



                          THE RETURN OF SHERLOCK HOLMES

                               Arthur Conan Doyle



                                Table of 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 have done so had I not been barred by a positive
     prohibition from his own lips, which was only withdrawn upon the
     third of last month.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

     I acknowledged that I was.

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

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

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

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

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

     I gripped him by the arm.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

     "When you like and where you like."

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

     "You never were in it?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

     "But why are we here?"

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

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

     "Well?" said he.

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

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

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

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

     "But why?"

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

     "And you thought the rooms were watched?"

     "I knew that they were watched."

     "By whom?"

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

     "How do you know?"

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

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

     "The shadow has moved!" I cried.

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

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

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

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

     "That you, Lestrade?" said Holmes.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

     Colonel Moran turned to the official detective.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

     "No, I have not."

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

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

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

     He handed over the book, and I read:

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

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

     The second most dangerous man in London.

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

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

     "It is surely rather fanciful."

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

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

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

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

     "You have formed one, then?"

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

     "I have no doubt that you have hit upon the truth."

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






                      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's, and that it was my friend who had
     really found the money.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

     "Mr. John Hector McFarlane?" said Lestrade.

     Our unfortunate client rose with a ghastly face.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

     "Exactly," said McFarlane.

     "Pray proceed."

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

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

     "Was the blind down?" asked Holmes.

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

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

     "Not until I have been to Blackheath."

     "You mean to Norwood," said Lestrade.

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

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

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

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

     The official looked at them with a puzzled expression.

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

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

     "Well, what do you make of it?"

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

     Lestrade began to laugh.

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

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

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

     "Oh, you think so?"

     "Don't you?"

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

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

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

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

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

     "Why should the tramp burn the body?"

     "For the matter of that why should McFarlane?"

     "To hide some evidence."

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

     "And why did the tramp take nothing?"

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

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

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

     My friend seemed struck by this remark.

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

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

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

     "And why not Norwood?"

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

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

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

     "Did you go to Blackheath?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

     "It is true."

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

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

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

     It was from Norwood, and ran as follows:

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

     "This sounds serious," said I.

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

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

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

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

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

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

     Lestrade laughed loudly.

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

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

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

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

     "Yes, I am doing so."

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

     "I have heard something of the kind."

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

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

     "That is final," said Lestrade.

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

     "It is final," said Holmes.

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

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

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

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

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

     "Where was the night constable?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

     "It is unquestionably the mark of his thumb."

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

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

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

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

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

     "Indeed, Holmes! What is it?"

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

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

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

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

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

     "So I am."

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

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

     "What do you mean, Mr. Holmes?"

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

     "Can you produce him?"

     "I think I can."

     "Then do so."

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

     "There are three within call."

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

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

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

     Five minutes later three policemen had assembled in the hall.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

     "Fire!" we all yelled.

     "Thank you. I will trouble you once again."

     "Fire!"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

     "I have done no harm."

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

     The wretched creature began to whimper.

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

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

     Holmes smiled and clapped Lestrade upon the shoulder.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

     "But how?"

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

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

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

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

     "Well, that's likely enough."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

     Holmes smiled indulgently.

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






                        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 goldfields."

     "I see no connection."

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

     "How absurdly simple!" I cried.

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

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

     "Why, Holmes, it is a child's drawing," I cried.

     "Oh, that's your idea!"

     "What else should it be?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

     Hilton Cubitt shook his massive head.

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

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

     "No."

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

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

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

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

     "You had better stay here, Watson."

     "Why?"

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

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

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

     "Has she said anything yet?"

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

     "But you have found out something for yourself?"

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

     "What, the man who draws them?"

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

     [ Picture: Picture of a few dancing men ]

     "Excellent!" said Holmes. "Excellent! Pray continue."

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

     [ Picture: Picture of some more dancing man figures ]

     Holmes rubbed his hands and chuckled with delight.

     "Our material is rapidly accumulating," said he.

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

     "'If it really annoys you, Hilton, we might go and travel, you and I,
     and so avoid this nuisance.'

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

     "'Well, come to bed,' said she, 'and we can discuss it in the
     morning.'

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

     "Have you that fresh drawing?"

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

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

     [ Picture: Picture of five dancing men figures ]

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

     "It was on a different panel of the door."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

     [ Picture: Picture of many dancing men figures ]

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

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

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

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

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

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

     A look of annoyance passed over Holmes's face.

     "What makes you think such a thing?"

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

     Holmes's brow was dark with anxiety.

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

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

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

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

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

     "I anticipated it. I came in the hope of preventing it."

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

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

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

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

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

     "Has he been moved?" asked Holmes.

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

     "How long have you been here, doctor?"

     "Since four o'clock."

     "Anyone else?"

     "Yes, the constable here."

     "And you have touched nothing?"

     "Nothing."

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

     "The housemaid, Saunders."

     "Was it she who gave the alarm?"

     "She and Mrs. King, the cook."

     "Where are they now?"

     "In the kitchen, I believe."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

     "Because I looked for it."

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

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

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

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

     "How do you prove that?"

     "Because the candle has not guttered."

     "Capital!" cried the inspector. "Capital!"

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

     "But how came the window to be shut and fastened?"

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

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

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

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

     "You don't think that it might have been two shots fired almost at
     the same instant?"

     "I am sure I couldn't say, sir."

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

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

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

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

     "Whom do you suspect?" he asked.

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

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

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

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

     "Is it a lonely farm?"

     "Very lonely, sir."

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

     "Maybe not, sir."

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

     "Saddle a horse, my lad," said he. "I shall wish you to take a note
     to Elrige's Farm."

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

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

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

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

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

     [ Picture: Picture of a single dancing man ]

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

     [ Picture: Picture of a single dancing man ]

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

     [ Picture: Picture of three dancing men ]

     stand respectively for N, V, and R.

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

                              .M  .ERE  ..E  SL.NE.

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

                              AM  HERE  A.E  SLANE.

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

                             AM  HERE  ABE  SLANEY.

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

                                   A. ELRI.ES.

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

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

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

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

                       ELSIE  .RE.ARE  TO  MEET  THY  GO.

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

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

     "You need not be uneasy. He will not try to escape."

     "How do you know?"

     "To fly would be a confession of guilt."

     "Then let us go to arrest him."

     "I expect him here every instant."

     "But why should he come?"

     "Because I have written and asked him."

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

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

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

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

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

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

     "Mrs. Hilton Cubitt was seriously injured and is at death's door."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

     "I wrote it to bring you here."

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

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

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

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

     Slaney shrugged his shoulders.

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

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

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

     "It is time for us to go."

     "Can I see her first?"

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

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

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

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

     [ Picture: Picture of various dancing men ]

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

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






                      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 circumstances
     did not admit of any striking illustration of those powers for which
     my friend was famous, but there were some points about the case which
     made it stand out in those long records of crime from which I gather
     the material for these little narratives.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

     "Excuse me," said Holmes; "when was this interview?"

     "Last December--four months ago."

     "Pray proceed."

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

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

     The young lady blushed and laughed.

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

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

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

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

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

     "Two or three minutes."

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

     "None."

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

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

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

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

     Holmes sat in silence for some little time.

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

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

     "He would not pay you a surprise visit?"

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

     "Have you had any other admirers?"

     "Several before I knew Cyril."

     "And since?"

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

     "No one else?"

     Our fair client seemed a little confused.

     "Who was he?" asked Holmes.

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

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

     "He is a rich man."

     "No carriages or horses?"

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

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

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

     "That he should appear only at that point?"

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

     "You will go down?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

     I begged him to tell me what had occurred.

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

     The Thursday brought us another letter from our client.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

     "That's the man!" I gasped.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

     "They're married!" I gasped.

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

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

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

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

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

     "No, she's your widow."

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

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

     "Who are you, then?"

     "My name is Sherlock Holmes."

     "Good Lord!"

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

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

     "He will live," said I.

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

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

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

     "And also unfrocked."

     "Once a clergyman, always a clergyman."

     "I think not. How about the license?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

     "What cable?"

     Carruthers took a telegram from his pocket.

     "That's it," said he.

     It was short and concise:

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

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

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

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

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

     "What he says is true," said Carruthers.

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

     Carruthers nodded and Williamson swore.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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






                       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
     hearthrug.

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

     "What is it, Watson?" asked Holmes.

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

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

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

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

     "When you are quite restored--

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

     My friend shook his head.

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

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

     "What! the late Cabinet Minister?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

     "But there has been some official investigation?"

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

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

     "It was entirely dropped."

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

     "I feel it, and admit it."

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

     "None at all."

     "Was he in the master's class?"

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

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

     "No."

     "Was any other bicycle missing?"

     "No."

     "Is that certain?"

     "Quite."

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

     "Certainly not."

     "Then what is the theory in your mind?"

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

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

     "Several."

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

     "I suppose he would."

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

     "No."

     "Did he get any letters?"

     "Yes; one letter."

     "From whom?"

     "From his father."

     "Do you open the boys' letters?"

     "No."

     "How do you know it was from the father?"

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

     "When had he a letter before that?"

     "Not for several days."

     "Had he ever one from France?"

     "No; never."

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

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

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

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

     "But the sympathies of the latter were with the mother?"

     "Yes."

     "Did he say so?"

     "No."

     "The Duke, then?"

     "Good heavens, no!"

     "Then how could you know?"

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

     "I see. By the way, that last letter of the Duke's--was it found in
     the boy's room after he was gone?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

     "When I learned that the police had failed--"

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

     "But surely, Mr. Wilder--"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

     "No, sir, I have not."

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

     The great Minister showed perceptible hesitation.

     "I do not think so," he said, at last.

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

     "No, sir."

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

     "No; I wrote upon the day before."

     "Exactly. But he received it on that day?"

     "Yes."

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

     "No, sir, certainly not."

     "Did you post that letter yourself?"

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

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

     "You are sure this one was among them?"

     "Yes; I observed it."

     "How many letters did your Grace write that day?"

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

     "Not entirely," said Holmes.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

     [ Picture: Chart of the surrounding area ]

     "Exactly."

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

     "But the bicycle?" I objected.

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

     "But the bicycle?" I persisted.

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

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

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

     "Where was it found?"

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

     "How do they account for it?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

     "The boy's, then?"

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

     "Or towards it?"

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

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

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

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

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

     "I congratulate you."

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

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

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

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

     "A side-slip," I suggested.

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

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

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

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

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

     "I could take a note back."

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

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

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

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

     I assented.

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

     "Undoubtedly."

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

     "So it would seem."

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

     "The other bicycle."

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

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

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

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

     "In a morass, Watson?"

     "I am at my wit's end."

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

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

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

     "How are you, Mr. Reuben Hayes?" said Holmes.

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

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

     "No; I have not."

     "I can hardly put my foot to the ground."

     "Don't put it to the ground."

     "But I can't walk."

     "Well, then, hop."

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

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

     "Neither do I," said the morose landlord.

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

     The landlord pricked up his ears.

     "Where do you want to go?"

     "To Holdernesse Hall."

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

     Holmes laughed good-naturedly.

     "He'll be glad to see us, anyhow."

     "Why?"

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

     The landlord gave a very visible start.

     "What, you're on his track?"

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

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

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

     "Thank you," said Holmes. "We'll have some food first. Then you can
     bring round the bicycle."

     "I haven't got a bicycle."

     Holmes held up a sovereign.

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

     "Well, well," said Holmes, "we'll talk about it when we've had
     something to eat."

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

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

     "Yes, several."

     "Where?"

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

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

     "I don't remember seeing any."

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

     "Yes, it is strange."

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

     "Yes, I can."

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

     "No, I cannot."

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

     "And what is your conclusion?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

     "It looks like a flight."

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

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

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

     "The bar is on the other side."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

     "But he is in his room."

     "Then I must go to his room."

     "I believe he is in his bed."

     "I will see him there."

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

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

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

     "Well, Mr. Holmes?" said he.

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

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

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

     "If your Grace wishes--"

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

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

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

     "Certainly, Mr. Holmes."

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

     "Exactly."

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

     "Exactly."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

     "What do you mean, then?"

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

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

     "Where is he?" he gasped. 

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

     The Duke fell back in his chair.

     "And whom do you accuse?"

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

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

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

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

     "I saw you together last night."

     "Does anyone else besides your friend know?"

     "I have spoken to no one."

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

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

     "I hardly understand your Grace."

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

     But Holmes smiled and shook his head.

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

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

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

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

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

     "No; the murderer has escaped."

     Sherlock Holmes smiled demurely.

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

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

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

     "Your secretary?"

     "No, sir; my son."

     It was Holmes's turn to look astonished.

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

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

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

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

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

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

     The Duke bowed his assent.

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

     "Under solemn promises--"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

     "And the first?"

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






                          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 recognised him at once as
     Stanley Hopkins, a young police inspector for whose future Holmes had
     high hopes, while he in turn professed the admiration and respect of
     a pupil for the scientific methods of the famous amateur. Hopkins's
     brow was clouded, and he sat down with an air of deep dejection.

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

     "And what had you to report?"

     "Failure, sir; absolute failure."

     "You have made no progress?"

     "None."

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

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

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

     Hopkins looked surprised.

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

     "But he had no pipe."

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

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

     Stanley Hopkins drew a slip of paper from his pocket.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

     "Meaning that you saw none?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

     "What part of the table?"

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

     "Excellent! What more?"

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

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

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

     "Try Canadian Pacific Railway," said Holmes.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

     "Was the blood-stain above or below?"

     "On the side next the boards."

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

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

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

     "No, sir."

     "Have you any reason to suspect robbery?"

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

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

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

     Holmes was lost in thought for some time.

     "Well," said he, at last, "I suppose I shall have to come out and
     have a look at it."

     Stanley Hopkins gave a cry of joy.

     "Thank you, sir. That will indeed be a weight off my mind."

     Holmes shook his finger at the inspector.

     "It would have been an easier task a week ago," said he. "But even
     now my visit may not be entirely fruitless. Watson, if you can spare
     the time I should be very glad of your company. If you will call a
     four-wheeler, Hopkins, we shall be ready to start for Forest Row in a
     quarter of an hour."

     Alighting at the small wayside station, we drove for some miles
     through the remains of widespread woods, which were once part of that
     great forest which for so long held the Saxon invaders at bay--the
     impenetrable "weald," for sixty years the bulwark of Britain. Vast
     sections of it have been cleared, for this is the seat of the first
     iron-works of the country, and the trees have been felled to smelt
     the ore. Now the richer fields of the North have absorbed the trade,
     and nothing save these ravaged groves and great scars in the earth
     show the work of the past. Here in a clearing upon the green slope of
     a hill stood a long, low stone house, approached by a curving drive
     running through the fields. Nearer the road, and surrounded on three
     sides by bushes, was a small outhouse, one window and the door facing
     in our direction. It was the scene of the murder.

     Stanley Hopkins led us first to the house, where he introduced us to
     a haggard, grey-haired woman, the widow of the murdered man, whose
     gaunt and deep-lined face, with the furtive look of terror in the
     depths of her red-rimmed eyes, told of the years of hardship and
     ill-usage which she had endured. With her was her daughter, a pale,
     fair-haired girl, whose eyes blazed defiantly at us as she told us
     that she was glad that her father was dead, and that she blessed the
     hand which had struck him down. It was a terrible household that
     Black Peter Carey had made for himself, and it was with a sense of
     relief that we found ourselves in the sunlight again and making our
     way along a path which had been worn across the fields by the feet of
     the dead man.

     The outhouse was the simplest of dwellings, wooden-walled,
     shingle-roofed, one window beside the door and one on the farther
     side. Stanley Hopkins drew the key from his pocket, and had stooped
     to the lock, when he paused with a look of attention and surprise
     upon his face.

     "Someone has been tampering with it," he said.

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

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

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

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

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

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

     "You mean that the person will come again?"

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

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

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

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

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

     "No; I have moved nothing."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

     The man pulled himself together and faced us with an effort at
     self-composure.

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

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

     "It is John Hopley Neligan."

     I saw Holmes and Hopkins exchange a quick glance.

     "What are you doing here?"

     "Can I speak confidentially?"

     "No, certainly not."

     "Why should I tell you?"

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

     The young man winced.

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

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

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

     "Exactly. Neligan was my father."

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

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

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

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

     "Is that all?" asked Hopkins.

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

     "You have nothing else to tell us?"

     He hesitated.

     "No; there is nothing."

     "You have not been here before last night?"

     "No."

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

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

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

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

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

     "I can see that you are not satisfied."

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

     "What, then, is the alternative?"

     "The line of investigation which I have myself been pursuing. It may
     give us nothing. I cannot tell. But at least I shall follow it to the
     end."

     Several letters were waiting for Holmes at Baker Street. He snatched
     one of them up, opened it, and burst out into a triumphant chuckle of
     laughter.

     "Excellent, Watson. The alternative develops. Have you telegraph
     forms? Just write a couple of messages for me: 'Sumner, Shipping
     Agent, Ratcliff Highway. Send three men on, to arrive ten to-morrow
     morning.--Basil.' That's my name in those parts. The other is:
     'Inspector Stanley Hopkins, 46, Lord Street, Brixton. Come breakfast
     to-morrow at nine-thirty. Important. Wire if unable to
     come.--Sherlock Holmes.' There, Watson, this infernal case has
     haunted me for ten days. I hereby banish it completely from my
     presence. To-morrow I trust that we shall hear the last of it for
     ever."

     Sharp at the hour named Inspector Stanley Hopkins appeared, and we
     sat down together to the excellent breakfast which Mrs. Hudson had
     prepared. The young detective was in high spirits at his success.

     "You really think that your solution must be correct?" asked Holmes.

     "I could not imagine a more complete case."

     "It did not seem to me conclusive."

     "You astonish me, Mr. Holmes. What more could one ask for?"

     "Does your explanation cover every point?"

     "Undoubtedly. I find that young Neligan arrived at the Brambletye
     Hotel on the very day of the crime. He came on the pretence of
     playing golf. His room was on the ground-floor, and he could get out
     when he liked. That very night he went down to Woodman's Lee, saw
     Peter Carey at the hut, quarrelled with him, and killed him with the
     harpoon. Then, horrified by what he had done, he fled out of the hut,
     dropping the note-book which he had brought with him in order to
     question Peter Carey about these different securities. You may have
     observed that some of them were marked with ticks, and the
     others--the great majority--were not. Those which are ticked have
     been traced on the London market; but the others presumably were
     still in the possession of Carey, and young Neligan, according to his
     own account, was anxious to recover them in order to do the right
     thing by his father's creditors. After his flight he did not dare to
     approach the hut again for some time; but at last he forced himself
     to do so in order to obtain the information which he needed. Surely
     that is all simple and obvious?"

     Holmes smiled and shook his head.

     "It seems to me to have only one drawback, Hopkins, and that is that
     it is intrinsically impossible. Have you tried to drive a harpoon
     through a body? No? Tut, tut, my dear sir, you must really pay
     attention to these details. My friend Watson could tell you that I
     spent a whole morning in that exercise. It is no easy matter, and
     requires a strong and practised arm. But this blow was delivered with
     such violence that the head of the weapon sank deep into the wall. Do
     you imagine that this anaemic youth was capable of so frightful an
     assault? Is he the man who hobnobbed in rum and water with Black
     Peter in the dead of the night? Was it his profile that was seen on
     the blind two nights before? No, no, Hopkins; it is another and a
     more formidable person for whom we must seek."

     The detective's face had grown longer and longer during Holmes's
     speech. His hopes and his ambitions were all crumbling about him. But
     he would not abandon his position without a struggle.

     "You can't deny that Neligan was present that night, Mr. Holmes. The
     book will prove that. I fancy that I have evidence enough to satisfy
     a jury, even if you are able to pick a hole in it. Besides, Mr.
     Holmes, I have laid my hand upon my man. As to this terrible person
     of yours, where is he?"

     "I rather fancy that he is on the stair," said Holmes, serenely. "I
     think, Watson, that you would do well to put that revolver where you
     can reach it." He rose, and laid a written paper upon a side-table.
     "Now we are ready," said he.

     There had been some talking in gruff voices outside, and now Mrs.
     Hudson opened the door to say that there were three men inquiring for
     Captain Basil.

     "Show them in one by one," said Holmes.

     The first who entered was a little ribston-pippin of a man, with
     ruddy cheeks and fluffy white side-whiskers. Holmes had drawn a
     letter from his pocket.

     "What name?" he asked.

     "James Lancaster."

     "I am sorry, Lancaster, but the berth is full. Here is half a
     sovereign for your trouble. Just step into this room and wait there
     for a few minutes."

     The second man was a long, dried-up creature, with lank hair and
     sallow cheeks. His name was Hugh Pattins. He also received his
     dismissal, his half-sovereign, and the order to wait.

     The third applicant was a man of remarkable appearance. A fierce
     bull-dog face was framed in a tangle of hair and beard, and two bold
     dark eyes gleamed behind the cover of thick, tufted, overhung
     eyebrows. He saluted and stood sailor-fashion, turning his cap round
     in his hands.

     "Your name?" asked Holmes.

     "Patrick Cairns."

     "Harpooner?"

     "Yes, sir. Twenty-six voyages."

     "Dundee, I suppose?"

     "Yes, sir."

     "And ready to start with an exploring ship?"

     "Yes, sir."

     "What wages?"

     "Eight pounds a month."

     "Could you start at once?"

     "As soon as I get my kit."

     "Have you your papers?"

     "Yes, sir." He took a sheaf of worn and greasy forms from his pocket.
     Holmes glanced over them and returned them.

     "You are just the man I want," said he. "Here's the agreement on the
     side-table. If you sign it the whole matter will be settled."

     The seaman lurched across the room and took up the pen.

     "Shall I sign here?" he asked, stooping over the table.

     Holmes leaned over his shoulder and passed both hands over his neck.

     "This will do," said he.

     I heard a click of steel and a bellow like an enraged bull. The next
     instant Holmes and the seaman were rolling on the ground together. He
     was a man of such gigantic strength that, even with the handcuffs
     which Holmes had so deftly fastened upon his wrists, he would have
     very quickly overpowered my friend had Hopkins and I not rushed to
     his rescue. Only when I pressed the cold muzzle of the revolver to
     his temple did he at last understand that resistance was vain. We
     lashed his ankles with cord and rose breathless from the struggle.

     "I must really apologize, Hopkins," said Sherlock Holmes; "I fear
     that the scrambled eggs are cold. However, you will enjoy the rest of
     your breakfast all the better, will you not, for the thought that you
     have brought your case to a triumphant conclusion."

     Stanley Hopkins was speechless with amazement.

     "I don't know what to say, Mr. Holmes," he blurted out at last, with
     a very red face. "It seems to me that I have been making a fool of
     myself from the beginning. I understand now, what I should never have
     forgotten, that I am the pupil and you are the master. Even now I see
     what you have done, but I don't know how you did it, or what it
     signifies."

     "Well, well," said Holmes, good-humouredly. "We all learn by
     experience, and your lesson this time is that you should never lose
     sight of the alternative. You were so absorbed in young Neligan that
     you could not spare a thought to Patrick Cairns, the true murderer of
     Peter Carey."

     The hoarse voice of the seaman broke in on our conversation.

     "See here, mister," said he, "I make no complaint of being
     man-handled in this fashion, but I would have you call things by
     their right names. You say I murdered Peter Carey; I say I killed
     Peter Carey, and there's all the difference. Maybe you don't believe
     what I say. Maybe you think I am just slinging you a yarn."

     "Not at all," said Holmes. "Let us hear what you have to say."

     "It's soon told, and, by the Lord, every word of it is truth. I knew
     Black Peter, and when he pulled out his knife I whipped a harpoon
     through him sharp, for I knew that it was him or me. That's how he
     died. You can call it murder. Anyhow, I'd as soon die with a rope
     round my neck as with Black Peter's knife in my heart."

     "How came you there?" asked Holmes.

     "I'll tell it you from the beginning. Just sit me up a little so as I
     can speak easy. It was in '83 that it happened--August of that year.
     Peter Carey was master of the Sea Unicorn, and I was spare harpooner.
     We were coming out of the ice-pack on our way home, with head winds
     and a week's southerly gale, when we picked up a little craft that
     had been blown north. There was one man on her--a landsman. The crew
     had thought she would founder, and had made for the Norwegian coast
     in the dinghy. I guess they were all drowned. Well, we took him on
     board, this man, and he and the skipper had some long talks in the
     cabin. All the baggage we took off with him was one tin box. So far
     as I know, the man's name was never mentioned, and on the second
     night he disappeared as if he had never been. It was given out that
     he had either thrown himself overboard or fallen overboard in the
     heavy weather that we were having. Only one man knew what had
     happened to him, and that was me, for with my own eyes I saw the
     skipper tip up his heels and put him over the rail in the middle
     watch of a dark night, two days before we sighted the Shetland
     lights.

     "Well, I kept my knowledge to myself and waited to see what would
     come of it. When we got back to Scotland it was easily hushed up, and
     nobody asked any questions. A stranger died by an accident, and it
     was nobody's business to inquire. Shortly after Peter Carey gave up
     the sea, and it was long years before I could find where he was. I
     guessed that he had done the deed for the sake of what was in that
     tin box, and that he could afford now to pay me well for keeping my
     mouth shut.

     "I found out where he was through a sailor man that had met him in
     London, and down I went to squeeze him. The first night he was
     reasonable enough, and was ready to give me what would make me free
     of the sea for life. We were to fix it all two nights later. When I
     came I found him three parts drunk and in a vile temper. We sat down
     and we drank and we yarned about old times, but the more he drank the
     less I liked the look on his face. I spotted that harpoon upon the
     wall, and I thought I might need it before I was through. Then at
     last he broke out at me, spitting and cursing, with murder in his
     eyes and a great clasp-knife in his hand. He had not time to get it
     from the sheath before I had the harpoon through him. Heavens! what a
     yell he gave; and his face gets between me and my sleep! I stood
     there, with his blood splashing round me, and I waited for a bit; but
     all was quiet, so I took heart once more. I looked round, and there
     was the tin box on a shelf. I had as much right to it as Peter Carey,
     anyhow, so I took it with me and left the hut. Like a fool I left my
     baccy-pouch upon the table.

     "Now I'll tell you the queerest part of the whole story. I had hardly
     got outside the hut when I heard someone coming, and I hid among the
     bushes. A man came slinking along, went into the hut, gave a cry as
     if he had seen a ghost, and legged it as hard as he could run until
     he was out of sight. Who he was or what he wanted is more than I can
     tell. For my part I walked ten miles, got a train at Tunbridge Wells,
     and so reached London, and no one the wiser.

     "Well, when I came to examine the box I found there was no money in
     it, and nothing but papers that I would not dare to sell. I had lost
     my hold on Black Peter, and was stranded in London without a
     shilling. There was only my trade left. I saw these advertisements
     about harpooners and high wages, so I went to the shipping agents,
     and they sent me here. That's all I know, and I say again that if I
     killed Black Peter the law should give me thanks, for I saved them
     the price of a hempen rope."

     "A very clear statement," said Holmes, rising and lighting his pipe.
     "I think, Hopkins, that you should lose no time in conveying your
     prisoner to a place of safety. This room is not well adapted for a
     cell, and Mr. Patrick Cairns occupies too large a proportion of our
     carpet."

     "Mr. Holmes," said Hopkins, "I do not know how to express my
     gratitude. Even now I do not understand how you attained this
     result."

     "Simply by having the good fortune to get the right clue from the
     beginning. It is very possible if I had known about this note-book it
     might have led away my thoughts, as it did yours. But all I heard
     pointed in the one direction. The amazing strength, the skill in the
     use of the harpoon, the rum and water, the seal-skin tobacco-pouch,
     with the coarse tobacco--all these pointed to a seaman, and one who
     had been a whaler. I was convinced that the initials 'P.C.' upon the
     pouch were a coincidence, and not those of Peter Carey, since he
     seldom smoked, and no pipe was found in his cabin. You remember that
     I asked whether whisky and brandy were in the cabin. You said they
     were. How many landsmen are there who would drink rum when they could
     get these other spirits? Yes, I was certain it was a seaman."

     "And how did you find him?"

     "My dear sir, the problem had become a very simple one. If it were a
     seaman, it could only be a seaman who had been with him on the Sea
     Unicorn. So far as I could learn he had sailed in no other ship. I
     spent three days in wiring to Dundee, and at the end of that time I
     had ascertained the names of the crew of the Sea Unicorn in 1883.
     When I found Patrick Cairns among the harpooners my research was
     nearing its end. I argued that the man was probably in London, and
     that he would desire to leave the country for a time. I therefore
     spent some days in the East-end, devised an Arctic expedition, put
     forth tempting terms for harpooners who would serve under Captain
     Basil--and behold the result!"

     "Wonderful!" cried Hopkins. "Wonderful!"

     "You must obtain the release of young Neligan as soon as possible,"
     said Holmes. "I confess that I think you owe him some apology. The
     tin box must be returned to him, but, of course, the securities which
     Peter Carey has sold are lost for ever. There's the cab, Hopkins, and
     you can remove your man. If you want me for the trial, my address and
     that of Watson will be somewhere in Norway--I'll send particulars
     later."






                   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 or position. He receives these
     wares not only from treacherous valets or maids, but frequently from
     genteel ruffians who have gained the confidence and affection of
     trusting women. He deals with no niggard hand. I happen to know that
     he paid seven hundred pounds to a footman for a note two lines in
     length, and that the ruin of a noble family was the result.
     Everything which is in the market goes to Milverton, and there are
     hundreds in this great city who turn white at his name. No one knows
     where his grip may fall, for he is far too rich and far too cunning
     to work from hand to mouth. He will hold a card back for years in
     order to play it at the moment when the stake is best worth winning.
     I have said that he is the worst man in London, and I would ask you
     how could one compare the ruffian who in hot blood bludgeons his mate
     with this man, who methodically and at his leisure tortures the soul
     and wrings the nerves in order to add to his already swollen
     money-bags?"

     I had seldom heard my friend speak with such intensity of feeling.

     "But surely," said I, "the fellow must be within the grasp of the
     law?"

     "Technically, no doubt, but practically not. What would it profit a
     woman, for example, to get him a few months' imprisonment if her own
     ruin must immediately follow? His victims dare not hit back. If ever
     he blackmailed an innocent person, then, indeed, we should have him;
     but he is as cunning as the Evil One. No, no; we must find other ways
     to fight him."

     "And why is he here?"

     "Because an illustrious client has placed her piteous case in my
     hands. It is the Lady Eva Brackwell, the most beautiful debutante of
     last season. She is to be married in a fortnight to the Earl of
     Dovercourt. This fiend has several imprudent letters--imprudent,
     Watson, nothing worse--which were written to an impecunious young
     squire in the country. They would suffice to break off the match.
     Milverton will send the letters to the Earl unless a large sum of
     money is paid him. I have been commissioned to meet him, and--to make
     the best terms I can."

     At that instant there was a clatter and a rattle in the street below.
     Looking down I saw a stately carriage and pair, the brilliant lamps
     gleaming on the glossy haunches of the noble chestnuts. A footman
     opened the door, and a small, stout man in a shaggy astrachan
     overcoat descended. A minute later he was in the room.

     Charles Augustus Milverton was a man of fifty, with a large,
     intellectual head, a round, plump, hairless face, a perpetual frozen
     smile, and two keen grey eyes, which gleamed brightly from behind
     broad, golden-rimmed glasses. There was something of Mr. Pickwick's
     benevolence in his appearance, marred only by the insincerity of the
     fixed smile and by the hard glitter of those restless and penetrating
     eyes. His voice was as smooth and suave as his countenance, as he
     advanced with a plump little hand extended, murmuring his regret for
     having missed us at his first visit. Holmes disregarded the
     outstretched hand and looked at him with a face of granite.
     Milverton's smile broadened; he shrugged his shoulders, removed his
     overcoat, folded it with great deliberation over the back of a chair,
     and then took a seat.

     "This gentleman?" said he, with a wave in my direction. "Is it
     discreet? Is it right?"

     "Dr. Watson is my friend and partner."

     "Very good, Mr. Holmes. It is only in your client's interests that I
     protested. The matter is so very delicate--"

     "Dr. Watson has already heard of it."

     "Then we can proceed to business. You say that you are acting for
     Lady Eva. Has she empowered you to accept my terms?"

     "What are your terms?"

     "Seven thousand pounds."

     "And the alternative?"

     "My dear sir, it is painful for me to discuss it; but if the money is
     not paid on the 14th there certainly will be no marriage on the
     18th." His insufferable smile was more complacent than ever.

     Holmes thought for a little.

     "You appear to me," he said, at last, "to be taking matters too much
     for granted. I am, of course, familiar with the contents of these
     letters. My client will certainly do what I may advise. I shall
     counsel her to tell her future husband the whole story and to trust
     to his generosity."

     Milverton chuckled.

     "You evidently do not know the Earl," said he.

     From the baffled look upon Holmes's face I could see clearly that he
     did.

     "What harm is there in the letters?" he asked.

     "They are sprightly--very sprightly," Milverton answered. "The lady
     was a charming correspondent. But I can assure you that the Earl of
     Dovercourt would fail to appreciate them. However, since you think
     otherwise, we will let it rest at that. It is purely a matter of
     business. If you think that it is in the best interests of your
     client that these letters should be placed in the hands of the Earl,
     then you would indeed be foolish to pay so large a sum of money to
     regain them." He rose and seized his astrachan coat.

     Holmes was grey with anger and mortification.

     "Wait a little," he said. "You go too fast. We would certainly make
     every effort to avoid scandal in so delicate a matter."

     Milverton relapsed into his chair.

     "I was sure that you would see it in that light," he purred.

     "At the same time," Holmes continued, "Lady Eva is not a wealthy
     woman. I assure you that two thousand pounds would be a drain upon
     her resources, and that the sum you name is utterly beyond her power.
     I beg, therefore, that you will moderate your demands, and that you
     will return the letters at the price I indicate, which is, I assure
     you, the highest that you can get."

     Milverton's smile broadened and his eyes twinkled humorously.

     "I am aware that what you say is true about the lady's resources,"
     said he. "At the same time, you must admit that the occasion of a
     lady's marriage is a very suitable time for her friends and relatives
     to make some little effort upon her behalf. They may hesitate as to
     an acceptable wedding present. Let me assure them that this little
     bundle of letters would give more joy than all the candelabra and
     butter-dishes in London."

     "It is impossible," said Holmes.

     "Dear me, dear me, how unfortunate!" cried Milverton, taking out a
     bulky pocket-book. "I cannot help thinking that ladies are
     ill-advised in not making an effort. Look at this!" He held up a
     little note with a coat-of-arms upon the envelope. "That belongs
     to--well, perhaps it is hardly fair to tell the name until to-morrow
     morning. But at that time it will be in the hands of the lady's
     husband. And all because she will not find a beggarly sum which she
     could get by turning her diamonds into paste. It is such a pity. Now,
     you remember the sudden end of the engagement between the Honourable
     Miss Miles and Colonel Dorking? Only two days before the wedding
     there was a paragraph in the Morning Post to say that it was all off.
     And why? It is almost incredible, but the absurd sum of twelve
     hundred pounds would have settled the whole question. Is it not
     pitiful? And here I find you, a man of sense, boggling about terms
     when your client's future and honour are at stake. You surprise me,
     Mr. Holmes."

     "What I say is true," Holmes answered. "The money cannot be found.
     Surely it is better for you to take the substantial sum which I offer
     than to ruin this woman's career, which can profit you in no way?"

     "There you make a mistake, Mr. Holmes. An exposure would profit me
     indirectly to a considerable extent. I have eight or ten similar
     cases maturing. If it was circulated among them that I had made a
     severe example of the Lady Eva I should find all of them much more
     open to reason. You see my point?"

     Holmes sprang from his chair.

     "Get behind him, Watson! Don't let him out! Now, sir, let us see the
     contents of that note-book."

     Milverton had glided as quick as a rat to the side of the room, and
     stood with his back against the wall.

     "Mr. Holmes, Mr. Holmes," he said, turning the front of his coat and
     exhibiting the butt of a large revolver, which projected from the
     inside pocket. "I have been expecting you to do something original.
     This has been done so often, and what good has ever come from it? I
     assure you that I am armed to the teeth, and I am perfectly prepared
     to use my weapons, knowing that the law will support me. Besides,
     your supposition that I would bring the letters here in a note-book
     is entirely mistaken. I would do nothing so foolish. And now,
     gentlemen, I have one or two little interviews this evening, and it
     is a long drive to Hampstead." He stepped forward, took up his coat,
     laid his hand on his revolver, and turned to the door. I picked up a
     chair, but Holmes shook his head and I laid it down again. With bow,
     a smile, and a twinkle Milverton was out of the room, and a few
     moments after we heard the slam of the carriage door and the rattle
     of the wheels as he drove away.

     Holmes sat motionless by the fire, his hands buried deep in his
     trouser pockets, his chin sunk upon his breast, his eyes fixed upon
     the glowing embers. For half an hour he was silent and still. Then,
     with the gesture of a man who has taken his decision, he sprang to
     his feet and passed into his bedroom. A little later a rakish young
     workman with a goatee beard and a swagger lit his clay pipe at the
     lamp before descending into the street. "I'll be back some time,
     Watson," said he, and vanished into the night. I understood that he
     had opened his campaign against Charles Augustus Milverton; but I
     little dreamed the strange shape which that campaign was destined to
     take.

     For some days Holmes came and went at all hours in this attire, but
     beyond a remark that his time was spent at Hampstead, and that it was
     not wasted, I knew nothing of what he was doing. At last, however, on
     a wild, tempestuous evening, when the wind screamed and rattled
     against the windows, he returned from his last expedition, and having
     removed his disguise he sat before the fire and laughed heartily in
     his silent inward fashion.

     "You would not call me a marrying man, Watson?"

     "No, indeed!"

     "You'll be interested to hear that I am engaged."

     "My dear fellow! I congrat--"

     "To Milverton's housemaid."

     "Good heavens, Holmes!"

     "I wanted information, Watson."

     "Surely you have gone too far?"

     "It was a most necessary step. I am a plumber with a rising business,
     Escott by name. I have walked out with her each evening, and I have
     talked with her. Good heavens, those talks! However, I have got all I
     wanted. I know Milverton's house as I know the palm of my hand."

     "But the girl, Holmes?"

     He shrugged his shoulders.

     "You can't help it, my dear Watson. You must play your cards as best
     you can when such a stake is on the table. However, I rejoice to say
     that I have a hated rival who will certainly cut me out the instant
     that my back is turned. What a splendid night it is!"

     "You like this weather?"

     "It suits my purpose. Watson, I mean to burgle Milverton's house
     to-night."

     I had a catching of the breath, and my skin went cold at the words,
     which were slowly uttered in a tone of concentrated resolution. As a
     flash of lightning in the night shows up in an instant every detail
     of a wide landscape, so at one glance I seemed to see every possible
     result of such an action--the detection, the capture, the honoured
     career ending in irreparable failure and disgrace, my friend himself
     lying at the mercy of the odious Milverton.

     "For Heaven's sake, Holmes, think what you are doing," I cried.

     "My dear fellow, I have given it every consideration. I am never
     precipitate in my actions, nor would I adopt so energetic and indeed
     so dangerous a course if any other were possible. Let us look at the
     matter clearly and fairly. I suppose that you will admit that the
     action is morally justifiable, though technically criminal. To burgle
     his house is no more than to forcibly take his pocket-book--an action
     in which you were prepared to aid me."

     I turned it over in my mind.

     "Yes," I said; "it is morally justifiable so long as our object is to
     take no articles save those which are used for an illegal purpose."

     "Exactly. Since it is morally justifiable I have only to consider the
     question of personal risk. Surely a gentleman should not lay much
     stress upon this when a lady is in most desperate need of his help?"

     "You will be in such a false position."

     "Well, that is part of the risk. There is no other possible way of
     regaining these letters. The unfortunate lady has not the money, and
     there are none of her people in whom she could confide. To-morrow is
     the last day of grace, and unless we can get the letters to-night
     this villain will be as good as his word and will bring about her
     ruin. I must, therefore, abandon my client to her fate or I must play
     this last card. Between ourselves, Watson, it's a sporting duel
     between this fellow Milverton and me. He had, as you saw, the best of
     the first exchanges; but my self-respect and my reputation are
     concerned to fight it to a finish."

     "Well, I don't like it; but I suppose it must be," said I. "When do
     we start?"

     "You are not coming."

     "Then you are not going," said I. "I give you my word of honour--and
     I never broke it in my life--that I will take a cab straight to the
     police-station and give you away unless you let me share this
     adventure with you."

     "You can't help me."

     "How do you know that? You can't tell what may happen. Anyway, my
     resolution is taken. Other people beside you have self-respect and
     even reputations."

     Holmes had looked annoyed, but his brow cleared, and he clapped me on
     the shoulder.

     "Well, well, my dear fellow, be it so. We have shared the same room
     for some years, and it would be amusing if we ended by sharing the
     same cell. You know, Watson, I don't mind confessing to you that I
     have always had an idea that I would have made a highly efficient
     criminal. This is the chance of my lifetime in that direction. See
     here!" He took a neat little leather case out of a drawer, and
     opening it he exhibited a number of shining instruments. "This is a
     first-class, up-to-date burgling kit, with nickel-plated jemmy,
     diamond-tipped glass-cutter, adaptable keys, and every modern
     improvement which the march of civilization demands. Here, too, is my
     dark lantern. Everything is in order. Have you a pair of silent
     shoes?"

     "I have rubber-soled tennis shoes."

     "Excellent. And a mask?"

     "I can make a couple out of black silk."

     "I can see that you have a strong natural turn for this sort of
     thing. Very good; do you make the masks. We shall have some cold
     supper before we start. It is now nine-thirty. At eleven we shall
     drive as far as Church Row. It is a quarter of an hour's walk from
     there to Appledore Towers. We shall be at work before midnight.
     Milverton is a heavy sleeper and retires punctually at ten-thirty.
     With any luck we should be back here by two, with the Lady Eva's
     letters in my pocket."

     Holmes and I put on our dress-clothes, so that we might appear to be
     two theatre-goers homeward bound. In Oxford Street we picked up a
     hansom and drove to an address in Hampstead. Here we paid off our
     cab, and with our great-coats buttoned up, for it was bitterly cold
     and the wind seemed to blow through us, we walked along the edge of
     the Heath.

     "It's a business that needs delicate treatment," said Holmes. "These
     documents are contained in a safe in the fellow's study, and the
     study is the ante-room of his bed-chamber. On the other hand, like
     all these stout, little men who do themselves well, he is a plethoric
     sleeper. Agatha--that's my fiancee--says it is a joke in the
     servants' hall that it's impossible to wake the master. He has a
     secretary who is devoted to his interests and never budges from the
     study all day. That's why we are going at night. Then he has a beast
     of a dog which roams the garden. I met Agatha late the last two
     evenings, and she locks the brute up so as to give me a clear run.
     This is the house, this big one in its own grounds. Through the
     gate--now to the right among the laurels. We might put on our masks
     here, I think. You see, there is not a glimmer of light in any of the
     windows, and everything is working splendidly."

     With our black silk face-coverings, which turned us into two of the
     most truculent figures in London, we stole up to the silent, gloomy
     house. A sort of tiled veranda extended along one side of it, lined
     by several windows and two doors.

     "That's his bedroom," Holmes whispered. "This door opens straight
     into the study. It would suit us best, but it is bolted as well as
     locked, and we should make too much noise getting in. Come round
     here. There's a greenhouse which opens into the drawing-room."

     The place was locked, but Holmes removed a circle of glass and turned
     the key from the inside. An instant afterwards he had closed the door
     behind us, and we had become felons in the eyes of the law. The
     thick, warm air of the conservatory and the rich, choking fragrance
     of exotic plants took us by the throat. He seized my hand in the
     darkness and led me swiftly past banks of shrubs which brushed
     against our faces. Holmes had remarkable powers, carefully
     cultivated, of seeing in the dark. Still holding my hand in one of
     his he opened a door, and I was vaguely conscious that we had entered
     a large room in which a cigar had been smoked not long before. He
     felt his way among the furniture, opened another door, and closed it
     behind us. Putting out my hand I felt several coats hanging from the
     wall, and I understood that I was in a passage. We passed along it,
     and Holmes very gently opened a door upon the right-hand side.
     Something rushed out at us and my heart sprang into my mouth, but I
     could have laughed when I realized that it was the cat. A fire was
     burning in this new room, and again the air was heavy with tobacco
     smoke. Holmes entered on tiptoe, waited for me to follow, and then
     very gently closed the door. We were in Milverton's study, and a
     portiere at the farther side showed the entrance to his bedroom.

     It was a good fire, and the room was illuminated by it. Near the door
     I saw the gleam of an electric switch, but it was unnecessary, even
     if it had been safe, to turn it on. At one side of the fireplace was
     a heavy curtain, which covered the bay window we had seen from
     outside. On the other side was the door which communicated with the
     veranda. A desk stood in the centre, with a turning chair of shining
     red leather. Opposite was a large bookcase, with a marble bust of
     Athene on the top. In the corner between the bookcase and the wall
     there stood a tall green safe, the firelight flashing back from the
     polished brass knobs upon its face. Holmes stole across and looked at
     it. Then he crept to the door of the bedroom, and stood with slanting
     head listening intently. No sound came from within. Meanwhile it had
     struck me that it would be wise to secure our retreat through the
     outer door, so I examined it. To my amazement it was neither locked
     nor bolted! I touched Holmes on the arm, and he turned his masked
     face in that direction. I saw him start, and he was evidently as
     surprised as I.

     "I don't like it," he whispered, putting his lips to my very ear. "I
     can't quite make it out. Anyhow, we have no time to lose."

     "Can I do anything?"

     "Yes; stand by the door. If you hear anyone come, bolt it on the
     inside, and we can get away as we came. If they come the other way,
     we can get through the door if our job is done, or hide behind these
     window curtains if it is not. Do you understand?"

     I nodded and stood by the door. My first feeling of fear had passed
     away, and I thrilled now with a keener zest than I had ever enjoyed
     when we were the defenders of the law instead of its defiers. The
     high object of our mission, the consciousness that it was unselfish
     and chivalrous, the villainous character of our opponent, all added
     to the sporting interest of the adventure. Far from feeling guilty, I
     rejoiced and exulted in our dangers. With a glow of admiration I
     watched Holmes unrolling his case of instruments and choosing his
     tool with the calm, scientific accuracy of a surgeon who performs a
     delicate operation. I knew that the opening of safes was a particular
     hobby with him, and I understood the joy which it gave him to be
     confronted with this green and gold monster, the dragon which held in
     its maw the reputations of many fair ladies. Turning up the cuffs of
     his dress-coat--he had placed his overcoat on a chair--Holmes laid
     out two drills, a jemmy, and several skeleton keys. I stood at the
     centre door with my eyes glancing at each of the others, ready for
     any emergency; though, indeed, my plans were somewhat vague as to
     what I should do if we were interrupted. For half an hour Holmes
     worked with concentrated energy, laying down one tool, picking up
     another, handling each with the strength and delicacy of the trained
     mechanic. Finally I heard a click, the broad green door swung open,
     and inside I had a glimpse of a number of paper packets, each tied,
     sealed, and inscribed. Holmes picked one out, but it was hard to read
     by the flickering fire, and he drew out his little dark lantern, for
     it was too dangerous, with Milverton in the next room, to switch on
     the electric light. Suddenly I saw him halt, listen intently, and
     then in an instant he had swung the door of the safe to, picked up
     his coat, stuffed his tools into the pockets, and darted behind the
     window curtain, motioning me to do the same.

     It was only when I had joined him there that I heard what had alarmed
     his quicker senses. There was a noise somewhere within the house. A
     door slammed in the distance. Then a confused, dull murmur broke
     itself into the measured thud of heavy footsteps rapidly approaching.
     They were in the passage outside the room. They paused at the door.
     The door opened. There was a sharp snick as the electric light was
     turned on. The door closed once more, and the pungent reek of a
     strong cigar was borne to our nostrils. Then the footsteps continued
     backwards and forwards, backwards and forwards, within a few yards of
     us. Finally, there was a creak from a chair, and the footsteps
     ceased. Then a key clicked in a lock and I heard the rustle of
     papers.

     So far I had not dared to look out, but now I gently parted the
     division of the curtains in front of me and peeped through. From the
     pressure of Holmes's shoulder against mine I knew that he was sharing
     my observations. Right in front of us, and almost within our reach,
     was the broad, rounded back of Milverton. It was evident that we had
     entirely miscalculated his movements, that he had never been to his
     bedroom, but that he had been sitting up in some smoking or billiard
     room in the farther wing of the house, the windows of which we had
     not seen. His broad, grizzled head, with its shining patch of
     baldness, was in the immediate foreground of our vision. He was
     leaning far back in the red leather chair, his legs outstretched, a
     long black cigar projecting at an angle from his mouth. He wore a
     semi-military smoking jacket, claret-coloured, with a black velvet
     collar. In his hand he held a long legal document, which he was
     reading in an indolent fashion, blowing rings of tobacco smoke from
     his lips as he did so. There was no promise of a speedy departure in
     his composed bearing and his comfortable attitude.

     I felt Holmes's hand steal into mine and give me a reassuring shake,
     as if to say that the situation was within his powers and that he was
     easy in his mind. I was not sure whether he had seen what was only
     too obvious from my position, that the door of the safe was
     imperfectly closed, and that Milverton might at any moment observe
     it. In my own mind I had determined that if I were sure, from the
     rigidity of his gaze, that it had caught his eye, I would at once
     spring out, throw my great-coat over his head, pinion him, and leave
     the rest to Holmes. But Milverton never looked up. He was languidly
     interested by the papers in his hand, and page after page was turned
     as he followed the argument of the lawyer. At least, I thought, when
     he has finished the document and the cigar he will go to his room;
     but before he had reached the end of either there came a remarkable
     development which turned our thoughts into quite another channel.

     Several times I had observed that Milverton looked at his watch, and
     once he had risen and sat down again, with a gesture of impatience.
     The idea, however, that he might have an appointment at so strange an
     hour never occurred to me until a faint sound reached my ears from
     the veranda outside. Milverton dropped his papers and sat rigid in
     his chair. The sound was repeated, and then there came a gentle tap
     at the door. Milverton rose and opened it.

     "Well," said he, curtly, "you are nearly half an hour late."

     So this was the explanation of the unlocked door and of the nocturnal
     vigil of Milverton. There was the gentle rustle of a woman's dress. I
     had closed the slit between the curtains as Milverton's face had
     turned in our direction, but now I ventured very carefully to open it
     once more. He had resumed his seat, the cigar still projecting at an
     insolent angle from the corner of his mouth. In front of him, in the
     full glare of the electric light, there stood a tall, slim, dark
     woman, a veil over her face, a mantle drawn round her chin. Her
     breath came quick and fast, and every inch of the lithe figure was
     quivering with strong emotion.

     "Well," said Milverton, "you've made me lose a good night's rest, my
     dear. I hope you'll prove worth it. You couldn't come any other
     time--eh?"

     The woman shook her head.

     "Well, if you couldn't you couldn't. If the Countess is a hard
     mistress you have your chance to get level with her now. Bless the
     girl, what are you shivering about? That's right! Pull yourself
     together! Now, let us get down to business." He took a note from the
     drawer of his desk. "You say that you have five letters which
     compromise the Countess d'Albert. You want to sell them. I want to
     buy them. So far so good. It only remains to fix a price. I should
     want to inspect the letters, of course. If they are really good
     specimens--Great heavens, is it you?"

     The woman without a word had raised her veil and dropped the mantle
     from her chin. It was a dark, handsome, clear-cut face which
     confronted Milverton, a face with a curved nose, strong, dark
     eyebrows shading hard, glittering eyes, and a straight, thin-lipped
     mouth set in a dangerous smile.

     "It is I," she said; "the woman whose life you have ruined."

     Milverton laughed, but fear vibrated in his voice. "You were so very
     obstinate," said he. "Why did you drive me to such extremities? I
     assure you I wouldn't hurt a fly of my own accord, but every man has
     his business, and what was I to do? I put the price well within your
     means. You would not pay."

     "So you sent the letters to my husband, and he--the noblest gentleman
     that ever lived, a man whose boots I was never worthy to lace--he
     broke his gallant heart and died. You remember that last night when I
     came through that door I begged and prayed you for mercy, and you
     laughed in my face as you are trying to laugh now, only your coward
     heart cannot keep your lips from twitching? Yes, you never thought to
     see me here again, but it was that night which taught me how I could
     meet you face to face, and alone. Well, Charles Milverton, what have
     you to say?"

     "Don't imagine that you can bully me," said he, rising to his feet.
     "I have only to raise my voice, and I could call my servants and have
     you arrested. But I will make allowance for your natural anger. Leave
     the room at once as you came, and I will say no more."

     The woman stood with her hand buried in her bosom, and the same
     deadly smile on her thin lips.

     "You will ruin no more lives as you ruined mine. You will wring no
     more hearts as you wrung mine. I will free the world of a poisonous
     thing. Take that, you hound, and that!--and that!--and that!"

     She had drawn a little, gleaming revolver, and emptied barrel after
     barrel into Milverton's body, the muzzle within two feet of his shirt
     front. He shrank away and then fell forward upon the table, coughing
     furiously and clawing among the papers. Then he staggered to his
     feet, received another shot, and rolled upon the floor. "You've done
     me," he cried, and lay still. The woman looked at him intently and
     ground her heel into his upturned face. She looked again, but there
     was no sound or movement. I heard a sharp rustle, the night air blew
     into the heated room, and the avenger was gone.

     No interference upon our part could have saved the man from his fate;
     but as the woman poured bullet after bullet into Milverton's
     shrinking body I was about to spring out, when I felt Holmes's cold,
     strong grasp upon my wrist. I understood the whole argument of that
     firm, restraining grip--that it was no affair of ours; that justice
     had overtaken a villain; that we had our own duties and our own
     objects which were not to be lost sight of. But hardly had the woman
     rushed from the room when Holmes, with swift, silent steps, was over
     at the other door. He turned the key in the lock. At the same instant
     we heard voices in the house and the sound of hurrying feet. The
     revolver shots had roused the household. With perfect coolness Holmes
     slipped across to the safe, filled his two arms with bundles of
     letters, and poured them all into the fire. Again and again he did
     it, until the safe was empty. Someone turned the handle and beat upon
     the outside of the door. Holmes looked swiftly round. The letter
     which had been the messenger of death for Milverton lay, all mottled
     with his blood, upon the table. Holmes tossed it in among the blazing
     papers. Then he drew the key from the outer door, passed through
     after me, and locked it on the outside. "This way, Watson," said he;
     "we can scale the garden wall in this direction."

     I could not have believed that an alarm could have spread so swiftly.
     Looking back, the huge house was one blaze of light. The front door
     was open, and figures were rushing down the drive. The whole garden
     was alive with people, and one fellow raised a view-halloa as we
     emerged from the veranda and followed hard at our heels. Holmes
     seemed to know the ground perfectly, and he threaded his way swiftly
     among a plantation of small trees, I close at his heels, and our
     foremost pursuer panting behind us. It was a six-foot wall which
     barred our path, but he sprang to the top and over. As I did the same
     I felt the hand of the man behind me grab at my ankle; but I kicked
     myself free and scrambled over a glass-strewn coping. I fell upon my
     face among some bushes; but Holmes had me on my feet in an instant,
     and together we dashed away across the huge expanse of Hampstead
     Heath. We had run two miles, I suppose, before Holmes at last halted
     and listened intently. All was absolute silence behind us. We had
     shaken off our pursuers and were safe.

     We had breakfasted and were smoking our morning pipe on the day after
     the remarkable experience which I have recorded when Mr. Lestrade, of
     Scotland Yard, very solemn and impressive, was ushered into our
     modest sitting-room.

     "Good morning, Mr. Holmes," said he; "good morning. May I ask if you
     are very busy just now?"

     "Not too busy to listen to you."

     "I thought that, perhaps, if you had nothing particular on hand, you
     might care to assist us in a most remarkable case which occurred only
     last night at Hampstead."

     "Dear me!" said Holmes. "What was that?"

     "A murder--a most dramatic and remarkable murder. I know how keen you
     are upon these things, and I would take it as a great favour if you
     would step down to Appledore Towers and give us the benefit of your
     advice. It is no ordinary crime. We have had our eyes upon this Mr.
     Milverton for some time, and, between ourselves, he was a bit of a
     villain. He is known to have held papers which he used for
     blackmailing purposes. These papers have all been burned by the
     murderers. No article of value was taken, as it is probable that the
     criminals were men of good position, whose sole object was to prevent
     social exposure."

     "Criminals!" said Holmes. "Plural!"

     "Yes, there were two of them. They were, as nearly as possible,
     captured red-handed. We have their foot-marks, we have their
     description; it's ten to one that we trace them. The first fellow was
     a bit too active, but the second was caught by the under-gardener and
     only got away after a struggle. He was a middle-sized, strongly-built
     man--square jaw, thick neck, moustache, a mask over his eyes."

     "That's rather vague," said Sherlock Holmes. "Why, it might be a
     description of Watson!"

     "It's true," said the inspector, with much amusement. "It might be a
     description of Watson."

     "Well, I am afraid I can't help you, Lestrade," said Holmes. "The
     fact is that I knew this fellow Milverton, that I considered him one
     of the most dangerous men in London, and that I think there are
     certain crimes which the law cannot touch, and which therefore, to
     some extent, justify private revenge. No, it's no use arguing. I have
     made up my mind. My sympathies are with the criminals rather than
     with the victim, and I will not handle this case."

     Holmes had not said one word to me about the tragedy which we had
     witnessed, but I observed all the morning that he was in his most
     thoughtful mood, and he gave me the impression, from his vacant eyes
     and his abstracted manner, of a man who is striving to recall
     something to his memory. We were in the middle of our lunch when he
     suddenly sprang to his feet. "By Jove, Watson; I've got it!" he
     cried. "Take your hat! Come with me!" He hurried at his top speed
     down Baker Street and along Oxford Street, until we had almost
     reached Regent Circus. Here on the left hand there stands a shop
     window filled with photographs of the celebrities and beauties of the
     day. Holmes's eyes fixed themselves upon one of them, and following
     his gaze I saw the picture of a regal and stately lady in Court
     dress, with a high diamond tiara upon her noble head. I looked at
     that delicately-curved nose, at the marked eyebrows, at the straight
     mouth, and the strong little chin beneath it. Then I caught my breath
     as I read the time-honoured title of the great nobleman and statesman
     whose wife she had been. My eyes met those of Holmes, and he put his
     finger to his lips as we turned away from the window.






                       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 head-quarters. In return for the news
     which Lestrade would bring, Holmes was always ready to listen with
     attention to the details of any case upon which the detective was
     engaged, and was able occasionally, without any active interference,
     to give some hint or suggestion drawn from his own vast knowledge and
     experience.

     On this particular evening Lestrade had spoken of the weather and the
     newspapers. Then he had fallen silent, puffing thoughtfully at his
     cigar. Holmes looked keenly at him.

     "Anything remarkable on hand?" he asked.

     "Oh, no, Mr. Holmes, nothing very particular."

     "Then tell me about it."

     Lestrade laughed.

     "Well, Mr. Holmes, there is no use denying that there is something on
     my mind. And yet it is such an absurd business that I hesitated to
     bother you about it. On the other hand, although it is trivial, it is
     undoubtedly queer, and I know that you have a taste for all that is
     out of the common. But in my opinion it comes more in Dr. Watson's
     line than ours."

     "Disease?" said I.

     "Madness, anyhow. And a queer madness too! You wouldn't think there
     was anyone living at this time of day who had such a hatred of
     Napoleon the First that he would break any image of him that he could
     see."

     Holmes sank back in his chair.

     "That's no business of mine," said he.

     "Exactly. That's what I said. But then, when the man commits burglary
     in order to break images which are not his own, that brings it away
     from the doctor and on to the policeman."

     Holmes sat up again.

     "Burglary! This is more interesting. Let me hear the details."

     Lestrade took out his official note-book and refreshed his memory
     from its pages.

     "The first case reported was four days ago," said he. "It was at the
     shop of Morse Hudson, who has a place for the sale of pictures and
     statues in the Kennington Road. The assistant had left the front shop
     for an instant when he heard a crash, and hurrying in he found a
     plaster bust of Napoleon, which stood with several other works of art
     upon the counter, lying shivered into fragments. He rushed out into
     the road, but, although several passers-by declared that they had
     noticed a man run out of the shop, he could neither see anyone nor
     could he find any means of identifying the rascal. It seemed to be
     one of those senseless acts of Hooliganism which occur from time to
     time, and it was reported to the constable on the beat as such. The
     plaster cast was not worth more than a few shillings, and the whole
     affair appeared to be too childish for any particular investigation.

     "The second case, however, was more serious and also more singular.
     It occurred only last night.

     "In Kennington Road, and within a few hundred yards of Morse Hudson's
     shop, there lives a well-known medical practitioner, named Dr.
     Barnicot, who has one of the largest practices upon the south side of
     the Thames. His residence and principal consulting-room is at
     Kennington Road, but he has a branch surgery and dispensary at Lower
     Brixton Road, two miles away. This Dr. Barnicot is an enthusiastic
     admirer of Napoleon, and his house is full of books, pictures, and
     relics of the French Emperor. Some little time ago he purchased from
     Morse Hudson two duplicate plaster casts of the famous head of
     Napoleon by the French sculptor, Devine. One of these he placed in
     his hall in the house at Kennington Road, and the other on the
     mantelpiece of the surgery at Lower Brixton. Well, when Dr. Barnicot
     came down this morning he was astonished to find that his house had
     been burgled during the night, but that nothing had been taken save
     the plaster head from the hall. It had been carried out and had been
     dashed savagely against the garden wall, under which its splintered
     fragments were discovered."

     Holmes rubbed his hands.

     "This is certainly very novel," said he.

     "I thought it would please you. But I have not got to the end yet.
     Dr. Barnicot was due at his surgery at twelve o'clock, and you can
     imagine his amazement when, on arriving there, he found that the
     window had been opened in the night, and that the broken pieces of
     his second bust were strewn all over the room. It had been smashed to
     atoms where it stood. In neither case were there any signs which
     could give us a clue as to the criminal or lunatic who had done the
     mischief. Now, Mr. Holmes, you have got the facts."

     "They are singular, not to say grotesque," said Holmes. "May I ask
     whether the two busts smashed in Dr. Barnicot's rooms were the exact
     duplicates of the one which was destroyed in Morse Hudson's shop?"

     "They were taken from the same mould."

     "Such a fact must tell against the theory that the man who breaks
     them is influenced by any general hatred of Napoleon. Considering how
     many hundreds of statues of the great Emperor must exist in London,
     it is too much to suppose such a coincidence as that a promiscuous
     iconoclast should chance to begin upon three specimens of the same
     bust."

     "Well, I thought as you do," said Lestrade. "On the other hand, this
     Morse Hudson is the purveyor of busts in that part of London, and
     these three were the only ones which had been in his shop for years.
     So, although, as you say, there are many hundreds of statues in
     London, it is very probable that these three were the only ones in
     that district. Therefore, a local fanatic would begin with them. What
     do you think, Dr. Watson?"

     "There are no limits to the possibilities of monomania," I answered.
     "There is the condition which the modern French psychologists have
     called the 'idée fixe,' which may be trifling in character, and
     accompanied by complete sanity in every other way. A man who had read
     deeply about Napoleon, or who had possibly received some hereditary
     family injury through the great war, might conceivably form such an
     idée fixe and under its influence be capable of any fantastic
     outrage."

     "That won't do, my dear Watson," said Holmes, shaking his head; "for
     no amount of idée fixe would enable your interesting monomaniac to
     find out where these busts were situated."

     "Well, how do you explain it?"

     "I don't attempt to do so. I would only observe that there is a
     certain method in the gentleman's eccentric proceedings. For example,
     in Dr. Barnicot's hall, where a sound might arouse the family, the
     bust was taken outside before being broken, whereas in the surgery,
     where there was less danger of an alarm, it was smashed where it
     stood. The affair seems absurdly trifling, and yet I dare call
     nothing trivial when I reflect that some of my most classic cases
     have had the least promising commencement. You will remember, Watson,
     how the dreadful business of the Abernetty family was first brought
     to my notice by the depth which the parsley had sunk into the butter
     upon a hot day. I can't afford, therefore, to smile at your three
     broken busts, Lestrade, and I shall be very much obliged to you if
     you will let me hear of any fresh developments of so singular a chain
     of events."

     The development for which my friend had asked came in a quicker and
     an infinitely more tragic form than he could have imagined. I was
     still dressing in my bedroom next morning when there was a tap at the
     door and Holmes entered, a telegram in his hand. He read it aloud:

     "Come instantly, 131, Pitt Street, Kensington.
     "Lestrade."

     "What is it, then?" I asked.

     "Don't know--may be anything. But I suspect it is the sequel of the
     story of the statues. In that case our friend, the image-breaker, has
     begun operations in another quarter of London. There's coffee on the
     table, Watson, and I have a cab at the door."

     In half an hour we had reached Pitt Street, a quiet little backwater
     just beside one of the briskest currents of London life. No. 131 was
     one of a row, all flat-chested, respectable, and most unromantic
     dwellings. As we drove up we found the railings in front of the house
     lined by a curious crowd. Holmes whistled.

     "By George! it's attempted murder at the least. Nothing less will
     hold the London message-boy. There's a deed of violence indicated in
     that fellow's round shoulders and outstretched neck. What's this,
     Watson? The top steps swilled down and the other ones dry. Footsteps
     enough, anyhow! Well, well, there's Lestrade at the front window, and
     we shall soon know all about it."

     The official received us with a very grave face and showed us into a
     sitting-room, where an exceedingly unkempt and agitated elderly man,
     clad in a flannel dressing-gown, was pacing up and down. He was
     introduced to us as the owner of the house--Mr. Horace Harker, of the
     Central Press Syndicate.

     "It's the Napoleon bust business again," said Lestrade. "You seemed
     interested last night, Mr. Holmes, so I thought perhaps you would be
     glad to be present now that the affair has taken a very much graver
     turn."

     "What has it turned to, then?"

     "To murder. Mr. Harker, will you tell these gentlemen exactly what
     has occurred?"

     The man in the dressing-gown turned upon us with a most melancholy
     face.

     "It's an extraordinary thing," said he, "that all my life I have been
     collecting other people's news, and now that a real piece of news has
     come my own way I am so confused and bothered that I can't put two
     words together. If I had come in here as a journalist I should have
     interviewed myself and had two columns in every evening paper. As it
     is I am giving away valuable copy by telling my story over and over
     to a string of different people, and I can make no use of it myself.
     However, I've heard your name, Mr. Sherlock Holmes, and if you'll
     only explain this queer business I shall be paid for my trouble in
     telling you the story."

     Holmes sat down and listened.

     "It all seems to centre round that bust of Napoleon which I bought
     for this very room about four months ago. I picked it up cheap from
     Harding Brothers, two doors from the High Street Station. A great
     deal of my journalistic work is done at night, and I often write
     until the early morning. So it was to-day. I was sitting in my den,
     which is at the back of the top of the house, about three o'clock,
     when I was convinced that I heard some sounds downstairs. I listened,
     but they were not repeated, and I concluded that they came from
     outside. Then suddenly, about five minutes later, there came a most
     horrible yell--the most dreadful sound, Mr. Holmes, that ever I
     heard. It will ring in my ears as long as I live. I sat frozen with
     horror for a minute or two. Then I seized the poker and went
     downstairs. When I entered this room I found the window wide open,
     and I at once observed that the bust was gone from the mantelpiece.
     Why any burglar should take such a thing passes my understanding, for
     it was only a plaster cast and of no real value whatever.

     "You can see for yourself that anyone going out through that open
     window could reach the front doorstep by taking a long stride. This
     was clearly what the burglar had done, so I went round and opened the
     door. Stepping out into the dark I nearly fell over a dead man who
     was lying there. I ran back for a light, and there was the poor
     fellow, a great gash in his throat and the whole place swimming in
     blood. He lay on his back, his knees drawn up, and his mouth horribly
     open. I shall see him in my dreams. I had just time to blow on my
     police-whistle, and then I must have fainted, for I knew nothing more
     until I found the policeman standing over me in the hall."

     "Well, who was the murdered man?" asked Holmes.

     "There's nothing to show who he was," said Lestrade. "You shall see
     the body at the mortuary, but we have made nothing of it up to now.
     He is a tall man, sunburned, very powerful, not more than thirty. He
     is poorly dressed, and yet does not appear to be a labourer. A
     horn-handled clasp knife was lying in a pool of blood beside him.
     Whether it was the weapon which did the deed, or whether it belonged
     to the dead man, I do not know. There was no name on his clothing,
     and nothing in his pockets save an apple, some string, a shilling map
     of London, and a photograph. Here it is."

     It was evidently taken by a snap-shot from a small camera. It
     represented an alert, sharp-featured simian man with thick eyebrows,
     and a very peculiar projection of the lower part of the face like the
     muzzle of a baboon.

     "And what became of the bust?" asked Holmes, after a careful study of
     this picture.

     "We had news of it just before you came. It has been found in the
     front garden of an empty house in Campden House Road. It was broken
     into fragments. I am going round now to see it. Will you come?"

     "Certainly. I must just take one look round." He examined the carpet
     and the window. "The fellow had either very long legs or was a most
     active man," said he. "With an area beneath, it was no mean feat to
     reach that window-ledge and open that window. Getting back was
     comparatively simple. Are you coming with us to see the remains of
     your bust, Mr. Harker?"

     The disconsolate journalist had seated himself at a writing-table.

     "I must try and make something of it," said he, "though I have no
     doubt that the first editions of the evening papers are out already
     with full details. It's like my luck! You remember when the stand
     fell at Doncaster? Well, I was the only journalist in the stand, and
     my journal the only one that had no account of it, for I was too
     shaken to write it. And now I'll be too late with a murder done on my
     own doorstep."

     As we left the room we heard his pen travelling shrilly over the
     foolscap.

     The spot where the fragments of the bust had been found was only a
     few hundred yards away. For the first time our eyes rested upon this
     presentment of the great Emperor, which seemed to raise such frantic
     and destructive hatred in the mind of the unknown. It lay scattered
     in splintered shards upon the grass. Holmes picked up several of them
     and examined them carefully. I was convinced from his intent face and
     his purposeful manner that at last he was upon a clue.

     "Well?" asked Lestrade.

     Holmes shrugged his shoulders.

     "We have a long way to go yet," said he. "And yet--and yet--well, we
     have some suggestive facts to act upon. The possession of this
     trifling bust was worth more in the eyes of this strange criminal
     than a human life. That is one point. Then there is the singular fact
     that he did not break it in the house, or immediately outside the
     house, if to break it was his sole object."

     "He was rattled and bustled by meeting this other fellow. He hardly
     knew what he was doing."

     "Well, that's likely enough. But I wish to call your attention very
     particularly to the position of this house in the garden of which the
     bust was destroyed."

     Lestrade looked about him.

     "It was an empty house, and so he knew that he would not be disturbed
     in the garden."

     "Yes, but there is another empty house farther up the street which he
     must have passed before he came to this one. Why did he not break it
     there, since it is evident that every yard that he carried it
     increased the risk of someone meeting him?"

     "I give it up," said Lestrade.

     Holmes pointed to the street lamp above our heads.

     "He could see what he was doing here and he could not there. That was
     his reason."

     "By Jove! that's true," said the detective. "Now that I come to think
     of it, Dr. Barnicot's bust was broken not far from his red lamp.
     Well, Mr. Holmes, what are we to do with that fact?"

     "To remember it--to docket it. We may come on something later which
     will bear upon it. What steps do you propose to take now, Lestrade?"

     "The most practical way of getting at it, in my opinion, is to
     identify the dead man. There should be no difficulty about that. When
     we have found who he is and who his associates are, we should have a
     good start in learning what he was doing in Pitt Street last night,
     and who it was who met him and killed him on the doorstep of Mr.
     Horace Harker. Don't you think so?"

     "No doubt; and yet it is not quite the way in which I should approach
     the case."

     "What would you do, then?"

     "Oh, you must not let me influence you in any way! I suggest that you
     go on your line and I on mine. We can compare notes afterwards, and
     each will supplement the other."

     "Very good," said Lestrade.

     "If you are going back to Pitt Street you might see Mr. Horace
     Harker. Tell him from me that I have quite made up my mind, and that
     it is certain that a dangerous homicidal lunatic with Napoleonic
     delusions was in his house last night. It will be useful for his
     article."

     Lestrade stared.

     "You don't seriously believe that?"

     Holmes smiled.

     "Don't I? Well, perhaps I don't. But I am sure that it will interest
     Mr. Horace Harker and the subscribers of the Central Press Syndicate.
     Now, Watson, I think that we shall find that we have a long and
     rather complex day's work before us. I should be glad, Lestrade, if
     you could make it convenient to meet us at Baker Street at six
     o'clock this evening. Until then I should like to keep this
     photograph found in the dead man's pocket. It is possible that I may
     have to ask your company and assistance upon a small expedition which
     will have be undertaken to-night, if my chain of reasoning should
     prove to be correct. Until then, good-bye and good luck!"

     Sherlock Holmes and I walked together to the High Street, where he
     stopped at the shop of Harding Brothers, whence the bust had been
     purchased. A young assistant informed us that Mr. Harding would be
     absent until after noon, and that he was himself a newcomer who could
     give us no information. Holmes's face showed his disappointment and
     annoyance.

     "Well, well, we can't expect to have it all our own way, Watson," he
     said, at last. "We must come back in the afternoon if Mr. Harding
     will not be here until then. I am, as you have no doubt surmised,
     endeavouring to trace these busts to their source, in order to find
     if there is not something peculiar which may account for their
     remarkable fate. Let us make for Mr. Morse Hudson, of the Kennington
     Road, and see if he can throw any light upon the problem."

     A drive of an hour brought us to the picture-dealer's establishment.
     He was a small, stout man with a red face and a peppery manner.

     "Yes, sir. On my very counter, sir," said he. "What we pay rates and
     taxes for I don't know, when any ruffian can come in and break one's
     goods. Yes, sir, it was I who sold Dr. Barnicot his two statues.
     Disgraceful, sir! A Nihilist plot, that's what I make it. No one but
     an Anarchist would go about breaking statues. Red republicans, that's
     what I call 'em. Who did I get the statues from? I don't see what
     that has to do with it. Well, if you really want to know, I got them
     from Gelder & Co., in Church Street, Stepney. They are a well-known
     house in the trade, and have been this twenty years. How many had I?
     Three--two and one are three--two of Dr. Barnicot's and one smashed
     in broad daylight on my own counter. Do I know that photograph? No, I
     don't. Yes, I do, though. Why, it's Beppo. He was a kind of Italian
     piece-work man, who made himself useful in the shop. He could carve a
     bit and gild and frame, and do odd jobs. The fellow left me last
     week, and I've heard nothing of him since. No, I don't know where he
     came from nor where he went to. I have nothing against him while he
     was here. He was gone two days before the bust was smashed."

     "Well, that's all we could reasonably expect to get from Morse
     Hudson," said Holmes, as we emerged from the shop. "We have this
     Beppo as a common factor, both in Kennington and in Kensington, so
     that is worth a ten-mile drive. Now, Watson, let us make for Gelder &
     Co., of Stepney, the source and origin of busts. I shall be surprised
     if we don't get some help down there."

     In rapid succession we passed through the fringe of fashionable
     London, hotel London, theatrical London, literary London, commercial
     London, and, finally, maritime London, till we came to a riverside
     city of a hundred thousand souls, where the tenement houses swelter
     and reek with the outcasts of Europe. Here, in a broad thoroughfare,
     once the abode of wealthy City merchants, we found the sculpture
     works for which we searched. Outside was a considerable yard full of
     monumental masonry. Inside was a large room in which fifty workers
     were carving or moulding. The manager, a big blond German, received
     us civilly, and gave a clear answer to all Holmes's questions. A
     reference to his books showed that hundreds of casts had been taken
     from a marble copy of Devine's head of Napoleon, but that the three
     which had been sent to Morse Hudson a year or so before had been half
     of a batch of six, the other three being sent to Harding Brothers, of
     Kensington. There was no reason why those six should be different to
     any of the other casts. He could suggest no possible cause why anyone
     should wish to destroy them--in fact, he laughed at the idea. Their
     wholesale price was six shillings, but the retailer would get twelve
     or more. The cast was taken in two moulds from each side of the face,
     and then these two profiles of plaster of Paris were joined together
     to make the complete bust. The work was usually done by Italians in
     the room we were in. When finished the busts were put on a table in
     the passage to dry, and afterwards stored. That was all he could tell
     us.

     But the production of the photograph had a remarkable effect upon the
     manager. His face flushed with anger, and his brows knotted over his
     blue Teutonic eyes.

     "Ah, the rascal!" he cried. "Yes, indeed, I know him very well. This
     has always been a respectable establishment, and the only time that
     we have ever had the police in it was over this very fellow. It was
     more than a year ago now. He knifed another Italian in the street,
     and then he came to the works with the police on his heels, and he
     was taken here. Beppo was his name--his second name I never knew.
     Serve me right for engaging a man with such a face. But he was a good
     workman, one of the best."

     "What did he get?"

     "The man lived and he got off with a year. I have no doubt he is out
     now; but he has not dared to show his nose here. We have a cousin of
     his here, and I dare say he could tell you where he is."

     "No, no," cried Holmes, "not a word to the cousin--not a word, I beg
     you. The matter is very important, and the farther I go with it the
     more important it seems to grow. When you referred in your ledger to
     the sale of those casts I observed that the date was June 3rd of last
     year. Could you give me the date when Beppo was arrested?"

     "I could tell you roughly by the pay-list," the manager answered.
     "Yes," he continued, after some turning over of pages, "he was paid
     last on May 20th."

     "Thank you," said Holmes. "I don't think that I need intrude upon
     your time and patience any more." With a last word of caution that he
     should say nothing as to our researches we turned our faces westward
     once more.

     The afternoon was far advanced before we were able to snatch a hasty
     luncheon at a restaurant. A news-bill at the entrance announced
     "Kensington Outrage. Murder by a Madman," and the contents of the
     paper showed that Mr. Horace Harker had got his account into print
     after all. Two columns were occupied with a highly sensational and
     flowery rendering of the whole incident. Holmes propped it against
     the cruet-stand and read it while he ate. Once or twice he chuckled.

     "This is all right, Watson," said he. "Listen to this:

     "It is satisfactory to know that there can be no difference of
     opinion upon this case, since Mr. Lestrade, one of the most
     experienced members of the official force, and Mr. Sherlock Holmes,
     the well-known consulting expert, have each come to the conclusion
     that the grotesque series of incidents, which have ended in so tragic
     a fashion, arise from lunacy rather than from deliberate crime. No
     explanation save mental aberration can cover the facts.

     "The Press, Watson, is a most valuable institution if you only know
     how to use it. And now, if you have quite finished, we will hark back
     to Kensington and see what the manager of Harding Brothers has to say
     to the matter."

     The founder of that great emporium proved to be a brisk, crisp little
     person, very dapper and quick, with a clear head and a ready tongue.

     "Yes, sir, I have already read the account in the evening papers. Mr.
     Horace Harker is a customer of ours. We supplied him with the bust
     some months ago. We ordered three busts of that sort from Gelder &
     Co., of Stepney. They are all sold now. To whom? Oh, I dare say by
     consulting our sales book we could very easily tell you. Yes, we have
     the entries here. One to Mr. Harker, you see, and one to Mr. Josiah
     Brown, of Laburnum Lodge, Laburnum Vale, Chiswick, and one to Mr.
     Sandeford, of Lower Grove Road, Reading. No, I have never seen this
     face which you show me in the photograph. You would hardly forget it,
     would you, sir, for I've seldom seen an uglier. Have we any Italians
     on the staff? Yes, sir, we have several among our workpeople and
     cleaners. I dare say they might get a peep at that sales book if they
     wanted to. There is no particular reason for keeping a watch upon
     that book. Well, well, it's a very strange business, and I hope that
     you'll let me know if anything comes of your inquiries."

     Holmes had taken several notes during Mr. Harding's evidence, and I
     could see that he was thoroughly satisfied by the turn which affairs
     were taking. He made no remark, however, save that, unless we
     hurried, we should be late for our appointment with Lestrade. Sure
     enough, when we reached Baker Street the detective was already there,
     and we found him pacing up and down in a fever of impatience. His
     look of importance showed that his day's work had not been in vain.

     "Well?" he asked. "What luck, Mr. Holmes?"

     "We have had a very busy day, and not entirely a wasted one," my
     friend explained. "We have seen both the retailers and also the
     wholesale manufacturers. I can trace each of the busts now from the
     beginning."

     "The busts!" cried Lestrade. "Well, well, you have your own methods,
     Mr. Sherlock Holmes, and it is not for me to say a word against them,
     but I think I have done a better day's work than you. I have
     identified the dead man."

     "You don't say so?"

     "And found a cause for the crime."

     "Splendid!"

     "We have an inspector who makes a specialty of Saffron Hill and the
     Italian quarter. Well, this dead man had some Catholic emblem round
     his neck, and that, along with his colour, made me think he was from
     the South. Inspector Hill knew him the moment he caught sight of him.
     His name is Pietro Venucci, from Naples, and he is one of the
     greatest cut-throats in London. He is connected with the Mafia,
     which, as you know, is a secret political society, enforcing its
     decrees by murder. Now you see how the affair begins to clear up. The
     other fellow is probably an Italian also, and a member of the Mafia.
     He has broken the rules in some fashion. Pietro is set upon his
     track. Probably the photograph we found in his pocket is the man
     himself, so that he may not knife the wrong person. He dogs the
     fellow, he sees him enter a house, he waits outside for him, and in
     the scuffle he receives his own death-wound. How is that, Mr.
     Sherlock Holmes?"

     Holmes clapped his hands approvingly.

     "Excellent, Lestrade, excellent!" he cried. "But I didn't quite
     follow your explanation of the destruction of the busts."

     "The busts! You never can get those busts out of your head. After
     all, that is nothing; petty larceny, six months at the most. It is
     the murder that we are really investigating, and I tell you that I am
     gathering all the threads into my hands."

     "And the next stage?"

     "Is a very simple one. I shall go down with Hill to the Italian
     quarter, find the man whose photograph we have got, and arrest him on
     the charge of murder. Will you come with us?"

     "I think not. I fancy we can attain our end in a simpler way. I can't
     say for certain, because it all depends--well, it all depends upon a
     factor which is completely outside our control. But I have great
     hopes--in fact, the betting is exactly two to one--that if you will
     come with us to-night I shall be able to help you to lay him by the
     heels."

     "In the Italian quarter?"

     "No; I fancy Chiswick is an address which is more likely to find him.
     If you will come with me to Chiswick to-night, Lestrade, I'll promise
     to go to the Italian quarter with you to-morrow, and no harm will be
     done by the delay. And now I think that a few hours' sleep would do
     us all good, for I do not propose to leave before eleven o'clock, and
     it is unlikely that we shall be back before morning. You'll dine with
     us, Lestrade, and then you are welcome to the sofa until it is time
     for us to start. In the meantime, Watson, I should be glad if you
     would ring for an express messenger, for I have a letter to send, and
     it is important that it should go at once."

     Holmes spent the evening in rummaging among the files of the old
     daily papers with which one of our lumber-rooms was packed. When at
     last he descended it was with triumph in his eyes, but he said
     nothing to either of us as to the result of his researches. For my
     own part, I had followed step by step the methods by which he had
     traced the various windings of this complex case, and, though I could
     not yet perceive the goal which we would reach, I understood clearly
     that Holmes expected this grotesque criminal to make an attempt upon
     the two remaining busts, one of which, I remembered, was at Chiswick.
     No doubt the object of our journey was to catch him in the very act,
     and I could not but admire the cunning with which my friend had
     inserted a wrong clue in the evening paper, so as to give the fellow
     the idea that he could continue his scheme with impunity. I was not
     surprised when Holmes suggested that I should take my revolver with
     me. He had himself picked up the loaded hunting-crop which was his
     favourite weapon.

     A four-wheeler was at the door at eleven, and in it we drove to a
     spot at the other side of Hammersmith Bridge. Here the cabman was
     directed to wait. A short walk brought us to a secluded road fringed
     with pleasant houses, each standing in its own grounds. In the light
     of a street lamp we read "Laburnum Villa" upon the gate-post of one
     of them. The occupants had evidently retired to rest, for all was
     dark save for a fanlight over the hall door, which shed a single
     blurred circle on to the garden path. The wooden fence which
     separated the grounds from the road threw a dense black shadow upon
     the inner side, and here it was that we crouched.

     "I fear that you'll have a long wait," Holmes whispered. "We may
     thank our stars that it is not raining. I don't think we can even
     venture to smoke to pass the time. However, it's a two to one chance
     that we get something to pay us for our trouble."

     It proved, however, that our vigil was not to be so long as Holmes
     had led us to fear, and it ended in a very sudden and singular
     fashion. In an instant, without the least sound to warn us of his
     coming, the garden gate swung open, and a lithe, dark figure, as
     swift and active as an ape, rushed up the garden path. We saw it
     whisk past the light thrown from over the door and disappear against
     the black shadow of the house. There was a long pause, during which
     we held our breath, and then a very gentle creaking sound came to our
     ears. The window was being opened. The noise ceased, and again there
     was a long silence. The fellow was making his way into the house. We
     saw the sudden flash of a dark lantern inside the room. What he
     sought was evidently not there, for again we saw the flash through
     another blind, and then through another.

     "Let us get to the open window. We will nab him as he climbs out,"
     Lestrade whispered.

     But before we could move the man had emerged again. As he came out
     into the glimmering patch of light we saw that he carried something
     white under his arm. He looked stealthily all round him. The silence
     of the deserted street reassured him. Turning his back upon us he
     laid down his burden, and the next instant there was the sound of a
     sharp tap, followed by a clatter and rattle. The man was so intent
     upon what he was doing that he never heard our steps as we stole
     across the grass plot. With the bound of a tiger Holmes was on his
     back, and an instant later Lestrade and I had him by either wrist and
     the handcuffs had been fastened. As we turned him over I saw a
     hideous, sallow face, with writhing, furious features, glaring up at
     us, and I knew that it was indeed the man of the photograph whom we
     had secured.

     But it was not our prisoner to whom Holmes was giving his attention.
     Squatted on the doorstep, he was engaged in most carefully examining
     that which the man had brought from the house. It was a bust of
     Napoleon like the one which we had seen that morning, and it had been
     broken into similar fragments. Carefully Holmes held each separate
     shard to the light, but in no way did it differ from any other
     shattered piece of plaster. He had just completed his examination
     when the hall lights flew up, the door opened, and the owner of the
     house, a jovial, rotund figure in shirt and trousers, presented
     himself.

     "Mr. Josiah Brown, I suppose?" said Holmes.

     "Yes, sir; and you, no doubt, are Mr. Sherlock Holmes? I had the note
     which you sent by the express messenger, and I did exactly what you
     told me. We locked every door on the inside and awaited developments.
     Well, I'm very glad to see that you have got the rascal. I hope,
     gentlemen, that you will come in and have some refreshment."

     However, Lestrade was anxious to get his man into safe quarters, so
     within a few minutes our cab had been summoned and we were all four
     upon our way to London. Not a word would our captive say; but he
     glared at us from the shadow of his matted hair, and once, when my
     hand seemed within his reach, he snapped at it like a hungry wolf. We
     stayed long enough at the police-station to learn that a search of
     his clothing revealed nothing save a few shillings and a long sheath
     knife, the handle of which bore copious traces of recent blood.

     "That's all right," said Lestrade, as we parted. "Hill knows all
     these gentry, and he will give a name to him. You'll find that my
     theory of the Mafia will work out all right. But I'm sure I am
     exceedingly obliged to you, Mr. Holmes, for the workmanlike way in
     which you laid hands upon him. I don't quite understand it all yet."

     "I fear it is rather too late an hour for explanations," said Holmes.
     "Besides, there are one or two details which are not finished off,
     and it is one of those cases which are worth working out to the very
     end. If you will come round once more to my rooms at six o'clock
     to-morrow I think I shall be able to show you that even now you have
     not grasped the entire meaning of this business, which presents some
     features which make it absolutely original in the history of crime.
     If ever I permit you to chronicle any more of my little problems,
     Watson, I foresee that you will enliven your pages by an account of
     the singular adventure of the Napoleonic busts."

     When we met again next evening Lestrade was furnished with much
     information concerning our prisoner. His name, it appeared, was
     Beppo, second name unknown. He was a well-known ne'er-do-well among
     the Italian colony. He had once been a skilful sculptor and had
     earned an honest living, but he had taken to evil courses and had
     twice already been in jail--once for a petty theft and once, as we
     had already heard, for stabbing a fellow-countryman. He could talk
     English perfectly well. His reasons for destroying the busts were
     still unknown, and he refused to answer any questions upon the
     subject; but the police had discovered that these same busts might
     very well have been made by his own hands, since he was engaged in
     this class of work at the establishment of Gelder & Co. To all this
     information, much of which we already knew, Holmes listened with
     polite attention; but I, who knew him so well, could clearly see that
     his thoughts were elsewhere, and I detected a mixture of mingled
     uneasiness and expectation beneath that mask which he was wont to
     assume. At last he started in his chair and his eyes brightened.
     There had been a ring at the bell. A minute later we heard steps upon
     the stairs, and an elderly, red-faced man with grizzled side-whiskers
     was ushered in. In his right hand he carried an old-fashioned
     carpet-bag, which he placed upon the table.

     "Is Mr. Sherlock Holmes here?"

     My friend bowed and smiled. "Mr. Sandeford, of Reading, I suppose?"
     said he.

     "Yes, sir, I fear that I am a little late; but the trains were
     awkward. You wrote to me about a bust that is in my possession."

     "Exactly."

     "I have your letter here. You said, 'I desire to possess a copy of
     Devine's Napoleon, and am prepared to pay you ten pounds for the one
     which is in your possession.' Is that right?"

     "Certainly."

     "I was very much surprised at your letter, for I could not imagine
     how you knew that I owned such a thing."

     "Of course you must have been surprised, but the explanation is very
     simple. Mr. Harding, of Harding Brothers, said that they had sold you
     their last copy, and he gave me your address."

     "Oh, that was it, was it? Did he tell you what I paid for it?"

     "No, he did not."

     "Well, I am an honest man, though not a very rich one. I only gave
     fifteen shillings for the bust, and I think you ought to know that
     before I take ten pounds from you."

     "I am sure the scruple does you honour, Mr. Sandeford. But I have
     named that price, so I intend to stick to it."

     "Well, it is very handsome of you, Mr. Holmes. I brought the bust up
     with me, as you asked me to do. Here it is!" He opened his bag, and
     at last we saw placed upon our table a complete specimen of that bust
     which we had already seen more than once in fragments.

     Holmes took a paper from his pocket and laid a ten-pound note upon
     the table.

     "You will kindly sign that paper, Mr. Sandeford, in the presence of
     these witnesses. It is simply to say that you transfer every possible
     right that you ever had in the bust to me. I am a methodical man, you
     see, and you never know what turn events might take afterwards. Thank
     you, Mr. Sandeford; here is your money, and I wish you a very good
     evening."

     When our visitor had disappeared Sherlock Holmes's movements were
     such as to rivet our attention. He began by taking a clean white
     cloth from a drawer and laying it over the table. Then he placed his
     newly-acquired bust in the centre of the cloth. Finally, he picked up
     his hunting-crop and struck Napoleon a sharp blow on the top of the
     head. The figure broke into fragments, and Holmes bent eagerly over
     the shattered remains. Next instant, with a loud shout of triumph, he
     held up one splinter, in which a round, dark object was fixed like a
     plum in a pudding.

     "Gentlemen," he cried, "let me introduce you to the famous black
     pearl of the Borgias."

     Lestrade and I sat silent for a moment, and then, with a spontaneous
     impulse, we both broke out clapping as at the well-wrought crisis of
     a play. A flush of colour sprang to Holmes's pale cheeks, and he
     bowed to us like the master dramatist who receives the homage of his
     audience. It was at such moments that for an instant he ceased to be
     a reasoning machine, and betrayed his human love for admiration and
     applause. The same singularly proud and reserved nature which turned
     away with disdain from popular notoriety was capable of being moved
     to its depths by spontaneous wonder and praise from a friend.

     "Yes, gentlemen," said he, "it is the most famous pearl now existing
     in the world, and it has been my good fortune, by a connected chain
     of inductive reasoning, to trace it from the Prince of Colonna's
     bedroom at the Dacre Hotel, where it was lost, to the interior of
     this, the last of the six busts of Napoleon which were manufactured
     by Gelder & Co., of Stepney. You will remember, Lestrade, the
     sensation caused by the disappearance of this valuable jewel, and the
     vain efforts of the London police to recover it. I was myself
     consulted upon the case; but I was unable to throw any light upon it.
     Suspicion fell upon the maid of the Princess, who was an Italian, and
     it was proved that she had a brother in London, but we failed to
     trace any connection between them. The maid's name was Lucretia
     Venucci, and there is no doubt in my mind that this Pietro who was
     murdered two nights ago was the brother. I have been looking up the
     dates in the old files of the paper, and I find that the
     disappearance of the pearl was exactly two days before the arrest of
     Beppo for some crime of violence, an event which took place in the
     factory of Gelder & Co., at the very moment when these busts were
     being made. Now you clearly see the sequence of events, though you
     see them, of course, in the inverse order to the way in which they
     presented themselves to me. Beppo had the pearl in his possession. He
     may have stolen it from Pietro, he may have been Pietro's
     confederate, he may have been the go-between of Pietro and his
     sister. It is of no consequence to us which is the correct solution.

     "The main fact is that he had the pearl, and at that moment, when it
     was on his person, he was pursued by the police. He made for the
     factory in which he worked, and he knew that he had only a few
     minutes in which to conceal this enormously valuable prize, which
     would otherwise be found on him when he was searched. Six plaster
     casts of Napoleon were drying in the passage. One of them was still
     soft. In an instant Beppo, a skilful workman, made a small hole in
     the wet plaster, dropped in the pearl, and with a few touches covered
     over the aperture once more. It was an admirable hiding-place. No one
     could possibly find it. But Beppo was condemned to a year's
     imprisonment, and in the meanwhile his six busts were scattered over
     London. He could not tell which contained his treasure. Only by
     breaking them could he see. Even shaking would tell him nothing, for
     as the plaster was wet it was probable that the pearl would adhere to
     it--as, in fact, it has done. Beppo did not despair, and he conducted
     his search with considerable ingenuity and perseverance. Through a
     cousin who works with Gelder he found out the retail firms who had
     bought the busts. He managed to find employment with Morse Hudson,
     and in that way tracked down three of them. The pearl was not there.
     Then, with the help of some Italian employe, he succeeded in finding
     out where the other three busts had gone. The first was at Harker's.
     There he was dogged by his confederate, who held Beppo responsible
     for the loss of the pearl, and he stabbed him in the scuffle which
     followed."

     "If he was his confederate why should he carry his photograph?" I
     asked.

     "As a means of tracing him if he wished to inquire about him from any
     third person. That was the obvious reason. Well, after the murder I
     calculated that Beppo would probably hurry rather than delay his
     movements. He would fear that the police would read his secret, and
     so he hastened on before they should get ahead of him. Of course, I
     could not say that he had not found the pearl in Harker's bust. I had
     not even concluded for certain that it was the pearl; but it was
     evident to me that he was looking for something, since he carried the
     bust past the other houses in order to break it in the garden which
     had a lamp overlooking it. Since Harker's bust was one in three the
     chances were exactly as I told you, two to one against the pearl
     being inside it. There remained two busts, and it was obvious that he
     would go for the London one first. I warned the inmates of the house,
     so as to avoid a second tragedy, and we went down with the happiest
     results. By that time, of course, I knew for certain that it was the
     Borgia pearl that we were after. The name of the murdered man linked
     the one event with the other. There only remained a single bust--the
     Reading one--and the pearl must be there. I bought it in your
     presence from the owner--and there it lies."

     We sat in silence for a moment.

     "Well," said Lestrade, "I've seen you handle a good many cases, Mr.
     Holmes, but I don't know that I ever knew a more workmanlike one than
     that. We're not jealous of you at Scotland Yard. No, sir, we are very
     proud of you, and if you come down to-morrow there's not a man, from
     the oldest inspector to the youngest constable, who wouldn't be glad
     to shake you by the hand."

     "Thank you!" said Holmes. "Thank you!" and as he turned away it
     seemed to me that he was more nearly moved by the softer human
     emotions than I had ever seen him. A moment later he was the cold and
     practical thinker once more. "Put the pearl in the safe, Watson,"
     said he, "and get out the papers of the Conk-Singleton forgery case.
     Good-bye, Lestrade. If any little problem comes your way I shall be
     happy, if I can, to give you a hint or two as to its solution."






                       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 to exactly identify the college or the criminal would
     be injudicious and offensive. So painful a scandal may well be
     allowed to die out. With due discretion the incident itself may,
     however, be described, since it serves to illustrate some of those
     qualities for which my friend was remarkable. I will endeavour in my
     statement to avoid such terms as would serve to limit the events to
     any particular place, or give a clue as to the people concerned.

     We were residing at the time in furnished lodgings close to a library
     where Sherlock Holmes was pursuing some laborious researches in early
     English charters--researches which led to results so striking that
     they may be the subject of one of my future narratives. Here it was
     that one evening we received a visit from an acquaintance, Mr. Hilton
     Soames, tutor and lecturer at the College of St. Luke's. Mr. Soames
     was a tall, spare man, of a nervous and excitable temperament. I had
     always known him to be restless in his manner, but on this particular
     occasion he was in such a state of uncontrollable agitation that it
     was clear something very unusual had occurred.

     "I trust, Mr. Holmes, that you can spare me a few hours of your
     valuable time. We have had a very painful incident at St. Luke's, and
     really, but for the happy chance of your being in the town, I should
     have been at a loss what to do."

     "I am very busy just now, and I desire no distractions," my friend
     answered. "I should much prefer that you called in the aid of the
     police."

     "No, no, my dear sir; such a course is utterly impossible. When once
     the law is evoked it cannot be stayed again, and this is just one of
     those cases where, for the credit of the college, it is most
     essential to avoid scandal. Your discretion is as well known as your
     powers, and you are the one man in the world who can help me. I beg
     you, Mr. Holmes, to do what you can."

     My friend's temper had not improved since he had been deprived of the
     congenial surroundings of Baker Street. Without his scrap-books, his
     chemicals, and his homely untidiness, he was an uncomfortable man. He
     shrugged his shoulders in ungracious acquiescence, while our visitor
     in hurried words and with much excitable gesticulation poured forth
     his story.

     "I must explain to you, Mr. Holmes, that to-morrow is the first day
     of the examination for the Fortescue Scholarship. I am one of the
     examiners. My subject is Greek, and the first of the papers consists
     of a large passage of Greek translation which the candidate has not
     seen. This passage is printed on the examination paper, and it would
     naturally be an immense advantage if the candidate could prepare it
     in advance. For this reason great care is taken to keep the paper
     secret.

     "To-day about three o'clock the proofs of this paper arrived from the
     printers. The exercise consists of half a chapter of Thucydides. I
     had to read it over carefully, as the text must be absolutely
     correct. At four-thirty my task was not yet completed. I had,
     however, promised to take tea in a friend's rooms, so I left the
     proof upon my desk. I was absent rather more than an hour.

     "You are aware, Mr. Holmes, that our college doors are double--a
     green baize one within and a heavy oak one without. As I approached
     my outer door I was amazed to see a key in it. For an instant I
     imagined that I had left my own there, but on feeling in my pocket I
     found that it was all right. The only duplicate which existed, so far
     as I knew, was that which belonged to my servant, Bannister, a man
     who has looked after my room for ten years, and whose honesty is
     absolutely above suspicion. I found that the key was indeed his, that
     he had entered my room to know if I wanted tea, and that he had very
     carelessly left the key in the door when he came out. His visit to my
     room must have been within a very few minutes of my leaving it. His
     forgetfulness about the key would have mattered little upon any other
     occasion, but on this one day it has produced the most deplorable
     consequences.

     "The moment I looked at my table I was aware that someone had
     rummaged among my papers. The proof was in three long slips. I had
     left them all together. Now, I found that one of them was lying on
     the floor, one was on the side table near the window, and the third
     was where I had left it."

     Holmes stirred for the first time.

     "The first page on the floor, the second in the window, the third
     where you left it," said he.

     "Exactly, Mr. Holmes. You amaze me. How could you possibly know
     that?"

     "Pray continue your very interesting statement."

     "For an instant I imagined that Bannister had taken the unpardonable
     liberty of examining my papers. He denied it, however, with the
     utmost earnestness, and I am convinced that he was speaking the
     truth. The alternative was that someone passing had observed the key
     in the door, had known that I was out, and had entered to look at the
     papers. A large sum of money is at stake, for the scholarship is a
     very valuable one, and an unscrupulous man might very well run a risk
     in order to gain an advantage over his fellows.

     "Bannister was very much upset by the incident. He had nearly fainted
     when we found that the papers had undoubtedly been tampered with. I
     gave him a little brandy and left him collapsed in a chair while I
     made a most careful examination of the room. I soon saw that the
     intruder had left other traces of his presence besides the rumpled
     papers. On the table in the window were several shreds from a pencil
     which had been sharpened. A broken tip of lead was lying there also.
     Evidently the rascal had copied the paper in a great hurry, had
     broken his pencil, and had been compelled to put a fresh point to
     it."

     "Excellent!" said Holmes, who was recovering his good-humour as his
     attention became more engrossed by the case. "Fortune has been your
     friend."

     "This was not all. I have a new writing-table with a fine surface of
     red leather. I am prepared to swear, and so is Bannister, that it was
     smooth and unstained. Now I found a clean cut in it about three
     inches long--not a mere scratch, but a positive cut. Not only this,
     but on the table I found a small ball of black dough, or clay, with
     specks of something which looks like sawdust in it. I am convinced
     that these marks were left by the man who rifled the papers. There
     were no footmarks and no other evidence as to his identity. I was at
     my wits' ends, when suddenly the happy thought occurred to me that
     you were in the town, and I came straight round to put the matter
     into your hands. Do help me, Mr. Holmes! You see my dilemma. Either I
     must find the man or else the examination must be postponed until
     fresh papers are prepared, and since this cannot be done without
     explanation there will ensue a hideous scandal, which will throw a
     cloud not only on the college, but on the University. Above all
     things I desire to settle the matter quietly and discreetly."

     "I shall be happy to look into it and to give you such advice as I
     can," said Holmes, rising and putting on his overcoat. "The case is
     not entirely devoid of interest. Had anyone visited you in your room
     after the papers came to you?"

     "Yes; young Daulat Ras, an Indian student who lives on the same
     stair, came in to ask me some particulars about the examination."

     "For which he was entered?"

     "Yes."

     "And the papers were on your table?"

     "To the best of my belief they were rolled up."

     "But might be recognised as proofs?"

     "Possibly."

     "No one else in your room?"

     "No."

     "Did anyone know that these proofs would be there?"

     "No one save the printer."

     "Did this man Bannister know?"

     "No, certainly not. No one knew."

     "Where is Bannister now?"

     "He was very ill, poor fellow. I left him collapsed in the chair. I
     was in such a hurry to come to you."

     "You left your door open?"

     "I locked up the papers first."

     "Then it amounts to this, Mr. Soames, that unless the Indian student
     recognised the roll as being proofs, the man who tampered with them
     came upon them accidentally without knowing that they were there."

     "So it seems to me."

     Holmes gave an enigmatic smile.

     "Well," said he, "let us go round. Not one of your cases,
     Watson--mental, not physical. All right; come if you want to. Now,
     Mr. Soames--at your disposal!"

      The sitting-room of our client opened by a long, low, latticed
     window on to the ancient lichen-tinted court of the old college. A
     Gothic arched door led to a worn stone staircase. On the ground floor
     was the tutor's room. Above were three students, one on each story.
     It was already twilight when we reached the scene of our problem.
     Holmes halted and looked earnestly at the window. Then he approached
     it, and, standing on tiptoe with his neck craned, he looked into the
     room.

     "He must have entered through the door. There is no opening except
     the one pane," said our learned guide.

     "Dear me!" said Holmes, and he smiled in a singular way as he glanced
     at our companion. "Well, if there is nothing to be learned here we
     had best go inside."

     The lecturer unlocked the outer door and ushered us into his room. We
     stood at the entrance while Holmes made an examination of the carpet.

     "I am afraid there are no signs here," said he. "One could hardly
     hope for any upon so dry a day. Your servant seems to have quite
     recovered. You left him in a chair, you say; which chair?"

     "By the window there."

     "I see. Near this little table. You can come in now. I have finished
     with the carpet. Let us take the little table first. Of course, what
     has happened is very clear. The man entered and took the papers,
     sheet by sheet, from the central table. He carried them over to the
     window table, because from there he could see if you came across the
     courtyard, and so could effect an escape."

     "As a matter of fact he could not," said Soames, "for I entered by
     the side door."

     "Ah, that's good! Well, anyhow, that was in his mind. Let me see the
     three strips. No finger impressions--no! Well, he carried over this
     one first and he copied it. How long would it take him to do that,
     using every possible contraction? A quarter of an hour, not less.
     Then he tossed it down and seized the next. He was in the midst of
     that when your return caused him to make a very hurried retreat--very
     hurried, since he had not time to replace the papers which would tell
     you that he had been there. You were not aware of any hurrying feet
     on the stair as you entered the outer door?"

     "No, I can't say I was."

     "Well, he wrote so furiously that he broke his pencil, and had, as
     you observe, to sharpen it again. This is of interest, Watson. The
     pencil was not an ordinary one. It was above the usual size, with a
     soft lead; the outer colour was dark blue, the maker's name was
     printed in silver lettering, and the piece remaining is only about an
     inch and a half long. Look for such a pencil, Mr. Soames, and you
     have got your man. When I add that he possesses a large and very
     blunt knife, you have an additional aid."

     Mr. Soames was somewhat overwhelmed by this flood of information. "I
     can follow the other points," said he, "but really, in this matter of
     the length--"

     Holmes held out a small chip with the letters NN and a space of clear
     wood after them.

     "You see?"

     "No, I fear that even now--"

     "Watson, I have always done you an injustice. There are others. What
     could this NN be? It is at the end of a word. You are aware that
     Johann Faber is the most common maker's name. Is it not clear that
     there is just as much of the pencil left as usually follows the
     Johann?" He held the small table sideways to the electric light. "I
     was hoping that if the paper on which he wrote was thin some trace of
     it might come through upon this polished surface. No, I see nothing.
     I don't think there is anything more to be learned here. Now for the
     central table. This small pellet is, I presume, the black, doughy
     mass you spoke of. Roughly pyramidal in shape and hollowed out, I
     perceive. As you say, there appear to be grains of sawdust in it.
     Dear me, this is very interesting. And the cut--a positive tear, I
     see. It began with a thin scratch and ended in a jagged hole. I am
     much indebted to you for directing my attention to this case, Mr.
     Soames. Where does that door lead to?"

     "To my bedroom."

     "Have you been in it since your adventure?"

     "No; I came straight away for you."

     "I should like to have a glance round. What a charming, old-fashioned
     room! Perhaps you will kindly wait a minute until I have examined the
     floor. No, I see nothing. What about this curtain? You hang your
     clothes behind it. If anyone were forced to conceal himself in this
     room he must do it there, since the bed is too low and the wardrobe
     too shallow. No one there, I suppose?"

     As Holmes drew the curtain I was aware, from some little rigidity and
     alertness of his attitude, that he was prepared for an emergency. As
     a matter of fact the drawn curtain disclosed nothing but three or
     four suits of clothes hanging from a line of pegs. Holmes turned away
     and stooped suddenly to the floor.

     "Halloa! What's this?" said he.

     It was a small pyramid of black, putty-like stuff, exactly like the
     one upon the table of the study. Holmes held it out on his open palm
     in the glare of the electric light.

     "Your visitor seems to have left traces in your bedroom as well as in
     your sitting-room, Mr. Soames."

     "What could he have wanted there?"

     "I think it is clear enough. You came back by an unexpected way, and
     so he had no warning until you were at the very door. What could he
     do? He caught up everything which would betray him and he rushed into
     your bedroom to conceal himself."

     "Good gracious, Mr. Holmes, do you mean to tell me that all the time
     I was talking to Bannister in this room we had the man prisoner if we
     had only known it?"

     "So I read it."

     "Surely there is another alternative, Mr. Holmes. I don't know
     whether you observed my bedroom window?"

     "Lattice-paned, lead framework, three separate windows, one swinging
     on hinge and large enough to admit a man."

     "Exactly. And it looks out on an angle of the courtyard so as to be
     partly invisible. The man might have effected his entrance there,
     left traces as he passed through the bedroom, and, finally, finding
     the door open have escaped that way."

     Holmes shook his head impatiently.

     "Let us be practical," said he. "I understand you to say that there
     are three students who use this stair and are in the habit of passing
     your door?"

     "Yes, there are."

     "And they are all in for this examination?"

     "Yes."

     "Have you any reason to suspect any one of them more than the
     others?"

     Soames hesitated.

     "It is a very delicate question," said he. "One hardly likes to throw
     suspicion where there are no proofs."

     "Let us hear the suspicions. I will look after the proofs."

     "I will tell you, then, in a few words the character of the three men
     who inhabit these rooms. The lower of the three is Gilchrist, a fine
     scholar and athlete; plays in the Rugby team and the cricket team for
     the college, and got his Blue for the hurdles and the long jump. He
     is a fine, manly fellow. His father was the notorious Sir Jabez
     Gilchrist, who ruined himself on the turf. My scholar has been left
     very poor, but he is hard-working and industrious. He will do well.

     "The second floor is inhabited by Daulat Ras, the Indian. He is a
     quiet, inscrutable fellow, as most of those Indians are. He is well
     up in his work, though his Greek is his weak subject. He is steady
     and methodical.

     "The top floor belongs to Miles McLaren. He is a brilliant fellow
     when he chooses to work--one of the brightest intellects of the
     University, but he is wayward, dissipated, and unprincipled. He was
     nearly expelled over a card scandal in his first year. He has been
     idling all this term, and he must look forward with dread to the
     examination."

     "Then it is he whom you suspect?"

     "I dare not go so far as that. But of the three he is perhaps the
     least unlikely."

     "Exactly. Now, Mr. Soames, let us have a look at your servant,
     Bannister."

     He was a little, white-faced, clean-shaven, grizzly-haired fellow of
     fifty. He was still suffering from this sudden disturbance of the
     quiet routine of his life. His plump face was twitching with his
     nervousness, and his fingers could not keep still.

     "We are investigating this unhappy business, Bannister," said his
     master.

     "Yes, sir."

     "I understand," said Holmes, "that you left your key in the door?"

     "Yes, sir."

     "Was it not very extraordinary that you should do this on the very
     day when there were these papers inside?"

     "It was most unfortunate, sir. But I have occasionally done the same
     thing at other times."

     "When did you enter the room?"

     "It was about half-past four. That is Mr. Soames's tea time."

     "How long did you stay?"

     "When I saw that he was absent I withdrew at once."

     "Did you look at these papers on the table?"

     "No, sir; certainly not."

     "How came you to leave the key in the door?"

     "I had the tea-tray in my hand. I thought I would come back for the
     key. Then I forgot."

     "Has the outer door a spring lock?"

     "No, sir."

     "Then it was open all the time?"

     "Yes, sir."

     "Anyone in the room could get out?"

     "Yes, sir."

     "When Mr. Soames returned and called for you, you were very much
     disturbed?"

     "Yes, sir. Such a thing has never happened during the many years that
     I have been here. I nearly fainted, sir."

     "So I understand. Where were you when you began to feel bad?"

     "Where was I, sir? Why, here, near the door."

     "That is singular, because you sat down in that chair over yonder
     near the corner. Why did you pass these other chairs?"

     "I don't know, sir. It didn't matter to me where I sat."

     "I really don't think he knew much about it, Mr. Holmes. He was
     looking very bad--quite ghastly."

     "You stayed here when your master left?"

     "Only for a minute or so. Then I locked the door and went to my
     room."

     "Whom do you suspect?"

     "Oh, I would not venture to say, sir. I don't believe there is any
     gentleman in this University who is capable of profiting by such an
     action. No, sir, I'll not believe it."

     "Thank you; that will do," said Holmes. "Oh, one more word. You have
     not mentioned to any of the three gentlemen whom you attend that
     anything is amiss?"

     "No, sir; not a word."

     "You haven't seen any of them?"

     "No, sir."

     "Very good. Now, Mr. Soames, we will take a walk in the quadrangle,
     if you please."

     Three yellow squares of light shone above us in the gathering gloom.

     "Your three birds are all in their nests," said Holmes, looking up.
     "Halloa! What's that? One of them seems restless enough."

     It was the Indian, whose dark silhouette appeared suddenly upon his
     blind. He was pacing swiftly up and down his room.

     "I should like to have a peep at each of them," said Holmes. "Is it
     possible?"

     "No difficulty in the world," Soames answered. "This set of rooms is
     quite the oldest in the college, and it is not unusual for visitors
     to go over them. Come along, and I will personally conduct you."

     "No names, please!" said Holmes, as we knocked at Gilchrist's door. A
     tall, flaxen-haired, slim young fellow opened it, and made us welcome
     when he understood our errand. There were some really curious pieces
     of mediaeval domestic architecture within. Holmes was so charmed with
     one of them that he insisted on drawing it on his note-book, broke
     his pencil, had to borrow one from our host, and finally borrowed a
     knife to sharpen his own. The same curious accident happened to him
     in the rooms of the Indian--a silent, little, hook-nosed fellow, who
     eyed us askance and was obviously glad when Holmes's architectural
     studies had come to an end. I could not see that in either case
     Holmes had come upon the clue for which he was searching. Only at the
     third did our visit prove abortive. The outer door would not open to
     our knock, and nothing more substantial than a torrent of bad
     language came from behind it. "I don't care who you are. You can go
     to blazes!" roared the angry voice. "To-morrow's the exam, and I
     won't be drawn by anyone."

     "A rude fellow," said our guide, flushing with anger as we withdrew
     down the stair. "Of course, he did not realize that it was I who was
     knocking, but none the less his conduct was very uncourteous, and,
     indeed, under the circumstances rather suspicious."

     Holmes's response was a curious one.

     "Can you tell me his exact height?" he asked.

     "Really, Mr. Holmes, I cannot undertake to say. He is taller than the
     Indian, not so tall as Gilchrist. I suppose five foot six would be
     about it."

     "That is very important," said Holmes. "And now, Mr. Soames, I wish
     you good-night."

     Our guide cried aloud in his astonishment and dismay. "Good gracious,
     Mr. Holmes, you are surely not going to leave me in this abrupt
     fashion! You don't seem to realize the position. To-morrow is the
     examination. I must take some definite action to-night. I cannot
     allow the examination to be held if one of the papers has been
     tampered with. The situation must be faced."

     "You must leave it as it is. I shall drop round early to-morrow
     morning and chat the matter over. It is possible that I may be in a
     position then to indicate some course of action. Meanwhile you change
     nothing--nothing at all."

     "Very good, Mr. Holmes."

     "You can be perfectly easy in your mind. We shall certainly find some
     way out of your difficulties. I will take the black clay with me,
     also the pencil cuttings. Good-bye."

     When we were out in the darkness of the quadrangle we again looked up
     at the windows. The Indian still paced his room. The others were
     invisible.

     "Well, Watson, what do you think of it?" Holmes asked, as we came out
     into the main street. "Quite a little parlour game--sort of
     three-card trick, is it not? There are your three men. It must be one
     of them. You take your choice. Which is yours?"

     "The foul-mouthed fellow at the top. He is the one with the worst
     record. And yet that Indian was a sly fellow also. Why should he be
     pacing his room all the time?"

     "There is nothing in that. Many men do it when they are trying to
     learn anything by heart."

     "He looked at us in a queer way."

     "So would you if a flock of strangers came in on you when you were
     preparing for an examination next day, and every moment was of value.
     No, I see nothing in that. Pencils, too, and knives--all was
     satisfactory. But that fellow does puzzle me."

     "Who?"

     "Why, Bannister, the servant. What's his game in the matter?"

     "He impressed me as being a perfectly honest man."

     "So he did me. That's the puzzling part. Why should a perfectly
     honest man--well, well, here's a large stationer's. We shall begin
     our researches here."

     There were only four stationers of any consequence in the town, and
     at each Holmes produced his pencil chips and bid high for a
     duplicate. All were agreed that one could be ordered, but that it was
     not a usual size of pencil and that it was seldom kept in stock. My
     friend did not appear to be depressed by his failure, but shrugged
     his shoulders in half-humorous resignation.

     "No good, my dear Watson. This, the best and only final clue, has run
     to nothing. But, indeed, I have little doubt that we can build up a
     sufficient case without it. By Jove! my dear fellow, it is nearly
     nine, and the landlady babbled of green peas at seven-thirty. What
     with your eternal tobacco, Watson, and your irregularity at meals, I
     expect that you will get notice to quit and that I shall share your
     downfall--not, however, before we have solved the problem of the
     nervous tutor, the careless servant, and the three enterprising
     students."

      Holmes made no further allusion to the matter that day, though he
     sat lost in thought for a long time after our belated dinner. At
     eight in the morning he came into my room just as I finished my
     toilet.

     "Well, Watson," said he, "it is time we went down to St. Luke's. Can
     you do without breakfast?"

     "Certainly."

     "Soames will be in a dreadful fidget until we are able to tell him
     something positive."

     "Have you anything positive to tell him?"

     "I think so."

     "You have formed a conclusion?"

     "Yes, my dear Watson; I have solved the mystery."

     "But what fresh evidence could you have got?"

     "Aha! It is not for nothing that I have turned myself out of bed at
     the untimely hour of six. I have put in two hours' hard work and
     covered at least five miles, with something to show for it. Look at
     that!"

     He held out his hand. On the palm were three little pyramids of
     black, doughy clay.

     "Why, Holmes, you had only two yesterday!"

     "And one more this morning. It is a fair argument that wherever No. 3
     came from is also the source of Nos. 1 and 2. Eh, Watson? Well, come
     along and put friend Soames out of his pain."

      The unfortunate tutor was certainly in a state of pitiable agitation
     when we found him in his chambers. In a few hours the examination
     would commence, and he was still in the dilemma between making the
     facts public and allowing the culprit to compete for the valuable
     scholarship. He could hardly stand still, so great was his mental
     agitation, and he ran towards Holmes with two eager hands
     outstretched.

     "Thank Heaven that you have come! I feared that you had given it up
     in despair. What am I to do? Shall the examination proceed?"

     "Yes; let it proceed by all means."

     "But this rascal--?"

     "He shall not compete."

     "You know him?"

     "I think so. If this matter is not to become public we must give
     ourselves certain powers, and resolve ourselves into a small private
     court-martial. You there, if you please, Soames! Watson, you here!
     I'll take the arm-chair in the middle. I think that we are now
     sufficiently imposing to strike terror into a guilty breast. Kindly
     ring the bell!"

     Bannister entered, and shrunk back in evident surprise and fear at
     our judicial appearance.

     "You will kindly close the door," said Holmes. "Now, Bannister, will
     you please tell us the truth about yesterday's incident?"

     The man turned white to the roots of his hair.

     "I have told you everything, sir."

     "Nothing to add?"

     "Nothing at all, sir."

     "Well, then, I must make some suggestions to you. When you sat down
     on that chair yesterday, did you do so in order to conceal some
     object which would have shown who had been in the room?"

     Bannister's face was ghastly.

     "No, sir; certainly not."

     "It is only a suggestion," said Holmes, suavely. "I frankly admit
     that I am unable to prove it. But it seems probable enough, since the
     moment that Mr. Soames's back was turned you released the man who was
     hiding in that bedroom."

     Bannister licked his dry lips.

     "There was no man, sir."

     "Ah, that's a pity, Bannister. Up to now you may have spoken the
     truth, but now I know that you have lied."

     The man's face set in sullen defiance.

     "There was no man, sir."

     "Come, come, Bannister!"

     "No, sir; there was no one."

     "In that case you can give us no further information. Would you
     please remain in the room? Stand over there near the bedroom door.
     Now, Soames, I am going to ask you to have the great kindness to go
     up to the room of young Gilchrist, and to ask him to step down into
     yours."

     An instant later the tutor returned, bringing with him the student.
     He was a fine figure of a man, tall, lithe, and agile, with a springy
     step and a pleasant, open face. His troubled blue eyes glanced at
     each of us, and finally rested with an expression of blank dismay
     upon Bannister in the farther corner.

     "Just close the door," said Holmes. "Now, Mr. Gilchrist, we are all
     quite alone here, and no one need ever know one word of what passes
     between us. We can be perfectly frank with each other. We want to
     know, Mr. Gilchrist, how you, an honourable man, ever came to commit
     such an action as that of yesterday?"

     The unfortunate young man staggered back and cast a look full of
     horror and reproach at Bannister.

     "No, no, Mr. Gilchrist, sir; I never said a word--never one word!"
     cried the servant.

     "No, but you have now," said Holmes. "Now, sir, you must see that
     after Bannister's words your position is hopeless, and that your only
     chance lies in a frank confession."

     For a moment Gilchrist, with upraised hand, tried to control his
     writhing features. The next he had thrown himself on his knees beside
     the table and, burying his face in his hands, he had burst into a
     storm of passionate sobbing.

     "Come, come," said Holmes, kindly; "it is human to err, and at least
     no one can accuse you of being a callous criminal. Perhaps it would
     be easier for you if I were to tell Mr. Soames what occurred, and you
     can check me where I am wrong. Shall I do so? Well, well, don't
     trouble to answer. Listen, and see that I do you no injustice.

     "From the moment, Mr. Soames, that you said to me that no one, not
     even Bannister, could have told that the papers were in your room,
     the case began to take a definite shape in my mind. The printer one
     could, of course, dismiss. He could examine the papers in his own
     office. The Indian I also thought nothing of. If the proofs were in a
     roll he could not possibly know what they were. On the other hand, it
     seemed an unthinkable coincidence that a man should dare to enter the
     room, and that by chance on that very day the papers were on the
     table. I dismissed that. The man who entered knew that the papers
     were there. How did he know?

     "When I approached your room I examined the window. You amused me by
     supposing that I was contemplating the possibility of someone having
     in broad daylight, under the eyes of all these opposite rooms, forced
     himself through it. Such an idea was absurd. I was measuring how tall
     a man would need to be in order to see as he passed what papers were
     on the central table. I am six feet high, and I could do it with an
     effort. No one less than that would have a chance. Already you see I
     had reason to think that if one of your three students was a man of
     unusual height he was the most worth watching of the three.

     "I entered and I took you into my confidence as to the suggestions of
     the side table. Of the centre table I could make nothing, until in
     your description of Gilchrist you mentioned that he was a
     long-distance jumper. Then the whole thing came to me in an instant,
     and I only needed certain corroborative proofs, which I speedily
     obtained.

     "What happened was this. This young fellow had employed his afternoon
     at the athletic grounds, where he had been practising the jump. He
     returned carrying his jumping shoes, which are provided, as you are
     aware, with several sharp spikes. As he passed your window he saw, by
     means of his great height, these proofs upon your table, and
     conjectured what they were. No harm would have been done had it not
     been that as he passed your door he perceived the key which had been
     left by the carelessness of your servant. A sudden impulse came over
     him to enter and see if they were indeed the proofs. It was not a
     dangerous exploit, for he could always pretend that he had simply
     looked in to ask a question.

     "Well, when he saw that they were indeed the proofs, it was then that
     he yielded to temptation. He put his shoes on the table. What was it
     you put on that chair near the window?"

     "Gloves," said the young man.

     Holmes looked triumphantly at Bannister. "He put his gloves on the
     chair, and he took the proofs, sheet by sheet, to copy them. He
     thought the tutor must return by the main gate, and that he would see
     him. As we know, he came back by the side gate. Suddenly he heard him
     at the very door. There was no possible escape. He forgot his gloves,
     but he caught up his shoes and darted into the bedroom. You observe
     that the scratch on that table is slight at one side, but deepens in
     the direction of the bedroom door. That in itself is enough to show
     us that the shoe had been drawn in that direction and that the
     culprit had taken refuge there. The earth round the spike had been
     left on the table, and a second sample was loosened and fell in the
     bedroom. I may add that I walked out to the athletic grounds this
     morning, saw that tenacious black clay is used in the jumping-pit,
     and carried away a specimen of it, together with some of the fine tan
     or sawdust which is strewn over it to prevent the athlete from
     slipping. Have I told the truth, Mr. Gilchrist?"

     The student had drawn himself erect.

     "Yes, sir, it is true," said he.

     "Good heavens, have you nothing to add?" cried Soames.

     "Yes, sir, I have, but the shock of this disgraceful exposure has
     bewildered me. I have a letter here, Mr. Soames, which I wrote to you
     early this morning in the middle of a restless night. It was before I
     knew that my sin had found me out. Here it is, sir. You will see that
     I have said, 'I have determined not to go in for the examination. I
     have been offered a commission in the Rhodesian Police, and I am
     going out to South Africa at once.'"

     "I am indeed pleased to hear that you did not intend to profit by
     your unfair advantage," said Soames. "But why did you change your
     purpose?"

     Gilchrist pointed to Bannister.

     "There is the man who set me in the right path," said he.

     "Come now, Bannister," said Holmes. "It will be clear to you from
     what I have said that only you could have let this young man out,
     since you were left in the room, and must have locked the door when
     you went out. As to his escaping by that window, it was incredible.
     Can you not clear up the last point in this mystery, and tell us the
     reasons for your action?"

     "It was simple enough, sir, if you only had known; but with all your
     cleverness it was impossible that you could know. Time was, sir, when
     I was butler to old Sir Jabez Gilchrist, this young gentleman's
     father. When he was ruined I came to the college as servant, but I
     never forgot my old employer because he was down in the world. I
     watched his son all I could for the sake of the old days. Well, sir,
     when I came into this room yesterday when the alarm was given, the
     very first thing I saw was Mr. Gilchrist's tan gloves a-lying in that
     chair. I knew those gloves well, and I understood their message. If
     Mr. Soames saw them the game was up. I flopped down into that chair,
     and nothing would budge me until Mr. Soames he went for you. Then out
     came my poor young master, whom I had dandled on my knee, and
     confessed it all to me. Wasn't it natural, sir, that I should save
     him, and wasn't it natural also that I should try to speak to him as
     his dead father would have done, and make him understand that he
     could not profit by such a deed? Could you blame me, sir?"

     "No, indeed," said Holmes, heartily, springing to his feet. "Well,
     Soames, I think we have cleared your little problem up, and our
     breakfast awaits us at home. Come, Watson! As to you, sir, I trust
     that a bright future awaits you in Rhodesia. For once you have fallen
     low. Let us see in the future how high you can rise."






                      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 unite so many singular
     points of interest as the episode of Yoxley Old Place, which includes
     not only the lamentable death of young Willoughby Smith, but also
     those subsequent developments which threw so curious a light upon the
     causes of the crime.

     It was a wild, tempestuous night towards the close of November.
     Holmes and I sat together in silence all the evening, he engaged with
     a powerful lens deciphering the remains of the original inscription
     upon a palimpsest, I deep in a recent treatise upon surgery. Outside
     the wind howled down Baker Street, while the rain beat fiercely
     against the windows. It was strange there in the very depths of the
     town, with ten miles of man's handiwork on every side of us, to feel
     the iron grip of Nature, and to be conscious that to the huge
     elemental forces all London was no more than the molehills that dot
     the fields. I walked to the window and looked out on the deserted
     street. The occasional lamps gleamed on the expanse of muddy road and
     shining pavement. A single cab was splashing its way from the Oxford
     Street end.

     "Well, Watson, it's as well we have not to turn out to-night," said
     Holmes, laying aside his lens and rolling up the palimpsest. "I've
     done enough for one sitting. It is trying work for the eyes. So far
     as I can make out it is nothing more exciting than an Abbey's
     accounts dating from the second half of the fifteenth century.
     Halloa! halloa! halloa! What's this?"

     Amid the droning of the wind there had come the stamping of a horse's
     hoofs and the long grind of a wheel as it rasped against the kerb.
     The cab which I had seen had pulled up at our door.

     "What can he want?" I ejaculated, as a man stepped out of it.

     "Want! He wants us. And we, my poor Watson, want overcoats and
     cravats and galoshes, and every aid that man ever invented to fight
     the weather. Wait a bit, though! There's the cab off again! There's
     hope yet. He'd have kept it if he had wanted us to come. Run down, my
     dear fellow, and open the door, for all virtuous folk have been long
     in bed."

     When the light of the hall lamp fell upon our midnight visitor I had
     no difficulty in recognising him. It was young Stanley Hopkins, a
     promising detective, in whose career Holmes had several times shown a
     very practical interest.

     "Is he in?" he asked, eagerly.

     "Come up, my dear sir," said Holmes's voice from above. "I hope you
     have no designs upon us on such a night as this."

     The detective mounted the stairs, and our lamp gleamed upon his
     shining waterproof. I helped him out of it while Holmes knocked a
     blaze out of the logs in the grate.

     "Now, my dear Hopkins, draw up and warm your toes," said he. "Here's
     a cigar, and the doctor has a prescription containing hot water and a
     lemon which is good medicine on a night like this. It must be
     something important which has brought you out in such a gale."

     "It is indeed, Mr. Holmes. I've had a bustling afternoon, I promise
     you. Did you see anything of the Yoxley case in the latest editions?"

     "I've seen nothing later than the fifteenth century to-day."

     "Well, it was only a paragraph, and all wrong at that, so you have
     not missed anything. I haven't let the grass grow under my feet. It's
     down in Kent, seven miles from Chatham and three from the railway
     line. I was wired for at three-fifteen, reached Yoxley Old Place at
     five, conducted my investigation, was back at Charing Cross by the
     last train, and straight to you by cab."

     "Which means, I suppose, that you are not quite clear about your
     case?"

     "It means that I can make neither head nor tail of it. So far as I
     can see it is just as tangled a business as ever I handled, and yet
     at first it seemed so simple that one couldn't go wrong. There's no
     motive, Mr. Holmes. That's what bothers me--I can't put my hand on a
     motive. Here's a man dead--there's no denying that--but, so far as I
     can see, no reason on earth why anyone should wish him harm."

     Holmes lit his cigar and leaned back in his chair.

     "Let us hear about it," said he.

     "I've got my facts pretty clear," said Stanley Hopkins. "All I want
     now is to know what they all mean. The story, so far as I can make it
     out, is like this. Some years ago this country house, Yoxley Old
     Place, was taken by an elderly man, who gave the name of Professor
     Coram. He was an invalid, keeping his bed half the time, and the
     other half hobbling round the house with a stick or being pushed
     about the grounds by the gardener in a bath-chair. He was well liked
     by the few neighbours who called upon him, and he has the reputation
     down there of being a very learned man. His household used to consist
     of an elderly housekeeper, Mrs. Marker, and of a maid, Susan Tarlton.
     These have both been with him since his arrival, and they seem to be
     women of excellent character. The Professor is writing a learned
     book, and he found it necessary about a year ago to engage a
     secretary. The first two that he tried were not successes; but the
     third, Mr. Willoughby Smith, a very young man straight from the
     University, seems to have been just what his employer wanted. His
     work consisted in writing all the morning to the Professor's
     dictation, and he usually spent the evening in hunting up references
     and passages which bore upon the next day's work. This Willoughby
     Smith has nothing against him either as a boy at Uppingham or as a
     young man at Cambridge. I have seen his testimonials, and from the
     first he was a decent, quiet, hardworking fellow, with no weak spot
     in him at all. And yet this is the lad who has met his death this
     morning in the Professor's study under circumstances which can point
     only to murder."

     The wind howled and screamed at the windows. Holmes and I drew closer
     to the fire while the young inspector slowly and point by point
     developed his singular narrative.

     "If you were to search all England," said he, "I don't suppose you
     could find a household more self-contained or free from outside
     influences. Whole weeks would pass and not one of them go past the
     garden gate. The Professor was buried in his work and existed for
     nothing else. Young Smith knew nobody in the neighbourhood, and lived
     very much as his employer did. The two women had nothing to take them
     from the house. Mortimer the gardener, who wheels the bath-chair, is
     an Army pensioner--an old Crimean man of excellent character. He does
     not live in the house, but in a three-roomed cottage at the other end
     of the garden. Those are the only people that you would find within
     the grounds of Yoxley Old Place. At the same time, the gate of the
     garden is a hundred yards from the main London to Chatham road. It
     opens with a latch, and there is nothing to prevent anyone from
     walking in.

     "Now I will give you the evidence of Susan Tarlton, who is the only
     person who can say anything positive about the matter. It was in the
     forenoon, between eleven and twelve. She was engaged at the moment in
     hanging some curtains in the upstairs front bedroom. Professor Coram
     was still in bed, for when the weather is bad he seldom rises before
     midday. The housekeeper was busied with some work in the back of the
     house. Willoughby Smith had been in his bedroom, which he uses as a
     sitting-room; but the maid heard him at that moment pass along the
     passage and descend to the study immediately below her. She did not
     see him, but she says that she could not be mistaken in his quick,
     firm tread. She did not hear the study door close, but a minute or so
     later there was a dreadful cry in the room below. It was a wild,
     hoarse scream, so strange and unnatural that it might have come
     either from a man or a woman. At the same instant there was a heavy
     thud, which shook the old house, and then all was silence. The maid
     stood petrified for a moment, and then, recovering her courage, she
     ran downstairs. The study door was shut, and she opened it. Inside
     young Mr. Willoughby Smith was stretched upon the floor. At first she
     could see no injury, but as she tried to raise him she saw that blood
     was pouring from the underside of his neck. It was pierced by a very
     small but very deep wound, which had divided the carotid artery. The
     instrument with which the injury had been inflicted lay upon the
     carpet beside him. It was one of those small sealing-wax knives to be
     found on old-fashioned writing-tables, with an ivory handle and a
     stiff blade. It was part of the fittings of the Professor's own desk.

     "At first the maid thought that young Smith was already dead, but on
     pouring some water from the carafe over his forehead he opened his
     eyes for an instant. 'The Professor,' he murmured--'it was she.' The
     maid is prepared to swear that those were the exact words. He tried
     desperately to say something else, and he held his right hand up in
     the air. Then he fell back dead.

     "In the meantime the housekeeper had also arrived upon the scene, but
     she was just too late to catch the young man's dying words. Leaving
     Susan with the body, she hurried to the Professor's room. He was
     sitting up in bed horribly agitated, for he had heard enough to
     convince him that something terrible had occurred. Mrs. Marker is
     prepared to swear that the Professor was still in his night-clothes,
     and, indeed, it was impossible for him to dress without the help of
     Mortimer, whose orders were to come at twelve o'clock. The Professor
     declares that he heard the distant cry, but that he knows nothing
     more. He can give no explanation of the young man's last words, 'The
     Professor--it was she,' but imagines that they were the outcome of
     delirium. He believes that Willoughby Smith had not an enemy in the
     world, and can give no reason for the crime. His first action was to
     send Mortimer the gardener for the local police. A little later the
     chief constable sent for me. Nothing was moved before I got there,
     and strict orders were given that no one should walk upon the paths
     leading to the house. It was a splendid chance of putting your
     theories into practice, Mr. Sherlock Holmes. There was really nothing
     wanting."

     "Except Mr. Sherlock Holmes," said my companion, with a somewhat
     bitter smile. "Well, let us hear about it. What sort of job did you
     make of it?"

     "I must ask you first, Mr. Holmes, to glance at this rough plan,
     which will give you a general idea of the position of the Professor's
     study and the various points of the case. It will help you in
     following my investigation."

     He unfolded the rough chart, which I here reproduce, and he laid it
     across Holmes's knee. I rose, and, standing behind Holmes, I studied
     it over his shoulder.

     [ Picture: Sketch of the building's room and corridors ]

     "It is very rough, of course, and it only deals with the points which
     seem to me to be essential. All the rest you will see later for
     yourself. Now, first of all, presuming that the assassin entered the
     house, how did he or she come in? Undoubtedly by the garden path and
     the back door, from which there is direct access to the study. Any
     other way would have been exceedingly complicated. The escape must
     have also been made along that line, for of the two other exits from
     the room one was blocked by Susan as she ran downstairs and the other
     leads straight to the Professor's bedroom. I therefore directed my
     attention at once to the garden path, which was saturated with recent
     rain and would certainly show any footmarks.

     "My examination showed me that I was dealing with a cautious and
     expert criminal. No footmarks were to be found on the path. There
     could be no question, however, that someone had passed along the
     grass border which lines the path, and that he had done so in order
     to avoid leaving a track. I could not find anything in the nature of
     a distinct impression, but the grass was trodden down and someone had
     undoubtedly passed. It could only have been the murderer, since
     neither the gardener nor anyone else had been there that morning and
     the rain had only begun during the night."

     "One moment," said Holmes. "Where does this path lead to?"

     "To the road."

     "How long is it?"

     "A hundred yards or so."

     "At the point where the path passes through the gate you could surely
     pick up the tracks?"

     "Unfortunately, the path was tiled at that point."

     "Well, on the road itself?"

     "No; it was all trodden into mire."

     "Tut-tut! Well, then, these tracks upon the grass, were they coming
     or going?"

     "It was impossible to say. There was never any outline."

     "A large foot or a small?"

     "You could not distinguish."

     Holmes gave an ejaculation of impatience.

     "It has been pouring rain and blowing a hurricane ever since," said
     he. "It will be harder to read now than that palimpsest. Well, well,
     it can't be helped. What did you do, Hopkins, after you had made
     certain that you had made certain of nothing?"

     "I think I made certain of a good deal, Mr. Holmes. I knew that
     someone had entered the house cautiously from without. I next
     examined the corridor. It is lined with cocoanut matting and had
     taken no impression of any kind. This brought me into the study
     itself. It is a scantily-furnished room. The main article is a large
     writing-table with a fixed bureau. This bureau consists of a double
     column of drawers with a central small cupboard between them. The
     drawers were open, the cupboard locked. The drawers, it seems, were
     always open, and nothing of value was kept in them. There were some
     papers of importance in the cupboard, but there were no signs that
     this had been tampered with, and the Professor assures me that
     nothing was missing. It is certain that no robbery has been
     committed.

     "I come now to the body of the young man. It was found near the
     bureau, and just to the left of it, as marked upon that chart. The
     stab was on the right side of the neck and from behind forwards, so
     that it is almost impossible that it could have been self-inflicted."

     "Unless he fell upon the knife," said Holmes.

     "Exactly. The idea crossed my mind. But we found the knife some feet
     away from the body, so that seems impossible. Then, of course, there
     are the man's own dying words. And, finally, there was this very
     important piece of evidence which was found clasped in the dead man's
     right hand."

     From his pocket Stanley Hopkins drew a small paper packet. He
     unfolded it and disclosed a golden pince-nez, with two broken ends of
     black silk cord dangling from the end of it. "Willoughby Smith had
     excellent sight," he added. "There can be no question that this was
     snatched from the face or the person of the assassin."

     Sherlock Holmes took the glasses into his hand and examined them with
     the utmost attention and interest. He held them on his nose,
     endeavoured to read through them, went to the window and stared up
     the street with them, looked at them most minutely in the full light
     of the lamp, and finally, with a chuckle, seated himself at the table
     and wrote a few lines upon a sheet of paper, which he tossed across
     to Stanley Hopkins.

     "That's the best I can do for you," said he. "It may prove to be of
     some use."

     The astonished detective read the note aloud. It ran as follows:

     "Wanted, a woman of good address, attired like a lady. She has a
     remarkably thick nose, with eyes which are set close upon either side
     of it. She has a puckered forehead, a peering expression, and
     probably rounded shoulders. There are indications that she has had
     recourse to an optician at least twice during the last few months. As
     her glasses are of remarkable strength and as opticians are not very
     numerous, there should be no difficulty in tracing her."

     Holmes smiled at the astonishment of Hopkins, which must have been
     reflected upon my features.

     "Surely my deductions are simplicity itself," said he. "It would be
     difficult to name any articles which afford a finer field for
     inference than a pair of glasses, especially so remarkable a pair as
     these. That they belong to a woman I infer from their delicacy, and
     also, of course, from the last words of the dying man. As to her
     being a person of refinement and well dressed, they are, as you
     perceive, handsomely mounted in solid gold, and it is inconceivable
     that anyone who wore such glasses could be slatternly in other
     respects. You will find that the clips are too wide for your nose,
     showing that the lady's nose was very broad at the base. This sort of
     nose is usually a short and coarse one, but there are a sufficient
     number of exceptions to prevent me from being dogmatic or from
     insisting upon this point in my description. My own face is a narrow
     one, and yet I find that I cannot get my eyes into the centre, or
     near the centre, of these glasses. Therefore the lady's eyes are set
     very near to the sides of the nose. You will perceive, Watson, that
     the glasses are concave and of unusual strength. A lady whose vision
     has been so extremely contracted all her life is sure to have the
     physical characteristics of such vision, which are seen in the
     forehead, the eyelids, and the shoulders."

     "Yes," I said, "I can follow each of your arguments. I confess,
     however, that I am unable to understand how you arrive at the double
     visit to the optician."

     Holmes took the glasses in his hand.

     "You will perceive," he said, "that the clips are lined with tiny
     bands of cork to soften the pressure upon the nose. One of these is
     discoloured and worn to some slight extent, but the other is new.
     Evidently one has fallen off and been replaced. I should judge that
     the older of them has not been there more than a few months. They
     exactly correspond, so I gather that the lady went back to the same
     establishment for the second."

     "By George, it's marvellous!" cried Hopkins, in an ecstasy of
     admiration. "To think that I had all that evidence in my hand and
     never knew it! I had intended, however, to go the round of the London
     opticians."

     "Of course you would. Meanwhile, have you anything more to tell us
     about the case?"

     "Nothing, Mr. Holmes. I think that you know as much as I do
     now--probably more. We have had inquiries made as to any stranger
     seen on the country roads or at the railway station. We have heard of
     none. What beats me is the utter want of all object in the crime. Not
     a ghost of a motive can anyone suggest."

     "Ah! there I am not in a position to help you. But I suppose you want
     us to come out to-morrow?"

     "If it is not asking too much, Mr. Holmes. There's a train from
     Charing Cross to Chatham at six in the morning, and we should be at
     Yoxley Old Place between eight and nine."

     "Then we shall take it. Your case has certainly some features of
     great interest, and I shall be delighted to look into it. Well, it's
     nearly one, and we had best get a few hours' sleep. I dare say you
     can manage all right on the sofa in front of the fire. I'll light my
     spirit-lamp and give you a cup of coffee before we start."

     The gale had blown itself out next day, but it was a bitter morning
     when we started upon our journey. We saw the cold winter sun rise
     over the dreary marshes of the Thames and the long, sullen reaches of
     the river, which I shall ever associate with our pursuit of the
     Andaman Islander in the earlier days of our career. After a long and
     weary journey we alighted at a small station some miles from Chatham.
     While a horse was being put into a trap at the local inn we snatched
     a hurried breakfast, and so we were all ready for business when we at
     last arrived at Yoxley Old Place. A constable met us at the garden
     gate.

     "Well, Wilson, any news?"

     "No, sir, nothing."

     "No reports of any stranger seen?"

     "No, sir. Down at the station they are certain that no stranger
     either came or went yesterday."

     "Have you had inquiries made at inns and lodgings?"

     "Yes, sir; there is no one that we cannot account for."

     "Well, it's only a reasonable walk to Chatham. Anyone might stay
     there, or take a train without being observed. This is the garden
     path of which I spoke, Mr. Holmes. I'll pledge my word there was no
     mark on it yesterday."

     "On which side were the marks on the grass?"

     "This side, sir. This narrow margin of grass between the path and the
     flower-bed. I can't see the traces now, but they were clear to me
     then."

     "Yes, yes; someone has passed along," said Holmes, stooping over the
     grass border. "Our lady must have picked her steps carefully, must
     she not, since on the one side she would leave a track on the path,
     and on the other an even clearer one on the soft bed?"

     "Yes, sir, she must have been a cool hand."

     I saw an intent look pass over Holmes's face.

     "You say that she must have come back this way?"

     "Yes, sir; there is no other."

     "On this strip of grass?"

     "Certainly, Mr. Holmes."

     "Hum! It was a very remarkable performance--very remarkable. Well, I
     think we have exhausted the path. Let us go farther. This garden door
     is usually kept open, I suppose? Then this visitor had nothing to do
     but to walk in. The idea of murder was not in her mind, or she would
     have provided herself with some sort of weapon, instead of having to
     pick this knife off the writing-table. She advanced along this
     corridor, leaving no traces upon the cocoanut matting. Then she found
     herself in this study. How long was she there? We have no means of
     judging."

     "Not more than a few minutes, sir. I forgot to tell you that Mrs.
     Marker, the housekeeper, had been in there tidying not very long
     before--about a quarter of an hour, she says."

     "Well, that gives us a limit. Our lady enters this room and what does
     she do? She goes over to the writing-table. What for? Not for
     anything in the drawers. If there had been anything worth her taking
     it would surely have been locked up. No; it was for something in that
     wooden bureau. Halloa! what is that scratch upon the face of it? Just
     hold a match, Watson. Why did you not tell me of this, Hopkins?"

     The mark which he was examining began upon the brass work on the
     right-hand side of the keyhole, and extended for about four inches,
     where it had scratched the varnish from the surface.

     "I noticed it, Mr. Holmes. But you'll always find scratches round a
     keyhole."

     "This is recent, quite recent. See how the brass shines where it is
     cut. An old scratch would be the same colour as the surface. Look at
     it through my lens. There's the varnish, too, like earth on each side
     of a furrow. Is Mrs. Marker there?"

     A sad-faced, elderly woman came into the room.

     "Did you dust this bureau yesterday morning?"

     "Yes, sir."

     "Did you notice this scratch?"

     "No, sir, I did not."

     "I am sure you did not, for a duster would have swept away these
     shreds of varnish. Who has the key of this bureau?"

     "The Professor keeps it on his watch-chain."

     "Is it a simple key?"

     "No, sir; it is a Chubb's key."

     "Very good. Mrs. Marker, you can go. Now we are making a little
     progress. Our lady enters the room, advances to the bureau, and
     either opens it or tries to do so. While she is thus engaged young
     Willoughby Smith enters the room. In her hurry to withdraw the key
     she makes this scratch upon the door. He seizes her, and she,
     snatching up the nearest object, which happens to be this knife,
     strikes at him in order to make him let go his hold. The blow is a
     fatal one. He falls and she escapes, either with or without the
     object for which she has come. Is Susan the maid there? Could anyone
     have got away through that door after the time that you heard the
     cry, Susan?"

     "No sir; it is impossible. Before I got down the stair I'd have seen
     anyone in the passage. Besides, the door never opened, for I would
     have heard it."

     "That settles this exit. Then no doubt the lady went out the way she
     came. I understand that this other passage leads only to the
     Professor's room. There is no exit that way?"

     "No, sir."

     "We shall go down it and make the acquaintance of the Professor.
     Halloa, Hopkins! this is very important, very important indeed. The
     Professor's corridor is also lined with cocoanut matting."

     "Well, sir, what of that?"

     "Don't you see any bearing upon the case? Well, well, I don't insist
     upon it. No doubt I am wrong. And yet it seems to me to be
     suggestive. Come with me and introduce me."

     We passed down the passage, which was of the same length as that
     which led to the garden. At the end was a short flight of steps
     ending in a door. Our guide knocked, and then ushered us into the
     Professor's bedroom.

     It was a very large chamber, lined with innumerable volumes, which
     had overflowed from the shelves and lay in piles in the corners, or
     were stacked all round at the base of the cases. The bed was in the
     centre of the room, and in it, propped up with pillows, was the owner
     of the house. I have seldom seen a more remarkable-looking person. It
     was a gaunt, aquiline face which was turned towards us, with piercing
     dark eyes, which lurked in deep hollows under overhung and tufted
     brows. His hair and beard were white, save that the latter was
     curiously stained with yellow around his mouth. A cigarette glowed
     amid the tangle of white hair, and the air of the room was fetid with
     stale tobacco-smoke. As he held out his hand to Holmes I perceived
     that it also was stained yellow with nicotine.

     "A smoker, Mr. Holmes?" said he, speaking well-chosen English with a
     curious little mincing accent. "Pray take a cigarette. And you, sir?
     I can recommend them, for I have them especially prepared by Ionides
     of Alexandria. He sends me a thousand at a time, and I grieve to say
     that I have to arrange for a fresh supply every fortnight. Bad, sir,
     very bad, but an old man has few pleasures. Tobacco and my work--that
     is all that is left to me."

     Holmes had lit a cigarette, and was shooting little darting glances
     all over the room.

     "Tobacco and my work, but now only tobacco," the old man exclaimed.
     "Alas! what a fatal interruption! Who could have foreseen such a
     terrible catastrophe? So estimable a young man! I assure you that
     after a few months' training he was an admirable assistant. What do
     you think of the matter, Mr. Holmes?"

     "I have not yet made up my mind."

     "I shall indeed be indebted to you if you can throw a light where all
     is so dark to us. To a poor bookworm and invalid like myself such a
     blow is paralyzing. I seem to have lost the faculty of thought. But
     you are a man of action--you are a man of affairs. It is part of the
     everyday routine of your life. You can preserve your balance in every
     emergency. We are fortunate indeed in having you at our side."

     Holmes was pacing up and down one side of the room whilst the old
     Professor was talking. I observed that he was smoking with
     extraordinary rapidity. It was evident that he shared our host's
     liking for the fresh Alexandrian cigarettes.

     "Yes, sir, it is a crushing blow," said the old man. "That is my
     magnum opus--the pile of papers on the side table yonder. It is my
     analysis of the documents found in the Coptic monasteries of Syria
     and Egypt, a work which will cut deep at the very foundations of
     revealed religion. With my enfeebled health I do not know whether I
     shall ever be able to complete it now that my assistant has been
     taken from me. Dear me, Mr. Holmes; why, you are even a quicker
     smoker than I am myself."

     Holmes smiled.

     "I am a connoisseur," said he, taking another cigarette from the
     box--his fourth--and lighting it from the stub of that which he had
     finished. "I will not trouble you with any lengthy cross-examination,
     Professor Coram, since I gather that you were in bed at the time of
     the crime and could know nothing about it. I would only ask this.
     What do you imagine that this poor fellow meant by his last words:
     'The Professor--it was she'?"

     The Professor shook his head.

     "Susan is a country girl," said he, "and you know the incredible
     stupidity of that class. I fancy that the poor fellow murmured some
     incoherent delirious words, and that she twisted them into this
     meaningless message."

     "I see. You have no explanation yourself of the tragedy?"

     "Possibly an accident; possibly--I only breathe it among ourselves--a
     suicide. Young men have their hidden troubles--some affair of the
     heart, perhaps, which we have never known. It is a more probable
     supposition than murder."

     "But the eye-glasses?"

     "Ah! I am only a student--a man of dreams. I cannot explain the
     practical things of life. But still, we are aware, my friend, that
     love-gages may take strange shapes. By all means take another
     cigarette. It is a pleasure to see anyone appreciate them so. A fan,
     a glove, glasses--who knows what article may be carried as a token or
     treasured when a man puts an end to his life? This gentleman speaks
     of footsteps in the grass; but, after all, it is easy to be mistaken
     on such a point. As to the knife, it might well be thrown far from
     the unfortunate man as he fell. It is possible that I speak as a
     child, but to me it seems that Willoughby Smith has met his fate by
     his own hand."

     Holmes seemed struck by the theory thus put forward, and he continued
     to walk up and down for some time, lost in thought and consuming
     cigarette after cigarette.

     "Tell me, Professor Coram," he said, at last, "what is in that
     cupboard in the bureau?"

     "Nothing that would help a thief. Family papers, letters from my poor
     wife, diplomas of Universities which have done me honour. Here is the
     key. You can look for yourself."

     Holmes picked up the key and looked at it for an instant; then he
     handed it back.

     "No; I hardly think that it would help me," said he. "I should prefer
     to go quietly down to your garden and turn the whole matter over in
     my head. There is something to be said for the theory of suicide
     which you have put forward. We must apologize for having intruded
     upon you, Professor Coram, and I promise that we won't disturb you
     until after lunch. At two o'clock we will come again and report to
     you anything which may have happened in the interval."

     Holmes was curiously distrait, and we walked up and down the garden
     path for some time in silence.

     "Have you a clue?" I asked, at last.

     "It depends upon those cigarettes that I smoked," said he. "It is
     possible that I am utterly mistaken. The cigarettes will show me."

     "My dear Holmes," I exclaimed, "how on earth--"

     "Well, well, you may see for yourself. If not, there's no harm done.
     Of course, we always have the optician clue to fall back upon, but I
     take a short cut when I can get it. Ah, here is the good Mrs. Marker!
     Let us enjoy five minutes of instructive conversation with her."

     I may have remarked before that Holmes had, when he liked, a
     peculiarly ingratiating way with women, and that he very readily
     established terms of confidence with them. In half the time which he
     had named he had captured the housekeeper's goodwill, and was
     chatting with her as if he had known her for years.

     "Yes, Mr. Holmes, it is as you say, sir. He does smoke something
     terrible. All day and sometimes all night, sir. I've seen that room
     of a morning--well, sir, you'd have thought it was a London fog. Poor
     young Mr. Smith, he was a smoker also, but not as bad as the
     Professor. His health--well, I don't know that it's better nor worse
     for the smoking."

     "Ah!" said Holmes, "but it kills the appetite."

     "Well, I don't know about that, sir."

     "I suppose the Professor eats hardly anything?"

     "Well, he is variable. I'll say that for him."

     "I'll wager he took no breakfast this morning, and won't face his
     lunch after all the cigarettes I saw him consume."

     "Well, you're out there, sir, as it happens, for he ate a remarkable
     big breakfast this morning. I don't know when I've known him make a
     better one, and he's ordered a good dish of cutlets for his lunch.
     I'm surprised myself, for since I came into that room yesterday and
     saw young Mr. Smith lying there on the floor I couldn't bear to look
     at food. Well, it takes all sorts to make a world, and the Professor
     hasn't let it take his appetite away."

     We loitered the morning away in the garden. Stanley Hopkins had gone
     down to the village to look into some rumours of a strange woman who
     had been seen by some children on the Chatham Road the previous
     morning. As to my friend, all his usual energy seemed to have
     deserted him. I had never known him handle a case in such a
     half-hearted fashion. Even the news brought back by Hopkins that he
     had found the children and that they had undoubtedly seen a woman
     exactly corresponding with Holmes's description, and wearing either
     spectacles or eye-glasses, failed to rouse any sign of keen interest.
     He was more attentive when Susan, who waited upon us at lunch,
     volunteered the information that she believed Mr. Smith had been out
     for a walk yesterday morning, and that he had only returned half an
     hour before the tragedy occurred. I could not myself see the bearing
     of this incident, but I clearly perceived that Holmes was weaving it
     into the general scheme which he had formed in his brain. Suddenly he
     sprang from his chair and glanced at his watch. "Two o'clock,
     gentlemen," said he. "We must go up and have it out with our friend
     the Professor."

     The old man had just finished his lunch, and certainly his empty dish
     bore evidence to the good appetite with which his housekeeper had
     credited him. He was, indeed, a weird figure as he turned his white
     mane and his glowing eyes towards us. The eternal cigarette
     smouldered in his mouth. He had been dressed and was seated in an
     arm-chair by the fire.

     "Well, Mr. Holmes, have you solved this mystery yet?" He shoved the
     large tin of cigarettes which stood on a table beside him towards my
     companion. Holmes stretched out his hand at the same moment, and
     between them they tipped the box over the edge. For a minute or two
     we were all on our knees retrieving stray cigarettes from impossible
     places. When we rose again I observed that Holmes's eyes were shining
     and his cheeks tinged with colour. Only at a crisis have I seen those
     battle-signals flying.

     "Yes," said he, "I have solved it."

     Stanley Hopkins and I stared in amazement. Something like a sneer
     quivered over the gaunt features of the old Professor.

     "Indeed! In the garden?"

     "No, here."

     "Here! When?"

     "This instant."

     "You are surely joking, Mr. Sherlock Holmes. You compel me to tell
     you that this is too serious a matter to be treated in such a
     fashion."

     "I have forged and tested every link of my chain, Professor Coram,
     and I am sure that it is sound. What your motives are or what exact
     part you play in this strange business I am not yet able to say. In a
     few minutes I shall probably hear it from your own lips. Meanwhile I
     will reconstruct what is past for your benefit, so that you may know
     the information which I still require.

     "A lady yesterday entered your study. She came with the intention of
     possessing herself of certain documents which were in your bureau.
     She had a key of her own. I have had an opportunity of examining
     yours, and I do not find that slight discolouration which the scratch
     made upon the varnish would have produced. You were not an accessory,
     therefore, and she came, so far as I can read the evidence, without
     your knowledge to rob you."

     The Professor blew a cloud from his lips. "This is most interesting
     and instructive," said he. "Have you no more to add? Surely, having
     traced this lady so far, you can also say what has become of her."

     "I will endeavour to do so. In the first place she was seized by your
     secretary, and stabbed him in order to escape. This catastrophe I am
     inclined to regard as an unhappy accident, for I am convinced that
     the lady had no intention of inflicting so grievous an injury. An
     assassin does not come unarmed. Horrified by what she had done she
     rushed wildly away from the scene of the tragedy. Unfortunately for
     her she had lost her glasses in the scuffle, and as she was extremely
     short-sighted she was really helpless without them. She ran down a
     corridor, which she imagined to be that by which she had come--both
     were lined with cocoanut matting--and it was only when it was too
     late that she understood that she had taken the wrong passage and
     that her retreat was cut off behind her. What was she to do? She
     could not go back. She could not remain where she was. She must go
     on. She went on. She mounted a stair, pushed open a door, and found
     herself in your room."

     The old man sat with his mouth open staring wildly at Holmes.
     Amazement and fear were stamped upon his expressive features. Now,
     with an effort, he shrugged his shoulders and burst into insincere
     laughter.

     "All very fine, Mr. Holmes," said he. "But there is one little flaw
     in your splendid theory. I was myself in my room, and I never left it
     during the day."

     "I am aware of that, Professor Coram."

     "And you mean to say that I could lie upon that bed and not be aware
     that a woman had entered my room?"

     "I never said so. You were aware of it. You spoke with her. You
     recognised her. You aided her to escape."

     Again the Professor burst into high-keyed laughter. He had risen to
     his feet and his eyes glowed like embers.

     "You are mad!" he cried. "You are talking insanely. I helped her to
     escape? Where is she now?"

     "She is there," said Holmes, and he pointed to a high bookcase in the
     corner of the room.

     I saw the old man throw up his arms, a terrible convulsion passed
     over his grim face, and he fell back in his chair. At the same
     instant the bookcase at which Holmes pointed swung round upon a
     hinge, and a woman rushed out into the room. "You are right!" she
     cried, in a strange foreign voice. "You are right! I am here."

     She was brown with the dust and draped with the cobwebs which had
     come from the walls of her hiding-place. Her face, too, was streaked
     with grime, and at the best she could never have been handsome, for
     she had the exact physical characteristics which Holmes had divined,
     with, in addition, a long and obstinate chin. What with her natural
     blindness, and what with the change from dark to light, she stood as
     one dazed, blinking about her to see where and who we were. And yet,
     in spite of all these disadvantages, there was a certain nobility in
     the woman's bearing, a gallantry in the defiant chin and in the
     upraised head, which compelled something of respect and admiration.
     Stanley Hopkins had laid his hand upon her arm and claimed her as his
     prisoner, but she waved him aside gently, and yet with an
     overmastering dignity which compelled obedience. The old man lay back
     in his chair, with a twitching face, and stared at her with brooding
     eyes.

     "Yes, sir, I am your prisoner," she said. "From where I stood I could
     hear everything, and I know that you have learned the truth. I
     confess it all. It was I who killed the young man. But you are right,
     you who say it was an accident. I did not even know that it was a
     knife which I held in my hand, for in my despair I snatched anything
     from the table and struck at him to make him let me go. It is the
     truth that I tell."

     "Madam," said Holmes, "I am sure that it is the truth. I fear that
     you are far from well."

     She had turned a dreadful colour, the more ghastly under the dark
     dust-streaks upon her face. She seated herself on the side of the
     bed; then she resumed.

     "I have only a little time here," she said, "but I would have you to
     know the whole truth. I am this man's wife. He is not an Englishman.
     He is a Russian. His name I will not tell."

     For the first time the old man stirred. "God bless you, Anna!" he
     cried. "God bless you!"

     She cast a look of the deepest disdain in his direction. "Why should
     you cling so hard to that wretched life of yours, Sergius?" said she.
     "It has done harm to many and good to none--not even to yourself.
     However, it is not for me to cause the frail thread to be snapped
     before God's time. I have enough already upon my soul since I crossed
     the threshold of this cursed house. But I must speak or I shall be
     too late.

     "I have said, gentlemen, that I am this man's wife. He was fifty and
     I a foolish girl of twenty when we married. It was in a city of
     Russia, a University--I will not name the place."

     "God bless you, Anna!" murmured the old man again.

     "We were reformers--revolutionists--Nihilists, you understand. He and
     I and many more. Then there came a time of trouble, a police officer
     was killed, many were arrested, evidence was wanted, and in order to
     save his own life and to earn a great reward my husband betrayed his
     own wife and his companions. Yes, we were all arrested upon his
     confession. Some of us found our way to the gallows and some to
     Siberia. I was among these last, but my term was not for life. My
     husband came to England with his ill-gotten gains, and has lived in
     quiet ever since, knowing well that if the Brotherhood knew where he
     was not a week would pass before justice would be done."

     The old man reached out a trembling hand and helped himself to a
     cigarette. "I am in your hands, Anna," said he. "You were always good
     to me."

     "I have not yet told you the height of his villainy," said she.
     "Among our comrades of the Order there was one who was the friend of
     my heart. He was noble, unselfish, loving--all that my husband was
     not. He hated violence. We were all guilty--if that is guilt--but he
     was not. He wrote for ever dissuading us from such a course. These
     letters would have saved him. So would my diary, in which from day to
     day I had entered both my feelings towards him and the view which
     each of us had taken. My husband found and kept both diary and
     letters. He hid them, and he tried hard to swear away the young man's
     life. In this he failed, but Alexis was sent a convict to Siberia,
     where now, at this moment, he works in a salt mine. Think of that,
     you villain, you villain; now, now, at this very moment, Alexis, a
     man whose name you are not worthy to speak, works and lives like a
     slave, and yet I have your life in my hands and I let you go."

     "You were always a noble woman, Anna," said the old man, puffing at
     his cigarette.

     She had risen, but she fell back again with a little cry of pain.

     "I must finish," she said. "When my term was over I set myself to get
     the diary and letters which, if sent to the Russian Government, would
     procure my friend's release. I knew that my husband had come to
     England. After months of searching I discovered where he was. I knew
     that he still had the diary, for when I was in Siberia I had a letter
     from him once reproaching me and quoting some passages from its
     pages. Yet I was sure that with his revengeful nature he would never
     give it to me of his own free will. I must get it for myself. With
     this object I engaged an agent from a private detective firm, who
     entered my husband's house as secretary--it was your second
     secretary, Sergius, the one who left you so hurriedly. He found that
     papers were kept in the cupboard, and he got an impression of the
     key. He would not go farther. He furnished me with a plan of the
     house, and he told me that in the forenoon the study was always
     empty, as the secretary was employed up here. So at last I took my
     courage in both hands and I came down to get the papers for myself. I
     succeeded, but at what a cost!

     "I had just taken the papers and was locking the cupboard when the
     young man seized me. I had seen him already that morning. He had met
     me in the road and I had asked him to tell me where Professor Coram
     lived, not knowing that he was in his employ."

     "Exactly! exactly!" said Holmes. "The secretary came back and told
     his employer of the woman he had met. Then in his last breath he
     tried to send a message that it was she--the she whom he had just
     discussed with him."

     "You must let me speak," said the woman, in an imperative voice, and
     her face contracted as if in pain. "When he had fallen I rushed from
     the room, chose the wrong door, and found myself in my husband's
     room. He spoke of giving me up. I showed him that if he did so his
     life was in my hands. If he gave me to the law I could give him to
     the Brotherhood. It was not that I wished to live for my own sake,
     but it was that I desired to accomplish my purpose. He knew that I
     would do what I said--that his own fate was involved in mine. For
     that reason and for no other he shielded me. He thrust me into that
     dark hiding-place, a relic of old days, known only to himself. He
     took his meals in his own room, and so was able to give me part of
     his food. It was agreed that when the police left the house I should
     slip away by night and come back no more. But in some way you have
     read our plans." She tore from the bosom of her dress a small packet.
     "These are my last words," said she; "here is the packet which will
     save Alexis. I confide it to your honour and to your love of justice.
     Take it! You will deliver it at the Russian Embassy. Now I have done
     my duty, and--"

     "Stop her!" cried Holmes. He had bounded across the room and had
     wrenched a small phial from her hand.

     "Too late!" she said, sinking back on the bed. "Too late! I took the
     poison before I left my hiding-place. My head swims! I am going! I
     charge you, sir, to remember the packet."

     "A simple case, and yet in some ways an instructive one," Holmes
     remarked, as we travelled back to town. "It hinged from the outset
     upon the pince-nez. But for the fortunate chance of the dying man
     having seized these I am not sure that we could ever have reached our
     solution. It was clear to me from the strength of the glasses that
     the wearer must have been very blind and helpless when deprived of
     them. When you asked me to believe that she walked along a narrow
     strip of grass without once making a false step I remarked, as you
     may remember, that it was a noteworthy performance. In my mind I set
     it down as an impossible performance, save in the unlikely case that
     she had a second pair of glasses. I was forced, therefore, to
     seriously consider the hypothesis that she had remained within the
     house. On perceiving the similarity of the two corridors it became
     clear that she might very easily have made such a mistake, and in
     that case it was evident that she must have entered the Professor's
     room. I was keenly on the alert, therefore, for whatever would bear
     out this supposition, and I examined the room narrowly for anything
     in the shape of a hiding-place. The carpet seemed continuous and
     firmly nailed, so I dismissed the idea of a trap-door. There might
     well be a recess behind the books. As you are aware, such devices are
     common in old libraries. I observed that books were piled on the
     floor at all other points, but that one bookcase was left clear.
     This, then, might be the door. I could see no marks to guide me, but
     the carpet was of a dun colour, which lends itself very well to
     examination. I therefore smoked a great number of those excellent
     cigarettes, and I dropped the ash all over the space in front of the
     suspected bookcase. It was a simple trick, but exceedingly effective.
     I then went downstairs and I ascertained, in your presence, Watson,
     without your perceiving the drift of my remarks, that Professor
     Coram's consumption of food had increased--as one would expect when
     he is supplying a second person. We then ascended to the room again,
     when, by upsetting the cigarette-box, I obtained a very excellent
     view of the floor, and was able to see quite clearly, from the traces
     upon the cigarette ash, that the prisoner had, in our absence, come
     out from her retreat. Well, Hopkins, here we are at Charing Cross,
     and I congratulate you on having brought your case to a successful
     conclusion. You are going to head-quarters, no doubt. I think,
     Watson, you and I will drive together to the Russian Embassy."






                   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 post-mark and dispatched ten-thirty-six," said Holmes,
     reading it over and over. "Mr. Overton was evidently considerably
     excited when he sent it, and somewhat incoherent in consequence.
     Well, well, he will be here, I dare say, by the time I have looked
     through the times, and then we shall know all about it. Even the most
     insignificant problem would be welcome in these stagnant days."

     Things had indeed been very slow with us, and I had learned to dread
     such periods of inaction, for I knew by experience that my
     companion's brain was so abnormally active that it was dangerous to
     leave it without material upon which to work. For years I had
     gradually weaned him from that drug mania which had threatened once
     to check his remarkable career. Now I knew that under ordinary
     conditions he no longer craved for this artificial stimulus, but I
     was well aware that the fiend was not dead, but sleeping; and I have
     known that the sleep was a light one and the waking near when in
     periods of idleness I have seen the drawn look upon Holmes's ascetic
     face, and the brooding of his deep-set and inscrutable eyes.
     Therefore I blessed this Mr. Overton, whoever he might be, since he
     had come with his enigmatic message to break that dangerous calm
     which brought more peril to my friend than all the storms of his
     tempestuous life.

     As we had expected, the telegram was soon followed by its sender, and
     the card of Mr. Cyril Overton, of Trinity College, Cambridge,
     announced the arrival of an enormous young man, sixteen stone of
     solid bone and muscle, who spanned the doorway with his broad
     shoulders and looked from one of us to the other with a comely face
     which was haggard with anxiety.

     "Mr. Sherlock Holmes?"

     My companion bowed.

     "I've been down to Scotland Yard, Mr. Holmes. I saw Inspector Stanley
     Hopkins. He advised me to come to you. He said the case, so far as he
     could see, was more in your line than in that of the regular police."

     "Pray sit down and tell me what is the matter."

     "It's awful, Mr. Holmes, simply awful! I wonder my hair isn't grey.
     Godfrey Staunton--you've heard of him, of course? He's simply the
     hinge that the whole team turns on. I'd rather spare two from the
     pack and have Godfrey for my three-quarter line. Whether it's
     passing, or tackling, or dribbling, there's no one to touch him; and
     then, he's got the head and can hold us all together. What am I to
     do? That's what I ask you, Mr. Holmes. There's Moorhouse, first
     reserve, but he is trained as a half, and he always edges right in on
     to the scrum instead of keeping out on the touch-line. He's a fine
     place-kick, it's true, but, then, he has no judgment, and he can't
     sprint for nuts. Why, Morton or Johnson, the Oxford fliers, could
     romp round him. Stevenson is fast enough, but he couldn't drop from
     the twenty-five line, and a three-quarter who can't either punt or
     drop isn't worth a place for pace alone. No, Mr. Holmes, we are done
     unless you can help me to find Godfrey Staunton."

     My friend had listened with amused surprise to this long speech,
     which was poured forth with extraordinary vigour and earnestness,
     every point being driven home by the slapping of a brawny hand upon
     the speaker's knee. When our visitor was silent Holmes stretched out
     his hand and took down letter "S" of his commonplace book. For once
     he dug in vain into that mine of varied information.

     "There is Arthur H. Staunton, the rising young forger," said he, "and
     there was Henry Staunton, whom I helped to hang, but Godfrey Staunton
     is a new name to me."

     It was our visitor's turn to look surprised.

     "Why, Mr. Holmes, I thought you knew things," said he. "I suppose,
     then, if you have never heard of Godfrey Staunton you don't know
     Cyril Overton either?"

     Holmes shook his head good-humouredly.

     "Great Scot!" cried the athlete. "Why, I was first reserve for
     England against Wales, and I've skippered the 'Varsity all this year.
     But that's nothing! I didn't think there was a soul in England who
     didn't know Godfrey Staunton, the crack three-quarter, Cambridge,
     Blackheath, and five Internationals. Good Lord! Mr. Holmes, where
     have you lived?"

     Holmes laughed at the young giant's naive astonishment.

     "You live in a different world to me, Mr. Overton, a sweeter and
     healthier one. My ramifications stretch out into many sections of
     society, but never, I am happy to say, into amateur sport, which is
     the best and soundest thing in England. However, your unexpected
     visit this morning shows me that even in that world of fresh air and
     fair play there may be work for me to do; so now, my good sir, I beg
     you to sit down and to tell me slowly and quietly exactly what it is
     that has occurred, and how you desire that I should help you."

     Young Overton's face assumed the bothered look of the man who is more
     accustomed to using his muscles than his wits; but by degrees, with
     many repetitions and obscurities which I may omit from his narrative,
     he laid his strange story before us.

     "It's this way, Mr. Holmes. As I have said, I am the skipper of the
     Rugger team of Cambridge 'Varsity, and Godfrey Staunton is my best
     man. To-morrow we play Oxford. Yesterday we all came up and we
     settled at Bentley's private hotel. At ten o'clock I went round and
     saw that all the fellows had gone to roost, for I believe in strict
     training and plenty of sleep to keep a team fit. I had a word or two
     with Godfrey before he turned in. He seemed to me to be pale and
     bothered. I asked him what was the matter. He said he was all
     right--just a touch of headache. I bade him good-night and left him.
     Half an hour later the porter tells me that a rough-looking man with
     a beard called with a note for Godfrey. He had not gone to bed and
     the note was taken to his room. Godfrey read it and fell back in a
     chair as if he had been pole-axed. The porter was so scared that he
     was going to fetch me, but Godfrey stopped him, had a drink of water,
     and pulled himself together. Then he went downstairs, said a few
     words to the man who was waiting in the hall, and the two of them
     went off together. The last that the porter saw of them, they were
     almost running down the street in the direction of the Strand. This
     morning Godfrey's room was empty, his bed had never been slept in,
     and his things were all just as I had seen them the night before. He
     had gone off at a moment's notice with this stranger, and no word has
     come from him since. I don't believe he will ever come back. He was a
     sportsman, was Godfrey, down to his marrow, and he wouldn't have
     stopped his training and let in his skipper if it were not for some
     cause that was too strong for him. No; I feel as if he were gone for
     good and we should never see him again."

     Sherlock Holmes listened with the deepest attention to this singular
     narrative.

     "What did you do?" he asked.

     "I wired to Cambridge to learn if anything had been heard of him
     there. I have had an answer. No one has seen him."

     "Could he have got back to Cambridge?"

     "Yes, there is a late train--quarter-past eleven."

     "But so far as you can ascertain he did not take it?"

     "No, he has not been seen."

     "What did you do next?"

     "I wired to Lord Mount-James."

     "Why to Lord Mount-James?"

     "Godfrey is an orphan, and Lord Mount-James is his nearest
     relative--his uncle, I believe."

     "Indeed. This throws new light upon the matter. Lord Mount-James is
     one of the richest men in England."

     "So I've heard Godfrey say."

     "And your friend was closely related?"

     "Yes, he was his heir, and the old boy is nearly eighty--cram full of
     gout, too. They say he could chalk his billiard-cue with his
     knuckles. He never allowed Godfrey a shilling in his life, for he is
     an absolute miser, but it will all come to him right enough."

     "Have you heard from Lord Mount-James?"

     "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 this 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 working man. 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:

     [ Picture: Several unreadable scrawls on paper ]

     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:

     [ Picture: Stand by us for God’s sake! ]

     "So that is the tail end of the telegram which Godfrey Staunton
     dispatched within a few hours of his disappearance. There are at
     least six words of the message which have escaped us; but what
     remains--'Stand by us for God's sake!'--proves that this young man
     saw a formidable danger which approached him, and from which someone
     else could protect him. 'Us,' mark you! Another person was involved.
     Who should it be but the pale-faced, bearded man, who seemed himself
     in so nervous a state? What, then, is the connection between Godfrey
     Staunton and the bearded man? And what is the third source from which
     each of them sought for help against pressing danger? Our inquiry has
     already narrowed down to that."

     "We have only to find to whom that telegram is addressed," I
     suggested.

     "Exactly, my dear Watson. Your reflection, though profound, had
     already crossed my mind. But I dare say it may have come to your
     notice that if you walk into a post-office and demand to see the
     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 note-books, 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
     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 note-book. "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 post-office 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 turned 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 more 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 villages 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 onwards. 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 we 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 co-operation 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 a 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 during 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 it 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 text-book 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 Chislehurst
     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 was hung 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 the hideous business of
     last 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--Heaven 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 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-room table. I
     was so firmly bound that I could not move, and a handkerchief round
     my mouth prevented me from uttering any 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 his shirt and trousers, with his favourite
     blackthorn cudgel in his hand. He rushed at one of the burglars, but
     another--it was the elderly man--stooped, picked the poker out of the
     grate, and struck him a horrible blow as he passed. He fell without a
     groan, and never moved again. I fainted once more, but again it could
     only have been 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 still 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 farther 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, over-hanging
     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
     tiger-skin 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 night-shirt, 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 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
     recognise the description."

     "Exactly. One would have expected that they would have silenced 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 on 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 own 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 bees-wing. 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 cork-screw.

     "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 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 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 against that? Three wine-glasses,
     that is all. But if I had not taken things for granted, if I had
     examined everything with care which I would have shown had we
     approached the case de novo and had no cut-and-dried story to warp my
     mind, would 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
     Chislehurst 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 it 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 is 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 wine-glasses."

     "What about the wine-glasses?"

     "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 bees-wing 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 bees-wing."

     "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 bees-wing. 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 bees-wing 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
     Chislehurst train."

     The household of the Abbey Grange were much surprised at our return,
     but Sherlock Holmes, finding that Stanley Hopkins had gone off to
     report to head-quarters, 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 formed 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, but all else
     remained as we had seen it in the morning. Then, 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 awhile, 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 for ever illtreating 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 hat-pin. The
     sly fiend--Heaven forgive me that I should speak of him so, now that
     he is dead, but a fiend 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 which 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 on her way to
     Australia, somewhere to the south of the Suez Canal. Her officers
     were the same as in '95, with one exception. The first officer, Mr.
     Jack Croker, 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 re-entered 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
     set-back."

     "A set-back?"

     "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 Croker. You got my telegram?"

     Our visitor sank into an arm-chair 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 Croker, 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 for ever."

     The sailor thought for a little. Then he struck his leg with his
     great, sun-burned 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. Curse
     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 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 that I loved. Well,
     gentlemen, I was standing with her just inside the window, in all
     innocence, as Heaven 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 the 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
     a 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 Croker, 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 had 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 Croker, 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 Croker. 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 I
     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 housemaid in
     the morning, and my valet, or my wife's maid, during the rest of the
     day. They are both trusty servants who have been with us for some
     time. Besides, neither of them could possibly 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, sir," 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 head-quarters 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 onwards 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 wide-spread circle of friends.

     "Well, Watson, what do you make of this?" asked Holmes, after a long
     pause.

     "It is an amazing coincidence."

     "A coincidence! Here is one of the three men whom we had named as
     possible actors in this drama, and he meets a violent death during
     the very hours when we know that that drama was being enacted. The
     odds are enormous against its being coincidence. No figures could
     express them. No, my dear Watson, the two events are connected--must
     be connected. It is for us to find the connection."

     "But now the official police must know all."

     "Not at all. They know all they see at Godolphin Street. They
     know--and shall know--nothing of Whitehall Terrace. Only we know of
     both events, and can trace the relation between them. There is one
     obvious point which 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 hope 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 manoeuvred
     to have the light at her back. She did not wish us to read her
     expression."

     "Yes; she chose the one chair in the room."

     "And yet the motives of women are so inscrutable. You remember the
     woman at Margate whom I suspected for the same reason. No powder on
     her nose--that proved to be the correct solution. How can you build
     on such a quicksand? Their most trivial action may mean volumes, or
     their most extraordinary conduct may depend upon a hairpin or a
     curling-tongs. Good morning, Watson."

     "You are off?"

     "Yes; I will wile 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 counsel 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
     that she had indeed developed mania of a dangerous and permanent
     form. On inquiry the police have discovered that Mme. Henri Fournaye
     only returned from a journey to London on Tuesday last, and there is
     evidence to 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 re-establishment of her reason. There is evidence that a woman,
     who might have been Mme. Fournaye, was seen for some hours on 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 underside 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 dare say, and
     dared not face me."

     "How about moving that drugget?"

     "Well, sir, it was a bit rumpled, certainly, when I came back. You
     see, she fell on it, and it lies on a polished floor with nothing to
     keep it in place. I straightened it out afterwards."

     "It's a lesson to you that you can't deceive me, Constable
     MacPherson," said Lestrade, with 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
     type-writing, and came to the wrong number--very pleasant, genteel
     young woman, sir."

     "Tall? Handsome?"

     "Yes, sir; she was a well-grown young woman. I suppose you might say
     she was handsome. 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 set-back in his brilliant
     career, that the indiscreet Sovereign will receive no punishment for
     his indiscretion, that the Prime Minister will have no European
     complication to deal with, and that with a little tact and management
     upon our part nobody will be a penny the worse for what might have
     been a very ugly incident."

     My mind filled with admiration for this 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 recognised 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 out-stretched, 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 for
     ever destroyed. It is years since I wrote it. I had thought that the
     whole matter was forgotten. Then at last I heard from this man,
     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 for ever on such
     a volcano. We must have something definite."

     "I am in hopes of getting it. That is why I am here. The more I think
     of the matter the more convinced I am that the letter has never left
     this house."

     "Mr. Holmes!"

     "If it had it would certainly have been public by now."

     "But why should anyone take it in order to keep it in his house?"

     "I am not convinced that anyone did take it."

     "Then how could it leave the despatch-box?"

     "I am not convinced that it ever did leave the despatch-box."

     "Mr. Holmes, this joking is very ill-timed. You have my assurance
     that it left the box."

     "Have you examined the box since Tuesday morning?"

     "No; it was not necessary."

     "You may conceivably have overlooked it."

     "Impossible, I say."

     "But I am not convinced of it; I have known such things to happen. I
     presume there are other papers there. Well, it may have got mixed
     with them."

     "It was on the top."

     "Someone may have shaken the box and displaced it."

     "No, no; I had everything out."

     "Surely it is easily decided, Hope," said the Premier. "Let us have
     the despatch-box brought in."

     The Secretary rang the bell.

     "Jacobs, bring down my despatch-box. This is a farcical waste of
     time, but still, if nothing else will satisfy you, it shall be done.
     Thank you, Jacobs; put it here. I have always had the key on my
     watch-chain. Here are the papers, you see. Letter from Lord Merrow,
     report from Sir Charles Hardy, memorandum from Belgrade, note on the
     Russo-German grain taxes, letter from Madrid, note from Lord
     Flowers--good heavens! what is this? Lord Bellinger! Lord Bellinger!"

     The Premier snatched the blue envelope from his hand.

     "Yes, it is it--and the letter is intact. Hope, I congratulate you."

     "Thank you! Thank you! What a weight from my heart. But this is
     inconceivable--impossible. Mr. Holmes, you are a wizard, a sorcerer!
     How did you know it was there?"

     "Because I knew it was nowhere else."

     "I cannot believe my eyes!" He ran wildly to the door. "Where is my
     wife? I must tell her that all is well. Hilda! Hilda!" we heard his
     voice on the stairs.

     The Premier looked at Holmes with twinkling eyes.

     "Come, sir," said he. "There is more in this than meets the eye. How
     came the letter back in the box?"

     Holmes turned away smiling from the keen scrutiny of those wonderful
     eyes.

     "We also have our diplomatic secrets," said he, and picking up his
     hat he turned to the door.









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