who is worthy of 
our steel. I've been checkmated in London. I can 
only wish you better luck in Devonshire. But I'm 
not easy in my mind about it." 

"About what?" 

"About sending you. It's an ugly business, 
Watson, an ugly dangerous business, and the more 
I see of it the less I like it. Yes, my dear fellow, you 
may laugh, but I give you my word that I shall 
be very glad to have you back safe and sound in 
Baker Street once more." 


CHAPTER VL 

Baskerville Hall 


Sir Henry Baskerville and Dr. Mortimer were 
ready upon the appointed day, and we started as 
arranged for Devonshire. Mr. Sherlock Holmes 
drove with me to the station and gave me his last 
parting injunctions and advice. 

"I will not bias your mind by suggesting theo- 
ries or suspicions, Watson," said he; "I wish you 
simply to report facts in the fullest possible man- 
ner to me, and you can leave me to do the theoriz- 
ing." 

"What sort of facts?" I asked. 

"Anything which may seem to have a bear- 
ing however indirect upon the case, and especially 
the relations between young Baskerville and his 
neighbours or any fresh particulars concerning the 
death of Sir Charles. I have made some inquiries 
myself in the last few days, but the results have, 
I fear, been negative. One thing only appears to 
be certain, and that is that Mr. James Desmond, 
who is the next heir, is an elderly gentleman of 


a very amiable disposition, so that this persecu- 
tion does not arise from him. I really think that 
we may eliminate him entirely from our calcula- 
tions. There remain the people who will actually 
surround Sir Henry Baskerville upon the moor." 

"Would it not be well in the first place to get 
rid of this Barrymore couple?" 

"By no means. You could not make a greater 
mistake. If they are innocent it would be a cruel in- 
justice, and if they are guilty we should be giving 
up all chance of bringing it home to them. No, no, 
we will preserve them upon our list of suspects. 
Then there is a groom at the Hall, if I remember 
right. There are two moorland farmers. There is 
our friend Dr. Mortimer, whom I believe to be en- 
tirely honest, and there is his wife, of whom we 
know nothing. There is this naturalist, Stapleton, 
and there is his sister, who is said to be a young 
lady of attractions. There is Mr. Frankland, of 
Latter Hall, who is also an unknown factor, and 


608 



The Hound of the Baskervilles 


there are one or two other neighbours. These are 
the folk who must be your very special study" 

"I will do my best." 

"You have arms, I suppose?" 

"Yes, I thought it as well to take them." 

"Most certainly. Keep your revolver near you 
night and day, and never relax your precautions." 

Our friends had already secured a first-class 
carriage and were waiting for us upon the plat- 
form. 

"No, we have no news of any kind," said Dr. 
Mortimer in answer to my friend's questions. "I 
can swear to one thing, and that is that we have not 
been shadowed during the last two days. We have 
never gone out without keeping a sharp watch, 
and no one could have escaped our notice." 

"You have always kept together, I presume?" 

"Except yesterday afternoon. I usually give up 
one day to pure amusement when I come to town, 
so I spent it at the Museum of the College of Sur- 
geons." 

"And I went to look at the folk in the park," 
said Baskerville. "But we had no trouble of any 
kind." 

"It was imprudent, all the same," said Holmes, 
shaking his head and looking very grave. "I beg. 
Sir Henry, that you will not go about alone. Some 
great misfortune will befall you if you do. Did you 
get your other boot?" 

"No, sir, it is gone forever." 

"Indeed. That is very interesting. Well, good- 
bye," he added as the train began to glide down 
the platform. "Bear in mind. Sir Henry, one of the 
phrases in that queer old legend which Dr. Mor- 
timer has read to us, and avoid the moor in those 
hours of darkness when the powers of evil are ex- 
alted." 

I looked back at the platform when we had left 
it far behind, and saw the tall, austere figure of 
Holmes standing motionless and gazing after us. 

The journey was a swift and pleasant one, and I 
spent it in making the more intimate acquaintance 
of my two companions and in playing with Dr. 
Mortimer's spaniel. In a very few hours the brown 
earth had become ruddy, the brick had changed to 
granite, and red cows grazed in well-hedged fields 
where the lush grasses and more luxuriant vegeta- 
tion spoke of a richer, if a damper, climate. Young 
Baskerville stared eagerly out of the window, and 
cried aloud with delight as he recognized the fa- 
miliar features of the Devon scenery. 


"I've been over a good part of the world since I 
left it. Dr. Watson," said he; "but I have never seen 
a place to compare with it." 

"I never saw a Devonshire man who did not 
swear by his county," I remarked. 

"It depends upon the breed of men quite as 
much as on the county," said Dr. Mortimer. "A 
glance at our friend here reveals the rounded head 
of the Celt, which carries inside it the Celtic enthu- 
siasm and power of attachment. Poor Sir Charles's 
head was of a very rare type, half Gaelic, half 
Ivernian in its characteristics. But you were very 
young when you last saw Baskerville Hall, were 
you not?" 

"I was a boy in my 'teens at the time of my fa- 
ther's death, and had never seen the Hall, for he 
lived in a little cottage on the South Coast. Thence 
I went straight to a friend in America. I tell you it 
is all as new to me as it is to Dr. Watson, and I'm 
as keen as possible to see the moor." 

"Are you? Then your wish is easily granted, 
for there is your first sight of the moor," said Dr. 
Mortimer, pointing out of the carriage window. 

Over the green squares of the fields and the low 
curve of a wood there rose in the distance a gray, 
melancholy hill, with a strange jagged summit, 
dim and vague in the distance, like some fantas- 
tic landscape in a dream. Baskerville sat for a long 
time, his eyes fixed upon it, and I read upon his ea- 
ger face how much it meant to him, this first sight 
of that strange spot where the men of his blood 
had held sway so long and left their mark so deep. 
There he sat, with his tweed suit and his American 
accent, in the corner of a prosaic railway-carriage, 
and yet as I looked at his dark and expressive face 
I felt more than ever how true a descendant he was 
of that long line of high-blooded, fiery, and master- 
ful men. There were pride, valour, and strength in 
his thick brows, his sensitive nostrils, and his large 
hazel eyes. If on that forbidding moor a difficult 
and dangerous quest should lie before us, this was 
at least a comrade for whom one might venture to 
take a risk with the certainty that he would bravely 
share it. 

The train pulled up at a small wayside station 
and we all descended. Outside, beyond the low, 
white fence, a wagonette with a pair of cobs was 
waiting. Our coming was evidently a great event, 
for station-master and porters clustered round us 
to carry out our luggage. It was a sweet, simple 
country spot, but I was surprised to observe that 
by the gate there stood two soldierly men in dark 
uniforms, who leaned upon their short rifles and 


609 



The Hound of the Baskervilles 


glanced keenly at us as we passed. The coach- 
man, a hard-faced, gnarled little fellow, saluted Sir 
Henry Baskerville, and in a few minutes we were 
flying swiftly down the broad, white road. Rolling 
pasture lands curved upward on either side of us, 
and old gabled houses peeped out from amid the 
thick green foliage, but behind the peaceful and 
sunlit country-side there rose ever, dark against 
the evening sky, the long, gloomy curve of the 
moor, broken by the jagged and sinister hills. 

The wagonette swung round into a side road, 
and we curved upward through deep lanes worn 
by centuries of wheels, high banks on either 
side, heavy with dripping moss and fleshy hart's- 
tongue ferns. Bronzing bracken and mottled bram- 
ble gleamed in the light of the sinking sun. Still 
steadily rising, we passed over a narrow gran- 
ite bridge, and skirted a noisy stream which 
gushed swiftly down, foaming and roaring amid 
the gray boulders. Both road and stream wound 
up through a valley dense with scrub oak and 
fir. At every turn Baskerville gave an exclamation 
of delight, looking eagerly about him and asking 
countless questions. To his eyes all seemed beauti- 
ful, but to me a tinge of melancholy lay upon the 
country-side, which bore so clearly the mark of the 
waning year. Yellow leaves carpeted the lanes and 
fluttered down upon us as we passed. The rat- 
tle of our wheels died away as we drove through 
drifts of rotting vegetation — sad gifts, as it seemed 
to me, for Nature to throw before the carriage of 
the returning heir of the Baskervilles. 

"Halloa!" cried Dr. Mortimer, "what is this?" 

A steep curve of heath-clad land, an outlying 
spur of the moor, lay in front of us. On the summit, 
hard and clear like an equestrian statue upon its 
pedestal, was a mounted soldier, dark and stern, 
his rifle poised ready over his forearm. He was 
watching the road along which we travelled. 

"What is this, Perkins?" asked Dr. Mortimer. 

Our driver half turned in his seat. 

"There's a convict escaped from Princetown, 
sir. He's been out three days now, and the warders 
watch every road and every station, but they've 
had no sight of him yet. The farmers about here 
don't like it, sir, and that's a fact." 

"Well, I understand that they get five pounds if 
they can give information." 

"Yes, sir, but the chance of five pounds is but a 
poor thing compared to the chance of having your 
throat cut. You see, it isn't like any ordinary con- 
vict. This is a man that would stick at nothing." 

"Who is he, then?" 


"It is Selden, the Notting Hill murderer." 

I remembered the case well, for it was one in 
which Holmes had taken an interest on account 
of the peculiar ferocity of the crime and the wan- 
ton brutality which had marked all the actions of 
the assassin. The commutation of his death sen- 
tence had been due to some doubts as to his com- 
plete sanity, so atrocious was his conduct. Our 
wagonette had topped a rise and in front of us 
rose the huge expanse of the moor, mottled with 
gnarled and craggy cairns and tors. A cold wind 
swept down from it and set us shivering. Some- 
where there, on that desolate plain, was lurk- 
ing this fiendish man, hiding in a burrow like a 
wild beast, his heart full of malignancy against the 
whole race which had cast him out. It needed 
but this to complete the grim suggestiveness of 
the barren waste, the chilling wind, and the dark- 
ling sky. Even Baskerville fell silent and pulled his 
overcoat more closely around him. 

We had left the fertile country behind and be- 
neath us. We looked back on it now, the slanting 
rays of a low sun turning the streams to threads 
of gold and glowing on the red earth new turned 
by the plough and the broad tangle of the wood- 
lands. The road in front of us grew bleaker and 
wilder over huge russet and olive slopes, sprinkled 
with giant boulders. Now and then we passed a 
moorland cottage, walled and roofed with stone, 
with no creeper to break its harsh outline. Sud- 
denly we looked down into a cup-like depression, 
patched with stunted oaks and firs which had been 
twisted and bent by the fury of years of storm. Two 
high, narrow towers rose over the trees. The driver 
pointed with his whip. 

"Baskerville Hall," said he. 

Its master had risen and was staring with 
flushed cheeks and shining eyes. A few min- 
utes later we had reached the lodge-gates, a 
maze of fantastic tracery in wrought iron, with 
weather-bitten pillars on either side, blotched with 
lichens, and surmounted by the boars' heads of the 
Baskervilles. The lodge was a ruin of black gran- 
ite and bared ribs of rafters, but facing it was a 
new building, half constructed, the first fruit of Sir 
Charles's South African gold. 

Through the gateway we passed into the av- 
enue, where the wheels were again hushed amid 
the leaves, and the old trees shot their branches 
in a sombre tunnel over our heads. Baskerville 
shuddered as he looked up the long, dark drive 
to where the house glimmered like a ghost at the 
farther end. 

"Was it here?" he asked in a low voice. 


610 



The Hound of the Baskervilles 


"No, no, the Yew Alley is on the other side." 

The young heir glanced round with a gloomy 
face. 

"It's no wonder my uncle felt as if trouble were 
coming on him in such a place as this," said he. 
"It's enough to scare any man. I'll have a row of 
electric lamps up here inside of six months, and 
you won't know it again, with a thousand candle- 
power Swan and Edison right here in front of the 
hall door." 

The avenue opened into a broad expanse of 
turf, and the house lay before us. In the fad- 
ing light I could see that the centre was a heavy 
block of building from which a porch projected. 
The whole front was draped in ivy, with a patch 
clipped bare here and there where a window or a 
coat-of-arms broke through the dark veil. From 
this central block rose the twin towers, ancient, 
crenelated, and pierced with many loopholes. To 
right and left of the turrets were more modern 
wings of black granite. A dull light shone through 
heavy mullioned windows, and from the high 
chimneys which rose from the steep, high-angled 
roof there sprang a single black column of smoke. 

"Welcome, Sir Henry! Welcome to Baskerville 
Hall!" 

A tall man had stepped from the shadow of the 
porch to open the door of the wagonette. The fig- 
ure of a woman was silhouetted against the yellow 
light of the hall. She came out and helped the man 
to hand down our bags. 

"You don't mind my driving straight home. Sir 
Henry?" said Dr. Mortimer. "My wife is expecting 
me." 

"Surely you will stay and have some dinner?" 

"No, I must go. I shall probably find some 
work awaiting me. I would stay to show you over 
the house, but Barrymore will be a better guide 
than I. Good-bye, and never hesitate night or day 
to send for me if I can be of service." 

The wheels died away down the drive while 
Sir Henry and I turned into the hall, and the door 
clanged heavily behind us. It was a fine apart- 
ment in which we found ourselves, large, lofty, and 
heavily raftered with huge balks of age-blackened 
oak. In the great old-fashioned fireplace behind 
the high iron dogs a log-fire crackled and snapped. 
Sir Henry and I held out our hands to it, for we 
were numb from our long drive. Then we gazed 
round us at the high, thin window of old stained 
glass, the oak panelling, the stags' heads, the coats- 
of-arms upon the walls, all dim and sombre in the 
subdued light of the central lamp. 


"It's just as I imagined it," said Sir Henry. "Is 
it not the very picture of an old family home? To 
think that this should be the same hall in which for 
five hundred years my people have lived. It strikes 
me solemn to think of it." 

I saw his dark face lit up with a boyish enthu- 
siasm as he gazed about him. The light beat upon 
him where he stood, but long shadows trailed 
down the walls and hung like a black canopy 
above him. Barrymore had returned from taking 
our luggage to our rooms. He stood in front of us 
now with the subdued manner of a well-trained 
servant. He was a remarkable-looking man, tall, 
handsome, with a square black beard and pale, 
distinguished features. 

"Would you wish dinner to be served at once, 
sir?" 

"Is it ready?" 

"In a very few minutes, sir. You will find hot 
water in your rooms. My wife and I will be happy. 
Sir Henry, to stay with you until you have made 
your fresh arrangements, but you will understand 
that under the new conditions this house will re- 
quire a considerable staff." 

"What new conditions?" 

"I only meant, sir, that Sir Charles led a very re- 
tired life, and we were able to look after his wants. 
You would, naturally, wish to have more company, 
and so you will need changes in your household." 

"Do you mean that your wife and you wish to 
leave?" 

"Only when it is quite convenient to you, sir." 

"But your family have been with us for several 
generations, have they not? I should be sorry to 
begin my life here by breaking an old family con- 
nection." 

I seemed to discern some signs of emotion 
upon the butler's white face. 

"I feel that also, sir, and so does my wife. But to 
tell the truth, sir, we were both very much attached 
to Sir Charles, and his death gave us a shock and 
made these surroundings very painful to us. I fear 
that we shall never again be easy in our minds at 
Baskerville Hall." 

"But what do you intend to do?" 

"I have no doubt, sir, that we shall succeed 
in establishing ourselves in some business. Sir 
Charles's generosity has given us the means to do 
so. And now, sir, perhaps I had best show you to 
your rooms." 

A square balustraded gallery ran round the top 
of the old hall, approached by a double stair. From 
this central point two long corridors extended the 
whole length of the building, from which all the 


611 



The Hound of the Baskervilles 


bedrooms opened. My own was in the same wing 
as Baskerville's and almost next door to it. These 
rooms appeared to be much more modern than 
the central part of the house, and the bright paper 
and numerous candles did something to remove 
the sombre impression which our arrival had left 
upon my mind. 

But the dining-room which opened out of the 
hall was a place of shadow and gloom. It was 
a long chamber with a step separating the dais 
where the family sat from the lower portion re- 
served for their dependents. At one end a min- 
strel's gallery overlooked it. Black beams shot 
across above our heads, with a smoke-darkened 
ceiling beyond them. With rows of flaring torches 
to light it up, and the colour and rude hilarity of 
an old-time banquet, it might have softened; but 
now, when two black-clothed gentlemen sat in the 
little circle of light thrown by a shaded lamp, one's 
voice became hushed and one's spirit subdued. A 
dim line of ancestors, in every variety of dress, 
from the Elizabethan knight to the buck of the Re- 
gency, stared down upon us and daunted us by 
their silent company. We talked little, and I for one 
was glad when the meal was over and we were 
able to retire into the modern billiard-room and 
smoke a cigarette. 

"My word, it isn't a very cheerful place," said 
Sir Henry. "I suppose one can tone down to it, but 
I feel a bit out of the picture at present. I don't 


wonder that my uncle got a little jumpy if he lived 
all alone in such a house as this. However, if it 
suits you, we will retire early to-night, and perhaps 
things may seem more cheerful in the morning." 

I drew aside my curtains before I went to bed 
and looked out from my window. It opened upon 
the grassy space which lay in front of the hall door. 
Beyond, two copses of trees moaned and swung 
in a rising wind. A half moon broke through the 
rifts of racing clouds. In its cold light I saw be- 
yond the trees a broken fringe of rocks, and the 
long, low curve of the melancholy moor. I closed 
the curtain, feeling that my last impression was in 
keeping with the rest. 

And yet it was not quite the last. I found my- 
self weary and yet wakeful, tossing restlessly from 
side to side, seeking for the sleep which would not 
come. Far away a chiming clock struck out the 
quarters of the hours, but otherwise a deathly si- 
lence lay upon the old house. And then suddenly, 
in the very dead of the night, there came a sound 
to my ears, clear, resonant, and unmistakable. It 
was the sob of a woman, the muffled, strangling 
gasp of one who is torn by an uncontrollable sor- 
row. I sat up in bed and listened intently. The 
noise could not have been far away and was cer- 
tainly in the house. For half an hour I waited with 
every nerve on the alert, but there came no other 
sound save the chiming clock and the rustle of the 
ivy on the wall. 


CHAPTER VIE 

The Stapletons of Merripit House 


The fresh beauty of the following morning did 
something to efface from our minds the grim and 
gray impression which had been left upon both 
of us by our first experience of Baskerville Hall. 
As Sir Henry and I sat at breakfast the sunlight 
flooded in through the high mullioned windows, 
throwing watery patches of colour from the coats 
of arms which covered them. The dark panelling 
glowed like bronze in the golden rays, and it was 
hard to realize that this was indeed the chamber 
which had struck such a gloom into our souls 
upon the evening before. 

"I guess it is ourselves and not the house that 


we have to blame!" said the baronet. "We were 
tired with our journey and chilled by our drive, 
so we took a gray view of the place. Now we are 
fresh and well, so it is all cheerful once more." 

"And yet it was not entirely a question of imag- 
ination," I answered. "Did you, for example, hap- 
pen to hear someone, a woman I think, sobbing in 
the night?" 

"That is curious, for I did when I was half 
asleep fancy that I heard something of the sort. I 
waited quite a time, but there was no more of it, 
so I concluded that it was all a dream." 


612 



The Hound of the Baskervilles 


"I heard it distinctly, and I am sure that it was 
really the sob of a woman." 

"We must ask about this right away." He rang 
the bell and asked Barrymore whether he could ac- 
count for our experience. It seemed to me that the 
pallid features of the butler turned a shade paler 
still as he listened to his master's question. 

"There are only two women in the house. Sir 
Henry," he answered. "One is the scullery-maid, 
who sleeps in the other wing. The other is my 
wife, and I can answer for it that the sound could 
not have come from her." 

And yet he lied as he said it, for it chanced that 
after breakfast I met Mrs. Barrymore in the long 
corridor with the sun full upon her face. She was 
a large, impassive, heavy-featured woman with a 
stern set expression of mouth. But her tell-tale 
eyes were red and glanced at me from between 
swollen lids. It was she, then, who wept in the 
night, and if she did so her husband must know 
it. Yet he had taken the obvious risk of discov- 
ery in declaring that it was not so. Why had he 
done this? And why did she weep so bitterly? 
Already round this pale-faced, handsome, black- 
bearded man there was gathering an atmosphere 
of mystery and of gloom. It was he who had been 
the first to discover the body of Sir Charles, and we 
had only his word for all the circumstances which 
led up to the old man's death. Was it possible that 
it was Barrymore after all whom we had seen in 
the cab in Regent Street? The beard might well 
have been the same. The cabman had described 
a somewhat shorter man, but such an impression 
might easily have been erroneous. How could I 
settle the point forever? Obviously the first thing 
to do was to see the Grimpen postmaster, and find 
whether the test telegram had really been placed 
in Barrymore's own hands. Be the answer what it 
might, I should at least have something to report 
to Sherlock Holmes. 

Sir Henry had numerous papers to examine af- 
ter breakfast, so that the time was propitious for 
my excursion. It was a pleasant walk of four miles 
along the edge of the moor, leading me at last to a 
small gray hamlet, in which two larger buildings, 
which proved to be the inn and the house of Dr. 
Mortimer, stood high above the rest. The postmas- 
ter, who was also the village grocer, had a clear 
recollection of the telegram. 

"Certainly, sir," said he, "I had the telegram de- 
livered to Mr. Barrymore exactly as directed." 

"Who delivered it?" 


"My boy here. James, you delivered that tele- 
gram to Mr. Barrymore at the Hall last week, did 
you not?" 

"Yes, father, I delivered it." 

"Into his own hands?" I asked. 

"Well, he was up in the loft at the time, so that 
I could not put it into his own hands, but I gave it 
into Mrs. Barrymore's hands, and she promised to 
deliver it at once." 

"Did you see Mr. Barrymore?" 

"No, sir; I tell you he was in the loft." 

"If you didn't see him, how do you know he 
was in the loft?" 

"Well, surely his own wife ought to know 
where he is," said the postmaster testily. "Didn't 
he get the telegram? If there is any mistake it is for 
Mr. Barrymore himself to complain." 

It seemed hopeless to pursue the inquiry any 
farther, but it was clear that in spite of Holmes's 
ruse we had no proof that Barrymore had not 
been in London all the time. Suppose that it were 
so — suppose that the same man had been the last 
who had seen Sir Charles alive, and the first to dog 
the new heir when he returned to England. What 
then? Was he the agent of others or had he some 
sinister design of his own? What interest could 
he have in persecuting the Baskerville family? I 
thought of the strange warning clipped out of the 
leading article of the Times. Was that his work 
or was it possibly the doing of someone who was 
bent upon counteracting his schemes? The only 
conceivable motive was that which had been sug- 
gested by Sir Henry, that if the family could be 
scared away a comfortable and permanent home 
would be secured for the Barrymores. But surely 
such an explanation as that would be quite inad- 
equate to account for the deep and subtle schem- 
ing which seemed to be weaving an invisible net 
round the young baronet. Holmes himself had 
said that no more complex case had come to him in 
all the long series of his sensational investigations. 
I prayed, as I walked back along the gray, lonely 
road, that my friend might soon be freed from his 
preoccupations and able to come down to take this 
heavy burden of responsibility from my shoulders. 

Suddenly my thoughts were interrupted by the 
sound of running feet behind me and by a voice 
which called me by name. I turned, expecting 
to see Dr. Mortimer, but to my surprise it was a 
stranger who was pursuing me. He was a small, 
slim, clean-shaven, prim-faced man, flaxen-haired 
and lean-jawed, between thirty and forty years of 
age, dressed in a gray suit and wearing a straw 


613 



The Hound of the Baskervilles 


hat. A tin box for botanical specimens hung over 
his shoulder and he carried a green butterfly-net 
in one of his hands. 

"You will, I am sure, excuse my presumption. 
Dr. Watson," said he, as he came panting up to 
where I stood. "Here on the moor we are homely 
folk and do not wait for formal introductions. You 
may possibly have heard my name from our mu- 
tual friend, Mortimer. I am Stapleton, of Merripit 
House." 

"Your net and box would have told me as 
much," said I, "for I knew that Mr. Stapleton was 
a naturalist. But how did you know me?" 

"I have been calling on Mortimer, and he 
pointed you out to me from the window of his 
surgery as you passed. As our road lay the same 
way I thought that I would overtake you and in- 
troduce myself. I trust that Sir Henry is none the 
worse for his journey?" 

"He is very well, thank you." 

"We were all rather afraid that after the sad 
death of Sir Charles the new baronet might refuse 
to live here. It is asking much of a wealthy man 
to come down and bury himself in a place of this 
kind, but I need not tell you that it means a very 
great deal to the country-side. Sir Henry has, I 
suppose, no superstitious fears in the matter?" 

"I do not think that it is likely." 

"Of course you know the legend of the fiend 
dog which haunts the family?" 

"I have heard it." 

"It is extraordinary how credulous the peasants 
are about here! Any number of them are ready to 
swear that they have seen such a creature upon the 
moor." He spoke with a smile, but I seemed to read 
in his eyes that he took the matter more seriously. 
"The story took a great hold upon the imagination 
of Sir Charles, and I have no doubt that it led to 
his tragic end." 

"But how?" 

"His nerves were so worked up that the ap- 
pearance of any dog might have had a fatal effect 
upon his diseased heart. I fancy that he really did 
see something of the kind upon that last night in 
the Yew Alley. I feared that some disaster might 
occur, for I was very fond of the old man, and I 
knew that his heart was weak." 

"How did you know that?" 

"My friend Mortimer told me." 

"You think, then, that some dog pursued Sir 
Charles, and that he died of fright in conse- 
quence?" 


"Have you any better explanation?" 

"I have not come to any conclusion." 

"Has Mr. Sherlock Holmes?" 

The words took away my breath for an instant, 
but a glance at the placid face and steadfast eyes 
of my companion showed that no surprise was in- 
tended. 

"It is useless for us to pretend that we do not 
know you. Dr. Watson," said he. "The records 
of your detective have reached us here, and you 
could not celebrate him without being known 
yourself. When Mortimer told me your name he 
could not deny your identity. If you are here, then 
it follows that Mr. Sherlock Holmes is interesting 
himself in the matter, and I am naturally curious 
to know what view he may take." 

"I am afraid that I cannot answer that ques- 
tion." 

"May I ask if he is going to honour us with a 
visit himself?" 

"He cannot leave town at present. He has other 
cases which engage his attention." 

"What a pity! He might throw some light on 
that which is so dark to us. But as to your own 
researches, if there is any possible way in which I 
can be of service to you I trust that you will com- 
mand me. If I had any indication of the nature of 
your suspicions or how you propose to investigate 
the case, I might perhaps even now give you some 
aid or advice." 

"I assure you that I am simply here upon a visit 
to my friend. Sir Henry, and that I need no help of 
any kind." 

"Excellent!" said Stapleton. "You are perfectly 
right to be wary and discreet. I am justly reproved 
for what I feel was an unjustifiable intrusion, and 
I promise you that I will not mention the matter 
again." 

We had come to a point where a narrow grassy 
path struck off from the road and wound away 
across the moor. A steep, boulder-sprinkled hill 
lay upon the right which had in bygone days been 
cut into a granite quarry. The face which was 
turned towards us formed a dark cliff, with ferns 
and brambles growing in its niches. From over a 
distant rise there floated a gray plume of smoke. 

"A moderate walk along this moor-path brings 
us to Merripit House," said he. "Perhaps you will 
spare an hour that I may have the pleasure of in- 
troducing you to my sister." 

My first thought was that I should be by Sir 
Henry's side. But then I remembered the pile 
of papers and bills with which his study table 
was littered. It was certain that I could not help 


614 



The Hound of the Baskervilles 


with those. And Holmes had expressly said that 
I should study the neighbours upon the moor. I 
accepted Stapleton's invitation, and we turned to- 
gether down the path. 

"It is a wonderful place, the moor," said he, 
looking round over the undulating downs, long 
green rollers, with crests of jagged granite foam- 
ing up into fantastic surges. "You never tire of 
the moor. You cannot think the wonderful secrets 
which it contains. It is so vast, and so barren, and 
so mysterious." 

"You know it well, then?" 

"I have only been here two years. The residents 
would call me a newcomer. We came shortly after 
Sir Charles settled. But my tastes led me to explore 
every part of the country round, and I should think 
that there are few men who know it better than I 
do." 

"Is it hard to know?" 

"Very hard. You see, for example, this great 
plain to the north here with the queer hills break- 
ing out of it. Do you observe anything remarkable 
about that?" 

"It would be a rare place for a gallop." 

"You would naturally think so and the thought 
has cost several their lives before now. You notice 
those bright green spots scattered thickly over it?" 

"Yes, they seem more fertile than the rest." 

Stapleton laughed. 

"That is the great Grimpen Mire," said he. "A 
false step yonder means death to man or beast. 
Only yesterday I saw one of the moor ponies wan- 
der into it. He never came out. I saw his head for 
quite a long time craning out of the bog-hole, but 
it sucked him down at last. Even in dry seasons it 
is a danger to cross it, but after these autumn rains 
it is an awful place. And yet I can find my way to 
the very heart of it and return alive. By George, 
there is another of those miserable ponies!" 

Something brown was rolling and tossing 
among the green sedges. Then a long, agonized, 
writhing neck shot upward and a dreadful cry 
echoed over the moor. It turned me cold with 
horror, but my companion's nerves seemed to be 
stronger than mine. 

"It's gone!" said he. "The mire has him. Two 
in two days, and many more, perhaps, for they get 
in the way of going there in the dry weather, and 
never know the difference until the mire has them 
in its clutches. It's a bad place, the great Grimpen 
Mire." 

"And you say you can penetrate it?" 


"Yes, there are one or two paths which a very 
active man can take. I have found them out." 

"But why should you wish to go into so horri- 
ble a place?" 

"Well, you see the hills beyond? They are re- 
ally islands cut off on all sides by the impassable 
mire, which has crawled round them in the course 
of years. That is where the rare plants and the but- 
terflies are, if you have the wit to reach them." 

"I shall try my luck some day." 

He looked at me with a surprised face. 

"For God's sake put such an idea out of your 
mind," said he. "Your blood would be upon my 
head. I assure you that there would not be the 
least chance of your coming back alive. It is only 
by remembering certain complex landmarks that I 
am able to do it." 

"Halloa!" I cried. "What is that?" 

A long, low moan, indescribably sad, swept 
over the moor. It filled the whole air, and yet it 
was impossible to say whence it came. From a 
dull murmur it swelled into a deep roar, and then 
sank back into a melancholy, throbbing murmur 
once again. Stapleton looked at me with a curious 
expression in his face. 

"Queer place, the moor!" said he. 

"But what is it?" 

"The peasants say it is the Hound of the 
Baskervilles calling for its prey. I've heard it once 
or twice before, but never quite so loud." 

I looked round, with a chill of fear in my heart, 
at the huge swelling plain, mottled with the green 
patches of rushes. Nothing stirred over the vast ex- 
panse save a pair of ravens, which croaked loudly 
from a tor behind us. 

"You are an educated man. You don't believe 
such nonsense as that?" said I. "What do you think 
is the cause of so strange a sound?" 

"Bogs make queer noises sometimes. It's the 
mud settling, or the water rising, or something." 

"No, no, that was a living voice." 

"Well, perhaps it was. Did you ever hear a bit- 
tern booming?" 

"No, I never did." 

"It's a very rare bird — practically extinct — in 
England now, but all things are possible upon the 
moor. Yes, I should not be surprised to learn that 
what we have heard is the cry of the last of the 
bitterns." 

"It's the weirdest, strangest thing that ever I 
heard in my life." 


615 



The Hound of the Baskervilles 


"Yes, it's rather an uncanny place altogether. 
Look at the hill-side yonder. What do you make of 
those?" 

The whole steep slope was covered with gray 
circular rings of stone, a score of them at least. 

"What are they? Sheep-pens?" 

"No, they are the homes of our worthy ances- 
tors. Prehistoric man lived thickly on the moor, 
and as no one in particular has lived there since, 
we find all his little arrangements exactly as he left 
them. These are his wigwams with the roofs off. 
You can even see his hearth and his couch if you 
have the curiosity to go inside." 

"But it is quite a town. When was it inhabited?" 

"Neolithic man — no date." 

"What did he do?" 

"He grazed his cattle on these slopes, and he 
learned to dig for tin when the bronze sword be- 
gan to supersede the stone axe. Look at the great 
trench in the opposite hill. That is his mark. Yes, 
you will find some very singular points about the 
moor. Dr. Watson. Oh, excuse me an instant! It is 
surely Cyclopides." 

A small fly or moth had fluttered across our 
path, and in an instant Stapleton was rushing with 
extraordinary energy and speed in pursuit of it. 
To my dismay the creature flew straight for the 
great mire, and my acquaintance never paused for 
an instant, bounding from tuft to tuft behind it, 
his green net waving in the air. His gray clothes 
and jerky, zigzag, irregular progress made him not 
unlike some huge moth himself. I was standing 
watching his pursuit with a mixture of admira- 
tion for his extraordinary activity and fear lest he 
should lose his footing in the treacherous mire, 
when I heard the sound of steps, and turning 
round found a woman near me upon the path. She 
had come from the direction in which the plume 
of smoke indicated the position of Merripit House, 
but the dip of the moor had hid her until she was 
quite close. 

I could not doubt that this was the Miss Sta- 
pleton of whom I had been told, since ladies of 
any sort must be few upon the moor, and I re- 
membered that I had heard someone describe her 
as being a beauty. The woman who approached 
me was certainly that, and of a most uncommon 
type. There could not have been a greater con- 
trast between brother and sister, for Stapleton was 
neutral tinted, with light hair and gray eyes, while 
she was darker than any brunette whom I have 
seen in England — slim, elegant, and tall. She had 
a proud, finely cut face, so regular that it might 


have seemed impassive were it not for the sensitive 
mouth and the beautiful dark, eager eyes. With 
her perfect figure and elegant dress she was, in- 
deed, a strange apparition upon a lonely moorland 
path. Her eyes were on her brother as I turned, 
and then she quickened her pace towards me. I 
had raised my hat and was about to make some 
explanatory remark, when her own words turned 
all my thoughts into a new channel. 

"Go back!" she said. "Go straight back to Lon- 
don, instantly." 

I could only stare at her in stupid surprise. Her 
eyes blazed at me, and she tapped the ground im- 
patiently with her foot. 

"Why should I go back?" I asked. 

"I cannot explain." She spoke in a low, eager 
voice, with a curious lisp in her utterance. "But 
for God's sake do what I ask you. Go back and 
never set foot upon the moor again." 

"But I have only just come." 

"Man, man!" she cried. "Can you not tell when 
a warning is for your own good? Go back to Lon- 
don! Start to-night! Get away from this place at all 
costs! Hush, my brother is coming! Not a word 
of what I have said. Would you mind getting that 
orchid for me among the mares-tails yonder? We 
are very rich in orchids on the moor, though, of 
course, you are rather late to see the beauties of 
the place." 

Stapleton had abandoned the chase and came 
back to us breathing hard and flushed with his ex- 
ertions. 

"Halloa, Beryl!" said he, and it seemed to me 
that the tone of his greeting was not altogether a 
cordial one. 

"Well, Jack, you are very hot." 

"Yes, I was chasing a Cyclopides. He is very 
rare and seldom found in the late autumn. What 
a pity that I should have missed him!" He spoke 
unconcernedly, but his small light eyes glanced in- 
cessantly from the girl to me. 

"You have introduced yourselves, I can see." 

"Yes. I was telling Sir Henry that it was rather 
late for him to see the true beauties of the moor." 

"Why, who do you think this is?" 

"I imagine that it must be Sir Henry 
Baskerville." 

"No, no," said I. "Only a humble commoner, 
but his friend. My name is Dr. Watson." 

A flush of vexation passed over her expressive 
face. "We have been talking at cross purposes," 
said she. 


616 



The Hound of the Baskervilles 


"Why, you had not very much time for talk," 
her brother remarked with the same questioning 
eyes. 

"I talked as if Dr. Watson were a resident in- 
stead of being merely a visitor," said she. "It can- 
not much matter to him whether it is early or late 
for the orchids. But you will come on, will you 
not, and see Merripit House?" 

A short walk brought us to it, a bleak moor- 
land house, once the farm of some grazier in the 
old prosperous days, but now put into repair and 
turned into a modern dwelling. An orchard sur- 
rounded it, but the trees, as is usual upon the 
moor, were stunted and nipped, and the effect of 
the whole place was mean and melancholy. We 
were admitted by a strange, wizened, rusty-coated 
old manservant, who seemed in keeping with the 
house. Inside, however, there were large rooms 
furnished with an elegance in which I seemed 
to recognize the taste of the lady. As I looked 
from their windows at the interminable granite- 
flecked moor rolling unbroken to the farthest hori- 
zon I could not but marvel at what could have 
brought this highly educated man and this beauti- 
ful woman to live in such a place. 

"Queer spot to choose, is it not?" said he as if 
in answer to my thought. "And yet we manage to 
make ourselves fairly happy, do we not. Beryl?" 

"Quite happy," said she, but there was no ring 
of conviction in her words. 

"I had a school," said Stapleton. "It was in the 
north country. The work to a man of my temper- 
ament was mechanical and uninteresting, but the 
privilege of living with youth, of helping to mould 
those young minds, and of impressing them with 
one's own character and ideals, was very dear to 
me. However, the fates were against us. A serious 
epidemic broke out in the school and three of the 
boys died. It never recovered from the blow, and 
much of my capital was irretrievably swallowed 
up. And yet, if it were not for the loss of the charm- 
ing companionship of the boys, I could rejoice over 
my own misfortune, for, with my strong tastes for 
botany and zoology, I find an unlimited field of 
work here, and my sister is as devoted to Nature as 
I am. All this. Dr. Watson, has been brought upon 
your head by your expression as you surveyed the 
moor out of our window." 

"It certainly did cross my mind that it might be 
a little dull — less for you, perhaps, than for your 
sister." 

"No, no, I am never dull," said she, quickly. 


"We have books, we have our studies, and we 
have interesting neighbours. Dr. Mortimer is a 
most learned man in his own line. Poor Sir Charles 
was also an admirable companion. We knew him 
well, and miss him more than I can tell. Do you 
think that I should intrude if I were to call this af- 
ternoon and make the acquaintance of Sir Henry?" 

"I am sure that he would be delighted." 

"Then perhaps you would mention that I pro- 
pose to do so. We may in our humble way do 
something to make things more easy for him until 
he becomes accustomed to his new surroundings. 
Will you come upstairs. Dr. Watson, and inspect 
my collection of Lepidoptera ? I think it is the most 
complete one in the south-west of England. By the 
time that you have looked through them lunch will 
be almost ready." 

But I was eager to get back to my charge. The 
melancholy of the moor, the death of the unfor- 
tunate pony, the weird sound which had been as- 
sociated with the grim legend of the Baskervilles, 
all these things tinged my thoughts with sadness. 
Then on the top of these more or less vague im- 
pressions there had come the definite and distinct 
warning of Miss Stapleton, delivered with such in- 
tense earnestness that I could not doubt that some 
grave and deep reason lay behind it. I resisted all 
pressure to stay for lunch, and I set off at once 
upon my return journey, taking the grass-grown 
path by which we had come. 

It seems, however, that there must have been 
some short cut for those who knew it, for before I 
had reached the road I was astounded to see Miss 
Stapleton sitting upon a rock by the side of the 
track. Her face was beautifully flushed with her 
exertions, and she held her hand to her side. 

"I have run all the way in order to cut you off. 
Dr. Watson," said she. "I had not even time to put 
on my hat. I must not stop, or my brother may 
miss me. I wanted to say to you how sorry I am 
about the stupid mistake I made in thinking that 
you were Sir Henry. Please forget the words I said, 
which have no application whatever to you." 

"But I can't forget them. Miss Stapleton," said I. 
"I am Sir Henry's friend, and his welfare is a very 
close concern of mine. Tell me why it was that 
you were so eager that Sir Henry should return to 
London." 

"A woman's whim. Dr. Watson. When you 
know me better you will understand that I cannot 
always give reasons for what I say or do." 

"No, no. I remember the thrill in your voice. 
I remember the look in your eyes. Please, please. 


617 



The Hound of the Baskervilles 


be frank with me. Miss Stapleton, for ever since 
I have been here I have been conscious of shad- 
ows all round me. Life has become like that 
great Grimpen Mire, with little green patches ev- 
erywhere into which one may sink and with no 
guide to point the track. Tell me then what it was 
that you meant, and I will promise to convey your 
warning to Sir Henry." 

An expression of irresolution passed for an in- 
stant over her face, but her eyes had hardened 
again when she answered me. 

"You make too much of it. Dr. Watson," said 
she. "My brother and I were very much shocked 
by the death of Sir Charles. We knew him very in- 
timately, for his favourite walk was over the moor 
to our house. He was deeply impressed with 
the curse which hung over the family, and when 
this tragedy came I naturally felt that there must 
be some grounds for the fears which he had ex- 
pressed. I was distressed therefore when another 
member of the family came down to live here, and 
I felt that he should be warned of the danger which 
he will run. That was all which I intended to con- 
vey. 

"But what is the danger?" 

"You know the story of the hound?" 

"I do not believe in such nonsense." 


"But I do. If you have any influence with Sir 
Henry, take him away from a place which has al- 
ways been fatal to his family. The world is wide. 
Why should he wish to live at the place of dan- 
ger?" 

"Because it is the place of danger. That is Sir 
Henry's nature. I fear that unless you can give me 
some more definite information than this it would 
be impossible to get him to move." 

"I cannot say anything definite, for I do not 
know anything definite." 

"I would ask you one more question. Miss Sta- 
pleton. If you meant no more than this when you 
first spoke to me, why should you not wish your 
brother to overhear what you said? There is noth- 
ing to which he, or anyone else, could object." 

"My brother is very anxious to have the Hall 
inhabited, for he thinks it is for the good of the 
poor folk upon the moor. He would be very angry 
if he knew that I have said anything which might 
induce Sir Henry to go away. But I have done my 
duty now and I will say no more. I must get back, 
or he will miss me and suspect that I have seen 
you. Good-bye!" She turned and had disappeared 
in a few minutes among the scattered boulders, 
while I, with my soul full of vague fears, pursued 
my way to Baskerville Hall. 


CHAPTER VIII. 

First Report of Dr. Watson 


From this point onward I will follow the course 
of events by transcribing my own letters to Mr. 
Sherlock Holmes which lie before me on the ta- 
ble. One page is missing, but otherwise they are 
exactly as written and show my feelings and sus- 
picions of the moment more accurately than my 
memory, clear as it is upon these tragic events, can 
possibly do. 

Baskerville Hall, October 13th. 

My dear Holmes: 

My previous letters and telegrams have kept you 
pretty well up to date as to all that has occurred in 
this most God-forsaken corner of the world. The 
longer one stays here the more does the spirit of 
the moor sink into one's soul, its vastness, and also 


its grim charm. When you are once out upon its 
bosom you have left all traces of modern England 
behind you, but on the other hand you are con- 
scious everywhere of the homes and the work of 
the prehistoric people. On all sides of you as you 
walk are the houses of these forgotten folk, with 
their graves and the huge monoliths which are 
supposed to have marked their temples. As you 
look at their gray stone huts against the scarred 
hill-sides you leave your own age behind you, and 
if you were to see a skin-clad, hairy man crawl out 
from the low door fitting a flint-tipped arrow on 
to the string of his bow, you would feel that his 
presence there was more natural than your own. 
The strange thing is that they should have lived 
so thickly on what must always have been most 


618 



The Hound of the Baskervilles 


unfruitful soil. I am no antiquarian, but I could 
imagine that they were some unwarlike and har- 
ried race who were forced to accept that which 
none other would occupy. 

All this, however, is foreign to the mission on 
which you sent me and will probably be very un- 
interesting to your severely practical mind. I can 
still remember your complete indifference as to 
whether the sun moved round the earth or the 
earth round the sun. Let me, therefore, return to 
the facts concerning Sir Henry Baskerville. 

If you have not had any report within the last 
few days it is because up to to-day there was noth- 
ing of importance to relate. Then a very surpris- 
ing circumstance occurred, which I shall tell you 
in due course. But, first of all, I must keep you in 
touch with some of the other factors in the situa- 
tion. 

One of these, concerning which I have said lit- 
tle, is the escaped convict upon the moor. There 
is strong reason now to believe that he has got 
right away, which is a considerable relief to the 
lonely householders of this district. A fortnight 
has passed since his flight, during which he has 
not been seen and nothing has been heard of him. 
It is surely inconceivable that he could have held 
out upon the moor during all that time. Of course, 
so far as his concealment goes there is no diffi- 
culty at all. Any one of these stone huts would 
give him a hiding-place. But there is nothing to 
eat unless he were to catch and slaughter one of 
the moor sheep. We think, therefore, that he has 
gone, and the outlying farmers sleep the better in 
consequence. 

We are four able-bodied men in this household, 
so that we could take good care of ourselves, but 
I confess that I have had uneasy moments when 
I have thought of the Stapletons. They live miles 
from any help. There are one maid, an old manser- 
vant, the sister, and the brother, the latter not a 
very strong man. They would be helpless in the 
hands of a desperate fellow like this Notting Hill 
criminal, if he could once effect an entrance. Both 
Sir Henry and I were concerned at their situa- 
tion, and it was suggested that Perkins the groom 
should go over to sleep there, but Stapleton would 
not hear of it. 

The fact is that our friend, the baronet, begins 
to display a considerable interest in our fair neigh- 
bour. It is not to be wondered at, for time hangs 
heavily in this lonely spot to an active man like 
him, and she is a very fascinating and beautiful 
woman. There is something tropical and exotic 
about her which forms a singular contrast to her 


cool and unemotional brother. Yet he also gives 
the idea of hidden fires. He has certainly a very 
marked influence over her, for I have seen her con- 
tinually glance at him as she talked as if seeking 
approbation for what she said. I trust that he is 
kind to her. There is a dry glitter in his eyes, and a 
firm set of his thin lips, which goes with a positive 
and possibly a harsh nature. You would find him 
an interesting study. 

He came over to call upon Baskerville on that 
first day, and the very next morning he took us 
both to show us the spot where the legend of the 
wicked Hugo is supposed to have had its origin. 
It was an excursion of some miles across the moor 
to a place which is so dismal that it might have 
suggested the story. We found a short valley be- 
tween rugged tors which led to an open, grassy 
space flecked over with the white cotton grass. In 
the middle of it rose two great stones, worn and 
sharpened at the upper end, until they looked like 
the huge corroding fangs of some monstrous beast. 
In every way it corresponded with the scene of the 
old tragedy. Sir Henry was much interested and 
asked Stapleton more than once whether he did 
really believe in the possibility of the interference 
of the supernatural in the affairs of men. He spoke 
lightly, but it was evident that he was very much in 
earnest. Stapleton was guarded in his replies, but 
it was easy to see that he said less than he might, 
and that he would not express his whole opinion 
out of consideration for the feelings of the baronet. 
He told us of similar cases, where families had suf- 
fered from some evil influence, and he left us with 
the impression that he shared the popular view 
upon the matter. 

On our way back we stayed for lunch at Mer- 
ripit House, and it was there that Sir Henry made 
the acquaintance of Miss Stapleton. From the 
first moment that he saw her he appeared to be 
strongly attracted by her, and I am much mistaken 
if the feeling was not mutual. He referred to her 
again and again on our walk home, and since then 
hardly a day has passed that we have not seen 
something of the brother and sister. They dine 
here to-night, and there is some talk of our go- 
ing to them next week. One would imagine that 
such a match would be very welcome to Stapleton, 
and yet I have more than once caught a look of 
the strongest disapprobation in his face when Sir 
Henry has been paying some attention to his sister. 
He is much attached to her, no doubt, and would 
lead a lonely life without her, but it would seem 
the height of selfishness if he were to stand in the 
way of her making so brilliant a marriage. Yet I 
am certain that he does not wish their intimacy to 


619 



The Hound of the Baskervilles 


ripen into love, and I have several times observed 
that he has taken pains to prevent them from be- 
ing tete-a-tete. By the way, your instructions to me 
never to allow Sir Henry to go out alone will be- 
come very much more onerous if a love affair were 
to be added to our other difficulties. My popular- 
ity would soon suffer if I were to carry out your 
orders to the letter. 

The other day — Thursday, to be more ex- 
act — Dr. Mortimer lunched with us. He has been 
excavating a barrow at Long Down, and has got 
a prehistoric skull which fills him with great joy. 
Never was there such a single-minded enthusiast 
as he! The Stapletons came in afterwards, and 
the good doctor took us all to the Yew Alley, at 
Sir Henry's request, to show us exactly how ev- 
erything occurred upon that fatal night. It is a 
long, dismal walk, the Yew Alley, between two 
high walls of clipped hedge, with a narrow band 
of grass upon either side. At the far end is an old 
tumble-down summer-house. Half-way down is 
the moor-gate, where the old gentleman left his 
cigar-ash. It is a white wooden gate with a latch. 
Beyond it lies the wide moor. I remembered your 
theory of the affair and tried to picture all that 
had occurred. As the old man stood there he 
saw something coming across the moor, something 
which terrified him so that he lost his wits, and ran 
and ran until he died of sheer horror and exhaus- 
tion. There was the long, gloomy tunnel down 
which he fled. And from what? A sheep-dog of 
the moor? Or a spectral hound, black, silent, and 
monstrous? Was there a human agency in the mat- 
ter? Did the pale, watchful Barrymore know more 
than he cared to say? It was all dim and vague, but 
always there is the dark shadow of crime behind 
it. 

One other neighbour I have met since I wrote 
last. This is Mr. Frankland, of Lafter Hall, who 
lives some four miles to the south of us. He is an 
elderly man, red-faced, white-haired, and choleric. 
His passion is for the British law, and he has spent 
a large fortune in litigation. He fights for the mere 
pleasure of fighting and is equally ready to take 
up either side of a question, so that it is no wonder 
that he has found it a costly amusement. Some- 
times he will shut up a right of way and defy the 
parish to make him open it. At others he will with 
his own hands tear down some other man's gate 
and declare that a path has existed there from time 
immemorial, defying the owner to prosecute him 
for trespass. He is learned in old manorial and 
communal rights, and he applies his knowledge 
sometimes in favour of the villagers of Fernworthy 


and sometimes against them, so that he is period- 
ically either carried in triumph down the village 
street or else burned in effigy, according to his lat- 
est exploit. He is said to have about seven lawsuits 
upon his hands at present, which will probably 
swallow up the remainder of his fortune and so 
draw his sting and leave him harmless for the fu- 
ture. Apart from the law he seems a kindly, good- 
natured person, and I only mention him because 
you were particular that I should send some de- 
scription of the people who surround us. He is 
curiously employed at present, for, being an am- 
ateur astronomer, he has an excellent telescope, 
with which he lies upon the roof of his own house 
and sweeps the moor all day in the hope of catch- 
ing a glimpse of the escaped convict. If he would 
confine his energies to this all would be well, but 
there are rumours that he intends to prosecute Dr. 
Mortimer for opening a grave without the consent 
of the next-of-kin, because he dug up the Neolithic 
skull in the barrow on Long Down. He helps to 
keep our lives from being monotonous and gives a 
little comic relief where it is badly needed. 

And now, having brought you up to date in 
the escaped convict, the Stapletons, Dr. Mortimer, 
and Frankland, of Lafter Hall, let me end on that 
which is most important and tell you more about 
the Barrymores, and especially about the surpris- 
ing development of last night. 

First of all about the test telegram, which you 
sent from London in order to make sure that Bar- 
rymore was really here. I have already explained 
that the testimony of the postmaster shows that the 
test was worthless and that we have no proof one 
way or the other. I told Sir Henry how the matter 
stood, and he at once, in his downright fashion, 
had Barrymore up and asked him whether he had 
received the telegram himself. Barrymore said that 
he had. 

"Did the boy deliver it into your own hands?" 
asked Sir Henry. 

Barrymore looked surprised, and considered 
for a little time. 

"No," said he, "I was in the box-room at the 
time, and my wife brought it up to me." 

"Did you answer it yourself?" 

"No; I told my wife what to answer and she 
went down to write it." 

In the evening he recurred to the subject of his 
own accord. 

"I could not quite understand the object of your 
questions this morning. Sir Henry," said he. "I 


620 



The Hound of the Baskervilles 


trust that they do not mean that I have done any- 
thing to forfeit your confidence?" 

Sir Henry had to assure him that it was not so 
and pacify him by giving him a considerable part 
of his old wardrobe, the London outfit having now 
all arrived. 

Mrs. Barrymore is of interest to me. She is 
a heavy, solid person, very limited, intensely re- 
spectable, and inclined to be puritanical. You 
could hardly conceive a less emotional subject. Yet 
I have told you how, on the first night here, I 
heard her sobbing bitterly, and since then I have 
more than once observed traces of tears upon her 
face. Some deep sorrow gnaws ever at her heart. 
Sometimes I wonder if she has a guilty memory 
which haunts her, and sometimes I suspect Barry- 
more of being a domestic tyrant. I have always felt 
that there was something singular and question- 
able in this man's character, but the adventure of 
last night brings all my suspicions to a head. 

And yet it may seem a small matter in itself. 
You are aware that I am not a very sound sleeper, 
and since I have been on guard in this house my 
slumbers have been lighter than ever. Last night, 
about two in the morning, I was aroused by a 
stealthy step passing my room. I rose, opened my 
door, and peeped out. A long black shadow was 
trailing down the corridor. It was thrown by a man 
who walked softly down the passage with a can- 
dle held in his hand. He was in shirt and trousers, 
with no covering to his feet. I could merely see the 
outline, but his height told me that it was Barry- 
more. He walked very slowly and circumspectly, 
and there was something indescribably guilty and 
furtive in his whole appearance. 


I have told you that the corridor is broken by 
the balcony which runs round the hall, but that it 
is resumed upon the farther side. I waited until he 
had passed out of sight and then I followed him. 
When I came round the balcony he had reached 
the end of the farther corridor, and I could see 
from the glimmer of light through an open door 
that he had entered one of the rooms. Now, all 
these rooms are unfurnished and unoccupied, so 
that his expedition became more mysterious than 
ever. The light shone steadily as if he were stand- 
ing motionless. I crept down the passage as noise- 
lessly as I could and peeped round the corner of 
the door. 

Barrymore was crouching at the window with 
the candle held against the glass. His profile was 
half turned towards me, and his face seemed to 
be rigid with expectation as he stared out into the 
blackness of the moor. For some minutes he stood 
watching intently. Then he gave a deep groan and 
with an impatient gesture he put out the light. In- 
stantly I made my way back to my room, and very 
shortly came the stealthy steps passing once more 
upon their return journey. Long afterwards when 
I had fallen into a light sleep I heard a key turn 
somewhere in a lock, but I could not tell whence 
the sound came. What it all means I cannot guess, 
but there is some secret business going on in this 
house of gloom which sooner or later we shall get 
to the bottom of. I do not trouble you with my the- 
ories, for you asked me to furnish you only with 
facts. I have had a long talk with Sir Henry this 
morning, and we have made a plan of campaign 
founded upon my observations of last night. I will 
not speak about it just now, but it should make my 
next report interesting reading. 


CHAPTER IX. 

Second Report of Dr. Watson 


THE LIGHT UPON THE MOOR 

Baskerville Hall, Oct. 15th. 

My dear Holmes: 

If I was compelled to leave you without much 
news during the early days of my mission you 
must acknowledge that I am making up for lost 
time, and that events are now crowding thick and 


fast upon us. In my last report I ended upon my 
top note with Barrymore at the window, and now 
I have quite a budget already which will, unless 
I am much mistaken, considerably surprise you. 
Things have taken a turn which I could not have 
anticipated. In some ways they have within the 
last forty-eight hours become much clearer and in 


621 



The Hound of the Baskervilles 


some ways they have become more complicated. 
But I will tell you all and you shall judge for your- 
self. 

Before breakfast on the morning following my 
adventure I went down the corridor and examined 
the room in which Barrymore had been on the 
night before. The western window through which 
he had stared so intently has, I noticed, one pe- 
culiarity above all other windows in the house — it 
commands the nearest outlook on the moor. There 
is an opening between two trees which enables one 
from this point of view to look right down upon it, 
while from all the other windows it is only a dis- 
tant glimpse which can be obtained. It follows, 
therefore, that Barrymore, since only this window 
would serve the purpose, must have been looking 
out for something or somebody upon the moor. 
The night was very dark, so that I can hardly imag- 
ine how he could have hoped to see anyone. It had 
struck me that it was possible that some love in- 
trigue was on foot. That would have accounted for 
his stealthy movements and also for the uneasiness 
of his wife. The man is a striking-looking fellow, 
very well equipped to steal the heart of a country 
girl, so that this theory seemed to have something 
to support it. That opening of the door which I 
had heard after I had returned to my room might 
mean that he had gone out to keep some clandes- 
tine appointment. So I reasoned with myself in the 
morning, and I tell you the direction of my suspi- 
cions, however much the result may have shown 
that they were unfounded. 

But whatever the true explanation of Barry- 
more's movements might be, I felt that the respon- 
sibility of keeping them to myself until I could ex- 
plain them was more than I could bear. I had an 
interview with the baronet in his study after break- 
fast, and I told him all that I had seen. He was less 
surprised than I had expected. 

"I knew that Barrymore walked about nights, 
and I had a mind to speak to him about it," said 
he. "Two or three times I have heard his steps in 
the passage, coming and going, just about the hour 
you name." 

"Perhaps then he pays a visit every night to that 
particular window," I suggested. 

"Perhaps he does. If so, we should be able to 
shadow him, and see what it is that he is after. I 
wonder what your friend Holmes would do, if he 
were here." 

"I believe that he would do exactly what you 
now suggest," said I. "He would follow Barrymore 
and see what he did." 


"Then we shall do it together." 

"But surely he would hear us." 

"The man is rather deaf, and in any case we 
must take our chance of that. We'll sit up in my 
room to-night and wait until he passes." Sir Henry 
rubbed his hands with pleasure, and it was evi- 
dent that he hailed the adventure as a relief to his 
somewhat quiet life upon the moor. 

The baronet has been in communication with 
the architect who prepared the plans for Sir 
Charles, and with a contractor from London, so 
that we may expect great changes to begin here 
soon. There have been decorators and furnishers 
up from Plymouth, and it is evident that our friend 
has large ideas, and means to spare no pains or ex- 
pense to restore the grandeur of his family. When 
the house is renovated and refurnished, all that he 
will need will be a wife to make it complete. Be- 
tween ourselves there are pretty clear signs that 
this will not be wanting if the lady is willing, for 
I have seldom seen a man more infatuated with a 
woman than he is with our beautiful neighbour. 
Miss Stapleton. And yet the course of true love 
does not run quite as smoothly as one would un- 
der the circumstances expect. To-day, for example, 
its surface was broken by a very unexpected ripple, 
which has caused our friend considerable perplex- 
ity and annoyance. 

After the conversation which I have quoted 
about Barrymore, Sir Henry put on his hat and 
prepared to go out. As a matter of course I did the 
same. 

"What, are you coming, Watson?" he asked, 
looking at me in a curious way. 

"That depends on whether you are going on 
the moor," said I. 

"Yes, I am." 

"Well, you know what my instructions are. I 
am sorry to intrude, but you heard how earnestly 
Holmes insisted that I should not leave you, and 
especially that you should not go alone upon the 
moor." 

Sir Henry put his hand upon my shoulder with 
a pleasant smile. 

"My dear fellow," said he, "Holmes, with all 
his wisdom, did not foresee some things which 
have happened since I have been on the moor. You 
understand me? I am sure that you are the last 
man in the world who would wish to be a spoil- 
sport. I must go out alone." 

It put me in a most awkward position. I was at 
a loss what to say or what to do, and before I had 
made up my mind he picked up his cane and was 
gone. 


622 



The Hound of the Baskervilles 


But when I came to think the matter over my 
conscience reproached me bitterly for having on 
any pretext allowed him to go out of my sight. I 
imagined what my feelings would be if I had to 
return to you and to confess that some misfortune 
had occurred through my disregard for your in- 
structions. I assure you my cheeks flushed at the 
very thought. It might not even now be too late to 
overtake him, so I set off at once in the direction of 
Merripit House. 

I hurried along the road at the top of my speed 
without seeing anything of Sir Henry, until I came 
to the point where the moor path branches off. 
There, fearing that perhaps I had come in the 
wrong direction after all, I mounted a hill from 
which I could command a view — the same hill 
which is cut into the dark quarry. Thence I saw 
him at once. He was on the moor path, about a 
quarter of a mile off, and a lady was by his side 
who could only be Miss Stapleton. It was clear 
that there was already an understanding between 
them and that they had met by appointment. They 
were walking slowly along in deep conversation, 
and I saw her making quick little movements of 
her hands as if she were very earnest in what she 
was saying, while he listened intently, and once 
or twice shook his head in strong dissent. I stood 
among the rocks watching them, very much puz- 
zled as to what I should do next. To follow them 
and break into their intimate conversation seemed 
to be an outrage, and yet my clear duty was never 
for an instant to let him out of my sight. To act the 
spy upon a friend was a hateful task. Still, I could 
see no better course than to observe him from the 
hill, and to clear my conscience by confessing to 
him afterwards what I had done. It is true that 
if any sudden danger had threatened him I was 
too far away to be of use, and yet I am sure that 
you will agree with me that the position was very 
difficult, and that there was nothing more which I 
could do. 

Our friend. Sir Henry, and the lady had halted 
on the path and were standing deeply absorbed 
in their conversation, when I was suddenly aware 
that I was not the only witness of their interview. 
A wisp of green floating in the air caught my eye, 
and another glance showed me that it was carried 
on a stick by a man who was moving among the 
broken ground. It was Stapleton with his butterfly- 
net. He was very much closer to the pair than I 
was, and he appeared to be moving in their di- 
rection. At this instant Sir Henry suddenly drew 
Miss Stapleton to his side. His arm was round 
her, but it seemed to me that she was straining 
away from him with her face averted. He stooped 


his head to hers, and she raised one hand as if in 
protest. Next moment I saw them spring apart and 
turn hurriedly round. Stapleton was the cause of 
the interruption. He was running wildly towards 
them, his absurd net dangling behind him. He 
gesticulated and almost danced with excitement in 
front of the lovers. What the scene meant I could 
not imagine, but it seemed to me that Stapleton 
was abusing Sir Henry, who offered explanations, 
which became more angry as the other refused to 
accept them. The lady stood by in haughty silence. 
Finally Stapleton turned upon his heel and beck- 
oned in a peremptory way to his sister, who, after 
an irresolute glance at Sir Henry, walked off by the 
side of her brother. The naturalist's angry gestures 
showed that the lady was included in his displea- 
sure. The baronet stood for a minute looking after 
them, and then he walked slowly back the way that 
he had come, his head hanging, the very picture of 
dejection. 

What all this meant I could not imagine, but 
I was deeply ashamed to have witnessed so inti- 
mate a scene without my friend's knowledge. I 
ran down the hill therefore and met the baronet at 
the bottom. His face was flushed with anger and 
his brows were wrinkled, like one who is at his 
wit's ends what to do. 

"Halloa, Watson! Where have you dropped 
from?" said he. "You don't mean to say that you 
came after me in spite of all?" 

I explained everything to him: how I had found 
it impossible to remain behind, how I had followed 
him, and how I had witnessed all that had oc- 
curred. For an instant his eyes blazed at me, but 
my frankness disarmed his anger, and he broke at 
last into a rather rueful laugh. 

"You would have thought the middle of that 
prairie a fairly safe place for a man to be private," 
said he, "but, by thunder, the whole country-side 
seems to have been out to see me do my woo- 
ing — and a mighty poor wooing at that! Where 
had you engaged a seat?" 

"I was on that hill." 

"Quite in the back row, eh? But her brother was 
well up to the front. Did you see him come out on 
us?" 

"Yes, I did." 

"Did he ever strike you as being crazy — this 
brother of hers?" 

"I can't say that he ever did." 

"I dare say not. I always thought him sane 
enough until to-day, but you can take it from me 
that either he or I ought to be in a strait-jacket. 


623 



The Hound of the Baskervilles 


What's the matter with me, anyhow? You've lived 
near me for some weeks, Watson. Tell me straight, 
now! Is there anything that would prevent me 
from making a good husband to a woman that I 
loved?" 

"I should say not." 

"He can't object to my worldly position, so it 
must be myself that he has this down on. What 
has he against me? I never hurt man or woman in 
my life that I know of. And yet he would not so 
much as let me touch the tips of her fingers." 

"Did he say so?" 

"That, and a deal more. I tell you, Watson, 
I've only known her these few weeks, but from the 
first I just felt that she was made for me, and she, 
too — she was happy when she was with me, and 
that I'll swear. There's a light in a woman's eyes 
that speaks louder than words. But he has never 
let us get together, and it was only to-day for the 
first time that I saw a chance of having a few words 
with her alone. She was glad to meet me, but when 
she did it was not love that she would talk about, 
and she wouldn't have let me talk about it either if 
she could have stopped it. She kept coming back 
to it that this was a place of danger, and that she 
would never be happy until I had left it. I told 
her that since I had seen her I was in no hurry to 
leave it, and that if she really wanted me to go, 
the only way to work it was for her to arrange to 
go with me. With that I offered in as many words 
to marry her, but before she could answer, down 
came this brother of hers, running at us with a 
face on him like a madman. He was just white 
with rage, and those light eyes of his were blazing 
with fury. What was I doing with the lady? How 
dared I offer her attentions which were distasteful 
to her? Did I think that because I was a baronet 
I could do what I liked? If he had not been her 
brother I should have known better how to answer 
him. As it was I told him that my feelings towards 
his sister were such as I was not ashamed of, and 
that I hoped that she might honour me by becom- 
ing my wife. That seemed to make the matter no 
better, so then I lost my temper too, and I answered 
him rather more hotly than I should perhaps, con- 
sidering that she was standing by. So it ended by 
his going off with her, as you saw, and here am I 
as badly puzzled a man as any in this county. Just 
tell me what it all means, Watson, and I'll owe you 
more than ever I can hope to pay." 

I tried one or two explanations, but, indeed, I 
was completely puzzled myself. Our friend's ti- 
tle, his fortune, his age, his character, and his ap- 
pearance are all in his favour, and I know noth- 
ing against him unless it be this dark fate which 


runs in his family. That his advances should be 
rejected so brusquely without any reference to the 
lady's own wishes, and that the lady should ac- 
cept the situation without protest, is very amaz- 
ing. However, our conjectures were set at rest by 
a visit from Stapleton himself that very afternoon. 
He had come to offer apologies for his rudeness 
of the morning, and after a long private interview 
with Sir Henry in his study, the upshot of their 
conversation was that the breach is quite healed, 
and that we are to dine at Merripit House next Fri- 
day as a sign of it. 

"I don't say now that he isn't a crazy man," 
said Sir Henry; "I can't forget the look in his eyes 
when he ran at me this morning, but I must allow 
that no man could make a more handsome apol- 
ogy than he has done." 

"Did he give any explanation of his conduct?" 

"His sister is everything in his life, he says. 
That is natural enough, and I am glad that he 
should understand her value. They have always 
been together, and according to his account he has 
been a very lonely man with only her as a compan- 
ion, so that the thought of losing her was really ter- 
rible to him. He had not understood, he said, that 
I was becoming attached to her, but when he saw 
with his own eyes that it was really so, and that 
she might be taken away from him, it gave him 
such a shock that for a time he was not responsi- 
ble for what he said or did. He was very sorry for 
all that had passed, and he recognized how fool- 
ish and how selfish it was that he should imagine 
that he could hold a beautiful woman like his sis- 
ter to himself for her whole life. If she had to leave 
him he had rather it was to a neighbour like my- 
self than to anyone else. But in any case it was a 
blow to him, and it would take him some time be- 
fore he could prepare himself to meet it. He would 
withdraw all opposition upon his part if I would 
promise for three months to let the matter rest and 
to be content with cultivating the lady's friendship 
during that time without claiming her love. This I 
promised, and so the matter rests." 

So there is one of our small mysteries cleared 
up. It is something to have touched bottom any- 
where in this bog in which we are floundering. We 
know now why Stapleton looked with disfavour 
upon his sister's suitor — even when that suitor 
was so eligible a one as Sir Henry. And now I 
pass on to another thread which I have extricated 
out of the tangled skein, the mystery of the sobs 
in the night, of the tear-stained face of Mrs. Bar- 
rymore, of the secret journey of the butler to the 
western lattice window. Congratulate me, my dear 
Holmes, and tell me that I have not disappointed 


624 



The Hound of the Baskervilles 


you as an agent — that you do not regret the confi- 
dence which you showed in me when you sent me 
down. All these things have by one night's work 
been thoroughly cleared. 

I have said "by one night's work," but, in truth, 
it was by two nights' work, for on the first we drew 
entirely blank. I sat up with Sir Henry in his rooms 
until nearly three o'clock in the morning, but no 
sound of any sort did we hear except the chiming 
clock upon the stairs. It was a most melancholy 
vigil, and ended by each of us falling asleep in 
our chairs. Fortunately we were not discouraged, 
and we determined to try again. The next night 
we lowered the lamp, and sat smoking cigarettes 
without making the least sound. It was incredible 
how slowly the hours crawled by, and yet we were 
helped through it by the same sort of patient inter- 
est which the hunter must feel as he watches the 
trap into which he hopes the game may wander. 
One struck, and two, and we had almost for the 
second time given it up in despair, when in an in- 
stant we both sat bolt upright in our chairs, with 
all our weary senses keenly on the alert once more. 
We had heard the creak of a step in the passage. 

Very stealthily we heard it pass along until it 
died away in the distance. Then the baronet gently 
opened his door and we set out in pursuit. Al- 
ready our man had gone round the gallery, and 
the corridor was all in darkness. Softly we stole 
along until we had come into the other wing. We 
were just in time to catch a glimpse of the tall, 
black-bearded figure, his shoulders rounded, as 
he tip-toed down the passage. Then he passed 
through the same door as before, and the light of 
the candle framed it in the darkness and shot one 
single yellow beam across the gloom of the corri- 
dor. We shuffled cautiously towards it, trying ev- 
ery plank before we dared to put our whole weight 
upon it. We had taken the precaution of leaving 
our boots behind us, but, even so, the old boards 
snapped and creaked beneath our tread. Some- 
times it seemed impossible that he should fail to 
hear our approach. However, the man is fortu- 
nately rather deaf, and he was entirely preoccu- 
pied in that which he was doing. When at last we 
reached the door and peeped through we found 
him crouching at the window, candle in hand, his 
white, intent face pressed against the pane, exactly 
as I had seen him two nights before. 

We had arranged no plan of campaign, but the 
baronet is a man to whom the most direct way is 
always the most natural. He walked into the room, 
and as he did so Barrymore sprang up from the 
window with a sharp hiss of his breath and stood. 


livid and trembling, before us. His dark eyes, glar- 
ing out of the white mask of his face, were full 
of horror and astonishment as he gazed from Sir 
Henry to me. 

"What are you doing here, Barrymore?" 

"Nothing, sir." His agitation was so great that 
he could hardly speak, and the shadows sprang 
up and down from the shaking of his candle. "It 
was the window, sir. I go round at night to see that 
they are fastened." 

"On the second floor?" 

"Yes, sir, all the windows." 

"Look here, Barrymore," said Sir Henry, 
sternly; "we have made up our minds to have the 
truth out of you, so it will save you trouble to tell 
it sooner rather than later. Come, now! No lies! 
What were you doing at that window?" 

The fellow looked at us in a helpless way, and 
he wrung his hands together like one who is in the 
last extremity of doubt and misery. 

"I was doing no harm, sir. I was holding a can- 
dle to the window." 

"And why were you holding a candle to the 
window?" 

"Don't ask me. Sir Henry — don't ask me! I give 
you my word, sir, that it is not my secret, and that 
I cannot tell it. If it concerned no one but myself I 
would not try to keep it from you." 

A sudden idea occurred to me, and I took the 
candle from the trembling hand of the butler. 

"He must have been holding it as a signal," said 
I. "Let us see if there is any answer." I held it as he 
had done, and stared out into the darkness of the 
night. Vaguely I could discern the black bank of 
the trees and the lighter expanse of the moor, for 
the moon was behind the clouds. And then I gave 
a cry of exultation, for a tiny pin-point of yellow 
light had suddenly transfixed the dark veil, and 
glowed steadily in the centre of the black square 
framed by the window. 

"There it is!" I cried. 

"No, no, sir, it is nothing — nothing at all!" the 
butler broke in; "I assure you, sir — " 

"Move your light across the window, Watson!" 
cried the baronet. "See, the other moves also! 
Now, you rascal, do you deny that it is a signal? 
Come, speak up! Who is your confederate out yon- 
der, and what is this conspiracy that is going on?" 

The man's face became openly defiant. 

"It is my business, and not yours. I will not 
tell." 

"Then you leave my employment right away." 

"Very good, sir. If I must I must." 


625 



The Hound of the Baskervilles 


"And you go in disgrace. By thunder, you may 
well be ashamed of yourself. Your family has lived 
with mine for over a hundred years under this 
roof, and here I find you deep in some dark plot 
against me." 

"No, no, sir; no, not against you!" It was a 
woman's voice, and Mrs. Barrymore, paler and 
more horror-struck than her husband, was stand- 
ing at the door. Her bulky figure in a shawl and 
skirt might have been comic were it not for the in- 
tensity of feeling upon her face. 

"We have to go, Eliza. This is the end of it. You 
can pack our things," said the butler. 

"Oh, John, John, have I brought you to this? It 
is my doing. Sir Henry — all mine. He has done 
nothing except for my sake and because I asked 
him." 

"Speak out, then! What does it mean?" 

"My unhappy brother is starving on the moor. 
We cannot let him perish at our very gates. The 
light is a signal to him that food is ready for him, 
and his light out yonder is to show the spot to 
which to bring it." 

"Then your brother is — " 

"The escaped convict, sir — Selden, the crimi- 
nal." 

"That's the truth, sir," said Barrymore. "I said 
that it was not my secret and that I could not tell 
it to you. But now you have heard it, and you will 
see that if there was a plot it was not against you." 

This, then, was the explanation of the stealthy 
expeditions at night and the light at the window. 
Sir Henry and I both stared at the woman in 
amazement. Was it possible that this stolidly re- 
spectable person was of the same blood as one of 
the most notorious criminals in the country? 

"Yes, sir, my name was Selden, and he is my 
younger brother. We humoured him too much 
when he was a lad, and gave him his own way 
in everything until he came to think that the world 
was made for his pleasure, and that he could do 
what he liked in it. Then as he grew older he met 
wicked companions, and the devil entered into 
him until he broke my mother's heart and dragged 
our name in the dirt. From crime to crime he sank 
lower and lower, until it is only the mercy of God 
which has snatched him from the scaffold; but to 
me, sir, he was always the little curly-headed boy 
that I had nursed and played with, as an elder sis- 
ter would. That was why he broke prison, sir. 
He knew that I was here and that we could not 
refuse to help him. When he dragged himself here 
one night, weary and starving, with the warders 


hard at his heels, what could we do? We took him 
in and fed him and cared for him. Then you re- 
turned, sir, and my brother thought he would be 
safer on the moor than anywhere else until the hue 
and cry was over, so he lay in hiding there. But ev- 
ery second night we made sure if he was still there 
by putting a light in the window, and if there was 
an answer my husband took out some bread and 
meat to him. Every day we hoped that he was 
gone, but as long as he was there we could not 
desert him. That is the whole truth, as I am an 
honest Christian woman, and you will see that if 
there is blame in the matter it does not lie with my 
husband, but with me, for whose sake he has done 
all that he has." 

The woman's words came with an intense 
earnestness which carried conviction with them. 

"Is this true, Barrymore?" 

"Yes, Sir Henry. Every word of it." 

"Well, I cannot blame you for standing by your 
own wife. Forget what I have said. Go to your 
room, you two, and we shall talk further about this 
matter in the morning." 

When they were gone we looked out of the 
window again. Sir Henry had flung it open, and 
the cold night wind beat in upon our faces. Far 
away in the black distance there still glowed that 
one tiny point of yellow light. 

"I wonder he dares," said Sir Henry. 

"It may be so placed as to be only visible from 
here." 

"Very likely. How far do you think it is?" 

"Out by the Cleft Tor, I think." 

"Not more than a mile or two off." 

"Hardly that." 

"Well, it cannot be far if Barrymore had to carry 
out the food to it. And he is waiting, this villain, 
beside that candle. By thunder, Watson, I am going 
out to take that man!" 

The same thought had crossed my own mind. 
It was not as if the Barrymores had taken us into 
their confidence. Their secret had been forced from 
them. The man was a danger to the community, an 
unmitigated scoundrel for whom there was neither 
pity nor excuse. We were only doing our duty in 
taking this chance of putting him back where he 
could do no harm. With his brutal and violent na- 
ture, others would have to pay the price if we held 
our hands. Any night, for example, our neigh- 
bours the Stapletons might be attacked by him, 
and it may have been the thought of this which 
made Sir Henry so keen upon the adventure. 

"I will come," said I. 


626 



The Hound of the Baskervilles 


"Then get your revolver and put on your boots. 
The sooner we start the better, as the fellow may 
put out his light and be off." 

In five minutes we were outside the door, start- 
ing upon our expedition. We hurried through the 
dark shrubbery, amid the dull moaning of the au- 
tumn wind and the rustle of the falling leaves. The 
night air was heavy with the smell of damp and 
decay. Now and again the moon peeped out for 
an instant, but clouds were driving over the face 
of the sky, and just as we came out on the moor 
a thin rain began to fall. The light still burned 
steadily in front. 

"Are you armed?" I asked. 

"I have a hunting-crop." 

"We must close in on him rapidly, for he is said 
to be a desperate fellow. We shall take him by sur- 
prise and have him at our mercy before he can re- 
sist." 

"I say, Watson," said the baronet, "what would 
Holmes say to this? How about that hour of dark- 
ness in which the power of evil is exalted?" 

As if in answer to his words there rose sud- 
denly out of the vast gloom of the moor that 
strange cry which I had already heard upon the 
borders of the great Grimpen Mire. It came with 
the wind through the silence of the night, a long, 
deep mutter, then a rising howl, and then the sad 
moan in which it died away. Again and again it 
sounded, the whole air throbbing with it, strident, 
wild, and menacing. The baronet caught my sleeve 
and his face glimmered white through the dark- 
ness. 

"My God, what's that, Watson?" 

"I don't know. It's a sound they have on the 
moor. I heard it once before." 

It died away, and an absolute silence closed in 
upon us. We stood straining our ears, but nothing 
came. 

"Watson," said the baronet, "it was the cry of a 
hound." 

My blood ran cold in my veins, for there was a 
break in his voice which told of the sudden horror 
which had seized him. 

"What do they call this sound?" he asked. 

"Who?" 

"The folk on the country-side." 

"Oh, they are ignorant people. Why should 
you mind what they call it?" 

"Tell me, Watson. What do they say of it?" 

I hesitated but could not escape the question. 


"They say it is the cry of the Hound of the 
Baskervilles." 

He groaned and was silent for a few moments. 

"A hound it was," he said, at last, "but it 
seemed to come from miles away, over yonder, I 
think." 

"It was hard to say whence it came." 

"It rose and fell with the wind. Isn't that the 
direction of the great Grimpen Mire?" 

"Yes, it is." 

"Well, it was up there. Come now, Watson, 
didn't you think yourself that it was the cry of a 
hound? I am not a child. You need not fear to 
speak the truth." 

"Stapleton was with me when I heard it last. 
He said that it might be the calling of a strange 
bird." 

"No, no, it was a hound. My God, can there be 
some truth in all these stories? Is it possible that 
I am really in danger from so dark a cause? You 
don't believe it, do you, Watson?" 

"No, no." 

"And yet it was one thing to laugh about it in 
London, and it is another to stand out here in the 
darkness of the moor and to hear such a cry as 
that. And my uncle! There was the footprint of 
the hound beside him as he lay. It all fits together. 
I don't think that I am a coward, Watson, but that 
sound seemed to freeze my very blood. Feel my 
hand!" 

It was as cold as a block of marble. 

"You'll be all right to-morrow." 

"I don't think I'll get that cry out of my head. 
What do you advise that we do now?" 

"Shall we turn back?" 

"No, by thunder; we have come out to get our 
man, and we will do it. We after the convict, and 
a hell-hound, as likely as not, after us. Come on! 
We'll see it through if all the fiends of the pit were 
loose upon the moor." 

We stumbled slowly along in the darkness, 
with the black loom of the craggy hills around us, 
and the yellow speck of light burning steadily in 
front. There is nothing so deceptive as the distance 
of a light upon a pitch-dark night, and sometimes 
the glimmer seemed to be far away upon the hori- 
zon and sometimes it might have been within a 
few yards of us. But at last we could see whence 
it came, and then we knew that we were indeed 
very close. A guttering candle was stuck in a 
crevice of the rocks which flanked it on each side 
so as to keep the wind from it and also to pre- 
vent it from being visible, save in the direction of 


627 



The Hound of the Baskervilles 


Baskerville Hall. A boulder of granite concealed 
our approach, and crouching behind it we gazed 
over it at the signal light. It was strange to see 
this single candle burning there in the middle of 
the moor, with no sign of life near it — just the one 
straight yellow flame and the gleam of the rock on 
each side of it. 

"What shall we do now?" whispered Sir Henry. 

"Wait here. He must be near his light. Let us 
see if we can get a glimpse of him." 

The words were hardly out of my mouth when 
we both saw him. Over the rocks, in the crevice of 
which the candle burned, there was thrust out an 
evil yellow face, a terrible animal face, all seamed 
and scored with vile passions. Foul with mire, 
with a bristling beard, and hung with matted hair, 
it might well have belonged to one of those old 
savages who dwelt in the burrows on the hillsides. 
The light beneath him was reflected in his small, 
cunning eyes which peered fiercely to right and 
left through the darkness, like a crafty and savage 
animal who has heard the steps of the hunters. 

Something had evidently aroused his suspi- 
cions. It may have been that Barrymore had some 
private signal which we had neglected to give, or 
the fellow may have had some other reason for 
thinking that all was not well, but I could read his 
fears upon his wicked face. Any instant he might 
dash out the light and vanish in the darkness. I 
sprang forward therefore, and Sir Henry did the 
same. At the same moment the convict screamed 
out a curse at us and hurled a rock which splin- 
tered up against the boulder which had sheltered 
us. I caught one glimpse of his short, squat, 
strongly-built figure as he sprang to his feet and 
turned to run. At the same moment by a lucky 
chance the moon broke through the clouds. We 
rushed over the brow of the hill, and there was 
our man running with great speed down the other 
side, springing over the stones in his way with the 
activity of a mountain goat. A lucky long shot of 
my revolver might have crippled him, but I had 
brought it only to defend myself if attacked, and 
not to shoot an unarmed man who was running 
away. 

We were both swift runners and in fairly good 
training, but we soon found that we had no chance 
of overtaking him. We saw him for a long time 
in the moonlight until he was only a small speck 
moving swiftly among the boulders upon the side 
of a distant hill. We ran and ran until we were 
completely blown, but the space between us grew 
ever wider. Finally we stopped and sat panting on 


two rocks, while we watched him disappearing in 
the distance. 

And it was at this moment that there occurred a 
most strange and unexpected thing. We had risen 
from our rocks and were turning to go home, hav- 
ing abandoned the hopeless chase. The moon was 
low upon the right, and the jagged pinnacle of a 
granite tor stood up against the lower curve of its 
silver disc. There, outlined as black as an ebony 
statue on that shining back-ground, I saw the fig- 
ure of a man upon the tor. Do not think that it was 
a delusion. Holmes. I assure you that I have never 
in my life seen anything more clearly. As far as I 
could judge, the figure was that of a tall, thin man. 
He stood with his legs a little separated, his arms 
folded, his head bowed, as if he were brooding 
over that enormous wilderness of peat and granite 
which lay before him. He might have been the very 
spirit of that terrible place. It was not the convict. 
This man was far from the place where the latter 
had disappeared. Besides, he was a much taller 
man. With a cry of surprise I pointed him out to 
the baronet, but in the instant during which I had 
turned to grasp his arm the man was gone. There 
was the sharp pinnacle of granite still cutting the 
lower edge of the moon, but its peak bore no trace 
of that silent and motionless figure. 

I wished to go in that direction and to search 
the tor, but it was some distance away. The 
baronet's nerves were still quivering from that cry, 
which recalled the dark story of his family, and 
he was not in the mood for fresh adventures. He 
had not seen this lonely man upon the tor and 
could not feel the thrill which his strange presence 
and his commanding attitude had given to me. "A 
warder, no doubt," said he. "The moor has been 
thick with them since this fellow escaped." Well, 
perhaps his explanation may be the right one, but 
I should like to have some further proof of it. To- 
day we mean to communicate to the Princetown 
people where they should look for their missing 
man, but it is hard lines that we have not actually 
had the triumph of bringing him back as our own 
prisoner. Such are the adventures of last night, and 
you must acknowledge, my dear Holmes, that I 
have done you very well in the matter of a report. 
Much of what I tell you is no doubt quite irrel- 
evant, but still I feel that it is best that I should 
let you have all the facts and leave you to select 
for yourself those which will be of most service to 
you in helping you to your conclusions. We are 
certainly making some progress. So far as the Bar- 
rymores go we have found the motive of their ac- 
tions, and that has cleared up the situation very 
much. But the moor with its mysteries and its 


628 



The Hound of the Baskervilles 


strange inhabitants remains as inscrutable as ever. 
Perhaps in my next I may be able to throw some 


light upon this also. Best of all would it be if you 
could come down to us. In any case you will hear 
from me again in the course of the next few days. 


CHAPTER X. 

Extract from the Diary of Dr. Watson 


So far I have been able to quote from the re- 
ports which I have forwarded during these early 
days to Sherlock Holmes. Now, however, I have 
arrived at a point in my narrative where I am com- 
pelled to abandon this method and to trust once 
more to my recollections, aided by the diary which 
I kept at the time. A few extracts from the latter 
will carry me on to those scenes which are indeli- 
bly fixed in every detail upon my memory. I pro- 
ceed, then, from the morning which followed our 
abortive chase of the convict and our other strange 
experiences upon the moor. 

October i6th. — A dull and foggy day with 
a drizzle of rain. The house is banked in with 
rolling clouds, which rise now and then to show 
the dreary curves of the moor, with thin, silver 
veins upon the sides of the hills, and the distant 
boulders gleaming where the light strikes upon 
their wet faces. It is melancholy outside and in. 
The baronet is in a black reaction after the excite- 
ments of the night. I am conscious myself of a 
weight at my heart and a feeling of impending 
danger — ever present danger, which is the more 
terrible because I am unable to define it. 

And have I not cause for such a feeling? Con- 
sider the long sequence of incidents which have all 
pointed to some sinister influence which is at work 
around us. There is the death of the last occupant 
of the Hall, fulfilling so exactly the conditions of 
the family legend, and there are the repeated re- 
ports from peasants of the appearance of a strange 
creature upon the moor. Twice I have with my 
own ears heard the sound which resembled the 
distant baying of a hound. It is incredible, impos- 
sible, that it should really be outside the ordinary 
laws of nature. A spectral hound which leaves 
material footmarks and fills the air with its howl- 
ing is surely not to be thought of. Stapleton may 
fall in with such a superstition, and Mortimer also; 
but if I have one quality upon earth it is common- 
sense, and nothing will persuade me to believe in 


such a thing. To do so would be to descend to the 
level of these poor peasants, who are not content 
with a mere fiend dog but must needs describe 
him with hell-fire shooting from his mouth and 
eyes. Holmes would not listen to such fancies, and 
I am his agent. But facts are facts, and I have twice 
heard this crying upon the moor. Suppose that 
there were really some huge hound loose upon it; 
that would go far to explain everything. But where 
could such a hound lie concealed, where did it get 
its food, where did it come from, how was it that 
no one saw it by day? It must be confessed that 
the natural explanation offers almost as many dif- 
ficulties as the other. And always, apart from the 
hound, there is the fact of the human agency in 
London, the man in the cab, and the letter which 
warned Sir Henry against the moor. This at least 
was real, but it might have been the work of a pro- 
tecting friend as easily as of an enemy. Where is 
that friend or enemy now? Has he remained in 
London, or has he followed us down here? Could 
he — could he be the stranger whom I saw upon 
the tor? 

It is true that I have had only the one glance 
at him, and yet there are some things to which I 
am ready to swear. He is no one whom I have 
seen down here, and I have now met all the neigh- 
bours. The figure was far taller than that of Staple- 
ton, far thinner than that of Frankland. Barrymore 
it might possibly have been, but we had left him 
behind us, and I am certain that he could not have 
followed us. A stranger then is still dogging us, 
just as a stranger dogged us in London. We have 
never shaken him off. If I could lay my hands upon 
that man, then at last we might find ourselves at 
the end of all our difficulties. To this one purpose 
I must now devote all my energies. 

My first impulse was to tell Sir Henry all my 
plans. My second and wisest one is to play my 
own game and speak as little as possible to any- 
one. He is silent and distrait. His nerves have been 


629 



The Hound of the Baskervilles 


strangely shaken by that sound upon the moor. I 
will say nothing to add to his anxieties, but I will 
take my own steps to attain my own end. 

We had a small scene this morning after break- 
fast. Barrymore asked leave to speak with Sir 
Henry, and they were closeted in his study some 
little time. Sitting in the billiard-room I more than 
once heard the sound of voices raised, and I had 
a pretty good idea what the point was which was 
under discussion. After a time the baronet opened 
his door and called for me. 

"Barrymore considers that he has a grievance," 
he said. "He thinks that it was unfair on our part 
to hunt his brother-in-law down when he, of his 
own free will, had told us the secret." 

The butler was standing very pale but very col- 
lected before us. 

"I may have spoken too warmly, sir," said he, 
"and if I have, I am sure that I beg your pardon. 
At the same time, I was very much surprised when 
I heard you two gentlemen come back this morn- 
ing and learned that you had been chasing Selden. 
The poor fellow has enough to fight against with- 
out my putting more upon his track. " 

"If you had told us of your own free will 
it would have been a different thing," said the 
baronet, "you only told us, or rather your wife 
only told us, when it was forced from you and you 
could not help yourself." 

"I didn't think you would have taken advan- 
tage of it. Sir Henry — indeed I didn't." 

"The man is a public danger. There are lonely 
houses scattered over the moor, and he is a fellow 
who would stick at nothing. You only want to get a 
glimpse of his face to see that. Look at Mr. Staple- 
ton's house, for example, with no one but himself 
to defend it. There's no safety for anyone until he 
is under lock and key." 

"He'll break into no house, sir. I give you my 
solemn word upon that. But he will never trou- 
ble anyone in this country again. I assure you. Sir 
Henry, that in a very few days the necessary ar- 
rangements will have been made and he will be 
on his way to South America. For God's sake, sir, I 
beg of you not to let the police know that he is still 
on the moor. They have given up the chase there, 
and he can lie quiet until the ship is ready for him. 
You can't tell on him without getting my wife and 
me into trouble. I beg you, sir, to say nothing to 
the police." 

"What do you say, Watson?" 


I shrugged my shoulders. "If he were safely 
out of the country it would relieve the tax-payer of 
a burden." 

"But how about the chance of his holding 
someone up before he goes?" 

"He would not do anything so mad, sir. We 
have provided him with all that he can want. To 
commit a crime would be to show where he was 
hiding." 

"That is true," said Sir Henry. "Well, Barry- 
more — " 

"God bless you, sir, and thank you from my 
heart! It would have killed my poor wife had he 
been taken again." 

"I guess we are aiding and abetting a felony, 
Watson? But, after what we have heard I don't feel 
as if I could give the man up, so there is an end of 
it. All right, Barrymore, you can go." 

With a few broken words of gratitude the man 
turned, but he hesitated and then came back. 

"You've been so kind to us, sir, that I should 
like to do the best I can for you in return. I know 
something. Sir Henry, and perhaps I should have 
said it before, but it was long after the inquest that 
I found it out. I've never breathed a word about 
it yet to mortal man. It's about poor Sir Charles's 
death." 

The baronet and I were both upon our feet. "Do 
you know how he died?" 

"No, sir, I don't know that." 

"What then?" 

"I know why he was at the gate at that hour. It 
was to meet a woman." 

"To meet a woman! He?" 

"Yes, sir." 

"And the woman's name?" 

"I can't give you the name, sir, but I can give 
you the initials. Her initials were L. L." 

"How do you know this, Barrymore?" 

"Well, Sir Henry, your uncle had a letter that 
morning. He had usually a great many letters, 
for he was a public man and well known for his 
kind heart, so that everyone who was in trouble 
was glad to turn to him. But that morning, as it 
chanced, there was only this one letter, so I took 
the more notice of it. It was from Coombe Tracey, 
and it was addressed in a woman's hand." 

"Well?" 

"Well, sir, I thought no more of the matter, 
and never would have done had it not been for 


630 



The Hound of the Baskervilles 


my wife. Only a few weeks ago she was cleaning 
out Sir Charles's study — it had never been touched 
since his death — and she found the ashes of a 
burned letter in the back of the grate. The greater 
part of it was charred to pieces, but one little slip, 
the end of a page, hung together, and the writing 
could still be read, though it was gray on a black 
ground. It seemed to us to be a postscript at the 
end of the letter, and it said: 'Please, please, as you 
are a gentleman, burn this letter, and be at the gate 
by ten o'clock'. Beneath it were signed the initials 
L. L." 

"Have you got that slip?" 

"No, sir, it crumbled all to bits after we moved 
it." 

"Had Sir Charles received any other letters in 
the same writing?" 

"Well, sir, I took no particular notice of his let- 
ters. I should not have noticed this one, only it 
happened to come alone." 

"And you have no idea who L. L. is?" 

"No, sir. No more than you have. But I ex- 
pect if we could lay our hands upon that lady we 
should know more about Sir Charles's death." 

"I cannot understand, Barrymore, how you 
came to conceal this important information." 

"Well, sir, it was immediately after that our 
own trouble came to us. And then again, sir, we 
were both of us very fond of Sir Charles, as we 
well might be considering all that he has done for 
us. To rake this up couldn't help our poor master, 
and it's well to go carefully when there's a lady in 
the case. Even the best of us — " 

"You thought it might injure his reputation?" 

"Well, sir, I thought no good could come of it. 
But now you have been kind to us, and I feel as if 
it would be treating you unfairly not to tell you all 
that I know about the matter." 

"Very good, Barrymore; you can go." When the 
butler had left us Sir Henry turned to me. "Well, 
Watson, what do you think of this new light?" 

"It seems to leave the darkness rather blacker 
than before." 

"So I think. But if we can only trace L. L. 
it should clear up the whole business. We have 
gained that much. We know that there is someone 
who has the facts if we can only find her. What do 
you think we should do?" 

"Let Holmes know all about it at once. It will 
give him the clue for which he has been seeking. I 
am much mistaken if it does not bring him down." 


I went at once to my room and drew up my 
report of the morning's conversation for Holmes. 
It was evident to me that he had been very busy 
of late, for the notes which I had from Baker Street 
were few and short, with no comments upon the 
information which I had supplied and hardly any 
reference to my mission. No doubt his blackmail- 
ing case is absorbing all his faculties. And yet this 
new factor must surely arrest his attention and re- 
new his interest. I wish that he were here. 

October 17TH. — All day to-day the rain 
poured down, rustling on the ivy and dripping 
from the eaves. I thought of the convict out 
upon the bleak, cold, shelterless moor. Poor devil! 
Whatever his crimes, he has suffered something 
to atone for them. And then I thought of that 
other one — the face in the cab, the figure against 
the moon. Was he also out in that deluged — the 
unseen watcher, the man of darkness? In the 
evening I put on my waterproof and I walked far 
upon the sodden moor, full of dark imaginings, the 
rain beating upon my face and the wind whistling 
about my ears. God help those who wander into 
the great mire now, for even the firm uplands are 
becoming a morass. I found the black tor upon 
which I had seen the solitary watcher, and from 
its craggy summit I looked out myself across the 
melancholy downs. Rain squalls drifted across 
their russet face, and the heavy, slate-coloured 
clouds hung low over the landscape, trailing in 
gray wreaths down the sides of the fantastic hills. 
In the distant hollow on the left, half hidden by the 
mist, the two thin towers of Baskerville Hall rose 
above the trees. They were the only signs of hu- 
man life which I could see, save only those prehis- 
toric huts which lay thickly upon the slopes of the 
hills. Nowhere was there any trace of that lonely 
man whom I had seen on the same spot two nights 
before. 

As I walked back I was overtaken by Dr. Mor- 
timer driving in his dog-cart over a rough moor- 
land track which led from the outlying farmhouse 
of Foulmire. He has been very attentive to us, and 
hardly a day has passed that he has not called at 
the Hall to see how we were getting on. He in- 
sisted upon my climbing into his dog-cart, and he 
gave me a lift homeward. I found him much trou- 
bled over the disappearance of his little spaniel. It 
had wandered on to the moor and had never come 
back. I gave him such consolation as I might, but 
I thought of the pony on the Grimpen Mire, and I 
do not fancy that he will see his little dog again. 

"By the way, Mortimer," said I as we jolted 
along the rough road, "I suppose there are few 


631 



The Hound of the Baskervilles 


people living within driving distance of this whom 
you do not know?" 

"Hardly any I think." 

"Can you, then, tell me the name of any woman 
whose initials are L. L.?" 

He thought for a few minutes. 

"No," said he. "There are a few gipsies and 
labouring folk for whom I can't answer, but among 
the farmers or gentry there is no one whose ini- 
tials are those. Wait a bit though," he added after 
a pause. "There is Laura Lyons — her initials are L. 
L. — but she lives in Coombe Tracey." 

"Who is she?" I asked. 

"She is Frankland's daughter." 

"What! Old Frankland the crank?" 

"Exactly. She married an artist named Lyons, 
who came sketching on the moor. He proved to 
be a blackguard and deserted her. The fault from 
what I hear may not have been entirely on one 
side. Her father refused to have anything to do 
with her because she had married without his con- 
sent, and perhaps for one or two other reasons as 
well. So, between the old sinner and the young 
one the girl has had a pretty bad time." 

"How does she live?" 

"I fancy old Frankland allows her a pittance, 
but it cannot be more, for his own affairs are con- 
siderably involved. Whatever she may have de- 
served one could not allow her to go hopelessly to 
the bad. Her story got about, and several of the 
people here did something to enable her to earn 
an honest living. Stapleton did for one, and Sir 
Charles for another. I gave a trifle myself. It was 
to set her up in a typewriting business." 

He wanted to know the object of my inquiries, 
but I managed to satisfy his curiosity without 
telling him too much, for there is no reason why 
we should take anyone into our confidence. To- 
morrow morning I shall find my way to Coombe 
Tracey, and if I can see this Mrs. Laura Lyons, of 
equivocal reputation, a long step will have been 
made towards clearing one incident in this chain 
of mysteries. I am certainly developing the wis- 
dom of the serpent, for when Mortimer pressed 
his questions to an inconvenient extent I asked him 
casually to what type Frankland's skull belonged, 
and so heard nothing but craniology for the rest of 
our drive. I have not lived for years with Sherlock 
Holmes for nothing. 

I have only one other incident to record upon 
this tempestuous and melancholy day. This was 
my conversation with Barrymore just now, which 


gives me one more strong card which I can play in 
due time. 

Mortimer had stayed to dinner, and he and 
the baronet played ecarte afterwards. The butler 
brought me my coffee into the library, and I took 
the chance to ask him a few questions. 

"Well," said I, "has this precious relation of 
yours departed, or is he still lurking out yonder?" 

"I don't know, sir. I hope to heaven that he has 
gone, for he has brought nothing but trouble here! 
I've not heard of him since I left out food for him 
last, and that was three days ago." 

"Did you see him then?" 

"No, sir, but the food was gone when next I 
went that way." 

"Then he was certainly there?" 

"So you would think, sir, unless it was the other 
man who took it." 

I sat with my coffee-cup halfway to my lips and 
stared at Barrymore. 

"You know that there is another man then?" 

"Yes, sir; there is another man upon the moor." 

"Have you seen him?" 

"No, sir." 

"How do you know of him then?" 

"Selden told me of him, sir, a week ago or 
more. He's in hiding, too, but he's not a convict 
as far as I can make out. I don't like it. Dr. Wat- 
son — I tell you straight, sir, that I don't like it." He 
spoke with a sudden passion of earnestness. 

"Now, listen to me, Barrymore! I have no inter- 
est in this matter but that of your master. I have 
come here with no object except to help him. Tell 
me, frankly, what it is that you don't like." 

Barrymore hesitated for a moment, as if he re- 
gretted his outburst, or found it difficult to express 
his own feelings in words. 

"It's all these goings-on, sir," he cried at last, 
waving his hand towards the rain-lashed window 
which faced the moor. "There's foul play some- 
where, and there's black villainy brewing, to that 
I'll swear! Very glad I should be, sir, to see Sir 
Henry on his way back to London again!" 

"But what is it that alarms you?" 

"Look at Sir Charles's death! That was bad 
enough, for all that the coroner said. Look at the 
noises on the moor at night. There's not a man 
would cross it after sundown if he was paid for 
it. Look at this stranger hiding out yonder, and 
watching and waiting! What's he waiting for? 
What does it mean? It means no good to anyone 
of the name of Baskerville, and very glad I shall be 


632 



The Hound of the Baskervilles 


to be quit of it all on the day that Sir Henry's new 
servants are ready to take over the Hall." 

"But about this stranger," said I. "Can you tell 
me anything about him? What did Selden say? 
Did he find out where he hid, or what he was do- 
ing?" 

"He saw him once or twice, but he is a deep 
one, and gives nothing away At first he thought 
that he was the police, but soon he found that he 
had some lay of his own. A kind of gentleman he 
was, as far as he could see, but what he was doing 
he could not make out." 

"And where did he say that he lived?" 

"Among the old houses on the hillside — the 
stone huts where the old folk used to live." 

"But how about his food?" 


"Selden found out that he has got a lad who 
works for him and brings him all he needs. I dare 
say he goes to Coombe Tracey for what he wants." 

"Very good, Barrymore. We may talk further of 
this some other time." When the butler had gone 
I walked over to the black window, and I looked 
through a blurred pane at the driving clouds and 
at the tossing outline of the wind-swept trees. It 
is a wild night indoors, and what must it be in 
a stone hut upon the moor. What passion of ha- 
tred can it be which leads a man to lurk in such a 
place at such a time! And what deep and earnest 
purpose can he have which calls for such a trial! 
There, in that hut upon the moor, seems to lie the 
very centre of that problem which has vexed me 
so sorely. I swear that another day shall not have 
passed before I have done all that man can do to 
reach the heart of the mystery. 


CHAPTER XL 

The Man on the Tor 


The extract from my private diary which forms 
the last chapter has brought my narrative up to 
the 18th of October, a time when these strange 
events began to move swiftly towards their ter- 
rible conclusion. The incidents of the next few 
days are indelibly graven upon my recollection, 
and I can tell them without reference to the notes 
made at the time. I start then from the day which 
succeeded that upon which I had established two 
facts of great importance, the one that Mrs. Laura 
Lyons of Coombe Tracey had written to Sir Charles 
Baskerville and made an appointment with him at 
the very place and hour that he met his death, the 
other that the lurking man upon the moor was to 
be found among the stone huts upon the hill-side. 
With these two facts in my possession I felt that 
either my intelligence or my courage must be defi- 
cient if I could not throw some further light upon 
these dark places. 

I had no opportunity to tell the baronet what I 
had learned about Mrs. Lyons upon the evening 
before, for Dr. Mortimer remained with him at 
cards until it was very late. At breakfast, however, 
I informed him about my discovery, and asked 
him whether he would care to accompany me to 


Coombe Tracey. At first he was very eager to 
come, but on second thoughts it seemed to both 
of us that if I went alone the results might be bet- 
ter. The more formal we made the visit the less 
information we might obtain. I left Sir Henry be- 
hind, therefore, not without some prickings of con- 
science, and drove off upon my new quest. 

When I reached Coombe Tracey I told Perkins 
to put up the horses, and I made inquiries for the 
lady whom I had come to interrogate. I had no 
difficulty in finding her rooms, which were central 
and well appointed. A maid showed me in with- 
out ceremony, and as I entered the sitting-room 
a lady, who was sitting before a Remington type- 
writer, sprang up with a pleasant smile of wel- 
come. Her face fell, however, when she saw that I 
was a stranger, and she sat down again and asked 
me the object of my visit. 

The first impression left by Mrs. Lyons was 
one of extreme beauty. Her eyes and hair were 
of the same rich hazel colour, and her cheeks, 
though considerably freckled, were flushed with 
the exquisite bloom of the brunette, the dainty 
pink which lurks at the heart of the sulphur rose. 
Admiration was, I repeat, the first impression. But 


633 



The Hound of the Baskervilles 


the second was criticism. There was something 
subtly wrong with the face, some coarseness of 
expression, some hardness, perhaps, of eye, some 
looseness of lip which marred its perfect beauty 
But these, of course, are after- thoughts. At the mo- 
ment I was simply conscious that I was in the pres- 
ence of a very handsome woman, and that she was 
asking me the reasons for my visit. I had not quite 
understood until that instant how delicate my mis- 
sion was. 

"I have the pleasure," said I, "of knowing your 
father." It was a clumsy introduction, and the lady 
made me feel it. 

"There is nothing in common between my fa- 
ther and me," she said. "I owe him nothing, and 
his friends are not mine. If it were not for the late 
Sir Charles Baskerville and some other kind hearts 
I might have starved for all that my father cared." 

"It was about the late Sir Charles Baskerville 
that I have come here to see you." 

The freckles started out on the lady's face. 

"What can I tell you about him?" she asked, 
and her fingers played nervously over the stops of 
her typewriter. 

"You knew him, did you not?" 

"I have already said that I owe a great deal to 
his kindness. If I am able to support myself it is 
largely due to the interest which he took in my 
unhappy situation." 

"Did you correspond with him?" 

The lady looked quickly up with an angry 
gleam in her hazel eyes. 

"What is the object of these questions?" she 
asked sharply. 

"The object is to avoid a public scandal. It is 
better that I should ask them here than that the 
matter should pass outside our control." 

She was silent and her face was still very pale. 
At last she looked up with something reckless and 
defiant in her manner. 

"Well, I'll answer," she said. "What are your 
questions?" 

"Did you correspond with Sir Charles?" 

"I certainly wrote to him once or twice to ac- 
knowledge his delicacy and his generosity." 

"Have you the dates of those letters?" 

"No." 

"Have you ever met him?" 

"Yes, once or twice, when he came into 
Coombe Tracey. He was a very retiring man, and 
he preferred to do good by stealth." 


"But if you saw him so seldom and wrote so 
seldom, how did he know enough about your af- 
fairs to be able to help you, as you say that he has 
done?" 

She met my difficulty with the utmost readi- 
ness. 

"There were several gentlemen who knew my 
sad history and united to help me. One was Mr. 
Stapleton, a neighbour and intimate friend of Sir 
Charles's. He was exceedingly kind, and it was 
through him that Sir Charles learned about my af- 
fairs." 

I knew already that Sir Charles Baskerville had 
made Stapleton his almoner upon several occa- 
sions, so the lady's statement bore the impress of 
truth upon it. 

"Did you ever write to Sir Charles asking him 
to meet you?" I continued. 

Mrs. Lyons flushed with anger again. 

"Really, sir, this is a very extraordinary ques- 
tion." 

"I am sorry, madam, but I must repeat it." 

"Then I answer, certainly not." 

"Not on the very day of Sir Charles's death?" 

The flush had faded in an instant, and a deathly 
face was before me. Her dry lips could not speak 
the "No" which I saw rather than heard. 

"Surely your memory deceives you," said I. "I 
could even quote a passage of your letter. It ran 
'Please, please, as you are a gentleman, burn this 
letter, and be at the gate by ten o'clock.'" 

I thought that she had fainted, but she recov- 
ered herself by a supreme effort. 

"Is there no such thing as a gentleman?" she 
gasped. 

"You do Sir Charles an injustice. He did burn 
the letter. But sometimes a letter may be legible 
even when burned. You acknowledge now that 
you wrote it?" 

"Yes, I did write it," she cried, pouring out her 
soul in a torrent of words. "I did write it. Why 
should I deny it? I have no reason to be ashamed 
of it. I wished him to help me. I believed that if I 
had an interview I could gain his help, so I asked 
him to meet me." 

"But why at such an hour?" 

"Because I had only just learned that he was 
going to London next day and might be away for 
months. There were reasons why I could not get 
there earlier." 

"But why a rendezvous in the garden instead 
of a visit to the house?" 


634 



The Hound of the Baskervilles 


"Do you think a woman could go alone at that 
hour to a bachelor's house?" 

"Well, what happened when you did get 
there?" 

"I never went." 

"Mrs. Lyons!" 

"No, I swear it to you on all I hold sacred. I 
never went. Something intervened to prevent my 
going." 

"What was that?" 

"That is a private matter. I cannot tell it." 

"You acknowledge then that you made an ap- 
pointment with Sir Charles at the very hour and 
place at which he met his death, but you deny that 
you kept the appointment." 

"That is the truth." 

Again and again I cross-questioned her, but I 
could never get past that point. 

"Mrs. Lyons," said I, as I rose from this long 
and inconclusive interview, "you are taking a very 
great responsibility and putting yourself in a very 
false position by not making an absolutely clean 
breast of all that you know. If I have to call in 
the aid of the police you will find how seriously 
you are compromised. If your position is innocent, 
why did you in the first instance deny having writ- 
ten to Sir Charles upon that date?" 

"Because I feared that some false conclusion 
might be drawn from it and that I might find my- 
self involved in a scandal." 

"And why were you so pressing that Sir 
Charles should destroy your letter?" 

"If you have read the letter you will know." 

"I did not say that I had read all the letter." 

"You quoted some of it." 

"I quoted the postscript. The letter had, as I 
said, been burned and it was not all legible. I 
ask you once again why it was that you were so 
pressing that Sir Charles should destroy this letter 
which he received on the day of his death." 

"The matter is a very private one." 

"The more reason why you should avoid a pub- 
lic investigation." 

"I will tell you, then. If you have heard any- 
thing of my unhappy history you will know that I 
made a rash marriage and had reason to regret it." 

"I have heard so much." 

"My life has been one incessant persecution 
from a husband whom I abhor. The law is upon his 
side, and every day I am faced by the possibility 


that he may force me to live with him. At the time 
that I wrote this letter to Sir Charles I had learned 
that there was a prospect of my regaining my free- 
dom if certain expenses could be met. It meant 
everything to me — peace of mind, happiness, self- 
respect — everything. I knew Sir Charles's generos- 
ity, and I thought that if he heard the story from 
my own lips he would help me." 

"Then how is it that you did not go?" 

"Because I received help in the interval from 
another source." 

"Why then, did you not write to Sir Charles 
and explain this?" 

"So I should have done had I not seen his death 
in the paper next morning." 

The woman's story hung coherently together, 
and all my questions were unable to shake it. 
I could only check it by finding if she had, in- 
deed, instituted divorce proceedings against her 
husband at or about the time of the tragedy. 

It was unlikely that she would dare to say that 
she had not been to Baskerville Hall if she really 
had been, for a trap would be necessary to take 
her there, and could not have returned to Coombe 
Tracey until the early hours of the morning. Such 
an excursion could not be kept secret. The proba- 
bility was, therefore, that she was telling the truth, 
or, at least, a part of the truth. I came away baffled 
and disheartened. Once again I had reached that 
dead wall which seemed to be built across every 
path by which I tried to get at the object of my 
mission. And yet the more I thought of the lady's 
face and of her manner the more I felt that some- 
thing was being held back from me. Why should 
she turn so pale? Why should she fight against ev- 
ery admission until it was forced from her? Why 
should she have been so reticent at the time of the 
tragedy? Surely the explanation of all this could 
not be as innocent as she would have me believe. 
For the moment I could proceed no farther in that 
direction, but must turn back to that other clue 
which was to be sought for among the stone huts 
upon the moor. 

And that was a most vague direction. I real- 
ized it as I drove back and noted how hill after hill 
showed traces of the ancient people. Barrymore's 
only indication had been that the stranger lived in 
one of these abandoned huts, and many hundreds 
of them are scattered throughout the length and 
breadth of the moor. But I had my own experience 
for a guide since it had shown me the man himself 
standing upon the summit of the Black Tor. That 
then should be the centre of my search. From there 


635 



The Hound of the Baskervilles 


I should explore every hut upon the moor until I 
lighted upon the right one. If this man were in- 
side it I should find out from his own lips, at the 
point of my revolver if necessary, who he was and 
why he had dogged us so long. He might slip 
away from us in the crowd of Regent Street, but it 
would puzzle him to do so upon the lonely moor. 
On the other hand, if I should find the hut and its 
tenant should not be within it I must remain there, 
however long the vigil, until he returned. Holmes 
had missed him in London. It would indeed be a 
triumph for me if I could run him to earth, where 
my master had failed. 

Luck had been against us again and again in 
this inquiry, but now at last it came to my aid. 
And the messenger of good fortune was none 
other than Mr. Frankland, who was standing, gray- 
whiskered and red-faced, outside the gate of his 
garden, which opened on to the high road along 
which I travelled. 

"Good-day, Dr. Watson," cried he with un- 
wonted good humour, "you must really give your 
horses a rest, and come in to have a glass of wine 
and to congratulate me." 

My feelings towards him were very far from be- 
ing friendly after what I had heard of his treatment 
of his daughter, but I was anxious to send Perkins 
and the wagonette home, and the opportunity was 
a good one. I alighted and sent a message to Sir 
Henry that I should walk over in time for dinner. 
Then I followed Frankland into his dining-room. 

"It is a great day for me, sir — one of the red- 
letter days of my life," he cried with many chuck- 
les. "I have brought off a double event. I mean to 
teach them in these parts that law is law, and that 
there is a man here who does not fear to invoke it. 
I have established a right of way through the centre 
of old Middleton's park, slap across it, sir, within 
a hundred yards of his own front door. What do 
you think of that? We'll teach these magnates that 
they cannot ride roughshod over the rights of the 
commoners, confound them! And I've closed the 
wood where the Fernworthy folk used to picnic. 
These infernal people seem to think that there are 
no rights of property, and that they can swarm 
where they like with their papers and their bot- 
tles. Both cases decided. Dr. Watson, and both in 
my favour. I haven't had such a day since I had Sir 
John Morland for trespass, because he shot in his 
own warren." 

"How on earth did you do that?" 

"Look it up in the books, sir. It will repay 
reading — Frankland v. Morland, Court of Queen's 


Bench. It cost me 200 pounds, but I got my ver- 
dict." 

"Did it do you any good?" 

"None, sir, none. I am proud to say that I had 
no interest in the matter. I act entirely from a sense 
of public duty. I have no doubt, for example, that 
the Fernworthy people will burn me in effigy to- 
night. I told the police last time they did it that 
they should stop these disgraceful exhibitions. The 
County Constabulary is in a scandalous state, sir, 
and it has not afforded me the protection to which 
I am entitled. The case of Frankland v. Regina will 
bring the matter before the attention of the public. 
I told them that they would have occasion to regret 
their treatment of me, and already my words have 
come true." 

"How so?" I asked. 

The old man put on a very knowing expression. 

"Because I could tell them what they are dying 
to know; but nothing would induce me to help the 
rascals in any way." 

I had been casting round for some excuse by 
which I could get away from his gossip, but now 
I began to wish to hear more of it. I had seen 
enough of the contrary nature of the old sinner to 
understand that any strong sign of interest would 
be the surest way to stop his confidences. 

"Some poaching case, no doubt?" said I, with 
an indifferent manner. 

"Ha, ha, my boy, a very much more important 
matter than that! What about the convict on the 
moor?" 

I started. "You don't mean that you know 
where he is?" said I. 

"I may not know exactly where he is, but I am 
quite sure that I could help the police to lay their 
hands on him. Has it never struck you that the 
way to catch that man was to find out where he 
got his food, and so trace it to him?" 

He certainly seemed to be getting uncomfort- 
ably near the truth. "No doubt," said I; "but how 
do you know that he is anywhere upon the moor?" 

"I know it because I have seen with my own 
eyes the messenger who takes him his food." 

My heart sank for Barrymore. It was a serious 
thing to be in the power of this spiteful old busy- 
body. But his next remark took a weight from my 
mind. 

"You'll be surprised to hear that his food is 
taken to him by a child. I see him every day 
through my telescope upon the roof. He passes 


636 



The Hound of the Baskervilles 


along the same path at the same hour, and to 
whom should he be going except to the convict?" 

Here was luck indeed! And yet I suppressed 
all appearance of interest. A child! Barrymore 
had said that our unknown was supplied by a 
boy. It was on his track, and not upon the con- 
vict's, that Frankland had stumbled. If I could get 
his knowledge it might save me a long and weary 
hunt. But incredulity and indifference were evi- 
dently my strongest cards. 

"I should say that it was much more likely that 
it was the son of one of the moorland shepherds 
taking out his father's dinner." 

The least appearance of opposition struck fire 
out of the old autocrat. His eyes looked malig- 
nantly at me, and his gray whiskers bristled like 
those of an angry cat. 

"Indeed, sir!" said he, pointing out over the 
wide-stretching moor. "Do you see that Black Tor 
over yonder? Well, do you see the low hill be- 
yond with the thornbush upon it? It is the stoniest 
part of the whole moor. Is that a place where a 
shepherd would be likely to take his station? Your 
suggestion, sir, is a most absurd one." 

I meekly answered that I had spoken without 
knowing all the facts. My submission pleased him 
and led him to further confidences. 

"You may be sure, sir, that I have very good 
grounds before I come to an opinion. I have seen 
the boy again and again with his bundle. Ev- 
ery day, and sometimes twice a day, I have been 
able — but wait a moment. Dr. Watson. Do my 
eyes deceive me, or is there at the present moment 
something moving upon that hill-side?" 

It was several miles off, but I could distinctly 
see a small dark dot against the dull green and 
gray. 

"Come, sir, come!" cried Frankland, rushing 
upstairs. "You will see with your own eyes and 
judge for yourself." 

The telescope, a formidable instrument 
mounted upon a tripod, stood upon the flat leads 
of the house. Frankland clapped his eye to it and 
gave a cry of satisfaction. 

"Quick, Dr. Watson, quick, before he passes 
over the hill!" 

There he was, sure enough, a small urchin with 
a little bundle upon his shoulder, toiling slowly 
up the hill. When he reached the crest I saw 
the ragged uncouth figure outlined for an instant 
against the cold blue sky. He looked round him 
with a furtive and stealthy air, as one who dreads 
pursuit. Then he vanished over the hill. 


"Well! Am I right?" 

"Certainly, there is a boy who seems to have 
some secret errand." 

"And what the errand is even a county consta- 
ble could guess. But not one word shall they have 
from me, and I bind you to secrecy also. Dr. Wat- 
son. Not a word! You understand!" 

"Just as you wish." 

"They have treated me shamefully — shamefully. 
When the facts come out in Frankland v. Regina 
I venture to think that a thrill of indignation will 
run through the country. Nothing would induce 
me to help the police in any way. For all they cared 
it might have been me, instead of my effigy, which 
these rascals burned at the stake. Surely you are 
not going! You will help me to empty the decanter 
in honour of this great occasion!" 

But I resisted all his solicitations and succeeded 
in dissuading him from his announced intention of 
walking home with me. I kept the road as long as 
his eye was on me, and then I struck off across 
the moor and made for the stony hill over which 
the boy had disappeared. Everything was work- 
ing in my favour, and I swore that it should not 
be through lack of energy or perseverance that I 
should miss the chance which fortune had thrown 
in my way. 

The sun was already sinking when I reached 
the summit of the hill, and the long slopes beneath 
me were all golden-green on one side and gray 
shadow on the other. A haze lay low upon the 
farthest sky-line, out of which jutted the fantastic 
shapes of Belliver and Vixen Tor. Over the wide 
expanse there was no sound and no movement. 
One great gray bird, a gull or curlew, soared aloft 
in the blue heaven. He and I seemed to be the 
only living things between the huge arch of the 
sky and the desert beneath it. The barren scene, 
the sense of loneliness, and the mystery and ur- 
gency of my task all struck a chill into my heart. 
The boy was nowhere to be seen. But down be- 
neath me in a cleft of the hills there was a circle 
of the old stone huts, and in the middle of them 
there was one which retained sufficient roof to act 
as a screen against the weather. My heart leaped 
within me as I saw it. This must be the burrow 
where the stranger lurked. At last my foot was on 
the threshold of his hiding place — his secret was 
within my grasp. 

As I approached the hut, walking as warily as 
Stapleton would do when with poised net he drew 
near the settled butterfly, I satisfied myself that 
the place had indeed been used as a habitation. 


637 



The Hound of the Baskervilles 


A vague pathway among the boulders led to the 
dilapidated opening which served as a door. All 
was silent within. The unknown might be lurking 
there, or he might be prowling on the moor. My 
nerves tingled with the sense of adventure. Throw- 
ing aside my cigarette, I closed my hand upon the 
butt of my revolver and, walking swiftly up to the 
door, I looked in. The place was empty. 

But there were ample signs that I had not come 
upon a false scent. This was certainly where the 
man lived. Some blankets rolled in a waterproof 
lay upon that very stone slab upon which Neolithic 
man had once slumbered. The ashes of a fire were 
heaped in a rude grate. Beside it lay some cook- 
ing utensils and a bucket half-full of water. A lit- 
ter of empty tins showed that the place had been 
occupied for some time, and I saw, as my eyes be- 
came accustomed to the checkered light, a pan- 
nikin and a half-full bottle of spirits standing in 
the corner. In the middle of the hut a flat stone 
served the purpose of a table, and upon this stood 
a small cloth bundle — the same, no doubt, which I 
had seen through the telescope upon the shoulder 
of the boy. It contained a loaf of bread, a tinned 
tongue, and two tins of preserved peaches. As I 
set it down again, after having examined it, my 
heart leaped to see that beneath it there lay a sheet 
of paper with writing upon it. I raised it, and this 
was what I read, roughly scrawled in pencil: — 

Dr. Watson has gone to Coombe Tracey. 

For a minute I stood there with the paper in 
my hands thinking out the meaning of this curt 
message. It was I, then, and not Sir Henry, who 
was being dogged by this secret man. He had not 
followed me himself, but he had set an agent — the 
boy, perhaps — upon my track, and this was his re- 
port. Possibly I had taken no step since I had been 
upon the moor which had not been observed and 
reported. Always there was this feeling of an un- 
seen force, a fine net drawn round us with infinite 
skill and delicacy, holding us so lightly that it was 
only at some supreme moment that one realized 
that one was indeed entangled in its meshes. 


If there was one report there might be others, 
so I looked round the hut in search of them. There 
was no trace, however, of anything of the kind, nor 
could I discover any sign which might indicate the 
character or intentions of the man who lived in 
this singular place, save that he must be of Spar- 
tan habits and cared little for the comforts of life. 
When I thought of the heavy rains and looked at 
the gaping roof I understood how strong and im- 
mutable must be the purpose which had kept him 
in that inhospitable abode. Was he our malignant 
enemy, or was he by chance our guardian angel? I 
swore that I would not leave the hut until I knew. 

Outside the sun was sinking low and the west 
was blazing with scarlet and gold. Its reflection 
was shot back in ruddy patches by the distant 
pools which lay amid the great Grimpen Mire. 
There were the two towers of Baskerville Hall, and 
there a distant blur of smoke which marked the 
village of Grimpen. Between the two, behind the 
hill, was the house of the Stapletons. All was sweet 
and mellow and peaceful in the golden evening 
light, and yet as I looked at them my soul shared 
none of the peace of nature but quivered at the 
vagueness and the terror of that interview which 
every instant was bringing nearer. With tingling 
nerves, but a fixed purpose, I sat in the dark recess 
of the hut and waited with sombre patience for the 
coming of its tenant. 

And then at last I heard him. Far away came 
the sharp clink of a boot striking upon a stone. 
Then another and yet another, coming nearer and 
nearer. I shrank back into the darkest corner, and 
cocked the pistol in my pocket, determined not to 
discover myself until I had an opportunity of see- 
ing something of the stranger. There was a long 
pause which showed that he had stopped. Then 
once more the footsteps approached and a shadow 
fell across the opening of the hut. 

"It is a lovely evening, my dear Watson," said a 
well-known voice. "I really think that you will be 
more comfortable outside than in." 


638 



The Hound of the Baskervilles 


CHAPTER XII. 

Death on the Moor 


For a moment or two I sat breathless, hardly 
able to believe my ears. Then my senses and my 
voice came back to me, while a crushing weight 
of responsibility seemed in an instant to be lifted 
from my soul. That cold, incisive, ironical voice 
could belong to but one man in all the world. 

"Holmes!" I cried — "Holmes!" 

"Come out," said he, "and please be careful 
with the revolver." 

I stooped under the rude lintel, and there he sat 
upon a stone outside, his gray eyes dancing with 
amusement as they fell upon my astonished fea- 
tures. He was thin and worn, but clear and alert, 
his keen face bronzed by the sun and roughened 
by the wind. In his tweed suit and cloth cap he 
looked like any other tourist upon the moor, and 
he had contrived, with that cat-like love of per- 
sonal cleanliness which was one of his character- 
istics, that his chin should be as smooth and his 
linen as perfect as if he were in Baker Street. 

"I never was more glad to see anyone in my 
life," said I, as I wrung him by the hand. 

"Or more astonished, eh?" 

"Well, I must confess to it." 

"The surprise was not all on one side, I assure 
you. I had no idea that you had found my occa- 
sional retreat, still less that you were inside it, until 
I was within twenty paces of the door." 

"My footprint, I presume?" 

"No, Watson; I fear that I could not under- 
take to recognize your footprint amid all the foot- 
prints of the world. If you seriously desire to de- 
ceive me you must change your tobacconist; for 
when I see the stub of a cigarette marked Bradley, 
Oxford Street, I know that my friend Watson is 
in the neighbourhood. You will see it there be- 
side the path. You threw it down, no doubt, at 
that supreme moment when you charged into the 
empty hut." 

"Exactly." 

"I thought as much — and knowing your ad- 
mirable tenacity I was convinced that you were 
sitting in ambush, a weapon within reach, waiting 
for the tenant to return. So you actually thought 
that I was the criminal?" 

"I did not know who you were, but I was de- 
termined to find out." 


"Excellent, Watson! And how did you localize 
me? You saw me, perhaps, on the night of the con- 
vict hunt, when I was so imprudent as to allow the 
moon to rise behind me?" 

"Yes, I saw you then." 

"And have no doubt searched all the huts until 
you came to this one?" 

"No, your boy had been observed, and that 
gave me a guide where to look." 

"The old gentleman with the telescope, no 
doubt. I could not make it out when first I saw 
the light flashing upon the lens." He rose and 
peeped into the hut. "Ha, I see that Cartwright 
has brought up some supplies. What's this paper? 
So you have been to Coombe Tracey, have you?" 

"Yes." 

"To see Mrs. Laura Lyons?" 

"Exactly." 

"Well done! Our researches have evidently 
been running on parallel lines, and when we unite 
our results I expect we shall have a fairly full 
knowledge of the case." 

"Well, I am glad from my heart that you are 
here, for indeed the responsibility and the mystery 
were both becoming too much for my nerves. But 
how in the name of wonder did you come here, 
and what have you been doing? I thought that 
you were in Baker Street working out that case of 
blackmailing." 

"That was what I wished you to think." 

"Then you use me, and yet do not trust me!" 
I cried with some bitterness. "I think that I have 
deserved better at your hands. Holmes." 

"My dear fellow, you have been invaluable to 
me in this as in many other cases, and I beg that 
you will forgive me if I have seemed to play a trick 
upon you. In truth, it was partly for your own 
sake that I did it, and it was my appreciation of 
the danger which you ran which led me to come 
down and examine the matter for myself. Had I 
been with Sir Henry and you it is confident that 
my point of view would have been the same as 
yours, and my presence would have warned our 
very formidable opponents to be on their guard. 
As it is, I have been able to get about as I could not 
possibly have done had I been living in the Hall, 
and I remain an unknown factor in the business, 
ready to throw in all my weight at a critical mo- 
ment." 


639 



The Hound of the Baskervilles 


"But why keep me in the dark?" 

"For you to know could not have helped us, 
and might possibly have led to my discovery You 
would have wished to tell me something, or in 
your kindness you would have brought me out 
some comfort or other, and so an unnecessary risk 
would be run. I brought Cartwright down with 
me — you remember the little chap at the express 
office — and he has seen after my simple wants: a 
loaf of bread and a clean collar. What does man 
want more? He has given me an extra pair of eyes 
upon a very active pair of feet, and both have been 
invaluable." 

"Then my reports have all been wasted!" — My 
voice trembled as I recalled the pains and the pride 
with which I had composed them. 

Holmes took a bundle of papers from his 
pocket. 

"Here are your reports, my dear fellow, and 
very well thumbed, I assure you. I made excellent 
arrangements, and they are only delayed one day 
upon their way. I must compliment you exceed- 
ingly upon the zeal and the intelligence which you 
have shown over an extraordinarily difficult case." 

I was still rather raw over the deception which 
had been practised upon me, but the warmth of 
Holmes's praise drove my anger from my mind. 
I felt also in my heart that he was right in what 
he said and that it was really best for our purpose 
that I should not have known that he was upon the 
moor. 

"That's better," said he, seeing the shadow rise 
from my face. "And now tell me the result of your 
visit to Mrs. Laura Lyons — it was not difficult for 
me to guess that it was to see her that you had 
gone, for I am already aware that she is the one 
person in Coombe Tracey who might be of service 
to us in the matter. In fact, if you had not gone to- 
day it is exceedingly probable that I should have 
gone to-morrow." 

The sun had set and dusk was settling over the 
moor. The air had turned chill and we withdrew 
into the hut for warmth. There, sitting together 
in the twilight, I told Holmes of my conversation 
with the lady. So interested was he that I had to 
repeat some of it twice before he was satisfied. 

"This is most important," said he when I had 
concluded. "It fills up a gap which I had been un- 
able to bridge, in this most complex affair. You 
are aware, perhaps, that a close intimacy exists be- 
tween this lady and the man Stapleton?" 

"I did not know of a close intimacy." 


"There can be no doubt about the matter. They 
meet, they write, there is a complete understand- 
ing between them. Now, this puts a very powerful 
weapon into our hands. If I could only use it to 
detach his wife — " 

"His wife?" 

"I am giving you some information now, in re- 
turn for all that you have given me. The lady who 
has passed here as Miss Stapleton is in reality his 
wife." 

"Good heavens. Holmes! Are you sure of what 
you say? How could he have permitted Sir Henry 
to fall in love with her?" 

"Sir Henry's falling in love could do no harm to 
anyone except Sir Henry. He took particular care 
that Sir Henry did not make love to her, as you have 
yourself observed. I repeat that the lady is his wife 
and not his sister." 

"But why this elaborate deception?" 

"Because he foresaw that she would be very 
much more useful to him in the character of a free 
woman." 

All my unspoken instincts, my vague suspi- 
cions, suddenly took shape and centred upon the 
naturalist. In that impassive, colourless man, with 
his straw hat and his butterfly-net, I seemed to see 
something terrible — a creature of infinite patience 
and craft, with a smiling face and a murderous 
heart. 

"It is he, then, who is our enemy — it is he who 
dogged us in London?" 

"So I read the riddle." 

"And the warning — it must have come from 
her!" 

"Exactly." 

The shape of some monstrous villainy, half 
seen, half guessed, loomed through the darkness 
which had girt me so long. 

"But are you sure of this. Holmes? How do you 
know that the woman is his wife?" 

"Because he so far forgot himself as to tell you 
a true piece of autobiography upon the occasion 
when he first met you, and I dare say he has many 
a time regretted it since. He was once a school- 
master in the north of England. Now, there is no 
one more easy to trace than a schoolmaster. There 
are scholastic agencies by which one may identify 
any man who has been in the profession. A little 
investigation showed me that a school had come 
to grief under atrocious circumstances, and that 


640 



The Hound of the Baskervilles 


the man who had owned it — the name was differ- 
ent — had disappeared with his wife. The descrip- 
tions agreed. When I learned that the missing man 
was devoted to entomology the identification was 
complete." 

The darkness was rising, but much was still 
hidden by the shadows. 

"If this woman is in truth his wife, where does 
Mrs. Laura Lyons come in?" I asked. 

"That is one of the points upon which your 
own researches have shed a light. Your interview 
with the lady has cleared the situation very much. 
I did not know about a projected divorce between 
herself and her husband. In that case, regarding 
Stapleton as an unmarried man, she counted no 
doubt upon becoming his wife." 

"And when she is undeceived?" 

"Why, then we may find the lady of service. It 
must be our first duty to see her — both of us — to- 
morrow. Don't you think, Watson, that you are 
away from your charge rather long? Your place 
should be at Baskerville Hall." 

The last red streaks had faded away in the west 
and night had settled upon the moor. A few faint 
stars were gleaming in a violet sky. 

"One last question. Holmes," I said, as I rose. 
"Surely there is no need of secrecy between you 
and me. What is the meaning of it all? What is he 
after?" 

Holmes's voice sank as he answered: — 

"It is murder, Watson — refined, cold-blooded, 
deliberate murder. Do not ask me for particulars. 
My nets are closing upon him, even as his are upon 
Sir Henry, and with your help he is already al- 
most at my mercy. There is but one danger which 
can threaten us. It is that he should strike before 
we are ready to do so. Another day — two at the 
most — and I have my case complete, but until then 
guard your charge as closely as ever a fond mother 
watched her ailing child. Your mission to-day has 
justified itself, and yet I could almost wish that you 
had not left his side. Hark!" 

A terrible scream — a prolonged yell of horror 
and anguish — burst out of the silence of the moor. 
That frightful cry turned the blood to ice in my 
veins. 

"Oh, my God!" I gasped. "What is it? What 
does it mean?" 

Holmes had sprung to his feet, and I saw his 
dark, athletic outline at the door of the hut, his 
shoulders stooping, his head thrust forward, his 
face peering into the darkness. 


"Hush!" he whispered. "Hush!" 

The cry had been loud on account of its vehe- 
mence, but it had pealed out from somewhere far 
off on the shadowy plain. Now it burst upon our 
ears, nearer, louder, more urgent than before. 

"Where is it?" Holmes whispered; and I knew 
from the thrill of his voice that he, the man of iron, 
was shaken to the soul. "Where is it, Watson?" 

"There, I think." I pointed into the darkness. 

"No, there!" 

Again the agonized cry swept through the 
silent night, louder and much nearer than ever. 
And a new sound mingled with it, a deep, mut- 
tered rumble, musical and yet menacing, rising 
and falling like the low, constant murmur of the 
sea. 

"The hound!" cried Holmes. "Come, Watson, 
come! Great heavens, if we are too late!" 

He had started running swiftly over the moor, 
and I had followed at his heels. But now from 
somewhere among the broken ground immedi- 
ately in front of us there came one last despair- 
ing yell, and then a dull, heavy thud. We halted 
and listened. Not another sound broke the heavy 
silence of the windless night. 

I saw Holmes put his hand to his forehead like 
a man distracted. He stamped his feet upon the 
ground. 

"He has beaten us, Watson. We are too late." 

"No, no, surely not!" 

"Fool that I was to hold my hand. And 
you, Watson, see what comes of abandoning your 
charge! But, by Heaven, if the worst has happened, 
we'll avenge him!" 

Blindly we ran through the gloom, blunder- 
ing against boulders, forcing our way through 
gorse bushes, panting up hills and rushing down 
slopes, heading always in the direction whence 
those dreadful sounds had come. At every rise 
Holmes looked eagerly round him, but the shad- 
ows were thick upon the moor, and nothing moved 
upon its dreary face. 

"Can you see anything?" 

"Nothing." 

"But, hark, what is that?" 

A low moan had fallen upon our ears. There 
it was again upon our left! On that side a ridge 
of rocks ended in a sheer cliff which overlooked a 
stone-strewn slope. On its jagged face was spread- 
eagled some dark, irregular object. As we ran to- 
wards it the vague outline hardened into a defi- 
nite shape. It was a prostrate man face downward 
upon the ground, the head doubled under him at 
a horrible angle, the shoulders rounded and the 


641 



The Hound of the Baskervilles 


body hunched together as if in the act of throw- 
ing a somersault. So grotesque was the attitude 
that I could not for the instant realize that that 
moan had been the passing of his soul. Not a 
whisper, not a rustle, rose now from the dark fig- 
ure over which we stooped. Holmes laid his hand 
upon him, and held it up again, with an excla- 
mation of horror. The gleam of the match which 
he struck shone upon his clotted fingers and upon 
the ghastly pool which widened slowly from the 
crushed skull of the victim. And it shone upon 
something else which turned our hearts sick and 
faint within us — the body of Sir Henry Baskerville! 

There was no chance of either of us forget- 
ting that peculiar ruddy tweed suit — the very one 
which he had worn on the first morning that we 
had seen him in Baker Street. We caught the one 
clear glimpse of it, and then the match flickered 
and went out, even as the hope had gone out of our 
souls. Holmes groaned, and his face glimmered 
white through the darkness. 

"The brute! the brute!" I cried with clenched 
hands. "Oh Holmes, I shall never forgive myself 
for having left him to his fate." 

"I am more to blame than you, Watson. In or- 
der to have my case well rounded and complete, 
I have thrown away the life of my client. It is the 
greatest blow which has befallen me in my career. 
But how could I know — how could 1 know — that 
he would risk his life alone upon the moor in the 
face of all my warnings?" 

"That we should have heard his screams — my 
God, those screams! — and yet have been unable to 
save him! Where is this brute of a hound which 
drove him to his death? It may be lurking among 
these rocks at this instant. And Stapleton, where 
is he? He shall answer for this deed." 

"He shall. I will see to that. Uncle and nephew 
have been murdered — the one frightened to death 
by the very sight of a beast which he thought to 
be supernatural, the other driven to his end in his 
wild flight to escape from it. But now we have 
to prove the connection between the man and the 
beast. Save from what we heard, we cannot even 
swear to the existence of the latter, since Sir Henry 
has evidently died from the fall. But, by heavens, 
cunning as he is, the fellow shall be in my power 
before another day is past!" 

We stood with bitter hearts on either side of 
the mangled body, overwhelmed by this sudden 
and irrevocable disaster which had brought all 
our long and weary labours to so piteous an end. 
Then, as the moon rose we climbed to the top of 
the rocks over which our poor friend had fallen. 


and from the summit we gazed out over the shad- 
owy moor, half silver and half gloom. Far away, 
miles off, in the direction of Grimpen, a single 
steady yellow light was shining. It could only 
come from the lonely abode of the Stapletons. 
With a bitter curse I shook my fist at it as I gazed. 

"Why should we not seize him at once?" 

"Our case is not complete. The fellow is wary 
and cunning to the last degree. It is not what we 
know, but what we can prove. If we make one false 
move the villain may escape us yet." 

"What can we do?" 

"There will be plenty for us to do to-morrow. 
To-night we can only perform the last offices to 
our poor friend." 

Together we made our way down the precip- 
itous slope and approached the body, black and 
clear against the silvered stones. The agony of 
those contorted limbs struck me with a spasm of 
pain and blurred my eyes with tears. 

"We must send for help. Holmes! We cannot 
carry him all the way to the Hall. Good heavens, 
are you mad?" 

He had uttered a cry and bent over the body. 
Now he was dancing and laughing and wringing 
my hand. Could this be my stern, self-contained 
friend? These were hidden fires, indeed! 

"A beard! A beard! The man has a beard!" 

"A beard?" 

"It is not the baronet — it is — why, it is my 
neighbour, the convict!" 

With feverish haste we had turned the body 
over, and that dripping beard was pointing up to 
the cold, clear moon. There could be no doubt 
about the beetling forehead, the sunken animal 
eyes. It was indeed the same face which had glared 
upon me in the light of the candle from over the 
rock — the face of Selden, the criminal. 

Then in an instant it was all clear to me. I re- 
membered how the baronet had told me that he 
had handed his old wardrobe to Barrymore. Bar- 
rymore had passed it on in order to help Selden 
in his escape. Boots, shirt, cap — it was all Sir 
Henry's. The tragedy was still black enough, but 
this man had at least deserved death by the laws of 
his country. I told Holmes how the matter stood, 
my heart bubbling over with thankfulness and joy. 

"Then the clothes have been the poor devil's 
death," said he. "It is clear enough that the 
hound has been laid on from some article of Sir 
Henry's — the boot which was abstracted in the ho- 
tel, in all probability — and so ran this man down. 
There is one very singular thing, however: How 


642 



The Hound of the Baskervilles 


came Selden, in the darkness, to know that the 
hound was on his trail?" 

"He heard him." 

"To hear a hound upon the moor would not 
work a hard man like this convict into such a 
paroxysm of terror that he would risk recapture 
by screaming wildly for help. By his cries he must 
have run a long way after he knew the animal was 
on his track. How did he know?" 

"A greater mystery to me is why this hound, 
presuming that all our conjectures are correct — " 

"I presume nothing." 

"Well, then, why this hound should be loose to- 
night. I suppose that it does not always run loose 
upon the moor. Stapleton would not let it go un- 
less he had reason to think that Sir Henry would 
be there." 

"My difficulty is the more formidable of the 
two, for I think that we shall very shortly get an 
explanation of yours, while mine may remain for- 
ever a mystery. The question now is, what shall 
we do with this poor wretch's body? We cannot 
leave it here to the foxes and the ravens." 

"I suggest that we put it in one of the huts until 
we can communicate with the police." 

"Exactly. I have no doubt that you and I could 
carry it so far. Halloa, Watson, what's this? It's 
the man himself, by all that's wonderful and auda- 
cious! Not a word to show your suspicions — not a 
word, or my plans crumble to the ground." 

A figure was approaching us over the moor, 
and I saw the dull red glow of a cigar. The moon 
shone upon him, and I could distinguish the dap- 
per shape and jaunty walk of the naturalist. He 
stopped when he saw us, and then came on again. 

"Why, Dr. Watson, that's not you, is it? You are 
the last man that I should have expected to see out 
on the moor at this time of night. But, dear me, 
what's this? Somebody hurt? Not — don't tell me 
that it is our friend Sir Henry!" He hurried past me 
and stooped over the dead man. I heard a sharp 
intake of his breath and the cigar fell from his fin- 
gers. 

"Who — who's this?" he stammered. 

"It is Selden, the man who escaped from 
Princetown." 

Stapleton turned a ghastly face upon us, but by 
a supreme effort he had overcome his amazement 
and his disappointment. He looked sharply from 
Holmes to me. 

"Dear me! What a very shocking affair! How 
did he die?" 


"He appears to have broken his neck by falling 
over these rocks. My friend and I were strolling on 
the moor when we heard a cry." 

"I heard a cry also. That was what brought me 
out. I was uneasy about Sir Henry." 

"Why about Sir Henry in particular?" I could 
not help asking. 

"Because I had suggested that he should come 
over. When he did not come I was surprised, and 
I naturally became alarmed for his safety when I 
heard cries upon the moor. By the way" — his eyes 
darted again from my face to Holmes's — "did you 
hear anything else besides a cry?" 

"No," said Holmes; "did you?" 

"No." 

"What do you mean, then?" 

"Oh, you know the stories that the peasants tell 
about a phantom hound, and so on. It is said to be 
heard at night upon the moor. I was wondering if 
there were any evidence of such a sound to-night." 

"We heard nothing of the kind," said I. 

"And what is your theory of this poor fellow's 
death?" 

"I have no doubt that anxiety and exposure 
have driven him off his head. He has rushed about 
the moor in a crazy state and eventually fallen over 
here and broken his neck." 

"That seems the most reasonable theory," said 
Stapleton, and he gave a sigh which I took to in- 
dicate his relief. "What do you think about it, Mr. 
Sherlock Holmes?" 

My friend bowed his compliments. 

"You are quick at identification," said he. 

"We have been expecting you in these parts 
since Dr. Watson came down. You are in time to 
see a tragedy." 

"Yes, indeed. I have no doubt that my friend's 
explanation will cover the facts. I will take an un- 
pleasant remembrance back to London with me to- 
morrow." 

"Oh, you return to-morrow?" 

"That is my intention." 

"I hope your visit has cast some light upon 
those occurrences which have puzzled us?" 

Holmes shrugged his shoulders. 

"One cannot always have the success for which 
one hopes. An investigator needs facts, and not 
legends or rumours. It has not been a satisfactory 
case." 

My friend spoke in his frankest and most un- 
concerned manner. Stapleton still looked hard at 
him. Then he turned to me. 


643 



The Hound of the Baskervilles 


"I would suggest carrying this poor fellow to 
my house, but it would give my sister such a fright 
that I do not feel justified in doing it. I think that 
if we put something over his face he will be safe 
until morning." 

And so it was arranged. Resisting Staple- 


ton's offer of hospitality. Holmes and I set off to 
Baskerville Hall, leaving the naturalist to return 
alone. Looking back we saw the figure moving 
slowly away over the broad moor, and behind him 
that one black smudge on the silvered slope which 
showed where the man was lying who had come 
so horribly to his end. 


CHAPTER XIII. 

Fixing the Nets 


"We're at close grips at last," said Holmes as 
we walked together across the moor. "What a 
nerve the fellow has! How he pulled himself to- 
gether in the face of what must have been a para- 
lyzing shock when he found that the wrong man 
had fallen a victim to his plot. I told you in 
London, Watson, and I tell you now again, that 
we have never had a foeman more worthy of our 
steel." 

"I am sorry that he has seen you." 

"And so was I at first. But there was no getting 
out of it." 

"What effect do you think it will have upon his 
plans now that he knows you are here?" 

"It may cause him to be more cautious, or it 
may drive him to desperate measures at once. Like 
most clever criminals, he may be too confident in 
his own cleverness and imagine that he has com- 
pletely deceived us." 

"Why should we not arrest him at once?" 

"My dear Watson, you were born to be a man of 
action. Your instinct is always to do something en- 
ergetic. But supposing, for argument's sake, that 
we had him arrested to-night, what on earth the 
better off should we be for that? We could prove 
nothing against him. There's the devilish cunning 
of it! If he were acting through a human agent we 
could get some evidence, but if we were to drag 
this great dog to the light of day it would not help 
us in putting a rope round the neck of its master." 

"Surely we have a case." 

"Not a shadow of one — only surmise and con- 
jecture. We should be laughed out of court if we 
came with such a story and such evidence." 

"There is Sir Charles's death." 


"Found dead without a mark upon him. You 
and I know that he died of sheer fright, and we 
know also what frightened him; but how are we to 
get twelve stolid jurymen to know it? What signs 
are there of a hound? Where are the marks of its 
fangs? Of course we know that a hound does not 
bite a dead body and that Sir Charles was dead 
before ever the brute overtook him. But we have 
to prove all this, and we are not in a position to do 
it." 

"Well, then, to-night?" 

"We are not much better off to-night. Again, 
there was no direct connection between the hound 
and the man's death. We never saw the hound. 
We heard it; but we could not prove that it was 
running upon this man's trail. There is a complete 
absence of motive. No, my dear fellow; we must 
reconcile ourselves to the fact that we have no case 
at present, and that it is worth our while to run 
any risk in order to establish one." 

"And how do you propose to do so?" 

"I have great hopes of what Mrs. Laura Lyons 
may do for us when the position of affairs is made 
clear to her. And I have my own plan as well. Suf- 
ficient for to-morrow is the evil thereof; but I hope 
before the day is past to have the upper hand at 
last." 

I could draw nothing further from him, and he 
walked, lost in thought, as far as the Baskerville 
gates. 

"Are you coming up?" 

"Yes; I see no reason for further concealment. 
But one last word, Watson. Say nothing of the 
hound to Sir Henry. Let him think that Selden's 
death was as Stapleton would have us believe. He 
will have a better nerve for the ordeal which he 


644 



The Hound of the Baskervilles 


will have to undergo to-morrow, when he is en- 
gaged, if I remember your report aright, to dine 
with these people." 

"And so am I." 

"Then you must excuse yourself and he must 
go alone. That will be easily arranged. And now, 
if we are too late for dinner, I think that we are 
both ready for our suppers." 

Sir Henry was more pleased than surprised to 
see Sherlock Holmes, for he had for some days 
been expecting that recent events would bring him 
down from London. He did raise his eyebrows, 
however, when he found that my friend had nei- 
ther any luggage nor any explanations for its ab- 
sence. Between us we soon supplied his wants, 
and then over a belated supper we explained to the 
baronet as much of our experience as it seemed de- 
sirable that he should know. But first I had the un- 
pleasant duty of breaking the news to Barrymore 
and his wife. To him it may have been an unmit- 
igated relief, but she wept bitterly in her apron. 
To all the world he was the man of violence, half 
animal and half demon; but to her he always re- 
mained the little wilful boy of her own girlhood, 
the child who had clung to her hand. Evil indeed 
is the man who has not one woman to mourn him. 

"I've been moping in the house all day since 
Watson went off in the morning," said the baronet. 
"I guess I should have some credit, for I have kept 
my promise. If I hadn't sworn not to go about 
alone I might have had a more lively evening, for 
I had a message from Stapleton asking me over 
there." 

"I have no doubt that you would have had a 
more lively evening," said Holmes drily. "By the 
way, I don't suppose you appreciate that we have 
been mourning over you as having broken your 
neck?" 

Sir Henry opened his eyes. "How was that?" 

"This poor wretch was dressed in your clothes. 
I fear your servant who gave them to him may get 
into trouble with the police." 

"That is unlikely. There was no mark on any of 
them, as far as I know." 

"That's lucky for him — in fact, it's lucky for all 
of you, since you are all on the wrong side of the 
law in this matter. I am not sure that as a con- 
scientious detective my first duty is not to arrest 
the whole household. Watson's reports are most 
incriminating documents." 

"But how about the case?" asked the baronet. 
"Have you made anything out of the tangle? I 


don't know that Watson and I are much the wiser 
since we came down." 

"I think that I shall be in a position to make the 
situation rather more clear to you before long. It 
has been an exceedingly difficult and most com- 
plicated business. There are several points upon 
which we still want light — but it is coming all the 
same." 

"We've had one experience, as Watson has no 
doubt told you. We heard the hound on the moor, 
so I can swear that it is not all empty superstition. 
I had something to do with dogs when I was out 
West, and I know one when I hear one. If you 
can muzzle that one and put him on a chain I'll be 
ready to swear you are the greatest detective of all 
time." 

"I think I will muzzle him and chain him all 
right if you will give me your help." 

"Whatever you tell me to do I will do." 

"Very good; and I will ask you also to do it 
blindly, without always asking the reason." 

"Just as you like." 

"If you will do this I think the chances are that 
our little problem will soon be solved. I have no 
doubt — " 

He stopped suddenly and stared fixedly up 
over my head into the air. The lamp beat upon 
his face, and so intent was it and so still that it 
might have been that of a clear-cut classical statue, 
a personification of alertness and expectation. 

"What is it?" we both cried. 

I could see as he looked down that he was re- 
pressing some internal emotion. His features were 
still composed, but his eyes shone with amused 
exultation. 

"Excuse the admiration of a connoisseur," said 
he as he waved his hand towards the line of por- 
traits which covered the opposite wall. "Watson 
won't allow that I know anything of art, but that is 
mere jealousy, because our views upon the subject 
differ. Now, these are a really very fine series of 
portraits." 

"Well, I'm glad to hear you say so," said Sir 
Henry, glancing with some surprise at my friend. 
"I don't pretend to know much about these things, 
and I'd be a better judge of a horse or a steer than 
of a picture. I didn't know that you found time for 
such things." 

"I know what is good when I see it, and I see 
it now. That's a Kneller, I'll swear, that lady in 
the blue silk over yonder, and the stout gentleman 


645 



The Hound of the Baskervilles 


with the wig ought to be a Reynolds. They are all 
family portraits, I presume?" 

"Every one." 

"Do you know the names?" 

"Barrymore has been coaching me in them, and 
I think I can say my lessons fairly well." 

"Who is the gentleman with the telescope?" 

"That is Rear-Admiral Baskerville, who served 
under Rodney in the West Indies. The man with 
the blue coat and the roll of paper is Sir William 
Baskerville, who was Chairman of Committees of 
the House of Commons under Pitt." 

"And this Cavalier opposite to me — the one 
with the black velvet and the lace?" 

"Ah, you have a right to know about him. That 
is the cause of all the mischief, the wicked Hugo, 
who started the Hound of the Baskervilles. We're 
not likely to forget him." 

I gazed with interest and some surprise upon 
the portrait. 

"Dear me!" said Holmes, "he seems a quiet, 
meek-mannered man enough, but I dare say that 
there was a lurking devil in his eyes. I had pic- 
tured him as a more robust and ruffianly person." 

"There's no doubt about the authenticity, for 
the name and the date, 1647, are on the back of the 
canvas." 

Holmes said little more, but the picture of the 
old roysterer seemed to have a fascination for him, 
and his eyes were continually fixed upon it dur- 
ing supper. It was not until later, when Sir Henry 
had gone to his room, that I was able to follow 
the trend of his thoughts. He led me back into the 
banqueting-hall, his bedroom candle in his hand, 
and he held it up against the time-stained portrait 
on the wall. 

"Do you see anything there?" 

I looked at the broad plumed hat, the curl- 
ing love-locks, the white lace collar, and the 
straight, severe face which was framed between 
them. It was not a brutal countenance, but it was 
prim, hard, and stern, with a firm-set, thin-lipped 
mouth, and a coldly intolerant eye. 

"Is it like anyone you know?" 

"There is something of Sir Henry about the 
jaw." 

"Just a suggestion, perhaps. But wait an in- 
stant!" He stood upon a chair, and, holding up the 
light in his left hand, he curved his right arm over 
the broad hat and round the long ringlets. 

"Good heavens!" I cried, in amazement. 


The face of Stapleton had sprung out of the 
canvas. 

"Ha, you see it now. My eyes have been trained 
to examine faces and not their trimmings. It is 
the first quality of a criminal investigator that he 
should see through a disguise." 

"But this is marvellous. It might be his por- 
trait." 

"Yes, it is an interesting instance of a throw- 
back, which appears to be both physical and spiri- 
tual. A study of family portraits is enough to con- 
vert a man to the doctrine of reincarnation. The 
fellow is a Baskerville — that is evident." 

"With designs upon the succession." 

"Exactly. This chance of the picture has sup- 
plied us with one of our most obvious missing 
links. We have him, Watson, we have him, and 
I dare swear that before to-morrow night he will 
be fluttering in our net as helpless as one of his 
own butterflies. A pin, a cork, and a card, and we 
add him to the Baker Street collection!" He burst 
into one of his rare fits of laughter as he turned 
away from the picture. I have not heard him laugh 
often, and it has always boded ill to somebody. 

I was up betimes in the morning, but Holmes 
was afoot earlier still, for I saw him as I dressed, 
coming up the drive. 

"Yes, we should have a full day to-day," he re- 
marked, and he rubbed his hands with the joy of 
action. "The nets are all in place, and the drag is 
about to begin. We'll know before the day is out 
whether we have caught our big, lean-jawed pike, 
or whether he has got through the meshes." 

"Have you been on the moor already?" 

"I have sent a report from Grimpen to Prince- 
town as to the death of Selden. I think I can 
promise that none of you will be troubled in 
the matter. And I have also communicated with 
my faithful Cartwright, who would certainly have 
pined away at the door of my hut, as a dog does at 
his master's grave, if I had not set his mind at rest 
about my safety." 

"What is the next move?" 

"To see Sir Henry. Ah, here he is!" 

"Good morning. Holmes," said the baronet. 
"You look like a general who is planning a battle 
with his chief of the staff." 

"That is the exact situation. Watson was asking 
for orders." 

"And so do I." 

"Very good. You are engaged, as I understand, 
to dine with our friends the Stapletons to-night." 


646 



The Hound of the Baskervilles 


"I hope that you will come also. They are very 
hospitable people, and I am sure that they would 
be very glad to see you." 

"I fear that Watson and I must go to London." 

"To London?" 

"Yes, I think that we should be more useful 
there at the present juncture." 

The baronet's face perceptibly lengthened. 

"I hoped that you were going to see me 
through this business. The Hall and the moor are 
not very pleasant places when one is alone." 

"My dear fellow, you must trust me implicitly 
and do exactly what I tell you. You can tell your 
friends that we should have been happy to have 
come with you, but that urgent business required 
us to be in town. We hope very soon to return to 
Devonshire. Will you remember to give them that 
message?" 

"If you insist upon it." 

"There is no alternative, I assure you." 

I saw by the baronet's clouded brow that he 
was deeply hurt by what he regarded as our de- 
sertion. 

"When do you desire to go?" he asked coldly. 

"Immediately after breakfast. We will drive in 
to Coombe Tracey, but Watson will leave his things 
as a pledge that he will come back to you. Watson, 
you will send a note to Stapleton to tell him that 
you regret that you cannot come." 

"I have a good mind to go to London with 
you," said the baronet. "Why should I stay here 
alone?" 

"Because it is your post of duty. Because you 
gave me your word that you would do as you were 
told, and I tell you to stay." 

"All right, then. I'll stay." 

"One more direction! I wish you to drive to 
Merripit House. Send back your trap, however, 
and let them know that you intend to walk home." 

"To walk across the moor?" 

"Yes." 

"But that is the very thing which you have so 
often cautioned me not to do." 

"This time you may do it with safety. If I had 
not every confidence in your nerve and courage I 
would not suggest it, but it is essential that you 
should do it." 

"Then I will do it." 

"And as you value your life do not go across 
the moor in any direction save along the straight 


path which leads from Merripit House to the 
Grimpen Road, and is your natural way home." 

"I will do just what you say." 

"Very good. I should be glad to get away as 
soon after breakfast as possible, so as to reach Lon- 
don in the afternoon." 

I was much astounded by this programme, 
though I remembered that Holmes had said to Sta- 
pleton on the night before that his visit would ter- 
minate next day. It had not crossed my mind, how- 
ever, that he would wish me to go with him, nor 
could I understand how we could both be absent 
at a moment which he himself declared to be crit- 
ical. There was nothing for it, however, but im- 
plicit obedience; so we bade good-bye to our rue- 
ful friend, and a couple of hours afterwards we 
were at the station of Coombe Tracey and had dis- 
patched the trap upon its return journey. A small 
boy was waiting upon the platform. 

"Any orders, sir?" 

"You will take this train to town, Cartwright. 
The moment you arrive you will send a wire to Sir 
Henry Baskerville, in my name, to say that if he 
finds the pocket-book which I have dropped he is 
to send it by registered post to Baker Street." 

"Yes, sir." 

"And ask at the station office if there is a mes- 
sage for me." 

The boy returned with a telegram, which 
Holmes handed to me. It ran: 

Wire received. Coming down with un- 
signed warrant. Arrive five-forty. 

— Lestrade. 

"That is in answer to mine of this morning. He 
is the best of the professionals, I think, and we 
may need his assistance. Now, Watson, I think that 
we cannot employ our time better than by calling 
upon your acquaintance, Mrs. Laura Lyons." 

His plan of campaign was beginning to be evi- 
dent. He would use the baronet in order to con- 
vince the Stapletons that we were really gone, 
while we should actually return at the instant 
when we were likely to be needed. That telegram 
from London, if mentioned by Sir Henry to the Sta- 
pletons, must remove the last suspicions from their 
minds. Already I seemed to see our nets drawing 
closer around that lean-jawed pike. 

Mrs. Laura Lyons was in her office, and Sher- 
lock Holmes opened his interview with a frank- 
ness and directness which considerably amazed 
her. 

"I am investigating the circumstances which 
attended the death of the late Sir Charles 
Baskerville," said he. "My friend here. Dr. Watson, 


647 



The Hound of the Baskervilles 


has informed me of what you have communicated, 
and also of what you have withheld in connection 
with that matter." 

"What have I withheld?" she asked defiantly 

"You have confessed that you asked Sir Charles 
to be at the gate at ten o'clock. We know that that 
was the place and hour of his death. You have 
withheld what the connection is between these 
events." 

"There is no connection." 

"In that case the coincidence must indeed be an 
extraordinary one. But I think that we shall suc- 
ceed in establishing a connection after all. I wish 
to be perfectly frank with you, Mrs. Lyons. We re- 
gard this case as one of murder, and the evidence 
may implicate not only your friend Mr. Stapleton, 
but his wife as well." 

The lady sprang from her chair. 

"His wife!" she cried. 

"The fact is no longer a secret. The person who 
has passed for his sister is really his wife." 

Mrs. Lyons had resumed her seat. Her hands 
were grasping the arms of her chair, and I saw that 
the pink nails had turned white with the pressure 
of her grip. 

"His wife!" she said again. "His wife! He is not 
a married man." 

Sherlock Holmes shrugged his shoulders. 

"Prove it to me! Prove it to me! And if you can 
do so — !" The fierce flash of her eyes said more 
than any words. 

"I have come prepared to do so," said Holmes, 
drawing several papers from his pocket. "Here is a 
photograph of the couple taken in York four years 
ago. It is indorsed 'Mr. and Mrs. Vandeleur,' but 
you will have no difficulty in recognizing him, and 
her also, if you know her by sight. Here are three 
written descriptions by trustworthy witnesses of 
Mr. and Mrs. Vandeleur, who at that time kept St. 
Oliver's private school. Read them and see if you 
can doubt the identity of these people." 

She glanced at them, and then looked up at us 
with the set, rigid face of a desperate woman. 

"Mr. Holmes," she said, "this man had offered 
me marriage on condition that I could get a divorce 
from my husband. He has lied to me, the villain, 
in every conceivable way. Not one word of truth 
has he ever told me. And why — why? I imagined 
that all was for my own sake. But now I see that I 
was never anything but a tool in his hands. Why 
should I preserve faith with him who never kept 
any with me? Why should I try to shield him from 


the consequences of his own wicked acts? Ask me 
what you like, and there is nothing which I shall 
hold back. One thing I swear to you, and that is 
that when I wrote the letter I never dreamed of 
any harm to the old gentleman, who had been my 
kindest friend." 

"I entirely believe you, madam," said Sherlock 
Holmes. "The recital of these events must be very 
painful to you, and perhaps it will make it easier if 
I tell you what occurred, and you can check me if 
I make any material mistake. The sending of this 
letter was suggested to you by Stapleton?" 

"He dictated it." 

"I presume that the reason he gave was that 
you would receive help from Sir Charles for the 
legal expenses connected with your divorce?" 

"Exactly." 

"And then after you had sent the letter he dis- 
suaded you from keeping the appointment?" 

"He told me that it would hurt his self-respect 
that any other man should find the money for such 
an object, and that though he was a poor man him- 
self he would devote his last penny to removing 
the obstacles which divided us." 

"He appears to be a very consistent character. 
And then you heard nothing until you read the re- 
ports of the death in the paper?" 

"No." 

"And he made you swear to say nothing about 
your appointment with Sir Charles?" 

"He did. He said that the death was a very 
mysterious one, and that I should certainly be sus- 
pected if the facts came out. He frightened me into 
remaining silent." 

"Quite so. But you had your suspicions?" 

She hesitated and looked down. 

"I knew him," she said. "But if he had kept 
faith with me I should always have done so with 
him." 

"I think that on the whole you have had a for- 
tunate escape," said Sherlock Holmes. "You have 
had him in your power and he knew it, and yet you 
are alive. You have been walking for some months 
very near to the edge of a precipice. We must wish 
you good-morning now, Mrs. Lyons, and it is prob- 
able that you will very shortly hear from us again." 

"Our case becomes rounded off, and difficulty 
after difficulty thins away in front of us," said 
Holmes as we stood waiting for the arrival of the 
express from town. "I shall soon be in the posi- 
tion of being able to put into a single connected 
narrative one of the most singular and sensational 
crimes of modern times. Students of criminology 
will remember the analogous incidents in Godno, 


648 



The Hound of the Baskervilles 


in Little Russia, in the year '66, and of course there 
are the Anderson murders in North Carolina, but 
this case possesses some features which are en- 
tirely its own. Even now we have no clear case 
against this very wily man. But I shall be very 
much surprised if it is not clear enough before we 
go to bed this night." 

The London express came roaring into the sta- 
tion, and a small, wiry bulldog of a man had 
sprung from a first-class carriage. We all three 
shook hands, and I saw at once from the rever- 
ential way in which Lestrade gazed at my com- 
panion that he had learned a good deal since the 


days when they had first worked together. I could 
well remember the scorn which the theories of the 
reasoner used then to excite in the practical man. 

"Anything good?" he asked. 

"The biggest thing for years," said Holmes. 
"We have two hours before we need think of start- 
ing. I think we might employ it in getting some 
dinner and then, Lestrade, we will take the Lon- 
don fog out of your throat by giving you a breath 
of the pure night air of Dartmoor. Never been 
there? Ah, well, I don't suppose you will forget 
your first visit." 


CHAPTER XIV. 

The Hound of the Baskervilles 


One of Sherlock Holmes's defects — if, indeed, 
one may call it a defect — was that he was exceed- 
ingly loath to communicate his full plans to any 
other person until the instant of their fulfilment. 
Partly it came no doubt from his own masterful na- 
ture, which loved to dominate and surprise those 
who were around him. Partly also from his profes- 
sional caution, which urged him never to take any 
chances. The result, however, was very trying for 
those who were acting as his agents and assistants. 
I had often suffered under it, but never more so 
than during that long drive in the darkness. The 
great ordeal was in front of us; at last we were 
about to make our final effort, and yet Holmes had 
said nothing, and I could only surmise what his 
course of action would be. My nerves thrilled with 
anticipation when at last the cold wind upon our 
faces and the dark, void spaces on either side of 
the narrow road told me that we were back upon 
the moor once again. Every stride of the horses 
and every turn of the wheels was taking us nearer 
to our supreme adventure. 

Our conversation was hampered by the pres- 
ence of the driver of the hired wagonette, so that 
we were forced to talk of trivial matters when our 
nerves were tense with emotion and anticipation. 
It was a relief to me, after that unnatural restraint, 
when we at last passed Frankland's house and 
knew that we were drawing near to the Hall and 
to the scene of action. We did not drive up to the 
door but got down near the gate of the avenue. 


The wagonette was paid off and ordered to return 
to Coombe Tracey forthwith, while we started to 
walk to Merripit House. 

"Are you armed, Lestrade?" 

The little detective smiled. 

"As long as I have my trousers I have a hip- 
pocket, and as long as I have my hip-pocket I have 
something in it." 

"Good! My friend and I are also ready for 
emergencies." 

"You're mighty close about this affair, Mr. 
Holmes. What's the game now?" 

"A waiting game." 

"My word, it does not seem a very cheerful 
place," said the detective with a shiver, glancing 
round him at the gloomy slopes of the hill and at 
the huge lake of fog which lay over the Grimpen 
Mire. "I see the lights of a house ahead of us." 

"That is Merripit House and the end of our 
journey. I must request you to walk on tiptoe and 
not to talk above a whisper." 

We moved cautiously along the track as if we 
were bound for the house, but Holmes halted us 
when we were about two hundred yards from it. 

"This will do," said he. "These rocks upon the 
right make an admirable screen." 

"We are to wait here?" 

"Yes, we shall make our little ambush here. Get 
into this hollow, Lestrade. You have been inside 
the house, have you not, Watson? Can you tell 


649 



The Hound of the Baskervilles 


the position of the rooms? What are those latticed 
windows at this end?" 

"I think they are the kitchen windows." 

"And the one beyond, which shines so 
brightly?" 

"That is certainly the dining-room." 

"The blinds are up. You know the lie of the 
land best. Creep forward quietly and see what 
they are doing — but for heaven's sake don't let 
them know that they are watched!" 

I tiptoed down the path and stooped behind 
the low wall which surrounded the stunted or- 
chard. Creeping in its shadow I reached a point 
whence I could look straight through the uncur- 
tained window. 

There were only two men in the room. Sir 
Henry and Stapleton. They sat with their pro- 
files towards me on either side of the round table. 
Both of them were smoking cigars, and coffee and 
wine were in front of them. Stapleton was talking 
with animation, but the baronet looked pale and 
distrait. Perhaps the thought of that lonely walk 
across the ill-omened moor was weighing heavily 
upon his mind. 

As I watched them Stapleton rose and left the 
room, while Sir Henry filled his glass again and 
leaned back in his chair, puffing at his cigar. I 
heard the creak of a door and the crisp sound of 
boots upon gravel. The steps passed along the 
path on the other side of the wall under which I 
crouched. Looking over, I saw the naturalist pause 
at the door of an out-house in the corner of the or- 
chard. A key turned in a lock, and as he passed in 
there was a curious scuffling noise from within. 
He was only a minute or so inside, and then I 
heard the key turn once more and he passed me 
and re-entered the house. I saw him rejoin his 
guest, and I crept quietly back to where my com- 
panions were waiting to tell them what I had seen. 

"You say, Watson, that the lady is not there?" 
Holmes asked, when I had finished my report. 

"No." 

"Where can she be, then, since there is no light 
in any other room except the kitchen?" 

"I cannot think where she is." 

I have said that over the great Grimpen Mire 
there hung a dense, white fog. It was drifting 
slowly in our direction, and banked itself up like a 
wall on that side of us, low, but thick and well 
defined. The moon shone on it, and it looked 
like a great shimmering ice-field, with the heads 
of the distant tors as rocks borne upon its surface. 


Holmes's face was turned towards it, and he mut- 
tered impatiently as he watched its sluggish drift. 

"It's moving towards us, Watson." 

"Is that serious?" 

"Very serious, indeed — the one thing upon 
earth which could have disarranged my plans. He 
can't be very long, now. It is already ten o'clock. 
Our success and even his life may depend upon 
his coming out before the fog is over the path." 

The night was clear and fine above us. The stars 
shone cold and bright, while a half-moon bathed 
the whole scene in a soft, uncertain light. Before 
us lay the dark bulk of the house, its serrated roof 
and bristling chimneys hard outlined against the 
silver-spangled sky. Broad bars of golden light 
from the lower windows stretched across the or- 
chard and the moor. One of them was suddenly 
shut off. The servants had left the kitchen. There 
only remained the lamp in the dining-room where 
the two men, the murderous host and the uncon- 
scious guest, still chatted over their cigars. 

Every minute that white woolly plain which 
covered one half of the moor was drifting closer 
and closer to the house. Already the first thin 
wisps of it were curling across the golden square 
of the lighted window. The farther wall of the or- 
chard was already invisible, and the trees were 
standing out of a swirl of white vapour. As we 
watched it the fog-wreaths came crawling round 
both corners of the house and rolled slowly into 
one dense bank, on which the upper floor and the 
roof floated like a strange ship upon a shadowy 
sea. Holmes struck his hand passionately upon 
the rock in front of us and stamped his feet in his 
impatience. 

"If he isn't out in a quarter of an hour the path 
will be covered. In half an hour we won't be able 
to see our hands in front of us." 

"Shall we move farther back upon higher 
ground?" 

"Yes, I think it would be as well." 

So as the fog-bank flowed onward we fell back 
before it until we were half a mile from the house, 
and still that dense white sea, with the moon 
silvering its upper edge, swept slowly and inex- 
orably on. 

"We are going too far," said Holmes. "We dare 
not take the chance of his being overtaken before 
he can reach us. At all costs we must hold our 
ground where we are." He dropped on his knees 
and clapped his ear to the ground. "Thank God, I 
think that I hear him coming." 


650 



The Hound of the Baskervilles 


A sound of quick steps broke the silence of the 
moor. Crouching among the stones we stared in- 
tently at the silver-tipped bank in front of us. The 
steps grew louder, and through the fog, as through 
a curtain, there stepped the man whom we were 
awaiting. He looked round him in surprise as 
he emerged into the clear, starlit night. Then he 
came swiftly along the path, passed close to where 
we lay, and went on up the long slope behind us. 
As he walked he glanced continually over either 
shoulder, like a man who is ill at ease. 

"Hist!" cried Holmes, and I heard the sharp 
click of a cocking pistol. "Look out! It's coming!" 

There was a thin, crisp, continuous patter from 
somewhere in the heart of that crawling bank. The 
cloud was within fifty yards of where we lay, and 
we glared at it, all three, uncertain what horror 
was about to break from the heart of it. I was 
at Holmes's elbow, and I glanced for an instant 
at his face. It was pale and exultant, his eyes 
shining brightly in the moonlight. But suddenly 
they started forward in a rigid, fixed stare, and 
his lips parted in amazement. At the same in- 
stant Lestrade gave a yell of terror and threw him- 
self face downward upon the ground. I sprang 
to my feet, my inert hand grasping my pistol, my 
mind paralyzed by the dreadful shape which had 
sprung out upon us from the shadows of the fog. 
A hound it was, an enormous coal-black hound, 
but not such a hound as mortal eyes have ever 
seen. Fire burst from its open mouth, its eyes 
glowed with a smouldering glare, its muzzle and 
hackles and dewlap were outlined in flickering 
flame. Never in the delirious dream of a disor- 
dered brain could anything more savage, more ap- 
palling, more hellish be conceived than that dark 
form and savage face which broke upon us out of 
the wall of fog. 

With long bounds the huge black creature was 
leaping down the track, following hard upon the 
footsteps of our friend. So paralyzed were we by 
the apparition that we allowed him to pass be- 
fore we had recovered our nerve. Then Holmes 
and I both fired together, and the creature gave a 
hideous howl, which showed that one at least had 
hit him. He did not pause, however, but bounded 
onward. Far away on the path we saw Sir Henry 
looking back, his face white in the moonlight, his 
hands raised in horror, glaring helplessly at the 
frightful thing which was hunting him down. 

But that cry of pain from the hound had blown 
all our fears to the winds. If he was vulnerable he 
was mortal, and if we could wound him we could 
kill him. Never have I seen a man run as Holmes 


ran that night. I am reckoned fleet of foot, but he 
outpaced me as much as I outpaced the little pro- 
fessional. In front of us as we flew up the track 
we heard scream after scream from Sir Henry and 
the deep roar of the hound. I was in time to see 
the beast spring upon its victim, hurl him to the 
ground, and worry at his throat. But the next in- 
stant Holmes had emptied five barrels of his re- 
volver into the creature's flank. With a last howl of 
agony and a vicious snap in the air, it rolled upon 
its back, four feet pawing furiously, and then fell 
limp upon its side. I stooped, panting, and pressed 
my pistol to the dreadful, shimmering head, but it 
was useless to press the trigger. The giant hound 
was dead. 

Sir Henry lay insensible where he had fallen. 
We tore away his collar, and Holmes breathed a 
prayer of gratitude when we saw that there was 
no sign of a wound and that the rescue had been 
in time. Already our friend's eyelids shivered and 
he made a feeble effort to move. Lestrade thrust 
his brandy-flask between the baronet's teeth, and 
two frightened eyes were looking up at us. 

"My God!" he whispered. "What was it? What, 
in heaven's name, was it?" 

"It's dead, whatever it is," said Holmes. "We've 
laid the family ghost once and forever." 

In mere size and strength it was a terrible crea- 
ture which was lying stretched before us. It was 
not a pure bloodhound and it was not a pure mas- 
tiff; but it appeared to be a combination of the 
two — gaunt, savage, and as large as a small li- 
oness. Even now, in the stillness of death, the huge 
jaws seemed to be dripping with a bluish flame 
and the small, deep-set, cruel eyes were ringed 
with fire. I placed my hand upon the glowing 
muzzle, and as I held them up my own fingers 
smouldered and gleamed in the darkness. 

"Phosphorus," I said. 

"A cunning preparation of it," said Holmes, 
sniffing at the dead animal. "There is no smell 
which might have interfered with his power of 
scent. We owe you a deep apology. Sir Henry, for 
having exposed you to this fright. I was prepared 
for a hound, but not for such a creature as this. 
And the fog gave us little time to receive him." 

"You have saved my life." 

"Having first endangered it. Are you strong 
enough to stand?" 

"Give me another mouthful of that brandy and 
I shall be ready for anything. So! Now, if you will 
help me up. What do you propose to do?" 


651 



The Hound of the Baskervilles 


"To leave you here. You are not fit for further 
adventures to-night. If you will wait, one or other 
of us will go back with you to the Hall." 

He tried to stagger to his feet; but he was still 
ghastly pale and trembling in every limb. We 
helped him to a rock, where he sat shivering with 
his face buried in his hands. 

"We must leave you now," said Holmes. "The 
rest of our work must be done, and every moment 
is of importance. We have our case, and now we 
only want our man. 

"It's a thousand to one against our finding him 
at the house," he continued as we retraced our 
steps swiftly down the path. "Those shots must 
have told him that the game was up." 

"We were some distance off, and this fog may 
have deadened them." 

"He followed the hound to call him off — of that 
you may be certain. No, no, he's gone by this time! 
But we'll search the house and make sure." 

The front door was open, so we rushed in and 
hurried from room to room to the amazement of a 
doddering old manservant, who met us in the pas- 
sage. There was no light save in the dining-room, 
but Holmes caught up the lamp and left no corner 
of the house unexplored. No sign could we see 
of the man whom we were chasing. On the up- 
per floor, however, one of the bedroom doors was 
locked. 

"There's someone in here," cried Lestrade. "I 
can hear a movement. Open this door!" 

A faint moaning and rustling came from 
within. Holmes struck the door just over the lock 
with the flat of his foot and it flew open. Pistol in 
hand, we all three rushed into the room. 

But there was no sign within it of that desper- 
ate and defiant villain whom we expected to see. 
Instead we were faced by an object so strange and 
so unexpected that we stood for a moment staring 
at it in amazement. 

The room had been fashioned into a small mu- 
seum, and the walls were lined by a number of 
glass-topped cases full of that collection of butter- 
flies and moths the formation of which had been 
the relaxation of this complex and dangerous man. 
In the centre of this room there was an upright 
beam, which had been placed at some period as 
a support for the old worm-eaten baulk of timber 
which spanned the roof. To this post a figure was 
tied, so swathed and muffled in the sheets which 
had been used to secure it that one could not for 
the moment tell whether it was that of a man or 
a woman. One towel passed round the throat and 


was secured at the back of the pillar. Another cov- 
ered the lower part of the face, and over it two dark 
eyes — eyes full of grief and shame and a dreadful 
questioning — stared back at us. In a minute we 
had torn off the gag, unswathed the bonds, and 
Mrs. Stapleton sank upon the floor in front of us. 
As her beautiful head fell upon her chest I saw the 
clear red weal of a whiplash across her neck. 

"The brute!" cried Holmes. "Here, Lestrade, 
your brandy-bottle! Put her in the chair! She has 
fainted from ill-usage and exhaustion." 

She opened her eyes again. 

"Is he safe?" she asked. "Has he escaped?" 

"He cannot escape us, madam." 

"No, no, I did not mean my husband. Sir 
Henry? Is he safe?" 

"Yes." 

"And the hound?" 

"It is dead." 

She gave a long sigh of satisfaction. 

"Thank God! Thank God! Oh, this villain! 
See how he has treated me!" She shot her arms 
out from her sleeves, and we saw with horror that 
they were all mottled with bruises. "But this is 
nothing — nothing! It is my mind and soul that he 
has tortured and defiled. I could endure it all, ill- 
usage, solitude, a life of deception, everything, as 
long as I could still cling to the hope that I had his 
love, but now I know that in this also I have been 
his dupe and his tool." She broke into passionate 
sobbing as she spoke. 

"You bear him no good will, madam," said 
Holmes. "Tell us then where we shall find him. 
If you have ever aided him in evil, help us now 
and so atone." 

"There is but one place where he can have 
fled," she answered. "There is an old tin mine 
on an island in the heart of the mire. It was there 
that he kept his hound and there also he had made 
preparations so that he might have a refuge. That 
is where he would fly." 

The fog-bank lay like white wool against the 
window. Holmes held the lamp towards it. 

"See," said he. "No one could find his way into 
the Grimpen Mire to-night." 

She laughed and clapped her hands. Her eyes 
and teeth gleamed with fierce merriment. 

"He may find his way in, but never out," she 
cried. "How can he see the guiding wands to- 
night? We planted them together, he and I, to mark 
the pathway through the mire. Oh, if I could only 
have plucked them out to-day. Then indeed you 
would have had him at your mercy!" 


652 



The Hound of the Baskervilles 


It was evident to us that all pursuit was in 
vain until the fog had lifted. Meanwhile we 
left Lestrade in possession of the house while 
Holmes and I went back with the baronet to 
Baskerville Hall. The story of the Stapletons could 
no longer be withheld from him, but he took the 
blow bravely when he learned the truth about the 
woman whom he had loved. But the shock of the 
night's adventures had shattered his nerves, and 
before morning he lay delirious in a high fever, un- 
der the care of Dr. Mortimer. The two of them were 
destined to travel together round the world before 
Sir Henry had become once more the hale, hearty 
man that he had been before he became master of 
that ill-omened estate. 

And now I come rapidly to the conclusion of 
this singular narrative, in which I have tried to 
make the reader share those dark fears and vague 
surmises which clouded our lives so long and 
ended in so tragic a manner. On the morning after 
the death of the hound the fog had lifted and we 
were guided by Mrs. Stapleton to the point where 
they had found a pathway through the bog. It 
helped us to realize the horror of this woman's life 
when we saw the eagerness and joy with which 
she laid us on her husband's track. We left her 
standing upon the thin peninsula of firm, peaty 
soil which tapered out into the widespread bog. 
From the end of it a small wand planted here and 
there showed where the path zigzagged from tuft 
to tuft of rushes among those green-scummed pits 
and foul quagmires which barred the way to the 
stranger. Rank reeds and lush, slimy water-plants 
sent an odour of decay and a heavy miasmatic 
vapour onto our faces, while a false step plunged 
us more than once thigh-deep into the dark, quiv- 
ering mire, which shook for yards in soft undula- 
tions around our feet. Its tenacious grip plucked 
at our heels as we walked, and when we sank into 
it it was as if some malignant hand was tugging us 
down into those obscene depths, so grim and pur- 
poseful was the clutch in which it held us. Once 
only we saw a trace that someone had passed that 
perilous way before us. From amid a tuft of cotton 
grass which bore it up out of the slime some dark 
thing was projecting. Holmes sank to his waist 
as he stepped from the path to seize it, and had 
we not been there to drag him out he could never 
have set his foot upon firm land again. He held an 
old black boot in the air. "Meyers, Toronto," was 
printed on the leather inside. 

"It is worth a mud bath," said he. "It is our 
friend Sir Henry's missing boot." 

"Thrown there by Stapleton in his flight." 


"Exactly. He retained it in his hand after using 
it to set the hound upon the track. He fled when 
he knew the game was up, still clutching it. And 
he hurled it away at this point of his flight. We 
know at least that he came so far in safety." 

But more than that we were never destined to 
know, though there was much which we might 
surmise. There was no chance of finding foot- 
steps in the mire, for the rising mud oozed swiftly 
in upon them, but as we at last reached firmer 
ground beyond the morass we all looked eagerly 
for them. But no slightest sign of them ever met 
our eyes. If the earth told a true story, then Sta- 
pleton never reached that island of refuge towards 
which he struggled through the fog upon that 
last night. Somewhere in the heart of the great 
Grimpen Mire, down in the foul slime of the huge 
morass which had sucked him in, this cold and 
cruel-hearted man is forever buried. 

Many traces we found of him in the bog-girt 
island where he had hid his savage ally. A huge 
driving-wheel and a shaft half-filled with rubbish 
showed the position of an abandoned mine. Be- 
side it were the crumbling remains of the cottages 
of the miners, driven away no doubt by the foul 
reek of the surrounding swamp. In one of these a 
staple and chain with a quantity of gnawed bones 
showed where the animal had been confined. A 
skeleton with a tangle of brown hair adhering to it 
lay among the debris. 

"A dog!" said Holmes. "By Jove, a curly-haired 
spaniel. Poor Mortimer will never see his pet 
again. Well, I do not know that this place contains 
any secret which we have not already fathomed. 
He could hide his hound, but he could not hush 
its voice, and hence came those cries which even 
in daylight were not pleasant to hear. On an emer- 
gency he could keep the hound in the out-house at 
Merripit, but it was always a risk, and it was only 
on the supreme day, which he regarded as the end 
of all his efforts, that he dared do it. This paste 
in the tin is no doubt the luminous mixture with 
which the creature was daubed. It was suggested, 
of course, by the story of the family hell-hound, 
and by the desire to frighten old Sir Charles to 
death. No wonder the poor devil of a convict 
ran and screamed, even as our friend did, and as 
we ourselves might have done, when he saw such 
a creature bounding through the darkness of the 
moor upon his track. It was a cunning device, for, 
apart from the chance of driving your victim to his 
death, what peasant would venture to inquire too 
closely into such a creature should he get sight of 
it, as many have done, upon the moor? I said it in 


653 



The Hound of the Baskervilles 


London, Watson, and I say it again now, that never 
yet have we helped to hunt down a more danger- 
ous man than he who is lying yonder" — he swept 
his long arm towards the huge mottled expanse of 


green-splotched bog which stretched away until it 
merged into the russet slopes of the moor. 


CHAPTER XV. 

A Retrospection 


It was the end of November and Holmes and I 
sat, upon a raw and foggy night, on either side of 
a blazing fire in our sitting-room in Baker Street. 
Since the tragic upshot of our visit to Devonshire 
he had been engaged in two affairs of the ut- 
most importance, in the first of which he had ex- 
posed the atrocious conduct of Colonel Upwood 
in connection with the famous card scandal of the 
Nonpareil Club, while in the second he had de- 
fended the unfortunate Mme. Montpensier from 
the charge of murder which hung over her in con- 
nection with the death of her step-daughter. Mile. 
Carere, the young lady who, as it will be remem- 
bered, was found six months later alive and mar- 
ried in New York. My friend was in excellent spir- 
its over the success which had attended a succes- 
sion of difficult and important cases, so that I was 
able to induce him to discuss the details of the 
Baskerville mystery. I had waited patiently for the 
opportunity, for I was aware that he would never 
permit cases to overlap, and that his clear and log- 
ical mind would not be drawn from its present 
work to dwell upon memories of the past. Sir 
Henry and Dr. Mortimer were, however, in Lon- 
don, on their way to that long voyage which had 
been recommended for the restoration of his shat- 
tered nerves. They had called upon us that very 
afternoon, so that it was natural that the subject 
should come up for discussion. 

"The whole course of events," said Holmes, 
"from the point of view of the man who called 
himself Stapleton was simple and direct, although 
to us, who had no means in the beginning of 
knowing the motives of his actions and could only 
learn part of the facts, it all appeared exceedingly 
complex. I have had the advantage of two conver- 
sations with Mrs. Stapleton, and the case has now 
been so entirely cleared up that I am not aware 
that there is anything which has remained a secret 
to us. You will find a few notes upon the matter 


under the heading B in my indexed list of cases." 

"Perhaps you would kindly give me a sketch of 
the course of events from memory." 

"Certainly, though I cannot guarantee that I 
carry all the facts in my mind. Intense mental 
concentration has a curious way of blotting out 
what has passed. The barrister who has his case 
at his fingers' ends, and is able to argue with an 
expert upon his own subject finds that a week or 
two of the courts will drive it all out of his head 
once more. So each of my cases displaces the 
last, and Mile. Carere has blurred my recollection 
of Baskerville Hall. To-morrow some other little 
problem may be submitted to my notice which will 
in turn dispossess the fair French lady and the in- 
famous Upwood. So far as the case of the Hound 
goes, however, I will give you the course of events 
as nearly as I can, and you will suggest anything 
which I may have forgotten. 

"My inquiries show beyond all question that 
the family portrait did not lie, and that this fel- 
low was indeed a Baskerville. He was a son of 
that Rodger Baskerville, the younger brother of 
Sir Charles, who fled with a sinister reputation to 
South America, where he was said to have died 
unmarried. He did, as a matter of fact, marry, 
and had one child, this fellow, whose real name 
is the same as his father's. He married Beryl Gar- 
cia, one of the beauties of Costa Rica, and, having 
purloined a considerable sum of public money, he 
changed his name to Vandeleur and fled to Eng- 
land, where he established a school in the east 
of Yorkshire. His reason for attempting this spe- 
cial line of business was that he had struck up 
an acquaintance with a consumptive tutor upon 
the voyage home, and that he had used this man's 
ability to make the undertaking a success. Fraser, 
the tutor, died however, and the school which had 
begun well sank from disrepute into infamy. The 


654 



The Hound of the Baskervilles 


Vandeleurs found it convenient to change their 
name to Stapleton, and he brought the remains 
of his fortune, his schemes for the future, and his 
taste for entomology to the south of England. I 
learned at the British Museum that he was a rec- 
ognized authority upon the subject, and that the 
name of Vandeleur has been permanently attached 
to a certain moth which he had, in his Yorkshire 
days, been the first to describe. 

"We now come to that portion of his life which 
has proved to be of such intense interest to us. 
The fellow had evidently made inquiry and found 
that only two lives intervened between him and a 
valuable estate. When he went to Devonshire his 
plans were, I believe, exceedingly hazy, but that 
he meant mischief from the first is evident from 
the way in which he took his wife with him in the 
character of his sister. The idea of using her as a 
decoy was clearly already in his mind, though he 
may not have been certain how the details of his 
plot were to be arranged. He meant in the end to 
have the estate, and he was ready to use any tool 
or run any risk for that end. His first act was to es- 
tablish himself as near to his ancestral home as he 
could, and his second was to cultivate a friendship 
with Sir Charles Baskerville and with the neigh- 
bours. 

"The baronet himself told him about the family 
hound, and so prepared the way for his own death. 
Stapleton, as I will continue to call him, knew that 
the old man's heart was weak and that a shock 
would kill him. So much he had learned from 
Dr. Mortimer. He had heard also that Sir Charles 
was superstitious and had taken this grim legend 
very seriously. His ingenious mind instantly sug- 
gested a way by which the baronet could be done 
to death, and yet it would be hardly possible to 
bring home the guilt to the real murderer. 

"Having conceived the idea he proceeded to 
carry it out with considerable finesse. An ordinary 
schemer would have been content to work with a 
savage hound. The use of artificial means to make 
the creature diabolical was a flash of genius upon 
his part. The dog he bought in London from Ross 
and Mangles, the dealers in Fulham Road. It was 
the strongest and most savage in their possession. 
He brought it down by the North Devon line and 
walked a great distance over the moor so as to get 
it home without exciting any remarks. He had al- 
ready on his insect hunts learned to penetrate the 
Grimpen Mire, and so had found a safe hiding- 
place for the creature. Here he kennelled it and 
waited his chance. 

"But it was some time coming. The old gentle- 
man could not be decoyed outside of his grounds 


at night. Several times Stapleton lurked about with 
his hound, but without avail. It was during these 
fruitless quests that he, or rather his ally, was seen 
by peasants, and that the legend of the demon dog 
received a new confirmation. He had hoped that 
his wife might lure Sir Charles to his ruin, but here 
she proved unexpectedly independent. She would 
not endeavour to entangle the old gentleman in a 
sentimental attachment which might deliver him 
over to his enemy. Threats and even, I am sorry 
to say, blows refused to move her. She would have 
nothing to do with it, and for a time Stapleton was 
at a deadlock. 

"He found a way out of his difficulties through 
the chance that Sir Charles, who had conceived a 
friendship for him, made him the minister of his 
charity in the case of this unfortunate woman, Mrs. 
Laura Lyons. By representing himself as a single 
man he acquired complete influence over her, and 
he gave her to understand that in the event of her 
obtaining a divorce from her husband he would 
marry her. His plans were suddenly brought to a 
head by his knowledge that Sir Charles was about 
to leave the Hall on the advice of Dr. Mortimer, 
with whose opinion he himself pretended to coin- 
cide. He must act at once, or his victim might get 
beyond his power. He therefore put pressure upon 
Mrs. Lyons to write this letter, imploring the old 
man to give her an interview on the evening before 
his departure for London. He then, by a specious 
argument, prevented her from going, and so had 
the chance for which he had waited. 

"Driving back in the evening from Coombe 
Tracey he was in time to get his hound, to treat 
it with his infernal paint, and to bring the beast 
round to the gate at which he had reason to ex- 
pect that he would find the old gentleman wait- 
ing. The dog, incited by its master, sprang over the 
wicket-gate and pursued the unfortunate baronet, 
who fled screaming down the Yew Alley. In that 
gloomy tunnel it must indeed have been a dread- 
ful sight to see that huge black creature, with its 
flaming jaws and blazing eyes, bounding after its 
victim. He fell dead at the end of the alley from 
heart disease and terror. The hound had kept upon 
the grassy border while the baronet had run down 
the path, so that no track but the man's was vis- 
ible. On seeing him lying still the creature had 
probably approached to sniff at him, but finding 
him dead had turned away again. It was then 
that it left the print which was actually observed 
by Dr. Mortimer. The hound was called off and 
hurried away to its lair in the Grimpen Mire, and 
a mystery was left which puzzled the authorities. 


655 



The Hound of the Baskervilles 


alarmed the country-side, and finally brought the 
case within the scope of our observation. 

"So much for the death of Sir Charles 
Baskerville. You perceive the devilish cunning of 
it, for really it would be almost impossible to make 
a case against the real murderer. His only accom- 
plice was one who could never give him away, and 
the grotesque, inconceivable nature of the device 
only served to make it more effective. Both of the 
women concerned in the case, Mrs. Stapleton and 
Mrs. Laura Lyons, were left with a strong suspi- 
cion against Stapleton. Mrs. Stapleton knew that 
he had designs upon the old man, and also of the 
existence of the hound. Mrs. Lyons knew neither 
of these things, but had been impressed by the 
death occurring at the time of an uncancelled ap- 
pointment which was only known to him. How- 
ever, both of them were under his influence, and 
he had nothing to fear from them. The first half 
of his task was successfully accomplished but the 
more difficult still remained. 

"It is possible that Stapleton did not know of 
the existence of an heir in Canada. In any case 
he would very soon learn it from his friend Dr. 
Mortimer, and he was told by the latter all de- 
tails about the arrival of Henry Baskerville. Staple- 
ton's first idea was that this young stranger from 
Canada might possibly be done to death in Lon- 
don without coming down to Devonshire at all. 
He distrusted his wife ever since she had refused 
to help him in laying a trap for the old man, and 
he dared not leave her long out of his sight for 
fear he should lose his influence over her. It was 
for this reason that he took her to London with 
him. They lodged, I find, at the Mexborough Pri- 
vate Hotel, in Craven Street, which was actually 
one of those called upon by my agent in search 
of evidence. Here he kept his wife imprisoned 
in her room while he, disguised in a beard, fol- 
lowed Dr. Mortimer to Baker Street and afterwards 
to the station and to the Northumberland Hotel. 
His wife had some inkling of his plans; but she 
had such a fear of her husband — a fear founded 
upon brutal ill-treatment — that she dare not write 
to warn the man whom she knew to be in dan- 
ger. If the letter should fall into Stapleton's hands 
her own life would not be safe. Eventually, as we 
know, she adopted the expedient of cutting out 
the words which would form the message, and ad- 
dressing the letter in a disguised hand. It reached 
the baronet, and gave him the first warning of his 
danger. 

"It was very essential for Stapleton to get some 
article of Sir Henry's attire so that, in case he was 


driven to use the dog, he might always have the 
means of setting him upon his track. With char- 
acteristic promptness and audacity he set about 
this at once, and we cannot doubt that the boots or 
chamber-maid of the hotel was well bribed to help 
him in his design. By chance, however, the first 
boot which was procured for him was a new one 
and, therefore, useless for his purpose. He then 
had it returned and obtained another — a most in- 
structive incident, since it proved conclusively to 
my mind that we were dealing with a real hound, 
as no other supposition could explain this anxiety 
to obtain an old boot and this indifference to a new 
one. The more outr& and grotesque an incident is 
the more carefully it deserves to be examined, and 
the very point which appears to complicate a case 
is, when duly considered and scientifically han- 
dled, the one which is most likely to elucidate it. 

"Then we had the visit from our friends next 
morning, shadowed always by Stapleton in the 
cab. From his knowledge of our rooms and of my 
appearance, as well as from his general conduct, 
I am inclined to think that Stapleton's career of 
crime has been by no means limited to this single 
Baskerville affair. It is suggestive that during the 
last three years there have been four considerable 
burglaries in the West Country, for none of which 
was any criminal ever arrested. The last of these, at 
Folkestone Court, in May, was remarkable for the 
cold-blooded pistoling of the page, who surprised 
the masked and solitary burglar. I cannot doubt 
that Stapleton recruited his waning resources in 
this fashion, and that for years he has been a des- 
perate and dangerous man. 

"We had an example of his readiness of re- 
source that morning when he got away from us 
so successfully, and also of his audacity in sending 
back my own name to me through the cabman. 
From that moment he understood that I had taken 
over the case in London, and that therefore there 
was no chance for him there. He returned to Dart- 
moor and awaited the arrival of the baronet." 

"One moment!" said I. "You have, no doubt, 
described the sequence of events correctly, but 
there is one point which you have left unexplained. 
What became of the hound when its master was in 
London?" 

"I have given some attention to this matter and 
it is undoubtedly of importance. There can be no 
question that Stapleton had a confidant, though it 
is unlikely that he ever placed himself in his power 
by sharing all his plans with him. There was an 
old manservant at Merripit House, whose name 
was Anthony. His connection with the Stapletons 


656 



The Hound of the Baskervilles 


can be traced for several years, as far back as the 
schoolmastering days, so that he must have been 
aware that his master and mistress were really hus- 
band and wife. This man has disappeared and has 
escaped from the country It is suggestive that An- 
thony is not a common name in England, while 
Antonio is so in all Spanish or Spanish- American 
countries. The man, like Mrs. Stapleton herself, 
spoke good English, but with a curious lisping ac- 
cent. I have myself seen this old man cross the 
Grimpen Mire by the path which Stapleton had 
marked out. It is very probable, therefore, that in 
the absence of his master it was he who cared for 
the hound, though he may never have known the 
purpose for which the beast was used. 

"The Stapletons then went down to Devon- 
shire, whither they were soon followed by Sir 
Henry and you. One word now as to how I stood 
myself at that time. It may possibly recur to your 
memory that when I examined the paper upon 
which the printed words were fastened I made a 
close inspection for the water-mark. In doing so 
I held it within a few inches of my eyes, and was 
conscious of a faint smell of the scent known as 
white jessamine. There are seventy-five perfumes, 
which it is very necessary that a criminal expert 
should be able to distinguish from each other, and 
cases have more than once within my own expe- 
rience depended upon their prompt recognition. 
The scent suggested the presence of a lady, and al- 
ready my thoughts began to turn towards the Sta- 
pletons. Thus I had made certain of the hound, 
and had guessed at the criminal before ever we 
went to the west country. 

"It was my game to watch Stapleton. It was ev- 
ident, however, that I could not do this if I were 
with you, since he would be keenly on his guard. 
I deceived everybody, therefore, yourself included, 
and I came down secretly when I was supposed 
to be in London. My hardships were not so great 
as you imagined, though such trifling details must 
never interfere with the investigation of a case. I 
stayed for the most part at Coombe Tracey, and 
only used the hut upon the moor when it was nec- 
essary to be near the scene of action. Cartwright 
had come down with me, and in his disguise as 
a country boy he was of great assistance to me. I 
was dependent upon him for food and clean linen. 
When I was watching Stapleton, Cartwright was 
frequently watching you, so that I was able to keep 
my hand upon all the strings. 

"I have already told you that your reports 
reached me rapidly, being forwarded instantly 
from Baker Street to Coombe Tracey. They were 


of great service to me, and especially that one in- 
cidentally truthful piece of biography of Staple- 
ton's. I was able to establish the identity of the 
man and the woman and knew at last exactly how 
I stood. The case had been considerably com- 
plicated through the incident of the escaped con- 
vict and the relations between him and the Barry- 
mores. This also you cleared up in a very effective 
way, though I had already come to the same con- 
clusions from my own observations. 

"By the time that you discovered me upon the 
moor I had a complete knowledge of the whole 
business, but I had not a case which could go to 
a jury. Even Stapleton's attempt upon Sir Henry 
that night which ended in the death of the unfor- 
tunate convict did not help us much in proving 
murder against our man. There seemed to be no 
alternative but to catch him red-handed, and to 
do so we had to use Sir Henry, alone and appar- 
ently unprotected, as a bait. We did so, and at the 
cost of a severe shock to our client we succeeded 
in completing our case and driving Stapleton to 
his destruction. That Sir Henry should have been 
exposed to this is, I must confess, a reproach to 
my management of the case, but we had no means 
of foreseeing the terrible and paralyzing spectacle 
which the beast presented, nor could we predict 
the fog which enabled him to burst upon us at 
such short notice. We succeeded in our object at 
a cost which both the specialist and Dr. Mortimer 
assure me will be a temporary one. A long journey 
may enable our friend to recover not only from his 
shattered nerves but also from his wounded feel- 
ings. His love for the lady was deep and sincere, 
and to him the saddest part of all this black busi- 
ness was that he should have been deceived by her. 

"It only remains to indicate the part which 
she had played throughout. There can be no 
doubt that Stapleton exercised an influence over 
her which may have been love or may have been 
fear, or very possibly both, since they are by no 
means incompatible emotions. It was, at least, ab- 
solutely effective. At his command she consented 
to pass as his sister, though he found the limits of 
his power over her when he endeavoured to make 
her the direct accessory to murder. She was ready 
to warn Sir Henry so far as she could without im- 
plicating her husband, and again and again she 
tried to do so. Stapleton himself seems to have 
been capable of jealousy, and when he saw the 
baronet paying court to the lady, even though it 
was part of his own plan, still he could not help 
interrupting with a passionate outburst which re- 
vealed the fiery soul which his self-contained man- 
ner so cleverly concealed. By encouraging the in- 


657 



timacy he made it certain that Sir Henry would 
frequently come to Merripit House and that he 
would sooner or later get the opportunity which 
he desired. On the day of the crisis, however, 
his wife turned suddenly against him. She had 
learned something of the death of the convict, and 
she knew that the hound was being kept in the out- 
house on the evening that Sir Henry was coming to 
dinner. She taxed her husband with his intended 
crime, and a furious scene followed, in which he 
showed her for the first time that she had a ri- 
val in his love. Her fidelity turned in an instant 
to bitter hatred and he saw that she would betray 
him. He tied her up, therefore, that she might have 
no chance of warning Sir Henry, and he hoped, 
no doubt, that when the whole country-side put 
down the baronet's death to the curse of his family, 
as they certainly would do, he could win his wife 
back to accept an accomplished fact and to keep 
silent upon what she knew. In this I fancy that in 
any case he made a miscalculation, and that, if we 
had not been there, his doom would none the less 
have been sealed. A woman of Spanish blood does 
not condone such an injury so lightly. And now, 
my dear Watson, without referring to my notes, I 
cannot give you a more detailed account of this cu- 
rious case. I do not know that anything essential 
has been left unexplained." 

"He could not hope to frighten Sir Henry to 
death as he had done the old uncle with his bogie 
hound." 

"The beast was savage and half-starved. If its 
appearance did not frighten its victim to death, at 


least it would paralyze the resistance which might 
be offered." 

"No doubt. There only remains one difficulty. 
If Stapleton came into the succession, how could 
he explain the fact that he, the heir, had been liv- 
ing unannounced under another name so close to 
the property? How could he claim it without caus- 
ing suspicion and inquiry?" 

"It is a formidable difficulty, and I fear that you 
ask too much when you expect me to solve it. The 
past and the present are within the field of my in- 
quiry, but what a man may do in the future is a 
hard question to answer. Mrs. Stapleton has heard 
her husband discuss the problem on several occa- 
sions. There were three possible courses. He might 
claim the property from South America, establish 
his identity before the British authorities there and 
so obtain the fortune without ever coming to Eng- 
land at all; or he might adopt an elaborate disguise 
during the short time that he need be in London; 
or, again, he might furnish an accomplice with the 
proofs and papers, putting him in as heir, and re- 
taining a claim upon some proportion of his in- 
come. We cannot doubt from what we know of 
him that he would have found some way out of the 
difficulty. And now, my dear Watson, we have had 
some weeks of severe work, and for one evening, I 
think, we may turn our thoughts into more pleas- 
ant channels. I have a box for 'Les Huguenots.' 
Have you heard the De Reszkes? Might I trouble 
you then to be ready in half an hour, and we can 
stop at Marcini's for a little dinner on the way?" 



The Adventure of the Blue Carbuncle 


had called upon my friend Sherlock 
Holmes upon the second morning after 
Christmas, with the intention of wishing 
him the compliments of the season. He 
was lounging upon the sofa in a purple dressing- 
gown, a pipe-rack within his reach upon the right, 
and a pile of crumpled morning papers, evidently 
newly studied, near at hand. Beside the couch was 
a wooden chair, and on the angle of the back hung 
a very seedy and disreputable hard-felt hat, much 
the worse for wear, and cracked in several places. 
A lens and a forceps lying upon the seat of the 
chair suggested that the hat had been suspended 
in this manner for the purpose of examination. 

"You are engaged," said I; "perhaps I interrupt 
you." 

"Not at all. I am glad to have a friend with 
whom I can discuss my results. The matter is a 
perfectly trivial one" — he jerked his thumb in the 
direction of the old hat — "but there are points in 
connection with it which are not entirely devoid of 
interest and even of instruction." 

I seated myself in his armchair and warmed 
my hands before his crackling fire, for a sharp 
frost had set in, and the windows were thick with 
the ice crystals. "I suppose," I remarked, "that, 
homely as it looks, this thing has some deadly 
story linked on to it — that it is the clue which will 
guide you in the solution of some mystery and the 
punishment of some crime." 

"No, no. No crime," said Sherlock Holmes, 
laughing. "Only one of those whimsical little inci- 
dents which will happen when you have four mil- 
lion human beings all jostling each other within 
the space of a few square miles. Amid the action 
and reaction of so dense a swarm of humanity, 
every possible combination of events may be ex- 
pected to take place, and many a little problem will 
be presented which may be striking and bizarre 
without being criminal. We have already had ex- 
perience of such." 

"So much so," I remarked, "that of the last six 
cases which I have added to my notes, three have 
been entirely free of any legal crime." 

"Precisely. You allude to my attempt to recover 
the Irene Adler papers, to the singular case of Miss 
Mary Sutherland, and to the adventure of the man 
with the twisted lip. Well, I have no doubt that this 
small matter will fall into the same innocent cate- 
gory. You know Peterson, the commissionaire?" 

"Yes." 

"It is to him that this trophy belongs." 

"It is his hat." 



"No, no, he found it. Its owner is unknown. 
I beg that you will look upon it not as a battered 
billycock but as an intellectual problem. And, first, 
as to how it came here. It arrived upon Christmas 
morning, in company with a good fat goose, which 
is, I have no doubt, roasting at this moment in 
front of Peterson's fire. The facts are these: about 
four o'clock on Christmas morning, Peterson, who, 
as you know, is a very honest fellow, was returning 
from some small jollification and was making his 
way homeward down Tottenham Court Road. In 
front of him he saw, in the gaslight, a tallish man, 
walking with a slight stagger, and carrying a white 
goose slung over his shoulder. As he reached the 
corner of Goodge Street, a row broke out between 
this stranger and a little knot of roughs. One of 
the latter knocked off the man's hat, on which he 
raised his stick to defend himself and, swinging 
it over his head, smashed the shop window be- 
hind him. Peterson had rushed forward to pro- 
tect the stranger from his assailants; but the man, 
shocked at having broken the window, and seeing 
an official-looking person in uniform rushing to- 
wards him, dropped his goose, took to his heels, 
and vanished amid the labyrinth of small streets 
which lie at the back of Tottenham Court Road. 
The roughs had also fled at the appearance of Pe- 
terson, so that he was left in possession of the field 
of battle, and also of the spoils of victory in the 
shape of this battered hat and a most unimpeach- 
able Christmas goose." 

"Which surely he restored to their owner?" 

"My dear fellow, there lies the problem. It is 
true that 'For Mrs. Henry Baker' was printed upon 
a small card which was tied to the bird's left leg, 
and it is also true that the initials 'H. B.' are legible 
upon the lining of this hat, but as there are some 
thousands of Bakers, and some hundreds of Henry 
Bakers in this city of ours, it is not easy to restore 
lost property to any one of them." 

"What, then, did Peterson do?" 

"He brought round both hat and goose to me 
on Christmas morning, knowing that even the 
smallest problems are of interest to me. The goose 
we retained until this morning, when there were 
signs that, in spite of the slight frost, it would be 
well that it should be eaten without unnecessary 
delay. Its finder has carried it off, therefore, to ful- 
fil the ultimate destiny of a goose, while I continue 
to retain the hat of the unknown gentleman who 
lost his Christmas dinner." 

"Did he not advertise?" 

"No." 


201 



The Adventure of the Blue Carbuncle 


"Then, what clue could you have as to his iden- 
tity?" 

"Only as much as we can deduce." 

"From his hat?" 

"Precisely." 

"But you are joking. What can you gather from 
this old battered felt?" 

"Here is my lens. You know my methods. 
What can you gather yourself as to the individ- 
uality of the man who has worn this article?" 

I took the tattered object in my hands and 
turned it over rather ruefully. It was a very or- 
dinary black hat of the usual round shape, hard 
and much the worse for wear. The lining had been 
of red silk, but was a good deal discoloured. There 
was no maker's name; but, as Holmes had re- 
marked, the initials "H. B." were scrawled upon 
one side. It was pierced in the brim for a hat- 
securer, but the elastic was missing. For the rest, 
it was cracked, exceedingly dusty, and spotted in 
several places, although there seemed to have been 
some attempt to hide the discoloured patches by 
smearing them with ink. 

"I can see nothing," said I, handing it back to 
my friend. 

"On the contrary, Watson, you can see every- 
thing. You fail, however, to reason from what you 
see. You are too timid in drawing your inferences." 

"Then, pray tell me what it is that you can infer 
from this hat?" 

He picked it up and gazed at it in the pecu- 
liar introspective fashion which was characteris- 
tic of him. "It is perhaps less suggestive than it 
might have been," he remarked, "and yet there are 
a few inferences which are very distinct, and a few 
others which represent at least a strong balance of 
probability. That the man was highly intellectual is 
of course obvious upon the face of it, and also that 
he was fairly well-to-do within the last three years, 
although he has now fallen upon evil days. He had 
foresight, but has less now than formerly, pointing 
to a moral retrogression, which, when taken with 
the decline of his fortunes, seems to indicate some 
evil influence, probably drink, at work upon him. 
This may account also for the obvious fact that his 
wife has ceased to love him." 

"My dear Holmes!" 

"He has, however, retained some degree of self- 
respect," he continued, disregarding my remon- 
strance. "He is a man who leads a sedentary 
life, goes out little, is out of training entirely, is 
middle-aged, has grizzled hair which he has had 


cut within the last few days, and which he anoints 
with lime-cream. These are the more patent facts 
which are to be deduced from his hat. Also, by the 
way, that it is extremely improbable that he has gas 
laid on in his house." 

"You are certainly joking. Holmes." 

"Not in the least. Is it possible that even now, 
when I give you these results, you are unable to 
see how they are attained?" 

"I have no doubt that I am very stupid, but I 
must confess that I am unable to follow you. For 
example, how did you deduce that this man was 
intellectual?" 

For answer Holmes clapped the hat upon his 
head. It came right over the forehead and settled 
upon the bridge of his nose. "It is a question of cu- 
bic capacity," said he; "a man with so large a brain 
must have something in it." 

"The decline of his fortunes, then?" 

"This hat is three years old. These flat brims 
curled at the edge came in then. It is a hat of the 
very best quality. Look at the band of ribbed silk 
and the excellent lining. If this man could afford 
to buy so expensive a hat three years ago, and has 
had no hat since, then he has assuredly gone down 
in the world." 

"Well, that is clear enough, certainly. But how 
about the foresight and the moral retrogression?" 

Sherlock Holmes laughed. "Here is the fore- 
sight," said he putting his finger upon the little 
disc and loop of the hat-securer. "They are never 
sold upon hats. If this man ordered one, it is a 
sign of a certain amount of foresight, since he went 
out of his way to take this precaution against the 
wind. But since we see that he has broken the elas- 
tic and has not troubled to replace it, it is obvious 
that he has less foresight now than formerly, which 
is a distinct proof of a weakening nature. On the 
other hand, he has endeavoured to conceal some 
of these stains upon the felt by daubing them with 
ink, which is a sign that he has not entirely lost his 
self-respect." 

"Your reasoning is certainly plausible." 

"The further points, that he is middle-aged, 
that his hair is grizzled, that it has been recently 
cut, and that he uses lime-cream, are all to be gath- 
ered from a close examination of the lower part of 
the lining. The lens discloses a large number of 
hair-ends, clean cut by the scissors of the barber. 
They all appear to be adhesive, and there is a dis- 
tinct odour of lime-cream. This dust, you will ob- 
serve, is not the gritty, grey dust of the street but 
the fluffy brown dust of the house, showing that it 


202 



The Adventure of the Blue Carbuncle 


has been hung up indoors most of the time, while 
the marks of moisture upon the inside are proof 
positive that the wearer perspired very freely, and 
could therefore, hardly be in the best of training." 

"But his wife — you said that she had ceased to 
love him." 

"This hat has not been brushed for weeks. 
When I see you, my dear Watson, with a week's ac- 
cumulation of dust upon your hat, and when your 
wife allows you to go out in such a state, I shall 
fear that you also have been unfortunate enough 
to lose your wife's affection." 

"But he might be a bachelor." 

"Nay, he was bringing home the goose as a 
peace-offering to his wife. Remember the card 
upon the bird's leg." 

"You have an answer to everything. But how 
on earth do you deduce that the gas is not laid on 
in his house?" 

"One tallow stain, or even two, might come by 
chance; but when I see no less than five, I think 
that there can be little doubt that the individual 
must be brought into frequent contact with burn- 
ing tallow — walks upstairs at night probably with 
his hat in one hand and a guttering candle in the 
other. Anyhow, he never got tallow-stains from a 
gas-jet. Are you satisfied?" 

"Well, it is very ingenious," said I, laughing; 
"but since, as you said just now, there has been no 
crime committed, and no harm done save the loss 
of a goose, all this seems to be rather a waste of 
energy." 

Sherlock Holmes had opened his mouth to re- 
ply, when the door flew open, and Peterson, the 
commissionaire, rushed into the apartment with 
flushed cheeks and the face of a man who is dazed 
with astonishment. 

"The goose, Mr. Holmes! The goose, sir!" he 
gasped. 

"Eh? What of it, then? Has it returned to 
life and flapped off through the kitchen window?" 
Holmes twisted himself round upon the sofa to get 
a fairer view of the man's excited face. 

"See here, sir! See what my wife found in its 
crop!" He held out his hand and displayed upon 
the centre of the palm a brilliantly scintillating blue 
stone, rather smaller than a bean in size, but of 
such purity and radiance that it twinkled like an 
electric point in the dark hollow of his hand. 

Sherlock Holmes sat up with a whistle. "By 
Jove, Peterson!" said he, "this is treasure trove in- 
deed. I suppose you know what you have got?" 


"A diamond, sir? A precious stone. It cuts into 
glass as though it were putty." 

"It's more than a precious stone. It is the pre- 
cious stone." 

"Not the Countess of Morcar's blue carbuncle!" 
I ejaculated. 

"Precisely so. I ought to know its size and 
shape, seeing that I have read the advertisement 
about it in The Times every day lately. It is ab- 
solutely unique, and its value can only be conjec- 
tured, but the reward offered of £1000 is certainly 
not within a twentieth part of the market price." 

"A thousand pounds! Great Lord of mercy!" 
The commissionaire plumped down into a chair 
and stared from one to the other of us. 

"That is the reward, and I have reason to know 
that there are sentimental considerations in the 
background which would induce the Countess to 
part with half her fortune if she could but recover 
the gem." 

"It was lost, if I remember aright, at the Hotel 
Cosmopolitan," I remarked. 

"Precisely so, on December 22nd, just five days 
ago. John Horner, a plumber, was accused of hav- 
ing abstracted it from the lady's jewel-case. The 
evidence against him was so strong that the case 
has been referred to the Assizes. I have some ac- 
count of the matter here, I believe." He rummaged 
amid his newspapers, glancing over the dates, un- 
til at last he smoothed one out, doubled it over, 
and read the following paragraph: 

" Hotel Cosmopolitan Jewel Robbery. John 
Horner, 26, plumber, was brought up upon 
the charge of having upon the 22nd inst., 
abstracted from the jewel-case of the Count- 
ess of Morcar the valuable gem known as 
the blue carbuncle. James Ryder, upper- 
attendant at the hotel, gave his evidence 
to the effect that he had shozvn Horner 
up to the dressing-room of the Countess 
of Morcar upon the day of the robbery in 
order that he might solder the second bar 
of the grate, which was loose. He had re- 
mained with Horner some little time, but 
had finally been called away. On return- 
ing, he found that Horner had disappeared, 
that the bureau had been forced open, and 
that the small morocco casket in ivhich, as 
it afterivards transpired, the Countess was 
accustomed to keep her jewel, was lying 
empty upon the dressing-table. Ryder in- 
stantly gave the alarm, and Horner was ar- 
rested the same evening; but the stone could 


203 



The Adventure of the Blue Carbuncle 


not be found either upon his person or in 
his rooms. Catherine Cusack, maid to the 
Countess, deposed to having heard Ryder's 
cry of dismay on discovering the robbery, 
and to having rushed into the room, where 
she found matters as described by the last 
witness. Inspector Bradstreet, B division, 
gave evidence as to the arrest of Horner, 
who struggled frantically, and protested his 
innocence in the strongest terms. Evidence 
of a previous conviction for robbery having 
been given against the prisoner, the magis- 
trate refused to deal summarily with the of- 
fence, but referred it to the Assizes. Horner, 
who had s hown signs of intense emotion 
during the proceedings, fainted away at the 
conclusion and was carried out of court.” 

"Hum! So much for the police-court," said Holmes 
thoughtfully, tossing aside the paper. "The ques- 
tion for us now to solve is the sequence of events 
leading from a rifled jewel-case at one end to the 
crop of a goose in Tottenham Court Road at the 
other. You see, Watson, our little deductions have 
suddenly assumed a much more important and 
less innocent aspect. Here is the stone; the stone 
came from the goose, and the goose came from 
Mr. Henry Baker, the gentleman with the bad hat 
and all the other characteristics with which I have 
bored you. So now we must set ourselves very 
seriously to finding this gentleman and ascertain- 
ing what part he has played in this little mystery. 
To do this, we must try the simplest means first, 
and these lie undoubtedly in an advertisement in 
all the evening papers. If this fail, I shall have re- 
course to other methods." 

"What will you say?" 

"Give me a pencil and that slip of paper. Now, 
then: 

'Found at the corner of Goodge 
Street, a goose and a black felt hat. 

Mr. Henry Baker can have the same by 
applying at 6.30 this evening at 22 ib. 

Baker Street.' That is clear and con- 
cise." 

"Very. But will he see it?" 

"Well, he is sure to keep an eye on the papers, 
since, to a poor man, the loss was a heavy one. He 
was clearly so scared by his mischance in breaking 
the window and by the approach of Peterson that 
he thought of nothing but flight, but since then 
he must have bitterly regretted the impulse which 
caused him to drop his bird. Then, again, the in- 
troduction of his name will cause him to see it, for 


everyone who knows him will direct his attention 
to it. Here you are, Peterson, run down to the ad- 
vertising agency and have this put in the evening 
papers." 

"In which, sir?" 

"Oh, in the Globe, Star, Pall Mall, St. James's, 
Evening Nezvs, Standard, Echo, and any others that 
occur to you." 

"Very well, sir. And this stone?" 

"Ah, yes, I shall keep the stone. Thank you. 
And, I say, Peterson, just buy a goose on your way 
back and leave it here with me, for we must have 
one to give to this gentleman in place of the one 
which your family is now devouring." 

When the commissionaire had gone. Holmes 
took up the stone and held it against the light. "It's 
a bonny thing," said he. "Just see how it glints 
and sparkles. Of course it is a nucleus and focus 
of crime. Every good stone is. They are the devil's 
pet baits. In the larger and older jewels every facet 
may stand for a bloody deed. This stone is not 
yet twenty years old. It was found in the banks of 
the Amoy River in southern China and is remark- 
able in having every characteristic of the carbun- 
cle, save that it is blue in shade instead of ruby 
red. In spite of its youth, it has already a sinister 
history. There have been two murders, a vitriol- 
throwing, a suicide, and several robberies brought 
about for the sake of this forty-grain weight of 
crystallised charcoal. Who would think that so 
pretty a toy would be a purveyor to the gallows 
and the prison? I'll lock it up in my strong box 
now and drop a line to the Countess to say that we 
have it." 

"Do you think that this man Horner is inno- 
cent?" 

"I cannot tell." 

"Well, then, do you imagine that this other one, 
Henry Baker, had anything to do with the matter?" 

"It is, I think, much more likely that Henry 
Baker is an absolutely innocent man, who had no 
idea that the bird which he was carrying was of 
considerably more value than if it were made of 
solid gold. That, however, I shall determine by a 
very simple test if we have an answer to our ad- 
vertisement." 

"And you can do nothing until then?" 

"Nothing." 

"In that case I shall continue my professional 
round. But I shall come back in the evening at the 
hour you have mentioned, for I should like to see 
the solution of so tangled a business." 

"Very glad to see you. I dine at seven. There is 
a woodcock, I believe. By the way, in view of recent 


204 



The Adventure of the Blue Carbuncle 


occurrences, perhaps I ought to ask Mrs. Hudson 
to examine its crop." 

I had been delayed at a case, and it was a little 
after half-past six when I found myself in Baker 
Street once more. As I approached the house I saw 
a tall man in a Scotch bonnet with a coat which 
was buttoned up to his chin waiting outside in the 
bright semicircle which was thrown from the fan- 
light. Just as I arrived the door was opened, and 
we were shown up together to Holmes' room. 

"Mr. Henry Baker, I believe," said he, rising 
from his armchair and greeting his visitor with the 
easy air of geniality which he could so readily as- 
sume. "Pray take this chair by the fire, Mr. Baker. 
It is a cold night, and I observe that your circula- 
tion is more adapted for summer than for winter. 
Ah, Watson, you have just come at the right time. 
Is that your hat, Mr. Baker?" 

"Yes, sir, that is undoubtedly my hat." 

He was a large man with rounded shoulders, a 
massive head, and a broad, intelligent face, slop- 
ing down to a pointed beard of grizzled brown. 
A touch of red in nose and cheeks, with a slight 
tremor of his extended hand, recalled Holmes' sur- 
mise as to his habits. His rusty black frock-coat 
was buttoned right up in front, with the collar 
turned up, and his lank wrists protruded from his 
sleeves without a sign of cuff or shirt. He spoke in 
a slow staccato fashion, choosing his words with 
care, and gave the impression generally of a man 
of learning and letters who had had ill-usage at 
the hands of fortune. 

"We have retained these things for some days," 
said Holmes, "because we expected to see an ad- 
vertisement from you giving your address. I am at 
a loss to know now why you did not advertise." 

Our visitor gave a rather shamefaced laugh. 
"Shillings have not been so plentiful with me as 
they once were," he remarked. "I had no doubt 
that the gang of roughs who assaulted me had car- 
ried off both my hat and the bird. I did not care to 
spend more money in a hopeless attempt at recov- 
ering them." 

"Very naturally. By the way, about the bird, we 
were compelled to eat it." 

"To eat it!" Our visitor half rose from his chair 
in his excitement. 

"Yes, it would have been of no use to anyone 
had we not done so. But I presume that this other 
goose upon the sideboard, which is about the same 
weight and perfectly fresh, will answer your pur- 
pose equally well?" 


"Oh, certainly, certainly," answered Mr. Baker 
with a sigh of relief. 

"Of course, we still have the feathers, legs, crop, 
and so on of your own bird, so if you wish — " 

The man burst into a hearty laugh. "They 
might be useful to me as relics of my adventure," 
said he, "but beyond that I can hardly see what 
use the disjecta membra of my late acquaintance are 
going to be to me. No, sir, I think that, with your 
permission, I will confine my attentions to the ex- 
cellent bird which I perceive upon the sideboard." 

Sherlock Holmes glanced sharply across at me 
with a slight shrug of his shoulders. 

"There is your hat, then, and there your bird," 
said he. "By the way, would it bore you to tell me 
where you got the other one from? I am somewhat 
of a fowl fancier, and I have seldom seen a better 
grown goose." 

"Certainly, sir," said Baker, who had risen and 
tucked his newly gained property under his arm. 
"There are a few of us who frequent the Alpha Inn, 
near the Museum — we are to be found in the Mu- 
seum itself during the day, you understand. This 
year our good host, Windigate by name, instituted 
a goose club, by which, on consideration of some 
few pence every week, we were each to receive a 
bird at Christmas. My pence were duly paid, and 
the rest is familiar to you. I am much indebted to 
you, sir, for a Scotch bonnet is fitted neither to my 
years nor my gravity." With a comical pomposity 
of manner he bowed solemnly to both of us and 
strode off upon his way. 

"So much for Mr. Henry Baker," said Holmes 
when he had closed the door behind him. "It 
is quite certain that he knows nothing whatever 
about the matter. Are you hungry, Watson?" 

"Not particularly." 

"Then I suggest that we turn our dinner into a 
supper and follow up this clue while it is still hot." 

"By all means." 

It was a bitter night, so we drew on our ul- 
sters and wrapped cravats about our throats. Out- 
side, the stars were shining coldly in a cloudless 
sky, and the breath of the passers-by blew out into 
smoke like so many pistol shots. Our footfalls 
rang out crisply and loudly as we swung through 
the doctors' quarter, Wimpole Street, Harley Street, 
and so through Wigmore Street into Oxford Street. 
In a quarter of an hour we were in Bloomsbury at 
the Alpha Inn, which is a small public-house at the 
corner of one of the streets which runs down into 


205 



The Adventure of the Blue Carbuncle 


Holborn. Holmes pushed open the door of the pri- 
vate bar and ordered two glasses of beer from the 
ruddy-faced, white-aproned landlord. 

"Your beer should be excellent if it is as good 
as your geese," said he. 

"My geese!" The man seemed surprised. 

"Yes. I was speaking only half an hour ago 
to Mr. Henry Baker, who was a member of your 
goose club." 

"Ah! yes, I see. But you see, sir, them's not our 
geese." 

"Indeed! Whose, then?" 

"Well, I got the two dozen from a salesman in 
Covent Garden." 

"Indeed? I know some of them. Which was it?" 

"Breckinridge is his name." 

"Ah! I don't know him. Well, here's your good 
health landlord, and prosperity to your house. 
Good-night." 

"Now for Mr. Breckinridge," he continued, but- 
toning up his coat as we came out into the frosty 
air. "Remember, Watson that though we have so 
homely a thing as a goose at one end of this chain, 
we have at the other a man who will certainly get 
seven years' penal servitude unless we can estab- 
lish his innocence. It is possible that our inquiry 
may but confirm his guilt; but, in any case, we have 
a line of investigation which has been missed by 
the police, and which a singular chance has placed 
in our hands. Let us follow it out to the bitter end. 
Faces to the south, then, and quick march!" 

We passed across Holborn, down Endell Street, 
and so through a zigzag of slums to Covent Gar- 
den Market. One of the largest stalls bore the 
name of Breckinridge upon it, and the proprietor 
a horsey-looking man, with a sharp face and trim 
side-whiskers was helping a boy to put up the 
shutters. 

"Good-evening. It's a cold night," said Holmes. 

The salesman nodded and shot a questioning 
glance at my companion. 

"Sold out of geese, I see," continued Holmes, 
pointing at the bare slabs of marble. 

"Let you have five hundred to-morrow morn- 
ing." 

"That's no good." 

"Well, there are some on the stall with the gas- 
flare." 

"Ah, but I was recommended to you." 

"Who by?" 


"The landlord of the Alpha." 

"Oh, yes; I sent him a couple of dozen." 

"Fine birds they were, too. Now where did you 
get them from?" 

To my surprise the question provoked a burst 
of anger from the salesman. 

"Now, then, mister," said he, with his head 
cocked and his arms akimbo, "what are you driv- 
ing at? Let's have it straight, now." 

"It is straight enough. I should like to know 
who sold you the geese which you supplied to the 
Alpha." 

"Well then, I shan't tell you. So now!" 

"Oh, it is a matter of no importance; but I don't 
know why you should be so warm over such a tri- 
fle." 

"Warm! You'd be as warm, maybe, if you were 
as pestered as I am. When I pay good money for 
a good article there should be an end of the busi- 
ness; but it's 'Where are the geese?' and 'Who did 
you sell the geese to?' and 'What will you take for 
the geese?' One would think they were the only 
geese in the world, to hear the fuss that is made 
over them." 

"Well, I have no connection with any other peo- 
ple who have been making inquiries," said Holmes 
carelessly. "If you won't tell us the bet is off, that 
is all. But I'm always ready to back my opinion on 
a matter of fowls, and I have a fiver on it that the 
bird I ate is country bred." 

"Well, then, you've lost your fiver, for it's town 
bred," snapped the salesman. 

"It's nothing of the kind." 

"I say it is." 

"I don't believe it." 

"D'you think you know more about fowls than 
I, who have handled them ever since I was a nip- 
per? I tell you, all those birds that went to the 
Alpha were town bred." 

"You'll never persuade me to believe that." 

"Will you bet, then?" 

"It's merely taking your money, for I know that 
I am right. But I'll have a sovereign on with you, 
just to teach you not to be obstinate." 

The salesman chuckled grimly. "Bring me the 
books. Bill," said he. 

The small boy brought round a small thin vol- 
ume and a great greasy-backed one, laying them 
out together beneath the hanging lamp. 

"Now then, Mr. Cocksure," said the salesman, 
"I thought that I was out of geese, but before I fin- 
ish you'll find that there is still one left in my shop. 
You see this little book?" 


206 



The Adventure of the Blue Carbuncle 


"Well?" 

"That's the list of the folk from whom I buy. 
D'you see? Well, then, here on this page are the 
country folk, and the numbers after their names 
are where their accounts are in the big ledger. 
Now, then! You see this other page in red ink? 
Well, that is a list of my town suppliers. Now, look 
at that third name. Just read it out to me." 

"Mrs. Oakshott, 117, Brixton Road — 249," read 
Holmes. 

"Quite so. Now turn that up in the ledger." 

Holmes turned to the page indicated. "Here 
you are, 'Mrs. Oakshott, 117, Brixton Road, egg 
and poultry supplier.' " 

"Now, then, what's the last entry?" 

" 'December 22nd. Twenty-four geese at 7s. 
6d.'" 

"Quite so. There you are. And underneath?" 

" 'Sold to Mr. Windigate of the Alpha, at 12s.' " 

"What have you to say now?" 

Sherlock Holmes looked deeply chagrined. He 
drew a sovereign from his pocket and threw it 
down upon the slab, turning away with the air of 
a man whose disgust is too deep for words. A 
few yards off he stopped under a lamp-post and 
laughed in the hearty, noiseless fashion which was 
peculiar to him. 

"When you see a man with whiskers of that cut 
and the 'Pink 'un' protruding out of his pocket, 
you can always draw him by a bet," said he. "I 
daresay that if I had put £100 down in front of him, 
that man would not have given me such complete 
information as was drawn from him by the idea 
that he was doing me on a wager. Well, Watson, 
we are, I fancy, nearing the end of our quest, and 
the only point which remains to be determined is 
whether we should go on to this Mrs. Oakshott 
to-night, or whether we should reserve it for to- 
morrow. It is clear from what that surly fellow 
said that there are others besides ourselves who 
are anxious about the matter, and I should — " 

His remarks were suddenly cut short by a loud 
hubbub which broke out from the stall which we 
had just left. Turning round we saw a little rat- 
faced fellow standing in the centre of the circle of 
yellow light which was thrown by the swinging 
lamp, while Breckinridge, the salesman, framed in 
the door of his stall, was shaking his fists fiercely 
at the cringing figure. 

"I've had enough of you and your geese," he 
shouted. "I wish you were all at the devil together. 
If you come pestering me any more with your silly 


talk I'll set the dog at you. You bring Mrs. Oak- 
shott here and I'll answer her, but what have you 
to do with it? Did I buy the geese off you?" 

"No; but one of them was mine all the same," 
whined the little man. 

"Well, then, ask Mrs. Oakshott for it." 

"She told me to ask you." 

"Well, you can ask the King of Proosia, for all 
I care. I've had enough of it. Get out of this!" 
He rushed fiercely forward, and the inquirer flit- 
ted away into the darkness. 

"Ha! this may save us a visit to Brixton Road," 
whispered Holmes. "Come with me, and we will 
see what is to be made of this fellow." Strid- 
ing through the scattered knots of people who 
lounged round the flaring stalls, my companion 
speedily overtook the little man and touched him 
upon the shoulder. He sprang round, and I could 
see in the gas-light that every vestige of colour had 
been driven from his face. 

"Who are you, then? What do you want?" he 
asked in a quavering voice. 

"You will excuse me," said Holmes blandly, 
"but I could not help overhearing the questions 
which you put to the salesman just now. I think 
that I could be of assistance to you." 

"You? Who are you? How could you know 
anything of the matter?" 

"My name is Sherlock Holmes. It is my busi- 
ness to know what other people don't know." 

"But you can know nothing of this?" 

"Excuse me, I know everything of it. You are 
endeavouring to trace some geese which were sold 
by Mrs. Oakshott, of Brixton Road, to a salesman 
named Breckinridge, by him in turn to Mr. Windi- 
gate, of the Alpha, and by him to his club, of which 
Mr. Henry Baker is a member." 

"Oh, sir, you are the very man whom I have 
longed to meet," cried the little fellow with out- 
stretched hands and quivering fingers. "I can 
hardly explain to you how interested I am in this 
matter." 

Sherlock Holmes hailed a four-wheeler which 
was passing. "In that case we had better discuss 
it in a cosy room rather than in this wind-swept 
market-place," said he. "But pray tell me, before 
we go farther, who it is that I have the pleasure of 
assisting." 

The man hesitated for an instant. "My name 
is John Robinson," he answered with a sidelong 
glance. 

"No, no; the real name," said Holmes sweetly. 
"It is always awkward doing business with an 
alias." 


207 



The Adventure of the Blue Carbuncle 


A flush sprang to the white cheeks of the 
stranger. "Well then," said he, "my real name is 
James Ryder." 

"Precisely so. Head attendant at the Hotel Cos- 
mopolitan. Pray step into the cab, and I shall soon 
be able to tell you everything which you would 
wish to know." 

The little man stood glancing from one to the 
other of us with half-frightened, half-hopeful eyes, 
as one who is not sure whether he is on the verge 
of a windfall or of a catastrophe. Then he stepped 
into the cab, and in half an hour we were back in 
the sitting-room at Baker Street. Nothing had been 
said during our drive, but the high, thin breath- 
ing of our new companion, and the claspings and 
unclaspings of his hands, spoke of the nervous ten- 
sion within him. 

"Here we are!" said Holmes cheerily as we filed 
into the room. "The fire looks very seasonable in 
this weather. You look cold, Mr. Ryder. Pray take 
the basket-chair. I will just put on my slippers be- 
fore we settle this little matter of yours. Now, then! 
You want to know what became of those geese?" 

"Yes, sir." 

"Or rather, I fancy, of that goose. It was 
one bird, I imagine in which you were inter- 
ested — white, with a black bar across the tail." 

Ryder quivered with emotion. "Oh, sir," he 
cried, "can you tell me where it went to?" 

"It came here." 

"Here?" 

"Yes, and a most remarkable bird it proved. I 
don't wonder that you should take an interest in 
it. It laid an egg after it was dead — the bonniest, 
brightest little blue egg that ever was seen. I have 
it here in my museum." 

Our visitor staggered to his feet and clutched 
the mantelpiece with his right hand. Holmes un- 
locked his strong-box and held up the blue carbun- 
cle, which shone out like a star, with a cold, bril- 
liant, many-pointed radiance. Ryder stood glaring 
with a drawn face, uncertain whether to claim or 
to disown it. 

"The game's up, Ryder," said Holmes quietly. 
"Hold up, man, or you'll be into the fire! Give him 
an arm back into his chair, Watson. He's not got 
blood enough to go in for felony with impunity. 
Give him a dash of brandy. So! Now he looks a lit- 
tle more human. What a shrimp it is, to be sure!" 

For a moment he had staggered and nearly 
fallen, but the brandy brought a tinge of colour 


into his cheeks, and he sat staring with frightened 
eyes at his accuser. 

"I have almost every link in my hands, and all 
the proofs which I could possibly need, so there 
is little which you need tell me. Still, that little 
may as well be cleared up to make the case com- 
plete. You had heard, Ryder, of this blue stone of 
the Countess of Morcar's?" 

"It was Catherine Cusack who told me of it," 
said he in a crackling voice. 

"I see — her ladyship's waiting-maid. Well, the 
temptation of sudden wealth so easily acquired 
was too much for you, as it has been for better 
men before you; but you were not very scrupu- 
lous in the means you used. It seems to me, Ry- 
der, that there is the making of a very pretty vil- 
lain in you. You knew that this man Horner, the 
plumber, had been concerned in some such mat- 
ter before, and that suspicion would rest the more 
readily upon him. What did you do, then? You 
made some small job in my lady's room — you and 
your confederate Cusack — and you managed that 
he should be the man sent for. Then, when he had 
left, you rifled the jewel-case, raised the alarm, and 
had this unfortunate man arrested. You then — " 

Ryder threw himself down suddenly upon the 
rug and clutched at my companion's knees. "For 
God's sake, have mercy!" he shrieked. "Think of 
my father! Of my mother! It would break their 
hearts. I never went wrong before! I never will 
again. I swear it. I'll swear it on a Bible. Oh, don't 
bring it into court! For Christ's sake, don't!" 

"Get back into your chair!" said Holmes 
sternly. "It is very well to cringe and crawl now, 
but you thought little enough of this poor Horner 
in the dock for a crime of which he knew nothing." 

"1 will fly, Mr. Holmes. 1 will leave the country, 
sir. Then the charge against him will break down." 

"Hum! We will talk about that. And now let 
us hear a true account of the next act. How came 
the stone into the goose, and how came the goose 
into the open market? Tell us the truth, for there 
lies your only hope of safety." 

Ryder passed his tongue over his parched lips. 
"I will tell you it just as it happened, sir," said 
he. "When Horner had been arrested, it seemed to 
me that it would be best for me to get away with 
the stone at once, for I did not know at what mo- 
ment the police might not take it into their heads 
to search me and my room. There was no place 
about the hotel where it would be safe. I went out. 


208 



The Adventure of the Blue Carbuncle 


as if on some commission, and I made for my sis- 
ter's house. She had married a man named Oak- 
shott, and lived in Brixton Road, where she fat- 
tened fowls for the market. All the way there ev- 
ery man I met seemed to me to be a policeman or 
a detective; and, for all that it was a cold night, the 
sweat was pouring down my face before I came to 
the Brixton Road. My sister asked me what was 
the matter, and why I was so pale; but I told her 
that I had been upset by the jewel robbery at the 
hotel. Then I went into the back yard and smoked 
a pipe and wondered what it would be best to do. 

"I had a friend once called Maudsley, who went 
to the bad, and has just been serving his time in 
Pentonville. One day he had met me, and fell into 
talk about the ways of thieves, and how they could 
get rid of what they stole. I knew that he would 
be true to me, for I knew one or two things about 
him; so I made up my mind to go right on to Kil- 
burn, where he lived, and take him into my confi- 
dence. He would show me how to turn the stone 
into money. But how to get to him in safety? I 
thought of the agonies I had gone through in com- 
ing from the hotel. I might at any moment be 
seized and searched, and there would be the stone 
in my waistcoat pocket. I was leaning against the 
wall at the time and looking at the geese which 
were waddling about round my feet, and suddenly 
an idea came into my head which showed me how 
I could beat the best detective that ever lived. 

"My sister had told me some weeks before that 
I might have the pick of her geese for a Christmas 
present, and I knew that she was always as good 
as her word. I would take my goose now, and in 
it I would carry my stone to Kilburn. There was 
a little shed in the yard, and behind this I drove 
one of the birds — a fine big one, white, with a 
barred tail. I caught it, and prying its bill open, 
I thrust the stone down its throat as far as my fin- 
ger could reach. The bird gave a gulp, and I felt 
the stone pass along its gullet and down into its 
crop. But the creature flapped and struggled, and 
out came my sister to know what was the matter. 
As I turned to speak to her the brute broke loose 
and fluttered off among the others. 

" 'Whatever were you doing with that bird, 
Jem?' says she. 

" 'Well,' said I, 'you said you'd give me one for 
Christmas, and I was feeling which was the fat- 
test.' 

"'Oh,' says she, 'we've set yours aside for 
you — Jem's bird, we call it. It's the big white one 
over yonder. There's twenty-six of them, which 


makes one for you, and one for us, and two dozen 
for the market.' 

" 'Thank you, Maggie,' says I; 'but if it is all the 
same to you. I'd rather have that one I was han- 
dling just now.' 

" 'The other is a good three pound heavier,' 
said she, 'and we fattened it expressly for you.' 

" 'Never mind. I'll have the other, and I'll take 
it now,' said I. 

" 'Oh, just as you like,' said she, a little huffed. 
'Which is it you want, then?' 

" 'That white one with the barred tail, right in 
the middle of the flock.' 

" 'Oh, very well. Kill it and take it with you.' 

"Well, I did what she said, Mr. Holmes, and I 
carried the bird all the way to Kilburn. I told my 
pal what I had done, for he was a man that it was 
easy to tell a thing like that to. He laughed until he 
choked, and we got a knife and opened the goose. 
My heart turned to water, for there was no sign of 
the stone, and I knew that some terrible mistake 
had occurred. I left the bird, rushed back to my 
sister's, and hurried into the back yard. There was 
not a bird to be seen there. 

" 'Where are they all, Maggie?' I cried. 

" 'Gone to the dealer's, Jem.' 

" 'Which dealer's?' 

" 'Breckinridge, of Covent Garden.' 

" 'But was there another with a barred tail?' I 
asked, 'the same as the one I chose?' 

" 'Yes, Jem; there were two barred-tailed ones, 
and I could never tell them apart.' 

"Well, then, of course I saw it all, and I ran 
off as hard as my feet would carry me to this 
man Breckinridge; but he had sold the lot at once, 
and not one word would he tell me as to where 
they had gone. You heard him yourselves to-night. 
Well, he has always answered me like that. My sis- 
ter thinks that I am going mad. Sometimes I think 
that I am myself. And now — and now I am myself 
a branded thief, without ever having touched the 
wealth for which I sold my character. God help 
me! God help me!" He burst into convulsive sob- 
bing, with his face buried in his hands. 

There was a long silence, broken only by his 
heavy breathing and by the measured tapping of 
Sherlock Holmes' finger-tips upon the edge of the 
table. Then my friend rose and threw open the 
door. 

"Get out!" said he. 

"What, sir! Oh, Heaven bless you!" 


209 



"No more words. Get out!" 

And no more words were needed. There was a 
rush, a clatter upon the stairs, the bang of a door, 
and the crisp rattle of running footfalls from the 
street. 

"After all, Watson," said Holmes, reaching up 
his hand for his clay pipe, "I am not retained by the 
police to supply their deficiencies. If Horner were 
in danger it would be another thing; but this fel- 
low will not appear against him, and the case must 


collapse. I suppose that I am commuting a felony, 
but it is just possible that I am saving a soul. This 
fellow will not go wrong again; he is too terribly 
frightened. Send him to jail now, and you make 
him a jail-bird for life. Besides, it is the season of 
forgiveness. Chance has put in our way a most 
singular and whimsical problem, and its solution 
is its own reward. If you will have the goodness 
to touch the bell. Doctor, we will begin another in- 
vestigation, in which, also a bird will be the chief 
feature." 



THE WAX GAMBLERS 

When my friend Mr. Sherlock Holmes sprained his ankle, irony followed upon irony. Within a matter of hours he was presented with a problem whose singular 
nature seemed to make imperative a visit to that sinister, underground room so well known to the public. My friend's accident had been an unlucky one. Purely for the 
sport of it, he had consented to an impromptu glove-match with Bully Boy Rasher, the well-known professional middle-weight, at the old Cribb Sporting Club in 
Panton Street. To the amazement of the spectators, Holmes knocked out the Bully Boy before the latter could settle down to a long, hard mill. Having broken Rasher's 
hanging guard and survived his right hand, my friend was leaving the sparring-saloon when he tripped on those ill-lighted, rickety stairs which I trust the Honorary 
Secretary of the club has since caused to be mended. The intelligence of this mishap reached me as my wife and I finished our midday meal one cold season of rain 
and screaming winds. Though I have not my note-book at hand, I believe it was the first week in March, 1890. Uttering an exclamation as I read the telegram from 
Mrs. Hudson, I handed the message to my wife. "You must go at once and see to the comfort of Mr. Sherlock Holmes for a day or two," said she. "Anstruther will always 
do your work for you." 

Since at that time my house was in the Paddington area, it took me no great time to be in Baker Street. Holmes was, as I expected, seated upon the sofa 
with his back to the wall, wearing a purple dressing-gown and with his bandaged right ankle upon a heap of cushions. A low-power microscope stood on a small 
table at his left hand, while on the sofa at his right lay a perfect drift of discarded newspapers. Despite the weary, heavy-lidded expression which veiled his 
keen and eager nature, I could see that the misfortune had not sweetened his temper. Since Mrs. Hudson's telegram had mentioned only a fall on some stairs, I 
asked for an explanation and received that with which I have prefaced this chronicle. "I was proud of myself, Watson," he added bitterly, "and careless of my step. The 
more fool I!" 

"Yet surely some modest degree of pride was permissible! The Bully Boy is no mean opponent." 

"On the contrary, I found him much overrated and half drunk. But I see, Watson, that you yourself are troubled about your health." 

"Good heavens, Holmes! It is true that I suspect the advent of a cold. But, since there is as yet no sign in my appearance or voice, it is astonishing that you can have 
known it!" 

"Astonishing? It is elementary. You have been taking your own pulse. A minute trace of the silver nitrate upon your right forefinger has been transferred to a significant 
spot on your left wrist. But what on earth are you doing now?" 

Heedless of his protests, I examined and re-bandaged his ankle. "And yet, my dear fellow," I went on, endeavouring to raise his spirits as I might cheer any 
patient, "in one sense it gives me great pleasure to see you thus incapacitated." 

Holmes looked at me fixedly, but did not speak. "Yes," said I, continuing to cheer him, "we must curb our impatience while we are confined to our sofa for a fortnight or 
perhaps more. But do not misunderstand me. When last summer I had the privilege of meeting your brother, Mycroft, you stated that he was your 
superior in observation and deduction." 

"I spoke the truth. If the art of detection began and ended in reasoning from an arm-chair, my brother would be the greatest criminal agent that ever lived." 

"A proposition which I take the liberty of doubting. Now behold! Here are you enforced to the seated position. It will delight me to see you demonstrate your superiority 
when you are presented with some case—" 

"Case? I have no case!" 

"Be of good cheer. A case will come." 

"The agony column of The Times," said he, nodding towards the drift of newspapers, "is quite featureless. And even the joys of studying a new disease germ are not 
inexhaustible. As between you and another comforter, Watson, I really prefer Job's." 

The entrance of Mrs. Hudson, bearing a letter which had been delivered by hand, momentarily cut him short. Though I had not actually expected my prophecy to be 
fulfilled with such promptness, I could not but remark that the note-paper bore a crest and must have cost fully half a crown a packet. Nevertheless, I was doomed to 
disappointment. After tearing open the letter eagerly, Holmes uttered a snort of vexation. "So much for your soothsaying!" said he, scribbling a reply for our 
landlady to give to a district messenger. "It is merely an ill-spelt note from Sir Gervase Darlington, asking for an appointment at eleven tomorrow morning, and 
requesting that it be confirmed by hand to the Hercules Club." 

"Darlington!" remarked I. "Surely you have mentioned that name before?" 

"Yes, so I have. But upon that occasion I referred to Darlington the art-dealer, whose substitution of a false Leonardo painting for a real one caused such a scandal 
at the Grosvenor Galleries. Sir Gervase is a different and more exalted Darlington, though no less associated with scandal." 

"Who is he?" 

"Sir Gervase Darlington, Watson, is the bold, bad baronet of fiction, addicted to pugilism and profligate ladies. But he is by no means a swaggering figure 
of the imagination; too many such men lived in our grandfathers' time." My friend looked thoughtful. "At the moment, he had best mind his step." 

"You interest me. Why so?" 

"Well, I am no racing man. Yet I recall that Sir Gervase won a fortune during last year's Derby. Ill-disposed persons whispered that he did so by bribery and secret 
information. Be good enough, Watson, to remove this microscope." 

I did so. There remained upon the little table only the sheet of crested note-paper which Holmes had flung down there. From the pocket of his dressing-gown he took out 
the snuff box of old gold, with a great amethyst in the centre of the lid, which had been a present from the King of Bohemia. "However," he added, "every move 
made by Sir Gervase Darlington is now carefully watched. Should he so much as attempt to communicate with any suspicious person, he will be warned off the turf 
even if he does not land in gaol. I cannot recall the name of the horse on which he wagered—" 

"Lord Hove's Bengal Lady," cried I. "By Indian Rajah out of Countess. She finished three furlongs ahead of the field. Though, of course," I added, "I know little more 
of racing matters than you." 

"Indeed, Watson?" 

"Holmes, such suspicions as you appear to entertain are base and unworthy! I am a married man with a depleted bank balance. Besides, what race is run in 
such wild weather as this?" 

"Well, the Grand National cannot be too far off." 

"By Jove, yes! Lord Hove has two entries for the Grand National. Many fancy Thunder Lad, though not much is expected of Sheerness. But to me," I added, "a 
scandal attached to the sport of kings is incredible. Lord Hove is an honourable man." 

"Precisely. Being an honourable man, he is no friend to Sir Gervase Darlington." 

"But why are you sure Sir Gervase can bring you nothing of interest?" 

"If you were acquainted with the gentleman, Watson, you would acquit him of being concerned in anything whatever of interest, save that he is a really formidable 
heavy-weight boxer—" Holmes whistled. "Come! Sir Gervase was among those who witnessed my own trifling encounter with the Bully Boy this morning." 

"Then what can he want of you?" 

"Even if the question were of any moment, I have no data. A pinch of snuff, Watson? Well, well, I am not enamoured of it myself, though it represents an oc- 
casional variation from too much self-poisoning by nicotine." 

I could not help laughing. "My dear Holmes, your case is typical. Every medical man knows that a patient with an injury like yours, though the injury is slight and even 
of a humorous character, becomes as unreasonable as a child." 

Holmes snapped shut the snuff-box and put it into his pocket. "Watson," said he, "grateful though I am for your presence, I shall be obliged if you do not utter one word 
more for at least the next six hours, lest I say something which I may regret." 



Thus, remaining silent even at supper, we sat very late in the snug room. Holmes moodily cross-indexed his records of crime, and I was deep in the pages of 
the British Medical Journal. Save for the tick of the clock and the crackle of the fire, there was no sound but the shrieking of the March gale, which drove the 
rain against the windows like handfuls of small shot, and growled and whooped in the chimney. "No, no," my friend said querulously, at long last. "Optimism is 
stupidity. Certainly no case will come to my— Hark! Was that not the bell?" 

"Yes. I heard it clearly in spite of the wind. But who can it be?" 

"If a client," said Holmes, craning his long neck for a glimpse of the clock, "it must be a matter of deep seriousness to bring someone out at two in the 
morning and in such a gale." 

After some delay, during which it took Mrs. Hudson an interminable time to rise from her bed and open the street door, no less than two clients were ushered into our 
room. Both of them had been speaking at once, but their conversation became distinct as they approached the doorway. "Grandfather, you mustn't!" came a young 
woman's voice. "For the last time, please! You don't want Mr. Holmes to think you are," here she lowered her voice to a whisper, "simple." 

"I'm not simple!" cried her companion. "Drat it, Nellie, I see what I see! I should have come to tell the gentleman yesterday morning, only you wouldn't hear of it." 

"But, Grandfather, that Room of Horrors is a fearfully frightening place. You imagined it, dear." 

"I'm seventy-six years old. But I've got no more imagination," said the old man, proudly, "than one of them wax figures. Me imagine it? Me, that’s been night- 
watchman since long before the museum was took where it is now, and was still here in Baker Street?" 

The newcomers paused. The ancient visitor, squat and stubborn-looking in his rain-sodden brown greatcoat and shepherd's check trousers, was a solid man of the people 
with fine white hair. The girl was different. Graceful and lissom, with fair hair and grey eyes encircled by black lashes, she wore a simple costume of blue with narrow 
white frills at the wrists and throat. There was grace as well as timidity in her gestures. Yet her delicate hands trembled. Very prettily she identified Holmes and 
myself, apologizing for this late call. "My— my name is Eleanor Baxter," she added; "and, as you may have gathered, my poor grandfather is the night attendant 
at Madame Taupin's exhibition of wax figures in the Marylebone Road." She broke off. "Oh! Your poor ankle!" 

"My injury is nothing, Miss Baxter," said Holmes. "You are both very welcome. Watson, our guests' coats, the umbrella; so. Now, you may be seated here in 

front of me. Though I have a crutch of sorts here, I am sure you will forgive me if I remain where I am. You were saying?" 

Miss Baxter, who had been looking fixedly at the little table in evident distress at her grandfather's words, now gave a start and changed colour as she found Holmes's 
keen eye upon her. "Sir, are you acquainted with Madame Taupin's waxworks?" 

"It is justly famous." 

"Do forgive me!" Eleanor Baxter blushed. "My meaning was, have you ever visited it?" 

"Hum! I fear I am too much like our countrymen. Let some place be remote or inaccessible, and the Englishman will lose his life to find it. But he will not even look at 
it when it lies within a few hundred yards of his own front door. Have you visited Madame Taupin's, Watson?" 

"No, I am afraid not," I replied. "Though I have heard much of the underground Room of Horrors. It is said that the management offers a large sum of money to 

anyone who will spend a night there." 

The stubborn-looking old man, who to a medical eye showed symptoms of strong physical pain, nevertheless chuckled hoarsely as he sat down. "Lord bless you, sir, don't 
you believe a word of that nonsense." 

"It is not true, then?" 

"Not a bit, sir. They wouldn't even let you do it. 'Cos a sporting gentleman might light a cigar or what not, and they're feared to death of fire." 

"Then I take it," said Holmes, "that you are not unduly troubled by the Room of Horrors?" 

"No, sir; never in general. The' even got old Charlie Peace there. He's with Marwood, too, the hangman what turned Charlie off not eleven years ago— but 
they're friendly like." His voice went higher. "But fair's fair, sir; and I don’t like it a bit when those blessed wax figures begin to play a hand of cards!" 

A drive of rain rattled against the windows. Holmes leaned forward. "The wax figures, you say, have been playing at cards?" 

"Yes, sir. Word of Sam Baxter!" 

"Are all the wax figures engaged in this card game, or only some of them?" 

"Only two, sir." 

"How do you know this, Mr. Baxter? Did you see them?" 

"Lord, sir, I should hope not! But what am I to think, when one of 'em has discarded from his hand, or taken a trick, and the cards are all mucked up on 
the table? Maybe I ought to explain, sir?" 

"Pray do," invited Holmes with some satisfaction. 

"You see, sir, in the course of a night I make only one or two rounds down in the Room of Horrors. It's one big room, with dim lights. The reason I don't 
make more rounds is 'cos of my rheumatics. Folks don't know how cruel you can suffer from rheumatics! Double you up, they do." 

"Dear me!" murmured Holmes sympathetically, pushing the tin of shag toward the old man. 

"Anyway, sir! My Nellie there is a good girl, in spite of her eddication and the fine work she does. Whenever my rheumatics are bad, and they've been bad all 
this week, she gets up every blessed morning and comes to fetch me at seven o'clock— that's when I go off duty— so she can help me to an omnibus. "Now 
tonight, being worried about me— which she oughtn't to be— well, Nellie turned up only an hour ago, with young Bob Parsnip. Bob took over my duty from 
me, so I said, 'I've read all about this Mr. Holmes, only a step away; let's go and tell him.' And that's why we're here." 

Holmes inclined his head. "I see, Mr. Baxter. But you were speaking of last night?" 

"Ah! Well, about the Room of Horrors. On one side there's a series of tabloos. Which I mean: there’s separate compartments, each of 'em behind an iron 
railing so nobody can step in, and wax figures in each compartment. The tabloos tell a story that's called 'The History of a Crime.' 

"This history of a crime is about a young gentleman— and a pleasant young gentleman he is, too, only weak— who falls into bad company. He gambles and 
loses his money; then he kills the wicked older man; and at last he's hanged as fast as Charlie Peace. It’s meant to be a- a- " 

"A moral lesson, yes. Take warning, Watson. Well, Mr. Baxter?" 

"Well, sir! It’s that wretched gambling tabloo. There's only two of 'em in it, the young gentleman and the wicked wrong 'un. They're sitting in a lovely room, at a table 
with gold coins on it; only not real gold, of course. It's not a-happening today, you see, but in old times when they had stockings and britches." 

"Eighteenth-century costume, perhaps?" 

"That's it, sir. The young gentleman is sitting on the other side of the table, so he faces towards you straight. But the old wrong 'un is sitting with his back turned, hold- 
ing up his cards as if he was laughing, and you can see the cards in his hand, "Now last night! When I say last night, sir, course I mean two nights ago, because 
it's towards morning now. I walked straight past that blessed taboo without seeing anything. Then, about an hour later, all of a sudden I think, 'What's wrong with 
that taboo?' There wasn't much wrong, and I'm so used to it that I'm the only one who'd have noticed. 'What’s wrong?' I thinks. So I goes down and has another look. 
"Sir, so help me! The wicked older man— the one whose hand you can see— was holding less cards than he ought. He'd discarded, or played a trick maybe, and 
they'd been messing up the cards on the table. I've got no imagination, I tell you. Don't want none. But when Nellie here came to fetch me at seven in the morning, I 
felt cruel, what with rheumatics and this too. I wouldn't tell her what was wrong— well, just in case I might-a seen things. Today I thought perhaps I dreamed it. 
But I didn't! It was there again tonight. Now, sir, I'm not daft. I see what I see! You might say, maybe, somebody did that for fun— changed the cards, and messed 
'em up, and all. But nobody couldn't do it in the daytime, or they'd be seen. It might be done at night, 'cos there's one side door that won't lock properly. But it's not 
like one of the public's practical jokes, where they stick a false beard on Queen Anne or maybe a sun-bonnet on Napoleon's head. This is so little that nobody'd 
notice it. But if somebody's been playing a hand of cards for those two blessed dummies, then who did it and why?" 



For some moments, Sherlock Holmes remained silent. "Mr. Baxter," he said gravely, and glanced at his own bandaged ankle, "your patience shames me in my foolish 
petulance: I shall be happy to look into this matter." 

"But, Mr. Holmes," cried Eleanor Baxter, in stark bewilderment, "surely you cannot take the affair seriously?" 

"Forgive me, madam. Mr. Baxter, what particular game of cards are the two wax figures playing?" 

"Dunno, sir. Used to wonder that myself, long ago when I was new to the place. Nap or whist, maybe? But I dunno." 

"You say that the figure with his back turned is holding fewer cards than he should. How many cards have been played from his hand?" 

"Sir?" 

"You did not observe? Tcha, that is most unfortunate! Then I beg of you carefully to consider a vital question. Have these figures been gambling?" 

"My dear Holmes—" I began, but my friend's look gave me a pause. 

"You tell me, Mr. Baxter, that the cards upon the table have been moved or at least disturbed. Have the gold coins been moved as well?" 

"Come to think of it," replied Mr. Samuel Baxter, after a pause, "no, sir, they haven't! Funny, too." 

Holmes's eyes were glittering, and he rubbed his hands together. "I fancied as much," said he. "Well, fortunately I may devote my energies to the problem, since I have 
nothing on hand at the moment save a future dull matter which seems to concern Sir Gervase Darlington and possibly Lord Hove as well. Lord Hove— Dear me, 
Miss Baxter, is anything wrong?" 

Eleanor Baxter, who had risen to her feet, now contemplated Holmes with startled eyes. "Did you say Lord Hove?" asked she. 

"Yes. How should the name be familiar to you, may I ask?" 

"Merely that he is my employer." 

"Indeed?" said Holmes, raising his eyebrows. "Ah, yes. You do type-writing, I perceive. The double line in the plush costume a little above your wrist, where the type- 
writist presses against the table, proclaims as much. You are acquainted with Lord Hove, then?" 

"No, I have never so much as seen him, though I do much type-writing at his town house in Park Lane. So humble a person as l—l" 

"Tcha, this is even more unfortunate! However, we must do what we can. Watson, have you any objection to going out into such a tempestuous night?" 

"Not in the least," said I, much astonished. "But why?" 

"This confounded sofa, my boy! Since I am confined to it as to a sick-bed, you must be my eyes. It troubles me to trespass upon your pain, Mr. Baxter, but 
would it be possible for you to escort Dr. Watson for a brief visit to the Room of Horrors? Thank you; excellent." 

"But what am I to do?" asked I. 

"In the upper drawer of my desk, Watson, you will find some envelopes." 

"Well, Holmes?" 

"Oblige me by counting the number of cards in the hand of each wax figure. Then, carefully keeping them in their present order from left to right, place each set in a 
separate envelope which you will mark accordingly. Do the same with the cards upon the table, and bring them back to me as quickly as you may accomplish it." 
"Sir—" began the ancient man in excitement. 

"No, no, Mr. Baxter, I should prefer not to speak now. I have only a working hypothesis, and there seems one almost insuperable difficulty to it." Holmes frowned. 
"But it is of the first importance to discover, in all senses of the word, what game is being played at that wax exhibition." 

Together with Samuel Baxter and his grand-daughter, I ventured forth into the rain-whipped blackness. Despite Miss Baxter's protests, within ten minutes we were 
all three standing before the gambling tableau in the Room of Horrors. 

A not ill-looking young man named Robert Parsnip, clearly much smitten with the charms of Eleanor Baxter, turned up the blue sparks of gas in dusty globes. But 
even so the gloomy room remained in a semi-darkness in which the ranks of grim wax figures seemed imbued with a horrible spider-like repose, as though waiting 
only until a visitor turned away, before reaching out to touch him. 

Madame Taupin's exhibition is too well known to need any general description. But I was unpleasantly impressed by the tableau called "The History of a Crime." The 
scenes were most lifelike in both effect and colour, with the wigs and small-swords of the eighteenth century. Had I in fact been guilty of those mythical gambling 
lapses charged upon me by Holmes's ill-timed sense of humour, the display might well have harassed my conscience. 

This was especially so when we lowered our heads under the iron railing, and approached the two gamblers in the mimic room. 

"Drat it, Nellie, don't touch them cards!" cried Mr. Baxter, much more testy and irascible in his own domain. But his tone changed as he spoke to me. "Look there, 
sir! There's," he counted slowly, "there's nine cards in the wicked wrong 'un's hand. And sixteen in the young gentleman's." 

"Listen!" whispered the young lady. "Isn't someone walking about upstairs?" 

"Drat it, Nellie, it's only Bob Parsnip. Who else would it be?" 

"As you said, the cards on the table are not much disarranged," I remarked. "Indeed, the small pile in front of your 'young gentleman' is not disarranged at all. 
Twelve cards lie at his elbow—" 

"Ah, and nineteen by the wrong 'un. Funny card game, sir!" 

I agreed and, curiously repulsed by the touch of waxen fingers against my own, I put the various sets of playing-cards into four marked envelopes, and hastened up from 
the stuffy den. Miss Baxter and her grandfather, despite the latter's horrified protest, I insisted on sending home in a stray cab whose driver had just deposited some 
hopelessly intoxicated gentleman against his own door. 

I was not sorry to return to the snug warmth of my friend's sitting-room. To my dismay, however, Holmes had risen from the couch. He was standing by his desk 
with the green-shaded lamp, eagerly studying an open atlas and supported by a crutch under his right arm. 

"Enough, Watson!" he silenced my protests. "You have the envelopes? Good, good! Give them to me. Thank you. In the hand of the older gambler, the wax 
figure with his back turned, were there not nine cards?" 

"Holmes, this is amazing! How could you have known that?" 

"Logic, my dear fellow. Now let us see." 

"One moment," I said firmly. "You spoke earlier of a crutch, but where could you have obtained one at such short notice? That is an extraordinary crutch. It seems 
to be constructed of some light-weight metal, and shines where the rays of the lamp—" 

"Yes, yes, I already had it in my possession." 

"Already had it?" 

"It is made of aluminum, and is the relic of a case before my biographer came to glorify me. I have already mentioned it to you, but you have forgotten. Now 
be good enough to forget the crutch while you examine these cards. Oh, beautiful, beautiful!" 

Were all the jewels of Golconda spread out before him, he could not have been more ecstatic. He even rejoiced when I told him what I had seen and heard. 
"What, you are still in the dark? Then do you take these nine cards, Watson. Put them upon the desk in their order, and announce the name of each as you do 
so." 

"Knave of diamonds," said I, placing the cards under the lamp, "seven of hearts, ace of clubs— Good heavens, Holmes!" 

"Do you see anything, then?" 

"Yes. There are two aces of clubs, one following the other!" 

"Did I not call it beautiful? But you have counted only four cards. Proceed with the remaining five." 

"Deuce of spades," said I, "ten of hearts— merciful powers, here is a third ace of clubs, and two more knaves of diamonds!" 

"And what do you deduce from that?" 



"Holmes, I think I see light. Madame Taupin's is famous for its real-life effects. The older wax figure is a brazen gambler, who is depicted as cheating the young 
man. By a subtle effect, they have shown him as holding false cards for his winning hand." 

"Hardly subtle, I fancy. Even so brazen a gambler as yourself, Watson, would surely feel some embarrassment at putting down a winning hand which 
contained no less than three knaves of diamonds and three aces of clubs?" 

"Yes, there are difficulties." 

"Further. If you count all the cards, both those in the hands and upon the table, you will observe that their total number is fifty-six: which is four more than I, at 
least, am accustomed to use in one pack." 

"But what can it mean? What is the answer to our problem?" 

The atlas lay upon the desk where Holmes had thrown it down when I gave him the envelopes. Snatching up the book, groaning as he staggered and all but 
fell on that curious crutch, he eagerly opened the book again. 

" 'At the mouth of the Thames,' " he read, " 'on the island of—'" 

"Holmes, my question concerned the answer to our problem!" 

"This is the answer to our problem." 

Though I am the most long-suffering of men, I protested strongly when he packed me off upstairs to my old room. I believed that I should get no sleep upon the rack of 
this mystery, yet I slept heavily, and it was nearly eleven o'clock when I descended to breakfast. 

Sherlock Holmes, who had already breakfasted, again sat upon the sofa. I was glad of my clean, fresh shave when I found him deep in conversation with Miss 
Eleanor, whose timidity was lessened by his easy manner. 

Yet something in the gravity of his face arrested my hand as I rang the bell for rashers and eggs. 

"Miss Baxter," said he, "though there still remains an objection to my hypothesis, the time has come to tell you something of great importance. But what the devil—!" 
Our door had been suddenly dashed open. To be precise, it was kicked open with a crash. But this had been done only as a jest by the man who kicked it, for 
his loud, overfed burst of laughter rang like a brazen trumpet. 

In the aperture stood a burly, red-faced gentleman with a shining hat, a costly frock-coat open over a white waistcoat to show the diamonds on his watch-guard, 
and the single flaming ruby in his cravat. 

Though not so tall as Holmes, he was far broader and heavier; indeed, with a figure not unlike my own. His loud laugh rang out again, and his cunning little eyes 
flashed, as he held up a leather bag and shook it. 

"Here you are, cully!" cried he. "You're the Scotland Yard man, ain't you? A thousand gold sovereigns, and all yours for the askin'!" 

Sherlock Holmes, though astonished, regarded him with the utmost composure. 

"Sir Gervase Darlington, I think?" 

Without paying the slightest notice of either Miss Baxter or myself, the newcomer strode across and rattled the bag of coins under Holmes's nose. 

"That's me, Mister Detective!" said he. "Saw you fight yesterday. You could be better, but you'll do. One day, my man, they may make prize-fightin' legal. Till they do, 
a gentleman's got to arrange a neat little mill in secret. Stop a bit, though!" 

Suddenly, cat-footed despite his weight, he went to the window and peered down into the street. 

"Curse old Phileas Belch! He's had a man following me for months. Ay, and two blasted manservants in succession to steam open my letters. Broke the back for one 
of 'em, though." Sir Gervase's shattering laugh rang again. "Nevermind!" 

Holmes's face seemed to change; but an instant later he was his cool, imperturbable self as Sir Gervase Darlington turned back, flinging the bag of money on the 
sofa. 

"Keep the dibs, Scotland Yarder. I don't need 'em. Now, then. In three months well match you with Jem Garlick, the Bristol Smasher. Fight a cross, and I'll skin 
you; do me proud, and I can be a good patron. With an unknown feller like you, I can get eight to one odds." 

"Do I understand, Sir Gervase," said Holmes, "that you wish me to box professionally in the ring?" 

"You're the Scotland Yarder, ain't you? You comprey English, don't you?" 

"When I hear it spoken, yes." 

"That's a joke, hey? Well, so is this!" 

Playfully, deliberately, his heavy left fist whipped out a round-arm which passed— as it was meant to pass— just an inch in front of my friend's nose. Holmes did 
not even blink. Again Sir Gervase roared with laughter. 

"Mind your manners, Mister Detective, when you speak to a gentleman. I could break you in two even if you didn't have a bad ankle, by God!" 

Miss Eleanor Baxter, white-faced, uttered a little moaning cry and seemed to be trying to efface herself against the wall. 

"Sir Gervase," cried I, "you will kindly refrain from using offensive language in the presence of a lady." 

Instantly our guest turned round, and looked me up and down in a most insolent manner. 

"Who's this? Watson? Sawbones feller? Oh." Suddenly he thrust his beefy red face into mine. "Know anything about boxin'?" 

"No," said I. "That is— not much." 

"Then see you don't get a lesson," retorted Sir Gervase playfully, and roared with mirth again. "Lady? What lady?" Seeing Miss Baxter, he looked a little disconcerted, 
but directed a killing ogle. "No lady, Sawbones. But a fetchin' little piece, by God!" 

"Sir Gervase," said I, "you are now warned, for the last time." 

"One moment, Watson," interposed the calm voice of Sherlock Holmes. "You must forgive Sir Gervase Darlington. No doubt Sir Gervase has not yet recovered from the 
visit he paid three days ago to the wax exhibition of Madame Taupin." 

In the brief silence that followed, we could hear a coal rattle in the grate and the eternal rain on the windows. But our guest could not be dismayed. 

"The Scotland Yarder, eh?" he sneered. "Who told you I was at Madame Taupin's three days ago?" 

"No one. But, from certain facts in my possession, the inference was obvious. Such a visit looked innocent, did it not? It would arouse no suspicion on the part 
of anyone who might be following— some follower, for instance, employed by the eminent sportsman Sir Phileas Belch, who wished to make certain you did not win 
another fortune by secret information as you did on last year's Derby." 

"You don't interest me, my man!" 

"Indeed? And yet, with your sporting proclivities, I feel sure you must be interested in cards." 

"Cards?" 

"Playing-cards," said Holmes blandly, taking some from his dressing-gown pocket and holding them up fan-wise. "In fact, these nine cards." 

"What the devil's all this?" 

"It is a singular fact, Sir Gervase, that a casual visitor to the Room of Horrors— on passing the gambling tableau —can see the cards in the hand of a certain wax 
figure without even giving them more than an innocent-appearing glance. 

"Now some strange tampering was done one night with these cards. The cards in the hand of the other player, the 'young gentleman,' had not even been 
touched, as was shown by their dusty and gritty condition. But some person, a certain person, had removed a number of cards from the hand of the so-called 'wrong 
'un, ' throwing them down on the table, and, further, had added four cards from no less than two extra packs. 

"Why was this done? It was not because someone wished to play a practical joke, in creating the illusion that wax dummies were occupied in reckless gambling. 
Had that been the culprit's motive, he would have moved the imitation gold coins as well as the cards. But the coins were not moved. 



"The true answer is simple and indeed obvious. There are twenty-six letters in our alphabet; and twenty-six, twice multiplied, gives us fifty-two; the number of cards 
in a pack. Supposing that we were arbitrarily to choose one card for each letter, we could easily make a childish, elementary form of substitution-cipher — " 

Sir Gervase Darlington's metal laugh blared shrilly. "Substitution-cipher," jeered he, with his red hand at the ruby in his cravat. "What's that, hey? What's the 
fool talkin' about?" 

"—which would be betrayed, however," said Holmes, "should a message of only nine letters contain a double 'e' or a double 's.' Let us imagine, therefore, that 
the knave of diamonds stands for the letter 's' and the ace of clubs for the letter 'e 

"Holmes," interposed I, "this may be inspiration. But it is not logic! Why should you think a message must contain those letters?" 

"Because already I knew the message itself. You told it to me." 

"I told you?" 

"Tut, Watson. If these cards represent the letters indicated, we have a double 'e' towards the beginning of the word and a double 's' at the end of it. The first 
letter of the word, we perceive, must be 'S,' and there is an 'e' before the double 's' at the end. No cunning is required to give us the word 'Sheerness.' " 

"But what in the world has Sheerness—" I began. 

"Geographically, you will find it towards the mouth of the Thames," interrupted Holmes. "But it is also, you informed me, the name of a horse owned by Lord Hove. 
Though this horse has been entered for the Grand National, you told me that little is expected of it. But if the horse has been trained with the utmost secrecy as 
another smashing winner like Bengal Lady—" 

"There would be a tremendous killing," said I, "for any gambler who could learn that well-guarded secret and back the horse!" 

Sherlock Holmes held up the fan of cards in his left hand. 

"My dear Miss Eleanor Baxter," cried he, with a sorrowful sternness, "why did you let Sir Gervase Darlington persuade you? Your grandfather would not like to hear 
that you used the wax exhibition to leave this message— telling Sir Gervase what he wished to know without even speaking to him, writing to him, or approaching within a 
mile of him." 

If previously Miss Baxter had turned pale and uttered a moan at seeing Sir Gervase, it was as nothing to the piteous look now in her stricken grey eyes. Swaying 
on her feet, she began to falter out a denial. 

"No, no!" said Holmes, gently. "It really will not do. Within a few moments of the time you entered this room last night, I was aware of your— your acquaintanceship 
with Sir Gervase here." 

"Mr. Holmes, you cannot have known it!" 

"I fear so. Kindly observe the small table at my left as I sit upon the sofa. When you approached me, there was nothing upon the table, save a sheet of note-paper 
emblazoned with the somewhat conspicuous crest of Sir Gervase Darlington." 

"Oh, heaven help me!" cried the wretched young lady. 

"Yet you were strangely affected. You looked fixedly at the table, as though in recognition. When you saw my eye upon you, you gave a start and changed colour. By 
apparently casual remarks, I elicited the fact that your employer is Lord Hove, the owner of Sheerness—" 

"No! No! No!" 

"It would have been easy for you to have substituted the new cards for those already in the wax figure's hand. As your grandfather said, there is a side door at 
Madame Taupin's which cannot properly be locked. You could have made the substitution secretly at night, before you called formally to escort your grandfather 
home in the morning. 

"You might have destroyed the evidence before too late, if on the first night your grandfather had told you what was amiss in the museum. But he did not tell you 
until the following night, when both he and Robert Parsnip were there, and you could not be alone. However, I do not wonder you protested when he wished to 
see me. Later, as Dr. Watson quite unconsciously told me, you tried to seize and scatter the cards, in the wax figure's hand." 

"Holmes," cried I, "enough of such torture! The true culprit is not Miss Baxter, but this ruffian who stands and laughs at us!" 

"Believe me, Miss Baxter, I would not distress you," said Holmes. "I have no doubt you learned by accident of Sheerness' powers. Sporting peers will speak quite 
carelessly when they hear only the harmless clicking of a type-writer from an adjoining room. But Sir Gervase, long before he was so carefully watched, must have 
urged you to keep your ears open and communicate with him in this ingenious way should you acquire information of value. 

"At first the method seemed almost too ingenious. Indeed, I could not understand why you did not merely write to him, until when he arrived here I learned that 
even his letters are steamed open. The cards were the only possible way. But we have the evidence now—" 

"No, by God!" said Sir Gervase Darlington. "You’ve got no evidence at all!" 

His left hand, quick as a striking snake, snatched the cards from Holmes's grasp. As my friend instinctively stood up, the pain in his swollen ankle making him 
bite back a cry, Sir Gervase's open right hand drove into Holmes's neck and sent him sprawling back on the sofa. Again the triumphant laugh rang out. 
"Gervase!" pleaded Miss Baxter, wringing her hands. "Please! Don't look at me so! I meant no harm!" 

"Oh, no!" said he, with a sneer on his brutal face. "N-no-o-o! Come here and betray me, would you? Make me jump when I see you, hey? You're no 
better than you should be, and I'll tell that to anybody who asks. Now stand aside, damn you!" 

"Sir Gervase," said I, "already I have warned you for the last time." 

"Sawbones interfering, eh? I'll—" Now, I am the first to admit that it was luck rather than judgment, though perhaps I may add that I am quicker on my 
feet than my friends suppose. Suffice to say Miss Baxter screamed. 

Despite the pain of his ankle, Sherlock Holmes again leaped from the sofa. 

"By Jove, Watson! A finer left on the mark and right to the head I never witnessed! You've grassed him so hard he will be unconscious for ten minutes!" 

"Yet I trust," said I, blowing upon cracked knuckles, "that poor Miss Baxter has not been unduly distressed by the crash with which he struck the floor? It would also 
grieve me to alarm Mrs. Hudson, whom I hear approaching with bacon and eggs." 

"Good old Watson!" 

"Why do you smile, Holmes? Have I said something of a humorous character?" 

"No, no. Heaven forbid! Yet sometimes I suspect that I may be much shallower, and you far more deep, than customarily I am wont to believe." 

"Your satire is beyond me. However, there is the evidence. But you must not publicly betray even Sir Gervase Darlington, lest you betray Miss Baxter as well!" 
"Humph! I have a score to settle with that gentleman, Watson. His offer to open for me a career as a professional boxer I could not in honesty resent. In its way, it is a great 
compliment. But to confuse me with a Scotland Yard detective! That was an insult, I fear, which I can neither forget nor forgive." 

"Holmes, how many favours have I ever asked of you?" 

"Well, well, have it as you please. We shall keep the cards only as a last resort, should that sleeping beauty again misbehave. As for Miss Baxter—" 

"I loved him!" cried the poor young lady passionately. "Or— well, at least, I thought I did." 

"In any event, Miss Baxter, Watson shall remain silent as long as you like. He must not speak until some long, long distant date when you, perhaps as an ancient 
great-grandam, shall smile and give your leave. Haifa century ere that, you will have forgotten all about Sir Gervase Darlington." 

"Never! Never! Never!" 

"Oh, I fancy so," smiled Sherlock Holmes. "On s' enlace; puis, un jour, on se lasse; c'est I'amour. There is more wisdom in that French epigram than in the whole 
works of Henrik Ibsen." 



The Adventure of the Copper Beeches 


O the man who loves art for its own 
sake," remarked Sherlock Holmes, toss- 
ing aside the advertisement sheet of the 
Daily Telegraph, "it is frequently in its 
least important and lowliest manifestations that 
the keenest pleasure is to be derived. It is pleas- 
ant to me to observe, Watson, that you have so far 
grasped this truth that in these little records of our 
cases which you have been good enough to draw 
up, and, I am bound to say, occasionally to em- 
bellish, you have given prominence not so much 
to the many causes celebres and sensational trials 
in which I have figured but rather to those inci- 
dents which may have been trivial in themselves, 
but which have given room for those faculties of 
deduction and of logical synthesis which I have 
made my special province." 

"And yet," said I, smiling, "I cannot quite hold 
myself absolved from the charge of sensationalism 
which has been urged against my records." 

"You have erred, perhaps," he observed, taking 
up a glowing cinder with the tongs and lighting 
with it the long cherry-wood pipe which was wont 
to replace his clay when he was in a disputatious 
rather than a meditative mood — "you have erred 
perhaps in attempting to put colour and life into 
each of your statements instead of confining your- 
self to the task of placing upon record that severe 
reasoning from cause to effect which is really the 
only notable feature about the thing." 

"It seems to me that I have done you full justice 
in the matter," I remarked with some coldness, for 
I was repelled by the egotism which I had more 
than once observed to be a strong factor in my 
friend's singular character. 

"No, it is not selfishness or conceit," said he, 
answering, as was his wont, my thoughts rather 
than my words. "If I claim full justice for my art, it 
is because it is an impersonal thing — a thing be- 
yond myself. Crime is common. Logic is rare. 
Therefore it is upon the logic rather than upon the 
crime that you should dwell. You have degraded 
what should have been a course of lectures into a 
series of tales." 

It was a cold morning of the early spring, and 
we sat after breakfast on either side of a cheery 
fire in the old room at Baker Street. A thick fog 
rolled down between the lines of dun-coloured 
houses, and the opposing windows loomed like 
dark, shapeless blurs through the heavy yellow 
wreaths. Our gas was lit and shone on the white 
cloth and glimmer of china and metal, for the ta- 
ble had not been cleared yet. Sherlock Holmes had 
been silent all the morning, dipping continuously 



into the advertisement columns of a succession of 
papers until at last, having apparently given up his 
search, he had emerged in no very sweet temper to 
lecture me upon my literary shortcomings. 

"At the same time," he remarked after a pause, 
during which he had sat puffing at his long pipe 
and gazing down into the fire, "you can hardly be 
open to a charge of sensationalism, for out of these 
cases which you have been so kind as to interest 
yourself in, a fair proportion do not treat of crime, 
in its legal sense, at all. The small matter in which 
I endeavoured to help the King of Bohemia, the 
singular experience of Miss Mary Sutherland, the 
problem connected with the man with the twisted 
lip, and the incident of the noble bachelor, were 
all matters which are outside the pale of the law. 
But in avoiding the sensational, I fear that you may 
have bordered on the trivial." 

"The end may have been so," I answered, "but 
the methods I hold to have been novel and of in- 
terest." 

"Pshaw, my dear fellow, what do the public, 
the great unobservant public, who could hardly 
tell a weaver by his tooth or a compositor by his left 
thumb, care about the finer shades of analysis and 
deduction! But, indeed, if you are trivial. I can- 
not blame you, for the days of the great cases are 
past. Man, or at least criminal man, has lost all en- 
terprise and originality. As to my own little prac- 
tice, it seems to be degenerating into an agency for 
recovering lost lead pencils and giving advice to 
young ladies from boarding-schools. I think that 
I have touched bottom at last, however. This note 
I had this morning marks my zero-point, I fancy. 
Read it!" He tossed a crumpled letter across to me. 

It was dated from Montague Place upon the 
preceding evening, and ran thus: 

Dear Mr. Holmes: 

I am very anxious to consult you as 
to whether I should or should not ac- 
cept a situation which has been offered 
to me as governess. I shall call at half- 
past ten to-morrow if I do not inconve- 
nience you. 

Yours faithfully, 
Violet Hunter. 

"Do you know the young lady?" I asked. 

"Not I." 

"It is half-past ten now." 

"Yes, and I have no doubt that is her ring." 

"It may turn out to be of more interest than you 
think. You remember that the affair of the blue car- 
buncle, which appeared to be a mere whim at first. 


265 



The Adventure of the Copper Beeches 


developed into a serious investigation. It may be 
so in this case, also." 

"Well, let us hope so. But our doubts will very 
soon be solved, for here, unless I am much mis- 
taken, is the person in question." 

As he spoke the door opened and a young 
lady entered the room. She was plainly but neatly 
dressed, with a bright, quick face, freckled like 
a plover's egg, and with the brisk manner of a 
woman who has had her own way to make in the 
world. 

"You will excuse my troubling you, I am sure," 
said she, as my companion rose to greet her, "but I 
have had a very strange experience, and as I have 
no parents or relations of any sort from whom 
I could ask advice, I thought that perhaps you 
would be kind enough to tell me what I should 
do." 

"Pray take a seat. Miss Hunter. I shall be happy 
to do anything that I can to serve you." 

I could see that Holmes was favourably im- 
pressed by the manner and speech of his new 
client. He looked her over in his searching fashion, 
and then composed himself, with his lids drooping 
and his finger-tips together, to listen to her story. 

"I have been a governess for five years," said 
she, "in the family of Colonel Spence Munro, but 
two months ago the colonel received an appoint- 
ment at Halifax, in Nova Scotia, and took his chil- 
dren over to America with him, so that I found 
myself without a situation. I advertised, and I an- 
swered advertisements, but without success. At 
last the little money which I had saved began to 
run short, and I was at my wit's end as to what I 
should do. 

"There is a well-known agency for governesses 
in the West End called Westaway's, and there I 
used to call about once a week in order to see 
whether anything had turned up which might suit 
me. Westaway was the name of the founder of the 
business, but it is really managed by Miss Stoper. 
She sits in her own little office, and the ladies who 
are seeking employment wait in an anteroom, and 
are then shown in one by one, when she consults 
her ledgers and sees whether she has anything 
which would suit them. 

"Well, when I called last week I was shown 
into the little office as usual, but I found that 
Miss Stoper was not alone. A prodigiously stout 
man with a very smiling face and a great heavy 
chin which rolled down in fold upon fold over his 
throat sat at her elbow with a pair of glasses on 
his nose, looking very earnestly at the ladies who 


entered. As I came in he gave quite a jump in his 
chair and turned quickly to Miss Stoper. 

"'That will do,' said he; 'I could not ask for 
anything better. Capital! capital!' He seemed quite 
enthusiastic and rubbed his hands together in the 
most genial fashion. He was such a comfortable- 
looking man that it was quite a pleasure to look at 
him. 

" 'You are looking for a situation, miss?' he 
asked. 

" 'Yes, sir.' 

" 'As governess?' 

" 'Yes, sir.' 

" 'And what salary do you ask?' 

" 'I had £4 a month in my last place with 
Colonel Spence Munro.' 

" 'Oh, tut, tut! sweating — rank sweating!' he 
cried, throwing his fat hands out into the air like 
a man who is in a boiling passion. 'How could 
anyone offer so pitiful a sum to a lady with such 
attractions and accomplishments?' 

" 'My accomplishments, sir, may be less than 
you imagine,' said I. 'A little French, a little Ger- 
man, music, and drawing — ' 

" 'Tut, tut!' he cried. 'This is all quite beside the 
question. The point is, have you or have you not 
the bearing and deportment of a lady? There it is 
in a nutshell. If you have not, you are not fitted for 
the rearing of a child who may some day play a 
considerable part in the history of the country. But 
if you have why, then, how could any gentleman 
ask you to condescend to accept anything under 
the three figures? Your salary with me, madam, 
would commence at £100 a year.' 

"You may imagine, Mr. Holmes, that to me, 
destitute as I was, such an offer seemed almost 
too good to be true. The gentleman, however, see- 
ing perhaps the look of incredulity upon my face, 
opened a pocket-book and took out a note. 

" 'It is also my custom,' said he, smiling in the 
most pleasant fashion until his eyes were just two 
little shining slits amid the white creases of his 
face, 'to advance to my young ladies half their 
salary beforehand, so that they may meet any little 
expenses of their journey and their wardrobe.' 

"It seemed to me that I had never met so fasci- 
nating and so thoughtful a man. As I was already 
in debt to my tradesmen, the advance was a great 
convenience, and yet there was something unnat- 
ural about the whole transaction which made me 
wish to know a little more before I quite commit- 
ted myself. 

" 'May I ask where you live, sir?' said I. 


266 



The Adventure of the Copper Beeches 


" 'Hampshire. Charming rural place. The Cop- 
per Beeches, five miles on the far side of Winch- 
ester. It is the most lovely country, my dear young 
lady, and the dearest old country-house.' 

" 'And my duties, sir? I should be glad to know 
what they would be.' 

" 'One child — one dear little romper just six 
years old. Oh, if you could see him killing cock- 
roaches with a slipper! Smack! smack! smack! 
Three gone before you could wink!' He leaned 
back in his chair and laughed his eyes into his head 
again. 

"I was a little startled at the nature of the 
child's amusement, but the father's laughter made 
me think that perhaps he was joking. 

" 'My sole duties, then,' I asked, 'are to take 
charge of a single child?' 

"'No, no, not the sole, not the sole, my dear 
young lady,' he cried. 'Your duty would be, as I 
am sure your good sense would suggest, to obey 
any little commands my wife might give, provided 
always that they were such commands as a lady 
might with propriety obey. You see no difficulty, 
heh?' 

" 'I should be happy to make myself useful.' 

" 'Quite so. In dress now, for example. We are 
faddy people, you know — faddy but kind-hearted. 
If you were asked to wear any dress which we 
might give you, you would not object to our lit- 
tle whim. Heh?' 

" 'No,' said I, considerably astonished at his 
words. 

" 'Or to sit here, or sit there, that would not be 
offensive to you?' 

" 'Oh, no.' 

" 'Or to cut your hair quite short before you 
come to us?' 

"I could hardly believe my ears. As you may 
observe, Mr. Holmes, my hair is somewhat luxu- 
riant, and of a rather peculiar tint of chestnut. It 
has been considered artistic. I could not dream of 
sacrificing it in this offhand fashion. 

" 'I am afraid that that is quite impossible,' said 
I. He had been watching me eagerly out of his 
small eyes, and I could see a shadow pass over 
his face as I spoke. 

" 'I am afraid that it is quite essential,' said he. 
'It is a little fancy of my wife's, and ladies' fan- 
cies, you know, madam, ladies' fancies must be 
consulted. And so you won't cut your hair?' 

" 'No, sir, I really could not,' I answered firmly. 


" 'Ah, very well; then that quite settles the mat- 
ter. It is a pity, because in other respects you 
would really have done very nicely. In that case. 
Miss Stoper, I had best inspect a few more of your 
young ladies.' 

"The manageress had sat all this while busy 
with her papers without a word to either of us, 
but she glanced at me now with so much annoy- 
ance upon her face that I could not help suspecting 
that she had lost a handsome commission through 
my refusal. 

" 'Do you desire your name to be kept upon the 
books?' she asked. 

" 'If you please. Miss Stoper.' 

" 'Well, really, it seems rather useless, since you 
refuse the most excellent offers in this fashion,' 
said she sharply. 'You can hardly expect us to ex- 
ert ourselves to find another such opening for you. 
Good-day to you. Miss Hunter.' She struck a gong 
upon the table, and I was shown out by the page. 

"Well, Mr. Holmes, when I got back to my lodg- 
ings and found little enough in the cupboard, and 
two or three bills upon the table. I began to ask 
myself whether I had not done a very foolish thing. 
After all, if these people had strange fads and ex- 
pected obedience on the most extraordinary mat- 
ters, they were at least ready to pay for their ec- 
centricity. Very few governesses in England are 
getting £100 a year. Besides, what use was my hair 
to me? Many people are improved by wearing it 
short and perhaps I should be among the number. 
Next day I was inclined to think that I had made a 
mistake, and by the day after I was sure of it. I had 
almost overcome my pride so far as to go back to 
the agency and inquire whether the place was still 
open when I received this letter from the gentle- 
man himself. I have it here and I will read it to 
you: 

" 'The Copper Beeches, near Winchester. 

" 'Dear Miss Hunter: 

" 'Miss Stoper has very kindly given 
me your address, and I write from here 
to ask you whether you have reconsid- 
ered your decision. My wife is very 
anxious that you should come, for she 
has been much attracted by my de- 
scription of you. We are willing to 
give £30 a quarter, or £120 a year, so 
as to recompense you for any little in- 
convenience which our fads may cause 
you. They are not very exacting, af- 
ter all. My wife is fond of a particular 


267 



The Adventure of the Copper Beeches 


shade of electric blue and would like 
you to wear such a dress indoors in 
the morning. You need not, however, 
go to the expense of purchasing one, 
as we have one belonging to my dear 
daughter Alice (now in Philadelphia), 
which would, I should think, fit you 
very well. Then, as to sitting here or 
there, or amusing yourself in any man- 
ner indicated, that need cause you no 
inconvenience. As regards your hair, 
it is no doubt a pity, especially as I 
could not help remarking its beauty 
during our short interview, but I am 
afraid that I must remain firm upon 
this point, and I only hope that the 
increased salary may recompense you 
for the loss. Your duties, as far as the 
child is concerned, are very light. Now 
do try to come, and I shall meet you 
with the dog-cart at Winchester. Let 
me know your train. 

" 'Yours faithfully, 

" 'Jephro Rucastle.' 

"That is the letter which I have just received, 
Mr. Holmes, and my mind is made up that I will 
accept it. I thought, however, that before taking the 
final step I should like to submit the whole matter 
to your consideration." 

"Well, Miss Hunter, if your mind is made up, 
that settles the question," said Holmes, smiling. 

"But you would not advise me to refuse?" 

"I confess that it is not the situation which I 
should like to see a sister of mine apply for." 

"What is the meaning of it all, Mr. Holmes?" 

"Ah, I have no data. I cannot tell. Perhaps you 
have yourself formed some opinion?" 

"Well, there seems to me to be only one pos- 
sible solution. Mr. Rucastle seemed to be a very 
kind, good-natured man. Is it not possible that his 
wife is a lunatic, that he desires to keep the matter 
quiet for fear she should be taken to an asylum, 
and that he humours her fancies in every way in 
order to prevent an outbreak?" 

"That is a possible solution — in fact, as matters 
stand, it is the most probable one. But in any case 
it does not seem to be a nice household for a young 
lady." 

"But the money, Mr. Holmes, the money!" 

"Well, yes, of course the pay is good — too good. 
That is what makes me uneasy. Why should they 
give you £120 a year, when they could have their 


pick for £40? There must be some strong reason 
behind." 

"I thought that if I told you the circumstances 
you would understand afterwards if I wanted your 
help. I should feel so much stronger if I felt that 
you were at the back of me." 

"Oh, you may carry that feeling away with you. 
I assure you that your little problem promises to 
be the most interesting which has come my way 
for some months. There is something distinctly 
novel about some of the features. If you should 
find yourself in doubt or in danger — " 

"Danger! What danger do you foresee?" 

Holmes shook his head gravely. "It would 
cease to be a danger if we could define it," said he. 
"But at any time, day or night, a telegram would 
bring me down to your help." 

"That is enough." She rose briskly from her 
chair with the anxiety all swept from her face. 
"I shall go down to Hampshire quite easy in 
my mind now. I shall write to Mr. Rucastle at 
once, sacrifice my poor hair to-night, and start for 
Winchester to-morrow." With a few grateful words 
to Holmes she bade us both good-night and bus- 
tled off upon her way. 

"At least," said I as we heard her quick, firm 
steps descending the stairs, "she seems to be a 
young lady who is very well able to take care of 
herself." 

"And she would need to be," said Holmes 
gravely. "I am much mistaken if we do not hear 
from her before many days are past." 

It was not very long before my friend's pre- 
diction was fulfilled. A fortnight went by, dur- 
ing which I frequently found my thoughts turn- 
ing in her direction and wondering what strange 
side-alley of human experience this lonely woman 
had strayed into. The unusual salary, the curious 
conditions, the light duties, all pointed to some- 
thing abnormal, though whether a fad or a plot, 
or whether the man were a philanthropist or a vil- 
lain, it was quite beyond my powers to determine. 
As to Holmes, I observed that he sat frequently for 
half an hour on end, with knitted brows and an 
abstracted air, but he swept the matter away with 
a wave of his hand when I mentioned it. "Data! 
data! data!" he cried impatiently. "I can't make 
bricks without clay." And yet he would always 
wind up by muttering that no sister of his should 
ever have accepted such a situation. 

The telegram which we eventually received 
came late one night just as I was thinking of turn- 
ing in and Holmes was settling down to one of 


268 



The Adventure of the Copper Beeches 


those all-night chemical researches which he fre- 
quently indulged in, when I would leave him 
stooping over a retort and a test-tube at night and 
find him in the same position when I came down 
to breakfast in the morning. He opened the yel- 
low envelope, and then, glancing at the message, 
threw it across to me. 

"Just look up the trains in Bradshaw," said he, 
and turned back to his chemical studies. 

The summons was a brief and urgent one. 

Please be at the Black Swan Hotel 
at Winchester at midday to-morrow [it 
said]. Do come! I am at my wit's end. 

Hunter. 

"Will you come with me?" asked Holmes, 
glancing up. 

"I should wish to." 

"Just look it up, then." 

"There is a train at half-past nine," said I, glanc- 
ing over my Bradshaw. "It is due at Winchester at 
11.30." 

"That will do very nicely. Then perhaps I had 
better postpone my analysis of the acetones, as we 
may need to be at our best in the morning." 

By eleven o'clock the next day we were well 
upon our way to the old English capital. Holmes 
had been buried in the morning papers all the way 
down, but after we had passed the Hampshire bor- 
der he threw them down and began to admire the 
scenery. It was an ideal spring day, a light blue 
sky, flecked with little fleecy white clouds drift- 
ing across from west to east. The sun was shining 
very brightly, and yet there was an exhilarating nip 
in the air, which set an edge to a man's energy. 
All over the countryside, away to the rolling hills 
around Aldershot, the little red and grey roofs of 
the farm-steadings peeped out from amid the light 
green of the new foliage. 

"Are they not fresh and beautiful?" I cried with 
all the enthusiasm of a man fresh from the fogs of 
Baker Street. 

But Holmes shook his head gravely. 

"Do you know, Watson," said he, "that it is one 
of the curses of a mind with a turn like mine that I 
must look at everything with reference to my own 
special subject. You look at these scattered houses, 
and you are impressed by their beauty. I look at 
them, and the only thought which comes to me 
is a feeling of their isolation and of the impunity 
with which crime may be committed there." 


"Good heavens!" I cried. "Who would asso- 
ciate crime with these dear old homesteads?" 

"They always fill me with a certain horror. It is 
my belief, Watson, founded upon my experience, 
that the lowest and vilest alleys in London do not 
present a more dreadful record of sin than does 
the smiling and beautiful countryside." 

"You horrify me!" 

"But the reason is very obvious. The pressure 
of public opinion can do in the town what the law 
cannot accomplish. There is no lane so vile that the 
scream of a tortured child, or the thud of a drunk- 
ard's blow, does not beget sympathy and indig- 
nation among the neighbours, and then the whole 
machinery of justice is ever so close that a word of 
complaint can set it going, and there is but a step 
between the crime and the dock. But look at these 
lonely houses, each in its own fields, filled for the 
most part with poor ignorant folk who know little 
of the law. Think of the deeds of hellish cruelty, 
the hidden wickedness which may go on, year in, 
year out, in such places, and none the wiser. Had 
this lady who appeals to us for help gone to live 
in Winchester, I should never have had a fear for 
her. It is the five miles of country which makes the 
danger. Still, it is clear that she is not personally 
threatened." 

"No. If she can come to Winchester to meet us 
she can get away." 

"Quite so. She has her freedom." 

"What can be the matter, then? Can you sug- 
gest no explanation?" 

"I have devised seven separate explanations, 
each of which would cover the facts as far as we 
know them. But which of these is correct can only 
be determined by the fresh information which we 
shall no doubt find waiting for us. Well, there is 
the tower of the cathedral, and we shall soon learn 
all that Miss Hunter has to tell." 

The Black Swan is an inn of repute in the High 
Street, at no distance from the station, and there 
we found the young lady waiting for us. She had 
engaged a sitting-room, and our lunch awaited us 
upon the table. 

"I am so delighted that you have come," she 
said earnestly. "It is so very kind of you both; but 
indeed I do not know what I should do. Your ad- 
vice will be altogether invaluable to me." 

"Pray tell us what has happened to you." 

"1 will do so, and I must be quick, for I have 
promised Mr. Rucastle to be back before three. 
I got his leave to come into town this morning, 
though he little knew for what purpose." 


269 



The Adventure of the Copper Beeches 


"Let us have everything in its due order." 
Holmes thrust his long thin legs out towards the 
fire and composed himself to listen. 

"In the first place, I may say that I have met, on 
the whole, with no actual ill-treatment from Mr. 
and Mrs. Rucastle. It is only fair to them to say 
that. But I cannot understand them, and I am not 
easy in my mind about them." 

"What can you not understand?" 

"Their reasons for their conduct. But you shall 
have it all just as it occurred. When I came down, 
Mr. Rucastle met me here and drove me in his dog- 
cart to the Copper Beeches. It is, as he said, beau- 
tifully situated, but it is not beautiful in itself, for 
it is a large square block of a house, whitewashed, 
but all stained and streaked with damp and bad 
weather. There are grounds round it, woods on 
three sides, and on the fourth a field which slopes 
down to the Southampton highroad, which curves 
past about a hundred yards from the front door. 
This ground in front belongs to the house, but the 
woods all round are part of Lord Southerton's pre- 
serves. A clump of copper beeches immediately in 
front of the hall door has given its name to the 
place. 

"I was driven over by my employer, who was 
as amiable as ever, and was introduced by him that 
evening to his wife and the child. There was no 
truth, Mr. Holmes, in the conjecture which seemed 
to us to be probable in your rooms at Baker Street. 
Mrs. Rucastle is not mad. I found her to be a silent, 
pale-faced woman, much younger than her hus- 
band, not more than thirty, I should think, while he 
can hardly be less than forty-five. From their con- 
versation I have gathered that they have been mar- 
ried about seven years, that he was a widower, and 
that his only child by the first wife was the daugh- 
ter who has gone to Philadelphia. Mr. Rucastle 
told me in private that the reason why she had left 
them was that she had an unreasoning aversion to 
her stepmother. As the daughter could not have 
been less than twenty, I can quite imagine that her 
position must have been uncomfortable with her 
father's young wife. 

"Mrs. Rucastle seemed to me to be colourless in 
mind as well as in feature. She impressed me nei- 
ther favourably nor the reverse. She was a nonen- 
tity. It was easy to see that she was passionately 
devoted both to her husband and to her little son. 
Her light grey eyes wandered continually from 
one to the other, noting every little want and fore- 
stalling it if possible. He was kind to her also in his 
bluff, boisterous fashion, and on the whole they 
seemed to be a happy couple. And yet she had 


some secret sorrow, this woman. She would of- 
ten be lost in deep thought, with the saddest look 
upon her face. More than once I have surprised 
her in tears. I have thought sometimes that it was 
the disposition of her child which weighed upon 
her mind, for I have never met so utterly spoiled 
and so ill-natured a little creature. He is small for 
his age, with a head which is quite disproportion- 
ately large. His whole life appears to be spent in 
an alternation between savage fits of passion and 
gloomy intervals of sulking. Giving pain to any 
creature weaker than himself seems to be his one 
idea of amusement, and he shows quite remark- 
able talent in planning the capture of mice, little 
birds, and insects. But I would rather not talk 
about the creature, Mr. Holmes, and, indeed, he 
has little to do with my story." 

"I am glad of all details," remarked my friend, 
"whether they seem to you to be relevant or not." 

"I shall try not to miss anything of importance. 
The one unpleasant thing about the house, which 
struck me at once, was the appearance and con- 
duct of the servants. There are only two, a man 
and his wife. Toller, for that is his name, is a rough, 
uncouth man, with grizzled hair and whiskers, 
and a perpetual smell of drink. Twice since I have 
been with them he has been quite drunk, and yet 
Mr. Rucastle seemed to take no notice of it. His 
wife is a very tall and strong woman with a sour 
face, as silent as Mrs. Rucastle and much less ami- 
able. They are a most unpleasant couple, but for- 
tunately I spend most of my time in the nursery 
and my own room, which are next to each other in 
one corner of the building. 

"For two days after my arrival at the Copper 
Beeches my life was very quiet; on the third, Mrs. 
Rucastle came down just after breakfast and whis- 
pered something to her husband. 

" 'Oh, yes/ said he, turning to me, 'we are very 
much obliged to you. Miss Hunter, for falling in 
with our whims so far as to cut your hair. I as- 
sure you that it has not detracted in the tiniest iota 
from your appearance. We shall now see how the 
electric-blue dress will become you. You will find 
it laid out upon the bed in your room, and if you 
would be so good as to put it on we should both 
be extremely obliged.' 

"The dress which I found waiting for me was 
of a peculiar shade of blue. It was of excellent 
material, a sort of beige, but it bore unmistakable 
signs of having been worn before. It could not 
have been a better fit if I had been measured for 
it. Both Mr. and Mrs. Rucastle expressed a delight 
at the look of it, which seemed quite exaggerated 
in its vehemence. They were waiting for me in the 


270 



The Adventure of the Copper Beeches 


drawing-room, which is a very large room, stretch- 
ing along the entire front of the house, with three 
long windows reaching down to the floor. A chair 
had been placed close to the central window, with 
its back turned towards it. In this I was asked to 
sit, and then Mr. Rucastle, walking up and down 
on the other side of the room, began to tell me a se- 
ries of the funniest stories that I have ever listened 
to. You cannot imagine how comical he was, and 
I laughed until I was quite weary. Mrs. Rucastle, 
however, who has evidently no sense of humour, 
never so much as smiled, but sat with her hands in 
her lap, and a sad, anxious look upon her face. Af- 
ter an hour or so, Mr. Rucastle suddenly remarked 
that it was time to commence the duties of the day, 
and that I might change my dress and go to little 
Edward in the nursery. 

"Two days later this same performance was 
gone through under exactly similar circumstances. 
Again I changed my dress, again I sat in the win- 
dow, and again I laughed very heartily at the 
funny stories of which my employer had an im- 
mense repertoire, and which he told inimitably. 
Then he handed me a yellow-backed novel, and 
moving my chair a little sideways, that my own 
shadow might not fall upon the page, he begged 
me to read aloud to him. I read for about ten min- 
utes, beginning in the heart of a chapter, and then 
suddenly, in the middle of a sentence, he ordered 
me to cease and to change my dress. 

"You can easily imagine, Mr. Holmes, how cu- 
rious I became as to what the meaning of this ex- 
traordinary performance could possibly be. They 
were always very careful, I observed, to turn my 
face away from the window, so that I became con- 
sumed with the desire to see what was going on 
behind my back. At first it seemed to be impossi- 
ble, but I soon devised a means. My hand-mirror 
had been broken, so a happy thought seized me, 
and I concealed a piece of the glass in my hand- 
kerchief. On the next occasion, in the midst of my 
laughter, I put my handkerchief up to my eyes, 
and was able with a little management to see all 
that there was behind me. I confess that I was dis- 
appointed. There was nothing. At least that was 
my first impression. At the second glance, how- 
ever, I perceived that there was a man standing in 
the Southampton Road, a small bearded man in 
a grey suit, who seemed to be looking in my di- 
rection. The road is an important highway, and 
there are usually people there. This man, however, 
was leaning against the railings which bordered 
our field and was looking earnestly up. I lowered 
my handkerchief and glanced at Mrs. Rucastle to 
find her eyes fixed upon me with a most searching 


gaze. She said nothing, but I am convinced that 
she had divined that I had a mirror in my hand 
and had seen what was behind me. She rose at 
once. 

" 'Jephro/ said she, 'there is an impertinent fel- 
low upon the road there who stares up at Miss 
Hunter.' 

" 'No friend of yours. Miss Hunter?' he asked. 

" 'No, I know no one in these parts.' 

" 'Dear me! How very impertinent! Kindly 
turn round and motion to him to go away.' 

" 'Surely it would be better to take no notice.' 

" 'No, no, we should have him loitering here al- 
ways. Kindly turn round and wave him away like 
that.' 

"I did as I was told, and at the same instant 
Mrs. Rucastle drew down the blind. That was a 
week ago, and from that time I have not sat again 
in the window, nor have I worn the blue dress, nor 
seen the man in the road." 

"Pray continue," said Holmes. "Your narrative 
promises to be a most interesting one." 

"You will find it rather disconnected, I fear, and 
there may prove to be little relation between the 
different incidents of which I speak. On the very 
first day that I was at the Copper Beeches, Mr. Ru- 
castle took me to a small outhouse which stands 
near the kitchen door. As we approached it I heard 
the sharp rattling of a chain, and the sound as of a 
large animal moving about. 

" 'Look in here!' said Mr. Rucastle, showing me 
a slit between two planks. 'Is he not a beauty?' 

"I looked through and was conscious of two 
glowing eyes, and of a vague figure huddled up in 
the darkness. 

" 'Don't be frightened,' said my employer, 
laughing at the start which I had given. 'It's only 
Carlo, my mastiff. I call him mine, but really old 
Toller, my groom, is the only man who can do any- 
thing with him. We feed him once a day, and not 
too much then, so that he is always as keen as mus- 
tard. Toller lets him loose every night, and God 
help the trespasser whom he lays his fangs upon. 
For goodness' sake don't you ever on any pretext 
set your foot over the threshold at night, for it's as 
much as your life is worth.' 

"The warning was no idle one, for two nights 
later I happened to look out of my bedroom win- 
dow about two o'clock in the morning. It was a 
beautiful moonlight night, and the lawn in front of 
the house was silvered over and almost as bright 
as day. I was standing, rapt in the peaceful beauty 
of the scene, when I was aware that something was 
moving under the shadow of the copper beeches. 


271 



The Adventure of the Copper Beeches 


As it emerged into the moonshine I saw what it 
was. It was a giant dog, as large as a calf, tawny 
tinted, with hanging jowl, black muzzle, and huge 
projecting bones. It walked slowly across the lawn 
and vanished into the shadow upon the other side. 
That dreadful sentinel sent a chill to my heart 
which I do not think that any burglar could have 
done. 

"And now I have a very strange experience to 
tell you. I had, as you know, cut off my hair in 
London, and I had placed it in a great coil at the 
bottom of my trunk. One evening, after the child 
was in bed, I began to amuse myself by examin- 
ing the furniture of my room and by rearranging 
my own little things. There was an old chest of 
drawers in the room, the two upper ones empty 
and open, the lower one locked. I had filled the 
first two with my linen, and as I had still much to 
pack away I was naturally annoyed at not having 
the use of the third drawer. It struck me that it 
might have been fastened by a mere oversight, so 
I took out my bunch of keys and tried to open it. 
The very first key fitted to perfection, and I drew 
the drawer open. There was only one thing in it, 
but I am sure that you would never guess what it 
was. It was my coil of hair. 

"I took it up and examined it. It was of the 
same peculiar tint, and the same thickness. But 
then the impossibility of the thing obtruded itself 
upon me. How could my hair have been locked 
in the drawer? With trembling hands I undid my 
trunk, turned out the contents, and drew from 
the bottom my own hair. I laid the two tresses 
together, and I assure you that they were identi- 
cal. Was it not extraordinary? Puzzle as I would, 
I could make nothing at all of what it meant. I re- 
turned the strange hair to the drawer, and I said 
nothing of the matter to the Rucastles as I felt that 
I had put myself in the wrong by opening a drawer 
which they had locked. 

"I am naturally observant, as you may have 
remarked, Mr. Holmes, and I soon had a pretty 
good plan of the whole house in my head. There 
was one wing, however, which appeared not to be 
inhabited at all. A door which faced that which 
led into the quarters of the Tollers opened into 
this suite, but it was invariably locked. One day, 
however, as I ascended the stair, I met Mr. Rucas- 
tle coming out through this door, his keys in his 
hand, and a look on his face which made him a 
very different person to the round, jovial man to 
whom I was accustomed. His cheeks were red, his 
brow was all crinkled with anger, and the veins 
stood out at his temples with passion. He locked 


the door and hurried past me without a word or a 
look. 

"This aroused my curiosity, so when I went 
out for a walk in the grounds with my charge, I 
strolled round to the side from which I could see 
the windows of this part of the house. There were 
four of them in a row, three of which were sim- 
ply dirty, while the fourth was shuttered up. They 
were evidently all deserted. As I strolled up and 
down, glancing at them occasionally, Mr. Rucas- 
tle came out to me, looking as merry and jovial as 
ever. 

" 'Ah!' said he, 'you must not think me rude if 
I passed you without a word, my dear young lady. 
I was preoccupied with business matters.' 

"I assured him that I was not offended. 'By the 
way,' said I, 'you seem to have quite a suite of spare 
rooms up there, and one of them has the shutters 
up.' 

"He looked surprised and, as it seemed to me, 
a little startled at my remark. 

" 'Photography is one of my hobbies,' said he. 
'I have made my dark room up there. But, dear 
me! what an observant young lady we have come 
upon. Who would have believed it? Who would 
have ever believed it?' He spoke in a jesting tone, 
but there was no jest in his eyes as he looked at 
me. I read suspicion there and annoyance, but no 
jest. 

"Well, Mr. Holmes, from the moment that I un- 
derstood that there was something about that suite 
of rooms which I was not to know, I was all on 
fire to go over them. It was not mere curiosity, 
though I have my share of that. It was more a 
feeling of duty — a feeling that some good might 
come from my penetrating to this place. They talk 
of woman's instinct; perhaps it was woman's in- 
stinct which gave me that feeling. At any rate, it 
was there, and I was keenly on the lookout for any 
chance to pass the forbidden door. 

"It was only yesterday that the chance came. I 
may tell you that, besides Mr. Rucastle, both Toller 
and his wife find something to do in these deserted 
rooms, and I once saw him carrying a large black 
linen bag with him through the door. Recently he 
has been drinking hard, and yesterday evening he 
was very drunk; and when I came upstairs there 
was the key in the door. I have no doubt at all that 
he had left it there. Mr. and Mrs. Rucastle were 
both downstairs, and the child was with them, 
so that I had an admirable opportunity. I turned 
the key gently in the lock, opened the door, and 
slipped through. 


272 



The Adventure of the Copper Beeches 


"There was a little passage in front of me, un- 
papered and uncarpeted, which turned at a right 
angle at the farther end. Round this corner were 
three doors in a line, the first and third of which 
were open. They each led into an empty room, 
dusty and cheerless, with two windows in the one 
and one in the other, so thick with dirt that the 
evening light glimmered dimly through them. The 
centre door was closed, and across the outside of it 
had been fastened one of the broad bars of an iron 
bed, padlocked at one end to a ring in the wall, and 
fastened at the other with stout cord. The door it- 
self was locked as well, and the key was not there. 
This barricaded door corresponded clearly with 
the shuttered window outside, and yet I could see 
by the glimmer from beneath it that the room was 
not in darkness. Evidently there was a skylight 
which let in light from above. As I stood in the 
passage gazing at the sinister door and wonder- 
ing what secret it might veil, I suddenly heard the 
sound of steps within the room and saw a shadow 
pass backward and forward against the little slit of 
dim light which shone out from under the door. 
A mad, unreasoning terror rose up in me at the 
sight, Mr. Holmes. My overstrung nerves failed 
me suddenly, and I turned and ran — ran as though 
some dreadful hand were behind me clutching at 
the skirt of my dress. I rushed down the passage, 
through the door, and straight into the arms of Mr. 
Rucastle, who was waiting outside. 

"'So/ said he, smiling, 'it was you, then. I 
thought that it must be when I saw the door open.' 

" 'Oh, I am so frightened!' I panted. 

" 'My dear young lady! my dear young 
lady!' — you cannot think how caressing and sooth- 
ing his manner was — 'and what has frightened 
you, my dear young lady?' 

"But his voice was just a little too coaxing. He 
overdid it. I was keenly on my guard against him. 

" 'I was foolish enough to go into the empty 
wing,' I answered. 'But it is so lonely and eerie 
in this dim light that I was frightened and ran out 
again. Oh, it is so dreadfully still in there!' 

" 'Only that?' said he, looking at me keenly. 

" 'Why, what did you think?' I asked. 

" 'Why do you think that I lock this door?' 

" 'I am sure that I do not know.' 

"'It is to keep people out who have no busi- 
ness there. Do you see?' He was still smiling in 
the most amiable manner. 

" 'I am sure if I had known — ' 


" 'Well, then, you know now. And if you ever 
put your foot over that threshold again' — here in 
an instant the smile hardened into a grin of rage, 
and he glared down at me with the face of a de- 
mon — 'I'll throw you to the mastiff.' 

"I was so terrified that I do not know what I 
did. I suppose that I must have rushed past him 
into my room. I remember nothing until I found 
myself lying on my bed trembling all over. Then I 
thought of you, Mr. Holmes. I could not live there 
longer without some advice. I was frightened of 
the house, of the man, of the woman, of the ser- 
vants, even of the child. They were all horrible to 
me. If I could only bring you down all would be 
well. Of course I might have fled from the house, 
but my curiosity was almost as strong as my fears. 
My mind was soon made up. I would send you 
a wire. I put on my hat and cloak, went down 
to the office, which is about half a mile from the 
house, and then returned, feeling very much eas- 
ier. A horrible doubt came into my mind as I ap- 
proached the door lest the dog might be loose, but 
I remembered that Toller had drunk himself into a 
state of insensibility that evening, and I knew that 
he was the only one in the household who had any 
influence with the savage creature, or who would 
venture to set him free. I slipped in in safety and 
lay awake half the night in my joy at the thought 
of seeing you. I had no difficulty in getting leave 
to come into Winchester this morning, but I must 
be back before three o'clock, for Mr and Mrs. Ru- 
castle are going on a visit, and will be away all the 
evening, so that I must look after the child. Now I 
have told you all my adventures, Mr. Holmes, and 
I should be very glad if you could tell me what it 
all means, and, above all, what I should do." 

Holmes and I had listened spellbound to this 
extraordinary story. My friend rose now and 
paced up and down the room, his hands in his 
pockets, and an expression of the most profound 
gravity upon his face. 

"Is Toller still drunk?" he asked. 

"Yes. I heard his wife tell Mrs. Rucastle that 
she could do nothing with him." 

"That is well. And the Rucastles go out to- 
night?" 

"Yes." 

"Is there a cellar with a good strong lock?" 

"Yes, the wine-cellar." 

"You seem to me to have acted all through this 
matter like a very brave and sensible girl. Miss 
Hunter. Do you think that you could perform one 


273 



The Adventure of the Copper Beeches 


more feat? I should not ask it of you if I did not 
think you a quite exceptional woman." 

"I will try What is it?" 

"We shall be at the Copper Beeches by seven 
o'clock, my friend and I. The Rucastles will be 
gone by that time, and Toller will, we hope, be 
incapable. There only remains Mrs. Toller, who 
might give the alarm. If you could send her 
into the cellar on some errand, and then turn the 
key upon her, you would facilitate matters im- 
mensely." 

"I will do it." 

"Excellent! We shall then look thoroughly into 
the affair. Of course there is only one feasible ex- 
planation. You have been brought there to person- 
ate someone, and the real person is imprisoned in 
this chamber. That is obvious. As to who this pris- 
oner is, I have no doubt that it is the daughter. 
Miss Alice Rucastle, if I remember right, who was 
said to have gone to America. You were chosen, 
doubtless, as resembling her in height, figure, and 
the colour of your hair. Hers had been cut off, 
very possibly in some illness through which she 
has passed, and so, of course, yours had to be sac- 
rificed also. By a curious chance you came upon 
her tresses. The man in the road was undoubtedly 
some friend of hers — possibly her fiance — and no 
doubt, as you wore the girl's dress and were so like 
her, he was convinced from your laughter, when- 
ever he saw you, and afterwards from your ges- 
ture, that Miss Rucastle was perfectly happy, and 
that she no longer desired his attentions. The dog 
is let loose at night to prevent him from endeav- 
ouring to communicate with her. So much is fairly 
clear. The most serious point in the case is the dis- 
position of the child." 

"What on earth has that to do with it?" I ejacu- 
lated. 

"My dear Watson, you as a medical man are 
continually gaining light as to the tendencies of 
a child by the study of the parents. Don't you 
see that the converse is equally valid. I have fre- 
quently gained my first real insight into the char- 
acter of parents by studying their children. This 
child's disposition is abnormally cruel, merely for 
cruelty's sake, and whether he derives this from 
his smiling father, as I should suspect, or from his 
mother, it bodes evil for the poor girl who is in 
their power." 

"I am sure that you are right, Mr. Holmes," 
cried our client. "A thousand things come back 
to me which make me certain that you have hit it. 
Oh, let us lose not an instant in bringing help to 
this poor creature." 


"We must be circumspect, for we are dealing 
with a very cunning man. We can do nothing until 
seven o'clock. At that hour we shall be with you, 
and it will not be long before we solve the mys- 
tery." 

We were as good as our word, for it was just 
seven when we reached the Copper Beeches, hav- 
ing put up our trap at a wayside public-house. 
The group of trees, with their dark leaves shin- 
ing like burnished metal in the light of the set- 
ting sun, were sufficient to mark the house even 
had Miss Hunter not been standing smiling on the 
door-step. 

"Have you managed it?" asked Holmes. 

A loud thudding noise came from somewhere 
downstairs. "That is Mrs. Toller in the cellar," said 
she. "Her husband lies snoring on the kitchen rug. 
Here are his keys, which are the duplicates of Mr. 
Rucastle's." 

"You have done well indeed!" cried Holmes 
with enthusiasm. "Now lead the way, and we shall 
soon see the end of this black business." 

We passed up the stair, unlocked the door, fol- 
lowed on down a passage, and found ourselves 
in front of the barricade which Miss Hunter had 
described. Holmes cut the cord and removed 
the transverse bar. Then he tried the various 
keys in the lock, but without success. No sound 
came from within, and at the silence Holmes' face 
clouded over. 

"I trust that we are not too late," said he. "I 
think. Miss Hunter, that we had better go in with- 
out you. Now, Watson, put your shoulder to it, and 
we shall see whether we cannot make our way in." 

It was an old rickety door and gave at once be- 
fore our united strength. Together we rushed into 
the room. It was empty. There was no furniture 
save a little pallet bed, a small table, and a basket- 
ful of linen. The skylight above was open, and the 
prisoner gone. 

"There has been some villainy here," said 
Holmes; "this beauty has guessed Miss Hunter's 
intentions and has carried his victim off." 

"But how?" 

"Through the skylight. We shall soon see how 
he managed it." He swung himself up onto the 
roof. "Ah, yes," he cried, "here's the end of a long 
light ladder against the eaves. That is how he did 
it." 

"But it is impossible," said Miss Hunter; "the 
ladder was not there when the Rucastles went 
away." 

"He has come back and done it. I tell you that 
he is a clever and dangerous man. I should not 


274 



The Adventure of the Copper Beeches 


be very much surprised if this were he whose step 
I hear now upon the stair. I think, Watson, that 
it would be as well for you to have your pistol 
ready." 

The words were hardly out of his mouth be- 
fore a man appeared at the door of the room, a 
very fat and burly man, with a heavy stick in his 
hand. Miss Hunter screamed and shrunk against 
the wall at the sight of him, but Sherlock Holmes 
sprang forward and confronted him. 

"You villain!" said he, "where's your daugh- 
ter?" 

The fat man cast his eyes round, and then up 
at the open skylight. 

"It is for me to ask you that," he shrieked, "you 
thieves! Spies and thieves! I have caught you, have 
I? You are in my power. I'll serve you!" He turned 
and clattered down the stairs as hard as he could 
g°- 

"He's gone for the dog!" cried Miss Hunter. 

"I have my revolver," said I. 

"Better close the front door," cried Holmes, and 
we all rushed down the stairs together. We had 
hardly reached the hall when we heard the bay- 
ing of a hound, and then a scream of agony, with 
a horrible worrying sound which it was dreadful 
to listen to. An elderly man with a red face and 
shaking limbs came staggering out at a side door. 

"My God!" he cried. "Someone has loosed the 
dog. It's not been fed for two days. Quick, quick, 
or it'll be too late!" 

Holmes and I rushed out and round the an- 
gle of the house, with Toller hurrying behind us. 
There was the huge famished brute, its black muz- 
zle buried in Rucastle's throat, while he writhed 
and screamed upon the ground. Running up, I 
blew its brains out, and it fell over with its keen 
white teeth still meeting in the great creases of his 
neck. With much labour we separated them and 
carried him, living but horribly mangled, into the 
house. We laid him upon the drawing-room sofa, 
and having dispatched the sobered Toller to bear 
the news to his wife, I did what I could to relieve 
his pain. We were all assembled round him when 
the door opened, and a tall, gaunt woman entered 
the room. 

"Mrs. Toller!" cried Miss Hunter. 

"Yes, miss. Mr. Rucastle let me out when he 
came back before he went up to you. Ah, miss, 
it is a pity you didn't let me know what you were 
planning, for I would have told you that your pains 
were wasted." 


"Ha!" said Holmes, looking keenly at her. "It is 
clear that Mrs. Toller knows more about this mat- 
ter than anyone else." 

"Yes, sir, I do, and I am ready enough to tell 
what I know." 

"Then, pray, sit down, and let us hear it for 
there are several points on which I must confess 
that I am still in the dark." 

"I will soon make it clear to you," said she; 
"and I'd have done so before now if I could ha' 
got out from the cellar. If there's police-court busi- 
ness over this, you'll remember that I was the one 
that stood your friend, and that I was Miss Alice's 
friend too. 

"She was never happy at home. Miss Alice 
wasn't, from the time that her father married 
again. She was slighted like and had no say in any- 
thing, but it never really became bad for her until 
after she met Mr. Fowler at a friend's house. As 
well as I could learn. Miss Alice had rights of her 
own by will, but she was so quiet and patient, she 
was, that she never said a word about them but just 
left everything in Mr. Rucastle's hands. He knew 
he was safe with her; but when there was a chance 
of a husband coming forward, who would ask for 
all that the law would give him, then her father 
thought it time to put a stop on it. He wanted her 
to sign a paper, so that whether she married or not, 
he could use her money. When she wouldn't do it, 
he kept on worrying her until she got brain-fever, 
and for six weeks was at death's door. Then she 
got better at last, all worn to a shadow, and with 
her beautiful hair cut off; but that didn't make no 
change in her young man, and he stuck to her as 
true as man could be." 

"Ah," said Holmes, "I think that what you have 
been good enough to tell us makes the matter 
fairly clear, and that I can deduce all that remains. 
Mr. Rucastle then, I presume, took to this system 
of imprisonment?" 

"Yes, sir." 

"And brought Miss Hunter down from London 
in order to get rid of the disagreeable persistence 
of Mr. Fowler." 

"That was it, sir." 

"But Mr. Fowler being a persevering man, as a 
good seaman should be, blockaded the house, and 
having met you succeeded by certain arguments, 
metallic or otherwise, in convincing you that your 
interests were the same as his." 

"Mr. Fowler was a very kind-spoken, free- 
handed gentleman," said Mrs. Toller serenely. 


275 



"And in this way he managed that your good 
man should have no want of drink, and that a lad- 
der should be ready at the moment when your 
master had gone out." 

"You have it, sir, just as it happened." 

"I am sure we owe you an apology, Mrs. Toller," 
said Holmes, "for you have certainly cleared up 
everything which puzzled us. And here comes 
the country surgeon and Mrs. Rucastle, so I think, 
Watson, that we had best escort Miss Hunter back 
to Winchester, as it seems to me that our locus 
standi now is rather a questionable one." 

And thus was solved the mystery of the sinis- 
ter house with the copper beeches in front of the 


door. Mr. Rucastle survived, but was always a bro- 
ken man, kept alive solely through the care of his 
devoted wife. They still live with their old ser- 
vants, who probably know so much of Rucastle's 
past life that he finds it difficult to part from them. 
Mr. Fowler and Miss Rucastle were married, by 
special license, in Southampton the day after their 
flight, and he is now the holder of a government 
appointment in the island of Mauritius. As to Miss 
Violet Hunter, my friend Holmes, rather to my dis- 
appointment, manifested no further interest in her 
when once she had ceased to be the centre of one 
of his problems, and she is now the head of a pri- 
vate school at Walsall, where I believe that she has 
met with considerable success. 



THE LOST SPECIAL 

The confession of Herbert de Lernac, now lying under sentence of death at Marseilles, has thrown a light upon one of the most inexplicable crimes of the 
century— an incident which is, I believe, absolutely unprecedented in the criminal annals of any country: Although there is a reluctance to discuss the matter in 
official circles, and little information has been given to the Press, there are still indications that the statement of this arch-criminal is corroborated by the facts, and 
that we have at last found a solution for a most astounding business. As the matter is eight years old, and as its importance was somewhat obscured by a political 
crisis which was engaging the public attention at the time, it may be as well to state the facts as far as we have been able to ascertain them. They are collated 
from the Liverpool papers of that date, from the proceedings at the inquest upon John Slater, the engine-driver, and from the records of the London and West 
Coast Railway Company, which have been courteously put at my disposal. Briefly, they are as follows: 

On the 3rd of June, 1890, a gentleman, who gave his name as Monsieur Louis Caratal, desired an interview with Mr. James Bland, the superintendent of the 
London and West Coast Central Station in Liverpool. He was a small man, middle-aged and dark, with a stoop which was so marked that it suggested some 
deformity of the spine. He was accompanied by a friend, a man of imposing physique, whose deferential manner and constant attention showed that his position 
was one of dependence. This friend or companion, whose name did not transpire, was certainly a foreigner, and probably from his swarthy complexion, either a 
Spaniard or a South American. One peculiarity was observed in him. He carried in his left hand a small black, leather dispatch box, and it was noticed by a sharp- 
eyed clerk in the Central office that this box was fastened to his wrist by a strap. No importance was attached to the fact at the time, but subsequent events 
endowed it with some significance. Monsieur Caratal was shown up to Mr. Bland's office, while his companion remained outside. 

Monsieur Caratal's business was quickly dispatched. He had arrived that afternoon from Central America. Affairs of the utmost importance demanded that he 
should be in Paris without the loss of an unnecessary hour. He had missed the London express. A special must be provided. Money was of no importance. Time 
was everything. If the company would speed him on his way, they might make their own terms. 

Mr. Bland struck the electric bell, summoned Mr. Potter Hood, the traffic manager, and had the matter arranged in five minutes. The train would start in three- 
quarters of an hour. It would take that time to insure that the line should be clear. The powerful engine called Rochdale (No. 247 on the company's register) was 
attached to two carriages, with a guard's van behind. The first carriage was solely for the purpose of decreasing the inconvenience arising from the oscillation. The 
second was divided, as usual, into four compartments, a first-class, a first-class smoking, a second-class, and a second-class smoking. The first compartment, 
which was nearest to the engine, was the one allotted to the travellers. The other three were empty. The guard of the special train was James McPherson, who 
had been some years in the service of the company. The stoker, William Smith, was a new hand. 

Monsieur Caratal, upon leaving the superintendent's office, rejoined his companion, and both of them manifested extreme impatience to be off. Having paid the 
money asked, which amounted to fifty pounds five shillings, at the usual special rate of five shillings a mile, they demanded to be shown the carriage, and at once 
took their seats in it, although they were assured that the better part of an hour must elapse before the line could be cleared. In the meantime a singular 
coincidence had occurred in the office which Monsieur Caratal had just quitted. 

A request for a special is not a very uncommon circumstance in a rich commercial centre, but that two should be required upon the same afternoon was most 
unusual. It so happened, however, that Mr. Bland had hardly dismissed the first traveller before a second entered with a similar request. This was a Mr. Horace 
Moore, a gentlemanly man of military appearance, who alleged that the sudden serious illness of his wife in London made it absolutely imperative that he should 
not lose an instant in starting upon the journey. His distress and anxiety were so evident that Mr. Bland did all that was possible to meet his wishes. A second 
special was out of the question, as the ordinary local service was already somewhat deranged by the first. There was the alternative, however, that Mr. Moore 
should share the expense of Monsieur Caratal's train, and should travel in the other empty first-class compartment, if Monsieur Caratal objected to having him in 
the one which he occupied. It was difficult to see any objection to such an arrangement, and yet Monsieur Caratal, upon the suggestion being made to him by Mr. 
Potter Hood, absolutely refused to consider it for an instant. The train was his, he said, and he would insist upon the exclusive use of it. All argument failed to 
overcome his ungracious objections, and finally the plan had to be abandoned. Mr. Horace Moore left the station in great distress, after learning that his only 
course was to take the ordinary slow train which leaves Liverpool at six o'clock. At four thirty-one exactly by the station clock the special train, containing the 
crippled Monsieur Caratal and his gigantic companion, steamed out of the Liverpool station. The line was at that time clear, and there should have been no 
stoppage before Manchester. 

The trains of the London and West Coast Railway run over the lines of another company as far as this town, which should have been reached by the special 
rather before six o'clock. At a quarter after six considerable surprise and some consternation were caused amongst the officials at Liverpool by the receipt of a 
telegram from Manchester to say that it had not yet arrived. An inquiry directed to St. Helens, which is a third of the way between the two cities, elicited the 
following reply — 

"To James Bland, Superintendent, Central L. & W. C., Liverpool.— Special passed here at 4:52, well up to time.— Dowster, St. Helens.” 

This telegram was received at six-forty. At six-fifty a second message was received from Manchester— 

"No sign of special as advised by you." 

And then ten minutes later a third, more bewildering — 

"Presume some mistake as to proposed running of special. Local train from St. Helens timed to follow it has just arrived and has seen nothing of it. Kindly wire 
advices.— Manchester." 

The matter was assuming a most amazing aspect, although in some respects the last telegram was a relief to the authorities at Liverpool. If an accident had 
occurred to the special, it seemed hardly possible that the local train could have passed down the same line without observing it. And yet, what was the 
alternative? Where could the train be? Had it possibly been sidetracked for some reason in order to allow the slower train to go past? Such an explanation was 
possible if some small repair had to be effected. A telegram was dispatched to each of the stations between St. Helens and Manchester, and the superintendent 
and traffic manager waited in the utmost suspense at the instrument for the series of replies which would enable them to say for certain what had become of the 
missing train. The answers came back in the order of questions, which was the order of the stations beginning at the St. Helens end— 

"Special passed here five o'clock.— Collins Green." 

"Special passed here six past five.— Earlstown." 

"Special passed here 5:10.— Newton." 

"Special passed here 5:20.— Kenyon Junction." 

"No special train has passed here.— Barton Moss." 

The two officials stared at each other in amazement. 

"This is unique in my thirty years of experience," said Mr. Bland. 

"Absolutely unprecedented and inexplicable, sir. The special has gone wrong between Kenyon Junction and Barton Moss." 

"And yet there is no siding, so far as my memory serves me, between the two stations. The special must have run off the metals." 

"But how could the four-fifty parliamentary pass over the same line without observing it?" 

"There's no alternative, Mr. Hood. It must be so. Possibly the local train may have observed something which may throw some light upon the matter. We will wire 
to Manchester for more information, and to Kenyon Junction with instructions that the line be examined instantly as far as Barton Moss." The answer from 
Manchester came within a few minutes. 

"No news of missing special. Driver and guard of slow train positive no accident between Kenyon Junction and Barton Moss. Line quite clear, and no sign of 
anything unusual.— Manchester." 



"That driver and guard will have to go," said Mr. Bland, grimly. "There has been a wreck and they have missed it. The special has obviously run off the metals 
without disturbing the line— how it could have done so passes my comprehension— but so it must be, and we shall have a wire from Kenyon or Barton Moss 
presently to say that they have found her at the bottom of an embankment." 

But Mr. Bland's prophecy was not destined to be fulfilled. Half an hour passed, and then there arrived the following message from the station-master of Kenyon 
Junction— 

"There are no traces of the missing special. It is quite certain that she passed here, and that she did not arrive at Barton Moss. We have detached engine from 
goods train, and I have myself ridden down the line, but all is clear, and there is no sign of any accident." 

Mr. Bland tore his hair in his perplexity. 

"This is rank lunacy, Hood!" he cried. "Does a train vanish into thin air in England in broad daylight? The thing is preposterous. An engine, a tender, two carriages, 
a van, five human beings— and all lost on a straight line of railway! Unless we get something positive within the next hour I’ll take Inspector Collins, and go down 
myself." 

And then at last something positive did occur. It took the shape of another telegram from Kenyon Junction. 

"Regret to report that the dead body of John Slater, driver of the special train, has just been found among the gorse bushes at a point two and a quarter miles from 
the Junction. Had fallen from his engine, pitched down the embankment, and rolled among the bushes. Injuries to his head, from the fall, appear to be cause of 
death. Ground has now been carefully examined, and there is no trace of the missing train." 

The country was, as has already been stated, in the throes of a political crisis, and the attention of the public was further distracted by the important and 
sensational developments in Paris, where a huge scandal threatened to destroy the Government and to wreck the reputations of many of the leading men in 
France. The papers were full of these events, and the singular disappearance of the special train attracted less attention than would have been the case in more 
peaceful times. The grotesque nature of the event helped to detract from its importance, for the papers were disinclined to believe the facts as reported to them. 
More than one of the London journals treated the matter as an ingenious hoax, until the coroner's inquest upon the unfortunate driver (an inquest which elicited 
nothing of importance) convinced them of the tragedy of the incident. 

Mr. Bland, accompanied by Inspector Collins, the senior detective officer in the service of the company, went down to Kenyon Junction the same evening, and 
their research lasted throughout the following day, but was attended with purely negative results. Not only was no trace found of the missing train, but no 
conjecture could be put forward which could possibly explain the facts. At the same time, Inspector Collins's official report (which lies before me as I write) served 
to show that the possibilities were more numerous than might have been expected. 

"In the stretch of railway between these two points," said he, "the country is dotted with ironworks and collieries. Of these, some are being worked and some have 
been abandoned. There are no fewer than twelve which have small-gauge lines which run trolly-cars down to the main line. These can, of course, be disregarded. 
Besides these, however, there are seven which have, or have had, proper lines running down and connecting with points to the main line, so as to convey their 
produce from the mouth of the mine to the great centres of distribution. In every case these lines are only a few miles in length. Out of the seven, four belong to 
collieries which are worked out, or at least to shafts which are no longer used. These are the Redgauntlet, Hero, Slough of Despond, and Heartsease mines, the 
latter having ten years ago been one of the principal mines in Lancashire. These four side lines may be eliminated from our inquiry, for, to prevent possible 
accidents, the rails nearest to the main line have been taken up, and there is no longer any connection. There remain three other side lines leading — 

(a) To the Carnstock Iron Works; 

(b) To the Big Ben Colliery; 

(c) To the Perseverance Colliery. 

"Of these the Big Ben line is not more than a quarter of a mile long, and ends at a dead wall of coal waiting removal from the mouth of the mine. Nothing had been 
seen or heard there of any special. The Carnstock Iron Works line was blocked all day upon the 3rd of June by sixteen truckloads of hematite. It is a single line, 
and nothing could have passed. As to the Perseverance line, it is a large double line, which does a considerable traffic, for the output of the mine is very large. On 
the 3rd of June this traffic proceeded as usual; hundreds of men including a gang of railway platelayers were working along the two miles and a quarter which 
constitute the total length of the line, and it is inconceivable that an unexpected train could have come down there without attracting universal attention. It may be 
remarked in conclusion that this branch line is nearer to St. Helens than the point at which the engine-driver was discovered, so that we have every reason to 
believe that the train was past that point before misfortune overtook her. 

"As to John Slater, there is no clue to be gathered from his appearance or injuries. We can only say that, so far as we can see, he met his end by falling off his 
engine, though why he fell, or what became of the engine after his fall, is a question upon which I do not feel qualified to offer an opinion." In conclusion, the 
inspector offered his resignation to the Board, being much nettled by an accusation of incompetence in the London papers. 

A month elapsed, during which both the police and the company prosecuted their inquiries without the slightest success. A reward was offered and a pardon 
promised in case of crime, but they were both unclaimed. Every day the public opened their papers with the conviction that so grotesque a mystery would at last 
be solved, but week after week passed by, and a solution remained as far off as ever. In broad daylight, upon a June afternoon in the most thickly inhabited 
portion of England, a train with its occupants had disappeared as completely as if some master of subtle chemistry had volatilized it into gas. Indeed, among the 
various conjectures which were put forward in the public Press, there were some which seriously asserted that supernatural, or, at least, preternatural, agencies 
had been at work, and that the deformed Monsieur Caratal was probably a person who was better known under a less polite name. Others fixed upon his swarthy 
companion as being the author of the mischief, but what it was exactly which he had done could never be clearly formulated in words. 

Amongst the many suggestions put forward by various newspapers or private individuals, there were one or two which were feasible enough to attract the 
attention of the public. One which appeared in The Times, over the signature of an amateur reasoner of some celebrity at that date, attempted to deal with the 
matter in a critical and semi-scientific manner. An extract must suffice, although the curious can see the whole letter in the issue of the 3rd of July. 

"It is one of the elementary principles of practical reasoning," he remarked, "that when the impossible has been eliminated the residuum, HOWEVER 
IMPROBABLE, must contain the truth. It is certain that the train left Kenyon Junction. It is certain that it did not reach Barton Moss. It is in the highest degree 
unlikely, but still possible, that it may have taken one of the seven available side lines. It is obviously impossible for a train to run where there are no rails, and, 
therefore, we may reduce our improbables to the three open lines, namely the Carnstock Iron Works, the Big Ben, and the Perseverance. Is there a secret society 
of colliers, an English Camorra, which is capable of destroying both train and passengers? It is improbable, but it is not impossible. I confess that I am unable to 
suggest any other solution. I should certainly advise the company to direct all their energies towards the observation of those three lines, and of the workmen at 
the end of them. A careful supervision of the pawnbrokers' shops of the district might possibly bring some suggestive facts to light." 

The suggestion coming from a recognized authority upon such matters created considerable interest, and a fierce opposition from those who considered such a 
statement to be a preposterous libel upon an honest and deserving set of men. The only answer to this criticism was a challenge to the objectors to lay any more 
feasible explanations before the public. In reply to this two others were forthcoming (Times, July 7th and 9th). The first suggested that the train might have run off 
the metals and be lying submerged in the Lancashire and Staffordshire Canal, which runs parallel to the railway for some hundred of yards. This suggestion was 
thrown out of court by the published depth of the canal, which was entirely insufficient to conceal so large an object. The second correspondent wrote calling 
attention to the bag which appeared to be the sole luggage which the travellers had brought with them, and suggesting that some novel explosive of immense and 
pulverizing power might have been concealed in it. The obvious absurdity, however, of supposing that the whole train might be blown to dust while the metals 
remained uninjured reduced any such explanation to a farce. The investigation had drifted into this hopeless position when a new and most unexpected incident 
occurred. 



This was nothing less than the receipt by Mrs. McPherson of a letter from her husband, James McPherson, who had been the guard on the missing train. The 
letter, which was dated July 5th, 1890, was posted from New York and came to hand upon July 14th. Some doubts were expressed as to its genuine character but 
Mrs. McPherson was positive as to the writing, and the fact that it contained a remittance of a hundred dollars in five-dollar notes was enough in itself to discount 
the idea of a hoax. No address was given in the letter, which ran in this way: 

MY DEAR WIFE, - 

”1 have been thinking a great deal, and I find it very hard to give you up. The same with Lizzie. I try to fight against it, but it will always come back to me. I send you 
some money which will change into twenty English pounds. This should be enough to bring both Lizzie and you across the Atlantic, and you will find the Hamburg 
boats which stop at Southampton very good boats, and cheaper than Liverpool. If you could come here and stop at the Johnston House I would try and send you 
word how to meet, but things are very difficult with me at present, and I am not very happy, finding it hard to give you both up. So no more at present, from your 
loving husband, 

"James McPherson." 

For a time it was confidently anticipated that this letter would lead to the clearing up of the whole matter, the more so as it was ascertained that a passenger who 
bore a close resemblance to the missing guard had travelled from Southampton under the name of Summers in the Hamburg and New York liner Vistula, which 
started upon the 7th of June. Mrs. McPherson and her sister Lizzie Dolton went across to New York as directed and stayed for three weeks at the Johnston 
House, without hearing anything from the missing man. It is probable that some injudicious comments in the Press may have warned him that the police were 
using them as a bait. However, this may be, it is certain that he neither wrote nor came, and the women were eventually compelled to return to Liverpool. 

And so the matter stood, and has continued to stand up to the present year of 1898. Incredible as it may seem, nothing has transpired during these eight years 
which has shed the least light upon the extraordinary disappearance of the special train which contained Monsieur Caratal and his companion. Careful inquiries 
into the antecedents of the two travellers have only established the fact that Monsieur Caratal was well known as a financier and political agent in Central 
America, and that during his voyage to Europe he had betrayed extraordinary anxiety to reach Paris. His companion, whose name was entered upon the 
passenger lists as Eduardo Gomez, was a man whose record was a violent one, and whose reputation was that of a bravo and a bully. There was evidence to 
show, however, that he was honestly devoted to the interests of Monsieur Caratal, and that the latter, being a man of puny physique, employed the other as a 
guard and protector. It may be added that no information came from Paris as to what the objects of Monsieur Caratal's hurried journey may have been. This 
comprises all the facts of the case up to the publication in the Marseilles papers of the recent confession of Herbert de Lernac, now under sentence of death for 
the murder of a merchant named Bonvalot. This statement may be literally translated as follows: 

"It is not out of mere pride or boasting that I give this information, for, if that were my object, I could tell a dozen actions of mine which are quite as splendid; but I 
do it in order that certain gentlemen in Paris may understand that I, who am able here to tell about the fate of Monsieur Caratal, can also tell in whose interest and 
at whose request the deed was done, unless the reprieve which I am awaiting comes to me very quickly. Take warning, messieurs, before it is too late! You know 
Herbert de Lernac, and you are aware that his deeds are as ready as his words. Hasten then, or you are lost! 

"At present I shall mention no names— if you only heard the names, what would you not think!— but I shall merely tell you how cleverly I did it. I was true to my 
employers then, and no doubt they will be true to me now. I hope so, and until I am convinced that they have betrayed me, these names, which would convulse 
Europe, shall not be divulged. But on that day ... well, I say no more! 

"In a word, then, there was a famous trial in Paris, in the year 1890, in connection with a monstrous scandal in politics and finance. How monstrous that scandal 
was can never be known save by such confidential agents as myself. The honour and careers of many of the chief men in France were at stake. You have seen a 
group of ninepins standing, all so rigid, and prim, and unbending. Then there comes the ball from far away and pop, pop, pop— there are your ninepins on the 
floor. Well, imagine some of the greatest men in France as these ninepins and then this Monsieur Caratal was the ball which could be seen coming from far away. 
If he arrived, then it was pop, pop, pop for all of them. It was determined that he should not arrive. 

"I do not accuse them all of being conscious of what was to happen. There were, as I have said, great financial as well as political interests at stake, and a 
syndicate was formed to manage the business. Some subscribed to the syndicate who hardly understood what were its objects. But others understood very well, 
and they can rely upon it that I have not forgotten their names. They had ample warning that Monsieur Caratal was coming long before he left South America, and 
they knew that the evidence which he held would certainly mean ruin to all of them. The syndicate had the command of an unlimited amount of money— absolutely 
unlimited, you understand. They looked round for an agent who was capable of wielding this gigantic power. The man chosen must be inventive, resolute, 
adaptive— a man in a million. They chose Herbert de Lernac, and I admit that they were right. 

"My duties were to choose my subordinates, to use freely the power which money gives, and to make certain that Monsieur Caratal should never arrive in Paris. 
With characteristic energy I set about my commission within an hour of receiving my instructions, and the steps which I took were the very best for the purpose 
which could possibly be devised. 

"A man whom I could trust was dispatched instantly to South America to travel home with Monsieur Caratal. Had he arrived in time the ship would never have 
reached Liverpool; but alas! it had already started before my agent could reach it. I fitted out a small armed brig to intercept it, but again I was unfortunate. Like all 
great organizers I was, however, prepared for failure, and had a series of alternatives prepared, one or the other of which must succeed. You must not underrate 
the difficulties of my undertaking, or imagine that a mere commonplace assassination would meet the case. We must destroy not only Monsieur Caratal, but 
Monsieur Caratal's documents, and Monsieur Caratal's companions also, if we had reason to believe that he had communicated his secrets to them. And you 
must remember that they were on the alert, and keenly suspicious of any such attempt. It was a task which was in every way worthy of me, for I am always most 
masterful where another would be appalled. 

"I was all ready for Monsieur Caratal's reception in Liverpool, and I was the more eager because I had reason to believe that he had made arrangements by which 
he would have a considerable guard from the moment that he arrived in London. Anything which was to be done must be done between the moment of his setting 
foot upon the Liverpool quay and that of his arrival at the London and West Coast terminus in London. We prepared six plans, each more elaborate than the last; 
which plan would be used would depend upon his own movements. Do what he would, we were ready for him. If he had stayed in Liverpool, we were ready. If he 
took an ordinary train, an express, or a special, all was ready. Everything had been foreseen and provided for. 

"You may imagine that I could not do all this myself. What could I know of the English railway lines? But money can procure willing agents all the world over, and I 
soon had one of the acutest brains in England to assist me. I will mention no names, but it would be unjust to claim all the credit for myself. My English ally was 
worthy of such an alliance. He knew the London and West Coast line thoroughly, and he had the command of a band of workers who were trustworthy and 
intelligent. The idea was his, and my own judgement was only required in the details. We bought over several officials, amongst whom the most important was 
James McPherson, whom we had ascertained to be the guard most likely to be employed upon a special train. Smith, the stoker, was also in our employ. John 
Slater, the engine-driver, had been approached, but had been found to be obstinate and dangerous, so we desisted. We had no certainty that Monsieur Caratal 
would take a special, but we thought it very probable, for it was of the utmost importance to him that he should reach Paris without delay. It was for this 
contingency, therefore, that we made special preparations— preparations which were complete down to the last detail long before his steamer had sighted the 
shores of England. You will be amused to learn that there was one of my agents in the pilot-boat which brought that steamer to its moorings. 

"The moment that Caratal arrived in Liverpool we knew that he suspected danger and was on his guard. He had brought with him as an escort a dangerous fellow, 
named Gomez, a man who carried weapons, and was prepared to use them. This fellow carried Caratal's confidential papers for him, and was ready to protect 
either them or his master. The probability was that Caratal had taken him into his counsel, and that to remove Caratal without removing Gomez would be a mere 
waste of energy. It was necessary that they should be involved in a common fate, and our plans to that end were much facilitated by their request for a special 
train. On that special train you will understand that two out of the three servants of the company were really in our employ, at a price which would make them 



independent for a lifetime. I do not go so far as to say that the English are more honest than any other nation, but I have found them more expensive to buy. I 
have already spoken of my English agent— who is a man with a considerable future before him, unless some complaint of the throat carries him off before his 
time. He had charge of all arrangements at Liverpool, whilst I was stationed at the inn at Kenyon, where I awaited a cipher signal to act. When the special was 
arranged for, my agent instantly telegraphed to me and warned me how soon I should have everything ready. He himself under the name of Horace Moore 
applied immediately for a special also, in the hope that he would be sent down with Monsieur Caratal, which might under certain circumstances have been helpful 
to us. If, for example, our great coup had failed, it would then have become the duty of my agent to have shot them both and destroyed their papers. Caratal was 
on his guard, however, and refused to admit any other traveller. My agent then left the station, returned by another entrance, entered the guard's van on the side 
farthest from the platform, and travelled down with McPherson the guard. 

"In the meantime you will be interested to know what my movements were. Everything had been prepared for days before, and only the finishing touches were 
needed. The side line which we had chosen had once joined the main line, but it had been disconnected. We had only to replace a few rails to connect it once 
more. These rails had been laid down as far as could be done without danger of attracting attention, and now it was merely a case of completing a juncture with 
the line, and arranging the points as they had been before. The sleepers had never been removed, and the rails, fish-plates and rivets were all ready, for we had 
taken them from a siding on the abandoned portion of the line. With my small but competent band of workers, we had everything ready long before the special 
arrived. When it did arrive, it ran off upon the small side line so easily that the jolting of the points appears to have been entirely unnoticed by the two travellers. 
"Our plan had been that Smith, the stoker, should chloroform John Slater, the driver, so that he should vanish with the others. In this respect, and in this respect 
only, our plans miscarried— I except the criminal folly of McPherson in writing home to his wife. Our stoker did his business so clumsily that Slater in his struggles 
fell off the engine, and though fortune was with us so far that he broke his neck in the fall, still he remained as a blot upon that which would otherwise have been 
one of those complete masterpieces which are only to be contemplated in silent admiration. The criminal expert will find in John Slater the one flaw in all our 
admirable combinations. A man who has had as many triumphs as I can afford to be frank, and I therefore lay my finger upon John Slater, and I proclaim him to 
be a flaw. 

"But now I have got our special train upon the small line two kilometres, or rather more than one mile, in length, which leads, or rather used to lead, to the 
abandoned Heartsease mine, once one of the largest coal mines in England. You will ask how it is that no one saw the train upon this unused line. I answer that 
along its entire length it runs through a deep cutting, and that, unless someone had been on the edge of that cutting, he could not have seen it. There WAS 
someone on the edge of that cutting. I was there. And now I will tell you what I saw. 

"My assistant had remained at the points in order that he might superintend the switching off of the train. He had four armed men with him, so that if the train ran 
off the line— we thought it probable, because the points were very rusty— we might still have resources to fall back upon. Having once seen it safely on the side 
line, he handed over the responsibility to me. I was waiting at a point which overlooks the mouth of the mine, and I was also armed, as were my two companions. 
Come what might, you see, I was always ready. 

"The moment that the train was fairly on the side line, Smith, the stoker, slowed-down the engine, and then, having turned it on to the fullest speed again, he and 
McPherson, with my English lieutenant, sprang off before it was too late. It may be that it was this slowing-down which first attracted the attention of the travellers, 
but the train was running at full speed again before their heads appeared at the open window. It makes me smile to think how bewildered they must have been. 
Picture to yourself your own feelings if, on looking out of your luxurious carriage, you suddenly perceived that the lines upon which you ran were rusted and 
corroded, red and yellow with disuse and decay! What a catch must have come in their breath as in a second it flashed upon them that it was not Manchester but 
Death which was waiting for them at the end of that sinister line. But the train was running with frantic speed, rolling and rocking over the rotten line, while the 
wheels made a frightful screaming sound upon the rusted surface. I was close to them, and could see their faces. Caratal was praying, I think— there was 
something like a rosary dangling out of his hand. The other roared like a bull who smells the blood of the slaughter-house. He saw us standing on the bank, and 
he beckoned to us like a madman. Then he tore at his wrist and threw his dispatch-box out of the window in our direction. Of course, his meaning was obvious. 
Here was the evidence, and they would promise to be silent if their lives were spared. It would have been very agreeable if we could have done so, but business is 
business. Besides, the train was now as much beyond our controls as theirs. 

"He ceased howling when the train rattled round the curve and they saw the black mouth of the mine yawning before them. We had removed the boards which 
had covered it, and we had cleared the square entrance. The rails had formerly run very close to the shaft for the convenience of loading the coal, and we had 
only to add two or three lengths of rail in order to lead to the very brink of the shaft. In fact, as the lengths would not quite fit, our line projected about three feet 
over the edge. We saw the two heads at the window: Caratal below, Gomez above; but they had both been struck silent by what they saw. And yet they could not 
withdraw their heads. The sight seemed to have paralysed them. 

"I had wondered how the train running at a great speed would take the pit into which I had guided it, and I was much interested in watching it. One of my 
colleagues thought that it would actually jump it, and indeed it was not very far from doing so. Fortunately, however, it fell short, and the buffers of the engine 
struck the other lip of the shaft with a tremendous crash. The funnel flew off into the air. The tender, carriages, and van were all smashed up into one jumble, 
which, with the remains of the engine, choked for a minute or so the mouth of the pit. Then something gave way in the middle, and the whole mass of green iron, 
smoking coals, brass fittings, wheels, wood-work, and cushions all crumbled together and crashed down into the mine. We heard the rattle, rattle, rattle, as the 
debris struck against the walls, and then, quite a long time afterwards, there came a deep roar as the remains of the train struck the bottom. The boiler may have 
burst, for a sharp crash came after the roar, and then a dense cloud of steam and smoke swirled up out of the black depths, falling in a spray as thick as rain all 
round us. Then the vapour shredded off into thin wisps, which floated away in the summer sunshine, and all was quiet again in the Heartsease mine. 

"And now, having carried out our plans so successfully, it only remained to leave no trace behind us. Our little band of workers at the other end had already ripped 
up the rails and disconnected the side line, replacing everything as it had been before. We were equally busy at the mine. The funnel and other fragments were 
thrown in, the shaft was planked over as it used to be, and the lines which led to it were torn up and taken away. Then, without flurry, but without delay, we all 
made our way out of the country, most of us to Paris, my English colleague to Manchester, and McPherson to Southampton, whence he emigrated to America. Let 
the English papers of that date tell how throughly we had done our work, and how completely we had thrown the cleverest of their detectives off our track. 

"You will remember that Gomez threw his bag of papers out of the window, and I need not say that I secured that bag and brought them to my employers. It may 
interest my employers now, however, to learn that out of that bag I took one or two little papers as a souvenir of the occasion. I have no wish to publish these 
papers; but, still, it is every man for himself in this world, and what else can I do if my friends will not come to my aid when I want them? Messieurs, you may 
believe that Herbert de Lernac is quite as formidable when he is against you as when he is with you, and that he is not a man to go to the guillotine until he has 

seen that every one of you is en route for New Caledonia. For your own sake, if not for mine, make haste, Monsieur de , and General , and Baron 

(you can fill up the blanks for yourselves as you read this). I promise you that in the next edition there will be no blanks to fill. 

"P.S.— As I look over my statement there is only one omission which I can see. It concerns the unfortunate man McPherson, who was foolish enough to write to 
his wife and to make an appointment with her in New York. It can be imagined that when interests like ours were at stake, we could not leave them to the chance 
of whether a man in that class of life would or would not give away his secrets to a woman. Having once broken his oath by writing to his wife, we could not trust 
him any more. We took steps therefore to insure that he should not see his wife. I have sometimes thought that it would be a kindness to write to her and to 
assure her that there is no impediment to her marrying again."