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The Return of Sherlock Holmes

by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle

Contents

The Adventure of the Empty House The Adventure of the Norwood Builder The Adventure of the Dancing Men The Adventure of the Solitary Cyclist The Adventure of the Priory School The Adventure of Black Peter. The Adventure of Charles Augustus Milverton The Adventure of the Six Napoleons The Adventure of the Three Students The Adventure of the Golden Pince-Nez The Adventure of the Missing Three-Quarter The Adventure of the Abbey Grange The Adventure of the Second Stain

THE ADVENTURE OF THE EMPTY HOUSE

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  positive prohibition from his own lips, which was only withdrawn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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  I acknowledged that I was.

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

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

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

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

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

  I gripped him by the arms.

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

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

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

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

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

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

  “You’ll come with me to-night?”

  “When you like and where you like.”

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

  “You never were in it?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  “But why are we here?”

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

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

  “Well?” said he.

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

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

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

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

  “But why?”

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

  “And you thought the rooms were watched?”

  “I _knew_ that they were watched.”

  “By whom?”

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

  “How do you know?”

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

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

  “The shadow has moved!” I cried.

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

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

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

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

  “That you, Lestrade?” said Holmes.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  Colonel Moran turned to the official detective.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  “Got him! Got whom, Mr. Holmes?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  “No, I have not.”

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

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

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

  He handed over the book, and I read:

  _Moran_, _Sebastian_, _Colonel_. Unemployed. Formerly 1st
  Bangalore Pioneers. Born London, 1840. Son of Sir Augustus Moran,
  C.B., once British Minister to Persia. Educated Eton and Oxford.
  Served in Jowaki Campaign, Afghan Campaign, Charasiab
  (despatches), Sherpur, and Cabul. Author of _Heavy Game of the
  Western Himalayas_ (1881); _Three Months in the Jungle_ (1884).
  Address: Conduit Street. Clubs: The Anglo-Indian, the
  Tankerville, the Bagatelle Card Club.

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

  The second most dangerous man in London.

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

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

  “It is surely rather fanciful.”

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

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

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

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

  “You have formed one, then?”

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

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

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

THE ADVENTURE OF THE NORWOOD BUILDER

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  “Mr. John Hector McFarlane?” said Lestrade.

  Our unfortunate client rose with a ghastly face.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  “Exactly,” said McFarlane.

  “Pray proceed.”

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

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

  “Was the blind down?” asked Holmes.

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

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

  “Not until I have been to Blackheath.”

  “You mean to Norwood,” said Lestrade.

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

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

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

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

  The official looked at them with a puzzled expression.

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

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

  “Well, what do _you_ make of it?”

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

  Lestrade began to laugh.

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

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

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

  “Oh, you think so?”

  “Don’t you?”

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

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

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

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

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

  “Why should the tramp burn the body?”

  “For the matter of that, why should McFarlane?”

  “To hide some evidence.”

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

  “And why did the tramp take nothing?”

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

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

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

  My friend seemed struck by this remark.

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

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

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

  “And why not Norwood?”

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

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

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

  “Did you go to Blackheath?”

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

  “‘You knew him at that time?’ said I.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  “It is true.”

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

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

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

  It was from Norwood, and ran as follows:

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

  “This sounds serious,” said I.

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

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

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

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

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

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

  Lestrade laughed loudly.

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

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

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

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

  “Yes, I am doing so.”

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

  “I have heard something of the kind.”

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

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

  “That is final,” said Lestrade.

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

  “It is final,” said Holmes.

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

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

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

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

  “By the way, Lestrade, who made this remarkable discovery?”

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

  “Where was the night constable?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

  “It is unquestionably the mark of his thumb.”

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

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

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

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

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

  “Indeed, Holmes! What is it?”

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

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

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

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

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

  “So I am.”

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

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

  “What do you mean, Mr. Holmes?”

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

  “Can you produce him?”

  “I think I can.”

  “Then do so.”

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

  “There are three within call.”

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

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

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

  Five minutes later, three policemen had assembled in the hall.

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

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

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

  Lestrade’s face had begun to grow red and angry. “I don’t know
  whether you are playing a game with us, Mr. Sherlock Holmes,”
  said he. “If you know anything, you can surely say it without all
  this tomfoolery.”

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

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

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

  “Fire!” we all yelled.

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

  “Fire!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  “I have done no harm.”

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

  The wretched creature began to whimper.

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

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

  Holmes smiled, and clapped Lestrade upon the shoulder.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  “But how?”

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

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

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

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

  “Well, that’s likely enough.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  Holmes smiled indulgently.

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

THE ADVENTURE OF THE DANCING MEN

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

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

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

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

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

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

  “I am.”

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

  “Why?”

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

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

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

  “I see no connection.”

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

  “How absurdly simple!” I cried.

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

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

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

  “Oh, that’s your idea!”

  “What else should it be?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

  AM-HERE-ABE-SLANEY

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  Hilton Cubitt shook his massive head.

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

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

  “No.”

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

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

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

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

  “You had better stay here, Watson.”

  “Why?”

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

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

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

  “Has she said anything yet?”

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

  “But you have found out something for yourself?”

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

  “What, the man who draws them?”

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

  AT-ELRIGES

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

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

  COME-ELSIE

  Holmes rubbed his hands and chuckled with delight.

  “Our material is rapidly accumulating,” said he.

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

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

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

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

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

  “Have you that fresh drawing?”

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

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

  NEVER

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  ELSIE-PREPARE-TO-MEET-THY-GOD

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

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

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

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

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

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

  A look of annoyance passed over Holmes’s face.

  “What makes you think such a thing?”

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

  Holmes’s brow was dark with anxiety.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  “Has he been moved?” asked Holmes.

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

  “How long have you been here, Doctor?”

  “Since four o’clock.”

  “Anyone else?”

  “Yes, the constable here.”

  “And you have touched nothing?”

  “Nothing.”

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

  “The housemaid, Saunders.”

  “Was it she who gave the alarm?”

  “She and Mrs. King, the cook.”

  “Where are they now?”

  “In the kitchen, I believe.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  “Because I looked for it.”

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

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

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

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

  “How do you prove that?”

  “Because the candle was not guttered.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  “I am sure I couldn’t say, sir.”

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

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

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

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

  “Whom do you suspect?” he asked.

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

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

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

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

  “Is it a lonely farm?”

  “Very lonely, sir.”

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

  “Maybe not, sir.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

  “Having once recognized, however, that the symbols stood for
  letters, and having applied the rules which guide us in all forms
  of secret writings, the solution was easy enough. The first
  message submitted to me was so short that it was impossible for
  me to do more than to say, with some confidence, that the symbol
  XXX stood for E. As you are aware, E is the most common letter in
  the English alphabet, and it predominates to so marked an extent
  that even in a short sentence one would expect to find it most
  often. Out of fifteen symbols in the first message, four were the
  same, so it was reasonable to set this down as E. It is true that
  in some cases the figure was bearing a flag, and in some cases
  not, but it was probable, from the way in which the flags were
  distributed, that they were used to break the sentence up into
  words. I accepted this as a hypothesis, and noted that E was
  represented by

  E

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

  N-V-R

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

  .M .ERE ..E SL.NE.

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

  AM HERE A.E SLANE.

  Or, filling in the obvious vacancies in the name:

  AM HERE ABE SLANEY.

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

  A. ELRI. ES.

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

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

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

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

  ELSIE .RE.ARE TO MEET THY GO.

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

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

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

  “How do you know?”

  “To fly would be a confession of guilt.”

  “Then let us go arrest him.”

  “I expect him here every instant.”

  “But why should he come?”

  “Because I have written and asked him.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  “I wrote it, to bring you here.”

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

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

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

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

  Slaney shrugged his shoulders.

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

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

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

  “It is time for us to go.”

  “Can I see her first?”

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

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

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

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

  COME-HERE-AT-ONCE

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

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

THE ADVENTURE OF THE SOLITARY CYCLIST

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  “Yes, Mr. Holmes, I teach music.”

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

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

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

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

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

  “Excuse me,” said Holmes. “When was this interview?”

  “Last December—four months ago.”

  “Pray proceed.”

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

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

  The young lady blushed and laughed.

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

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

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

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

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

  “Two or three minutes.”

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

  “None.”

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

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

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

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

  Holmes sat in silence for some little time.

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

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

  “He would not pay you a surprise visit?”

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

  “Have you had any other admirers?”

  “Several before I knew Cyril.”

  “And since?”

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

  “No one else?”

  Our fair client seemed a little confused.

  “Who was he?” asked Holmes.

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

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

  “He is a rich man.”

  “No carriages or horses?”

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

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

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

  “That he should appear only at that point?”

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

  “You will go down?”

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

  We had ascertained from the lady that she went down upon the
  Monday by the train which leaves Waterloo at 9:50, so I started
  early and caught the 9:13. At Farnham Station I had no difficulty
  in being directed to Charlington Heath. It was impossible to
  mistake the scene of the young lady’s adventure, for the road
  runs between the open heath on one side and an old yew hedge upon
  the other, surrounding a park which is studded with magnificent
  trees. There was a main gateway of lichen-studded stone, each
  side pillar surmounted by mouldering heraldic emblems, but
  besides this central carriage drive I observed several points
  where there were gaps in the hedge and paths leading through
  them. The house was invisible from the road, but the surroundings
  all spoke of gloom and decay.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  I begged him to tell me what had occurred.

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

  The Thursday brought us another letter from our client.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  “That’s the man!” I gasped.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  “They’re married!” I gasped.

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

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

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

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

  “You’re too late. She’s my wife.”

  “No, she’s your widow.”

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

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

  “Who are you, then?”

  “My name is Sherlock Holmes.”

  “Good Lord!”

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

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

  “He will live,” said I.

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

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

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

  “And also unfrocked.”

  “Once a clergyman, always a clergyman.”

  “I think not. How about the license?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  “What cable?”

  Carruthers took a telegram from his pocket.

  “That’s it,” said he.

  It was short and concise:

  The old man is dead.

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

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

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

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

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

  “What he says is true,” said Carruthers.

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

  Carruthers nodded and Williamson swore.

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

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

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

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

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

  “No, by George, I couldn’t!”

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

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

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

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

THE ADVENTURE OF THE PRIORY SCHOOL

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

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

  “What is it, Watson?” asked Holmes.

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

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

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

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

  “When you are quite restored——”

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

  My friend shook his head.

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

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

  “What! the late Cabinet Minister?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  “But there has been some official investigation?”

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

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

  “It was entirely dropped.”

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

  “I feel it and admit it.”

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

  “None at all.”

  “Was he in the master’s class?”

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

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

  “No.”

  “Was any other bicycle missing?”

  “No.”

  “Is that certain?”

  “Quite.”

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

  “Certainly not.”

  “Then what is the theory in your mind?”

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

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

  “Several.”

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

  “I suppose he would.”

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

  “No.”

  “Did he get any letters?”

  “Yes, one letter.”

  “From whom?”

  “From his father.”

  “Do you open the boys’ letters?”

  “No.”

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

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

  “When had he a letter before that?”

  “Not for several days.”

  “Had he ever one from France?”

  “No, never.”

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

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

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

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

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

  “Yes.”

  “Did he say so?”

  “No.”

  “The Duke, then?”

  “Good Heavens, no!”

  “Then how could you know?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  “When I learned that the police had failed——”

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

  “But surely, Mr. Wilder——”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  “No, sir, I have not.”

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

  The great minister showed perceptible hesitation.

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

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

  “No, sir.”

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

  “No, I wrote upon the day before.”

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

  “Yes.”

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

  “No, sir, certainly not.”

  “Did you post that letter yourself?”

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

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

  “You are sure this one was among them?”

  “Yes, I observed it.”

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

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

  “Not entirely,” said Holmes.

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

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

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

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

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

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

  Holmes'-map

  HOLMES’ MAP OF THE NEIGHBOURHOOD OF THE SCHOOL.

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

  “Exactly.”

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

  “But the bicycle?” I objected.

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

  “But the bicycle?” I persisted.

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

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

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

  “Where was it found?”

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

  “How do they account for it?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  “Hurrah!” I cried. “We have it.”

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

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

  “The boy’s, then?”

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

  “Or towards it?”

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

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

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

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

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

  “I congratulate you.”

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

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

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

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

  “A side-slip,” I suggested.

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

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

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

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

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

  “I could take a note back.”

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

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

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

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

  I assented.

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

  “Undoubtedly.”

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

  “So it would seem.”

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

  “The other bicycle.”

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

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

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

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

  “In a morass, Watson?”

  “I am at my wits’ end.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

  “No, I have not.”

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

  “Don’t put it to the ground.”

  “But I can’t walk.”

  “Well, then hop.”

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

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

  “Neither do I,” said the morose landlord.

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

  The landlord pricked up his ears.

  “Where do you want to go?”

  “To Holdernesse Hall.”

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

  Holmes laughed good-naturedly.

  “He’ll be glad to see us, anyhow.”

  “Why?”

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

  The landlord gave a very visible start.

  “What, you’re on his track?”

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

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

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

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

  “I haven’t got a bicycle.”

  Holmes held up a sovereign.

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

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

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

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

  “Yes, several.”

  “Where?”

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

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

  “I don’t remember seeing any.”

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

  “Yes, it is strange.”

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

  “Yes, I can.”

  “Can you recall that the tracks were sometimes like that,
  Watson,”—he arranged a number of breadcrumbs in this fashion—: :
  : : :—“and sometimes like this”—: . : . : . : .—“and occasionally
  like this”—.・.・.・. “Can you remember that?”

  “No, I cannot.”

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

  “And what is your conclusion?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  “It looks like a flight.”

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

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

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

  “The bar is on the other side.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  “I must see the Duke, Mr. Wilder.”

  “But he is in his room.”

  “Then I must go to his room.”

  “I believe he is in his bed.”

  “I will see him there.”

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

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

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

  “Well, Mr. Holmes?” said he.

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

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

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

  “If your Grace wishes——”

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

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

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

  “Certainly, Mr. Holmes.”

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

  “Exactly.”

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

  “Exactly.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  “What do you mean, then?”

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

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

  “Where is he?” he gasped.

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

  The Duke fell back in his chair.

  “And whom do you accuse?”

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

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

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

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

  “I saw you together last night.”

  “Does anyone else beside your friend know?”

  “I have spoken to no one.”

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

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

  “I hardly understand your Grace.”

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

  But Holmes smiled and shook his head.

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

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

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

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

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

  “No, the murderer has escaped.”

  Sherlock Holmes smiled demurely.

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

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

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

  “Your secretary?”

  “No, sir, my son.”

  It was Holmes’s turn to look astonished.

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

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

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

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

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

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

  The Duke bowed his assent.

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

  “Under solemn promises——”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  “And the first?”

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

THE ADVENTURE OF BLACK PETER

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

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

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

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

  “I drove to the butcher’s and back.”

  “The butcher’s?”

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

  “I will not attempt it.”

  He chuckled as he poured out the coffee.

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

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

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

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

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

  “And what had you to report?”

  “Failure, sir, absolute failure.”

  “You have made no progress?”

  “None.”

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

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

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

  Hopkins looked surprised.

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

  “But he had no pipe.”

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

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

  Stanley Hopkins drew a slip of paper from his pocket.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  “Meaning that you saw none?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  “What part of the table?”

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

  “Excellent! What more?”

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

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

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

  “Try Canadian Pacific Railway,” said Holmes.

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

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

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

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

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

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

  “Surely there is some discolouration here,” said he.

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

  “Was the blood-stain above or below?”

  “On the side next the boards.”

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

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

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

  “No, sir.”

  “Have you any reason to suspect robbery?”

  “No, sir. Nothing seemed to have been touched.”

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

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

  Holmes was lost in thought for some time.

  “Well,” said he, at last, “I suppose I shall have to come out and
  have a look at it.”

  Stanley Hopkins gave a cry of joy.

  “Thank you, sir. That will, indeed, be a weight off my mind.”

  Holmes shook his finger at the inspector.

  “It would have been an easier task a week ago,” said he. “But
  even now my visit may not be entirely fruitless. Watson, if you
  can spare the time, I should be very glad of your company. If you
  will call a four-wheeler, Hopkins, we shall be ready to start for
  Forest Row in a quarter of an hour.”

  Alighting at the small wayside station, we drove for some miles
  through the remains of widespread woods, which were once part of
  that great forest which for so long held the Saxon invaders at
  bay—the impenetrable “weald,” for sixty years the bulwark of
  Britain. Vast sections of it have been cleared, for this is the
  seat of the first iron-works of the country, and the trees have
  been felled to smelt the ore. Now the richer fields of the North
  have absorbed the trade, and nothing save these ravaged groves
  and great scars in the earth show the work of the past. Here, in
  a clearing upon the green slope of a hill, stood a long, low,
  stone house, approached by a curving drive running through the
  fields. Nearer the road, and surrounded on three sides by bushes,
  was a small outhouse, one window and the door facing in our
  direction. It was the scene of the murder.

  Stanley Hopkins led us first to the house, where he introduced us
  to a haggard, grey-haired woman, the widow of the murdered man,
  whose gaunt and deep-lined face, with the furtive look of terror
  in the depths of her red-rimmed eyes, told of the years of
  hardship and ill-usage which she had endured. With her was her
  daughter, a pale, fair-haired girl, whose eyes blazed defiantly
  at us as she told us that she was glad that her father was dead,
  and that she blessed the hand which had struck him down. It was a
  terrible household that Black Peter Carey had made for himself,
  and it was with a sense of relief that we found ourselves in the
  sunlight again and making our way along a path which had been
  worn across the fields by the feet of the dead man.

  The outhouse was the simplest of dwellings, wooden-walled,
  shingle-roofed, one window beside the door and one on the farther
  side. Stanley Hopkins drew the key from his pocket and had
  stooped to the lock, when he paused with a look of attention and
  surprise upon his face.

  “Someone has been tampering with it,” he said.

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

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

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

  “Some curious person from the village, perhaps,” I suggested.

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

  “I think that fortune is very kind to us.”

  “You mean that the person will come again?”

  “It is very probable. He came expecting to find the door open. He
  tried to get in with the blade of a very small penknife. He could
  not manage it. What would he do?”

  “Come again next night with a more useful tool.”

  “So I should say. It will be our fault if we are not there to
  receive him. Meanwhile, let me see the inside of the cabin.”

  The traces of the tragedy had been removed, but the furniture
  within the little room still stood as it had been on the night of
  the crime. For two hours, with most intense concentration, Holmes
  examined every object in turn, but his face showed that his quest
  was not a successful one. Once only he paused in his patient
  investigation.

  “Have you taken anything off this shelf, Hopkins?”

  “No, I have moved nothing.”

  “Something has been taken. There is less dust in this corner of
  the shelf than elsewhere. It may have been a book lying on its
  side. It may have been a box. Well, well, I can do nothing more.
  Let us walk in these beautiful woods, Watson, and give a few
  hours to the birds and the flowers. We shall meet you here later,
  Hopkins, and see if we can come to closer quarters with the
  gentleman who has paid this visit in the night.”

  It was past eleven o’clock when we formed our little ambuscade.
  Hopkins was for leaving the door of the hut open, but Holmes was
  of the opinion that this would rouse the suspicions of the
  stranger. The lock was a perfectly simple one, and only a strong
  blade was needed to push it back. Holmes also suggested that we
  should wait, not inside the hut, but outside it, among the bushes
  which grew round the farther window. In this way we should be
  able to watch our man if he struck a light, and see what his
  object was in this stealthy nocturnal visit.

  It was a long and melancholy vigil, and yet brought with it
  something of the thrill which the hunter feels when he lies
  beside the water-pool, and waits for the coming of the thirsty
  beast of prey. What savage creature was it which might steal upon
  us out of the darkness? Was it a fierce tiger of crime, which
  could only be taken fighting hard with flashing fang and claw, or
  would it prove to be some skulking jackal, dangerous only to the
  weak and unguarded?

  In absolute silence we crouched amongst the bushes, waiting for
  whatever might come. At first the steps of a few belated
  villagers, or the sound of voices from the village, lightened our
  vigil, but one by one these interruptions died away, and an
  absolute stillness fell upon us, save for the chimes of the
  distant church, which told us of the progress of the night, and
  for the rustle and whisper of a fine rain falling amid the
  foliage which roofed us in.

  Half-past two had chimed, and it was the darkest hour which
  precedes the dawn, when we all started as a low but sharp click
  came from the direction of the gate. Someone had entered the
  drive. Again there was a long silence, and I had begun to fear
  that it was a false alarm, when a stealthy step was heard upon
  the other side of the hut, and a moment later a metallic scraping
  and clinking. The man was trying to force the lock. This time his
  skill was greater or his tool was better, for there was a sudden
  snap and the creak of the hinges. Then a match was struck, and
  next instant the steady light from a candle filled the interior
  of the hut. Through the gauze curtain our eyes were all riveted
  upon the scene within.

  The nocturnal visitor was a young man, frail and thin, with a
  black moustache, which intensified the deadly pallor of his face.
  He could not have been much above twenty years of age. I have
  never seen any human being who appeared to be in such a pitiable
  fright, for his teeth were visibly chattering, and he was shaking
  in every limb. He was dressed like a gentleman, in Norfolk jacket
  and knickerbockers, with a cloth cap upon his head. We watched
  him staring round with frightened eyes. Then he laid the
  candle-end upon the table and disappeared from our view into one
  of the corners. He returned with a large book, one of the
  logbooks which formed a line upon the shelves. Leaning on the
  table, he rapidly turned over the leaves of this volume until he
  came to the entry which he sought. Then, with an angry gesture of
  his clenched hand, he closed the book, replaced it in the corner,
  and put out the light. He had hardly turned to leave the hut when
  Hopkins’s hand was on the fellow’s collar, and I heard his loud
  gasp of terror as he understood that he was taken. The candle was
  relit, and there was our wretched captive, shivering and cowering
  in the grasp of the detective. He sank down upon the sea-chest,
  and looked helplessly from one of us to the other.

  “Now, my fine fellow,” said Stanley Hopkins, “who are you, and
  what do you want here?”

  The man pulled himself together, and faced us with an effort at
  self-composure.

  “You are detectives, I suppose?” said he. “You imagine I am
  connected with the death of Captain Peter Carey. I assure you
  that I am innocent.”

  “We’ll see about that,” said Hopkins. “First of all, what is your
  name?”

  “It is John Hopley Neligan.”

  I saw Holmes and Hopkins exchange a quick glance.

  “What are you doing here?”

  “Can I speak confidentially?”

  “No, certainly not.”

  “Why should I tell you?”

  “If you have no answer, it may go badly with you at the trial.”

  The young man winced.

  “Well, I will tell you,” he said. “Why should I not? And yet I
  hate to think of this old scandal gaining a new lease of life.
  Did you ever hear of Dawson and Neligan?”

  I could see, from Hopkins’s face, that he never had, but Holmes
  was keenly interested.

  “You mean the West Country bankers,” said he. “They failed for a
  million, ruined half the county families of Cornwall, and Neligan
  disappeared.”

  “Exactly. Neligan was my father.”

  At last we were getting something positive, and yet it seemed a
  long gap between an absconding banker and Captain Peter Carey
  pinned against the wall with one of his own harpoons. We all
  listened intently to the young man’s words.

  “It was my father who was really concerned. Dawson had retired. I
  was only ten years of age at the time, but I was old enough to
  feel the shame and horror of it all. It has always been said that
  my father stole all the securities and fled. It is not true. It
  was his belief that if he were given time in which to realize
  them, all would be well and every creditor paid in full. He
  started in his little yacht for Norway just before the warrant
  was issued for his arrest. I can remember that last night when he
  bade farewell to my mother. He left us a list of the securities
  he was taking, and he swore that he would come back with his
  honour cleared, and that none who had trusted him would suffer.
  Well, no word was ever heard from him again. Both the yacht and
  he vanished utterly. We believed, my mother and I, that he and
  it, with the securities that he had taken with him, were at the
  bottom of the sea. We had a faithful friend, however, who is a
  business man, and it was he who discovered some time ago that
  some of the securities which my father had with him had
  reappeared on the London market. You can imagine our amazement. I
  spent months in trying to trace them, and at last, after many
  doubtings and difficulties, I discovered that the original seller
  had been Captain Peter Carey, the owner of this hut.

  “Naturally, I made some inquiries about the man. I found that he
  had been in command of a whaler which was due to return from the
  Arctic seas at the very time when my father was crossing to
  Norway. The autumn of that year was a stormy one, and there was a
  long succession of southerly gales. My father’s yacht may well
  have been blown to the north, and there met by Captain Peter
  Carey’s ship. If that were so, what had become of my father? In
  any case, if I could prove from Peter Carey’s evidence how these
  securities came on the market it would be a proof that my father
  had not sold them, and that he had no view to personal profit
  when he took them.

  “I came down to Sussex with the intention of seeing the captain,
  but it was at this moment that his terrible death occurred. I
  read at the inquest a description of his cabin, in which it
  stated that the old logbooks of his vessel were preserved in it.
  It struck me that if I could see what occurred in the month of
  August, 1883, on board the _Sea Unicorn_, I might settle the
  mystery of my father’s fate. I tried last night to get at these
  logbooks, but was unable to open the door. To-night I tried again
  and succeeded, but I find that the pages which deal with that
  month have been torn from the book. It was at that moment I found
  myself a prisoner in your hands.”

  “Is that all?” asked Hopkins.

  “Yes, that is all.” His eyes shifted as he said it.

  “You have nothing else to tell us?”

  He hesitated.

  “No, there is nothing.”

  “You have not been here before last night?”

  “No.”

  “Then how do you account for _that_?” cried Hopkins, as he held
  up the damning notebook, with the initials of our prisoner on the
  first leaf and the blood-stain on the cover.

  The wretched man collapsed. He sank his face in his hands, and
  trembled all over.

  “Where did you get it?” he groaned. “I did not know. I thought I
  had lost it at the hotel.”

  “That is enough,” said Hopkins, sternly. “Whatever else you have
  to say, you must say in court. You will walk down with me now to
  the police-station. Well, Mr. Holmes, I am very much obliged to
  you and to your friend for coming down to help me. As it turns
  out your presence was unnecessary, and I would have brought the
  case to this successful issue without you, but, none the less, I
  am grateful. Rooms have been reserved for you at the Brambletye
  Hotel, so we can all walk down to the village together.”

  “Well, Watson, what do you think of it?” asked Holmes, as we
  travelled back next morning.

  “I can see that you are not satisfied.”

  “Oh, yes, my dear Watson, I am perfectly satisfied. At the same
  time, Stanley Hopkins’s methods do not commend themselves to me.
  I am disappointed in Stanley Hopkins. I had hoped for better
  things from him. One should always look for a possible
  alternative, and provide against it. It is the first rule of
  criminal investigation.”

  “What, then, is the alternative?”

  “The line of investigation which I have myself been pursuing. It
  may give us nothing. I cannot tell. But at least I shall follow
  it to the end.”

  Several letters were waiting for Holmes at Baker Street. He
  snatched one of them up, opened it, and burst out into a
  triumphant chuckle of laughter.

  “Excellent, Watson! The alternative develops. Have you telegraph
  forms? Just write a couple of messages for me: ‘Sumner, Shipping
  Agent, Ratcliff Highway. Send three men on, to arrive ten
  to-morrow morning.—Basil.’ That’s my name in those parts. The
  other is: ‘Inspector Stanley Hopkins, 46 Lord Street, Brixton.
  Come breakfast to-morrow at nine-thirty. Important. Wire if
  unable to come.—Sherlock Holmes.’ There, Watson, this infernal
  case has haunted me for ten days. I hereby banish it completely
  from my presence. To-morrow, I trust that we shall hear the last
  of it forever.”

  Sharp at the hour named Inspector Stanley Hopkins appeared, and
  we sat down together to the excellent breakfast which Mrs. Hudson
  had prepared. The young detective was in high spirits at his
  success.

  “You really think that your solution must be correct?” asked
  Holmes.

  “I could not imagine a more complete case.”

  “It did not seem to me conclusive.”

  “You astonish me, Mr. Holmes. What more could one ask for?”

  “Does your explanation cover every point?”

  “Undoubtedly. I find that young Neligan arrived at the Brambletye
  Hotel on the very day of the crime. He came on the pretence of
  playing golf. His room was on the ground-floor, and he could get
  out when he liked. That very night he went down to Woodman’s Lee,
  saw Peter Carey at the hut, quarrelled with him, and killed him
  with the harpoon. Then, horrified by what he had done, he fled
  out of the hut, dropping the notebook which he had brought with
  him in order to question Peter Carey about these different
  securities. You may have observed that some of them were marked
  with ticks, and the others—the great majority—were not. Those
  which are ticked have been traced on the London market, but the
  others, presumably, were still in the possession of Carey, and
  young Neligan, according to his own account, was anxious to
  recover them in order to do the right thing by his father’s
  creditors. After his flight he did not dare to approach the hut
  again for some time, but at last he forced himself to do so in
  order to obtain the information which he needed. Surely that is
  all simple and obvious?”

  Holmes smiled and shook his head.

  “It seems to me to have only one drawback, Hopkins, and that is
  that it is intrinsically impossible. Have you tried to drive a
  harpoon through a body? No? Tut, tut my dear sir, you must really
  pay attention to these details. My friend Watson could tell you
  that I spent a whole morning in that exercise. It is no easy
  matter, and requires a strong and practised arm. But this blow
  was delivered with such violence that the head of the weapon sank
  deep into the wall. Do you imagine that this anæmic youth was
  capable of so frightful an assault? Is he the man who hobnobbed
  in rum and water with Black Peter in the dead of the night? Was
  it his profile that was seen on the blind two nights before? No,
  no, Hopkins, it is another and more formidable person for whom we
  must seek.”

  The detective’s face had grown longer and longer during Holmes’s
  speech. His hopes and his ambitions were all crumbling about him.
  But he would not abandon his position without a struggle.

  “You can’t deny that Neligan was present that night, Mr. Holmes.
  The book will prove that. I fancy that I have evidence enough to
  satisfy a jury, even if you are able to pick a hole in it.
  Besides, Mr. Holmes, I have laid my hand upon _my_ man. As to
  this terrible person of yours, where is he?”

  “I rather fancy that he is on the stair,” said Holmes, serenely.
  “I think, Watson, that you would do well to put that revolver
  where you can reach it.” He rose and laid a written paper upon a
  side-table. “Now we are ready,” said he.

  There had been some talking in gruff voices outside, and now Mrs.
  Hudson opened the door to say that there were three men inquiring
  for Captain Basil.

  “Show them in one by one,” said Holmes.

  “The first who entered was a little Ribston pippin of a man, with
  ruddy cheeks and fluffy white side-whiskers. Holmes had drawn a
  letter from his pocket.

  “What name?” he asked.

  “James Lancaster.”

  “I am sorry, Lancaster, but the berth is full. Here is half a
  sovereign for your trouble. Just step into this room and wait
  there for a few minutes.”

  The second man was a long, dried-up creature, with lank hair and
  sallow cheeks. His name was Hugh Pattins. He also received his
  dismissal, his half-sovereign, and the order to wait.

  The third applicant was a man of remarkable appearance. A fierce
  bull-dog face was framed in a tangle of hair and beard, and two
  bold, dark eyes gleamed behind the cover of thick, tufted,
  overhung eyebrows. He saluted and stood sailor-fashion, turning
  his cap round in his hands.

  “Your name?” asked Holmes.

  “Patrick Cairns.”

  “Harpooner?”

  “Yes, sir. Twenty-six voyages.”

  “Dundee, I suppose?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “And ready to start with an exploring ship?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “What wages?”

  “Eight pounds a month.”

  “Could you start at once?”

  “As soon as I get my kit.”

  “Have you your papers?”

  “Yes, sir.” He took a sheaf of worn and greasy forms from his
  pocket. Holmes glanced over them and returned them.

  “You are just the man I want,” said he. “Here’s the agreement on
  the side-table. If you sign it the whole matter will be settled.”

  The seaman lurched across the room and took up the pen.

  “Shall I sign here?” he asked, stooping over the table.

  Holmes leaned over his shoulder and passed both hands over his
  neck.

  “This will do,” said he.

  I heard a click of steel and a bellow like an enraged bull. The
  next instant Holmes and the seaman were rolling on the ground
  together. He was a man of such gigantic strength that, even with
  the handcuffs which Holmes had so deftly fastened upon his
  wrists, he would have very quickly overpowered my friend had
  Hopkins and I not rushed to his rescue. Only when I pressed the
  cold muzzle of the revolver to his temple did he at last
  understand that resistance was vain. We lashed his ankles with
  cord, and rose breathless from the struggle.

  “I must really apologize, Hopkins,” said Sherlock Holmes. “I fear
  that the scrambled eggs are cold. However, you will enjoy the
  rest of your breakfast all the better, will you not, for the
  thought that you have brought your case to a triumphant
  conclusion.”

  Stanley Hopkins was speechless with amazement.

  “I don’t know what to say, Mr. Holmes,” he blurted out at last,
  with a very red face. “It seems to me that I have been making a
  fool of myself from the beginning. I understand now, what I
  should never have forgotten, that I am the pupil and you are the
  master. Even now I see what you have done, but I don’t know how
  you did it or what it signifies.”

  “Well, well,” said Holmes, good-humouredly. “We all learn by
  experience, and your lesson this time is that you should never
  lose sight of the alternative. You were so absorbed in young
  Neligan that you could not spare a thought to Patrick Cairns, the
  true murderer of Peter Carey.”

  The hoarse voice of the seaman broke in on our conversation.

  “See here, mister,” said he, “I make no complaint of being
  man-handled in this fashion, but I would have you call things by
  their right names. You say I murdered Peter Carey, I say I
  _killed_ Peter Carey, and there’s all the difference. Maybe you
  don’t believe what I say. Maybe you think I am just slinging you
  a yarn.”

  “Not at all,” said Holmes. “Let us hear what you have to say.”

  “It’s soon told, and, by the Lord, every word of it is truth. I
  knew Black Peter, and when he pulled out his knife I whipped a
  harpoon through him sharp, for I knew that it was him or me.
  That’s how he died. You can call it murder. Anyhow, I’d as soon
  die with a rope round my neck as with Black Peter’s knife in my
  heart.”

  “How came you there?” asked Holmes.

  “I’ll tell it you from the beginning. Just sit me up a little, so
  as I can speak easy. It was in ’83 that it happened—August of
  that year. Peter Carey was master of the _Sea Unicorn_, and I was
  spare harpooner. We were coming out of the ice-pack on our way
  home, with head winds and a week’s southerly gale, when we picked
  up a little craft that had been blown north. There was one man on
  her—a landsman. The crew had thought she would founder and had
  made for the Norwegian coast in the dinghy. I guess they were all
  drowned. Well, we took him on board, this man, and he and the
  skipper had some long talks in the cabin. All the baggage we took
  off with him was one tin box. So far as I know, the man’s name
  was never mentioned, and on the second night he disappeared as if
  he had never been. It was given out that he had either thrown
  himself overboard or fallen overboard in the heavy weather that
  we were having. Only one man knew what had happened to him, and
  that was me, for, with my own eyes, I saw the skipper tip up his
  heels and put him over the rail in the middle watch of a dark
  night, two days before we sighted the Shetland Lights. Well, I
  kept my knowledge to myself, and waited to see what would come of
  it. When we got back to Scotland it was easily hushed up, and
  nobody asked any questions. A stranger died by accident and it
  was nobody’s business to inquire. Shortly after Peter Carey gave
  up the sea, and it was long years before I could find where he
  was. I guessed that he had done the deed for the sake of what was
  in that tin box, and that he could afford now to pay me well for
  keeping my mouth shut. I found out where he was through a sailor
  man that had met him in London, and down I went to squeeze him.
  The first night he was reasonable enough, and was ready to give
  me what would make me free of the sea for life. We were to fix it
  all two nights later. When I came, I found him three parts drunk
  and in a vile temper. We sat down and we drank and we yarned
  about old times, but the more he drank the less I liked the look
  on his face. I spotted that harpoon upon the wall, and I thought
  I might need it before I was through. Then at last he broke out
  at me, spitting and cursing, with murder in his eyes and a great
  clasp-knife in his hand. He had not time to get it from the
  sheath before I had the harpoon through him. Heavens! what a yell
  he gave! and his face gets between me and my sleep. I stood
  there, with his blood splashing round me, and I waited for a bit,
  but all was quiet, so I took heart once more. I looked round, and
  there was the tin box on the shelf. I had as much right to it as
  Peter Carey, anyhow, so I took it with me and left the hut. Like
  a fool I left my baccy-pouch upon the table.

  “Now I’ll tell you the queerest part of the whole story. I had
  hardly got outside the hut when I heard someone coming, and I hid
  among the bushes. A man came slinking along, went into the hut,
  gave a cry as if he had seen a ghost, and legged it as hard as he
  could run until he was out of sight. Who he was or what he wanted
  is more than I can tell. For my part I walked ten miles, got a
  train at Tunbridge Wells, and so reached London, and no one the
  wiser.

  “Well, when I came to examine the box I found there was no money
  in it, and nothing but papers that I would not dare to sell. I
  had lost my hold on Black Peter and was stranded in London
  without a shilling. There was only my trade left. I saw these
  advertisements about harpooners, and high wages, so I went to the
  shipping agents, and they sent me here. That’s all I know, and I
  say again that if I killed Black Peter, the law should give me
  thanks, for I saved them the price of a hempen rope.”

  “A very clear statement,” said Holmes, “rising and lighting his
  pipe. “I think, Hopkins, that you should lose no time in
  conveying your prisoner to a place of safety. This room is not
  well adapted for a cell, and Mr. Patrick Cairns occupies too
  large a proportion of our carpet.”

  “Mr. Holmes,” said Hopkins, “I do not know how to express my
  gratitude. Even now I do not understand how you attained this
  result.”

  “Simply by having the good fortune to get the right clue from the
  beginning. It is very possible if I had known about this notebook
  it might have led away my thoughts, as it did yours. But all I
  heard pointed in the one direction. The amazing strength, the
  skill in the use of the harpoon, the rum and water, the sealskin
  tobacco-pouch with the coarse tobacco—all these pointed to a
  seaman, and one who had been a whaler. I was convinced that the
  initials ‘P.C.’ upon the pouch were a coincidence, and not those
  of Peter Carey, since he seldom smoked, and no pipe was found in
  his cabin. You remember that I asked whether whisky and brandy
  were in the cabin. You said they were. How many landsmen are
  there who would drink rum when they could get these other
  spirits? Yes, I was certain it was a seaman.”

  “And how did you find him?”

  “My dear sir, the problem had become a very simple one. If it
  were a seaman, it could only be a seaman who had been with him on
  the _Sea Unicorn_. So far as I could learn he had sailed in no
  other ship. I spent three days in wiring to Dundee, and at the
  end of that time I had ascertained the names of the crew of the
  _Sea Unicorn_ in 1883. When I found Patrick Cairns among the
  harpooners, my research was nearing its end. I argued that the
  man was probably in London, and that he would desire to leave the
  country for a time. I therefore spent some days in the East End,
  devised an Arctic expedition, put forth tempting terms for
  harpooners who would serve under Captain Basil—and behold the
  result!”

  “Wonderful!” cried Hopkins. “Wonderful!”

  “You must obtain the release of young Neligan as soon as
  possible,” said Holmes. “I confess that I think you owe him some
  apology. The tin box must be returned to him, but, of course, the
  securities which Peter Carey has sold are lost forever. There’s
  the cab, Hopkins, and you can remove your man. If you want me for
  the trial, my address and that of Watson will be somewhere in
  Norway—I’ll send particulars later.”

THE ADVENTURE OF CHARLES AUGUSTUS MILVERTON

  It is years since the incidents of which I speak took place, and
  yet it is with diffidence that I allude to them. For a long time,
  even with the utmost discretion and reticence, it would have been
  impossible to make the facts public, but now the principal person
  concerned is beyond the reach of human law, and with due
  suppression the story may be told in such fashion as to injure no
  one. It records an absolutely unique experience in the career
  both of Mr. Sherlock Holmes and of myself. The reader will excuse
  me if I conceal the date or any other fact by which he might
  trace the actual occurrence.

  We had been out for one of our evening rambles, Holmes and I, and
  had returned about six o’clock on a cold, frosty winter’s
  evening. As Holmes turned up the lamp the light fell upon a card
  on the table. He glanced at it, and then, with an ejaculation of
  disgust, threw it on the floor. I picked it up and read:

  CHARLES AUGUSTUS MILVERTON,
  Appledore Towers,
  Hampstead.
  _Agent_.

  “Who is he?” I asked.

  “The worst man in London,” Holmes answered, as he sat down and
  stretched his legs before the fire. “Is anything on the back of
  the card?”

  I turned it over.

  “Will call at 6:30—C.A.M.,” I read.

  “Hum! He’s about due. Do you feel a creeping, shrinking
  sensation, Watson, when you stand before the serpents in the Zoo,
  and see the slithery, gliding, venomous creatures, with their
  deadly eyes and wicked, flattened faces? Well, that’s how
  Milverton impresses me. I’ve had to do with fifty murderers in my
  career, but the worst of them never gave me the repulsion which I
  have for this fellow. And yet I can’t get out of doing business
  with him—indeed, he is here at my invitation.”

  “But who is he?”

  “I’ll tell you, Watson. He is the king of all the blackmailers.
  Heaven help the man, and still more the woman, whose secret and
  reputation come into the power of Milverton! With a smiling face
  and a heart of marble, he will squeeze and squeeze until he has
  drained them dry. The fellow is a genius in his way, and would
  have made his mark in some more savoury trade. His method is as
  follows: He allows it to be known that he is prepared to pay very
  high sums for letters which compromise people of wealth and
  position. He receives these wares not only from treacherous
  valets or maids, but frequently from genteel ruffians, who have
  gained the confidence and affection of trusting women. He deals
  with no niggard hand. I happen to know that he paid seven hundred
  pounds to a footman for a note two lines in length, and that the
  ruin of a noble family was the result. Everything which is in the
  market goes to Milverton, and there are hundreds in this great
  city who turn white at his name. No one knows where his grip may
  fall, for he is far too rich and far too cunning to work from
  hand to mouth. He will hold a card back for years in order to
  play it at the moment when the stake is best worth winning. I
  have said that he is the worst man in London, and I would ask you
  how could one compare the ruffian, who in hot blood bludgeons his
  mate, with this man, who methodically and at his leisure tortures
  the soul and wrings the nerves in order to add to his already
  swollen money-bags?”

  I had seldom heard my friend speak with such intensity of
  feeling.

  “But surely,” said I, “the fellow must be within the grasp of the
  law?”

  “Technically, no doubt, but practically not. What would it profit
  a woman, for example, to get him a few months’ imprisonment if
  her own ruin must immediately follow? His victims dare not hit
  back. If ever he blackmailed an innocent person, then indeed we
  should have him, but he is as cunning as the Evil One. No, no, we
  must find other ways to fight him.”

  “And why is he here?”

  “Because an illustrious client has placed her piteous case in my
  hands. It is the Lady Eva Blackwell, the most beautiful
  _débutante_ of last season. She is to be married in a fortnight
  to the Earl of Dovercourt. This fiend has several imprudent
  letters—imprudent, Watson, nothing worse—which were written to an
  impecunious young squire in the country. They would suffice to
  break off the match. Milverton will send the letters to the Earl
  unless a large sum of money is paid him. I have been commissioned
  to meet him, and—to make the best terms I can.”

  At that instant there was a clatter and a rattle in the street
  below. Looking down I saw a stately carriage and pair, the
  brilliant lamps gleaming on the glossy haunches of the noble
  chestnuts. A footman opened the door, and a small, stout man in a
  shaggy astrakhan overcoat descended. A minute later he was in the
  room.

  Charles Augustus Milverton was a man of fifty, with a large,
  intellectual head, a round, plump, hairless face, a perpetual
  frozen smile, and two keen grey eyes, which gleamed brightly from
  behind broad, gold-rimmed glasses. There was something of Mr.
  Pickwick’s benevolence in his appearance, marred only by the
  insincerity of the fixed smile and by the hard glitter of those
  restless and penetrating eyes. His voice was as smooth and suave
  as his countenance, as he advanced with a plump little hand
  extended, murmuring his regret for having missed us at his first
  visit. Holmes disregarded the outstretched hand and looked at him
  with a face of granite. Milverton’s smile broadened, he shrugged
  his shoulders removed his overcoat, folded it with great
  deliberation over the back of a chair, and then took a seat.

  “This gentleman?” said he, with a wave in my direction. “Is it
  discreet? Is it right?”

  “Dr. Watson is my friend and partner.”

  “Very good, Mr. Holmes. It is only in your client’s interests
  that I protested. The matter is so very delicate——”

  “Dr. Watson has already heard of it.”

  “Then we can proceed to business. You say that you are acting for
  Lady Eva. Has she empowered you to accept my terms?”

  “What are your terms?”

  “Seven thousand pounds.”

  “And the alternative?”

  “My dear sir, it is painful for me to discuss it, but if the
  money is not paid on the 14th, there certainly will be no
  marriage on the 18th.” His insufferable smile was more complacent
  than ever.

  Holmes thought for a little.

  “You appear to me,” he said, at last, “to be taking matters too
  much for granted. I am, of course, familiar with the contents of
  these letters. My client will certainly do what I may advise. I
  shall counsel her to tell her future husband the whole story and
  to trust to his generosity.”

  Milverton chuckled.

  “You evidently do not know the Earl,” said he.

  From the baffled look upon Holmes’s face, I could see clearly
  that he did.

  “What harm is there in the letters?” he asked.

  “They are sprightly—very sprightly,” Milverton answered. “The
  lady was a charming correspondent. But I can assure you that the
  Earl of Dovercourt would fail to appreciate them. However, since
  you think otherwise, we will let it rest at that. It is purely a
  matter of business. If you think that it is in the best interests
  of your client that these letters should be placed in the hands
  of the Earl, then you would indeed be foolish to pay so large a
  sum of money to regain them.” He rose and seized his astrakhan
  coat.

  Holmes was grey with anger and mortification.

  “Wait a little,” he said. “You go too fast. We should certainly
  make every effort to avoid scandal in so delicate a matter.”

  Milverton relapsed into his chair.

  “I was sure that you would see it in that light,” he purred.

  “At the same time,” Holmes continued, “Lady Eva is not a wealthy
  woman. I assure you that two thousand pounds would be a drain
  upon her resources, and that the sum you name is utterly beyond
  her power. I beg, therefore, that you will moderate your demands,
  and that you will return the letters at the price I indicate,
  which is, I assure you, the highest that you can get.”

  Milverton’s smile broadened and his eyes twinkled humorously.

  “I am aware that what you say is true about the lady’s
  resources,” said he. “At the same time you must admit that the
  occasion of a lady’s marriage is a very suitable time for her
  friends and relatives to make some little effort upon her behalf.
  They may hesitate as to an acceptable wedding present. Let me
  assure them that this little bundle of letters would give more
  joy than all the candelabra and butter-dishes in London.”

  “It is impossible,” said Holmes.

  “Dear me, dear me, how unfortunate!” cried Milverton, taking out
  a bulky pocketbook. “I cannot help thinking that ladies are
  ill-advised in not making an effort. Look at this!” He held up a
  little note with a coat-of-arms upon the envelope. “That belongs
  to—well, perhaps it is hardly fair to tell the name until
  to-morrow morning. But at that time it will be in the hands of
  the lady’s husband. And all because she will not find a beggarly
  sum which she could get by turning her diamonds into paste. It
  _is_ such a pity! Now, you remember the sudden end of the
  engagement between the Honourable Miss Miles and Colonel Dorking?
  Only two days before the wedding, there was a paragraph in the
  _Morning Post_ to say that it was all off. And why? It is almost
  incredible, but the absurd sum of twelve hundred pounds would
  have settled the whole question. Is it not pitiful? And here I
  find you, a man of sense, boggling about terms, when your
  client’s future and honour are at stake. You surprise me, Mr.
  Holmes.”

  “What I say is true,” Holmes answered. “The money cannot be
  found. Surely it is better for you to take the substantial sum
  which I offer than to ruin this woman’s career, which can profit
  you in no way?”

  “There you make a mistake, Mr. Holmes. An exposure would profit
  me indirectly to a considerable extent. I have eight or ten
  similar cases maturing. If it was circulated among them that I
  had made a severe example of the Lady Eva, I should find all of
  them much more open to reason. You see my point?”

  Holmes sprang from his chair.

  “Get behind him, Watson! Don’t let him out! Now, sir, let us see
  the contents of that notebook.”

  Milverton had glided as quick as a rat to the side of the room
  and stood with his back against the wall.

  “Mr. Holmes, Mr. Holmes,” he said, turning the front of his coat
  and exhibiting the butt of a large revolver, which projected from
  the inside pocket. “I have been expecting you to do something
  original. This has been done so often, and what good has ever
  come from it? I assure you that I am armed to the teeth, and I am
  perfectly prepared to use my weapons, knowing that the law will
  support me. Besides, your supposition that I would bring the
  letters here in a notebook is entirely mistaken. I would do
  nothing so foolish. And now, gentlemen, I have one or two little
  interviews this evening, and it is a long drive to Hampstead.” He
  stepped forward, took up his coat, laid his hand on his revolver,
  and turned to the door. I picked up a chair, but Holmes shook his
  head, and I laid it down again. With a bow, a smile, and a
  twinkle, Milverton was out of the room, and a few moments after
  we heard the slam of the carriage door and the rattle of the
  wheels as he drove away.

  Holmes sat motionless by the fire, his hands buried deep in his
  trouser pockets, his chin sunk upon his breast, his eyes fixed
  upon the glowing embers. For half an hour he was silent and
  still. Then, with the gesture of a man who has taken his
  decision, he sprang to his feet and passed into his bedroom. A
  little later a rakish young workman, with a goatee beard and a
  swagger, lit his clay pipe at the lamp before descending into the
  street. “I’ll be back some time, Watson,” said he, and vanished
  into the night. I understood that he had opened his campaign
  against Charles Augustus Milverton, but I little dreamed the
  strange shape which that campaign was destined to take.

  For some days Holmes came and went at all hours in this attire,
  but beyond a remark that his time was spent at Hampstead, and
  that it was not wasted, I knew nothing of what he was doing. At
  last, however, on a wild, tempestuous evening, when the wind
  screamed and rattled against the windows, he returned from his
  last expedition, and having removed his disguise he sat before
  the fire and laughed heartily in his silent inward fashion.

  “You would not call me a marrying man, Watson?”

  “No, indeed!”

  “You’ll be interested to hear that I’m engaged.”

  “My dear fellow! I congrat——”

  “To Milverton’s housemaid.”

  “Good heavens, Holmes!”

  “I wanted information, Watson.”

  “Surely you have gone too far?”

  “It was a most necessary step. I am a plumber with a rising
  business, Escott, by name. I have walked out with her each
  evening, and I have talked with her. Good heavens, those talks!
  However, I have got all I wanted. I know Milverton’s house as I
  know the palm of my hand.”

  “But the girl, Holmes?”

  He shrugged his shoulders.

  “You can’t help it, my dear Watson. You must play your cards as
  best you can when such a stake is on the table. However, I
  rejoice to say that I have a hated rival, who will certainly cut
  me out the instant that my back is turned. What a splendid night
  it is!”

  “You like this weather?”

  “It suits my purpose. Watson, I mean to burgle Milverton’s house
  to-night.”

  I had a catching of the breath, and my skin went cold at the
  words, which were slowly uttered in a tone of concentrated
  resolution. As a flash of lightning in the night shows up in an
  instant every detail of a wild landscape, so at one glance I
  seemed to see every possible result of such an action—the
  detection, the capture, the honoured career ending in irreparable
  failure and disgrace, my friend himself lying at the mercy of the
  odious Milverton.

  “For heaven’s sake, Holmes, think what you are doing,” I cried.

  “My dear fellow, I have given it every consideration. I am never
  precipitate in my actions, nor would I adopt so energetic and,
  indeed, so dangerous a course, if any other were possible. Let us
  look at the matter clearly and fairly. I suppose that you will
  admit that the action is morally justifiable, though technically
  criminal. To burgle his house is no more than to forcibly take
  his pocketbook—an action in which you were prepared to aid me.”

  I turned it over in my mind.

  “Yes,” I said, “it is morally justifiable so long as our object
  is to take no articles save those which are used for an illegal
  purpose.”

  “Exactly. Since it is morally justifiable, I have only to
  consider the question of personal risk. Surely a gentleman should
  not lay much stress upon this, when a lady is in most desperate
  need of his help?”

  “You will be in such a false position.”

  “Well, that is part of the risk. There is no other possible way
  of regaining these letters. The unfortunate lady has not the
  money, and there are none of her people in whom she could
  confide. To-morrow is the last day of grace, and unless we can
  get the letters to-night, this villain will be as good as his
  word and will bring about her ruin. I must, therefore, abandon my
  client to her fate or I must play this last card. Between
  ourselves, Watson, it’s a sporting duel between this fellow
  Milverton and me. He had, as you saw, the best of the first
  exchanges, but my self-respect and my reputation are concerned to
  fight it to a finish.”

  “Well, I don’t like it, but I suppose it must be,” said I. “When
  do we start?”

  “You are not coming.”

  “Then you are not going,” said I. “I give you my word of
  honour—and I never broke it in my life—that I will take a cab
  straight to the police-station and give you away, unless you let
  me share this adventure with you.”

  “You can’t help me.”

  “How do you know that? You can’t tell what may happen. Anyway, my
  resolution is taken. Other people besides you have self-respect,
  and even reputations.”

  Holmes had looked annoyed, but his brow cleared, and he clapped
  me on the shoulder.

  “Well, well, my dear fellow, be it so. We have shared this same
  room for some years, and it would be amusing if we ended by
  sharing the same cell. You know, Watson, I don’t mind confessing
  to you that I have always had an idea that I would have made a
  highly efficient criminal. This is the chance of my lifetime in
  that direction. See here!” He took a neat little leather case out
  of a drawer, and opening it he exhibited a number of shining
  instruments. “This is a first-class, up-to-date burgling kit,
  with nickel-plated jemmy, diamond-tipped glass-cutter, adaptable
  keys, and every modern improvement which the march of
  civilization demands. Here, too, is my dark lantern. Everything
  is in order. Have you a pair of silent shoes?”

  “I have rubber-soled tennis shoes.”

  “Excellent! And a mask?”

  “I can make a couple out of black silk.”

  “I can see that you have a strong, natural turn for this sort of
  thing. Very good, do you make the masks. We shall have some cold
  supper before we start. It is now nine-thirty. At eleven we shall
  drive as far as Church Row. It is a quarter of an hour’s walk
  from there to Appledore Towers. We shall be at work before
  midnight. Milverton is a heavy sleeper, and retires punctually at
  ten-thirty. With any luck we should be back here by two, with the
  Lady Eva’s letters in my pocket.”

  Holmes and I put on our dress-clothes, so that we might appear to
  be two theatre-goers homeward bound. In Oxford Street we picked
  up a hansom and drove to an address in Hampstead. Here we paid
  off our cab, and with our great coats buttoned up, for it was
  bitterly cold, and the wind seemed to blow through us, we walked
  along the edge of the heath.

  “It’s a business that needs delicate treatment,” said Holmes.
  “These documents are contained in a safe in the fellow’s study,
  and the study is the ante-room of his bed-chamber. On the other
  hand, like all these stout, little men who do themselves well, he
  is a plethoric sleeper. Agatha—that’s my _fiancée_—says it is a
  joke in the servants’ hall that it’s impossible to wake the
  master. He has a secretary who is devoted to his interests, and
  never budges from the study all day. That’s why we are going at
  night. Then he has a beast of a dog which roams the garden. I met
  Agatha late the last two evenings, and she locks the brute up so
  as to give me a clear run. This is the house, this big one in its
  own grounds. Through the gate—now to the right among the laurels.
  We might put on our masks here, I think. You see, there is not a
  glimmer of light in any of the windows, and everything is working
  splendidly.”

  With our black silk face-coverings, which turned us into two of
  the most truculent figures in London, we stole up to the silent,
  gloomy house. A sort of tiled veranda extended along one side of
  it, lined by several windows and two doors.

  “That’s his bedroom,” Holmes whispered. “This door opens straight
  into the study. It would suit us best, but it is bolted as well
  as locked, and we should make too much noise getting in. Come
  round here. There’s a greenhouse which opens into the
  drawing-room.”

  The place was locked, but Holmes removed a circle of glass and
  turned the key from the inside. An instant afterwards he had
  closed the door behind us, and we had become felons in the eyes
  of the law. The thick, warm air of the conservatory and the rich,
  choking fragrance of exotic plants took us by the throat. He
  seized my hand in the darkness and led me swiftly past banks of
  shrubs which brushed against our faces. Holmes had remarkable
  powers, carefully cultivated, of seeing in the dark. Still
  holding my hand in one of his, he opened a door, and I was
  vaguely conscious that we had entered a large room in which a
  cigar had been smoked not long before. He felt his way among the
  furniture, opened another door, and closed it behind us. Putting
  out my hand I felt several coats hanging from the wall, and I
  understood that I was in a passage. We passed along it and Holmes
  very gently opened a door upon the right-hand side. Something
  rushed out at us and my heart sprang into my mouth, but I could
  have laughed when I realized that it was the cat. A fire was
  burning in this new room, and again the air was heavy with
  tobacco smoke. Holmes entered on tiptoe, waited for me to follow,
  and then very gently closed the door. We were in Milverton’s
  study, and a _portière_ at the farther side showed the entrance
  to his bedroom.

  It was a good fire, and the room was illuminated by it. Near the
  door I saw the gleam of an electric switch, but it was
  unnecessary, even if it had been safe, to turn it on. At one side
  of the fireplace was a heavy curtain which covered the bay window
  we had seen from outside. On the other side was the door which
  communicated with the veranda. A desk stood in the centre, with a
  turning-chair of shining red leather. Opposite was a large
  bookcase, with a marble bust of Athene on the top. In the corner,
  between the bookcase and the wall, there stood a tall, green
  safe, the firelight flashing back from the polished brass knobs
  upon its face. Holmes stole across and looked at it. Then he
  crept to the door of the bedroom, and stood with slanting head
  listening intently. No sound came from within. Meanwhile it had
  struck me that it would be wise to secure our retreat through the
  outer door, so I examined it. To my amazement, it was neither
  locked nor bolted. I touched Holmes on the arm, and he turned his
  masked face in that direction. I saw him start, and he was
  evidently as surprised as I.

  “I don’t like it,” he whispered, putting his lips to my very ear.
  “I can’t quite make it out. Anyhow, we have no time to lose.”

  “Can I do anything?”

  “Yes, stand by the door. If you hear anyone come, bolt it on the
  inside, and we can get away as we came. If they come the other
  way, we can get through the door if our job is done, or hide
  behind these window curtains if it is not. Do you understand?”

  I nodded, and stood by the door. My first feeling of fear had
  passed away, and I thrilled now with a keener zest than I had
  ever enjoyed when we were the defenders of the law instead of its
  defiers. The high object of our mission, the consciousness that
  it was unselfish and chivalrous, the villainous character of our
  opponent, all added to the sporting interest of the adventure.
  Far from feeling guilty, I rejoiced and exulted in our dangers.
  With a glow of admiration I watched Holmes unrolling his case of
  instruments and choosing his tool with the calm, scientific
  accuracy of a surgeon who performs a delicate operation. I knew
  that the opening of safes was a particular hobby with him, and I
  understood the joy which it gave him to be confronted with this
  green and gold monster, the dragon which held in its maw the
  reputations of many fair ladies. Turning up the cuffs of his
  dress-coat—he had placed his overcoat on a chair—Holmes laid out
  two drills, a jemmy, and several skeleton keys. I stood at the
  centre door with my eyes glancing at each of the others, ready
  for any emergency, though, indeed, my plans were somewhat vague
  as to what I should do if we were interrupted. For half an hour,
  Holmes worked with concentrated energy, laying down one tool,
  picking up another, handling each with the strength and delicacy
  of the trained mechanic. Finally I heard a click, the broad green
  door swung open, and inside I had a glimpse of a number of paper
  packets, each tied, sealed, and inscribed. Holmes picked one out,
  but it was as hard to read by the flickering fire, and he drew
  out his little dark lantern, for it was too dangerous, with
  Milverton in the next room, to switch on the electric light.
  Suddenly I saw him halt, listen intently, and then in an instant
  he had swung the door of the safe to, picked up his coat, stuffed
  his tools into the pockets, and darted behind the window curtain,
  motioning me to do the same.

  It was only when I had joined him there that I heard what had
  alarmed his quicker senses. There was a noise somewhere within
  the house. A door slammed in the distance. Then a confused, dull
  murmur broke itself into the measured thud of heavy footsteps
  rapidly approaching. They were in the passage outside the room.
  They paused at the door. The door opened. There was a sharp snick
  as the electric light was turned on. The door closed once more,
  and the pungent reek of a strong cigar was borne to our nostrils.
  Then the footsteps continued backward and forward, backward and
  forward, within a few yards of us. Finally there was a creak from
  a chair, and the footsteps ceased. Then a key clicked in a lock,
  and I heard the rustle of papers.

  So far I had not dared to look out, but now I gently parted the
  division of the curtains in front of me and peeped through. From
  the pressure of Holmes’s shoulder against mine, I knew that he
  was sharing my observations. Right in front of us, and almost
  within our reach, was the broad, rounded back of Milverton. It
  was evident that we had entirely miscalculated his movements,
  that he had never been to his bedroom, but that he had been
  sitting up in some smoking or billiard room in the farther wing
  of the house, the windows of which we had not seen. His broad,
  grizzled head, with its shining patch of baldness, was in the
  immediate foreground of our vision. He was leaning far back in
  the red leather chair, his legs outstretched, a long, black cigar
  projecting at an angle from his mouth. He wore a semi-military
  smoking jacket, claret-coloured, with a black velvet collar. In
  his hand he held a long, legal document which he was reading in
  an indolent fashion, blowing rings of tobacco smoke from his lips
  as he did so. There was no promise of a speedy departure in his
  composed bearing and his comfortable attitude.

  I felt Holmes’s hand steal into mine and give me a reassuring
  shake, as if to say that the situation was within his powers, and
  that he was easy in his mind. I was not sure whether he had seen
  what was only too obvious from my position, that the door of the
  safe was imperfectly closed, and that Milverton might at any
  moment observe it. In my own mind I had determined that if I were
  sure, from the rigidity of his gaze, that it had caught his eye,
  I would at once spring out, throw my great coat over his head,
  pinion him, and leave the rest to Holmes. But Milverton never
  looked up. He was languidly interested by the papers in his hand,
  and page after page was turned as he followed the argument of the
  lawyer. At least, I thought, when he has finished the document
  and the cigar he will go to his room, but before he had reached
  the end of either, there came a remarkable development, which
  turned our thoughts into quite another channel.

  Several times I had observed that Milverton looked at his watch,
  and once he had risen and sat down again, with a gesture of
  impatience. The idea, however, that he might have an appointment
  at so strange an hour never occurred to me until a faint sound
  reached my ears from the veranda outside. Milverton dropped his
  papers and sat rigid in his chair. The sound was repeated, and
  then there came a gentle tap at the door. Milverton rose and
  opened it.

  “Well,” said he, curtly, “you are nearly half an hour late.”

  So this was the explanation of the unlocked door and of the
  nocturnal vigil of Milverton. There was the gentle rustle of a
  woman’s dress. I had closed the slit between the curtains as
  Milverton’s face had turned in our direction, but now I ventured
  very carefully to open it once more. He had resumed his seat, the
  cigar still projecting at an insolent angle from the corner of
  his mouth. In front of him, in the full glare of the electric
  light, there stood a tall, slim, dark woman, a veil over her
  face, a mantle drawn round her chin. Her breath came quick and
  fast, and every inch of the lithe figure was quivering with
  strong emotion.

  “Well,” said Milverton, “you made me lose a good night’s rest, my
  dear. I hope you’ll prove worth it. You couldn’t come any other
  time—eh?”

  The woman shook her head.

  “Well, if you couldn’t you couldn’t. If the Countess is a hard
  mistress, you have your chance to get level with her now. Bless
  the girl, what are you shivering about? That’s right. Pull
  yourself together. Now, let us get down to business.” He took a
  notebook from the drawer of his desk. “You say that you have five
  letters which compromise the Countess d’Albert. You want to sell
  them. I want to buy them. So far so good. It only remains to fix
  a price. I should want to inspect the letters, of course. If they
  are really good specimens—Great heavens, is it you?”

  The woman, without a word, had raised her veil and dropped the
  mantle from her chin. It was a dark, handsome, clear-cut face
  which confronted Milverton—a face with a curved nose, strong,
  dark eyebrows shading hard, glittering eyes, and a straight,
  thin-lipped mouth set in a dangerous smile.

  “It is I,” she said, “the woman whose life you have ruined.”

  Milverton laughed, but fear vibrated in his voice. “You were so
  very obstinate,” said he. “Why did you drive me to such
  extremities? I assure you I wouldn’t hurt a fly of my own accord,
  but every man has his business, and what was I to do? I put the
  price well within your means. You would not pay.”

  “So you sent the letters to my husband, and he—the noblest
  gentleman that ever lived, a man whose boots I was never worthy
  to lace—he broke his gallant heart and died. You remember that
  last night, when I came through that door, I begged and prayed
  you for mercy, and you laughed in my face as you are trying to
  laugh now, only your coward heart cannot keep your lips from
  twitching. Yes, you never thought to see me here again, but it
  was that night which taught me how I could meet you face to face,
  and alone. Well, Charles Milverton, what have you to say?”

  “Don’t imagine that you can bully me,” said he, rising to his
  feet. “I have only to raise my voice and I could call my servants
  and have you arrested. But I will make allowance for your natural
  anger. Leave the room at once as you came, and I will say no
  more.”

  The woman stood with her hand buried in her bosom, and the same
  deadly smile on her thin lips.

  “You will ruin no more lives as you have ruined mine. You will
  wring no more hearts as you wrung mine. I will free the world of
  a poisonous thing. Take that, you hound—and that!—and that!—and
  that!”

  She had drawn a little gleaming revolver, and emptied barrel
  after barrel into Milverton’s body, the muzzle within two feet of
  his shirt front. He shrank away and then fell forward upon the
  table, coughing furiously and clawing among the papers. Then he
  staggered to his feet, received another shot, and rolled upon the
  floor. “You’ve done me,” he cried, and lay still. The woman
  looked at him intently, and ground her heel into his upturned
  face. She looked again, but there was no sound or movement. I
  heard a sharp rustle, the night air blew into the heated room,
  and the avenger was gone.

  No interference upon our part could have saved the man from his
  fate, but, as the woman poured bullet after bullet into
  Milverton’s shrinking body I was about to spring out, when I felt
  Holmes’s cold, strong grasp upon my wrist. I understood the whole
  argument of that firm, restraining grip—that it was no affair of
  ours, that justice had overtaken a villain, that we had our own
  duties and our own objects, which were not to be lost sight of.
  But hardly had the woman rushed from the room when Holmes, with
  swift, silent steps, was over at the other door. He turned the
  key in the lock. At the same instant we heard voices in the house
  and the sound of hurrying feet. The revolver shots had roused the
  household. With perfect coolness Holmes slipped across to the
  safe, filled his two arms with bundles of letters, and poured
  them all into the fire. Again and again he did it, until the safe
  was empty. Someone turned the handle and beat upon the outside of
  the door. Holmes looked swiftly round. The letter which had been
  the messenger of death for Milverton lay, all mottled with his
  blood, upon the table. Holmes tossed it in among the blazing
  papers. Then he drew the key from the outer door, passed through
  after me, and locked it on the outside. “This way, Watson,” said
  he, “we can scale the garden wall in this direction.”

  I could not have believed that an alarm could have spread so
  swiftly. Looking back, the huge house was one blaze of light. The
  front door was open, and figures were rushing down the drive. The
  whole garden was alive with people, and one fellow raised a
  view-halloa as we emerged from the veranda and followed hard at
  our heels. Holmes seemed to know the grounds perfectly, and he
  threaded his way swiftly among a plantation of small trees, I
  close at his heels, and our foremost pursuer panting behind us.
  It was a six-foot wall which barred our path, but he sprang to
  the top and over. As I did the same I felt the hand of the man
  behind me grab at my ankle, but I kicked myself free and
  scrambled over a grass-strewn coping. I fell upon my face among
  some bushes, but Holmes had me on my feet in an instant, and
  together we dashed away across the huge expanse of Hampstead
  Heath. We had run two miles, I suppose, before Holmes at last
  halted and listened intently. All was absolute silence behind us.
  We had shaken off our pursuers and were safe.

  We had breakfasted and were smoking our morning pipe on the day
  after the remarkable experience which I have recorded, when Mr.
  Lestrade, of Scotland Yard, very solemn and impressive, was
  ushered into our modest sitting-room.

  “Good-morning, Mr. Holmes,” said he; “good-morning. May I ask if
  you are very busy just now?”

  “Not too busy to listen to you.”

  “I thought that, perhaps, if you had nothing particular on hand,
  you might care to assist us in a most remarkable case, which
  occurred only last night at Hampstead.”

  “Dear me!” said Holmes. “What was that?”

  “A murder—a most dramatic and remarkable murder. I know how keen
  you are upon these things, and I would take it as a great favour
  if you would step down to Appledore Towers, and give us the
  benefit of your advice. It is no ordinary crime. We have had our
  eyes upon this Mr. Milverton for some time, and, between
  ourselves, he was a bit of a villain. He is known to have held
  papers which he used for blackmailing purposes. These papers have
  all been burned by the murderers. No article of value was taken,
  as it is probable that the criminals were men of good position,
  whose sole object was to prevent social exposure.”

  “Criminals?” said Holmes. “Plural?”

  “Yes, there were two of them. They were as nearly as possible
  captured red-handed. We have their footmarks, we have their
  description, it’s ten to one that we trace them. The first fellow
  was a bit too active, but the second was caught by the
  under-gardener, and only got away after a struggle. He was a
  middle-sized, strongly built man—square jaw, thick neck,
  moustache, a mask over his eyes.”

  “That’s rather vague,” said Sherlock Holmes. “My, it might be a
  description of Watson!”

  “It’s true,” said the inspector, with amusement. “It might be a
  description of Watson.”

  “Well, I’m afraid I can’t help you, Lestrade,” said Holmes. “The
  fact is that I knew this fellow Milverton, that I considered him
  one of the most dangerous men in London, and that I think there
  are certain crimes which the law cannot touch, and which
  therefore, to some extent, justify private revenge. No, it’s no
  use arguing. I have made up my mind. My sympathies are with the
  criminals rather than with the victim, and I will not handle this
  case.”

  Holmes had not said one word to me about the tragedy which we had
  witnessed, but I observed all the morning that he was in his most
  thoughtful mood, and he gave me the impression, from his vacant
  eyes and his abstracted manner, of a man who is striving to
  recall something to his memory. We were in the middle of our
  lunch, when he suddenly sprang to his feet. “By Jove, Watson,
  I’ve got it!” he cried. “Take your hat! Come with me!” He hurried
  at his top speed down Baker Street and along Oxford Street, until
  we had almost reached Regent Circus. Here, on the left hand,
  there stands a shop window filled with photographs of the
  celebrities and beauties of the day. Holmes’s eyes fixed
  themselves upon one of them, and following his gaze I saw the
  picture of a regal and stately lady in Court dress, with a high
  diamond tiara upon her noble head. I looked at that delicately
  curved nose, at the marked eyebrows, at the straight mouth, and
  the strong little chin beneath it. Then I caught my breath as I
  read the time-honoured title of the great nobleman and statesman
  whose wife she had been. My eyes met those of Holmes, and he put
  his finger to his lips as we turned away from the window.

THE ADVENTURE OF THE SIX NAPOLEONS

  It was no very unusual thing for Mr. Lestrade, of Scotland Yard,
  to look in upon us of an evening, and his visits were welcome to
  Sherlock Holmes, for they enabled him to keep in touch with all
  that was going on at the police headquarters. In return for the
  news which Lestrade would bring, Holmes was always ready to
  listen with attention to the details of any case upon which the
  detective was engaged, and was able occasionally, without any
  active interference, to give some hint or suggestion drawn from
  his own vast knowledge and experience.

  On this particular evening, Lestrade had spoken of the weather
  and the newspapers. Then he had fallen silent, puffing
  thoughtfully at his cigar. Holmes looked keenly at him.

  “Anything remarkable on hand?” he asked.

  “Oh, no, Mr. Holmes—nothing very particular.”

  “Then tell me about it.”

  Lestrade laughed.

  “Well, Mr. Holmes, there is no use denying that there _is_
  something on my mind. And yet it is such an absurd business, that
  I hesitated to bother you about it. On the other hand, although
  it is trivial, it is undoubtedly queer, and I know that you have
  a taste for all that is out of the common. But, in my opinion, it
  comes more in Dr. Watson’s line than ours.”

  “Disease?” said I.

  “Madness, anyhow. And a queer madness, too. You wouldn’t think
  there was anyone living at this time of day who had such a hatred
  of Napoleon the First that he would break any image of him that
  he could see.”

  Holmes sank back in his chair.

  “That’s no business of mine,” said he.

  “Exactly. That’s what I said. But then, when the man commits
  burglary in order to break images which are not his own, that
  brings it away from the doctor and on to the policeman.”

  Holmes sat up again.

  “Burglary! This is more interesting. Let me hear the details.”

  Lestrade took out his official notebook and refreshed his memory
  from its pages.

  “The first case reported was four days ago,” said he. “It was at
  the shop of Morse Hudson, who has a place for the sale of
  pictures and statues in the Kennington Road. The assistant had
  left the front shop for an instant, when he heard a crash, and
  hurrying in he found a plaster bust of Napoleon, which stood with
  several other works of art upon the counter, lying shivered into
  fragments. He rushed out into the road, but, although several
  passers-by declared that they had noticed a man run out of the
  shop, he could neither see anyone nor could he find any means of
  identifying the rascal. It seemed to be one of those senseless
  acts of hooliganism which occur from time to time, and it was
  reported to the constable on the beat as such. The plaster cast
  was not worth more than a few shillings, and the whole affair
  appeared to be too childish for any particular investigation.

  “The second case, however, was more serious, and also more
  singular. It occurred only last night.

  “In Kennington Road, and within a few hundred yards of Morse
  Hudson’s shop, there lives a well-known medical practitioner,
  named Dr. Barnicot, who has one of the largest practices upon the
  south side of the Thames. His residence and principal
  consulting-room is at Kennington Road, but he has a branch
  surgery and dispensary at Lower Brixton Road, two miles away.
  This Dr. Barnicot is an enthusiastic admirer of Napoleon, and his
  house is full of books, pictures, and relics of the French
  Emperor. Some little time ago he purchased from Morse Hudson two
  duplicate plaster casts of the famous head of Napoleon by the
  French sculptor, Devine. One of these he placed in his hall in
  the house at Kennington Road, and the other on the mantelpiece of
  the surgery at Lower Brixton. Well, when Dr. Barnicot came down
  this morning he was astonished to find that his house had been
  burgled during the night, but that nothing had been taken save
  the plaster head from the hall. It had been carried out and had
  been dashed savagely against the garden wall, under which its
  splintered fragments were discovered.”

  Holmes rubbed his hands.

  “This is certainly very novel,” said he.

  “I thought it would please you. But I have not got to the end
  yet. Dr. Barnicot was due at his surgery at twelve o’clock, and
  you can imagine his amazement when, on arriving there, he found
  that the window had been opened in the night and that the broken
  pieces of his second bust were strewn all over the room. It had
  been smashed to atoms where it stood. In neither case were there
  any signs which could give us a clue as to the criminal or
  lunatic who had done the mischief. Now, Mr. Holmes, you have got
  the facts.”

  “They are singular, not to say grotesque,” said Holmes. “May I
  ask whether the two busts smashed in Dr. Barnicot’s rooms were
  the exact duplicates of the one which was destroyed in Morse
  Hudson’s shop?”

  “They were taken from the same mould.”

  “Such a fact must tell against the theory that the man who breaks
  them is influenced by any general hatred of Napoleon. Considering
  how many hundreds of statues of the great Emperor must exist in
  London, it is too much to suppose such a coincidence as that a
  promiscuous iconoclast should chance to begin upon three
  specimens of the same bust.”

  “Well, I thought as you do,” said Lestrade. “On the other hand,
  this Morse Hudson is the purveyor of busts in that part of
  London, and these three were the only ones which had been in his
  shop for years. So, although, as you say, there are many hundreds
  of statues in London, it is very probable that these three were
  the only ones in that district. Therefore, a local fanatic would
  begin with them. What do you think, Dr. Watson?”

  “There are no limits to the possibilities of monomania,” I
  answered. “There is the condition which the modern French
  psychologists have called the _idée fixe_, which may be trifling
  in character, and accompanied by complete sanity in every other
  way. A man who had read deeply about Napoleon, or who had
  possibly received some hereditary family injury through the great
  war, might conceivably form such an _idée fixe_ and under its
  influence be capable of any fantastic outrage.”

  “That won’t do, my dear Watson,” said Holmes, shaking his head,
  “for no amount of _idée fixe_ would enable your interesting
  monomaniac to find out where these busts were situated.”

  “Well, how do _you_ explain it?”

  “I don’t attempt to do so. I would only observe that there is a
  certain method in the gentleman’s eccentric proceedings. For
  example, in Dr. Barnicot’s hall, where a sound might arouse the
  family, the bust was taken outside before being broken, whereas
  in the surgery, where there was less danger of an alarm, it was
  smashed where it stood. The affair seems absurdly trifling, and
  yet I dare call nothing trivial when I reflect that some of my
  most classic cases have had the least promising commencement. You
  will remember, Watson, how the dreadful business of the Abernetty
  family was first brought to my notice by the depth which the
  parsley had sunk into the butter upon a hot day. I can’t afford,
  therefore, to smile at your three broken busts, Lestrade, and I
  shall be very much obliged to you if you will let me hear of any
  fresh development of so singular a chain of events.”

  The development for which my friend had asked came in a quicker
  and an infinitely more tragic form than he could have imagined. I
  was still dressing in my bedroom next morning, when there was a
  tap at the door and Holmes entered, a telegram in his hand. He
  read it aloud:

  “Come instantly, 131, Pitt Street, Kensington.—LESTRADE.”

  “What is it, then?” I asked.

  “Don’t know—may be anything. But I suspect it is the sequel of
  the story of the statues. In that case our friend the
  image-breaker has begun operations in another quarter of London.
  There’s coffee on the table, Watson, and I have a cab at the
  door.”

  In half an hour we had reached Pitt Street, a quiet little
  backwater just beside one of the briskest currents of London
  life. No. 131 was one of a row, all flat-chested, respectable,
  and most unromantic dwellings. As we drove up, we found the
  railings in front of the house lined by a curious crowd. Holmes
  whistled.

  “By George! It’s attempted murder at the least. Nothing less will
  hold the London message-boy. There’s a deed of violence indicated
  in that fellow’s round shoulders and outstretched neck. What’s
  this, Watson? The top steps swilled down and the other ones dry.
  Footsteps enough, anyhow! Well, well, there’s Lestrade at the
  front window, and we shall soon know all about it.”

  The official received us with a very grave face and showed us
  into a sitting-room, where an exceedingly unkempt and agitated
  elderly man, clad in a flannel dressing-gown, was pacing up and
  down. He was introduced to us as the owner of the house—Mr.
  Horace Harker, of the Central Press Syndicate.

  “It’s the Napoleon bust business again,” said Lestrade. “You
  seemed interested last night, Mr. Holmes, so I thought perhaps
  you would be glad to be present now that the affair has taken a
  very much graver turn.”

  “What has it turned to, then?”

  “To murder. Mr. Harker, will you tell these gentlemen exactly
  what has occurred?”

  The man in the dressing-gown turned upon us with a most
  melancholy face.

  “It’s an extraordinary thing,” said he, “that all my life I have
  been collecting other people’s news, and now that a real piece of
  news has come my own way I am so confused and bothered that I
  can’t put two words together. If I had come in here as a
  journalist, I should have interviewed myself and had two columns
  in every evening paper. As it is, I am giving away valuable copy
  by telling my story over and over to a string of different
  people, and I can make no use of it myself. However, I’ve heard
  your name, Mr. Sherlock Holmes, and if you’ll only explain this
  queer business, I shall be paid for my trouble in telling you the
  story.”

  Holmes sat down and listened.

  “It all seems to centre round that bust of Napoleon which I
  bought for this very room about four months ago. I picked it up
  cheap from Harding Brothers, two doors from the High Street
  Station. A great deal of my journalistic work is done at night,
  and I often write until the early morning. So it was to-day. I
  was sitting in my den, which is at the back of the top of the
  house, about three o’clock, when I was convinced that I heard
  some sounds downstairs. I listened, but they were not repeated,
  and I concluded that they came from outside. Then suddenly, about
  five minutes later, there came a most horrible yell—the most
  dreadful sound, Mr. Holmes, that ever I heard. It will ring in my
  ears as long as I live. I sat frozen with horror for a minute or
  two. Then I seized the poker and went downstairs. When I entered
  this room I found the window wide open, and I at once observed
  that the bust was gone from the mantelpiece. Why any burglar
  should take such a thing passes my understanding, for it was only
  a plaster cast and of no real value whatever.

  “You can see for yourself that anyone going out through that open
  window could reach the front doorstep by taking a long stride.
  This was clearly what the burglar had done, so I went round and
  opened the door. Stepping out into the dark, I nearly fell over a
  dead man, who was lying there. I ran back for a light and there
  was the poor fellow, a great gash in his throat and the whole
  place swimming in blood. He lay on his back, his knees drawn up,
  and his mouth horribly open. I shall see him in my dreams. I had
  just time to blow on my police-whistle, and then I must have
  fainted, for I knew nothing more until I found the policeman
  standing over me in the hall.”

  “Well, who was the murdered man?” asked Holmes.

  “There’s nothing to show who he was,” said Lestrade. “You shall
  see the body at the mortuary, but we have made nothing of it up
  to now. He is a tall man, sunburned, very powerful, not more than
  thirty. He is poorly dressed, and yet does not appear to be a
  labourer. A horn-handled clasp knife was lying in a pool of blood
  beside him. Whether it was the weapon which did the deed, or
  whether it belonged to the dead man, I do not know. There was no
  name on his clothing, and nothing in his pockets save an apple,
  some string, a shilling map of London, and a photograph. Here it
  is.”

  It was evidently taken by a snapshot from a small camera. It
  represented an alert, sharp-featured simian man, with thick
  eyebrows and a very peculiar projection of the lower part of the
  face, like the muzzle of a baboon.

  “And what became of the bust?” asked Holmes, after a careful
  study of this picture.

  “We had news of it just before you came. It has been found in the
  front garden of an empty house in Campden House Road. It was
  broken into fragments. I am going round now to see it. Will you
  come?”

  “Certainly. I must just take one look round.” He examined the
  carpet and the window. “The fellow had either very long legs or
  was a most active man,” said he. “With an area beneath, it was no
  mean feat to reach that window ledge and open that window.
  Getting back was comparatively simple. Are you coming with us to
  see the remains of your bust, Mr. Harker?”

  The disconsolate journalist had seated himself at a
  writing-table.

  “I must try and make something of it,” said he, “though I have no
  doubt that the first editions of the evening papers are out
  already with full details. It’s like my luck! You remember when
  the stand fell at Doncaster? Well, I was the only journalist in
  the stand, and my journal the only one that had no account of it,
  for I was too shaken to write it. And now I’ll be too late with a
  murder done on my own doorstep.”

  As we left the room, we heard his pen travelling shrilly over the
  foolscap.

  The spot where the fragments of the bust had been found was only
  a few hundred yards away. For the first time our eyes rested upon
  this presentment of the great emperor, which seemed to raise such
  frantic and destructive hatred in the mind of the unknown. It lay
  scattered, in splintered shards, upon the grass. Holmes picked up
  several of them and examined them carefully. I was convinced,
  from his intent face and his purposeful manner, that at last he
  was upon a clue.

  “Well?” asked Lestrade.

  Holmes shrugged his shoulders.

  “We have a long way to go yet,” said he. “And yet—and yet—well,
  we have some suggestive facts to act upon. The possession of this
  trifling bust was worth more, in the eyes of this strange
  criminal, than a human life. That is one point. Then there is the
  singular fact that he did not break it in the house, or
  immediately outside the house, if to break it was his sole
  object.”

  “He was rattled and bustled by meeting this other fellow. He
  hardly knew what he was doing.”

  “Well, that’s likely enough. But I wish to call your attention
  very particularly to the position of this house, in the garden of
  which the bust was destroyed.”

  Lestrade looked about him.

  “It was an empty house, and so he knew that he would not be
  disturbed in the garden.”

  “Yes, but there is another empty house farther up the street
  which he must have passed before he came to this one. Why did he
  not break it there, since it is evident that every yard that he
  carried it increased the risk of someone meeting him?”

  “I give it up,” said Lestrade.

  Holmes pointed to the street lamp above our heads.

  “He could see what he was doing here, and he could not there.
  That was his reason.”

  “By Jove! that’s true,” said the detective. “Now that I come to
  think of it, Dr. Barnicot’s bust was broken not far from his red
  lamp. Well, Mr. Holmes, what are we to do with that fact?”

  “To remember it—to docket it. We may come on something later
  which will bear upon it. What steps do you propose to take now,
  Lestrade?”

  “The most practical way of getting at it, in my opinion, is to
  identify the dead man. There should be no difficulty about that.
  When we have found who he is and who his associates are, we
  should have a good start in learning what he was doing in Pitt
  Street last night, and who it was who met him and killed him on
  the doorstep of Mr. Horace Harker. Don’t you think so?”

  “No doubt; and yet it is not quite the way in which I should
  approach the case.”

  “What would you do then?”

  “Oh, you must not let me influence you in any way. I suggest that
  you go on your line and I on mine. We can compare notes
  afterwards, and each will supplement the other.”

  “Very good,” said Lestrade.

  “If you are going back to Pitt Street, you might see Mr. Horace
  Harker. Tell him for me that I have quite made up my mind, and
  that it is certain that a dangerous homicidal lunatic, with
  Napoleonic delusions, was in his house last night. It will be
  useful for his article.”

  Lestrade stared.

  “You don’t seriously believe that?”

  Holmes smiled.

  “Don’t I? Well, perhaps I don’t. But I am sure that it will
  interest Mr. Horace Harker and the subscribers of the Central
  Press Syndicate. Now, Watson, I think that we shall find that we
  have a long and rather complex day’s work before us. I should be
  glad, Lestrade, if you could make it convenient to meet us at
  Baker Street at six o’clock this evening. Until then I should
  like to keep this photograph, found in the dead man’s pocket. It
  is possible that I may have to ask your company and assistance
  upon a small expedition which will have to be undertaken to-night,
  if my chain of reasoning should prove to be correct. Until then
  good-bye and good luck!”

  Sherlock Holmes and I walked together to the High Street, where
  we stopped at the shop of Harding Brothers, whence the bust had
  been purchased. A young assistant informed us that Mr. Harding
  would be absent until afternoon, and that he was himself a
  newcomer, who could give us no information. Holmes’s face showed
  his disappointment and annoyance.

  “Well, well, we can’t expect to have it all our own way, Watson,”
  he said, at last. “We must come back in the afternoon, if Mr.
  Harding will not be here until then. I am, as you have no doubt
  surmised, endeavouring to trace these busts to their source, in
  order to find if there is not something peculiar which may
  account for their remarkable fate. Let us make for Mr. Morse
  Hudson, of the Kennington Road, and see if he can throw any light
  upon the problem.”

  A drive of an hour brought us to the picture-dealer’s
  establishment. He was a small, stout man with a red face and a
  peppery manner.

  “Yes, sir. On my very counter, sir,” said he. “What we pay rates
  and taxes for I don’t know, when any ruffian can come in and
  break one’s goods. Yes, sir, it was I who sold Dr. Barnicot his
  two statues. Disgraceful, sir! A Nihilist plot—that’s what I make
  it. No one but an anarchist would go about breaking statues. Red
  republicans—that’s what I call ’em. Who did I get the statues
  from? I don’t see what that has to do with it. Well, if you
  really want to know, I got them from Gelder & Co., in Church
  Street, Stepney. They are a well-known house in the trade, and
  have been this twenty years. How many had I? Three—two and one
  are three—two of Dr. Barnicot’s, and one smashed in broad
  daylight on my own counter. Do I know that photograph? No, I
  don’t. Yes, I do, though. Why, it’s Beppo. He was a kind of
  Italian piece-work man, who made himself useful in the shop. He
  could carve a bit, and gild and frame, and do odd jobs. The
  fellow left me last week, and I’ve heard nothing of him since.
  No, I don’t know where he came from nor where he went to. I had
  nothing against him while he was here. He was gone two days
  before the bust was smashed.”

  “Well, that’s all we could reasonably expect from Morse Hudson,”
  said Holmes, as we emerged from the shop. “We have this Beppo as
  a common factor, both in Kennington and in Kensington, so that is
  worth a ten-mile drive. Now, Watson, let us make for Gelder &
  Co., of Stepney, the source and origin of the busts. I shall be
  surprised if we don’t get some help down there.”

  In rapid succession we passed through the fringe of fashionable
  London, hotel London, theatrical London, literary London,
  commercial London, and, finally, maritime London, till we came to
  a riverside city of a hundred thousand souls, where the tenement
  houses swelter and reek with the outcasts of Europe. Here, in a
  broad thoroughfare, once the abode of wealthy City merchants, we
  found the sculpture works for which we searched. Outside was a
  considerable yard full of monumental masonry. Inside was a large
  room in which fifty workers were carving or moulding. The
  manager, a big blond German, received us civilly and gave a clear
  answer to all Holmes’s questions. A reference to his books showed
  that hundreds of casts had been taken from a marble copy of
  Devine’s head of Napoleon, but that the three which had been sent
  to Morse Hudson a year or so before had been half of a batch of
  six, the other three being sent to Harding Brothers, of
  Kensington. There was no reason why those six should be different
  from any of the other casts. He could suggest no possible cause
  why anyone should wish to destroy them—in fact, he laughed at the
  idea. Their wholesale price was six shillings, but the retailer
  would get twelve or more. The cast was taken in two moulds from
  each side of the face, and then these two profiles of plaster of
  Paris were joined together to make the complete bust. The work
  was usually done by Italians, in the room we were in. When
  finished, the busts were put on a table in the passage to dry,
  and afterwards stored. That was all he could tell us.

  But the production of the photograph had a remarkable effect upon
  the manager. His face flushed with anger, and his brows knotted
  over his blue Teutonic eyes.

  “Ah, the rascal!” he cried. “Yes, indeed, I know him very well.
  This has always been a respectable establishment, and the only
  time that we have ever had the police in it was over this very
  fellow. It was more than a year ago now. He knifed another
  Italian in the street, and then he came to the works with the
  police on his heels, and he was taken here. Beppo was his
  name—his second name I never knew. Serve me right for engaging a
  man with such a face. But he was a good workman—one of the best.”

  “What did he get?”

  “The man lived and he got off with a year. I have no doubt he is
  out now, but he has not dared to show his nose here. We have a
  cousin of his here, and I daresay he could tell you where he is.”

  “No, no,” cried Holmes, “not a word to the cousin—not a word, I
  beg of you. The matter is very important, and the farther I go
  with it, the more important it seems to grow. When you referred
  in your ledger to the sale of those casts I observed that the
  date was June 3rd of last year. Could you give me the date when
  Beppo was arrested?”

  “I could tell you roughly by the pay-list,” the manager answered.
  “Yes,” he continued, after some turning over of pages, “he was
  paid last on May 20th.”

  “Thank you,” said Holmes. “I don’t think that I need intrude upon
  your time and patience any more.” With a last word of caution
  that he should say nothing as to our researches, we turned our
  faces westward once more.

  The afternoon was far advanced before we were able to snatch a
  hasty luncheon at a restaurant. A news-bill at the entrance
  announced “Kensington Outrage. Murder by a Madman,” and the
  contents of the paper showed that Mr. Horace Harker had got his
  account into print after all. Two columns were occupied with a
  highly sensational and flowery rendering of the whole incident.
  Holmes propped it against the cruet-stand and read it while he
  ate. Once or twice he chuckled.

  “This is all right, Watson,” said he. “Listen to this:

  “It is satisfactory to know that there can be no difference of
  opinion upon this case, since Mr. Lestrade, one of the most
  experienced members of the official force, and Mr. Sherlock
  Holmes, the well-known consulting expert, have each come to the
  conclusion that the grotesque series of incidents, which have
  ended in so tragic a fashion, arise from lunacy rather than from
  deliberate crime. No explanation save mental aberration can cover
  the facts.

  “The Press, Watson, is a most valuable institution, if you only
  know how to use it. And now, if you have quite finished, we will
  hark back to Kensington and see what the manager of Harding
  Brothers has to say on the matter.”

  The founder of that great emporium proved to be a brisk, crisp
  little person, very dapper and quick, with a clear head and a
  ready tongue.

  “Yes, sir, I have already read the account in the evening papers.
  Mr. Horace Harker is a customer of ours. We supplied him with the
  bust some months ago. We ordered three busts of that sort from
  Gelder & Co., of Stepney. They are all sold now. To whom? Oh, I
  daresay by consulting our sales book we could very easily tell
  you. Yes, we have the entries here. One to Mr. Harker you see,
  and one to Mr. Josiah Brown, of Laburnum Lodge, Laburnum Vale,
  Chiswick, and one to Mr. Sandeford, of Lower Grove Road, Reading.
  No, I have never seen this face which you show me in the
  photograph. You would hardly forget it, would you, sir, for I’ve
  seldom seen an uglier. Have we any Italians on the staff? Yes,
  sir, we have several among our workpeople and cleaners. I daresay
  they might get a peep at that sales book if they wanted to. There
  is no particular reason for keeping a watch upon that book. Well,
  well, it’s a very strange business, and I hope that you will let
  me know if anything comes of your inquiries.”

  Holmes had taken several notes during Mr. Harding’s evidence, and
  I could see that he was thoroughly satisfied by the turn which
  affairs were taking. He made no remark, however, save that,
  unless we hurried, we should be late for our appointment with
  Lestrade. Sure enough, when we reached Baker Street the detective
  was already there, and we found him pacing up and down in a fever
  of impatience. His look of importance showed that his day’s work
  had not been in vain.

  “Well?” he asked. “What luck, Mr. Holmes?”

  “We have had a very busy day, and not entirely a wasted one,” my
  friend explained. “We have seen both the retailers and also the
  wholesale manufacturers. I can trace each of the busts now from
  the beginning.”

  “The busts,” cried Lestrade. “Well, well, you have your own
  methods, Mr. Sherlock Holmes, and it is not for me to say a word
  against them, but I think I have done a better day’s work than
  you. I have identified the dead man.”

  “You don’t say so?”

  “And found a cause for the crime.”

  “Splendid!”

  “We have an inspector who makes a specialty of Saffron Hill and
  the Italian Quarter. Well, this dead man had some Catholic emblem
  round his neck, and that, along with his colour, made me think he
  was from the South. Inspector Hill knew him the moment he caught
  sight of him. His name is Pietro Venucci, from Naples, and he is
  one of the greatest cut-throats in London. He is connected with
  the Mafia, which, as you know, is a secret political society,
  enforcing its decrees by murder. Now, you see how the affair
  begins to clear up. The other fellow is probably an Italian also,
  and a member of the Mafia. He has broken the rules in some
  fashion. Pietro is set upon his track. Probably the photograph we
  found in his pocket is the man himself, so that he may not knife
  the wrong person. He dogs the fellow, he sees him enter a house,
  he waits outside for him, and in the scuffle he receives his own
  death-wound. How is that, Mr. Sherlock Holmes?”

  Holmes clapped his hands approvingly.

  “Excellent, Lestrade, excellent!” he cried. “But I didn’t quite
  follow your explanation of the destruction of the busts.”

  “The busts! You never can get those busts out of your head. After
  all, that is nothing; petty larceny, six months at the most. It
  is the murder that we are really investigating, and I tell you
  that I am gathering all the threads into my hands.”

  “And the next stage?”

  “Is a very simple one. I shall go down with Hill to the Italian
  Quarter, find the man whose photograph we have got, and arrest
  him on the charge of murder. Will you come with us?”

  “I think not. I fancy we can attain our end in a simpler way. I
  can’t say for certain, because it all depends—well, it all
  depends upon a factor which is completely outside our control.
  But I have great hopes—in fact, the betting is exactly two to
  one—that if you will come with us to-night I shall be able to
  help you to lay him by the heels.”

  “In the Italian Quarter?”

  “No, I fancy Chiswick is an address which is more likely to find
  him. If you will come with me to Chiswick to-night, Lestrade,
  I’ll promise to go to the Italian Quarter with you to-morrow, and
  no harm will be done by the delay. And now I think that a few
  hours’ sleep would do us all good, for I do not propose to leave
  before eleven o’clock, and it is unlikely that we shall be back
  before morning. You’ll dine with us, Lestrade, and then you are
  welcome to the sofa until it is time for us to start. In the
  meantime, Watson, I should be glad if you would ring for an
  express messenger, for I have a letter to send and it is
  important that it should go at once.”

  Holmes spent the evening in rummaging among the files of the old
  daily papers with which one of our lumber-rooms was packed. When
  at last he descended, it was with triumph in his eyes, but he
  said nothing to either of us as to the result of his researches.
  For my own part, I had followed step by step the methods by which
  he had traced the various windings of this complex case, and,
  though I could not yet perceive the goal which we would reach, I
  understood clearly that Holmes expected this grotesque criminal
  to make an attempt upon the two remaining busts, one of which, I
  remembered, was at Chiswick. No doubt the object of our journey
  was to catch him in the very act, and I could not but admire the
  cunning with which my friend had inserted a wrong clue in the
  evening paper, so as to give the fellow the idea that he could
  continue his scheme with impunity. I was not surprised when
  Holmes suggested that I should take my revolver with me. He had
  himself picked up the loaded hunting-crop, which was his
  favourite weapon.

  A four-wheeler was at the door at eleven, and in it we drove to a
  spot at the other side of Hammersmith Bridge. Here the cabman was
  directed to wait. A short walk brought us to a secluded road
  fringed with pleasant houses, each standing in its own grounds.
  In the light of a street lamp we read “Laburnum Villa” upon the
  gate-post of one of them. The occupants had evidently retired to
  rest, for all was dark save for a fanlight over the hall door,
  which shed a single blurred circle on to the garden path. The
  wooden fence which separated the grounds from the road threw a
  dense black shadow upon the inner side, and here it was that we
  crouched.

  “I fear that you’ll have a long wait,” Holmes whispered. “We may
  thank our stars that it is not raining. I don’t think we can even
  venture to smoke to pass the time. However, it’s a two to one
  chance that we get something to pay us for our trouble.”

  It proved, however, that our vigil was not to be so long as
  Holmes had led us to fear, and it ended in a very sudden and
  singular fashion. In an instant, without the least sound to warn
  us of his coming, the garden gate swung open, and a lithe, dark
  figure, as swift and active as an ape, rushed up the garden path.
  We saw it whisk past the light thrown from over the door and
  disappear against the black shadow of the house. There was a long
  pause, during which we held our breath, and then a very gentle
  creaking sound came to our ears. The window was being opened. The
  noise ceased, and again there was a long silence. The fellow was
  making his way into the house. We saw the sudden flash of a dark
  lantern inside the room. What he sought was evidently not there,
  for again we saw the flash through another blind, and then
  through another.

  “Let us get to the open window. We will nab him as he climbs
  out,” Lestrade whispered.

  But before we could move, the man had emerged again. As he came
  out into the glimmering patch of light, we saw that he carried
  something white under his arm. He looked stealthily all round
  him. The silence of the deserted street reassured him. Turning
  his back upon us he laid down his burden, and the next instant
  there was the sound of a sharp tap, followed by a clatter and
  rattle. The man was so intent upon what he was doing that he
  never heard our steps as we stole across the grass plot. With the
  bound of a tiger Holmes was on his back, and an instant later
  Lestrade and I had him by either wrist, and the handcuffs had
  been fastened. As we turned him over I saw a hideous, sallow
  face, with writhing, furious features, glaring up at us, and I
  knew that it was indeed the man of the photograph whom we had
  secured.

  But it was not our prisoner to whom Holmes was giving his
  attention. Squatted on the doorstep, he was engaged in most
  carefully examining that which the man had brought from the
  house. It was a bust of Napoleon, like the one which we had seen
  that morning, and it had been broken into similar fragments.
  Carefully Holmes held each separate shard to the light, but in no
  way did it differ from any other shattered piece of plaster. He
  had just completed his examination when the hall lights flew up,
  the door opened, and the owner of the house, a jovial, rotund
  figure in shirt and trousers, presented himself.

  “Mr. Josiah Brown, I suppose?” said Holmes.

  “Yes, sir; and you, no doubt, are Mr. Sherlock Holmes? I had the
  note which you sent by the express messenger, and I did exactly
  what you told me. We locked every door on the inside and awaited
  developments. Well, I’m very glad to see that you have got the
  rascal. I hope, gentlemen, that you will come in and have some
  refreshment.”

  However, Lestrade was anxious to get his man into safe quarters,
  so within a few minutes our cab had been summoned and we were all
  four upon our way to London. Not a word would our captive say,
  but he glared at us from the shadow of his matted hair, and once,
  when my hand seemed within his reach, he snapped at it like a
  hungry wolf. We stayed long enough at the police-station to learn
  that a search of his clothing revealed nothing save a few
  shillings and a long sheath knife, the handle of which bore
  copious traces of recent blood.

  “That’s all right,” said Lestrade, as we parted. “Hill knows all
  these gentry, and he will give a name to him. You’ll find that my
  theory of the Mafia will work out all right. But I’m sure I am
  exceedingly obliged to you, Mr. Holmes, for the workmanlike way
  in which you laid hands upon him. I don’t quite understand it all
  yet.”

  “I fear it is rather too late an hour for explanations,” said
  Holmes. “Besides, there are one or two details which are not
  finished off, and it is one of those cases which are worth
  working out to the very end. If you will come round once more to
  my rooms at six o’clock to-morrow, I think I shall be able to
  show you that even now you have not grasped the entire meaning of
  this business, which presents some features which make it
  absolutely original in the history of crime. If ever I permit you
  to chronicle any more of my little problems, Watson, I foresee
  that you will enliven your pages by an account of the singular
  adventure of the Napoleonic busts.”

  When we met again next evening, Lestrade was furnished with much
  information concerning our prisoner. His name, it appeared, was
  Beppo, second name unknown. He was a well-known ne’er-do-well
  among the Italian colony. He had once been a skilful sculptor and
  had earned an honest living, but he had taken to evil courses and
  had twice already been in jail—once for a petty theft, and once,
  as we had already heard, for stabbing a fellow-countryman. He
  could talk English perfectly well. His reasons for destroying the
  busts were still unknown, and he refused to answer any questions
  upon the subject, but the police had discovered that these same
  busts might very well have been made by his own hands, since he
  was engaged in this class of work at the establishment of Gelder
  & Co. To all this information, much of which we already knew,
  Holmes listened with polite attention, but I, who knew him so
  well, could clearly see that his thoughts were elsewhere, and I
  detected a mixture of mingled uneasiness and expectation beneath
  that mask which he was wont to assume. At last he started in his
  chair, and his eyes brightened. There had been a ring at the
  bell. A minute later we heard steps upon the stairs, and an
  elderly red-faced man with grizzled side-whiskers was ushered in.
  In his right hand he carried an old-fashioned carpet-bag, which
  he placed upon the table.

  “Is Mr. Sherlock Holmes here?”

  My friend bowed and smiled. “Mr. Sandeford, of Reading, I
  suppose?” said he.

  “Yes, sir, I fear that I am a little late, but the trains were
  awkward. You wrote to me about a bust that is in my possession.”

  “Exactly.”

  “I have your letter here. You said, ‘I desire to possess a copy
  of Devine’s Napoleon, and am prepared to pay you ten pounds for
  the one which is in your possession.’ Is that right?”

  “Certainly.”

  “I was very much surprised at your letter, for I could not
  imagine how you knew that I owned such a thing.”

  “Of course you must have been surprised, but the explanation is
  very simple. Mr. Harding, of Harding Brothers, said that they had
  sold you their last copy, and he gave me your address.”

  “Oh, that was it, was it? Did he tell you what I paid for it?”

  “No, he did not.”

  “Well, I am an honest man, though not a very rich one. I only
  gave fifteen shillings for the bust, and I think you ought to
  know that before I take ten pounds from you.

  “I am sure the scruple does you honour, Mr. Sandeford. But I have
  named that price, so I intend to stick to it.”

  “Well, it is very handsome of you, Mr. Holmes. I brought the bust
  up with me, as you asked me to do. Here it is!” He opened his
  bag, and at last we saw placed upon our table a complete specimen
  of that bust which we had already seen more than once in
  fragments.

  Holmes took a paper from his pocket and laid a ten-pound note
  upon the table.

  “You will kindly sign that paper, Mr. Sandeford, in the presence
  of these witnesses. It is simply to say that you transfer every
  possible right that you ever had in the bust to me. I am a
  methodical man, you see, and you never know what turn events
  might take afterwards. Thank you, Mr. Sandeford; here is your
  money, and I wish you a very good evening.”

  When our visitor had disappeared, Sherlock Holmes’s movements
  were such as to rivet our attention. He began by taking a clean
  white cloth from a drawer and laying it over the table. Then he
  placed his newly acquired bust in the centre of the cloth.
  Finally, he picked up his hunting-crop and struck Napoleon a
  sharp blow on the top of the head. The figure broke into
  fragments, and Holmes bent eagerly over the shattered remains.
  Next instant, with a loud shout of triumph he held up one
  splinter, in which a round, dark object was fixed like a plum in
  a pudding.

  “Gentlemen,” he cried, “let me introduce you to the famous black
  pearl of the Borgias.”

  Lestrade and I sat silent for a moment, and then, with a
  spontaneous impulse, we both broke at clapping, as at the
  well-wrought crisis of a play. A flush of colour sprang to
  Holmes’s pale cheeks, and he bowed to us like the master
  dramatist who receives the homage of his audience. It was at such
  moments that for an instant he ceased to be a reasoning machine,
  and betrayed his human love for admiration and applause. The same
  singularly proud and reserved nature which turned away with
  disdain from popular notoriety was capable of being moved to its
  depths by spontaneous wonder and praise from a friend.

  “Yes, gentlemen,” said he, “it is the most famous pearl now
  existing in the world, and it has been my good fortune, by a
  connected chain of inductive reasoning, to trace it from the
  Prince of Colonna’s bedroom at the Dacre Hotel, where it was
  lost, to the interior of this, the last of the six busts of
  Napoleon which were manufactured by Gelder & Co., of Stepney. You
  will remember, Lestrade, the sensation caused by the
  disappearance of this valuable jewel and the vain efforts of the
  London police to recover it. I was myself consulted upon the
  case, but I was unable to throw any light upon it. Suspicion fell
  upon the maid of the Princess, who was an Italian, and it was
  proved that she had a brother in London, but we failed to trace
  any connection between them. The maid’s name was Lucretia
  Venucci, and there is no doubt in my mind that this Pietro who
  was murdered two nights ago was the brother. I have been looking
  up the dates in the old files of the paper, and I find that the
  disappearance of the pearl was exactly two days before the arrest
  of Beppo, for some crime of violence—an event which took place in
  the factory of Gelder & Co., at the very moment when these busts
  were being made. Now you clearly see the sequence of events,
  though you see them, of course, in the inverse order to the way
  in which they presented themselves to me. Beppo had the pearl in
  his possession. He may have stolen it from Pietro, he may have
  been Pietro’s confederate, he may have been the go-between of
  Pietro and his sister. It is of no consequence to us which is the
  correct solution.

  “The main fact is that he _had_ the pearl, and at that moment,
  when it was on his person, he was pursued by the police. He made
  for the factory in which he worked, and he knew that he had only
  a few minutes in which to conceal this enormously valuable prize,
  which would otherwise be found on him when he was searched. Six
  plaster casts of Napoleon were drying in the passage. One of them
  was still soft. In an instant Beppo, a skilful workman, made a
  small hole in the wet plaster, dropped in the pearl, and with a
  few touches covered over the aperture once more. It was an
  admirable hiding-place. No one could possibly find it. But Beppo
  was condemned to a year’s imprisonment, and in the meanwhile his
  six busts were scattered over London. He could not tell which
  contained his treasure. Only by breaking them could he see. Even
  shaking would tell him nothing, for as the plaster was wet it was
  probable that the pearl would adhere to it—as, in fact, it has
  done. Beppo did not despair, and he conducted his search with
  considerable ingenuity and perseverance. Through a cousin who
  works with Gelder, he found out the retail firms who had bought
  the busts. He managed to find employment with Morse Hudson, and
  in that way tracked down three of them. The pearl was not there.
  Then, with the help of some Italian employee, he succeeded in
  finding out where the other three busts had gone. The first was
  at Harker’s. There he was dogged by his confederate, who held
  Beppo responsible for the loss of the pearl, and he stabbed him
  in the scuffle which followed.”

  “If he was his confederate, why should he carry his photograph?”
  I asked.

  “As a means of tracing him, if he wished to inquire about him
  from any third person. That was the obvious reason. Well, after
  the murder I calculated that Beppo would probably hurry rather
  than delay his movements. He would fear that the police would
  read his secret, and so he hastened on before they should get
  ahead of him. Of course, I could not say that he had not found
  the pearl in Harker’s bust. I had not even concluded for certain
  that it was the pearl, but it was evident to me that he was
  looking for something, since he carried the bust past the other
  houses in order to break it in the garden which had a lamp
  overlooking it. Since Harker’s bust was one in three, the chances
  were exactly as I told you—two to one against the pearl being
  inside it. There remained two busts, and it was obvious that he
  would go for the London one first. I warned the inmates of the
  house, so as to avoid a second tragedy, and we went down, with
  the happiest results. By that time, of course, I knew for certain
  that it was the Borgia pearl that we were after. The name of the
  murdered man linked the one event with the other. There only
  remained a single bust—the Reading one—and the pearl must be
  there. I bought it in your presence from the owner—and there it
  lies.”

  We sat in silence for a moment.

  “Well,” said Lestrade, “I’ve seen you handle a good many cases,
  Mr. Holmes, but I don’t know that I ever knew a more workmanlike
  one than that. We’re not jealous of you at Scotland Yard. No,
  sir, we are very proud of you, and if you come down to-morrow,
  there’s not a man, from the oldest inspector to the youngest
  constable, who wouldn’t be glad to shake you by the hand.”

  “Thank you!” said Holmes. “Thank you!” and as he turned away, it
  seemed to me that he was more nearly moved by the softer human
  emotions than I had ever seen him. A moment later he was the cold
  and practical thinker once more. “Put the pearl in the safe,
  Watson,” said he, “and get out the papers of the Conk-Singleton
  forgery case. Good-bye, Lestrade. If any little problem comes
  your way, I shall be happy, if I can, to give you a hint or two
  as to its solution.”

THE ADVENTURE OF THE THREE STUDENTS

  It was in the year ’95 that a combination of events, into which I
  need not enter, caused Mr. Sherlock Holmes and myself to spend
  some weeks in one of our great university towns, and it was
  during this time that the small but instructive adventure which I
  am about to relate befell us. It will be obvious that any details
  which would help the reader exactly to identify the college or
  the criminal would be injudicious and offensive. So painful a
  scandal may well be allowed to die out. With due discretion the
  incident itself may, however, be described, since it serves to
  illustrate some of those qualities for which my friend was
  remarkable. I will endeavour, in my statement, to avoid such
  terms as would serve to limit the events to any particular place,
  or give a clue as to the people concerned.

  We were residing at the time in furnished lodgings close to a
  library where Sherlock Holmes was pursuing some laborious
  researches in early English charters—researches which led to
  results so striking that they may be the subject of one of my
  future narratives. Here it was that one evening we received a
  visit from an acquaintance, Mr. Hilton Soames, tutor and lecturer
  at the College of St. Luke’s. Mr. Soames was a tall, spare man,
  of a nervous and excitable temperament. I had always known him to
  be restless in his manner, but on this particular occasion he was
  in such a state of uncontrollable agitation that it was clear
  something very unusual had occurred.

  “I trust, Mr. Holmes, that you can spare me a few hours of your
  valuable time. We have had a very painful incident at St. Luke’s,
  and really, but for the happy chance of your being in town, I
  should have been at a loss what to do.”

  “I am very busy just now, and I desire no distractions,” my
  friend answered. “I should much prefer that you called in the aid
  of the police.”

  “No, no, my dear sir; such a course is utterly impossible. When
  once the law is evoked it cannot be stayed again, and this is
  just one of those cases where, for the credit of the college, it
  is most essential to avoid scandal. Your discretion is as
  well-known as your powers, and you are the one man in the world
  who can help me. I beg you, Mr. Holmes, to do what you can.”

  My friend’s temper had not improved since he had been deprived of
  the congenial surroundings of Baker Street. Without his
  scrapbooks, his chemicals, and his homely untidiness, he was an
  uncomfortable man. He shrugged his shoulders in ungracious
  acquiescence, while our visitor in hurried words and with much
  excitable gesticulation poured forth his story.

  “I must explain to you, Mr. Holmes, that to-morrow is the first
  day of the examination for the Fortescue Scholarship. I am one of
  the examiners. My subject is Greek, and the first of the papers
  consists of a large passage of Greek translation which the
  candidate has not seen. This passage is printed on the
  examination paper, and it would naturally be an immense advantage
  if the candidate could prepare it in advance. For this reason,
  great care is taken to keep the paper secret.

  “To-day, about three o’clock, the proofs of this paper arrived
  from the printers. The exercise consists of half a chapter of
  Thucydides. I had to read it over carefully, as the text must be
  absolutely correct. At four-thirty my task was not yet completed.
  I had, however, promised to take tea in a friend’s rooms, so I
  left the proof upon my desk. I was absent rather more than an
  hour.

  “You are aware, Mr. Holmes, that our college doors are double—a
  green baize one within and a heavy oak one without. As I
  approached my outer door, I was amazed to see a key in it. For an
  instant I imagined that I had left my own there, but on feeling
  in my pocket I found that it was all right. The only duplicate
  which existed, so far as I knew, was that which belonged to my
  servant, Bannister—a man who has looked after my room for ten
  years, and whose honesty is absolutely above suspicion. I found
  that the key was indeed his, that he had entered my room to know
  if I wanted tea, and that he had very carelessly left the key in
  the door when he came out. His visit to my room must have been
  within a very few minutes of my leaving it. His forgetfulness
  about the key would have mattered little upon any other occasion,
  but on this one day it has produced the most deplorable
  consequences.

  “The moment I looked at my table, I was aware that someone had
  rummaged among my papers. The proof was in three long slips. I
  had left them all together. Now, I found that one of them was
  lying on the floor, one was on the side table near the window,
  and the third was where I had left it.”

  Holmes stirred for the first time.

  “The first page on the floor, the second in the window, the third
  where you left it,” said he.

  “Exactly, Mr. Holmes. You amaze me. How could you possibly know
  that?”

  “Pray continue your very interesting statement.”

  “For an instant I imagined that Bannister had taken the
  unpardonable liberty of examining my papers. He denied it,
  however, with the utmost earnestness, and I am convinced that he
  was speaking the truth. The alternative was that someone passing
  had observed the key in the door, had known that I was out, and
  had entered to look at the papers. A large sum of money is at
  stake, for the scholarship is a very valuable one, and an
  unscrupulous man might very well run a risk in order to gain an
  advantage over his fellows.

  “Bannister was very much upset by the incident. He had nearly
  fainted when we found that the papers had undoubtedly been
  tampered with. I gave him a little brandy and left him collapsed
  in a chair, while I made a most careful examination of the room.
  I soon saw that the intruder had left other traces of his
  presence besides the rumpled papers. On the table in the window
  were several shreds from a pencil which had been sharpened. A
  broken tip of lead was lying there also. Evidently the rascal had
  copied the paper in a great hurry, had broken his pencil, and had
  been compelled to put a fresh point to it.”

  “Excellent!” said Holmes, who was recovering his good-humour as
  his attention became more engrossed by the case. “Fortune has
  been your friend.”

  “This was not all. I have a new writing-table with a fine surface
  of red leather. I am prepared to swear, and so is Bannister, that
  it was smooth and unstained. Now I found a clean cut in it about
  three inches long—not a mere scratch, but a positive cut. Not
  only this, but on the table I found a small ball of black dough
  or clay, with specks of something which looks like sawdust in it.
  I am convinced that these marks were left by the man who rifled
  the papers. There were no footmarks and no other evidence as to
  his identity. I was at my wits’ end, when suddenly the happy
  thought occurred to me that you were in the town, and I came
  straight round to put the matter into your hands. Do help me, Mr.
  Holmes. You see my dilemma. Either I must find the man or else
  the examination must be postponed until fresh papers are
  prepared, and since this cannot be done without explanation,
  there will ensue a hideous scandal, which will throw a cloud not
  only on the college, but on the university. Above all things, I
  desire to settle the matter quietly and discreetly.”

  “I shall be happy to look into it and to give you such advice as
  I can,” said Holmes, rising and putting on his overcoat. “The
  case is not entirely devoid of interest. Had anyone visited you
  in your room after the papers came to you?”

  “Yes, young Daulat Ras, an Indian student, who lives on the same
  stair, came in to ask me some particulars about the examination.”

  “For which he was entered?”

  “Yes.”

  “And the papers were on your table?”

  “To the best of my belief, they were rolled up.”

  “But might be recognized as proofs?”

  “Possibly.”

  “No one else in your room?”

  “No.”

  “Did anyone know that these proofs would be there?”

  “No one save the printer.”

  “Did this man Bannister know?”

  “No, certainly not. No one knew.”

  “Where is Bannister now?”

  “He was very ill, poor fellow. I left him collapsed in the chair.
  I was in such a hurry to come to you.”

  “You left your door open?”

  “I locked up the papers first.”

  “Then it amounts to this, Mr. Soames: that, unless the Indian
  student recognized the roll as being proofs, the man who tampered
  with them came upon them accidentally without knowing that they
  were there.”

  “So it seems to me.”

  Holmes gave an enigmatic smile.

  “Well,” said he, “let us go round. Not one of your cases,
  Watson—mental, not physical. All right; come if you want to. Now,
  Mr. Soames—at your disposal!”

  The sitting-room of our client opened by a long, low, latticed
  window on to the ancient lichen-tinted court of the old college.
  A Gothic arched door led to a worn stone staircase. On the ground
  floor was the tutor’s room. Above were three students, one on
  each story. It was already twilight when we reached the scene of
  our problem. Holmes halted and looked earnestly at the window.
  Then he approached it, and, standing on tiptoe with his neck
  craned, he looked into the room.

  “He must have entered through the door. There is no opening
  except the one pane,” said our learned guide.

  “Dear me!” said Holmes, and he smiled in a singular way as he
  glanced at our companion. “Well, if there is nothing to be
  learned here, we had best go inside.”

  The lecturer unlocked the outer door and ushered us into his
  room. We stood at the entrance while Holmes made an examination
  of the carpet.

  “I am afraid there are no signs here,” said he. “One could hardly
  hope for any upon so dry a day. Your servant seems to have quite
  recovered. You left him in a chair, you say. Which chair?”

  “By the window there.”

  “I see. Near this little table. You can come in now. I have
  finished with the carpet. Let us take the little table first. Of
  course, what has happened is very clear. The man entered and took
  the papers, sheet by sheet, from the central table. He carried
  them over to the window table, because from there he could see if
  you came across the courtyard, and so could effect an escape.”

  “As a matter of fact, he could not,” said Soames, “for I entered
  by the side door.”

  “Ah, that’s good! Well, anyhow, that was in his mind. Let me see
  the three strips. No finger impressions—no! Well, he carried over
  this one first, and he copied it. How long would it take him to
  do that, using every possible contraction? A quarter of an hour,
  not less. Then he tossed it down and seized the next. He was in
  the midst of that when your return caused him to make a very
  hurried retreat—_very_ hurried, since he had not time to replace
  the papers which would tell you that he had been there. You were
  not aware of any hurrying feet on the stair as you entered the
  outer door?”

  “No, I can’t say I was.”

  “Well, he wrote so furiously that he broke his pencil, and had,
  as you observe, to sharpen it again. This is of interest, Watson.
  The pencil was not an ordinary one. It was above the usual size,
  with a soft lead, the outer colour was dark blue, the maker’s
  name was printed in silver lettering, and the piece remaining is
  only about an inch and a half long. Look for such a pencil, Mr.
  Soames, and you have got your man. When I add that he possesses a
  large and very blunt knife, you have an additional aid.”

  Mr. Soames was somewhat overwhelmed by this flood of information.
  “I can follow the other points,” said he, “but really, in this
  matter of the length——”

  Holmes held out a small chip with the letters NN and a space of
  clear wood after them.

  “You see?”

  “No, I fear that even now——”

  “Watson, I have always done you an injustice. There are others.
  What could this NN be? It is at the end of a word. You are aware
  that Johann Faber is the most common maker’s name. Is it not
  clear that there is just as much of the pencil left as usually
  follows the Johann?” He held the small table sideways to the
  electric light. “I was hoping that if the paper on which he wrote
  was thin, some trace of it might come through upon this polished
  surface. No, I see nothing. I don’t think there is anything more
  to be learned here. Now for the central table. This small pellet
  is, I presume, the black, doughy mass you spoke of. Roughly
  pyramidal in shape and hollowed out, I perceive. As you say,
  there appear to be grains of sawdust in it. Dear me, this is very
  interesting. And the cut—a positive tear, I see. It began with a
  thin scratch and ended in a jagged hole. I am much indebted to
  you for directing my attention to this case, Mr. Soames. Where
  does that door lead to?”

  “To my bedroom.”

  “Have you been in it since your adventure?”

  “No, I came straight away for you.”

  “I should like to have a glance round. What a charming,
  old-fashioned room! Perhaps you will kindly wait a minute, until
  I have examined the floor. No, I see nothing. What about this
  curtain? You hang your clothes behind it. If anyone were forced
  to conceal himself in this room he must do it there, since the
  bed is too low and the wardrobe too shallow. No one there, I
  suppose?”

  As Holmes drew the curtain I was aware, from some little rigidity
  and alertness of his attitude, that he was prepared for an
  emergency. As a matter of fact, the drawn curtain disclosed
  nothing but three or four suits of clothes hanging from a line of
  pegs. Holmes turned away, and stooped suddenly to the floor.

  “Halloa! What’s this?” said he.

  It was a small pyramid of black, putty-like stuff, exactly like
  the one upon the table of the study. Holmes held it out on his
  open palm in the glare of the electric light.

  “Your visitor seems to have left traces in your bedroom as well
  as in your sitting-room, Mr. Soames.”

  “What could he have wanted there?”

  “I think it is clear enough. You came back by an unexpected way,
  and so he had no warning until you were at the very door. What
  could he do? He caught up everything which would betray him, and
  he rushed into your bedroom to conceal himself.”

  “Good gracious, Mr. Holmes, do you mean to tell me that, all the
  time I was talking to Bannister in this room, we had the man
  prisoner if we had only known it?”

  “So I read it.”

  “Surely there is another alternative, Mr. Holmes. I don’t know
  whether you observed my bedroom window?”

  “Lattice-paned, lead framework, three separate windows, one
  swinging on hinge, and large enough to admit a man.”

  “Exactly. And it looks out on an angle of the courtyard so as to
  be partly invisible. The man might have effected his entrance
  there, left traces as he passed through the bedroom, and finally,
  finding the door open, have escaped that way.”

  Holmes shook his head impatiently.

  “Let us be practical,” said he. “I understand you to say that
  there are three students who use this stair, and are in the habit
  of passing your door?”

  “Yes, there are.”

  “And they are all in for this examination?”

  “Yes.”

  “Have you any reason to suspect any one of them more than the
  others?”

  Soames hesitated.

  “It is a very delicate question,” said he. “One hardly likes to
  throw suspicion where there are no proofs.”

  “Let us hear the suspicions. I will look after the proofs.”

  “I will tell you, then, in a few words the character of the three
  men who inhabit these rooms. The lower of the three is Gilchrist,
  a fine scholar and athlete, plays in the Rugby team and the
  cricket team for the college, and got his Blue for the hurdles
  and the long jump. He is a fine, manly fellow. His father was the
  notorious Sir Jabez Gilchrist, who ruined himself on the turf. My
  scholar has been left very poor, but he is hard-working and
  industrious. He will do well.

  “The second floor is inhabited by Daulat Ras, the Indian. He is a
  quiet, inscrutable fellow; as most of those Indians are. He is
  well up in his work, though his Greek is his weak subject. He is
  steady and methodical.

  “The top floor belongs to Miles McLaren. He is a brilliant fellow
  when he chooses to work—one of the brightest intellects of the
  university; but he is wayward, dissipated, and unprincipled. He
  was nearly expelled over a card scandal in his first year. He has
  been idling all this term, and he must look forward with dread to
  the examination.”

  “Then it is he whom you suspect?”

  “I dare not go so far as that. But, of the three, he is perhaps
  the least unlikely.”

  “Exactly. Now, Mr. Soames, let us have a look at your servant,
  Bannister.”

  He was a little, white-faced, clean-shaven, grizzly-haired fellow
  of fifty. He was still suffering from this sudden disturbance of
  the quiet routine of his life. His plump face was twitching with
  his nervousness, and his fingers could not keep still.

  “We are investigating this unhappy business, Bannister,” said his
  master.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “I understand,” said Holmes, “that you left your key in the
  door?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Was it not very extraordinary that you should do this on the
  very day when there were these papers inside?”

  “It was most unfortunate, sir. But I have occasionally done the
  same thing at other times.”

  “When did you enter the room?”

  “It was about half-past four. That is Mr. Soames’ tea time.”

  “How long did you stay?”

  “When I saw that he was absent, I withdrew at once.”

  “Did you look at these papers on the table?”

  “No, sir—certainly not.”

  “How came you to leave the key in the door?”

  “I had the tea-tray in my hand. I thought I would come back for
  the key. Then I forgot.”

  “Has the outer door a spring lock?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Then it was open all the time?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Anyone in the room could get out?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “When Mr. Soames returned and called for you, you were very much
  disturbed?”

  “Yes, sir. Such a thing has never happened during the many years
  that I have been here. I nearly fainted, sir.”

  “So I understand. Where were you when you began to feel bad?”

  “Where was I, sir? Why, here, near the door.”

  “That is singular, because you sat down in that chair over yonder
  near the corner. Why did you pass these other chairs?”

  “I don’t know, sir, it didn’t matter to me where I sat.”

  “I really don’t think he knew much about it, Mr. Holmes. He was
  looking very bad—quite ghastly.”

  “You stayed here when your master left?”

  “Only for a minute or so. Then I locked the door and went to my
  room.”

  “Whom do you suspect?”

  “Oh, I would not venture to say, sir. I don’t believe there is
  any gentleman in this university who is capable of profiting by
  such an action. No, sir, I’ll not believe it.”

  “Thank you, that will do,” said Holmes. “Oh, one more word. You
  have not mentioned to any of the three gentlemen whom you attend
  that anything is amiss?”

  “No, sir—not a word.”

  “You haven’t seen any of them?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Very good. Now, Mr. Soames, we will take a walk in the
  quadrangle, if you please.”

  Three yellow squares of light shone above us in the gathering
  gloom.

  “Your three birds are all in their nests,” said Holmes, looking
  up. “Halloa! What’s that? One of them seems restless enough.”

  It was the Indian, whose dark silhouette appeared suddenly upon
  his blind. He was pacing swiftly up and down his room.

  “I should like to have a peep at each of them,” said Holmes. “Is
  it possible?”

  “No difficulty in the world,” Soames answered. “This set of rooms
  is quite the oldest in the college, and it is not unusual for
  visitors to go over them. Come along, and I will personally
  conduct you.”

  “No names, please!” said Holmes, as we knocked at Gilchrist’s
  door. A tall, flaxen-haired, slim young fellow opened it, and
  made us welcome when he understood our errand. There were some
  really curious pieces of mediæval domestic architecture within.
  Holmes was so charmed with one of them that he insisted on
  drawing it in his notebook, broke his pencil, had to borrow one
  from our host and finally borrowed a knife to sharpen his own.
  The same curious accident happened to him in the rooms of the
  Indian—a silent, little, hook-nosed fellow, who eyed us askance,
  and was obviously glad when Holmes’s architectural studies had
  come to an end. I could not see that in either case Holmes had
  come upon the clue for which he was searching. Only at the third
  did our visit prove abortive. The outer door would not open to
  our knock, and nothing more substantial than a torrent of bad
  language came from behind it. “I don’t care who you are. You can
  go to blazes!” roared the angry voice. “Tomorrow’s the exam, and
  I won’t be drawn by anyone.”

  “A rude fellow,” said our guide, flushing with anger as we
  withdrew down the stair. “Of course, he did not realize that it
  was I who was knocking, but none the less his conduct was very
  uncourteous, and, indeed, under the circumstances rather
  suspicious.”

  Holmes’s response was a curious one.

  “Can you tell me his exact height?” he asked.

  “Really, Mr. Holmes, I cannot undertake to say. He is taller than
  the Indian, not so tall as Gilchrist. I suppose five foot six
  would be about it.”

  “That is very important,” said Holmes. “And now, Mr. Soames, I
  wish you good-night.”

  Our guide cried aloud in his astonishment and dismay. “Good
  gracious, Mr. Holmes, you are surely not going to leave me in
  this abrupt fashion! You don’t seem to realize the position.
  To-morrow is the examination. I must take some definite action
  to-night. I cannot allow the examination to be held if one of the
  papers has been tampered with. The situation must be faced.”

  “You must leave it as it is. I shall drop round early to-morrow
  morning and chat the matter over. It is possible that I may be in
  a position then to indicate some course of action. Meanwhile, you
  change nothing—nothing at all.”

  “Very good, Mr. Holmes.”

  “You can be perfectly easy in your mind. We shall certainly find
  some way out of your difficulties. I will take the black clay
  with me, also the pencil cuttings. Good-bye.”

  When we were out in the darkness of the quadrangle, we again
  looked up at the windows. The Indian still paced his room. The
  others were invisible.

  “Well, Watson, what do you think of it?” Holmes asked, as we came
  out into the main street. “Quite a little parlour game—sort of
  three-card trick, is it not? There are your three men. It must be
  one of them. You take your choice. Which is yours?”

  “The foul-mouthed fellow at the top. He is the one with the worst
  record. And yet that Indian was a sly fellow also. Why should he
  be pacing his room all the time?”

  “There is nothing in that. Many men do it when they are trying to
  learn anything by heart.”

  “He looked at us in a queer way.”

  “So would you, if a flock of strangers came in on you when you
  were preparing for an examination next day, and every moment was
  of value. No, I see nothing in that. Pencils, too, and knives—all
  was satisfactory. But that fellow _does_ puzzle me.”

  “Who?”

  “Why, Bannister, the servant. What’s his game in the matter?”

  “He impressed me as being a perfectly honest man.”

  “So he did me. That’s the puzzling part. Why should a perfectly
  honest man—well, well, here’s a large stationer’s. We shall begin
  our researches here.”

  There were only four stationers of any consequences in the town,
  and at each Holmes produced his pencil chips, and bid high for a
  duplicate. All were agreed that one could be ordered, but that it
  was not a usual size of pencil and that it was seldom kept in
  stock. My friend did not appear to be depressed by his failure,
  but shrugged his shoulders in half-humorous resignation.

  “No good, my dear Watson. This, the best and only final clue, has
  run to nothing. But, indeed, I have little doubt that we can
  build up a sufficient case without it. By Jove! my dear fellow,
  it is nearly nine, and the landlady babbled of green peas at
  seven-thirty. What with your eternal tobacco, Watson, and your
  irregularity at meals, I expect that you will get notice to quit,
  and that I shall share your downfall—not, however, before we have
  solved the problem of the nervous tutor, the careless servant,
  and the three enterprising students.”

  Holmes made no further allusion to the matter that day, though he
  sat lost in thought for a long time after our belated dinner. At
  eight in the morning, he came into my room just as I finished my
  toilet.

  “Well, Watson,” said he, “it is time we went down to St. Luke’s.
  Can you do without breakfast?”

  “Certainly.”

  “Soames will be in a dreadful fidget until we are able to tell
  him something positive.”

  “Have you anything positive to tell him?”

  “I think so.”

  “You have formed a conclusion?”

  “Yes, my dear Watson, I have solved the mystery.”

  “But what fresh evidence could you have got?”

  “Aha! It is not for nothing that I have turned myself out of bed
  at the untimely hour of six. I have put in two hours’ hard work
  and covered at least five miles, with something to show for it.
  Look at that!”

  He held out his hand. On the palm were three little pyramids of
  black, doughy clay.

  “Why, Holmes, you had only two yesterday.”

  “And one more this morning. It is a fair argument that wherever
  No. 3 came from is also the source of Nos. 1 and 2. Eh, Watson?
  Well, come along and put friend Soames out of his pain.”

  The unfortunate tutor was certainly in a state of pitiable
  agitation when we found him in his chambers. In a few hours the
  examination would commence, and he was still in the dilemma
  between making the facts public and allowing the culprit to
  compete for the valuable scholarship. He could hardly stand still
  so great was his mental agitation, and he ran towards Holmes with
  two eager hands outstretched.

  “Thank heaven that you have come! I feared that you had given it
  up in despair. What am I to do? Shall the examination proceed?”

  “Yes, let it proceed, by all means.”

  “But this rascal--?”

  “He shall not compete.”

  “You know him?”

  “I think so. If this matter is not to become public, we must give
  ourselves certain powers and resolve ourselves into a small
  private court-martial. You there, if you please, Soames! Watson,
  you here! I’ll take the armchair in the middle. I think that we
  are now sufficiently imposing to strike terror into a guilty
  breast. Kindly ring the bell!”

  Bannister entered, and shrank back in evident surprise and fear
  at our judicial appearance.

  “You will kindly close the door,” said Holmes. “Now, Bannister,
  will you please tell us the truth about yesterday’s incident?”

  The man turned white to the roots of his hair.

  “I have told you everything, sir.”

  “Nothing to add?”

  “Nothing at all, sir.”

  “Well, then, I must make some suggestions to you. When you sat
  down on that chair yesterday, did you do so in order to conceal
  some object which would have shown who had been in the room?”

  Bannister’s face was ghastly.

  “No, sir, certainly not.”

  “It is only a suggestion,” said Holmes, suavely. “I frankly admit
  that I am unable to prove it. But it seems probable enough, since
  the moment that Mr. Soames’s back was turned, you released the
  man who was hiding in that bedroom.”

  Bannister licked his dry lips.

  “There was no man, sir.”

  “Ah, that’s a pity, Bannister. Up to now you may have spoken the
  truth, but now I know that you have lied.”

  The man’s face set in sullen defiance.

  “There was no man, sir.”

  “Come, come, Bannister!”

  “No, sir, there was no one.”

  “In that case, you can give us no further information. Would you
  please remain in the room? Stand over there near the bedroom
  door. Now, Soames, I am going to ask you to have the great
  kindness to go up to the room of young Gilchrist, and to ask him
  to step down into yours.”

  An instant later the tutor returned, bringing with him the
  student. He was a fine figure of a man, tall, lithe, and agile,
  with a springy step and a pleasant, open face. His troubled blue
  eyes glanced at each of us, and finally rested with an expression
  of blank dismay upon Bannister in the farther corner.

  “Just close the door,” said Holmes. “Now, Mr. Gilchrist, we are
  all quite alone here, and no one need ever know one word of what
  passes between us. We can be perfectly frank with each other. We
  want to know, Mr. Gilchrist, how you, an honourable man, ever
  came to commit such an action as that of yesterday?”

  The unfortunate young man staggered back, and cast a look full of
  horror and reproach at Bannister.

  “No, no, Mr. Gilchrist, sir, I never said a word—never one word!”
  cried the servant.

  “No, but you have now,” said Holmes. “Now, sir, you must see that
  after Bannister’s words your position is hopeless, and that your
  only chance lies in a frank confession.”

  For a moment Gilchrist, with upraised hand, tried to control his
  writhing features. The next he had thrown himself on his knees
  beside the table, and burying his face in his hands, he had burst
  into a storm of passionate sobbing.

  “Come, come,” said Holmes, kindly, “it is human to err, and at
  least no one can accuse you of being a callous criminal. Perhaps
  it would be easier for you if I were to tell Mr. Soames what
  occurred, and you can check me where I am wrong. Shall I do so?
  Well, well, don’t trouble to answer. Listen, and see that I do
  you no injustice.

  “From the moment, Mr. Soames, that you said to me that no one,
  not even Bannister, could have told that the papers were in your
  room, the case began to take a definite shape in my mind. The
  printer one could, of course, dismiss. He could examine the
  papers in his own office. The Indian I also thought nothing of.
  If the proofs were in a roll, he could not possibly know what
  they were. On the other hand, it seemed an unthinkable
  coincidence that a man should dare to enter the room, and that by
  chance on that very day the papers were on the table. I dismissed
  that. The man who entered knew that the papers were there. How
  did he know?

  “When I approached your room, I examined the window. You amused
  me by supposing that I was contemplating the possibility of
  someone having in broad daylight, under the eyes of all these
  opposite rooms, forced himself through it. Such an idea was
  absurd. I was measuring how tall a man would need to be in order
  to see, as he passed, what papers were on the central table. I am
  six feet high, and I could do it with an effort. No one less than
  that would have a chance. Already you see I had reason to think
  that, if one of your three students was a man of unusual height,
  he was the most worth watching of the three.

  “I entered, and I took you into my confidence as to the
  suggestions of the side table. Of the centre table I could make
  nothing, until in your description of Gilchrist you mentioned
  that he was a long-distance jumper. Then the whole thing came to
  me in an instant, and I only needed certain corroborative proofs,
  which I speedily obtained.

  “What happened was this. This young fellow had employed his
  afternoon at the athletic grounds, where he had been practising
  the jump. He returned carrying his jumping-shoes, which are
  provided, as you are aware, with several sharp spikes. As he
  passed your window he saw, by means of his great height, these
  proofs upon your table, and conjectured what they were. No harm
  would have been done had it not been that, as he passed your
  door, he perceived the key which had been left by the
  carelessness of your servant. A sudden impulse came over him to
  enter, and see if they were indeed the proofs. It was not a
  dangerous exploit for he could always pretend that he had simply
  looked in to ask a question.

  “Well, when he saw that they were indeed the proofs, it was then
  that he yielded to temptation. He put his shoes on the table.
  What was it you put on that chair near the window?”

  “Gloves,” said the young man.

  Holmes looked triumphantly at Bannister. “He put his gloves on
  the chair, and he took the proofs, sheet by sheet, to copy them.
  He thought the tutor must return by the main gate and that he
  would see him. As we know, he came back by the side gate.
  Suddenly he heard him at the very door. There was no possible
  escape. He forgot his gloves but he caught up his shoes and
  darted into the bedroom. You observe that the scratch on that
  table is slight at one side, but deepens in the direction of the
  bedroom door. That in itself is enough to show us that the shoe
  had been drawn in that direction, and that the culprit had taken
  refuge there. The earth round the spike had been left on the
  table, and a second sample was loosened and fell in the bedroom.
  I may add that I walked out to the athletic grounds this morning,
  saw that tenacious black clay is used in the jumping-pit and
  carried away a specimen of it, together with some of the fine tan
  or sawdust which is strewn over it to prevent the athlete from
  slipping. Have I told the truth, Mr. Gilchrist?”

  The student had drawn himself erect.

  “Yes, sir, it is true,” said he.

  “Good heavens! have you nothing to add?” cried Soames.

  “Yes, sir, I have, but the shock of this disgraceful exposure has
  bewildered me. I have a letter here, Mr. Soames, which I wrote to
  you early this morning in the middle of a restless night. It was
  before I knew that my sin had found me out. Here it is, sir. You
  will see that I have said, ‘I have determined not to go in for
  the examination. I have been offered a commission in the
  Rhodesian Police, and I am going out to South Africa at once.’”

  “I am indeed pleased to hear that you did not intend to profit by
  your unfair advantage,” said Soames. “But why did you change your
  purpose?”

  Gilchrist pointed to Bannister.

  “There is the man who set me in the right path,” said he.

  “Come now, Bannister,” said Holmes. “It will be clear to you,
  from what I have said, that only you could have let this young
  man out, since you were left in the room, and must have locked
  the door when you went out. As to his escaping by that window, it
  was incredible. Can you not clear up the last point in this
  mystery, and tell us the reasons for your action?”

  “It was simple enough, sir, if you only had known, but, with all
  your cleverness, it was impossible that you could know. Time was,
  sir, when I was butler to old Sir Jabez Gilchrist, this young
  gentleman’s father. When he was ruined I came to the college as
  servant, but I never forgot my old employer because he was down
  in the world. I watched his son all I could for the sake of the
  old days. Well, sir, when I came into this room yesterday, when
  the alarm was given, the very first thing I saw was Mr.
  Gilchrist’s tan gloves a-lying in that chair. I knew those gloves
  well, and I understood their message. If Mr. Soames saw them, the
  game was up. I flopped down into that chair, and nothing would
  budge me until Mr. Soames went for you. Then out came my poor
  young master, whom I had dandled on my knee, and confessed it all
  to me. Wasn’t it natural, sir, that I should save him, and wasn’t
  it natural also that I should try to speak to him as his dead
  father would have done, and make him understand that he could not
  profit by such a deed? Could you blame me, sir?”

  “No, indeed,” said Holmes, heartily, springing to his feet.
  “Well, Soames, I think we have cleared your little problem up,
  and our breakfast awaits us at home. Come, Watson! As to you,
  sir, I trust that a bright future awaits you in Rhodesia. For
  once you have fallen low. Let us see, in the future, how high you
  can rise.”

THE ADVENTURE OF THE GOLDEN PINCE-NEZ

  When I look at the three massive manuscript volumes which contain
  our work for the year 1894, I confess that it is very difficult
  for me, out of such a wealth of material, to select the cases
  which are most interesting in themselves, and at the same time
  most conducive to a display of those peculiar powers for which my
  friend was famous. As I turn over the pages, I see my notes upon
  the repulsive story of the red leech and the terrible death of
  Crosby, the banker. Here also I find an account of the Addleton
  tragedy, and the singular contents of the ancient British barrow.
  The famous Smith-Mortimer succession case comes also within this
  period, and so does the tracking and arrest of Huret, the
  Boulevard assassin—an exploit which won for Holmes an autograph
  letter of thanks from the French President and the Order of the
  Legion of Honour. Each of these would furnish a narrative, but on
  the whole I am of opinion that none of them unites so many
  singular points of interest as the episode of Yoxley Old Place,
  which includes not only the lamentable death of young Willoughby
  Smith, but also those subsequent developments which threw so
  curious a light upon the causes of the crime.

  It was a wild, tempestuous night, towards the close of November.
  Holmes and I sat together in silence all the evening, he engaged
  with a powerful lens deciphering the remains of the original
  inscription upon a palimpsest, I deep in a recent treatise upon
  surgery. Outside the wind howled down Baker Street, while the
  rain beat fiercely against the windows. It was strange there, in
  the very depths of the town, with ten miles of man’s handiwork on
  every side of us, to feel the iron grip of Nature, and to be
  conscious that to the huge elemental forces all London was no
  more than the molehills that dot the fields. I walked to the
  window, and looked out on the deserted street. The occasional
  lamps gleamed on the expanse of muddy road and shining pavement.
  A single cab was splashing its way from the Oxford Street end.

  “Well, Watson, it’s as well we have not to turn out to-night,”
  said Holmes, laying aside his lens and rolling up the palimpsest.
  “I’ve done enough for one sitting. It is trying work for the
  eyes. So far as I can make out, it is nothing more exciting than
  an Abbey’s accounts dating from the second half of the fifteenth
  century. Halloa! halloa! halloa! What’s this?”

  Amid the droning of the wind there had come the stamping of a
  horse’s hoofs, and the long grind of a wheel as it rasped against
  the curb. The cab which I had seen had pulled up at our door.

  “What can he want?” I ejaculated, as a man stepped out of it.

  “Want? He wants us. And we, my poor Watson, want overcoats and
  cravats and goloshes, and every aid that man ever invented to
  fight the weather. Wait a bit, though! There’s the cab off again!
  There’s hope yet. He’d have kept it if he had wanted us to come.
  Run down, my dear fellow, and open the door, for all virtuous
  folk have been long in bed.”

  When the light of the hall lamp fell upon our midnight visitor, I
  had no difficulty in recognizing him. It was young Stanley
  Hopkins, a promising detective, in whose career Holmes had
  several times shown a very practical interest.

  “Is he in?” he asked, eagerly.

  “Come up, my dear sir,” said Holmes’s voice from above. “I hope
  you have no designs upon us such a night as this.”

  The detective mounted the stairs, and our lamp gleamed upon his
  shining waterproof. I helped him out of it, while Holmes knocked
  a blaze out of the logs in the grate.

  “Now, my dear Hopkins, draw up and warm your toes,” said he.
  “Here’s a cigar, and the doctor has a prescription containing hot
  water and a lemon, which is good medicine on a night like this.
  It must be something important which has brought you out in such
  a gale.”

  “It is indeed, Mr. Holmes. I’ve had a bustling afternoon, I
  promise you. Did you see anything of the Yoxley case in the
  latest editions?”

  “I’ve seen nothing later than the fifteenth century to-day.”

  “Well, it was only a paragraph, and all wrong at that, so you
  have not missed anything. I haven’t let the grass grow under my
  feet. It’s down in Kent, seven miles from Chatham and three from
  the railway line. I was wired for at 3:15, reached Yoxley Old
  Place at 5, conducted my investigation, was back at Charing Cross
  by the last train, and straight to you by cab.”

  “Which means, I suppose, that you are not quite clear about your
  case?”

  “It means that I can make neither head nor tail of it. So far as
  I can see, it is just as tangled a business as ever I handled,
  and yet at first it seemed so simple that one couldn’t go wrong.
  There’s no motive, Mr. Holmes. That’s what bothers me—I can’t put
  my hand on a motive. Here’s a man dead—there’s no denying
  that—but, so far as I can see, no reason on earth why anyone
  should wish him harm.”

  Holmes lit his cigar and leaned back in his chair.

  “Let us hear about it,” said he.

  “I’ve got my facts pretty clear,” said Stanley Hopkins. “All I
  want now is to know what they all mean. The story, so far as I
  can make it out, is like this. Some years ago this country house,
  Yoxley Old Place, was taken by an elderly man, who gave the name
  of Professor Coram. He was an invalid, keeping his bed half the
  time, and the other half hobbling round the house with a stick or
  being pushed about the grounds by the gardener in a Bath chair.
  He was well liked by the few neighbours who called upon him, and
  he has the reputation down there of being a very learned man. His
  household used to consist of an elderly housekeeper, Mrs. Marker,
  and of a maid, Susan Tarlton. These have both been with him since
  his arrival, and they seem to be women of excellent character.
  The professor is writing a learned book, and he found it
  necessary, about a year ago, to engage a secretary. The first two
  that he tried were not successes, but the third, Mr. Willoughby
  Smith, a very young man straight from the university, seems to
  have been just what his employer wanted. His work consisted in
  writing all the morning to the professor’s dictation, and he
  usually spent the evening in hunting up references and passages
  which bore upon the next day’s work. This Willoughby Smith has
  nothing against him, either as a boy at Uppingham or as a young
  man at Cambridge. I have seen his testimonials, and from the
  first he was a decent, quiet, hard-working fellow, with no weak
  spot in him at all. And yet this is the lad who has met his death
  this morning in the professor’s study under circumstances which
  can point only to murder.”

  The wind howled and screamed at the windows. Holmes and I drew
  closer to the fire, while the young inspector slowly and point by
  point developed his singular narrative.

  “If you were to search all England,” said he, “I don’t suppose
  you could find a household more self-contained or freer from
  outside influences. Whole weeks would pass, and not one of them
  go past the garden gate. The professor was buried in his work and
  existed for nothing else. Young Smith knew nobody in the
  neighbourhood, and lived very much as his employer did. The two
  women had nothing to take them from the house. Mortimer, the
  gardener, who wheels the Bath chair, is an army pensioner—an old
  Crimean man of excellent character. He does not live in the
  house, but in a three-roomed cottage at the other end of the
  garden. Those are the only people that you would find within the
  grounds of Yoxley Old Place. At the same time, the gate of the
  garden is a hundred yards from the main London to Chatham road.
  It opens with a latch, and there is nothing to prevent anyone
  from walking in.

  “Now I will give you the evidence of Susan Tarlton, who is the
  only person who can say anything positive about the matter. It
  was in the forenoon, between eleven and twelve. She was engaged
  at the moment in hanging some curtains in the upstairs front
  bedroom. Professor Coram was still in bed, for when the weather
  is bad he seldom rises before midday. The housekeeper was busied
  with some work in the back of the house. Willoughby Smith had
  been in his bedroom, which he uses as a sitting-room, but the
  maid heard him at that moment pass along the passage and descend
  to the study immediately below her. She did not see him, but she
  says that she could not be mistaken in his quick, firm tread. She
  did not hear the study door close, but a minute or so later there
  was a dreadful cry in the room below. It was a wild, hoarse
  scream, so strange and unnatural that it might have come either
  from a man or a woman. At the same instant there was a heavy
  thud, which shook the old house, and then all was silence. The
  maid stood petrified for a moment, and then, recovering her
  courage, she ran downstairs. The study door was shut and she
  opened it. Inside, young Mr. Willoughby Smith was stretched upon
  the floor. At first she could see no injury, but as she tried to
  raise him she saw that blood was pouring from the underside of
  his neck. It was pierced by a very small but very deep wound,
  which had divided the carotid artery. The instrument with which
  the injury had been inflicted lay upon the carpet beside him. It
  was one of those small sealing-wax knives to be found on
  old-fashioned writing-tables, with an ivory handle and a stiff
  blade. It was part of the fittings of the professor’s own desk.

  “At first the maid thought that young Smith was already dead, but
  on pouring some water from the carafe over his forehead he opened
  his eyes for an instant. ‘The professor,’ he murmured—‘it was
  she.’ The maid is prepared to swear that those were the exact
  words. He tried desperately to say something else, and he held
  his right hand up in the air. Then he fell back dead.

  “In the meantime the housekeeper had also arrived upon the scene,
  but she was just too late to catch the young man’s dying words.
  Leaving Susan with the body, she hurried to the professor’s room.
  He was sitting up in bed, horribly agitated, for he had heard
  enough to convince him that something terrible had occurred. Mrs.
  Marker is prepared to swear that the professor was still in his
  night-clothes, and indeed it was impossible for him to dress
  without the help of Mortimer, whose orders were to come at twelve
  o’clock. The professor declares that he heard the distant cry,
  but that he knows nothing more. He can give no explanation of the
  young man’s last words, ‘The professor—it was she,’ but imagines
  that they were the outcome of delirium. He believes that
  Willoughby Smith had not an enemy in the world, and can give no
  reason for the crime. His first action was to send Mortimer, the
  gardener, for the local police. A little later the chief
  constable sent for me. Nothing was moved before I got there, and
  strict orders were given that no one should walk upon the paths
  leading to the house. It was a splendid chance of putting your
  theories into practice, Mr. Sherlock Holmes. There was really
  nothing wanting.”

  “Except Mr. Sherlock Holmes,” said my companion, with a somewhat
  bitter smile. “Well, let us hear about it. What sort of a job did
  you make of it?”

  “I must ask you first, Mr. Holmes, to glance at this rough plan,
  which will give you a general idea of the position of the
  professor’s study and the various points of the case. It will
  help you in following my investigation.”

  He unfolded the rough chart, which I here reproduce, and he laid
  it across Holmes’s knee. I rose and, standing behind Holmes,
  studied it over his shoulder.

  Professor's-Study

  “It is very rough, of course, and it only deals with the points
  which seem to me to be essential. All the rest you will see later
  for yourself. Now, first of all, presuming that the assassin
  entered the house, how did he or she come in? Undoubtedly by the
  garden path and the back door, from which there is direct access
  to the study. Any other way would have been exceedingly
  complicated. The escape must have also been made along that line,
  for of the two other exits from the room one was blocked by Susan
  as she ran downstairs and the other leads straight to the
  professor’s bedroom. I therefore directed my attention at once to
  the garden path, which was saturated with recent rain, and would
  certainly show any footmarks.

  “My examination showed me that I was dealing with a cautious and
  expert criminal. No footmarks were to be found on the path. There
  could be no question, however, that someone had passed along the
  grass border which lines the path, and that he had done so in
  order to avoid leaving a track. I could not find anything in the
  nature of a distinct impression, but the grass was trodden down,
  and someone had undoubtedly passed. It could only have been the
  murderer, since neither the gardener nor anyone else had been
  there that morning, and the rain had only begun during the
  night.”

  “One moment,” said Holmes. “Where does this path lead to?”

  “To the road.”

  “How long is it?”

  “A hundred yards or so.”

  “At the point where the path passes through the gate, you could
  surely pick up the tracks?”

  “Unfortunately, the path was tiled at that point.”

  “Well, on the road itself?”

  “No, it was all trodden into mire.”

  “Tut-tut! Well, then, these tracks upon the grass, were they
  coming or going?”

  “It was impossible to say. There was never any outline.”

  “A large foot or a small?”

  “You could not distinguish.”

  Holmes gave an ejaculation of impatience.

  “It has been pouring rain and blowing a hurricane ever since,”
  said he. “It will be harder to read now than that palimpsest.
  Well, well, it can’t be helped. What did you do, Hopkins, after
  you had made certain that you had made certain of nothing?”

  “I think I made certain of a good deal, Mr. Holmes. I knew that
  someone had entered the house cautiously from without. I next
  examined the corridor. It is lined with cocoanut matting and had
  taken no impression of any kind. This brought me into the study
  itself. It is a scantily furnished room. The main article is a
  large writing-table with a fixed bureau. This bureau consists of
  a double column of drawers, with a central small cupboard between
  them. The drawers were open, the cupboard locked. The drawers, it
  seems, were always open, and nothing of value was kept in them.
  There were some papers of importance in the cupboard, but there
  were no signs that this had been tampered with, and the professor
  assures me that nothing was missing. It is certain that no
  robbery has been committed.

  “I come now to the body of the young man. It was found near the
  bureau, and just to the left of it, as marked upon that chart.
  The stab was on the right side of the neck and from behind
  forward, so that it is almost impossible that it could have been
  self-inflicted.”

  “Unless he fell upon the knife,” said Holmes.

  “Exactly. The idea crossed my mind. But we found the knife some
  feet away from the body, so that seems impossible. Then, of
  course, there are the man’s own dying words. And, finally, there
  was this very important piece of evidence which was found clasped
  in the dead man’s right hand.”

  From his pocket Stanley Hopkins drew a small paper packet. He
  unfolded it and disclosed a golden pince-nez, with two broken
  ends of black silk cord dangling from the end of it. “Willoughby
  Smith had excellent sight,” he added. “There can be no question
  that this was snatched from the face or the person of the
  assassin.”

  Sherlock Holmes took the glasses into his hand, and examined them
  with the utmost attention and interest. He held them on his nose,
  endeavoured to read through them, went to the window and stared
  up the street with them, looked at them most minutely in the full
  light of the lamp, and finally, with a chuckle, seated himself at
  the table and wrote a few lines upon a sheet of paper, which he
  tossed across to Stanley Hopkins.

  “That’s the best I can do for you,” said he. “It may prove to be
  of some use.”

  The astonished detective read the note aloud. It ran as follows:

  “Wanted, a woman of good address, attired like a lady. She has a
  remarkably thick nose, with eyes which are set close upon either
  side of it. She has a puckered forehead, a peering expression,
  and probably rounded shoulders. There are indications that she
  has had recourse to an optician at least twice during the last
  few months. As her glasses are of remarkable strength, and as
  opticians are not very numerous, there should be no difficulty in
  tracing her.”

  Holmes smiled at the astonishment of Hopkins, which must have
  been reflected upon my features. “Surely my deductions are
  simplicity itself,” said he. “It would be difficult to name any
  articles which afford a finer field for inference than a pair of
  glasses, especially so remarkable a pair as these. That they
  belong to a woman I infer from their delicacy, and also, of
  course, from the last words of the dying man. As to her being a
  person of refinement and well dressed, they are, as you perceive,
  handsomely mounted in solid gold, and it is inconceivable that
  anyone who wore such glasses could be slatternly in other
  respects. You will find that the clips are too wide for your
  nose, showing that the lady’s nose was very broad at the base.
  This sort of nose is usually a short and coarse one, but there is
  a sufficient number of exceptions to prevent me from being
  dogmatic or from insisting upon this point in my description. My
  own face is a narrow one, and yet I find that I cannot get my
  eyes into the centre, nor near the centre, of these glasses.
  Therefore, the lady’s eyes are set very near to the sides of the
  nose. You will perceive, Watson, that the glasses are concave and
  of unusual strength. A lady whose vision has been so extremely
  contracted all her life is sure to have the physical
  characteristics of such vision, which are seen in the forehead,
  the eyelids, and the shoulders.”

  “Yes,” I said, “I can follow each of your arguments. I confess,
  however, that I am unable to understand how you arrive at the
  double visit to the optician.”

  Holmes took the glasses in his hand.

  “You will perceive,” he said, “that the clips are lined with tiny
  bands of cork to soften the pressure upon the nose. One of these
  is discoloured and worn to some slight extent, but the other is
  new. Evidently one has fallen off and been replaced. I should
  judge that the older of them has not been there more than a few
  months. They exactly correspond, so I gather that the lady went
  back to the same establishment for the second.”

  “By George, it’s marvellous!” cried Hopkins, in an ecstasy of
  admiration. “To think that I had all that evidence in my hand and
  never knew it! I had intended, however, to go the round of the
  London opticians.”

  “Of course you would. Meanwhile, have you anything more to tell
  us about the case?”

  “Nothing, Mr. Holmes. I think that you know as much as I do
  now—probably more. We have had inquiries made as to any stranger
  seen on the country roads or at the railway station. We have
  heard of none. What beats me is the utter want of all object in
  the crime. Not a ghost of a motive can anyone suggest.”

  “Ah! there I am not in a position to help you. But I suppose you
  want us to come out to-morrow?”

  “If it is not asking too much, Mr. Holmes. There’s a train from
  Charing Cross to Chatham at six in the morning, and we should be
  at Yoxley Old Place between eight and nine.”

  “Then we shall take it. Your case has certainly some features of
  great interest, and I shall be delighted to look into it. Well,
  it’s nearly one, and we had best get a few hours’ sleep. I
  daresay you can manage all right on the sofa in front of the
  fire. I’ll light my spirit lamp, and give you a cup of coffee
  before we start.”

  The gale had blown itself out next day, but it was a bitter
  morning when we started upon our journey. We saw the cold winter
  sun rise over the dreary marshes of the Thames and the long,
  sullen reaches of the river, which I shall ever associate with
  our pursuit of the Andaman Islander in the earlier days of our
  career. After a long and weary journey, we alighted at a small
  station some miles from Chatham. While a horse was being put into
  a trap at the local inn, we snatched a hurried breakfast, and so
  we were all ready for business when we at last arrived at Yoxley
  Old Place. A constable met us at the garden gate.

  “Well, Wilson, any news?”

  “No, sir—nothing.”

  “No reports of any stranger seen?”

  “No, sir. Down at the station they are certain that no stranger
  either came or went yesterday.”

  “Have you had inquiries made at inns and lodgings?”

  “Yes, sir: there is no one that we cannot account for.”

  “Well, it’s only a reasonable walk to Chatham. Anyone might stay
  there or take a train without being observed. This is the garden
  path of which I spoke, Mr. Holmes. I’ll pledge my word there was
  no mark on it yesterday.”

  “On which side were the marks on the grass?”

  “This side, sir. This narrow margin of grass between the path and
  the flower-bed. I can’t see the traces now, but they were clear
  to me then.”

  “Yes, yes: someone has passed along,” said Holmes, stooping over
  the grass border. “Our lady must have picked her steps carefully,
  must she not, since on the one side she would leave a track on
  the path, and on the other an even clearer one on the soft bed?”

  “Yes, sir, she must have been a cool hand.”

  I saw an intent look pass over Holmes’s face.

  “You say that she must have come back this way?”

  “Yes, sir, there is no other.”

  “On this strip of grass?”

  “Certainly, Mr. Holmes.”

  “Hum! It was a very remarkable performance—very remarkable. Well,
  I think we have exhausted the path. Let us go farther. This
  garden door is usually kept open, I suppose? Then this visitor
  had nothing to do but to walk in. The idea of murder was not in
  her mind, or she would have provided herself with some sort of
  weapon, instead of having to pick this knife off the
  writing-table. She advanced along this corridor, leaving no
  traces upon the cocoanut matting. Then she found herself in this
  study. How long was she there? We have no means of judging.”

  “Not more than a few minutes, sir. I forgot to tell you that Mrs.
  Marker, the housekeeper, had been in there tidying not very long
  before—about a quarter of an hour, she says.”

  “Well, that gives us a limit. Our lady enters this room, and what
  does she do? She goes over to the writing-table. What for? Not
  for anything in the drawers. If there had been anything worth her
  taking, it would surely have been locked up. No, it was for
  something in that wooden bureau. Halloa! what is that scratch
  upon the face of it? Just hold a match, Watson. Why did you not
  tell me of this, Hopkins?”

  The mark which he was examining began upon the brass-work on the
  right-hand side of the keyhole, and extended for about four
  inches, where it had scratched the varnish from the surface.

  “I noticed it, Mr. Holmes, but you’ll always find scratches round
  a keyhole.”

  “This is recent, quite recent. See how the brass shines where it
  is cut. An old scratch would be the same colour as the surface.
  Look at it through my lens. There’s the varnish, too, like earth
  on each side of a furrow. Is Mrs. Marker there?”

  A sad-faced, elderly woman came into the room.

  “Did you dust this bureau yesterday morning?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Did you notice this scratch?”

  “No, sir, I did not.”

  “I am sure you did not, for a duster would have swept away these
  shreds of varnish. Who has the key of this bureau?”

  “The Professor keeps it on his watch-chain.”

  “Is it a simple key?”

  “No, sir, it is a Chubb’s key.”

  “Very good. Mrs. Marker, you can go. Now we are making a little
  progress. Our lady enters the room, advances to the bureau, and
  either opens it or tries to do so. While she is thus engaged,
  young Willoughby Smith enters the room. In her hurry to withdraw
  the key, she makes this scratch upon the door. He seizes her, and
  she, snatching up the nearest object, which happens to be this
  knife, strikes at him in order to make him let go his hold. The
  blow is a fatal one. He falls and she escapes, either with or
  without the object for which she has come. Is Susan, the maid,
  there? Could anyone have got away through that door after the
  time that you heard the cry, Susan?”

  “No, sir, it is impossible. Before I got down the stair, I’d have
  seen anyone in the passage. Besides, the door never opened, or I
  would have heard it.”

  “That settles this exit. Then no doubt the lady went out the way
  she came. I understand that this other passage leads only to the
  professor’s room. There is no exit that way?”

  “No, sir.”

  “We shall go down it and make the acquaintance of the professor.
  Halloa, Hopkins! this is very important, very important indeed.
  The professor’s corridor is also lined with cocoanut matting.”

  “Well, sir, what of that?”

  “Don’t you see any bearing upon the case? Well, well. I don’t
  insist upon it. No doubt I am wrong. And yet it seems to me to be
  suggestive. Come with me and introduce me.”

  We passed down the passage, which was of the same length as that
  which led to the garden. At the end was a short flight of steps
  ending in a door. Our guide knocked, and then ushered us into the
  professor’s bedroom.

  It was a very large chamber, lined with innumerable volumes,
  which had overflowed from the shelves and lay in piles in the
  corners, or were stacked all round at the base of the cases. The
  bed was in the centre of the room, and in it, propped up with
  pillows, was the owner of the house. I have seldom seen a more
  remarkable-looking person. It was a gaunt, aquiline face which
  was turned towards us, with piercing dark eyes, which lurked in
  deep hollows under overhung and tufted brows. His hair and beard
  were white, save that the latter was curiously stained with
  yellow around his mouth. A cigarette glowed amid the tangle of
  white hair, and the air of the room was fetid with stale tobacco
  smoke. As he held out his hand to Holmes, I perceived that it was
  also stained with yellow nicotine.

  “A smoker, Mr. Holmes?” said he, speaking in well-chosen English,
  with a curious little mincing accent. “Pray take a cigarette. And
  you, sir? I can recommend them, for I have them especially
  prepared by Ionides, of Alexandria. He sends me a thousand at a
  time, and I grieve to say that I have to arrange for a fresh
  supply every fortnight. Bad, sir, very bad, but an old man has
  few pleasures. Tobacco and my work—that is all that is left to
  me.”

  Holmes had lit a cigarette and was shooting little darting
  glances all over the room.

  “Tobacco and my work, but now only tobacco,” the old man
  exclaimed. “Alas! what a fatal interruption! Who could have
  foreseen such a terrible catastrophe? So estimable a young man! I
  assure you that, after a few months’ training, he was an
  admirable assistant. What do you think of the matter, Mr.
  Holmes?”

  “I have not yet made up my mind.”

  “I shall indeed be indebted to you if you can throw a light where
  all is so dark to us. To a poor bookworm and invalid like myself
  such a blow is paralysing. I seem to have lost the faculty of
  thought. But you are a man of action—you are a man of affairs. It
  is part of the everyday routine of your life. You can preserve
  your balance in every emergency. We are fortunate, indeed, in
  having you at our side.”

  Holmes was pacing up and down one side of the room whilst the old
  professor was talking. I observed that he was smoking with
  extraordinary rapidity. It was evident that he shared our host’s
  liking for the fresh Alexandrian cigarettes.

  “Yes, sir, it is a crushing blow,” said the old man. “That is my
  _magnum opus_—the pile of papers on the side table yonder. It is
  my analysis of the documents found in the Coptic monasteries of
  Syria and Egypt, a work which will cut deep at the very
  foundation of revealed religion. With my enfeebled health I do
  not know whether I shall ever be able to complete it, now that my
  assistant has been taken from me. Dear me! Mr. Holmes, why, you
  are even a quicker smoker than I am myself.”

  Holmes smiled.

  “I am a connoisseur,” said he, taking another cigarette from the
  box—his fourth—and lighting it from the stub of that which he had
  finished. “I will not trouble you with any lengthy
  cross-examination, Professor Coram, since I gather that you were
  in bed at the time of the crime, and could know nothing about it.
  I would only ask this: What do you imagine that this poor fellow
  meant by his last words: ‘The professor—it was she’?”

  The professor shook his head.

  “Susan is a country girl,” said he, “and you know the incredible
  stupidity of that class. I fancy that the poor fellow murmured
  some incoherent delirious words, and that she twisted them into
  this meaningless message.”

  “I see. You have no explanation yourself of the tragedy?”

  “Possibly an accident, possibly—I only breathe it among
  ourselves—a suicide. Young men have their hidden troubles—some
  affair of the heart, perhaps, which we have never known. It is a
  more probable supposition than murder.”

  “But the eyeglasses?”

  “Ah! I am only a student—a man of dreams. I cannot explain the
  practical things of life. But still, we are aware, my friend,
  that love-gages may take strange shapes. By all means take
  another cigarette. It is a pleasure to see anyone appreciate them
  so. A fan, a glove, glasses—who knows what article may be carried
  as a token or treasured when a man puts an end to his life? This
  gentleman speaks of footsteps in the grass, but, after all, it is
  easy to be mistaken on such a point. As to the knife, it might
  well be thrown far from the unfortunate man as he fell. It is
  possible that I speak as a child, but to me it seems that
  Willoughby Smith has met his fate by his own hand.”

  Holmes seemed struck by the theory thus put forward, and he
  continued to walk up and down for some time, lost in thought and
  consuming cigarette after cigarette.

  “Tell me, Professor Coram,” he said, at last, “what is in that
  cupboard in the bureau?”

  “Nothing that would help a thief. Family papers, letters from my
  poor wife, diplomas of universities which have done me honour.
  Here is the key. You can look for yourself.”

  Holmes picked up the key, and looked at it for an instant, then
  he handed it back.

  “No, I hardly think that it would help me,” said he. “I should
  prefer to go quietly down to your garden, and turn the whole
  matter over in my head. There is something to be said for the
  theory of suicide which you have put forward. We must apologize
  for having intruded upon you, Professor Coram, and I promise that
  we won’t disturb you until after lunch. At two o’clock we will
  come again, and report to you anything which may have happened in
  the interval.”

  Holmes was curiously distrait, and we walked up and down the
  garden path for some time in silence.

  “Have you a clue?” I asked, at last.

  “It depends upon those cigarettes that I smoked,” said he. “It is
  possible that I am utterly mistaken. The cigarettes will show
  me.”

  “My dear Holmes,” I exclaimed, “how on earth——”

  “Well, well, you may see for yourself. If not, there’s no harm
  done. Of course, we always have the optician clue to fall back
  upon, but I take a short cut when I can get it. Ah, here is the
  good Mrs. Marker! Let us enjoy five minutes of instructive
  conversation with her.”

  I may have remarked before that Holmes had, when he liked, a
  peculiarly ingratiating way with women, and that he very readily
  established terms of confidence with them. In half the time which
  he had named, he had captured the housekeeper’s goodwill and was
  chatting with her as if he had known her for years.

  “Yes, Mr. Holmes, it is as you say, sir. He does smoke something
  terrible. All day and sometimes all night, sir. I’ve seen that
  room of a morning—well, sir, you’d have thought it was a London
  fog. Poor young Mr. Smith, he was a smoker also, but not as bad
  as the professor. His health—well, I don’t know that it’s better
  nor worse for the smoking.”

  “Ah!” said Holmes, “but it kills the appetite.”

  “Well, I don’t know about that, sir.”

  “I suppose the professor eats hardly anything?”

  “Well, he is variable. I’ll say that for him.”

  “I’ll wager he took no breakfast this morning, and won’t face his
  lunch after all the cigarettes I saw him consume.”

  “Well, you’re out there, sir, as it happens, for he ate a
  remarkable big breakfast this morning. I don’t know when I’ve
  known him make a better one, and he’s ordered a good dish of
  cutlets for his lunch. I’m surprised myself, for since I came
  into that room yesterday and saw young Mr. Smith lying there on
  the floor, I couldn’t bear to look at food. Well, it takes all
  sorts to make a world, and the professor hasn’t let it take his
  appetite away.”

  We loitered the morning away in the garden. Stanley Hopkins had
  gone down to the village to look into some rumours of a strange
  woman who had been seen by some children on the Chatham Road the
  previous morning. As to my friend, all his usual energy seemed to
  have deserted him. I had never known him handle a case in such a
  half-hearted fashion. Even the news brought back by Hopkins that
  he had found the children, and that they had undoubtedly seen a
  woman exactly corresponding with Holmes’s description, and
  wearing either spectacles or eyeglasses, failed to rouse any sign
  of keen interest. He was more attentive when Susan, who waited
  upon us at lunch, volunteered the information that she believed
  Mr. Smith had been out for a walk yesterday morning, and that he
  had only returned half an hour before the tragedy occurred. I
  could not myself see the bearing of this incident, but I clearly
  perceived that Holmes was weaving it into the general scheme
  which he had formed in his brain. Suddenly he sprang from his
  chair and glanced at his watch. “Two o’clock, gentlemen,” said
  he. “We must go up and have it out with our friend, the
  professor.”

  The old man had just finished his lunch, and certainly his empty
  dish bore evidence to the good appetite with which his
  housekeeper had credited him. He was, indeed, a weird figure as
  he turned his white mane and his glowing eyes towards us. The
  eternal cigarette smouldered in his mouth. He had been dressed
  and was seated in an armchair by the fire.

  “Well, Mr. Holmes, have you solved this mystery yet?” He shoved
  the large tin of cigarettes which stood on a table beside him
  towards my companion. Holmes stretched out his hand at the same
  moment, and between them they tipped the box over the edge. For a
  minute or two we were all on our knees retrieving stray
  cigarettes from impossible places. When we rose again, I observed
  Holmes’s eyes were shining and his cheeks tinged with colour.
  Only at a crisis have I seen those battle-signals flying.

  “Yes,” said he, “I have solved it.”

  Stanley Hopkins and I stared in amazement. Something like a sneer
  quivered over the gaunt features of the old professor.

  “Indeed! In the garden?”

  “No, here.”

  “Here! When?”

  “This instant.”

  “You are surely joking, Mr. Sherlock Holmes. You compel me to
  tell you that this is too serious a matter to be treated in such
  a fashion.”

  “I have forged and tested every link of my chain, Professor
  Coram, and I am sure that it is sound. What your motives are, or
  what exact part you play in this strange business, I am not yet
  able to say. In a few minutes I shall probably hear it from your
  own lips. Meanwhile I will reconstruct what is past for your
  benefit, so that you may know the information which I still
  require.

  “A lady yesterday entered your study. She came with the intention
  of possessing herself of certain documents which were in your
  bureau. She had a key of her own. I have had an opportunity of
  examining yours, and I do not find that slight discolouration
  which the scratch made upon the varnish would have produced. You
  were not an accessory, therefore, and she came, so far as I can
  read the evidence, without your knowledge to rob you.”

  The professor blew a cloud from his lips. “This is most
  interesting and instructive,” said he. “Have you no more to add?
  Surely, having traced this lady so far, you can also say what has
  become of her.”

  “I will endeavour to do so. In the first place she was seized by
  your secretary, and stabbed him in order to escape. This
  catastrophe I am inclined to regard as an unhappy accident, for I
  am convinced that the lady had no intention of inflicting so
  grievous an injury. An assassin does not come unarmed. Horrified
  by what she had done, she rushed wildly away from the scene of
  the tragedy. Unfortunately for her, she had lost her glasses in
  the scuffle, and as she was extremely short-sighted she was
  really helpless without them. She ran down a corridor, which she
  imagined to be that by which she had come—both were lined with
  cocoanut matting—and it was only when it was too late that she
  understood that she had taken the wrong passage, and that her
  retreat was cut off behind her. What was she to do? She could not
  go back. She could not remain where she was. She must go on. She
  went on. She mounted a stair, pushed open a door, and found
  herself in your room.”

  The old man sat with his mouth open, staring wildly at Holmes.
  Amazement and fear were stamped upon his expressive features.
  Now, with an effort, he shrugged his shoulders and burst into
  insincere laughter.

  “All very fine, Mr. Holmes,” said he. “But there is one little
  flaw in your splendid theory. I was myself in my room, and I
  never left it during the day.”

  “I am aware of that, Professor Coram.”

  “And you mean to say that I could lie upon that bed and not be
  aware that a woman had entered my room?”

  “I never said so. You _were_ aware of it. You spoke with her. You
  recognized her. You aided her to escape.”

  Again the professor burst into high-keyed laughter. He had risen
  to his feet, and his eyes glowed like embers.

  “You are mad!” he cried. “You are talking insanely. I helped her
  to escape? Where is she now?”

  “She is there,” said Holmes, and he pointed to a high bookcase in
  the corner of the room.

  I saw the old man throw up his arms, a terrible convulsion passed
  over his grim face, and he fell back in his chair. At the same
  instant the bookcase at which Holmes pointed swung round upon a
  hinge, and a woman rushed out into the room. “You are right!” she
  cried, in a strange foreign voice. “You are right! I am here.”

  She was brown with the dust and draped with the cobwebs which had
  come from the walls of her hiding-place. Her face, too, was
  streaked with grime, and at the best she could never have been
  handsome, for she had the exact physical characteristics which
  Holmes had divined, with, in addition, a long and obstinate chin.
  What with her natural blindness, and what with the change from
  dark to light, she stood as one dazed, blinking about her to see
  where and who we were. And yet, in spite of all these
  disadvantages, there was a certain nobility in the woman’s
  bearing—a gallantry in the defiant chin and in the upraised head,
  which compelled something of respect and admiration.

  Stanley Hopkins had laid his hand upon her arm and claimed her as
  his prisoner, but she waved him aside gently, and yet with an
  over-mastering dignity which compelled obedience. The old man lay
  back in his chair with a twitching face, and stared at her with
  brooding eyes.

  “Yes, sir, I am your prisoner,” she said. “From where I stood I
  could hear everything, and I know that you have learned the
  truth. I confess it all. It was I who killed the young man. But
  you are right—you who say it was an accident. I did not even know
  that it was a knife which I held in my hand, for in my despair I
  snatched anything from the table and struck at him to make him
  let me go. It is the truth that I tell.”

  “Madam,” said Holmes, “I am sure that it is the truth. I fear
  that you are far from well.”

  She had turned a dreadful colour, the more ghastly under the dark
  dust-streaks upon her face. She seated herself on the side of the
  bed; then she resumed.

  “I have only a little time here,” she said, “but I would have you
  to know the whole truth. I am this man’s wife. He is not an
  Englishman. He is a Russian. His name I will not tell.”

  For the first time the old man stirred. “God bless you, Anna!” he
  cried. “God bless you!”

  She cast a look of the deepest disdain in his direction. “Why
  should you cling so hard to that wretched life of yours,
  Sergius?” said she. “It has done harm to many and good to
  none—not even to yourself. However, it is not for me to cause the
  frail thread to be snapped before God’s time. I have enough
  already upon my soul since I crossed the threshold of this cursed
  house. But I must speak or I shall be too late.

  “I have said, gentlemen, that I am this man’s wife. He was fifty
  and I a foolish girl of twenty when we married. It was in a city
  of Russia, a university—I will not name the place.”

  “God bless you, Anna!” murmured the old man again.

  “We were reformers—revolutionists—Nihilists, you understand. He
  and I and many more. Then there came a time of trouble, a police
  officer was killed, many were arrested, evidence was wanted, and
  in order to save his own life and to earn a great reward, my
  husband betrayed his own wife and his companions. Yes, we were
  all arrested upon his confession. Some of us found our way to the
  gallows, and some to Siberia. I was among these last, but my term
  was not for life. My husband came to England with his ill-gotten
  gains and has lived in quiet ever since, knowing well that if the
  Brotherhood knew where he was not a week would pass before
  justice would be done.”

  The old man reached out a trembling hand and helped himself to a
  cigarette. “I am in your hands, Anna,” said he. “You were always
  good to me.”

  “I have not yet told you the height of his villainy,” said she.
  “Among our comrades of the Order, there was one who was the
  friend of my heart. He was noble, unselfish, loving—all that my
  husband was not. He hated violence. We were all guilty—if that is
  guilt—but he was not. He wrote forever dissuading us from such a
  course. These letters would have saved him. So would my diary, in
  which, from day to day, I had entered both my feelings towards
  him and the view which each of us had taken. My husband found and
  kept both diary and letters. He hid them, and he tried hard to
  swear away the young man’s life. In this he failed, but Alexis
  was sent a convict to Siberia, where now, at this moment, he
  works in a salt mine. Think of that, you villain, you
  villain!—now, now, at this very moment, Alexis, a man whose name
  you are not worthy to speak, works and lives like a slave, and
  yet I have your life in my hands, and I let you go.”

  “You were always a noble woman, Anna,” said the old man, puffing
  at his cigarette.

  She had risen, but she fell back again with a little cry of pain.

  “I must finish,” she said. “When my term was over I set myself to
  get the diary and letters which, if sent to the Russian
  government, would procure my friend’s release. I knew that my
  husband had come to England. After months of searching I
  discovered where he was. I knew that he still had the diary, for
  when I was in Siberia I had a letter from him once, reproaching
  me and quoting some passages from its pages. Yet I was sure that,
  with his revengeful nature, he would never give it to me of his
  own free-will. I must get it for myself. With this object I
  engaged an agent from a private detective firm, who entered my
  husband’s house as a secretary—it was your second secretary,
  Sergius, the one who left you so hurriedly. He found that papers
  were kept in the cupboard, and he got an impression of the key.
  He would not go farther. He furnished me with a plan of the
  house, and he told me that in the forenoon the study was always
  empty, as the secretary was employed up here. So at last I took
  my courage in both hands, and I came down to get the papers for
  myself. I succeeded; but at what a cost!

  “I had just taken the paper; and was locking the cupboard, when
  the young man seized me. I had seen him already that morning. He
  had met me on the road, and I had asked him to tell me where
  Professor Coram lived, not knowing that he was in his employ.”

  “Exactly! Exactly!” said Holmes. “The secretary came back, and
  told his employer of the woman he had met. Then, in his last
  breath, he tried to send a message that it was she—the she whom
  he had just discussed with him.”

  “You must let me speak,” said the woman, in an imperative voice,
  and her face contracted as if in pain. “When he had fallen I
  rushed from the room, chose the wrong door, and found myself in
  my husband’s room. He spoke of giving me up. I showed him that if
  he did so, his life was in my hands. If he gave me to the law, I
  could give him to the Brotherhood. It was not that I wished to
  live for my own sake, but it was that I desired to accomplish my
  purpose. He knew that I would do what I said—that his own fate
  was involved in mine. For that reason, and for no other, he
  shielded me. He thrust me into that dark hiding-place—a relic of
  old days, known only to himself. He took his meals in his own
  room, and so was able to give me part of his food. It was agreed
  that when the police left the house I should slip away by night
  and come back no more. But in some way you have read our plans.”
  She tore from the bosom of her dress a small packet. “These are
  my last words,” said she; “here is the packet which will save
  Alexis. I confide it to your honour and to your love of justice.
  Take it! You will deliver it at the Russian Embassy. Now, I have
  done my duty, and——”

  “Stop her!” cried Holmes. He had bounded across the room and had
  wrenched a small phial from her hand.

  “Too late!” she said, sinking back on the bed. “Too late! I took
  the poison before I left my hiding-place. My head swims! I am
  going! I charge you, sir, to remember the packet.”

  “A simple case, and yet, in some ways, an instructive one,”
  Holmes remarked, as we travelled back to town. “It hinged from
  the outset upon the pince-nez. But for the fortunate chance of
  the dying man having seized these, I am not sure that we could
  ever have reached our solution. It was clear to me, from the
  strength of the glasses, that the wearer must have been very
  blind and helpless when deprived of them. When you asked me to
  believe that she walked along a narrow strip of grass without
  once making a false step, I remarked, as you may remember, that
  it was a noteworthy performance. In my mind I set it down as an
  impossible performance, save in the unlikely case that she had a
  second pair of glasses. I was forced, therefore, to consider
  seriously the hypothesis that she had remained within the house.
  On perceiving the similarity of the two corridors, it became
  clear that she might very easily have made such a mistake, and,
  in that case, it was evident that she must have entered the
  professor’s room. I was keenly on the alert, therefore, for
  whatever would bear out this supposition, and I examined the room
  narrowly for anything in the shape of a hiding-place. The carpet
  seemed continuous and firmly nailed, so I dismissed the idea of a
  trap-door. There might well be a recess behind the books. As you
  are aware, such devices are common in old libraries. I observed
  that books were piled on the floor at all other points, but that
  one bookcase was left clear. This, then, might be the door. I
  could see no marks to guide me, but the carpet was of a dun
  colour, which lends itself very well to examination. I therefore
  smoked a great number of those excellent cigarettes, and I
  dropped the ash all over the space in front of the suspected
  bookcase. It was a simple trick, but exceedingly effective. I
  then went downstairs, and I ascertained, in your presence,
  Watson, without your perceiving the drift of my remarks, that
  Professor Coram’s consumption of food had increased—as one would
  expect when he is supplying a second person. We then ascended to
  the room again, when, by upsetting the cigarette-box, I obtained
  a very excellent view of the floor, and was able to see quite
  clearly, from the traces upon the cigarette ash, that the
  prisoner had in our absence come out from her retreat. Well,
  Hopkins, here we are at Charing Cross, and I congratulate you on
  having brought your case to a successful conclusion. You are
  going to headquarters, no doubt. I think, Watson, you and I will
  drive together to the Russian Embassy.”

THE ADVENTURE OF THE MISSING THREE-QUARTER

  We were fairly accustomed to receive weird telegrams at Baker
  Street, but I have a particular recollection of one which reached
  us on a gloomy February morning, some seven or eight years ago,
  and gave Mr. Sherlock Holmes a puzzled quarter of an hour. It was
  addressed to him, and ran thus:

  Please await me. Terrible misfortune. Right wing three-quarter
  missing, indispensable to-morrow. OVERTON.

  “Strand postmark, and dispatched ten thirty-six,” said Holmes,
  reading it over and over. “Mr. Overton was evidently considerably
  excited when he sent it, and somewhat incoherent in consequence.
  Well, well, he will be here, I daresay, by the time I have looked
  through _The Times_, and then we shall know all about it. Even
  the most insignificant problem would be welcome in these stagnant
  days.”

  Things had indeed been very slow with us, and I had learned to
  dread such periods of inaction, for I knew by experience that my
  companion’s brain was so abnormally active that it was dangerous
  to leave it without material upon which to work. For years I had
  gradually weaned him from that drug mania which had threatened
  once to check his remarkable career. Now I knew that under
  ordinary conditions he no longer craved for this artificial
  stimulus, but I was well aware that the fiend was not dead but
  sleeping, and I have known that the sleep was a light one and the
  waking near when in periods of idleness I have seen the drawn
  look upon Holmes’s ascetic face, and the brooding of his deep-set
  and inscrutable eyes. Therefore I blessed this Mr. Overton
  whoever he might be, since he had come with his enigmatic message
  to break that dangerous calm which brought more peril to my
  friend than all the storms of his tempestuous life.

  As we had expected, the telegram was soon followed by its sender,
  and the card of Mr. Cyril Overton, Trinity College, Cambridge,
  announced the arrival of an enormous young man, sixteen stone of
  solid bone and muscle, who spanned the doorway with his broad
  shoulders, and looked from one of us to the other with a comely
  face which was haggard with anxiety.

  “Mr. Sherlock Holmes?”

  My companion bowed.

  “I’ve been down to Scotland Yard, Mr. Holmes. I saw Inspector
  Stanley Hopkins. He advised me to come to you. He said the case,
  so far as he could see, was more in your line than in that of the
  regular police.”

  “Pray sit down and tell me what is the matter.”

  “It’s awful, Mr. Holmes—simply awful! I wonder my hair isn’t grey.
  Godfrey Staunton—you’ve heard of him, of course? He’s simply the
  hinge that the whole team turns on. I’d rather spare two from the
  pack, and have Godfrey for my three-quarter line. Whether it’s
  passing, or tackling, or dribbling, there’s no one to touch him,
  and then, he’s got the head, and can hold us all together. What
  am I to do? That’s what I ask you, Mr. Holmes. There’s Moorhouse,
  first reserve, but he is trained as a half, and he always edges
  right in on to the scrum instead of keeping out on the touchline.
  He’s a fine place-kick, it’s true, but then he has no judgment,
  and he can’t sprint for nuts. Why, Morton or Johnson, the Oxford
  fliers, could romp round him. Stevenson is fast enough, but he
  couldn’t drop from the twenty-five line, and a three-quarter who
  can’t either punt or drop isn’t worth a place for pace alone. No,
  Mr. Holmes, we are done unless you can help me to find Godfrey
  Staunton.”

  My friend had listened with amused surprise to this long speech,
  which was poured forth with extraordinary vigour and earnestness,
  every point being driven home by the slapping of a brawny hand
  upon the speaker’s knee. When our visitor was silent Holmes
  stretched out his hand and took down letter “S” of his
  commonplace book. For once he dug in vain into that mine of
  varied information.

  “There is Arthur H. Staunton, the rising young forger,” said he,
  “and there was Henry Staunton, whom I helped to hang, but Godfrey
  Staunton is a new name to me.”

  It was our visitor’s turn to look surprised.

  “Why, Mr. Holmes, I thought you knew things,” said he. “I
  suppose, then, if you have never heard of Godfrey Staunton, you
  don’t know Cyril Overton either?”

  Holmes shook his head good humouredly.

  “Great Scott!” cried the athlete. “Why, I was first reserve for
  England against Wales, and I’ve skippered the ’Varsity all this
  year. But that’s nothing! I didn’t think there was a soul in
  England who didn’t know Godfrey Staunton, the crack
  three-quarter, Cambridge, Blackheath, and five Internationals.
  Good Lord! Mr. Holmes, where _have_ you lived?”

  Holmes laughed at the young giant’s naïve astonishment.

  “You live in a different world to me, Mr. Overton—a sweeter and
  healthier one. My ramifications stretch out into many sections of
  society, but never, I am happy to say, into amateur sport, which
  is the best and soundest thing in England. However, your
  unexpected visit this morning shows me that even in that world of
  fresh air and fair play, there may be work for me to do. So now,
  my good sir, I beg you to sit down and to tell me, slowly and
  quietly, exactly what it is that has occurred, and how you desire
  that I should help you.”

  Young Overton’s face assumed the bothered look of the man who is
  more accustomed to using his muscles than his wits, but by
  degrees, with many repetitions and obscurities which I may omit
  from his narrative, he laid his strange story before us.

  “It’s this way, Mr. Holmes. As I have said, I am the skipper of
  the Rugger team of Cambridge ’Varsity, and Godfrey Staunton is my
  best man. To-morrow we play Oxford. Yesterday we all came up, and
  we settled at Bentley’s private hotel. At ten o’clock I went
  round and saw that all the fellows had gone to roost, for I
  believe in strict training and plenty of sleep to keep a team
  fit. I had a word or two with Godfrey before he turned in. He
  seemed to me to be pale and bothered. I asked him what was the
  matter. He said he was all right—just a touch of headache. I bade
  him good-night and left him. Half an hour later, the porter tells
  me that a rough-looking man with a beard called with a note for
  Godfrey. He had not gone to bed, and the note was taken to his
  room. Godfrey read it, and fell back in a chair as if he had been
  pole-axed. The porter was so scared that he was going to fetch
  me, but Godfrey stopped him, had a drink of water, and pulled
  himself together. Then he went downstairs, said a few words to
  the man who was waiting in the hall, and the two of them went off
  together. The last that the porter saw of them, they were almost
  running down the street in the direction of the Strand. This
  morning Godfrey’s room was empty, his bed had never been slept
  in, and his things were all just as I had seen them the night
  before. He had gone off at a moment’s notice with this stranger,
  and no word has come from him since. I don’t believe he will ever
  come back. He was a sportsman, was Godfrey, down to his marrow,
  and he wouldn’t have stopped his training and let in his skipper
  if it were not for some cause that was too strong for him. No: I
  feel as if he were gone for good, and we should never see him
  again.”

  Sherlock Holmes listened with the deepest attention to this
  singular narrative.

  “What did you do?” he asked.

  “I wired to Cambridge to learn if anything had been heard of him
  there. I have had an answer. No one has seen him.”

  “Could he have got back to Cambridge?”

  “Yes, there is a late train—quarter-past eleven.”

  “But, so far as you can ascertain, he did not take it?”

  “No, he has not been seen.”

  “What did you do next?”

  “I wired to Lord Mount-James.”

  “Why to Lord Mount-James?”

  “Godfrey is an orphan, and Lord Mount-James is his nearest
  relative—his uncle, I believe.”

  “Indeed. This throws new light upon the matter. Lord Mount-James
  is one of the richest men in England.”

  “So I’ve heard Godfrey say.”

  “And your friend was closely related?”

  “Yes, he was his heir, and the old boy is nearly eighty—cram full
  of gout, too. They say he could chalk his billiard-cue with his
  knuckles. He never allowed Godfrey a shilling in his life, for he
  is an absolute miser, but it will all come to him right enough.”

  “Have you heard from Lord Mount-James?”

  “No.”

  “What motive could your friend have in going to Lord
  Mount-James?”

  “Well, something was worrying him the night before, and if it was
  to do with money it is possible that he would make for his
  nearest relative, who had so much of it, though from all I have
  heard he would not have much chance of getting it. Godfrey was
  not fond of the old man. He would not go if he could help it.”

  “Well, we can soon determine that. If your friend was going to
  his relative, Lord Mount-James, you have then to explain the
  visit of this rough-looking fellow at so late an hour, and the
  agitation that was caused by his coming.”

  Cyril Overton pressed his hands to his head. “I can make nothing
  of it,” said he.

  “Well, well, I have a clear day, and I shall be happy to look
  into the matter,” said Holmes. “I should strongly recommend you
  to make your preparations for your match without reference to
  this young gentleman. It must, as you say, have been an
  overpowering necessity which tore him away in such a fashion, and
  the same necessity is likely to hold him away. Let us step round
  together to the hotel, and see if the porter can throw any fresh
  light upon the matter.”

  Sherlock Holmes was a past-master in the art of putting a humble
  witness at his ease, and very soon, in the privacy of Godfrey
  Staunton’s abandoned room, he had extracted all that the porter
  had to tell. The visitor of the night before was not a gentleman,
  neither was he a workingman. He was simply what the porter
  described as a “medium-looking chap,” a man of fifty, beard
  grizzled, pale face, quietly dressed. He seemed himself to be
  agitated. The porter had observed his hand trembling when he had
  held out the note. Godfrey Staunton had crammed the note into his
  pocket. Staunton had not shaken hands with the man in the hall.
  They had exchanged a few sentences, of which the porter had only
  distinguished the one word “time.” Then they had hurried off in
  the manner described. It was just half-past ten by the hall
  clock.

  “Let me see,” said Holmes, seating himself on Staunton’s bed.
  “You are the day porter, are you not?”

  “Yes, sir, I go off duty at eleven.”

  “The night porter saw nothing, I suppose?”

  “No, sir, one theatre party came in late. No one else.”

  “Were you on duty all day yesterday?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Did you take any messages to Mr. Staunton?”

  “Yes, sir, one telegram.”

  “Ah! that’s interesting. What o’clock was this?”

  “About six.”

  “Where was Mr. Staunton when he received it?”

  “Here in his room.”

  “Were you present when he opened it?”

  “Yes, sir, I waited to see if there was an answer.”

  “Well, was there?”

  “Yes, sir, he wrote an answer.”

  “Did you take it?”

  “No, he took it himself.”

  “But he wrote it in your presence.”

  “Yes, sir. I was standing by the door, and he with his back
  turned at that table. When he had written it, he said: ‘All
  right, porter, I will take this myself.’”

  “What did he write it with?”

  “A pen, sir.”

  “Was the telegraphic form one of these on the table?”

  “Yes, sir, it was the top one.”

  Holmes rose. Taking the forms, he carried them over to the window
  and carefully examined that which was uppermost.

  “It is a pity he did not write in pencil,” said he, throwing them
  down again with a shrug of disappointment. “As you have no doubt
  frequently observed, Watson, the impression usually goes
  through—a fact which has dissolved many a happy marriage.
  However, I can find no trace here. I rejoice, however, to
  perceive that he wrote with a broad-pointed quill pen, and I can
  hardly doubt that we will find some impression upon this
  blotting-pad. Ah, yes, surely this is the very thing!”

  He tore off a strip of the blotting-paper and turned towards us
  the following hieroglyphic:

  hieroglyphic

  Cyril Overton was much excited. “Hold it to the glass!” he cried.

  “That is unnecessary,” said Holmes. “The paper is thin, and the
  reverse will give the message. Here it is.” He turned it over,
  and we read:

  the reverse

  “So that is the tail end of the telegram which Godfrey Staunton
  dispatched within a few hours of his disappearance. There are at
  least six words of the message which have escaped us; but what
  remains—‘Stand by us for God’s sake!’—proves that this young man
  saw a formidable danger which approached him, and from which
  someone else could protect him. ‘_Us_,’ mark you! Another person
  was involved. Who should it be but the pale-faced, bearded man,
  who seemed himself in so nervous a state? What, then, is the
  connection between Godfrey Staunton and the bearded man? And what
  is the third source from which each of them sought for help
  against pressing danger? Our inquiry has already narrowed down to
  that.”

  “We have only to find to whom that telegram is addressed,” I
  suggested.

  “Exactly, my dear Watson. Your reflection, though profound, had
  already crossed my mind. But I daresay it may have come to your
  notice that, counterfoil of another man’s message, there may be
  some disinclination on the part of the officials to oblige you.
  There is so much red tape in these matters. However, I have no
  doubt that with a little delicacy and finesse the end may be
  attained. Meanwhile, I should like in your presence, Mr. Overton,
  to go through these papers which have been left upon the table.”

  There were a number of letters, bills, and notebooks, which
  Holmes turned over and examined with quick, nervous fingers and
  darting, penetrating eyes. “Nothing here,” he said, at last. “By
  the way, I suppose your friend was a healthy young fellow—nothing
  amiss with him?”

  “Sound as a bell.”

  “Have you ever known him ill?”

  “Not a day. He has been laid up with a hack, and once he slipped
  his knee-cap, but that was nothing.”

  “Perhaps he was not so strong as you suppose. I should think he
  may have had some secret trouble. With your assent, I will put
  one or two of these papers in my pocket, in case they should bear
  upon our future inquiry.”

  “One moment—one moment!” cried a querulous voice, and we looked
  up to find a queer little old man, jerking and twitching in the
  doorway. He was dressed in rusty black, with a very broad-brimmed
  top-hat and a loose white necktie—the whole effect being that of
  a very rustic parson or of an undertaker’s mute. Yet, in spite of
  his shabby and even absurd appearance, his voice had a sharp
  crackle, and his manner a quick intensity which commanded
  attention.

  “Who are you, sir, and by what right do you touch this
  gentleman’s papers?” he asked.

  “I am a private detective, and I am endeavouring to explain his
  disappearance.”

  “Oh, you are, are you? And who instructed you, eh?”

  “This gentleman, Mr. Staunton’s friend, was referred to me by
  Scotland Yard.”

  “Who are you, sir?”

  “I am Cyril Overton.”

  “Then it is you who sent me a telegram. My name is Lord
  Mount-James. I came round as quickly as the Bayswater bus would
  bring me. So you have instructed a detective?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “And are you prepared to meet the cost?”

  “I have no doubt, sir, that my friend Godfrey, when we find him,
  will be prepared to do that.”

  “But if he is never found, eh? Answer me that!”

  “In that case, no doubt his family——”

  “Nothing of the sort, sir!” screamed the little man. “Don’t look
  to me for a penny—not a penny! You understand that, Mr.
  Detective! I am all the family that this young man has got, and I
  tell you that I am not responsible. If he has any expectations it
  is due to the fact that I have never wasted money, and I do not
  propose to begin to do so now. As to those papers with which you
  are making so free, I may tell you that in case there should be
  anything of any value among them, you will be held strictly to
  account for what you do with them.”

  “Very good, sir,” said Sherlock Holmes. “May I ask, in the
  meanwhile, whether you have yourself any theory to account for
  this young man’s disappearance?”

  “No, sir, I have not. He is big enough and old enough to look
  after himself, and if he is so foolish as to lose himself, I
  entirely refuse to accept the responsibility of hunting for him.”

  “I quite understand your position,” said Holmes, with a
  mischievous twinkle in his eyes. “Perhaps you don’t quite
  understand mine. Godfrey Staunton appears to have been a poor
  man. If he has been kidnapped, it could not have been for
  anything which he himself possesses. The fame of your wealth has
  gone abroad, Lord Mount-James, and it is entirely possible that a
  gang of thieves have secured your nephew in order to gain from
  him some information as to your house, your habits, and your
  treasure.”

  The face of our unpleasant little visitor turned as white as his
  neckcloth.

  “Heavens, sir, what an idea! I never thought of such villainy!
  What inhuman rogues there are in the world! But Godfrey is a fine
  lad—a staunch lad. Nothing would induce him to give his old uncle
  away. I’ll have the plate moved over to the bank this evening. In
  the meantime spare no pains, Mr. Detective! I beg you to leave no
  stone unturned to bring him safely back. As to money, well, so
  far as a fiver or even a tenner goes you can always look to me.”

  Even in his chastened frame of mind, the noble miser could give
  us no information which could help us, for he knew little of the
  private life of his nephew. Our only clue lay in the truncated
  telegram, and with a copy of this in his hand Holmes set forth to
  find a second link for his chain. We had shaken off Lord
  Mount-James, and Overton had gone to consult with the other
  members of his team over the misfortune which had befallen them.

  There was a telegraph-office at a short distance from the hotel.
  We halted outside it.

  “It’s worth trying, Watson,” said Holmes. “Of course, with a
  warrant we could demand to see the counterfoils, but we have not
  reached that stage yet. I don’t suppose they remember faces in so
  busy a place. Let us venture it.”

  “I am sorry to trouble you,” said he, in his blandest manner, to
  the young woman behind the grating; “there is some small mistake
  about a telegram I sent yesterday. I have had no answer, and I
  very much fear that I must have omitted to put my name at the
  end. Could you tell me if this was so?”

  The young woman turned over a sheaf of counterfoils.

  “What o’clock was it?” she asked.

  “A little after six.”

  “Whom was it to?”

  Holmes put his finger to his lips and glanced at me. “The last
  words in it were ‘For God’s sake,’” he whispered, confidentially;
  “I am very anxious at getting no answer.”

  The young woman separated one of the forms.

  “This is it. There is no name,” said she, smoothing it out upon
  the counter.

  “Then that, of course, accounts for my getting no answer,” said
  Holmes. “Dear me, how very stupid of me, to be sure!
  Good-morning, miss, and many thanks for having relieved my mind.”
  He chuckled and rubbed his hands when we found ourselves in the
  street once more.

  “Well?” I asked.

  “We progress, my dear Watson, we progress. I had seven different
  schemes for getting a glimpse of that telegram, but I could
  hardly hope to succeed the very first time.”

  “And what have you gained?”

  “A starting-point for our investigation.” He hailed a cab.
  “King’s Cross Station,” said he.

  “We have a journey, then?”

  “Yes, I think we must run down to Cambridge together. All the
  indications seem to me to point in that direction.”

  “Tell me,” I asked, as we rattled up Gray’s Inn Road, “have you
  any suspicion yet as to the cause of the disappearance? I don’t
  think that among all our cases I have known one where the motives
  are more obscure. Surely you don’t really imagine that he may be
  kidnapped in order to give information against his wealthy
  uncle?”

  “I confess, my dear Watson, that that does not appeal to me as a
  very probable explanation. It struck me, however, as being the
  one which was most likely to interest that exceedingly unpleasant
  old person.”

  “It certainly did that; but what are your alternatives?”

  “I could mention several. You must admit that it is curious and
  suggestive that this incident should occur on the eve of this
  important match, and should involve the only man whose presence
  seems essential to the success of the side. It may, of course, be
  a coincidence, but it is interesting. Amateur sport is free from
  betting, but a good deal of outside betting goes on among the
  public, and it is possible that it might be worth someone’s while
  to get at a player as the ruffians of the turf get at a
  race-horse. There is one explanation. A second very obvious one
  is that this young man really is the heir of a great property,
  however modest his means may at present be, and it is not
  impossible that a plot to hold him for ransom might be
  concocted.”

  “These theories take no account of the telegram.”

  “Quite true, Watson. The telegram still remains the only solid
  thing with which we have to deal, and we must not permit our
  attention to wander away from it. It is to gain light upon the
  purpose of this telegram that we are now upon our way to
  Cambridge. The path of our investigation is at present obscure,
  but I shall be very much surprised if before evening we have not
  cleared it up, or made a considerable advance along it.”

  It was already dark when we reached the old university city.
  Holmes took a cab at the station and ordered the man to drive to
  the house of Dr. Leslie Armstrong. A few minutes later, we had
  stopped at a large mansion in the busiest thoroughfare. We were
  shown in, and after a long wait were at last admitted into the
  consulting-room, where we found the doctor seated behind his
  table.

  It argues the degree in which I had lost touch with my profession
  that the name of Leslie Armstrong was unknown to me. Now I am
  aware that he is not only one of the heads of the medical school
  of the university, but a thinker of European reputation in more
  than one branch of science. Yet even without knowing his
  brilliant record one could not fail to be impressed by a mere
  glance at the man, the square, massive face, the brooding eyes
  under the thatched brows, and the granite moulding of the
  inflexible jaw. A man of deep character, a man with an alert
  mind, grim, ascetic, self-contained, formidable—so I read Dr.
  Leslie Armstrong. He held my friend’s card in his hand, and he
  looked up with no very pleased expression upon his dour features.

  “I have heard your name, Mr. Sherlock Holmes, and I am aware of
  your profession—one of which I by no means approve.”

  “In that, Doctor, you will find yourself in agreement with every
  criminal in the country,” said my friend, quietly.

  “So far as your efforts are directed towards the suppression of
  crime, sir, they must have the support of every reasonable member
  of the community, though I cannot doubt that the official
  machinery is amply sufficient for the purpose. Where your calling
  is more open to criticism is when you pry into the secrets of
  private individuals, when you rake up family matters which are
  better hidden, and when you incidentally waste the time of men
  who are more busy than yourself. At the present moment, for
  example, I should be writing a treatise instead of conversing
  with you.”

  “No doubt, Doctor; and yet the conversation may prove more
  important than the treatise. Incidentally, I may tell you that we
  are doing the reverse of what you very justly blame, and that we
  are endeavouring to prevent anything like public exposure of
  private matters which must necessarily follow when once the case
  is fairly in the hands of the official police. You may look upon
  me simply as an irregular pioneer, who goes in front of the
  regular forces of the country. I have come to ask you about Mr.
  Godfrey Staunton.”

  “What about him?”

  “You know him, do you not?”

  “He is an intimate friend of mine.”

  “You are aware that he has disappeared?”

  “Ah, indeed!” There was no change of expression in the rugged
  features of the doctor.

  “He left his hotel last night—he has not been heard of.”

  “No doubt he will return.”

  “To-morrow is the ’Varsity football match.”

  “I have no sympathy with these childish games. The young man’s
  fate interests me deeply, since I know him and like him. The
  football match does not come within my horizon at all.”

  “I claim your sympathy, then, in my investigation of Mr.
  Staunton’s fate. Do you know where he is?”

  “Certainly not.”

  “You have not seen him since yesterday?”

  “No, I have not.”

  “Was Mr. Staunton a healthy man?”

  “Absolutely.”

  “Did you ever know him ill?”

  “Never.”

  Holmes popped a sheet of paper before the doctor’s eyes. “Then
  perhaps you will explain this receipted bill for thirteen
  guineas, paid by Mr. Godfrey Staunton last month to Dr. Leslie
  Armstrong, of Cambridge. I picked it out from among the papers
  upon his desk.”

  The doctor flushed with anger.

  “I do not feel that there is any reason why I should render an
  explanation to you, Mr. Holmes.”

  Holmes replaced the bill in his notebook. “If you prefer a public
  explanation, it must come sooner or later,” said he. “I have
  already told you that I can hush up that which others will be
  bound to publish, and you would really be wiser to take me into
  your complete confidence.”

  “I know nothing about it.”

  “Did you hear from Mr. Staunton in London?”

  “Certainly not.”

  “Dear me, dear me—the postoffice again!” Holmes sighed, wearily.
  “A most urgent telegram was dispatched to you from London by
  Godfrey Staunton at six-fifteen yesterday evening—a telegram
  which is undoubtedly associated with his disappearance—and yet
  you have not had it. It is most culpable. I shall certainly go
  down to the office here and register a complaint.”

  Dr. Leslie Armstrong sprang up from behind his desk, and his dark
  face was crimson with fury.

  “I’ll trouble you to walk out of my house, sir,” said he. “You
  can tell your employer, Lord Mount-James, that I do not wish to
  have anything to do either with him or with his agents. No,
  sir—not another word!” He rang the bell furiously. “John, show
  these gentlemen out!” A pompous butler ushered us severely to the
  door, and we found ourselves in the street. Holmes burst out
  laughing.

  “Dr. Leslie Armstrong is certainly a man of energy and
  character,” said he. “I have not seen a man who, if he turns his
  talents that way, was more calculated to fill the gap left by the
  illustrious Moriarty. And now, my poor Watson, here we are,
  stranded and friendless in this inhospitable town, which we
  cannot leave without abandoning our case. This little inn just
  opposite Armstrong’s house is singularly adapted to our needs. If
  you would engage a front room and purchase the necessaries for
  the night, I may have time to make a few inquiries.”

  These few inquiries proved, however, to be a more lengthy
  proceeding than Holmes had imagined, for he did not return to the
  inn until nearly nine o’clock. He was pale and dejected, stained
  with dust, and exhausted with hunger and fatigue. A cold supper
  was ready upon the table, and when his needs were satisfied and
  his pipe alight he was ready to take that half comic and wholly
  philosophic view which was natural to him when his affairs were
  going awry. The sound of carriage wheels caused him to rise and
  glance out of the window. A brougham and pair of greys, under the
  glare of a gas-lamp, stood before the doctor’s door.

  “It’s been out three hours,” said Holmes; “started at half-past
  six, and here it is back again. That gives a radius of ten or
  twelve miles, and he does it once, or sometimes twice, a day.”

  “No unusual thing for a doctor in practice.”

  “But Armstrong is not really a doctor in practice. He is a
  lecturer and a consultant, but he does not care for general
  practice, which distracts him from his literary work. Why, then,
  does he make these long journeys, which must be exceedingly
  irksome to him, and who is it that he visits?”

  “His coachman——”

  “My dear Watson, can you doubt that it was to him that I first
  applied? I do not know whether it came from his own innate
  depravity or from the promptings of his master, but he was rude
  enough to set a dog at me. Neither dog nor man liked the look of
  my stick, however, and the matter fell through. Relations were
  strained after that, and further inquiries out of the question.
  All that I have learned I got from a friendly native in the yard
  of our own inn. It was he who told me of the doctor’s habits and
  of his daily journey. At that instant, to give point to his
  words, the carriage came round to the door.”

  “Could you not follow it?”

  “Excellent, Watson! You are scintillating this evening. The idea
  did cross my mind. There is, as you may have observed, a bicycle
  shop next to our inn. Into this I rushed, engaged a bicycle, and
  was able to get started before the carriage was quite out of
  sight. I rapidly overtook it, and then, keeping at a discreet
  distance of a hundred yards or so, I followed its lights until we
  were clear of the town. We had got well out on the country road,
  when a somewhat mortifying incident occurred. The carriage
  stopped, the doctor alighted, walked swiftly back to where I had
  also halted, and told me in an excellent sardonic fashion that he
  feared the road was narrow, and that he hoped his carriage did
  not impede the passage of my bicycle. Nothing could have been
  more admirable than his way of putting it. I at once rode past
  the carriage, and, keeping to the main road, I went on for a few
  miles, and then halted in a convenient place to see if the
  carriage passed. There was no sign of it, however, and so it
  became evident that it had turned down one of several side roads
  which I had observed. I rode back, but again saw nothing of the
  carriage, and now, as you perceive, it has returned after me. Of
  course, I had at the outset no particular reason to connect these
  journeys with the disappearance of Godfrey Staunton, and was only
  inclined to investigate them on the general grounds that
  everything which concerns Dr. Armstrong is at present of interest
  to us, but, now that I find he keeps so keen a look-out upon
  anyone who may follow him on these excursions, the affair appears
  more important, and I shall not be satisfied until I have made
  the matter clear.”

  “We can follow him to-morrow.”

  “Can we? It is not so easy as you seem to think. You are not
  familiar with Cambridgeshire scenery, are you? It does not lend
  itself to concealment. All this country that I passed over
  to-night is as flat and clean as the palm of your hand, and the
  man we are following is no fool, as he very clearly showed
  to-night. I have wired to Overton to let us know any fresh London
  developments at this address, and in the meantime we can only
  concentrate our attention upon Dr. Armstrong, whose name the
  obliging young lady at the office allowed me to read upon the
  counterfoil of Staunton’s urgent message. He knows where the
  young man is—to that I’ll swear, and if he knows, then it must be
  our own fault if we cannot manage to know also. At present it
  must be admitted that the odd trick is in his possession, and, as
  you are aware, Watson, it is not my habit to leave the game in
  that condition.”

  And yet the next day brought us no nearer to the solution of the
  mystery. A note was handed in after breakfast, which Holmes
  passed across to me with a smile.

  SIR [it ran],—I can assure you that you are wasting your time in
  dogging my movements. I have, as you discovered last night, a
  window at the back of my brougham, and if you desire a
  twenty-mile ride which will lead you to the spot from which you
  started, you have only to follow me. Meanwhile, I can inform you
  that no spying upon me can in any way help Mr. Godfrey Staunton,
  and I am convinced that the best service you can do to that
  gentleman is to return at once to London and to report to your
  employer that you are unable to trace him. Your time in Cambridge
  will certainly be wasted.

  Yours faithfully,
  LESLIE ARMSTRONG.

  “An outspoken, honest antagonist is the doctor,” said Holmes.
  “Well, well, he excites my curiosity, and I must really know
  before I leave him.”

  “His carriage is at his door now,” said I. “There he is stepping
  into it. I saw him glance up at our window as he did so. Suppose
  I try my luck upon the bicycle?”

  “No, no, my dear Watson! With all respect for your natural
  acumen, I do not think that you are quite a match for the worthy
  doctor. I think that possibly I can attain our end by some
  independent explorations of my own. I am afraid that I must leave
  you to your own devices, as the appearance of _two_ inquiring
  strangers upon a sleepy countryside might excite more gossip than
  I care for. No doubt you will find some sights to amuse you in
  this venerable city, and I hope to bring back a more favourable
  report to you before evening.”

  Once more, however, my friend was destined to be disappointed. He
  came back at night weary and unsuccessful.

  “I have had a blank day, Watson. Having got the doctor’s general
  direction, I spent the day in visiting all the villages upon that
  side of Cambridge, and comparing notes with publicans and other
  local news agencies. I have covered some ground. Chesterton,
  Histon, Waterbeach, and Oakington have each been explored, and
  have each proved disappointing. The daily appearance of a
  brougham and pair could hardly have been overlooked in such
  Sleepy Hollows. The doctor has scored once more. Is there a
  telegram for me?”

  “Yes, I opened it. Here it is:

  “Ask for Pompey from Jeremy Dixon, Trinity College.”

  “I don’t understand it.”

  “Oh, it is clear enough. It is from our friend Overton, and is in
  answer to a question from me. I’ll just send round a note to Mr.
  Jeremy Dixon, and then I have no doubt that our luck will turn.
  By the way, is there any news of the match?”

  “Yes, the local evening paper has an excellent account in its
  last edition. Oxford won by a goal and two tries. The last
  sentences of the description say:

  “‘The defeat of the Light Blues may be entirely attributed to the
  unfortunate absence of the crack International, Godfrey Staunton,
  whose want was felt at every instant of the game. The lack of
  combination in the three-quarter line and their weakness both in
  attack and defence more than neutralized the efforts of a heavy
  and hard-working pack.’”

  “Then our friend Overton’s forebodings have been justified,” said
  Holmes. “Personally I am in agreement with Dr. Armstrong, and
  football does not come within my horizon. Early to bed to-night,
  Watson, for I foresee that to-morrow may be an eventful day.”

  I was horrified by my first glimpse of Holmes next morning, for
  he sat by the fire holding his tiny hypodermic syringe. I
  associated that instrument with the single weakness of his
  nature, and I feared the worst when I saw it glittering in his
  hand. He laughed at my expression of dismay and laid it upon the
  table.

  “No, no, my dear fellow, there is no cause for alarm. It is not
  upon this occasion the instrument of evil, but it will rather
  prove to be the key which will unlock our mystery. On this
  syringe I base all my hopes. I have just returned from a small
  scouting expedition, and everything is favourable. Eat a good
  breakfast, Watson, for I propose to get upon Dr. Armstrong’s
  trail to-day, and once on it I will not stop for rest or food
  until I run him to his burrow.”

  “In that case,” said I, “we had best carry our breakfast with us,
  for he is making an early start. His carriage is at the door.”

  “Never mind. Let him go. He will be clever if he can drive where
  I cannot follow him. When you have finished, come downstairs with
  me, and I will introduce you to a detective who is a very eminent
  specialist in the work that lies before us.”

  When we descended I followed Holmes into the stable yard, where
  he opened the door of a loose-box and led out a squat, lop-eared,
  white-and-tan dog, something between a beagle and a foxhound.

  “Let me introduce you to Pompey,” said he. “Pompey is the pride
  of the local draghounds—no very great flier, as his build will
  show, but a staunch hound on a scent. Well, Pompey, you may not
  be fast, but I expect you will be too fast for a couple of
  middle-aged London gentlemen, so I will take the liberty of
  fastening this leather leash to your collar. Now, boy, come
  along, and show what you can do.” He led him across to the
  doctor’s door. The dog sniffed round for an instant, and then
  with a shrill whine of excitement started off down the street,
  tugging at his leash in his efforts to go faster. In half an
  hour, we were clear of the town and hastening down a country
  road.

  “What have you done, Holmes?” I asked.

  “A threadbare and venerable device, but useful upon occasion. I
  walked into the doctor’s yard this morning, and shot my syringe
  full of aniseed over the hind wheel. A draghound will follow
  aniseed from here to John o’Groat’s, and our friend, Armstrong,
  would have to drive through the Cam before he would shake Pompey
  off his trail. Oh, the cunning rascal! This is how he gave me the
  slip the other night.”

  The dog had suddenly turned out of the main road into a
  grass-grown lane. Half a mile farther this opened into another
  broad road, and the trail turned hard to the right in the
  direction of the town, which we had just quitted. The road took a
  sweep to the south of the town, and continued in the opposite
  direction to that in which we started.

  “This _détour_ has been entirely for our benefit, then?” said
  Holmes. “No wonder that my inquiries among those villagers led to
  nothing. The doctor has certainly played the game for all it is
  worth, and one would like to know the reason for such elaborate
  deception. This should be the village of Trumpington to the right
  of us. And, by Jove! here is the brougham coming round the
  corner. Quick, Watson—quick, or we are done!”

  He sprang through a gate into a field, dragging the reluctant
  Pompey after him. We had hardly got under the shelter of the
  hedge when the carriage rattled past. I caught a glimpse of Dr.
  Armstrong within, his shoulders bowed, his head sunk on his
  hands, the very image of distress. I could tell by my companion’s
  graver face that he also had seen.

  “I fear there is some dark ending to our quest,” said he. “It
  cannot be long before we know it. Come, Pompey! Ah, it is the
  cottage in the field!”

  There could be no doubt that we had reached the end of our
  journey. Pompey ran about and whined eagerly outside the gate,
  where the marks of the brougham’s wheels were still to be seen. A
  footpath led across to the lonely cottage. Holmes tied the dog to
  the hedge, and we hastened onward. My friend knocked at the
  little rustic door, and knocked again without response. And yet
  the cottage was not deserted, for a low sound came to our ears—a
  kind of drone of misery and despair which was indescribably
  melancholy. Holmes paused irresolute, and then he glanced back at
  the road which he had just traversed. A brougham was coming down
  it, and there could be no mistaking those grey horses.

  “By Jove, the doctor is coming back!” cried Holmes. “That settles
  it. We are bound to see what it means before he comes.”

  He opened the door, and we stepped into the hall. The droning
  sound swelled louder upon our ears until it became one long, deep
  wail of distress. It came from upstairs. Holmes darted up, and I
  followed him. He pushed open a half-closed door, and we both
  stood appalled at the sight before us.

  A woman, young and beautiful, was lying dead upon the bed. Her
  calm pale face, with dim, wide-opened blue eyes, looked upward
  from amid a great tangle of golden hair. At the foot of the bed,
  half sitting, half kneeling, his face buried in the clothes, was
  a young man, whose frame was racked by his sobs. So absorbed was
  he by his bitter grief, that he never looked up until Holmes’s
  hand was on his shoulder.

  “Are you Mr. Godfrey Staunton?”

  “Yes, yes, I am—but you are too late. She is dead.”

  The man was so dazed that he could not be made to understand that
  we were anything but doctors who had been sent to his assistance.
  Holmes was endeavouring to utter a few words of consolation and
  to explain the alarm which had been caused to his friends by his
  sudden disappearance when there was a step upon the stairs, and
  there was the heavy, stern, questioning face of Dr. Armstrong at
  the door.

  “So, gentlemen,” said he, “you have attained your end and have
  certainly chosen a particularly delicate moment for your
  intrusion. I would not brawl in the presence of death, but I can
  assure you that if I were a younger man your monstrous conduct
  would not pass with impunity.”

  “Excuse me, Dr. Armstrong, I think we are a little at
  cross-purposes,” said my friend, with dignity. “If you could step
  downstairs with us, we may each be able to give some light to the
  other upon this miserable affair.”

  A minute later, the grim doctor and ourselves were in the
  sitting-room below.

  “Well, sir?” said he.

  “I wish you to understand, in the first place, that I am not
  employed by Lord Mount-James, and that my sympathies in this
  matter are entirely against that nobleman. When a man is lost it
  is my duty to ascertain his fate, but having done so the matter
  ends so far as I am concerned, and so long as there is nothing
  criminal I am much more anxious to hush up private scandals than
  to give them publicity. If, as I imagine, there is no breach of
  the law in this matter, you can absolutely depend upon my
  discretion and my cooperation in keeping the facts out of the
  papers.”

  Dr. Armstrong took a quick step forward and wrung Holmes by the
  hand.

  “You are a good fellow,” said he. “I had misjudged you. I thank
  heaven that my compunction at leaving poor Staunton all alone in
  this plight caused me to turn my carriage back and so to make
  your acquaintance. Knowing as much as you do, the situation is
  very easily explained. A year ago Godfrey Staunton lodged in
  London for a time and became passionately attached to his
  landlady’s daughter, whom he married. She was as good as she was
  beautiful and as intelligent as she was good. No man need be
  ashamed of such a wife. But Godfrey was the heir to this crabbed
  old nobleman, and it was quite certain that the news of his
  marriage would have been the end of his inheritance. I knew the
  lad well, and I loved him for his many excellent qualities. I did
  all I could to help him to keep things straight. We did our very
  best to keep the thing from everyone, for, when once such a
  whisper gets about, it is not long before everyone has heard it.
  Thanks to this lonely cottage and his own discretion, Godfrey has
  up to now succeeded. Their secret was known to no one save to me
  and to one excellent servant, who has at present gone for
  assistance to Trumpington. But at last there came a terrible blow
  in the shape of dangerous illness to his wife. It was consumption
  of the most virulent kind. The poor boy was half crazed with
  grief, and yet he had to go to London to play this match, for he
  could not get out of it without explanations which would expose
  his secret. I tried to cheer him up by wire, and he sent me one
  in reply, imploring me to do all I could. This was the telegram
  which you appear in some inexplicable way to have seen. I did not
  tell him how urgent the danger was, for I knew that he could do
  no good here, but I sent the truth to the girl’s father, and he
  very injudiciously communicated it to Godfrey. The result was
  that he came straight away in a state bordering on frenzy, and
  has remained in the same state, kneeling at the end of her bed,
  until this morning death put an end to her sufferings. That is
  all, Mr. Holmes, and I am sure that I can rely upon your
  discretion and that of your friend.”

  Holmes grasped the doctor’s hand.

  “Come, Watson,” said he, and we passed from that house of grief
  into the pale sunlight of the winter day.

THE ADVENTURE OF THE ABBEY GRANGE

  It was on a bitterly cold and frosty morning, towards the end of
  the winter of ’97, that I was awakened by a tugging at my
  shoulder. It was Holmes. The candle in his hand shone upon his
  eager, stooping face, and told me at a glance that something was
  amiss.

  “Come, Watson, come!” he cried. “The game is afoot. Not a word!
  Into your clothes and come!”

  Ten minutes later we were both in a cab, and rattling through the
  silent streets on our way to Charing Cross Station. The first
  faint winter’s dawn was beginning to appear, and we could dimly
  see the occasional figure of an early workman as he passed us,
  blurred and indistinct in the opalescent London reek. Holmes
  nestled in silence into his heavy coat, and I was glad to do the
  same, for the air was most bitter, and neither of us had broken
  our fast.

  It was not until we had consumed some hot tea at the station and
  taken our places in the Kentish train that we were sufficiently
  thawed, he to speak and I to listen. Holmes drew a note from his
  pocket, and read aloud:

  Abbey Grange, Marsham, Kent, 3:30 A.M.
  MY DEAR MR. HOLMES:

  I should be very glad of your immediate assistance in what
  promises to be a most remarkable case. It is something quite in
  your line. Except for releasing the lady I will see that
  everything is kept exactly as I have found it, but I beg you not
  to lose an instant, as it is difficult to leave Sir Eustace
  there.

  Yours faithfully,
  STANLEY HOPKINS.

  “Hopkins has called me in seven times, and on each occasion his
  summons has been entirely justified,” said Holmes. “I fancy that
  every one of his cases has found its way into your collection,
  and I must admit, Watson, that you have some power of selection,
  which atones for much which I deplore in your narratives. Your
  fatal habit of looking at everything from the point of view of a
  story instead of as a scientific exercise has ruined what might
  have been an instructive and even classical series of
  demonstrations. You slur over work of the utmost finesse and
  delicacy, in order to dwell upon sensational details which may
  excite, but cannot possibly instruct, the reader.”

  “Why do you not write them yourself?” I said, with some
  bitterness.

  “I will, my dear Watson, I will. At present I am, as you know,
  fairly busy, but I propose to devote my declining years to the
  composition of a textbook, which shall focus the whole art of
  detection into one volume. Our present research appears to be a
  case of murder.”

  “You think this Sir Eustace is dead, then?”

  “I should say so. Hopkins’s writing shows considerable agitation,
  and he is not an emotional man. Yes, I gather there has been
  violence, and that the body is left for our inspection. A mere
  suicide would not have caused him to send for me. As to the
  release of the lady, it would appear that she has been locked in
  her room during the tragedy. We are moving in high life, Watson,
  crackling paper, ‘E.B.’ monogram, coat-of-arms, picturesque
  address. I think that friend Hopkins will live up to his
  reputation, and that we shall have an interesting morning. The
  crime was committed before twelve last night.”

  “How can you possibly tell?”

  “By an inspection of the trains, and by reckoning the time. The
  local police had to be called in, they had to communicate with
  Scotland Yard, Hopkins had to go out, and he in turn had to send
  for me. All that makes a fair night’s work. Well, here we are at
  Chiselhurst Station, and we shall soon set our doubts at rest.”

  A drive of a couple of miles through narrow country lanes brought
  us to a park gate, which was opened for us by an old
  lodge-keeper, whose haggard face bore the reflection of some
  great disaster. The avenue ran through a noble park, between
  lines of ancient elms, and ended in a low, widespread house,
  pillared in front after the fashion of Palladio. The central part
  was evidently of a great age and shrouded in ivy, but the large
  windows showed that modern changes had been carried out, and one
  wing of the house appeared to be entirely new. The youthful
  figure and alert, eager face of Inspector Stanley Hopkins
  confronted us in the open doorway.

  “I’m very glad you have come, Mr. Holmes. And you, too, Dr.
  Watson. But, indeed, if I had my time over again, I should not
  have troubled you, for since the lady has come to herself, she
  has given so clear an account of the affair that there is not
  much left for us to do. You remember that Lewisham gang of
  burglars?”

  “What, the three Randalls?”

  “Exactly; the father and two sons. It’s their work. I have not a
  doubt of it. They did a job at Sydenham a fortnight ago and were
  seen and described. Rather cool to do another so soon and so
  near, but it is they, beyond all doubt. It’s a hanging matter
  this time.”

  “Sir Eustace is dead, then?”

  “Yes, his head was knocked in with his own poker.”

  “Sir Eustace Brackenstall, the driver tells me.”

  “Exactly—one of the richest men in Kent—Lady Brackenstall is in
  the morning-room. Poor lady, she has had a most dreadful
  experience. She seemed half dead when I saw her first. I think
  you had best see her and hear her account of the facts. Then we
  will examine the dining-room together.”

  Lady Brackenstall was no ordinary person. Seldom have I seen so
  graceful a figure, so womanly a presence, and so beautiful a
  face. She was a blonde, golden-haired, blue-eyed, and would no
  doubt have had the perfect complexion which goes with such
  colouring, had not her recent experience left her drawn and
  haggard. Her sufferings were physical as well as mental, for over
  one eye rose a hideous, plum-coloured swelling, which her maid, a
  tall, austere woman, was bathing assiduously with vinegar and
  water. The lady lay back exhausted upon a couch, but her quick,
  observant gaze, as we entered the room, and the alert expression
  of her beautiful features, showed that neither her wits nor her
  courage had been shaken by her terrible experience. She was
  enveloped in a loose dressing-gown of blue and silver, but a
  black sequin-covered dinner-dress lay upon the couch beside her.

  “I have told you all that happened, Mr. Hopkins,” she said,
  wearily. “Could you not repeat it for me? Well, if you think it
  necessary, I will tell these gentlemen what occurred. Have they
  been in the dining-room yet?”

  “I thought they had better hear your ladyship’s story first.”

  “I shall be glad when you can arrange matters. It is horrible to
  me to think of him still lying there.” She shuddered and buried
  her face in her hands. As she did so, the loose gown fell back
  from her forearms. Holmes uttered an exclamation.

  “You have other injuries, madam! What is this?” Two vivid red
  spots stood out on one of the white, round limbs. She hastily
  covered it.

  “It is nothing. It has no connection with this hideous business
  to-night. If you and your friend will sit down, I will tell you
  all I can.

  “I am the wife of Sir Eustace Brackenstall. I have been married
  about a year. I suppose that it is no use my attempting to
  conceal that our marriage has not been a happy one. I fear that
  all our neighbours would tell you that, even if I were to attempt
  to deny it. Perhaps the fault may be partly mine. I was brought
  up in the freer, less conventional atmosphere of South Australia,
  and this English life, with its proprieties and its primness, is
  not congenial to me. But the main reason lies in the one fact,
  which is notorious to everyone, and that is that Sir Eustace was
  a confirmed drunkard. To be with such a man for an hour is
  unpleasant. Can you imagine what it means for a sensitive and
  high-spirited woman to be tied to him for day and night? It is a
  sacrilege, a crime, a villainy to hold that such a marriage is
  binding. I say that these monstrous laws of yours will bring a
  curse upon the land—God will not let such wickedness endure.” For
  an instant she sat up, her cheeks flushed, and her eyes blazing
  from under the terrible mark upon her brow. Then the strong,
  soothing hand of the austere maid drew her head down on to the
  cushion, and the wild anger died away into passionate sobbing. At
  last she continued:

  “I will tell you about last night. You are aware, perhaps, that
  in this house all the servants sleep in the modern wing. This
  central block is made up of the dwelling-rooms, with the kitchen
  behind and our bedroom above. My maid, Theresa, sleeps above my
  room. There is no one else, and no sound could alarm those who
  are in the farther wing. This must have been well-known to the
  robbers, or they would not have acted as they did.

  “Sir Eustace retired about half-past ten. The servants had
  already gone to their quarters. Only my maid was up, and she had
  remained in her room at the top of the house until I needed her
  services. I sat until after eleven in this room, absorbed in a
  book. Then I walked round to see that all was right before I went
  upstairs. It was my custom to do this myself, for, as I have
  explained, Sir Eustace was not always to be trusted. I went into
  the kitchen, the butler’s pantry, the gun-room, the
  billiard-room, the drawing-room, and finally the dining-room. As
  I approached the window, which is covered with thick curtains, I
  suddenly felt the wind blow upon my face and realized that it was
  open. I flung the curtain aside and found myself face to face
  with a broad-shouldered elderly man, who had just stepped into
  the room. The window is a long French one, which really forms a
  door leading to the lawn. I held my bedroom candle lit in my
  hand, and, by its light, behind the first man I saw two others,
  who were in the act of entering. I stepped back, but the fellow
  was on me in an instant. He caught me first by the wrist and then
  by the throat. I opened my mouth to scream, but he struck me a
  savage blow with his fist over the eye, and felled me to the
  ground. I must have been unconscious for a few minutes, for when
  I came to myself, I found that they had torn down the bell-rope,
  and had secured me tightly to the oaken chair which stands at the
  head of the dining-table. I was so firmly bound that I could not
  move, and a handkerchief round my mouth prevented me from
  uttering a sound. It was at this instant that my unfortunate
  husband entered the room. He had evidently heard some suspicious
  sounds, and he came prepared for such a scene as he found. He was
  dressed in nightshirt and trousers, with his favourite blackthorn
  cudgel in his hand. He rushed at the burglars, but another—it was
  an elderly man—stooped, picked the poker out of the grate and
  struck him a horrible blow as he passed. He fell with a groan and
  never moved again. I fainted once more, but again it could only
  have been for a very few minutes during which I was insensible.
  When I opened my eyes I found that they had collected the silver
  from the sideboard, and they had drawn a bottle of wine which
  stood there. Each of them had a glass in his hand. I have already
  told you, have I not, that one was elderly, with a beard, and the
  others young, hairless lads. They might have been a father with
  his two sons. They talked together in whispers. Then they came
  over and made sure that I was securely bound. Finally they
  withdrew, closing the window after them. It was quite a quarter
  of an hour before I got my mouth free. When I did so, my screams
  brought the maid to my assistance. The other servants were soon
  alarmed, and we sent for the local police, who instantly
  communicated with London. That is really all that I can tell you,
  gentlemen, and I trust that it will not be necessary for me to go
  over so painful a story again.”

  “Any questions, Mr. Holmes?” asked Hopkins.

  “I will not impose any further tax upon Lady Brackenstall’s
  patience and time,” said Holmes. “Before I go into the
  dining-room, I should like to hear your experience.” He looked at
  the maid.

  “I saw the men before ever they came into the house,” said she.
  “As I sat by my bedroom window I saw three men in the moonlight
  down by the lodge gate yonder, but I thought nothing of it at the
  time. It was more than an hour after that I heard my mistress
  scream, and down I ran, to find her, poor lamb, just as she says,
  and him on the floor, with his blood and brains over the room. It
  was enough to drive a woman out of her wits, tied there, and her
  very dress spotted with him, but she never wanted courage, did
  Miss Mary Fraser of Adelaide and Lady Brackenstall of Abbey
  Grange hasn’t learned new ways. You’ve questioned her long
  enough, you gentlemen, and now she is coming to her own room,
  just with her old Theresa, to get the rest that she badly needs.”

  With a motherly tenderness the gaunt woman put her arm round her
  mistress and led her from the room.

  “She has been with her all her life,” said Hopkins. “Nursed her
  as a baby, and came with her to England when they first left
  Australia, eighteen months ago. Theresa Wright is her name, and
  the kind of maid you don’t pick up nowadays. This way, Mr.
  Holmes, if you please!”

  The keen interest had passed out of Holmes’s expressive face, and
  I knew that with the mystery all the charm of the case had
  departed. There still remained an arrest to be effected, but what
  were these commonplace rogues that he should soil his hands with
  them? An abstruse and learned specialist who finds that he has
  been called in for a case of measles would experience something
  of the annoyance which I read in my friend’s eyes. Yet the scene
  in the dining-room of the Abbey Grange was sufficiently strange
  to arrest his attention and to recall his waning interest.

  It was a very large and high chamber, with carved oak ceiling,
  oaken panelling, and a fine array of deer’s heads and ancient
  weapons around the walls. At the further end from the door was
  the high French window of which we had heard. Three smaller
  windows on the right-hand side filled the apartment with cold
  winter sunshine. On the left was a large, deep fireplace, with a
  massive, overhanging oak mantelpiece. Beside the fireplace was a
  heavy oaken chair with arms and cross-bars at the bottom. In and
  out through the open woodwork was woven a crimson cord, which was
  secured at each side to the crosspiece below. In releasing the
  lady, the cord had been slipped off her, but the knots with which
  it had been secured still remained. These details only struck our
  attention afterwards, for our thoughts were entirely absorbed by
  the terrible object which lay upon the tigerskin hearthrug in
  front of the fire.

  It was the body of a tall, well-made man, about forty years of
  age. He lay upon his back, his face upturned, with his white
  teeth grinning through his short, black beard. His two clenched
  hands were raised above his head, and a heavy, blackthorn stick
  lay across them. His dark, handsome, aquiline features were
  convulsed into a spasm of vindictive hatred, which had set his
  dead face in a terribly fiendish expression. He had evidently
  been in his bed when the alarm had broken out, for he wore a
  foppish, embroidered nightshirt, and his bare feet projected from
  his trousers. His head was horribly injured, and the whole room
  bore witness to the savage ferocity of the blow which had struck
  him down. Beside him lay the heavy poker, bent into a curve by
  the concussion. Holmes examined both it and the indescribable
  wreck which it had wrought.

  “He must be a powerful man, this elder Randall,” he remarked.

  “Yes,” said Hopkins. “I have some record of the fellow, and he is
  a rough customer.”

  “You should have no difficulty in getting him.”

  “Not the slightest. We have been on the look-out for him, and
  there was some idea that he had got away to America. Now that we
  know that the gang are here, I don’t see how they can escape. We
  have the news at every seaport already, and a reward will be
  offered before evening. What beats me is how they could have done
  so mad a thing, knowing that the lady could describe them and
  that we could not fail to recognize the description.”

  “Exactly. One would have expected that they would silence Lady
  Brackenstall as well.”

  “They may not have realized,” I suggested, “that she had
  recovered from her faint.”

  “That is likely enough. If she seemed to be senseless, they would
  not take her life. What about this poor fellow, Hopkins? I seem
  to have heard some queer stories about him.”

  “He was a good-hearted man when he was sober, but a perfect fiend
  when he was drunk, or rather when he was half drunk, for he
  seldom really went the whole way. The devil seemed to be in him
  at such times, and he was capable of anything. From what I hear,
  in spite of all his wealth and his title, he very nearly came our
  way once or twice. There was a scandal about his drenching a dog
  with petroleum and setting it on fire—her ladyship’s dog, to make
  the matter worse—and that was only hushed up with difficulty.
  Then he threw a decanter at that maid, Theresa Wright—there was
  trouble about that. On the whole, and between ourselves, it will
  be a brighter house without him. What are you looking at now?”

  Holmes was down on his knees, examining with great attention the
  knots upon the red cord with which the lady had been secured.
  Then he carefully scrutinized the broken and frayed end where it
  had snapped off when the burglar had dragged it down.

  “When this was pulled down, the bell in the kitchen must have
  rung loudly,” he remarked.

  “No one could hear it. The kitchen stands right at the back of
  the house.”

  “How did the burglar know no one would hear it? How dared he pull
  at a bell-rope in that reckless fashion?”

  “Exactly, Mr. Holmes, exactly. You put the very question which I
  have asked myself again and again. There can be no doubt that
  this fellow must have known the house and its habits. He must
  have perfectly understood that the servants would all be in bed
  at that comparatively early hour, and that no one could possibly
  hear a bell ring in the kitchen. Therefore, he must have been in
  close league with one of the servants. Surely that is evident.
  But there are eight servants, and all of good character.”

  “Other things being equal,” said Holmes, “one would suspect the
  one at whose head the master threw a decanter. And yet that would
  involve treachery towards the mistress to whom this woman seems
  devoted. Well, well, the point is a minor one, and when you have
  Randall you will probably find no difficulty in securing his
  accomplice. The lady’s story certainly seems to be corroborated,
  if it needed corroboration, by every detail which we see before
  us.” He walked to the French window and threw it open. “There are
  no signs here, but the ground is iron hard, and one would not
  expect them. I see that these candles in the mantelpiece have
  been lighted.”

  “Yes, it was by their light and that of the lady’s bedroom
  candle, that the burglars saw their way about.”

  “And what did they take?”

  “Well, they did not take much—only half a dozen articles of plate
  off the sideboard. Lady Brackenstall thinks that they were
  themselves so disturbed by the death of Sir Eustace that they did
  not ransack the house, as they would otherwise have done.”

  “No doubt that is true, and yet they drank some wine, I
  understand.”

  “To steady their nerves.”

  “Exactly. These three glasses upon the sideboard have been
  untouched, I suppose?”

  “Yes, and the bottle stands as they left it.”

  “Let us look at it. Halloa, halloa! What is this?”

  The three glasses were grouped together, all of them tinged with
  wine, and one of them containing some dregs of beeswing. The
  bottle stood near them, two-thirds full, and beside it lay a
  long, deeply stained cork. Its appearance and the dust upon the
  bottle showed that it was no common vintage which the murderers
  had enjoyed.

  A change had come over Holmes’s manner. He had lost his listless
  expression, and again I saw an alert light of interest in his
  keen, deep-set eyes. He raised the cork and examined it minutely.

  “How did they draw it?” he asked.

  Hopkins pointed to a half-opened drawer. In it lay some table
  linen and a large corkscrew.

  “Did Lady Brackenstall say that screw was used?”

  “No, you remember that she was senseless at the moment when the
  bottle was opened.”

  “Quite so. As a matter of fact, that screw was _not_ used. This
  bottle was opened by a pocket screw, probably contained in a
  knife, and not more than an inch and a half long. If you will
  examine the top of the cork, you will observe that the screw was
  driven in three times before the cork was extracted. It has never
  been transfixed. This long screw would have transfixed it and
  drawn it up with a single pull. When you catch this fellow, you
  will find that he has one of these multiplex knives in his
  possession.”

  “Excellent!” said Hopkins.

  “But these glasses do puzzle me, I confess. Lady Brackenstall
  actually _saw_ the three men drinking, did she not?”

  “Yes; she was clear about that.”

  “Then there is an end of it. What more is to be said? And yet,
  you must admit, that the three glasses are very remarkable,
  Hopkins. What? You see nothing remarkable? Well, well, let it
  pass. Perhaps, when a man has special knowledge and special
  powers like my own, it rather encourages him to seek a complex
  explanation when a simpler one is at hand. Of course, it must be
  a mere chance about the glasses. Well, good-morning, Hopkins. I
  don’t see that I can be of any use to you, and you appear to have
  your case very clear. You will let me know when Randall is
  arrested, and any further developments which may occur. I trust
  that I shall soon have to congratulate you upon a successful
  conclusion. Come, Watson, I fancy that we may employ ourselves
  more profitably at home.”

  During our return journey, I could see by Holmes’s face that he
  was much puzzled by something which he had observed. Every now
  and then, by an effort, he would throw off the impression, and
  talk as if the matter were clear, but then his doubts would
  settle down upon him again, and his knitted brows and abstracted
  eyes would show that his thoughts had gone back once more to the
  great dining-room of the Abbey Grange, in which this midnight
  tragedy had been enacted. At last, by a sudden impulse, just as
  our train was crawling out of a suburban station, he sprang on to
  the platform and pulled me out after him.

  “Excuse me, my dear fellow,” said he, as we watched the rear
  carriages of our train disappearing round a curve, “I am sorry to
  make you the victim of what may seem a mere whim, but on my life,
  Watson, I simply _can’t_ leave that case in this condition. Every
  instinct that I possess cries out against it. It’s wrong—it’s all
  wrong—I’ll swear that it’s wrong. And yet the lady’s story was
  complete, the maid’s corroboration was sufficient, the detail was
  fairly exact. What have I to put up against that? Three
  wine-glasses, that is all. But if I had not taken things for
  granted, if I had examined everything with the care which I
  should have shown had we approached the case _de novo_ and had no
  cut-and-dried story to warp my mind, should I not then have found
  something more definite to go upon? Of course I should. Sit down
  on this bench, Watson, until a train for Chiselhurst arrives, and
  allow me to lay the evidence before you, imploring you in the
  first instance to dismiss from your mind the idea that anything
  which the maid or her mistress may have said must necessarily be
  true. The lady’s charming personality must not be permitted to
  warp our judgment.

  “Surely there are details in her story which, if we looked at in
  cold blood, would excite our suspicion. These burglars made a
  considerable haul at Sydenham a fortnight ago. Some account of
  them and of their appearance was in the papers, and would
  naturally occur to anyone who wished to invent a story in which
  imaginary robbers should play a part. As a matter of fact,
  burglars who have done a good stroke of business are, as a rule,
  only too glad to enjoy the proceeds in peace and quiet without
  embarking on another perilous undertaking. Again, it is unusual
  for burglars to operate at so early an hour, it is unusual for
  burglars to strike a lady to prevent her screaming, since one
  would imagine that was the sure way to make her scream, it is
  unusual for them to commit murder when their numbers are
  sufficient to overpower one man, it is unusual for them to be
  content with a limited plunder when there was much more within
  their reach, and finally, I should say, that it was very unusual
  for such men to leave a bottle half empty. How do all these
  unusuals strike you, Watson?”

  “Their cumulative effect is certainly considerable, and yet each
  of them is quite possible in itself. The most unusual thing of
  all, as it seems to me, is that the lady should be tied to the
  chair.”

  “Well, I am not so clear about that, Watson, for it is evident
  that they must either kill her or else secure her in such a way
  that she could not give immediate notice of their escape. But at
  any rate I have shown, have I not, that there is a certain
  element of improbability about the lady’s story? And now, on the
  top of this, comes the incident of the wineglasses.”

  “What about the wineglasses?”

  “Can you see them in your mind’s eye?”

  “I see them clearly.”

  “We are told that three men drank from them. Does that strike you
  as likely?”

  “Why not? There was wine in each glass.”

  “Exactly, but there was beeswing only in one glass. You must have
  noticed that fact. What does that suggest to your mind?”

  “The last glass filled would be most likely to contain beeswing.”

  “Not at all. The bottle was full of it, and it is inconceivable
  that the first two glasses were clear and the third heavily
  charged with it. There are two possible explanations, and only
  two. One is that after the second glass was filled the bottle was
  violently agitated, and so the third glass received the beeswing.
  That does not appear probable. No, no, I am sure that I am
  right.”

  “What, then, do you suppose?”

  “That only two glasses were used, and that the dregs of both were
  poured into a third glass, so as to give the false impression
  that three people had been here. In that way all the beeswing
  would be in the last glass, would it not? Yes, I am convinced
  that this is so. But if I have hit upon the true explanation of
  this one small phenomenon, then in an instant the case rises from
  the commonplace to the exceedingly remarkable, for it can only
  mean that Lady Brackenstall and her maid have deliberately lied
  to us, that not one word of their story is to be believed, that
  they have some very strong reason for covering the real criminal,
  and that we must construct our case for ourselves without any
  help from them. That is the mission which now lies before us, and
  here, Watson, is the Sydenham train.”

  The household at the Abbey Grange were much surprised at our
  return, but Sherlock Holmes, finding that Stanley Hopkins had
  gone off to report to headquarters, took possession of the
  dining-room, locked the door upon the inside, and devoted himself
  for two hours to one of those minute and laborious investigations
  which form the solid basis on which his brilliant edifices of
  deduction were reared. Seated in a corner like an interested
  student who observes the demonstration of his professor, I
  followed every step of that remarkable research. The window, the
  curtains, the carpet, the chair, the rope—each in turn was
  minutely examined and duly pondered. The body of the unfortunate
  baronet had been removed, and all else remained as we had seen it
  in the morning. Finally, to my astonishment, Holmes climbed up on
  to the massive mantelpiece. Far above his head hung the few
  inches of red cord which were still attached to the wire. For a
  long time he gazed upward at it, and then in an attempt to get
  nearer to it he rested his knee upon a wooden bracket on the
  wall. This brought his hand within a few inches of the broken end
  of the rope, but it was not this so much as the bracket itself
  which seemed to engage his attention. Finally, he sprang down
  with an ejaculation of satisfaction.

  “It’s all right, Watson,” said he. “We have got our case—one of
  the most remarkable in our collection. But, dear me, how
  slow-witted I have been, and how nearly I have committed the
  blunder of my lifetime! Now, I think that, with a few missing
  links, my chain is almost complete.”

  “You have got your men?”

  “Man, Watson, man. Only one, but a very formidable person. Strong
  as a lion—witness the blow that bent that poker! Six foot three
  in height, active as a squirrel, dexterous with his fingers,
  finally, remarkably quick-witted, for this whole ingenious story
  is of his concoction. Yes, Watson, we have come upon the
  handiwork of a very remarkable individual. And yet, in that
  bell-rope, he has given us a clue which should not have left us a
  doubt.”

  “Where was the clue?”

  “Well, if you were to pull down a bell-rope, Watson, where would
  you expect it to break? Surely at the spot where it is attached
  to the wire. Why should it break three inches from the top, as
  this one has done?”

  “Because it is frayed there?”

  “Exactly. This end, which we can examine, is frayed. He was
  cunning enough to do that with his knife. But the other end is
  not frayed. You could not observe that from here, but if you were
  on the mantelpiece you would see that it is cut clean off without
  any mark of fraying whatever. You can reconstruct what occurred.
  The man needed the rope. He would not tear it down for fear of
  giving the alarm by ringing the bell. What did he do? He sprang
  up on the mantelpiece, could not quite reach it, put his knee on
  the bracket—you will see the impression in the dust—and so got
  his knife to bear upon the cord. I could not reach the place by
  at least three inches—from which I infer that he is at least
  three inches a bigger man than I. Look at that mark upon the seat
  of the oaken chair! What is it?”

  “Blood.”

  “Undoubtedly it is blood. This alone puts the lady’s story out of
  court. If she were seated on the chair when the crime was done,
  how comes that mark? No, no, she was placed in the chair _after_
  the death of her husband. I’ll wager that the black dress shows a
  corresponding mark to this. We have not yet met our Waterloo,
  Watson, but this is our Marengo, for it begins in defeat and ends
  in victory. I should like now to have a few words with the nurse,
  Theresa. We must be wary for a while, if we are to get the
  information which we want.”

  She was an interesting person, this stern Australian
  nurse—taciturn, suspicious, ungracious, it took some time before
  Holmes’s pleasant manner and frank acceptance of all that she
  said thawed her into a corresponding amiability. She did not
  attempt to conceal her hatred for her late employer.

  “Yes, sir, it is true that he threw the decanter at me. I heard
  him call my mistress a name, and I told him that he would not
  dare to speak so if her brother had been there. Then it was that
  he threw it at me. He might have thrown a dozen if he had but
  left my bonny bird alone. He was forever ill-treating her, and
  she too proud to complain. She will not even tell me all that he
  has done to her. She never told me of those marks on her arm that
  you saw this morning, but I know very well that they come from a
  stab with a hatpin. The sly devil—God forgive me that I should
  speak of him so, now that he is dead! But a devil he was, if ever
  one walked the earth. He was all honey when first we met him—only
  eighteen months ago, and we both feel as if it were eighteen
  years. She had only just arrived in London. Yes, it was her first
  voyage—she had never been from home before. He won her with his
  title and his money and his false London ways. If she made a
  mistake she has paid for it, if ever a woman did. What month did
  we meet him? Well, I tell you it was just after we arrived. We
  arrived in June, and it was July. They were married in January of
  last year. Yes, she is down in the morning-room again, and I have
  no doubt she will see you, but you must not ask too much of her,
  for she has gone through all that flesh and blood will stand.”

  Lady Brackenstall was reclining on the same couch, but looked
  brighter than before. The maid had entered with us, and began
  once more to foment the bruise upon her mistress’s brow.

  “I hope,” said the lady, “that you have not come to cross-examine
  me again?”

  “No,” Holmes answered, in his gentlest voice, “I will not cause
  you any unnecessary trouble, Lady Brackenstall, and my whole
  desire is to make things easy for you, for I am convinced that
  you are a much-tried woman. If you will treat me as a friend and
  trust me, you may find that I will justify your trust.”

  “What do you want me to do?”

  “To tell me the truth.”

  “Mr. Holmes!”

  “No, no, Lady Brackenstall—it is no use. You may have heard of
  any little reputation which I possess. I will stake it all on the
  fact that your story is an absolute fabrication.”

  Mistress and maid were both staring at Holmes with pale faces and
  frightened eyes.

  “You are an impudent fellow!” cried Theresa. “Do you mean to say
  that my mistress has told a lie?”

  Holmes rose from his chair.

  “Have you nothing to tell me?”

  “I have told you everything.”

  “Think once more, Lady Brackenstall. Would it not be better to be
  frank?”

  For an instant there was hesitation in her beautiful face. Then
  some new strong thought caused it to set like a mask.

  “I have told you all I know.”

  Holmes took his hat and shrugged his shoulders. “I am sorry,” he
  said, and without another word we left the room and the house.
  There was a pond in the park, and to this my friend led the way.
  It was frozen over, but a single hole was left for the
  convenience of a solitary swan. Holmes gazed at it, and then
  passed on to the lodge gate. There he scribbled a short note for
  Stanley Hopkins, and left it with the lodge-keeper.

  “It may be a hit, or it may be a miss, but we are bound to do
  something for friend Hopkins, just to justify this second visit,”
  said he. “I will not quite take him into my confidence yet. I
  think our next scene of operations must be the shipping office of
  the Adelaide-Southampton line, which stands at the end of Pall
  Mall, if I remember right. There is a second line of steamers
  which connect South Australia with England, but we will draw the
  larger cover first.”

  Holmes’s card sent in to the manager ensured instant attention,
  and he was not long in acquiring all the information he needed.
  In June of ’95, only one of their line had reached a home port.
  It was the _Rock of Gibraltar_, their largest and best boat. A
  reference to the passenger list showed that Miss Fraser, of
  Adelaide, with her maid had made the voyage in her. The boat was
  now somewhere south of the Suez Canal on her way to Australia.
  Her officers were the same as in ’95, with one exception. The
  first officer, Mr. Jack Crocker, had been made a captain and was
  to take charge of their new ship, the _Bass Rock_, sailing in two
  days’ time from Southampton. He lived at Sydenham, but he was
  likely to be in that morning for instructions, if we cared to
  wait for him.

  No, Mr. Holmes had no desire to see him, but would be glad to
  know more about his record and character.

  His record was magnificent. There was not an officer in the fleet
  to touch him. As to his character, he was reliable on duty, but a
  wild, desperate fellow off the deck of his ship—hot-headed,
  excitable, but loyal, honest, and kind-hearted. That was the pith
  of the information with which Holmes left the office of the
  Adelaide-Southampton company. Thence he drove to Scotland Yard,
  but, instead of entering, he sat in his cab with his brows drawn
  down, lost in profound thought. Finally he drove round to the
  Charing Cross telegraph office, sent off a message, and then, at
  last, we made for Baker Street once more.

  “No, I couldn’t do it, Watson,” said he, as we reentered our
  room. “Once that warrant was made out, nothing on earth would
  save him. Once or twice in my career I feel that I have done more
  real harm by my discovery of the criminal than ever he had done
  by his crime. I have learned caution now, and I had rather play
  tricks with the law of England than with my own conscience. Let
  us know a little more before we act.”

  Before evening, we had a visit from Inspector Stanley Hopkins.
  Things were not going very well with him.

  “I believe that you are a wizard, Mr. Holmes. I really do
  sometimes think that you have powers that are not human. Now, how
  on earth could you know that the stolen silver was at the bottom
  of that pond?”

  “I didn’t know it.”

  “But you told me to examine it.”

  “You got it, then?”

  “Yes, I got it.”

  “I am very glad if I have helped you.”

  “But you haven’t helped me. You have made the affair far more
  difficult. What sort of burglars are they who steal silver and
  then throw it into the nearest pond?”

  “It was certainly rather eccentric behaviour. I was merely going
  on the idea that if the silver had been taken by persons who did
  not want it—who merely took it for a blind, as it were—then they
  would naturally be anxious to get rid of it.”

  “But why should such an idea cross your mind?”

  “Well, I thought it was possible. When they came out through the
  French window, there was the pond with one tempting little hole
  in the ice, right in front of their noses. Could there be a
  better hiding-place?”

  “Ah, a hiding-place—that is better!” cried Stanley Hopkins. “Yes,
  yes, I see it all now! It was early, there were folk upon the
  roads, they were afraid of being seen with the silver, so they
  sank it in the pond, intending to return for it when the coast
  was clear. Excellent, Mr. Holmes—that is better than your idea of
  a blind.”

  “Quite so, you have got an admirable theory. I have no doubt that
  my own ideas were quite wild, but you must admit that they have
  ended in discovering the silver.”

  “Yes, sir—yes. It was all your doing. But I have had a bad
  setback.”

  “A setback?”

  “Yes, Mr. Holmes. The Randall gang were arrested in New York this
  morning.”

  “Dear me, Hopkins! That is certainly rather against your theory
  that they committed a murder in Kent last night.”

  “It is fatal, Mr. Holmes—absolutely fatal. Still, there are other
  gangs of three besides the Randalls, or it may be some new gang
  of which the police have never heard.”

  “Quite so, it is perfectly possible. What, are you off?”

  “Yes, Mr. Holmes, there is no rest for me until I have got to the
  bottom of the business. I suppose you have no hint to give me?”

  “I have given you one.”

  “Which?”

  “Well, I suggested a blind.”

  “But why, Mr. Holmes, why?”

  “Ah, that’s the question, of course. But I commend the idea to
  your mind. You might possibly find that there was something in
  it. You won’t stop for dinner? Well, good-bye, and let us know
  how you get on.”

  Dinner was over, and the table cleared before Holmes alluded to
  the matter again. He had lit his pipe and held his slippered feet
  to the cheerful blaze of the fire. Suddenly he looked at his
  watch.

  “I expect developments, Watson.”

  “When?”

  “Now—within a few minutes. I dare say you thought I acted rather
  badly to Stanley Hopkins just now?”

  “I trust your judgment.”

  “A very sensible reply, Watson. You must look at it this way:
  what I know is unofficial, what he knows is official. I have the
  right to private judgment, but he has none. He must disclose all,
  or he is a traitor to his service. In a doubtful case I would not
  put him in so painful a position, and so I reserve my information
  until my own mind is clear upon the matter.”

  “But when will that be?”

  “The time has come. You will now be present at the last scene of
  a remarkable little drama.”

  There was a sound upon the stairs, and our door was opened to
  admit as fine a specimen of manhood as ever passed through it. He
  was a very tall young man, golden-moustached, blue-eyed, with a
  skin which had been burned by tropical suns, and a springy step,
  which showed that the huge frame was as active as it was strong.
  He closed the door behind him, and then he stood with clenched
  hands and heaving breast, choking down some overmastering
  emotion.

  “Sit down, Captain Crocker. You got my telegram?”

  Our visitor sank into an armchair and looked from one to the
  other of us with questioning eyes.

  “I got your telegram, and I came at the hour you said. I heard
  that you had been down to the office. There was no getting away
  from you. Let’s hear the worst. What are you going to do with me?
  Arrest me? Speak out, man! You can’t sit there and play with me
  like a cat with a mouse.”

  “Give him a cigar,” said Holmes. “Bite on that, Captain Crocker,
  and don’t let your nerves run away with you. I should not sit
  here smoking with you if I thought that you were a common
  criminal, you may be sure of that. Be frank with me and we may do
  some good. Play tricks with me, and I’ll crush you.”

  “What do you wish me to do?”

  “To give me a true account of all that happened at the Abbey
  Grange last night—a _true_ account, mind you, with nothing added
  and nothing taken off. I know so much already that if you go one
  inch off the straight, I’ll blow this police whistle from my
  window and the affair goes out of my hands forever.”

  The sailor thought for a little. Then he struck his leg with his
  great sunburned hand.

  “I’ll chance it,” he cried. “I believe you are a man of your
  word, and a white man, and I’ll tell you the whole story. But one
  thing I will say first. So far as I am concerned, I regret
  nothing and I fear nothing, and I would do it all again and be
  proud of the job. Damn the beast, if he had as many lives as a
  cat, he would owe them all to me! But it’s the lady, Mary—Mary
  Fraser—for never will I call her by that accursed name. When I
  think of getting her into trouble, I who would give my life just
  to bring one smile to her dear face, it’s that that turns my soul
  into water. And yet—and yet—what less could I do? I’ll tell you
  my story, gentlemen, and then I’ll ask you, as man to man, what
  less could I do?

  “I must go back a bit. You seem to know everything, so I expect
  that you know that I met her when she was a passenger and I was
  first officer of the _Rock of Gibraltar_. From the first day I
  met her, she was the only woman to me. Every day of that voyage I
  loved her more, and many a time since have I kneeled down in the
  darkness of the night watch and kissed the deck of that ship
  because I knew her dear feet had trod it. She was never engaged
  to me. She treated me as fairly as ever a woman treated a man. I
  have no complaint to make. It was all love on my side, and all
  good comradeship and friendship on hers. When we parted she was a
  free woman, but I could never again be a free man.

  “Next time I came back from sea, I heard of her marriage. Well,
  why shouldn’t she marry whom she liked? Title and money—who could
  carry them better than she? She was born for all that is
  beautiful and dainty. I didn’t grieve over her marriage. I was
  not such a selfish hound as that. I just rejoiced that good luck
  had come her way, and that she had not thrown herself away on a
  penniless sailor. That’s how I loved Mary Fraser.

  “Well, I never thought to see her again, but last voyage I was
  promoted, and the new boat was not yet launched, so I had to wait
  for a couple of months with my people at Sydenham. One day out in
  a country lane I met Theresa Wright, her old maid. She told me
  all about her, about him, about everything. I tell you,
  gentlemen, it nearly drove me mad. This drunken hound, that he
  should dare to raise his hand to her, whose boots he was not
  worthy to lick! I met Theresa again. Then I met Mary herself—and
  met her again. Then she would meet me no more. But the other day
  I had a notice that I was to start on my voyage within a week,
  and I determined that I would see her once before I left. Theresa
  was always my friend, for she loved Mary and hated this villain
  almost as much as I did. From her I learned the ways of the
  house. Mary used to sit up reading in her own little room
  downstairs. I crept round there last night and scratched at the
  window. At first she would not open to me, but in her heart I
  know that now she loves me, and she could not leave me in the
  frosty night. She whispered to me to come round to the big front
  window, and I found it open before me, so as to let me into the
  dining-room. Again I heard from her own lips things that made my
  blood boil, and again I cursed this brute who mishandled the
  woman I loved. Well, gentlemen, I was standing with her just
  inside the window, in all innocence, as God is my judge, when he
  rushed like a madman into the room, called her the vilest name
  that a man could use to a woman, and welted her across the face
  with the stick he had in his hand. I had sprung for the poker,
  and it was a fair fight between us. See here, on my arm, where
  his first blow fell. Then it was my turn, and I went through him
  as if he had been a rotten pumpkin. Do you think I was sorry? Not
  I! It was his life or mine, but far more than that, it was his
  life or hers, for how could I leave her in the power of this
  madman? That was how I killed him. Was I wrong? Well, then, what
  would either of you gentlemen have done, if you had been in my
  position?

  “She had screamed when he struck her, and that brought old
  Theresa down from the room above. There was a bottle of wine on
  the sideboard, and I opened it and poured a little between Mary’s
  lips, for she was half dead with shock. Then I took a drop
  myself. Theresa was as cool as ice, and it was her plot as much
  as mine. We must make it appear that burglars had done the thing.
  Theresa kept on repeating our story to her mistress, while I
  swarmed up and cut the rope of the bell. Then I lashed her in her
  chair, and frayed out the end of the rope to make it look
  natural, else they would wonder how in the world a burglar could
  have got up there to cut it. Then I gathered up a few plates and
  pots of silver, to carry out the idea of the robbery, and there I
  left them, with orders to give the alarm when I had a quarter of
  an hour’s start. I dropped the silver into the pond, and made off
  for Sydenham, feeling that for once in my life I had done a real
  good night’s work. And that’s the truth and the whole truth, Mr.
  Holmes, if it costs me my neck.”

  Holmes smoked for some time in silence. Then he crossed the room,
  and shook our visitor by the hand.

  “That’s what I think,” said he. “I know that every word is true,
  for you have hardly said a word which I did not know. No one but
  an acrobat or a sailor could have got up to that bell-rope from
  the bracket, and no one but a sailor could have made the knots
  with which the cord was fastened to the chair. Only once had this
  lady been brought into contact with sailors, and that was on her
  voyage, and it was someone of her own class of life, since she
  was trying hard to shield him, and so showing that she loved him.
  You see how easy it was for me to lay my hands upon you when once
  I had started upon the right trail.”

  “I thought the police never could have seen through our dodge.”

  “And the police haven’t, nor will they, to the best of my belief.
  Now, look here, Captain Crocker, this is a very serious matter,
  though I am willing to admit that you acted under the most
  extreme provocation to which any man could be subjected. I am not
  sure that in defence of your own life your action will not be
  pronounced legitimate. However, that is for a British jury to
  decide. Meanwhile I have so much sympathy for you that, if you
  choose to disappear in the next twenty-four hours, I will promise
  you that no one will hinder you.”

  “And then it will all come out?”

  “Certainly it will come out.”

  The sailor flushed with anger.

  “What sort of proposal is that to make a man? I know enough of
  law to understand that Mary would be held as accomplice. Do you
  think I would leave her alone to face the music while I slunk
  away? No, sir, let them do their worst upon me, but for heaven’s
  sake, Mr. Holmes, find some way of keeping my poor Mary out of
  the courts.”

  Holmes for a second time held out his hand to the sailor.

  “I was only testing you, and you ring true every time. Well, it
  is a great responsibility that I take upon myself, but I have
  given Hopkins an excellent hint and if he can’t avail himself of
  it I can do no more. See here, Captain Crocker, we’ll do this in
  due form of law. You are the prisoner. Watson, you are a British
  jury, and I never met a man who was more eminently fitted to
  represent one. I am the judge. Now, gentleman of the jury, you
  have heard the evidence. Do you find the prisoner guilty or not
  guilty?”

  “Not guilty, my lord,” said I.

  “_Vox populi, vox Dei_. You are acquitted, Captain Crocker. So
  long as the law does not find some other victim you are safe from
  me. Come back to this lady in a year, and may her future and
  yours justify us in the judgment which we have pronounced this
  night!”

THE ADVENTURE OF THE SECOND STAIN

  I had intended “The Adventure of the Abbey Grange” to be the last
  of those exploits of my friend, Mr. Sherlock Holmes, which I
  should ever communicate to the public. This resolution of mine
  was not due to any lack of material, since I have notes of many
  hundreds of cases to which I have never alluded, nor was it
  caused by any waning interest on the part of my readers in the
  singular personality and unique methods of this remarkable man.
  The real reason lay in the reluctance which Mr. Holmes has shown
  to the continued publication of his experiences. So long as he
  was in actual professional practice the records of his successes
  were of some practical value to him, but since he has definitely
  retired from London and betaken himself to study and bee-farming
  on the Sussex Downs, notoriety has become hateful to him, and he
  has peremptorily requested that his wishes in this matter should
  be strictly observed. It was only upon my representing to him
  that I had given a promise that “The Adventure of the Second
  Stain” should be published when the times were ripe, and pointing
  out to him that it is only appropriate that this long series of
  episodes should culminate in the most important international
  case which he has ever been called upon to handle, that I at last
  succeeded in obtaining his consent that a carefully guarded
  account of the incident should at last be laid before the public.
  If in telling the story I seem to be somewhat vague in certain
  details, the public will readily understand that there is an
  excellent reason for my reticence.

  It was, then, in a year, and even in a decade, that shall be
  nameless, that upon one Tuesday morning in autumn we found two
  visitors of European fame within the walls of our humble room in
  Baker Street. The one, austere, high-nosed, eagle-eyed, and
  dominant, was none other than the illustrious Lord Bellinger,
  twice Premier of Britain. The other, dark, clear-cut, and
  elegant, hardly yet of middle age, and endowed with every beauty
  of body and of mind, was the Right Honourable Trelawney Hope,
  Secretary for European Affairs, and the most rising statesman in
  the country. They sat side by side upon our paper-littered
  settee, and it was easy to see from their worn and anxious faces
  that it was business of the most pressing importance which had
  brought them. The Premier’s thin, blue-veined hands were clasped
  tightly over the ivory head of his umbrella, and his gaunt,
  ascetic face looked gloomily from Holmes to me. The European
  Secretary pulled nervously at his moustache and fidgeted with the
  seals of his watch-chain.

  “When I discovered my loss, Mr. Holmes, which was at eight
  o’clock this morning, I at once informed the Prime Minister. It
  was at his suggestion that we have both come to you.”

  “Have you informed the police?”

  “No, sir,” said the Prime Minister, with the quick, decisive
  manner for which he was famous. “We have not done so, nor is it
  possible that we should do so. To inform the police must, in the
  long run, mean to inform the public. This is what we particularly
  desire to avoid.”

  “And why, sir?”

  “Because the document in question is of such immense importance
  that its publication might very easily—I might almost say
  probably—lead to European complications of the utmost moment. It
  is not too much to say that peace or war may hang upon the issue.
  Unless its recovery can be attended with the utmost secrecy, then
  it may as well not be recovered at all, for all that is aimed at
  by those who have taken it is that its contents should be
  generally known.”

  “I understand. Now, Mr. Trelawney Hope, I should be much obliged
  if you would tell me exactly the circumstances under which this
  document disappeared.”

  “That can be done in a very few words, Mr. Holmes. The letter—for
  it was a letter from a foreign potentate—was received six days
  ago. It was of such importance that I have never left it in my
  safe, but have taken it across each evening to my house in
  Whitehall Terrace, and kept it in my bedroom in a locked
  despatch-box. It was there last night. Of that I am certain. I
  actually opened the box while I was dressing for dinner and saw
  the document inside. This morning it was gone. The despatch-box
  had stood beside the glass upon my dressing-table all night. I am
  a light sleeper, and so is my wife. We are both prepared to swear
  that no one could have entered the room during the night. And yet
  I repeat that the paper is gone.”

  “What time did you dine?”

  “Half-past seven.”

  “How long was it before you went to bed?”

  “My wife had gone to the theatre. I waited up for her. It was
  half-past eleven before we went to our room.”

  “Then for four hours the despatch-box had lain unguarded?”

  “No one is ever permitted to enter that room save the house-maid
  in the morning, and my valet, or my wife’s maid, during the rest
  of the day. They are both trusty servants who have been with us
  for some time. Besides, neither of them could possibly have known
  that there was anything more valuable than the ordinary
  departmental papers in my despatch-box.”

  “Who did know of the existence of that letter?”

  “No one in the house.”

  “Surely your wife knew?”

  “No, sir. I had said nothing to my wife until I missed the paper
  this morning.”

  The Premier nodded approvingly.

  “I have long known, sir, how high is your sense of public duty,”
  said he. “I am convinced that in the case of a secret of this
  importance it would rise superior to the most intimate domestic
  ties.”

  The European Secretary bowed.

  “You do me no more than justice, sir. Until this morning I have
  never breathed one word to my wife upon this matter.”

  “Could she have guessed?”

  “No, Mr. Holmes, she could not have guessed—nor could anyone have
  guessed.”

  “Have you lost any documents before?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Who is there in England who did know of the existence of this
  letter?”

  “Each member of the Cabinet was informed of it yesterday, but the
  pledge of secrecy which attends every Cabinet meeting was
  increased by the solemn warning which was given by the Prime
  Minister. Good heavens, to think that within a few hours I should
  myself have lost it!” His handsome face was distorted with a
  spasm of despair, and his hands tore at his hair. For a moment we
  caught a glimpse of the natural man, impulsive, ardent, keenly
  sensitive. The next the aristocratic mask was replaced, and the
  gentle voice had returned. “Besides the members of the Cabinet
  there are two, or possibly three, departmental officials who know
  of the letter. No one else in England, Mr. Holmes, I assure you.”

  “But abroad?”

  “I believe that no one abroad has seen it save the man who wrote
  it. I am well convinced that his Ministers—that the usual
  official channels have not been employed.”

  Holmes considered for some little time.

  “Now, sir, I must ask you more particularly what this document
  is, and why its disappearance should have such momentous
  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 envelope as I describe with its enclosure, you will have
  deserved well of your country, and earned any reward which it
  lies in our power to bestow.”

  Sherlock Holmes rose with a smile.

  “You are two of the most busy men in the country,” said he, “and
  in my own small way I have also a good many calls upon me. I
  regret exceedingly that I cannot help you in this matter, and any
  continuation of this interview would be a waste of time.”

  The Premier sprang to his feet with that quick, fierce gleam of
  his deep-set eyes before which a Cabinet has cowered. “I am not
  accustomed, sir,” he began, but mastered his anger and resumed
  his seat. For a minute or more we all sat in silence. Then the
  old statesman shrugged his shoulders.

  “We must accept your terms, Mr. Holmes. No doubt you are right,
  and it is unreasonable for us to expect you to act unless we give
  you our entire confidence.”

  “I agree with you,” said the younger statesman.

  “Then I will tell you, relying entirely upon your honour and that
  of your colleague, Dr. Watson. I may appeal to your patriotism
  also, for I could not imagine a greater misfortune for the
  country than that this affair should come out.”

  “You may safely trust us.”

  “The letter, then, is from a certain foreign potentate who has
  been ruffled by some recent Colonial developments of this
  country. It has been written hurriedly and upon his own
  responsibility entirely. Inquiries have shown that his Ministers
  know nothing of the matter. At the same time it is couched in so
  unfortunate a manner, and certain phrases in it are of so
  provocative a character, that its publication would undoubtedly
  lead to a most dangerous state of feeling in this country. There
  would be such a ferment, sir, that I do not hesitate to say that
  within a week of the publication of that letter this country
  would be involved in a great war.”

  Holmes wrote a name upon a slip of paper and handed it to the
  Premier.

  “Exactly. It was he. And it is this letter—this letter which may
  well mean the expenditure of a thousand millions and the lives of
  a hundred thousand men—which has become lost in this
  unaccountable fashion.”

  “Have you informed the sender?”

  “Yes, sir, a cipher telegram has been despatched.”

  “Perhaps he desires the publication of the letter.”

  “No, sir, we have strong reason to believe that he already
  understands that he has acted in an indiscreet and hot-headed
  manner. It would be a greater blow to him and to his country than
  to us if this letter were to come out.”

  “If this is so, whose interest is it that the letter should come
  out? Why should anyone desire to steal it or to publish it?”

  “There, Mr. Holmes, you take me into regions of high
  international politics. But if you consider the European
  situation you will have no difficulty in perceiving the motive.
  The whole of Europe is an armed camp. There is a double league
  which makes a fair balance of military power. Great Britain holds
  the scales. If Britain were driven into war with one confederacy,
  it would assure the supremacy of the other confederacy, whether
  they joined in the war or not. Do you follow?”

  “Very clearly. It is then the interest of the enemies of this
  potentate to secure and publish this letter, so as to make a
  breach between his country and ours?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “And to whom would this document be sent if it fell into the
  hands of an enemy?”

  “To any of the great Chancelleries of Europe. It is probably
  speeding on its way thither at the present instant as fast as
  steam can take it.”

  Mr. Trelawney Hope dropped his head on his chest and groaned
  aloud. The Premier placed his hand kindly upon his shoulder.

  “It is your misfortune, my dear fellow. No one can blame you.
  There is no precaution which you have neglected. Now, Mr. Holmes,
  you are in full possession of the facts. What course do you
  recommend?”

  Holmes shook his head mournfully.

  “You think, sir, that unless this document is recovered there
  will be war?”

  “I think it is very probable.”

  “Then, sir, prepare for war.”

  “That is a hard saying, Mr. Holmes.”

  “Consider the facts, sir. It is inconceivable that it was taken
  after eleven-thirty at night, since I understand that Mr. Hope
  and his wife were both in the room from that hour until the loss
  was found out. It was taken, then, yesterday evening between
  seven-thirty and eleven-thirty, probably near the earlier hour,
  since whoever took it evidently knew that it was there and would
  naturally secure it as early as possible. Now, sir, if a document
  of this importance were taken at that hour, where can it be now?
  No one has any reason to retain it. It has been passed rapidly on
  to those who need it. What chance have we now to overtake or even
  to trace it? It is beyond our reach.”

  The Prime Minister rose from the settee.

  “What you say is perfectly logical, Mr. Holmes. I feel that the
  matter is indeed out of our hands.”

  “Let us presume, for argument’s sake, that the document was taken
  by the maid or by the valet——”

  “They are both old and tried servants.”

  “I understand you to say that your room is on the second floor,
  that there is no entrance from without, and that from within no
  one could go up unobserved. It must, then, be somebody in the
  house who has taken it. To whom would the thief take it? To one
  of several international spies and secret agents, whose names are
  tolerably familiar to me. There are three who may be said to be
  the heads of their profession. I will begin my research by going
  round and finding if each of them is at his post. If one is
  missing—especially if he has disappeared since last night—we will
  have some indication as to where the document has gone.”

  “Why should he be missing?” asked the European Secretary. “He
  would take the letter to an Embassy in London, as likely as not.”

  “I fancy not. These agents work independently, and their
  relations with the Embassies are often strained.”

  The Prime Minister nodded his acquiescence.

  “I believe you are right, Mr. Holmes. He would take so valuable a
  prize to headquarters with his own hands. I think that your
  course of action is an excellent one. Meanwhile, Hope, we cannot
  neglect all our other duties on account of this one misfortune.
  Should there be any fresh developments during the day we shall
  communicate with you, and you will no doubt let us know the
  results of your own inquiries.”

  The two statesmen bowed and walked gravely from the room.

  When our illustrious visitors had departed Holmes lit his pipe in
  silence and sat for some time lost in the deepest thought. I had
  opened the morning paper and was immersed in a sensational crime
  which had occurred in London the night before, when my friend
  gave an exclamation, sprang to his feet, and laid his pipe down
  upon the mantelpiece.

  “Yes,” said he, “there is no better way of approaching it. The
  situation is desperate, but not hopeless. Even now, if we could
  be sure which of them has taken it, it is just possible that it
  has not yet passed out of his hands. After all, it is a question
  of money with these fellows, and I have the British treasury
  behind me. If it’s on the market I’ll buy it—if it means another
  penny on the income-tax. It is conceivable that the fellow might
  hold it back to see what bids come from this side before he tries
  his luck on the other. There are only those three capable of
  playing so bold a game—there are Oberstein, La Rothiere, and
  Eduardo Lucas. I will see each of them.”

  I glanced at my morning paper.

  “Is that Eduardo Lucas of Godolphin Street?”

  “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 astonished him. He stared in amazement, and
  then snatched the paper from my hands. This was the paragraph
  which I had been engaged in reading when he rose from his chair:

  MURDER IN WESTMINSTER

  A crime of mysterious character was committed last night at 16,
  Godolphin Street, one of the old-fashioned and secluded rows of
  eighteenth century houses which lie between the river and the
  Abbey, almost in the shadow of the great Tower of the Houses of
  Parliament. This small but select mansion has been inhabited for
  some years by Mr. Eduardo Lucas, well-known in society circles
  both on account of his charming personality and because he has
  the well-deserved reputation of being one of the best amateur
  tenors in the country. Mr. Lucas is an unmarried man, thirty-four
  years of age, and his establishment consists of Mrs. Pringle, an
  elderly housekeeper, and of Mitton, his valet. The former retires
  early and sleeps at the top of the house. The valet was out for
  the evening, visiting a friend at Hammersmith. From ten o’clock
  onward Mr. Lucas had the house to himself. What occurred during
  that time has not yet transpired, but at a quarter to twelve
  Police-constable Barrett, passing along Godolphin Street observed
  that the door of No. 16 was ajar. He knocked, but received no
  answer. Perceiving a light in the front room, he advanced into
  the passage and again knocked, but without reply. He then pushed
  open the door and entered. The room was in a state of wild
  disorder, the furniture being all swept to one side, and one
  chair lying on its back in the centre. Beside this chair, and
  still grasping one of its legs, lay the unfortunate tenant of the
  house. He had been stabbed to the heart and must have died
  instantly. The knife with which the crime had been committed was
  a curved Indian dagger, plucked down from a trophy of Oriental
  arms which adorned one of the walls. Robbery does not appear to
  have been the motive of the crime, for there had been no attempt
  to remove the valuable contents of the room. Mr. Eduardo Lucas
  was so well-known and popular that his violent and mysterious
  fate will arouse painful interest and intense sympathy in a
  widespread circle of friends.

  “Well, Watson, what do you make of this?” asked Holmes, after a
  long pause.

  “It is an amazing coincidence.”

  “A coincidence! Here is one of the three men whom we had named as
  possible actors in this drama, and he meets a violent death
  during the very hours when we know that that drama was being
  enacted. The odds are enormous against its being coincidence. No
  figures could express them. No, my dear Watson, the two events
  are connected—_must_ be connected. It is for us to find the
  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 would, in any case, have turned my
  suspicions against Lucas. Godolphin Street, Westminster, is only
  a few minutes’ walk from Whitehall Terrace. The other secret
  agents whom I have named live in the extreme West End. It was
  easier, therefore, for Lucas than for the others to establish a
  connection or receive a message from the European Secretary’s
  household—a small thing, and yet where events are compressed into
  a few hours it may prove essential. Halloa! what have we here?”

  Mrs. Hudson had appeared with a lady’s card upon her salver.
  Holmes glanced at it, raised his eyebrows, and handed it over to
  me.

  “Ask Lady Hilda Trelawney Hope if she will be kind enough to step
  up,” said he.

  A moment later our modest apartment, already so distinguished
  that morning, was further honoured by the entrance of the most
  lovely woman in London. I had often heard of the beauty of the
  youngest daughter of the Duke of Belminster, but no description
  of it, and no contemplation of colourless photographs, had
  prepared me for the subtle, delicate charm and the beautiful
  colouring of that exquisite head. And yet as we saw it that
  autumn morning, it was not its beauty which would be the first
  thing to impress the observer. The cheek was lovely but it was
  paled with emotion, the eyes were bright but it was the
  brightness of fever, the sensitive mouth was tight and drawn in
  an effort after self-command. Terror—not beauty—was what sprang
  first to the eye as our fair visitor stood framed for an instant
  in the open door.

  “Has my husband been here, Mr. Holmes?”

  “Yes, madam, he has been here.”

  “Mr. Holmes. I implore you not to tell him that I came here.”
  Holmes bowed coldly, and motioned the lady to a chair.

  “Your ladyship places me in a very delicate position. I beg that
  you will sit down and tell me what you desire, but I fear that I
  cannot make any unconditional promise.”

  She swept across the room and seated herself with her back to the
  window. It was a queenly presence—tall, graceful, and intensely
  womanly. “Mr. Holmes,” she said—and her white-gloved hands
  clasped and unclasped as she spoke—“I will speak frankly to you
  in the hopes that it may induce you to speak frankly in return.
  There is complete confidence between my husband and me on all
  matters save one. That one is politics. On this his lips are
  sealed. He tells me nothing. Now, I am aware that there was a
  most deplorable occurrence in our house last night. I know that a
  paper has disappeared. But because the matter is political my
  husband refuses to take me into his complete confidence. Now it
  is essential—essential, I say—that I should thoroughly understand
  it. You are the only other person, save only these politicians,
  who knows the true facts. I beg you then, Mr. Holmes, to tell me
  exactly what has happened and what it will lead to. Tell me all,
  Mr. Holmes. Let no regard for your client’s interests keep you
  silent, for I assure you that his interests, if he would only see
  it, would be best served by taking me into his complete
  confidence. What was this paper which was stolen?”

  “Madam, what you ask me is really impossible.”

  She groaned and sank her face in her hands.

  “You must see that this is so, madam. If your husband thinks fit
  to keep you in the dark over this matter, is it for me, who has
  only learned the true facts under the pledge of professional
  secrecy, to tell what he has withheld? It is not fair to ask it.
  It is him whom you must ask.”

  “I have asked him. I come to you as a last resource. But without
  your telling me anything definite, Mr. Holmes, you may do a great
  service if you would enlighten me on one point.”

  “What is it, madam?”

  “Is my husband’s political career likely to suffer through this
  incident?”

  “Well, madam, unless it is set right it may certainly have a very
  unfortunate effect.”

  “Ah!” She drew in her breath sharply as one whose doubts are
  resolved.

  “One more question, Mr. Holmes. From an expression which my
  husband dropped in the first shock of this disaster I understood
  that terrible public consequences might arise from the loss of
  this document.”

  “If he said so, I certainly cannot deny it.”

  “Of what nature are they?”

  “Nay, madam, there again you ask me more than I can possibly
  answer.”

  “Then I will take up no more of your time. I cannot blame you,
  Mr. Holmes, for having refused to speak more freely, and you on
  your side will not, I am sure, think the worse of me because I
  desire, even against his will, to share my husband’s anxieties.
  Once more I beg that you will say nothing of my visit.”

  She looked back at us from the door, and I had a last impression
  of that beautiful haunted face, the startled eyes, and the drawn
  mouth. Then she was gone.

  “Now, Watson, the fair sex is your department,” said Holmes, with
  a smile, when the dwindling _frou-frou_ of skirts had ended in
  the slam of the front door. “What was the fair lady’s game? What
  did she really want?”

  “Surely her own statement is clear and her anxiety very natural.”

  “Hum! Think of her appearance, Watson—her manner, her suppressed
  excitement, her restlessness, her tenacity in asking questions.
  Remember that she comes of a caste who do not lightly show
  emotion.”

  “She was certainly much moved.”

  “Remember also the curious earnestness with which she assured us
  that it was best for her husband that she should know all. What
  did she mean by that? And you must have observed, Watson, how she
  manœuvred to have the light at her back. She did not wish us to
  read her expression.”

  “Yes, she chose the one chair in the room.”

  “And yet the motives of women are so inscrutable. You remember
  the woman at Margate whom I suspected for the same reason. No
  powder on her nose—that proved to be the correct solution. How
  can you build on such a quicksand? Their most trivial action may
  mean volumes, or their most extraordinary conduct may depend upon
  a hairpin or a curling tongs. Good-morning, Watson.”

  “You are off?”

  “Yes, I will while away the morning at Godolphin Street with our
  friends of the regular establishment. With Eduardo Lucas lies the
  solution of our problem, though I must admit that I have not an
  inkling as to what form it may take. It is a capital mistake to
  theorize in advance of the facts. Do you stay on guard, my good
  Watson, and receive any fresh visitors. I’ll join you at lunch if
  I am able.”

  All that day and the next and the next Holmes was in a mood which
  his friends would call taciturn, and others morose. He ran out
  and ran in, smoked incessantly, played snatches on his violin,
  sank into reveries, devoured sandwiches at irregular hours, and
  hardly answered the casual questions which I put to him. It was
  evident to me that things were not going well with him or his
  quest. He would say nothing of the case, and it was from the
  papers that I learned the particulars of the inquest, and the
  arrest with the subsequent release of John Mitton, the valet of
  the deceased. The coroner’s jury brought in the obvious Wilful
  Murder, but the parties remained as unknown as ever. No motive
  was suggested. The room was full of articles of value, but none
  had been taken. The dead man’s papers had not been tampered with.
  They were carefully examined, and showed that he was a keen
  student of international politics, an indefatigable gossip, a
  remarkable linguist, and an untiring letter writer. He had been
  on intimate terms with the leading politicians of several
  countries. But nothing sensational was discovered among the
  documents which filled his drawers. As to his relations with
  women, they appeared to have been promiscuous but superficial. He
  had many acquaintances among them, but few friends, and no one
  whom he loved. His habits were regular, his conduct inoffensive.
  His death was an absolute mystery and likely to remain so.

  As to the arrest of John Mitton, the valet, it was a council of
  despair as an alternative to absolute inaction. But no case could
  be sustained against him. He had visited friends in Hammersmith
  that night. The _alibi_ was complete. It is true that he started
  home at an hour which should have brought him to Westminster
  before the time when the crime was discovered, but his own
  explanation that he had walked part of the way seemed probable
  enough in view of the fineness of the night. He had actually
  arrived at twelve o’clock, and appeared to be overwhelmed by the
  unexpected tragedy. He had always been on good terms with his
  master. Several of the dead man’s possessions—notably a small
  case of razors—had been found in the valet’s boxes, but he
  explained that they had been presents from the deceased, and the
  housekeeper was able to corroborate the story. Mitton had been in
  Lucas’s employment for three years. It was noticeable that Lucas
  did not take Mitton on the Continent with him. Sometimes he
  visited Paris for three months on end, but Mitton was left in
  charge of the Godolphin Street house. As to the housekeeper, she
  had heard nothing on the night of the crime. If her master had a
  visitor he had himself admitted him.

  So for three mornings the mystery remained, so far as I could
  follow it in the papers. If Holmes knew more, he kept his own
  counsel, but, as he told me that Inspector Lestrade had taken him
  into his confidence in the case, I knew that he was in close
  touch with every development. Upon the fourth day there appeared
  a long telegram from Paris which seemed to solve the whole
  question.

  A discovery has just been made by the Parisian police (said the
  _Daily Telegraph_) which raises the veil which hung round the
  tragic fate of Mr. Eduardo Lucas, who met his death by violence
  last Monday night at Godolphin Street, Westminster. Our readers
  will remember that the deceased gentleman was found stabbed in
  his room, and that some suspicion attached to his valet, but that
  the case broke down on an _alibi_. Yesterday a lady, who has been
  known as Mme. Henri Fournaye, occupying a small villa in the Rue
  Austerlitz, was reported to the authorities by her servants as
  being insane. An examination showed she had indeed developed
  mania of a dangerous and permanent form. On inquiry, the police
  have discovered that Mme. Henri Fournaye only returned from a
  journey to London on Tuesday last, and there is evidence to
  connect her with the crime at Westminster. A comparison of
  photographs has proved conclusively that M. Henri Fournaye and
  Eduardo Lucas were really one and the same person, and that the
  deceased had for some reason lived a double life in London and
  Paris. Mme. Fournaye, who is of Creole origin, is of an extremely
  excitable nature, and has suffered in the past from attacks of
  jealousy which have amounted to frenzy. It is conjectured that it
  was in one of these that she committed the terrible crime which
  has caused such a sensation in London. Her movements upon the
  Monday night have not yet been traced, but it is undoubted that a
  woman answering to her description attracted much attention at
  Charing Cross Station on Tuesday morning by the wildness of her
  appearance and the violence of her gestures. It is probable,
  therefore, that the crime was either committed when insane, or
  that its immediate effect was to drive the unhappy woman out of
  her mind. At present she is unable to give any coherent account
  of the past, and the doctors hold out no hopes of the
  reestablishment of her reason. There is evidence that a woman,
  who might have been Mme. Fournaye, was seen for some hours upon
  Monday night watching the house in Godolphin Street.

  “What do you think of that, Holmes?” I had read the account aloud
  to him, while he finished his breakfast.

  “My dear Watson,” said he, as he rose from the table and paced up
  and down the room, “You are most long-suffering, but if I have
  told you nothing in the last three days, it is because there is
  nothing to tell. Even now this report from Paris does not help us
  much.”

  “Surely it is final as regards the man’s death.”

  “The man’s death is a mere incident—a trivial episode—in
  comparison with our real task, which is to trace this document
  and save a European catastrophe. Only one important thing has
  happened in the last three days, and that is that nothing has
  happened. I get reports almost hourly from the government, and it
  is certain that nowhere in Europe is there any sign of trouble.
  Now, if this letter were loose—no, it _can’t_ be loose—but if it
  isn’t loose, where can it be? Who has it? Why is it held back?
  That’s the question that beats in my brain like a hammer. Was it,
  indeed, a coincidence that Lucas should meet his death on the
  night when the letter disappeared? Did the letter ever reach him?
  If so, why is it not among his papers? Did this mad wife of his
  carry it off with her? If so, is it in her house in Paris? How
  could I search for it without the French police having their
  suspicions aroused? It is a case, my dear Watson, where the law
  is as dangerous to us as the criminals are. Every man’s hand is
  against us, and yet the interests at stake are colossal. Should I
  bring it to a successful conclusion, it will certainly represent
  the crowning glory of my career. Ah, here is my latest from the
  front!” He glanced hurriedly at the note which had been handed
  in. “Halloa! Lestrade seems to have observed something of
  interest. Put on your hat, Watson, and we will stroll down
  together to Westminster.”

  It was my first visit to the scene of the crime—a high, dingy,
  narrow-chested house, prim, formal, and solid, like the century
  which gave it birth. Lestrade’s bulldog features gazed out at us
  from the front window, and he greeted us warmly when a big
  constable had opened the door and let us in. The room into which
  we were shown was that in which the crime had been committed, but
  no trace of it now remained save an ugly, irregular stain upon
  the carpet. This carpet was a small square drugget in the centre
  of the room, surrounded by a broad expanse of beautiful,
  old-fashioned wood-flooring in square blocks, highly polished.
  Over the fireplace was a magnificent trophy of weapons, one of
  which had been used on that tragic night. In the window was a
  sumptuous writing-desk, and every detail of the apartment, the
  pictures, the rugs, and the hangings, all pointed to a taste
  which was luxurious to the verge of effeminacy.

  “Seen the Paris news?” asked Lestrade.

  Holmes nodded.

  “Our French friends seem to have touched the spot this time. No
  doubt it’s just as they say. She knocked at the door—surprise
  visit, I guess, for he kept his life in water-tight
  compartments—he let her in, couldn’t keep her in the street. She
  told him how she had traced him, reproached him. One thing led to
  another, and then with that dagger so handy the end soon came. It
  wasn’t all done in an instant, though, for these chairs were all
  swept over yonder, and he had one in his hand as if he had tried
  to hold her off with it. We’ve got it all clear as if we had seen
  it.”

  Holmes raised his eyebrows.

  “And yet you have sent for me?”

  “Ah, yes, that’s another matter—a mere trifle, but the sort of
  thing you take an interest in—queer, you know, and what you might
  call freakish. It has nothing to do with the main fact—can’t
  have, on the face of it.”

  “What is it, then?”

  “Well, you know, after a crime of this sort we are very careful
  to keep things in their position. Nothing has been moved. Officer
  in charge here day and night. This morning, as the man was buried
  and the investigation over—so far as this room is concerned—we
  thought we could tidy up a bit. This carpet. You see, it is not
  fastened down, only just laid there. We had occasion to raise it.
  We found——”

  “Yes? You found——”

  Holmes’s face grew tense with anxiety.

  “Well, I’m sure you would never guess in a hundred years what we
  did find. You see that stain on the carpet? Well, a great deal
  must have soaked through, must it not?”

  “Undoubtedly it must.”

  “Well, you will be surprised to hear that there is no stain on
  the white woodwork to correspond.”

  “No stain! But there must——”

  “Yes, so you would say. But the fact remains that there isn’t.”

  He took the corner of the carpet in his hand and, turning it
  over, he showed that it was indeed as he said.

  “But the under side is as stained as the upper. It must have left
  a mark.”

  Lestrade chuckled with delight at having puzzled the famous
  expert.

  “Now, I’ll show you the explanation. There _is_ a second stain,
  but it does not correspond with the other. See for yourself.” As
  he spoke he turned over another portion of the carpet, and there,
  sure enough, was a great crimson spill upon the square white
  facing of the old-fashioned floor. “What do you make of that, Mr.
  Holmes?”

  “Why, it is simple enough. The two stains did correspond, but the
  carpet has been turned round. As it was square and unfastened it
  was easily done.”

  “The official police don’t need you, Mr. Holmes, to tell them
  that the carpet must have been turned round. That’s clear enough,
  for the stains lie above each other—if you lay it over this way.
  But what I want to know is, who shifted the carpet, and why?”

  I could see from Holmes’s rigid face that he was vibrating with
  inward excitement.

  “Look here, Lestrade,” said he, “has that constable in the
  passage been in charge of the place all the time?”

  “Yes, he has.”

  “Well, take my advice. Examine him carefully. Don’t do it before
  us. 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
  _know_ someone has been here. Press him. Tell him that a full
  confession is his only chance of forgiveness. Do exactly what I
  tell you!”

  “By George, if he knows I’ll have it out of him!” cried Lestrade.
  He darted into the hall, and a few moments later his bullying
  voice sounded from the back room.

  “Now, Watson, now!” cried Holmes with frenzied eagerness. All the
  demoniacal force of the man masked behind that listless manner
  burst out in a paroxysm of energy. He tore the drugget from the
  floor, and in an instant was down on his hands and knees clawing
  at each of the squares of wood beneath it. One turned sideways as
  he dug his nails into the edge of it. It hinged back like the lid
  of a box. A small black cavity opened beneath it. Holmes plunged
  his eager hand into it and drew it out with a bitter snarl of
  anger and disappointment. It was empty.

  “Quick, Watson, quick! Get it back again!” The wooden lid was
  replaced, and the drugget had only just been drawn straight when
  Lestrade’s voice was heard in the passage. He found Holmes
  leaning languidly against the mantelpiece, resigned and patient,
  endeavouring to conceal his irrepressible yawns.

  “Sorry to keep you waiting, Mr. Holmes, I can see that you are
  bored to death with the whole affair. Well, he has confessed, all
  right. Come in here, MacPherson. Let these gentlemen hear of your
  most inexcusable conduct.”

  The big constable, very hot and penitent, sidled into the room.

  “I meant no harm, sir, I’m sure. The young woman came to the door
  last evening—mistook the house, she did. And then we got talking.
  It’s lonesome, when you’re on duty here all day.”

  “Well, what happened then?”

  “She wanted to see where the crime was done—had read about it in
  the papers, she said. She was a very respectable, well-spoken
  young woman, sir, and I saw no harm in letting her have a peep.
  When she saw that mark on the carpet, down she dropped on the
  floor, and lay as if she were dead. I ran to the back and got
  some water, but I could not bring her to. Then I went round the
  corner to the Ivy Plant for some brandy, and by the time I had
  brought it back the young woman had recovered and was off—ashamed
  of herself, I daresay, and dared not face me.”

  “How about moving that drugget?”

  “Well, sir, it was a bit rumpled, certainly, when I came back.
  You see, she fell on it and it lies on a polished floor with
  nothing to keep it in place. I straightened it out afterwards.”

  “It’s a lesson to you that you can’t deceive me, Constable
  MacPherson,” said Lestrade, with dignity. “No doubt you thought
  that your breach of duty could never be discovered, and yet a
  mere glance at that drugget was enough to convince me that
  someone had been admitted to the room. It’s lucky for you, my
  man, that nothing is missing, or you would find yourself in Queer
  Street. I’m sorry to have called you down over such a petty
  business, Mr. Holmes, but I thought the point of the second stain
  not corresponding with the first would interest you.”

  “Certainly, it was most interesting. Has this woman only been
  here once, constable?”

  “Yes, sir, only once.”

  “Who was she?”

  “Don’t know the name, sir. Was answering an advertisement about
  typewriting and came to the wrong number—very pleasant, genteel
  young woman, sir.”

  “Tall? Handsome?”

  “Yes, sir, she was a well-grown young woman. I suppose you might
  say she was handsome. Perhaps some would say she was very
  handsome. ‘Oh, officer, do let me have a peep!’ says she. She had
  pretty, coaxing ways, as you might say, and I thought there was
  no harm in letting her just put her head through the door.”

  “How was she dressed?”

  “Quiet, sir—a long mantle down to her feet.”

  “What time was it?”

  “It was just growing dusk at the time. They were lighting the
  lamps as I came back with the brandy.”

  “Very good,” said Holmes. “Come, Watson, I think that we have
  more important work elsewhere.”

  As we left the house Lestrade remained in the front room, while
  the repentant constable opened the door to let us out. Holmes
  turned on the step and held up something in his hand. The
  constable stared intently.

  “Good Lord, sir!” he cried, with amazement on his face. Holmes
  put his finger on his lips, replaced his hand in his breast
  pocket, and burst out laughing as we turned down the street.
  “Excellent!” said he. “Come, friend Watson, the curtain rings up
  for the last act. You will be relieved to hear that there will be
  no war, that the Right Honourable Trelawney Hope will suffer no
  setback in his brilliant career, that the indiscreet Sovereign
  will receive no punishment for his indiscretion, that the Prime
  Minister will have no 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 extraordinary man.

  “You have solved it!” I cried.

  “Hardly that, Watson. There are some points which are as dark as
  ever. But we have so much that it will be our own fault if we
  cannot get the rest. We will go straight to Whitehall Terrace and
  bring the matter to a head.”

  When we arrived at the residence of the European Secretary it was
  for Lady Hilda Trelawney Hope that Sherlock Holmes inquired. We
  were shown into the morning-room.

  “Mr. Holmes!” said the lady, and her face was pink with her
  indignation. “This is surely most unfair and ungenerous upon your
  part. I desired, as I have explained, to keep my visit to you a
  secret, lest my husband should think that I was intruding into
  his affairs. And yet you compromise me by coming here and so
  showing that there are business relations between us.”

  “Unfortunately, madam, I had no possible alternative. I have been
  commissioned to recover this immensely important paper. I must
  therefore ask you, madam, to be kind enough to place it in my
  hands.”

  The lady sprang to her feet, with the colour all dashed in an
  instant from her beautiful face. Her eyes glazed—she tottered—I
  thought that she would faint. Then with a grand effort she
  rallied from the shock, and a supreme astonishment and
  indignation chased every other expression from her features.

  “You—you insult me, Mr. Holmes.”

  “Come, come, madam, it is useless. Give up the letter.”

  She darted to the bell.

  “The butler shall show you out.”

  “Do not ring, Lady Hilda. If you do, then all my earnest efforts
  to avoid a scandal will be frustrated. Give up the letter and all
  will be set right. If you will work with me I can arrange
  everything. If you work against me I must expose you.”

  She stood grandly defiant, a queenly figure, her eyes fixed upon
  his as if she would read his very soul. Her hand was on the bell,
  but she had forborne to ring it.

  “You are trying to frighten me. It is not a very manly thing, Mr.
  Holmes, to come here and browbeat a woman. You say that you know
  something. What is it that you know?”

  “Pray sit down, madam. You will hurt yourself there if you fall.
  I will not speak until you sit down. Thank you.”

  “I give you five minutes, Mr. Holmes.”

  “One is enough, Lady Hilda. I know of your visit to Eduardo
  Lucas, of your giving him this document, of your ingenious return
  to the room last night, and of the manner in which you took the
  letter from the hiding-place under the carpet.”

  She stared at him with an ashen face and gulped twice before she
  could speak.

  “You are mad, Mr. Holmes—you are mad!” she cried, at last.

  He drew a small piece of cardboard from his pocket. It was the
  face of a woman cut out of a portrait.

  “I have carried this because I thought it might be useful,” said
  he. “The policeman has recognized it.”

  She gave a gasp, and her head dropped back in the chair.

  “Come, Lady Hilda. You have the letter. The matter may still be
  adjusted. I have no desire to bring trouble to you. My duty ends
  when I have returned the lost letter to your husband. Take my
  advice and be frank with me. It is your only chance.”

  Her courage was admirable. Even now she would not own defeat.

  “I tell you again, Mr. Holmes, that you are under some absurd
  illusion.”

  Holmes rose from his chair.

  “I am sorry for you, Lady Hilda. I have done my best for you. I
  can see that it is all in vain.”

  He rang the bell. The butler entered.

  “Is Mr. Trelawney Hope at home?”

  “He will be home, sir, at a quarter to one.”

  Holmes glanced at his watch.

  “Still a quarter of an hour,” said he. “Very good, I shall wait.”

  The butler had hardly closed the door behind him when Lady Hilda
  was down on her knees at Holmes’s feet, her hands outstretched,
  her beautiful face upturned and wet with her tears.

  “Oh, spare me, Mr. Holmes! Spare me!” she pleaded, in a frenzy of
  supplication. “For heaven’s sake, don’t tell him! I love him so!
  I would not bring one shadow on his life, and this I know would
  break his noble heart.”

  Holmes raised the lady. “I am thankful, madam, that you have come
  to your senses even at this last moment! There is not an instant
  to lose. Where is the letter?”

  She darted across to a writing-desk, unlocked it, and drew out a
  long blue envelope.

  “Here it is, Mr. Holmes. Would to heaven I had never seen it!”

  “How can we return it?” Holmes muttered. “Quick, quick, we must
  think of some way! Where is the despatch-box?”

  “Still in his bedroom.”

  “What a stroke of luck! Quick, madam, bring it here!” A moment
  later she had appeared with a red flat box in her hand.

  “How did you open it before? You have a duplicate key? Yes, of
  course you have. Open it!”

  From out of her bosom Lady Hilda had drawn a small key. The box
  flew open. It was stuffed with papers. Holmes thrust the blue
  envelope deep down into the heart of them, between the leaves of
  some other document. The box was shut, locked, and returned to
  the bedroom.

  “Now we are ready for him,” said Holmes. “We have still ten
  minutes. I am going far to screen you, Lady Hilda. In return you
  will spend the time in telling me frankly the real meaning of
  this extraordinary affair.”

  “Mr. Holmes, I will tell you everything,” cried the lady. “Oh,
  Mr. Holmes, I would cut off my right hand before I gave him a
  moment of sorrow! There is no woman in all London who loves her
  husband as I do, and yet if he knew how I have acted—how I have
  been compelled to act—he would never forgive me. For his own
  honour stands so high that he could not forget or pardon a lapse
  in another. Help me, Mr. Holmes! My happiness, his happiness, our
  very lives are at stake!”

  “Quick, madam, the time grows short!”

  “It was a letter of mine, Mr. Holmes, an indiscreet letter
  written before my marriage—a foolish letter, a letter of an
  impulsive, loving girl. I meant no harm, and yet he would have
  thought it criminal. Had he read that letter his confidence would
  have been forever destroyed. It is years since I wrote it. I had
  thought that the whole matter was forgotten. Then at last I heard
  from this man, Lucas, that it had passed into his hands, and that
  he would lay it before my husband. I implored his mercy. He said
  that he would return my letter if I would bring him a certain
  document which he described in my husband’s despatch-box. He had
  some spy in the office who had told him of its existence. He
  assured me that no harm could come to my husband. Put yourself in
  my position, Mr. Holmes! What was I to do?”

  “Take your husband into your confidence.”

  “I could not, Mr. Holmes, I could not! On the one side seemed
  certain ruin, on the other, terrible as it seemed to take my
  husband’s paper, still in a matter of politics I could not
  understand the consequences, while in a matter of love and trust
  they were only too clear to me. I did it, Mr. Holmes! I took an
  impression of his key. This man, Lucas, furnished a duplicate. I
  opened his despatch-box, took the paper, and conveyed it to
  Godolphin Street.”

  “What happened there, madam?”

  “I tapped at the door as agreed. Lucas opened it. I followed him
  into his room, leaving the hall door ajar behind me, for I feared
  to be alone with the man. I remember that there was a woman
  outside as I entered. Our business was soon done. He had my
  letter on his desk, I handed him the document. He gave me the
  letter. At this instant there was a sound at the door. There were
  steps in the passage. Lucas quickly turned back the drugget,
  thrust the document into some hiding-place there, and covered it
  over.

  “What happened after that is like some fearful dream. I have a
  vision of a dark, frantic face, of a woman’s voice, which
  screamed in French, ‘My waiting is not in vain. At last, at last
  I have found you with her!’ There was a savage struggle. I saw
  him with a chair in his hand, a knife gleamed in hers. I rushed
  from the horrible scene, ran from the house, and only next
  morning in the paper did I learn the dreadful result. That night
  I was happy, for I had my letter, and I had not seen yet what the
  future would bring.

  “It was the next morning that I realized that I had only
  exchanged one trouble for another. My husband’s anguish at the
  loss of his paper went to my heart. I could hardly prevent myself
  from there and then kneeling down at his feet and telling him
  what I had done. But that again would mean a confession of the
  past. I came to you that morning in order to understand the full
  enormity of my offence. From the instant that I grasped it my
  whole mind was turned to the one thought of getting back my
  husband’s paper. It must still be where Lucas had placed it, for
  it was concealed before this dreadful woman entered the room. If
  it had not been for her coming, I should not have known where his
  hiding-place was. How was I to get into the room? For two days I
  watched the place, but the door was never left open. Last night I
  made a last attempt. What I did and how I succeeded, you have
  already learned. I brought the paper back with me, and thought of
  destroying it, since I could see no way of returning it without
  confessing my guilt to my husband. Heavens, I hear his step upon
  the stair!”

  The European Secretary burst excitedly into the room. “Any news,
  Mr. Holmes, any news?” he cried.

  “I have some hopes.”

  “Ah, thank heaven!” His face became radiant. “The Prime Minister
  is lunching with me. May he share your hopes? He has nerves of
  steel, and yet I know that he has hardly slept since this
  terrible event. Jacobs, will you ask the Prime Minister to come
  up? As to you, dear, I fear that this is a matter of politics. We
  will join you in a few minutes in the dining-room.”

  The Prime Minister’s manner was subdued, but I could see by the
  gleam of his eyes and the twitchings of his bony hands that he
  shared the excitement of his young colleague.

  “I understand that you have something to report, Mr. Holmes?”

  “Purely negative as yet,” my friend answered. “I have inquired at
  every point where it might be, and I am sure that there is no
  danger to be apprehended.”

  “But that is not enough, Mr. Holmes. We cannot live forever on
  such a volcano. We must have something definite.”

  “I am in hopes of getting it. That is why I am here. The more I
  think of the matter the more convinced I am that the letter has
  never left this house.”

  “Mr. Holmes!”

  “If it had it would certainly have been public by now.”

  “But why should anyone take it in order to keep it in his house?”

  “I am not convinced that anyone did take it.”

  “Then how could it leave the despatch-box?”

  “I am not convinced that it ever did leave the despatch-box.”

  “Mr. Holmes, this joking is very ill-timed. You have my assurance
  that it left the box.”

  “Have you examined the box since Tuesday morning?”

  “No. It was not necessary.”

  “You may conceivably have overlooked it.”

  “Impossible, I say.”

  “But I am not convinced of it. I have known such things to
  happen. I presume there are other papers there. Well, it may have
  got mixed with them.”

  “It was on the top.”

  “Someone may have shaken the box and displaced it.”

  “No, no, I had everything out.”

  “Surely it is easily decided, Hope,” said the Premier. “Let us
  have the despatch-box brought in.”

  The Secretary rang the bell.

  “Jacobs, bring down my despatch-box. This is a farcical waste of
  time, but still, if nothing else will satisfy you, it shall be
  done. Thank you, Jacobs, put it here. I have always had the key
  on my watch-chain. Here are the papers, you see. Letter from Lord
  Merrow, report from Sir Charles Hardy, memorandum from Belgrade,
  note on the Russo-German grain taxes, letter from Madrid, note
  from Lord Flowers——Good heavens! what is this? Lord Bellinger!
  Lord Bellinger!”

  The Premier snatched the blue envelope from his hand.

  “Yes, it is it—and the letter is intact. Hope, I congratulate
  you.”

  “Thank you! Thank you! What a weight from my heart. But this is
  inconceivable—impossible. Mr. Holmes, you are a wizard, a
  sorcerer! How did you know it was there?”

  “Because I knew it was nowhere else.”

  “I cannot believe my eyes!” He ran wildly to the door. “Where is
  my wife? I must tell her that all is well. Hilda! Hilda!” we
  heard his voice on the stairs.

  The Premier looked at Holmes with twinkling eyes.

  “Come, sir,” said he. “There is more in this than meets the eye.
  How came the letter back in the box?”

  Holmes turned away smiling from the keen scrutiny of those
  wonderful eyes.

  “We also have our diplomatic secrets,” said he and, picking up
  his hat, he turned to the door.

  THE END