



                                  HIS LAST BOW

                               Arthur Conan Doyle



                                Table of contents

               Preface
               The Adventure of Wisteria Lodge
               The Adventure of the Cardboard Box
               The Adventure of the Red Circle
               The Adventure of the Bruce-Partington Plans
               The Adventure of the Dying Detective
               The Disappearance of Lady Frances Carfax
               The Adventure of the Devil's Foot
               His Last Bow










                                     PREFACE

     The friends of Mr. Sherlock Holmes will be glad to learn that he is
     still alive and well, though somewhat crippled by occasional attacks
     of rheumatism. He has, for many years, lived in a small farm upon the
     downs five miles from Eastbourne, where his time is divided between
     philosophy and agriculture. During this period of rest he has refused
     the most princely offers to take up various cases, having determined
     that his retirement was a permanent one. The approach of the German
     war caused him, however, to lay his remarkable combination of
     intellectual and practical activity at the disposal of the
     government, with historical results which are recounted in His Last
     Bow. Several previous experiences which have lain long in my
     portfolio have been added to His Last Bow so as to complete the
     volume.


             John H. Watson, M. D.






                         THE ADVENTURE OF WISTERIA LODGE





                                Table of contents
        The Singular Experience of Mr. John Scott Eccles
        The Tiger of San Pedro















          CHAPTER I
          The Singular Experience of Mr. John Scott Eccles


     I find it recorded in my notebook that it was a bleak and windy day
     towards the end of March in the year 1892.  Holmes had received a
     telegram while we sat at our lunch, and he had scribbled a reply.  He
     made no remark, but the matter remained in his thoughts, for he stood
     in front of the fire afterwards with a thoughtful face, smoking his
     pipe, and casting an occasional glance at the message. Suddenly he
     turned upon me with a mischievous twinkle in his eyes.

     "I suppose, Watson, we must look upon you as a man of letters," said
     he. "How do you define the word 'grotesque'?"

     "Strange--remarkable," I suggested.

     He shook his head at my definition.

     "There is surely something more than that," said he; "some underlying
     suggestion of the tragic and the terrible.  If you cast your mind
     back to some of those narratives with which you have afflicted a
     long-suffering public, you will recognize how often the grotesque has
     deepened into the criminal.  Think of that little affair of the
     red-headed men.  That was grotesque enough in the outset, and yet it
     ended in a desperate attempt at robbery.  Or, again, there was that
     most grotesque affair of the five orange pips, which let straight to
     a murderous conspiracy. The word puts me on the alert."

     "Have you it there?" I asked.

     He read the telegram aloud.

     "Have just had most incredible and grotesque experience. May I
     consult you?
     "Scott Eccles,
     "Post Office, Charing Cross."

     "Man or woman?" I asked.

     "Oh, man, of course. No woman would ever send a reply-paid telegram.
     She would have come."

     "Will you see him?"

     "My dear Watson, you know how bored I have been since we locked up
     Colonel Carruthers. My mind is like a racing engine, tearing itself
     to pieces because it is not connected up with the work for which it
     was built. Life is commonplace, the papers are sterile; audacity and
     romance seem to have passed forever from the criminal world. Can you
     ask me, then, whether I am ready to look into any new problem,
     however trivial it may prove? But here, unless I am mistaken, is our
     client."

     A measured step was heard upon the stairs, and a moment later a
     stout, tall, gray-whiskered and solemnly respectable person was
     ushered into the room.  His life history was written in his heavy
     features and pompous manner.  From his spats to his gold-rimmed
     spectacles he was a Conservative, a churchman, a good citizen,
     orthodox and conventional to the last degree. But some amazing
     experience had disturbed his native composure and left its traces in
     his bristling hair, his flushed, angry cheeks, and his flurried,
     excited manner. He plunged instantly into his business.

     "I have had a most singular and unpleasant experience, Mr. Holmes,"
     said he. "Never in my life have I been placed in such a situation. It
     is most improper--most outrageous. I must insist upon some
     explanation." He swelled and puffed in his anger.

     "Pray sit down, Mr. Scott Eccles," said Holmes in a soothing voice.
     "May I ask, in the first place, why you came to me at all?"

     "Well, sir, it did not appear to be a matter which concerned the
     police, and yet, when you have heard the facts, you must admit that I
     could not leave it where it was. Private detectives are a class with
     whom I have absolutely no sympathy, but none the less, having heard
     your name--"

     "Quite so.  But, in the second place, why did you not come at once?"

     "What do you mean?"

     Holmes glanced at his watch.

     "It is a quarter-past two," he said. "Your telegram was dispatched
     about one. But no one can glance at your toilet and attire without
     seeing that your disturbance dates from the moment of your waking."

     Our client smoothed down his unbrushed hair and felt his unshaven
     chin.

     "You are right, Mr. Holmes. I never gave a thought to my toilet. I
     was only too glad to get out of such a house. But I have been running
     round making inquiries before I came to you. I went to the house
     agents, you know, and they said that Mr. Garcia's rent was paid up
     all right and that everything was in order at Wisteria Lodge."

     "Come, come, sir," said Holmes, laughing. "You are like my friend,
     Dr. Watson, who has a bad habit of telling his stories wrong end
     foremost. Please arrange your thoughts and let me know, in their due
     sequence, exactly what those events are which have sent you out
     unbrushed and unkempt, with dress boots and waistcoat buttoned awry,
     in search of advice and assistance."

     Our client looked down with a rueful face at his own unconventional
     appearance.

     "I'm sure it must look very bad, Mr. Holmes, and I am not aware that
     in my whole life such a thing has ever happened before. But will tell
     you the whole queer business, and when I have done so you will admit,
     I am sure, that there has been enough to excuse me."

     But his narrative was nipped in the bud. There was a bustle outside,
     and Mrs. Hudson opened the door to usher in two robust and
     official-looking individuals, one of whom was well known to us as
     Inspector Gregson of Scotland Yard, an energetic, gallant, and,
     within his limitations, a capable officer. He shook hands with Holmes
     and introduced his comrade as Inspector Baynes, of the Surrey
     Constabulary.

     "We are hunting together, Mr. Holmes, and our trail lay in this
     direction." He turned his bulldog eyes upon our visitor. "Are you Mr.
     John Scott Eccles, of Popham House, Lee?"

     "I am."

     "We have been following you about all the morning."

     "You traced him through the telegram, no doubt," said Holmes. 

     "Exactly, Mr. Holmes. We picked up the scent at Charing Cross
     Post-Office and came on here."

     "But why do you follow me? What do you want?"

     "We wish a statement, Mr. Scott Eccles, as to the events which let up
     to the death last night of Mr. Aloysius Garcia, of Wisteria Lodge,
     near Esher."

     Our client had sat up with staring eyes and every tinge of colour
     struck from his astonished face.

     "Dead?  Did you say he was dead?"

     "Yes, sir, he is dead."

     "But how?  An accident?"

     "Murder, if ever there was one upon earth."

     "Good God! This is awful! You don't mean--you don't mean that I am
     suspected?"

     "A letter of yours was found in the dead man's pocket, and we know by
     it that you had planned to pass last night at his house."

     "So I did."

     "Oh, you did, did you?"

     Out came the official notebook.

     "Wait a bit, Gregson," said Sherlock Holmes. "All you desire is a
     plain statement, is it not?"

     "And it is my duty to warn Mr. Scott Eccles that it may be used
     against him."

     "Mr. Eccles was going to tell us about it when you entered the room.
     I think, Watson, a brandy and soda would do him no harm. Now, sir, I
     suggest that you take no notice of this addition to your audience,
     and that you proceed with your narrative exactly as you would have
     done had you never been interrupted."

     Our visitor had gulped off the brandy and the colour had returned to
     his face.  With a dubious glance at the inspector's notebook, he
     plunged at once into his extraordinary statement.

     "I am a bachelor," said he, "and being of a sociable turn I cultivate
     a large number of friends. Among these are the family of a retired
     brewer called Melville, living at Abermarle Mansion, Kensington. It
     was at his table that I met some weeks ago a young fellow named
     Garcia. He was, I understood, of Spanish descent and connected in
     some way with the embassy. He spoke perfect English, was pleasing in
     his manners, and as good-looking a man as ever I saw in my life.

     "In some way we struck up quite a friendship, this young fellow and
     I. He seemed to take a fancy to me from the first, and within two
     days of our meeting he came to see me at Lee. One thing led to
     another, and it ended in his inviting me out to spend a few days at
     his house, Wisteria Lodge, between Esher and Oxshott. Yesterday
     evening I went to Esher to fulfil this engagement.

     "He had described his household to me before I went there. He lived
     with a faithful servant, a countryman of his own, who looked after
     all his needs. This fellow could speak English and did his
     housekeeping for him. Then there was a wonderful cook, he said, a
     half-breed whom he had picked up in his travels, who could serve an
     excellent dinner. I remember that he remarked what a queer household
     it was to find in the heart of Surrey, and that I agreed with him,
     though it has proved a good deal queerer than I thought.

     "I drove to the place--about two miles on the south side of Esher.
     The house was a fair-sized one, standing back from the road, with a
     curving drive which was banked with high evergreen shrubs. It was an
     old, tumbledown building in a crazy state of disrepair. When the trap
     pulled up on the grass-grown drive in front of the blotched and
     weather-stained door, I had doubts as to my wisdom in visiting a man
     whom I knew so slightly. He opened the door himself, however, and
     greeted me with a great show of cordiality. I was handed over to the
     manservant, a melancholy, swarthy individual, who led the way, my bag
     in his hand, to my bedroom. The whole place was depressing. Our
     dinner was tête-à-tête, and though my host did his best to be
     entertaining, his thoughts seemed to continually wander, and he
     talked so vaguely and wildly that I could hardly understand him. He
     continually drummed his fingers on the table, gnawed his nails, and
     gave other signs of nervous impatience. The dinner itself was neither
     well served nor well cooked, and the gloomy presence of the taciturn
     servant did not help to enliven us. I can assure you that many times
     in the course of the evening I wished that I could invent some excuse
     which would take me back to Lee.

     "One thing comes back to my memory which may have a bearing upon the
     business that you two gentlemen are investigating. I thought nothing
     of it at the time. Near the end of dinner a note was handed in by the
     servant. I noticed that after my host had read it he seemed even more
     distrait and strange than before. He gave up all pretence at
     conversation and sat, smoking endless cigarettes, lost in his own
     thoughts, but he made no remark as to the contents. About eleven I
     was glad to go to bed. Some time later Garcia looked in at my
     door--the room was dark at the time--and asked me if I had rung. I
     said that I had not. He apologized for having disturbed me so late,
     saying that it was nearly one o'clock. I dropped off after this and
     slept soundly all night.

     "And now I come to the amazing part of my tale. When I woke it was
     broad daylight. I glanced at my watch, and the time was nearly nine.
     I had particularly asked to be called at eight, so I was very much
     astonished at this forgetfulness. I sprang up and rang for the
     servant. There was no response. I rang again and again, with the same
     result. Then I came to the conclusion that the bell was out of order.
     I huddled on my clothes and hurried downstairs in an exceedingly bad
     temper to order some hot water. You can imagine my surprise when I
     found that there was no one there. I shouted in the hall. There was
     no answer. Then I ran from room to room. All were deserted. My host
     had shown me which was his bedroom the night before, so I knocked at
     the door. No reply. I turned the handle and walked in. The room was
     empty, and the bed had never been slept in. He had gone with the
     rest. The foreign host, the foreign footman, the foreign cook, all
     had vanished in the night! That was the end of my visit to Wisteria
     Lodge."

     Sherlock Holmes was rubbing his hands and chuckling as he added this
     bizarre incident to his collection of strange episodes.

     "Your experience is, so far as I know, perfectly unique," said he.
     "May I ask, sir, what you did then?"

     "I was furious. My first idea was that I had been the victim of some
     absurd practical joke. I packed my things, banged the hall door
     behind me, and set off for Esher, with my bag in my hand. I called at
     Allan Brothers', the chief land agents in the village, and found that
     it was from this firm that the villa had been rented. It struck me
     that the whole proceeding could hardly be for the purpose of making a
     fool of me, and that the main objet must be to get out of the rent.
     It is late in March, so quarter-day is at hand. But this theory would
     not work. The agent was obliged to me for my warning, but told me
     that the rent had been paid in advance. Then I made my way to town
     and called at the Spanish embassy. The man was unknown there. After
     this I went to see Melville, at whose house I had first met Garcia,
     but I found that he really knew rather less about him than I did.
     Finally when I got your reply to my wire I came out to you, since I
     gather that you are a person who gives advice in difficult cases. But
     now, Mr. Inspector, I understand, from what you said when you entered
     the room, that you can carry the story on, and that some tragedy had
     occurred. I can assure you that every word I have said is the truth,
     and that, outside of what I have told you, I know absolutely nothing
     about the fate of this man. My only desire is to help the law in
     every possible way."

     "I am sure of it, Mr. Scott Eccles--I am sure of it," said Inspector
     Gregson in a very amiable tone. "I am bound to say that everything
     which you have said agrees very closely with the facts as they have
     come to our notice. For example, there was that note which arrived
     during dinner. Did you chance to observe what became of it?"

     "Yes, I did. Garcia rolled it up and threw it into the fire."

     "What do you say to that, Mr. Baynes?"

     The country detective was a stout, puffy, red man, whose face was
     only redeemed from grossness by two extraordinarily bright eyes,
     almost hidden behind the heavy creases of cheek and brow. With a slow
     smile he drew a folded and discoloured scrap of paper from his
     pocket.

     "It was a dog-grate, Mr. Holmes, and he overpitched it. I picked this
     out unburned from the back of it."

     Holmes smiled his appreciation.

     "You must have examined the house very carefully to find a single
     pellet of paper."

     "I did, Mr. Holmes. It's my way. Shall I read it, Mr. Gregson?"

     The Londoner nodded.

     "The note is written upon ordinary cream-laid paper without
     watermark. It is a quarter-sheet. The paper is cut off in two snips
     with a short-bladed scissors. It has been folded over three times and
     sealed with purple wax, put on hurriedly and pressed down with some
     flat oval object. It is addressed to Mr. Garcia, Wisteria Lodge. It
     says:

     "Our own colours, green and white. Green open, white shut. Main
     stair, first corridor, seventh right, green baize. Godspeed.
     D.

     "It is a woman's writing, done with a sharp-pointed pen, but the
     address is either done with another pen or by someone else. It is
     thicker and bolder, as you see."

     "A very remarkable note," said Holmes, glancing it over. "I must
     compliment you, Mr. Baynes, upon your attention to detail in your
     examination of it. A few trifling points might perhaps be added. The
     oval seal is undoubtedly a plain sleeve-link--what else is of such a
     shape? The scissors were bent nail scissors. Short as the two snips
     are, you can distinctly see the same slight curve in each."

     The country detective chuckled.

     "I thought I had squeezed all the juice out of it, but I see there
     was a little over," he said. "I'm bound to say that I make nothing of
     the note except that there was something on hand, and that a woman,
     as usual, was at the bottom of it."

     Mr. Scott Eccles had fidgeted in his seat during this conversation.

     "I am glad you found the note, since it corroborates my story," said
     he. "But I beg to point out that I have not yet heard what has
     happened to Mr. Garcia, nor what has become of his household."

     "As to Garcia," said Gregson, "that is easily answered. He was found
     dead this morning upon Oxshott Common, nearly a mile from his home.
     His head had been smashed to pulp by heavy blows of a sandbag or some
     such instrument, which had crushed rather than wounded. It is a
     lonely corner, and there is no house within a quarter of a mile of
     the spot. He had apparently been struck down first from behind, but
     his assailant had gone on beating him long after he was dead. It was
     a most furious assault. There are no footsteps nor any clue to the
     criminals."

     "Robbed?"

     "No, there was no attempt at robbery."

     "This is very painful--very painful and terrible," said Mr. Scott
     Eccles in a querulous voice, "but it is really uncommonly hard on me.
     I had nothing to do with my host going off upon a nocturnal excursion
     and meeting so sad an end. How do I come to be mixed up with the
     case?"

     "Very simply, sir," Inspector Baynes answered. "The only document
     found in the pocket of the deceased was a letter from you saying that
     you would be with him on the night of his death. It was the envelope
     of this letter which gave us the dead man's name and address. It was
     after nine this morning when we reached his house and found neither
     you nor anyone else inside it. I wired to Mr. Gregson to run you down
     in London while I examined Wisteria Lodge. Then I came into town,
     joined Mr. Gregson, and here we are."

     "I think now," said Gregson, rising, "we had best put this matter
     into an official shape. You will come round with us to the station,
     Mr. Scott Eccles, and let us have your statement in writing."

     "Certainly, I will come at once. But I retain your services, Mr.
     Holmes. I desire you to spare no expense and no pains to get at the
     truth."

     My friend turned to the country inspector.

     "I suppose that you have no objection to my collaborating with you,
     Mr. Baynes?"

     "Highly honoured, sir, I am sure."

     "You appear to have been very prompt and businesslike in all that you
     have done. Was there any clue, may I ask, as to the exact hour that
     the man met his death?"

     "He had been there since one o'clock. There was rain about that time,
     and his death had certainly been before the rain."

     "But that is perfectly impossible, Mr. Baynes," cried our client.
     "His voice is unmistakable. I could swear to it that it was he who
     addressed me in my bedroom at that very hour."

     "Remarkable, but by no means impossible," said Holmes, smiling.

     "You have a clue?" asked Gregson.

     "On the face of it the case is not a very complex one, though it
     certainly presents some novel and interesting features. A further
     knowledge of facts is necessary before I would venture to give a
     final and definite opinion. By the way, Mr. Baynes, did you find
     anything remarkable besides this note in your examination of the
     house?"

     The detective looked at my friend in a singular way.

     "There were," said he, "one or two very remarkable things. Perhaps
     when I have finished at the police-station you would care to come out
     and give me your opinion of them."

     "In am entirely at your service," said Sherlock Holmes, ringing the
     bell. "You will show these gentlemen out, Mrs. Hudson, and kindly
     send the boy with this telegram. He is to pay a five-shilling reply."

     We sat for some time in silence after our visitors had left. Holmes
     smoked hard, with his browns drawn down over his keen eyes, and his
     head thrust forward in the eager way characteristic of the man.

     "Well, Watson," he asked, turning suddenly upon me, "what do you make
     of it?"

     "I can make nothing of this mystification of Scott Eccles."

     "But the crime?"

     "Well, taken with the disappearance of the man's companions, I should
     say that they were in some way concerned in the murder and had fled
     from justice."

     "That is certainly a possible point of view. On the face of it you
     must admit, however, that it is very strange that his two servants
     should have been in a conspiracy against him and should have attacked
     him on the one night when he had a guest. They had him alone at their
     mercy every other night in the week."

     "Then why did they fly?"

     "Quite so. Why did they fly? There is a big fact. Another big fact is
     the remarkable experience of our client, Scott Eccles. Now, my dear
     Watson, is it beyond the limits of human ingenuity to furnish an
     explanation which would cover both of these big facts? If it were one
     which would also admit of the mysterious note with its very curious
     phraseology, why, then it would be worth accepting as a temporary
     hypothesis. If the fresh facts which come to our knowledge all fit
     themselves into the scheme, then our hypothesis may gradually become
     a solution."

     "But what is our hypothesis?"

     Holmes leaned back in his chair with half-closed eyes.

     "You must admit, my dear Watson, that the idea of a joke is
     impossible. There were grave events afoot, as the sequel showed, and
     the coaxing of Scott Eccles to Wisteria Lodge had some connection
     with them."

     "But what possible connection?"

     "Let us take it link by link. There is, on the face of it, something
     unnatural about this strange and sudden friendship between the young
     Spaniard and Scott Eccles. It was the former who forced the pace. He
     called upon Eccles at the other end of London on the very day after
     he first met him, and he kept in close touch with him until he got
     him down to Esher. Now, what did he want with Eccles? What could
     Eccles supply? I see no charm in the man. He is not particulary
     intelligent--not a man likely to be congenial to a quick-witted
     Latin. Why, then, was he picked out from all the other people whom
     Garcia met as particularly suited to his purpose? Has he any one
     outstanding quality? I say that he has. He is the very type of
     conventional British respectability, and the very man as a witness to
     impress another Briton. You saw yourself how neither of the
     inspectors dreamed of questioning his statement, extraordinary as it
     was."

     "But what was he to witness?"

     "Nothing, as things turned out, but everything had they gone another
     way. That is how I read the matter."

     "I see, he might have proved an alibi."

     "Exactly, my dear Watson; he might have proved an alibi. We will
     suppose, for argument's sake, that the household of Wisteria Lodge
     are confederates in some design. The attempt, whatever it may be, is
     to come off, we will say, before one o'clock. By some juggling of the
     clocks it is quite possible that they may have got Scott Eccles to
     bed earlier than he thought, but in any case it is likely that when
     Garcia went out of his way to tell him that it was one it was really
     not more than twelve. If Garcia could do whatever he had to do and be
     back by the hour mentioned he had evidently a powerful reply to any
     accusation. Here was this irreproachable Englishman ready to swear in
     any court of law that the accused was in the house all the time. It
     was an insurance against the worst."

     "Yes, yes, I see that. But how about the disappearance of the
     others?"

     "I have not all my facts yet, but I do not think there are any
     insuperable difficulties. Still, it is an error to argue in front of
     your data. You find yourself insensibly twisting them round to fit
     your theories."

     "And the message?"

     "How did it run? 'Our own colours, green and white.' Sounds like
     racing. 'Green open, white shut.' That is clearly a signal. 'Main
     stair, first corridor, seventh right, green baize.' This is an
     assignation. We may find a jealous husband at the bottom of it all.
     It was clearly a dangerous quest. She would not have said 'Godspeed'
     had it not been so. 'D'--that should be a guide."

     "The man was a Spaniard. I suggest that 'D' stands for Dolores, a
     common female name in Spain."

     "Good, Watson, very good--but quite inadmissable. A Spaniard would
     write to a Spaniard in Spanish. The writer of this note is certainly
     English. Well, we can only possess our soul in patience until this
     excellent inspector come back for us. Meanwhile we can thank our
     lucky fate which has rescued us for a few short hours from the
     insufferable fatigues of idleness."

     An answer had arrived to Holmes's telegram before our Surrey officer
     had returned. Holmes read it and was about to place it in his
     notebook when he caught a glimpse of my expectant face. He tossed it
     across with a laugh.

     "We are moving in exalted circles," said he.

     The telegram was a list of names and addresses:

     Lord Harringby, The Dingle; Sir George Ffolliott, Oxshott Towers; Mr.
     Hynes Hynes, J.P., Purdley Place; Mr. James Baker Williams, Forton
     Old Hall; Mr. Henderson, High Gable; Rev. Joshua Stone, Nether
     Walsling.
     "This is a very obvious way of limiting our field of operations,"
     said Holmes. "No doubt Baynes, with his methodical mind, has already
     adopted some similar plan."

     "I don't quite understand."

     "Well, my dear fellow, we have already arrived at the conclusion that
     the massage received by Garcia at dinner was an appointment or an
     assignation. Now, if the obvious reading of it is correct, and in
     order to keep the tryst one has to ascend a main stair and seek the
     seventh door in a corridor, it is perfectly clear that the house is a
     very large one. It is equally certain that this house cannot be more
     than a mile or two from Oxshott, since Garcia was walking in that
     direction and hoped, according to my reading of the facts, to be back
     in Wisteria Lodge in time to avail himself of an alibi, which would
     only be valid up to one o'clock. As the number of large houses close
     to Oxshott must be limited, I adopted the obvious method of sending
     to the agents mentioned by Scott Eccles and obtaining a list of them.
     Here they are in this telegram, and the other end of our tangled
     skein must lie among them."

     It was nearly six o'clock before we found ourselves in the pretty
     Surrey village of Esher, with Inspector Baynes as our companion.

     Holmes and I had taken things for the night, and found comfortable
     quarters at the Bull. Finally we set out in the company of the
     detective on our visit to Wisteria Lodge. It was a cold, dark March
     evening, with a sharp wind and a fine rain beating upon our faces, a
     fit setting for the wild common over which our road passed and the
     tragic goal to which it led us.





          CHAPTER II
          The Tiger of San Pedro


     A cold and melancholy walk of a couple of miles brought us to a high
     wooden gate, which opened into a gloomy avenue of chestnuts. The
     curved and shadowed drive led us to a low, dark house, pitch-black
     against a slate-coloured sky. From the front window upon the left of
     the door there peeped a glimmer of a feeble light.

     "There's a constable in possession," said Baynes. "I'll knock at the
     window." He stepped across the grass plot and tapped with his hand on
     the pane. Through the fogged glass I dimly saw a man spring up from a
     chair beside the fire, and heard a sharp cry from within the room. An
     instant later a white-faced, hard-breathing policeman had opened the
     door, the candle wavering in his trembling hand.

     "What's the matter, Walters?" asked Baynes sharply.

     The man mopped his forehead with his handkerchief and agave a long
     sigh of relief.

     "I am glad you have come, sir. It has been a long evening, and I
     don't think my nerve is as good as it was."

     "Your nerve, Walters? I should not have thought you had a nerve in
     your body."

     "Well, sir, it's this lonely, silent house and the queer thing in the
     kitchen. Then when you tapped at the window I thought it had come
     again."

     "That what had come again?"

     "The devil, sir, for all I know. It was at the window."

     "What was at the window, and when?"

     "It was just about two hours ago. The light was just fading. I was
     sitting reading in the chair. I don't know what made me look up, but
     there was a face looking in at me through the lower pane. Lord, sir,
     what a face it was! I'll see it in my dreams."

     "Tut, tut, Walters. This is not talk for a police-constable."

     "I know, sir, I know; but it shook me, sir, and there's no use to
     deny it. It wasn't black, sir, nor was it white, nor any colour that
     I know but a kind of queer shade like clay with a splash of milk in
     it. Then there was the size of it--it was twice yours, sir. And the
     look of it--the great staring goggle eyes, and the line of white
     teeth like a hungry beast. I tell you, sir, I couldn't move a finger,
     nor get my breath, till it whisked away and was gone. Out I ran and
     through the shrubbery, but thank God there was no one there."

     "If I didn't know you were a good man, Walters, I should put a black
     mark against you for this. If it were the devil himself a constable
     on duty should never thank God that he could not lay his hands upon
     him. I suppose the whole thing is not a vision and a touch of
     nerves?"

     "That, at least, is very easily settled," said Holmes, lighting his
     little pocket lantern. "Yes," he reported, after a short examination
     of the grass bed, "a number twelve shoe, I should say. If he was all
     on the same scale as his foot he must certainly have been a giant."

     "What became of him?"

     "He seems to have broken through the shrubbery and made for the
     road."

     "Well," said the inspector with a grave and thoughtful face, "whoever
     he may have been, and whatever he may have wanted, he's gone for the
     present, and we have more immediate things to attend to. Now, Mr.
     Holmes, with your permission, I will show you round the house."

     The various bedrooms and sitting-rooms had yielded nothing to a
     careful search. Apparently the tenants had brought little or nothing
     with them, and all the furniture down to the smallest details had
     been taken over with the house. A good deal of clothing with the
     stamp of Marx and Co., High Holborn, had been left behind.
     Telegraphic inquiries had been already made which showed that Marx
     knew nothing of his customer save that he was a good payer. Odds and
     ends, some pipes, a few novels, two of them in Spanish, and
     old-fashioned pinfire revolver, and a guitar were among the personal
     property.

     "Nothing in all this," said Baynes, stalking, candle in hand, from
     room to room. "But now, Mr. Holmes, I invite your attention to the
     kitchen."

     It was a gloomy, high-ceilinged room at the back of the house, with a
     straw litter in one corner, which served apparently as a bed for the
     cook. The table was piled with half-eaten dishes and dirty plates,
     the debris of last night's dinner.

     "Look at this," said Baynes. "What do you make of it?"

     He held up his candle before an extraordinary object which stood at
     the back of the dresser. It was so wrinkled and shrunken and withered
     that it was difficult to say what it might have been. One could but
     say that it was black and leathery and that it bore some resemblance
     to a dwarfish, human figure. At first, as I examined it, I thought
     that it was a mummified negro baby, and then it seemed a very twisted
     and ancient monkey. Finally I was left in doubt as to whether it was
     animal or human. A double band of white shells were strung round the
     centre of it.

     "Very interesting--very interesting, indeed!" said Holmes, peering at
     this sinister relic. "Anything more?"

     In silence Baynes led the way to the sink and held forward his
     candle. The limbs and body of some large, white bird, torn savagely
     to pieces with the feathers still on, were littered all over it.
     Holmes pointed to the wattles on the severed head.

     "A white cock," said he. "Most interesting! It is really a very
     curious case."

     But Mr. Baynes had kept his most sinister exhibit to the last. From
     under the sink he drew a zinc pail which contained a quantity of
     blood. Then from the table he took a platter heaped with small pieces
     of charred bone.

     "Something has been killed and something has been burned. We raked
     all these out of the fire. We had a doctor in this morning. He says
     that they are not human."

     Holmes smiled and rubbed his hands.

     "I must congratulate you, Inspector, on handling so distinctive and
     instructive a case. Your powers, if I may say so without offence,
     seem superior to your opportunities."

     Inspector Baynes's small eyes twinkled with pleasure.

     "You're right, Mr. Holmes. We stagnate in the provinces. A case of
     this sort gives a man a chance, and I hope that I shall take it. What
     do you make of these bones?"

     "A lamb, I should say, or a kid."

     "And the white cock?"

     "Curious, Mr. Baynes, very curious. I should say almost unique."

     "Yes, sir, there must have been some very strange people with some
     very strange ways in this house. One of them is dead. Did his
     companions follow him and kill him? If they did we should have them,
     for every port is watched. But my own views are different. Yes, sir,
     my own views are very different."

     "You have a theory then?"

     "And I'll work it myself, Mr. Holmes. It's only due to my own credit
     to do so. Your name is made, but I have still to make mine. I should
     be glad to be able to say afterwards that I had solved it without
     your help."

     Holmes laughed good-humoredly.

     "Well, well, Inspector," said he. "Do you follow your path and I will
     follow mine. My results are always very much at your service if you
     care to apply to me for them. I think that I have seen all that I
     wish in this house, and that my time may be more profitably employed
     elsewhere. Au revoir and good luck!"

     I could tell by numerous subtle signs, which might have been lost
     upon anyone but myself, that Holmes was on a hot scent. As impassive
     as ever to the casual observer, there were none the less a subdued
     eagerness and suggestion of tension in his brightened eyes and
     brisker manner which assured me that the game was afoot. After his
     habit he said nothing, and after mine I asked no questions.
     Sufficient for me to share the sport and lend my humble help to the
     capture without distracting that intent brain with needless
     interruption. All would come round to me in due time.

     I waited, therefore--but to my ever-deepening disappointment I waited
     in vain. Day succeeded day, and my friend took no step forward. One
     morning he spent in town, and I learned from a casual reference that
     he had visited the British Museum. Save for this one excursion, he
     spent his days in long and often solitary walks, or in chatting with
     a number of village gossips whose acquaintance he had cultivated.

     "I'm sure, Watson, a week in the country will be invaluable to you,"
     he remarked. "It is very pleasant to see the first green shoots upon
     the hedges and the catkins on the hazels once again. With a spud, a
     tin box, and an elementary book on botany, there are instructive days
     to be spent." He prowled about with this equipment himself, but it
     was a poor show of plants which he would bring back of an evening.

     Occasionally in our rambles we came across Inspector Baynes. His fat,
     red face wreathed itself in smiles and his small eyes glittered as he
     greeted my companion. He said little about the case, but from that
     little we gathered that he also was not dissatisfied at the course of
     events. I must admit, however, that I was somewhat surprised when,
     some five days after the crime, I opened my morning paper to find in
     large letters:

                               The Oxshott Mystery
                                   a solution
                           Arrest of Supposed Assassin

     Holmes sprang in his chair as if he had been stung when I read the
     headlines.

     "By Jove!" he cried. "You don't mean that Baynes has got him?"

     "Apparently," said I as I read the following report:

     "Great excitement was caused in Esher and the neighbouring district
     when it was learned late last night that an arrest had been effected
     in connection with the Oxshott murder. It will be remembered that Mr.
     Garcia, of Wisteria Lodge, was found dead on Oxshott Common, his body
     showing signs of extreme violence, and that on the same night his
     servant and his cook fled, which appeared to show their participation
     in the crime. It was suggested, but never proved, that the deceased
     gentleman may have had valuables in the house, and that their
     abstraction was the motive of the crime. Every effort was made by
     Inspector Baynes, who has the case in hand, to ascertain the hiding
     place of the fugitives, and he had good reason to believe that they
     had not gone far but were lurking in some retreat which had been
     already prepared. It was certain from the first, however, that they
     would eventually be detected, as the cook, from the evidence of one
     or two tradespeople who have caught a glimpse of him through the
     window, was a man of most remarkable appearance--being a huge and
     hideous mulatto, with yellowish features of a pronounced negroid
     type. This man has been seen since the crime, for he was detected and
     pursued by Constable Walters on the same evening, when he had the
     audacity to revisit Wisteria Lodge. Inspector Baynes, considering
     that such a visit must have some purpose in view and was likely,
     therefore, to be repeated, abandoned the house but left an ambuscade
     in the shrubbery. The man walked into the trap and was captured last
     night after a struggle in which Constable Downing was badly bitten by
     the savage. We understand that when the prison is brought before the
     magistrates a remand will be applied for by the police, and that
     great developments are hoped from his capture."

     "Really we must see Baynes at once," cried Holmes, picking up his
     hat. "We will just catch him before he starts." We hurried down the
     village street and found, as we had expected, that the inspector was
     just leaving his lodgings.

     "You've seen the paper, Mr. Holmes?" he asked, holding one out to us.

     "Yes, Baynes, I've seen it. Pray don't think it a liberty if I give
     you a word of friendly warning."

     "Of warning, Mr. Holmes?"

     "I have looked into this case with some care, and I am not convinced
     that you are on the right lines. I don't want you to commit yourself
     too far unless you are sure."

     "You're very kind, Mr. Holmes."

     "I assure you I speak for your good."

     It seemed to me that something like a wink quivered for an instant
     over one of Mr. Baynes's tiny eyes.

     "We agreed to work on our own lines, Mr. Holmes. That's what I am
     doing."

     "Oh, very good," said Holmes. "Don't blame me."

     "No, sir; I believe you mean well by me. But we all have our own
     systems, Mr. Holmes. You have yours, and maybe I have mine."

     "Let us say no more about it."

     "You're welcome always to my news. This fellow is a perfect savage,
     as strong as a cart-horse and as fierce as the devil. He chewed
     Downing's thumb nearly off before they could master him. He hardly
     speaks a word of English, and we can get nothing out of him but
     grunts."

     "And you think you have evidence that he murdered his late master?"

     "I didn't say so, Mr. Holmes; I didn't say so. We all have our little
     ways. You try yours and I will try mine. That's the agreement."

     Holmes shrugged his shoulders as we walked away together. "I can't
     make the man out. He seems to be riding for a fall. Well, as he says,
     we must each try our own way and see what comes of it. But there's
     something in Inspector Baynes which I can't quite understand."

     "Just sit down in that chair, Watson," said Sherlock Holmes when we
     had returned to our apartment at the Bull. "I want to put you in
     touch with the situation, as I may need your help to-night. Let me
     show you the evolution of this case so far as I have been able to
     follow it. Simple as it has been in its leading features, it has none
     the less presented surprising difficulties in the way of an arrest.
     There are gaps in that direction which we have still to fill.

     "We will go back to the note which was handed in to Garcia upon the
     evening of his death. We may put aside this idea of Baynes's that
     Garcia's servants were concerned in the matter. The proof of this
     lies in the fact that it was he who had arranged for the presence of
     Scott Eccles, which could only have been done for the purpose of an
     alibi. It was Garcia, then, who had an enterprise, and apparently a
     criminal enterprise, in hand that night in the course of which he met
     his death. I say 'criminal' because only a man with a criminal
     enterprise desires to establish an alibi. Who, then, is most likely
     to have taken his life? Surely the person against whom the criminal
     enterprise was directed. So far it seems to me that we are on safe
     ground.

     "We can now see a reason for the disappearance of Garcia's household.
     They were all confederates in the same unknown crime. If it came off
     when Garcia returned, any possible suspicion would be warded off by
     the Englishman's evidence, and all would be well. But the attempt was
     a dangerous one, and if Garcia did not return by a certain hour it
     was probable that his own life had been sacrificed. It had been
     arranged, therefore, that in such a case his two subordinates were to
     make for some prearranged spot where they could escape investigation
     and be in a position afterwards to renew their attempt. That would
     fully explain the facts, would it not?"

     The whole inexplicable tangle seemed to straighten out before me. I
     wondered, as I always did, how it had not been obvious to me before.

     "But why should one servant return?"

     "We can imagine that in the confusion of flight something precious,
     something which he could not bear to part with, had been left behind.
     That would explain his persistence, would it not?"

     "Well, what is the next step?"

     "The next step is the note received by Garcia at the dinner. It
     indicates a confederate at the other end. Now, where was the other
     end? I have already shown you that it could only lie in some large
     house, and that the number of large houses is limited. My first days
     in this village were devoted to a series of walks in which in the
     intervals of my botanical researches I made a reconnaissance of all
     the large houses and an examination of the family history of the
     occupants. One house, and only one, riveted my attention. It is the
     famous old Jacobean grange of High Gable, one mile on the farther
     side of Oxshott, and less than half a mile from the scene of the
     tragedy. The other mansions belonged to prosaic and respectable
     people who live far aloof from romance. But Mr. Henderson, of High
     Gable, was by all accounts a curious man to whom curious adventures
     might befall. I concentrated my attention, therefore, upon him and
     his household.

     "A singular set of people, Watson--the man himself the most singular
     of them all. I managed to see him on a plausible pretext, but I
     seemed to read in his dark, deepset, brooding eyes that he was
     perfectly aware of my true business. He is a man of fifty, strong,
     active, with iron-gray hair, great bunched black eyebrows, the step
     of a deer and the air of an emperor--a fierce, masterful man, with a
     red-hot spirit behind his parchment face. He is either a foreigner or
     has lived long in the tropics, for he is yellow and sapless, but
     tough as whipcord. His friend and secretary, Mr. Lucas, is
     undoubtedly a foreigner, chocolate brown, wily, suave, and catlike,
     with a poisonous gentleness of speech. You see, Watson, we have come
     already upon two sets of foreigners--one at Wisteria Lodge and one at
     High Gable--so our gaps are beginning to close.

     "These two men, close and confidential friends, are the centre of the
     household; but there is one other person who for our immediate
     purpose may be even more important. Henderson has two children--girls
     of eleven and thirteen. Their governess is a Miss Burnet, an
     Englishwoman of forty or thereabouts. There is also one confidential
     manservant. This little group forms the real family, for their travel
     about together, and Henderson is a great traveller, always on the
     move. It is only within the last weeks that he has returned, after a
     year's absence, to High Gable. I may add that he is enormously rich,
     and whatever his whims may be he can very easily satisfy them. For
     the rest, his house is full of butlers, footmen, maidservants, and
     the usual overfed, underworked staff of a large English country
     house.

     "So much I learned partly from village gossip and partly from my own
     observation. There are no better instruments than discharged servants
     with a grievance, and I was lucky enough to find one. I call it luck,
     but it would not have come my way had I not been looking out for it.
     As Baynes remarks, we all have our systems. It was my system which
     enabled me to find John Warner, late gardener of High Gable, sacked
     in a moment of temper by his imperious employer. He in turn had
     friends among the indoor servants who unite in their fear and dislike
     of their master. So I had my key to the secrets of the establishment.

     "Curious people, Watson! I don't pretend to understand it all yet,
     but very curious people anyway. It's a double-winged house, and the
     servants live on one side, the family on the other. There's no link
     between the two save for Henderson's own servant, who serves the
     family's meals. Everything is carried to a certain door, which forms
     the one connection. Governess and children hardly go out at all,
     except into the garden. Henderson never by any chance walks alone.
     His dark secretary is like his shadow. The gossip among the servants
     is that their master is terribly afraid of something. 'Sold his soul
     to the devil in exchange for money,' says Warner, 'and expects his
     creditor to come up and claim his own.' Where they came from, or who
     they are, nobody has an idea. They are very violent. Twice Henderson
     has lashed at folk with his dog-whip, and only his long purse and
     heavy compensation have kept him out of the courts.

     "Well, now, Watson, let us judge the situation by this new
     information. We may take it that the letter came out of this strange
     household and was an invitation to Garcia to carry out some attempt
     which had already been planned. Who wrote the note? It was someone
     within the citadel, and it was a woman. Who then but Miss Burnet, the
     governess? All our reasoning seems to point that way. At any rate, we
     may take it as a hypothesis and see what consequences it would
     entail. I may add that Miss Burnet's age and character make it
     certain that my first idea that there might be a love interest in our
     story is out of the question.

     "If she wrote the note she was presumably the friend and confederate
     of Garcia. What, then, might she be expected to do if she heard of
     his death? If he met it in some nefarious enterprise her lips might
     be sealed. Still, in her heart, she must retain bitterness and hatred
     against those who had killed him and would presumably help so far as
     she could to have revenge upon them. Could we see her, then and try
     to use her? That was my first thought. But now we come to a sinister
     fact. Miss Burnet has not been seen by any human eye since the night
     of the murder. From that evening she has utterly vanished. Is she
     alive? Has she perhaps met her end on the same night as the friend
     whom she had summoned? Or is she merely a prisoner? There is the
     point which we still have to decide.

     "You will appreciate the difficulty of the situation, Watson. There
     is nothing upon which we can apply for a warrant. Our whole scheme
     might seem fantastic if laid before a magistrate. The woman's
     disappearance counts for nothing, since in that extraordinary
     household any member of it might be invisible for a week. And yet she
     may at the present moment be in danger of her life. All I can do is
     to watch the house and leave my agent, Warner, on guard at the gates.
     We can't let such a situation continue. If the law can do nothing we
     must take the risk ourselves."

     "What do you suggest?"

     "I know which is her room.  It is accessible from the top of an
     outhouse.  My suggestion is that you and I go to-night and see if we
     can strike at the very heart of the mystery."

     It was not, I must confess, a very alluring prospect. The old house
     with its atmosphere of murder, the singular and formidable
     inhabitants, the unknown dangers of the approach, and the fact that
     we were putting ourselves legally in a false position all combined to
     damp my ardour. But there was something in the ice-cold reasoning of
     Holmes which made it impossible to shrink from any adventure which he
     might recommend. One knew that thus, and only thus, could a solution
     be found. I clasped his hand in silence, and the die was cast.

     But it was not destined that our investigation should have so
     adventurous an ending. It was about five o'clock, and the shadows of
     the March evening were beginning to fall, when an excited rustic
     rushed into our room.

     "They've gone, Mr. Holmes. They went by the last train. The lady
     broke away, and I've got her in a cab downstairs."

     "Excellent, Warner!" cried Holmes, springing to his feet. "Watson,
     the gaps are closing rapidly."

     In the cab was a woman, half-collapsed from nervous exhaustion. She
     bore upon her aquiline and emaciated face the traces of some recent
     tragedy. Her head hung listlessly upon her breast, but as she raised
     it and turned her dull eyes upon us I saw that her pupils were dark
     dots in the centre of the broad gray iris. She was drugged with
     opium.

     "I watched at the gate, same as you advised, Mr. Holmes," said our
     emissary, the discharged gardener. "When the carriage came out I
     followed it to the station. She was like one walking in her sleep,
     but when they tried to get her into the train she came to life and
     struggled. They pushed her into the carriage. She fought her way out
     again. I took her part, got her into a cab, and here we are. I shan't
     forget the face at the carriage window as I led her away. I'd have a
     short life if he had his way--the black-eyed, scowling, yellow
     devil."

     We carried her upstairs, laid her on the sofa, and a couple of cups
     of the strongest coffee soon cleared her brain from the mists of the
     drug. Baynes had been summoned by Holmes, and the situation rapidly
     explained to him.

     "Why, sir, you've got me the very evidence I want," said the
     inspector warmly, shaking my friend by the hand. "I was on the same
     scent as you from the first."

     "What! You were after Henderson?"

     "Why, Mr. Holmes, when you were crawling in the shrubbery at High
     Gable I was up one of the trees in the plantation and saw you down
     below. It was just who would get his evidence first."

     "Then why did you arrest the mulatto?"

     Baynes chuckled.

     "I was sure Henderson, as he calls himself, felt that he was
     suspected, and that he would lie low and make no move so long as he
     thought he was in any danger. I arrested the wrong man to make him
     believe that our eyes were off him. I knew he would be likely to
     clear off then and give us a chance of getting at Miss Burnet."

     Holmes laid his hand upon the inspector's shoulder.

     "You will rise high in your profession. You have instinct and
     intuition," said he.

     Baynes flushed with pleasure.

     "I've had a plain-clothes man waiting at the station all the week.
     Wherever the High Gable folk go he will keep them in sight. But he
     must have been hard put to it when Miss Burnet broke away. However,
     your man picked her up, and it all ends well. We can't arrest without
     her evidence, that is clear, so the sooner we get a statement the
     better."

     "Every minute she gets stronger," said Holmes, glancing at the
     governess. "But tell me, Baynes, who is this man Henderson?"

     "Henderson," the inspector answered, "is Don Murillo, once called the
     Tiger of San Pedro."

     The Tiger of San Pedro! The whole history of the man came back to me
     in a flash. He had made his name as the most lewd and bloodthirsty
     tyrant that had ever governed any country with a pretence to
     civilization. Strong, fearless, and energetic, he had sufficient
     virtue to enable him to impose his odious vices upon a cowering
     people for ten or twelve years. His name was a terror through all
     Central America. At the end of that time there was a universal rising
     against him. But he was as cunning as he was cruel, and at the first
     whisper of coming trouble he had secretly conveyed his treasures
     aboard a ship which was manned by devoted adherents. It was an empty
     palace which was stormed by the insurgents next day. The dictator,
     his two children, his secretary, and his wealth had all escaped them.
     From that moment he had vanished from the world, and his identity had
     been a frequent subject for comment in the European press.

     "Yes, sir, Don Murillo, the Tiger of San Pedro," said Baynes. "If you
     look it up you will find that the San Pedro colours are green and
     white, same as in the note, Mr. Holmes. Henderson he called himself,
     but I traced him back, Paris and Rome and Madrid to Barcelona, where
     his ship came in in '86. They've been looking for him all the time
     for their revenge, but it is only now that they have begun to find
     him out."

     "They discovered him a year ago," said Miss Burnet, who had sat up
     and was now intently following the conversation. "Once already his
     life has been attempted, but some evil spirit shielded him. Now,
     again, it is the noble, chivalrous Garcia who has fallen, while the
     monster goes safe. But another will come, and yet another, until some
     day justice will be done; that is as certain as the rise of
     to-morrow's sun." Her thin hands clenched, and her worn face blanched
     with the passion of her hatred.

     "But how come you into this matter, Miss Burnet?" asked Holmes. "How
     can an English lady join in such a murderous affair?"

     "I join in it because there is no other way in the world by which
     justice can be gained. What does the law of England care for the
     rivers of blood shed years ago in San Pedro, or for the shipload of
     treasure which this man has stolen? To you they are like crimes
     committed in some other planet. But we know. We have learned the
     truth in sorrow and in suffering. To us there is no fiend in hell
     like Juan Murillo, and no peace in life while his victims still cry
     for vengeance."

     "No doubt," said Holmes, "he was as you say. I have heard that he was
     atrocious. But how are you affected?"

     "I will tell you it all. This villain's policy was to murder, on one
     pretext or another, every man who showed such promise that he might
     in time come to be a dangerous rival. My husband--yes, my real name
     is Signora Victor Durando--was the San Pedro minister in London. He
     met me and married me there. A nobler man never lived upon earth.
     Unhappily, Murillo heard of his excellence, recalled him on some
     pretext, and had him shot. With a premonition of his fate he had
     refused to take me with him. His estates were confiscated, and I was
     left with a pittance and a broken heart.

     "Then came the downfall of the tyrant. He escaped as you have just
     described. But the many whose lives he had ruined, whose nearest and
     dearest had suffered torture and death at his hands, would not let
     the matter rest. They banded themselves into a society which should
     never be dissolved until the work was done. It was my part after we
     had discovered in the transformed Henderson the fallen despot, to
     attach myself to his household and keep the others in touch with his
     movements. This I was able to do by securing the position of
     governess in his family. He little knew that the woman who faced him
     at every meal was the woman whose husband he had hurried at an hour's
     notice into eternity. I smiled on him, did my duty to his children,
     and bided my time. An attempt was made in Paris and failed. We
     zig-zagged swiftly here and there over Europe to throw off the
     pursuers and finally returned to this house, which he had taken upon
     his first arrival in England.

     "But here also the ministers of justice were waiting. Knowing that he
     would return there, Garcia, who is the son of the former highest
     dignitary in San Pedro, was waiting with two trusty companions of
     humble station, all three fired with the same reasons for revenge. He
     could do little during the day, for Murillo took every precaution and
     never went out save with his satellite Lucas, or Lopez as he was
     known in the days of his greatness. At night, however, he slept
     alone, and the avenger might find him. On a certain evening, which
     had been prearranged, I sent my friend final instructions, for the
     man was forever on the alert and continually changed his room. I was
     to see that the doors were open and the signal of a green or white
     light in a window which faced the drive was to give notice if all was
     safe or if the attempt had better be postponed.

     "But everything went wrong with us. In some way I had excited the
     suspicion of Lopez, the secretary. He crept up behind me and sprang
     upon me just as I had finished the note. He and his master dragged me
     to my room and held judgment upon me as a convicted traitress. Then
     and there they would have plunged their knives into me could they
     have seen how to escape the consequences of the deed. Finally, after
     much debate, they concluded that my murder was too dangerous. But
     they determined to get rid forever of Garcia. They had gagged me, and
     Murillo twisted my arm round until I gave him the address. I swear
     that he might have twisted it off had I understood what it would mean
     to Garcia. Lopez addressed the note which I had written, sealed it
     with his sleeve-link, and sent it by the hand of the servant, Jose.
     How they murdered him I do not know, save that it was Murillo's hand
     who struck him down, for Lopez had remained to guard me. I believe he
     must have waited among the gorse bushes through which the path winds
     and struck him down as he passed. At first they were of a mind to let
     him enter the house and to kill him as a detected burglar; but they
     argued that if they were mixed up in an inquiry their own identity
     would at once be publicly disclosed and they would be open to further
     attacks. With the death of Garcia, the pursuit might cease, since
     such a death might frighten others from the task.

     "All would now have been well for them had it not been for my
     knowledge of what they had done. I have no doubt that there were
     times when my life hung in the balance. I was confined to my room,
     terrorized by the most horrible threats, cruelly ill-used to break my
     spirit--see this stab on my shoulder and the bruises from end to end
     of my arms--and a gag was thrust into my mouth on the one occasion
     when I tried to call from the window. For five days this cruel
     imprisonment continued, with hardly enough food to hold body and soul
     together. This afternoon a good lunch was brought me, but the moment
     after I took it I knew that I had been drugged. In a sort of dream I
     remember being half-led, half-carried to the carriage; in the same
     state I was conveyed to the train. Only then, when the wheels were
     almost moving, did I suddenly realize that my liberty lay in my own
     hands. I sprang out, they tried to drag me back, and had it not been
     for the help of this good man, who led me to the cab, I should never
     had broken away. Now, thank God, I am beyond their power forever."

     We had all listened intently to this remarkable statement. It was
     Holmes who broke the silence.

     "Our difficulties are not over," he remarked, shaking his head. "Our
     police work ends, but our legal work begins."

     "Exactly," said I. "A plausible lawyer could make it out as an act of
     self-defence. There may be a hundred crimes in the background, but it
     is only on this one that they can be tried."

     "Come, come," said Baynes cheerily, "I think better of the law than
     that. Self-defence is one thing. To entice a man in cold blood with
     the object of murdering him is another, whatever danger you may fear
     from him. No, no, we shall all be justified when we see the tenants
     of High Gable at the next Guildford Assizes."

     It is a matter of history, however, that a little time was still to
     elapse before the Tiger of San Pedro should meet with his deserts.
     Wily and bold, he and his companion threw their pursuer off their
     track by entering a lodging-house in Edmonton Street and leaving by
     the back-gate into Curzon Square. From that day they were seen no
     more in England. Some six months afterwards the Marquess of Montalva
     and Signor Rulli, his secretary, were both murdered in their rooms at
     the Hotel Escurial at Madrid. The crime was ascribed to Nihilism, and
     the murderers were never arrested. Inspector Baynes visited us at
     Baker Street with a printed description of the dark face of the
     secretary, and of the masterful features, the magnetic black eyes,
     and the tufted brows of his master. We could not doubt that justice,
     if belated, had come at last.

     "A chaotic case, my dear Watson," said Holmes over an evening pipe.
     "It will not be possible for you to present in that compact form
     which is dear to your heart. It covers two continents, concerns two
     groups of mysterious persons, and is further complicated by the
     highly respectable presence of our friend, Scott Eccles, whose
     inclusion shows me that the deceased Garcia had a scheming mind and a
     well-developed instinct of self-preservation. It is remarkable only
     for the fact that amid a perfect jungle of possibilities we, with our
     worthy collaborator, the inspector, have kept our close hold on the
     essentials and so been guided along the crooked and winding path. Is
     there any point which is not quite clear to you?"

     "The object of the mulatto cook's return?"

     "I think that the strange creature in the kitchen may account for it.
     The man was a primitive savage from the backwoods of San Pedro, and
     this was his fetish. When his companion and he had fled to some
     prearranged retreat--already occupied, no doubt by a confederate--the
     companion had persuaded him to leave so compromising an article of
     furniture. But the mulatto's heart was with it, and he was driven
     back to it next day, when, on reconnoitering through the window, he
     found policeman Walters in possession. He waited three days longer,
     and then his piety or his superstition drove him to try once more.
     Inspector Baynes, who, with his usual astuteness, had minimized the
     incident before me, had really recognized its importance and had left
     a trap into which the creature walked. Any other point, Watson?"

     "The torn bird, the pail of blood, the charred bones, all the mystery
     of that weird kitchen?"

     Holmes smiled as he turned up an entry in his note-book.

     "I spent a morning in the British Museum reading up on that and other
     points. Here is a quotation from Eckermann's Voodooism and the
     Negroid Religions:

     "'The true voodoo-worshipper attempts nothing of importance without
     certain sacrifices which are intended to propitiate his unclean gods.
     In extreme cases these rites take the form of human sacrifices
     followed by cannibalism. The more usual victims are a white cock,
     which is plucked in pieces alive, or a black goat, whose throat is
     cut and body burned.'

     "So you see our savage friend was very orthodox in his ritual. It is
     grotesque, Watson," Holmes added, as he slowly fastened his notebook,
     "but, as I have had occasion to remark, there is but one step from
     the grotesque to the horrible."






                       THE ADVENTURE OF THE CARDBOARD BOX

     In choosing a few typical cases which illustrate the remarkable
     mental qualities of my friend, Sherlock Holmes, I have endeavoured,
     as far as possible, to select those which presented the minimum of
     sensationalism, while offering a fair field for his talents. It is,
     however, unfortunately impossible entirely to separate the
     sensational from the criminal, and a chronicler is left in the
     dilemma that he must either sacrifice details which are essential to
     his statement and so give a false impression of the problem, or he
     must use matter which chance, and not choice, has provided him with.
     With this short preface I shall turn to my notes of what proved to be
     a strange, though a peculiarly terrible, chain of events.

     It was a blazing hot day in August. Baker Street was like an oven,
     and the glare of the sunlight upon the yellow brickwork of the house
     across the road was painful to the eye. It was hard to believe that
     these were the same walls which loomed so gloomily through the fogs
     of winter. Our blinds were half-drawn, and Holmes lay curled upon the
     sofa, reading and re-reading a letter which he had received by the
     morning post. For myself, my term of service in India had trained me
     to stand heat better than cold, and a thermometer at ninety was no
     hardship. But the morning paper was uninteresting. Parliament had
     risen. Everybody was out of town, and I yearned for the glades of the
     New Forest or the shingle of Southsea. A depleted bank account had
     caused me to postpone my holiday, and as to my companion, neither the
     country nor the sea presented the slightest attraction to him. He
     loved to lie in the very center of five millions of people, with his
     filaments stretching out and running through them, responsive to
     every little rumour or suspicion of unsolved crime. Appreciation of
     nature found no place among his many gifts, and his only change was
     when he turned his mind from the evil-doer of the town to track down
     his brother of the country.

     Finding that Holmes was too absorbed for conversation I had tossed
     side the barren paper, and leaning back in my chair I fell into a
     brown study. Suddenly my companion's voice broke in upon my thoughts:

     "You are right, Watson," said he. "It does seem a most preposterous
     way of settling a dispute."

     "Most preposterous!" I exclaimed, and then suddenly realizing how he
     had echoed the inmost thought of my soul, I sat up in my chair and
     stared at him in blank amazement.

     "What is this, Holmes?" I cried. "This is beyond anything which I
     could have imagined."

     He laughed heartily at my perplexity.

     "You remember," said he, "that some little time ago when I read you
     the passage in one of Poe's sketches in which a close reasoner
     follows the unspoken thoughts of his companion, you were inclined to
     treat the matter as a mere tour-de-force of the author. On my
     remarking that I was constantly in the habit of doing the same thing
     you expressed incredulity."

     "Oh, no!"

     "Perhaps not with your tongue, my dear Watson, but certainly with
     your eyebrows. So when I saw you throw down your paper and enter upon
     a train of thought, I was very happy to have the opportunity of
     reading it off, and eventually of breaking into it, as a proof that I
     had been in rapport with you."

     But I was still far from satisfied. "In the example which you read to
     me," said I, "the reasoner drew his conclusions from the actions of
     the man whom he observed. If I remember right, he stumbled over a
     heap of stones, looked up at the stars, and so on. But I have been
     seated quietly in my chair, and what clues can I have given you?"

     "You do yourself an injustice. The features are given to man as the
     means by which he shall express his emotions, and yours are faithful
     servants."

     "Do you mean to say that you read my train of thoughts from my
     features?"

     "Your features and especially your eyes. Perhaps you cannot yourself
     recall how your reverie commenced?"

     "No, I cannot."

     "Then I will tell you. After throwing down your paper, which was the
     action which drew my attention to you, you sat for half a minute with
     a vacant expression. Then your eyes fixed themselves upon your newly
     framed picture of General Gordon, and I saw by the alteration in your
     face that a train of thought had been started. But it did not lead
     very far. Your eyes flashed across to the unframed portrait of Henry
     Ward Beecher which stands upon the top of your books. Then you
     glanced up at the wall, and of course your meaning was obvious. You
     were thinking that if the portrait were framed it would just cover
     that bare space and correspond with Gordon's picture there."

     "You have followed me wonderfully!" I exclaimed.

     "So far I could hardly have gone astray. But now your thoughts went
     back to Beecher, and you looked hard across as if you were studying
     the character in his features. Then your eyes ceased to pucker, but
     you continued to look across, and your face was thoughtful. You were
     recalling the incidents of Beecher's career. I was well aware that
     you could not do this without thinking of the mission which he
     undertook on behalf of the North at the time of the Civil War, for I
     remember your expressing your passionate indignation at the way in
     which he was received by the more turbulent of our people. You felt
     so strongly about it that I knew you could not think of Beecher
     without thinking of that also. When a moment later I saw your eyes
     wander away from the picture, I suspected that your mind had now
     turned to the Civil War, and when I observed that your lips set, your
     eyes sparkled, and your hands clenched I was positive that you were
     indeed thinking of the gallantry which was shown by both sides in
     that desperate struggle. But then, again, your face grew sadder, you
     shook your head. You were dwelling upon the sadness and horror and
     useless waste of life. Your hand stole towards your own old wound and
     a smile quivered on your lips, which showed me that the ridiculous
     side of this method of settling international questions had forced
     itself upon your mind. At this point I agreed with you that it was
     preposterous and was glad to find that all my deductions had been
     correct."

     "Absolutely!" said I. "And now that you have explained it, I confess
     that I am as amazed as before."

     "It was very superficial, my dear Watson, I assure you. I should not
     have intruded it upon your attention had you not shown some
     incredulity the other day. But I have in my hands here a little
     problem which may prove to be more difficult of solution than my
     small essay I thought reading. Have you observed in the paper a short
     paragraph referring to the remarkable contents of a packet sent
     through the post to Miss Cushing, of Cross Street, Croydon?"

     "No, I saw nothing."

     "Ah! then you must have overlooked it. Just toss it over to me. Here
     it is, under the financial column. Perhaps you would be good enough
     to read it aloud."

     I picked up the paper which he had thrown back to me and read the
     paragraph indicated. It was headed, "A Gruesome Packet."

     "Miss Susan Cushing, living at Cross Street, Croydon, has been made
     the victim of what must be regarded as a peculiarly revolting
     practical joke unless some more sinister meaning should prove to be
     attached to the incident. At two o'clock yesterday afternoon a small
     packet, wrapped in brown paper, was handed in by the postman. A
     cardboard box was inside, which was filled with coarse salt. On
     emptying this, Miss Cushing was horrified to find two human ears,
     apparently quite freshly severed. The box had been sent by parcel
     post from Belfast upon the morning before. There is no indication as
     to the sender, and the matter is the more mysterious as Miss Cushing,
     who is a maiden lady of fifty, has led a most retired life, and has
     so few acquaintances or correspondents that it is a rare event for
     her to receive anything through the post. Some years ago, however,
     when she resided at Penge, she let apartments in her house to three
     young medical students, whom she was obliged to get rid of on account
     of their noisy and irregular habits. The police are of opinion that
     this outrage may have been perpetrated upon Miss Cushing by these
     youths, who owed her a grudge and who hoped to frighten her by
     sending her these relics of the dissecting-rooms. Some probability is
     lent to the theory by the fact that one of these students came from
     the north of Ireland, and, to the best of Miss Cushing's belief, from
     Belfast. In the meantime, the matter is being actively investigated,
     Mr. Lestrade, one of the very smartest of our detective officers,
     being in charge of the case."

     "So much for the Daily Chronicle," said Holmes as I finished reading.
     "Now for our friend Lestrade. I had a note from him this morning, in
     which he says:

     "I think that this case is very much in your line. We have every hope
     of clearing the matter up, but we find a little difficulty in getting
     anything to work upon. We have, of course, wired to the Belfast
     post-office, but a large number of parcels were handed in upon that
     day, and they have no means of identifying this particular one, or of
     remembering the sender. The box is a half-pound box of honeydew
     tobacco and does not help us in any way. The medical student theory
     still appears to me to be the most feasible, but if you should have a
     few hours to spare I should be very happy to see you out here. I
     shall be either at the house or in the police-station all day.

     "What say you, Watson? Can you rise superior to the heat and run down
     to Croydon with me on the off chance of a case for your annals?"

     "I was longing for something to do."

     "You shall have it then. Ring for our boots and tell them to order a
     cab. I'll be back in a moment when I have changed my dressing-gown
     and filled my cigar-case."

     A shower of rain fell while we were in the train, and the heat was
     far less oppressive in Croydon than in town. Holmes had sent on a
     wire, so that Lestrade, as wiry, as dapper, and as ferret-like as
     ever, was waiting for us at the station. A walk of five minutes took
     us to Cross Street, where Miss Cushing resided.

     It was a very long street of two-story brick houses, neat and prim,
     with whitened stone steps and little groups of aproned women
     gossiping at the doors. Halfway down, Lestrade stopped and tapped at
     a door, which was opened by a small servant girl. Miss Cushing was
     sitting in the front room, into which we were ushered. She was a
     placid-faced woman, with large, gentle eyes, and grizzled hair
     curving down over her temples on each side. A worked antimacassar lay
     upon her lap and a basket of coloured silks stood upon a stool beside
     her.

     "They are in the outhouse, those dreadful things," said she as
     Lestrade entered. "I wish that you would take them away altogether."

     "So I shall, Miss Cushing. I only kept them here until my friend, Mr.
     Holmes, should have seen them in your presence."

     "Why in my presence, sir?"

     "In case he wished to ask any questions."

     "What is the use of asking me questions when I tell you I know
     nothing whatever about it?"

     "Quite so, madam," said Holmes in his soothing way. "I have no doubt
     that you have been annoyed more than enough already over this
     business."

     "Indeed I have, sir. I am a quiet woman and live a retired life. It
     is something new for me to see my name in the papers and to find the
     police in my house. I won't have those things I here, Mr. Lestrade.
     If you wish to see them you must go to the outhouse."

     It was a small shed in the narrow garden which ran behind the house.
     Lestrade went in and brought out a yellow cardboard box, with a piece
     of brown paper and some string. There was a bench at the end of the
     path, and we all sat down while Homes examined one by one, the
     articles which Lestrade had handed to him.

     "The string is exceedingly interesting," he remarked, holding it up
     to the light and sniffing at it. "What do you make of this string,
     Lestrade?"

     "It has been tarred."

     "Precisely. It is a piece of tarred twine. You have also, no doubt,
     remarked that Miss Cushing has cut the cord with a scissors, as can
     be seen by the double fray on each side. This is of importance."

     "I cannot see the importance," said Lestrade.

     "The importance lies in the fact that the knot is left intact, and
     that this knot is of a peculiar character."

     "It is very neatly tied. I had already made a note of that effect,"
     said Lestrade complacently.

     "So much for the string, then," said Holmes, smiling, "now for the
     box wrapper. Brown paper, with a distinct smell of coffee. What, did
     you not observe it? I think there can be no doubt of it. Address
     printed in rather straggling characters: 'Miss S. Cushing, Cross
     Street, Croydon.' Done with a broad-pointed pen, probably a J, and
     with very inferior ink. The word 'Croydon' has been originally
     spelled with an 'i', which has been changed to 'y'. The parcel was
     directed, then, by a man--the printing is distinctly masculine--of
     limited education and unacquainted with the town of Croydon. So far,
     so good! The box is a yellow, half-pound honeydew box, with nothing
     distinctive save two thumb marks at the left bottom corner. It is
     filled with rough salt of the quality used for preserving hides and
     other of the coarser commercial purposes. And embedded in it are
     these very singular enclosures."

     He took out the two ears as he spoke, and laying a board across his
     knee he examined them minutely, while Lestrade and I, bending forward
     on each side of him, glanced alternately at these dreadful relics and
     at the thoughtful, eager face of our companion. Finally he returned
     them to the box once more and sat for a while in deep meditation.

     "You have observed, of course," said he at last, "that the ears are
     not a pair."

     "Yes, I have noticed that. But if this were the practical joke of
     some students from the dissecting-rooms, it would be as easy for them
     to send two odd ears as a pair."

     "Precisely. But this is not a practical joke."

     "You are sure of it?"

     "The presumption is strongly against it. Bodies in the
     dissecting-rooms are injected with preservative fluid. These ears
     bear no signs of this. They are fresh, too. They have been cut off
     with a blunt instrument, which would hardly happen if a student had
     done it. Again, carbolic or rectified spirits would be the
     preservatives which would suggest themselves to the medical mind,
     certainly not rough salt. I repeat that there is no practical joke
     here, but that we are investigating a serious crime."

     A vague thrill ran through me as I listened to my companion's words
     and saw the stern gravity which had hardened his features. This
     brutal preliminary seemed to shadow forth some strange and
     inexplicable horror in the background. Lestrade, however, shook his
     head like a man who is only half convinced.

     "There are objections to the joke theory, no doubt," said he, "but
     there are much stronger reasons against the other. We know that this
     woman has led a most quiet and respectable life at Penge and here for
     the last twenty years. She has hardly been away from her home for a
     day during that time. Why on earth, then, should any criminal send
     her the proofs of his guilt, especially as, unless she is a most
     consummate actress, she understands quite as little of the matter as
     we do?"

     "That is the problem which we have to solve," Holmes answered, "and
     for my part I shall set about it by presuming that my reasoning is
     correct, and that a double murder has been committed. One of these
     ears is a woman's, small, finely formed, and pierced for an earring.
     The other is a man's, sun-burned, discoloured, and also pierced for
     an earring. These two people are presumably dead, or we should have
     heard their story before now. To-day is Friday. The packet was posted
     on Thursday morning. The tragedy, then, occurred on Wednesday or
     Tuesday, or earlier. If the two people were murdered, who but their
     murderer would have sent this sign of his work to Miss Cushing? We
     may take it that the sender of the packet is the man whom we want.
     But he must have some strong reason for sending Miss Cushing this
     packet. What reason then? It must have been to tell her that the deed
     was done! or to pain her, perhaps. But in that case she knows who it
     is. Does she know? I doubt it. If she knew, why should she call the
     police in? She might have buried the ears, and no one would have been
     the wiser. That is what she would have done if she had wished to
     shield the criminal. But if she does not wish to shield him she would
     give his name. There is a tangle here which needs straightening to."
     He had been talking in a high, quick voice, staring blankly up over
     the garden fence, but now he sprang briskly to his feet and walked
     towards the house.

     "I have a few questions to ask Miss Cushing," said he.

     "In that case I may leave you here," said Lestrade, "for I have
     another small business on hand. I think that I have nothing further
     to learn from Miss Cushing. You will find me at the police-station."

     "We shall look in on our way to the train," answered Holmes. A moment
     later he and I were back in the front room, where the impassive lady
     was still quietly working away at her antimacassar. She put it down
     on her lap as we entered and looked at us with her frank, searching
     blue eyes.

     "I am convinced, sir," she said, "that this matter is a mistake, and
     that the parcel was never meant for me at all. I have said this
     several times to the gentlemen from Scotland Yard, but he simply
     laughs at me. I have not an enemy in the world, as far as I know, so
     why should anyone play me such a trick?"

     "I am coming to be of the same opinion, Miss Cushing," said Holmes,
     taking a seat beside her. "I think that it is more than probable--"
     He paused, and I was surprised, on glancing round to see that he was
     staring with singular intentness at the lady's profile. Surprise and
     satisfaction were both for an instant to be read upon his eager face,
     though when she glanced round to find out the cause of his silence he
     had become as demure as ever. I stared hard myself at her flat,
     grizzled hair, her trim cap, her little gilt earrings, her placid
     features; but I could see nothing which could account for my
     companion's evident excitement.

     "There were one or two questions--"

     "Oh, I am weary of questions!" cried Miss Cushing impatiently.

     "You have two sisters, I believe."

     "How could you know that?"

     "I observed the very instant that I entered the room that you have a
     portrait group of three ladies upon the mantelpiece, one of whom is
     undoubtedly yourself, while the others are so exceedingly like you
     that there could be no doubt of the relationship."

     "Yes, you are quite right. Those are my sisters, Sarah and Mary."

     "And here at my elbow is another portrait, taken at Liverpool, of
     your younger sister, in the company of a man who appears to be a
     steward by his uniform. I observe that she was unmarried at the
     time."

     "You are very quick at observing."

     "That is my trade."

     "Well, you are quite right.  But she was married to Mr. Browner a few
     days afterwards. He was on the South American line when that was
     taken, but he was so fond of her that he couldn't abide to leave her
     for so long, and he got into the Liverpool and London boats."

     "Ah, the Conqueror, perhaps?"

     "No, the May Day, when last I heard. Jim came down here to see me
     once. That was before he broke the pledge; but afterwards he would
     always take drink when he was ashore, and a little drink would send
     him stark, staring mad. Ah! it was a bad day that ever he took a
     glass in his hand again. First he dropped me, then he quarrelled with
     Sarah, and now that Mary has stopped writing we don't know how things
     are going with them."

     It was evident that Miss Cushing had come upon a subject on which she
     felt very deeply. Like most people who lead a lonely life, she was
     shy at first, but ended by becoming extremely communicative. She told
     us many details about her brother-in-law the steward, and then
     wandering off on the subject of her former lodgers, the medical
     students, she gave us a long account of their delinquencies, with
     their names and those of their hospitals. Holmes listened attentively
     to everything, throwing in a question from time to time.

     "About your second sister, Sarah," said he. "I wonder, since you are
     both maiden ladies, that you do not keep house together."

     "Ah! you don't know Sarah's temper or you would wonder no more. I
     tried it when I came to Croydon, and we kept on until about two
     months ago, when we had to part. I don't want to say a word against
     my own sister, but she was always meddlesome and hard to please, was
     Sarah."

     "You say that she quarrelled with your Liverpool relations."

     "Yes, and they were the best of friends at one time. Why, she went up
     there to live in order to be near them. And now she has no word hard
     enough for Jim Browner. The last six months that she was here she
     would speak of nothing but his drinking and his ways. He had caught
     her meddling, I suspect, and given her a bit of his mind, and that
     was the start of it."

     "Thank you, Miss Cushing," said Holmes, rising and bowing. "Your
     sister Sarah lives, I think you said, at New Street, Wallington?
     Good-bye, and I am very sorry that you should have been troubled over
     a case with which, as you say, you have nothing whatever to do."

     There was a cab passing as we came out, and Holmes hailed it.

     "How far to Wallington?" he asked.

     "Only about a mile, sir."

     "Very good. Jump in, Watson. We must strike while the iron is hot.
     Simple as the case is, there have been one or two very instructive
     details in connection with it. Just pull up at a telegraph office as
     you pass, cabby."

     Holmes sent off a short wire and for the rest of the drive lay back
     in the cab, with his hat tilted over his nose to keep the sun from
     his face. Our drive pulled up at a house which was not unlike the one
     which we had just quitted. My companion ordered him to wait, and had
     his hand upon the knocker, when the door opened and a grave young
     gentleman in black, with a very shiny hat, appeared on the step.

     "Is Miss Cushing at home?" asked Holmes.

     "Miss Sarah Cushing is extremely ill," said he. "She has been
     suffering since yesterday from brain symptoms of great severity. As
     her medical adviser, I cannot possibly take the responsibility of
     allowing anyone to see her. I should recommend you to call again in
     ten days." He drew on his gloves, closed the door, and marched off
     down the street.

     "Well, if we can't we can't," said Holmes, cheerfully.

     "Perhaps she could not or would not have told you much."

     "I did not wish her to tell me anything. I only wanted to look at
     her. However, I think that I have got all that I want. Drive us to
     some decent hotel, cabby, where we may have some lunch, and
     afterwards we shall drop down upon friend Lestrade at the
     police-station."

     We had a pleasant little meal together, during which Holmes would
     talk about nothing but violins, narrating with great exultation how
     he had purchased his own Stradivarius, which was worth at least five
     hundred guineas, at a Jew broker's in Tottenham Court Road for
     fifty-five shillings. This led him to Paganini, and we sat for an
     hour over a bottle of claret while he told me anecdote after anecdote
     of that extraordinary man. The afternoon was far advanced and the hot
     glare had softened into a mellow glow before we found ourselves at
     the police-station. Lestrade was waiting for us at the door.

     "A telegram for you, Mr. Holmes," said he.

     "Ha! It is the answer!" He tore it open, glanced his eyes over it,
     and crumpled it into his pocket. "That's all right," said he.

     "Have you found out anything?"

     "I have found out everything!"

     "What!" Lestrade stared at him in amazement. "You are joking."

     "I was never more serious in my life. A shocking crime has been
     committed, and I think I have now laid bare every detail of it."

     "And the criminal?"

     Holmes scribbled a few words upon the back of one of his visiting
     cards and threw it over to Lestrade.

     "That is the name," he said. "You cannot effect an arrest until
     to-morrow night at the earliest. I should prefer that you do not
     mention my name at all in connection with the case, as I choose to be
     only associated with those crimes which present some difficulty in
     their solution. Come on, Watson." We strode off together to the
     station, leaving Lestrade still staring with a delighted face at the
     card which Holmes had thrown him.

     "The case," said Sherlock Holmes as we chatted over or cigars that
     night in our rooms at Baker Street, "is one where, as in the
     investigations which you have chronicled under the names of 'A Study
     in Scarlet' and of 'The Sign of Four,' we have been compelled to
     reason backward from effects to causes. I have written to Lestrade
     asking him to supply us with the details which are now wanting, and
     which he will only get after he had secured his man. That he may be
     safely trusted to do, for although he is absolutely devoid of reason,
     he is as tenacious as a bulldog when he once understands what he has
     to do, and indeed, it is just this tenacity which has brought him to
     the top at Scotland Yard."

     "Your case is not complete, then?" I asked.

     "It is fairly complete in essentials. We know who the author of the
     revolting business is, although one of the victims still escapes us.
     Of course, you have formed your own conclusions."

     "I presume that this Jim Browner, the steward of a Liverpool boat, is
     the man whom you suspect?"

     "Oh! it is more than a suspicion."

     "And yet I cannot see anything save very vague indications."

     "On the contrary, to my mind nothing could be more clear. Let me run
     over the principal steps. We approached the case, you remember, with
     an absolutely blank mind, which is always an advantage. We had formed
     no theories. We were simply there to observe and to draw inferences
     from our observations. What did we see first? A very placid and
     respectable lady, who seemed quite innocent of any secret, and a
     portrait which showed me that she had two younger sisters. It
     instantly flashed across my mind that the box might have been meant
     for one of these. I set the idea aside as one which could be
     disproved or confirmed at our leisure. Then we went to the garden, as
     you remember, and we saw the very singular contents of the little
     yellow box.

     "The string was of the quality which is used by sail-makers aboard
     ship, and at once a whiff of the sea was perceptible in our
     investigation. When I observed that the knot was one which is popular
     with sailors, that the parcel had been posted at a port, and that the
     male ear was pierced for an earring which is so much more common
     among sailors than landsmen, I was quite certain that all the actors
     in the tragedy were to be found among our seafaring classes.

     "When I came to examine the address of the packet I observed that it
     was to Miss S. Cushing. Now, the oldest sister would, of course, be
     Miss Cushing, and although her initial was 'S' it might belong to one
     of the others as well. In that case we should have to commence our
     investigation from a fresh basis altogether. I therefore went into
     the house with the intention of clearing up this point. I was about
     to assure Miss Cushing that I was convinced that a mistake had been
     made when you may remember that I came suddenly to a stop. The fact
     was that I had just seen something which filled me with surprise and
     at the same time narrowed the field of our inquiry immensely.

     "As a medical man, you are aware, Watson, that there is no part of
     the body which varies so much as the human ear. Each ear is as a rule
     quite distinctive and differs from all other ones. In last year's
     Anthropological Journal you will find two short monographs from my
     pen upon the subject. I had, therefore, examined the ears in the box
     with the eyes of an expert and had carefully noted their anatomical
     peculiarities. Imagine my surprise, then, when on looking at Miss
     Cushing I perceived that her ear corresponded exactly with the female
     ear which I had just inspected. The matter was entirely beyond
     coincidence. There was the same shortening of the pinna, the same
     broad curve of the upper lobe, the same convolution of the inner
     cartilage. In all essentials it was the same ear.

     "In the first place, her sister's name was Sarah, and her address had
     until recently been the same, so that it was quite obvious how the
     mistake had occurred and for whom the packet was meant. Then we heard
     of this steward, married to the third sister, and learned that he had
     at one time been so intimate with Miss Sarah that she had actually
     gone up to Liverpool to be near the Browners, but a quarrel had
     afterwards divided them. This quarrel had put a stop to all
     communications for some months, so that if Browner had occasion to
     address a packet to Miss Sarah, he would undoubtedly have done so to
     her old address.

     "And now the matter had begun to straighten itself out wonderfully.
     We had learned of the existence of this steward, an impulsive man, of
     strong passions--you remember that he threw up what must have been a
     very superior berth in order to be nearer to his wife--subject, too,
     to occasional fits of hard drinking. We had reason to believe that
     his wife had been murdered, and that a man--presumably a seafaring
     man--had been murdered at the same time. Jealousy, of course, at once
     suggests itself as the motive for the crime. And why should these
     proofs of the deed be sent to Miss Sarah Cushing? Probably because
     during her residence in Liverpool she had some hand in bringing about
     the events which led to the tragedy. You will observe that this line
     of boats call at Belfast, Dublin, and Waterford; so that, presuming
     that Browner had committed the deed and had embarked at once upon his
     steamer, the May Day, Belfast would be the first place at which he
     could post his terrible packet.

     "A second solution was at this stage obviously possible, and although
     I thought it exceedingly unlikely, I was determined to elucidate it
     before going further. An unsuccessful lover might have killed Mr. and
     Mrs. Browner, and the male ear might have belonged to the husband.
     There were many grave objections to this theory, but it was
     conceivable. I therefore sent off a telegram to my friend Algar, of
     the Liverpool force, and asked him to find out if Mrs. Browner were
     at home, and if Browner had departed in the May Day. Then we went on
     to Wallington to visit Miss Sarah.

     "I was curious, in the first place, to see how far the family ear had
     been reproduced in her. Then, of course, she might give us very
     important information, but I was not sanguine that she would. She
     must have heard of the business the day before, since all Croydon was
     ringing with it, and she alone could have understood for whom the
     packet was meant. If she had been willing to help justice she would
     probably have communicated with the police already. However, it was
     clearly our duty to see her, so we went. We found that the news of
     the arrival of the packet--for her illness dated from that time--had
     such an effect upon her as to bring on brain fever. It was clearer
     than ever that she understood its full significance, but equally
     clear that we should have to wait some time for any assistance from
     her.

     "However, we were really independent of her help. Our answers were
     waiting for us at the police-station, where I had directed Algar to
     send them. Nothing could be more conclusive. Mrs. Browner's house had
     been closed for more than three days, and the neighbours were of
     opinion that she had gone south to see her relatives. It had been
     ascertained at the shipping offices that Browner had left aboard of
     the May Day, and I calculate that she is due in the Thames tomorrow
     night. When he arrives he will be met by the obtuse but resolute
     Lestrade, and I have no doubt that we shall have all our details
     filled in."

     Sherlock Holmes was not disappointed in his expectations. Two days
     later he received a bulky envelope, which contained a short note from
     the detective, and a typewritten document, which covered several
     pages of foolscap.

     "Lestrade has got him all right," said Holmes, glancing up at me.
     "Perhaps it would interest you to hear what he says.

     "My dear Mr. Holmes:
     "In accordance with the scheme which we had formed in order to test
     our theories" ["the 'we' is rather fine, Watson, is it not?"] "I went
     down to the Albert Dock yesterday at 6 p.m., and boarded the S.S. May
     Day, belonging to the Liverpool, Dublin, and London Steam Packet
     Company. On inquiry, I found that there was a steward on board of the
     name of James Browner and that he had acted during the voyage in such
     an extraordinary manner that the captain had been compelled to
     relieve him of his duties. On descending to his berth, I found him
     seated upon a chest with his head sunk upon his hands, rocking
     himself to and fro. He is a big, powerful chap, clean-shaven, and
     very swarthy--something like Aldrige, who helped us in the bogus
     laundry affair. He jumped up when he heard my business, and I had my
     whistle to my lips to call a couple of river police, who were round
     the corner, but he seemed to have no heart in him, and he held out
     his hands quietly enough for the darbies. We brought him along to the
     cells, and his box as well, for we thought there might be something
     incriminating; but, bar a big sharp knife such as most sailors have,
     we got nothing for our trouble. However, we find that we shall want
     no more evidence, for on being brought before the inspector at the
     station he asked leave to make a statement, which was, of course,
     taken down, just as he made it, by our shorthand man. We had three
     copies typewritten, one of which I enclose. The affair proves, as I
     always thought it would, to be an extremely simple one, but I am
     obliged to you for assisting me in my investigation. With kind
     regards,
     "Yours very truly,
     "G. Lestrade.

     "Hum! The investigation really was a very simple one," remarked
     Holmes, "but I don't think it struck him in that light when he first
     called us in. However, let us see what Jim Browner has to say for
     himself. This is his statement as made before Inspector Montgomery at
     the Shadwell Police Station, and it has the advantage of being
     verbatim."

     "'Have I anything to say? Yes, I have a deal to say. I have to make a
     clean breast of it all. You can hang me, or you can leave me alone. I
     don't care a plug which you do. I tell you I've not shut an eye in
     sleep since I did it, and I don't believe I ever will again until I
     get past all waking. Sometimes it's his face, but most generally it's
     hers. I'm never without one or the other before me. He looks frowning
     and black-like, but she has a kind o' surprise upon her face. Ay, the
     white lamb, she might well be surprised when she read death on a face
     that had seldom looked anything but love upon her before.

     "'But it was Sarah's fault, and may the curse of a broken man put a
     blight on her and set the blood rotting in her veins! It's not that I
     want to clear myself. I know that I went back to drink, like the
     beast that I was. But she would have forgiven me; she would have
     stuck as close to me a rope to a block if that woman had never
     darkened our door. For Sarah Cushing loved me--that's the root of the
     business--she loved me until all her love turned to poisonous hate
     when she knew that I thought more of my wife's footmark in the mud
     than I did of her whole body and soul.

     "'There were three sisters altogether. The old one was just a good
     woman, the second was a devil, and the third was an angel. Sarah was
     thirty-three, and Mary was twenty-nine when I married. We were just
     as happy as the day was long when we set up house together, and in
     all Liverpool there was no better woman than my Mary. And then we
     asked Sarah up for a week, and the week grew into a month, and one
     thing led to another, until she was just one of ourselves.

     "'I was blue ribbon at that time, and we were putting a little money
     by, and all was as bright as a new dollar. My God, whoever would have
     thought that it could have come to this? Whoever would have dreamed
     it?

     "'I used to be home for the week-ends very often, and sometimes if
     the ship were held back for cargo I would have a whole week at a
     time, and in this way I saw a deal of my sister-in-law, Sarah. She
     was a fine tall woman, black and quick and fierce, with a proud way
     of carrying her head, and a glint from her eye like a spark from a
     flint. But when little Mary was there I had never a thought of her,
     and that I swear as I hope for God's mercy.

     "'It had seemed to me sometimes that she liked to be alone with me,
     or to coax me out for a walk with her, but I had never thought
     anything of that. But one evening my eyes were opened. I had come up
     from the ship and found my wife out, but Sarah at home. "Where's
     Mary?" I asked. "Oh, she has gone to pay some accounts." I was
     impatient and paced up and down the room. "Can't you be happy for
     five minutes without Mary, Jim?" says she. "It's a bad compliment to
     me that you can't be contented with my society for so short a time."
     "That's all right, my lass," said I, putting out my hand towards her
     in a kindly way, but she had it in both hers in an instant, and they
     burned as if they were in a fever. I looked into her eyes and I read
     it all there. There was no need for her to speak, nor for me either.
     I frowned and drew my hand away. Then she stood by my side in silence
     for a bit, and then put up her hand and patted me on the shoulder.
     "Steady old Jim!" said she, and with a kind o' mocking laugh, she ran
     out of the room.

     "'Well, from that time Sarah hated me with her whole heart and soul,
     and she is a woman who can hate, too. I was a fool to let her go on
     biding with us--a besotted fool--but I never said a word to Mary, for
     I knew it would grieve her. Things went on much as before, but after
     a time I began to find that there was a bit of a change in Mary
     herself. She had always been so trusting and so innocent, but now she
     became queer and suspicious, wanting to know where I had been and
     what I had been doing, and whom my letters were from, and what I had
     in my pockets, and a thousand such follies. Day by day she grew
     queerer and more irritable, and we had ceaseless rows about nothing.
     I was fairly puzzled by it all. Sarah avoided me now, but she and
     Mary were just inseparable. I can see now how she was plotting and
     scheming and poisoning my wife's mind against me, but I was such a
     blind beetle that I could not understand it at the time. Then I broke
     my blue ribbon and began to drink again, but I think I should not
     have done it if Mary had been the same as ever. She had some reason
     to be disgusted with me now, and the gap between us began to be wider
     and wider. And then this Alec Fairbairn chipped in, and things became
     a thousand times blacker.

     "'It was to see Sarah that he came to my house first, but soon it was
     to see us, for he was a man with winning ways, and he made friends
     wherever he went. He was a dashing, swaggering chap, smart and
     curled, who had seen half the world and could talk of what he had
     seen. He was good company, I won't deny it, and he had wonderful
     polite ways with him for a sailor man, so that I think there must
     have been a time when he knew more of the poop than the forecastle.
     For a month he was in and out of my house, and never once did it
     cross my mind that harm might come of his soft, tricky ways. And then
     at last something made me suspect, and from that day my peace was
     gone forever.

     "'It was only a little thing, too. I had come into the parlour
     unexpected, and as I walked in at the door I saw a light of welcome
     on my wife's face. But as she saw who it was it faded again, and she
     turned away with a look of disappointment. That was enough for me.
     There was no one but Alec Fairbairn whose step she could have
     mistaken for mine. If I could have seen him then I should have killed
     him, for I have always been like a madman when my temper gets loose.
     Mary saw the devil's light in my eyes, and she ran forward with her
     hands on my sleeve. "Don't, Jim, don't!" says she. "Where's Sarah?" I
     asked. "In the kitchen," says she. "Sarah," says I as I went in,
     "this man Fairbairn is never to darken my door again." "Why not?"
     says she. "Because I order it." "Oh!" says she, "if my friends are
     not good enough for this house, then I am not good enough for it
     either." "You can do what you like," says I, "but if Fairbairn shows
     his face here again I'll send you one of his ears for a keepsake."
     She was frightened by my face, I think, for she never answered a
     word, and the same evening she left my house.

     "'Well, I don't know now whether it was pure devilry on the part of
     this woman, or whether she thought that she could turn me against my
     wife by encouraging her to misbehave. Anyway, she took a house just
     two streets off and let lodgings to sailors. Fairbairn used to stay
     there, and Mary would go round to have tea with her sister and him.
     How often she went I don't know, but I followed her one day, and as I
     broke in at the door Fairbairn got away over the back garden wall,
     like the cowardly skunk that he was. I swore to my wife that I would
     kill her if I found her in his company again, and I led her back with
     me, sobbing and trembling, and as white as a piece of paper. There
     was no trace of love between us any longer. I could see that she
     hated me and feared me, and when the thought of it drove me to drink,
     then she despised me as well.

     "'Well, Sarah found that she could not make a living in Liverpool, so
     she went back, as I understand, to live with her sister in Croydon,
     and things jogged on much the same as ever at home. And then came
     this week and all the misery and ruin.

     "'It was in this way. We had gone on the May Day for a round voyage
     of seven days, but a hogshead got loose and started one of our
     plates, so that we had to put back into port for twelve hours. I left
     the ship and came home, thinking what a surprise it would be for my
     wife, and hoping that maybe she would be glad to see me so soon. The
     thought was in my head as I turned into my own street, and at that
     moment a cab passed me, and there she was, sitting by the side of
     Fairbairn, the two chatting and laughing, with never a thought for me
     as I stood watching them from the footpath.

     "'I tell you, and I give you my word for it, that from that moment I
     was not my own master, and it is all like a dim dream when I look
     back on it. I had been drinking hard of late, and the two things
     together fairly turned my brain. There's something throbbing in my
     head now, like a docker's hammer, but that morning I seemed to have
     all Niagara whizzing and buzzing in my ears.

     "'Well, I took to my heels, and I ran after the cab. I had a heavy
     oak stick in my hand, and I tell you I saw red from the first; but as
     I ran I got cunning, too, and hung back a little to see them without
     being seen. They pulled up soon at the railway station. There was a
     good crowd round the booking-office, so I got quite close to them
     without being seen. They took tickets for New Brighton. So did I, but
     I got in three carriages behind them. When we reached it they walked
     along the Parade, and I was never more than a hundred yards from
     them. At last I saw them hire a boat and start for a row, for it was
     a very hot day, and they thought, no doubt, that it would be cooler
     on the water.

     "'It was just as if they had been given into my hands. There was a
     bit of a haze, and you could not see more than a few hundred yards. I
     hired a boat for myself, and I pulled after them. I could see the
     blur of their craft, but they were going nearly as fast as I, and
     they must have been a long mile from the shore before I caught them
     up. The haze was like a curtain all round us, and there were we three
     in the middle of it. My God, shall I ever forget their faces when
     they saw who was in the boat that was closing in upon them? She
     screamed out. He swore like a madman and jabbed at me with an oar,
     for he must have seen death in my eyes. I got past it and got one in
     with my stick that crushed his head like an egg. I would have spared
     her, perhaps, for all my madness, but she threw her arms round him,
     crying out to him, and calling him "Alec." I struck again, and she
     lay stretched beside him. I was like a wild beast then that had
     tasted blood. If Sarah had been there, by the Lord, she should have
     joined them. I pulled out my knife, and--well, there! I've said
     enough. It gave me a kind of savage joy when I thought how Sarah
     would feel when she had such signs as these of what her meddling had
     brought about. Then I tied the bodies into the boat, stove a plank,
     and stood by until they had sunk. I knew very well that the owner
     would think that they had lost their bearings in the haze, and had
     drifted off out to sea. I cleaned myself up, got back to land, and
     joined my ship without a soul having a suspicion of what had passed.
     That night I made up the packet for Sarah Cushing, and next day I
     sent it from Belfast.

     "'There you have the whole truth of it. You can hang me, or do what
     you like with me, but you cannot punish me as I have been punished
     already. I cannot shut my eyes but I see those two faces staring at
     me--staring at me as they stared when my boat broke through the haze.
     I killed them quick, but they are killing me slow; and if I have
     another night of it I shall be either mad or dead before morning. You
     won't put me alone into a cell, sir?  For pity's sake don't, and may
     you be treated in your day of agony as you treat me now.'

     "What is the meaning of it, Watson?" said Holmes solemnly as he laid
     down the paper. "What object is served by this circle of misery and
     violence and fear? It must tend to some end, or else our universe is
     ruled by chance, which is unthinkable. But what end? There is the
     great standing perennial problem to which human reason is as far from
     an answer as ever."






                         THE ADVENTURE OF THE RED CIRCLE





                                Table of contents
        Part One
        Part Two















          CHAPTER I
          Part One


     "Well, Mrs. Warren, I cannot see that you have any particular cause
     for uneasiness, nor do I understand why I, whose time is of some
     value, should interfere in the matter. I really have other things to
     engage me." So spoke Sherlock Holmes and turned back to the great
     scrapbook in which he was arranging and indexing some of his recent
     material.

     But the landlady had the pertinacity and also the cunning of her sex.
      She held her ground firmly.

     "You arranged an affair for a lodger of mine last year," she
     said--"Mr. Fairdale Hobbs."

     "Ah, yes--a simple matter."

     "But he would never cease talking of it--your kindness, sir, and the
     way in which you brought light into the darkness. I remembered his
     words when I was in doubt and darkness myself. I know you could if
     you only would."

     Holmes was accessible upon the side of flattery, and also, to do him
     justice, upon the side of kindliness. The two forces made him lay
     down his gum-brush with a sigh of resignation and push back his
     chair.

     "Well, well, Mrs. Warren, let us hear about it, then.  You don't
     object to tobacco, I take it? Thank you, Watson--the matches! You are
     uneasy, as I understand, because your new lodger remains in his rooms
     and you cannot see him. Why, bless you, Mrs. Warren, if I were your
     lodger you often would not see me for weeks on end."

     "No doubt, sir; but this is different. It frightens me, Mr. Holmes. I
     can't sleep for fright. To hear his quick step moving here and moving
     there from early morning to late at night, and yet never to catch so
     much as a glimpse of him--it's more than I can stand. My husband is
     as nervous over it as I am, but he is out at his work all day, while
     I get no rest from it. What is he hiding for? What has he done?
     Except for the girl, I am all alone in the house with him, and it's
     more than my nerves can stand."

     Holmes leaned forward and laid his long, thin fingers upon the
     woman's shoulder. He had an almost hypnotic power of soothing when he
     wished. The scared look faded from her eyes, and her agitated
     features smoothed into their usual commonplace. She sat down in the
     chair which he had indicated.

     "If I take it up I must understand every detail," said he. "Take time
     to consider. The smallest point may be the most essential. You say
     that the man came ten days ago and paid you for a fortnight's board
     and lodging?"

     "He asked my terms, sir. I said fifty shillings a week. There is a
     small sitting-room and bedroom, and all complete, at the top of the
     house."

     "Well?"

     "He said, 'I'll pay you five pounds a week if I can have it on my own
     terms.' I'm a poor woman, sir, and Mr. Warren earns little, and the
     money meant much to me. He took out a ten-pound note, and he held it
     out to me then and there. 'You can have the same every fortnight for
     a long time to come if you keep the terms,' he said. 'If not, I'll
     have no more to do with you.'

     "What were the terms?"

     "Well, sir, they were that he was to have a key of the house. That
     was all right. Lodgers often have them. Also, that he was to be left
     entirely to himself and never, upon any excuse, to be disturbed."

     "Nothing wonderful in that, surely?"

     "Not in reason, sir. But this is out of all reason. He has been there
     for ten days, and neither Mr. Warren, nor I, nor the girl has once
     set eyes upon him. We can hear that quick step of his pacing up and
     down, up and down, night, morning, and noon; but except on that first
     night he had never once gone out of the house."

     "Oh, he went out the first night, did he?"

     "Yes, sir, and returned very late--after we were all in bed. He told
     me after he had taken the rooms that he would do so and asked me not
     to bar the door. I heard him come up the stair after midnight."

     "But his meals?"

     "It was his particular direction that we should always, when he rang,
     leave his meal upon a chair, outside his door. Then he rings again
     when he has finished, and we take it down from the same chair. If he
     wants anything else he prints it on a slip of paper and leaves it."

     "Prints it?"

     "Yes, sir; prints it in pencil. Just the word, nothing more. Here's
     the one I brought to show you--soap. Here's another--match. This is
     one he left the first morning--daily gazette. I leave that paper with
     his breakfast every morning."

     "Dear me, Watson," said Homes, staring with great curiosity at the
     slips of foolscap which the landlady had handed to him, "this is
     certainly a little unusual. Seclusion I can understand; but why
     print? Printing is a clumsy process. Why not write? What would it
     suggest, Watson?"

     "That he desired to conceal his handwriting."

     "But why? What can it matter to him that his landlady should have a
     word of his writing? Still, it may be as you say. Then, again, why
     such laconic messages?"

     "I cannot imagine."

     "It opens a pleasing field for intelligent speculation. The words are
     written with a broad-pointed, violet-tinted pencil of a not unusual
     pattern. You will observe that the paper is torn away at the side
     here after the printing was done, so that the 's' of 'soap' is partly
     gone. Suggestive, Watson, is it not?"

     "Of caution?"

     "Exactly. There was evidently some mark, some thumbprint, something
     which might give a clue to the person's identity. Now. Mrs. Warren,
     you say that the man was of middle size, dark, and bearded. What age
     would he be?"

     "Youngish, sir--not over thirty."

     "Well, can you give me no further indications?"

     "He spoke good English, sir, and yet I thought he was a foreigner by
     his accent."

     "And he was well dressed?"

     "Very smartly dressed, sir--quite the gentleman. Dark
     clothes--nothing you would note."

     "He gave no name?"

     "No, sir."

     "And has had no letters or callers?"

     "None."

     "But surely you or the girl enter his room of a morning?"

     "No, sir; he looks after himself entirely."

     "Dear me! that is certainly remarkable. What about his luggage?"

     "He had one big brown bag with him--nothing else."

     "Well, we don't seem to have much material to help us. Do you say
     nothing has come out of that room--absolutely nothing?"

     The landlady drew an envelope from her bag; from it she shook out two
     burnt matches and a cigarette-end upon the table.

     "They were on his tray this morning. I brought them because I had
     heard that you can read great things out of small ones."

     Holmes shrugged his shoulders.

     "There is nothing here," said he. "The matches have, of course, been
     used to light cigarettes. That is obvious from the shortness of the
     burnt end. Half the match is consumed in lighting a pipe or cigar.
     But, dear me! this cigarette stub is certainly remarkable. The
     gentleman was bearded and moustached, you say?"

     "Yes, sir."

     "I don't understand that. I should say that only a clean-shaven man
     could have smoked this. Why, Watson, even your modest moustache would
     have been singed."

     "A holder?" I suggested.

     "No, no; the end is matted. I suppose there could not be two people
     in your rooms, Mrs. Warren?"

     "No, sir. He eats so little that I often wonder it can keep life in
     one."

     "Well, I think we must wait for a little more material. After all,
     you have nothing to complain of. You have received your rent, and he
     is not a troublesome lodger, though he is certainly an unusual one.
     He pays you well, and if he chooses to lie concealed it is no direct
     business of yours. We have no excuse for an intrusion upon his
     privacy until we have some reason to think that there is a guilty
     reason for it. I've taken up the matter, and I won't lose sight of
     it. Report to me if anything fresh occurs, and rely upon my
     assistance if it should be needed.

     "There are certainly some points of interest in this case, Watson,"
     he remarked when the landlady had left us. "It may, of course, be
     trivial--individual eccentricity; or it may be very much deeper than
     appears on the surface. The first thing that strike one is the
     obvious possibility that the person now in the rooms may be entirely
     different from the one who engaged them."

     "Why should you think so?"

     "Well, apart form this cigarette-end, was it not suggestive that the
     only time the lodger went out was immediately after his taking the
     rooms? He came back--or someone came back--when all witnesses were
     out of the way. We have no proof that the person who came back was
     the person who went out. Then, again, the man who took the rooms
     spoke English well. This other, however, prints 'match' when it
     should have been 'matches.' I can imagine that the word was taken out
     of a dictionary, which would give the noun but not the plural. The
     laconic style may be to conceal the absence of knowledge of English.
     Yes, Watson, there are good reasons to suspect that there has been a
     substitution of lodgers."

     "But for what possible end?"

     "Ah! there lies our problem. There is one rather obvious line of
     investigation." He took down the great book in which, day by day, he
     filed the agony columns of the various London journals. "Dear me!"
     said he, turning over the pages, "what a chorus of groans, cries, and
     bleatings! What a rag-bag of singular happenings! But surely the most
     valuable hunting-ground that ever was given to a student of the
     unusual! This person is alone and cannot be approached by letter
     without a breach of that absolute secrecy which is desired. How is
     any news or any message to reach him from without? Obviously by
     advertisement through a newspaper. There seems no other way, and
     fortunately we need concern ourselves with the one paper only. Here
     are the Daily Gazette extracts of the last fortnight. 'Lady with a
     black boa at Prince's Skating Club'--that we may pass. 'Surely Jimmy
     will not break his mother's heart'--that appears to be irrelevant.
     'If the lady who fainted on Brixton bus'--she does not interest me.
     'Every day my heart longs--' Bleat, Watson--unmitigated bleat! Ah,
     this is a little more possible. Listen to this: 'Be patient. Will
     find some sure means of communications. Meanwhile, this column. G.'
     That is two days after Mrs. Warren's lodger arrived. It sounds
     plausible, does it not? The mysterious one could understand English,
     even if he could not print it. Let us see if we can pick up the trace
     again. Yes, here we are--three days later. 'Am making successful
     arrangements. Patience and prudence. The clouds will pass. G.'
     Nothing for a week after that. Then comes something much more
     definite: 'The path is clearing. If I find chance signal message
     remember code agreed--One A, two B, and so on. You will hear soon.
     G.' That was in yesterday's paper, and there is nothing in to-day's.
     It's all very appropriate to Mrs. Warren's lodger. If we wait a
     little, Watson, I don't doubt that the affair will grow more
     intelligible."

     So it proved; for in the morning I found my friend standing on the
     hearthrug with his back to the fire and a smile of complete
     satisfaction upon his face.

     "How's this, Watson?" he cried, picking up the paper from the table.
     "'High red house with white stone facings. Third floor. Second window
     left. After dusk. G.' That is definite enough. I think after
     breakfast we must make a little reconnaissance of Mrs. Warren's
     neighbourhood. Ah, Mrs. Warren! what news do you bring us this
     morning?"

     Our client had suddenly burst into the room with an explosive energy
     which told of some new and momentous development.

     "It's a police matter, Mr. Holmes!" she cried. "I'll have no more of
     it! He shall pack out of there with his baggage. I would have gone
     straight up and told him so, only I thought it was but fair to you to
     take your opinion first. But I'm at the end of my patience, and when
     it comes to knocking my old man about--"

     "Knocking Mr. Warren about?"

     "Using him roughly, anyway."

     "But who used him roughly?"

     "Ah! that's what we want to know! It was this morning, sir. Mr.
     Warren is a timekeeper at Morton and Waylight's, in Tottenham Court
     Road. He has to be out of the house before seven. Well, this morning
     he had not gone ten paces down the road when two men came up behind
     him, threw a coat over his head, and bundled him into a cab that was
     beside the curb. They drove him an hour, and then opened the door and
     shot him out. He lay in the roadway so shaken in his wits that he
     never saw what became of the cab. When he picked himself up he found
     he was on Hampstead Heath; so he took a bus home, and there he lies
     now on his sofa, while I came straight round to tell you what had
     happened."

     "Most interesting," said Holmes. "Did he observe the appearance of
     these men--did he hear them talk?"

     "No; he is clean dazed. He just knows that he was lifted up as if by
     magic and dropped as if by magic. Two a least were in it, and maybe
     three."

     "And you connect this attack with your lodger?"

     "Well, we've lived there fifteen years and no such happenings ever
     came before. I've had enough of him. Money's not everything. I'll
     have him out of my house before the day is done."

     "Wait a bit, Mrs. Warren. Do nothing rash. I begin to think that this
     affair may be very much more important than appeared at first sight.
     It is clear now that some danger is threatening your lodger. It is
     equally clear that his enemies, lying in wait for him near your door,
     mistook your husband for him in the foggy morning light. On
     discovering their mistake they released him. What they would have
     done had it not been a mistake, we can only conjecture."

     "Well, what am I to do, Mr. Holmes?"

     "I have a great fancy to see this lodger of yours, Mrs. Warren."

     "I don't see how that is to be managed, unless you break in the door.
     I always hear him unlock it as I go down the stair after I leave the
     tray."

     "He has to take the tray in. Surely we could conceal ourselves and
     see him do it."

     The landlady thought for a moment.

     "Well, sir, there's the box-room opposite. I could arrange a
     looking-glass, maybe, and if you were behind the door--"

     "Excellent!" said Holmes. "When does he lunch?"

     "About one, sir."

     "Then Dr. Watson and I will come round in time. For the present, Mrs.
     Warren, good-bye."

     At half-past twelve we found ourselves upon the steps of Mrs.
     Warren's house--a high, thin, yellow-brick edifice in Great Orme
     Street, a narrow thoroughfare at the northeast side of the British
     Museum. Standing as it does near the corner of the street, it
     commands a view down Howe Street, with its ore pretentious houses.
     Holmes pointed with a chuckle to one of these, a row of residential
     flats, which projected so that they could not fail to catch the eye.

     "See, Watson!" said he. "'High red house with stone facings.' There
     is the signal station all right. We know the place, and we know the
     code; so surely our task should be simple. There's a 'to let' card in
     that window. It is evidently an empty flat to which the confederate
     has access. Well, Mrs. Warren, what now?"

     "I have it all ready for you. If you will both come up and leave your
     boots below on the landing, I'll put you there now."

     It was an excellent hiding-place which she had arranged. The mirror
     was so placed that, seated in the dark, we could very plainly see the
     door opposite. We had hardly settled down in it, and Mrs. Warren left
     us, when a distant tinkle announced that our mysterious neighbour had
     rung. Presently the landlady appeared with the tray, laid it down
     upon a chair beside the closed door, and then, treading heavily,
     departed. Crouching together in the angle of the door, we kept our
     eyes fixed upon the mirror. Suddenly, as the landlady's footsteps
     died away, there was the creak of a turning key, the handle revolved,
     and two thin hands darted out and lifted the tray form the chair. An
     instant later it was hurriedly replaced, and I caught a glimpse of a
     dark, beautiful, horrified face glaring at the narrow opening of the
     box-room. Then the door crashed to, the key turned once more, and all
     was silence. Holmes twitched my sleeve, and together we stole down
     the stair.

     "I will call again in the evening," said he to the expectant
     landlady. "I think, Watson, we can discuss this business better in
     our own quarters."

     "My surmise, as you saw, proved to be correct," said he, speaking
     from the depths of his easy-chair. "There has been a substitution of
     lodgers. What I did not foresee is that we should find a woman, and
     no ordinary woman, Watson."

     "She saw us."

     "Well, she saw something to alarm her. That is certain. The general
     sequence of events is pretty clear, is it not? A couple seek refuge
     in London from a very terrible and instant danger. The measure of
     that danger is the rigour of their precautions. The man, who has some
     work which he must do, desires to leave the woman in absolute safety
     while he does it. It is not an easy problem, but he solved it in an
     original fashion, and so effectively that her presence was not even
     known to the landlady who supplies her with food. The printed
     messages, as is now evident, were to prevent her sex being discovered
     by her writing. The man cannot come near the woman, or he will guide
     their enemies to her. Since he cannot communicate with her direct, he
     has recourse to the agony column of a paper. So far all is clear."

     "But what is at the root of it?"

     "Ah, yes, Watson--severely practical, as usual! What is at the root
     of it all? Mrs. Warren's whimsical problem enlarges somewhat and
     assumes a more sinister aspect as we proceed. This much we can say:
     that it is no ordinary love escapade. You saw the woman's face at the
     sign of danger. We have heard, too, of the attack upon the landlord,
     which was undoubtedly meant for the lodger. These alarms, and the
     desperate need for secrecy, argue that the matter is one of life or
     death. The attack upon Mr. Warren further shows that the enemy,
     whoever they are, are themselves not aware of the substitution of the
     female lodger for the male. It is very curious and complex, Watson."

     "Why should you go further in it? What have you to gain from it?"

     "What, indeed? It is art for art's sake, Watson. I suppose when you
     doctored you found yourself studying cases without thought of a fee?"

     "For my education, Holmes."

     "Education never ends, Watson. It is a series of lessons with the
     greatest for the last. This is an instructive case. There is neither
     money nor credit in it, and yet one would wish to tidy it up. When
     dusk comes we should find ourselves one stage advanced in our
     investigation."

     When we returned to Mrs. Warren's rooms, the gloom of a London winter
     evening had thickened into one gray curtain, a dead monotone of
     colour, broken only by the sharp yellow squares of the windows and
     the blurred haloes of the gas-lamps. As we peered from the darkened
     sitting-room of the lodging-house, one more dim light glimmered high
     up through the obscurity.

     "Someone is moving in that room," said Holmes in a whisper, his gaunt
     and eager face thrust forward to the window-pane. "Yes, I can see his
     shadow. There he is again! He has a candle in his hand. Now he is
     peering across. He wants to be sure that she is on the lookout. Now
     he begins to flash. Take the message also, Watson, that we may check
     each other. A single flash--that is A, surely. Now, then. How many
     did you make it? Twenty. Do did In. That should mean T. AT--that's
     intelligible enough. Another T. Surely this is the beginning of a
     second word. Now, then--TENTA. Dead stop. That can't be all, Watson?
     ATTENTA gives no sense. Nor is it any better as three words AT, TEN,
     TA, unless T. A. are a person's initials. There it goes again! What's
     that? ATTE--why, it is the same message over again. Curious, Watson,
     very curious. Now he is off once more! AT--why he is repeating it for
     the third time. ATTENTA three times! How often will he repeat it? No,
     that seems to be the finish. He has withdrawn form the window. What
     do you make of it, Watson?"

     "A cipher message, Holmes."

     My companion gave a sudden chuckle of comprehension. "And not a very
     obscure cipher, Watson," said he. "Why, of course, it is Italian! The
     A means that it is addressed to a woman. 'Beware! Beware! Beware!'
     How's that, Watson?

     "I believe you have hit it."

     "Not a doubt of it. It is a very urgent message, thrice repeated to
     make it more so. But beware of what? Wait a bit, he is coming to the
     window once more."

     Again we saw the dim silhouette of a crouching man and the whisk of
     the small flame across the window as the signals were renewed. They
     came more rapidly than before--so rapid that it was hard to follow
     them.

     "PERICOLO--pericolo--eh, what's that, Watson? 'Danger,' isn't it?
     Yes, by Jove, it's a danger signal. There he goes again! PERI.
     Halloa, what on earth--"

     The light had suddenly gone out, the glimmering square of window had
     disappeared, and the third floor formed a dark band round the lofty
     building, with its tiers of shining casements. That last warning cry
     had been suddenly cut short. How, and by whom? The same thought
     occurred on the instant to us both. Holmes sprang up from where he
     crouched by the window.

     "This is serious, Watson," he cried. "There is some devilry going
     forward! Why should such a message stop in such a way? I should put
     Scotland Yard in touch with this business--and yet, it is too
     pressing for us to leave."

     "Shall I go for the police?"

     "We must define the situation a little more clearly. It may bear some
     more innocent interpretation. Come, Watson, let us go across
     ourselves and see what we can make of it."





          CHAPTER II
          Part Two


     As we walked rapidly down Howe Street I glanced back at the building
     which we had left. There, dimly outlined at the top window, I could
     see the shadow of a head, a woman's head, gazing tensely, rigidly,
     out into the night, waiting with breathless suspense for the renewal
     of that interrupted message. At the doorway of the Howe Street flats
     a man, muffled in a cravat and greatcoat, was leaning against the
     railing. He started as the hall-light fell upon our faces.

     "Holmes!" he cried.

     "Why, Gregson!" said my companion as he shook hands with the Scotland
     Yard detective. "Journeys end with lovers' meetings. What brings you
     here?"

     "The same reasons that bring you, I expect," said Gregson. "How you
     got on to it I can't imagine."

     "Different threads, but leading up to the same tangle. I've been
     taking the signals."

     "Signals?"

     "Yes, from that window. They broke off in the middle. We came over to
     see the reason. But since it is safe in your hands I see no object in
     continuing this business."

     "Wait a bit!" cried Gregson eagerly. "I'll do you this justice, Mr.
     Holmes, that I was never in a case yet that I didn't feel stronger
     for having you on my side. There's only the one exit to these flats,
     so we have him safe."

     "Who is he?"

     "Well, well, we score over you for once, Mr. Holmes. You must give us
     best this time." He struck his stick sharply upon the ground, on
     which a cabman, his whip in his hand, sauntered over from a
     four-wheeler which stood on the far side of the street. "May I
     introduce you to Mr. Sherlock Holmes?" he said to the cabman. "This
     is Mr. Leverton, of Pinkerton's American Agency."

     "The hero of the Long Island cave mystery?" said Holmes. "Sir, I am
     pleased to meet you."

     The American, a quiet, businesslike young man, with a clean-shaven,
     hatchet face, flushed up at the words of commendation. "I am on the
     trail of my life now, Mr. Holmes," said he. "If I can get Gorgiano--"

     "What! Gorgiano of the Red Circle?"

     "Oh, he has a European fame, has he? Well, we've learned all about
     him in America. We know he is at the bottom of fifty murders, and yet
     we have nothing positive we can take him on. I tracked him over from
     New York, and I've been close to him for a week in London, waiting
     some excuse to get my hand on his collar. Mr. Gregson and I ran him
     to ground in that big tenement house, and there's only one door, so
     he can't slip us. There's three folk come out since he went in, but
     I'll swear he wasn't one of them."

     "Mr. Holmes talks of signals," said Gregson. "I expect, as usual, he
     knows a good deal that we don't."

     In a few clear words Holmes explained the situation as it had
     appeared to us. The American struck his hands together with vexation.

     "He's on to us!" he cried.

     "Why do you think so?"

     "Well, it figures out that way, does it not? Here he is, sending out
     messages to an accomplice--there are several of his gang in London.
     Then suddenly, just as by your own account he was telling them that
     there was danger, he broke short off. What could it mean except that
     from the window he had suddenly either caught sight of us in the
     street, or in some way come to understand how close the danger was,
     and that he must act right away if he was to avoid it? What do you
     suggest, Mr. Holmes?"

     "That we go up at once and see for ourselves."

     "But we have no warrant for his arrest."

     "He is in unoccupied premises under suspicious circumstances," said
     Gregson. "That is good enough for the moment. When we have him by the
     heels we can see if New York can't help us to keep him. I'll take the
     responsibility of arresting him now."

     Our official detectives may blunder in the matter of intelligence,
     but never in that of courage. Gregson climbed the stair to arrest
     this desperate murderer with the same absolutely quiet and
     businesslike bearing with which he would have ascended the official
     staircase of Scotland Yard. The Pinkerton man had tried to push past
     him, but Gregson had firmly elbowed him back. London dangers were the
     privilege of the London force.

     The door of the left-hand flat upon the third landing was standing
     ajar. Gregson pushed it open. Within all was absolute silence and
     darkness. I struck a match and lit the detective's lantern. As I did
     so, and as the flicker steadied into a flame, we all gave a gasp of
     surprise. On the deal boards of the carpetless floor there was
     outlined a fresh track of blood. The red steps pointed towards us and
     led away from an inner room, the door of which was closed. Gregson
     flung it open and held his light full blaze in front of him, while we
     all peered eagerly over his shoulders.

     In the middle of the floor of the empty room was huddled the figure
     of an enormous man, his clean-shaven, swarthy face grotesquely
     horrible in its contortion and his head encircled by a ghastly
     crimson halo of blood, lying in a broad wet circle upon the white
     woodwork. His knees were drawn up, his hands thrown out in agony, and
     from the centre of his broad, brown, upturned throat there projected
     the white haft of a knife driven blade-deep into his body. Giant as
     he was, the man must have gone down like a pole-axed ox before that
     terrific blow. Beside his right hand a most formidable horn-handled,
     two-edged dagger lay upon the floor, and near it a black kid glove.

     "By George! it's Black Gorgiano himself!" cried the American
     detective. "Someone has got ahead of us this time."

     "Here is the candle in the window, Mr. Holmes," said Gregson. "Why,
     whatever are you doing?"

     Holmes had stepped across, had lit the candle, and was passing it
     backward and forward across the window-panes. Then he peered into the
     darkness, blew the candle out, and threw it on the floor.

     "I rather think that will be helpful," said he. He came over and
     stood in deep thought while the two professionals were examining the
     body. "You say that three people came out form the flat while you
     were waiting downstairs," said he at last. "Did you observe them
     closely?"

     "Yes, I did."

     "Was there a fellow about thirty, black-bearded, dark, of middle
     size?"

     "Yes; he was the last to pass me."

     "That is your man, I fancy. I can give you his description, and we
     have a very excellent outline of his footmark. That should be enough
     for you."

     "Not much, Mr. Holmes, among the millions of London."

     "Perhaps not. That is why I thought it best to summon this lady to
     your aid."

     We all turned round at the words. There, framed in the doorway, was a
     tall and beautiful woman--the mysterious lodger of Bloomsbury. Slowly
     she advanced, her face pale and drawn with a frightful apprehension,
     her eyes fixed and staring, her terrified gaze riveted upon the dark
     figure on the floor.

     "You have killed him!" she muttered. "Oh, Dio mio, you have killed
     him!" Then I heard a sudden sharp intake of her breath, and she
     sprang into the air with a cry of joy. Round and round the room she
     danced, her hands clapping, her dark eyes gleaming with delighted
     wonder, and a thousand pretty Italian exclamations pouring from her
     lips. It was terrible and amazing to see such a woman so convulsed
     with joy at such a sight. Suddenly she stopped and gazed at us all
     with a questioning stare.

     "But you! You are police, are you not? You have killed Giuseppe
     Gorgiano. Is it not so?"

     "We are police, madam."

     She looked round into the shadows of the room.

     "But where, then, is Gennaro?" she asked. "He is my husband, Gennaro
     Lucca. I am Emilia Lucca, and we are both from New York. Where is
     Gennaro? He called me this moment from this window, and I ran with
     all my speed."

     "It was I who called," said Holmes.

     "You! How could you call?"

     "Your cipher was not difficult, madam. Your presence here was
     desirable. I knew that I had only to flash 'Vieni' and you would
     surely come."

     The beautiful Italian looked with awe at my companion.

     "I do not understand how you know these things," she said. "Giuseppe
     Gorgiano--how did he--" She paused, and then suddenly her face lit up
     with pride and delight. "Now I see it! My Gennaro! My splendid,
     beautiful Gennaro, who has guarded me safe from all harm, he did it,
     with his own strong hand he killed the monster! Oh, Gennaro, how
     wonderful you are! What woman could every be worthy of such a man?"

     "Well, Mrs. Lucca," said the prosaic Gregson, laying his hand upon
     the lady's sleeve with as little sentiment as if she were a Notting
     Hill hooligan, "I am not very clear yet who you are or what you are;
     but you've said enough to make it very clear that we shall want you
     at the Yard."

     "One moment, Gregson," said Holmes. "I rather fancy that this lady
     may be as anxious to give us information as we can be to get it. You
     understand, madam, that your husband will be arrested and tried for
     the death of the man who lies before us? What you say may be used in
     evidence. But if you think that he has acted from motives which are
     not criminal, and which he would wish to have known, then you cannot
     serve him better than by telling us the whole story."

     "Now that Gorgiano is dead we fear nothing," said the lady. "He was a
     devil and a monster, and there can be no judge in the world who would
     punish my husband for having killed him."

     "In that case," said Holmes, "my suggestion is that we lock this
     door, leave things as we found them, go with this lady to her room,
     and form our opinion after we have heard what it is that she has to
     say to us."

     Half an hour later we were seated, all four, in the small
     sitting-room of Signora Lucca, listening to her remarkable narrative
     of those sinister events, the ending of which we had chanced to
     witness. She spoke in rapid and fluent but very unconventional
     English, which, for the sake of clearness, I will make grammatical.

     "I was born in Posilippo, near Naples," said she, "and was the
     daughter of Augusto Barelli, who was the chief lawyer and once the
     deputy of that part. Gennaro was in my father's employment, and I
     came to love him, as any woman must. He had neither money nor
     position--nothing but his beauty and strength and energy--so my
     father forbade the match. We fled together, were married at Bari, and
     sold my jewels to gain the money which would take us to America. This
     was four years ago, and we have been in New York ever since.

     "Fortune was very good to us at first. Gennaro was able to do a
     service to an Italian gentleman--he saved him from some ruffians in
     the place called the Bowery, and so made a powerful friend. His name
     was Tito Castalotte, and he was the senior partner of the great firm
     of Castalotte and Zamba, who are the chief fruit importers of New
     York. Signor Zamba is an invalid, and our new friend Castalotte has
     all power within the firm, which employs more than three hundred men.
     He took my husband into his employment, made him head of a
     department, and showed his good-will towards him in every way. Signor
     Castalotte was a bachelor, and I believe that he felt as if Gennaro
     was his son, and both my husband and I loved him as if he were our
     father. We had taken and furnished a little house in Brooklyn, and
     our whole future seemed assured when that black cloud appeared which
     was soon to overspread our sky.

     "One night, when Gennaro returned from his work, he brought a
     fellow-countryman back with him. His name was Gorgiano, and he had
     come also from Posilippo. He was a huge man, as you can testify, for
     you have looked upon his corpse. Not only was his body that of a
     giant but everything about him was grotesque, gigantic, and
     terrifying. His voice was like thunder in our little house. There was
     scarce room for the whirl of his great arms as he talked. His
     thoughts, his emotions, his passions, all were exaggerated and
     monstrous. He talked, or rather roared, with such energy that others
     could but sit and listen, cowed with the mighty stream of words. His
     eyes blazed at you and held you at his mercy. He was a terrible and
     wonderful man. I thank God that he is dead!

     "He came again and again. Yet I was aware that Gennaro was no more
     happy than I was in his presence. My poor husband would sit pale and
     listless, listening to the endless raving upon politics and upon
     social questions which made up or visitor's conversation. Gennaro
     said nothing, but I, who knew him so well, could read in his face
     some emotion which I had never seen there before. At first I thought
     that it was dislike. And then, gradually, I understood that it was
     more than dislike. It was fear--a deep, secret, shrinking fear. That
     night--the night that I read his terror--I put my arms round him and
     I implored him by his love for me and by all that he held dear to
     hold nothing from me, and to tell me why this huge man overshadowed
     him so.

     "He told me, and my own heart grew cold as ice as I listened. My poor
     Gennaro, in his wild and fiery days, when all the world seemed
     against him and his mind was driven half mad by the injustices of
     life, had joined a Neapolitan society, the Red Circle, which was
     allied to the old Carbonari. The oaths and secrets of this
     brotherhood were frightful, but once within its rule no escape was
     possible. When we had fled to America Gennaro thought that he had
     cast it all off forever. What was his horror one evening to meet in
     the streets the very man who had initiated him in Naples, the giant
     Gorgiano, a man who had earned the name of 'Death' in the south of
     Italy, for he was red to the elbow in murder! He had come to New York
     to avoid the Italian police, and he had already planted a branch of
     this dreadful society in his new home. All this Gennaro told me and
     showed me a summons which he had received that very day, a Red Circle
     drawn upon the head of it telling him that a lodge would be held upon
     a certain date, and that his presence at it was required and ordered.

     "That was bad enough, but worse was to come. I had noticed for some
     time that when Gorgiano came to us, as he constantly did, in the
     evening, he spoke much to me; and even when his words were to my
     husband those terrible, glaring, wild-beast eyes of his were always
     turned upon me. One night his secret came out. I had awakened what he
     called 'love' within him--the love of a brute--a savage. Gennaro had
     not yet returned when he came. He pushed his way in, seized me in his
     mighty arms, hugged me in his bear's embrace, covered me with kisses,
     and implored me to come away with him. I was struggling and screaming
     when Gennaro entered and attacked him. He struck Gennaro senseless
     and fled from the house which he was never more to enter. It was a
     deadly enemy that we made that night.

     "A few days later came the meeting. Gennaro returned from it with a
     face which told me that something dreadful had occurred. It was worse
     than we could have imagined possible. The funds of the society were
     raised by blackmailing rich Italians and threatening them with
     violence should they refuse the money. It seems that Castalotte, our
     dear friend and benefactor, had been approached. He had refused to
     yield to threats, and he had handed the notices to the police. It was
     resolved now that such an example should be made of them as would
     prevent any other victim from rebelling. At the meeting it was
     arranged that he and his house should be blown up with dynamite.
     There was a drawing of lots as to who should carry out the deed.
     Gennaro saw our enemy's cruel face smiling at him as he dipped his
     hand in the bag. No doubt it had been prearranged in some fashion,
     for it was the fatal disc with the Red Circle upon it, the mandate
     for murder, which lay upon his palm. He was to kill his best friend,
     or he was to expose himself and me to the vengeance of his comrades.
     It was part of their fiendish system to punish those whom they feared
     or hated by injuring not only their own persons but those whom they
     loved, and it was the knowledge of this which hung as a terror over
     my poor Gennaro's head and drove him nearly crazy with apprehension.

     "All that night we sat together, our arms round each other, each
     strengthening each for the troubles that lay before us. The very next
     evening had been fixed for the attempt. By midday my husband and I
     were on our way to London, but not before he had given our benefactor
     full warning of this danger, and had also left such information for
     the police as would safeguard his life for the future.

     "The rest, gentlemen, you know for yourselves. We were sure that our
     enemies would be behind us like our own shadows. Gorgiano had his
     private reasons for vengeance, but in any case we knew how ruthless,
     cunning, and untiring he could be. Both Italy and America are full of
     stories of his dreadful powers. If ever they were exerted it would be
     now. My darling made use of the few clear days which our start had
     given us in arranging for a refuge for me in such a fashion that no
     possible danger could reach me. For his own part, he wished to be
     free that he might communicate both with the American and with the
     Italian police. I do not myself know where he lived, or how. All that
     I learned was through the columns of a newspaper. But once as I
     looked through my window, I saw two Italians watching the house, and
     I understood that in some way Gorgiano had found our retreat. Finally
     Gennaro told me, through the paper, that he would signal to me from a
     certain window, but when the signals came they were nothing but
     warnings, which were suddenly interrupted. It is very clear to me now
     that he knew Gorgiano to be close upon him, and that, thank God! he
     was ready for him when he came. And now, gentleman, I would ask you
     whether we have anything to fear from the law, or whether any judge
     upon earth would condemn my Gennaro for what he has done?"

     "Well, Mr. Gregson," said the American, looking across at the
     official, "I don't know what your British point of view may be, but I
     guess that in New York this lady's husband will receive a pretty
     general vote of thanks."

     "She will have to come with me and see the chief," Gregson answered. 
     "If what she says is corroborated, I do not think she or her husband
     has much to fear.  But what I can't make head or tail of, Mr. Holmes,
     is how on earth you got yourself mixed up in the matter."

     "Education, Gregson, education.  Still seeking knowledge at the old
     university.  Well, Watson, you have one more specimen of the tragic
     and grotesque to add to your collection.  By the way, it is not eight
     o'clock, and a Wagner night at Covent Garden!  If we hurry, we might
     be in time for the second act."






                   THE ADVENTURE OF THE BRUCE-PARTINGTON PLANS

     In the third week of November, in the year 1895, a dense yellow fog
     settled down upon London. From the Monday to the Thursday I doubt
     whether it was ever possible from our windows in Baker Street to see
     the loom of the opposite houses. The first day Holmes had spent in
     cross-indexing his huge book of references. The second and third had
     been patiently occupied upon a subject which he hand recently made
     his hobby--the music of the Middle Ages. But when, for the fourth
     time, after pushing back our chairs from breakfast we saw the greasy,
     heavy brown swirl still drifting past us and condensing in oily drops
     upon the window-panes, my comrade's impatient and active nature could
     endure this drab existence no longer. He paced restlessly about our
     sitting-room in a fever of suppressed energy, biting his nails,
     tapping the furniture, and chafing against inaction.

     "Nothing of interest in the paper, Watson?" he said.

     In was aware that by anything of interest, Holmes meant anything of
     criminal interest. There was the news of a revolution, of a possible
     war, and of an impending change of government; but these did not come
     within the horizon of my companion. I could see nothing recorded in
     the shape of crime which was not commonplace and futile. Holmes
     groaned and resumed hs restless meanderings.

     "The London criminal is certainly a dull fellow," said he in the
     querulous voice of the sportsman whose game has failed him. "Look out
     this window, Watson. See how the figures loom up, are dimly seen, and
     then blend once more into the cloud-bank. The thief or the murderer
     could roam London on such a day as the tiger does the jungle, unseen
     until he pounces, and then evident only to his victim."

     "There have," said I, "been numerous petty thefts."

     Holmes snorted his contempt.

     "This great and sombre stage is set for something more worthy than
     that," said he. "It is fortunate for this community that I am not a
     criminal."

     "It is, indeed!" said I heartily.

     "Suppose that I were Brooks or Woodhouse, or any of the fifty men who
     have good reason for taking my life, how long could I survive against
     my own pursuit? A summons, a bogus appointment, and all would be
     over. It is well they don't have days of fog in the Latin
     countries--the countries of assassination. By Jove! here comes
     something at last to break our dead monotony."

     It was the maid with a telegram. Holmes tore it open and burst out
     laughing.

     "Well, well! What next?" said he. "Brother Mycroft is coming round."

     "Why not?" I asked.

     "Why not? It is as if you met a tram-car coming down a country lane.
     Mycroft has his rails and he runs on them. His Pall Mall lodgings,
     the Diogenes Club, Whitehall--that is his cycle. Once, and only once,
     he has been here. What upheaval can possibly have derailed him?"

     "Does he not explain?"

     Holmes handed me his brother's telegram.

     Must see you over Cadogen West. Coming at once.
     Mycroft.

     "Cadogen West? I have heard the name."

     "It recalls nothing to my mind. But that Mycroft should break out in
     this erratic fashion! A planet might as well leave its orbit. By the
     way, do you know what Mycroft is?"

     I had some vague recollection of an explanation at the time of the
     Adventure of the Greek Interpreter.

     "You told me that he had some small office under the British
     government."

     Holmes chuckled.

     "I did not know you quite so well in those days. One has to be
     discreet when one talks of high matters of state. You are right in
     thinking that he under the British government. You would also be
     right in a sense if you said that occasionally he is the British
     government."

     "My dear Holmes!"

     "I thought I might surprise you. Mycroft draws four hundred and fifty
     pounds a year, remains a subordinate, has no ambitions of any kind,
     will receive neither honour nor title, but remains the most
     indispensable man in the country."

     "But how?"

     "Well, his position is unique. He has made it for himself. There has
     never been anything like it before, nor will be again. He has the
     tidiest and most orderly brain, with the greatest capacity for
     storing facts, of any man living. The same great powers which I have
     turned to the detection of crime he has used for this particular
     business. The conclusions of every department are passed to him, and
     he is the central exchange, the clearinghouse, which makes out the
     balance. All other men are specialists, but his specialism is
     omniscience. We will suppose that a minister needs information as to
     a point which involves the Navy, India, Canada and the bimetallic
     question; he could get his separate advices from various departments
     upon each, but only Mycroft can focus them all, and say offhand how
     each factor would affect the other. They began by using him as a
     short-cut, a convenience; now he has made himself an essential. In
     that great brain of his everything is pigeon-holed and can be handed
     out in an instant. Again and again his word has decided the national
     policy. He lives in it. He thinks of nothing else save when, as an
     intellectual exercise, he unbends if I call upon him and ask him to
     advise me on one of my little problems. But Jupiter is descending
     to-day. What on earth can it mean? Who is Cadogan West, and what is
     he to Mycroft?"

     "I have it," I cried, and plunged among the litter of papers upon the
     sofa. "Yes, yes, here he is, sure enough! Cadogen West was the young
     man who was found dead on the Underground on Tuesday morning."

     Holmes sat up at attention, his pipe halfway to his lips.

     "This must be serious, Watson. A death which has caused my brother to
     alter his habits can be no ordinary one. What in the world can he
     have to do with it? The case was featureless as I remember it. The
     young man had apparently fallen out of the train and killed himself.
     He had not been robbed, and there was no particular reason to suspect
     violence. Is that not so?"

     "There has been an inquest," said I, "and a good many fresh facts
     have come out. Looked at more closely, I should certainly say that it
     was a curious case."

     "Judging by its effect upon my brother, I should think it must be a
     most extraordinary one." He snuggled down in his armchair. "Now,
     Watson, let us have the facts."

     "The man's name was Arthur Cadogan West. He was twenty-seven years of
     age, unmarried, and a clerk at Woolwich Arsenal."

     "Government employ. Behold the link with Brother Mycroft!"

     "He left Woolwich suddenly on Monday night. Was last seen by his
     fiancee, Miss Violet Westbury, whom he left abruptly in the fog about
     7.30 that evening. There was no quarrel between them and she can give
     no motive for his action. The next thing heard of him was when his
     dead body was discovered by a plate-layer named Mason, just outside
     Aldgate Station on the Underground system in London."

     "When?"

     "The body was found at six on Tuesday morning. It was lying wide of
     the metals upon the left hand of the track as one goes eastward, at a
     point close to the station, where the line emerges from the tunnel in
     which it runs. The head was badly crushed--an injury which might well
     have been caused by a fall from the train. The body could only have
     come on the line in that way. Had it been carried down from any
     neighbouring street, it must have passed the station barriers, where
     a collector is always standing. This point seems absolutely certain."

     "Very good. The case is definite enough. The man, dead or alive,
     either fell or was precipitated from a train. So much is clear to me.
     Continue."

     "The trains which traverse the lines of rail beside which the body
     was found are those which run from west to east, some being purely
     Metropolitan, and some from Willesden and outlying junctions. It can
     be stated for certain that this young man, when he met his death, was
     travelling in this direction at some late hour of the night, but at
     what point he entered the train it is impossible to state."

     "His ticket, of course, would show that."

     "There was no ticket in his pockets."

     "No ticket! Dear me, Watson, this is really very singular. According
     to my experience it is not possible to reach the platform of a
     Metropolitan train without exhibiting one's ticket. Presumably, then,
     the young man had one. Was it taken from him in order to conceal the
     station from which he came? It is possible. Or did he drop it in the
     carriage? That is also possible. But the point is of curious
     interest. I understand that there was no sign of robbery?"

     "Apparently not. There is a list here of his possessions. His purse
     contained two pounds fifteen. He had also a check-book on the
     Woolwich branch of the Capital and Counties Bank. Through this his
     identity was established. There were also two dress-circle tickets
     for the Woolwich Theatre, dated for that very evening. Also a small
     packet of technical papers."

     Holmes gave an exclamation of satisfaction.

     "There we have it at last, Watson! British government--Woolwich.
     Arsenal--technical papers--Brother Mycroft, the chain is complete.
     But here he comes, if I am not mistaken, to speak for himself."

     A moment later the tall and portly form of Mycroft Holmes was ushered
     into the room. Heavily built and massive, there was a suggestion of
     uncouth physical inertia in the figure, but above this unwieldy frame
     there was perched a head so masterful in its brow, so alert in its
     steel-gray, deep-set eyes, so firm in its lips, and so subtle in its
     play of expression, that after the first glance one forgot the gross
     body and remembered only the dominant mind.

     At his heels came our old friend Lestrade, of Scotland Yard--thin and
     austere. The gravity of both their faces foretold some weighty quest.
     The detective shook hands without a word. Mycroft Holmes struggled
     out of his overcoat and subsided into an armchair.

     "A most annoying business, Sherlock," said he. "I extremely dislike
     altering my habits, but the powers that be would take no denial. In
     the present state of Siam it is most awkward that I should be away
     from the office. But it is a real crisis. I have never seen the Prime
     Minister so upset. As to the Admiralty--it is buzzing like an
     overturned bee-hive. Have you read up the case?"

     "We have just done so. What were the technical papers?"

     "Ah, there's the point! Fortunately, it has not come out. The press
     would be furious if it did. The papers which this wretched youth had
     in his pocket were the plans of the Bruce-Partington submarine."

     Mycroft Holmes spoke with a solemnity which showed his sense of the
     importance of the subject. His brother and I sat expectant.

     "Surely you have heard of it? I thought everyone had heard of it."

     "Only as a name."

     "Its importance can hardly be exaggerated. It has been the most
     jealously guarded of all government secrets. You may take it from me
     that naval warfare becomes impossible within the radius of a
     Bruce-Partington's operation. Two years ago a very large sum was
     smuggled through the Estimates and was expended in acquiring a
     monopoly of the invention. Every effort has been made to keep the
     secret. The plans, which are exceedingly intricate, comprising some
     thirty separate patents, each essential to the working of the whole,
     are kept in an elaborate safe in a confidential office adjoining the
     arsenal, with burglar-proof doors and windows. Under no conceivable
     circumstances were the plans to be taken from the office. If the
     chief constructor of the Navy desired to consult them, even he was
     forced to go to the Woolwich office for the purpose. And yet here we
     find them in the pocket of a dead junior clerk in the heart of
     London. From an official point of view it's simply awful."

     "But you have recovered them?"

     "No, Sherlock, no! That's the pinch. We have not. Ten papers were
     taken from Woolwich. There were seven in the pocket of Cadogan West.
     The three most essential are gone--stolen, vanished. You must drop
     everything, Sherlock. Never mind your usual petty puzzles of the
     police-court. It's a vital international problem that you have to
     solve. Why did Cadogan West take the papers, where are the missing
     ones, how did he die, how came his body where it was found, how can
     the evil be set right? Find an answer to all these questions, and you
     will have done good service for your country."

     "Why do you not solve it yourself, Mycroft? You can see as far as I."

     "Possibly, Sherlock. But it is a question of getting details. Give me
     your details, and from an armchair I will return you an excellent
     expert opinion. But to run here and run there, to cross-question
     railway guards, and lie on my face with a lens to my eye--it is not
     my métier. No, you are the one man who can clear the matter up. If
     you have a fancy to see your name in the next honours list--"

     My friend smiled and shook his head.

     "I play the game for the game's own sake," said he. "But the problem
     certainly presents some points of interest, and I shall be very
     pleased to look into it. Some more facts, please."

     "I have jotted down the more essential ones upon this sheet of paper,
     together with a few addresses which you will find of service. The
     actual official guardian of the papers is the famous government
     expert, Sir James Walter, whose decorations and sub-titles fill two
     lines of a book of reference. He has grown gray in the service, is a
     gentleman, a favoured guest in the most exalted houses, and, above
     all, a man whose patriotism is beyond suspicion. He is one of two who
     have a key of the safe. I may add that the papers were undoubtedly in
     the office during working hours on Monday, and that Sir James left
     for London about three o'clock taking his key with him. He was at the
     house of Admiral Sinclair at Barclay Square during the whole of the
     evening when this incident occurred."

     "Has the fact been verified?"

     "Yes; his brother, Colonel Valentine Walter, has testified to his
     departure from Woolwich, and Admiral Sinclair to his arrival in
     London; so Sir James is no longer a direct factor in the problem."

     "Who was the other man with a key?"

     "The senior clerk and draughtsman, Mr. Sidney Johnson. He is a man of
     forty, married, with five children. He is a silent, morose man, but
     he has, on the whole, an excellent record in the public service. He
     is unpopular with his colleagues, but a hard worker. According to his
     own account, corroborated only by the word of his wife, he was at
     home the whole of Monday evening after office hours, and his key has
     never left the watch-chain upon which it hangs."

     "Tell us about Cadogan West."

     "He has been ten years in the service and has done good work. He has
     the reputation of being hot-headed and imperious, but a straight,
     honest man. We have nothing against him. He was next Sidney Johnson
     in the office. His duties brought him into daily, personal contact
     with the plans. No one else had the handling of them."

     "Who locked up the plans that night?"

     "Mr. Sidney Johnson, the senior clerk."

     "Well, it is surely perfectly clear who took them away. They are
     actually found upon the person of this junior clerk, Cadogan West.
     That seems final, does it not?"

     "It does, Sherlock, and yet it leaves so much unexplained. In the
     first place, why did he take them?"

     "I presume they were of value?"

     "He could have got several thousands for them very easily."

     "Can you suggest any possible motive for taking the papers to London
     except to sell them?"

     "No, I cannot."

     "Then we must take that as our working hypothesis. Young West took
     the papers. Now this could only be done by having a false key--"

     "Several false keys. He had to open the building and the room."

     "He had, then, several false keys. He took the papers to London to
     sell the secret, intending, no doubt, to have the plans themselves
     back in the safe next morning before they were missed. While in
     London on this treasonable mission he met his end."

     "How?"

     "We will suppose that he was travelling back to Woolwich when he was
     killed and thrown out of the compartment."

     "Aldgate, where the body was found, is considerably past the station
     London Bridge, which would be his route to Woolwich."

     "Many circumstances could be imagined under which he would pass
     London Bridge. There was someone in the carriage, for example, with
     whom he was having an absorbing interview. This interview led to a
     violent scene in which he lost his life. Possibly he tried to leave
     the carriage, fell out on the line, and so met his end. The other
     closed the door. There was a thick fog, and nothing could be seen."

     "No better explanation can be given with our present knowledge; and
     yet consider, Sherlock, how much you leave untouched. We will
     suppose, for argument's sake, that young Cadogan West had determined
     to convey these papers to London. He would naturally have made an
     appointment with the foreign agent and kept his evening clear.
     Instead of that he took two tickets for the theatre, escorted his
     fiancee halfway there, and then suddenly disappeared."

     "A blind," said Lestrade, who had sat listening with some impatience
     to the conversation.

     "A very singular one. That is objection No. 1. Objection No. 2: We
     will suppose that he reaches London and sees the foreign agent. He
     must bring back the papers before morning or the loss will be
     discovered. He took away ten. Only seven were in his pocket. What had
     become of the other three? He certainly would not leave them of his
     own free will. Then, again, where is the price of his treason? Once
     would have expected to find a large sum of money in his pocket."

     "It seems to me perfectly clear," said Lestrade. "I have no doubt at
     all as to what occurred. He took the papers to sell them. He saw the
     agent. They could not agree as to price. He started home again, but
     the agent went with him. In the train the agent murdered him, took
     the more essential papers, and threw his body from the carriage. That
     would account for everything, would it not?"

     "Why had he no ticket?"

     "The ticket would have shown which station was nearest the agent's
     house. Therefore he took it from the murdered man's pocket."

     "Good, Lestrade, very good," said Holmes. "Your theory holds
     together. But if this is true, then the case is at an end. On the one
     hand, the traitor is dead. On the other, the plans of the
     Bruce-Partington submarine are presumably already on the Continent.
     What is there for us to do?"

     "To act, Sherlock--to act!" cried Mycroft, springing to his feet.
     "All my instincts are against this explanation. Use your powers! Go
     to the scene of the crime! See the people concerned! Leave no stone
     unturned! In all your career you have never had so great a chance of
     serving your country."

     "Well, well!" said Holmes, shrugging his shoulders. "Come, Watson!
     And you, Lestrade, could you favour us with your company for an hour
     or two? We will begin our investigation by a visit to Aldgate
     Station. Good-bye, Mycroft. I shall let you have a report before
     evening, but I warn you in advance that you have little to expect."

     An hour later Holmes, Lestrade and I stood upon the Underground
     railroad at the point where it emerges from the tunnel immediately
     before Aldgate Station. A courteous red-faced old gentleman
     represented the railway company.

     "This is where the young man's body lay," said he, indicating a spot
     about three feet from the metals. "It could not have fallen from
     above, for these, as you see, are all blank walls. Therefore, it
     could only have come from a train, and that train, so far as we can
     trace it, must have passed about midnight on Monday."

     "Have the carriages been examined for any sign of violence?"

     "There are no such signs, and no ticket has been found."

     "No record of a door being found open?"

     "None."

     "We have had some fresh evidence this morning," said Lestrade. "A
     passenger who passed Aldgate in an ordinary Metropolitan train about
     11.40 on Monday night declares that he heard a heavy thud, as of a
     body striking the line, just before the train reached the station.
     There was dense fog, however, and nothing could be seen. He made no
     report of it at the time. Why, whatever is the matter with Mr.
     Holmes?"

     My friend was standing with an expression of strained intensity upon
     his face, staring at the railway metals where they curved out of the
     tunnel. Aldgate is a junction, and there was a network of points. On
     these his eager, questioning eyes were fixed, and I saw on his keen,
     alert face that tightening of the lips, that quiver of the nostrils,
     and concentration of the heavy, tufted brows which I knew so well.

     "Points," he muttered; "the points."

     "What of it? What do you mean?"

     "I suppose there are no great number of points on a system such as
     this?"

     "No; they are very few."

     "And a curve, too. Points, and a curve. By Jove! if it were only so."

     "What is it, Mr. Holmes? Have you a clue?"

     "An idea--an indication, no more. But the case certainly grows in
     interest. Unique, perfectly unique, and yet why not? I do not see any
     indications of bleeding on the line."

     "There were hardly any."

     "But I understand that there was a considerable wound."

     "The bone was crushed, but there was no great external injury."

     "And yet one would have expected some bleeding. Would it be possible
     for me to inspect the train which contained the passenger who heard
     the thud of a fall in the fog?"

     "I fear not, Mr. Holmes. The train has been broken up before now, and
     the carriages redistributed."

     "I can assure you, Mr. Holmes," said Lestrade, "that every carriage
     has been carefully examined. I saw to it myself."

     It was one of my friend's most obvious weaknesses that he was
     impatient with less alert intelligences than his own.

     "Very likely," said he, turning away. "As it happens, it was not the
     carriages which I desired to examine. Watson, we have done all we can
     here. We need not trouble you any further, Mr. Lestrade. I think our
     investigations must now carry us to Woolwich."

     At London Bridge, Holmes wrote a telegram to his brother, which he
     handed to me before dispatching it. It ran thus:

     See some light in the darkness, but it may possibly flicker out.
     Meanwhile, please send by messenger, to await return at Baker Street,
     a complete list of all foreign spies or international agents known to
     be in England, with full address.
     Sherlock.

     "That should be helpful, Watson," he remarked as we took our seats in
     the Woolwich train.  "We certainly owe Brother Mycroft a debt for
     having introduced us to what promises to be a really very remarkable
     case."

     His eager face still wore that expression of intense and high-strung
     energy, which showed me that some novel and suggestive circumstance
     had opened up a stimulating line of thought. See the foxhound with
     hanging ears and drooping tail as it lolls about the kennels, and
     compare it with the same hound as, with gleaming eyes and straining
     muscles, it runs upon a breast-high scent--such was the change in
     Holmes since the morning. He was a different man from the limp and
     lounging figure in the mouse-coloured dressing-gown who had prowled
     so restlessly only a few hours before round the fog-girt room.

     "There is material here. There is scope," said he. "I am dull indeed
     not to have understood its possibilities."

     "Even now they are dark to me."

     "The end is dark to me also, but I have hold of one idea which may
     lead us far. The man met his death elsewhere, and his body was on the
     roof of a carriage."

     "On the roof!"

     "Remarkable, is it not? But consider the facts. Is it a coincidence
     that it is found at the very point where the train pitches and sways
     as it comes round on the points? Is not that the place where an
     object upon the roof might be expected to fall off? The points would
     affect no object inside the train. Either the body fell from the
     roof, or a very curious coincidence has occurred. But now consider
     the question of the blood. Of course, there was no bleeding on the
     line if the body had bled elsewhere. Each fact is suggestive in
     itself. Together they have a cumulative force."

     "And the ticket, too!" I cried.

     "Exactly.  We could not explain the absence of a ticket. This would
     explain it. Everything fits together."

     "But suppose it were so, we are still as far as ever from unravelling
     the mystery of his death. Indeed, it becomes not simpler but
     stranger."

     "Perhaps," said Holmes, thoughtfully, "perhaps." He relapsed into a
     silent reverie, which lasted until the slow train drew up at last in
     Woolwich Station. There he called a cab and drew Mycroft's paper from
     his pocket.

     "We have quite a little round of afternoon calls to make," said he.
     "I think that Sir James Walter claims our first attention."

     The house of the famous official was a fine villa with green lawns
     stretching down to the Thames. As we reached it the fog was lifting,
     and a thin, watery sunshine was breaking through. A butler answered
     our ring.

     "Sir James, sir!" said he with solemn face. "Sir James died this
     morning."

     "Good heavens!" cried Holmes in amazement. "How did he die?"

     "Perhaps you would care to step in, sir, and see his brother, Colonel
     Valentine?"

     "Yes, we had best do so."

     We were ushered into a dim-lit drawing-room, where an instant later
     we were joined by a very tall, handsome, light-beared man of fifty,
     the younger brother of the dead scientist. His wild eyes, stained
     cheeks, and unkempt hair all spoke of the sudden blow which had
     fallen upon the household. He was hardly articulate as he spoke of
     it.

     "It was this horrible scandal," said he. "My brother, Sir James, was
     a man of very sensitive honour, and he could not survive such an
     affair. It broke his heart. He was always so proud of the efficiency
     of his department, and this was a crushing blow."

     "We had hoped that he might have given us some indications which
     would have helped us to clear the matter up."

     "I assure you that it was all a mystery to him as it is to you and to
     all of us. He had already put all his knowledge at the disposal of
     the police. Naturally he had no doubt that Cadogan West was guilty.
     But all the rest was inconceivable."

     "You cannot throw any new light upon the affair?"

     "I know nothing myself save what I have read or heard. I have no
     desire to be discourteous, but you can understand, Mr. Holmes, that
     we are much disturbed at present, and I must ask you to hasten this
     interview to an end."

     "This is indeed an unexpected development," said my friend when we
     had regained the cab. "I wonder if the death was natural, or whether
     the poor old fellow killed himself! If the latter, may it be taken as
     some sign of self-reproach for duty neglected? We must leave that
     question to the future. Now we shall turn to the Cadogan Wests."

     A small but well-kept house in the outskirts of the town sheltered
     the bereaved mother. The old lady was too dazed with grief to be of
     any use to us, but at her side was a white-faced young lady, who
     introduced herself as Miss Violet Westbury, the fiancee of the dead
     man, and the last to see him upon that fatal night.

     "I cannot explain it, Mr. Holmes," she said. "I have not shut an eye
     since the tragedy, thinking, thinking, thinking, night and day, what
     the true meaning of it can be. Arthur was the most single-minded,
     chivalrous, patriotic man upon earth. He would have cut his right
     hand off before he would sell a State secret confided to his keeping.
     It is absurd, impossible, preposterous to anyone who knew him."

     "But the facts, Miss Westbury?"

     "Yes, yes; I admit I cannot explain them."

     "Was he in any want of money?"

     "No; his needs were very simple and his salary ample. He had saved a
     few hundreds, and we were to marry at the New Year."

     "No signs of any mental excitement? Come, Miss Westbury, be
     absolutely frank with us."

     The quick eye of my companion had noted some change in her manner.
     She coloured and hesitated.

     "Yes," she said at last, "I had a feeling that there was something on
     his mind."

     "For long?"

     "Only for the last week or so. He was thoughtful and worried. Once I
     pressed him about it. He admitted that there was something, and that
     it was concerned with his official life. 'It is too serious for me to
     speak about, even to you,' said he. I could get nothing more."

     Holmes looked grave.

     "Go on, Miss Westbury. Even if it seems to tell against him, go on.
     We cannot say what it may lead to."

     "Indeed, I have nothing more to tell. Once or twice it seemed to me
     that he was on the point of telling me something. He spoke one
     evening of the importance of the secret, and I have some recollection
     that he said that no doubt foreign spies would pay a great deal to
     have it."

     My friend's face grew graver still.

     "Anything else?"

     "He said that we were slack about such matters--that it would be easy
     for a traitor to get the plans."

     "Was it only recently that he made such remarks?"

     "Yes, quite recently."

     "Now tell us of that last evening."

     "We were to go to the theatre. The fog was so thick that a cab was
     useless. We walked, and our way took us close to the office. Suddenly
     he darted away into the fog."

     "Without a word?"

     "He gave an exclamation; that was all. I waited but he never
     returned. Then I walked home. Next morning, after the office opened,
     they came to inquire. About twelve o'clock we heard the terrible
     news. Oh, Mr. Holmes, if you could only, only save his honour! It was
     so much to him."

     Holmes shook his head sadly.

     "Come, Watson," said he, "our ways lie elsewhere. Our next station
     must be the office from which the papers were taken.

     "It was black enough before against this young man, but our inquiries
     make it blacker," he remarked as the cab lumbered off. "His coming
     marriage gives a motive for the crime. He naturally wanted money. The
     idea was in his head, since he spoke about it. He nearly made the
     girl an accomplice in the treason by telling her his plans. It is all
     very bad."

     "But surely, Holmes, character goes for something? Then, again, why
     should he leave the girl in the street and dart away to commit a
     felony?"

     "Exactly! There are certainly objections. But it is a formidable case
     which they have to meet."

     Mr. Sidney Johnson, the senior clerk, met us at the office and
     received us with that respect which my companion's card always
     commanded. He was a thin, gruff, bespectacled man of middle age, his
     cheeks haggard, and his hands twitching from the nervous strain to
     which he had been subjected.

     "It is bad, Mr. Holmes, very bad! Have you heard of the death of the
     chief?"

     "We have just come from his house."

     "The place is disorganized. The chief dead, Cadogan West dead, our
     papers stolen. And yet, when we closed our door on Monday evening, we
     were as efficient an office as any in the government service. Good
     God, it's dreadful to think of! That West, of all men, should have
     done such a thing!"

     "You are sure of his guilt, then?"

     "I can see no other way out of it. And yet I would have trusted him
     as I trust myself."

     "At what hour was the office closed on Monday?"

     "At five."

     "Did you close it?"

     "I am always the last man out."

     "Where were the plans?"

     "In that safe. I put them there myself."

     "Is there no watchman to the building?"

     "There is, but he has other departments to look after as well. He is
     an old soldier and a most trustworthy man. He saw nothing that
     evening. Of course the fog was very thick."

     "Suppose that Cadogan West wished to make his way into the building
     after hours; he would need three keys, would he not, before the could
     reach the papers?"

     "Yes, he would. The key of the outer door, the key of the office, and
     the key of the safe."

     "Only Sir James Walter and you had those keys?"

     "I had no keys of the doors--only of the safe."

     "Was Sir James a man who was orderly in his habits?"

     "Yes, I think he was. I know that so far as those three keys are
     concerned he kept them on the same ring. I have often seen them
     there."

     "And that ring went with him to London?"

     "He said so."

     "And your key never left your possession?"

     "Never."

     "Then West, if he is the culprit, must have had a duplicate. And yet
     none was found upon his body. One other point: if a clerk in this
     office desired to sell the plans, would it not be simply to copy the
     plans for himself than to take the originals, as was actually done?"

     "It would take considerable technical knowledge to copy the plans in
     an effective way."

     "But I suppose either Sir James, or you, or West has that technical
     knowledge?"

     "No doubt we had, but I beg you won't try to drag me into the matter,
     Mr. Holmes. What is the use of our speculating in this way when the
     original plans were actually found on West?"

     "Well, it is certainly singular that he should run the risk of taking
     originals if he could safely have taken copies, which would have
     equally served his turn."

     "Singular, no doubt--and yet he did so."

     "Every inquiry in this case reveals something inexplicable. Now there
     are three papers still missing. They are, as I understand, the vital
     ones."

     "Yes, that is so."

     "Do you mean to say that anyone holding these three papers, and
     without the seven others, could construct a Bruce-Partington
     submarine?"

     "I reported to that effect to the Admiralty. But to-day I have been
     over the drawings again, and I am not so sure of it. The double
     valves with the automatic self-adjusting slots are drawn in one of
     the papers which have been returned. Until the foreigners had
     invented that for themselves they could not make the boat. Of course
     they might soon get over the difficulty."

     "But the three missing drawings are the most important?"

     "Undoubtedly."

     "I think, with your permission, I will now take a stroll round the
     premises. I do not recall any other question which I desired to ask."

     He examined the lock of the safe, the door of the room, and finally
     the iron shutters of the window. It was only when we were on the lawn
     outside that his interest was strongly excited. There was a laurel
     bush outside the window, and several of the branches bore signs of
     having been twisted or snapped. He examined them carefully with his
     lens, and then some dim and vague marks upon the earth beneath.
     Finally he asked the chief clerk to close the iron shutters, and he
     pointed out to me that they hardly met in the centre, and that it
     would be possible for anyone outside to see what was going on within
     the room.

     "The indications are ruined by three days' delay. They may mean
     something or nothing. Well, Watson, I do not think that Woolwich can
     help us further. It is a small crop which we have gathered. Let us
     see if we can do better in London."

     Yet we added one more sheaf to our harvest before we left Woolwich
     Station. The clerk in the ticket office was able to say with
     confidence that he saw Cadogan West--whom he knew well by sight--upon
     the Monday night, and that he went to London by the 8.15 to London
     Bridge. He was alone and took a single third-class ticket. The clerk
     was struck at the time by his excited and nervous manner. So shaky
     was he that he could hardly pick up his change, and the clerk had
     helped him with it. A reference to the timetable showed that the 8.15
     was the first train which it was possible for West to take after he
     had left the lady about 7.30.

     "Let us reconstruct, Watson," said Holmes after half an hour of
     silence. "I am not aware that in all our joint researches we have
     ever had a case which was more difficult to get at. Every fresh
     advance which we make only reveals a fresh ridge beyond. And yet we
     have surely made some appreciable progress.

     "The effect of our inquiries at Woolwich has in the main been against
     young Cadogan West; but the indications at the window would lend
     themselves to a more favourable hypothesis. Let us suppose, for
     example, that he had been approached by some foreign agent. It might
     have been done under such pledges as would have prevented him from
     speaking of it, and yet would have affected his thoughts in the
     direction indicated by his remarks to his fiancee. Very good. We will
     now suppose that as he went to the theatre with the young lady he
     suddenly, in the fog, caught a glimpse of this same agent going in
     the direction of the office. He was an impetuous man, quick in his
     decisions. Everything gave way to his duty. He followed the man,
     reached the window, saw the abstraction of the documents, and pursued
     the thief. In this way we get over the objection that no one would
     take originals when he could make copies. This outsider had to take
     originals. So far it holds together."

     "What is the next step?"

     "Then we come into difficulties. One would imagine that under such
     circumstances the first act of young Cadogan West would be to seize
     the villain and raise the alarm. Why did he not do so? Could it have
     been an official superior who took the papers? That would explain
     West's conduct. Or could the chief have given West the slip in the
     fog, and West started at once to London to head him off from his own
     rooms, presuming that he knew where the rooms were? The call must
     have been very pressing, since he left his girl standing in the fog
     and made no effort to communicate with her. Our scent runs cold here,
     and there is a vast gap between either hypothesis and the laying of
     West's body, with seven papers in his pocket, on the roof of a
     Metropolitan train. My instinct now is to work form the other end. If
     Mycroft has given us the list of addresses we may be able to pick our
     man and follow two tracks instead of one."

     Surely enough, a note awaited us at Baker Street. A government
     messenger had brought it post-haste. Holmes glanced at it and threw
     it over to me.

     There are numerous small fry, but few who would handle so big an
     affair. The only men worth considering are Adolph Mayer, of 13 Great
     George Street, Westminster; Louis La Rothiere, of Campden Mansions,
     Notting Hill; and Hugo Oberstein, 13 Caulfield Gardens, Kensington.
     The latter was known to be in town on Monday and is now reported as
     having left. Glad to hear you have seen some light. The Cabinet
     awaits your final report with the utmost anxiety. Urgent
     representations have arrived from the very highest quarter. The whole
     force of the State is at your back if you should need it.
     Mycroft.

     "I'm afraid," said Holmes, smiling, "that all the queen's horses and
     all the queen's men cannot avail in this matter." He had spread out
     his big map of London and leaned eagerly over it. "Well, well," said
     he presently with an exclamation of satisfaction, "things are turning
     a little in our direction at last. Why, Watson, I do honestly believe
     that we are going to pull it off, after all." He slapped me on the
     shoulder with a sudden burst of hilarity. "I am going out now. It is
     only a reconnaissance. I will do nothing serious without my trusted
     comrade and biographer at my elbow. Do you stay here, and the odds
     are that you will see me again in an hour or two. If time hangs heavy
     get foolscap and a pen, and begin your narrative of how we saved the
     State."

     I felt some reflection of his elation in my own mind, for I knew well
     that he would not depart so far from his usual austerity of demeanour
     unless there was good cause for exultation. All the long November
     evening I waited, filled with impatience for his return. At last,
     shortly after nine o'clock, there arrived a messenger with a note:

     Am dining at Goldini's Restaurant, Gloucester Road, Kensington.
     Please come at once and join me there. Bring with you a jemmy, a dark
     lantern, a chisel, and a revolver.
     S.H.

     It was a nice equipment for a respectable citizen to carry through
     the dim, fog-draped streets. I stowed them all discreetly away in my
     overcoat and drove straight to the address given. There sat my friend
     at a little round table near the door of the garish Italian
     restaurant.

     "Have you had something to eat? Then join me in a coffee and curacao.
     Try one of the proprietor's cigars. They are less poisonous than one
     would expect. Have you the tools?"

     "They are here, in my overcoat."

     "Excellent. Let me give you a short sketch of what I have done, with
     some indication of what we are about to do. Now it must be evident to
     you, Watson, that this young man's body was placed on the roof of the
     train. That was clear from the instant that I determined the fact
     that it was from the roof, and not from a carriage, that he had
     fallen."

     "Could it not have been dropped from a bridge?"

     "I should say it was impossible. If you examine the roofs you will
     find that they are slightly rounded, and there is no railing round
     them. Therefore, we can say for certain that young Cadogan West was
     placed on it."

     "How could he be placed there?"

     "That was the question which we had to answer. There is only one
     possible way. You are aware that the Underground runs clear of
     tunnels at some points in the West End. I had a vague memory that as
     I have travelled by it I have occasionally seen windows just above my
     head. Now, suppose that a train halted under such a window, would
     there be any difficulty in laying a body upon the roof?"

     "It seems most improbable."

     "We must fall back upon the old axiom that when all other
     contingencies fail, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the
     truth. Here all other contingencies have failed. When I found that
     the leading international agent, who had just left London, lived in a
     row of houses which abutted upon the Underground, I was so pleased
     that you were a little astonished at my sudden frivolity."

     "Oh, that was it, was it?"

     "Yes, that was it. Mr. Hugo Oberstein, of 13 Caulfield Gardens, had
     become my objective. I began my operations at Gloucester Road
     Station, where a very helpful official walked with me along the track
     and allowed me to satisfy myself not only that the back-stair windows
     of Caulfield Gardens open on the line but the even more essential
     fact that, owing to the intersection of one of the larger railways,
     the Underground trains are frequently held motionless for some
     minutes at that very spot."

     "Splendid, Holmes! You have got it!"

     "So far--so far, Watson. We advance, but the goal is afar. Well,
     having seen the back of Caulfield Gardens, I visited the front and
     satisfied myself that the bird was indeed flown. It is a considerable
     house, unfurnished, so far as I could judge, in the upper rooms.
     Oberstein lived there with a single valet, who was probably a
     confederate entirely in his confidence. We must bear in mind that
     Oberstein has gone to the Continent to dispose of his booty, but not
     with any idea of flight; for he had no reason to fear a warrant, and
     the idea of an amateur domiciliary visit would certainly never occur
     to him. Yet that is precisely what we are about to make."

     "Could we not get a warrant and legalize it?"

     "Hardly on the evidence."

     "What can we hope to do?"

     "We cannot tell what correspondence may be there."

     "I don't like it, Holmes."

     "My dear fellow, you shall keep watch in the street. I'll do the
     criminal part. It's not a time to stick at trifles. Think of
     Mycroft's note, of the Admiralty, the Cabinet, the exalted person who
     waits for news. We are bound to go."

     My answer was to rise from the table.

     "You are right, Holmes. We are bound to go."

     He sprang up and shook me by the hand.

     "I knew you would not shrink at the last," said he, and for a moment
     I saw something in his eyes which was nearer to tenderness than I had
     ever seen. The next instant he was his masterful, practical self once
     more.

     "It is nearly half a mile, but there is no hurry. Let us walk," said
     he. "Don't drop the instruments, I beg. Your arrest as a suspicious
     character would be a most unfortunate complication."

     Caulfield Gardens was one of those lines of flat-faced pillared, and
     porticoed houses which are so prominent a product of the middle
     Victorian epoch in the West End of London. Next door there appeared
     to be a children's party, for the merry buzz of young voices and the
     clatter of a piano resounded through the night. The fog still hung
     about and screened us with its friendly shade. Holmes had lit his
     lantern and flashed it upon the massive door.

     "This is a serious proposition," said he. "It is certainly bolted as
     well as locked. We would do better in the area. There is an excellent
     archway down yonder in case a too zealous policeman should intrude.
     Give me a hand, Watson, and I'll do the same for you."

     A minute later we were both in the area. Hardly had we reached the
     dark shadows before the step of the policeman was heard in the fog
     above. As its soft rhythm died away, Holmes set to work upon the
     lower door. I saw him stoop and strain until with a sharp crash it
     flew open. We sprang through into the dark passage, closing the area
     door behind us. Holmes let the way up the curving, uncarpeted stair.
     His little fan of yellow light shone upon a low window.

     "Here we are, Watson--this must be the one." He threw it open, and as
     he did so there was a low, harsh murmur, growing steadily into a loud
     roar as a train dashed past us in the darkness. Holmes swept his
     light along the window-sill. It was thickly coated with soot from the
     passing engines, but the black surface was blurred and rubbed in
     places.

     "You can see where they rested the body. Halloa, Watson! what is
     this? There can be no doubt that it is a blood mark." He was pointing
     to faint discolourations along the woodwork of the window. "Here it
     is on the stone of the stair also. The demonstration is complete. Let
     us stay here until a train stops."

     We had not long to wait. The very next train roared from the tunnel
     as before, but slowed in the open, and then, with a creaking of
     brakes, pulled up immediately beneath us. It was not four feet from
     the window-ledge to the roof of the carriages. Holmes softly closed
     the window.

     "So far we are justified," said he. "What do you think of it,
     Watson?"

     "A masterpiece. You have never risen to a greater height."

     "I cannot agree with you there. From the moment that I conceived the
     idea of the body being upon the roof, which surely was not a very
     abstruse one, all the rest was inevitable. If it were not for the
     grave interests involved the affair up to this point would be
     insignificant. Our difficulties are still before us. But perhaps we
     may find something here which may help us."

     We had ascended the kitchen stair and entered the suite of rooms upon
     the first floor. One was a dining-room, severely furnished and
     containing nothing of interest. A second was a bedroom, which also
     drew blank. The remaining room appeared more promising, and my
     companion settled down to a systematic examination. It was littered
     with books and papers, and was evidently used as a study. Swiftly and
     methodically Holmes turned over the contents of drawer after drawer
     and cupboard after cupboard, but no gleam of success came to brighten
     his austere face. At the end of an hour he was no further than when
     he started.

     "The cunning dog has covered his tracks," said he. "He has left
     nothing to incriminate him. His dangerous correspondence has been
     destroyed or removed. This is our last chance."

     It was a small tin cash-box which stood upon the writing-desk. Holmes
     pried it open with his chisel. Several rolls of paper were within,
     covered with figures and calculations, without any note to show to
     what they referred. The recurring words, "water pressure" and
     "pressure to the square inch" suggested some possible relation to a
     submarine. Holmes tossed them all impatiently aside. There only
     remained an envelope with some small newspaper slips inside it. He
     shook them out on the table, and at once I saw by his eager face that
     his hopes had been raised.

     "What's this, Watson? Eh? What's this? Record of a series of messages
     in the advertisements of a paper. Daily Telegraph agony column by the
     print and paper. Right-hand top corner of a page. No dates--but
     messages arrange themselves. This must be the first:

     "Hoped to hear sooner. Terms agreed to. Write fully to address given
     on card.
     Pierrot.

     "Next comes:

     "Too complex for description. Must have full report, Stuff awaits you
     when goods delivered.
     Pierrot.

     "Then comes:

     "Matter presses. Must withdraw offer unless contract completed. Make
     appointment by letter. Will confirm by advertisement.
     Pierrot.

     "Finally:

     "Monday night after nine. Two taps. Only ourselves. Do not be so
     suspicious. Payment in hard cash when goods delivered.
     Pierrot.

     "A fairly complete record, Watson! If we could only get at the man at
     the other end!" He sat lost in thought, tapping his fingers on the
     table. Finally he sprang to his feet.

     "Well, perhaps it won't be so difficult, after all. There is nothing
     more to be done here, Watson. I think we might drive round to the
     offices of the Daily Telegraph, and so bring a good day's work to a
     conclusion."

     Mycroft Holmes and Lestrade had come round by appointment after
     breakfast next day and Sherlock Holmes had recounted to them our
     proceedings of the day before. The professional shook his head over
     our confessed burglary.

     "We can't do these things in the force, Mr. Holmes," said he. "No
     wonder you get results that are beyond us. But some of these days
     you'll go too far, and you'll find yourself and your friend in
     trouble."

     "For England, home and beauty--eh, Watson? Martyrs on the altar of
     our country. But what do you think of it, Mycroft?"

     "Excellent, Sherlock! Admirable! But what use will you make of it?"

     Holmes picked up the Daily Telegraph which lay upon the table.

     "Have you seen Pierrot's advertisement to-day?"

     "What? Another one?"

     "Yes, here it is:

     "To-night. Same hour. Same place. Two taps. Most vitally important.
     Your own safety at stake.
     Pierrot.

     "By George!" cried Lestrade. "If he answers that we've got him!"

     "That was my idea when I put it in. I think if you could both make it
     convenient to come with us about eight o'clock to Caulfield Gardens
     we might possibly get a little nearer to a solution."

     One of the most remarkable characteristics of Sherlock Holmes was his
     power of throwing his brain out of action and switching all his
     thoughts on to lighter things whenever he had convinced himself that
     he could no longer work to advantage. I remember that during the
     whole of that memorable day he lost himself in a monograph which he
     had undertaken upon the Polyphonic Motets of Lassus. For my own part
     I had none of this power of detachment, and the day, in consequence,
     appeared to be interminable. The great national importance of the
     issue, the suspense in high quarters, the direct nature of the
     experiment which we were trying--all combined to work upon my nerve.
     It was a relief to me when at last, after a light dinner, we set out
     upon our expedition. Lestrade and Mycroft met us by appointment at
     the outside of Gloucester Road Station. The area door of Oberstein's
     house had been left open the night before, and it was necessary for
     me, as Mycroft Holmes absolutely and indignantly declined to climb
     the railings, to pass in and open the hall door. By nine o'clock we
     were all seated in the study, waiting patently for our man.

     An hour passed and yet another. When eleven struck, the measured beat
     of the great church clock seemed to sound the dirge of our hopes.
     Lestrade and Mycroft were fidgeting in their seats and looking twice
     a minute at their watches. Holmes sat silent and composed, his
     eyelids half shut, but every sense on the alert. He raised his head
     with a sudden jerk.

     "He is coming," said he.

     There had been a furtive step past the door. Now it returned. We
     heard a shuffling sound outside, and then two sharp taps with the
     knocker. Holmes rose, motioning us to remain seated. The gas in the
     hall was a mere point of light. He opened the outer door, and then as
     a dark figure slipped past him he closed and fastened it. "This way!"
     we heard him say, and a moment later our man stood before us. Holmes
     had followed him closely, and as the man turned with a cry of
     surprise and alarm he caught him by the collar and threw him back
     into the room. Before our prisoner had recovered his balance the door
     was shut and Holmes standing with his back against it. The man glared
     round him, staggered, and fell senseless upon the floor. With the
     shock, his broad-brimmed hat flew from his head, his cravat slipped
     sown from his lips, and there were the long light beard and the soft,
     handsome delicate features of Colonel Valentine Walter.

     Holmes gave a whistle of surprise.

     "You can write me down an ass this time, Watson," said he. "This was
     not the bird that I was looking for."

     "Who is he?" asked Mycroft eagerly.

     "The younger brother of the late Sir James Walter, the head of the
     Submarine Department. Yes, yes; I see the fall of the cards. He is
     coming to. I think that you had best leave his examination to me."

     We had carried the prostrate body to the sofa. Now our prisoner sat
     up, looked round him with a horror-stricken face, and passed his hand
     over his forehead, like one who cannot believe his own senses.

     "What is this?" he asked. "I came here to visit Mr. Oberstein."

     "Everything is known, Colonel Walter," said Holmes. "How an English
     gentleman could behave in such a manner is beyond my comprehension.
     But your whole correspondence and relations with Oberstein are within
     our knowledge. So also are the circumstances connected with the death
     of young Cadogan West. Let me advise you to gain at least the small
     credit for repentance and confession, since there are still some
     details which we can only learn from your lips."

     The man groaned and sank his face in his hands. We waited, but he was
     silent.

     "I can assure you," said Holmes, "that every essential is already
     known. We know that you were pressed for money; that you took an
     impress of the keys which your brother held; and that you entered
     into a correspondence with Oberstein, who answered your letters
     through the advertisement columns of the Daily Telegraph. We are
     aware that you went down to the office in the fog on Monday night,
     but that you were seen and followed by young Cadogan West, who had
     probably some previous reason to suspect you. He saw your theft, but
     could not give the alarm, as it was just possible that you were
     taking the papers to your brother in London. Leaving all his private
     concerns, like the good citizen that he was, he followed you closely
     in the fog and kept at your heels until you reached this very house.
     There he intervened, and then it was, Colonel Walter, that to treason
     you added the more terrible crime of murder."

     "I did not! I did not! Before God I swear that I did not!" cried our
     wretched prisoner.

     "Tell us, then, how Cadogan West met his end before you laid him upon
     the roof of a railway carriage."

     "I will. I swear to you that I will. I did the rest. I confess it. It
     was just as you say. A Stock Exchange debt had to be paid. I needed
     the money badly. Oberstein offered me five thousand. It was to save
     myself from ruin. But as to murder, I am as innocent as you."

     "What happened, then?"

     "He had his suspicions before, and he followed me as you describe. I
     never knew it until I was at the very door. It was thick fog, and one
     could not see three yards. I had given two taps and Oberstein had
     come to the door. The young man rushed up and demanded to know what
     we were about to do with the papers. Oberstein had a short
     life-preserver. He always carried it with him. As West forced his way
     after us into the house Oberstein struck him on the head. The blow
     was a fatal one. He was dead within five minutes. There he lay in the
     hall, and we were at our wit's end what to do. Then Oberstein had
     this idea about the trains which halted under his back window. But
     first he examined the papers which I had brought. He said that three
     of them were essential, and that he must keep them. 'You cannot keep
     them,' said I. 'There will be a dreadful row at Woolwich if they are
     not returned.' 'I must keep them,' said he, 'for they are so
     technical that it is impossible in the time to make copies.' 'Then
     they must all go back together to-night,' said I. He thought for a
     little, and then he cried out that he had it. 'Three I will keep,'
     said he. 'The others we will stuff into the pocket of this young man.
     When he is found the whole business will assuredly be put to his
     account.' I could see no other way out of it, so we did as he
     suggested. We waited half an hour at the window before a train
     stopped. It was so thick that nothing could be seen, and we had no
     difficulty in lowering West's body on to the train. That was the end
     of the matter so far as I was concerned."

     "And your brother?"

     "He said nothing, but he had caught me once with his keys, and I
     think that he suspected. I read in his eyes that he suspected. As you
     know, he never held up his head again."

     There was silence in the room. It was broken by Mycroft Holmes.

     "Can you not make reparation? It would ease your conscience, and
     possibly your punishment."

     "What reparation can I make?"

     "Where is Oberstein with the papers?"

     "I do not know."

     "Did he give you no address?"

     "He said that letters to the Hôtel du Louvre, Paris, would eventually
     reach him."

     "Then reparation is still within your power," said Sherlock Holmes.

     "I will do anything I can. I owe this fellow no particular good-will.
     He has been my ruin and my downfall."

     "Here are paper and pen. Sit at this desk and write to my dictation.
     Direct the envelope to the address given. That is right. Now the
     letter:

     "Dear Sir:
     "With regard to our transaction, you will no doubt have observed by
     now that one essential detail is missing. I have a tracing which will
     make it complete. This has involved me in extra trouble, however, and
     I must ask you for a further advance of five hundred pounds. I will
     not trust it to the post, nor will I take anything but gold or notes.
     I would come to you abroad, but it would excite remark if I left the
     country at present. Therefore I shall expect to meet you in the
     smoking-room of the Charing Cross Hotel at noon on Saturday. Remember
     that only English notes, or gold, will be taken.

     "That will do very well. I shall be very much surprised if it does
     not fetch our man."

     And it did! It is a matter of history--that secret history of a
     nation which is often so much more intimate and interesting than its
     public chronicles--that Oberstein, eager to complete the coup of his
     lifetime, came to the lure and was safely engulfed for fifteen years
     in a British prison. In his trunk were found the invaluable
     Bruce-Partington plans, which he had put up for auction in all the
     naval centres of Europe.

     Colonel Walter died in prison towards the end of the second year of
     his sentence. As to Holmes, he returned refreshed to his monograph
     upon the Polyphonic Motets of Lassus, which has since been printed
     for private circulation, and is said by experts to be the last word
     upon the subject. Some weeks afterwards I learned incidentally that
     my friend spent a day at Windsor, whence be returned with a
     remarkably fine emerald tie-pin. When I asked him if he had bought
     it, he answered that it was a present from a certain gracious lady in
     whose interests he had once been fortunate enough to carry out a
     small commission. He said no more; but I fancy that I could guess at
     that lady's august name, and I have little doubt that the emerald pin
     will forever recall to my friend's memory the adventure of the
     Bruce-Partington plans.






                      THE ADVENTURE OF THE DYING DETECTIVE

     Mrs. Hudson, the landlady of Sherlock Holmes, was a long-suffering
     woman. Not only was her first-floor flat invaded at all hours by
     throngs of singular and often undesirable characters but her
     remarkable lodger showed an eccentricity and irregularity in his life
     which must have sorely tried her patience. His incredible untidiness,
     his addiction to music at strange hours, his occasional revolver
     practice within doors, his weird and often malodorous scientific
     experiments, and the atmosphere of violence and danger which hung
     around him made him the very worst tenant in London. On the other
     hand, his payments were princely. I have no doubt that the house
     might have been purchased at the price which Holmes paid for his
     rooms during the years that I was with him.

     The landlady stood in the deepest awe of him and never dared to
     interfere with him, however outrageous his proceedings might seem.
     She was fond of him, too, for he had a remarkable gentleness and
     courtesy in his dealings with women. He disliked and distrusted the
     sex, but he was always a chivalrous opponent. Knowing how genuine was
     her regard for him, I listened earnestly to her story when she came
     to my rooms in the second year of my married life and told me of the
     sad condition to which my poor friend was reduced.

     "He's dying, Dr. Watson," said she. "For three days he has been
     sinking, and I doubt if he will last the day. He would not let me get
     a doctor. This morning when I saw his bones sticking out of his face
     and his great bright eyes looking at me I could stand no more of it.
     'With your leave or without it, Mr. Holmes, I am going for a doctor
     this very hour,' said I. 'Let it be Watson, then,' said he. I
     wouldn't waste an hour in coming to him, sir, or you may not see him
     alive."

     I was horrified for I had heard nothing of his illness. I need not
     say that I rushed for my coat and my hat. As we drove back I asked
     for the details.

     "There is little I can tell you, sir. He has been working at a case
     down at Rotherhithe, in an alley near the river, and he has brought
     this illness back with him. He took to his bed on Wednesday afternoon
     and has never moved since. For these three days neither food nor
     drink has passed his lips."

     "Good God! Why did you not call in a doctor?"

     "He wouldn't have it, sir. You know how masterful he is. I didn't
     dare to disobey him. But he's not long for this world, as you'll see
     for yourself the moment that you set eyes on him."

     He was indeed a deplorable spectacle. In the dim light of a foggy
     November day the sick room was a gloomy spot, but it was that gaunt,
     wasted face staring at me from the bed which sent a chill to my
     heart. His eyes had the brightness of fever, there was a hectic flush
     upon either cheek, and dark crusts clung to his lips; the thin hands
     upon the coverlet twitched incessantly, his voice was croaking and
     spasmodic. He lay listlessly as I entered the room, but the sight of
     me brought a gleam of recognition to his eyes.

     "Well, Watson, we seem to have fallen upon evil days," said he in a
     feeble voice, but with something of his old carelessness of manner.

     "My dear fellow!" I cried, approaching him.

     "Stand back! Stand right back!" said he with the sharp imperiousness
     which I had associated only with moments of crisis. "If you approach
     me, Watson, I shall order you out of the house."

     "But why?"

     "Because it is my desire. Is that not enough?"

     Yes, Mrs. Hudson was right. He was more masterful than ever. It was
     pitiful, however, to see his exhaustion.

     "I only wished to help," I explained.

     "Exactly! You will help best by doing what you are told."

     "Certainly, Holmes."

     He relaxed the austerity of his manner.

     "You are not angry?" he asked, gasping for breath.

     Poor devil, how could I be angry when I saw him lying in such a
     plight before me?

     "It's for your own sake, Watson," he croaked.

     "For my sake?"

     "I know what is the matter with me. It is a coolie disease from
     Sumatra--a thing that the Dutch know more about than we, though they
     have made little of it up to date. One thing only is certain. It is
     infallibly deadly, and it is horribly contagious."

     He spoke now with a feverish energy, the long hands twitching and
     jerking as he motioned me away.

     "Contagious by touch, Watson--that's it, by touch. Keep your distance
     and all is well."

     "Good heavens, Holmes! Do you suppose that such a consideration
     weighs with me of an instant? It would not affect me in the case of a
     stranger. Do you imagine it would prevent me from doing my duty to so
     old a friend?"

     Again I advanced, but he repulsed me with a look of furious anger.

     "If you will stand there I will talk. If you do not you must leave
     the room."

     I have so deep a respect for the extraordinary qualities of Holmes
     that I have always deferred to his wishes, even when I least
     understood them. But now all my professional instincts were aroused.
     Let him be my master elsewhere, I at least was his in a sick room.

     "Holmes," said I, "you are not yourself. A sick man is but a child,
     and so I will treat you. Whether you like it or not, I will examine
     your symptoms and treat you for them."

     He looked at me with venomous eyes.

     "If I am to have a doctor whether I will or not, let me at least have
     someone in whom I have confidence," said he.

     "Then you have none in me?"

     "In your friendship, certainly. But facts are facts, Watson, and,
     after all, you are only a general practitioner with very limited
     experience and mediocre qualifications. It is painful to have to say
     these things, but you leave me no choice."

     I was bitterly hurt.

     "Such a remark is unworthy of you, Holmes. It shows me very clearly
     the state of your own nerves. But if you have no confidence in me I
     would not intrude my services. Let me bring Sir Jasper Meek or
     Penrose Fisher, or any of the best men in London. But someone you
     must have, and that is final. If you think that I am going to stand
     here and see you die without either helping you myself or bringing
     anyone else to help you, then you have mistaken your man."

     "You mean well, Watson," said the sick man with something between a
     sob and a groan. "Shall I demonstrate your own ignorance? What do you
     know, pray, of Tapanuli fever? What do you know of the black Formosa
     corruption?"

     "I have never heard of either."

     "There are many problems of disease, many strange pathological
     possibilities, in the East, Watson." He paused after each sentence to
     collect his failing strength. "I have learned so much during some
     recent researches which have a medico-criminal aspect. It was in the
     course of them that I contracted this complaint. You can do nothing."

     "Possibly not. But I happen to know that Dr. Ainstree, the greatest
     living authority upon tropical disease, is now in London. All
     remonstrance is useless, Holmes, I am going this instant to fetch
     him." I turned resolutely to the door.

     Never have I had such a shock! In an instant, with a tiger-spring,
     the dying man had intercepted me. I heard the sharp snap of a twisted
     key. The next moment he had staggered back to his bed, exhausted and
     panting after his one tremendous outflame of energy.

     "You won't take the key from be by force, Watson, I've got you, my
     friend. Here you are, and here you will stay until I will otherwise.
     But I'll humour you." (All this in little gasps, with terrible
     struggles for breath between.) "You've only my own good at heart. Of
     course I know that very well. You shall have your way, but give me
     time to get my strength. Not now, Watson, not now. It's four o'clock.
     At six you can go."

     "This is insanity, Holmes."

     "Only two hours, Watson. I promise you will go at six. Are you
     content to wait?"

     "I seem to have no choice."

     "None in the world, Watson. Thank you, I need no help in arranging
     the clothes. You will please keep your distance. Now, Watson, there
     is one other condition that I would make. You will seek help, not
     from the man you mention, but from the one that I choose."

     "By all means."

     "The first three sensible words that you have uttered since you
     entered this room, Watson. You will find some books over there. I am
     somewhat exhausted; I wonder how a battery feels when it pours
     electricity into a non-conductor? At six, Watson, we resume our
     conversation."

     But it was destined to be resumed long before that hour, and in
     circumstances which gave me a shock hardly second to that caused by
     his spring to the door. I had stood for some minutes looking at the
     silent figure in the bed. His face was almost covered by the clothes
     and he appeared to be asleep. Then, unable to settle down to reading,
     I walked slowly round the room, examining the pictures of celebrated
     criminals with which every wall was adorned. Finally, in my aimless
     perambulation, I came to the mantelpiece. A litter of pipes,
     tobacco-pouches, syringes, penknives, revolver-cartridges, and other
     debris was scattered over it. In the midst of these was a small black
     and white ivory box with a sliding lid. It was a neat little thing,
     and I had stretched out my hand to examine it more closely when--

     It was a dreadful cry that he gave--a yell which might have been
     heard down the street. My skin went cold and my hair bristled at that
     horrible scream. As I turned I caught a glimpse of a convulsed face
     and frantic eyes. I stood paralyzed, with the little box in my hand.

     "Put it down! Down, this instant, Watson--this instant, I say!" His
     head sank back upon the pillow and he gave a deep sigh of relief as I
     replaced the box upon the mantelpiece. "I hate to have my things
     touched, Watson. You know that I hate it. You fidget me beyond
     endurance. You, a doctor--you are enough to drive a patient into an
     asylum. Sit down, man, and let me have my rest!"

     The incident left a most unpleasant impression upon my mind. The
     violent and causeless excitement, followed by this brutality of
     speech, so far removed from his usual suavity, showed me how deep was
     the disorganization of his mind. Of all ruins, that of a noble mind
     is the most deplorable. I sat in silent dejection until the
     stipulated time had passed. He seemed to have been watching the clock
     as well as I, for it was hardly six before he began to talk with the
     same feverish animation as before.

     "Now, Watson," said he. "Have you any change in your pocket?"

     "Yes."

     "Any silver?"

     "A good deal."

     "How many half-crowns?"

     "I have five."

     "Ah, too few! Too few! How very unfortunate, Watson! However, such as
     they are you can put them in your watchpocket. And all the rest of
     your money in your left trouser pocket. Thank you. It will balance
     you so much better like that."

     This was raving insanity. He shuddered, and again made a sound
     between a cough and a sob.

     "You will now light the gas, Watson, but you will be very careful
     that not for one instant shall it be more than half on. I implore you
     to be careful, Watson. Thank you, that is excellent. No, you need not
     draw the blind. Now you will have the kindness to place some letters
     and papers upon this table within my reach. Thank you. Now some of
     that litter from the mantelpiece. Excellent, Watson! There is a
     sugar-tongs there. Kindly raise that small ivory box with its
     assistance.  Place it here among the papers. Good! You can now go and
     fetch Mr. Culverton Smith, of 13 Lower Burke Street."

     To tell the truth, my desire to fetch a doctor had somewhat weakened,
     for poor Holmes was so obviously delirious that it seemed dangerous
     to leave him. However, he was as eager now to consult the person
     named as he had been obstinate in refusing.

     "I never heard the name," said I.

     "Possibly not, my good Watson. It may surprise you to know that the
     man upon earth who is best versed in this disease is not a medical
     man, but a planter. Mr. Culverton Smith is a well-known resident of
     Sumatra, now visiting London. An outbreak of the disease upon his
     plantation, which was distant from medical aid, caused him to study
     it himself, with some rather far-reaching consequences. He is a very
     methodical person, and I did not desire you to start before six,
     because I was well aware that you would not find him in his study. If
     you could persuade him to come here and give us the benefit of his
     unique experience of this disease, the investigation of which has
     been his dearest hobby, I cannot doubt that he could help me."

     I gave Holmes's remarks as a consecutive whole and will not attempt
     to indicate how they were interrupted by gaspings for breath and
     those clutchings of his hands which indicated the pain from which he
     was suffering. His appearance had changed for the worse during the
     few hours that I had been with him. Those hectic spots were more
     pronounced, the eyes shone more brightly out of darker hollows, and a
     cold sweat glimmered upon his brow. He still retained, however, the
     jaunty gallantry of his speech. To the last gasp he would always be
     the master.

     "You will tell him exactly how you have left me," said he. "You will
     convey the very impression which is in your own mind--a dying man--a
     dying and delirious man. Indeed, I cannot think why the whole bed of
     the ocean is not one solid mass of oysters, so prolific the creatures
     seem. Ah, I am wondering! Strange how the brain controls the brain!
     What was I saying, Watson?"

     "My directions for Mr. Culverton Smith."

     "Ah, yes, I remember. My life depends upon it. Plead with him,
     Watson. There is no good feeling between us. His nephew, Watson--I
     had suspicions of foul play and I allowed him to see it. The boy died
     horribly. He has a grudge against me. You will soften him, Watson.
     Beg him, pray him, get him here by any means. He can save me--only
     he!"

     "I will bring him in a cab, if I have to carry him down to it."

     "You will do nothing of the sort. You will persuade him to come. And
     then you will return in front of him. Make any excuse so as not to
     come with him. Don't forget, Watson. You won't fail me. You never did
     fail me. No doubt there are natural enemies which limit the increase
     of the creatures. You and I, Watson, we have done our part. Shall the
     world, then, be overrun by oysters? No, no; horrible! You'll convey
     all that is in your mind."

     I left him full of the image of this magnificent intellect babbling
     like a foolish child. He had handed me the key, and with a happy
     thought I took it with me lest he should lock himself in. Mrs. Hudson
     was waiting, trembling and weeping, in the passage. Behind me as I
     passed from the flat I heard Holmes's high, thin voice in some
     delirious chant. Below, as I stood whistling for a cab, a man came on
     me through the fog.

     "How is Mr. Holmes, sir?" he asked.

     It was an old acquaintance, Inspector Morton, of Scotland Yard,
     dressed in unofficial tweeds.

     "He is very ill," I answered.

     He looked at me in a most singular fashion. Had it not been too
     fiendish, I could have imagined that the gleam of the fanlight showed
     exultation in his face.

     "I heard some rumour of it," said he.

     The cab had driven up, and I left him.

     Lower Burke Street proved to be a line of fine houses lying in the
     vague borderland between Notting Hill and Kensington. The particular
     one at which my cabman pulled up had an air of smug and demure
     respectability in its old-fashioned iron railings, its massive
     folding-door, and its shining brasswork. All was in keeping with a
     solemn butler who appeared framed in the pink radiance of a tinted
     electrical light behind him.

     "Yes, Mr. Culverton Smith is in. Dr. Watson! Very good, sir, I will
     take up your card."

     My humble name and title did not appear to impress Mr. Culverton
     Smith. Through the half-open door I heard a high, petulant,
     penetrating voice.

     "Who is this person? What does he want? Dear me, Staples, how often
     have I said that I am not to be disturbed in my hours of study?"

     There came a gentle flow of soothing explanation from the butler.

     "Well, I won't see him, Staples. I can't have my work interrupted
     like this. I am not at home. Say so. Tell him to come in the morning
     if he really must see me."

     Again the gentle murmur.

     "Well, well, give him that message. He can come in the morning, or he
     can stay away. My work must not be hindered."

     I thought of Holmes tossing upon his bed of sickness and counting the
     minutes, perhaps, until I could bring help to him. It was not a time
     to stand upon ceremony. His life depended upon my promptness. Before
     the apologetic butler had delivered his message I had pushed past him
     and was in the room.

     With a shrill cry of anger a man rose from a reclining chair beside
     the fire. I saw a great yellow face, coarse-grained and greasy, with
     heavy, double-chin, and two sullen, menacing gray eyes which glared
     at me from under tufted and sandy brows. A high bald head had a small
     velvet smoking-cap poised coquettishly upon one side of its pink
     curve. The skull was of enormous capacity, and yet as I looked down I
     saw to my amazement that the figure of the man was small and frail,
     twisted in the shoulders and back like one who has suffered from
     rickets in his childhood.

     "What's this?" he cried in a high, screaming voice. "What is the
     meaning of this intrusion? Didn't I send you word that I would see
     you to-morrow morning?"

     "I am sorry," said I, "but the matter cannot be delayed. Mr. Sherlock
     Holmes--"

     The mention of my friend's name had an extraordinary effect upon the
     little man. The look of anger passed in an instant from his face. His
     features became tense and alert.

     "Have you come from Holmes?" he asked.

     "I have just left him."

     "What about Holmes? How is he?"

     "He is desperately ill. That is why I have come."

     The man motioned me to a chair, and turned to resume his own. As he
     did so I caught a glimpse of his face in the mirror over the
     mantelpiece. I could have sworn that it was set in a malicious and
     abominable smile. Yet I persuaded myself that it must have been some
     nervous contraction which I had surprised, for he turned to me an
     instant later with genuine concern upon his features.

     "I am sorry to hear this," said he. "I only know Mr. Holmes through
     some business dealings which we have had, but I have every respect
     for his talents and his character. He is an amateur of crime, as I am
     of disease. For him the villain, for me the microbe. There are my
     prisons," he continued, pointing to a row of bottles and jars which
     stood upon a side table. "Among those gelatine cultivations some of
     the very worst offenders in the world are now doing time."

     "It was on account of your special knowledge that Mr. Holmes desired
     to see you. He has a high opinion of you and thought that you were
     the one man in London who could help him."

     The little man started, and the jaunty smoking-cap slid to the floor.

     "Why?" he asked. "Why should Mr. Homes think that I could help him in
     his trouble?"

     "Because of your knowledge of Eastern diseases."

     "But why should he think that this disease which he has contracted is
     Eastern?"

     "Because, in some professional inquiry, he has been working among
     Chinese sailors down in the docks."

     Mr. Culverton Smith smiled pleasantly and picked up his smoking-cap.

     "Oh, that's it--is it?" said he. "I trust the matter is not so grave
     as you suppose. How long has he been ill?"

     "About three days."

     "Is he delirious?"

     "Occasionally."

     "Tut, tut! This sounds serious. It would be inhuman not to answer his
     call. I very much resent any interruption to my work, Dr. Watson, but
     this case is certainly exceptional. I will come with you at once."

     I remembered Holmes's injunction.

     "I have another appointment," said I.

     "Very good. I will go alone. I have a note of Mr. Holmes's address.
     You can rely upon my being there within half an hour at most."

     It was with a sinking heart that I reentered Holmes's bedroom. For
     all that I knew the worst might have happened in my absence. To my
     enormous relief, he had improved greatly in the interval. His
     appearance was as ghastly as ever, but all trace of delirium had left
     him and he spoke in a feeble voice, it is true, but with even more
     than his usual crispness and lucidity.

     "Well, did you see him, Watson?"

     "Yes; he is coming."

     "Admirable, Watson! Admirable! You are the best of messengers."

     "He wished to return with me."

     "That would never do, Watson. That would be obviously impossible. Did
     he ask what ailed me?"

     "I told him about the Chinese in the East End."

     "Exactly! Well, Watson, you have done all that a good friend could.
     You can now disappear from the scene."

     "I must wait and hear his opinion, Holmes."

     "Of course you must. But I have reasons to suppose that this opinion
     would be very much more frank and valuable if he imagines that we are
     alone. There is just room behind the head of my bed, Watson."

     "My dear Holmes!"

     "I fear there is no alternative, Watson. The room does not lend
     itself to concealment, which is as well, as it is the less likely to
     arouse suspicion. But just there, Watson, I fancy that it could be
     done." Suddenly he sat up with a rigid intentness upon his haggard
     face. "There are the wheels, Watson. Quick, man, if you love me! And
     don't budge, whatever happens--whatever happens, do you hear? Don't
     speak! Don't move! Just listen with all your ears." Then in an
     instant his sudden access of strength departed, and his masterful,
     purposeful talk droned away into the low, vague murmurings of a
     semi-delirious man.

     From the hiding-place into which I had been so swiftly hustled I
     heard the footfalls upon the stair, with the opening and the closing
     of the bedroom door. Then, to my surprise, there came a long silence,
     broken only by the heavy breathings and gaspings of the sick man. I
     could imagine that our visitor was standing by the bedside and
     looking down at the sufferer. At last that strange hush was broken.

     "Holmes!" he cried. "Holmes!" in the insistent tone of one who
     awakens a sleeper. "Can't you hear me, Holmes?" There was a rustling,
     as if he had shaken the sick man roughly by the shoulder.

     "Is that you, Mr. Smith?" Holmes whispered. "I hardly dared hope that
     you would come."

     The other laughed.

     "I should imagine not," he said. "And yet, you see, I am here. Coals
     of fire, Holmes--coals of fire!"

     "It is very good of you--very noble of you. I appreciate your special
     knowledge."

     Our visitor sniggered.

     "You do.  You are, fortunately, the only man in London who does. Do
     you know what is the matter with you?"

     "The same," said Holmes.

     "Ah! You recognize the symptoms?"

     "Only too well."

     "Well, I shouldn't be surprised, Holmes. I shouldn't be surprised if
     it were the same. A bad lookout for you if it is. Poor Victor was a
     dead man on the fourth day--a strong, hearty young fellow. It was
     certainly, as you said, very surprising that he should have
     contracted and out-of-the-way Asiatic disease in the heart of
     London--a disease, too, of which I had made such a very special
     study. Singular coincidence, Holmes. Very smart of you to notice it,
     but rather uncharitable to suggest that it was cause and effect."

     "I knew that you did it."

     "Oh, you did, did you? Well, you couldn't prove it, anyhow. But what
     do you think of yourself spreading reports about me like that, and
     then crawling to me for help the moment you are in trouble? What sort
     of a game is that--eh?"

     I heard the rasping, laboured breathing of the sick man. "Give me the
     water!" he gasped.

     "You're precious near your end, my friend, but I don't want you to go
     till I have had a word with you. That's why I give you water. There,
     don't slop it about! That's right. Can you understand what I say?"

     Holmes groaned.

     "Do what you can for me. Let bygones be bygones," he whispered. "I'll
     put the words out of my head--I swear I will. Only cure me, and I'll
     forget it."

     "Forget what?"

     "Well, about Victor Savage's death. You as good as admitted just now
     that you had done it. I'll forget it."

     "You can forget it or remember it, just as you like. I don't see you
     in the witnessbox. Quite another shaped box, my good Holmes, I assure
     you. It matters nothing to me that you should know how my nephew
     died. It's not him we are talking about. It's you."

     "Yes, yes."

     "The fellow who came for me--I've forgotten his name--said that you
     contracted it down in the East End among the sailors."

     "I could only account for it so."

     "You are proud of your brains, Holmes, are you not? Think yourself
     smart, don't you? You came across someone who was smarter this time.
     Now cast your mind back, Holmes. Can you think of no other way you
     could have got this thing?"

     "I can't think. My mind is gone. For heaven's sake help me!"

     "Yes, I will help you. I'll help you to understand just where you are
     and how you got there. I'd like you to know before you die."

     "Give me something to ease my pain."

     "Painful, is it? Yes, the coolies used to do some squealing towards
     the end. Takes you as cramp, I fancy."

     "Yes, yes; it is cramp."

     "Well, you can hear what I say, anyhow. Listen now! Can you remember
     any unusual incident in your life just about the time your symptoms
     began?"

     "No, no; nothing."

     "Think again."

     "I'm too ill to think."

     "Well, then, I'll help you.  Did anything come by post?"

     "By post?"

     "A box by chance?"

     "I'm fainting--I'm gone!"

     "Listen, Holmes!" There was a sound as if he was shaking the dying
     man, and it was all that I could do to hold myself quiet in my
     hiding-place. "You must hear me. You shall hear me. Do you remember a
     box--an ivory box? It came on Wednesday. You opened it--do you
     remember?"

     "Yes, yes, I opened it. There was a sharp spring inside it. Some
     joke--"

     "It was no joke, as you will find to your cost. You fool, you would
     have it and you have got it. Who asked you to cross my path? If you
     had left me alone I would not have hurt you."

     "I remember," Holmes gasped. "The spring! It drew blood. This
     box--this on the table."

     "The very one, by George! And it may as well leave the room in my
     pocket. There goes your last shred of evidence. But you have the
     truth now, Holmes, and you can die with the knowledge that I killed
     you. You knew too much of the fate of Victor Savage, so I have sent
     you to share it. You are very near your end, Holmes. I will sit here
     and I will watch you die."

     Holmes's voice had sunk to an almost inaudible whisper.

     "What is that?" said Smith. "Turn up the gas? Ah, the shadows begin
     to fall, do they? Yes, I will turn it up, that I may see you the
     better." He crossed the room and the light suddenly brightened. "Is
     there any other little service that I can do you, my friend?"

     "A match and a cigarette."

     I nearly called out in my joy and my amazement. He was speaking in
     his natural voice--a little weak, perhaps, but the very voice I knew.
     There was a long pause, and I felt that Culverton Smith was standing
     in silent amazement looking down at his companion.

     "What's the meaning of this?" I heard him say at last in a dry,
     rasping tone.

     "The best way of successfully acting a part is to be it," said
     Holmes. "I give you my word that for three days I have tasted neither
     food nor drink until you were good enough to pour me out that glass
     of water. But it is the tobacco which I find most irksome. Ah, here
     are some cigarettes." I heard the striking of a match. "That is very
     much better. Halloa! halloa! Do I hear the step of a friend?"

     There were footfalls outside, the door opened, and Inspector Morton
     appeared.

     "All is in order and this is your man," said Holmes.

     The officer gave the usual cautions.

     "I arrest you on the charge of the murder of one Victor Savage," he
     concluded.

     "And you might add of the attempted murder of one Sherlock Holmes,"
     remarked my friend with a chuckle. "To save an invalid trouble,
     Inspector, Mr. Culverton Smith was good enough to give our signal by
     turning up the gas. By the way, the prisoner has a small box in the
     right-hand pocket of his coat which it would be as well to remove.
     Thank you. I would handle it gingerly if I were you. Put it down
     here. It may play its part in the trial."

     There was a sudden rush and a scuffle, followed by the clash of iron
     and a cry of pain.

     "You'll only get yourself hurt," said the inspector. "Stand still,
     will you?" There was the click of the closing handcuffs.

     "A nice trap!" cried the high, snarling voice. "It will bring you
     into the dock, Holmes, not me. He asked me to come here to cure him.
     I was sorry for him and I came. Now he will pretend, no doubt, that I
     have said anything which he may invent which will corroborate his
     insane suspicions. You can lie as you like, Holmes.  My word is
     always as good as yours."

     "Good heavens!" cried Holmes. "I had totally forgotten him. My dear
     Watson, I owe you a thousand apologies. To think that I should have
     overlooked you! I need not introduce you to Mr. Culverton Smith,
     since I understand that you met somewhat earlier in the evening. Have
     you the cab below? I will follow you when I am dressed, for I may be
     of some use at the station.

     "I never needed it more," said Holmes as he refreshed himself with a
     glass of claret and some biscuits in the intervals of his toilet.
     "However, as you know, my habits are irregular, and such a feat means
     less to me than to most men. It was very essential that I should
     impress Mrs. Hudson with the reality of my condition, since she was
     to convey it to you, and you in turn to him. You won't be offended,
     Watson? You will realize that among your many talents dissimulation
     finds no place, and that if you had shared my secret you would never
     have been able to impress Smith with the urgent necessity of his
     presence, which was the vital point of the whole scheme. Knowing his
     vindictive nature, I was perfectly certain that he would come to look
     upon his handiwork."

     "But your appearance, Holmes--your ghastly face?"

     "Three days of absolute fast does not improve one's beauty, Watson.
     For the rest, there is nothing which a sponge may not cure. With
     vaseline upon one's forehead, belladonna in one's eyes, rouge over
     the cheek-bones, and crusts of beeswax round one's lips, a very
     satisfying effect can be produced. Malingering is a subject upon
     which I have sometimes thought of writing a monograph. A little
     occasional talk about half-crowns, oysters, or any other extraneous
     subject produces a pleasing effect of delirium."

     "But why would you not let me near you, since there was in truth no
     infection?"

     "Can you ask, my dear Watson? Do you imagine that I have no respect
     for your medical talents? Could I fancy that your astute judgment
     would pass a dying man who, however weak, had no rise of pulse or
     temperature? At four yards, I could deceive you. If I failed to do
     so, who would bring my Smith within my grasp? No, Watson, I would not
     touch that box. You can just see if you look at it sideways where the
     sharp spring like a viper's tooth emerges as you open it. I dare say
     it was by some such device that poor Savage, who stood between this
     monster and a reversion, was done to death. My correspondence,
     however, is, as you know, a varied one, and I am somewhat upon my
     guard against any packages which reach me. It was clear to me,
     however, that by pretending that he had really succeeded in his
     design I might surprise a confession. That pretence I have carried
     out with the thoroughness of the true artist. Thank you, Watson, you
     must help me on with my coat. When we have finished at the
     police-station I think that something nutritious at Simpson's would
     not be out of place."






                    THE DISAPPEARANCE OF LADY FRANCES CARFAX

     "But why Turkish?" asked Mr. Sherlock Holmes, gazing fixedly at my
     boots. I was reclining in a cane-backed chair at the moment, and my
     protruded feet had attracted his ever-active attention.

     "English," I answered in some surprise. "I got them at Latimer's, in
     Oxford Street."

     Holmes smiled with an expression of weary patience.

     "The bath!" he said; "the bath! Why the relaxing and expensive
     Turkish rather than the invigorating home-made article?"

     "Because for the last few days I have been feeling rheumatic and old.
     A Turkish bath is what we call an alterative in medicine--a fresh
     starting-point, a cleanser of the system.

     "By the way, Holmes," I added, "I have no doubt the connection
     between my boots and a Turkish bath is a perfectly self-evident one
     to a logical mind, and yet I should be obliged to you if you would
     indicate it."

     "The train of reasoning is not very obscure, Watson," said Holmes
     with a mischievous twinkle. "It belongs to the same elementary class
     of deduction which I should illustrate if I were to ask you who
     shared your cab in your drive this morning."

     "I don't admit that a fresh illustration is an explanation," said I
     with some asperity.

     "Bravo, Watson! A very dignified and logical remonstrance. Let me
     see, what were the points? Take the last one first--the cab. You
     observe that you have some splashes on the left sleeve and shoulder
     of your coat. Had you sat in the centre of a hansom you would
     probably have had no splashes, and if you had they would certainly
     have been symmetrical. Therefore it is clear that you sat at the
     side. Therefore it is equally clear that you had a companion."

     "That is very evident."

     "Absurdly commonplace, is it not?"

     "But the boots and the bath?"

     "Equally childish. You are in the habit of doing up your boots in a
     certain way. I see them on this occasion fastened with an elaborate
     double bow, which is not your usual method of tying them. You have,
     therefore, had them off. Who has tied them? A bootmaker--or the boy
     at the bath. It is unlikely that it is the bootmaker, since your
     boots are nearly new. Well, what remains? The bath. Absurd, is it
     not? But, for all that, the Turkish bath has served a purpose."

     "What is that?"

     "You say that you have had it because you need a change. Let me
     suggest that you take one. How would Lausanne do, my dear
     Watson--first-class tickets and all expenses paid on a princely
     scale?"

     "Splendid! But why?"

     Holmes leaned back in his armchair and took his notebook from his
     pocket.

     "One of the most dangerous classes in the world," said he, "is the
     drifting and friendless woman. She is the most harmless and often the
     most useful of mortals, but she is the inevitable inciter of crime in
     others. She is helpless. She is migratory. She has sufficient means
     to take her from country to country and from hotel to hotel. She is
     lost, as often as not, in a maze of obscure pensions and
     boardinghouses. She is a stray chicken in a world of foxes. When she
     is gobbled up she is hardly missed. I much fear that some evil has
     come to the Lady Frances Carfax."

     I was relieved at this sudden descent from the general to the
     particular. Holmes consulted his notes.

     "Lady Frances," he continued, "is the sole survivor of the direct
     family of the late Earl of Rufton. The estates went, as you may
     remember, in the male line. She was left with limited means, but with
     some very remarkable old Spanish jewellery of silver and curiously
     cut diamonds to which she was fondly attached--too attached, for she
     refused to leave them with her banker and always carried them about
     with her. A rather pathetic figure, the Lady Frances, a beautiful
     woman, still in fresh middle age, and yet, by a strange change, the
     last derelict of what only twenty years ago was a goodly fleet."

     "What has happened to her, then?"

     "Ah, what has happened to the Lady Frances? Is she alive or dead?
     There is our problem. She is a lady of precise habits, and for four
     years it has been her invariable custom to write every second week to
     Miss Dobney, her old governess, who has long retired and lives in
     Camberwell. It is this Miss Dobney who has consulted me. Nearly five
     weeks have passed without a word. The last letter was from the Hotel
     National at Lausanne. Lady Frances seems to have left there and given
     no address. The family are anxious, and as they are exceedingly
     wealthy no sum will be spared if we can clear the matter up."

     "Is Miss Dobney the only source of information? Surely she had other
     correspondents?"

     "There is one correspondent who is a sure draw, Watson. That is the
     bank. Single ladies must live, and their passbooks are compressed
     diaries. She banks at Silvester's. I have glanced over her account.
     The last check but one paid her bill at Lausanne, but it was a large
     one and probably left her with cash in hand. Only one check has been
     drawn since."

     "To whom, and where?"

     "To Miss Marie Devine. There is nothing to show where the check was
     drawn. It was cashed at the Credit Lyonnais at Montpellier less than
     three weeks ago. The sum was fifty pounds."

     "And who is Miss Marie Devine?"

     "That also I have been able to discover. Miss Marie Devine was the
     maid of Lady Frances Carfax. Why she should have paid her this check
     we have not yet determined. I have no doubt, however, that your
     researches will soon clear the matter up."

     "My researches!"

     "Hence the health-giving expedition to Lausanne. You know that I
     cannot possibly leave London while old Abrahams is in such mortal
     terror of his life. Besides, on general principles it is best that I
     should not leave the country. Scotland Yard feels lonely without me,
     and it causes an unhealthy excitement among the criminal classes. Go,
     then, my dear Watson, and if my humble counsel can ever be valued at
     so extravagant a rate as two pence a word, it waits your disposal
     night and day at the end of the Continental wire."

     Two days later found me at the Hotel National at Lausanne, where I
     received every courtesy at the hands of M. Moser, the well-known
     manager. Lady Frances, as he informed me, had stayed there for
     several weeks. She had been much liked by all who met her. Her age
     was not more than forty. She was still handsome and bore every sign
     of having in her youth been a very lovely woman. M. Moser knew
     nothing of any valuable jewellery, but it had been remarked by the
     servants that the heavy trunk in the lady's bedroom was always
     scrupulously locked. Marie Devine, the maid, was as popular as her
     mistress. She was actually engaged to one of the head waiters in the
     hotel, and there was no difficulty in getting her address. It was 11
     Rue de Trajan, Montpellier. All this I jotted down and felt that
     Holmes himself could not have been more adroit in collecting his
     facts.

     Only one corner still remained in the shadow. No light which I
     possessed could clear up the cause for the lady's sudden departure.
     She was very happy at Lausanne. There was every reason to believe
     that she intended to remain for the season in her luxurious rooms
     overlooking the lake. And yet she had left at a single day's notice,
     which involved her in the useless payment of a week's rent. Only
     Jules Vibart, the lover of the maid, had any suggestion to offer. He
     connected the sudden departure with the visit to the hotel a day or
     two before of a tall, dark, bearded man. "Un sauvage--un véritable
     sauvage!" cried Jules Vibart. The man had rooms somewhere in the
     town. He had been seen talking earnestly to Madame on the promenade
     by the lake. Then he had called. She had refused to see him. He was
     English, but of his name there was no record. Madame had left the
     place immediately afterwards. Jules Vibart, and, what was of more
     importance, Jules Vibart's sweetheart, thought that this call and the
     departure were cause and effect. Only one thing Jules would not
     discuss. That was the reason why Marie had left her mistress. Of that
     he could or would say nothing. If I wished to know, I must go to
     Montpellier and ask her.

     So ended the first chapter of my inquiry. The second was devoted to
     the place which Lady Frances Carfax had sought when she left
     Lausanne. Concerning this there had been some secrecy, which
     confirmed the idea that she had gone with the intention of throwing
     someone off her track. Otherwise why should not her luggage have been
     openly labelled for Baden? Both she and it reached the Rhenish spa by
     some circuitous route. This much I gathered from the manager of
     Cook's local office. So to Baden I went, after dispatching to Holmes
     an account of all my proceedings and receiving in reply a telegram of
     half-humorous commendation.

     At Baden the track was not difficult to follow. Lady Frances had
     stayed at the Englischer Hof for a fortnight. While there she had
     made the acquaintance of a Dr. Shlessinger and his wife, a missionary
     from South America. Like most lonely ladies, Lady Frances found her
     comfort and occupation in religion. Dr. Shlessinger's remarkable
     personality, his whole hearted devotion, and the fact that he was
     recovering from a disease contracted in the exercise of his apostolic
     duties affected her deeply. She had helped Mrs. Shlessinger in the
     nursing of the convalescent saint. He spent his day, as the manager
     described it to me, upon a lounge-chair on the veranda, with an
     attendant lady upon either side of him. He was preparing a map of the
     Holy Land, with special reference to the kingdom of the Midianites,
     upon which he was writing a monograph. Finally, having improved much
     in health, he and his wife had returned to London, and Lady Frances
     had started thither in their company. This was just three weeks
     before, and the manager had heard nothing since. As to the maid,
     Marie, she had gone off some days beforehand in floods of tears,
     after informing the other maids that she was leaving service forever.
     Dr. Shlessinger had paid the bill of the whole party before his
     departure.

     "By the way," said the landlord in conclusion, "you are not the only
     friend of Lady Frances Carfax who is inquiring after her just now.
     Only a week or so ago we had a man here upon the same errand."

     "Did he give a name?" I asked.

     "None; but he was an Englishman, though of an unusual type."

     "A savage?" said I, linking my facts after the fashion of my
     illustrious friend.

     "Exactly. That describes him very well. He is a bulky, bearded,
     sunburned fellow, who looks as if he would be more at home in a
     farmers' inn than in a fashionable hotel. A hard, fierce man, I
     should think, and one whom I should be sorry to offend."

     Already the mystery began to define itself, as figures grow clearer
     with the lifting of a fog. Here was this good and pious lady pursued
     from place to place by a sinister and unrelenting figure. She feared
     him, or she would not have fled from Lausanne. He had still followed.
     Sooner or later he would overtake her. Had he already overtaken her?
     Was that the secret of her continued silence? Could the good people
     who were her companions not screen her from his violence or his
     blackmail? What horrible purpose, what deep design, lay behind this
     long pursuit? There was the problem which I had to solve.

     To Holmes I wrote showing how rapidly and surely I had got down to
     the roots of the matter. In reply I had a telegram asking for a
     description of Dr. Shlessinger's left ear. Holmes's ideas of humour
     are strange and occasionally offensive, so I took no notice of his
     ill-timed jest--indeed, I had already reached Montpellier in my
     pursuit of the maid, Marie, before his message came.

     I had no difficulty in finding the ex-servant and in learning all
     that she could tell me. She was a devoted creature, who had only left
     her mistress because she was sure that she was in good hands, and
     because her own approaching marriage made a separation inevitable in
     any case. Her mistress had, as she confessed with distress, shown
     some irritability of temper towards her during their stay in Baden,
     and had even questioned her once as if she had suspicions of her
     honesty, and this had made the parting easier than it would otherwise
     have been. Lady Frances had given her fifty pounds as a
     wedding-present. Like me, Marie viewed with deep distrust the
     stranger who had driven her mistress from Lausanne. With her own eyes
     she had seen him seize the lady's wrist with great violence on the
     public promenade by the lake. He was a fierce and terrible man. She
     believed that it was out of dread of him that Lady Frances had
     accepted the escort of the Shlessingers to London. She had never
     spoken to Marie about it, but many little signs had convinced the
     maid that her mistress lived in a state of continual nervous
     apprehension. So far she had got in her narrative, when suddenly she
     sprang from her chair and her face was convulsed with surprise and
     fear. "See!" she cried. "The miscreant follows still! There is the
     very man of whom I speak."

     Through the open sitting-room window I saw a huge, swarthy man with a
     bristling black beard walking slowly down the centre of the street
     and staring eagerly at he numbers of the houses. It was clear that,
     like myself, he was on the track of the maid. Acting upon the impulse
     of the moment, I rushed out and accosted him.

     "You are an Englishman," I said.

     "What if I am?" he asked with a most villainous scowl.

     "May I ask what your name is?"

     "No, you may not," said he with decision.

     The situation was awkward, but the most direct way is often the best.

     "Where is the Lady Frances Carfax?" I asked.

     He stared at me with amazement.

     "What have you done with her? Why have you pursued her? I insist upon
     an answer!" said I.

     The fellow gave a below of anger and sprang upon me like a tiger. I
     have held my own in many a struggle, but the man had a grip of iron
     and the fury of a fiend. His hand was on my throat and my senses were
     nearly gone before an unshaven French ouvrier in a blue blouse darted
     out from a cabaret opposite, with a cudgel in his hand, and struck my
     assailant a sharp crack over the forearm, which made him leave go his
     hold. He stood for an instant fuming with rage and uncertain whether
     he should not renew his attack. Then, with a snarl of anger, he left
     me and entered the cottage from which I had just come. I turned to
     thank my preserver, who stood beside me in the roadway.

     "Well, Watson," said he, "a very pretty hash you have made of it! I
     rather think you had better come back with me to London by the night
     express."

     An hour afterwards, Sherlock Holmes, in his usual garb and style, was
     seated in my private room at the hotel. His explanation of his sudden
     and opportune appearance was simplicity itself, for, finding that he
     could get away from London, he determined to head me off at the next
     obvious point of my travels. In the disguise of a workingman he had
     sat in the cabaret waiting for my appearance.

     "And a singularly consistent investigation you have made, my dear
     Watson," said he. "I cannot at the moment recall any possible blunder
     which you have omitted. The total effect of your proceeding has been
     to give the alarm everywhere and yet to discover nothing."

     "Perhaps you would have done no better," I answered bitterly.

     "There is no 'perhaps' about it. I have done better. Here is the Hon.
     Philip Green, who is a fellow-lodger with you in this hotel, and we
     may find him the starting-point for a more successful investigation."

     A card had come up on a salver, and it was followed by the same
     bearded ruffian who had attacked me in the street. He started when he
     saw me.

     "What is this, Mr. Holmes?" he asked. "I had your note and I have
     come. But what has this man to do with the matter?"

     "This is my old friend and associate, Dr. Watson, who is helping us
     in this affair."

     The stranger held out a huge, sunburned hand, with a few words of
     apology.

     "I hope I didn't harm you. When you accused me of hurting her I lost
     my grip of myself. Indeed, I'm not responsible in these days. My
     nerves are like live wires. But this situation is beyond me. What I
     want to know, in the first place, Mr. Holmes, is, how in the world
     you came to hear of my existence at all."

     "I am in touch with Miss Dobney, Lady Frances's governess."

     "Old Susan Dobney with the mob cap! I remember her well."

     "And she remembers you. It was in the days before--before you found
     it better to go to South Africa."

     "Ah, I see you know my whole story. I need hide nothing from you. I
     swear to you, Mr. Holmes, that there never was in this world a man
     who loved a woman with a more wholehearted love than I had for
     Frances. I was a wild youngster, I know--not worse than others of my
     class. But her mind was pure as snow. She could not bear a shadow of
     coarseness. So, when she came to hear of things that I had done, she
     would have no more to say to me. And yet she loved me--that is the
     wonder of it!--loved me well enough to remain single all her sainted
     days just for my sake alone. When the years had passed and I had made
     my money at Barberton I thought perhaps I could seek her out and
     soften her. I had heard that she was still unmarried, I found her at
     Lausanne and tried all I knew. She weakened, I think, but her will
     was strong, and when next I called she had left the town. I traced
     her to Baden, and then after a time heard that her maid was here. I'm
     a rough fellow, fresh from a rough life, and when Dr. Watson spoke to
     me as he did I lost hold of myself for a moment. But for God's sake
     tell me what has become of the Lady Frances."

     "That is for us to find out," said Sherlock Holmes with peculiar
     gravity. "What is your London address, Mr. Green?"

     "The Langham Hotel will find me."

     "Then may I recommend that you return there and be on hand in case I
     should want you? I have no desire to encourage false hopes, but you
     may rest assured that all that can be done will be done for the
     safety of Lady Frances. I can say no more for the instant. I will
     leave you this card so that you may be able to keep in touch with us.
     Now, Watson, if you will pack your bag I will cable to Mrs. Hudson to
     make one of her best efforts for two hungry travellers at 7.30
     to-morrow."

     A telegram was awaiting us when we reached our Baker Street rooms,
     which Holmes read with an exclamation of interest and threw across to
     me. "Jagged or torn," was the message, and the place of origin,
     Baden.

     "What is this?" I asked.

     "It is everything," Holmes answered. "You may remember my seemingly
     irrelevant question as to this clerical gentleman's left ear. You did
     not answer it."

     "I had left Baden and could not inquire."

     "Exactly. For this reason I sent a duplicate to the manager of the
     Englischer Hof, whose answer lies here."

     "What does it show?"

     "It shows, my dear Watson, that we are dealing with an exceptionally
     astute and dangerous man. The Rev. Dr. Shlessinger, missionary from
     South America, is none other than Holy Peters, one of the most
     unscrupulous rascals that Australia has ever evolved--and for a young
     country it has turned out some very finished types. His particular
     specialty is the beguiling of lonely ladies by playing upon their
     religious feelings, and his so-called wife, an Englishwoman named
     Fraser, is a worthy helpmate. The nature of his tactics suggested his
     identity to me, and this physical peculiarity--he was badly bitten in
     a saloon-fight at Adelaide in '89--confirmed my suspicion. This poor
     lady is in the hands of a most infernal couple, who will stick at
     nothing, Watson. That she is already dead is a very likely
     supposition. If not, she is undoubtedly in some sort of confinement
     and unable to write to Miss Dobney or her other friends. It is always
     possible that she never reached London, or that she has passed
     through it, but the former is improbable, as, with their system of
     registration, it is not easy for foreigners to play tricks with the
     Continental police; and the latter is also unlikely, as these rouges
     could not hope to find any other place where it would be as easy to
     keep a person under restraint. All my instincts tell me that she is
     in London, but as we have at present no possible means of telling
     where, we can only take the obvious steps, eat our dinner, and
     possess our souls in patience. Later in the evening I will stroll
     down and have a word with friend Lestrade at Scotland Yard."

     But neither the official police nor Holmes's own small but very
     efficient organization sufficed to clear away the mystery. Amid the
     crowded millions of London the three persons we sought were as
     completely obliterated as if they had never lived. Advertisements
     were tried, and failed. Clues were followed, and led to nothing.
     Every criminal resort which Shlessinger might frequent was drawn in
     vain. His old associates were watched, but they kept clear of him.
     And then suddenly, after a week of helpless suspense there came a
     flash of light. A silver-and-brilliant pendant of old Spanish design
     had been pawned at Bovington's, in Westminster Road. The pawner was a
     large, clean-shaven man of clerical appearance. His name and address
     were demonstrably false. The ear had escaped notice, but the
     description was surely that of Shlessinger.

     Three times had our bearded friend from the Langham called for
     news--the third time within an hour of this fresh development. His
     clothes were getting looser on his great body. He seemed to be
     wilting away in his anxiety. "If you will only give me something to
     do!" was his constant wail. At last Holmes could oblige him.

     "He has begun to pawn the jewels. We should get him now."

     "But does this mean that any harm has befallen the Lady Frances?"

     Holmes shook his head very gravely.

     "Supposing that they have held her prisoner up to now, it is clear
     that they cannot let her loose without their own destruction. We must
     prepare for the worst."

     "What can I do?"

     "These people do not know you by sight?"

     "No."

     "It is possible that he will go to some other pawnbroker in the
     future. in that case, we must begin again. On the other hand, he has
     had a fair price and no questions asked, so if he is in need of
     ready-money he will probably come back to Bovington's. I will give
     you a note to them, and they will let you wait in the shop. If the
     fellow comes you will follow him home. But no indiscretion, and,
     above all, no violence. I put you on your honour that you will take
     no step without my knowledge and consent."

     For two days the Hon. Philip Green (he was, I may mention, the son of
     the famous admiral of that name who commanded the Sea of Azof fleet
     in the Crimean War) brought us no news. On the evening of the third
     he rushed into our sitting-room, pale, trembling, with every muscle
     of his powerful frame quivering with excitement.

     "We have him! We have him!" he cried.

     He was incoherent in his agitation. Holmes soothed him with a few
     words and thrust him into an armchair.

     "Come, now, give us the order of events," said he.

     "She came only an hour ago. It was the wife, this time, but the
     pendant she brought was the fellow of the other. She is a tall, pale
     woman, with ferret eyes."

     "That is the lady," said Holmes.

     "She left the office and I followed her. She walked up the Kennington
     Road, and I kept behind her. Presently she went into a shop. Mr.
     Holmes, it was an undertaker's."

     My companion started. "Well?" he asked in that vibrant voice which
     told of the fiery soul behind the cold gray face.

     "She was talking to the woman behind the counter. I entered as well.
     'It is late,' I heard her say, or words to that effect. The woman was
     excusing herself. 'It should be there before now,' she answered. 'It
     took longer, being out of the ordinary.' They both stopped and looked
     at me, so I asked some questions and then left the shop."

     "You did excellently well. What happened next?"

     "The woman came out, but I had hid myself in a doorway. Her
     suspicions had been aroused, I think, for she looked round her. Then
     she called a cab and got in. I was lucky enough to get another and so
     to follow her. She got down at last at No. 36, Poultney Square,
     Brixton. I drove past, left my cab at the corner of the square, and
     watched the house."

     "Did you see anyone?"

     "The windows were all in darkness save one on the lower floor. The
     blind was down, and I could not see in. I was standing there,
     wondering what I should do next, when a covered van drove up with two
     men in it. They descended, took something out of the van, and carried
     it up the steps to the hall door. Mr. Holmes, it was a coffin."

     "Ah!"

     "For an instant I was on the point of rushing in. The door had been
     opened to admit the men and their burden. It was the woman who had
     opened it. But as I stood there she caught a glimpse of me, and I
     think that she recognized me. I saw her start, and she hastily closed
     the door. I remembered my promise to you, and here I am."

     "You have done excellent work," said Holmes, scribbling a few words
     upon a half-sheet of paper. "We can do nothing legal without a
     warrant, and you can serve the cause best by taking this note down to
     the authorities and getting one. There may be some difficulty, but I
     should think that the sale of the jewellery should be sufficient.
     Lestrade will see to all details."

     "But they may murder her in the meanwhile. What could the coffin
     mean, and for whom could it be but for her?"

     "We will do all that can be done, Mr. Green. Not a moment will be
     lost. Leave it in our hands. Now Watson," he added as our client
     hurried away, "he will set the regular forces on the move. We are, as
     usual, the irregulars, and we must take our own line of action. The
     situation strikes me as so desperate that the most extreme measures
     are justified. Not a moment is to be lost in getting to Poultney
     Square.

     "Let us try to reconstruct the situation," said he as we drove
     swiftly past the Houses of Parliament and over Westminster Bridge.
     "These villains have coaxed this unhappy lady to London, after first
     alienating her from her faithful maid. If she has written any letters
     they have been intercepted. Through some confederate they have
     engaged a furnished house. Once inside it, they have made her a
     prisoner, and they have become possessed of the valuable jewellery
     which has been their object from the first. Already they have begun
     to sell part of it, which seems safe enough to them, since they have
     no reason to think that anyone is interested in the lady's fate. When
     she is released she will, of course, denounce them. Therefore, she
     must not be released. But they cannot keep her under lock and key
     forever. So murder is their only solution."

     "That seems very clear."

     "Now we will take another line of reasoning. When you follow two
     separate chains of thought, Watson, you will find some point of
     intersection which should approximate to the truth. We will start
     now, not from the lady but from the coffin and argue backward. That
     incident proves, I fear, beyond all doubt that the lady is dead. It
     points also to an orthodox burial with proper accompaniment of
     medical certificate and official sanction. Had the lady been
     obviously murdered, they would have buried her in a hole in the back
     garden. But here all is open and regular. What does this mean? Surely
     that they have done her to death in some way which has deceived the
     doctor and simulated a natural end--poisoning, perhaps. And yet how
     strange that they should ever let a doctor approach her unless he
     were a confederate, which is hardly a credible proposition."

     "Could they have forged a medical certificate?"

     "Dangerous, Watson, very dangerous. No, I hardly see them doing that.
     Pull up, cabby! This is evidently the undertaker's, for we have just
     passed the pawnbroker's. Would go in, Watson? Your appearance
     inspires confidence. Ask what hour the Poultney Square funeral takes
     place to-morrow."

     The woman in the shop answered me without hesitation that it was to
     be at eight o'clock in the morning. "You see, Watson, no mystery;
     everything above-board! In some way the legal forms have undoubtedly
     been complied with, and they think that they have little to fear.
     Well, there's nothing for it now but a direct frontal attack. Are you
     armed?"

     "My stick!"

     "Well, well, we shall be strong enough. 'Thrice is he armed who hath
     his quarrel just.' We simply can't afford to wait for the police or
     to keep within the four corners of the law. You can drive off, cabby.
     Now, Watson, we'll just take our luck together, as we have
     occasionally in the past."

     He had rung loudly at the door of a great dark house in the centre of
     Poultney Square. It was opened immediately, and the figure of a tall
     woman was outlined against the dim-lit hall.

     "Well, what do you want?" she asked sharply, peering at us through
     the darkness.

     "I want to speak to Dr. Shlessinger," said Holmes.

     "There is no such person here," she answered, and tried to close the
     door, but Holmes had jammed it with his foot.

     "Well, I want to see the man who lives here, whatever he may call
     himself," said Holmes firmly.

     She hesitated. Then she threw open the door. "Well, come in!" said
     she. "My husband is not afraid to face any man in the world." She
     closed the door behind us and showed us into a sitting-room on the
     right side of the hall, turning up the gas as she left us. "Mr.
     Peters will be with you in an instant," she said.

     Her words were literally true, for we had hardly time to look around
     the dusty and moth-eaten apartment in which we found ourselves before
     the door opened and a big, clean-shaven bald-headed man stepped
     lightly into the room. He had a large red face, with pendulous
     cheeks, and a general air of superficial benevolence which was marred
     by a cruel, vicious mouth.

     "There is surely some mistake here, gentlemen," he said in an
     unctuous, make-everything-easy voice. "I fancy that you have been
     misdirected. Possibly if you tried farther down the street--"

     "That will do; we have no time to waste," said my companion firmly.
     "You are Henry Peters, of Adelaide, late the Rev. Dr. Shlessinger, of
     Baden and South America. I am as sure of that as that my own name is
     Sherlock Holmes."

     Peters, as I will now call him, started and stared hard at his
     formidable pursuer. "I guess your name does not frighten me, Mr.
     Holmes," said he coolly. "When a man's conscience is easy you can't
     rattle him. What is your business in my house?"

     "I want to know what you have done with the Lady Frances Carfax, whom
     you brought away with you from Baden."

     "I'd be very glad if you could tell me where that lady may be,"
     Peters answered coolly. "I've a bill against her for a nearly a
     hundred pounds, and nothing to show for it but a couple of trumpery
     pendants that the dealer would hardly look at. She attached herself
     to Mrs. Peters and me at Baden--it is a fact that I was using another
     name at the time--and she stuck on to us until we came to London. I
     paid her bill and her ticket. Once in London, she gave us the slip,
     and, as I say, left these out-of-date jewels to pay her bills. You
     find her, Mr. Holmes, and I'm your debtor."

     In mean to find her," said Sherlock Holmes. "I'm going through this
     house till I do find her."

     "Where is your warrant?"

     Holmes half drew a revolver from his pocket. "This will have to serve
     till a better one comes."

     "Why, you're a common burglar."

     "So you might describe me," said Holmes cheerfully. "My companion is
     also a dangerous ruffian. And together we are going through your
     house."

     Our opponent opened the door.

     "Fetch a policeman, Annie!" said he. There was a whisk of feminine
     skirts down the passage, and the hall door was opened and shut.

     "Our time is limited, Watson," said Holmes. "If you try to stop us,
     Peters, you will most certainly get hurt. Where is that coffin which
     was brought into your house?"

     "What do you want with the coffin? It is in use. There is a body in
     it."

     "I must see the body."

     "Never with my consent."

     "Then without it." With a quick movement Holmes pushed the fellow to
     one side and passed into the hall. A door half opened stood
     immediately before us. We entered. It was the dining-room. On the
     table, under a half-lit chandelier, the coffin was lying. Holmes
     turned up the gas and raised the lid. Deep down in the recesses of
     the coffin lay an emaciated figure. The glare from the lights above
     beat down upon an aged and withered face. By no possible process of
     cruelty, starvation, or disease could this wornout wreck be the still
     beautiful Lady Frances. Holmes's face showed his amazement, and also
     his relief.

     "Thank God!" he muttered. "It's someone else."

     "Ah, you've blundered badly for once, Mr. Sherlock Holmes," said
     Peters, who had followed us into the room.

     "Who is the dead woman?"

     "Well, if you really must know, she is an old nurse of my wife's,
     Rose Spender by name, whom we found in the Brixton Workhouse
     Infirmary. We brought her round here, called in Dr. Horsom, of 13
     Firbank Villas--mind you take the address, Mr. Holmes--and had her
     carefully tended, as Christian folk should. On the third day she
     died--certificate says senile decay--but that's only the doctor's
     opinion, and of course you know better. We ordered her funeral to be
     carried out by Stimson and Co., of the Kennington Road, who will bury
     her at eight o'clock to-morrow morning. Can you pick any hole in
     that, Mr. Holmes? You've made a silly blunder, and you may as well
     own up to it. I'd give something for a photograph of your gaping,
     staring face when you pulled aside that lid expecting to see the Lady
     Frances Carfax and only found a poor old woman of ninety."

     Holmes's expression was as impassive as ever under the jeers of his
     antagonist, but his clenched hands betrayed his acute annoyance.

     "I am going through your house," said he.

     "Are you, though!" cried Peters as a woman's voice and heavy steps
     sounded in the passage. "We'll soon see about that. This way,
     officers, if you please. These men have forced their way into my
     house, and I cannot get rid of them. Help me to put them out."

     A sergeant and a constable stood in the doorway. Holmes drew his card
     from his case.

     "This is my name and address. This is my friend, Dr. Watson."

     "Bless you, sir, we know you very well," said the sergeant, "but you
     can't stay here without a warrant."

     "Of course not. I quite understand that."

     "Arrest him!" cried Peters.

     "We know where to lay our hands on this gentleman if he is wanted,"
     said the sergeant majestically, "but you'll have to go, Mr. Holmes."

     "Yes, Watson, we shall have to go."

     A minute later we were in the street once more. Holmes was as cool as
     ever, but I was hot with anger and humiliation. The sergeant had
     followed us.

     "Sorry, Mr. Holmes, but that's the law."

     "Exactly, Sergeant, you could not do otherwise."

     "I expect there was good reason for your presence there. If there is
     anything I can do--"

     "It's a missing lady, Sergeant, and we think she is in that house. I
     expect a warrant presently."

     "Then I'll keep my eye on the parties, Mr. Holmes. If anything comes
     along, I will surely let you know."

     It was only nine o'clock, and we were off full cry upon the trail at
     once. First we drove to Brixton Workhoused Infirmary, where we found
     that it was indeed the truth that a charitable couple had called some
     days before, that they had claimed an imbecile old woman as a former
     servant, and that they had obtained permission to take her away with
     them. No surprise was expressed at the news that she had since died.

     The doctor was our next goal. He had been called in, had found the
     woman dying of pure senility, had actually seen her pass away, and
     had signed the certificate in due form. "I assure you that everything
     was perfectly normal and there was no room for foul play in the
     matter," said he. Nothing in the house had struck him as suspicious
     save that for people of their class it was remarkable that they
     should have no servant. So far and no further went the doctor.

     Finally we found our way to Scotland Yard. There had been
     difficulties of procedure in regard to the warrant. Some delay was
     inevitable. The magistrate's signature might not be obtained until
     next morning. If Holmes would call about nine he could go down with
     Lestrade and see it acted upon. So ended the day, save that near
     midnight our friend, the sergeant, called to say that he had seen
     flickering lights here and there in the windows of the great dark
     house, but that no one had left it and none had entered. We could but
     pray for patience and wait for the morrow.

     Sherlock Holmes was too irritable for conversation and too restless
     for sleep. I left him smoking hard, with his heavy, dark brows
     knotted together, and his long, nervous fingers tapping upon the arms
     of his chair, as he turned over in his mind every possible solution
     of the mystery. Several times in the course of the night I heard him
     prowling about the house. Finally, just after I had been called in
     the morning, he rushed into my room. He was in his dressing-gown, but
     his pale, hollow-eyed face told me that his night had been a
     sleepless one.

     "What time was the funeral? Eight, was it not?" he asked eagerly.
     "Well, it is 7.20 now. Good heavens, Watson, what has become of any
     brains that God has given me? Quick, man, quick! It's life or
     death--a hundred chances on death to one on life. I'll never forgive
     myself, never, if we are too late!"

     Five minutes had not passed before we were flying in a hansom down
     Baker Street. But even so it was twenty-five to eight as we passed
     Big Ben, and eight struck as we tore down the Brixton Road. But
     others were late as well as we. Ten minutes after the hour the hearse
     was still standing at the door of the house, and even as our foaming
     horse came to a halt the coffin, supported by three men, appeared on
     the threshold. Holmes darted forward and barred their way.

     "Take it back!" he cried, laying his hand on the breast of the
     foremost. "Take it back this instant!"

     "What the devil do you mean? Once again I ask you, where is your
     warrant?" shouted the furious Peters, his big red face glaring over
     the farther end of the coffin.

     "The warrant is on its way. The coffin shall remain in the house
     until it comes."

     The authority in Holmes's voice had its effect upon the bearers.
     Peters had suddenly vanished into the house, and they obeyed these
     new orders. "Quick, Watson, quick! Here is a screw-driver!" he
     shouted as the coffin was replaced upon the table. "Here's one for
     you, my man! A sovreign if the lid comes off in a minute! Ask no
     questions--work away! That's good! Another! And another! Now pull all
     together! It's giving! It's giving! Ah, that does it at last."

     With a united effort we tore off the coffin-lid. As we did so there
     came from the inside a stupefying and overpowering smell of
     chloroform. A body lay within, its head all wreathed in cotton-wool,
     which had been soaked in the narcotic. Holmes plucked it off and
     disclosed the statuesque face of a handsome and spiritual woman of
     middle age. In an instant he had passed his arm round the figure and
     raised her to a sitting position.

     "Is she gone, Watson? Is there a spark left? Surely we are not too
     late!"

     For half an hour it seemed that we were. What with actual
     suffocation, and what with the poisonous fumes of the chloroform, the
     Lady Frances seemed to have passed the last point of recall. And
     then, at last, with artificial respiration, with injected ether, and
     with every device that science could suggest, some flutter of life,
     some quiver of the eyelids, some dimming of a mirror, spoke of the
     slowly returning life. A cab had driven up, and Holmes, parting the
     blind, looked out at it. "Here is Lestrade with his warrant," said
     he. "He will find that his birds have flown. And here," he added as a
     heavy step hurried along the passage, "is someone who has a better
     right to nurse this lady than we have. Good morning, Mr. Green; I
     think that the sooner we can move the Lady Frances the better.
     Meanwhile, the funeral may proceed, and the poor old woman who still
     lies in that coffin may go to her last resting-place alone."

     "Should you care to add the case to your annals, my dear Watson,"
     said Holmes that evening, "it can only be as an example of that
     temporary eclipse to which even the best-balanced mind may be
     exposed. Such slips are common to all mortals, and the greatest is he
     who can recognize and repair them. To this modified credit I may,
     perhaps, make some claim. My night was haunted by the thought that
     somewhere a clue, a strange sentence, a curious observation, had come
     under my notice and had been too easily dismissed. Then, suddenly, in
     the gray of the morning, the words came back to me. It was the remark
     of the undertaker's wife, as reported by Philip Green. She had said,
     'It should be there before now. It took longer, being out of the
     ordinary.' It was the coffin of which she spoke. It had been out of
     the ordinary. That could only mean that it had been made to some
     special measurement. But why? Why? Then in an instant I remembered
     the deep sides, and the little wasted figure at the bottom. Why so
     large a coffin for so small a body? To leave room for another body.
     Both would be buried under the one certificate. It had all been so
     clear, if only my own sight had not been dimmed. At eight the Lady
     Frances would be buried. Our one chance was to stop the coffin before
     it left the house.

     "It was a desperate chance that we might find her alive, but it was a
     chance, as the result showed. These people had never, to my
     knowledge, done a murder. They might shrink from actual violence at
     the last. The could bury her with no sign of how she met her end, and
     even if she were exhumed there was a chance for them. I hoped that
     such considerations might prevail with them. You can reconstruct the
     scene well enough. You saw the horrible den upstairs, where the poor
     lady had been kept so long. They rushed in and overpowered her with
     their chloroform, carried her down, poured more into the coffin to
     insure against her waking, and then screwed down the lid. A clever
     device, Watson. It is new to me in the annals of crime. If our
     ex-missionary friends escape the clutches of Lestrade, I shall expect
     to hear of some brilliant incidents in their future career."






                        THE ADVENTURE OF THE DEVIL'S FOOT

     In recording from time to time some of the curious experiences and
     interesting recollections which I associate with my long and intimate
     friendship with Mr. Sherlock Holmes, I have continually been faced by
     difficulties caused by his own aversion to publicity. To his sombre
     and cynical spirit all popular applause was always abhorrent, and
     nothing amused him more at the end of a successful case than to hand
     over the actual exposure to some orthodox official, and to listen
     with a mocking smile to the general chorus of misplaced
     congratulation. It was indeed this attitude upon the part of my
     friend and certainly not any lack of interesting material which has
     caused me of late years to lay very few of my records before the
     public. My participation in some if his adventures was always a
     privilege which entailed discretion and reticence upon me.

     It was, then, with considerable surprise that I received a telegram
     from Homes last Tuesday--he has never been known to write where a
     telegram would serve--in the following terms:

     Why not tell them of the Cornish horror--strangest case I have
     handled.
     I have no idea what backward sweep of memory had brought the matter
     fresh to his mind, or what freak had caused him to desire that I
     should recount it; but I hasten, before another cancelling telegram
     may arrive, to hunt out the notes which give me the exact details of
     the case and to lay the narrative before my readers.

     It was, then, in the spring of the year 1897 that Holmes's iron
     constitution showed some symptoms of giving way in the face of
     constant hard work of a most exacting kind, aggravated, perhaps, by
     occasional indiscretions of his own. In March of that year Dr. Moore
     Agar, of Harley Street, whose dramatic introduction to Holmes I may
     some day recount, gave positive injunctions that the famous private
     agent lay aside all his cases and surrender himself to complete rest
     if he wished to avert an absolute breakdown. The state of his health
     was not a matter in which he himself took the faintest interest, for
     his mental detachment was absolute, but he was induced at last, on
     the threat of being permanently disqualified from work, to give
     himself a complete change of scene and air. Thus it was that in the
     early spring of that year we found ourselves together in a small
     cottage near Poldhu Bay, at the further extremity of the Cornish
     peninsula.

     It was a singular spot, and one peculiarly well suited to the grim
     humour of my patient. From the windows of our little whitewashed
     house, which stood high upon a grassy headland, we looked down upon
     the whole sinister semicircle of Mounts Bay, that old death trap of
     sailing vessels, with its fringe of black cliffs and surge-swept
     reefs on which innumerable seamen have met their end. With a
     northerly breeze it lies placid and sheltered, inviting the
     storm-tossed craft to tack into it for rest and protection.

     Then come the sudden swirl round of the wind, the blistering gale
     from the south-west, the dragging anchor, the lee shore, and the last
     battle in the creaming breakers. The wise mariner stands far out from
     that evil place.

     On the land side our surroundings were as sombre as on the sea. It
     was a country of rolling moors, lonely and dun-colored, with an
     occasional church tower to mark the site of some old-world village.
     In every direction upon these moors there were traces of some
     vanished race which had passed utterly away, and left as it sole
     record strange monuments of stone, irregular mounds which contained
     the burned ashes of the dead, and curious earthworks which hinted at
     prehistoric strife. The glamour and mystery of the place, with its
     sinister atmosphere of forgotten nations, appealed to the imagination
     of my friend, and he spent much of his time in long walks and
     solitary meditations upon the moor. The ancient Cornish language had
     also arrested his attention, and he had, I remember, conceived the
     idea that it was akin to the Chaldean, and had been largely derived
     from the Phoenician traders in tin. He had received a consignment of
     books upon philology and was settling down to develop this thesis
     when suddenly, to my sorrow and to his unfeigned delight, we found
     ourselves, even in that land of dreams, plunged into a problem at our
     very doors which was more intense, more engrossing, and infinitely
     more mysterious than any of those which had driven us from London.
     Our simple life and peaceful, healthy routine were violently
     interrupted, and we were precipitated into the midst of a series of
     events which caused the utmost excitement not only in Cornwall but
     throughout the whole west of England. Many of my readers may retain
     some recollection of what was called at the time "The Cornish
     Horror," though a most imperfect account of the matter reached the
     London press. Now, after thirteen years, I will give the true details
     of this inconceivable affair to the public.

     I have said that scattered towers marked the villages which dotted
     this part of Cornwall. The nearest of these was the hamlet of
     Tredannick Wollas, where the cottages of a couple of hundred
     inhabitants clustered round an ancient, moss-grown church. The vicar
     of the parish, Mr. Roundhay, was something of an archaeologist, and
     as such Holmes had made his acquaintance. He was a middle-aged man,
     portly and affable, with a considerable fund of local lore. At his
     invitation we had taken tea at the vicarage and had come to know,
     also, Mr. Mortimer Tregennis, an independent gentleman, who increased
     the clergyman's scanty resources by taking rooms in his large,
     straggling house. The vicar, being a bachelor, was glad to come to
     such an arrangement, though he had little in common with his lodger,
     who was a thin, dark, spectacled man, with a stoop which gave the
     impression of actual, physical deformity. I remember that during our
     short visit we found the vicar garrulous, but his lodger strangely
     reticent, a sad-faced, introspective man, sitting with averted eyes,
     brooding apparently upon his own affairs.

     These were the two men who entered abruptly into our little
     sitting-room on Tuesday, March the 16th, shortly after our breakfast
     hour, as we were smoking together, preparatory to our daily excursion
     upon the moors.

     "Mr. Holmes," said the vicar in an agitated voice, "the most
     extraordinary and tragic affair has occurred during the night. It is
     the most unheard-of business. We can only regard it as a special
     Providence that you should chance to be here at the time, for in all
     England you are the one man we need."

     I glared at the intrusive vicar with no very friendly eyes; but
     Holmes took his pipe from his lips and sat up in his chair like an
     old hound who hears the view-halloa. He waved his hand to the sofa,
     and our palpitating visitor with his agitated companion sat side by
     side upon it. Mr. Mortimer Tregennis was more self-contained than the
     clergyman, but the twitching of his thin hands and the brightness of
     his dark eyes showed that they shared a common emotion.

     "Shall I speak or you?" he asked of the vicar.

     "Well, as you seem to have made the discovery, whatever it may be,
     and the vicar to have had it second-hand, perhaps you had better do
     the speaking," said Holmes.

     I glanced at the hastily clad clergyman, with the formally dressed
     lodger seated beside him, and was amused at the surprise which
     Holmes's simple deduction had brought to their faces.

     "Perhaps I had best say a few words first," said the vicar, "and then
     you can judge if you will listen to the details from Mr. Tregennis,
     or whether we should not hasten at once to the scene of this
     mysterious affair. I may explain, then, that our friend here spent
     last evening in the company of his two brothers, Owen and George, and
     of his sister Brenda, at their house of Tredannick Wartha, which is
     near the old stone cross upon the moor. He left them shortly after
     ten o'clock, playing cards round the dining-room table, in excellent
     health and spirits. This morning, being an early riser, he walked in
     that direction before breakfast and was overtaken by the carriage of
     Dr. Richards, who explained that he had just been sent for on a most
     urgent call to Tredannick Wartha. Mr. Mortimer Tregennis naturally
     went with him. When he arrived at Tredannick Wartha he found an
     extraordinary state of things. His two brothers and his sister were
     seated round the table exactly as he had left them, the cards still
     spread in front of them and the candles burned down to their sockets.
     The sister lay back stone-dead in her chair, while the two brothers
     sat on each side of her laughing, shouting, and singing, the senses
     stricken clean out of them. All three of them, the dead woman and the
     two demented men, retained upon their faces an expression of the
     utmost horror--a convulsion of terror which was dreadful to look
     upon. There was no sign of the presence of anyone in the house,
     except Mrs. Porter, the old cook and housekeeper, who declared that
     she had slept deeply and heard no sound during the night. Nothing had
     been stolen or disarranged, and there is absolutely no explanation of
     what the horror can be which has frightened a woman to death and two
     strong men out of their senses. There is the situation, Mr. Holmes,
     in a nutshell, and if you can help us to clear it up you will have
     done a great work."

     I had hoped that in some way I could coax my companion back into the
     quiet which had been the object of our journey; but one glance at his
     intense face and contracted eyebrows told me how vain was now the
     expectation. He sat for some little time in silence, absorbed in the
     strange drama which had broken in upon our peace.

     "I will look into this matter," he said at last. "On the face of it,
     it would appear to be a case of a very exceptional nature. Have you
     been there yourself, Mr. Roundhay?"

     "No, Mr. Holmes. Mr. Tregennis brought back the account to the
     vicarage, and I at once hurried over with him to consult you."

     "How far is it to the house where this singular tragedy occurred?"

     "About a mile inland."

     "Then we shall walk over together. But before we start I must ask you
     a few questions, Mr. Mortimer Tregennis."

     The other had been silent all this time, but I had observed that his
     more controlled excitement was even greater than the obtrusive
     emotion of the clergyman. He sat with a pale, drawn face, his anxious
     gaze fixed upon Holmes, and his thin hands clasped convulsively
     together. His pale lips quivered as he listened to the dreadful
     experience which had befallen his family, and his dark eyes seemed to
     reflect something of the horror of the scene.

     "Ask what you like, Mr. Holmes," said he eagerly. "It is a bad thing
     to speak of, but I will answer you the truth."

     "Tell me about last night."

     "Well, Mr. Holmes, I supped there, as the vicar has said, and my
     elder brother George proposed a game of whist afterwards. We sat down
     about nine o'clock. It was a quarter-past ten when I moved to go. I
     left them all round the table, as merry as could be."

     "Who let you out?"

     "Mrs. Porter had gone to bed, so I let myself out. I shut the hall
     door behind me. The window of the room in which they sat was closed,
     but the blind was not drawn down. There was no change in door or
     window this morning, or any reason to think that any stranger had
     been to the house. Yet there they sat, driven clean mad with terror,
     and Brenda lying dead of fright, with her head hanging over the arm
     of the chair. I'll never get the sight of that room out of my mind so
     long as I live."

     "The facts, as you state them, are certainly most remarkable," said
     Holmes. "I take it that you have no theory yourself which can in any
     way account for them?"

     "It's devilish, Mr. Holmes, devilish!" cried Mortimer Tregennis. "It
     is not of this world. Something has come into that room which has
     dashed the light of reason from their minds. What human contrivance
     could do that?"

     "I fear," said Holmes, "that if the matter is beyond humanity it is
     certainly beyond me. Yet we must exhaust all natural explanations
     before we fall back upon such a theory as this. As to yourself, Mr.
     Tregennis, I take it you were divided in some way from your family,
     since they lived together and you had rooms apart?"

     "That is so, Mr. Holmes, though the matter is past and done with. We
     were a family of tin-miners at Redruth, but we sold our venture to a
     company, and so retired with enough to keep us. I won't deny that
     there was some feeling about the division of the money and it stood
     between us for a time, but it was all forgiven and forgotten, and we
     were the best of friends together."

     "Looking back at the evening which you spent together, does anything
     stand out in your memory as throwing any possible light upon the
     tragedy? Think carefully, Mr. Tregennis, for any clue which can help
     me."

     "There is nothing at all, sir."

     "Your people were in their usual spirits?"

     "Never better."

     "Were they nervous people? Did they ever show any apprehension of
     coming danger?"

     "Nothing of the kind."

     "You have nothing to add then, which could assist me?"

     Mortimer Tregennis considered earnestly for a moment.

     "There is one thing occurs to me," said he at last. "As we sat at the
     table my back was to the window, and my brother George, he being my
     partner at cards, was facing it. I saw him once look hard over my
     shoulder, so I turned round and looked also. The blind was up and the
     window shut, but I could just make out the bushes on the lawn, and it
     seemed to me for a moment that I saw something moving among them. I
     couldn't even say if it was man or animal, but I just thought there
     was something there. When I asked him what he was looking at, he told
     me that he had the same feeling. That is all that I can say."

     "Did you not investigate?"

     "No; the matter passed as unimportant."

     "You left them, then, without any premonition of evil?"

     "None at all."

     "I am not clear how you came to hear the news so early this morning."

     "I am an early riser and generally take a walk before breakfast. This
     morning I had hardly started when the doctor in his carriage overtook
     me. He told me that old Mrs. Porter had sent a boy down with an
     urgent message. I sprang in beside him and we drove on. When we got
     there we looked into that dreadful room. The candles and the fire
     must have burned out hours before, and they had been sitting there in
     the dark until dawn had broken. The doctor said Brenda must have been
     dead at least six hours. There were no signs of violence. She just
     lay across the arm of the chair with that look on her face. George
     and Owen were singing snatches of songs and gibbering like two great
     apes. Oh, it was awful to see! I couldn't stand it, and the doctor
     was as white as a sheet. Indeed, he fell into a chair in a sort of
     faint, and we nearly had him on our hands as well."

     "Remarkable--most remarkable!" said Holmes, rising and taking his
     hat. "I think, perhaps, we had better go down to Tredannick Wartha
     without further delay. I confess that I have seldom known a case
     which at first sight presented a more singular problem."

     Our proceedings of that first morning did little to advance the
     investigation. It was marked, however, at the outset by an incident
     which left the most sinister impression upon my mind. The approach to
     the spot at which the tragedy occurred is down a narrow, winding,
     country lane. While we made our way along it we heard the rattle of a
     carriage coming towards us and stood aside to let it pass. As it
     drove by us I caught a glimpse through the closed window of a
     horribly contorted, grinning face glaring out at us. Those staring
     eyes and gnashing teeth flashed past us like a dreadful vision.

     "My brothers!" cried Mortimer Tregennis, white to his lips. "They are
     taking them to Helston."

     We looked with horror after the black carriage, lumbering upon its
     way. Then we turned our steps towards this ill-omened house in which
     they had met their strange fate.

     It was a large and bright dwelling, rather a villa than a cottage,
     with a considerable garden which was already, in that Cornish air,
     well filled with spring flowers. Towards this garden the window of
     the sitting-room fronted, and from it, according to Mortimer
     Tregennis, must have come that thing of evil which had by sheer
     horror in a single instant blasted their minds. Holmes walked slowly
     and thoughtfully among the flower-plots and along the path before we
     entered the porch. So absorbed was he in his thoughts, I remember,
     that he stumbled over the watering-pot, upset its contents, and
     deluged both our feet and the garden path. Inside the house we were
     met by the elderly Cornish housekeeper, Mrs. Porter, who, with the
     aid of a young girl, looked after the wants of the family. She
     readily answered all Holmes's questions. She had heard nothing in the
     night. Her employers had all been in excellent spirits lately, and
     she had never known them more cheerful and prosperous. She had
     fainted with horror upon entering the room in the morning and seeing
     that dreadful company round the table. She had, when she recovered,
     thrown open the window to let the morning air in, and had run down to
     the lane, whence she sent a farm-lad for the doctor. The lady was on
     her bed upstairs if we cared to see her. It took four strong men to
     get the brothers into the asylum carriage. She would not herself stay
     in the house another day and was starting that very afternoon to
     rejoin her family at St. Ives.

     We ascended the stairs and viewed the body. Miss Brenda Tregennis had
     been a very beautiful girl, though now verging upon middle age. Her
     dark, clear-cut face was handsome, even in death, but there still
     lingered upon it something of that convulsion of horror which had
     been her last human emotion. From her bedroom we descended to the
     sitting-room, where this strange tragedy had actually occurred. The
     charred ashes of the overnight fire lay in the grate. On the table
     were the four guttered and burned-out candles, with the cards
     scattered over its surface. The chairs had been moved back against
     the walls, but all else was as it had been the night before. Holmes
     paced with light, swift steps about the room; he sat in the various
     chairs, drawing them up and reconstructing their positions. He tested
     how much of the garden was visible; he examined the floor, the
     ceiling, and the fireplace; but never once did I see that sudden
     brightening of his eyes and tightening of his lips which would have
     told me that he saw some gleam of light in this utter darkness.

     "Why a fire?" he asked once. "Had they always a fire in this small
     room on a spring evening?"

     Mortimer Tregennis explained that the night was cold and damp. For
     that reason, after his arrival, the fire was lit. "What are you going
     to do now, Mr. Holmes?" he asked.

     My friend smiled and laid his hand upon my arm. "I think, Watson,
     that I shall resume that course of tobacco-poisoning which you have
     so often and so justly condemned," said he. "With your permission,
     gentlemen, we will now return to our cottage, for I am not aware that
     any new factor is likely to come to our notice here. I will turn the
     facts over in my mid, Mr, Tregennis, and should anything occur to me
     I will certainly ommunicate with you and the vicar. In the meantime I
     wish you both good-morning."

     It was not until long after we were back in Poldhu Cottage that
     Holmes broke his complete and absorbed silence. He sat coiled in his
     armchair, his haggard and ascetic face hardly visible amid the blue
     swirl of his tobacco smoke, his black brows drawn down, his forehead
     contracted, his eyes vacant and far away. Finally he laid down his
     pipe and sprang to his feet.

     "It won't do, Watson!" said he with a laugh. "Let us walk along the
     cliffs together and search for flint arrows. We are more likely to
     find them than clues to this problem. To let the brain work without
     sufficient material is like racing an engine. It racks itself to
     pieces. The sea air, sunshine, and patience, Watson--all else will
     come.

     "Now, let us calmly define our position, Watson," he continued as we
     skirted the cliffs together. "Let us get a firm grip of the very
     little which we do know, so that when fresh facts arise we may be
     ready to fit them into their places. I take it, in the first place,
     that neither of us is prepared to admit diabolical intrusions into
     the affairs of men. Let us begin by ruling that entirely out of our
     minds. Very good. There remain three persons who have been grievously
     stricken by some conscious or unconscious human agency. That is firm
     ground. Now, when did this occur? Evidently, assuming his narrative
     to be true, it was immediately after Mr. Mortimer Tregennis had left
     the room. That is a very important point. The presumption is that it
     was within a few minutes afterwards. The cards still lay upon the
     table. It was already past their usual hour for bed. Yet they had not
     changed their position or pushed back their chairs. I repeat, then,
     that the occurrence was immediately after his departure, and not
     later than eleven o'clock last night.

     "Our next obvious step is to check, so far as we can, the movements
     of Mortimer Tregennis after he left the room. In this there is no
     difficulty, and they seem to be above suspicion. Knowing my methods
     as you do, you were, of course, conscious of the somewhat clumsy
     water-pot expedient by which I obtained a clearer impress of his foot
     than might otherwise have been possible. The wet, sandy path took it
     admirably. Last night was also wet, you will remember, and it was not
     difficult--having obtained a sample print--to pick out his track
     among others and to follow his movements. He appears to have walked
     away swiftly in the direction of the vicarage.

     "If, then, Mortimer Tregennis disappeared from the scene, and yet
     some outside person affected the card-players, how can we reconstruct
     that person, and how was such an impression of horror conveyed? Mrs.
     Porter may be eliminated. She is evidently harmless. Is there any
     evidence that someone crept up to the garden window and in some
     manner produced so terrific an effect that he drove those who saw it
     out of their senses? The only suggestion in this direction comes from
     Mortimer Tregennis himself, who says that his brother spoke about
     some movement in the garden. That is certainly remarkable, as the
     night was rainy, cloudy, and dark. Anyone who had the design to alarm
     these people would be compelled to place his very face against the
     glass before he could be seen. There is a three-foot flower-border
     outside this window, but no indication of a footmark. It is difficult
     to imagine, then, how an outsider could have made so terrible an
     impression upon the company, nor have we found any possible motive
     for so strange and elaborate an attempt. You perceive our
     difficulties, Watson?"

     "They are only too clear," I answered with conviction.

     "And yet, with a little more material, we may prove that they are not
     insurmountable," said Holmes. "I fancy that among your extensive
     archives, Watson, you may find some which were nearly as obscure.
     Meanwhile, we shall put the case aside until more accurate data are
     available, and devote the rest of our morning to the pursuit of
     neolithic man."

     I may have commented upon my friend's power of mental detachment, but
     never have I wondered at it more than upon that spring morning in
     Cornwall when for two hours he discoursed upon celts, arrowheads, and
     shards, as lightly as if no sinister mystery were waiting for his
     solution. It was not until we had returned in the afternoon to our
     cottage that we found a visitor awaiting us, who soon brought our
     minds back to the matter in hand. Neither of us needed to be told who
     that visitor was. The huge body, the craggy and deeply seamed face
     with the fierce eyes and hawk-like nose, the grizzled hair which
     nearly brushed our cottage ceiling, the beard--golden at the fringes
     and white near the lips, save for the nicotine stain from his
     perpetual cigar--all these were as well known in London as in Africa,
     and could only be associated with the tremendous personality of Dr.
     Leon Sterndale, the great lion-hunter and explorer.

     We had heard of his presence in the district and had once or twice
     caught sight of his tall figure upon the moorland paths. He made no
     advances to us, however, nor would we have dreamed of doing so to
     him, as it was well known that it was his love of seclusion which
     caused him to spend the greater part of the intervals between his
     journeys in a small bungalow buried in the lonely wood of Beauchamp
     Arriance. Here, amid his books and his maps, he lived an absolutely
     lonely life, attending to his own simple wants and paying little
     apparent heed to the affairs of his neighbours. It was a surprise to
     me, therefore, to hear him asking Holmes in an eager voice whether he
     had made any advance in his reconstruction of this mysterious
     episode. "The county police are utterly at fault," said he, "but
     perhaps your wider experience has suggested some conceivable
     explanation. My only claim to being taken into your confidence is
     that during my many residences here I have come to know this family
     of Tregennis very well--indeed, upon my Cornish mother's side I could
     call them cousins--and their strange fate has naturally been a great
     shock to me. I may tell you that I had got as far as Plymouth upon my
     way to Africa, but the news reached me this morning, and I came
     straight back again to help in the inquiry."

     Holmes raised his eyebrows.

     "Did you lose your boat through it?"

     "I will take the next."

     "Dear me! that is friendship indeed."

     "I tell you they were relatives."

     "Quite so--cousins of your mother. Was your baggage aboard the ship?"

     "Some of it, but the main part at the hotel."

     "I see. But surely this event could not have found its way into the
     Plymouth morning papers."

     "No, sir; I had a telegram."

     "Might I ask from whom?"

     A shadow passed over the gaunt face of the explorer.

     "You are very inquisitive, Mr. Holmes."

     "It is my business."

     With an effort Dr. Sterndale recovered his ruffled composure.

     "I have no objection to telling you," he said. "It was Mr. Roundhay,
     the vicar, who sent me the telegram which recalled me."

     "Thank you," said Holmes. "I may say in answer to your original
     question that I have not cleared my mind entirely on the subject of
     this case, but that I have every hope of reaching some conclusion. It
     would be premature to say more."

     "Perhaps you would not mind telling me if your suspicions point in
     any particular direction?"

     "No, I can hardly answer that."

     "Then I have wasted my time and need not prolong my visit." The
     famous doctor strode out of our cottage in considerable ill-humour,
     and within five minutes Holmes had followed him. I saw him no more
     until the evening, when he returned with a slow step and haggard face
     which assured me that he had made no great progress with his
     investigation. He glanced at a telegram which awaited him and threw
     it into the grate.

     "From the Plymouth hotel, Watson," he said. "I learned the name of it
     from the vicar, and I wired to make certain that Dr. Leon Sterndale's
     account was true. It appears that he did indeed spend last night
     there, and that he has actually allowed some of his baggage to go on
     to Africa, while he returned to be present at this investigation.
     What do you make of that, Watson?"

     "He is deeply interested."

     "Deeply interested--yes. There is a thread here which we had not yet
     grasped and which might lead us through the tangle. Cheer up, Watson,
     for I am very sure that our material has not yet all come to hand.
     When it does we may soon leave our difficulties behind us."

     Little did I think how soon the words of Holmes would be realized, or
     how strange and sinister would be that new development which opened
     up an entirely fresh line of investigation. I was shaving at my
     window in the morning when I heard the rattle of hoofs and, looking
     up, saw a dog-cart coming at a gallop down the road. It pulled up at
     our door, and our friend, the vicar, sprang from it and rushed up our
     garden path. Holmes was already dressed, and we hastened down to meet
     him.

     Our visitor was so excited that he could hardly articulate, but at
     last in gasps and bursts his tragic story came out of him.

     "We are devil-ridden, Mr. Holmes! My poor parish is devil-ridden!" he
     cried. "Satan himself is loose in it! We are given over into his
     hands!" He danced about in his agitation, a ludicrous object if it
     were not for his ashy face and startled eyes. Finally he shot out his
     terrible news.

     "Mr. Mortimer Tregennis died during the night, and with exactly the
     same symptoms as the rest of his family."

     Holmes sprang to his feet, all energy in an instant.

     "Can you fit us both into your dog-cart?"

     "Yes, I can."

     "Then, Watson, we will postpone our breakfast. Mr. Roundhay, we are
     entirely at your disposal. Hurry--hurry, before things get
     disarranged."

     The lodger occupied two rooms at the vicarage, which were in an angle
     by themselves, the one above the other. Below was a large
     sitting-room; above, his bedroom. They looked out upon a croquet lawn
     which came up to the windows. We had arrived before the doctor or the
     police, so that everything was absolutely undisturbed. Let me
     describe exactly the scene as we saw it upon that misty March
     morning. It has left an impression which can never be effaced from my
     mind.

     The atmosphere of the room was of a horrible and depressing
     stuffiness. The servant who had first entered had thrown up the
     window, or it would have been even more intolerable. This might
     partly be due to the fact that a lamp stood flaring and smoking on
     the centre table. Beside it sat the dead man, leaning back in his
     chair, his thin beard projecting, his spectacles pushed up on to his
     forehead, and his lean dark face turned towards the window and
     twisted into the same distortion of terror which had marked the
     features of his dead sister. His limbs were convulsed and his fingers
     contorted as though he had died in a very paroxysm of fear. He was
     fully clothed, though there were signs that his dressing had been
     done in a hurry. We had already learned that his bed had been slept
     in, and that the tragic end had come to him in the early morning.

     One realized the red-hot energy which underlay Holmes's phlegmatic
     exterior when one saw the sudden change which came over him from the
     moment that he entered the fatal apartment. In an instant he was
     tense and alert, his eyes shining, his face set, his limbs quivering
     with eager activity. He was out on the lawn, in through the window,
     round the room, and up into the bedroom, for all the world like a
     dashing foxhound drawing a cover. In the bedroom he made a rapid cast
     around and ended by throwing open the window, which appeared to give
     him some fresh cause for excitement, for he leaned out of it with
     loud ejaculations of interest and delight. Then he rushed down the
     stair, out through the open window, threw himself upon his face on
     the lawn, sprang up and into the room once more, all with the energy
     of the hunter who is at the very heels of his quarry. The lamp, which
     was an ordinary standard, he examined with minute care, making
     certain measurements upon its bowl. He carefully scrutinized with his
     lens the talc shield which covered the top of the chimney and scraped
     off some ashes which adhered to its upper surface, putting some of
     them into an envelope, which he placed in his pocketbook. Finally,
     just as the doctor and the official police put in an appearance, he
     beckoned to the vicar and we all three went out upon the lawn.

     "I am glad to say that my investigation has not been entirely
     barren," he remarked. "I cannot remain to discuss the matter with the
     police, but I should be exceedingly obliged, Mr. Roundhay, if you
     would give the inspector my compliments and direct his attention to
     the bedroom window and to the sitting-room lamp. Each is suggestive,
     and together they are almost conclusive. If the police would desire
     further information I shall be happy to see any of them at the
     cottage. And now, Watson, I think that, perhaps, we shall be better
     employed elsewhere."

     It may be that the police resented the intrusion of an amateur, or
     that they imagined themselves to be upon some hopeful line of
     investigation; but it is certain that we heard nothing from them for
     the next two days. During this time Holmes spent some of his time
     smoking and dreaming in the cottage; but a greater portion in country
     walks which he undertook alone, returning after many hours without
     remark as to where he had been. One experiment served to show me the
     line of his investigation. He had bought a lamp which was the
     duplicate of the one which had burned in the room of Mortimer
     Tregennis on the morning of the tragedy. This he filled with the same
     oil as that used at the vicarage, and he carefully timed the period
     which it would take to be exhausted. Another experiment which he made
     was of a more unpleasant nature, and one which I am not likely ever
     to forget.

     "You will remember, Watson," he remarked one afternoon, "that there
     is a single common point of resemblance in the varying reports which
     have reached us. This concerns the effect of the atmosphere of the
     room in each case upon those who had first entered it. You will
     recollect that Mortimer Tregennis, in describing the episode of his
     last visit to his brother's house, remarked that the doctor on
     entering the room fell into a chair? You had forgotten? Well I can
     answer for it that it was so. Now, you will remember also that Mrs.
     Porter, the housekeeper, told us that she herself fainted upon
     entering the room and had afterwards opened the window. In the second
     case--that of Mortimer Tregennis himself--you cannot have forgotten
     the horrible stuffiness of the room when we arrived, though the
     servant had thrown open the window. That servant, I found upon
     inquiry, was so ill that she had gone to her bed. You will admit,
     Watson, that these facts are very suggestive. In each case there is
     evidence of a poisonous atmosphere. In each case, also, there is
     combustion going on in the room--in the one case a fire, in the other
     a lamp. The fire was needed, but the lamp was lit--as a comparison of
     the oil consumed will show--long after it was broad daylight. Why?
     Surely because there is some connection between three things--the
     burning, the stuffy atmosphere, and, finally, the madness or death of
     those unfortunate people. That is clear, is it not?"

     "It would appear so."

     "At least we may accept it as a working hypothesis. We will suppose,
     then, that something was burned in each case which produced an
     atmosphere causing strange toxic effects. Very good. In the first
     instance--that of the Tregennis family--this substance was placed in
     the fire. Now the window was shut, but the fire would naturally carry
     fumes to some extent up the chimney. Hence one would expect the
     effects of the poison to be less than in the second case, where there
     was less escape for the vapour. The result seems to indicate that it
     was so, since in the first case only the woman, who had presumably
     the more sensitive organism, was killed, the others exhibiting that
     temporary or permanent lunacy which is evidently the first effect of
     the drug. In the second case the result was complete. The facts,
     therefore, seem to bear out the theory of a poison which worked by
     combustion.

     "With this train of reasoning in my head I naturally looked about in
     Mortimer Tregennis's room to find some remains of this substance. The
     obvious place to look was the talc shelf or smoke-guard of the lamp.
     There, sure enough, I perceived a number of flaky ashes, and round
     the edges a fringe of brownish powder, which had not yet been
     consumed. Half of this I took, as you saw, and I placed it in an
     envelope."

     "Why half, Holmes?"

     "It is not for me, my dear Watson, to stand in the way of the
     official police force. I leave them all the evidence which I found.
     The poison still remained upon the talc had they the wit to find it.
     Now, Watson, we will light our lamp; we will, however, take the
     precaution to open our window to avoid the premature decease of two
     deserving members of society, and you will seat yourself near that
     open window in an armchair unless, like a sensible man, you determine
     to have nothing to do with the affair. Oh, you will see it out, will
     you? I thought I knew my Watson. This chair I will place opposite
     yours, so that we may be the same distance from the poison and face
     to face. The door we will leave ajar. Each is now in a position to
     watch the other and to bring the experiment to an end should the
     symptoms seem alarming. Is that all clear? Well, then, I take our
     powder--or what remains of it--from the envelope, and I lay it above
     the burning lamp. So! Now, Watson, let us sit down and await
     developments."

     They were not long in coming. I had hardly settled in my chair before
     I was conscious of a thick, musky odour, subtle and nauseous. At the
     very first whiff of it my brain and my imagination were beyond all
     control. A thick, black cloud swirled before my eyes, and my mind
     told me that in this cloud, unseen as yet, but about to spring out
     upon my appalled senses, lurked all that was vaguely horrible, all
     that was monstrous and inconceivably wicked in the universe. Vague
     shapes swirled and swam amid the dark cloud-bank, each a menace and a
     warning of something coming, the advent of some unspeakable dweller
     upon the threshold, whose very shadow would blast my soul. A freezing
     horror took possession of me. I felt that my hair was rising, that my
     eyes were protruding, that my mouth was opened, and my tongue like
     leather. The turmoil within my brain was such that something must
     surely snap. I tried to scream and was vaguely aware of some hoarse
     croak which was my own voice, but distant and detached from myself.
     At the same moment, in some effort of escape, I broke through that
     cloud of despair and had a glimpse of Holmes's face, white, rigid,
     and drawn with horror--the very look which I had seen upon the
     features of the dead. It was that vision which gave me an instant of
     sanity and of strength. I dashed from my chair, threw my arms round
     Holmes, and together we lurched through the door, and an instant
     afterwards had thrown ourselves down upon the grass plot and were
     lying side by side, conscious only of the glorious sunshine which was
     bursting its way through the hellish cloud of terror which had girt
     us in. Slowly it rose from our souls like the mists from a landscape
     until peace and reason had returned, and we were sitting upon the
     grass, wiping our clammy foreheads, and looking with apprehension at
     each other to mark the last traces of that terrific experience which
     we had undergone.

     "Upon my word, Watson!" said Holmes at last with an unsteady voice,
     "I owe you both my thanks and an apology. It was an unjustifiable
     experiment even for one's self, and doubly so for a friend. I am
     really very sorry."

     "You know," I answered with some emotion, for I have never seen so
     much of Holmes's heart before, "that it is my greatest joy and
     privilege to help you."

     He relapsed at once into the half-humorous, half-cynical vein which
     was his habitual attitude to those about him. "It would be
     superfluous to drive us mad, my dear Watson," said he. "A candid
     observer would certainly declare that we were so already before we
     embarked upon so wild an experiment. I confess that I never imagined
     that the effect could be so sudden and so severe." He dashed into the
     cottage, and, reappearing with the burning lamp held at full arm's
     length, he threw it among a bank of brambles. "We must give the room
     a little time to clear. I take it, Watson, that you have no longer a
     shadow of a doubt as to how these tragedies were produced?"

     "None whatever."

     "But the cause remains as obscure as before. Come into the arbour
     here and let us discuss it together. That villainous stuff seems
     still to linger round my throat. I think we must admit that all the
     evidence points to this man, Mortimer Tregennis, having been the
     criminal in the first tragedy, though he was the victim in the second
     one. We must remember, in the first place, that there is some story
     of a family quarrel, followed by a reconciliation. How bitter that
     quarrel may have been, or how hollow the reconciliation we cannot
     tell. When I think of Mortimer Tregennis, with the foxy face and the
     small shrewd, beady eyes behind the spectacles, he is not a man whom
     I should judge to be of a particularly forgiving disposition. Well,
     in the next place, you will remember that this idea of someone moving
     in the garden, which took our attention for a moment from the real
     cause of the tragedy, emanated from him. He had a motive in
     misleading us. Finally, if he did not throw the substance into the
     fire at the moment of leaving the room, who did do so? The affair
     happened immediately after his departure. Had anyone else come in,
     the family would certainly have risen from the table. Besides, in
     peaceful Cornwall, visitors did not arrive after ten o'clock at
     night. We may take it, then, that all the evidence points to Mortimer
     Tregennis as the culprit."

     "Then his own death was suicide!"

     "Well, Watson, it is on the face of it a not impossible supposition.
     The man who had the guilt upon his soul of having brought such a fate
     upon his own family might well be driven by remorse to inflict it
     upon himself. There are, however, some cogent reasons against it.
     Fortunately, there is one man in England who knows all about it, and
     I have made arrangements by which we shall hear the facts this
     afternoon from his own lips. Ah! he is a little before his time.
     Perhaps you would kindly step this way, Dr. Leon Sterndale. We have
     been conducing a chemical experiment indoors which has left our
     little room hardly fit for the reception of so distinguished a
     visitor."

     I had heard the click of the garden gate, and now the majestic figure
     of the great African explorer appeared upon the path. He turned in
     some surprise towards the rustic arbour in which we sat.

     "You sent for me, Mr. Holmes. I had your note about an hour ago, and
     I have come, though I really do not know why I should obey your
     summons."

     "Perhaps we can clear the point up before we separate," said Holmes.
     "Meanwhile, I am much obliged to you for your courteous acquiescence.
     You will excuse this informal reception in the open air, but my
     friend Watson and I have nearly furnished an additional chapter to
     what the papers call the Cornish Horror, and we prefer a clear
     atmosphere for the present. Perhaps, since the matters which we have
     to discuss will affect you personally in a very intimate fashion, it
     is as well that we should talk where there can be no eavesdropping."

     The explorer took his cigar from his lips and gazed sternly at my
     companion.

     "I am at a loss to know, sir," he said, "what you can have to speak
     about which affects me personally in a very intimate fashion."

     "The killing of Mortimer Tregennis," said Holmes.

     For a moment I wished that I were armed. Sterndale's fierce face
     turned to a dusky red, his eyes glared, and the knotted, passionate
     veins started out in his forehead, while he sprang forward with
     clenched hands towards my companion. Then he stopped, and with a
     violent effort he resumed a cold, rigid calmness, which was, perhaps,
     more suggestive of danger than his hot-headed outburst.

     "I have lived so long among savages and beyond the law," said he,
     "that I have got into the way of being a law to myself. You would do
     well, Mr. Holmes, not to forget it, for I have no desire to do you an
     injury."

     "Nor have I any desire to do you an injury, Dr. Sterndale. Surely the
     clearest proof of it is that, knowing what I know, I have sent for
     you and not for the police."

     Sterndale sat down with a gasp, overawed for, perhaps, the first time
     in his adventurous life. There was a calm assurance of power in
     Holmes's manner which could not be withstood. Our visitor stammered
     for a moment, his great hands opening and shutting in his agitation.

     "What do you mean?" he asked at last. "If this is bluff upon your
     part, Mr. Holmes, you have chosen a bad man for your experiment. Let
     us have no more beating about the bush. What do you mean?"

     "I will tell you," said Holmes, "and the reason why I tell you is
     that I hope frankness may beget frankness. What my next step may be
     will depend entirely upon the nature of your own defence."

     "My defence?"

     "Yes, sir."

     "My defence against what?"

     "Against the charge of killing Mortimer Tregennis."

     Sterndale mopped his forehead with his handkerchief. "Upon my word,
     you are getting on," said he. "Do all your successes depend upon this
     prodigious power of bluff?"

     "The bluff," said Holmes sternly, "is upon your side, Dr. Leon
     Sterndale, and not upon mine. As a proof I will tell you some of the
     facts upon which my conclusions are based. Of your return from
     Plymouth, allowing much of your property to go on to Africa, I will
     say nothing save that it first informed me that you were one of the
     factors which had to be taken into account in reconstructing this
     drama--"

     "I came back--"

     "I have heard your reasons and regard them as unconvincing and
     inadequate. We will pass that. You came down here to ask me whom I
     suspected. I refused to answer you. You then went to the vicarage,
     waited outside it for some time, and finally returned to your
     cottage."

     "How do you know that?"

     "I followed you."

     "I saw no one."

     "That is what you may expect to see when I follow you. You spent a
     restless night at your cottage, and you formed certain plans, which
     in the early morning you proceeded to put into execution. Leaving
     your door just as day was breaking, you filled your pocket with some
     reddish gravel that was lying heaped beside your gate."

     Sterndale gave a violent start and looked at Holmes in amazement.

     "You then walked swiftly for the mile which separated you from the
     vicarage. You were wearing, I may remark, the same pair of ribbed
     tennis shoes which are at the present moment upon your feet. At the
     vicarage you passed through the orchard and the side hedge, coming
     out under the window of the lodger Tregennis. It was now daylight,
     but the household was not yet stirring. You drew some of the gravel
     from your pocket, and you threw it up at the window above you."

     Sterndale sprang to his feet.

     "I believe that you are the devil himself!" he cried.

     Holmes smiled at the compliment. "It took two, or possibly three,
     handfuls before the lodger came to the window. You beckoned him to
     come down. He dressed hurriedly and descended to his sitting-room.
     You entered by the window. There was an interview--a short
     one--during which you walked up and down the room. Then you passed
     out and closed the window, standing on the lawn outside smoking a
     cigar and watching what occurred. Finally, after the death of
     Tregennis, you withdrew as you had come. Now, Dr. Sterndale, how do
     you justify such conduct, and what were the motives for your actions?
     If you prevaricate or trifle with me, I give you my assurance that
     the matter will pass out of my hands forever."

     Our visitor's face had turned ashen gray as he listened to the words
     of his accuser. Now he sat for some time in thought with his face
     sunk in his hands. Then with a sudden impulsive gesture he plucked a
     photograph from his breast-pocket and threw it on the rustic table
     before us.

     "That is why I have done it," said he.

     It showed the bust and face of a very beautiful woman. Holmes stooped
     over it.

     "Brenda Tregennis," said he.

     "Yes, Brenda Tregennis," repeated our visitor. "For years I have
     loved her. For years she has loved me. There is the secret of that
     Cornish seclusion which people have marvelled at. It has brought me
     close to the one thing on earth that was dear to me. I could not
     marry her, for I have a wife who has left me for years and yet whom,
     by the deplorable laws of England, I could not divorce. For years
     Brenda waited. For years I waited. And this is what we have waited
     for." A terrible sob shook his great frame, and he clutched his
     throat under his brindled beard. Then with an effort he mastered
     himself and spoke on:

     "The vicar knew. He was in our confidence. He would tell you that she
     was an angel upon earth. That was why he telegraphed to me and I
     returned. What was my baggage or Africa to me when I learned that
     such a fate had come upon my darling? There you have the missing clue
     to my action, Mr. Holmes."

     "Proceed," said my friend.

     Dr. Sterndale drew from his pocket a paper packet and laid it upon
     the table. On the outside was written "Radix pedis diaboli" with a
     red poison label beneath it. He pushed it towards me. "I understand
     that you are a doctor, sir. Have you ever heard of this preparation?"

     "Devil's-foot root! No, I have never heard of it."

     "It is no reflection upon your professional knowledge," said he, "for
     I believe that, save for one sample in a laboratory at Buda, there is
     no other specimen in Europe. It has not yet found its way either into
     the pharmacopoeia or into the literature of toxicology. The root is
     shaped like a foot, half human, half goatlike; hence the fanciful
     name given by a botanical missionary. It is used as an ordeal poison
     by the medicine-men in certain districts of West Africa and is kept
     as a secret among them. This particular specimen I obtained under
     very extraordinary circumstances in the Ubangi country." He opened
     the paper as he spoke and disclosed a heap of reddish-brown,
     snuff-like powder.

     "Well, sir?" asked Holmes sternly.

     "I am about to tell you, Mr. Holmes, all that actually occurred, for
     you already know so much that it is clearly to my interest that you
     should know all. I have already explained the relationship in which I
     stood to the Tregennis family. For the sake of the sister I was
     friendly with the brothers. There was a family quarrel about money
     which estranged this man Mortimer, but it was supposed to be made up,
     and I afterwards met him as I did the others. He was a sly, subtle,
     scheming man, and several things arose which gave me a suspicion of
     him, but I had no cause for any positive quarrel.

     "One day, only a couple of weeks ago, he came down to my cottage and
     I showed him some of my African curiosities. Among other things I
     exhibited this powder, and I told him of its strange properties, how
     it stimulates those brain centres which control the emotion of fear,
     and how either madness or death is the fate of the unhappy native who
     is subjected to the ordeal by the priest of his tribe. I told him
     also how powerless European science would be to detect it. How he
     took it I cannot say, for I never left the room, but there is no
     doubt that it was then, while I was opening cabinets and stooping to
     boxes, that he managed to abstract some of the devil's-foot root. I
     well remember how he plied me with questions as to the amount and the
     time that was needed for its effect, but I little dreamed that he
     could have a personal reason for asking.

     "I thought no more of the matter until the vicar's telegram reached
     me at Plymouth. This villain had thought that I would be at sea
     before the news could reach me, and that I should be lost for years
     in Africa. But I returned at once. Of course, I could not listen to
     the details without feeling assured that my poison had been used. I
     came round to see you on the chance that some other explanation had
     suggested itself to you. But there could be none. I was convinced
     that Mortimer Tregennis was the murderer; that for the sake of money,
     and with the idea, perhaps, that if the other members of his family
     were all insane he would be the sole guardian of their joint
     property, he had used the devil's-foot powder upon them, driven two
     of them out of their senses, and killed his sister Brenda, the one
     human being whom I have ever loved or who has ever loved me. There
     was his crime; what was to be his punishment?

     "Should I appeal to the law? Where were my proofs? I knew that the
     facts were true, but could I help to make a jury of countrymen
     believe so fantastic a story? I might or I might not. But I could not
     afford to fail. My soul cried out for revenge. I have said to you
     once before, Mr. Holmes, that I have spent much of my life outside
     the law, and that I have come at last to be a law to myself. So it
     was even now. I determined that the fate which he had given to others
     should be shared by himself. Either that or I would do justice upon
     him with my own hand. In all England there can be no man who sets
     less value upon his own life than I do at the present moment.

     "Now I have told you all. You have yourself supplied the rest. I did,
     as you say, after a restless night, set off early from my cottage. I
     foresaw the difficulty of arousing him, so I gathered some gravel
     from the pile which you have mentioned, and I used it to throw up to
     his window. He came down and admitted me through the window of the
     sitting-room. I laid his offence before him. I told him that I had
     come both as judge and executioner. The wretch sank into a chair,
     paralyzed at the sight of my revolver. I lit the lamp, put the powder
     above it, and stood outside the window, ready to carry out my threat
     to shoot him should he try to leave the room. In five minutes he
     died. My God! how he died! But my heart was flint, for he endured
     nothing which my innocent darling had not felt before him. There is
     my story, Mr. Holmes. Perhaps, if you loved a woman, you would have
     done as much yourself. At any rate, I am in your hands. You can take
     what steps you like. As I have already said, there is no man living
     who can fear death less than I do."

     Holmes sat for some little time in silence.

     "What were your plans?" he asked at last.

     "I had intended to bury myself in central Africa. My work there is
     but half finished."

     "Go and do the other half," said Holmes. "I, at least, am not
     prepared to prevent you."

     Dr. Sterndale raised his giant figure, bowed gravely, and walked from
     the arbour. Holmes lit his pipe and handed me his pouch.

     "Some fumes which are not poisonous would be a welcome change," said
     he. "I think you must agree, Watson, that it is not a case in which
     we are called upon to interfere. Our investigation has been
     independent, and our action shall be so also. You would not denounce
     the man?"

     "Certainly not," I answered.

     "I have never loved, Watson, but if I did and if the woman I loved
     had met such an end, I might act even as our lawless lion-hunter has
     done. Who knows? Well, Watson, I will not offend your intelligence by
     explaining what is obvious. The gravel upon the window-sill was, of
     course, the starting-point of my research. It was unlike anything in
     the vicarage garden. Only when my attention had been drawn to Dr.
     Sterndale and his cottage did I find its counterpart. The lamp
     shining in broad daylight and the remains of powder upon the shield
     were successive links in a fairly obvious chain. And now, my dear
     Watson, I think we may dismiss the matter from our mind and go back
     with a clear conscience to the study of those Chaldean roots which
     are surely to be traced in the Cornish branch of the great Celtic
     speech."






                                  HIS LAST BOW
                         An Epilogue of Sherlock Holmes

     It was nine o'clock at night upon the second of August--the most
     terrible August in the history of the world. One might have thought
     already that God's curse hung heavy over a degenerate world, for
     there was an awesome hush and a feeling of vague expectancy in the
     sultry and stagnant air. The sun had long set, but one blood-red gash
     like an open wound lay low in the distant west. Above, the stars were
     shining brightly, and below, the lights of the shipping glimmered in
     the bay. The two famous Germans stood beside the stone parapet of the
     garden walk, with the long, low, heavily gabled house behind them,
     and they looked down upon the broad sweep of the beach at the foot of
     the great chalk cliff in which Von Bork, like some wandering eagle,
     had perched himself four years before. They stood with their heads
     close together, talking in low, confidential tones. From below the
     two glowing ends of their cigars might have been the smouldering eyes
     of some malignant fiend looking down in the darkness.

     A remarkable man this Von Bork--a man who could hardly be matched
     among all the devoted agents of the Kaiser. It was his talents which
     had first recommended him for the English mission, the most important
     mission of all, but since he had taken it over those talents had
     become more and more manifest to the half-dozen people in the world
     who were really in touch with the truth. One of these was his present
     companion, Baron Von Herling, the chief secretary of the legation,
     whose huge 100-horse-power Benz car was blocking the country lane as
     it waited to waft its owner back to London.

     "So far as I can judge the trend of events, you will probably be back
     in Berlin within the week," the secretary was saying. "When you get
     there, my dear Von Bork, I think you will be surprised at the welcome
     you will receive. I happen to know what is thought in the highest
     quarters of your work in this country." He was a huge man, the
     secretary, deep, broad, and tall, with a slow, heavy fashion of
     speech which had been his main asset in his political career.

     Von Bork laughed.

     "They are not very hard to deceive," he remarked. "A more docile,
     simple folk could not be imagined."

     "I don't know about that," said the other thoughtfully. "They have
     strange limits and one must learn to observe them. It is that surface
     simplicity of theirs which makes a trap for the stranger. One's first
     impression is that they are entirely soft. Then one comes suddenly
     upon something very hard, and you know that you have reached the
     limit and must adapt yourself to the fact. They have, for example,
     their insular conventions which simply must be observed."

     "Meaning 'good form' and that sort of thing?" Von Bork sighed as one
     who had suffered much.

     "Meaning British prejudice in all its queer manifestations. As an
     example I may quote one of my own worst blunders--I can afford to
     talk of my blunders, for you know my work well enough to be aware of
     my successes. It was on my first arrival. I was invited to a week-end
     gathering at the country house of a cabinet minister. The
     conversation was amazingly indiscreet."

     Von Bork nodded. "I've been there," said he dryly.

     "Exactly. Well, I naturally sent a resume of the information to
     Berlin. Unfortunately our good chancellor is a little heavy-handed in
     these matters, and he transmitted a remark which showed that he was
     aware of what had been said. This, of course, took the trail straight
     up to me. You've no idea the harm that it did me. There was nothing
     soft about our British hosts on that occasion, I can assure you. I
     was two years living it down. Now you, with this sporting pose of
     yours--"

     "No, no, don't call it a pose. A pose is an artificial thing. This is
     quite natural. I am a born sportsman. I enjoy it."

     "Well, that makes it the more effective. You yacht against them, you
     hunt with them, you play polo, you match them in every game, your
     four-in-hand takes the prize at Olympia. I have even heard that you
     go the length of boxing with the young officers. What is the result?
     Nobody takes you seriously. You are a 'good old sport,' 'quite a
     decent fellow for a German,' a hard-drinking, night-club,
     knock-about-town, devil-may-care young fellow. And all the time this
     quiet country house of yours is the centre of half the mischief in
     England, and the sporting squire the most astute secret-service man
     in Europe. Genius, my dear Von Bork--genius!"

     "You flatter me, Baron. But certainly I may claim my four years in
     this country have not been unproductive. I've never shown you my
     little store. Would you mind stepping in for a moment?"

     The door of the study opened straight on to the terrace. Von Bork
     pushed it back, and, leading the way, he clicked the switch of the
     electric light. He then closed the door behind the bulky form which
     followed him and carefully adjusted the heavy curtain over the
     latticed window. Only when all these precautions had been taken and
     tested did he turn his sunburned aquiline face to his guest.

     "Some of my papers have gone," said he. "When my wife and the
     household left yesterday for Flushing they took the less important
     with them. I must, of course, claim the protection of the embassy for
     the others."

     "Your name has already been filed as one of the personal suite. There
     will be no difficulties for you or your baggage. Of course, it is
     just possible that we may not have to go. England may leave France to
     her fate. We are sure that there is no binding treaty between them."

     "And Belgium?"

     "Yes, and Belgium, too."

     Von Bork shook his head. "I don't see how that could be. There is a
     definite treaty there. She could never recover from such a
     humiliation."

     "She would at least have peace for the moment."

     "But her honor?"

     "Tut, my dear sir, we live in a utilitarian age. Honour is a
     mediaeval conception. Besides England is not ready. It is an
     inconceivable thing, but even our special war tax of fifty million,
     which one would think made our purpose as clear as if we had
     advertised it on the front page of the Times, has not roused these
     people from their slumbers. Here and there one hears a question. It
     is my business to find an answer. Here and there also there is an
     irritation. It is my business to soothe it. But I can assure you that
     so far as the essentials go--the storage of munitions, the
     preparation for submarine attack, the arrangements for making high
     explosives--nothing is prepared. How, then, can England come in,
     especially when we have stirred her up such a devil's brew of Irish
     civil war, window-breaking Furies, and God knows what to keep her
     thoughts at home."

     "She must think of her future."

     "Ah, that is another matter. I fancy that in the future we have our
     own very definite plans about England, and that your information will
     be very vital to us. It is to-day or to-morrow with Mr. John Bull. If
     he prefers to-day we are perfectly ready. If it is to-morrow we shall
     be more ready still. I should think they would be wiser to fight with
     allies than without them, but that is their own affair. This week is
     their week of destiny. But you were speaking of your papers." He sat
     in the armchair with the light shining upon his broad bald head,
     while he puffed sedately at his cigar.

     The large oak-panelled, book-lined room had a curtain hung in the
     future corner. When this was drawn it disclosed a large, brass-bound
     safe. Von Bork detached a small key from his watch chain, and after
     some considerable manipulation of the lock he swung open the heavy
     door.

     "Look!" said he, standing clear, with a wave of his hand.

     The light shone vividly into the opened safe, and the secretary of
     the embassy gazed with an absorbed interest at the rows of stuffed
     pigeon-holes with which it was furnished. Each pigeon-hole had its
     label, and his eyes as he glanced along them read a long series of
     such titles as "Fords," "Harbour-defences," "Aeroplanes," "Ireland,"
     "Egypt," "Portsmouth forts," "The Channel," "Rosythe," and a score of
     others. Each compartment was bristling with papers and plans.

     "Colossal!" said the secretary. Putting down his cigar he softly
     clapped his fat hands.

     "And all in four years, Baron. Not such a bad show for the
     hard-drinking, hard-riding country squire. But the gem of my
     collection is coming and there is the setting all ready for it." He
     pointed to a space over which "Naval Signals" was printed.

     "But you have a good dossier there already."

     "Out of date and waste paper. The Admiralty in some way got the alarm
     and every code has been changed. It was a blow, Baron--the worst
     setback in my whole campaign. But thanks to my check-book and the
     good Altamont all will be well to-night."

     The Baron looked at his watch and gave a guttural exclamation of
     disappointment.

     "Well, I really can wait no longer. You can imagine that things are
     moving at present in Carlton Terrace and that we have all to be at
     our posts. I had hoped to be able to bring news of your great coup.
     Did Altamont name no hour?"

     Von Bork pushed over a telegram.

     Will come without fail to-night and bring new sparking plugs.
     --Altamont.

     "Sparking plugs, eh?"

     "You see he poses as a motor expert and I keep a full garage. In our
     code everything likely to come up is named after some spare part. If
     he talks of a radiator it is a battleship, of an oil pump a cruiser,
     and so on. Sparking plugs are naval signals."

     "From Portsmouth at midday," said the secretary, examining the
     superscription. "By the way, what do you give him?"

     "Five hundred pounds for this particular job. Of course he has a
     salary as well."

     "The greedy rouge. They are useful, these traitors, but I grudge them
     their blood money."

     "I grudge Altamont nothing. He is a wonderful worker. If I pay him
     well, at least he delivers the goods, to use his own phrase. Besides
     he is not a traitor. I assure you that our most pan-Germanic Junker
     is a sucking dove in his feelings towards England as compared with a
     real bitter Irish-American."

     "Oh, an Irish-American?"

     "If you heard him talk you would not doubt it. Sometimes I assure you
     I can hardly understand him. He seems to have declared war on the
     King's English as well as on the English king. Must you really go? He
     may be here any moment."

     "No. I'm sorry, but I have already overstayed my time. We shall
     expect you early to-morrow, and when you get that signal book through
     the little door on the Duke of York's steps you can put a triumphant
     finis to your record in England. What! Tokay!" He indicated a heavily
     sealed dust-covered bottle which stood with two high glasses upon a
     salver.

     "May I offer you a glass before your journey?"

     "No, thanks. But it looks like revelry."

     "Altamont has a nice taste in wines, and he took a fancy to my Tokay.
     He is a touchy fellow and needs humouring in small things. I have to
     study him, I assure you." They had strolled out on to the terrace
     again, and along it to the further end where at a touch from the
     Baron's chauffeur the great car shivered and chuckled. "Those are the
     lights of Harwich, I suppose," said the secretary, pulling on his
     dust coat. "How still and peaceful it all seems. There may be other
     lights within the week, and the English coast a less tranquil place!
     The heavens, too, may not be quite so peaceful if all that the good
     Zeppelin promises us comes true. By the way, who is that?"

     Only one window showed a light behind them; in it there stood a lamp,
     and beside it, seated at a table, was a dear old ruddy-faced woman in
     a country cap. She was bending over her knitting and stopping
     occasionally to stroke a large black cat upon a stool beside her.

     "That is Martha, the only servant I have left."

     The secretary chuckled.

     "She might almost personify Britannia," said he, "with her complete
     self-absorption and general air of comfortable somnolence. Well, au
     revoir, Von Bork!" With a final wave of his hand he sprang into the
     car, and a moment later the two golden cones from the headlights shot
     through the darkness. The secretary lay back in the cushions of the
     luxurious limousine, with his thoughts so full of the impending
     European tragedy that he hardly observed that as his car swung round
     the village street it nearly passed over a little Ford coming in the
     opposite direction.

     Von Bork walked slowly back to the study when the last gleams of the
     motor lamps had faded into the distance. As he passed he observed
     that his old housekeeper had put out her lamp and retired. It was a
     new experience to him, the silence and darkness of his widespread
     house, for his family and household had been a large one. It was a
     relief to him, however, to think that they were all in safety and
     that, but for that one old woman who had lingered in the kitchen, he
     had the whole place to himself. There was a good deal of tidying up
     to do inside his study and he set himself to do it until his keen,
     handsome face was flushed with the heat of the burning papers. A
     leather valise stood beside his table, and into this he began to pack
     very neatly and systematically the precious contents of his safe. He
     had hardly got started with the work, however, when his quick ears
     caught the sounds of a distant car. Instantly he gave an exclamation
     of satisfaction, strapped up the valise, shut the safe, locked it,
     and hurried out on to the terrace. He was just in time to see the
     lights of a small car come to a halt at the gate. A passenger sprang
     out of it and advanced swiftly towards him, while the chauffeur, a
     heavily built, elderly man with a gray moustache, settled down like
     one who resigns himself to a long vigil.

     "Well?" asked Von Bork eagerly, running forward to meet his visitor.

     For answer the man waved a small brown-paper parcel triumphantly
     above his head.

     "You can give me the glad hand to-night, mister," he cried. "I'm
     bringing home the bacon at last."

     "The signals?"

     "Same as I said in my cable. Every last one of them, semaphore, lamp
     code, Marconi--a copy, mind you, not the original. That was too
     dangerous. But it's the real goods, and you can lay to that." He
     slapped the German upon the shoulder with a rough familiarity from
     which the other winced.

     "Come in," he said. "I'm all alone in the house. I was only waiting
     for this. Of course a copy is better than the original. If an
     original were missing they would change the whole thing. You think
     it's all safe about the copy?"

     The Irish-American had entered the study and stretched his long limbs
     from the armchair. He was a tall, gaunt man of sixty, with clear-cut
     features and a small goatee beard which gave him a general
     resemblance to the caricatures of Uncle Sam. A half-smoked, sodden
     cigar hung from the corner of his mouth, and as he sat down he struck
     a match and relit it. "Making ready for a move?" he remarked as he
     looked round him. "Say, mister," he added, as his eyes fell upon the
     safe from which the curtain was now removed, "you don't tell me you
     keep your papers in that?"

     "Why not?"

     "Gosh, in a wide-open contraption like that! And they reckon you to
     be some spy. Why, a Yankee crook would be into that with a
     can-opener. If I'd known that any letter of mine was goin' to lie
     loose in a thing like that I'd have been a mug to write to you at
     all."

     "It would puzzle any crook to force that safe," Von Bork answered.
     "You won't cut that metal with any tool."

     "But the lock?"

     "No, it's a double combination lock. You know what that is?"

     "Search me," said the American.

     "Well, you need a word as well as a set of figures before you can get
     the lock to work." He rose and showed a double-radiating disc round
     the keyhole. "This outer one is for the letters, the inner one for
     the figures."

     "Well, well, that's fine."

     "So it's not quite as simple as you thought. It was four years ago
     that I had it made, and what do you think I chose for the word and
     figures?"

     "It's beyond me."

     "Well, I chose August for the word, and 1914 for the figures, and
     here we are."

     The American's face showed his surprise and admiration.

     "My, but that was smart! You had it down to a fine thing."

     "Yes, a few of us even then could have guessed the date. Here it is,
     and I'm shutting down to-morrow morning."

     "Well, I guess you'll have to fix me up also. I'm not staying is this
     gol-darned country all on my lonesome. In a week or less, from what I
     see, John Bull will be on his hind legs and fair ramping. I'd rather
     watch him from over the water."

     "But you're an American citizen?"

     "Well, so was Jack James an American citizen, but he's doing time in
     Portland all the same. It cuts no ice with a British copper to tell
     him you're an American citizen. 'It's British law and order over
     here,' says he. By the way, mister, talking of Jack James, it seems
     to me you don't do much to cover your men."

     "What do you mean?" Von Bork asked sharply.

     "Well, you are their employer, ain't you? It's up to you to see that
     they don't fall down. But they do fall down, and when did you ever
     pick them up? There's James--"

     "It was James's own fault. You know that yourself. He was too
     self-willed for the job."

     "James was a bonehead--I give you that. Then there was Hollis."

     "The man was mad."

     "Well, he went a bit woozy towards the end. It's enough to make a man
     bug-house when he has to play a part from morning to night with a
     hundred guys all ready to set the coppers wise to him. But now there
     is Steiner--"

     Von Bork started violently, and his ruddy face turned a shade paler.

     "What about Steiner?"

     "Well, they've got him, that's all. They raided his store last night,
     and he and his papers are all in Portsmouth jail. You'll go off and
     he, poor devil, will have to stand the racket, and lucky if he gets
     off with his life. That's why I want to get over the water as soon as
     you do."

     Von Bork was a strong, self-contained man, but it was easy to see
     that the news had shaken him.

     "How could they have got on to Steiner?" he muttered. "That's the
     worst blow yet."

     "Well, you nearly had a worse one, for I believe they are not far off
     me."

     "You don't mean that!"

     "Sure thing. My landlady down Fratton way had some inquiries, and
     when I heard of it I guessed it was time for me to hustle. But what I
     want to know, mister, is how the coppers know these things? Steiner
     is the fifth man you've lost since I signed on with you, and I know
     the name of the sixth if I don't get a move on. How do you explain
     it, and ain't you ashamed to see your men go down like this?"

     Von Bork flushed crimson.

     "How dare you speak in such a way!"

     "If I didn't dare things, mister, I wouldn't be in your service. But
     I'll tell you straight what is in my mind. I've heard that with you
     German politicians when an agent has done his work you are not sorry
     to see him put away."

     Von Bork sprang to his feet.

     "Do you dare to suggest that I have given away my own agents!"

     "I don't stand for that, mister, but there's a stool pigeon or a
     cross somewhere, and it's up to you to find out where it is. Anyhow I
     am taking no more chances. It's me for little Holland, and the sooner
     the better."

     Von Bork had mastered his anger.

     "We have been allies too long to quarrel now at the very hour of
     victory," he said. "You've done splendid work and taken risks, and I
     can't forget it. By all means go to Holland, and you can get a boat
     from Rotterdam to New York. No other line will be safe a week from
     now. I'll take that book and pack it with the rest."

     The American held the small parcel in his hand, but made no motion to
     give it up.

     "What about the dough?" he asked.

     "The what?"

     "The boodle. The reward. The £500. The gunner turned damned nasty at
     the last, and I had to square him with an extra hundred dollars or it
     would have been nitsky for you and me. 'Nothin' doin'!' says he, and
     he meant it, too, but the last hundred did it. It's cost me two
     hundred pound from first to last, so it isn't likely I'd give it up
     without gettin' my wad."

     Von Bork smiled with some bitterness. "You don't seem to have a very
     high opinion of my honour," said he, "you want the money before you
     give up the book."

     "Well, mister, it is a business proposition."

     "All right. Have your way." He sat down at the table and scribbled a
     check, which he tore from the book, but he refrained from handing it
     to his companion. "After all, since we are to be on such terms, Mr.
     Altamont," said he, "I don't see why I should trust you any more than
     you trust me. Do you understand?" he added, looking back over his
     shoulder at the American. "There's the check upon the table. I claim
     the right to examine that parcel before you pick the money up."

     The American passed it over without a word. Von Bork undid a winding
     of string and two wrappers of paper. Then he sat dazing for a moment
     in silent amazement at a small blue book which lay before him. Across
     the cover was printed in golden letters Practical Handbook of Bee
     Culture. Only for one instant did the master spy glare at this
     strangely irrelevant inscription. The next he was gripped at the back
     of his neck by a grasp of iron, and a chloroformed sponge was held in
     front of his writhing face.

     "Another glass, Watson!" said Mr. Sherlock Holmes as he extended the
     bottle of Imperial Tokay.

     The thickset chauffeur, who had seated himself by the table, pushed
     forward his glass with some eagerness.

     "It is a good wine, Holmes."

     "A remarkable wine, Watson. Our friend upon the sofa has assured me
     that it is from Franz Josef's special cellar at the Schoenbrunn
     Palace. Might I trouble you to open the window, for chloroform vapour
     does not help the palate."

     The safe was ajar, and Holmes standing in front of it was removing
     dossier after dossier, swiftly examining each, and then packing it
     neatly in Von Bork's valise. The German lay upon the sofa sleeping
     stertorously with a strap round his upper arms and another round his
     legs.

     "We need not hurry ourselves, Watson. We are safe from interruption.
     Would you mind touching the bell? There is no one in the house except
     old Martha, who has played her part to admiration. I got her the
     situation here when first I took the matter up. Ah, Martha, you will
     be glad to hear that all is well."

     The pleasant old lady had appeared in the doorway. She curtseyed with
     a smile to Mr. Holmes, but glanced with some apprehension at the
     figure upon the sofa.

     "It is all right, Martha. He has not been hurt at all."

     "I am glad of that, Mr. Holmes. According to his lights he has been a
     kind master. He wanted me to go with his wife to Germany yesterday,
     but that would hardly have suited your plans, would it, sir?"

     "No, indeed, Martha. So long as you were here I was easy in my mind.
     We waited some time for your signal to-night."

     "It was the secretary, sir."

     "I know. His car passed ours."

     "I thought he would never go. I knew that it would not suit your
     plans, sir, to find him here."

     "No, indeed. Well, it only meant that we waited half an hour or so
     until I saw your lamp go out and knew that the coast was clear. You
     can report to me to-morrow in London, Martha, at Claridge's Hotel."

     "Very good, sir."

     "I suppose you have everything ready to leave."

     "Yes, sir. He posted seven letters to-day. I have the addresses as
     usual."

     "Very good, Martha. I will look into them to-morrow. Good-night.
     These papers," he continued as the old lady vanished, "are not of
     very great importance, for, of course, the information which they
     represent has been sent off long ago to the German government. These
     are the originals which cold not safely be got out of the country."

     "Then they are of no use."

     "I should not go so far as to say that, Watson. They will at least
     show our people what is known and what is not. I may say that a good
     many of these papers have come through me, and I need not add are
     thoroughly untrustworthy. It would brighten my declining years to see
     a German cruiser navigating the Solent according to the mine-field
     plans which I have furnished. But you, Watson"--he stopped his work
     and took his old friend by the shoulders--"I've hardly seen you in
     the light yet. How have the years used you? You look the same blithe
     boy as ever."

     "I feel twenty years younger, Holmes. I have seldom felt so happy as
     when I got your wire asking me to meet you at Harwich with the car.
     But you, Holmes--you have changed very little--save for that horrible
     goatee."

     "These are the sacrifices one makes for one's country, Watson," said
     Holmes, pulling at his little tuft. "To-morrow it will be but a
     dreadful memory. With my hair cut and a few other superficial changes
     I shall no doubt reappear at Claridge's to-morrow as I was before
     this American stunt--I beg your pardon, Watson, my well of English
     seems to be permanently defiled--before this American job came my
     way."

     "But you have retired, Holmes. We heard of you as living the life of
     a hermit among your bees and your books in a small farm upon the
     South Downs."

     "Exactly, Watson. Here is the fruit of my leisured ease, the magnum
     opus of my latter years!" He picked up the volume from the table and
     read out the whole title, Practical Handbook of Bee Culture, with
     Some Observations upon the Segregation of the Queen. "Alone I did it.
     Behold the fruit of pensive nights and laborious days when I watched
     the little working gangs as once I watched the criminal world of
     London."

     "But how did you get to work again?"

     "Ah, I have often marvelled at it myself. The Foreign Minister alone
     I could have withstood, but when the Premier also deigned to visit my
     humble roof--! The fact is, Watson, that this gentleman upon the sofa
     was a bit too good for our people. He was in a class by himself.
     Things were going wrong, and no one could understand why they were
     going wrong. Agents were suspected or even caught, but there was
     evidence of some strong and secret central force. It was absolutely
     necessary to expose it. Strong pressure was brought upon me to look
     into the matter. It has cost me two years, Watson, but they have not
     been devoid of excitement. When I say that I started my pilgrimage at
     Chicago, graduated in an Irish secret society at Buffalo, gave
     serious trouble to the constabulary at Skibbareen, and so eventually
     caught the eye of a subordinate agent of Von Bork, who recommended me
     as a likely man, you will realize that the matter was complex. Since
     then I have been honoured by his confidence, which has not prevented
     most of his plans going subtly wrong and five of his best agents
     being in prison. I watched them, Watson, and I picked them as they
     ripened. Well, sir, I hope that you are none the worse!"

     The last remark was addressed to Von Bork himself, who after much
     gasping and blinking had lain quietly listening to Holmes's
     statement. He broke out now into a furious stream of German
     invective, his face convulsed with passion. Holmes continued his
     swift investigation of documents while his prisoner cursed and swore.

     "Though unmusical, German is the most expressive of all languages,"
     he observed when Von Bork had stopped from pure exhaustion. "Hullo!
     Hullo!" he added as he looked hard at the corner of a tracing before
     putting it in the box. "This should put another bird in the cage. I
     had no idea that the paymaster was such a rascal, though I have long
     had an eye upon him. Mister Von Bork, you have a great deal to answer
     for."

     The prisoner had raised himself with some difficulty upon the sofa
     and was staring with a strange mixture of amazement and hatred at his
     captor.

     "I shall get level with you, Altamont," he said, speaking with slow
     deliberation. "If it takes me all my life I shall get level with
     you!"

     "The old sweet song," said Holmes. "How often have I heard it in days
     gone by. It was a favorite ditty of the late lamented Professor
     Moriarty.  Colonel Sebastian Moran has also been known to warble it.
     And yet I live and keep bees upon the South Downs."

     "Curse you, you double traitor!" cried the German, straining against
     his bonds and glaring murder from his furious eyes.

     "No, no, it is not so bad as that," said Holmes, smiling. "As my
     speech surely shows you, Mr. Altamont of Chicago had no existence in
     fact. I used him and he is gone."

     "Then who are you?"

     "It is really immaterial who I am, but since the matter seems to
     interest you, Mr. Von Bork, I may say that this is not my first
     acquaintance with the members of your family. I have done a good deal
     of business in Germany in the past and my name is probably familiar
     to you."

     "I would wish to know it," said the Prussian grimly.

     "It was I who brought about the separation between Irene Adler and
     the late King of Bohemia when your cousin Heinrich was the Imperial
     Envoy. It was I also who saved from murder, by the Nihilist Klopman,
     Count Von und Zu Grafenstein, who was your mother's elder brother. It
     was I--"

     Von Bork sat up in amazement.

     "There is only one man," he cried.

     "Exactly," said Holmes.

     Von Bork groaned and sank back on the sofa. "And most of that
     information came through you," he cried. "What is it worth? What have
     I done? It is my ruin forever!"

     "It is certainly a little untrustworthy," said Holmes. "It will
     require some checking and you have little time to check it. Your
     admiral may find the new guns rather larger than he expects, and the
     cruisers perhaps a trifle faster."

     Von Bork clutched at his own throat in despair.

     "There are a good many other points of detail which will, no doubt,
     come to light in good time. But you have one quality which is very
     rare in a German, Mr. Von Bork: you are a sportsman and you will bear
     me no ill-will when you realize that you, who have outwitted so many
     other people, have at last been outwitted yourself. After all, you
     have done your best for your country, and I have done my best for
     mine, and what could be more natural? Besides," he added, not
     unkindly, as he laid his hand upon the shoulder of the prostrate man,
     "it is better than to fall before some ignoble foe. These papers are
     now ready, Watson. If you will help me with our prisoner, I think
     that we may get started for London at once."

     It was no easy task to move Von Bork, for he was a strong and a
     desperate man. Finally, holding either arm, the two friends walked
     him very slowly down the garden walk which he had trod with such
     proud confidence when he received the congratulations of the famous
     diplomatist only a few hours before. After a short, final struggle he
     was hoisted, still bound hand and foot, into the spare seat of the
     little car. His precious valise was wedged in beside him.

     "I trust that you are as comfortable as circumstances permit," said
     Holmes when the final arrangements were made. "Should I be guilty of
     a liberty if I lit a cigar and placed it between your lips?"

     But all amenities were wasted upon the angry German.

     "I suppose you realize, Mr. Sherlock Holmes," said he, "that if your
     government bears you out in this treatment it becomes an act of war."

     "What about your government and all this treatment?" said Holmes,
     tapping the valise.

     "You are a private individual. You have no warrant for my arrest. The
     whole proceeding is absolutely illegal and outrageous."

     "Absolutely," said Holmes.

     "Kidnapping a German subject."

     "And stealing his private papers."

     "Well, you realize your position, you and your accomplice here. If I
     were to shout for help as we pass through the village--"

     "My dear sir, if you did anything so foolish you would probably
     enlarge the two limited titles of our village inns by giving us 'The
     Dangling Prussian' as a signpost. The Englishman is a patient
     creature, but at present his temper is a little inflamed, and it
     would be as well not to try him too far. No, Mr. Von Bork, you will
     go with us in a quiet, sensible fashion to Scotland Yard, whence you
     can send for your friend, Baron Von Herling, and see if even now you
     may not fill that place which he has reserved for you in the
     ambassadorial suite. As to you, Watson, you are joining us with your
     old service, as I understand, so London won't be out of your way.
     Stand with me here upon the terrace, for it may be the last quiet
     talk that we shall ever have."

     The two friends chatted in intimate converse for a few minutes,
     recalling once again the days of the past, while their prisoner
     vainly wriggled to undo the bonds that held him. As they turned to
     the car Holmes pointed back to the moonlit sea and shook a thoughtful
     head.

     "There's an east wind coming, Watson."

     "I think not, Holmes. It is very warm."

     "Good old Watson! You are the one fixed point in a changing age.
     There's an east wind coming all the same, such a wind as never blew
     on England yet. It will be cold and bitter, Watson, and a good many
     of us may wither before its blast. But it's God's own wind none the
     less, and a cleaner, better, stronger land will lie in the sunshine
     when the storm has cleared. Start her up, Watson, for it's time that
     we were on our way. I have a check for five hundred pounds which
     should be cashed early, for the drawer is quite capable of stopping
     it if he can."









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