



                               A STUDY IN SCARLET

                               Arthur Conan Doyle







                                Table of contents

         Part I
        Mr. Sherlock Holmes
        The Science Of Deduction
        The Lauriston Garden Mystery
        What John Rance Had To Tell
        Our Advertisement Brings A Visitor
        Tobias Gregson Shows What He Can Do
        Light In The Darkness

         Part II
        On The Great Alkali Plain
        The Flower Of Utah
        John Ferrier Talks With The Prophet
        A Flight For Life
        The Avenging Angels
        A Continuation Of The Reminiscences Of John Watson, M.D.
        The Conclusion



















                                      PART I

                   (Being a reprint from the reminiscences of
                              John H. Watson, M.D.,
                      late of the Army Medical Department.)





          CHAPTER I
          Mr. Sherlock Holmes


     In the year 1878 I took my degree of Doctor of Medicine of the
     University of London, and proceeded to Netley to go through the
     course prescribed for surgeons in the army. Having completed my
     studies there, I was duly attached to the Fifth Northumberland
     Fusiliers as Assistant Surgeon. The regiment was stationed in India
     at the time, and before I could join it, the second Afghan war had
     broken out. On landing at Bombay, I learned that my corps had
     advanced through the passes, and was already deep in the enemy's
     country. I followed, however, with many other officers who were in
     the same situation as myself, and succeeded in reaching Candahar in
     safety, where I found my regiment, and at once entered upon my new
     duties.

     The campaign brought honours and promotion to many, but for me it had
     nothing but misfortune and disaster. I was removed from my brigade
     and attached to the Berkshires, with whom I served at the fatal
     battle of Maiwand. There I was struck on the shoulder by a Jezail
     bullet, which shattered the bone and grazed the subclavian artery. I
     should have fallen into the hands of the murderous Ghazis had it not
     been for the devotion and courage shown by Murray, my orderly, who
     threw me across a pack-horse, and succeeded in bringing me safely to
     the British lines.

     Worn with pain, and weak from the prolonged hardships which I had
     undergone, I was removed, with a great train of wounded sufferers, to
     the base hospital at Peshawar. Here I rallied, and had already
     improved so far as to be able to walk about the wards, and even to
     bask a little upon the verandah, when I was struck down by enteric
     fever, that curse of our Indian possessions. For months my life was
     despaired of, and when at last I came to myself and became
     convalescent, I was so weak and emaciated that a medical board
     determined that not a day should be lost in sending me back to
     England. I was dispatched, accordingly, in the troopship Orontes, and
     landed a month later on Portsmouth jetty, with my health
     irretrievably ruined, but with permission from a paternal government
     to spend the next nine months in attempting to improve it.

     I had neither kith nor kin in England, and was therefore as free as
     air--or as free as an income of eleven shillings and sixpence a day
     will permit a man to be. Under such circumstances, I naturally
     gravitated to London, that great cesspool into which all the loungers
     and idlers of the Empire are irresistibly drained. There I stayed for
     some time at a private hotel in the Strand, leading a comfortless,
     meaningless existence, and spending such money as I had, considerably
     more freely than I ought. So alarming did the state of my finances
     become, that I soon realized that I must either leave the metropolis
     and rusticate somewhere in the country, or that I must make a
     complete alteration in my style of living. Choosing the latter
     alternative, I began by making up my mind to leave the hotel, and to
     take up my quarters in some less pretentious and less expensive
     domicile.

     On the very day that I had come to this conclusion, I was standing at
     the Criterion Bar, when some one tapped me on the shoulder, and
     turning round I recognized young Stamford, who had been a dresser
     under me at Bart's. The sight of a friendly face in the great
     wilderness of London is a pleasant thing indeed to a lonely man. In
     old days Stamford had never been a particular crony of mine, but now
     I hailed him with enthusiasm, and he, in his turn, appeared to be
     delighted to see me. In the exuberance of my joy, I asked him to
     lunch with me at the Holborn, and we started off together in a
     hansom.

     "Whatever have you been doing with yourself, Watson?" he asked in
     undisguised wonder, as we rattled through the crowded London streets.
     "You are as thin as a lath and as brown as a nut."

     I gave him a short sketch of my adventures, and had hardly concluded
     it by the time that we reached our destination.

     "Poor devil!" he said, commiseratingly, after he had listened to my
     misfortunes. "What are you up to now?"

     "Looking for lodgings," I answered. "Trying to solve the problem as
     to whether it is possible to get comfortable rooms at a reasonable
     price."

     "That's a strange thing," remarked my companion; "you are the second
     man to-day that has used that expression to me."

     "And who was the first?" I asked.

     "A fellow who is working at the chemical laboratory up at the
     hospital. He was bemoaning himself this morning because he could not
     get someone to go halves with him in some nice rooms which he had
     found, and which were too much for his purse."

     "By Jove!" I cried, "if he really wants someone to share the rooms
     and the expense, I am the very man for him. I should prefer having a
     partner to being alone."

     Young Stamford looked rather strangely at me over his wine-glass.
     "You don't know Sherlock Holmes yet," he said; "perhaps you would not
     care for him as a constant companion."

     "Why, what is there against him?"

     "Oh, I didn't say there was anything against him. He is a little
     queer in his ideas--an enthusiast in some branches of science. As far
     as I know he is a decent fellow enough."

     "A medical student, I suppose?" said I.

     "No--I have no idea what he intends to go in for. I believe he is
     well up in anatomy, and he is a first-class chemist; but, as far as I
     know, he has never taken out any systematic medical classes. His
     studies are very desultory and eccentric, but he has amassed a lot of
     out-of-the way knowledge which would astonish his professors."

     "Did you never ask him what he was going in for?" I asked.

     "No; he is not a man that it is easy to draw out, though he can be
     communicative enough when the fancy seizes him."

     "I should like to meet him," I said. "If I am to lodge with anyone, I
     should prefer a man of studious and quiet habits. I am not strong
     enough yet to stand much noise or excitement. I had enough of both in
     Afghanistan to last me for the remainder of my natural existence. How
     could I meet this friend of yours?"

     "He is sure to be at the laboratory," returned my companion. "He
     either avoids the place for weeks, or else he works there from
     morning to night. If you like, we shall drive round together after
     luncheon."

     "Certainly," I answered, and the conversation drifted away into other
     channels.

     As we made our way to the hospital after leaving the Holborn,
     Stamford gave me a few more particulars about the gentleman whom I
     proposed to take as a fellow-lodger.

     "You mustn't blame me if you don't get on with him," he said; "I know
     nothing more of him than I have learned from meeting him occasionally
     in the laboratory. You proposed this arrangement, so you must not
     hold me responsible."

     "If we don't get on it will be easy to part company," I answered. "It
     seems to me, Stamford," I added, looking hard at my companion, "that
     you have some reason for washing your hands of the matter. Is this
     fellow's temper so formidable, or what is it? Don't be mealy-mouthed
     about it."

     "It is not easy to express the inexpressible," he answered with a
     laugh. "Holmes is a little too scientific for my tastes--it
     approaches to cold-bloodedness. I could imagine his giving a friend a
     little pinch of the latest vegetable alkaloid, not out of
     malevolence, you understand, but simply out of a spirit of inquiry in
     order to have an accurate idea of the effects. To do him justice, I
     think that he would take it himself with the same readiness. He
     appears to have a passion for definite and exact knowledge."

     "Very right too."

     "Yes, but it may be pushed to excess. When it comes to beating the
     subjects in the dissecting-rooms with a stick, it is certainly taking
     rather a bizarre shape."

     "Beating the subjects!"

     "Yes, to verify how far bruises may be produced after death. I saw
     him at it with my own eyes."

     "And yet you say he is not a medical student?"

     "No. Heaven knows what the objects of his studies are. But here we
     are, and you must form your own impressions about him." As he spoke,
     we turned down a narrow lane and passed through a small side-door,
     which opened into a wing of the great hospital. It was familiar
     ground to me, and I needed no guiding as we ascended the bleak stone
     staircase and made our way down the long corridor with its vista of
     whitewashed wall and dun-coloured doors. Near the further end a low
     arched passage branched away from it and led to the chemical
     laboratory.

     This was a lofty chamber, lined and littered with countless bottles.
     Broad, low tables were scattered about, which bristled with retorts,
     test-tubes, and little Bunsen lamps, with their blue flickering
     flames. There was only one student in the room, who was bending over
     a distant table absorbed in his work. At the sound of our steps he
     glanced round and sprang to his feet with a cry of pleasure. "I've
     found it! I've found it," he shouted to my companion, running towards
     us with a test-tube in his hand. "I have found a re-agent which is
     precipitated by hoemoglobin, and by nothing else." Had he discovered
     a gold mine, greater delight could not have shone upon his features.

     "Dr. Watson, Mr. Sherlock Holmes," said Stamford, introducing us.

     "How are you?" he said cordially, gripping my hand with a strength
     for which I should hardly have given him credit. "You have been in
     Afghanistan, I perceive."

     "How on earth did you know that?" I asked in astonishment.

     "Never mind," said he, chuckling to himself. "The question now is
     about hoemoglobin. No doubt you see the significance of this
     discovery of mine?"

     "It is interesting, chemically, no doubt," I answered, "but
     practically--"

     "Why, man, it is the most practical medico-legal discovery for years.
     Don't you see that it gives us an infallible test for blood stains.
     Come over here now!" He seized me by the coat-sleeve in his
     eagerness, and drew me over to the table at which he had been
     working. "Let us have some fresh blood," he said, digging a long
     bodkin into his finger, and drawing off the resulting drop of blood
     in a chemical pipette. "Now, I add this small quantity of blood to a
     litre of water. You perceive that the resulting mixture has the
     appearance of pure water. The proportion of blood cannot be more than
     one in a million. I have no doubt, however, that we shall be able to
     obtain the characteristic reaction." As he spoke, he threw into the
     vessel a few white crystals, and then added some drops of a
     transparent fluid. In an instant the contents assumed a dull mahogany
     colour, and a brownish dust was precipitated to the bottom of the
     glass jar.

     "Ha! ha!" he cried, clapping his hands, and looking as delighted as a
     child with a new toy. "What do you think of that?"

     "It seems to be a very delicate test," I remarked.

     "Beautiful! beautiful! The old Guiacum test was very clumsy and
     uncertain. So is the microscopic examination for blood corpuscles.
     The latter is valueless if the stains are a few hours old. Now, this
     appears to act as well whether the blood is old or new. Had this test
     been invented, there are hundreds of men now walking the earth who
     would long ago have paid the penalty of their crimes."

     "Indeed!" I murmured.

     "Criminal cases are continually hinging upon that one point. A man is
     suspected of a crime months perhaps after it has been committed. His
     linen or clothes are examined, and brownish stains discovered upon
     them. Are they blood stains, or mud stains, or rust stains, or fruit
     stains, or what are they? That is a question which has puzzled many
     an expert, and why? Because there was no reliable test. Now we have
     the Sherlock Holmes' test, and there will no longer be any
     difficulty."

     His eyes fairly glittered as he spoke, and he put his hand over his
     heart and bowed as if to some applauding crowd conjured up by his
     imagination.

     "You are to be congratulated," I remarked, considerably surprised at
     his enthusiasm.

     "There was the case of Von Bischoff at Frankfort last year. He would
     certainly have been hung had this test been in existence. Then there
     was Mason of Bradford, and the notorious Muller, and Lefevre of
     Montpellier, and Samson of new Orleans. I could name a score of cases
     in which it would have been decisive."

     "You seem to be a walking calendar of crime," said Stamford with a
     laugh. "You might start a paper on those lines. Call it the 'Police
     News of the Past.'"

     "Very interesting reading it might be made, too," remarked Sherlock
     Holmes, sticking a small piece of plaster over the prick on his
     finger. "I have to be careful," he continued, turning to me with a
     smile, "for I dabble with poisons a good deal." He held out his hand
     as he spoke, and I noticed that it was all mottled over with similar
     pieces of plaster, and discoloured with strong acids.

     "We came here on business," said Stamford, sitting down on a high
     three-legged stool, and pushing another one in my direction with his
     foot. "My friend here wants to take diggings, and as you were
     complaining that you could get no one to go halves with you, I
     thought that I had better bring you together."

     Sherlock Holmes seemed delighted at the idea of sharing his rooms
     with me. "I have my eye on a suite in Baker Street," he said, "which
     would suit us down to the ground. You don't mind the smell of strong
     tobacco, I hope?"

     "I always smoke 'ship's' myself," I answered.

     "That's good enough. I generally have chemicals about, and
     occasionally do experiments. Would that annoy you?"

     "By no means."

     "Let me see--what are my other shortcomings. I get in the dumps at
     times, and don't open my mouth for days on end. You must not think I
     am sulky when I do that. Just let me alone, and I'll soon be right.
     What have you to confess now? It's just as well for two fellows to
     know the worst of one another before they begin to live together."

     I laughed at this cross-examination. "I keep a bull pup," I said,
     "and I object to rows because my nerves are shaken, and I get up at
     all sorts of ungodly hours, and I am extremely lazy. I have another
     set of vices when I'm well, but those are the principal ones at
     present."

     "Do you include violin-playing in your category of rows?" he asked,
     anxiously.

     "It depends on the player," I answered. "A well-played violin is a
     treat for the gods--a badly-played one--"

     "Oh, that's all right," he cried, with a merry laugh. "I think we may
     consider the thing as settled--that is, if the rooms are agreeable to
     you."

     "When shall we see them?"

     "Call for me here at noon to-morrow, and we'll go together and settle
     everything," he answered.

     "All right--noon exactly," said I, shaking his hand.

     We left him working among his chemicals, and we walked together
     towards my hotel.

     "By the way," I asked suddenly, stopping and turning upon Stamford,
     "how the deuce did he know that I had come from Afghanistan?"

     My companion smiled an enigmatical smile. "That's just his little
     peculiarity," he said. "A good many people have wanted to know how he
     finds things out."

     "Oh! a mystery is it?" I cried, rubbing my hands. "This is very
     piquant. I am much obliged to you for bringing us together. 'The
     proper study of mankind is man,' you know."

     "You must study him, then," Stamford said, as he bade me good-bye.
     "You'll find him a knotty problem, though. I'll wager he learns more
     about you than you about him. Good-bye."

     "Good-bye," I answered, and strolled on to my hotel, considerably
     interested in my new acquaintance.





          CHAPTER II
          The Science Of Deduction


     We met next day as he had arranged, and inspected the rooms at No.
     221b, Baker Street, of which he had spoken at our meeting. They
     consisted of a couple of comfortable bed-rooms and a single large
     airy sitting-room, cheerfully furnished, and illuminated by two broad
     windows. So desirable in every way were the apartments, and so
     moderate did the terms seem when divided between us, that the bargain
     was concluded upon the spot, and we at once entered into possession.
     That very evening I moved my things round from the hotel, and on the
     following morning Sherlock Holmes followed me with several boxes and
     portmanteaus. For a day or two we were busily employed in unpacking
     and laying out our property to the best advantage. That done, we
     gradually began to settle down and to accommodate ourselves to our
     new surroundings.

     Holmes was certainly not a difficult man to live with. He was quiet
     in his ways, and his habits were regular. It was rare for him to be
     up after ten at night, and he had invariably breakfasted and gone out
     before I rose in the morning. Sometimes he spent his day at the
     chemical laboratory, sometimes in the dissecting-rooms, and
     occasionally in long walks, which appeared to take him into the
     lowest portions of the City. Nothing could exceed his energy when the
     working fit was upon him; but now and again a reaction would seize
     him, and for days on end he would lie upon the sofa in the
     sitting-room, hardly uttering a word or moving a muscle from morning
     to night. On these occasions I have noticed such a dreamy, vacant
     expression in his eyes, that I might have suspected him of being
     addicted to the use of some narcotic, had not the temperance and
     cleanliness of his whole life forbidden such a notion.

     As the weeks went by, my interest in him and my curiosity as to his
     aims in life, gradually deepened and increased. His very person and
     appearance were such as to strike the attention of the most casual
     observer. In height he was rather over six feet, and so excessively
     lean that he seemed to be considerably taller. His eyes were sharp
     and piercing, save during those intervals of torpor to which I have
     alluded; and his thin, hawk-like nose gave his whole expression an
     air of alertness and decision. His chin, too, had the prominence and
     squareness which mark the man of determination. His hands were
     invariably blotted with ink and stained with chemicals, yet he was
     possessed of extraordinary delicacy of touch, as I frequently had
     occasion to observe when I watched him manipulating his fragile
     philosophical instruments.

     The reader may set me down as a hopeless busybody, when I confess how
     much this man stimulated my curiosity, and how often I endeavoured to
     break through the reticence which he showed on all that concerned
     himself. Before pronouncing judgment, however, be it remembered, how
     objectless was my life, and how little there was to engage my
     attention. My health forbade me from venturing out unless the weather
     was exceptionally genial, and I had no friends who would call upon me
     and break the monotony of my daily existence. Under these
     circumstances, I eagerly hailed the little mystery which hung around
     my companion, and spent much of my time in endeavouring to unravel
     it.

     He was not studying medicine. He had himself, in reply to a question,
     confirmed Stamford's opinion upon that point. Neither did he appear
     to have pursued any course of reading which might fit him for a
     degree in science or any other recognized portal which would give him
     an entrance into the learned world. Yet his zeal for certain studies
     was remarkable, and within eccentric limits his knowledge was so
     extraordinarily ample and minute that his observations have fairly
     astounded me. Surely no man would work so hard or attain such precise
     information unless he had some definite end in view. Desultory
     readers are seldom remarkable for the exactness of their learning. No
     man burdens his mind with small matters unless he has some very good
     reason for doing so.

     His ignorance was as remarkable as his knowledge. Of contemporary
     literature, philosophy and politics he appeared to know next to
     nothing. Upon my quoting Thomas Carlyle, he inquired in the naivest
     way who he might be and what he had done. My surprise reached a
     climax, however, when I found incidentally that he was ignorant of
     the Copernican Theory and of the composition of the Solar System.
     That any civilized human being in this nineteenth century should not
     be aware that the earth travelled round the sun appeared to be to me
     such an extraordinary fact that I could hardly realize it.

     "You appear to be astonished," he said, smiling at my expression of
     surprise. "Now that I do know it I shall do my best to forget it."

     "To forget it!"

     "You see," he explained, "I consider that a man's brain originally is
     like a little empty attic, and you have to stock it with such
     furniture as you choose. A fool takes in all the lumber of every sort
     that he comes across, so that the knowledge which might be useful to
     him gets crowded out, or at best is jumbled up with a lot of other
     things so that he has a difficulty in laying his hands upon it. Now
     the skilful workman is very careful indeed as to what he takes into
     his brain-attic. He will have nothing but the tools which may help
     him in doing his work, but of these he has a large assortment, and
     all in the most perfect order. It is a mistake to think that that
     little room has elastic walls and can distend to any extent. Depend
     upon it there comes a time when for every addition of knowledge you
     forget something that you knew before. It is of the highest
     importance, therefore, not to have useless facts elbowing out the
     useful ones."

     "But the Solar System!" I protested.

     "What the deuce is it to me?" he interrupted impatiently; "you say
     that we go round the sun. If we went round the moon it would not make
     a pennyworth of difference to me or to my work."

     I was on the point of asking him what that work might be, but
     something in his manner showed me that the question would be an
     unwelcome one. I pondered over our short conversation, however, and
     endeavoured to draw my deductions from it. He said that he would
     acquire no knowledge which did not bear upon his object. Therefore
     all the knowledge which he possessed was such as would be useful to
     him. I enumerated in my own mind all the various points upon which he
     had shown me that he was exceptionally well-informed. I even took a
     pencil and jotted them down. I could not help smiling at the document
     when I had completed it. It ran in this way--

     Sherlock Holmes--his limits.
     
     1. Knowledge of Literature.--Nil.
     2. Philosophy.--Nil.
     3. Astronomy.--Nil.
     4. Politics.--Feeble.
     5. Botany.--Variable. Well up in belladonna, opium, and poisons
     generally. Knows nothing of practical gardening.
     6. Geology.--Practical, but limited. Tells at a glance different
     soils from each other. After walks has shown me splashes upon his
     trousers, and told me by their colour and consistence in what part of
     London he had received them.
     7. Chemistry.--Profound.
     8. Anatomy.--Accurate, but unsystematic.
     9. Sensational Literature.--Immense. He appears to know every detail
     of every horror perpetrated in the century.
     10. Plays the violin well.
     11. Is an expert singlestick player, boxer, and swordsman.
     12. Has a good practical knowledge of British law.

     When I had got so far in my list I threw it into the fire in despair.
     "If I can only find what the fellow is driving at by reconciling all
     these accomplishments, and discovering a calling which needs them
     all," I said to myself, "I may as well give up the attempt at once."

     I see that I have alluded above to his powers upon the violin. These
     were very remarkable, but as eccentric as all his other
     accomplishments. That he could play pieces, and difficult pieces, I
     knew well, because at my request he has played me some of
     Mendelssohn's Lieder, and other favourites. When left to himself,
     however, he would seldom produce any music or attempt any recognized
     air. Leaning back in his arm-chair of an evening, he would close his
     eyes and scrape carelessly at the fiddle which was thrown across his
     knee. Sometimes the chords were sonorous and melancholy. Occasionally
     they were fantastic and cheerful. Clearly they reflected the thoughts
     which possessed him, but whether the music aided those thoughts, or
     whether the playing was simply the result of a whim or fancy was more
     than I could determine. I might have rebelled against these
     exasperating solos had it not been that he usually terminated them by
     playing in quick succession a whole series of my favourite airs as a
     slight compensation for the trial upon my patience.

     During the first week or so we had no callers, and I had begun to
     think that my companion was as friendless a man as I was myself.
     Presently, however, I found that he had many acquaintances, and those
     in the most different classes of society. There was one little sallow
     rat-faced, dark-eyed fellow who was introduced to me as Mr. Lestrade,
     and who came three or four times in a single week. One morning a
     young girl called, fashionably dressed, and stayed for half an hour
     or more. The same afternoon brought a grey-headed, seedy visitor,
     looking like a Jew pedlar, who appeared to me to be much excited, and
     who was closely followed by a slipshod elderly woman. On another
     occasion an old white-haired gentleman had an interview with my
     companion; and on another a railway porter in his velveteen uniform.
     When any of these nondescript individuals put in an appearance,
     Sherlock Holmes used to beg for the use of the sitting-room, and I
     would retire to my bed-room. He always apologized to me for putting
     me to this inconvenience. "I have to use this room as a place of
     business," he said, "and these people are my clients." Again I had an
     opportunity of asking him a point blank question, and again my
     delicacy prevented me from forcing another man to confide in me. I
     imagined at the time that he had some strong reason for not alluding
     to it, but he soon dispelled the idea by coming round to the subject
     of his own accord.

     It was upon the 4th of March, as I have good reason to remember, that
     I rose somewhat earlier than usual, and found that Sherlock Holmes
     had not yet finished his breakfast. The landlady had become so
     accustomed to my late habits that my place had not been laid nor my
     coffee prepared. With the unreasonable petulance of mankind I rang
     the bell and gave a curt intimation that I was ready. Then I picked
     up a magazine from the table and attempted to while away the time
     with it, while my companion munched silently at his toast. One of the
     articles had a pencil mark at the heading, and I naturally began to
     run my eye through it.

     Its somewhat ambitious title was "The Book of Life," and it attempted
     to show how much an observant man might learn by an accurate and
     systematic examination of all that came in his way. It struck me as
     being a remarkable mixture of shrewdness and of absurdity. The
     reasoning was close and intense, but the deductions appeared to me to
     be far-fetched and exaggerated. The writer claimed by a momentary
     expression, a twitch of a muscle or a glance of an eye, to fathom a
     man's inmost thoughts. Deceit, according to him, was an impossibility
     in the case of one trained to observation and analysis. His
     conclusions were as infallible as so many propositions of Euclid. So
     startling would his results appear to the uninitiated that until they
     learned the processes by which he had arrived at them they might well
     consider him as a necromancer.

     "From a drop of water," said the writer, "a logician could infer the
     possibility of an Atlantic or a Niagara without having seen or heard
     of one or the other. So all life is a great chain, the nature of
     which is known whenever we are shown a single link of it. Like all
     other arts, the Science of Deduction and Analysis is one which can
     only be acquired by long and patient study nor is life long enough to
     allow any mortal to attain the highest possible perfection in it.
     Before turning to those moral and mental aspects of the matter which
     present the greatest difficulties, let the enquirer begin by
     mastering more elementary problems. Let him, on meeting a
     fellow-mortal, learn at a glance to distinguish the history of the
     man, and the trade or profession to which he belongs. Puerile as such
     an exercise may seem, it sharpens the faculties of observation, and
     teaches one where to look and what to look for. By a man's finger
     nails, by his coat-sleeve, by his boot, by his trouser knees, by the
     callosities of his forefinger and thumb, by his expression, by his
     shirt cuffs--by each of these things a man's calling is plainly
     revealed. That all united should fail to enlighten the competent
     enquirer in any case is almost inconceivable."

     "What ineffable twaddle!" I cried, slapping the magazine down on the
     table, "I never read such rubbish in my life."

     "What is it?" asked Sherlock Holmes.

     "Why, this article," I said, pointing at it with my egg spoon as I
     sat down to my breakfast. "I see that you have read it since you have
     marked it. I don't deny that it is smartly written. It irritates me
     though. It is evidently the theory of some arm-chair lounger who
     evolves all these neat little paradoxes in the seclusion of his own
     study. It is not practical. I should like to see him clapped down in
     a third class carriage on the Underground, and asked to give the
     trades of all his fellow-travellers. I would lay a thousand to one
     against him."

     "You would lose your money," Sherlock Holmes remarked calmly.  "As
     for the article I wrote it myself."

     "You!"

     "Yes, I have a turn both for observation and for deduction. The
     theories which I have expressed there, and which appear to you to be
     so chimerical are really extremely practical--so practical that I
     depend upon them for my bread and cheese."

     "And how?" I asked involuntarily.

     "Well, I have a trade of my own. I suppose I am the only one in the
     world. I'm a consulting detective, if you can understand what that
     is. Here in London we have lots of Government detectives and lots of
     private ones. When these fellows are at fault they come to me, and I
     manage to put them on the right scent. They lay all the evidence
     before me, and I am generally able, by the help of my knowledge of
     the history of crime, to set them straight. There is a strong family
     resemblance about misdeeds, and if you have all the details of a
     thousand at your finger ends, it is odd if you can't unravel the
     thousand and first. Lestrade is a well-known detective. He got
     himself into a fog recently over a forgery case, and that was what
     brought him here."

     "And these other people?"

     "They are mostly sent on by private inquiry agencies. They are all
     people who are in trouble about something, and want a little
     enlightening. I listen to their story, they listen to my comments,
     and then I pocket my fee."

     "But do you mean to say," I said, "that without leaving your room you
     can unravel some knot which other men can make nothing of, although
     they have seen every detail for themselves?"

     "Quite so. I have a kind of intuition that way. Now and again a case
     turns up which is a little more complex. Then I have to bustle about
     and see things with my own eyes. You see I have a lot of special
     knowledge which I apply to the problem, and which facilitates matters
     wonderfully. Those rules of deduction laid down in that article which
     aroused your scorn, are invaluable to me in practical work.
     Observation with me is second nature. You appeared to be surprised
     when I told you, on our first meeting, that you had come from
     Afghanistan."

     "You were told, no doubt."

     "Nothing of the sort. I knew you came from Afghanistan. From long
     habit the train of thoughts ran so swiftly through my mind, that I
     arrived at the conclusion without being conscious of intermediate
     steps. There were such steps, however. The train of reasoning ran,
     'Here is a gentleman of a medical type, but with the air of a
     military man. Clearly an army doctor, then. He has just come from the
     tropics, for his face is dark, and that is not the natural tint of
     his skin, for his wrists are fair. He has undergone hardship and
     sickness, as his haggard face says clearly. His left arm has been
     injured. He holds it in a stiff and unnatural manner. Where in the
     tropics could an English army doctor have seen much hardship and got
     his arm wounded? Clearly in Afghanistan.' The whole train of thought
     did not occupy a second. I then remarked that you came from
     Afghanistan, and you were astonished."

     "It is simple enough as you explain it," I said, smiling. "You remind
     me of Edgar Allen Poe's Dupin. I had no idea that such individuals
     did exist outside of stories."

     Sherlock Holmes rose and lit his pipe. "No doubt you think that you
     are complimenting me in comparing me to Dupin," he observed. "Now, in
     my opinion, Dupin was a very inferior fellow. That trick of his of
     breaking in on his friends' thoughts with an apropos remark after a
     quarter of an hour's silence is really very showy and superficial. He
     had some analytical genius, no doubt; but he was by no means such a
     phenomenon as Poe appeared to imagine."

     "Have you read Gaboriau's works?" I asked. "Does Lecoq come up to
     your idea of a detective?"

     Sherlock Holmes sniffed sardonically. "Lecoq was a miserable
     bungler," he said, in an angry voice; "he had only one thing to
     recommend him, and that was his energy. That book made me positively
     ill. The question was how to identify an unknown prisoner. I could
     have done it in twenty-four hours. Lecoq took six months or so. It
     might be made a text-book for detectives to teach them what to
     avoid."

     I felt rather indignant at having two characters whom I had admired
     treated in this cavalier style. I walked over to the window, and
     stood looking out into the busy street. "This fellow may be very
     clever," I said to myself, "but he is certainly very conceited."

     "There are no crimes and no criminals in these days," he said,
     querulously. "What is the use of having brains in our profession? I
     know well that I have it in me to make my name famous. No man lives
     or has ever lived who has brought the same amount of study and of
     natural talent to the detection of crime which I have done. And what
     is the result? There is no crime to detect, or, at most, some
     bungling villany with a motive so transparent that even a Scotland
     Yard official can see through it."

     I was still annoyed at his bumptious style of conversation. I thought
     it best to change the topic.

     "I wonder what that fellow is looking for?" I asked, pointing to a
     stalwart, plainly-dressed individual who was walking slowly down the
     other side of the street, looking anxiously at the numbers. He had a
     large blue envelope in his hand, and was evidently the bearer of a
     message.

     "You mean the retired sergeant of Marines," said Sherlock Holmes.

     "Brag and bounce!" thought I to myself. "He knows that I cannot
     verify his guess."

     The thought had hardly passed through my mind when the man whom we
     were watching caught sight of the number on our door, and ran rapidly
     across the roadway. We heard a loud knock, a deep voice below, and
     heavy steps ascending the stair.

     "For Mr. Sherlock Holmes," he said, stepping into the room and
     handing my friend the letter.

     Here was an opportunity of taking the conceit out of him. He little
     thought of this when he made that random shot. "May I ask, my lad," I
     said, in the blandest voice, "what your trade may be?"

     "Commissionaire, sir," he said, gruffly. "Uniform away for repairs."

     "And you were?" I asked, with a slightly malicious glance at my
     companion.

     "A sergeant, sir, Royal Marine Light Infantry, sir. No answer? Right,
     sir."

     He clicked his heels together, raised his hand in a salute, and was
     gone.





          CHAPTER III
          The Lauriston Garden Mystery


     I confess that I was considerably startled by this fresh proof of the
     practical nature of my companion's theories. My respect for his
     powers of analysis increased wondrously. There still remained some
     lurking suspicion in my mind, however, that the whole thing was a
     pre-arranged episode, intended to dazzle me, though what earthly
     object he could have in taking me in was past my comprehension. When
     I looked at him he had finished reading the note, and his eyes had
     assumed the vacant, lack-lustre expression which showed mental
     abstraction.

     "How in the world did you deduce that?" I asked.

     "Deduce what?" said he, petulantly.

     "Why, that he was a retired sergeant of Marines."

     "I have no time for trifles," he answered, brusquely; then with a
     smile, "Excuse my rudeness. You broke the thread of my thoughts; but
     perhaps it is as well. So you actually were not able to see that that
     man was a sergeant of Marines?"

     "No, indeed."

     "It was easier to know it than to explain why I knew it. If you were
     asked to prove that two and two made four, you might find some
     difficulty, and yet you are quite sure of the fact. Even across the
     street I could see a great blue anchor tattooed on the back of the
     fellow's hand. That smacked of the sea. He had a military carriage,
     however, and regulation side whiskers. There we have the marine. He
     was a man with some amount of self-importance and a certain air of
     command. You must have observed the way in which he held his head and
     swung his cane. A steady, respectable, middle-aged man, too, on the
     face of him--all facts which led me to believe that he had been a
     sergeant."

     "Wonderful!" I ejaculated.

     "Commonplace," said Holmes, though I thought from his expression that
     he was pleased at my evident surprise and admiration. "I said just
     now that there were no criminals. It appears that I am wrong--look at
     this!" He threw me over the note which the commissionaire had
     brought.

     "Why," I cried, as I cast my eye over it, "this is terrible!"

     "It does seem to be a little out of the common," he remarked, calmly.
     "Would you mind reading it to me aloud?"

     This is the letter which I read to him--

     "My dear Mr. Sherlock Holmes:
     "There has been a bad business during the night at 3, Lauriston
     Gardens, off the Brixton Road. Our man on the beat saw a light there
     about two in the morning, and as the house was an empty one,
     suspected that something was amiss. He found the door open, and in
     the front room, which is bare of furniture, discovered the body of a
     gentleman, well dressed, and having cards in his pocket bearing the
     name of 'Enoch J. Drebber, Cleveland, Ohio, U.S.A.' There had been no
     robbery, nor is there any evidence as to how the man met his death.
     There are marks of blood in the room, but there is no wound upon his
     person. We are at a loss as to how he came into the empty house;
     indeed, the whole affair is a puzzler. If you can come round to the
     house any time before twelve, you will find me there. I have left
     everything in statu quo until I hear from you. If you are unable to
     come I shall give you fuller details, and would esteem it a great
     kindness if you would favour me with your opinion.
     "Yours faithfully,
     "Tobias Gregson."

     "Gregson is the smartest of the Scotland Yarders," my friend
     remarked; "he and Lestrade are the pick of a bad lot. They are both
     quick and energetic, but conventional--shockingly so. They have their
     knives into one another, too. They are as jealous as a pair of
     professional beauties. There will be some fun over this case if they
     are both put upon the scent."

     I was amazed at the calm way in which he rippled on. "Surely there is
     not a moment to be lost," I cried, "shall I go and order you a cab?"

     "I'm not sure about whether I shall go. I am the most incurably lazy
     devil that ever stood in shoe leather--that is, when the fit is on
     me, for I can be spry enough at times."

     "Why, it is just such a chance as you have been longing for."

     "My dear fellow, what does it matter to me. Supposing I unravel the
     whole matter, you may be sure that Gregson, Lestrade, and Co. will
     pocket all the credit. That comes of being an unofficial personage."

     "But he begs you to help him."

     "Yes. He knows that I am his superior, and acknowledges it to me; but
     he would cut his tongue out before he would own it to any third
     person. However, we may as well go and have a look. I shall work it
     out on my own hook. I may have a laugh at them if I have nothing
     else. Come on!"

     He hustled on his overcoat, and bustled about in a way that showed
     that an energetic fit had superseded the apathetic one.

     "Get your hat," he said.

     "You wish me to come?"

     "Yes, if you have nothing better to do." A minute later we were both
     in a hansom, driving furiously for the Brixton Road.

     It was a foggy, cloudy morning, and a dun-coloured veil hung over the
     house-tops, looking like the reflection of the mud-coloured streets
     beneath. My companion was in the best of spirits, and prattled away
     about Cremona fiddles, and the difference between a Stradivarius and
     an Amati. As for myself, I was silent, for the dull weather and the
     melancholy business upon which we were engaged, depressed my spirits.

     "You don't seem to give much thought to the matter in hand," I said
     at last, interrupting Holmes' musical disquisition.

     "No data yet," he answered. "It is a capital mistake to theorize
     before you have all the evidence. It biases the judgment."

     "You will have your data soon," I remarked, pointing with my finger;
     "this is the Brixton Road, and that is the house, if I am not very
     much mistaken."

     "So it is. Stop, driver, stop!" We were still a hundred yards or so
     from it, but he insisted upon our alighting, and we finished our
     journey upon foot.

     Number 3, Lauriston Gardens wore an ill-omened and minatory look. It
     was one of four which stood back some little way from the street, two
     being occupied and two empty. The latter looked out with three tiers
     of vacant melancholy windows, which were blank and dreary, save that
     here and there a "To Let" card had developed like a cataract upon the
     bleared panes. A small garden sprinkled over with a scattered
     eruption of sickly plants separated each of these houses from the
     street, and was traversed by a narrow pathway, yellowish in colour,
     and consisting apparently of a mixture of clay and of gravel. The
     whole place was very sloppy from the rain which had fallen through
     the night. The garden was bounded by a three-foot brick wall with a
     fringe of wood rails upon the top, and against this wall was leaning
     a stalwart police constable, surrounded by a small knot of loafers,
     who craned their necks and strained their eyes in the vain hope of
     catching some glimpse of the proceedings within.

     I had imagined that Sherlock Holmes would at once have hurried into
     the house and plunged into a study of the mystery. Nothing appeared
     to be further from his intention. With an air of nonchalance which,
     under the circumstances, seemed to me to border upon affectation, he
     lounged up and down the pavement, and gazed vacantly at the ground,
     the sky, the opposite houses and the line of railings. Having
     finished his scrutiny, he proceeded slowly down the path, or rather
     down the fringe of grass which flanked the path, keeping his eyes
     riveted upon the ground. Twice he stopped, and once I saw him smile,
     and heard him utter an exclamation of satisfaction. There were many
     marks of footsteps upon the wet clayey soil, but since the police had
     been coming and going over it, I was unable to see how my companion
     could hope to learn anything from it. Still I had had such
     extraordinary evidence of the quickness of his perceptive faculties,
     that I had no doubt that he could see a great deal which was hidden
     from me.

     At the door of the house we were met by a tall, white-faced,
     flaxen-haired man, with a notebook in his hand, who rushed forward
     and wrung my companion's hand with effusion. "It is indeed kind of
     you to come," he said, "I have had everything left untouched."

     "Except that!" my friend answered, pointing at the pathway. "If a
     herd of buffaloes had passed along there could not be a greater mess.
     No doubt, however, you had drawn your own conclusions, Gregson,
     before you permitted this."

     "I have had so much to do inside the house," the detective said
     evasively. "My colleague, Mr. Lestrade, is here. I had relied upon
     him to look after this."

     Holmes glanced at me and raised his eyebrows sardonically. "With two
     such men as yourself and Lestrade upon the ground, there will not be
     much for a third party to find out," he said.

     Gregson rubbed his hands in a self-satisfied way. "I think we have
     done all that can be done," he answered; "it's a queer case though,
     and I knew your taste for such things."

     "You did not come here in a cab?" asked Sherlock Holmes.

     "No, sir."

     "Nor Lestrade?"

     "No, sir."

     "Then let us go and look at the room." With which inconsequent remark
     he strode on into the house, followed by Gregson, whose features
     expressed his astonishment.

     A short passage, bare planked and dusty, led to the kitchen and
     offices. Two doors opened out of it to the left and to the right. One
     of these had obviously been closed for many weeks. The other belonged
     to the dining-room, which was the apartment in which the mysterious
     affair had occurred. Holmes walked in, and I followed him with that
     subdued feeling at my heart which the presence of death inspires.

     It was a large square room, looking all the larger from the absence
     of all furniture. A vulgar flaring paper adorned the walls, but it
     was blotched in places with mildew, and here and there great strips
     had become detached and hung down, exposing the yellow plaster
     beneath. Opposite the door was a showy fireplace, surmounted by a
     mantelpiece of imitation white marble. On one corner of this was
     stuck the stump of a red wax candle. The solitary window was so dirty
     that the light was hazy and uncertain, giving a dull grey tinge to
     everything, which was intensified by the thick layer of dust which
     coated the whole apartment.

     All these details I observed afterwards. At present my attention was
     centred upon the single grim motionless figure which lay stretched
     upon the boards, with vacant sightless eyes staring up at the
     discoloured ceiling. It was that of a man about forty-three or
     forty-four years of age, middle-sized, broad shouldered, with crisp
     curling black hair, and a short stubbly beard. He was dressed in a
     heavy broadcloth frock coat and waistcoat, with light-coloured
     trousers, and immaculate collar and cuffs. A top hat, well brushed
     and trim, was placed upon the floor beside him. His hands were
     clenched and his arms thrown abroad, while his lower limbs were
     interlocked as though his death struggle had been a grievous one. On
     his rigid face there stood an expression of horror, and as it seemed
     to me, of hatred, such as I have never seen upon human features. This
     malignant and terrible contortion, combined with the low forehead,
     blunt nose, and prognathous jaw gave the dead man a singularly
     simious and ape-like appearance, which was increased by his writhing,
     unnatural posture. I have seen death in many forms, but never has it
     appeared to me in a more fearsome aspect than in that dark grimy
     apartment, which looked out upon one of the main arteries of suburban
     London.

     Lestrade, lean and ferret-like as ever, was standing by the doorway,
     and greeted my companion and myself.

     "This case will make a stir, sir," he remarked. "It beats anything I
     have seen, and I am no chicken."

     "There is no clue?" said Gregson.

     "None at all," chimed in Lestrade.

     Sherlock Holmes approached the body, and, kneeling down, examined it
     intently. "You are sure that there is no wound?" he asked, pointing
     to numerous gouts and splashes of blood which lay all round.

     "Positive!" cried both detectives.

     "Then, of course, this blood belongs to a second
     individual--presumably the murderer, if murder has been committed. It
     reminds me of the circumstances attendant on the death of Van Jansen,
     in Utrecht, in the year '34. Do you remember the case, Gregson?"

     "No, sir."

     "Read it up--you really should. There is nothing new under the sun.
     It has all been done before."

     As he spoke, his nimble fingers were flying here, there, and
     everywhere, feeling, pressing, unbuttoning, examining, while his eyes
     wore the same far-away expression which I have already remarked upon.
     So swiftly was the examination made, that one would hardly have
     guessed the minuteness with which it was conducted. Finally, he
     sniffed the dead man's lips, and then glanced at the soles of his
     patent leather boots.

     "He has not been moved at all?" he asked.

     "No more than was necessary for the purposes of our examination."

     "You can take him to the mortuary now," he said. "There is nothing
     more to be learned."

     Gregson had a stretcher and four men at hand. At his call they
     entered the room, and the stranger was lifted and carried out. As
     they raised him, a ring tinkled down and rolled across the floor.
     Lestrade grabbed it up and stared at it with mystified eyes.

     "There's been a woman here," he cried. "It's a woman's wedding-ring."

     He held it out, as he spoke, upon the palm of his hand. We all
     gathered round him and gazed at it. There could be no doubt that that
     circlet of plain gold had once adorned the finger of a bride.

     "This complicates matters," said Gregson. "Heaven knows, they were
     complicated enough before."

     "You're sure it doesn't simplify them?" observed Holmes. "There's
     nothing to be learned by staring at it. What did you find in his
     pockets?"

     "We have it all here," said Gregson, pointing to a litter of objects
     upon one of the bottom steps of the stairs. "A gold watch, No. 97163,
     by Barraud, of London. Gold Albert chain, very heavy and solid. Gold
     ring, with masonic device. Gold pin--bull-dog's head, with rubies as
     eyes. Russian leather card-case, with cards of Enoch J. Drebber of
     Cleveland, corresponding with the E. J. D. upon the linen. No purse,
     but loose money to the extent of seven pounds thirteen. Pocket
     edition of Boccaccio's 'Decameron,' with name of Joseph Stangerson
     upon the fly-leaf. Two letters--one addressed to E. J. Drebber and
     one to Joseph Stangerson."

     "At what address?"

     "American Exchange, Strand--to be left till called for. They are both
     from the Guion Steamship Company, and refer to the sailing of their
     boats from Liverpool. It is clear that this unfortunate man was about
     to return to New York."

     "Have you made any inquiries as to this man, Stangerson?"

     "I did it at once, sir," said Gregson. "I have had advertisements
     sent to all the newspapers, and one of my men has gone to the
     American Exchange, but he has not returned yet."

     "Have you sent to Cleveland?"

     "We telegraphed this morning."

     "How did you word your inquiries?"

     "We simply detailed the circumstances, and said that we should be
     glad of any information which could help us."

     "You did not ask for particulars on any point which appeared to you
     to be crucial?"

     "I asked about Stangerson."

     "Nothing else? Is there no circumstance on which this whole case
     appears to hinge? Will you not telegraph again?"

     "I have said all I have to say," said Gregson, in an offended voice.

     Sherlock Holmes chuckled to himself, and appeared to be about to make
     some remark, when Lestrade, who had been in the front room while we
     were holding this conversation in the hall, reappeared upon the
     scene, rubbing his hands in a pompous and self-satisfied manner.

     "Mr. Gregson," he said, "I have just made a discovery of the highest
     importance, and one which would have been overlooked had I not made a
     careful examination of the walls."

     The little man's eyes sparkled as he spoke, and he was evidently in a
     state of suppressed exultation at having scored a point against his
     colleague.

     "Come here," he said, bustling back into the room, the atmosphere of
     which felt clearer since the removal of its ghastly inmate. "Now,
     stand there!"

     He struck a match on his boot and held it up against the wall.

     "Look at that!" he said, triumphantly.

     I have remarked that the paper had fallen away in parts. In this
     particular corner of the room a large piece had peeled off, leaving a
     yellow square of coarse plastering. Across this bare space there was
     scrawled in blood-red letters a single word--

                                     RACHE.

     "What do you think of that?" cried the detective, with the air of a
     showman exhibiting his show. "This was overlooked because it was in
     the darkest corner of the room, and no one thought of looking there.
     The murderer has written it with his or her own blood. See this smear
     where it has trickled down the wall! That disposes of the idea of
     suicide anyhow. Why was that corner chosen to write it on? I will
     tell you. See that candle on the mantelpiece. It was lit at the time,
     and if it was lit this corner would be the brightest instead of the
     darkest portion of the wall."

     "And what does it mean now that you have found it?" asked Gregson in
     a depreciatory voice.

     "Mean? Why, it means that the writer was going to put the female name
     Rachel, but was disturbed before he or she had time to finish. You
     mark my words, when this case comes to be cleared up you will find
     that a woman named Rachel has something to do with it. It's all very
     well for you to laugh, Mr. Sherlock Holmes. You may be very smart and
     clever, but the old hound is the best, when all is said and done."

     "I really beg your pardon!" said my companion, who had ruffled the
     little man's temper by bursting into an explosion of laughter. "You
     certainly have the credit of being the first of us to find this out,
     and, as you say, it bears every mark of having been written by the
     other participant in last night's mystery. I have not had time to
     examine this room yet, but with your permission I shall do so now."

     As he spoke, he whipped a tape measure and a large round magnifying
     glass from his pocket. With these two implements he trotted
     noiselessly about the room, sometimes stopping, occasionally
     kneeling, and once lying flat upon his face. So engrossed was he with
     his occupation that he appeared to have forgotten our presence, for
     he chattered away to himself under his breath the whole time, keeping
     up a running fire of exclamations, groans, whistles, and little cries
     suggestive of encouragement and of hope. As I watched him I was
     irresistibly reminded of a pure-blooded well-trained foxhound as it
     dashes backwards and forwards through the covert, whining in its
     eagerness, until it comes across the lost scent. For twenty minutes
     or more he continued his researches, measuring with the most exact
     care the distance between marks which were entirely invisible to me,
     and occasionally applying his tape to the walls in an equally
     incomprehensible manner. In one place he gathered up very carefully a
     little pile of grey dust from the floor, and packed it away in an
     envelope. Finally, he examined with his glass the word upon the wall,
     going over every letter of it with the most minute exactness. This
     done, he appeared to be satisfied, for he replaced his tape and his
     glass in his pocket.

     "They say that genius is an infinite capacity for taking pains," he
     remarked with a smile. "It's a very bad definition, but it does apply
     to detective work."

     Gregson and Lestrade had watched the manoeuvres of their amateur
     companion with considerable curiosity and some contempt. They
     evidently failed to appreciate the fact, which I had begun to
     realize, that Sherlock Holmes' smallest actions were all directed
     towards some definite and practical end.

     "What do you think of it, sir?" they both asked.

     "It would be robbing you of the credit of the case if I was to
     presume to help you," remarked my friend. "You are doing so well now
     that it would be a pity for anyone to interfere." There was a world
     of sarcasm in his voice as he spoke. "If you will let me know how
     your investigations go," he continued, "I shall be happy to give you
     any help I can. In the meantime I should like to speak to the
     constable who found the body. Can you give me his name and address?"

     Lestrade glanced at his note-book. "John Rance," he said. "He is off
     duty now. You will find him at 46, Audley Court, Kennington Park
     Gate."

     Holmes took a note of the address.

     "Come along, Doctor," he said; "we shall go and look him up. I'll
     tell you one thing which may help you in the case," he continued,
     turning to the two detectives. "There has been murder done, and the
     murderer was a man. He was more than six feet high, was in the prime
     of life, had small feet for his height, wore coarse, square-toed
     boots and smoked a Trichinopoly cigar. He came here with his victim
     in a four-wheeled cab, which was drawn by a horse with three old
     shoes and one new one on his off fore leg. In all probability the
     murderer had a florid face, and the finger-nails of his right hand
     were remarkably long. These are only a few indications, but they may
     assist you."

     Lestrade and Gregson glanced at each other with an incredulous smile.

     "If this man was murdered, how was it done?" asked the former.

     "Poison," said Sherlock Holmes curtly, and strode off. "One other
     thing, Lestrade," he added, turning round at the door: "'Rache,' is
     the German for 'revenge;' so don't lose your time looking for Miss
     Rachel."

     With which Parthian shot he walked away, leaving the two rivals
     open-mouthed behind him. 





          CHAPTER IV
          What John Rance Had To Tell


     It was one o'clock when we left No. 3, Lauriston Gardens. Sherlock
     Holmes led me to the nearest telegraph office, whence he dispatched a
     long telegram. He then hailed a cab, and ordered the driver to take
     us to the address given us by Lestrade.

     "There is nothing like first hand evidence," he remarked; "as a
     matter of fact, my mind is entirely made up upon the case, but still
     we may as well learn all that is to be learned."

     "You amaze me, Holmes," said I. "Surely you are not as sure as you
     pretend to be of all those particulars which you gave."

     "There's no room for a mistake," he answered. "The very first thing
     which I observed on arriving there was that a cab had made two ruts
     with its wheels close to the curb. Now, up to last night, we have had
     no rain for a week, so that those wheels which left such a deep
     impression must have been there during the night. There were the
     marks of the horse's hoofs, too, the outline of one of which was far
     more clearly cut than that of the other three, showing that that was
     a new shoe. Since the cab was there after the rain began, and was not
     there at any time during the morning--I have Gregson's word for
     that--it follows that it must have been there during the night, and,
     therefore, that it brought those two individuals to the house."

     "That seems simple enough," said I; "but how about the other man's
     height?"

     "Why, the height of a man, in nine cases out of ten, can be told from
     the length of his stride. It is a simple calculation enough, though
     there is no use my boring you with figures. I had this fellow's
     stride both on the clay outside and on the dust within. Then I had a
     way of checking my calculation. When a man writes on a wall, his
     instinct leads him to write about the level of his own eyes. Now that
     writing was just over six feet from the ground. It was child's play."

     "And his age?" I asked.

     "Well, if a man can stride four and a-half feet without the smallest
     effort, he can't be quite in the sere and yellow. That was the
     breadth of a puddle on the garden walk which he had evidently walked
     across. Patent-leather boots had gone round, and Square-toes had
     hopped over. There is no mystery about it at all. I am simply
     applying to ordinary life a few of those precepts of observation and
     deduction which I advocated in that article. Is there anything else
     that puzzles you?"

     "The finger nails and the Trichinopoly," I suggested.

     "The writing on the wall was done with a man's forefinger dipped in
     blood. My glass allowed me to observe that the plaster was slightly
     scratched in doing it, which would not have been the case if the
     man's nail had been trimmed. I gathered up some scattered ash from
     the floor. It was dark in colour and flakey--such an ash as is only
     made by a Trichinopoly. I have made a special study of cigar
     ashes--in fact, I have written a monograph upon the subject. I
     flatter myself that I can distinguish at a glance the ash of any
     known brand, either of cigar or of tobacco. It is just in such
     details that the skilled detective differs from the Gregson and
     Lestrade type."

     "And the florid face?" I asked.

     "Ah, that was a more daring shot, though I have no doubt that I was
     right. You must not ask me that at the present state of the affair."

     I passed my hand over my brow. "My head is in a whirl," I remarked;
     "the more one thinks of it the more mysterious it grows. How came
     these two men--if there were two men--into an empty house? What has
     become of the cabman who drove them? How could one man compel another
     to take poison? Where did the blood come from? What was the object of
     the murderer, since robbery had no part in it? How came the woman's
     ring there? Above all, why should the second man write up the German
     word RACHE before decamping? I confess that I cannot see any possible
     way of reconciling all these facts."

     My companion smiled approvingly.

     "You sum up the difficulties of the situation succinctly and well,"
     he said. "There is much that is still obscure, though I have quite
     made up my mind on the main facts. As to poor Lestrade's discovery it
     was simply a blind intended to put the police upon a wrong track, by
     suggesting Socialism and secret societies. It was not done by a
     German. The A, if you noticed, was printed somewhat after the German
     fashion. Now, a real German invariably prints in the Latin character,
     so that we may safely say that this was not written by one, but by a
     clumsy imitator who overdid his part. It was simply a ruse to divert
     inquiry into a wrong channel. I'm not going to tell you much more of
     the case, Doctor. You know a conjuror gets no credit when once he has
     explained his trick, and if I show you too much of my method of
     working, you will come to the conclusion that I am a very ordinary
     individual after all."

     "I shall never do that," I answered; "you have brought detection as
     near an exact science as it ever will be brought in this world."

     My companion flushed up with pleasure at my words, and the earnest
     way in which I uttered them. I had already observed that he was as
     sensitive to flattery on the score of his art as any girl could be of
     her beauty.

     "I'll tell you one other thing," he said. "Patent-leathers and
     Square-toes came in the same cab, and they walked down the pathway
     together as friendly as possible--arm-in-arm, in all probability.
     When they got inside they walked up and down the room--or rather,
     Patent-leathers stood still while Square-toes walked up and down. I
     could read all that in the dust; and I could read that as he walked
     he grew more and more excited. That is shown by the increased length
     of his strides. He was talking all the while, and working himself up,
     no doubt, into a fury. Then the tragedy occurred. I've told you all I
     know myself now, for the rest is mere surmise and conjecture. We have
     a good working basis, however, on which to start. We must hurry up,
     for I want to go to Halle's concert to hear Norman Neruda this
     afternoon."

     This conversation had occurred while our cab had been threading its
     way through a long succession of dingy streets and dreary by-ways. In
     the dingiest and dreariest of them our driver suddenly came to a
     stand. "That's Audley Court in there," he said, pointing to a narrow
     slit in the line of dead-coloured brick. "You'll find me here when
     you come back."

     Audley Court was not an attractive locality. The narrow passage led
     us into a quadrangle paved with flags and lined by sordid dwellings.
     We picked our way among groups of dirty children, and through lines
     of discoloured linen, until we came to Number 46, the door of which
     was decorated with a small slip of brass on which the name Rance was
     engraved. On enquiry we found that the constable was in bed, and we
     were shown into a little front parlour to await his coming.

     He appeared presently, looking a little irritable at being disturbed
     in his slumbers. "I made my report at the office," he said.

     Holmes took a half-sovereign from his pocket and played with it
     pensively. "We thought that we should like to hear it all from your
     own lips," he said.

     "I shall be most happy to tell you anything I can," the constable
     answered with his eyes upon the little golden disk.

     "Just let us hear it all in your own way as it occurred."

     Rance sat down on the horsehair sofa, and knitted his brows as though
     determined not to omit anything in his narrative.

     "I'll tell it ye from the beginning," he said. "My time is from ten
     at night to six in the morning. At eleven there was a fight at the
     'White Hart'; but bar that all was quiet enough on the beat. At one
     o'clock it began to rain, and I met Harry Murcher--him who has the
     Holland Grove beat--and we stood together at the corner of Henrietta
     Street a-talkin'. Presently--maybe about two or a little after--I
     thought I would take a look round and see that all was right down the
     Brixton Road. It was precious dirty and lonely. Not a soul did I meet
     all the way down, though a cab or two went past me. I was a strollin'
     down, thinkin' between ourselves how uncommon handy a four of gin hot
     would be, when suddenly the glint of a light caught my eye in the
     window of that same house. Now, I knew that them two houses in
     Lauriston Gardens was empty on account of him that owns them who
     won't have the drains seed to, though the very last tenant what lived
     in one of them died o' typhoid fever. I was knocked all in a heap
     therefore at seeing a light in the window, and I suspected as
     something was wrong. When I got to the door--"

     "You stopped, and then walked back to the garden gate," my companion
     interrupted. "What did you do that for?"

     Rance gave a violent jump, and stared at Sherlock Holmes with the
     utmost amazement upon his features.

     "Why, that's true, sir," he said; "though how you come to know it,
     Heaven only knows. Ye see, when I got up to the door it was so still
     and so lonesome, that I thought I'd be none the worse for some one
     with me. I ain't afeared of anything on this side o' the grave; but I
     thought that maybe it was him that died o' the typhoid inspecting the
     drains what killed him. The thought gave me a kind o' turn, and I
     walked back to the gate to see if I could see Murcher's lantern, but
     there wasn't no sign of him nor of anyone else."

     "There was no one in the street?"

     "Not a livin' soul, sir, nor as much as a dog. Then I pulled myself
     together and went back and pushed the door open. All was quiet
     inside, so I went into the room where the light was a-burnin'. There
     was a candle flickerin' on the mantelpiece--a red wax one--and by its
     light I saw--"

     "Yes, I know all that you saw. You walked round the room several
     times, and you knelt down by the body, and then you walked through
     and tried the kitchen door, and then--"

     John Rance sprang to his feet with a frightened face and suspicion in
     his eyes. "Where was you hid to see all that?" he cried. "It seems to
     me that you knows a deal more than you should."

     Holmes laughed and threw his card across the table to the constable.
     "Don't get arresting me for the murder," he said. "I am one of the
     hounds and not the wolf; Mr. Gregson or Mr. Lestrade will answer for
     that. Go on, though. What did you do next?"

     Rance resumed his seat, without however losing his mystified
     expression. "I went back to the gate and sounded my whistle. That
     brought Murcher and two more to the spot."

     "Was the street empty then?"

     "Well, it was, as far as anybody that could be of any good goes."

     "What do you mean?"

     The constable's features broadened into a grin. "I've seen many a
     drunk chap in my time," he said, "but never anyone so cryin' drunk as
     that cove. He was at the gate when I came out, a-leanin' up ag'in the
     railings, and a-singin' at the pitch o' his lungs about Columbine's
     New-fangled Banner, or some such stuff. He couldn't stand, far less
     help."

     "What sort of a man was he?" asked Sherlock Holmes.

     John Rance appeared to be somewhat irritated at this digression. "He
     was an uncommon drunk sort o' man," he said. "He'd ha' found hisself
     in the station if we hadn't been so took up."

     "His face--his dress--didn't you notice them?" Holmes broke in
     impatiently.

     "I should think I did notice them, seeing that I had to prop him
     up--me and Murcher between us. He was a long chap, with a red face,
     the lower part muffled round--"

     "That will do," cried Holmes. "What became of him?"

     "We'd enough to do without lookin' after him," the policeman said, in
     an aggrieved voice. "I'll wager he found his way home all right."

     "How was he dressed?"

     "A brown overcoat."

     "Had he a whip in his hand?"

     "A whip--no."

     "He must have left it behind," muttered my companion. "You didn't
     happen to see or hear a cab after that?"

     "No."

     "There's a half-sovereign for you," my companion said, standing up
     and taking his hat. "I am afraid, Rance, that you will never rise in
     the force. That head of yours should be for use as well as ornament.
     You might have gained your sergeant's stripes last night. The man
     whom you held in your hands is the man who holds the clue of this
     mystery, and whom we are seeking. There is no use of arguing about it
     now; I tell you that it is so. Come along, Doctor."

     We started off for the cab together, leaving our informant
     incredulous, but obviously uncomfortable.

     "The blundering fool," Holmes said, bitterly, as we drove back to our
     lodgings. "Just to think of his having such an incomparable bit of
     good luck, and not taking advantage of it."

     "I am rather in the dark still. It is true that the description of
     this man tallies with your idea of the second party in this mystery.
     But why should he come back to the house after leaving it? That is
     not the way of criminals."

     "The ring, man, the ring: that was what he came back for. If we have
     no other way of catching him, we can always bait our line with the
     ring. I shall have him, Doctor--I'll lay you two to one that I have
     him. I must thank you for it all. I might not have gone but for you,
     and so have missed the finest study I ever came across: a study in
     scarlet, eh? Why shouldn't we use a little art jargon. There's the
     scarlet thread of murder running through the colourless skein of
     life, and our duty is to unravel it, and isolate it, and expose every
     inch of it. And now for lunch, and then for Norman Neruda. Her attack
     and her bowing are splendid. What's that little thing of Chopin's she
     plays so magnificently: Tra-la-la-lira-lira-lay."

     Leaning back in the cab, this amateur bloodhound carolled away like a
     lark while I meditated upon the many-sidedness of the human mind.





          CHAPTER V
          Our Advertisement Brings A Visitor


     Our morning's exertions had been too much for my weak health, and I
     was tired out in the afternoon. After Holmes' departure for the
     concert, I lay down upon the sofa and endeavoured to get a couple of
     hours' sleep. It was a useless attempt. My mind had been too much
     excited by all that had occurred, and the strangest fancies and
     surmises crowded into it. Every time that I closed my eyes I saw
     before me the distorted baboon-like countenance of the murdered man.
     So sinister was the impression which that face had produced upon me
     that I found it difficult to feel anything but gratitude for him who
     had removed its owner from the world. If ever human features bespoke
     vice of the most malignant type, they were certainly those of Enoch
     J. Drebber, of Cleveland. Still I recognized that justice must be
     done, and that the depravity of the victim was no condonement in the
     eyes of the law.

     The more I thought of it the more extraordinary did my companion's
     hypothesis, that the man had been poisoned, appear. I remembered how
     he had sniffed his lips, and had no doubt that he had detected
     something which had given rise to the idea. Then, again, if not
     poison, what had caused the man's death, since there was neither
     wound nor marks of strangulation? But, on the other hand, whose blood
     was that which lay so thickly upon the floor? There were no signs of
     a struggle, nor had the victim any weapon with which he might have
     wounded an antagonist. As long as all these questions were unsolved,
     I felt that sleep would be no easy matter, either for Holmes or
     myself. His quiet self-confident manner convinced me that he had
     already formed a theory which explained all the facts, though what it
     was I could not for an instant conjecture.

     He was very late in returning--so late, that I knew that the concert
     could not have detained him all the time. Dinner was on the table
     before he appeared.

     "It was magnificent," he said, as he took his seat. "Do you remember
     what Darwin says about music? He claims that the power of producing
     and appreciating it existed among the human race long before the
     power of speech was arrived at. Perhaps that is why we are so subtly
     influenced by it. There are vague memories in our souls of those
     misty centuries when the world was in its childhood."

     "That's rather a broad idea," I remarked.

     "One's ideas must be as broad as Nature if they are to interpret
     Nature," he answered. "What's the matter? You're not looking quite
     yourself. This Brixton Road affair has upset you."

     "To tell the truth, it has," I said. "I ought to be more
     case-hardened after my Afghan experiences. I saw my own comrades
     hacked to pieces at Maiwand without losing my nerve."

     "I can understand. There is a mystery about this which stimulates the
     imagination; where there is no imagination there is no horror. Have
     you seen the evening paper?"

     "No."

     "It gives a fairly good account of the affair. It does not mention
     the fact that when the man was raised up, a woman's wedding ring fell
     upon the floor. It is just as well it does not."

     "Why?"

     "Look at this advertisement," he answered. "I had one sent to every
     paper this morning immediately after the affair."

     He threw the paper across to me and I glanced at the place indicated.
     It was the first announcement in the "Found" column. "In Brixton
     Road, this morning," it ran, "a plain gold wedding ring, found in the
     roadway between the 'White Hart' Tavern and Holland Grove. Apply Dr.
     Watson, 221b, Baker Street, between eight and nine this evening."

     "Excuse my using your name," he said. "If I used my own some of these
     dunderheads would recognize it, and want to meddle in the affair."

     "That is all right," I answered. "But supposing anyone applies, I
     have no ring."

     "Oh yes, you have," said he, handing me one. "This will do very well.
     It is almost a facsimile."

     "And who do you expect will answer this advertisement."

     "Why, the man in the brown coat--our florid friend with the square
     toes. If he does not come himself he will send an accomplice."

     "Would he not consider it as too dangerous?"

     "Not at all. If my view of the case is correct, and I have every
     reason to believe that it is, this man would rather risk anything
     than lose the ring. According to my notion he dropped it while
     stooping over Drebber's body, and did not miss it at the time. After
     leaving the house he discovered his loss and hurried back, but found
     the police already in possession, owing to his own folly in leaving
     the candle burning. He had to pretend to be drunk in order to allay
     the suspicions which might have been aroused by his appearance at the
     gate. Now put yourself in that man's place. On thinking the matter
     over, it must have occurred to him that it was possible that he had
     lost the ring in the road after leaving the house. What would he do,
     then? He would eagerly look out for the evening papers in the hope of
     seeing it among the articles found. His eye, of course, would light
     upon this. He would be overjoyed. Why should he fear a trap? There
     would be no reason in his eyes why the finding of the ring should be
     connected with the murder. He would come. He will come. You shall see
     him within an hour."

     "And then?" I asked.

     "Oh, you can leave me to deal with him then. Have you any arms?"

     "I have my old service revolver and a few cartridges."

     "You had better clean it and load it. He will be a desperate man, and
     though I shall take him unawares, it is as well to be ready for
     anything."

     I went to my bedroom and followed his advice. When I returned with
     the pistol the table had been cleared, and Holmes was engaged in his
     favourite occupation of scraping upon his violin.

     "The plot thickens," he said, as I entered; "I have just had an
     answer to my American telegram. My view of the case is the correct
     one."

     "And that is?" I asked eagerly.

     "My fiddle would be the better for new strings," he remarked. "Put
     your pistol in your pocket. When the fellow comes speak to him in an
     ordinary way. Leave the rest to me. Don't frighten him by looking at
     him too hard."

     "It is eight o'clock now," I said, glancing at my watch.

     "Yes. He will probably be here in a few minutes. Open the door
     slightly. That will do. Now put the key on the inside. Thank you!
     This is a queer old book I picked up at a stall yesterday--De Jure
     inter Gentes--published in Latin at Liege in the Lowlands, in 1642.
     Charles' head was still firm on his shoulders when this little
     brown-backed volume was struck off."

     "Who is the printer?"

     "Philippe de Croy, whoever he may have been. On the fly-leaf, in very
     faded ink, is written 'Ex libris Guliolmi Whyte.' I wonder who
     William Whyte was. Some pragmatical seventeenth century lawyer, I
     suppose. His writing has a legal twist about it. Here comes our man,
     I think."

     As he spoke there was a sharp ring at the bell. Sherlock Holmes rose
     softly and moved his chair in the direction of the door. We heard the
     servant pass along the hall, and the sharp click of the latch as she
     opened it.

     "Does Dr. Watson live here?" asked a clear but rather harsh voice. We
     could not hear the servant's reply, but the door closed, and some one
     began to ascend the stairs. The footfall was an uncertain and
     shuffling one. A look of surprise passed over the face of my
     companion as he listened to it. It came slowly along the passage, and
     there was a feeble tap at the door.

     "Come in," I cried.

     At my summons, instead of the man of violence whom we expected, a
     very old and wrinkled woman hobbled into the apartment. She appeared
     to be dazzled by the sudden blaze of light, and after dropping a
     curtsey, she stood blinking at us with her bleared eyes and fumbling
     in her pocket with nervous, shaky fingers. I glanced at my companion,
     and his face had assumed such a disconsolate expression that it was
     all I could do to keep my countenance.

     The old crone drew out an evening paper, and pointed at our
     advertisement. "It's this as has brought me, good gentlemen," she
     said, dropping another curtsey; "a gold wedding ring in the Brixton
     Road. It belongs to my girl Sally, as was married only this time
     twelvemonth, which her husband is steward aboard a Union boat, and
     what he'd say if he comes 'ome and found her without her ring is more
     than I can think, he being short enough at the best o' times, but
     more especially when he has the drink. If it please you, she went to
     the circus last night along with--"

     "Is that her ring?" I asked.

     "The Lord be thanked!" cried the old woman; "Sally will be a glad
     woman this night. That's the ring."

     "And what may your address be?" I inquired, taking up a pencil.

     "13, Duncan Street, Houndsditch. A weary way from here."

     "The Brixton Road does not lie between any circus and Houndsditch,"
     said Sherlock Holmes sharply.

     The old woman faced round and looked keenly at him from her little
     red-rimmed eyes. "The gentleman asked me for my address," she said.
     "Sally lives in lodgings at 3, Mayfield Place, Peckham."

     "And your name is--?"

     "My name is Sawyer--her's is Dennis, which Tom Dennis married
     her--and a smart, clean lad, too, as long as he's at sea, and no
     steward in the company more thought of; but when on shore, what with
     the women and what with liquor shops--"

     "Here is your ring, Mrs. Sawyer," I interrupted, in obedience to a
     sign from my companion; "it clearly belongs to your daughter, and I
     am glad to be able to restore it to the rightful owner."

     With many mumbled blessings and protestations of gratitude the old
     crone packed it away in her pocket, and shuffled off down the stairs.
     Sherlock Holmes sprang to his feet the moment that she was gone and
     rushed into his room. He returned in a few seconds enveloped in an
     ulster and a cravat. "I'll follow her," he said, hurriedly; "she must
     be an accomplice, and will lead me to him. Wait up for me." The hall
     door had hardly slammed behind our visitor before Holmes had
     descended the stair. Looking through the window I could see her
     walking feebly along the other side, while her pursuer dogged her
     some little distance behind. "Either his whole theory is incorrect,"
     I thought to myself, "or else he will be led now to the heart of the
     mystery." There was no need for him to ask me to wait up for him, for
     I felt that sleep was impossible until I heard the result of his
     adventure.

     It was close upon nine when he set out. I had no idea how long he
     might be, but I sat stolidly puffing at my pipe and skipping over the
     pages of Henri Murger's Vie de Bohème. Ten o'clock passed, and I
     heard the footsteps of the maid as they pattered off to bed. Eleven,
     and the more stately tread of the landlady passed my door, bound for
     the same destination. It was close upon twelve before I heard the
     sharp sound of his latch-key. The instant he entered I saw by his
     face that he had not been successful. Amusement and chagrin seemed to
     be struggling for the mastery, until the former suddenly carried the
     day, and he burst into a hearty laugh.

     "I wouldn't have the Scotland Yarders know it for the world," he
     cried, dropping into his chair; "I have chaffed them so much that
     they would never have let me hear the end of it. I can afford to
     laugh, because I know that I will be even with them in the long run."

     "What is it then?" I asked.

     "Oh, I don't mind telling a story against myself. That creature had
     gone a little way when she began to limp and show every sign of being
     foot-sore. Presently she came to a halt, and hailed a four-wheeler
     which was passing. I managed to be close to her so as to hear the
     address, but I need not have been so anxious, for she sang it out
     loud enough to be heard at the other side of the street, 'Drive to
     13, Duncan Street, Houndsditch,' she cried. This begins to look
     genuine, I thought, and having seen her safely inside, I perched
     myself behind. That's an art which every detective should be an
     expert at. Well, away we rattled, and never drew rein until we
     reached the street in question. I hopped off before we came to the
     door, and strolled down the street in an easy, lounging way. I saw
     the cab pull up. The driver jumped down, and I saw him open the door
     and stand expectantly. Nothing came out though. When I reached him he
     was groping about frantically in the empty cab, and giving vent to
     the finest assorted collection of oaths that ever I listened to.
     There was no sign or trace of his passenger, and I fear it will be
     some time before he gets his fare. On inquiring at Number 13 we found
     that the house belonged to a respectable paperhanger, named Keswick,
     and that no one of the name either of Sawyer or Dennis had ever been
     heard of there."

     "You don't mean to say," I cried, in amazement, "that that tottering,
     feeble old woman was able to get out of the cab while it was in
     motion, without either you or the driver seeing her?"

     "Old woman be damned!" said Sherlock Holmes, sharply. "We were the
     old women to be so taken in. It must have been a young man, and an
     active one, too, besides being an incomparable actor. The get-up was
     inimitable. He saw that he was followed, no doubt, and used this
     means of giving me the slip. It shows that the man we are after is
     not as lonely as I imagined he was, but has friends who are ready to
     risk something for him. Now, Doctor, you are looking done-up. Take my
     advice and turn in."

     I was certainly feeling very weary, so I obeyed his injunction. I
     left Holmes seated in front of the smouldering fire, and long into
     the watches of the night I heard the low, melancholy wailings of his
     violin, and knew that he was still pondering over the strange problem
     which he had set himself to unravel.





          CHAPTER VI
          Tobias Gregson Shows What He Can Do


     The papers next day were full of the "Brixton Mystery," as they
     termed it. Each had a long account of the affair, and some had
     leaders upon it in addition. There was some information in them which
     was new to me. I still retain in my scrap-book numerous clippings and
     extracts bearing upon the case. Here is a condensation of a few of
     them:--

     The Daily Telegraph remarked that in the history of crime there had
     seldom been a tragedy which presented stranger features. The German
     name of the victim, the absence of all other motive, and the sinister
     inscription on the wall, all pointed to its perpetration by political
     refugees and revolutionists. The Socialists had many branches in
     America, and the deceased had, no doubt, infringed their unwritten
     laws, and been tracked down by them. After alluding airily to the
     Vehmgericht, aqua tofana, Carbonari, the Marchioness de Brinvilliers,
     the Darwinian theory, the principles of Malthus, and the Ratcliff
     Highway murders, the article concluded by admonishing the Government
     and advocating a closer watch over foreigners in England.

     The Standard commented upon the fact that lawless outrages of the
     sort usually occurred under a Liberal Administration. They arose from
     the unsettling of the minds of the masses, and the consequent
     weakening of all authority. The deceased was an American gentleman
     who had been residing for some weeks in the Metropolis. He had stayed
     at the boarding-house of Madame Charpentier, in Torquay Terrace,
     Camberwell. He was accompanied in his travels by his private
     secretary, Mr. Joseph Stangerson. The two bade adieu to their
     landlady upon Tuesday, the 4th inst., and departed to Euston Station
     with the avowed intention of catching the Liverpool express. They
     were afterwards seen together upon the platform. Nothing more is
     known of them until Mr. Drebber's body was, as recorded, discovered
     in an empty house in the Brixton Road, many miles from Euston. How he
     came there, or how he met his fate, are questions which are still
     involved in mystery. Nothing is known of the whereabouts of
     Stangerson. We are glad to learn that Mr. Lestrade and Mr. Gregson,
     of Scotland Yard, are both engaged upon the case, and it is
     confidently anticipated that these well-known officers will speedily
     throw light upon the matter.

     The Daily News observed that there was no doubt as to the crime being
     a political one. The despotism and hatred of Liberalism which
     animated the Continental Governments had had the effect of driving to
     our shores a number of men who might have made excellent citizens
     were they not soured by the recollection of all that they had
     undergone. Among these men there was a stringent code of honour, any
     infringement of which was punished by death. Every effort should be
     made to find the secretary, Stangerson, and to ascertain some
     particulars of the habits of the deceased. A great step had been
     gained by the discovery of the address of the house at which he had
     boarded--a result which was entirely due to the acuteness and energy
     of Mr. Gregson of Scotland Yard.

     Sherlock Holmes and I read these notices over together at breakfast,
     and they appeared to afford him considerable amusement.

     "I told you that, whatever happened, Lestrade and Gregson would be
     sure to score."

     "That depends on how it turns out."

     "Oh, bless you, it doesn't matter in the least. If the man is caught,
     it will be on account of their exertions; if he escapes, it will be
     in spite of their exertions. It's heads I win and tails you lose.
     Whatever they do, they will have followers. 'Un sot trouve toujours
     un plus sot qui l'admire.'"

     "What on earth is this?" I cried, for at this moment there came the
     pattering of many steps in the hall and on the stairs, accompanied by
     audible expressions of disgust upon the part of our landlady.

     "It's the Baker Street division of the detective police force," said
     my companion, gravely; and as he spoke there rushed into the room
     half a dozen of the dirtiest and most ragged street Arabs that ever I
     clapped eyes on.

     "'Tention!" cried Holmes, in a sharp tone, and the six dirty little
     scoundrels stood in a line like so many disreputable statuettes. "In
     future you shall send up Wiggins alone to report, and the rest of you
     must wait in the street. Have you found it, Wiggins?"

     "No, sir, we hain't," said one of the youths.

     "I hardly expected you would. You must keep on until you do. Here are
     your wages." He handed each of them a shilling. "Now, off you go, and
     come back with a better report next time."

     He waved his hand, and they scampered away downstairs like so many
     rats, and we heard their shrill voices next moment in the street.

     "There's more work to be got out of one of those little beggars than
     out of a dozen of the force," Holmes remarked. "The mere sight of an
     official-looking person seals men's lips. These youngsters, however,
     go everywhere and hear everything. They are as sharp as needles, too;
     all they want is organisation."

     "Is it on this Brixton case that you are employing them?" I asked.

     "Yes; there is a point which I wish to ascertain. It is merely a
     matter of time. Hullo! we are going to hear some news now with a
     vengeance! Here is Gregson coming down the road with beatitude
     written upon every feature of his face. Bound for us, I know. Yes, he
     is stopping. There he is!"

     There was a violent peal at the bell, and in a few seconds the
     fair-haired detective came up the stairs, three steps at a time, and
     burst into our sitting-room.

     "My dear fellow," he cried, wringing Holmes' unresponsive hand,
     "congratulate me! I have made the whole thing as clear as day."

     A shade of anxiety seemed to me to cross my companion's expressive
     face.

     "Do you mean that you are on the right track?" he asked.

     "The right track! Why, sir, we have the man under lock and key."

     "And his name is?"

     "Arthur Charpentier, sub-lieutenant in Her Majesty's navy," cried
     Gregson, pompously, rubbing his fat hands and inflating his chest.

     Sherlock Holmes gave a sigh of relief, and relaxed into a smile.

     "Take a seat, and try one of these cigars," he said. "We are anxious
     to know how you managed it. Will you have some whiskey and water?"

     "I don't mind if I do," the detective answered. "The tremendous
     exertions which I have gone through during the last day or two have
     worn me out. Not so much bodily exertion, you understand, as the
     strain upon the mind. You will appreciate that, Mr. Sherlock Holmes,
     for we are both brain-workers."

     "You do me too much honour," said Holmes, gravely. "Let us hear how
     you arrived at this most gratifying result."

     The detective seated himself in the arm-chair, and puffed
     complacently at his cigar. Then suddenly he slapped his thigh in a
     paroxysm of amusement.

     "The fun of it is," he cried, "that that fool Lestrade, who thinks
     himself so smart, has gone off upon the wrong track altogether. He is
     after the secretary Stangerson, who had no more to do with the crime
     than the babe unborn. I have no doubt that he has caught him by this
     time."

     The idea tickled Gregson so much that he laughed until he choked.

     "And how did you get your clue?"

     "Ah, I'll tell you all about it. Of course, Doctor Watson, this is
     strictly between ourselves. The first difficulty which we had to
     contend with was the finding of this American's antecedents. Some
     people would have waited until their advertisements were answered, or
     until parties came forward and volunteered information. That is not
     Tobias Gregson's way of going to work. You remember the hat beside
     the dead man?"

     "Yes," said Holmes; "by John Underwood and Sons, 129, Camberwell
     Road."

     Gregson looked quite crest-fallen.

     "I had no idea that you noticed that," he said. "Have you been
     there?"

     "No."

     "Ha!" cried Gregson, in a relieved voice; "you should never neglect a
     chance, however small it may seem."

     "To a great mind, nothing is little," remarked Holmes, sententiously.

     "Well, I went to Underwood, and asked him if he had sold a hat of
     that size and description. He looked over his books, and came on it
     at once. He had sent the hat to a Mr. Drebber, residing at
     Charpentier's Boarding Establishment, Torquay Terrace. Thus I got at
     his address."

     "Smart--very smart!" murmured Sherlock Holmes.

     "I next called upon Madame Charpentier," continued the detective. "I
     found her very pale and distressed. Her daughter was in the room,
     too--an uncommonly fine girl she is, too; she was looking red about
     the eyes and her lips trembled as I spoke to her. That didn't escape
     my notice. I began to smell a rat. You know the feeling, Mr. Sherlock
     Holmes, when you come upon the right scent--a kind of thrill in your
     nerves. 'Have you heard of the mysterious death of your late boarder
     Mr. Enoch J. Drebber, of Cleveland?' I asked.

     "The mother nodded. She didn't seem able to get out a word. The
     daughter burst into tears. I felt more than ever that these people
     knew something of the matter.

     "'At what o'clock did Mr. Drebber leave your house for the train?' I
     asked.

     "'At eight o'clock,' she said, gulping in her throat to keep down her
     agitation. 'His secretary, Mr. Stangerson, said that there were two
     trains--one at 9.15 and one at 11. He was to catch the first.'

     "'And was that the last which you saw of him?'

     "A terrible change came over the woman's face as I asked the
     question. Her features turned perfectly livid. It was some seconds
     before she could get out the single word 'Yes'--and when it did come
     it was in a husky unnatural tone.

     "There was silence for a moment, and then the daughter spoke in a
     calm clear voice.

     "'No good can ever come of falsehood, mother,' she said. 'Let us be
     frank with this gentleman. We did see Mr. Drebber again.'

     "'God forgive you!' cried Madame Charpentier, throwing up her hands
     and sinking back in her chair. 'You have murdered your brother.'

     "'Arthur would rather that we spoke the truth,' the girl answered
     firmly.

     "'You had best tell me all about it now,' I said. 'Half-confidences
     are worse than none. Besides, you do not know how much we know of
     it.'

     "'On your head be it, Alice!' cried her mother; and then, turning to
     me, 'I will tell you all, sir. Do not imagine that my agitation on
     behalf of my son arises from any fear lest he should have had a hand
     in this terrible affair. He is utterly innocent of it. My dread is,
     however, that in your eyes and in the eyes of others he may appear to
     be compromised. That however is surely impossible. His high
     character, his profession, his antecedents would all forbid it.'

     "'Your best way is to make a clean breast of the facts,' I answered.
     'Depend upon it, if your son is innocent he will be none the worse.'

     "'Perhaps, Alice, you had better leave us together,' she said, and
     her daughter withdrew. 'Now, sir,' she continued, 'I had no intention
     of telling you all this, but since my poor daughter has disclosed it
     I have no alternative. Having once decided to speak, I will tell you
     all without omitting any particular.'

     "'It is your wisest course,' said I.

     "'Mr. Drebber has been with us nearly three weeks. He and his
     secretary, Mr. Stangerson, had been travelling on the Continent. I
     noticed a "Copenhagen" label upon each of their trunks, showing that
     that had been their last stopping place. Stangerson was a quiet
     reserved man, but his employer, I am sorry to say, was far otherwise.
     He was coarse in his habits and brutish in his ways. The very night
     of his arrival he became very much the worse for drink, and, indeed,
     after twelve o'clock in the day he could hardly ever be said to be
     sober. His manners towards the maid-servants were disgustingly free
     and familiar. Worst of all, he speedily assumed the same attitude
     towards my daughter, Alice, and spoke to her more than once in a way
     which, fortunately, she is too innocent to understand. On one
     occasion he actually seized her in his arms and embraced her--an
     outrage which caused his own secretary to reproach him for his
     unmanly conduct.'

     "'But why did you stand all this,' I asked. 'I suppose that you can
     get rid of your boarders when you wish.'

     "Mrs. Charpentier blushed at my pertinent question. 'Would to God
     that I had given him notice on the very day that he came,' she said.
     'But it was a sore temptation. They were paying a pound a day
     each--fourteen pounds a week, and this is the slack season. I am a
     widow, and my boy in the Navy has cost me much. I grudged to lose the
     money. I acted for the best. This last was too much, however, and I
     gave him notice to leave on account of it. That was the reason of his
     going.'

     "'Well?'

     "'My heart grew light when I saw him drive away. My son is on leave
     just now, but I did not tell him anything of all this, for his temper
     is violent, and he is passionately fond of his sister. When I closed
     the door behind them a load seemed to be lifted from my mind. Alas,
     in less than an hour there was a ring at the bell, and I learned that
     Mr. Drebber had returned. He was much excited, and evidently the
     worse for drink. He forced his way into the room, where I was sitting
     with my daughter, and made some incoherent remark about having missed
     his train. He then turned to Alice, and before my very face, proposed
     to her that she should fly with him. "You are of age," he said, "and
     there is no law to stop you. I have money enough and to spare. Never
     mind the old girl here, but come along with me now straight away. You
     shall live like a princess." Poor Alice was so frightened that she
     shrunk away from him, but he caught her by the wrist and endeavoured
     to draw her towards the door. I screamed, and at that moment my son
     Arthur came into the room. What happened then I do not know. I heard
     oaths and the confused sounds of a scuffle. I was too terrified to
     raise my head. When I did look up I saw Arthur standing in the
     doorway laughing, with a stick in his hand. "I don't think that fine
     fellow will trouble us again," he said. "I will just go after him and
     see what he does with himself." With those words he took his hat and
     started off down the street. The next morning we heard of Mr.
     Drebber's mysterious death.'

     "This statement came from Mrs. Charpentier's lips with many gasps and
     pauses. At times she spoke so low that I could hardly catch the
     words. I made shorthand notes of all that she said, however, so that
     there should be no possibility of a mistake."

     "It's quite exciting," said Sherlock Holmes, with a yawn. "What
     happened next?"

     "When Mrs. Charpentier paused," the detective continued, "I saw that
     the whole case hung upon one point. Fixing her with my eye in a way
     which I always found effective with women, I asked her at what hour
     her son returned.

     "'I do not know,' she answered.

     "'Not know?'

     "'No; he has a latch-key, and he let himself in.'

     "'After you went to bed?'

     "'Yes.'

     "'When did you go to bed?'

     "'About eleven.'

     "'So your son was gone at least two hours?'

     "'Yes.'

     "'Possibly four or five?'

     "'Yes.'

     "'What was he doing during that time?'

     "'I do not know,' she answered, turning white to her very lips.

     "Of course after that there was nothing more to be done. I found out
     where Lieutenant Charpentier was, took two officers with me, and
     arrested him. When I touched him on the shoulder and warned him to
     come quietly with us, he answered us as bold as brass, 'I suppose you
     are arresting me for being concerned in the death of that scoundrel
     Drebber,' he said. We had said nothing to him about it, so that his
     alluding to it had a most suspicious aspect."

     "Very," said Holmes.

     "He still carried the heavy stick which the mother described him as
     having with him when he followed Drebber. It was a stout oak cudgel."

     "What is your theory, then?"

     "Well, my theory is that he followed Drebber as far as the Brixton
     Road. When there, a fresh altercation arose between them, in the
     course of which Drebber received a blow from the stick, in the pit of
     the stomach, perhaps, which killed him without leaving any mark. The
     night was so wet that no one was about, so Charpentier dragged the
     body of his victim into the empty house. As to the candle, and the
     blood, and the writing on the wall, and the ring, they may all be so
     many tricks to throw the police on to the wrong scent."

     "Well done!" said Holmes in an encouraging voice. "Really, Gregson,
     you are getting along. We shall make something of you yet."

     "I flatter myself that I have managed it rather neatly," the
     detective answered proudly. "The young man volunteered a statement,
     in which he said that after following Drebber some time, the latter
     perceived him, and took a cab in order to get away from him. On his
     way home he met an old shipmate, and took a long walk with him. On
     being asked where this old shipmate lived, he was unable to give any
     satisfactory reply. I think the whole case fits together uncommonly
     well. What amuses me is to think of Lestrade, who had started off
     upon the wrong scent. I am afraid he won't make much of--Why, by
     Jove, here's the very man himself!"

     It was indeed Lestrade, who had ascended the stairs while we were
     talking, and who now entered the room. The assurance and jauntiness
     which generally marked his demeanour and dress were, however,
     wanting. His face was disturbed and troubled, while his clothes were
     disarranged and untidy. He had evidently come with the intention of
     consulting with Sherlock Holmes, for on perceiving his colleague he
     appeared to be embarrassed and put out. He stood in the centre of the
     room, fumbling nervously with his hat and uncertain what to do. "This
     is a most extraordinary case," he said at last--"a most
     incomprehensible affair."

     "Ah, you find it so, Mr. Lestrade!" cried Gregson, triumphantly. "I
     thought you would come to that conclusion. Have you managed to find
     the Secretary, Mr. Joseph Stangerson?"

     "The Secretary, Mr. Joseph Stangerson," said Lestrade gravely, "was
     murdered at Halliday's Private Hotel about six o'clock this morning."
     





          CHAPTER VII
          Light In The Darkness


     The intelligence with which Lestrade greeted us was so momentous and
     so unexpected, that we were all three fairly dumbfounded. Gregson
     sprang out of his chair and upset the remainder of his whiskey and
     water. I stared in silence at Sherlock Holmes, whose lips were
     compressed and his brows drawn down over his eyes.

     "Stangerson too!" he muttered. "The plot thickens."

     "It was quite thick enough before," grumbled Lestrade, taking a
     chair. "I seem to have dropped into a sort of council of war."

     "Are you--are you sure of this piece of intelligence?" stammered
     Gregson.

     "I have just come from his room," said Lestrade. "I was the first to
     discover what had occurred."

     "We have been hearing Gregson's view of the matter," Holmes observed.
     "Would you mind letting us know what you have seen and done?"

     "I have no objection," Lestrade answered, seating himself. "I freely
     confess that I was of the opinion that Stangerson was concerned in
     the death of Drebber. This fresh development has shown me that I was
     completely mistaken. Full of the one idea, I set myself to find out
     what had become of the Secretary. They had been seen together at
     Euston Station about half-past eight on the evening of the third. At
     two in the morning Drebber had been found in the Brixton Road. The
     question which confronted me was to find out how Stangerson had been
     employed between 8.30 and the time of the crime, and what had become
     of him afterwards. I telegraphed to Liverpool, giving a description
     of the man, and warning them to keep a watch upon the American boats.
     I then set to work calling upon all the hotels and lodging-houses in
     the vicinity of Euston. You see, I argued that if Drebber and his
     companion had become separated, the natural course for the latter
     would be to put up somewhere in the vicinity for the night, and then
     to hang about the station again next morning."

     "They would be likely to agree on some meeting-place beforehand,"
     remarked Holmes.

     "So it proved. I spent the whole of yesterday evening in making
     enquiries entirely without avail. This morning I began very early,
     and at eight o'clock I reached Halliday's Private Hotel, in Little
     George Street. On my enquiry as to whether a Mr. Stangerson was
     living there, they at once answered me in the affirmative.

     "'No doubt you are the gentleman whom he was expecting,' they said.
     'He has been waiting for a gentleman for two days.'

     "'Where is he now?' I asked.

     "'He is upstairs in bed. He wished to be called at nine.'

     "'I will go up and see him at once,' I said.

     "It seemed to me that my sudden appearance might shake his nerves and
     lead him to say something unguarded. The Boots volunteered to show me
     the room: it was on the second floor, and there was a small corridor
     leading up to it. The Boots pointed out the door to me, and was about
     to go downstairs again when I saw something that made me feel
     sickish, in spite of my twenty years' experience. From under the door
     there curled a little red ribbon of blood, which had meandered across
     the passage and formed a little pool along the skirting at the other
     side. I gave a cry, which brought the Boots back. He nearly fainted
     when he saw it. The door was locked on the inside, but we put our
     shoulders to it, and knocked it in. The window of the room was open,
     and beside the window, all huddled up, lay the body of a man in his
     nightdress. He was quite dead, and had been for some time, for his
     limbs were rigid and cold. When we turned him over, the Boots
     recognized him at once as being the same gentleman who had engaged
     the room under the name of Joseph Stangerson. The cause of death was
     a deep stab in the left side, which must have penetrated the heart.
     And now comes the strangest part of the affair. What do you suppose
     was above the murdered man?"

     I felt a creeping of the flesh, and a presentiment of coming horror,
     even before Sherlock Holmes answered.

     "The word RACHE, written in letters of blood," he said.

     "That was it," said Lestrade, in an awe-struck voice; and we were all
     silent for a while.

     There was something so methodical and so incomprehensible about the
     deeds of this unknown assassin, that it imparted a fresh ghastliness
     to his crimes. My nerves, which were steady enough on the field of
     battle tingled as I thought of it.

     "The man was seen," continued Lestrade. "A milk boy, passing on his
     way to the dairy, happened to walk down the lane which leads from the
     mews at the back of the hotel. He noticed that a ladder, which
     usually lay there, was raised against one of the windows of the
     second floor, which was wide open. After passing, he looked back and
     saw a man descend the ladder. He came down so quietly and openly that
     the boy imagined him to be some carpenter or joiner at work in the
     hotel. He took no particular notice of him, beyond thinking in his
     own mind that it was early for him to be at work. He has an
     impression that the man was tall, had a reddish face, and was dressed
     in a long, brownish coat. He must have stayed in the room some little
     time after the murder, for we found blood-stained water in the basin,
     where he had washed his hands, and marks on the sheets where he had
     deliberately wiped his knife."

     I glanced at Holmes on hearing the description of the murderer, which
     tallied so exactly with his own. There was, however, no trace of
     exultation or satisfaction upon his face.

     "Did you find nothing in the room which could furnish a clue to the
     murderer?" he asked.

     "Nothing. Stangerson had Drebber's purse in his pocket, but it seems
     that this was usual, as he did all the paying. There was eighty odd
     pounds in it, but nothing had been taken. Whatever the motives of
     these extraordinary crimes, robbery is certainly not one of them.
     There were no papers or memoranda in the murdered man's pocket,
     except a single telegram, dated from Cleveland about a month ago, and
     containing the words, 'J. H. is in Europe.' There was no name
     appended to this message."

     "And there was nothing else?" Holmes asked.

     "Nothing of any importance. The man's novel, with which he had read
     himself to sleep was lying upon the bed, and his pipe was on a chair
     beside him. There was a glass of water on the table, and on the
     window-sill a small chip ointment box containing a couple of pills."

     Sherlock Holmes sprang from his chair with an exclamation of delight.

     "The last link," he cried, exultantly. "My case is complete."

     The two detectives stared at him in amazement.

     "I have now in my hands," my companion said, confidently, "all the
     threads which have formed such a tangle. There are, of course,
     details to be filled in, but I am as certain of all the main facts,
     from the time that Drebber parted from Stangerson at the station, up
     to the discovery of the body of the latter, as if I had seen them
     with my own eyes. I will give you a proof of my knowledge. Could you
     lay your hand upon those pills?"

     "I have them," said Lestrade, producing a small white box; "I took
     them and the purse and the telegram, intending to have them put in a
     place of safety at the Police Station. It was the merest chance my
     taking these pills, for I am bound to say that I do not attach any
     importance to them."

     "Give them here," said Holmes. "Now, Doctor," turning to me, "are
     those ordinary pills?"

     They certainly were not. They were of a pearly grey colour, small,
     round, and almost transparent against the light. "From their
     lightness and transparency, I should imagine that they are soluble in
     water," I remarked.

     "Precisely so," answered Holmes. "Now would you mind going down and
     fetching that poor little devil of a terrier which has been bad so
     long, and which the landlady wanted you to put out of its pain
     yesterday."

     I went downstairs and carried the dog upstair in my arms. It's
     laboured breathing and glazing eye showed that it was not far from
     its end. Indeed, its snow-white muzzle proclaimed that it had already
     exceeded the usual term of canine existence. I placed it upon a
     cushion on the rug.

     "I will now cut one of these pills in two," said Holmes, and drawing
     his penknife he suited the action to the word. "One half we return
     into the box for future purposes. The other half I will place in this
     wine glass, in which is a teaspoonful of water. You perceive that our
     friend, the Doctor, is right, and that it readily dissolves."

     "This may be very interesting," said Lestrade, in the injured tone of
     one who suspects that he is being laughed at, "I cannot see, however,
     what it has to do with the death of Mr. Joseph Stangerson."

     "Patience, my friend, patience! You will find in time that it has
     everything to do with it. I shall now add a little milk to make the
     mixture palatable, and on presenting it to the dog we find that he
     laps it up readily enough."

     As he spoke he turned the contents of the wine glass into a saucer
     and placed it in front of the terrier, who speedily licked it dry.
     Sherlock Holmes' earnest demeanour had so far convinced us that we
     all sat in silence, watching the animal intently, and expecting some
     startling effect. None such appeared, however. The dog continued to
     lie stretched upon the cushion, breathing in a laboured way, but
     apparently neither the better nor the worse for its draught.

     Holmes had taken out his watch, and as minute followed minute without
     result, an expression of the utmost chagrin and disappointment
     appeared upon his features. He gnawed his lip, drummed his fingers
     upon the table, and showed every other symptom of acute impatience.
     So great was his emotion, that I felt sincerely sorry for him, while
     the two detectives smiled derisively, by no means displeased at this
     check which he had met.

     "It can't be a coincidence," he cried, at last springing from his
     chair and pacing wildly up and down the room; "it is impossible that
     it should be a mere coincidence. The very pills which I suspected in
     the case of Drebber are actually found after the death of Stangerson.
     And yet they are inert. What can it mean? Surely my whole chain of
     reasoning cannot have been false. It is impossible! And yet this
     wretched dog is none the worse. Ah, I have it! I have it!" With a
     perfect shriek of delight he rushed to the box, cut the other pill in
     two, dissolved it, added milk, and presented it to the terrier. The
     unfortunate creature's tongue seemed hardly to have been moistened in
     it before it gave a convulsive shiver in every limb, and lay as rigid
     and lifeless as if it had been struck by lightning.

     Sherlock Holmes drew a long breath, and wiped the perspiration from
     his forehead. "I should have more faith," he said; "I ought to know
     by this time that when a fact appears to be opposed to a long train
     of deductions, it invariably proves to be capable of bearing some
     other interpretation. Of the two pills in that box one was of the
     most deadly poison, and the other was entirely harmless. I ought to
     have known that before ever I saw the box at all."

     This last statement appeared to me to be so startling, that I could
     hardly believe that he was in his sober senses. There was the dead
     dog, however, to prove that his conjecture had been correct. It
     seemed to me that the mists in my own mind were gradually clearing
     away, and I began to have a dim, vague perception of the truth.

     "All this seems strange to you," continued Holmes, "because you
     failed at the beginning of the inquiry to grasp the importance of the
     single real clue which was presented to you. I had the good fortune
     to seize upon that, and everything which has occurred since then has
     served to confirm my original supposition, and, indeed, was the
     logical sequence of it. Hence things which have perplexed you and
     made the case more obscure, have served to enlighten me and to
     strengthen my conclusions. It is a mistake to confound strangeness
     with mystery. The most commonplace crime is often the most mysterious
     because it presents no new or special features from which deductions
     may be drawn. This murder would have been infinitely more difficult
     to unravel had the body of the victim been simply found lying in the
     roadway without any of those outré and sensational accompaniments
     which have rendered it remarkable. These strange details, far from
     making the case more difficult, have really had the effect of making
     it less so."

     Mr. Gregson, who had listened to this address with considerable
     impatience, could contain himself no longer. "Look here, Mr. Sherlock
     Holmes," he said, "we are all ready to acknowledge that you are a
     smart man, and that you have your own methods of working. We want
     something more than mere theory and preaching now, though. It is a
     case of taking the man. I have made my case out, and it seems I was
     wrong. Young Charpentier could not have been engaged in this second
     affair. Lestrade went after his man, Stangerson, and it appears that
     he was wrong too. You have thrown out hints here, and hints there,
     and seem to know more than we do, but the time has come when we feel
     that we have a right to ask you straight how much you do know of the
     business. Can you name the man who did it?"

     "I cannot help feeling that Gregson is right, sir," remarked
     Lestrade. "We have both tried, and we have both failed. You have
     remarked more than once since I have been in the room that you had
     all the evidence which you require. Surely you will not withhold it
     any longer."

     "Any delay in arresting the assassin," I observed, "might give him
     time to perpetrate some fresh atrocity."

     Thus pressed by us all, Holmes showed signs of irresolution. He
     continued to walk up and down the room with his head sunk on his
     chest and his brows drawn down, as was his habit when lost in
     thought.

     "There will be no more murders," he said at last, stopping abruptly
     and facing us. "You can put that consideration out of the question.
     You have asked me if I know the name of the assassin. I do. The mere
     knowing of his name is a small thing, however, compared with the
     power of laying our hands upon him. This I expect very shortly to do.
     I have good hopes of managing it through my own arrangements; but it
     is a thing which needs delicate handling, for we have a shrewd and
     desperate man to deal with, who is supported, as I have had occasion
     to prove, by another who is as clever as himself. As long as this man
     has no idea that anyone can have a clue there is some chance of
     securing him; but if he had the slightest suspicion, he would change
     his name, and vanish in an instant among the four million inhabitants
     of this great city. Without meaning to hurt either of your feelings,
     I am bound to say that I consider these men to be more than a match
     for the official force, and that is why I have not asked your
     assistance. If I fail I shall, of course, incur all the blame due to
     this omission; but that I am prepared for. At present I am ready to
     promise that the instant that I can communicate with you without
     endangering my own combinations, I shall do so."

     Gregson and Lestrade seemed to be far from satisfied by this
     assurance, or by the depreciating allusion to the detective police.
     The former had flushed up to the roots of his flaxen hair, while the
     other's beady eyes glistened with curiosity and resentment. Neither
     of them had time to speak, however, before there was a tap at the
     door, and the spokesman of the street Arabs, young Wiggins,
     introduced his insignificant and unsavoury person.

     "Please, sir," he said, touching his forelock, "I have the cab
     downstairs."

     "Good boy," said Holmes, blandly. "Why don't you introduce this
     pattern at Scotland Yard?" he continued, taking a pair of steel
     handcuffs from a drawer. "See how beautifully the spring works. They
     fasten in an instant."

     "The old pattern is good enough," remarked Lestrade, "if we can only
     find the man to put them on."

     "Very good, very good," said Holmes, smiling. "The cabman may as well
     help me with my boxes. Just ask him to step up, Wiggins."

     I was surprised to find my companion speaking as though he were about
     to set out on a journey, since he had not said anything to me about
     it. There was a small portmanteau in the room, and this he pulled out
     and began to strap. He was busily engaged at it when the cabman
     entered the room.

     "Just give me a help with this buckle, cabman," he said, kneeling
     over his task, and never turning his head.

     The fellow came forward with a somewhat sullen, defiant air, and put
     down his hands to assist. At that instant there was a sharp click,
     the jangling of metal, and Sherlock Holmes sprang to his feet again.

     "Gentlemen," he cried, with flashing eyes, "let me introduce you to
     Mr. Jefferson Hope, the murderer of Enoch Drebber and of Joseph
     Stangerson."

     The whole thing occurred in a moment--so quickly that I had no time
     to realize it. I have a vivid recollection of that instant, of
     Holmes' triumphant expression and the ring of his voice, of the
     cabman's dazed, savage face, as he glared at the glittering
     handcuffs, which had appeared as if by magic upon his wrists. For a
     second or two we might have been a group of statues. Then, with an
     inarticulate roar of fury, the prisoner wrenched himself free from
     Holmes's grasp, and hurled himself through the window. Woodwork and
     glass gave way before him; but before he got quite through, Gregson,
     Lestrade, and Holmes sprang upon him like so many staghounds. He was
     dragged back into the room, and then commenced a terrific conflict.
     So powerful and so fierce was he, that the four of us were shaken off
     again and again. He appeared to have the convulsive strength of a man
     in an epileptic fit. His face and hands were terribly mangled by his
     passage through the glass, but loss of blood had no effect in
     diminishing his resistance. It was not until Lestrade succeeded in
     getting his hand inside his neckcloth and half-strangling him that we
     made him realize that his struggles were of no avail; and even then
     we felt no security until we had pinioned his feet as well as his
     hands. That done, we rose to our feet breathless and panting.

     "We have his cab," said Sherlock Holmes. "It will serve to take him
     to Scotland Yard. And now, gentlemen," he continued, with a pleasant
     smile, "we have reached the end of our little mystery. You are very
     welcome to put any questions that you like to me now, and there is no
     danger that I will refuse to answer them."









                                      PART II

                           The Country of the Saints.





          CHAPTER I
          On The Great Alkali Plain


     In the central portion of the great North American Continent there
     lies an arid and repulsive desert, which for many a long year served
     as a barrier against the advance of civilisation. From the Sierra
     Nevada to Nebraska, and from the Yellowstone River in the north to
     the Colorado upon the south, is a region of desolation and silence.
     Nor is Nature always in one mood throughout this grim district. It
     comprises snow-capped and lofty mountains, and dark and gloomy
     valleys. There are swift-flowing rivers which dash through jagged
     cañons; and there are enormous plains, which in winter are white with
     snow, and in summer are grey with the saline alkali dust. They all
     preserve, however, the common characteristics of barrenness,
     inhospitality, and misery.

     There are no inhabitants of this land of despair. A band of Pawnees
     or of Blackfeet may occasionally traverse it in order to reach other
     hunting-grounds, but the hardiest of the braves are glad to lose
     sight of those awesome plains, and to find themselves once more upon
     their prairies. The coyote skulks among the scrub, the buzzard flaps
     heavily through the air, and the clumsy grizzly bear lumbers through
     the dark ravines, and picks up such sustenance as it can amongst the
     rocks. These are the sole dwellers in the wilderness.

     In the whole world there can be no more dreary view than that from
     the northern slope of the Sierra Blanco. As far as the eye can reach
     stretches the great flat plain-land, all dusted over with patches of
     alkali, and intersected by clumps of the dwarfish chaparral bushes.
     On the extreme verge of the horizon lie a long chain of mountain
     peaks, with their rugged summits flecked with snow. In this great
     stretch of country there is no sign of life, nor of anything
     appertaining to life. There is no bird in the steel-blue heaven, no
     movement upon the dull, grey earth--above all, there is absolute
     silence. Listen as one may, there is no shadow of a sound in all that
     mighty wilderness; nothing but silence--complete and heart-subduing
     silence.

     It has been said there is nothing appertaining to life upon the broad
     plain. That is hardly true. Looking down from the Sierra Blanco, one
     sees a pathway traced out across the desert, which winds away and is
     lost in the extreme distance. It is rutted with wheels and trodden
     down by the feet of many adventurers. Here and there there are
     scattered white objects which glisten in the sun, and stand out
     against the dull deposit of alkali. Approach, and examine them! They
     are bones: some large and coarse, others smaller and more delicate.
     The former have belonged to oxen, and the latter to men. For fifteen
     hundred miles one may trace this ghastly caravan route by these
     scattered remains of those who had fallen by the wayside.

     Looking down on this very scene, there stood upon the fourth of May,
     eighteen hundred and forty-seven, a solitary traveller. His
     appearance was such that he might have been the very genius or demon
     of the region. An observer would have found it difficult to say
     whether he was nearer to forty or to sixty. His face was lean and
     haggard, and the brown parchment-like skin was drawn tightly over the
     projecting bones; his long, brown hair and beard were all flecked and
     dashed with white; his eyes were sunken in his head, and burned with
     an unnatural lustre; while the hand which grasped his rifle was
     hardly more fleshy than that of a skeleton. As he stood, he leaned
     upon his weapon for support, and yet his tall figure and the massive
     framework of his bones suggested a wiry and vigorous constitution.
     His gaunt face, however, and his clothes, which hung so baggily over
     his shrivelled limbs, proclaimed what it was that gave him that
     senile and decrepit appearance. The man was dying--dying from hunger
     and from thirst.

     He had toiled painfully down the ravine, and on to this little
     elevation, in the vain hope of seeing some signs of water. Now the
     great salt plain stretched before his eyes, and the distant belt of
     savage mountains, without a sign anywhere of plant or tree, which
     might indicate the presence of moisture. In all that broad landscape
     there was no gleam of hope. North, and east, and west he looked with
     wild questioning eyes, and then he realised that his wanderings had
     come to an end, and that there, on that barren crag, he was about to
     die. "Why not here, as well as in a feather bed, twenty years hence,"
     he muttered, as he seated himself in the shelter of a boulder.

     Before sitting down, he had deposited upon the ground his useless
     rifle, and also a large bundle tied up in a grey shawl, which he had
     carried slung over his right shoulder. It appeared to be somewhat too
     heavy for his strength, for in lowering it, it came down on the
     ground with some little violence. Instantly there broke from the grey
     parcel a little moaning cry, and from it there protruded a small,
     scared face, with very bright brown eyes, and two little speckled,
     dimpled fists.

     "You've hurt me!" said a childish voice reproachfully.

     "Have I though," the man answered penitently, "I didn't go for to do
     it." As he spoke he unwrapped the grey shawl and extricated a pretty
     little girl of about five years of age, whose dainty shoes and smart
     pink frock with its little linen apron all bespoke a mother's care.
     The child was pale and wan, but her healthy arms and legs showed that
     she had suffered less than her companion.

     "How is it now?" he answered anxiously, for she was still rubbing the
     towsy golden curls which covered the back of her head.

     "Kiss it and make it well," she said, with perfect gravity, shoving
     the injured part up to him. "That's what mother used to do. Where's
     mother?"

     "Mother's gone. I guess you'll see her before long."

     "Gone, eh!" said the little girl. "Funny, she didn't say good-bye;
     she 'most always did if she was just goin' over to Auntie's for tea,
     and now she's been away three days. Say, it's awful dry, ain't it?
     Ain't there no water, nor nothing to eat?"

     "No, there ain't nothing, dearie. You'll just need to be patient
     awhile, and then you'll be all right. Put your head up agin me like
     that, and then you'll feel bullier. It ain't easy to talk when your
     lips is like leather, but I guess I'd best let you know how the cards
     lie. What's that you've got?"

     "Pretty things! fine things!" cried the little girl enthusiastically,
     holding up two glittering fragments of mica. "When we goes back to
     home I'll give them to brother Bob."

     "You'll see prettier things than them soon," said the man
     confidently. "You just wait a bit. I was going to tell you
     though--you remember when we left the river?"

     "Oh, yes."

     "Well, we reckoned we'd strike another river soon, d'ye see. But
     there was somethin' wrong; compasses, or map, or somethin', and it
     didn't turn up. Water ran out. Just except a little drop for the
     likes of you and--and--"

     "And you couldn't wash yourself," interrupted his companion gravely,
     staring up at his grimy visage.

     "No, nor drink. And Mr. Bender, he was the fust to go, and then
     Indian Pete, and then Mrs. McGregor, and then Johnny Hones, and then,
     dearie, your mother."

     "Then mother's a deader too," cried the little girl dropping her face
     in her pinafore and sobbing bitterly.

     "Yes, they all went except you and me. Then I thought there was some
     chance of water in this direction, so I heaved you over my shoulder
     and we tramped it together. It don't seem as though we've improved
     matters. There's an almighty small chance for us now!"

     "Do you mean that we are going to die too?" asked the child, checking
     her sobs, and raising her tear-stained face.

     "I guess that's about the size of it."

     "Why didn't you say so before?" she said, laughing gleefully. "You
     gave me such a fright. Why, of course, now as long as we die we'll be
     with mother again."

     "Yes, you will, dearie."

     "And you too. I'll tell her how awful good you've been. I'll bet she
     meets us at the door of Heaven with a big pitcher of water, and a lot
     of buckwheat cakes, hot, and toasted on both sides, like Bob and me
     was fond of. How long will it be first?"

     "I don't know--not very long." The man's eyes were fixed upon the
     northern horizon. In the blue vault of the heaven there had appeared
     three little specks which increased in size every moment, so rapidly
     did they approach. They speedily resolved themselves into three large
     brown birds, which circled over the heads of the two wanderers, and
     then settled upon some rocks which overlooked them. They were
     buzzards, the vultures of the west, whose coming is the forerunner of
     death.

     "Cocks and hens," cried the little girl gleefully, pointing at their
     ill-omened forms, and clapping her hands to make them rise. "Say, did
     God make this country?"

     "Of course He did," said her companion, rather startled by this
     unexpected question.

     "He made the country down in Illinois, and He made the Missouri," the
     little girl continued. "I guess somebody else made the country in
     these parts. It's not nearly so well done. They forgot the water and
     the trees."

     "What would ye think of offering up prayer?" the man asked
     diffidently.

     "It ain't night yet," she answered.

     "It don't matter. It ain't quite regular, but He won't mind that, you
     bet. You say over them ones that you used to say every night in the
     waggon when we was on the Plains."

     "Why don't you say some yourself?" the child asked, with wondering
     eyes.

     "I disremember them," he answered. "I hain't said none since I was
     half the height o' that gun. I guess it's never too late. You say
     them out, and I'll stand by and come in on the choruses."

     "Then you'll need to kneel down, and me too," she said, laying the
     shawl out for that purpose. "You've got to put your hands up like
     this. It makes you feel kind o' good."

     It was a strange sight had there been anything but the buzzards to
     see it. Side by side on the narrow shawl knelt the two wanderers, the
     little prattling child and the reckless, hardened adventurer. Her
     chubby face, and his haggard, angular visage were both turned up to
     the cloudless heaven in heartfelt entreaty to that dread being with
     whom they were face to face, while the two voices--the one thin and
     clear, the other deep and harsh--united in the entreaty for mercy and
     forgiveness. The prayer finished, they resumed their seat in the
     shadow of the boulder until the child fell asleep, nestling upon the
     broad breast of her protector. He watched over her slumber for some
     time, but Nature proved to be too strong for him. For three days and
     three nights he had allowed himself neither rest nor repose. Slowly
     the eyelids drooped over the tired eyes, and the head sunk lower and
     lower upon the breast, until the man's grizzled beard was mixed with
     the gold tresses of his companion, and both slept the same deep and
     dreamless slumber.

     Had the wanderer remained awake for another half hour a strange sight
     would have met his eyes. Far away on the extreme verge of the alkali
     plain there rose up a little spray of dust, very slight at first, and
     hardly to be distinguished from the mists of the distance, but
     gradually growing higher and broader until it formed a solid,
     well-defined cloud. This cloud continued to increase in size until it
     became evident that it could only be raised by a great multitude of
     moving creatures. In more fertile spots the observer would have come
     to the conclusion that one of those great herds of bisons which graze
     upon the prairie land was approaching him. This was obviously
     impossible in these arid wilds. As the whirl of dust drew nearer to
     the solitary bluff upon which the two castaways were reposing, the
     canvas-covered tilts of waggons and the figures of armed horsemen
     began to show up through the haze, and the apparition revealed itself
     as being a great caravan upon its journey for the West. But what a
     caravan! When the head of it had reached the base of the mountains,
     the rear was not yet visible on the horizon. Right across the
     enormous plain stretched the straggling array, waggons and carts, men
     on horseback, and men on foot. Innumerable women who staggered along
     under burdens, and children who toddled beside the waggons or peeped
     out from under the white coverings. This was evidently no ordinary
     party of immigrants, but rather some nomad people who had been
     compelled from stress of circumstances to seek themselves a new
     country. There rose through the clear air a confused clattering and
     rumbling from this great mass of humanity, with the creaking of
     wheels and the neighing of horses. Loud as it was, it was not
     sufficient to rouse the two tired wayfarers above them.

     At the head of the column there rode a score or more of grave
     ironfaced men, clad in sombre homespun garments and armed with
     rifles. On reaching the base of the bluff they halted, and held a
     short council among themselves.

     "The wells are to the right, my brothers," said one, a hard-lipped,
     clean-shaven man with grizzly hair.

     "To the right of the Sierra Blanco--so we shall reach the Rio
     Grande," said another.

     "Fear not for water," cried a third. "He who could draw it from the
     rocks will not now abandon His own chosen people."

     "Amen! Amen!" responded the whole party.

     They were about to resume their journey when one of the youngest and
     keenest-eyed uttered an exclamation and pointed up at the rugged crag
     above them. From its summit there fluttered a little wisp of pink,
     showing up hard and bright against the grey rocks behind. At the
     sight there was a general reining up of horses and unslinging of
     guns, while fresh horsemen came galloping up to reinforce the
     vanguard. The word "Redskins" was on every lip.

     "There can't be any number of Injuns here," said the elderly man who
     appeared to be in command. "We have passed the Pawnees, and there are
     no other tribes until we cross the great mountains."

     "Shall I go forward and see, Brother Stangerson," asked one of the
     band.

     "And I," "and I," cried a dozen voices.

     "Leave your horses below and we will await you here," the Elder
     answered. In a moment the young fellows had dismounted, fastened
     their horses, and were ascending the precipitous slope which led up
     to the object which had excited their curiosity. They advanced
     rapidly and noiselessly, with the confidence and dexterity of
     practised scouts. The watchers from the plain below could see them
     flit from rock to rock until their figures stood out against the
     skyline. The young man who had first given the alarm was leading
     them. Suddenly his followers saw him throw up his hands, as though
     overcome with astonishment, and on joining him they were affected in
     the same way by the sight which met their eyes.

     On the little plateau which crowned the barren hill there stood a
     single giant boulder, and against this boulder there lay a tall man,
     long-bearded and hard-featured, but of an excessive thinness. His
     placid face and regular breathing showed that he was fast asleep.
     Beside him lay a little child, with her round white arms encircling
     his brown sinewy neck, and her golden haired head resting upon the
     breast of his velveteen tunic. Her rosy lips were parted, showing the
     regular line of snow-white teeth within, and a playful smile played
     over her infantile features. Her plump little white legs terminating
     in white socks and neat shoes with shining buckles, offered a strange
     contrast to the long shrivelled members of her companion. On the
     ledge of rock above this strange couple there stood three solemn
     buzzards, who, at the sight of the new comers uttered raucous screams
     of disappointment and flapped sullenly away.

     The cries of the foul birds awoke the two sleepers who stared about
     them in bewilderment. The man staggered to his feet and looked down
     upon the plain which had been so desolate when sleep had overtaken
     him, and which was now traversed by this enormous body of men and of
     beasts. His face assumed an expression of incredulity as he gazed,
     and he passed his boney hand over his eyes. "This is what they call
     delirium, I guess," he muttered. The child stood beside him, holding
     on to the skirt of his coat, and said nothing but looked all round
     her with the wondering questioning gaze of childhood.

     The rescuing party were speedily able to convince the two castaways
     that their appearance was no delusion. One of them seized the little
     girl, and hoisted her upon his shoulder, while two others supported
     her gaunt companion, and assisted him towards the waggons.

     "My name is John Ferrier," the wanderer explained; "me and that
     little un are all that's left o' twenty-one people. The rest is all
     dead o' thirst and hunger away down in the south."

     "Is she your child?" asked someone.

     "I guess she is now," the other cried, defiantly; "she's mine 'cause
     I saved her. No man will take her from me. She's Lucy Ferrier from
     this day on. Who are you, though?" he continued, glancing with
     curiosity at his stalwart, sunburned rescuers; "there seems to be a
     powerful lot of ye."

     "Nigh upon ten thousand," said one of the young men; "we are the
     persecuted children of God--the chosen of the Angel Merona."

     "I never heard tell on him," said the wanderer. "He appears to have
     chosen a fair crowd of ye."

     "Do not jest at that which is sacred," said the other sternly. "We
     are of those who believe in those sacred writings, drawn in Egyptian
     letters on plates of beaten gold, which were handed unto the holy
     Joseph Smith at Palmyra. We have come from Nauvoo, in the State of
     Illinois, where we had founded our temple. We have come to seek a
     refuge from the violent man and from the godless, even though it be
     the heart of the desert."

     The name of Nauvoo evidently recalled recollections to John Ferrier.
     "I see," he said, "you are the Mormons."

     "We are the Mormons," answered his companions with one voice.

     "And where are you going?"

     "We do not know. The hand of God is leading us under the person of
     our Prophet. You must come before him. He shall say what is to be
     done with you."

     They had reached the base of the hill by this time, and were
     surrounded by crowds of the pilgrims--pale-faced meek-looking women,
     strong laughing children, and anxious earnest-eyed men. Many were the
     cries of astonishment and of commiseration which arose from them when
     they perceived the youth of one of the strangers and the destitution
     of the other. Their escort did not halt, however, but pushed on,
     followed by a great crowd of Mormons, until they reached a waggon,
     which was conspicuous for its great size and for the gaudiness and
     smartness of its appearance. Six horses were yoked to it, whereas the
     others were furnished with two, or, at most, four a-piece. Beside the
     driver there sat a man who could not have been more than thirty years
     of age, but whose massive head and resolute expression marked him as
     a leader. He was reading a brown-backed volume, but as the crowd
     approached he laid it aside, and listened attentively to an account
     of the episode. Then he turned to the two castaways.

     "If we take you with us," he said, in solemn words, "it can only be
     as believers in our own creed. We shall have no wolves in our fold.
     Better far that your bones should bleach in this wilderness than that
     you should prove to be that little speck of decay which in time
     corrupts the whole fruit. Will you come with us on these terms?"

     "Guess I'll come with you on any terms," said Ferrier, with such
     emphasis that the grave Elders could not restrain a smile. The leader
     alone retained his stern, impressive expression.

     "Take him, Brother Stangerson," he said, "give him food and drink,
     and the child likewise. Let it be your task also to teach him our
     holy creed. We have delayed long enough. Forward! On, on to Zion!"

     "On, on to Zion!" cried the crowd of Mormons, and the words rippled
     down the long caravan, passing from mouth to mouth until they died
     away in a dull murmur in the far distance. With a cracking of whips
     and a creaking of wheels the great waggons got into motion, and soon
     the whole caravan was winding along once more. The Elder to whose
     care the two waifs had been committed, led them to his waggon, where
     a meal was already awaiting them.

     "You shall remain here," he said. "In a few days you will have
     recovered from your fatigues. In the meantime, remember that now and
     forever you are of our religion. Brigham Young has said it, and he
     has spoken with the voice of Joseph Smith, which is the voice of
     God."





          CHAPTER II
          The Flower Of Utah


     This is not the place to commemorate the trials and privations
     endured by the immigrant Mormons before they came to their final
     haven. From the shores of the Mississippi to the western slopes of
     the Rocky Mountains they had struggled on with a constancy almost
     unparalleled in history. The savage man, and the savage beast,
     hunger, thirst, fatigue, and disease--every impediment which Nature
     could place in the way--had all been overcome with Anglo-Saxon
     tenacity. Yet the long journey and the accumulated terrors had shaken
     the hearts of the stoutest among them. There was not one who did not
     sink upon his knees in heartfelt prayer when they saw the broad
     valley of Utah bathed in the sunlight beneath them, and learned from
     the lips of their leader that this was the promised land, and that
     these virgin acres were to be theirs for evermore.

     Young speedily proved himself to be a skilful administrator as well
     as a resolute chief. Maps were drawn and charts prepared, in which
     the future city was sketched out. All around farms were apportioned
     and allotted in proportion to the standing of each individual. The
     tradesman was put to his trade and the artisan to his calling. In the
     town streets and squares sprang up, as if by magic. In the country
     there was draining and hedging, planting and clearing, until the next
     summer saw the whole country golden with the wheat crop. Everything
     prospered in the strange settlement. Above all, the great temple
     which they had erected in the centre of the city grew ever taller and
     larger. From the first blush of dawn until the closing of the
     twilight, the clatter of the hammer and the rasp of the saw was never
     absent from the monument which the immigrants erected to Him who had
     led them safe through many dangers.

     The two castaways, John Ferrier and the little girl who had shared
     his fortunes and had been adopted as his daughter, accompanied the
     Mormons to the end of their great pilgrimage. Little Lucy Ferrier was
     borne along pleasantly enough in Elder Stangerson's waggon, a retreat
     which she shared with the Mormon's three wives and with his son, a
     headstrong forward boy of twelve. Having rallied, with the elasticity
     of childhood, from the shock caused by her mother's death, she soon
     became a pet with the women, and reconciled herself to this new life
     in her moving canvas-covered home. In the meantime Ferrier having
     recovered from his privations, distinguished himself as a useful
     guide and an indefatigable hunter. So rapidly did he gain the esteem
     of his new companions, that when they reached the end of their
     wanderings, it was unanimously agreed that he should be provided with
     as large and as fertile a tract of land as any of the settlers, with
     the exception of Young himself, and of Stangerson, Kemball, Johnston,
     and Drebber, who were the four principal Elders.

     On the farm thus acquired John Ferrier built himself a substantial
     log-house, which received so many additions in succeeding years that
     it grew into a roomy villa. He was a man of a practical turn of mind,
     keen in his dealings and skilful with his hands. His iron
     constitution enabled him to work morning and evening at improving and
     tilling his lands. Hence it came about that his farm and all that
     belonged to him prospered exceedingly. In three years he was better
     off than his neighbours, in six he was well-to-do, in nine he was
     rich, and in twelve there were not half a dozen men in the whole of
     Salt Lake City who could compare with him. From the great inland sea
     to the distant Wahsatch Mountains there was no name better known than
     that of John Ferrier.

     There was one way and only one in which he offended the
     susceptibilities of his co-religionists. No argument or persuasion
     could ever induce him to set up a female establishment after the
     manner of his companions. He never gave reasons for this persistent
     refusal, but contented himself by resolutely and inflexibly adhering
     to his determination. There were some who accused him of lukewarmness
     in his adopted religion, and others who put it down to greed of
     wealth and reluctance to incur expense. Others, again, spoke of some
     early love affair, and of a fair-haired girl who had pined away on
     the shores of the Atlantic. Whatever the reason, Ferrier remained
     strictly celibate. In every other respect he conformed to the
     religion of the young settlement, and gained the name of being an
     orthodox and straight-walking man.

     Lucy Ferrier grew up within the log-house, and assisted her adopted
     father in all his undertakings. The keen air of the mountains and the
     balsamic odour of the pine trees took the place of nurse and mother
     to the young girl. As year succeeded to year she grew taller and
     stronger, her cheek more rudy, and her step more elastic. Many a
     wayfarer upon the high road which ran by Ferrier's farm felt
     long-forgotten thoughts revive in their mind as they watched her
     lithe girlish figure tripping through the wheatfields, or met her
     mounted upon her father's mustang, and managing it with all the ease
     and grace of a true child of the West. So the bud blossomed into a
     flower, and the year which saw her father the richest of the farmers
     left her as fair a specimen of American girlhood as could be found in
     the whole Pacific slope.

     It was not the father, however, who first discovered that the child
     had developed into the woman. It seldom is in such cases. That
     mysterious change is too subtle and too gradual to be measured by
     dates. Least of all does the maiden herself know it until the tone of
     a voice or the touch of a hand sets her heart thrilling within her,
     and she learns, with a mixture of pride and of fear, that a new and a
     larger nature has awoken within her. There are few who cannot recall
     that day and remember the one little incident which heralded the dawn
     of a new life. In the case of Lucy Ferrier the occasion was serious
     enough in itself, apart from its future influence on her destiny and
     that of many besides.

     It was a warm June morning, and the Latter Day Saints were as busy as
     the bees whose hive they have chosen for their emblem. In the fields
     and in the streets rose the same hum of human industry. Down the
     dusty high roads defiled long streams of heavily-laden mules, all
     heading to the west, for the gold fever had broken out in California,
     and the Overland Route lay through the City of the Elect. There, too,
     were droves of sheep and bullocks coming in from the outlying pasture
     lands, and trains of tired immigrants, men and horses equally weary
     of their interminable journey. Through all this motley assemblage,
     threading her way with the skill of an accomplished rider, there
     galloped Lucy Ferrier, her fair face flushed with the exercise and
     her long chestnut hair floating out behind her. She had a commission
     from her father in the City, and was dashing in as she had done many
     a time before, with all the fearlessness of youth, thinking only of
     her task and how it was to be performed. The travel-stained
     adventurers gazed after her in astonishment, and even the unemotional
     Indians, journeying in with their pelties, relaxed their accustomed
     stoicism as they marvelled at the beauty of the pale-faced maiden.

     She had reached the outskirts of the city when she found the road
     blocked by a great drove of cattle, driven by a half-dozen
     wild-looking herdsmen from the plains. In her impatience she
     endeavoured to pass this obstacle by pushing her horse into what
     appeared to be a gap. Scarcely had she got fairly into it, however,
     before the beasts closed in behind her, and she found herself
     completely imbedded in the moving stream of fierce-eyed, long-horned
     bullocks. Accustomed as she was to deal with cattle, she was not
     alarmed at her situation, but took advantage of every opportunity to
     urge her horse on in the hopes of pushing her way through the
     cavalcade. Unfortunately the horns of one of the creatures, either by
     accident or design, came in violent contact with the flank of the
     mustang, and excited it to madness. In an instant it reared up upon
     its hind legs with a snort of rage, and pranced and tossed in a way
     that would have unseated any but a most skilful rider. The situation
     was full of peril. Every plunge of the excited horse brought it
     against the horns again, and goaded it to fresh madness. It was all
     that the girl could do to keep herself in the saddle, yet a slip
     would mean a terrible death under the hoofs of the unwieldy and
     terrified animals. Unaccustomed to sudden emergencies, her head began
     to swim, and her grip upon the bridle to relax. Choked by the rising
     cloud of dust and by the steam from the struggling creatures, she
     might have abandoned her efforts in despair, but for a kindly voice
     at her elbow which assured her of assistance. At the same moment a
     sinewy brown hand caught the frightened horse by the curb, and
     forcing a way through the drove, soon brought her to the outskirts.

     "You're not hurt, I hope, miss," said her preserver, respectfully.

     She looked up at his dark, fierce face, and laughed saucily. "I'm
     awful frightened," she said, naively; "whoever would have thought
     that Poncho would have been so scared by a lot of cows?"

     "Thank God you kept your seat," the other said earnestly. He was a
     tall, savage-looking young fellow, mounted on a powerful roan horse,
     and clad in the rough dress of a hunter, with a long rifle slung over
     his shoulders. "I guess you are the daughter of John Ferrier," he
     remarked, "I saw you ride down from his house. When you see him, ask
     him if he remembers the Jefferson Hopes of St. Louis. If he's the
     same Ferrier, my father and he were pretty thick."

     "Hadn't you better come and ask yourself?" she asked, demurely.

     The young fellow seemed pleased at the suggestion, and his dark eyes
     sparkled with pleasure. "I'll do so," he said, "we've been in the
     mountains for two months, and are not over and above in visiting
     condition. He must take us as he finds us."

     "He has a good deal to thank you for, and so have I," she answered,
     "he's awful fond of me. If those cows had jumped on me he'd have
     never got over it."

     "Neither would I," said her companion.

     "You! Well, I don't see that it would make much matter to you,
     anyhow. You ain't even a friend of ours."

     The young hunter's dark face grew so gloomy over this remark that
     Lucy Ferrier laughed aloud.

     "There, I didn't mean that," she said; "of course, you are a friend
     now. You must come and see us. Now I must push along, or father won't
     trust me with his business any more. Good-bye!"

     "Good-bye," he answered, raising his broad sombrero, and bending over
     her little hand. She wheeled her mustang round, gave it a cut with
     her riding-whip, and darted away down the broad road in a rolling
     cloud of dust.

     Young Jefferson Hope rode on with his companions, gloomy and
     taciturn. He and they had been among the Nevada Mountains prospecting
     for silver, and were returning to Salt Lake City in the hope of
     raising capital enough to work some lodes which they had discovered.
     He had been as keen as any of them upon the business until this
     sudden incident had drawn his thoughts into another channel. The
     sight of the fair young girl, as frank and wholesome as the Sierra
     breezes, had stirred his volcanic, untamed heart to its very depths.
     When she had vanished from his sight, he realized that a crisis had
     come in his life, and that neither silver speculations nor any other
     questions could ever be of such importance to him as this new and
     all-absorbing one. The love which had sprung up in his heart was not
     the sudden, changeable fancy of a boy, but rather the wild, fierce
     passion of a man of strong will and imperious temper. He had been
     accustomed to succeed in all that he undertook. He swore in his heart
     that he would not fail in this if human effort and human perseverance
     could render him successful.

     He called on John Ferrier that night, and many times again, until his
     face was a familiar one at the farm-house. John, cooped up in the
     valley, and absorbed in his work, had had little chance of learning
     the news of the outside world during the last twelve years. All this
     Jefferson Hope was able to tell him, and in a style which interested
     Lucy as well as her father. He had been a pioneer in California, and
     could narrate many a strange tale of fortunes made and fortunes lost
     in those wild, halcyon days. He had been a scout too, and a trapper,
     a silver explorer, and a ranchman. Wherever stirring adventures were
     to be had, Jefferson Hope had been there in search of them. He soon
     became a favourite with the old farmer, who spoke eloquently of his
     virtues. On such occasions, Lucy was silent, but her blushing cheek
     and her bright, happy eyes, showed only too clearly that her young
     heart was no longer her own. Her honest father may not have observed
     these symptoms, but they were assuredly not thrown away upon the man
     who had won her affections.

     It was a summer evening when he came galloping down the road and
     pulled up at the gate. She was at the doorway, and came down to meet
     him. He threw the bridle over the fence and strode up the pathway.

     "I am off, Lucy," he said, taking her two hands in his, and gazing
     tenderly down into her face; "I won't ask you to come with me now,
     but will you be ready to come when I am here again?"

     "And when will that be?" she asked, blushing and laughing.

     "A couple of months at the outside. I will come and claim you then,
     my darling. There's no one who can stand between us."

     "And how about father?" she asked.

     "He has given his consent, provided we get these mines working all
     right. I have no fear on that head."

     "Oh, well; of course, if you and father have arranged it all, there's
     no more to be said," she whispered, with her cheek against his broad
     breast.

     "Thank God!" he said, hoarsely, stooping and kissing her. "It is
     settled, then. The longer I stay, the harder it will be to go. They
     are waiting for me at the cañon. Good-bye, my own darling--good-bye.
     In two months you shall see me."

     He tore himself from her as he spoke, and, flinging himself upon his
     horse, galloped furiously away, never even looking round, as though
     afraid that his resolution might fail him if he took one glance at
     what he was leaving. She stood at the gate, gazing after him until he
     vanished from her sight. Then she walked back into the house, the
     happiest girl in all Utah.





          CHAPTER III
          John Ferrier Talks With The Prophet


     Three weeks had passed since Jefferson Hope and his comrades had
     departed from Salt Lake City. John Ferrier's heart was sore within
     him when he thought of the young man's return, and of the impending
     loss of his adopted child. Yet her bright and happy face reconciled
     him to the arrangement more than any argument could have done. He had
     always determined, deep down in his resolute heart, that nothing
     would ever induce him to allow his daughter to wed a Mormon. Such a
     marriage he regarded as no marriage at all, but as a shame and a
     disgrace. Whatever he might think of the Mormon doctrines, upon that
     one point he was inflexible. He had to seal his mouth on the subject,
     however, for to express an unorthodox opinion was a dangerous matter
     in those days in the Land of the Saints.

     Yes, a dangerous matter--so dangerous that even the most saintly
     dared only whisper their religious opinions with bated breath, lest
     something which fell from their lips might be misconstrued, and bring
     down a swift retribution upon them. The victims of persecution had
     now turned persecutors on their own account, and persecutors of the
     most terrible description. Not the Inquisition of Seville, nor the
     German Vehmgericht, nor the Secret Societies of Italy, were ever able
     to put a more formidable machinery in motion than that which cast a
     cloud over the State of Utah.

     Its invisibility, and the mystery which was attached to it, made this
     organization doubly terrible. It appeared to be omniscient and
     omnipotent, and yet was neither seen nor heard. The man who held out
     against the Church vanished away, and none knew whither he had gone
     or what had befallen him. His wife and his children awaited him at
     home, but no father ever returned to tell them how he had fared at
     the hands of his secret judges. A rash word or a hasty act was
     followed by annihilation, and yet none knew what the nature might be
     of this terrible power which was suspended over them. No wonder that
     men went about in fear and trembling, and that even in the heart of
     the wilderness they dared not whisper the doubts which oppressed
     them.

     At first this vague and terrible power was exercised only upon the
     recalcitrants who, having embraced the Mormon faith, wished
     afterwards to pervert or to abandon it. Soon, however, it took a
     wider range. The supply of adult women was running short, and
     polygamy without a female population on which to draw was a barren
     doctrine indeed. Strange rumours began to be bandied about--rumours
     of murdered immigrants and rifled camps in regions where Indians had
     never been seen. Fresh women appeared in the harems of the
     Elders--women who pined and wept, and bore upon their faces the
     traces of an unextinguishable horror. Belated wanderers upon the
     mountains spoke of gangs of armed men, masked, stealthy, and
     noiseless, who flitted by them in the darkness. These tales and
     rumours took substance and shape, and were corroborated and
     re-corroborated, until they resolved themselves into a definite name.
     To this day, in the lonely ranches of the West, the name of the
     Danite Band, or the Avenging Angels, is a sinister and an ill-omened
     one.

     Fuller knowledge of the organization which produced such terrible
     results served to increase rather than to lessen the horror which it
     inspired in the minds of men. None knew who belonged to this ruthless
     society. The names of the participators in the deeds of blood and
     violence done under the name of religion were kept profoundly secret.
     The very friend to whom you communicated your misgivings as to the
     Prophet and his mission, might be one of those who would come forth
     at night with fire and sword to exact a terrible reparation. Hence
     every man feared his neighbour, and none spoke of the things which
     were nearest his heart.

     One fine morning, John Ferrier was about to set out to his
     wheatfields, when he heard the click of the latch, and, looking
     through the window, saw a stout, sandy-haired, middle-aged man coming
     up the pathway. His heart leapt to his mouth, for this was none other
     than the great Brigham Young himself. Full of trepidation--for he
     knew that such a visit boded him little good--Ferrier ran to the door
     to greet the Mormon chief. The latter, however, received his
     salutations coldly, and followed him with a stern face into the
     sitting-room.

     "Brother Ferrier," he said, taking a seat, and eyeing the farmer
     keenly from under his light-coloured eyelashes, "the true believers
     have been good friends to you. We picked you up when you were
     starving in the desert, we shared our food with you, led you safe to
     the Chosen Valley, gave you a goodly share of land, and allowed you
     to wax rich under our protection. Is not this so?"

     "It is so," answered John Ferrier.

     "In return for all this we asked but one condition: that was, that
     you should embrace the true faith, and conform in every way to its
     usages. This you promised to do, and this, if common report says
     truly, you have neglected."

     "And how have I neglected it?" asked Ferrier, throwing out his hands
     in expostulation. "Have I not given to the common fund? Have I not
     attended at the Temple? Have I not--?"

     "Where are your wives?" asked Young, looking round him. "Call them
     in, that I may greet them."

     "It is true that I have not married," Ferrier answered. "But women
     were few, and there were many who had better claims than I. I was not
     a lonely man: I had my daughter to attend to my wants."

     "It is of that daughter that I would speak to you," said the leader
     of the Mormons. "She has grown to be the flower of Utah, and has
     found favour in the eyes of many who are high in the land."

     John Ferrier groaned internally.

     "There are stories of her which I would fain disbelieve--stories that
     she is sealed to some Gentile. This must be the gossip of idle
     tongues. What is the thirteenth rule in the code of the sainted
     Joseph Smith? 'Let every maiden of the true faith marry one of the
     elect; for if she wed a Gentile, she commits a grievous sin.' This
     being so, it is impossible that you, who profess the holy creed,
     should suffer your daughter to violate it."

     John Ferrier made no answer, but he played nervously with his
     riding-whip.

     "Upon this one point your whole faith shall be tested--so it has been
     decided in the Sacred Council of Four. The girl is young, and we
     would not have her wed grey hairs, neither would we deprive her of
     all choice. We Elders have many heifers*1, but our children must also
     be provided. Stangerson has a son, and Drebber has a son, and either
     of them would gladly welcome your daughter to their house. Let her
     choose between them. They are young and rich, and of the true faith.
     What say you to that?"

     Ferrier remained silent for some little time with his brows knitted.

     "You will give us time," he said at last. "My daughter is very
     young--she is scarce of an age to marry."

     "She shall have a month to choose," said Young, rising from his seat.
     "At the end of that time she shall give her answer."

     He was passing through the door, when he turned, with flushed face
     and flashing eyes. "It were better for you, John Ferrier," he
     thundered, "that you and she were now lying blanched skeletons upon
     the Sierra Blanco, than that you should put your weak wills against
     the orders of the Holy Four!"

     With a threatening gesture of his hand, he turned from the door, and
     Ferrier heard his heavy step scrunching along the shingly path.

     He was still sitting with his elbows upon his knees, considering how
     he should broach the matter to his daughter when a soft hand was laid
     upon his, and looking up, he saw her standing beside him. One glance
     at her pale, frightened face showed him that she had heard what had
     passed.

     "I could not help it," she said, in answer to his look. "His voice
     rang through the house. Oh, father, father, what shall we do?"

     "Don't you scare yourself," he answered, drawing her to him, and
     passing his broad, rough hand caressingly over her chestnut hair.
     "We'll fix it up somehow or another. You don't find your fancy kind
     o' lessening for this chap, do you?"

     A sob and a squeeze of his hand was her only answer.

     "No; of course not. I shouldn't care to hear you say you did. He's a
     likely lad, and he's a Christian, which is more than these folk here,
     in spite o' all their praying and preaching. There's a party starting
     for Nevada to-morrow, and I'll manage to send him a message letting
     him know the hole we are in. If I know anything o' that young man,
     he'll be back here with a speed that would whip electro-telegraphs."

     Lucy laughed through her tears at her father's description.

     "When he comes, he will advise us for the best. But it is for you
     that I am frightened, dear. One hears--one hears such dreadful
     stories about those who oppose the Prophet: something terrible always
     happens to them."

     "But we haven't opposed him yet," her father answered. "It will be
     time to look out for squalls when we do. We have a clear month before
     us; at the end of that, I guess we had best shin out of Utah."

     "Leave Utah!"

     "That's about the size of it."

     "But the farm?"

     "We will raise as much as we can in money, and let the rest go. To
     tell the truth, Lucy, it isn't the first time I have thought of doing
     it. I don't care about knuckling under to any man, as these folk do
     to their darned prophet. I'm a free-born American, and it's all new
     to me. Guess I'm too old to learn. If he comes browsing about this
     farm, he might chance to run up against a charge of buckshot
     travelling in the opposite direction."

     "But they won't let us leave," his daughter objected.

     "Wait till Jefferson comes, and we'll soon manage that. In the
     meantime, don't you fret yourself, my dearie, and don't get your eyes
     swelled up, else he'll be walking into me when he sees you. There's
     nothing to be afeared about, and there's no danger at all."

     John Ferrier uttered these consoling remarks in a very confident
     tone, but she could not help observing that he paid unusual care to
     the fastening of the doors that night, and that he carefully cleaned
     and loaded the rusty old shotgun which hung upon the wall of his
     bedroom.

     -----
     *1: Heber C Kemball, in one of his sermons, alludes to his hundred
     wives under this endearing epithet.
     




          CHAPTER IV
          A Flight For Life


     On the morning which followed his interview with the Mormon Prophet,
     John Ferrier went in to Salt Lake City, and having found his
     acquaintance, who was bound for the Nevada Mountains, he entrusted
     him with his message to Jefferson Hope. In it he told the young man
     of the imminent danger which threatened them, and how necessary it
     was that he should return. Having done thus he felt easier in his
     mind, and returned home with a lighter heart.

     As he approached his farm, he was surprised to see a horse hitched to
     each of the posts of the gate. Still more surprised was he on
     entering to find two young men in possession of his sitting-room.
     One, with a long pale face, was leaning back in the rocking-chair,
     with his feet cocked up upon the stove. The other, a bull-necked
     youth with coarse bloated features, was standing in front of the
     window with his hands in his pocket, whistling a popular hymn. Both
     of them nodded to Ferrier as he entered, and the one in the
     rocking-chair commenced the conversation.

     "Maybe you don't know us," he said. "This here is the son of Elder
     Drebber, and I'm Joseph Stangerson, who travelled with you in the
     desert when the Lord stretched out His hand and gathered you into the
     true fold."

     "As He will all the nations in His own good time," said the other in
     a nasal voice; "He grindeth slowly but exceeding small."

     John Ferrier bowed coldly. He had guessed who his visitors were.

     "We have come," continued Stangerson, "at the advice of our fathers
     to solicit the hand of your daughter for whichever of us may seem
     good to you and to her. As I have but four wives and Brother Drebber
     here has seven, it appears to me that my claim is the stronger one."

     "Nay, nay, Brother Stangerson," cried the other; "the question is not
     how many wives we have, but how many we can keep. My father has now
     given over his mills to me, and I am the richer man."

     "But my prospects are better," said the other, warmly. "When the Lord
     removes my father, I shall have his tanning yard and his leather
     factory. Then I am your elder, and am higher in the Church."

     "It will be for the maiden to decide," rejoined young Drebber,
     smirking at his own reflection in the glass. "We will leave it all to
     her decision."

     During this dialogue, John Ferrier had stood fuming in the doorway,
     hardly able to keep his riding-whip from the backs of his two
     visitors.

     "Look here," he said at last, striding up to them, "when my daughter
     summons you, you can come, but until then I don't want to see your
     faces again."

     The two young Mormons stared at him in amazement. In their eyes this
     competition between them for the maiden's hand was the highest of
     honours both to her and her father.

     "There are two ways out of the room," cried Ferrier; "there is the
     door, and there is the window. Which do you care to use?"

     His brown face looked so savage, and his gaunt hands so threatening,
     that his visitors sprang to their feet and beat a hurried retreat.
     The old farmer followed them to the door.

     "Let me know when you have settled which it is to be," he said,
     sardonically.

     "You shall smart for this!" Stangerson cried, white with rage. "You
     have defied the Prophet and the Council of Four. You shall rue it to
     the end of your days."

     "The hand of the Lord shall be heavy upon you," cried young Drebber;
     "He will arise and smite you!"

     "Then I'll start the smiting," exclaimed Ferrier furiously, and would
     have rushed upstairs for his gun had not Lucy seized him by the arm
     and restrained him. Before he could escape from her, the clatter of
     horses' hoofs told him that they were beyond his reach.

     "The young canting rascals!" he exclaimed, wiping the perspiration
     from his forehead; "I would sooner see you in your grave, my girl,
     than the wife of either of them."

     "And so should I, father," she answered, with spirit; "but Jefferson
     will soon be here."

     "Yes. It will not be long before he comes. The sooner the better, for
     we do not know what their next move may be."

     It was, indeed, high time that someone capable of giving advice and
     help should come to the aid of the sturdy old farmer and his adopted
     daughter. In the whole history of the settlement there had never been
     such a case of rank disobedience to the authority of the Elders. If
     minor errors were punished so sternly, what would be the fate of this
     arch rebel. Ferrier knew that his wealth and position would be of no
     avail to him. Others as well known and as rich as himself had been
     spirited away before now, and their goods given over to the Church.
     He was a brave man, but he trembled at the vague, shadowy terrors
     which hung over him. Any known danger he could face with a firm lip,
     but this suspense was unnerving. He concealed his fears from his
     daughter, however, and affected to make light of the whole matter,
     though she, with the keen eye of love, saw plainly that he was ill at
     ease.

     He expected that he would receive some message or remonstrance from
     Young as to his conduct, and he was not mistaken, though it came in
     an unlooked-for manner. Upon rising next morning he found, to his
     surprise, a small square of paper pinned on to the coverlet of his
     bed just over his chest. On it was printed, in bold straggling
     letters:--

     "Twenty-nine days are given you for amendment, and then--"

     The dash was more fear-inspiring than any threat could have been. How
     this warning came into his room puzzled John Ferrier sorely, for his
     servants slept in an outhouse, and the doors and windows had all been
     secured. He crumpled the paper up and said nothing to his daughter,
     but the incident struck a chill into his heart. The twenty-nine days
     were evidently the balance of the month which Young had promised.
     What strength or courage could avail against an enemy armed with such
     mysterious powers? The hand which fastened that pin might have struck
     him to the heart, and he could never have known who had slain him.

     Still more shaken was he next morning. They had sat down to their
     breakfast when Lucy with a cry of surprise pointed upwards. In the
     centre of the ceiling was scrawled, with a burned stick apparently,
     the number 28. To his daughter it was unintelligible, and he did not
     enlighten her. That night he sat up with his gun and kept watch and
     ward. He saw and he heard nothing, and yet in the morning a great 27
     had been painted upon the outside of his door.

     Thus day followed day; and as sure as morning came he found that his
     unseen enemies had kept their register, and had marked up in some
     conspicuous position how many days were still left to him out of the
     month of grace. Sometimes the fatal numbers appeared upon the walls,
     sometimes upon the floors, occasionally they were on small placards
     stuck upon the garden gate or the railings. With all his vigilance
     John Ferrier could not discover whence these daily warnings
     proceeded. A horror which was almost superstitious came upon him at
     the sight of them. He became haggard and restless, and his eyes had
     the troubled look of some hunted creature. He had but one hope in
     life now, and that was for the arrival of the young hunter from
     Nevada.

     Twenty had changed to fifteen and fifteen to ten, but there was no
     news of the absentee. One by one the numbers dwindled down, and still
     there came no sign of him. Whenever a horseman clattered down the
     road, or a driver shouted at his team, the old farmer hurried to the
     gate thinking that help had arrived at last. At last, when he saw
     five give way to four and that again to three, he lost heart, and
     abandoned all hope of escape. Single-handed, and with his limited
     knowledge of the mountains which surrounded the settlement, he knew
     that he was powerless. The more-frequented roads were strictly
     watched and guarded, and none could pass along them without an order
     from the Council. Turn which way he would, there appeared to be no
     avoiding the blow which hung over him. Yet the old man never wavered
     in his resolution to part with life itself before he consented to
     what he regarded as his daughter's dishonour.

     He was sitting alone one evening pondering deeply over his troubles,
     and searching vainly for some way out of them. That morning had shown
     the figure 2 upon the wall of his house, and the next day would be
     the last of the allotted time. What was to happen then? All manner of
     vague and terrible fancies filled his imagination. And his
     daughter--what was to become of her after he was gone? Was there no
     escape from the invisible network which was drawn all round them. He
     sank his head upon the table and sobbed at the thought of his own
     impotence.

     What was that? In the silence he heard a gentle scratching
     sound--low, but very distinct in the quiet of the night. It came from
     the door of the house. Ferrier crept into the hall and listened
     intently. There was a pause for a few moments, and then the low
     insidious sound was repeated. Someone was evidently tapping very
     gently upon one of the panels of the door. Was it some midnight
     assassin who had come to carry out the murderous orders of the secret
     tribunal? Or was it some agent who was marking up that the last day
     of grace had arrived. John Ferrier felt that instant death would be
     better than the suspense which shook his nerves and chilled his
     heart. Springing forward he drew the bolt and threw the door open.

     Outside all was calm and quiet. The night was fine, and the stars
     were twinkling brightly overhead. The little front garden lay before
     the farmer's eyes bounded by the fence and gate, but neither there
     nor on the road was any human being to be seen. With a sigh of
     relief, Ferrier looked to right and to left, until happening to
     glance straight down at his own feet he saw to his astonishment a man
     lying flat upon his face upon the ground, with arms and legs all
     asprawl.

     So unnerved was he at the sight that he leaned up against the wall
     with his hand to his throat to stifle his inclination to call out.
     His first thought was that the prostrate figure was that of some
     wounded or dying man, but as he watched it he saw it writhe along the
     ground and into the hall with the rapidity and noiselessness of a
     serpent. Once within the house the man sprang to his feet, closed the
     door, and revealed to the astonished farmer the fierce face and
     resolute expression of Jefferson Hope.

     "Good God!" gasped John Ferrier. "How you scared me! Whatever made
     you come in like that."

     "Give me food," the other said, hoarsely. "I have had no time for
     bite or sup for eight-and-forty hours." He flung himself upon the
     cold meat and bread which were still lying upon the table from his
     host's supper, and devoured it voraciously. "Does Lucy bear up well?"
     he asked, when he had satisfied his hunger.

     "Yes. She does not know the danger," her father answered.

     "That is well. The house is watched on every side. That is why I
     crawled my way up to it. They may be darned sharp, but they're not
     quite sharp enough to catch a Washoe hunter."

     John Ferrier felt a different man now that he realized that he had a
     devoted ally. He seized the young man's leathery hand and wrung it
     cordially. "You're a man to be proud of," he said. "There are not
     many who would come to share our danger and our troubles."

     "You've hit it there, pard," the young hunter answered. "I have a
     respect for you, but if you were alone in this business I'd think
     twice before I put my head into such a hornet's nest. It's Lucy that
     brings me here, and before harm comes on her I guess there will be
     one less o' the Hope family in Utah."

     "What are we to do?"

     "To-morrow is your last day, and unless you act to-night you are
     lost. I have a mule and two horses waiting in the Eagle Ravine. How
     much money have you?"

     "Two thousand dollars in gold, and five in notes."

     "That will do. I have as much more to add to it. We must push for
     Carson City through the mountains. You had best wake Lucy. It is as
     well that the servants do not sleep in the house."

     While Ferrier was absent, preparing his daughter for the approaching
     journey, Jefferson Hope packed all the eatables that he could find
     into a small parcel, and filled a stoneware jar with water, for he
     knew by experience that the mountain wells were few and far between.
     He had hardly completed his arrangements before the farmer returned
     with his daughter all dressed and ready for a start. The greeting
     between the lovers was warm, but brief, for minutes were precious,
     and there was much to be done.

     "We must make our start at once," said Jefferson Hope, speaking in a
     low but resolute voice, like one who realizes the greatness of the
     peril, but has steeled his heart to meet it. "The front and back
     entrances are watched, but with caution we may get away through the
     side window and across the fields. Once on the road we are only two
     miles from the Ravine where the horses are waiting. By daybreak we
     should be half-way through the mountains."

     "What if we are stopped," asked Ferrier.

     Hope slapped the revolver butt which protruded from the front of his
     tunic. "If they are too many for us we shall take two or three of
     them with us," he said with a sinister smile.

     The lights inside the house had all been extinguished, and from the
     darkened window Ferrier peered over the fields which had been his
     own, and which he was now about to abandon for ever. He had long
     nerved himself to the sacrifice, however, and the thought of the
     honour and happiness of his daughter outweighed any regret at his
     ruined fortunes. All looked so peaceful and happy, the rustling trees
     and the broad silent stretch of grain-land, that it was difficult to
     realize that the spirit of murder lurked through it all. Yet the
     white face and set expression of the young hunter showed that in his
     approach to the house he had seen enough to satisfy him upon that
     head.

     Ferrier carried the bag of gold and notes, Jefferson Hope had the
     scanty provisions and water, while Lucy had a small bundle containing
     a few of her more valued possessions. Opening the window very slowly
     and carefully, they waited until a dark cloud had somewhat obscured
     the night, and then one by one passed through into the little garden.
     With bated breath and crouching figures they stumbled across it, and
     gained the shelter of the hedge, which they skirted until they came
     to the gap which opened into the cornfields. They had just reached
     this point when the young man seized his two companions and dragged
     them down into the shadow, where they lay silent and trembling.

     It was as well that his prairie training had given Jefferson Hope the
     ears of a lynx. He and his friends had hardly crouched down before
     the melancholy hooting of a mountain owl was heard within a few yards
     of them, which was immediately answered by another hoot at a small
     distance. At the same moment a vague shadowy figure emerged from the
     gap for which they had been making, and uttered the plaintive signal
     cry again, on which a second man appeared out of the obscurity.

     "To-morrow at midnight," said the first who appeared to be in
     authority. "When the Whip-poor-Will calls three times."

     "It is well," returned the other. "Shall I tell Brother Drebber?"

     "Pass it on to him, and from him to the others. Nine to seven!"

     "Seven to five!" repeated the other, and the two figures flitted away
     in different directions. Their concluding words had evidently been
     some form of sign and countersign. The instant that their footsteps
     had died away in the distance, Jefferson Hope sprang to his feet, and
     helping his companions through the gap, led the way across the fields
     at the top of his speed, supporting and half-carrying the girl when
     her strength appeared to fail her.

     "Hurry on! hurry on!" he gasped from time to time. "We are through
     the line of sentinels. Everything depends on speed. Hurry on!"

     Once on the high road they made rapid progress. Only once did they
     meet anyone, and then they managed to slip into a field, and so avoid
     recognition. Before reaching the town the hunter branched away into a
     rugged and narrow footpath which led to the mountains. Two dark
     jagged peaks loomed above them through the darkness, and the defile
     which led between them was the Eagle Cañon in which the horses were
     awaiting them. With unerring instinct Jefferson Hope picked his way
     among the great boulders and along the bed of a dried-up watercourse,
     until he came to the retired corner, screened with rocks, where the
     faithful animals had been picketed. The girl was placed upon the
     mule, and old Ferrier upon one of the horses, with his money-bag,
     while Jefferson Hope led the other along the precipitous and
     dangerous path.

     It was a bewildering route for anyone who was not accustomed to face
     Nature in her wildest moods. On the one side a great crag towered up
     a thousand feet or more, black, stern, and menacing, with long
     basaltic columns upon its rugged surface like the ribs of some
     petrified monster. On the other hand a wild chaos of boulders and
     debris made all advance impossible. Between the two ran the irregular
     track, so narrow in places that they had to travel in Indian file,
     and so rough that only practised riders could have traversed it at
     all. Yet in spite of all dangers and difficulties, the hearts of the
     fugitives were light within them, for every step increased the
     distance between them and the terrible despotism from which they were
     flying.

     They soon had a proof, however, that they were still within the
     jurisdiction of the Saints. They had reached the very wildest and
     most desolate portion of the pass when the girl gave a startled cry,
     and pointed upwards. On a rock which overlooked the track, showing
     out dark and plain against the sky, there stood a solitary sentinel.
     He saw them as soon as they perceived him, and his military challenge
     of "Who goes there?" rang through the silent ravine.

     "Travellers for Nevada," said Jefferson Hope, with his hand upon the
     rifle which hung by his saddle.

     They could see the lonely watcher fingering his gun, and peering down
     at them as if dissatisfied at their reply.

     "By whose permission?" he asked.

     "The Holy Four," answered Ferrier. His Mormon experiences had taught
     him that that was the highest authority to which he could refer.

     "Nine from seven," cried the sentinel.

     "Seven from five," returned Jefferson Hope promptly, remembering the
     countersign which he had heard in the garden.

     "Pass, and the Lord go with you," said the voice from above. Beyond
     his post the path broadened out, and the horses were able to break
     into a trot. Looking back, they could see the solitary watcher
     leaning upon his gun, and knew that they had passed the outlying post
     of the chosen people, and that freedom lay before them.





          CHAPTER V
          The Avenging Angels


     All night their course lay through intricate defiles and over
     irregular and rock-strewn paths. More than once they lost their way,
     but Hope's intimate knowledge of the mountains enabled them to regain
     the track once more. When morning broke, a scene of marvellous though
     savage beauty lay before them. In every direction the great
     snow-capped peaks hemmed them in, peeping over each other's shoulders
     to the far horizon. So steep were the rocky banks on either side of
     them, that the larch and the pine seemed to be suspended over their
     heads, and to need only a gust of wind to come hurtling down upon
     them. Nor was the fear entirely an illusion, for the barren valley
     was thickly strewn with trees and boulders which had fallen in a
     similar manner. Even as they passed, a great rock came thundering
     down with a hoarse rattle which woke the echoes in the silent gorges,
     and startled the weary horses into a gallop.

     As the sun rose slowly above the eastern horizon, the caps of the
     great mountains lit up one after the other, like lamps at a festival,
     until they were all ruddy and glowing. The magnificent spectacle
     cheered the hearts of the three fugitives and gave them fresh energy.
     At a wild torrent which swept out of a ravine they called a halt and
     watered their horses, while they partook of a hasty breakfast. Lucy
     and her father would fain have rested longer, but Jefferson Hope was
     inexorable. "They will be upon our track by this time," he said.
     "Everything depends upon our speed. Once safe in Carson we may rest
     for the remainder of our lives."

     During the whole of that day they struggled on through the defiles,
     and by evening they calculated that they were more than thirty miles
     from their enemies. At night-time they chose the base of a beetling
     crag, where the rocks offered some protection from the chill wind,
     and there huddled together for warmth, they enjoyed a few hours'
     sleep. Before daybreak, however, they were up and on their way once
     more. They had seen no signs of any pursuers, and Jefferson Hope
     began to think that they were fairly out of the reach of the terrible
     organization whose enmity they had incurred. He little knew how far
     that iron grasp could reach, or how soon it was to close upon them
     and crush them.

     About the middle of the second day of their flight their scanty store
     of provisions began to run out. This gave the hunter little
     uneasiness, however, for there was game to be had among the
     mountains, and he had frequently before had to depend upon his rifle
     for the needs of life. Choosing a sheltered nook, he piled together a
     few dried branches and made a blazing fire, at which his companions
     might warm themselves, for they were now nearly five thousand feet
     above the sea level, and the air was bitter and keen. Having tethered
     the horses, and bade Lucy adieu, he threw his gun over his shoulder,
     and set out in search of whatever chance might throw in his way.
     Looking back he saw the old man and the young girl crouching over the
     blazing fire, while the three animals stood motionless in the
     back-ground. Then the intervening rocks hid them from his view.

     He walked for a couple of miles through one ravine after another
     without success, though from the marks upon the bark of the trees,
     and other indications, he judged that there were numerous bears in
     the vicinity. At last, after two or three hours' fruitless search, he
     was thinking of turning back in despair, when casting his eyes
     upwards he saw a sight which sent a thrill of pleasure through his
     heart. On the edge of a jutting pinnacle, three or four hundred feet
     above him, there stood a creature somewhat resembling a sheep in
     appearance, but armed with a pair of gigantic horns. The
     big-horn--for so it is called--was acting, probably, as a guardian
     over a flock which were invisible to the hunter; but fortunately it
     was heading in the opposite direction, and had not perceived him.
     Lying on his face, he rested his rifle upon a rock, and took a long
     and steady aim before drawing the trigger. The animal sprang into the
     air, tottered for a moment upon the edge of the precipice, and then
     came crashing down into the valley beneath.

     The creature was too unwieldy to lift, so the hunter contented
     himself with cutting away one haunch and part of the flank. With this
     trophy over his shoulder, he hastened to retrace his steps, for the
     evening was already drawing in. He had hardly started, however,
     before he realized the difficulty which faced him. In his eagerness
     he had wandered far past the ravines which were known to him, and it
     was no easy matter to pick out the path which he had taken. The
     valley in which he found himself divided and sub-divided into many
     gorges, which were so like each other that it was impossible to
     distinguish one from the other. He followed one for a mile or more
     until he came to a mountain torrent which he was sure that he had
     never seen before. Convinced that he had taken the wrong turn, he
     tried another, but with the same result. Night was coming on rapidly,
     and it was almost dark before he at last found himself in a defile
     which was familiar to him. Even then it was no easy matter to keep to
     the right track, for the moon had not yet risen, and the high cliffs
     on either side made the obscurity more profound. Weighed down with
     his burden, and weary from his exertions, he stumbled along, keeping
     up his heart by the reflection that every step brought him nearer to
     Lucy, and that he carried with him enough to ensure them food for the
     remainder of their journey.

     He had now come to the mouth of the very defile in which he had left
     them. Even in the darkness he could recognize the outline of the
     cliffs which bounded it. They must, he reflected, be awaiting him
     anxiously, for he had been absent nearly five hours. In the gladness
     of his heart he put his hands to his mouth and made the glen re-echo
     to a loud halloo as a signal that he was coming. He paused and
     listened for an answer. None came save his own cry, which clattered
     up the dreary silent ravines, and was borne back to his ears in
     countless repetitions. Again he shouted, even louder than before, and
     again no whisper came back from the friends whom he had left such a
     short time ago. A vague, nameless dread came over him, and he hurried
     onwards frantically, dropping the precious food in his agitation.

     When he turned the corner, he came full in sight of the spot where
     the fire had been lit. There was still a glowing pile of wood ashes
     there, but it had evidently not been tended since his departure. The
     same dead silence still reigned all round. With his fears all changed
     to convictions, he hurried on. There was no living creature near the
     remains of the fire: animals, man, maiden, all were gone. It was only
     too clear that some sudden and terrible disaster had occurred during
     his absence--a disaster which had embraced them all, and yet had left
     no traces behind it.

     Bewildered and stunned by this blow, Jefferson Hope felt his head
     spin round, and had to lean upon his rifle to save himself from
     falling. He was essentially a man of action, however, and speedily
     recovered from his temporary impotence. Seizing a half-consumed piece
     of wood from the smouldering fire, he blew it into a flame, and
     proceeded with its help to examine the little camp. The ground was
     all stamped down by the feet of horses, showing that a large party of
     mounted men had overtaken the fugitives, and the direction of their
     tracks proved that they had afterwards turned back to Salt Lake City.
     Had they carried back both of his companions with them? Jefferson
     Hope had almost persuaded himself that they must have done so, when
     his eye fell upon an object which made every nerve of his body tingle
     within him. A little way on one side of the camp was a low-lying heap
     of reddish soil, which had assuredly not been there before. There was
     no mistaking it for anything but a newly-dug grave. As the young
     hunter approached it, he perceived that a stick had been planted on
     it, with a sheet of paper stuck in the cleft fork of it. The
     inscription upon the paper was brief, but to the point:

                                  JOHN FERRIER,
                           Formerly of Salt Lake City,
                             Died August 4th, 1860.
                                        

     The sturdy old man, whom he had left so short a time before, was
     gone, then, and this was all his epitaph. Jefferson Hope looked
     wildly round to see if there was a second grave, but there was no
     sign of one. Lucy had been carried back by their terrible pursuers to
     fulfil her original destiny, by becoming one of the harem of the
     Elder's son. As the young fellow realized the certainty of her fate,
     and his own powerlessness to prevent it, he wished that he, too, was
     lying with the old farmer in his last silent resting-place.

     Again, however, his active spirit shook off the lethargy which
     springs from despair. If there was nothing else left to him, he could
     at least devote his life to revenge. With indomitable patience and
     perseverance, Jefferson Hope possessed also a power of sustained
     vindictiveness, which he may have learned from the Indians amongst
     whom he had lived. As he stood by the desolate fire, he felt that the
     only one thing which could assuage his grief would be thorough and
     complete retribution, brought by his own hand upon his enemies. His
     strong will and untiring energy should, he determined, be devoted to
     that one end. With a grim, white face, he retraced his steps to where
     he had dropped the food, and having stirred up the smouldering fire,
     he cooked enough to last him for a few days. This he made up into a
     bundle, and, tired as he was, he set himself to walk back through the
     mountains upon the track of the avenging angels.

     For five days he toiled footsore and weary through the defiles which
     he had already traversed on horseback. At night he flung himself down
     among the rocks, and snatched a few hours of sleep; but before
     daybreak he was always well on his way. On the sixth day, he reached
     the Eagle Cañon, from which they had commenced their ill-fated
     flight. Thence he could look down upon the home of the saints. Worn
     and exhausted, he leaned upon his rifle and shook his gaunt hand
     fiercely at the silent widespread city beneath him. As he looked at
     it, he observed that there were flags in some of the principal
     streets, and other signs of festivity. He was still speculating as to
     what this might mean when he heard the clatter of horse's hoofs, and
     saw a mounted man riding towards him. As he approached, he recognized
     him as a Mormon named Cowper, to whom he had rendered services at
     different times. He therefore accosted him when he got up to him,
     with the object of finding out what Lucy Ferrier's fate had been.

     "I am Jefferson Hope," he said. "You remember me."

     The Mormon looked at him with undisguised astonishment--indeed, it
     was difficult to recognize in this tattered, unkempt wanderer, with
     ghastly white face and fierce, wild eyes, the spruce young hunter of
     former days. Having, however, at last, satisfied himself as to his
     identity, the man's surprise changed to consternation.

     "You are mad to come here," he cried. "It is as much as my own life
     is worth to be seen talking with you. There is a warrant against you
     from the Holy Four for assisting the Ferriers away."

     "I don't fear them, or their warrant," Hope said, earnestly. "You
     must know something of this matter, Cowper. I conjure you by
     everything you hold dear to answer a few questions. We have always
     been friends. For God's sake, don't refuse to answer me."

     "What is it?" the Mormon asked uneasily. "Be quick. The very rocks
     have ears and the trees eyes."

     "What has become of Lucy Ferrier?"

     "She was married yesterday to young Drebber. Hold up, man, hold up,
     you have no life left in you."

     "Don't mind me," said Hope faintly. He was white to the very lips,
     and had sunk down on the stone against which he had been leaning.
     "Married, you say?"

     "Married yesterday--that's what those flags are for on the Endowment
     House. There was some words between young Drebber and young
     Stangerson as to which was to have her. They'd both been in the party
     that followed them, and Stangerson had shot her father, which seemed
     to give him the best claim; but when they argued it out in council,
     Drebber's party was the stronger, so the Prophet gave her over to
     him. No one won't have her very long though, for I saw death in her
     face yesterday. She is more like a ghost than a woman. Are you off,
     then?"

     "Yes, I am off," said Jefferson Hope, who had risen from his seat.
     His face might have been chiselled out of marble, so hard and set was
     its expression, while its eyes glowed with a baleful light.

     "Where are you going?"

     "Never mind," he answered; and, slinging his weapon over his
     shoulder, strode off down the gorge and so away into the heart of the
     mountains to the haunts of the wild beasts. Amongst them all there
     was none so fierce and so dangerous as himself.

     The prediction of the Mormon was only too well fulfilled. Whether it
     was the terrible death of her father or the effects of the hateful
     marriage into which she had been forced, poor Lucy never held up her
     head again, but pined away and died within a month. Her sottish
     husband, who had married her principally for the sake of John
     Ferrier's property, did not affect any great grief at his
     bereavement; but his other wives mourned over her, and sat up with
     her the night before the burial, as is the Mormon custom. They were
     grouped round the bier in the early hours of the morning, when, to
     their inexpressible fear and astonishment, the door was flung open,
     and a savage-looking, weather-beaten man in tattered garments strode
     into the room. Without a glance or a word to the cowering women, he
     walked up to the white silent figure which had once contained the
     pure soul of Lucy Ferrier. Stooping over her, he pressed his lips
     reverently to her cold forehead, and then, snatching up her hand, he
     took the wedding-ring from her finger. "She shall not be buried in
     that," he cried with a fierce snarl, and before an alarm could be
     raised sprang down the stairs and was gone. So strange and so brief
     was the episode, that the watchers might have found it hard to
     believe it themselves or persuade other people of it, had it not been
     for the undeniable fact that the circlet of gold which marked her as
     having been a bride had disappeared.

     For some months Jefferson Hope lingered among the mountains, leading
     a strange wild life, and nursing in his heart the fierce desire for
     vengeance which possessed him. Tales were told in the City of the
     weird figure which was seen prowling about the suburbs, and which
     haunted the lonely mountain gorges. Once a bullet whistled through
     Stangerson's window and flattened itself upon the wall within a foot
     of him. On another occasion, as Drebber passed under a cliff a great
     boulder crashed down on him, and he only escaped a terrible death by
     throwing himself upon his face. The two young Mormons were not long
     in discovering the reason of these attempts upon their lives, and led
     repeated expeditions into the mountains in the hope of capturing or
     killing their enemy, but always without success. Then they adopted
     the precaution of never going out alone or after nightfall, and of
     having their houses guarded. After a time they were able to relax
     these measures, for nothing was either heard or seen of their
     opponent, and they hoped that time had cooled his vindictiveness.

     Far from doing so, it had, if anything, augmented it. The hunter's
     mind was of a hard, unyielding nature, and the predominant idea of
     revenge had taken such complete possession of it that there was no
     room for any other emotion. He was, however, above all things
     practical. He soon realized that even his iron constitution could not
     stand the incessant strain which he was putting upon it. Exposure and
     want of wholesome food were wearing him out. If he died like a dog
     among the mountains, what was to become of his revenge then? And yet
     such a death was sure to overtake him if he persisted. He felt that
     that was to play his enemy's game, so he reluctantly returned to the
     old Nevada mines, there to recruit his health and to amass money
     enough to allow him to pursue his object without privation.

     His intention had been to be absent a year at the most, but a
     combination of unforeseen circumstances prevented his leaving the
     mines for nearly five. At the end of that time, however, his memory
     of his wrongs and his craving for revenge were quite as keen as on
     that memorable night when he had stood by John Ferrier's grave.
     Disguised, and under an assumed name, he returned to Salt Lake City,
     careless what became of his own life, as long as he obtained what he
     knew to be justice. There he found evil tidings awaiting him. There
     had been a schism among the Chosen People a few months before, some
     of the younger members of the Church having rebelled against the
     authority of the Elders, and the result had been the secession of a
     certain number of the malcontents, who had left Utah and become
     Gentiles. Among these had been Drebber and Stangerson; and no one
     knew whither they had gone. Rumour reported that Drebber had managed
     to convert a large part of his property into money, and that he had
     departed a wealthy man, while his companion, Stangerson, was
     comparatively poor. There was no clue at all, however, as to their
     whereabouts.

     Many a man, however vindictive, would have abandoned all thought of
     revenge in the face of such a difficulty, but Jefferson Hope never
     faltered for a moment. With the small competence he possessed, eked
     out by such employment as he could pick up, he travelled from town to
     town through the United States in quest of his enemies. Year passed
     into year, his black hair turned grizzled, but still he wandered on,
     a human bloodhound, with his mind wholly set upon the one object upon
     which he had devoted his life. At last his perseverance was rewarded.
     It was but a glance of a face in a window, but that one glance told
     him that Cleveland in Ohio possessed the men whom he was in pursuit
     of. He returned to his miserable lodgings with his plan of vengeance
     all arranged. It chanced, however, that Drebber, looking from his
     window, had recognized the vagrant in the street, and had read murder
     in his eyes. He hurried before a justice of the peace, accompanied by
     Stangerson, who had become his private secretary, and represented to
     him that they were in danger of their lives from the jealousy and
     hatred of an old rival. That evening Jefferson Hope was taken into
     custody, and not being able to find sureties, was detained for some
     weeks. When at last he was liberated, it was only to find that
     Drebber's house was deserted, and that he and his secretary had
     departed for Europe.

     Again the avenger had been foiled, and again his concentrated hatred
     urged him to continue the pursuit. Funds were wanting, however, and
     for some time he had to return to work, saving every dollar for his
     approaching journey. At last, having collected enough to keep life in
     him, he departed for Europe, and tracked his enemies from city to
     city, working his way in any menial capacity, but never overtaking
     the fugitives. When he reached St. Petersburg they had departed for
     Paris; and when he followed them there he learned that they had just
     set off for Copenhagen. At the Danish capital he was again a few days
     late, for they had journeyed on to London, where he at last succeeded
     in running them to earth. As to what occurred there, we cannot do
     better than quote the old hunter's own account, as duly recorded in
     Dr. Watson's Journal, to which we are already under such obligations.





          CHAPTER VI
          A Continuation Of The Reminiscences Of John Watson, M.D.


     Our prisoner's furious resistance did not apparently indicate any
     ferocity in his disposition towards ourselves, for on finding himself
     powerless, he smiled in an affable manner, and expressed his hopes
     that he had not hurt any of us in the scuffle. "I guess you're going
     to take me to the police-station," he remarked to Sherlock Holmes.
     "My cab's at the door. If you'll loose my legs I'll walk down to it.
     I'm not so light to lift as I used to be."

     Gregson and Lestrade exchanged glances as if they thought this
     proposition rather a bold one; but Holmes at once took the prisoner
     at his word, and loosened the towel which we had bound round his
     ankles. He rose and stretched his legs, as though to assure himself
     that they were free once more. I remember that I thought to myself,
     as I eyed him, that I had seldom seen a more powerfully built man;
     and his dark sunburned face bore an expression of determination and
     energy which was as formidable as his personal strength.

     "If there's a vacant place for a chief of the police, I reckon you
     are the man for it," he said, gazing with undisguised admiration at
     my fellow-lodger. "The way you kept on my trail was a caution."

     "You had better come with me," said Holmes to the two detectives.

     "I can drive you," said Lestrade.

     "Good! and Gregson can come inside with me. You too, Doctor, you have
     taken an interest in the case and may as well stick to us."

     I assented gladly, and we all descended together. Our prisoner made
     no attempt at escape, but stepped calmly into the cab which had been
     his, and we followed him. Lestrade mounted the box, whipped up the
     horse, and brought us in a very short time to our destination. We
     were ushered into a small chamber where a police Inspector noted down
     our prisoner's name and the names of the men with whose murder he had
     been charged. The official was a white-faced unemotional man, who
     went through his duties in a dull mechanical way. "The prisoner will
     be put before the magistrates in the course of the week," he said;
     "in the mean time, Mr. Jefferson Hope, have you anything that you
     wish to say? I must warn you that your words will be taken down, and
     may be used against you."

     "I've got a good deal to say," our prisoner said slowly. "I want to
     tell you gentlemen all about it."

     "Hadn't you better reserve that for your trial?" asked the Inspector.

     "I may never be tried," he answered. "You needn't look startled. It
     isn't suicide I am thinking of. Are you a Doctor?" He turned his
     fierce dark eyes upon me as he asked this last question.

     "Yes; I am," I answered.

     "Then put your hand here," he said, with a smile, motioning with his
     manacled wrists towards his chest.

     I did so; and became at once conscious of an extraordinary throbbing
     and commotion which was going on inside. The walls of his chest
     seemed to thrill and quiver as a frail building would do inside when
     some powerful engine was at work. In the silence of the room I could
     hear a dull humming and buzzing noise which proceeded from the same
     source.

     "Why," I cried, "you have an aortic aneurism!"

     "That's what they call it," he said, placidly. "I went to a Doctor
     last week about it, and he told me that it is bound to burst before
     many days passed. It has been getting worse for years. I got it from
     over-exposure and under-feeding among the Salt Lake Mountains. I've
     done my work now, and I don't care how soon I go, but I should like
     to leave some account of the business behind me. I don't want to be
     remembered as a common cut-throat."

     The Inspector and the two detectives had a hurried discussion as to
     the advisability of allowing him to tell his story.

     "Do you consider, Doctor, that there is immediate danger?" the former
     asked.

     "Most certainly there is," I answered.

     "In that case it is clearly our duty, in the interests of justice, to
     take his statement," said the Inspector. "You are at liberty, sir, to
     give your account, which I again warn you will be taken down."

     "I'll sit down, with your leave," the prisoner said, suiting the
     action to the word. "This aneurism of mine makes me easily tired, and
     the tussle we had half an hour ago has not mended matters. I'm on the
     brink of the grave, and I am not likely to lie to you. Every word I
     say is the absolute truth, and how you use it is a matter of no
     consequence to me."

     With these words, Jefferson Hope leaned back in his chair and began
     the following remarkable statement. He spoke in a calm and methodical
     manner, as though the events which he narrated were commonplace
     enough. I can vouch for the accuracy of the subjoined account, for I
     have had access to Lestrade's note-book, in which the prisoner's
     words were taken down exactly as they were uttered.

     "It don't much matter to you why I hated these men," he said; "it's
     enough that they were guilty of the death of two human beings--a
     father and a daughter--and that they had, therefore, forfeited their
     own lives. After the lapse of time that has passed since their crime,
     it was impossible for me to secure a conviction against them in any
     court. I knew of their guilt though, and I determined that I should
     be judge, jury, and executioner all rolled into one. You'd have done
     the same, if you have any manhood in you, if you had been in my
     place.

     "That girl that I spoke of was to have married me twenty years ago.
     She was forced into marrying that same Drebber, and broke her heart
     over it. I took the marriage ring from her dead finger, and I vowed
     that his dying eyes should rest upon that very ring, and that his
     last thoughts should be of the crime for which he was punished. I
     have carried it about with me, and have followed him and his
     accomplice over two continents until I caught them. They thought to
     tire me out, but they could not do it. If I die to-morrow, as is
     likely enough, I die knowing that my work in this world is done, and
     well done. They have perished, and by my hand. There is nothing left
     for me to hope for, or to desire.

     "They were rich and I was poor, so that it was no easy matter for me
     to follow them. When I got to London my pocket was about empty, and I
     found that I must turn my hand to something for my living. Driving
     and riding are as natural to me as walking, so I applied at a
     cabowner's office, and soon got employment. I was to bring a certain
     sum a week to the owner, and whatever was over that I might keep for
     myself. There was seldom much over, but I managed to scrape along
     somehow. The hardest job was to learn my way about, for I reckon that
     of all the mazes that ever were contrived, this city is the most
     confusing. I had a map beside me though, and when once I had spotted
     the principal hotels and stations, I got on pretty well.

     "It was some time before I found out where my two gentlemen were
     living; but I inquired and inquired until at last I dropped across
     them. They were at a boarding-house at Camberwell, over on the other
     side of the river. When once I found them out I knew that I had them
     at my mercy. I had grown my beard, and there was no chance of their
     recognizing me. I would dog them and follow them until I saw my
     opportunity. I was determined that they should not escape me again.

     "They were very near doing it for all that. Go where they would about
     London, I was always at their heels. Sometimes I followed them on my
     cab, and sometimes on foot, but the former was the best, for then
     they could not get away from me. It was only early in the morning or
     late at night that I could earn anything, so that I began to get
     behind hand with my employer. I did not mind that, however, as long
     as I could lay my hand upon the men I wanted.

     "They were very cunning, though. They must have thought that there
     was some chance of their being followed, for they would never go out
     alone, and never after nightfall. During two weeks I drove behind
     them every day, and never once saw them separate. Drebber himself was
     drunk half the time, but Stangerson was not to be caught napping. I
     watched them late and early, but never saw the ghost of a chance; but
     I was not discouraged, for something told me that the hour had almost
     come. My only fear was that this thing in my chest might burst a
     little too soon and leave my work undone.

     "At last, one evening I was driving up and down Torquay Terrace, as
     the street was called in which they boarded, when I saw a cab drive
     up to their door. Presently some luggage was brought out, and after a
     time Drebber and Stangerson followed it, and drove off. I whipped up
     my horse and kept within sight of them, feeling very ill at ease, for
     I feared that they were going to shift their quarters. At Euston
     Station they got out, and I left a boy to hold my horse, and followed
     them on to the platform. I heard them ask for the Liverpool train,
     and the guard answer that one had just gone and there would not be
     another for some hours. Stangerson seemed to be put out at that, but
     Drebber was rather pleased than otherwise. I got so close to them in
     the bustle that I could hear every word that passed between them.
     Drebber said that he had a little business of his own to do, and that
     if the other would wait for him he would soon rejoin him. His
     companion remonstrated with him, and reminded him that they had
     resolved to stick together. Drebber answered that the matter was a
     delicate one, and that he must go alone. I could not catch what
     Stangerson said to that, but the other burst out swearing, and
     reminded him that he was nothing more than his paid servant, and that
     he must not presume to dictate to him. On that the Secretary gave it
     up as a bad job, and simply bargained with him that if he missed the
     last train he should rejoin him at Halliday's Private Hotel; to which
     Drebber answered that he would be back on the platform before eleven,
     and made his way out of the station.

     "The moment for which I had waited so long had at last come. I had my
     enemies within my power. Together they could protect each other, but
     singly they were at my mercy. I did not act, however, with undue
     precipitation. My plans were already formed. There is no satisfaction
     in vengeance unless the offender has time to realize who it is that
     strikes him, and why retribution has come upon him. I had my plans
     arranged by which I should have the opportunity of making the man who
     had wronged me understand that his old sin had found him out. It
     chanced that some days before a gentleman who had been engaged in
     looking over some houses in the Brixton Road had dropped the key of
     one of them in my carriage. It was claimed that same evening, and
     returned; but in the interval I had taken a moulding of it, and had a
     duplicate constructed. By means of this I had access to at least one
     spot in this great city where I could rely upon being free from
     interruption. How to get Drebber to that house was the difficult
     problem which I had now to solve.

     "He walked down the road and went into one or two liquor shops,
     staying for nearly half-an-hour in the last of them. When he came out
     he staggered in his walk, and was evidently pretty well on. There was
     a hansom just in front of me, and he hailed it. I followed it so
     close that the nose of my horse was within a yard of his driver the
     whole way. We rattled across Waterloo Bridge and through miles of
     streets, until, to my astonishment, we found ourselves back in the
     Terrace in which he had boarded. I could not imagine what his
     intention was in returning there; but I went on and pulled up my cab
     a hundred yards or so from the house. He entered it, and his hansom
     drove away. Give me a glass of water, if you please. My mouth gets
     dry with the talking."

     I handed him the glass, and he drank it down.

     "That's better," he said. "Well, I waited for a quarter of an hour,
     or more, when suddenly there came a noise like people struggling
     inside the house. Next moment the door was flung open and two men
     appeared, one of whom was Drebber, and the other was a young chap
     whom I had never seen before. This fellow had Drebber by the collar,
     and when they came to the head of the steps he gave him a shove and a
     kick which sent him half across the road. 'You hound,' he cried,
     shaking his stick at him; 'I'll teach you to insult an honest girl!'
     He was so hot that I think he would have thrashed Drebber with his
     cudgel, only that the cur staggered away down the road as fast as his
     legs would carry him. He ran as far as the corner, and then, seeing
     my cab, he hailed me and jumped in. 'Drive me to Halliday's Private
     Hotel,' said he.

     "When I had him fairly inside my cab, my heart jumped so with joy
     that I feared lest at this last moment my aneurism might go wrong. I
     drove along slowly, weighing in my own mind what it was best to do. I
     might take him right out into the country, and there in some deserted
     lane have my last interview with him. I had almost decided upon this,
     when he solved the problem for me. The craze for drink had seized him
     again, and he ordered me to pull up outside a gin palace. He went in,
     leaving word that I should wait for him. There he remained until
     closing time, and when he came out he was so far gone that I knew the
     game was in my own hands.

     "Don't imagine that I intended to kill him in cold blood. It would
     only have been rigid justice if I had done so, but I could not bring
     myself to do it. I had long determined that he should have a show for
     his life if he chose to take advantage of it. Among the many billets
     which I have filled in America during my wandering life, I was once
     janitor and sweeper out of the laboratory at York College. One day
     the professor was lecturing on poisons, and he showed his students
     some alkaloid, as he called it, which he had extracted from some
     South American arrow poison, and which was so powerful that the least
     grain meant instant death. I spotted the bottle in which this
     preparation was kept, and when they were all gone, I helped myself to
     a little of it. I was a fairly good dispenser, so I worked this
     alkaloid into small, soluble pills, and each pill I put in a box with
     a similar pill made without the poison. I determined at the time that
     when I had my chance, my gentlemen should each have a draw out of one
     of these boxes, while I ate the pill that remained. It would be quite
     as deadly, and a good deal less noisy than firing across a
     handkerchief. From that day I had always my pill boxes about with me,
     and the time had now come when I was to use them.

     "It was nearer one than twelve, and a wild, bleak night, blowing hard
     and raining in torrents. Dismal as it was outside, I was glad
     within--so glad that I could have shouted out from pure exultation.
     If any of you gentlemen have ever pined for a thing, and longed for
     it during twenty long years, and then suddenly found it within your
     reach, you would understand my feelings. I lit a cigar, and puffed at
     it to steady my nerves, but my hands were trembling, and my temples
     throbbing with excitement. As I drove, I could see old John Ferrier
     and sweet Lucy looking at me out of the darkness and smiling at me,
     just as plain as I see you all in this room. All the way they were
     ahead of me, one on each side of the horse until I pulled up at the
     house in the Brixton Road.

     "There was not a soul to be seen, nor a sound to be heard, except the
     dripping of the rain. When I looked in at the window, I found Drebber
     all huddled together in a drunken sleep. I shook him by the arm,
     'It's time to get out,' I said.

     "'All right, cabby,' said he.

     "I suppose he thought we had come to the hotel that he had mentioned,
     for he got out without another word, and followed me down the garden.
     I had to walk beside him to keep him steady, for he was still a
     little top-heavy. When we came to the door, I opened it, and led him
     into the front room. I give you my word that all the way, the father
     and the daughter were walking in front of us.

     "'It's infernally dark,' said he, stamping about.

     "'We'll soon have a light,' I said, striking a match and putting it
     to a wax candle which I had brought with me. 'Now, Enoch Drebber,' I
     continued, turning to him, and holding the light to my own face, 'who
     am I?'

     "He gazed at me with bleared, drunken eyes for a moment, and then I
     saw a horror spring up in them, and convulse his whole features,
     which showed me that he knew me. He staggered back with a livid face,
     and I saw the perspiration break out upon his brow, while his teeth
     chattered in his head. At the sight, I leaned my back against the
     door and laughed loud and long. I had always known that vengeance
     would be sweet, but I had never hoped for the contentment of soul
     which now possessed me.

     "'You dog!' I said; 'I have hunted you from Salt Lake City to St.
     Petersburg, and you have always escaped me. Now, at last your
     wanderings have come to an end, for either you or I shall never see
     to-morrow's sun rise.' He shrunk still further away as I spoke, and I
     could see on his face that he thought I was mad. So I was for the
     time. The pulses in my temples beat like sledge-hammers, and I
     believe I would have had a fit of some sort if the blood had not
     gushed from my nose and relieved me.

     "'What do you think of Lucy Ferrier now?' I cried, locking the door,
     and shaking the key in his face. 'Punishment has been slow in coming,
     but it has overtaken you at last.' I saw his coward lips tremble as I
     spoke. He would have begged for his life, but he knew well that it
     was useless.

     "'Would you murder me?' he stammered.

     "'There is no murder,' I answered. 'Who talks of murdering a mad dog?
     What mercy had you upon my poor darling, when you dragged her from
     her slaughtered father, and bore her away to your accursed and
     shameless harem.'

     "'It was not I who killed her father,' he cried.

     "'But it was you who broke her innocent heart,' I shrieked, thrusting
     the box before him. 'Let the high God judge between us. Choose and
     eat. There is death in one and life in the other. I shall take what
     you leave. Let us see if there is justice upon the earth, or if we
     are ruled by chance.'

     "He cowered away with wild cries and prayers for mercy, but I drew my
     knife and held it to his throat until he had obeyed me. Then I
     swallowed the other, and we stood facing one another in silence for a
     minute or more, waiting to see which was to live and which was to
     die. Shall I ever forget the look which came over his face when the
     first warning pangs told him that the poison was in his system? I
     laughed as I saw it, and held Lucy's marriage ring in front of his
     eyes. It was but for a moment, for the action of the alkaloid is
     rapid. A spasm of pain contorted his features; he threw his hands out
     in front of him, staggered, and then, with a hoarse cry, fell heavily
     upon the floor. I turned him over with my foot, and placed my hand
     upon his heart. There was no movement. He was dead!

     "The blood had been streaming from my nose, but I had taken no notice
     of it. I don't know what it was that put it into my head to write
     upon the wall with it. Perhaps it was some mischievous idea of
     setting the police upon a wrong track, for I felt light-hearted and
     cheerful. I remembered a German being found in New York with RACHE
     written up above him, and it was argued at the time in the newspapers
     that the secret societies must have done it. I guessed that what
     puzzled the New Yorkers would puzzle the Londoners, so I dipped my
     finger in my own blood and printed it on a convenient place on the
     wall. Then I walked down to my cab and found that there was nobody
     about, and that the night was still very wild. I had driven some
     distance when I put my hand into the pocket in which I usually kept
     Lucy's ring, and found that it was not there. I was thunderstruck at
     this, for it was the only memento that I had of her. Thinking that I
     might have dropped it when I stooped over Drebber's body, I drove
     back, and leaving my cab in a side street, I went boldly up to the
     house--for I was ready to dare anything rather than lose the ring.
     When I arrived there, I walked right into the arms of a
     police-officer who was coming out, and only managed to disarm his
     suspicions by pretending to be hopelessly drunk.

     "That was how Enoch Drebber came to his end. All I had to do then was
     to do as much for Stangerson, and so pay off John Ferrier's debt. I
     knew that he was staying at Halliday's Private Hotel, and I hung
     about all day, but he never came out. I fancy that he suspected
     something when Drebber failed to put in an appearance. He was
     cunning, was Stangerson, and always on his guard. If he thought he
     could keep me off by staying indoors he was very much mistaken. I
     soon found out which was the window of his bedroom, and early next
     morning I took advantage of some ladders which were lying in the lane
     behind the hotel, and so made my way into his room in the grey of the
     dawn. I woke him up and told him that the hour had come when he was
     to answer for the life he had taken so long before. I described
     Drebber's death to him, and I gave him the same choice of the
     poisoned pills. Instead of grasping at the chance of safety which
     that offered him, he sprang from his bed and flew at my throat. In
     self-defence I stabbed him to the heart. It would have been the same
     in any case, for Providence would never have allowed his guilty hand
     to pick out anything but the poison.

     "I have little more to say, and it's as well, for I am about done up.
     I went on cabbing it for a day or so, intending to keep at it until I
     could save enough to take me back to America. I was standing in the
     yard when a ragged youngster asked if there was a cabby there called
     Jefferson Hope, and said that his cab was wanted by a gentleman at
     221b, Baker Street. I went round, suspecting no harm, and the next
     thing I knew, this young man here had the bracelets on my wrists, and
     as neatly snackled as ever I saw in my life. That's the whole of my
     story, gentlemen. You may consider me to be a murderer; but I hold
     that I am just as much an officer of justice as you are."

     So thrilling had the man's narrative been, and his manner was so
     impressive that we had sat silent and absorbed. Even the professional
     detectives, blase as they were in every detail of crime, appeared to
     be keenly interested in the man's story. When he finished we sat for
     some minutes in a stillness which was only broken by the scratching
     of Lestrade's pencil as he gave the finishing touches to his
     shorthand account.

     "There is only one point on which I should like a little more
     information," Sherlock Holmes said at last. "Who was your accomplice
     who came for the ring which I advertised?"

     The prisoner winked at my friend jocosely. "I can tell my own
     secrets," he said, "but I don't get other people into trouble. I saw
     your advertisement, and I thought it might be a plant, or it might be
     the ring which I wanted. My friend volunteered to go and see. I think
     you'll own he did it smartly."

     "Not a doubt of that," said Holmes heartily.

     "Now, gentlemen," the Inspector remarked gravely, "the forms of the
     law must be complied with. On Thursday the prisoner will be brought
     before the magistrates, and your attendance will be required. Until
     then I will be responsible for him." He rang the bell as he spoke,
     and Jefferson Hope was led off by a couple of warders, while my
     friend and I made our way out of the Station and took a cab back to
     Baker Street.





          CHAPTER VII
          The Conclusion


     We had all been warned to appear before the magistrates upon the
     Thursday; but when the Thursday came there was no occasion for our
     testimony. A higher Judge had taken the matter in hand, and Jefferson
     Hope had been summoned before a tribunal where strict justice would
     be meted out to him. On the very night after his capture the aneurism
     burst, and he was found in the morning stretched upon the floor of
     the cell, with a placid smile upon his face, as though he had been
     able in his dying moments to look back upon a useful life, and on
     work well done.

     "Gregson and Lestrade will be wild about his death," Holmes remarked,
     as we chatted it over next evening. "Where will their grand
     advertisement be now?"

     "I don't see that they had very much to do with his capture," I
     answered.

     "What you do in this world is a matter of no consequence," returned
     my companion, bitterly. "The question is, what can you make people
     believe that you have done. Never mind," he continued, more brightly,
     after a pause. "I would not have missed the investigation for
     anything. There has been no better case within my recollection.
     Simple as it was, there were several most instructive points about
     it."

     "Simple!" I ejaculated.

     "Well, really, it can hardly be described as otherwise," said
     Sherlock Holmes, smiling at my surprise. "The proof of its intrinsic
     simplicity is, that without any help save a few very ordinary
     deductions I was able to lay my hand upon the criminal within three
     days."

     "That is true," said I.

     "I have already explained to you that what is out of the common is
     usually a guide rather than a hindrance. In solving a problem of this
     sort, the grand thing is to be able to reason backwards. That is a
     very useful accomplishment, and a very easy one, but people do not
     practise it much. In the every-day affairs of life it is more useful
     to reason forwards, and so the other comes to be neglected. There are
     fifty who can reason synthetically for one who can reason
     analytically."

     "I confess," said I, "that I do not quite follow you."

     "I hardly expected that you would. Let me see if I can make it
     clearer. Most people, if you describe a train of events to them, will
     tell you what the result would be. They can put those events together
     in their minds, and argue from them that something will come to pass.
     There are few people, however, who, if you told them a result, would
     be able to evolve from their own inner consciousness what the steps
     were which led up to that result. This power is what I mean when I
     talk of reasoning backwards, or analytically."

     "I understand," said I.

     "Now this was a case in which you were given the result and had to
     find everything else for yourself. Now let me endeavour to show you
     the different steps in my reasoning. To begin at the beginning. I
     approached the house, as you know, on foot, and with my mind entirely
     free from all impressions. I naturally began by examining the
     roadway, and there, as I have already explained to you, I saw clearly
     the marks of a cab, which, I ascertained by inquiry, must have been
     there during the night. I satisfied myself that it was a cab and not
     a private carriage by the narrow gauge of the wheels. The ordinary
     London growler is considerably less wide than a gentleman's brougham.

     "This was the first point gained. I then walked slowly down the
     garden path, which happened to be composed of a clay soil, peculiarly
     suitable for taking impressions. No doubt it appeared to you to be a
     mere trampled line of slush, but to my trained eyes every mark upon
     its surface had a meaning. There is no branch of detective science
     which is so important and so much neglected as the art of tracing
     footsteps. Happily, I have always laid great stress upon it, and much
     practice has made it second nature to me. I saw the heavy footmarks
     of the constables, but I saw also the track of the two men who had
     first passed through the garden. It was easy to tell that they had
     been before the others, because in places their marks had been
     entirely obliterated by the others coming upon the top of them. In
     this way my second link was formed, which told me that the nocturnal
     visitors were two in number, one remarkable for his height (as I
     calculated from the length of his stride), and the other fashionably
     dressed, to judge from the small and elegant impression left by his
     boots.

     "On entering the house this last inference was confirmed. My
     well-booted man lay before me. The tall one, then, had done the
     murder, if murder there was. There was no wound upon the dead man's
     person, but the agitated expression upon his face assured me that he
     had foreseen his fate before it came upon him. Men who die from heart
     disease, or any sudden natural cause, never by any chance exhibit
     agitation upon their features. Having sniffed the dead man's lips I
     detected a slightly sour smell, and I came to the conclusion that he
     had had poison forced upon him. Again, I argued that it had been
     forced upon him from the hatred and fear expressed upon his face. By
     the method of exclusion, I had arrived at this result, for no other
     hypothesis would meet the facts. Do not imagine that it was a very
     unheard of idea. The forcible administration of poison is by no means
     a new thing in criminal annals. The cases of Dolsky in Odessa, and of
     Leturier in Montpellier, will occur at once to any toxicologist.

     "And now came the great question as to the reason why. Robbery had
     not been the object of the murder, for nothing was taken. Was it
     politics, then, or was it a woman? That was the question which
     confronted me. I was inclined from the first to the latter
     supposition. Political assassins are only too glad to do their work
     and to fly. This murder had, on the contrary, been done most
     deliberately, and the perpetrator had left his tracks all over the
     room, showing that he had been there all the time. It must have been
     a private wrong, and not a political one, which called for such a
     methodical revenge. When the inscription was discovered upon the wall
     I was more inclined than ever to my opinion. The thing was too
     evidently a blind. When the ring was found, however, it settled the
     question. Clearly the murderer had used it to remind his victim of
     some dead or absent woman. It was at this point that I asked Gregson
     whether he had enquired in his telegram to Cleveland as to any
     particular point in Mr. Drebber's former career. He answered, you
     remember, in the negative.

     "I then proceeded to make a careful examination of the room, which
     confirmed me in my opinion as to the murderer's height, and furnished
     me with the additional details as to the Trichinopoly cigar and the
     length of his nails. I had already come to the conclusion, since
     there were no signs of a struggle, that the blood which covered the
     floor had burst from the murderer's nose in his excitement. I could
     perceive that the track of blood coincided with the track of his
     feet. It is seldom that any man, unless he is very full-blooded,
     breaks out in this way through emotion, so I hazarded the opinion
     that the criminal was probably a robust and ruddy-faced man. Events
     proved that I had judged correctly.

     "Having left the house, I proceeded to do what Gregson had neglected.
     I telegraphed to the head of the police at Cleveland, limiting my
     enquiry to the circumstances connected with the marriage of Enoch
     Drebber. The answer was conclusive. It told me that Drebber had
     already applied for the protection of the law against an old rival in
     love, named Jefferson Hope, and that this same Hope was at present in
     Europe. I knew now that I held the clue to the mystery in my hand,
     and all that remained was to secure the murderer.

     "I had already determined in my own mind that the man who had walked
     into the house with Drebber, was none other than the man who had
     driven the cab. The marks in the road showed me that the horse had
     wandered on in a way which would have been impossible had there been
     anyone in charge of it. Where, then, could the driver be, unless he
     were inside the house? Again, it is absurd to suppose that any sane
     man would carry out a deliberate crime under the very eyes, as it
     were, of a third person, who was sure to betray him. Lastly,
     supposing one man wished to dog another through London, what better
     means could he adopt than to turn cabdriver. All these considerations
     led me to the irresistible conclusion that Jefferson Hope was to be
     found among the jarveys of the Metropolis.

     "If he had been one there was no reason to believe that he had ceased
     to be. On the contrary, from his point of view, any sudden chance
     would be likely to draw attention to himself. He would, probably, for
     a time at least, continue to perform his duties. There was no reason
     to suppose that he was going under an assumed name. Why should he
     change his name in a country where no one knew his original one? I
     therefore organized my Street Arab detective corps, and sent them
     systematically to every cab proprietor in London until they ferreted
     out the man that I wanted. How well they succeeded, and how quickly I
     took advantage of it, are still fresh in your recollection. The
     murder of Stangerson was an incident which was entirely unexpected,
     but which could hardly in any case have been prevented. Through it,
     as you know, I came into possession of the pills, the existence of
     which I had already surmised. You see the whole thing is a chain of
     logical sequences without a break or flaw."

     "It is wonderful!" I cried. "Your merits should be publicly
     recognized. You should publish an account of the case. If you won't,
     I will for you."

     "You may do what you like, Doctor," he answered. "See here!" he
     continued, handing a paper over to me, "look at this!"

     It was the Echo for the day, and the paragraph to which he pointed
     was devoted to the case in question.

     "The public," it said, "have lost a sensational treat through the
     sudden death of the man Hope, who was suspected of the murder of Mr.
     Enoch Drebber and of Mr. Joseph Stangerson. The details of the case
     will probably be never known now, though we are informed upon good
     authority that the crime was the result of an old standing and
     romantic feud, in which love and Mormonism bore a part. It seems that
     both the victims belonged, in their younger days, to the Latter Day
     Saints, and Hope, the deceased prisoner, hails also from Salt Lake
     City. If the case has had no other effect, it, at least, brings out
     in the most striking manner the efficiency of our detective police
     force, and will serve as a lesson to all foreigners that they will do
     wisely to settle their feuds at home, and not to carry them on to
     British soil. It is an open secret that the credit of this smart
     capture belongs entirely to the well-known Scotland Yard officials,
     Messrs. Lestrade and Gregson. The man was apprehended, it appears, in
     the rooms of a certain Mr. Sherlock Holmes, who has himself, as an
     amateur, shown some talent in the detective line, and who, with such
     instructors, may hope in time to attain to some degree of their
     skill. It is expected that a testimonial of some sort will be
     presented to the two officers as a fitting recognition of their
     services."

     "Didn't I tell you so when we started?" cried Sherlock Holmes with a
     laugh. "That's the result of all our Study in Scarlet: to get them a
     testimonial!"

     "Never mind," I answered, "I have all the facts in my journal, and
     the public shall know them. In the meantime you must make yourself
     contented by the consciousness of success, like the Roman miser--

                      "'Populus me sibilat, at mihi plaudo
                 Ipse domi simul ac nummos contemplar in arca.'"









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