



                        THE ADVENTURES OF SHERLOCK HOLMES

                               Arthur Conan Doyle



                                Table of contents

               A Scandal in Bohemia
               The Red-Headed League
               A Case of Identity
               The Boscombe Valley Mystery
               The Five Orange Pips
               The Man with the Twisted Lip
               The Adventure of the Blue Carbuncle
               The Adventure of the Speckled Band
               The Adventure of the Engineer's Thumb
               The Adventure of the Noble Bachelor
               The Adventure of the Beryl Coronet
               The Adventure of the Copper Beeches










                              A SCANDAL IN BOHEMIA





                                Table of contents
                                     Chapter 1
                                     Chapter 2
                                     Chapter 3















          CHAPTER I



     To Sherlock Holmes she is always the woman. I have seldom heard him
     mention her under any other name. In his eyes she eclipses and
     predominates the whole of her sex. It was not that he felt any
     emotion akin to love for Irene Adler. All emotions, and that one
     particularly, were abhorrent to his cold, precise but admirably
     balanced mind. He was, I take it, the most perfect reasoning and
     observing machine that the world has seen, but as a lover he would
     have placed himself in a false position. He never spoke of the softer
     passions, save with a gibe and a sneer. They were admirable things
     for the observer--excellent for drawing the veil from men's motives
     and actions. But for the trained reasoner to admit such intrusions
     into his own delicate and finely adjusted temperament was to
     introduce a distracting factor which might throw a doubt upon all his
     mental results. Grit in a sensitive instrument, or a crack in one of
     his own high-power lenses, would not be more disturbing than a strong
     emotion in a nature such as his. And yet there was but one woman to
     him, and that woman was the late Irene Adler, of dubious and
     questionable memory.

     I had seen little of Holmes lately. My marriage had drifted us away
     from each other. My own complete happiness, and the home-centred
     interests which rise up around the man who first finds himself master
     of his own establishment, were sufficient to absorb all my attention,
     while Holmes, who loathed every form of society with his whole
     Bohemian soul, remained in our lodgings in Baker Street, buried among
     his old books, and alternating from week to week between cocaine and
     ambition, the drowsiness of the drug, and the fierce energy of his
     own keen nature. He was still, as ever, deeply attracted by the study
     of crime, and occupied his immense faculties and extraordinary powers
     of observation in following out those clues, and clearing up those
     mysteries which had been abandoned as hopeless by the official
     police. From time to time I heard some vague account of his doings:
     of his summons to Odessa in the case of the Trepoff murder, of his
     clearing up of the singular tragedy of the Atkinson brothers at
     Trincomalee, and finally of the mission which he had accomplished so
     delicately and successfully for the reigning family of Holland.
     Beyond these signs of his activity, however, which I merely shared
     with all the readers of the daily press, I knew little of my former
     friend and companion.

     One night--it was on the twentieth of March, 1888--I was returning
     from a journey to a patient (for I had now returned to civil
     practice), when my way led me through Baker Street. As I passed the
     well-remembered door, which must always be associated in my mind with
     my wooing, and with the dark incidents of the Study in Scarlet, I was
     seized with a keen desire to see Holmes again, and to know how he was
     employing his extraordinary powers. His rooms were brilliantly lit,
     and, even as I looked up, I saw his tall, spare figure pass twice in
     a dark silhouette against the blind. He was pacing the room swiftly,
     eagerly, with his head sunk upon his chest and his hands clasped
     behind him. To me, who knew his every mood and habit, his attitude
     and manner told their own story. He was at work again. He had risen
     out of his drug-created dreams and was hot upon the scent of some new
     problem. I rang the bell and was shown up to the chamber which had
     formerly been in part my own.

     His manner was not effusive. It seldom was; but he was glad, I think,
     to see me. With hardly a word spoken, but with a kindly eye, he waved
     me to an armchair, threw across his case of cigars, and indicated a
     spirit case and a gasogene in the corner. Then he stood before the
     fire and looked me over in his singular introspective fashion.

     "Wedlock suits you," he remarked. "I think, Watson, that you have put
     on seven and a half pounds since I saw you."

     "Seven!" I answered.

     "Indeed, I should have thought a little more. Just a trifle more, I
     fancy, Watson. And in practice again, I observe. You did not tell me
     that you intended to go into harness."

     "Then, how do you know?"

     "I see it, I deduce it. How do I know that you have been getting
     yourself very wet lately, and that you have a most clumsy and
     careless servant girl?"

     "My dear Holmes," said I, "this is too much. You would certainly have
     been burned, had you lived a few centuries ago. It is true that I had
     a country walk on Thursday and came home in a dreadful mess, but as I
     have changed my clothes I can't imagine how you deduce it. As to Mary
     Jane, she is incorrigible, and my wife has given her notice, but
     there, again, I fail to see how you work it out."

     He chuckled to himself and rubbed his long, nervous hands together.

     "It is simplicity itself," said he; "my eyes tell me that on the
     inside of your left shoe, just where the firelight strikes it, the
     leather is scored by six almost parallel cuts. Obviously they have
     been caused by someone who has very carelessly scraped round the
     edges of the sole in order to remove crusted mud from it. Hence, you
     see, my double deduction that you had been out in vile weather, and
     that you had a particularly malignant boot-slitting specimen of the
     London slavey. As to your practice, if a gentleman walks into my
     rooms smelling of iodoform, with a black mark of nitrate of silver
     upon his right forefinger, and a bulge on the right side of his
     top-hat to show where he has secreted his stethoscope, I must be
     dull, indeed, if I do not pronounce him to be an active member of the
     medical profession."

     I could not help laughing at the ease with which he explained his
     process of deduction. "When I hear you give your reasons," I
     remarked, "the thing always appears to me to be so ridiculously
     simple that I could easily do it myself, though at each successive
     instance of your reasoning I am baffled until you explain your
     process. And yet I believe that my eyes are as good as yours."

     "Quite so," he answered, lighting a cigarette, and throwing himself
     down into an armchair. "You see, but you do not observe. The
     distinction is clear. For example, you have frequently seen the steps
     which lead up from the hall to this room."

     "Frequently."

     "How often?"

     "Well, some hundreds of times."

     "Then how many are there?"

     "How many? I don't know."

     "Quite so! You have not observed. And yet you have seen. That is just
     my point. Now, I know that there are seventeen steps, because I have
     both seen and observed. By-the-way, since you are interested in these
     little problems, and since you are good enough to chronicle one or
     two of my trifling experiences, you may be interested in this." He
     threw over a sheet of thick, pink-tinted note-paper which had been
     lying open upon the table. "It came by the last post," said he. "Read
     it aloud."

     The note was undated, and without either signature or address.

     "There will call upon you to-night, at a quarter to eight o'clock,"
     it said, "a gentleman who desires to consult you upon a matter of the
     very deepest moment. Your recent services to one of the royal houses
     of Europe have shown that you are one who may safely be trusted with
     matters which are of an importance which can hardly be exaggerated.
     This account of you we have from all quarters received. Be in your
     chamber then at that hour, and do not take it amiss if your visitor
     wear a mask."

     "This is indeed a mystery," I remarked. "What do you imagine that it
     means?"

     "I have no data yet. It is a capital mistake to theorize before one
     has data. Insensibly one begins to twist facts to suit theories,
     instead of theories to suit facts. But the note itself. What do you
     deduce from it?"

     I carefully examined the writing, and the paper upon which it was
     written.

     "The man who wrote it was presumably well to do," I remarked,
     endeavouring to imitate my companion's processes. "Such paper could
     not be bought under half a crown a packet. It is peculiarly strong
     and stiff."

     "Peculiar--that is the very word," said Holmes. "It is not an English
     paper at all. Hold it up to the light."

     I did so, and saw a large "E" with a small "g," a "P," and a large
     "G" with a small "t" woven into the texture of the paper.

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

     "The name of the maker, no doubt; or his monogram, rather."

     "Not at all. The 'G' with the small 't' stands for 'Gesellschaft,'
     which is the German for 'Company.' It is a customary contraction like
     our 'Co.' 'P,' of course, stands for 'Papier.' Now for the 'Eg.' Let
     us glance at our Continental Gazetteer." He took down a heavy brown
     volume from his shelves. "Eglow, Eglonitz--here we are, Egria. It is
     in a German-speaking country--in Bohemia, not far from Carlsbad.
     'Remarkable as being the scene of the death of Wallenstein, and for
     its numerous glass-factories and paper-mills.' Ha, ha, my boy, what
     do you make of that?" His eyes sparkled, and he sent up a great blue
     triumphant cloud from his cigarette.

     "The paper was made in Bohemia," I said.

     "Precisely. And the man who wrote the note is a German. Do you note
     the peculiar construction of the sentence--'This account of you we
     have from all quarters received.' A Frenchman or Russian could not
     have written that. It is the German who is so uncourteous to his
     verbs. It only remains, therefore, to discover what is wanted by this
     German who writes upon Bohemian paper and prefers wearing a mask to
     showing his face. And here he comes, if I am not mistaken, to resolve
     all our doubts."

     As he spoke there was the sharp sound of horses' hoofs and grating
     wheels against the curb, followed by a sharp pull at the bell. Holmes
     whistled.

     "A pair, by the sound," said he. "Yes," he continued, glancing out of
     the window. "A nice little brougham and a pair of beauties. A hundred
     and fifty guineas apiece. There's money in this case, Watson, if
     there is nothing else."

     "I think that I had better go, Holmes."

     "Not a bit, Doctor. Stay where you are. I am lost without my Boswell.
     And this promises to be interesting. It would be a pity to miss it."

     "But your client--"

     "Never mind him. I may want your help, and so may he. Here he comes.
     Sit down in that armchair, Doctor, and give us your best attention."

     A slow and heavy step, which had been heard upon the stairs and in
     the passage, paused immediately outside the door. Then there was a
     loud and authoritative tap.

     "Come in!" said Holmes.

     A man entered who could hardly have been less than six feet six
     inches in height, with the chest and limbs of a Hercules. His dress
     was rich with a richness which would, in England, be looked upon as
     akin to bad taste. Heavy bands of astrakhan were slashed across the
     sleeves and fronts of his double-breasted coat, while the deep blue
     cloak which was thrown over his shoulders was lined with
     flame-coloured silk and secured at the neck with a brooch which
     consisted of a single flaming beryl. Boots which extended halfway up
     his calves, and which were trimmed at the tops with rich brown fur,
     completed the impression of barbaric opulence which was suggested by
     his whole appearance. He carried a broad-brimmed hat in his hand,
     while he wore across the upper part of his face, extending down past
     the cheekbones, a black vizard mask, which he had apparently adjusted
     that very moment, for his hand was still raised to it as he entered.
     From the lower part of the face he appeared to be a man of strong
     character, with a thick, hanging lip, and a long, straight chin
     suggestive of resolution pushed to the length of obstinacy.

     "You had my note?" he asked with a deep harsh voice and a strongly
     marked German accent. "I told you that I would call." He looked from
     one to the other of us, as if uncertain which to address.

     "Pray take a seat," said Holmes. "This is my friend and colleague,
     Dr. Watson, who is occasionally good enough to help me in my cases.
     Whom have I the honour to address?"

     "You may address me as the Count Von Kramm, a Bohemian nobleman. I
     understand that this gentleman, your friend, is a man of honour and
     discretion, whom I may trust with a matter of the most extreme
     importance. If not, I should much prefer to communicate with you
     alone."

     I rose to go, but Holmes caught me by the wrist and pushed me back
     into my chair. "It is both, or none," said he. "You may say before
     this gentleman anything which you may say to me."

     The Count shrugged his broad shoulders. "Then I must begin," said he,
     "by binding you both to absolute secrecy for two years; at the end of
     that time the matter will be of no importance. At present it is not
     too much to say that it is of such weight it may have an influence
     upon European history."

     "I promise," said Holmes.

     "And I."

     "You will excuse this mask," continued our strange visitor. "The
     august person who employs me wishes his agent to be unknown to you,
     and I may confess at once that the title by which I have just called
     myself is not exactly my own."

     "I was aware of it," said Holmes dryly.

     "The circumstances are of great delicacy, and every precaution has to
     be taken to quench what might grow to be an immense scandal and
     seriously compromise one of the reigning families of Europe. To speak
     plainly, the matter implicates the great House of Ormstein,
     hereditary kings of Bohemia."

     "I was also aware of that," murmured Holmes, settling himself down in
     his armchair and closing his eyes.

     Our visitor glanced with some apparent surprise at the languid,
     lounging figure of the man who had been no doubt depicted to him as
     the most incisive reasoner and most energetic agent in Europe. Holmes
     slowly reopened his eyes and looked impatiently at his gigantic
     client.

     "If your Majesty would condescend to state your case," he remarked,
     "I should be better able to advise you."

     The man sprang from his chair and paced up and down the room in
     uncontrollable agitation. Then, with a gesture of desperation, he
     tore the mask from his face and hurled it upon the ground. "You are
     right," he cried; "I am the King. Why should I attempt to conceal
     it?"

     "Why, indeed?" murmured Holmes. "Your Majesty had not spoken before I
     was aware that I was addressing Wilhelm Gottsreich Sigismond von
     Ormstein, Grand Duke of Cassel-Felstein, and hereditary King of
     Bohemia."

     "But you can understand," said our strange visitor, sitting down once
     more and passing his hand over his high white forehead, "you can
     understand that I am not accustomed to doing such business in my own
     person. Yet the matter was so delicate that I could not confide it to
     an agent without putting myself in his power. I have come incognito
     from Prague for the purpose of consulting you."

     "Then, pray consult," said Holmes, shutting his eyes once more.

     "The facts are briefly these: Some five years ago, during a lengthy
     visit to Warsaw, I made the acquaintance of the well-known
     adventuress, Irene Adler. The name is no doubt familiar to you."

     "Kindly look her up in my index, Doctor," murmured Holmes without
     opening his eyes. For many years he had adopted a system of docketing
     all paragraphs concerning men and things, so that it was difficult to
     name a subject or a person on which he could not at once furnish
     information. In this case I found her biography sandwiched in between
     that of a Hebrew rabbi and that of a staff-commander who had written
     a monograph upon the deep-sea fishes.

     "Let me see!" said Holmes. "Hum! Born in New Jersey in the year 1858.
     Contralto--hum! La Scala, hum! Prima donna Imperial Opera of
     Warsaw--yes! Retired from operatic stage--ha! Living in London--quite
     so! Your Majesty, as I understand, became entangled with this young
     person, wrote her some compromising letters, and is now desirous of
     getting those letters back."

     "Precisely so. But how--"

     "Was there a secret marriage?"

     "None."

     "No legal papers or certificates?"

     "None."

     "Then I fail to follow your Majesty. If this young person should
     produce her letters for blackmailing or other purposes, how is she to
     prove their authenticity?"

     "There is the writing."

     "Pooh, pooh! Forgery."

     "My private note-paper."

     "Stolen."

     "My own seal."

     "Imitated."

     "My photograph."

     "Bought."

     "We were both in the photograph."

     "Oh, dear! That is very bad! Your Majesty has indeed committed an
     indiscretion."

     "I was mad--insane."

     "You have compromised yourself seriously."

     "I was only Crown Prince then. I was young. I am but thirty now."

     "It must be recovered."

     "We have tried and failed."

     "Your Majesty must pay. It must be bought."

     "She will not sell."

     "Stolen, then."

     "Five attempts have been made. Twice burglars in my pay ransacked her
     house. Once we diverted her luggage when she travelled. Twice she has
     been waylaid. There has been no result."

     "No sign of it?"

     "Absolutely none."

     Holmes laughed. "It is quite a pretty little problem," said he.

     "But a very serious one to me," returned the King reproachfully.

     "Very, indeed. And what does she propose to do with the photograph?"

     "To ruin me."

     "But how?"

     "I am about to be married."

     "So I have heard."

     "To Clotilde Lothman von Saxe-Meningen, second daughter of the King
     of Scandinavia. You may know the strict principles of her family. She
     is herself the very soul of delicacy. A shadow of a doubt as to my
     conduct would bring the matter to an end."

     "And Irene Adler?"

     "Threatens to send them the photograph. And she will do it. I know
     that she will do it. You do not know her, but she has a soul of
     steel. She has the face of the most beautiful of women, and the mind
     of the most resolute of men. Rather than I should marry another
     woman, there are no lengths to which she would not go--none."

     "You are sure that she has not sent it yet?"

     "I am sure."

     "And why?"

     "Because she has said that she would send it on the day when the
     betrothal was publicly proclaimed. That will be next Monday."

     "Oh, then we have three days yet," said Holmes with a yawn. "That is
     very fortunate, as I have one or two matters of importance to look
     into just at present. Your Majesty will, of course, stay in London
     for the present?"

     "Certainly. You will find me at the Langham under the name of the
     Count Von Kramm."

     "Then I shall drop you a line to let you know how we progress."

     "Pray do so. I shall be all anxiety."

     "Then, as to money?"

     "You have carte blanche."

     "Absolutely?"

     "I tell you that I would give one of the provinces of my kingdom to
     have that photograph."

     "And for present expenses?"

     The King took a heavy chamois leather bag from under his cloak and
     laid it on the table.

     "There are three hundred pounds in gold and seven hundred in notes,"
     he said.

     Holmes scribbled a receipt upon a sheet of his note-book and handed
     it to him.

     "And Mademoiselle's address?" he asked.

     "Is Briony Lodge, Serpentine Avenue, St. John's Wood."

     Holmes took a note of it. "One other question," said he. "Was the
     photograph a cabinet?"

     "It was."

     "Then, good-night, your Majesty, and I trust that we shall soon have
     some good news for you. And good-night, Watson," he added, as the
     wheels of the royal brougham rolled down the street. "If you will be
     good enough to call to-morrow afternoon at three o'clock I should
     like to chat this little matter over with you."





          CHAPTER II



     At three o'clock precisely I was at Baker Street, but Holmes had not
     yet returned. The landlady informed me that he had left the house
     shortly after eight o'clock in the morning. I sat down beside the
     fire, however, with the intention of awaiting him, however long he
     might be. I was already deeply interested in his inquiry, for, though
     it was surrounded by none of the grim and strange features which were
     associated with the two crimes which I have already recorded, still,
     the nature of the case and the exalted station of his client gave it
     a character of its own. Indeed, apart from the nature of the
     investigation which my friend had on hand, there was something in his
     masterly grasp of a situation, and his keen, incisive reasoning,
     which made it a pleasure to me to study his system of work, and to
     follow the quick, subtle methods by which he disentangled the most
     inextricable mysteries. So accustomed was I to his invariable success
     that the very possibility of his failing had ceased to enter into my
     head.

     It was close upon four before the door opened, and a drunken-looking
     groom, ill-kempt and side-whiskered, with an inflamed face and
     disreputable clothes, walked into the room. Accustomed as I was to my
     friend's amazing powers in the use of disguises, I had to look three
     times before I was certain that it was indeed he. With a nod he
     vanished into the bedroom, whence he emerged in five minutes
     tweed-suited and respectable, as of old. Putting his hands into his
     pockets, he stretched out his legs in front of the fire and laughed
     heartily for some minutes.

     "Well, really!" he cried, and then he choked and laughed again until
     he was obliged to lie back, limp and helpless, in the chair.

     "What is it?"

     "It's quite too funny. I am sure you could never guess how I employed
     my morning, or what I ended by doing."

     "I can't imagine. I suppose that you have been watching the habits,
     and perhaps the house, of Miss Irene Adler."

     "Quite so; but the sequel was rather unusual. I will tell you,
     however. I left the house a little after eight o'clock this morning
     in the character of a groom out of work. There is a wonderful
     sympathy and freemasonry among horsey men. Be one of them, and you
     will know all that there is to know. I soon found Briony Lodge. It is
     a bijou villa, with a garden at the back, but built out in front
     right up to the road, two stories. Chubb lock to the door. Large
     sitting-room on the right side, well furnished, with long windows
     almost to the floor, and those preposterous English window fasteners
     which a child could open. Behind there was nothing remarkable, save
     that the passage window could be reached from the top of the
     coach-house. I walked round it and examined it closely from every
     point of view, but without noting anything else of interest.

     "I then lounged down the street and found, as I expected, that there
     was a mews in a lane which runs down by one wall of the garden. I
     lent the ostlers a hand in rubbing down their horses, and received in
     exchange twopence, a glass of half and half, two fills of shag
     tobacco, and as much information as I could desire about Miss Adler,
     to say nothing of half a dozen other people in the neighbourhood in
     whom I was not in the least interested, but whose biographies I was
     compelled to listen to."

     "And what of Irene Adler?" I asked.

     "Oh, she has turned all the men's heads down in that part. She is the
     daintiest thing under a bonnet on this planet. So say the
     Serpentine-mews, to a man. She lives quietly, sings at concerts,
     drives out at five every day, and returns at seven sharp for dinner.
     Seldom goes out at other times, except when she sings. Has only one
     male visitor, but a good deal of him. He is dark, handsome, and
     dashing, never calls less than once a day, and often twice. He is a
     Mr. Godfrey Norton, of the Inner Temple. See the advantages of a
     cabman as a confidant. They had driven him home a dozen times from
     Serpentine-mews, and knew all about him. When I had listened to all
     they had to tell, I began to walk up and down near Briony Lodge once
     more, and to think over my plan of campaign.

     "This Godfrey Norton was evidently an important factor in the matter.
     He was a lawyer. That sounded ominous. What was the relation between
     them, and what the object of his repeated visits? Was she his client,
     his friend, or his mistress? If the former, she had probably
     transferred the photograph to his keeping. If the latter, it was less
     likely. On the issue of this question depended whether I should
     continue my work at Briony Lodge, or turn my attention to the
     gentleman's chambers in the Temple. It was a delicate point, and it
     widened the field of my inquiry. I fear that I bore you with these
     details, but I have to let you see my little difficulties, if you are
     to understand the situation."

     "I am following you closely," I answered.

     "I was still balancing the matter in my mind when a hansom cab drove
     up to Briony Lodge, and a gentleman sprang out. He was a remarkably
     handsome man, dark, aquiline, and moustached--evidently the man of
     whom I had heard. He appeared to be in a great hurry, shouted to the
     cabman to wait, and brushed past the maid who opened the door with
     the air of a man who was thoroughly at home.

     "He was in the house about half an hour, and I could catch glimpses
     of him in the windows of the sitting-room, pacing up and down,
     talking excitedly, and waving his arms. Of her I could see nothing.
     Presently he emerged, looking even more flurried than before. As he
     stepped up to the cab, he pulled a gold watch from his pocket and
     looked at it earnestly, 'Drive like the devil,' he shouted, 'first to
     Gross & Hankey's in Regent Street, and then to the Church of St.
     Monica in the Edgeware Road. Half a guinea if you do it in twenty
     minutes!'

     "Away they went, and I was just wondering whether I should not do
     well to follow them when up the lane came a neat little landau, the
     coachman with his coat only half-buttoned, and his tie under his ear,
     while all the tags of his harness were sticking out of the buckles.
     It hadn't pulled up before she shot out of the hall door and into it.
     I only caught a glimpse of her at the moment, but she was a lovely
     woman, with a face that a man might die for.

     "'The Church of St. Monica, John,' she cried, 'and half a sovereign
     if you reach it in twenty minutes.'

     "This was quite too good to lose, Watson. I was just balancing
     whether I should run for it, or whether I should perch behind her
     landau when a cab came through the street. The driver looked twice at
     such a shabby fare, but I jumped in before he could object. 'The
     Church of St. Monica,' said I, 'and half a sovereign if you reach it
     in twenty minutes.' It was twenty-five minutes to twelve, and of
     course it was clear enough what was in the wind.

     "My cabby drove fast. I don't think I ever drove faster, but the
     others were there before us. The cab and the landau with their
     steaming horses were in front of the door when I arrived. I paid the
     man and hurried into the church. There was not a soul there save the
     two whom I had followed and a surpliced clergyman, who seemed to be
     expostulating with them. They were all three standing in a knot in
     front of the altar. I lounged up the side aisle like any other idler
     who has dropped into a church. Suddenly, to my surprise, the three at
     the altar faced round to me, and Godfrey Norton came running as hard
     as he could towards me.

     "'Thank God,' he cried. 'You'll do. Come! Come!'

     "'What then?' I asked.

     "'Come, man, come, only three minutes, or it won't be legal.'

     "I was half-dragged up to the altar, and before I knew where I was I
     found myself mumbling responses which were whispered in my ear, and
     vouching for things of which I knew nothing, and generally assisting
     in the secure tying up of Irene Adler, spinster, to Godfrey Norton,
     bachelor. It was all done in an instant, and there was the gentleman
     thanking me on the one side and the lady on the other, while the
     clergyman beamed on me in front. It was the most preposterous
     position in which I ever found myself in my life, and it was the
     thought of it that started me laughing just now. It seems that there
     had been some informality about their license, that the clergyman
     absolutely refused to marry them without a witness of some sort, and
     that my lucky appearance saved the bridegroom from having to sally
     out into the streets in search of a best man. The bride gave me a
     sovereign, and I mean to wear it on my watch-chain in memory of the
     occasion."

     "This is a very unexpected turn of affairs," said I; "and what then?"

     "Well, I found my plans very seriously menaced. It looked as if the
     pair might take an immediate departure, and so necessitate very
     prompt and energetic measures on my part. At the church door,
     however, they separated, he driving back to the Temple, and she to
     her own house. 'I shall drive out in the park at five as usual,' she
     said as she left him. I heard no more. They drove away in different
     directions, and I went off to make my own arrangements."

     "Which are?"

     "Some cold beef and a glass of beer," he answered, ringing the bell.
     "I have been too busy to think of food, and I am likely to be busier
     still this evening. By the way, Doctor, I shall want your
     co-operation."

     "I shall be delighted."

     "You don't mind breaking the law?"

     "Not in the least."

     "Nor running a chance of arrest?"

     "Not in a good cause."

     "Oh, the cause is excellent!"

     "Then I am your man."

     "I was sure that I might rely on you."

     "But what is it you wish?"

     "When Mrs. Turner has brought in the tray I will make it clear to
     you. Now," he said as he turned hungrily on the simple fare that our
     landlady had provided, "I must discuss it while I eat, for I have not
     much time. It is nearly five now. In two hours we must be on the
     scene of action. Miss Irene, or Madame, rather, returns from her
     drive at seven. We must be at Briony Lodge to meet her."

     "And what then?"

     "You must leave that to me. I have already arranged what is to occur.
     There is only one point on which I must insist. You must not
     interfere, come what may. You understand?"

     "I am to be neutral?"

     "To do nothing whatever. There will probably be some small
     unpleasantness. Do not join in it. It will end in my being conveyed
     into the house. Four or five minutes afterwards the sitting-room
     window will open. You are to station yourself close to that open
     window."

     "Yes."

     "You are to watch me, for I will be visible to you."

     "Yes."

     "And when I raise my hand--so--you will throw into the room what I
     give you to throw, and will, at the same time, raise the cry of fire.
     You quite follow me?"

     "Entirely."

     "It is nothing very formidable," he said, taking a long cigar-shaped
     roll from his pocket. "It is an ordinary plumber's smoke-rocket,
     fitted with a cap at either end to make it self-lighting. Your task
     is confined to that. When you raise your cry of fire, it will be
     taken up by quite a number of people. You may then walk to the end of
     the street, and I will rejoin you in ten minutes. I hope that I have
     made myself clear?"

     "I am to remain neutral, to get near the window, to watch you, and at
     the signal to throw in this object, then to raise the cry of fire,
     and to wait you at the corner of the street."

     "Precisely."

     "Then you may entirely rely on me."

     "That is excellent. I think, perhaps, it is almost time that I
     prepare for the new role I have to play."

     He disappeared into his bedroom and returned in a few minutes in the
     character of an amiable and simple-minded Nonconformist clergyman.
     His broad black hat, his baggy trousers, his white tie, his
     sympathetic smile, and general look of peering and benevolent
     curiosity were such as Mr. John Hare alone could have equalled. It
     was not merely that Holmes changed his costume. His expression, his
     manner, his very soul seemed to vary with every fresh part that he
     assumed. The stage lost a fine actor, even as science lost an acute
     reasoner, when he became a specialist in crime.

     It was a quarter past six when we left Baker Street, and it still
     wanted ten minutes to the hour when we found ourselves in Serpentine
     Avenue. It was already dusk, and the lamps were just being lighted as
     we paced up and down in front of Briony Lodge, waiting for the coming
     of its occupant. The house was just such as I had pictured it from
     Sherlock Holmes' succinct description, but the locality appeared to
     be less private than I expected. On the contrary, for a small street
     in a quiet neighbourhood, it was remarkably animated. There was a
     group of shabbily dressed men smoking and laughing in a corner, a
     scissors-grinder with his wheel, two guardsmen who were flirting with
     a nurse-girl, and several well-dressed young men who were lounging up
     and down with cigars in their mouths.

     "You see," remarked Holmes, as we paced to and fro in front of the
     house, "this marriage rather simplifies matters. The photograph
     becomes a double-edged weapon now. The chances are that she would be
     as averse to its being seen by Mr. Godfrey Norton, as our client is
     to its coming to the eyes of his princess. Now the question is, Where
     are we to find the photograph?"

     "Where, indeed?"

     "It is most unlikely that she carries it about with her. It is
     cabinet size. Too large for easy concealment about a woman's dress.
     She knows that the King is capable of having her waylaid and
     searched. Two attempts of the sort have already been made. We may
     take it, then, that she does not carry it about with her."

     "Where, then?"

     "Her banker or her lawyer. There is that double possibility. But I am
     inclined to think neither. Women are naturally secretive, and they
     like to do their own secreting. Why should she hand it over to anyone
     else? She could trust her own guardianship, but she could not tell
     what indirect or political influence might be brought to bear upon a
     business man. Besides, remember that she had resolved to use it
     within a few days. It must be where she can lay her hands upon it. It
     must be in her own house."

     "But it has twice been burgled."

     "Pshaw! They did not know how to look."

     "But how will you look?"

     "I will not look."

     "What then?"

     "I will get her to show me."

     "But she will refuse."

     "She will not be able to. But I hear the rumble of wheels. It is her
     carriage. Now carry out my orders to the letter."

     As he spoke the gleam of the side-lights of a carriage came round the
     curve of the avenue. It was a smart little landau which rattled up to
     the door of Briony Lodge. As it pulled up, one of the loafing men at
     the corner dashed forward to open the door in the hope of earning a
     copper, but was elbowed away by another loafer, who had rushed up
     with the same intention. A fierce quarrel broke out, which was
     increased by the two guardsmen, who took sides with one of the
     loungers, and by the scissors-grinder, who was equally hot upon the
     other side. A blow was struck, and in an instant the lady, who had
     stepped from her carriage, was the centre of a little knot of flushed
     and struggling men, who struck savagely at each other with their
     fists and sticks. Holmes dashed into the crowd to protect the lady;
     but just as he reached her he gave a cry and dropped to the ground,
     with the blood running freely down his face. At his fall the
     guardsmen took to their heels in one direction and the loungers in
     the other, while a number of better-dressed people, who had watched
     the scuffle without taking part in it, crowded in to help the lady
     and to attend to the injured man. Irene Adler, as I will still call
     her, had hurried up the steps; but she stood at the top with her
     superb figure outlined against the lights of the hall, looking back
     into the street.

     "Is the poor gentleman much hurt?" she asked.

     "He is dead," cried several voices.

     "No, no, there's life in him!" shouted another. "But he'll be gone
     before you can get him to hospital."

     "He's a brave fellow," said a woman. "They would have had the lady's
     purse and watch if it hadn't been for him. They were a gang, and a
     rough one, too. Ah, he's breathing now."

     "He can't lie in the street. May we bring him in, marm?"

     "Surely. Bring him into the sitting-room. There is a comfortable
     sofa. This way, please!"

     Slowly and solemnly he was borne into Briony Lodge and laid out in
     the principal room, while I still observed the proceedings from my
     post by the window. The lamps had been lit, but the blinds had not
     been drawn, so that I could see Holmes as he lay upon the couch. I do
     not know whether he was seized with compunction at that moment for
     the part he was playing, but I know that I never felt more heartily
     ashamed of myself in my life than when I saw the beautiful creature
     against whom I was conspiring, or the grace and kindliness with which
     she waited upon the injured man. And yet it would be the blackest
     treachery to Holmes to draw back now from the part which he had
     intrusted to me. I hardened my heart, and took the smoke-rocket from
     under my ulster. After all, I thought, we are not injuring her. We
     are but preventing her from injuring another.

     Holmes had sat up upon the couch, and I saw him motion like a man who
     is in need of air. A maid rushed across and threw open the window. At
     the same instant I saw him raise his hand and at the signal I tossed
     my rocket into the room with a cry of "Fire!" The word was no sooner
     out of my mouth than the whole crowd of spectators, well dressed and
     ill--gentlemen, ostlers, and servant-maids--joined in a general
     shriek of "Fire!" Thick clouds of smoke curled through the room and
     out at the open window. I caught a glimpse of rushing figures, and a
     moment later the voice of Holmes from within assuring them that it
     was a false alarm. Slipping through the shouting crowd I made my way
     to the corner of the street, and in ten minutes was rejoiced to find
     my friend's arm in mine, and to get away from the scene of uproar. He
     walked swiftly and in silence for some few minutes until we had
     turned down one of the quiet streets which lead towards the Edgeware
     Road.

     "You did it very nicely, Doctor," he remarked. "Nothing could have
     been better. It is all right."

     "You have the photograph?"

     "I know where it is."

     "And how did you find out?"

     "She showed me, as I told you she would."

     "I am still in the dark."

     "I do not wish to make a mystery," said he, laughing. "The matter was
     perfectly simple. You, of course, saw that everyone in the street was
     an accomplice. They were all engaged for the evening."

     "I guessed as much."

     "Then, when the row broke out, I had a little moist red paint in the
     palm of my hand. I rushed forward, fell down, clapped my hand to my
     face, and became a piteous spectacle. It is an old trick."

     "That also I could fathom."

     "Then they carried me in. She was bound to have me in. What else
     could she do? And into her sitting-room, which was the very room
     which I suspected. It lay between that and her bedroom, and I was
     determined to see which. They laid me on a couch, I motioned for air,
     they were compelled to open the window, and you had your chance."

     "How did that help you?"

     "It was all-important. When a woman thinks that her house is on fire,
     her instinct is at once to rush to the thing which she values most.
     It is a perfectly overpowering impulse, and I have more than once
     taken advantage of it. In the case of the Darlington substitution
     scandal it was of use to me, and also in the Arnsworth Castle
     business. A married woman grabs at her baby; an unmarried one reaches
     for her jewel-box. Now it was clear to me that our lady of to-day had
     nothing in the house more precious to her than what we are in quest
     of. She would rush to secure it. The alarm of fire was admirably
     done. The smoke and shouting were enough to shake nerves of steel.
     She responded beautifully. The photograph is in a recess behind a
     sliding panel just above the right bell-pull. She was there in an
     instant, and I caught a glimpse of it as she half-drew it out. When I
     cried out that it was a false alarm, she replaced it, glanced at the
     rocket, rushed from the room, and I have not seen her since. I rose,
     and, making my excuses, escaped from the house. I hesitated whether
     to attempt to secure the photograph at once; but the coachman had
     come in, and as he was watching me narrowly it seemed safer to wait.
     A little over-precipitance may ruin all."

     "And now?" I asked.

     "Our quest is practically finished. I shall call with the King
     to-morrow, and with you, if you care to come with us. We will be
     shown into the sitting-room to wait for the lady, but it is probable
     that when she comes she may find neither us nor the photograph. It
     might be a satisfaction to his Majesty to regain it with his own
     hands."

     "And when will you call?"

     "At eight in the morning. She will not be up, so that we shall have a
     clear field. Besides, we must be prompt, for this marriage may mean a
     complete change in her life and habits. I must wire to the King
     without delay."

     We had reached Baker Street and had stopped at the door. He was
     searching his pockets for the key when someone passing said:

     "Good-night, Mister Sherlock Holmes."

     There were several people on the pavement at the time, but the
     greeting appeared to come from a slim youth in an ulster who had
     hurried by.

     "I've heard that voice before," said Holmes, staring down the dimly
     lit street. "Now, I wonder who the deuce that could have been."





          CHAPTER III



     I slept at Baker Street that night, and we were engaged upon our
     toast and coffee in the morning when the King of Bohemia rushed into
     the room.

     "You have really got it!" he cried, grasping Sherlock Holmes by
     either shoulder and looking eagerly into his face.

     "Not yet."

     "But you have hopes?"

     "I have hopes."

     "Then, come. I am all impatience to be gone."

     "We must have a cab."

     "No, my brougham is waiting."

     "Then that will simplify matters." We descended and started off once
     more for Briony Lodge.

     "Irene Adler is married," remarked Holmes.

     "Married! When?"

     "Yesterday."

     "But to whom?"

     "To an English lawyer named Norton."

     "But she could not love him."

     "I am in hopes that she does."

     "And why in hopes?"

     "Because it would spare your Majesty all fear of future annoyance. If
     the lady loves her husband, she does not love your Majesty. If she
     does not love your Majesty, there is no reason why she should
     interfere with your Majesty's plan."

     "It is true. And yet--Well! I wish she had been of my own station!
     What a queen she would have made!" He relapsed into a moody silence,
     which was not broken until we drew up in Serpentine Avenue.

     The door of Briony Lodge was open, and an elderly woman stood upon
     the steps. She watched us with a sardonic eye as we stepped from the
     brougham.

     "Mr. Sherlock Holmes, I believe?" said she.

     "I am Mr. Holmes," answered my companion, looking at her with a
     questioning and rather startled gaze.

     "Indeed! My mistress told me that you were likely to call. She left
     this morning with her husband by the 5.15 train from Charing Cross
     for the Continent."

     "What!" Sherlock Holmes staggered back, white with chagrin and
     surprise. "Do you mean that she has left England?"

     "Never to return."

     "And the papers?" asked the King hoarsely. "All is lost."

     "We shall see." He pushed past the servant and rushed into the
     drawing-room, followed by the King and myself. The furniture was
     scattered about in every direction, with dismantled shelves and open
     drawers, as if the lady had hurriedly ransacked them before her
     flight. Holmes rushed at the bell-pull, tore back a small sliding
     shutter, and, plunging in his hand, pulled out a photograph and a
     letter. The photograph was of Irene Adler herself in evening dress,
     the letter was superscribed to "Sherlock Holmes, Esq. To be left till
     called for." My friend tore it open and we all three read it
     together. It was dated at midnight of the preceding night and ran in
     this way:

     "My dear Mr. Sherlock Holmes:
     "You really did it very well. You took me in completely. Until after
     the alarm of fire, I had not a suspicion. But then, when I found how
     I had betrayed myself, I began to think. I had been warned against
     you months ago. I had been told that if the King employed an agent it
     would certainly be you. And your address had been given me. Yet, with
     all this, you made me reveal what you wanted to know. Even after I
     became suspicious, I found it hard to think evil of such a dear, kind
     old clergyman. But, you know, I have been trained as an actress
     myself. Male costume is nothing new to me. I often take advantage of
     the freedom which it gives. I sent John, the coachman, to watch you,
     ran up stairs, got into my walking-clothes, as I call them, and came
     down just as you departed.
     "Well, I followed you to your door, and so made sure that I was
     really an object of interest to the celebrated Mr. Sherlock Holmes.
     Then I, rather imprudently, wished you good-night, and started for
     the Temple to see my husband.
     "We both thought the best resource was flight, when pursued by so
     formidable an antagonist; so you will find the nest empty when you
     call to-morrow. As to the photograph, your client may rest in peace.
     I love and am loved by a better man than he. The King may do what he
     will without hindrance from one whom he has cruelly wronged. I keep
     it only to safeguard myself, and to preserve a weapon which will
     always secure me from any steps which he might take in the future. I
     leave a photograph which he might care to possess; and I remain, dear
     Mr. Sherlock Holmes,
     "Very truly yours,
     "Irene Norton, née Adler."

     "What a woman--oh, what a woman!" cried the King of Bohemia, when we
     had all three read this epistle. "Did I not tell you how quick and
     resolute she was? Would she not have made an admirable queen? Is it
     not a pity that she was not on my level?" 

     "From what I have seen of the lady she seems indeed to be on a very
     different level to your Majesty," said Holmes coldly. "I am sorry
     that I have not been able to bring your Majesty's business to a more
     successful conclusion."

     "On the contrary, my dear sir," cried the King; "nothing could be
     more successful. I know that her word is inviolate. The photograph is
     now as safe as if it were in the fire."

     "I am glad to hear your Majesty say so."

     "I am immensely indebted to you. Pray tell me in what way I can
     reward you. This ring--" He slipped an emerald snake ring from his
     finger and held it out upon the palm of his hand.

     "Your Majesty has something which I should value even more highly,"
     said Holmes.

     "You have but to name it."

     "This photograph!"

     The King stared at him in amazement.

     "Irene's photograph!" he cried. "Certainly, if you wish it."

     "I thank your Majesty. Then there is no more to be done in the
     matter. I have the honour to wish you a very good-morning." He bowed,
     and, turning away without observing the hand which the King had
     stretched out to him, he set off in my company for his chambers.

     And that was how a great scandal threatened to affect the kingdom of
     Bohemia, and how the best plans of Mr. Sherlock Holmes were beaten by
     a woman's wit. He used to make merry over the cleverness of women,
     but I have not heard him do it of late. And when he speaks of Irene
     Adler, or when he refers to her photograph, it is always under the
     honourable title of the woman.






                              THE RED-HEADED LEAGUE

     I had called upon my friend, Mr. Sherlock Holmes, one day in the
     autumn of last year and found him in deep conversation with a very
     stout, florid-faced, elderly gentleman with fiery red hair. With an
     apology for my intrusion, I was about to withdraw when Holmes pulled
     me abruptly into the room and closed the door behind me.

     "You could not possibly have come at a better time, my dear Watson,"
     he said cordially.

     "I was afraid that you were engaged."

     "So I am. Very much so."

     "Then I can wait in the next room."

     "Not at all. This gentleman, Mr. Wilson, has been my partner and
     helper in many of my most successful cases, and I have no doubt that
     he will be of the utmost use to me in yours also."

     The stout gentleman half rose from his chair and gave a bob of
     greeting, with a quick little questioning glance from his small
     fat-encircled eyes.

     "Try the settee," said Holmes, relapsing into his armchair and
     putting his fingertips together, as was his custom when in judicial
     moods. "I know, my dear Watson, that you share my love of all that is
     bizarre and outside the conventions and humdrum routine of everyday
     life. You have shown your relish for it by the enthusiasm which has
     prompted you to chronicle, and, if you will excuse my saying so,
     somewhat to embellish so many of my own little adventures."

     "Your cases have indeed been of the greatest interest to me," I
     observed.

     "You will remember that I remarked the other day, just before we went
     into the very simple problem presented by Miss Mary Sutherland, that
     for strange effects and extraordinary combinations we must go to life
     itself, which is always far more daring than any effort of the
     imagination."

     "A proposition which I took the liberty of doubting."

     "You did, Doctor, but none the less you must come round to my view,
     for otherwise I shall keep on piling fact upon fact on you until your
     reason breaks down under them and acknowledges me to be right. Now,
     Mr. Jabez Wilson here has been good enough to call upon me this
     morning, and to begin a narrative which promises to be one of the
     most singular which I have listened to for some time. You have heard
     me remark that the strangest and most unique things are very often
     connected not with the larger but with the smaller crimes, and
     occasionally, indeed, where there is room for doubt whether any
     positive crime has been committed. As far as I have heard it is
     impossible for me to say whether the present case is an instance of
     crime or not, but the course of events is certainly among the most
     singular that I have ever listened to. Perhaps, Mr. Wilson, you would
     have the great kindness to recommence your narrative. I ask you not
     merely because my friend Dr. Watson has not heard the opening part
     but also because the peculiar nature of the story makes me anxious to
     have every possible detail from your lips. As a rule, when I have
     heard some slight indication of the course of events, I am able to
     guide myself by the thousands of other similar cases which occur to
     my memory. In the present instance I am forced to admit that the
     facts are, to the best of my belief, unique."

     The portly client puffed out his chest with an appearance of some
     little pride and pulled a dirty and wrinkled newspaper from the
     inside pocket of his greatcoat. As he glanced down the advertisement
     column, with his head thrust forward and the paper flattened out upon
     his knee, I took a good look at the man and endeavoured, after the
     fashion of my companion, to read the indications which might be
     presented by his dress or appearance.

     I did not gain very much, however, by my inspection. Our visitor bore
     every mark of being an average commonplace British tradesman, obese,
     pompous, and slow. He wore rather baggy grey shepherd's check
     trousers, a not over-clean black frock-coat, unbuttoned in the front,
     and a drab waistcoat with a heavy brassy Albert chain, and a square
     pierced bit of metal dangling down as an ornament. A frayed top-hat
     and a faded brown overcoat with a wrinkled velvet collar lay upon a
     chair beside him. Altogether, look as I would, there was nothing
     remarkable about the man save his blazing red head, and the
     expression of extreme chagrin and discontent upon his features.

     Sherlock Holmes' quick eye took in my occupation, and he shook his
     head with a smile as he noticed my questioning glances. "Beyond the
     obvious facts that he has at some time done manual labour, that he
     takes snuff, that he is a Freemason, that he has been in China, and
     that he has done a considerable amount of writing lately, I can
     deduce nothing else."

     Mr. Jabez Wilson started up in his chair, with his forefinger upon
     the paper, but his eyes upon my companion.

     "How, in the name of good-fortune, did you know all that, Mr.
     Holmes?" he asked. "How did you know, for example, that I did manual
     labour. It's as true as gospel, for I began as a ship's carpenter."

     "Your hands, my dear sir. Your right hand is quite a size larger than
     your left. You have worked with it, and the muscles are more
     developed."

     "Well, the snuff, then, and the Freemasonry?"

     "I won't insult your intelligence by telling you how I read that,
     especially as, rather against the strict rules of your order, you use
     an arc-and-compass breastpin."

     "Ah, of course, I forgot that. But the writing?"

     "What else can be indicated by that right cuff so very shiny for five
     inches, and the left one with the smooth patch near the elbow where
     you rest it upon the desk?"

     "Well, but China?"

     "The fish that you have tattooed immediately above your right wrist
     could only have been done in China. I have made a small study of
     tattoo marks and have even contributed to the literature of the
     subject. That trick of staining the fishes' scales of a delicate pink
     is quite peculiar to China. When, in addition, I see a Chinese coin
     hanging from your watch-chain, the matter becomes even more simple."

     Mr. Jabez Wilson laughed heavily. "Well, I never!" said he. "I
     thought at first that you had done something clever, but I see that
     there was nothing in it, after all."

     "I begin to think, Watson," said Holmes, "that I make a mistake in
     explaining. 'Omne ignotum pro magnifico,' you know, and my poor
     little reputation, such as it is, will suffer shipwreck if I am so
     candid. Can you not find the advertisement, Mr. Wilson?"

     "Yes, I have got it now," he answered with his thick red finger
     planted halfway down the column. "Here it is. This is what began it
     all. You just read it for yourself, sir."

     I took the paper from him and read as follows:

     "To the Red-headed League: On account of the bequest of the late
     Ezekiah Hopkins, of Lebanon, Pennsylvania, U. S. A., there is now
     another vacancy open which entitles a member of the League to a
     salary of £4 a week for purely nominal services. All red-headed men
     who are sound in body and mind and above the age of twenty-one years,
     are eligible. Apply in person on Monday, at eleven o'clock, to Duncan
     Ross, at the offices of the League, 7 Pope's Court, Fleet Street."

     "What on earth does this mean?" I ejaculated after I had twice read
     over the extraordinary announcement.

     Holmes chuckled and wriggled in his chair, as was his habit when in
     high spirits. "It is a little off the beaten track, isn't it?" said
     he. "And now, Mr. Wilson, off you go at scratch and tell us all about
     yourself, your household, and the effect which this advertisement had
     upon your fortunes. You will first make a note, Doctor, of the paper
     and the date."

     "It is The Morning Chronicle of April 27, 1890. Just two months ago."

     "Very good. Now, Mr. Wilson?"

     "Well, it is just as I have been telling you, Mr. Sherlock Holmes,"
     said Jabez Wilson, mopping his forehead; "I have a small pawnbroker's
     business at Coburg Square, near the City. It's not a very large
     affair, and of late years it has not done more than just give me a
     living. I used to be able to keep two assistants, but now I only keep
     one; and I would have a job to pay him but that he is willing to come
     for half wages so as to learn the business."

     "What is the name of this obliging youth?" asked Sherlock Holmes.

     "His name is Vincent Spaulding, and he's not such a youth, either.
     It's hard to say his age. I should not wish a smarter assistant, Mr.
     Holmes; and I know very well that he could better himself and earn
     twice what I am able to give him. But, after all, if he is satisfied,
     why should I put ideas in his head?"

     "Why, indeed? You seem most fortunate in having an employee who comes
     under the full market price. It is not a common experience among
     employers in this age. I don't know that your assistant is not as
     remarkable as your advertisement."

     "Oh, he has his faults, too," said Mr. Wilson. "Never was such a
     fellow for photography. Snapping away with a camera when he ought to
     be improving his mind, and then diving down into the cellar like a
     rabbit into its hole to develop his pictures. That is his main fault,
     but on the whole he's a good worker. There's no vice in him."

     "He is still with you, I presume?"

     "Yes, sir. He and a girl of fourteen, who does a bit of simple
     cooking and keeps the place clean--that's all I have in the house,
     for I am a widower and never had any family. We live very quietly,
     sir, the three of us; and we keep a roof over our heads and pay our
     debts, if we do nothing more.

     "The first thing that put us out was that advertisement. Spaulding,
     he came down into the office just this day eight weeks, with this
     very paper in his hand, and he says:

     "'I wish to the Lord, Mr. Wilson, that I was a red-headed man.'

     "'Why that?' I asks.

     "'Why,' says he, 'here's another vacancy on the League of the
     Red-headed Men. It's worth quite a little fortune to any man who gets
     it, and I understand that there are more vacancies than there are
     men, so that the trustees are at their wits' end what to do with the
     money. If my hair would only change colour, here's a nice little crib
     all ready for me to step into.'

     "'Why, what is it, then?' I asked. You see, Mr. Holmes, I am a very
     stay-at-home man, and as my business came to me instead of my having
     to go to it, I was often weeks on end without putting my foot over
     the door-mat. In that way I didn't know much of what was going on
     outside, and I was always glad of a bit of news.

     "'Have you never heard of the League of the Red-headed Men?' he asked
     with his eyes open.

     "'Never.'

     "'Why, I wonder at that, for you are eligible yourself for one of the
     vacancies.'

     "'And what are they worth?' I asked.

     "'Oh, merely a couple of hundred a year, but the work is slight, and
     it need not interfere very much with one's other occupations.'

     "Well, you can easily think that that made me prick up my ears, for
     the business has not been over-good for some years, and an extra
     couple of hundred would have been very handy.

     "'Tell me all about it,' said I.

     "'Well,' said he, showing me the advertisement, 'you can see for
     yourself that the League has a vacancy, and there is the address
     where you should apply for particulars. As far as I can make out, the
     League was founded by an American millionaire, Ezekiah Hopkins, who
     was very peculiar in his ways. He was himself red-headed, and he had
     a great sympathy for all red-headed men; so when he died it was found
     that he had left his enormous fortune in the hands of trustees, with
     instructions to apply the interest to the providing of easy berths to
     men whose hair is of that colour. From all I hear it is splendid pay
     and very little to do.'

     "'But,' said I, 'there would be millions of red-headed men who would
     apply.'

     "'Not so many as you might think,' he answered. 'You see it is really
     confined to Londoners, and to grown men. This American had started
     from London when he was young, and he wanted to do the old town a
     good turn. Then, again, I have heard it is no use your applying if
     your hair is light red, or dark red, or anything but real bright,
     blazing, fiery red. Now, if you cared to apply, Mr. Wilson, you would
     just walk in; but perhaps it would hardly be worth your while to put
     yourself out of the way for the sake of a few hundred pounds.'

     "Now, it is a fact, gentlemen, as you may see for yourselves, that my
     hair is of a very full and rich tint, so that it seemed to me that if
     there was to be any competition in the matter I stood as good a
     chance as any man that I had ever met. Vincent Spaulding seemed to
     know so much about it that I thought he might prove useful, so I just
     ordered him to put up the shutters for the day and to come right away
     with me. He was very willing to have a holiday, so we shut the
     business up and started off for the address that was given us in the
     advertisement.

     "I never hope to see such a sight as that again, Mr. Holmes. From
     north, south, east, and west every man who had a shade of red in his
     hair had tramped into the city to answer the advertisement. Fleet
     Street was choked with red-headed folk, and Pope's Court looked like
     a coster's orange barrow. I should not have thought there were so
     many in the whole country as were brought together by that single
     advertisement. Every shade of colour they were--straw, lemon, orange,
     brick, Irish-setter, liver, clay; but, as Spaulding said, there were
     not many who had the real vivid flame-coloured tint. When I saw how
     many were waiting, I would have given it up in despair; but Spaulding
     would not hear of it. How he did it I could not imagine, but he
     pushed and pulled and butted until he got me through the crowd, and
     right up to the steps which led to the office. There was a double
     stream upon the stair, some going up in hope, and some coming back
     dejected; but we wedged in as well as we could and soon found
     ourselves in the office."

     "Your experience has been a most entertaining one," remarked Holmes
     as his client paused and refreshed his memory with a huge pinch of
     snuff. "Pray continue your very interesting statement."

     "There was nothing in the office but a couple of wooden chairs and a
     deal table, behind which sat a small man with a head that was even
     redder than mine. He said a few words to each candidate as he came
     up, and then he always managed to find some fault in them which would
     disqualify them. Getting a vacancy did not seem to be such a very
     easy matter, after all. However, when our turn came the little man
     was much more favourable to me than to any of the others, and he
     closed the door as we entered, so that he might have a private word
     with us.

     "'This is Mr. Jabez Wilson,' said my assistant, 'and he is willing to
     fill a vacancy in the League.'

     "'And he is admirably suited for it,' the other answered. 'He has
     every requirement. I cannot recall when I have seen anything so
     fine.' He took a step backward, cocked his head on one side, and
     gazed at my hair until I felt quite bashful. Then suddenly he plunged
     forward, wrung my hand, and congratulated me warmly on my success.

     "'It would be injustice to hesitate,' said he. 'You will, however, I
     am sure, excuse me for taking an obvious precaution.' With that he
     seized my hair in both his hands, and tugged until I yelled with the
     pain. 'There is water in your eyes,' said he as he released me. 'I
     perceive that all is as it should be. But we have to be careful, for
     we have twice been deceived by wigs and once by paint. I could tell
     you tales of cobbler's wax which would disgust you with human
     nature.' He stepped over to the window and shouted through it at the
     top of his voice that the vacancy was filled. A groan of
     disappointment came up from below, and the folk all trooped away in
     different directions until there was not a red-head to be seen except
     my own and that of the manager.

     "'My name,' said he, 'is Mr. Duncan Ross, and I am myself one of the
     pensioners upon the fund left by our noble benefactor. Are you a
     married man, Mr. Wilson? Have you a family?'

     "I answered that I had not.

     "His face fell immediately.

     "'Dear me!' he said gravely, 'that is very serious indeed! I am sorry
     to hear you say that. The fund was, of course, for the propagation
     and spread of the red-heads as well as for their maintenance. It is
     exceedingly unfortunate that you should be a bachelor.'

     "My face lengthened at this, Mr. Holmes, for I thought that I was not
     to have the vacancy after all; but after thinking it over for a few
     minutes he said that it would be all right.

     "'In the case of another,' said he, 'the objection might be fatal,
     but we must stretch a point in favour of a man with such a head of
     hair as yours. When shall you be able to enter upon your new duties?'

     "'Well, it is a little awkward, for I have a business already,' said
     I.

     "'Oh, never mind about that, Mr. Wilson!' said Vincent Spaulding. 'I
     should be able to look after that for you.'

     "'What would be the hours?' I asked.

     "'Ten to two.'

     "Now a pawnbroker's business is mostly done of an evening, Mr.
     Holmes, especially Thursday and Friday evening, which is just before
     pay-day; so it would suit me very well to earn a little in the
     mornings. Besides, I knew that my assistant was a good man, and that
     he would see to anything that turned up.

     "'That would suit me very well,' said I. 'And the pay?'

     "'Is £4 a week.'

     "'And the work?'

     "'Is purely nominal.'

     "'What do you call purely nominal?'

     "'Well, you have to be in the office, or at least in the building,
     the whole time. If you leave, you forfeit your whole position
     forever. The will is very clear upon that point. You don't comply
     with the conditions if you budge from the office during that time.'

     "'It's only four hours a day, and I should not think of leaving,'
     said I.

     "'No excuse will avail,' said Mr. Duncan Ross; 'neither sickness nor
     business nor anything else. There you must stay, or you lose your
     billet.'

     "'And the work?'

     "'Is to copy out the "Encyclopaedia Britannica." There is the first
     volume of it in that press. You must find your own ink, pens, and
     blotting-paper, but we provide this table and chair. Will you be
     ready to-morrow?'

     "'Certainly,' I answered.

     "'Then, good-bye, Mr. Jabez Wilson, and let me congratulate you once
     more on the important position which you have been fortunate enough
     to gain.' He bowed me out of the room and I went home with my
     assistant, hardly knowing what to say or do, I was so pleased at my
     own good fortune.

     "Well, I thought over the matter all day, and by evening I was in low
     spirits again; for I had quite persuaded myself that the whole affair
     must be some great hoax or fraud, though what its object might be I
     could not imagine. It seemed altogether past belief that anyone could
     make such a will, or that they would pay such a sum for doing
     anything so simple as copying out the 'Encyclopaedia Britannica.'
     Vincent Spaulding did what he could to cheer me up, but by bedtime I
     had reasoned myself out of the whole thing. However, in the morning I
     determined to have a look at it anyhow, so I bought a penny bottle of
     ink, and with a quill-pen, and seven sheets of foolscap paper, I
     started off for Pope's Court.

     "Well, to my surprise and delight, everything was as right as
     possible. The table was set out ready for me, and Mr. Duncan Ross was
     there to see that I got fairly to work. He started me off upon the
     letter A, and then he left me; but he would drop in from time to time
     to see that all was right with me. At two o'clock he bade me
     good-day, complimented me upon the amount that I had written, and
     locked the door of the office after me.

     "This went on day after day, Mr. Holmes, and on Saturday the manager
     came in and planked down four golden sovereigns for my week's work.
     It was the same next week, and the same the week after. Every morning
     I was there at ten, and every afternoon I left at two. By degrees Mr.
     Duncan Ross took to coming in only once of a morning, and then, after
     a time, he did not come in at all. Still, of course, I never dared to
     leave the room for an instant, for I was not sure when he might come,
     and the billet was such a good one, and suited me so well, that I
     would not risk the loss of it.

     "Eight weeks passed away like this, and I had written about Abbots
     and Archery and Armour and Architecture and Attica, and hoped with
     diligence that I might get on to the B's before very long. It cost me
     something in foolscap, and I had pretty nearly filled a shelf with my
     writings. And then suddenly the whole business came to an end."

     "To an end?"

     "Yes, sir. And no later than this morning. I went to my work as usual
     at ten o'clock, but the door was shut and locked, with a little
     square of cardboard hammered on to the middle of the panel with a
     tack. Here it is, and you can read for yourself."

     He held up a piece of white cardboard about the size of a sheet of
     note-paper. It read in this fashion:

                              The Red-headed League
                                       is
                                    Dissolved
                                October 9, 1890.

     Sherlock Holmes and I surveyed this curt announcement and the rueful
     face behind it, until the comical side of the affair so completely
     overtopped every other consideration that we both burst out into a
     roar of laughter.

     "I cannot see that there is anything very funny," cried our client,
     flushing up to the roots of his flaming head. "If you can do nothing
     better than laugh at me, I can go elsewhere."

     "No, no," cried Holmes, shoving him back into the chair from which he
     had half risen. "I really wouldn't miss your case for the world. It
     is most refreshingly unusual. But there is, if you will excuse my
     saying so, something just a little funny about it. Pray what steps
     did you take when you found the card upon the door?"

     "I was staggered, sir. I did not know what to do. Then I called at
     the offices round, but none of them seemed to know anything about it.
     Finally, I went to the landlord, who is an accountant living on the
     ground-floor, and I asked him if he could tell me what had become of
     the Red-headed League. He said that he had never heard of any such
     body. Then I asked him who Mr. Duncan Ross was. He answered that the
     name was new to him.

     "'Well,' said I, 'the gentleman at No. 4.'

     "'What, the red-headed man?'

     "'Yes.'

     "'Oh,' said he, 'his name was William Morris. He was a solicitor and
     was using my room as a temporary convenience until his new premises
     were ready. He moved out yesterday.'

     "'Where could I find him?'

     "'Oh, at his new offices. He did tell me the address. Yes, 17 King
     Edward Street, near St. Paul's.'

     "I started off, Mr. Holmes, but when I got to that address it was a
     manufactory of artificial knee-caps, and no one in it had ever heard
     of either Mr. William Morris or Mr. Duncan Ross."

     "And what did you do then?" asked Holmes.

     "I went home to Saxe-Coburg Square, and I took the advice of my
     assistant. But he could not help me in any way. He could only say
     that if I waited I should hear by post. But that was not quite good
     enough, Mr. Holmes. I did not wish to lose such a place without a
     struggle, so, as I had heard that you were good enough to give advice
     to poor folk who were in need of it, I came right away to you."

     "And you did very wisely," said Holmes. "Your case is an exceedingly
     remarkable one, and I shall be happy to look into it. From what you
     have told me I think that it is possible that graver issues hang from
     it than might at first sight appear."

     "Grave enough!" said Mr. Jabez Wilson. "Why, I have lost four pound a
     week."

     "As far as you are personally concerned," remarked Holmes, "I do not
     see that you have any grievance against this extraordinary league. On
     the contrary, you are, as I understand, richer by some £30, to say
     nothing of the minute knowledge which you have gained on every
     subject which comes under the letter A. You have lost nothing by
     them."

     "No, sir. But I want to find out about them, and who they are, and
     what their object was in playing this prank--if it was a prank--upon
     me. It was a pretty expensive joke for them, for it cost them two and
     thirty pounds."

     "We shall endeavour to clear up these points for you. And, first, one
     or two questions, Mr. Wilson. This assistant of yours who first
     called your attention to the advertisement--how long had he been with
     you?"

     "About a month then."

     "How did he come?"

     "In answer to an advertisement."

     "Was he the only applicant?"

     "No, I had a dozen."

     "Why did you pick him?"

     "Because he was handy and would come cheap."

     "At half-wages, in fact."

     "Yes."

     "What is he like, this Vincent Spaulding?"

     "Small, stout-built, very quick in his ways, no hair on his face,
     though he's not short of thirty. Has a white splash of acid upon his
     forehead."

     Holmes sat up in his chair in considerable excitement. "I thought as
     much," said he. "Have you ever observed that his ears are pierced for
     earrings?"

     "Yes, sir. He told me that a gipsy had done it for him when he was a
     lad."

     "Hum!" said Holmes, sinking back in deep thought. "He is still with
     you?"

     "Oh, yes, sir; I have only just left him."

     "And has your business been attended to in your absence?"

     "Nothing to complain of, sir. There's never very much to do of a
     morning."

     "That will do, Mr. Wilson. I shall be happy to give you an opinion
     upon the subject in the course of a day or two. To-day is Saturday,
     and I hope that by Monday we may come to a conclusion."

     "Well, Watson," said Holmes when our visitor had left us, "what do
     you make of it all?"

     "I make nothing of it," I answered frankly. "It is a most mysterious
     business."

     "As a rule," said Holmes, "the more bizarre a thing is the less
     mysterious it proves to be. It is your commonplace, featureless
     crimes which are really puzzling, just as a commonplace face is the
     most difficult to identify. But I must be prompt over this matter."

     "What are you going to do, then?" I asked.

     "To smoke," he answered. "It is quite a three pipe problem, and I beg
     that you won't speak to me for fifty minutes." He curled himself up
     in his chair, with his thin knees drawn up to his hawk-like nose, and
     there he sat with his eyes closed and his black clay pipe thrusting
     out like the bill of some strange bird. I had come to the conclusion
     that he had dropped asleep, and indeed was nodding myself, when he
     suddenly sprang out of his chair with the gesture of a man who has
     made up his mind and put his pipe down upon the mantelpiece.

     "Sarasate plays at the St. James's Hall this afternoon," he remarked.
     "What do you think, Watson? Could your patients spare you for a few
     hours?"

     "I have nothing to do to-day. My practice is never very absorbing."

     "Then put on your hat and come. I am going through the City first,
     and we can have some lunch on the way. I observe that there is a good
     deal of German music on the programme, which is rather more to my
     taste than Italian or French. It is introspective, and I want to
     introspect. Come along!"

     We travelled by the Underground as far as Aldersgate; and a short
     walk took us to Saxe-Coburg Square, the scene of the singular story
     which we had listened to in the morning. It was a poky, little,
     shabby-genteel place, where four lines of dingy two-storied brick
     houses looked out into a small railed-in enclosure, where a lawn of
     weedy grass and a few clumps of faded laurel-bushes made a hard fight
     against a smoke-laden and uncongenial atmosphere. Three gilt balls
     and a brown board with "Jabez Wilson" in white letters, upon a corner
     house, announced the place where our red-headed client carried on his
     business. Sherlock Holmes stopped in front of it with his head on one
     side and looked it all over, with his eyes shining brightly between
     puckered lids. Then he walked slowly up the street, and then down
     again to the corner, still looking keenly at the houses. Finally he
     returned to the pawnbroker's, and, having thumped vigorously upon the
     pavement with his stick two or three times, he went up to the door
     and knocked. It was instantly opened by a bright-looking,
     clean-shaven young fellow, who asked him to step in.

     "Thank you," said Holmes, "I only wished to ask you how you would go
     from here to the Strand."

     "Third right, fourth left," answered the assistant promptly, closing
     the door.

     "Smart fellow, that," observed Holmes as we walked away. "He is, in
     my judgment, the fourth smartest man in London, and for daring I am
     not sure that he has not a claim to be third. I have known something
     of him before."

     "Evidently," said I, "Mr. Wilson's assistant counts for a good deal
     in this mystery of the Red-headed League. I am sure that you inquired
     your way merely in order that you might see him."

     "Not him."

     "What then?"

     "The knees of his trousers."

     "And what did you see?"

     "What I expected to see."

     "Why did you beat the pavement?"

     "My dear doctor, this is a time for observation, not for talk. We are
     spies in an enemy's country. We know something of Saxe-Coburg Square.
     Let us now explore the parts which lie behind it."

     The road in which we found ourselves as we turned round the corner
     from the retired Saxe-Coburg Square presented as great a contrast to
     it as the front of a picture does to the back. It was one of the main
     arteries which conveyed the traffic of the City to the north and
     west. The roadway was blocked with the immense stream of commerce
     flowing in a double tide inward and outward, while the footpaths were
     black with the hurrying swarm of pedestrians. It was difficult to
     realise as we looked at the line of fine shops and stately business
     premises that they really abutted on the other side upon the faded
     and stagnant square which we had just quitted.

     "Let me see," said Holmes, standing at the corner and glancing along
     the line, "I should like just to remember the order of the houses
     here. It is a hobby of mine to have an exact knowledge of London.
     There is Mortimer's, the tobacconist, the little newspaper shop, the
     Coburg branch of the City and Suburban Bank, the Vegetarian
     Restaurant, and McFarlane's carriage-building depot. That carries us
     right on to the other block. And now, Doctor, we've done our work, so
     it's time we had some play. A sandwich and a cup of coffee, and then
     off to violin-land, where all is sweetness and delicacy and harmony,
     and there are no red-headed clients to vex us with their conundrums."

     My friend was an enthusiastic musician, being himself not only a very
     capable performer but a composer of no ordinary merit. All the
     afternoon he sat in the stalls wrapped in the most perfect happiness,
     gently waving his long, thin fingers in time to the music, while his
     gently smiling face and his languid, dreamy eyes were as unlike those
     of Holmes the sleuth-hound, Holmes the relentless, keen-witted,
     ready-handed criminal agent, as it was possible to conceive. In his
     singular character the dual nature alternately asserted itself, and
     his extreme exactness and astuteness represented, as I have often
     thought, the reaction against the poetic and contemplative mood which
     occasionally predominated in him. The swing of his nature took him
     from extreme languor to devouring energy; and, as I knew well, he was
     never so truly formidable as when, for days on end, he had been
     lounging in his armchair amid his improvisations and his black-letter
     editions. Then it was that the lust of the chase would suddenly come
     upon him, and that his brilliant reasoning power would rise to the
     level of intuition, until those who were unacquainted with his
     methods would look askance at him as on a man whose knowledge was not
     that of other mortals. When I saw him that afternoon so enwrapped in
     the music at St. James's Hall I felt that an evil time might be
     coming upon those whom he had set himself to hunt down.

     "You want to go home, no doubt, Doctor," he remarked as we emerged.

     "Yes, it would be as well."

     "And I have some business to do which will take some hours. This
     business at Coburg Square is serious."

     "Why serious?"

     "A considerable crime is in contemplation. I have every reason to
     believe that we shall be in time to stop it. But to-day being
     Saturday rather complicates matters. I shall want your help
     to-night."

     "At what time?"

     "Ten will be early enough."

     "I shall be at Baker Street at ten."

     "Very well. And, I say, Doctor, there may be some little danger, so
     kindly put your army revolver in your pocket." He waved his hand,
     turned on his heel, and disappeared in an instant among the crowd.

     I trust that I am not more dense than my neighbours, but I was always
     oppressed with a sense of my own stupidity in my dealings with
     Sherlock Holmes. Here I had heard what he had heard, I had seen what
     he had seen, and yet from his words it was evident that he saw
     clearly not only what had happened but what was about to happen,
     while to me the whole business was still confused and grotesque. As I
     drove home to my house in Kensington I thought over it all, from the
     extraordinary story of the red-headed copier of the "Encyclopaedia"
     down to the visit to Saxe-Coburg Square, and the ominous words with
     which he had parted from me. What was this nocturnal expedition, and
     why should I go armed?  Where were we going, and what were we to do?
     I had the hint from Holmes that this smooth-faced pawnbroker's
     assistant was a formidable man--a man who might play a deep game. I
     tried to puzzle it out, but gave it up in despair and set the matter
     aside until night should bring an explanation.

     It was a quarter-past nine when I started from home and made my way
     across the Park, and so through Oxford Street to Baker Street. Two
     hansoms were standing at the door, and as I entered the passage I
     heard the sound of voices from above. On entering his room I found
     Holmes in animated conversation with two men, one of whom I
     recognised as Peter Jones, the official police agent, while the other
     was a long, thin, sad-faced man, with a very shiny hat and
     oppressively respectable frock-coat.

     "Ha! Our party is complete," said Holmes, buttoning up his pea-jacket
     and taking his heavy hunting crop from the rack. "Watson, I think you
     know Mr. Jones, of Scotland Yard? Let me introduce you to Mr.
     Merryweather, who is to be our companion in to-night's adventure."

     "We're hunting in couples again, Doctor, you see," said Jones in his
     consequential way. "Our friend here is a wonderful man for starting a
     chase. All he wants is an old dog to help him to do the running
     down."

     "I hope a wild goose may not prove to be the end of our chase,"
     observed Mr. Merryweather gloomily.

     "You may place considerable confidence in Mr. Holmes, sir," said the
     police agent loftily. "He has his own little methods, which are, if
     he won't mind my saying so, just a little too theoretical and
     fantastic, but he has the makings of a detective in him. It is not
     too much to say that once or twice, as in that business of the Sholto
     murder and the Agra treasure, he has been more nearly correct than
     the official force."

     "Oh, if you say so, Mr. Jones, it is all right," said the stranger
     with deference. "Still, I confess that I miss my rubber. It is the
     first Saturday night for seven-and-twenty years that I have not had
     my rubber."

     "I think you will find," said Sherlock Holmes, "that you will play
     for a higher stake to-night than you have ever done yet, and that the
     play will be more exciting. For you, Mr. Merryweather, the stake will
     be some £30,000; and for you, Jones, it will be the man upon whom you
     wish to lay your hands."

     "John Clay, the murderer, thief, smasher, and forger. He's a young
     man, Mr. Merryweather, but he is at the head of his profession, and I
     would rather have my bracelets on him than on any criminal in London.
     He's a remarkable man, is young John Clay. His grandfather was a
     royal duke, and he himself has been to Eton and Oxford. His brain is
     as cunning as his fingers, and though we meet signs of him at every
     turn, we never know where to find the man himself. He'll crack a crib
     in Scotland one week, and be raising money to build an orphanage in
     Cornwall the next. I've been on his track for years and have never
     set eyes on him yet."

     "I hope that I may have the pleasure of introducing you to-night.
     I've had one or two little turns also with Mr. John Clay, and I agree
     with you that he is at the head of his profession. It is past ten,
     however, and quite time that we started. If you two will take the
     first hansom, Watson and I will follow in the second."

     Sherlock Holmes was not very communicative during the long drive and
     lay back in the cab humming the tunes which he had heard in the
     afternoon. We rattled through an endless labyrinth of gas-lit streets
     until we emerged into Farrington Street.

     "We are close there now," my friend remarked. "This fellow
     Merryweather is a bank director, and personally interested in the
     matter. I thought it as well to have Jones with us also. He is not a
     bad fellow, though an absolute imbecile in his profession. He has one
     positive virtue. He is as brave as a bulldog and as tenacious as a
     lobster if he gets his claws upon anyone. Here we are, and they are
     waiting for us."

     We had reached the same crowded thoroughfare in which we had found
     ourselves in the morning. Our cabs were dismissed, and, following the
     guidance of Mr. Merryweather, we passed down a narrow passage and
     through a side door, which he opened for us. Within there was a small
     corridor, which ended in a very massive iron gate. This also was
     opened, and led down a flight of winding stone steps, which
     terminated at another formidable gate. Mr. Merryweather stopped to
     light a lantern, and then conducted us down a dark, earth-smelling
     passage, and so, after opening a third door, into a huge vault or
     cellar, which was piled all round with crates and massive boxes.

     "You are not very vulnerable from above," Holmes remarked as he held
     up the lantern and gazed about him.

     "Nor from below," said Mr. Merryweather, striking his stick upon the
     flags which lined the floor. "Why, dear me, it sounds quite hollow!"
     he remarked, looking up in surprise.

     "I must really ask you to be a little more quiet!" said Holmes
     severely. "You have already imperilled the whole success of our
     expedition. Might I beg that you would have the goodness to sit down
     upon one of those boxes, and not to interfere?"

     The solemn Mr. Merryweather perched himself upon a crate, with a very
     injured expression upon his face, while Holmes fell upon his knees
     upon the floor and, with the lantern and a magnifying lens, began to
     examine minutely the cracks between the stones. A few seconds
     sufficed to satisfy him, for he sprang to his feet again and put his
     glass in his pocket.

     "We have at least an hour before us," he remarked, "for they can
     hardly take any steps until the good pawnbroker is safely in bed.
     Then they will not lose a minute, for the sooner they do their work
     the longer time they will have for their escape. We are at present,
     Doctor--as no doubt you have divined--in the cellar of the City
     branch of one of the principal London banks. Mr. Merryweather is the
     chairman of directors, and he will explain to you that there are
     reasons why the more daring criminals of London should take a
     considerable interest in this cellar at present."

     "It is our French gold," whispered the director. "We have had several
     warnings that an attempt might be made upon it."

     "Your French gold?"

     "Yes. We had occasion some months ago to strengthen our resources and
     borrowed for that purpose 30,000 napoleons from the Bank of France.
     It has become known that we have never had occasion to unpack the
     money, and that it is still lying in our cellar. The crate upon which
     I sit contains 2,000 napoleons packed between layers of lead foil.
     Our reserve of bullion is much larger at present than is usually kept
     in a single branch office, and the directors have had misgivings upon
     the subject."

     "Which were very well justified," observed Holmes. "And now it is
     time that we arranged our little plans. I expect that within an hour
     matters will come to a head. In the meantime Mr. Merryweather, we
     must put the screen over that dark lantern."

     "And sit in the dark?"

     "I am afraid so. I had brought a pack of cards in my pocket, and I
     thought that, as we were a partie carrée, you might have your rubber
     after all. But I see that the enemy's preparations have gone so far
     that we cannot risk the presence of a light. And, first of all, we
     must choose our positions. These are daring men, and though we shall
     take them at a disadvantage, they may do us some harm unless we are
     careful. I shall stand behind this crate, and do you conceal
     yourselves behind those. Then, when I flash a light upon them, close
     in swiftly. If they fire, Watson, have no compunction about shooting
     them down."

     I placed my revolver, cocked, upon the top of the wooden case behind
     which I crouched. Holmes shot the slide across the front of his
     lantern and left us in pitch darkness--such an absolute darkness as I
     have never before experienced. The smell of hot metal remained to
     assure us that the light was still there, ready to flash out at a
     moment's notice. To me, with my nerves worked up to a pitch of
     expectancy, there was something depressing and subduing in the sudden
     gloom, and in the cold dank air of the vault.

     "They have but one retreat," whispered Holmes. "That is back through
     the house into Saxe-Coburg Square. I hope that you have done what I
     asked you, Jones?"

     "I have an inspector and two officers waiting at the front door."

     "Then we have stopped all the holes. And now we must be silent and
     wait."

     What a time it seemed! From comparing notes afterwards it was but an
     hour and a quarter, yet it appeared to me that the night must have
     almost gone and the dawn be breaking above us. My limbs were weary
     and stiff, for I feared to change my position; yet my nerves were
     worked up to the highest pitch of tension, and my hearing was so
     acute that I could not only hear the gentle breathing of my
     companions, but I could distinguish the deeper, heavier in-breath of
     the bulky Jones from the thin, sighing note of the bank director.
     From my position I could look over the case in the direction of the
     floor. Suddenly my eyes caught the glint of a light.

     At first it was but a lurid spark upon the stone pavement. Then it
     lengthened out until it became a yellow line, and then, without any
     warning or sound, a gash seemed to open and a hand appeared, a white,
     almost womanly hand, which felt about in the centre of the little
     area of light. For a minute or more the hand, with its writhing
     fingers, protruded out of the floor. Then it was withdrawn as
     suddenly as it appeared, and all was dark again save the single lurid
     spark which marked a chink between the stones.

     Its disappearance, however, was but momentary. With a rending,
     tearing sound, one of the broad, white stones turned over upon its
     side and left a square, gaping hole, through which streamed the light
     of a lantern. Over the edge there peeped a clean-cut, boyish face,
     which looked keenly about it, and then, with a hand on either side of
     the aperture, drew itself shoulder-high and waist-high, until one
     knee rested upon the edge. In another instant he stood at the side of
     the hole and was hauling after him a companion, lithe and small like
     himself, with a pale face and a shock of very red hair.

     "It's all clear," he whispered. "Have you the chisel and the bags?
     Great Scott! Jump, Archie, jump, and I'll swing for it!"

     Sherlock Holmes had sprung out and seized the intruder by the collar.
     The other dived down the hole, and I heard the sound of rending cloth
     as Jones clutched at his skirts. The light flashed upon the barrel of
     a revolver, but Holmes' hunting crop came down on the man's wrist,
     and the pistol clinked upon the stone floor.

     "It's no use, John Clay," said Holmes blandly. "You have no chance at
     all."

     "So I see," the other answered with the utmost coolness. "I fancy
     that my pal is all right, though I see you have got his coat-tails."

     "There are three men waiting for him at the door," said Holmes.

     "Oh, indeed! You seem to have done the thing very completely. I must
     compliment you."

     "And I you," Holmes answered. "Your red-headed idea was very new and
     effective."

     "You'll see your pal again presently," said Jones. "He's quicker at
     climbing down holes than I am. Just hold out while I fix the
     derbies."

     "I beg that you will not touch me with your filthy hands," remarked
     our prisoner as the handcuffs clattered upon his wrists. "You may not
     be aware that I have royal blood in my veins. Have the goodness,
     also, when you address me always to say 'sir' and 'please.'"

     "All right," said Jones with a stare and a snigger. "Well, would you
     please, sir, march upstairs, where we can get a cab to carry your
     Highness to the police-station?"

     "That is better," said John Clay serenely. He made a sweeping bow to
     the three of us and walked quietly off in the custody of the
     detective.

     "Really, Mr. Holmes," said Mr. Merryweather as we followed them from
     the cellar, "I do not know how the bank can thank you or repay you.
     There is no doubt that you have detected and defeated in the most
     complete manner one of the most determined attempts at bank robbery
     that have ever come within my experience."

     "I have had one or two little scores of my own to settle with Mr.
     John Clay," said Holmes. "I have been at some small expense over this
     matter, which I shall expect the bank to refund, but beyond that I am
     amply repaid by having had an experience which is in many ways
     unique, and by hearing the very remarkable narrative of the
     Red-headed League."

     "You see, Watson," he explained in the early hours of the morning as
     we sat over a glass of whisky and soda in Baker Street, "it was
     perfectly obvious from the first that the only possible object of
     this rather fantastic business of the advertisement of the League,
     and the copying of the 'Encyclopaedia,' must be to get this not
     over-bright pawnbroker out of the way for a number of hours every
     day. It was a curious way of managing it, but, really, it would be
     difficult to suggest a better. The method was no doubt suggested to
     Clay's ingenious mind by the colour of his accomplice's hair. The £4
     a week was a lure which must draw him, and what was it to them, who
     were playing for thousands? They put in the advertisement, one rogue
     has the temporary office, the other rogue incites the man to apply
     for it, and together they manage to secure his absence every morning
     in the week. From the time that I heard of the assistant having come
     for half wages, it was obvious to me that he had some strong motive
     for securing the situation."

     "But how could you guess what the motive was?"

     "Had there been women in the house, I should have suspected a mere
     vulgar intrigue. That, however, was out of the question. The man's
     business was a small one, and there was nothing in his house which
     could account for such elaborate preparations, and such an
     expenditure as they were at. It must, then, be something out of the
     house. What could it be? I thought of the assistant's fondness for
     photography, and his trick of vanishing into the cellar. The cellar!
     There was the end of this tangled clue. Then I made inquiries as to
     this mysterious assistant and found that I had to deal with one of
     the coolest and most daring criminals in London. He was doing
     something in the cellar--something which took many hours a day for
     months on end. What could it be, once more? I could think of nothing
     save that he was running a tunnel to some other building.

     "So far I had got when we went to visit the scene of action. I
     surprised you by beating upon the pavement with my stick. I was
     ascertaining whether the cellar stretched out in front or behind. It
     was not in front. Then I rang the bell, and, as I hoped, the
     assistant answered it. We have had some skirmishes, but we had never
     set eyes upon each other before. I hardly looked at his face. His
     knees were what I wished to see. You must yourself have remarked how
     worn, wrinkled, and stained they were. They spoke of those hours of
     burrowing. The only remaining point was what they were burrowing for.
     I walked round the corner, saw the City and Suburban Bank abutted on
     our friend's premises, and felt that I had solved my problem. When
     you drove home after the concert I called upon Scotland Yard and upon
     the chairman of the bank directors, with the result that you have
     seen."

     "And how could you tell that they would make their attempt to-night?"
     I asked.

     "Well, when they closed their League offices that was a sign that
     they cared no longer about Mr. Jabez Wilson's presence--in other
     words, that they had completed their tunnel. But it was essential
     that they should use it soon, as it might be discovered, or the
     bullion might be removed. Saturday would suit them better than any
     other day, as it would give them two days for their escape. For all
     these reasons I expected them to come to-night."

     "You reasoned it out beautifully," I exclaimed in unfeigned
     admiration. "It is so long a chain, and yet every link rings true."

     "It saved me from ennui," he answered, yawning. "Alas! I already feel
     it closing in upon me. My life is spent in one long effort to escape
     from the commonplaces of existence. These little problems help me to
     do so."

     "And you are a benefactor of the race," said I.

     He shrugged his shoulders. "Well, perhaps, after all, it is of some
     little use," he remarked. "'L'homme c'est rien--l'oeuvre c'est tout,'
     as Gustave Flaubert wrote to George Sand."






                               A CASE OF IDENTITY

     "My dear fellow," said Sherlock Holmes as we sat on either side of
     the fire in his lodgings at Baker Street, "life is infinitely
     stranger than anything which the mind of man could invent. We would
     not dare to conceive the things which are really mere commonplaces of
     existence. If we could fly out of that window hand in hand, hover
     over this great city, gently remove the roofs, and peep in at the
     queer things which are going on, the strange coincidences, the
     plannings, the cross-purposes, the wonderful chains of events,
     working through generations, and leading to the most outré results,
     it would make all fiction with its conventionalities and foreseen
     conclusions most stale and unprofitable."

     "And yet I am not convinced of it," I answered. "The cases which come
     to light in the papers are, as a rule, bald enough, and vulgar
     enough. We have in our police reports realism pushed to its extreme
     limits, and yet the result is, it must be confessed, neither
     fascinating nor artistic."

     "A certain selection and discretion must be used in producing a
     realistic effect," remarked Holmes. "This is wanting in the police
     report, where more stress is laid, perhaps, upon the platitudes of
     the magistrate than upon the details, which to an observer contain
     the vital essence of the whole matter. Depend upon it, there is
     nothing so unnatural as the commonplace."

     I smiled and shook my head. "I can quite understand your thinking
     so." I said. "Of course, in your position of unofficial adviser and
     helper to everybody who is absolutely puzzled, throughout three
     continents, you are brought in contact with all that is strange and
     bizarre. But here"--I picked up the morning paper from the
     ground--"let us put it to a practical test. Here is the first heading
     upon which I come. 'A husband's cruelty to his wife.' There is half a
     column of print, but I know without reading it that it is all
     perfectly familiar to me. There is, of course, the other woman, the
     drink, the push, the blow, the bruise, the sympathetic sister or
     landlady. The crudest of writers could invent nothing more crude."

     "Indeed, your example is an unfortunate one for your argument," said
     Holmes, taking the paper and glancing his eye down it. "This is the
     Dundas separation case, and, as it happens, I was engaged in clearing
     up some small points in connection with it. The husband was a
     teetotaler, there was no other woman, and the conduct complained of
     was that he had drifted into the habit of winding up every meal by
     taking out his false teeth and hurling them at his wife, which, you
     will allow, is not an action likely to occur to the imagination of
     the average story-teller. Take a pinch of snuff, Doctor, and
     acknowledge that I have scored over you in your example."

     He held out his snuffbox of old gold, with a great amethyst in the
     centre of the lid. Its splendour was in such contrast to his homely
     ways and simple life that I could not help commenting upon it.

     "Ah," said he, "I forgot that I had not seen you for some weeks. It
     is a little souvenir from the King of Bohemia in return for my
     assistance in the case of the Irene Adler papers."

     "And the ring?" I asked, glancing at a remarkable brilliant which
     sparkled upon his finger.

     "It was from the reigning family of Holland, though the matter in
     which I served them was of such delicacy that I cannot confide it
     even to you, who have been good enough to chronicle one or two of my
     little problems."

     "And have you any on hand just now?" I asked with interest.

     "Some ten or twelve, but none which present any feature of interest.
     They are important, you understand, without being interesting.
     Indeed, I have found that it is usually in unimportant matters that
     there is a field for the observation, and for the quick analysis of
     cause and effect which gives the charm to an investigation. The
     larger crimes are apt to be the simpler, for the bigger the crime the
     more obvious, as a rule, is the motive. In these cases, save for one
     rather intricate matter which has been referred to me from
     Marseilles, there is nothing which presents any features of interest.
     It is possible, however, that I may have something better before very
     many minutes are over, for this is one of my clients, or I am much
     mistaken."

     He had risen from his chair and was standing between the parted
     blinds gazing down into the dull neutral-tinted London street.
     Looking over his shoulder, I saw that on the pavement opposite there
     stood a large woman with a heavy fur boa round her neck, and a large
     curling red feather in a broad-brimmed hat which was tilted in a
     coquettish Duchess of Devonshire fashion over her ear. From under
     this great panoply she peeped up in a nervous, hesitating fashion at
     our windows, while her body oscillated backward and forward, and her
     fingers fidgeted with her glove buttons. Suddenly, with a plunge, as
     of the swimmer who leaves the bank, she hurried across the road, and
     we heard the sharp clang of the bell.

     "I have seen those symptoms before," said Holmes, throwing his
     cigarette into the fire. "Oscillation upon the pavement always means
     an affaire de coeur. She would like advice, but is not sure that the
     matter is not too delicate for communication. And yet even here we
     may discriminate. When a woman has been seriously wronged by a man
     she no longer oscillates, and the usual symptom is a broken bell
     wire. Here we may take it that there is a love matter, but that the
     maiden is not so much angry as perplexed, or grieved. But here she
     comes in person to resolve our doubts."

     As he spoke there was a tap at the door, and the boy in buttons
     entered to announce Miss Mary Sutherland, while the lady herself
     loomed behind his small black figure like a full-sailed merchant-man
     behind a tiny pilot boat. Sherlock Holmes welcomed her with the easy
     courtesy for which he was remarkable, and, having closed the door and
     bowed her into an armchair, he looked her over in the minute and yet
     abstracted fashion which was peculiar to him.

     "Do you not find," he said, "that with your short sight it is a
     little trying to do so much typewriting?"

     "I did at first," she answered, "but now I know where the letters are
     without looking." Then, suddenly realising the full purport of his
     words, she gave a violent start and looked up, with fear and
     astonishment upon her broad, good-humoured face. "You've heard about
     me, Mr. Holmes," she cried, "else how could you know all that?"

     "Never mind," said Holmes, laughing; "it is my business to know
     things. Perhaps I have trained myself to see what others overlook. If
     not, why should you come to consult me?"

     "I came to you, sir, because I heard of you from Mrs. Etherege, whose
     husband you found so easy when the police and everyone had given him
     up for dead. Oh, Mr. Holmes, I wish you would do as much for me. I'm
     not rich, but still I have a hundred a year in my own right, besides
     the little that I make by the machine, and I would give it all to
     know what has become of Mr. Hosmer Angel."

     "Why did you come away to consult me in such a hurry?" asked Sherlock
     Holmes, with his finger-tips together and his eyes to the ceiling.

     Again a startled look came over the somewhat vacuous face of Miss
     Mary Sutherland. "Yes, I did bang out of the house," she said, "for
     it made me angry to see the easy way in which Mr. Windibank--that is,
     my father--took it all. He would not go to the police, and he would
     not go to you, and so at last, as he would do nothing and kept on
     saying that there was no harm done, it made me mad, and I just on
     with my things and came right away to you."

     "Your father," said Holmes, "your stepfather, surely, since the name
     is different."

     "Yes, my stepfather. I call him father, though it sounds funny, too,
     for he is only five years and two months older than myself."

     "And your mother is alive?"

     "Oh, yes, mother is alive and well. I wasn't best pleased, Mr.
     Holmes, when she married again so soon after father's death, and a
     man who was nearly fifteen years younger than herself. Father was a
     plumber in the Tottenham Court Road, and he left a tidy business
     behind him, which mother carried on with Mr. Hardy, the foreman; but
     when Mr. Windibank came he made her sell the business, for he was
     very superior, being a traveller in wines. They got £4700 for the
     goodwill and interest, which wasn't near as much as father could have
     got if he had been alive."

     I had expected to see Sherlock Holmes impatient under this rambling
     and inconsequential narrative, but, on the contrary, he had listened
     with the greatest concentration of attention.

     "Your own little income," he asked, "does it come out of the
     business?"

     "Oh, no, sir. It is quite separate and was left me by my uncle Ned in
     Auckland. It is in New Zealand stock, paying 4½ per cent. Two
     thousand five hundred pounds was the amount, but I can only touch the
     interest."

     "You interest me extremely," said Holmes. "And since you draw so
     large a sum as a hundred a year, with what you earn into the bargain,
     you no doubt travel a little and indulge yourself in every way. I
     believe that a single lady can get on very nicely upon an income of
     about £60."

     "I could do with much less than that, Mr. Holmes, but you understand
     that as long as I live at home I don't wish to be a burden to them,
     and so they have the use of the money just while I am staying with
     them. Of course, that is only just for the time. Mr. Windibank draws
     my interest every quarter and pays it over to mother, and I find that
     I can do pretty well with what I earn at typewriting. It brings me
     twopence a sheet, and I can often do from fifteen to twenty sheets in
     a day."

     "You have made your position very clear to me," said Holmes. "This is
     my friend, Dr. Watson, before whom you can speak as freely as before
     myself. Kindly tell us now all about your connection with Mr. Hosmer
     Angel."

     A flush stole over Miss Sutherland's face, and she picked nervously
     at the fringe of her jacket. "I met him first at the gasfitters'
     ball," she said. "They used to send father tickets when he was alive,
     and then afterwards they remembered us, and sent them to mother. Mr.
     Windibank did not wish us to go. He never did wish us to go anywhere.
     He would get quite mad if I wanted so much as to join a Sunday-school
     treat. But this time I was set on going, and I would go; for what
     right had he to prevent? He said the folk were not fit for us to
     know, when all father's friends were to be there. And he said that I
     had nothing fit to wear, when I had my purple plush that I had never
     so much as taken out of the drawer. At last, when nothing else would
     do, he went off to France upon the business of the firm, but we went,
     mother and I, with Mr. Hardy, who used to be our foreman, and it was
     there I met Mr. Hosmer Angel."

     "I suppose," said Holmes, "that when Mr. Windibank came back from
     France he was very annoyed at your having gone to the ball."

     "Oh, well, he was very good about it. He laughed, I remember, and
     shrugged his shoulders, and said there was no use denying anything to
     a woman, for she would have her way."

     "I see. Then at the gasfitters' ball you met, as I understand, a
     gentleman called Mr. Hosmer Angel."

     "Yes, sir. I met him that night, and he called next day to ask if we
     had got home all safe, and after that we met him--that is to say, Mr.
     Holmes, I met him twice for walks, but after that father came back
     again, and Mr. Hosmer Angel could not come to the house any more."

     "No?"

     "Well, you know father didn't like anything of the sort. He wouldn't
     have any visitors if he could help it, and he used to say that a
     woman should be happy in her own family circle. But then, as I used
     to say to mother, a woman wants her own circle to begin with, and I
     had not got mine yet."

     "But how about Mr. Hosmer Angel? Did he make no attempt to see you?"

     "Well, father was going off to France again in a week, and Hosmer
     wrote and said that it would be safer and better not to see each
     other until he had gone. We could write in the meantime, and he used
     to write every day. I took the letters in in the morning, so there
     was no need for father to know."

     "Were you engaged to the gentleman at this time?"

     "Oh, yes, Mr. Holmes. We were engaged after the first walk that we
     took. Hosmer--Mr. Angel--was a cashier in an office in Leadenhall
     Street--and--"

     "What office?"

     "That's the worst of it, Mr. Holmes, I don't know."

     "Where did he live, then?"

     "He slept on the premises."

     "And you don't know his address?"

     "No--except that it was Leadenhall Street."

     "Where did you address your letters, then?"

     "To the Leadenhall Street Post Office, to be left till called for. He
     said that if they were sent to the office he would be chaffed by all
     the other clerks about having letters from a lady, so I offered to
     typewrite them, like he did his, but he wouldn't have that, for he
     said that when I wrote them they seemed to come from me, but when
     they were typewritten he always felt that the machine had come
     between us. That will just show you how fond he was of me, Mr.
     Holmes, and the little things that he would think of."

     "It was most suggestive," said Holmes. "It has long been an axiom of
     mine that the little things are infinitely the most important.  Can
     you remember any other little things about Mr. Hosmer Angel?"

     "He was a very shy man, Mr. Holmes. He would rather walk with me in
     the evening than in the daylight, for he said that he hated to be
     conspicuous. Very retiring and gentlemanly he was. Even his voice was
     gentle. He'd had the quinsy and swollen glands when he was young, he
     told me, and it had left him with a weak throat, and a hesitating,
     whispering fashion of speech. He was always well dressed, very neat
     and plain, but his eyes were weak, just as mine are, and he wore
     tinted glasses against the glare."

     "Well, and what happened when Mr. Windibank, your stepfather,
     returned to France?"

     "Mr. Hosmer Angel came to the house again and proposed that we should
     marry before father came back. He was in dreadful earnest and made me
     swear, with my hands on the Testament, that whatever happened I would
     always be true to him. Mother said he was quite right to make me
     swear, and that it was a sign of his passion. Mother was all in his
     favour from the first and was even fonder of him than I was. Then,
     when they talked of marrying within the week, I began to ask about
     father; but they both said never to mind about father, but just to
     tell him afterwards, and mother said she would make it all right with
     him. I didn't quite like that, Mr. Holmes. It seemed funny that I
     should ask his leave, as he was only a few years older than me; but I
     didn't want to do anything on the sly, so I wrote to father at
     Bordeaux, where the company has its French offices, but the letter
     came back to me on the very morning of the wedding."

     "It missed him, then?"

     "Yes, sir; for he had started to England just before it arrived."

     "Ha! that was unfortunate. Your wedding was arranged, then, for the
     Friday. Was it to be in church?"

     "Yes, sir, but very quietly. It was to be at St. Saviour's, near
     King's Cross, and we were to have breakfast afterwards at the St.
     Pancras Hotel. Hosmer came for us in a hansom, but as there were two
     of us he put us both into it and stepped himself into a four-wheeler,
     which happened to be the only other cab in the street. We got to the
     church first, and when the four-wheeler drove up we waited for him to
     step out, but he never did, and when the cabman got down from the box
     and looked there was no one there! The cabman said that he could not
     imagine what had become of him, for he had seen him get in with his
     own eyes. That was last Friday, Mr. Holmes, and I have never seen or
     heard anything since then to throw any light upon what became of
     him."

     "It seems to me that you have been very shamefully treated," said
     Holmes.

     "Oh, no, sir! He was too good and kind to leave me so. Why, all the
     morning he was saying to me that, whatever happened, I was to be
     true; and that even if something quite unforeseen occurred to
     separate us, I was always to remember that I was pledged to him, and
     that he would claim his pledge sooner or later. It seemed strange
     talk for a wedding-morning, but what has happened since gives a
     meaning to it."

     "Most certainly it does. Your own opinion is, then, that some
     unforeseen catastrophe has occurred to him?"

     "Yes, sir. I believe that he foresaw some danger, or else he would
     not have talked so. And then I think that what he foresaw happened."

     "But you have no notion as to what it could have been?"

     "None."

     "One more question. How did your mother take the matter?"

     "She was angry, and said that I was never to speak of the matter
     again."

     "And your father? Did you tell him?"

     "Yes; and he seemed to think, with me, that something had happened,
     and that I should hear of Hosmer again. As he said, what interest
     could anyone have in bringing me to the doors of the church, and then
     leaving me? Now, if he had borrowed my money, or if he had married me
     and got my money settled on him, there might be some reason, but
     Hosmer was very independent about money and never would look at a
     shilling of mine. And yet, what could have happened? And why could he
     not write? Oh, it drives me half-mad to think of it, and I can't
     sleep a wink at night." She pulled a little handkerchief out of her
     muff and began to sob heavily into it.

     "I shall glance into the case for you," said Holmes, rising, "and I
     have no doubt that we shall reach some definite result. Let the
     weight of the matter rest upon me now, and do not let your mind dwell
     upon it further. Above all, try to let Mr. Hosmer Angel vanish from
     your memory, as he has done from your life."

     "Then you don't think I'll see him again?"

     "I fear not."

     "Then what has happened to him?"

     "You will leave that question in my hands. I should like an accurate
     description of him and any letters of his which you can spare."

     "I advertised for him in last Saturday's Chronicle," said she. "Here
     is the slip and here are four letters from him."

     "Thank you. And your address?"

     "No. 31 Lyon Place, Camberwell."

     "Mr. Angel's address you never had, I understand. Where is your
     father's place of business?"

     "He travels for Westhouse & Marbank, the great claret importers of
     Fenchurch Street."

     "Thank you. You have made your statement very clearly. You will leave
     the papers here, and remember the advice which I have given you. Let
     the whole incident be a sealed book, and do not allow it to affect
     your life."

     "You are very kind, Mr. Holmes, but I cannot do that. I shall be true
     to Hosmer. He shall find me ready when he comes back."

     For all the preposterous hat and the vacuous face, there was
     something noble in the simple faith of our visitor which compelled
     our respect. She laid her little bundle of papers upon the table and
     went her way, with a promise to come again whenever she might be
     summoned.

     Sherlock Holmes sat silent for a few minutes with his fingertips
     still pressed together, his legs stretched out in front of him, and
     his gaze directed upward to the ceiling. Then he took down from the
     rack the old and oily clay pipe, which was to him as a counsellor,
     and, having lit it, he leaned back in his chair, with the thick blue
     cloud-wreaths spinning up from him, and a look of infinite languor in
     his face.

     "Quite an interesting study, that maiden," he observed. "I found her
     more interesting than her little problem, which, by the way, is
     rather a trite one. You will find parallel cases, if you consult my
     index, in Andover in '77, and there was something of the sort at The
     Hague last year. Old as is the idea, however, there were one or two
     details which were new to me. But the maiden herself was most
     instructive."

     "You appeared to read a good deal upon her which was quite invisible
     to me," I remarked.

     "Not invisible but unnoticed, Watson. You did not know where to look,
     and so you missed all that was important. I can never bring you to
     realise the importance of sleeves, the suggestiveness of thumb-nails,
     or the great issues that may hang from a boot-lace. Now, what did you
     gather from that woman's appearance? Describe it."

     "Well, she had a slate-coloured, broad-brimmed straw hat, with a
     feather of a brickish red. Her jacket was black, with black beads
     sewn upon it, and a fringe of little black jet ornaments. Her dress
     was brown, rather darker than coffee colour, with a little purple
     plush at the neck and sleeves. Her gloves were greyish and were worn
     through at the right forefinger. Her boots I didn't observe. She had
     small round, hanging gold earrings, and a general air of being fairly
     well-to-do in a vulgar, comfortable, easy-going way."

     Sherlock Holmes clapped his hands softly together and chuckled.

     "'Pon my word, Watson, you are coming along wonderfully. You have
     really done very well indeed. It is true that you have missed
     everything of importance, but you have hit upon the method, and you
     have a quick eye for colour. Never trust to general impressions, my
     boy, but concentrate yourself upon details. My first glance is always
     at a woman's sleeve. In a man it is perhaps better first to take the
     knee of the trouser. As you observe, this woman had plush upon her
     sleeves, which is a most useful material for showing traces. The
     double line a little above the wrist, where the typewritist presses
     against the table, was beautifully defined. The sewing-machine, of
     the hand type, leaves a similar mark, but only on the left arm, and
     on the side of it farthest from the thumb, instead of being right
     across the broadest part, as this was. I then glanced at her face,
     and, observing the dint of a pince-nez at either side of her nose, I
     ventured a remark upon short sight and typewriting, which seemed to
     surprise her."

     "It surprised me."

     "But, surely, it was obvious. I was then much surprised and
     interested on glancing down to observe that, though the boots which
     she was wearing were not unlike each other, they were really odd
     ones; the one having a slightly decorated toe-cap, and the other a
     plain one. One was buttoned only in the two lower buttons out of
     five, and the other at the first, third, and fifth. Now, when you see
     that a young lady, otherwise neatly dressed, has come away from home
     with odd boots, half-buttoned, it is no great deduction to say that
     she came away in a hurry."

     "And what else?" I asked, keenly interested, as I always was, by my
     friend's incisive reasoning.

     "I noted, in passing, that she had written a note before leaving home
     but after being fully dressed. You observed that her right glove was
     torn at the forefinger, but you did not apparently see that both
     glove and finger were stained with violet ink. She had written in a
     hurry and dipped her pen too deep. It must have been this morning, or
     the mark would not remain clear upon the finger. All this is amusing,
     though rather elementary, but I must go back to business, Watson.
     Would you mind reading me the advertised description of Mr. Hosmer
     Angel?"

     I held the little printed slip to the light.

     "Missing," it said, "on the morning of the fourteenth, a gentleman
     named Hosmer Angel. About five ft. seven in. in height; strongly
     built, sallow complexion, black hair, a little bald in the centre,
     bushy, black side-whiskers and moustache; tinted glasses, slight
     infirmity of speech. Was dressed, when last seen, in black frock-coat
     faced with silk, black waistcoat, gold Albert chain, and grey Harris
     tweed trousers, with brown gaiters over elastic-sided boots. Known to
     have been employed in an office in Leadenhall Street. Anybody
     bringing--"

     "That will do," said Holmes. "As to the letters," he continued,
     glancing over them, "they are very commonplace. Absolutely no clue in
     them to Mr. Angel, save that he quotes Balzac once. There is one
     remarkable point, however, which will no doubt strike you."

     "They are typewritten," I remarked.

     "Not only that, but the signature is typewritten. Look at the neat
     little 'Hosmer Angel' at the bottom. There is a date, you see, but no
     superscription except Leadenhall Street, which is rather vague. The
     point about the signature is very suggestive--in fact, we may call it
     conclusive."

     "Of what?"

     "My dear fellow, is it possible you do not see how strongly it bears
     upon the case?"

     "I cannot say that I do unless it were that he wished to be able to
     deny his signature if an action for breach of promise were
     instituted."

     "No, that was not the point. However, I shall write two letters,
     which should settle the matter. One is to a firm in the City, the
     other is to the young lady's stepfather, Mr. Windibank, asking him
     whether he could meet us here at six o'clock tomorrow evening. It is
     just as well that we should do business with the male relatives. And
     now, Doctor, we can do nothing until the answers to those letters
     come, so we may put our little problem upon the shelf for the
     interim."

     I had had so many reasons to believe in my friend's subtle powers of
     reasoning and extraordinary energy in action that I felt that he must
     have some solid grounds for the assured and easy demeanour with which
     he treated the singular mystery which he had been called upon to
     fathom. Once only had I known him to fail, in the case of the King of
     Bohemia and of the Irene Adler photograph; but when I looked back to
     the weird business of the Sign of Four, and the extraordinary
     circumstances connected with the Study in Scarlet, I felt that it
     would be a strange tangle indeed which he could not unravel.

     I left him then, still puffing at his black clay pipe, with the
     conviction that when I came again on the next evening I would find
     that he held in his hands all the clues which would lead up to the
     identity of the disappearing bridegroom of Miss Mary Sutherland.

     A professional case of great gravity was engaging my own attention at
     the time, and the whole of next day I was busy at the bedside of the
     sufferer. It was not until close upon six o'clock that I found myself
     free and was able to spring into a hansom and drive to Baker Street,
     half afraid that I might be too late to assist at the dénouement of
     the little mystery. I found Sherlock Holmes alone, however, half
     asleep, with his long, thin form curled up in the recesses of his
     armchair. A formidable array of bottles and test-tubes, with the
     pungent cleanly smell of hydrochloric acid, told me that he had spent
     his day in the chemical work which was so dear to him.

     "Well, have you solved it?" I asked as I entered.

     "Yes. It was the bisulphate of baryta."

     "No, no, the mystery!" I cried.

     "Oh, that! I thought of the salt that I have been working upon. There
     was never any mystery in the matter, though, as I said yesterday,
     some of the details are of interest. The only drawback is that there
     is no law, I fear, that can touch the scoundrel."

     "Who was he, then, and what was his object in deserting Miss
     Sutherland?"

     The question was hardly out of my mouth, and Holmes had not yet
     opened his lips to reply, when we heard a heavy footfall in the
     passage and a tap at the door.

     "This is the girl's stepfather, Mr. James Windibank," said Holmes.
     "He has written to me to say that he would be here at six. Come in!"

     The man who entered was a sturdy, middle-sized fellow, some thirty
     years of age, clean-shaven, and sallow-skinned, with a bland,
     insinuating manner, and a pair of wonderfully sharp and penetrating
     grey eyes. He shot a questioning glance at each of us, placed his
     shiny top-hat upon the sideboard, and with a slight bow sidled down
     into the nearest chair.

     "Good-evening, Mr. James Windibank," said Holmes. "I think that this
     typewritten letter is from you, in which you made an appointment with
     me for six o'clock?"

     "Yes, sir. I am afraid that I am a little late, but I am not quite my
     own master, you know. I am sorry that Miss Sutherland has troubled
     you about this little matter, for I think it is far better not to
     wash linen of the sort in public. It was quite against my wishes that
     she came, but she is a very excitable, impulsive girl, as you may
     have noticed, and she is not easily controlled when she has made up
     her mind on a point. Of course, I did not mind you so much, as you
     are not connected with the official police, but it is not pleasant to
     have a family misfortune like this noised abroad. Besides, it is a
     useless expense, for how could you possibly find this Hosmer Angel?"

     "On the contrary," said Holmes quietly; "I have every reason to
     believe that I will succeed in discovering Mr. Hosmer Angel."

     Mr. Windibank gave a violent start and dropped his gloves. "I am
     delighted to hear it," he said.

     "It is a curious thing," remarked Holmes, "that a typewriter has
     really quite as much individuality as a man's handwriting. Unless
     they are quite new, no two of them write exactly alike. Some letters
     get more worn than others, and some wear only on one side. Now, you
     remark in this note of yours, Mr. Windibank, that in every case there
     is some little slurring over of the 'e,' and a slight defect in the
     tail of the 'r.' There are fourteen other characteristics, but those
     are the more obvious."

     "We do all our correspondence with this machine at the office, and no
     doubt it is a little worn," our visitor answered, glancing keenly at
     Holmes with his bright little eyes.

     "And now I will show you what is really a very interesting study, Mr.
     Windibank," Holmes continued. "I think of writing another little
     monograph some of these days on the typewriter and its relation to
     crime. It is a subject to which I have devoted some little attention.
     I have here four letters which purport to come from the missing man.
     They are all typewritten. In each case, not only are the 'e's'
     slurred and the 'r's' tailless, but you will observe, if you care to
     use my magnifying lens, that the fourteen other characteristics to
     which I have alluded are there as well."

     Mr. Windibank sprang out of his chair and picked up his hat. "I
     cannot waste time over this sort of fantastic talk, Mr. Holmes," he
     said. "If you can catch the man, catch him, and let me know when you
     have done it."

     "Certainly," said Holmes, stepping over and turning the key in the
     door. "I let you know, then, that I have caught him!"

     "What! where?" shouted Mr. Windibank, turning white to his lips and
     glancing about him like a rat in a trap.

     "Oh, it won't do--really it won't," said Holmes suavely. "There is no
     possible getting out of it, Mr. Windibank. It is quite too
     transparent, and it was a very bad compliment when you said that it
     was impossible for me to solve so simple a question. That's right!
     Sit down and let us talk it over."

     Our visitor collapsed into a chair, with a ghastly face and a glitter
     of moisture on his brow. "It--it's not actionable," he stammered.

     "I am very much afraid that it is not. But between ourselves,
     Windibank, it was as cruel and selfish and heartless a trick in a
     petty way as ever came before me. Now, let me just run over the
     course of events, and you will contradict me if I go wrong."

     The man sat huddled up in his chair, with his head sunk upon his
     breast, like one who is utterly crushed. Holmes stuck his feet up on
     the corner of the mantelpiece and, leaning back with his hands in his
     pockets, began talking, rather to himself, as it seemed, than to us.

     "The man married a woman very much older than himself for her money,"
     said he, "and he enjoyed the use of the money of the daughter as long
     as she lived with them. It was a considerable sum, for people in
     their position, and the loss of it would have made a serious
     difference. It was worth an effort to preserve it. The daughter was
     of a good, amiable disposition, but affectionate and warm-hearted in
     her ways, so that it was evident that with her fair personal
     advantages, and her little income, she would not be allowed to remain
     single long. Now her marriage would mean, of course, the loss of a
     hundred a year, so what does her stepfather do to prevent it? He
     takes the obvious course of keeping her at home and forbidding her to
     seek the company of people of her own age. But soon he found that
     that would not answer forever. She became restive, insisted upon her
     rights, and finally announced her positive intention of going to a
     certain ball. What does her clever stepfather do then? He conceives
     an idea more creditable to his head than to his heart. With the
     connivance and assistance of his wife he disguised himself, covered
     those keen eyes with tinted glasses, masked the face with a moustache
     and a pair of bushy whiskers, sunk that clear voice into an
     insinuating whisper, and doubly secure on account of the girl's short
     sight, he appears as Mr. Hosmer Angel, and keeps off other lovers by
     making love himself."

     "It was only a joke at first," groaned our visitor. "We never thought
     that she would have been so carried away."

     "Very likely not. However that may be, the young lady was very
     decidedly carried away, and, having quite made up her mind that her
     stepfather was in France, the suspicion of treachery never for an
     instant entered her mind. She was flattered by the gentleman's
     attentions, and the effect was increased by the loudly expressed
     admiration of her mother. Then Mr. Angel began to call, for it was
     obvious that the matter should be pushed as far as it would go if a
     real effect were to be produced. There were meetings, and an
     engagement, which would finally secure the girl's affections from
     turning towards anyone else. But the deception could not be kept up
     forever. These pretended journeys to France were rather cumbrous. The
     thing to do was clearly to bring the business to an end in such a
     dramatic manner that it would leave a permanent impression upon the
     young lady's mind and prevent her from looking upon any other suitor
     for some time to come. Hence those vows of fidelity exacted upon a
     Testament, and hence also the allusions to a possibility of something
     happening on the very morning of the wedding. James Windibank wished
     Miss Sutherland to be so bound to Hosmer Angel, and so uncertain as
     to his fate, that for ten years to come, at any rate, she would not
     listen to another man. As far as the church door he brought her, and
     then, as he could go no farther, he conveniently vanished away by the
     old trick of stepping in at one door of a four-wheeler and out at the
     other. I think that was the chain of events, Mr. Windibank!"

     Our visitor had recovered something of his assurance while Holmes had
     been talking, and he rose from his chair now with a cold sneer upon
     his pale face.

     "It may be so, or it may not, Mr. Holmes," said he, "but if you are
     so very sharp you ought to be sharp enough to know that it is you who
     are breaking the law now, and not me. I have done nothing actionable
     from the first, but as long as you keep that door locked you lay
     yourself open to an action for assault and illegal constraint."

     "The law cannot, as you say, touch you," said Holmes, unlocking and
     throwing open the door, "yet there never was a man who deserved
     punishment more. If the young lady has a brother or a friend, he
     ought to lay a whip across your shoulders. By Jove!" he continued,
     flushing up at the sight of the bitter sneer upon the man's face, "it
     is not part of my duties to my client, but here's a hunting crop
     handy, and I think I shall just treat myself to--" He took two swift
     steps to the whip, but before he could grasp it there was a wild
     clatter of steps upon the stairs, the heavy hall door banged, and
     from the window we could see Mr. James Windibank running at the top
     of his speed down the road.

     "There's a cold-blooded scoundrel!" said Holmes, laughing, as he
     threw himself down into his chair once more. "That fellow will rise
     from crime to crime until he does something very bad, and ends on a
     gallows. The case has, in some respects, been not entirely devoid of
     interest."

     "I cannot now entirely see all the steps of your reasoning," I
     remarked.

     "Well, of course it was obvious from the first that this Mr. Hosmer
     Angel must have some strong object for his curious conduct, and it
     was equally clear that the only man who really profited by the
     incident, as far as we could see, was the stepfather. Then the fact
     that the two men were never together, but that the one always
     appeared when the other was away, was suggestive. So were the tinted
     spectacles and the curious voice, which both hinted at a disguise, as
     did the bushy whiskers. My suspicions were all confirmed by his
     peculiar action in typewriting his signature, which, of course,
     inferred that his handwriting was so familiar to her that she would
     recognise even the smallest sample of it. You see all these isolated
     facts, together with many minor ones, all pointed in the same
     direction."

     "And how did you verify them?"

     "Having once spotted my man, it was easy to get corroboration. I knew
     the firm for which this man worked. Having taken the printed
     description. I eliminated everything from it which could be the
     result of a disguise--the whiskers, the glasses, the voice, and I
     sent it to the firm, with a request that they would inform me whether
     it answered to the description of any of their travellers. I had
     already noticed the peculiarities of the typewriter, and I wrote to
     the man himself at his business address asking him if he would come
     here. As I expected, his reply was typewritten and revealed the same
     trivial but characteristic defects. The same post brought me a letter
     from Westhouse & Marbank, of Fenchurch Street, to say that the
     description tallied in every respect with that of their employee,
     James Windibank. Voilà tout!"

     "And Miss Sutherland?"

     "If I tell her she will not believe me. You may remember the old
     Persian saying, 'There is danger for him who taketh the tiger cub,
     and danger also for whoso snatches a delusion from a woman.' There is
     as much sense in Hafiz as in Horace, and as much knowledge of the
     world."






                           THE BOSCOMBE VALLEY MYSTERY

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

     "Have you a couple of days to spare? Have just been wired for from
     the west of England in connection with Boscombe Valley tragedy. Shall
     be glad if you will come with me. Air and scenery perfect. Leave
     Paddington by the 11.15."
     "What do you say, dear?" said my wife, looking across at me. "Will
     you go?" 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

     "The London press has not had very full accounts. I have just been
     looking through all the recent papers in order to master the
     particulars. It seems, from what I gather, to be one of those simple
     cases which are so extremely difficult."

     "That sounds a little paradoxical."

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

     "It is a murder, then?"

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

     "Boscombe Valley is a country district not very far from Ross, in
     Herefordshire. The largest landed proprietor in that part is a Mr.
     John Turner, who made his money in Australia and returned some years
     ago to the old country. One of the farms which he held, that of
     Hatherley, was let to Mr. Charles McCarthy, who was also an
     ex-Australian. The men had known each other in the colonies, so that
     it was not unnatural that when they came to settle down they should
     do so as near each other as possible. Turner was apparently the
     richer man, so McCarthy became his tenant but still remained, it
     seems, upon terms of perfect equality, as they were frequently
     together. McCarthy had one son, a lad of eighteen, and Turner had an
     only daughter of the same age, but neither of them had wives living.
     They appear to have avoided the society of the neighbouring English
     families and to have led retired lives, though both the McCarthys
     were fond of sport and were frequently seen at the race-meetings of
     the neighbourhood. McCarthy kept two servants--a man and a girl.
     Turner had a considerable household, some half-dozen at the least.
     That is as much as I have been able to gather about the families. Now
     for the facts.

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

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

     "The two McCarthys were seen after the time when William Crowder, the
     game-keeper, lost sight of them. The Boscombe Pool is thickly wooded
     round, with just a fringe of grass and of reeds round the edge. A
     girl of fourteen, Patience Moran, who is the daughter of the
     lodge-keeper of the Boscombe Valley estate, was in one of the woods
     picking flowers. She states that while she was there she saw, at the
     border of the wood and close by the lake, Mr. McCarthy and his son,
     and that they appeared to be having a violent quarrel. She heard Mr.
     McCarthy the elder using very strong language to his son, and she saw
     the latter raise up his hand as if to strike his father. She was so
     frightened by their violence that she ran away and told her mother
     when she reached home that she had left the two McCarthys quarrelling
     near Boscombe Pool, and that she was afraid that they were going to
     fight. She had hardly said the words when young Mr. McCarthy came
     running up to the lodge to say that he had found his father dead in
     the wood, and to ask for the help of the lodge-keeper. He was much
     excited, without either his gun or his hat, and his right hand and
     sleeve were observed to be stained with fresh blood. On following him
     they found the dead body stretched out upon the grass beside the
     pool. The head had been beaten in by repeated blows of some heavy and
     blunt weapon. The injuries were such as might very well have been
     inflicted by the butt-end of his son's gun, which was found lying on
     the grass within a few paces of the body. Under these circumstances
     the young man was instantly arrested, and a verdict of 'wilful
     murder' having been returned at the inquest on Tuesday, he was on
     Wednesday brought before the magistrates at Ross, who have referred
     the case to the next Assizes. Those are the main facts of the case as
     they came out before the coroner and the police-court."

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

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

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

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

     "How on earth--"

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

     "What are they?"

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

     "It was a confession," I ejaculated.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

     He picked out from his bundle a copy of the local Herefordshire
     paper, and having turned down the sheet he pointed out the paragraph
     in which the unfortunate young man had given his own statement of
     what had occurred. I settled myself down in the corner of the
     carriage and read it very carefully. It ran in this way:

     "Mr. James McCarthy, the only son of the deceased, was then called
     and gave evidence as follows: 'I had been away from home for three
     days at Bristol, and had only just returned upon the morning of last
     Monday, the 3rd. My father was absent from home at the time of my
     arrival, and I was informed by the maid that he had driven over to
     Ross with John Cobb, the groom. Shortly after my return I heard the
     wheels of his trap in the yard, and, looking out of my window, I saw
     him get out and walk rapidly out of the yard, though I was not aware
     in which direction he was going. I then took my gun and strolled out
     in the direction of the Boscombe Pool, with the intention of visiting
     the rabbit warren which is upon the other side. On my way I saw
     William Crowder, the game-keeper, as he had stated in his evidence;
     but he is mistaken in thinking that I was following my father. I had
     no idea that he was in front of me. When about a hundred yards from
     the pool I heard a cry of "Cooee!" which was a usual signal between
     my father and myself. I then hurried forward, and found him standing
     by the pool. He appeared to be much surprised at seeing me and asked
     me rather roughly what I was doing there. A conversation ensued which
     led to high words and almost to blows, for my father was a man of a
     very violent temper. Seeing that his passion was becoming
     ungovernable, I left him and returned towards Hatherley Farm. I had
     not gone more than 150 yards, however, when I heard a hideous outcry
     behind me, which caused me to run back again. I found my father
     expiring upon the ground, with his head terribly injured. I dropped
     my gun and held him in my arms, but he almost instantly expired. I
     knelt beside him for some minutes, and then made my way to Mr.
     Turner's lodge-keeper, his house being the nearest, to ask for
     assistance. I saw no one near my father when I returned, and I have
     no idea how he came by his injuries. He was not a popular man, being
     somewhat cold and forbidding in his manners, but he had, as far as I
     know, no active enemies. I know nothing further of the matter.'
     "The Coroner: Did your father make any statement to you before he
     died?
     "Witness: He mumbled a few words, but I could only catch some
     allusion to a rat.
     "The Coroner: What did you understand by that?
     "Witness: It conveyed no meaning to me. I thought that he was
     delirious.
     "The Coroner: What was the point upon which you and your father had
     this final quarrel?
     "Witness: I should prefer not to answer.
     "The Coroner: I am afraid that I must press it.
     "Witness: It is really impossible for me to tell you. I can assure
     you that it has nothing to do with the sad tragedy which followed.
     "The Coroner: That is for the court to decide. I need not point out
     to you that your refusal to answer will prejudice your case
     considerably in any future proceedings which may arise.
     "Witness: I must still refuse.
     "The Coroner: I understand that the cry of 'Cooee' was a common
     signal between you and your father?
     "Witness: It was.
     "The Coroner: How was it, then, that he uttered it before he saw you,
     and before he even knew that you had returned from Bristol?
     "Witness (with considerable confusion): I do not know.
     "A Juryman: Did you see nothing which aroused your suspicions when
     you returned on hearing the cry and found your father fatally
     injured?
     "Witness: Nothing definite.
     "The Coroner: What do you mean?
     "Witness: I was so disturbed and excited as I rushed out into the
     open, that I could think of nothing except of my father. Yet I have a
     vague impression that as I ran forward something lay upon the ground
     to the left of me. It seemed to me to be something grey in colour, a
     coat of some sort, or a plaid perhaps. When I rose from my father I
     looked round for it, but it was gone.
     "'Do you mean that it disappeared before you went for help?'
     "'Yes, it was gone.'
     "'You cannot say what it was?'
     "'No, I had a feeling something was there.'
     "'How far from the body?'
     "'A dozen yards or so.'
     "'And how far from the edge of the wood?'
     "'About the same.'
     "'Then if it was removed it was while you were within a dozen yards
     of it?'
     "'Yes, but with my back towards it.'
     "This concluded the examination of the witness."

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

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

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

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

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

     Lestrade looked startled. "I do not quite follow," he said.

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

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

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

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

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

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

     "I think that it is very probable."

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

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

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

     "In what way?" asked Holmes.

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

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

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

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

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

     "The doctor?"

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

     "Ha! In Victoria! That is important."

     "Yes, at the mines."

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

     "Yes, certainly."

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

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

     "I will, Miss Turner."

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

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

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

     "Yes, but only for you and me."

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

     "Ample."

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

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

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

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

     "And what did you learn from him?"

     "Nothing."

     "Could he throw no light?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

     "Indeed! That is interesting," said Holmes.

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

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

     "We have got to the deductions and the inferences," said Lestrade,
     winking at me. "I find it hard enough to tackle facts, Holmes,
     without flying away after theories and fancies."

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

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

     "And that is--"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

     "Oh, tut, tut! I have no time! That left foot of yours with its
     inward twist is all over the place. A mole could trace it, and there
     it vanishes among the reeds. Oh, how simple it would all have been
     had I been here before they came like a herd of buffalo and wallowed
     all over it. Here is where the party with the lodge-keeper came, and
     they have covered all tracks for six or eight feet round the body.
     But here are three separate tracks of the same feet." He drew out a
     lens and lay down upon his waterproof to have a better view, talking
     all the time rather to himself than to us. "These are young
     McCarthy's feet. Twice he was walking, and once he ran swiftly, so
     that the soles are deeply marked and the heels hardly visible. That
     bears out his story. He ran when he saw his father on the ground.
     Then here are the father's feet as he paced up and down. What is
     this, then? It is the butt-end of the gun as the son stood listening.
     And this? Ha, ha! What have we here? Tiptoes! tiptoes! Square, too,
     quite unusual boots! They come, they go, they come again--of course
     that was for the cloak. Now where did they come from?" He ran up and
     down, sometimes losing, sometimes finding the track until we were
     well within the edge of the wood and under the shadow of a great
     beech, the largest tree in the neighbourhood. Holmes traced his way
     to the farther side of this and lay down once more upon his face with
     a little cry of satisfaction. For a long time he remained there,
     turning over the leaves and dried sticks, gathering up what seemed to
     me to be dust into an envelope and examining with his lens not only
     the ground but even the bark of the tree as far as he could reach. A
     jagged stone was lying among the moss, and this also he carefully
     examined and retained. Then he followed a pathway through the wood
     until he came to the highroad, where all traces were lost.

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

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

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

     "I see no marks."

     "There are none."

     "How do you know, then?"

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

     "And the murderer?"

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

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

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

     "And leave your case unfinished?"

     "No, finished."

     "But the mystery?"

     "It is solved."

     "Who was the criminal, then?"

     "The gentleman I describe."

     "But who is he?"

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

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

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

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

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

     "Pray do so."

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

     "What of this 'Cooee!' then?"

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

     "What of the rat, then?"

     Sherlock Holmes took a folded paper from his pocket and flattened it
     out on the table. "This is a map of the Colony of Victoria," he said.
     "I wired to Bristol for it last night." He put his hand over part of
     the map. "What do you read?"

     "ARAT," I read.

     "And now?" He raised his hand.

     "BALLARAT."

     "Quite so. That was the word the man uttered, and of which his son
     only caught the last two syllables. He was trying to utter the name
     of his murderer. So and so, of Ballarat."

     "It is wonderful!" I exclaimed.

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

     "Certainly."

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

     "Quite so."

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

     "But how did you gain them?"

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

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

     "Yes, they were peculiar boots."

     "But his lameness?"

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

     "But his left-handedness."

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

     "And the cigar-holder?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

     "What?"

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

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

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

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

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

     "It was in the early '60's at the diggings. I was a young chap then,
     hot-blooded and reckless, ready to turn my hand at anything; I got
     among bad companions, took to drink, had no luck with my claim, took
     to the bush, and in a word became what you would call over here a
     highway robber. There were six of us, and we had a wild, free life of
     it, sticking up a station from time to time, or stopping the wagons
     on the road to the diggings. Black Jack of Ballarat was the name I
     went under, and our party is still remembered in the colony as the
     Ballarat Gang.

     "One day a gold convoy came down from Ballarat to Melbourne, and we
     lay in wait for it and attacked it. There were six troopers and six
     of us, so it was a close thing, but we emptied four of their saddles
     at the first volley. Three of our boys were killed, however, before
     we got the swag. I put my pistol to the head of the wagon-driver, who
     was this very man McCarthy. I wish to the Lord that I had shot him
     then, but I spared him, though I saw his wicked little eyes fixed on
     my face, as though to remember every feature. We got away with the
     gold, became wealthy men, and made our way over to England without
     being suspected. There I parted from my old pals and determined to
     settle down to a quiet and respectable life. I bought this estate,
     which chanced to be in the market, and I set myself to do a little
     good with my money, to make up for the way in which I had earned it.
     I married, too, and though my wife died young she left me my dear
     little Alice. Even when she was just a baby her wee hand seemed to
     lead me down the right path as nothing else had ever done. In a word,
     I turned over a new leaf and did my best to make up for the past. All
     was going well when McCarthy laid his grip upon me.

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

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

     "Well, down they came to the west country, there was no shaking them
     off, and there they have lived rent free on my best land ever since.
     There was no rest for me, no peace, no forgetfulness; turn where I
     would, there was his cunning, grinning face at my elbow. It grew
     worse as Alice grew up, for he soon saw I was more afraid of her
     knowing my past than of the police. Whatever he wanted he must have,
     and whatever it was I gave him without question, land, money, houses,
     until at last he asked a thing which I could not give. He asked for
     Alice.

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

     "When I went down there I found him talking with his son, so I smoked
     a cigar and waited behind a tree until he should be alone. But as I
     listened to his talk all that was black and bitter in me seemed to
     come uppermost. He was urging his son to marry my daughter with as
     little regard for what she might think as if she were a slut from off
     the streets. It drove me mad to think that I and all that I held most
     dear should be in the power of such a man as this. Could I not snap
     the bond? I was already a dying and a desperate man. Though clear of
     mind and fairly strong of limb, I knew that my own fate was sealed.
     But my memory and my girl! Both could be saved if I could but silence
     that foul tongue. I did it, Mr. Holmes. I would do it again. Deeply
     as I have sinned, I have led a life of martyrdom to atone for it. But
     that my girl should be entangled in the same meshes which held me was
     more than I could suffer. I struck him down with no more compunction
     than if he had been some foul and venomous beast. His cry brought
     back his son; but I had gained the cover of the wood, though I was
     forced to go back to fetch the cloak which I had dropped in my
     flight. That is the true story, gentlemen, of all that occurred."

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

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

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

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

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

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






                              THE FIVE ORANGE PIPS

     When I glance over my notes and records of the Sherlock Holmes cases
     between the years '82 and '90, I am faced by so many which present
     strange and interesting features that it is no easy matter to know
     which to choose and which to leave. Some, however, have already
     gained publicity through the papers, and others have not offered a
     field for those peculiar qualities which my friend possessed in so
     high a degree, and which it is the object of these papers to
     illustrate. Some, too, have baffled his analytical skill, and would
     be, as narratives, beginnings without an ending, while others have
     been but partially cleared up, and have their explanations founded
     rather upon conjecture and surmise than on that absolute logical
     proof which was so dear to him. There is, however, one of these last
     which was so remarkable in its details and so startling in its
     results that I am tempted to give some account of it in spite of the
     fact that there are points in connection with it which never have
     been, and probably never will be, entirely cleared up.

     The year '87 furnished us with a long series of cases of greater or
     less interest, of which I retain the records. Among my headings under
     this one twelve months I find an account of the adventure of the
     Paradol Chamber, of the Amateur Mendicant Society, who held a
     luxurious club in the lower vault of a furniture warehouse, of the
     facts connected with the loss of the British barque "Sophy Anderson",
     of the singular adventures of the Grice Patersons in the island of
     Uffa, and finally of the Camberwell poisoning case. In the latter, as
     may be remembered, Sherlock Holmes was able, by winding up the dead
     man's watch, to prove that it had been wound up two hours before, and
     that therefore the deceased had gone to bed within that time--a
     deduction which was of the greatest importance in clearing up the
     case. All these I may sketch out at some future date, but none of
     them present such singular features as the strange train of
     circumstances which I have now taken up my pen to describe.

     It was in the latter days of September, and the equinoctial gales had
     set in with exceptional violence. All day the wind had screamed and
     the rain had beaten against the windows, so that even here in the
     heart of great, hand-made London we were forced to raise our minds
     for the instant from the routine of life and to recognise the
     presence of those great elemental forces which shriek at mankind
     through the bars of his civilisation, like untamed beasts in a cage.
     As evening drew in, the storm grew higher and louder, and the wind
     cried and sobbed like a child in the chimney. Sherlock Holmes sat
     moodily at one side of the fireplace cross-indexing his records of
     crime, while I at the other was deep in one of Clark Russell's fine
     sea-stories until the howl of the gale from without seemed to blend
     with the text, and the splash of the rain to lengthen out into the
     long swash of the sea waves. My wife was on a visit to her mother's,
     and for a few days I was a dweller once more in my old quarters at
     Baker Street.

     "Why," said I, glancing up at my companion, "that was surely the
     bell. Who could come to-night? Some friend of yours, perhaps?"

     "Except yourself I have none," he answered. "I do not encourage
     visitors."

     "A client, then?"

     "If so, it is a serious case. Nothing less would bring a man out on
     such a day and at such an hour. But I take it that it is more likely
     to be some crony of the landlady's."

     Sherlock Holmes was wrong in his conjecture, however, for there came
     a step in the passage and a tapping at the door. He stretched out his
     long arm to turn the lamp away from himself and towards the vacant
     chair upon which a newcomer must sit.

     "Come in!" said he.

     The man who entered was young, some two-and-twenty at the outside,
     well-groomed and trimly clad, with something of refinement and
     delicacy in his bearing. The streaming umbrella which he held in his
     hand, and his long shining waterproof told of the fierce weather
     through which he had come. He looked about him anxiously in the glare
     of the lamp, and I could see that his face was pale and his eyes
     heavy, like those of a man who is weighed down with some great
     anxiety.

     "I owe you an apology," he said, raising his golden pince-nez to his
     eyes. "I trust that I am not intruding. I fear that I have brought
     some traces of the storm and rain into your snug chamber."

     "Give me your coat and umbrella," said Holmes. "They may rest here on
     the hook and will be dry presently. You have come up from the
     south-west, I see."

     "Yes, from Horsham."

     "That clay and chalk mixture which I see upon your toe caps is quite
     distinctive."

     "I have come for advice."

     "That is easily got."

     "And help."

     "That is not always so easy."

     "I have heard of you, Mr. Holmes. I heard from Major Prendergast how
     you saved him in the Tankerville Club scandal."

     "Ah, of course. He was wrongfully accused of cheating at cards."

     "He said that you could solve anything."

     "He said too much."

     "That you are never beaten."

     "I have been beaten four times--three times by men, and once by a
     woman."

     "But what is that compared with the number of your successes?"

     "It is true that I have been generally successful."

     "Then you may be so with me."

     "I beg that you will draw your chair up to the fire and favour me
     with some details as to your case."

     "It is no ordinary one."

     "None of those which come to me are. I am the last court of appeal."

     "And yet I question, sir, whether, in all your experience, you have
     ever listened to a more mysterious and inexplicable chain of events
     than those which have happened in my own family."

     "You fill me with interest," said Holmes. "Pray give us the essential
     facts from the commencement, and I can afterwards question you as to
     those details which seem to me to be most important."

     The young man pulled his chair up and pushed his wet feet out towards
     the blaze.

     "My name," said he, "is John Openshaw, but my own affairs have, as
     far as I can understand, little to do with this awful business. It is
     a hereditary matter; so in order to give you an idea of the facts, I
     must go back to the commencement of the affair.

     "You must know that my grandfather had two sons--my uncle Elias and
     my father Joseph. My father had a small factory at Coventry, which he
     enlarged at the time of the invention of bicycling. He was a patentee
     of the Openshaw unbreakable tire, and his business met with such
     success that he was able to sell it and to retire upon a handsome
     competence.

     "My uncle Elias emigrated to America when he was a young man and
     became a planter in Florida, where he was reported to have done very
     well. At the time of the war he fought in Jackson's army, and
     afterwards under Hood, where he rose to be a colonel. When Lee laid
     down his arms my uncle returned to his plantation, where he remained
     for three or four years. About 1869 or 1870 he came back to Europe
     and took a small estate in Sussex, near Horsham. He had made a very
     considerable fortune in the States, and his reason for leaving them
     was his aversion to the negroes, and his dislike of the Republican
     policy in extending the franchise to them. He was a singular man,
     fierce and quick-tempered, very foul-mouthed when he was angry, and
     of a most retiring disposition. During all the years that he lived at
     Horsham, I doubt if ever he set foot in the town. He had a garden and
     two or three fields round his house, and there he would take his
     exercise, though very often for weeks on end he would never leave his
     room. He drank a great deal of brandy and smoked very heavily, but he
     would see no society and did not want any friends, not even his own
     brother.

     "He didn't mind me; in fact, he took a fancy to me, for at the time
     when he saw me first I was a youngster of twelve or so. This would be
     in the year 1878, after he had been eight or nine years in England.
     He begged my father to let me live with him and he was very kind to
     me in his way. When he was sober he used to be fond of playing
     backgammon and draughts with me, and he would make me his
     representative both with the servants and with the tradespeople, so
     that by the time that I was sixteen I was quite master of the house.
     I kept all the keys and could go where I liked and do what I liked,
     so long as I did not disturb him in his privacy. There was one
     singular exception, however, for he had a single room, a lumber-room
     up among the attics, which was invariably locked, and which he would
     never permit either me or anyone else to enter. With a boy's
     curiosity I have peeped through the keyhole, but I was never able to
     see more than such a collection of old trunks and bundles as would be
     expected in such a room.

     "One day--it was in March, 1883--a letter with a foreign stamp lay
     upon the table in front of the colonel's plate. It was not a common
     thing for him to receive letters, for his bills were all paid in
     ready money, and he had no friends of any sort. 'From India!' said he
     as he took it up, 'Pondicherry postmark! What can this be?' Opening
     it hurriedly, out there jumped five little dried orange pips, which
     pattered down upon his plate. I began to laugh at this, but the laugh
     was struck from my lips at the sight of his face. His lip had fallen,
     his eyes were protruding, his skin the colour of putty, and he glared
     at the envelope which he still held in his trembling hand, 'K. K.
     K.!' he shrieked, and then, 'My God, my God, my sins have overtaken
     me!'

     "'What is it, uncle?' I cried.

     "'Death,' said he, and rising from the table he retired to his room,
     leaving me palpitating with horror. I took up the envelope and saw
     scrawled in red ink upon the inner flap, just above the gum, the
     letter K three times repeated. There was nothing else save the five
     dried pips. What could be the reason of his overpowering terror? I
     left the breakfast-table, and as I ascended the stair I met him
     coming down with an old rusty key, which must have belonged to the
     attic, in one hand, and a small brass box, like a cashbox, in the
     other.

     "'They may do what they like, but I'll checkmate them still,' said he
     with an oath. 'Tell Mary that I shall want a fire in my room to-day,
     and send down to Fordham, the Horsham lawyer.'

     "I did as he ordered, and when the lawyer arrived I was asked to step
     up to the room. The fire was burning brightly, and in the grate there
     was a mass of black, fluffy ashes, as of burned paper, while the
     brass box stood open and empty beside it. As I glanced at the box I
     noticed, with a start, that upon the lid was printed the treble K
     which I had read in the morning upon the envelope.

     "'I wish you, John,' said my uncle, 'to witness my will. I leave my
     estate, with all its advantages and all its disadvantages, to my
     brother, your father, whence it will, no doubt, descend to you. If
     you can enjoy it in peace, well and good! If you find you cannot,
     take my advice, my boy, and leave it to your deadliest enemy. I am
     sorry to give you such a two-edged thing, but I can't say what turn
     things are going to take. Kindly sign the paper where Mr. Fordham
     shows you.'

     "I signed the paper as directed, and the lawyer took it away with
     him. The singular incident made, as you may think, the deepest
     impression upon me, and I pondered over it and turned it every way in
     my mind without being able to make anything of it. Yet I could not
     shake off the vague feeling of dread which it left behind, though the
     sensation grew less keen as the weeks passed and nothing happened to
     disturb the usual routine of our lives. I could see a change in my
     uncle, however. He drank more than ever, and he was less inclined for
     any sort of society. Most of his time he would spend in his room,
     with the door locked upon the inside, but sometimes he would emerge
     in a sort of drunken frenzy and would burst out of the house and tear
     about the garden with a revolver in his hand, screaming out that he
     was afraid of no man, and that he was not to be cooped up, like a
     sheep in a pen, by man or devil. When these hot fits were over,
     however, he would rush tumultuously in at the door and lock and bar
     it behind him, like a man who can brazen it out no longer against the
     terror which lies at the roots of his soul. At such times I have seen
     his face, even on a cold day, glisten with moisture, as though it
     were new raised from a basin.

     "Well, to come to an end of the matter, Mr. Holmes, and not to abuse
     your patience, there came a night when he made one of those drunken
     sallies from which he never came back. We found him, when we went to
     search for him, face downward in a little green-scummed pool, which
     lay at the foot of the garden. There was no sign of any violence, and
     the water was but two feet deep, so that the jury, having regard to
     his known eccentricity, brought in a verdict of 'suicide.' But I, who
     knew how he winced from the very thought of death, had much ado to
     persuade myself that he had gone out of his way to meet it. The
     matter passed, however, and my father entered into possession of the
     estate, and of some £14,000, which lay to his credit at the bank."

     "One moment," Holmes interposed, "your statement is, I foresee, one
     of the most remarkable to which I have ever listened. Let me have the
     date of the reception by your uncle of the letter, and the date of
     his supposed suicide."

     "The letter arrived on March 10, 1883. His death was seven weeks
     later, upon the night of May 2nd."

     "Thank you. Pray proceed."

     "When my father took over the Horsham property, he, at my request,
     made a careful examination of the attic, which had been always locked
     up. We found the brass box there, although its contents had been
     destroyed. On the inside of the cover was a paper label, with the
     initials of K. K. K. repeated upon it, and 'Letters, memoranda,
     receipts, and a register' written beneath. These, we presume,
     indicated the nature of the papers which had been destroyed by
     Colonel Openshaw. For the rest, there was nothing of much importance
     in the attic save a great many scattered papers and note-books
     bearing upon my uncle's life in America. Some of them were of the war
     time and showed that he had done his duty well and had borne the
     repute of a brave soldier. Others were of a date during the
     reconstruction of the Southern states, and were mostly concerned with
     politics, for he had evidently taken a strong part in opposing the
     carpet-bag politicians who had been sent down from the North.

     "Well, it was the beginning of '84 when my father came to live at
     Horsham, and all went as well as possible with us until the January
     of '85. On the fourth day after the new year I heard my father give a
     sharp cry of surprise as we sat together at the breakfast-table.
     There he was, sitting with a newly opened envelope in one hand and
     five dried orange pips in the outstretched palm of the other one. He
     had always laughed at what he called my cock-and-bull story about the
     colonel, but he looked very scared and puzzled now that the same
     thing had come upon himself.

     "'Why, what on earth does this mean, John?' he stammered.

     "My heart had turned to lead. 'It is K. K. K.,' said I.

     "He looked inside the envelope. 'So it is,' he cried. 'Here are the
     very letters. But what is this written above them?'

     "'Put the papers on the sundial,' I read, peeping over his shoulder.

     "'What papers? What sundial?' he asked.

     '"'The sundial in the garden. There is no other, said I; 'but the
     papers must be those that are destroyed.'

     "'Pooh!' said he, gripping hard at his courage. 'We are in a
     civilised land here, and we can't have tomfoolery of this kind. Where
     does the thing come from?'

     "'From Dundee,' I answered, glancing at the postmark.

     "'Some preposterous practical joke,' said he. 'What have I to do with
     sundials and papers? I shall take no notice of such nonsense.'

     "'I should certainly speak to the police,' I said.

     "'And be laughed at for my pains. Nothing of the sort.'

     "'Then let me do so?'

     "'No, I forbid you. I won't have a fuss made about such nonsense.'

     "It was in vain to argue with him, for he was a very obstinate man. I
     went about, however, with a heart which was full of forebodings.

     "On the third day after the coming of the letter my father went from
     home to visit an old friend of his, Major Freebody, who is in command
     of one of the forts upon Portsdown Hill. I was glad that he should
     go, for it seemed to me that he was farther from danger when he was
     away from home. In that, however, I was in error. Upon the second day
     of his absence I received a telegram from the major, imploring me to
     come at once. My father had fallen over one of the deep chalk-pits
     which abound in the neighbourhood, and was lying senseless, with a
     shattered skull. I hurried to him, but he passed away without having
     ever recovered his consciousness. He had, as it appears, been
     returning from Fareham in the twilight, and as the country was
     unknown to him, and the chalk-pit unfenced, the jury had no
     hesitation in bringing in a verdict of 'death from accidental
     causes.' Carefully as I examined every fact connected with his death,
     I was unable to find anything which could suggest the idea of murder.
     There were no signs of violence, no footmarks, no robbery, no record
     of strangers having been seen upon the roads. And yet I need not tell
     you that my mind was far from at ease, and that I was well-nigh
     certain that some foul plot had been woven round him.

     "In this sinister way I came into my inheritance. You will ask me why
     I did not dispose of it? I answer, because I was well convinced that
     our troubles were in some way dependent upon an incident in my
     uncle's life, and that the danger would be as pressing in one house
     as in another.

     "It was in January, '85, that my poor father met his end, and two
     years and eight months have elapsed since then. During that time I
     have lived happily at Horsham, and I had begun to hope that this
     curse had passed away from the family, and that it had ended with the
     last generation. I had begun to take comfort too soon, however;
     yesterday morning the blow fell in the very shape in which it had
     come upon my father."

     The young man took from his waistcoat a crumpled envelope, and
     turning to the table he shook out upon it five little dried orange
     pips.

     "This is the envelope," he continued. "The postmark is
     London--eastern division. Within are the very words which were upon
     my father's last message: 'K. K. K.'; and then 'Put the papers on the
     sundial.'"

     "What have you done?" asked Holmes.

     "Nothing."

     "Nothing?"

     "To tell the truth"--he sank his face into his thin, white hands--"I
     have felt helpless. I have felt like one of those poor rabbits when
     the snake is writhing towards it. I seem to be in the grasp of some
     resistless, inexorable evil, which no foresight and no precautions
     can guard against."

     "Tut! tut!" cried Sherlock Holmes. "You must act, man, or you are
     lost. Nothing but energy can save you. This is no time for despair."

     "I have seen the police."

     "Ah!"

     "But they listened to my story with a smile. I am convinced that the
     inspector has formed the opinion that the letters are all practical
     jokes, and that the deaths of my relations were really accidents, as
     the jury stated, and were not to be connected with the warnings."

     Holmes shook his clenched hands in the air. "Incredible imbecility!"
     he cried.

     "They have, however, allowed me a policeman, who may remain in the
     house with me."

     "Has he come with you to-night?"

     "No. His orders were to stay in the house."

     Again Holmes raved in the air.

     "Why did you come to me," he cried, "and, above all, why did you not
     come at once?"

     "I did not know. It was only to-day that I spoke to Major Prendergast
     about my troubles and was advised by him to come to you."

     "It is really two days since you had the letter. We should have acted
     before this. You have no further evidence, I suppose, than that which
     you have placed before us--no suggestive detail which might help us?"

     "There is one thing," said John Openshaw. He rummaged in his coat
     pocket, and, drawing out a piece of discoloured, blue-tinted paper,
     he laid it out upon the table. "I have some remembrance," said he,
     "that on the day when my uncle burned the papers I observed that the
     small, unburned margins which lay amid the ashes were of this
     particular colour. I found this single sheet upon the floor of his
     room, and I am inclined to think that it may be one of the papers
     which has, perhaps, fluttered out from among the others, and in that
     way has escaped destruction. Beyond the mention of pips, I do not see
     that it helps us much. I think myself that it is a page from some
     private diary. The writing is undoubtedly my uncle's."

     Holmes moved the lamp, and we both bent over the sheet of paper,
     which showed by its ragged edge that it had indeed been torn from a
     book. It was headed, "March, 1869," and beneath were the following
     enigmatical notices:


     4th. Hudson came. Same old platform.
     7th. Set the pips on McCauley, Paramore, and John Swain, of St.
     Augustine.
     9th. McCauley cleared.
     10th. John Swain cleared.
     12th. Visited Paramore. All well.

     "Thank you!" said Holmes, folding up the paper and returning it to
     our visitor. "And now you must on no account lose another instant. We
     cannot spare time even to discuss what you have told me. You must get
     home instantly and act."

     "What shall I do?"

     "There is but one thing to do. It must be done at once. You must put
     this piece of paper which you have shown us into the brass box which
     you have described. You must also put in a note to say that all the
     other papers were burned by your uncle, and that this is the only one
     which remains. You must assert that in such words as will carry
     conviction with them. Having done this, you must at once put the box
     out upon the sundial, as directed. Do you understand?"

     "Entirely."

     "Do not think of revenge, or anything of the sort, at present. I
     think that we may gain that by means of the law; but we have our web
     to weave, while theirs is already woven. The first consideration is
     to remove the pressing danger which threatens you. The second is to
     clear up the mystery and to punish the guilty parties."

     "I thank you," said the young man, rising and pulling on his
     overcoat. "You have given me fresh life and hope. I shall certainly
     do as you advise."

     "Do not lose an instant. And, above all, take care of yourself in the
     meanwhile, for I do not think that there can be a doubt that you are
     threatened by a very real and imminent danger. How do you go back?"

     "By train from Waterloo."

     "It is not yet nine. The streets will be crowded, so I trust that you
     may be in safety. And yet you cannot guard yourself too closely."

     "I am armed."

     "That is well. To-morrow I shall set to work upon your case."

     "I shall see you at Horsham, then?"

     "No, your secret lies in London. It is there that I shall seek it."

     "Then I shall call upon you in a day, or in two days, with news as to
     the box and the papers. I shall take your advice in every
     particular." He shook hands with us and took his leave. Outside the
     wind still screamed and the rain splashed and pattered against the
     windows. This strange, wild story seemed to have come to us from amid
     the mad elements--blown in upon us like a sheet of sea-weed in a
     gale--and now to have been reabsorbed by them once more.

     Sherlock Holmes sat for some time in silence, with his head sunk
     forward and his eyes bent upon the red glow of the fire. Then he lit
     his pipe, and leaning back in his chair he watched the blue
     smoke-rings as they chased each other up to the ceiling.

     "I think, Watson," he remarked at last, "that of all our cases we
     have had none more fantastic than this."

     "Save, perhaps, the Sign of Four."

     "Well, yes. Save, perhaps, that. And yet this John Openshaw seems to
     me to be walking amid even greater perils than did the Sholtos."

     "But have you," I asked, "formed any definite conception as to what
     these perils are?"

     "There can be no question as to their nature," he answered.

     "Then what are they? Who is this K. K. K., and why does he pursue
     this unhappy family?"

     Sherlock Holmes closed his eyes and placed his elbows upon the arms
     of his chair, with his finger-tips together. "The ideal reasoner," he
     remarked, "would, when he had once been shown a single fact in all
     its bearings, deduce from it not only all the chain of events which
     led up to it but also all the results which would follow from it. As
     Cuvier could correctly describe a whole animal by the contemplation
     of a single bone, so the observer who has thoroughly understood one
     link in a series of incidents should be able to accurately state all
     the other ones, both before and after. We have not yet grasped the
     results which the reason alone can attain to. Problems may be solved
     in the study which have baffled all those who have sought a solution
     by the aid of their senses. To carry the art, however, to its highest
     pitch, it is necessary that the reasoner should be able to utilise
     all the facts which have come to his knowledge; and this in itself
     implies, as you will readily see, a possession of all knowledge,
     which, even in these days of free education and encyclopaedias, is a
     somewhat rare accomplishment. It is not so impossible, however, that
     a man should possess all knowledge which is likely to be useful to
     him in his work, and this I have endeavoured in my case to do. If I
     remember rightly, you on one occasion, in the early days of our
     friendship, defined my limits in a very precise fashion."

     "Yes," I answered, laughing. "It was a singular document. Philosophy,
     astronomy, and politics were marked at zero, I remember. Botany
     variable, geology profound as regards the mud-stains from any region
     within fifty miles of town, chemistry eccentric, anatomy
     unsystematic, sensational literature and crime records unique,
     violin-player, boxer, swordsman, lawyer, and self-poisoner by cocaine
     and tobacco. Those, I think, were the main points of my analysis."

     Holmes grinned at the last item. "Well," he said, "I say now, as I
     said then, that a man should keep his little brain-attic stocked with
     all the furniture that he is likely to use, and the rest he can put
     away in the lumber-room of his library, where he can get it if he
     wants it. Now, for such a case as the one which has been submitted to
     us to-night, we need certainly to muster all our resources. Kindly
     hand me down the letter K of the 'American Encyclopaedia' which
     stands upon the shelf beside you. Thank you. Now let us consider the
     situation and see what may be deduced from it. In the first place, we
     may start with a strong presumption that Colonel Openshaw had some
     very strong reason for leaving America. Men at his time of life do
     not change all their habits and exchange willingly the charming
     climate of Florida for the lonely life of an English provincial town.
     His extreme love of solitude in England suggests the idea that he was
     in fear of someone or something, so we may assume as a working
     hypothesis that it was fear of someone or something which drove him
     from America. As to what it was he feared, we can only deduce that by
     considering the formidable letters which were received by himself and
     his successors. Did you remark the postmarks of those letters?"

     "The first was from Pondicherry, the second from Dundee, and the
     third from London."

     "From East London. What do you deduce from that?"

     "They are all seaports. That the writer was on board of a ship."

     "Excellent. We have already a clue. There can be no doubt that the
     probability--the strong probability--is that the writer was on board
     of a ship. And now let us consider another point. In the case of
     Pondicherry, seven weeks elapsed between the threat and its
     fulfilment, in Dundee it was only some three or four days. Does that
     suggest anything?"

     "A greater distance to travel."

     "But the letter had also a greater distance to come."

     "Then I do not see the point."

     "There is at least a presumption that the vessel in which the man or
     men are is a sailing-ship. It looks as if they always send their
     singular warning or token before them when starting upon their
     mission. You see how quickly the deed followed the sign when it came
     from Dundee. If they had come from Pondicherry in a steamer they
     would have arrived almost as soon as their letter. But, as a matter
     of fact, seven weeks elapsed. I think that those seven weeks
     represented the difference between the mail-boat which brought the
     letter and the sailing vessel which brought the writer."

     "It is possible."

     "More than that. It is probable. And now you see the deadly urgency
     of this new case, and why I urged young Openshaw to caution. The blow
     has always fallen at the end of the time which it would take the
     senders to travel the distance. But this one comes from London, and
     therefore we cannot count upon delay."

     "Good God!" I cried. "What can it mean, this relentless persecution?"

     "The papers which Openshaw carried are obviously of vital importance
     to the person or persons in the sailing-ship. I think that it is
     quite clear that there must be more than one of them. A single man
     could not have carried out two deaths in such a way as to deceive a
     coroner's jury. There must have been several in it, and they must
     have been men of resource and determination. Their papers they mean
     to have, be the holder of them who it may. In this way you see K. K.
     K. ceases to be the initials of an individual and becomes the badge
     of a society."

     "But of what society?"

     "Have you never--" said Sherlock Holmes, bending forward and sinking
     his voice--"have you never heard of the Ku Klux Klan?"

     "I never have."

     Holmes turned over the leaves of the book upon his knee. "Here it
     is," said he presently:

     "'Ku Klux Klan. A name derived from the fanciful resemblance to the
     sound produced by cocking a rifle. This terrible secret society was
     formed by some ex-Confederate soldiers in the Southern states after
     the Civil War, and it rapidly formed local branches in different
     parts of the country, notably in Tennessee, Louisiana, the Carolinas,
     Georgia, and Florida. Its power was used for political purposes,
     principally for the terrorising of the negro voters and the murdering
     and driving from the country of those who were opposed to its views.
     Its outrages were usually preceded by a warning sent to the marked
     man in some fantastic but generally recognised shape--a sprig of
     oak-leaves in some parts, melon seeds or orange pips in others. On
     receiving this the victim might either openly abjure his former ways,
     or might fly from the country. If he braved the matter out, death
     would unfailingly come upon him, and usually in some strange and
     unforeseen manner. So perfect was the organisation of the society,
     and so systematic its methods, that there is hardly a case upon
     record where any man succeeded in braving it with impunity, or in
     which any of its outrages were traced home to the perpetrators. For
     some years the organisation flourished in spite of the efforts of the
     United States government and of the better classes of the community
     in the South. Eventually, in the year 1869, the movement rather
     suddenly collapsed, although there have been sporadic outbreaks of
     the same sort since that date.'

     "You will observe," said Holmes, laying down the volume, "that the
     sudden breaking up of the society was coincident with the
     disappearance of Openshaw from America with their papers. It may well
     have been cause and effect. It is no wonder that he and his family
     have some of the more implacable spirits upon their track. You can
     understand that this register and diary may implicate some of the
     first men in the South, and that there may be many who will not sleep
     easy at night until it is recovered."

     "Then the page we have seen--"

     "Is such as we might expect. It ran, if I remember right, 'sent the
     pips to A, B, and C'--that is, sent the society's warning to them.
     Then there are successive entries that A and B cleared, or left the
     country, and finally that C was visited, with, I fear, a sinister
     result for C. Well, I think, Doctor, that we may let some light into
     this dark place, and I believe that the only chance young Openshaw
     has in the meantime is to do what I have told him. There is nothing
     more to be said or to be done to-night, so hand me over my violin and
     let us try to forget for half an hour the miserable weather and the
     still more miserable ways of our fellow-men."

     It had cleared in the morning, and the sun was shining with a subdued
     brightness through the dim veil which hangs over the great city.
     Sherlock Holmes was already at breakfast when I came down.

     "You will excuse me for not waiting for you," said he; "I have, I
     foresee, a very busy day before me in looking into this case of young
     Openshaw's."

     "What steps will you take?" I asked.

     "It will very much depend upon the results of my first inquiries. I
     may have to go down to Horsham, after all."

     "You will not go there first?"

     "No, I shall commence with the City. Just ring the bell and the maid
     will bring up your coffee."

     As I waited, I lifted the unopened newspaper from the table and
     glanced my eye over it. It rested upon a heading which sent a chill
     to my heart.

     "Holmes," I cried, "you are too late."

     "Ah!" said he, laying down his cup, "I feared as much. How was it
     done?" He spoke calmly, but I could see that he was deeply moved.

     "My eye caught the name of Openshaw, and the heading 'Tragedy Near
     Waterloo Bridge.' Here is the account:

     "Between nine and ten last night Police-Constable Cook, of the H
     Division, on duty near Waterloo Bridge, heard a cry for help and a
     splash in the water. The night, however, was extremely dark and
     stormy, so that, in spite of the help of several passers-by, it was
     quite impossible to effect a rescue. The alarm, however, was given,
     and, by the aid of the water-police, the body was eventually
     recovered. It proved to be that of a young gentleman whose name, as
     it appears from an envelope which was found in his pocket, was John
     Openshaw, and whose residence is near Horsham. It is conjectured that
     he may have been hurrying down to catch the last train from Waterloo
     Station, and that in his haste and the extreme darkness he missed his
     path and walked over the edge of one of the small landing-places for
     river steamboats. The body exhibited no traces of violence, and there
     can be no doubt that the deceased had been the victim of an
     unfortunate accident, which should have the effect of calling the
     attention of the authorities to the condition of the riverside
     landing-stages."

     We sat in silence for some minutes, Holmes more depressed and shaken
     than I had ever seen him.

     "That hurts my pride, Watson," he said at last. "It is a petty
     feeling, no doubt, but it hurts my pride. It becomes a personal
     matter with me now, and, if God sends me health, I shall set my hand
     upon this gang. That he should come to me for help, and that I should
     send him away to his death--!" He sprang from his chair and paced
     about the room in uncontrollable agitation, with a flush upon his
     sallow cheeks and a nervous clasping and unclasping of his long thin
     hands.

     "They must be cunning devils," he exclaimed at last. "How could they
     have decoyed him down there? The Embankment is not on the direct line
     to the station. The bridge, no doubt, was too crowded, even on such a
     night, for their purpose. Well, Watson, we shall see who will win in
     the long run. I am going out now!"

     "To the police?"

     "No; I shall be my own police. When I have spun the web they may take
     the flies, but not before."

     All day I was engaged in my professional work, and it was late in the
     evening before I returned to Baker Street. Sherlock Holmes had not
     come back yet. It was nearly ten o'clock before he entered, looking
     pale and worn. He walked up to the sideboard, and tearing a piece
     from the loaf he devoured it voraciously, washing it down with a long
     draught of water.

     "You are hungry," I remarked.

     "Starving. It had escaped my memory. I have had nothing since
     breakfast."

     "Nothing?"

     "Not a bite. I had no time to think of it."

     "And how have you succeeded?"

     "Well."

     "You have a clue?"

     "I have them in the hollow of my hand. Young Openshaw shall not long
     remain unavenged. Why, Watson, let us put their own devilish
     trade-mark upon them. It is well thought of!"

     "What do you mean?"

     He took an orange from the cupboard, and tearing it to pieces he
     squeezed out the pips upon the table. Of these he took five and
     thrust them into an envelope. On the inside of the flap he wrote "S.
     H. for J. O." Then he sealed it and addressed it to "Captain James
     Calhoun, Barque Lone Star, Savannah, Georgia."

     "That will await him when he enters port," said he, chuckling. "It
     may give him a sleepless night. He will find it as sure a precursor
     of his fate as Openshaw did before him."

     "And who is this Captain Calhoun?"

     "The leader of the gang. I shall have the others, but he first."

     "How did you trace it, then?"

     He took a large sheet of paper from his pocket, all covered with
     dates and names.

     "I have spent the whole day," said he, "over Lloyd's registers and
     files of the old papers, following the future career of every vessel
     which touched at Pondicherry in January and February in '83. There
     were thirty-six ships of fair tonnage which were reported there
     during those months. Of these, one, the Lone Star, instantly
     attracted my attention, since, although it was reported as having
     cleared from London, the name is that which is given to one of the
     states of the Union."

     "Texas, I think."

     "I was not and am not sure which; but I knew that the ship must have
     an American origin."

     "What then?"

     "I searched the Dundee records, and when I found that the barque Lone
     Star was there in January, '85, my suspicion became a certainty. I
     then inquired as to the vessels which lay at present in the port of
     London."

     "Yes?"

     "The Lone Star had arrived here last week. I went down to the Albert
     Dock and found that she had been taken down the river by the early
     tide this morning, homeward bound to Savannah. I wired to Gravesend
     and learned that she had passed some time ago, and as the wind is
     easterly I have no doubt that she is now past the Goodwins and not
     very far from the Isle of Wight."

     "What will you do, then?"

     "Oh, I have my hand upon him. He and the two mates, are as I learn,
     the only native-born Americans in the ship. The others are Finns and
     Germans. I know, also, that they were all three away from the ship
     last night. I had it from the stevedore who has been loading their
     cargo. By the time that their sailing-ship reaches Savannah the
     mail-boat will have carried this letter, and the cable will have
     informed the police of Savannah that these three gentlemen are badly
     wanted here upon a charge of murder."

     There is ever a flaw, however, in the best laid of human plans, and
     the murderers of John Openshaw were never to receive the orange pips
     which would show them that another, as cunning and as resolute as
     themselves, was upon their track. Very long and very severe were the
     equinoctial gales that year. We waited long for news of the Lone Star
     of Savannah, but none ever reached us. We did at last hear that
     somewhere far out in the Atlantic a shattered stern-post of a boat
     was seen swinging in the trough of a wave, with the letters "L. S."
     carved upon it, and that is all which we shall ever know of the fate
     of the Lone Star.






                          THE MAN WITH THE TWISTED LIP

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

     Through the gloom one could dimly catch a glimpse of bodies lying in
     strange fantastic poses, bowed shoulders, bent knees, heads thrown
     back, and chins pointing upward, with here and there a dark,
     lack-lustre eye turned upon the newcomer. Out of the black shadows
     there glimmered little red circles of light, now bright, now faint,
     as the burning poison waxed or waned in the bowls of the metal pipes.
     The most lay silent, but some muttered to themselves, and others
     talked together in a strange, low, monotonous voice, their
     conversation coming in gushes, and then suddenly tailing off into
     silence, each mumbling out his own thoughts and paying little heed to
     the words of his neighbour. At the farther end was a small brazier of
     burning charcoal, beside which on a three-legged wooden stool there
     sat a tall, thin old man, with his jaw resting upon his two fists,
     and his elbows upon his knees, staring into the fire.

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

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

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

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

     "Nearly eleven."

     "Of what day?"

     "Of Friday, June 19th."

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

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

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

     "Yes, I have one waiting."

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

     I walked down the narrow passage between the double row of sleepers,
     holding my breath to keep out the vile, stupefying fumes of the drug,
     and looking about for the manager. As I passed the tall man who sat
     by the brazier I felt a sudden pluck at my skirt, and a low voice
     whispered, "Walk past me, and then look back at me." The words fell
     quite distinctly upon my ear. I glanced down. They could only have
     come from the old man at my side, and yet he sat now as absorbed as
     ever, very thin, very wrinkled, bent with age, an opium pipe dangling
     down from between his knees, as though it had dropped in sheer
     lassitude from his fingers. I took two steps forward and looked back.
     It took all my self-control to prevent me from breaking out into a
     cry of astonishment. He had turned his back so that none could see
     him but I. His form had filled out, his wrinkles were gone, the dull
     eyes had regained their fire, and there, sitting by the fire and
     grinning at my surprise, was none other than Sherlock Holmes. He made
     a slight motion to me to approach him, and instantly, as he turned
     his face half round to the company once more, subsided into a
     doddering, loose-lipped senility.

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

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

     "I have a cab outside."

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

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

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

     "I was certainly surprised to find you there."

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

     "I came to find a friend."

     "And I to find an enemy."

     "An enemy?"

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

     "What! You do not mean bodies?"

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

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

     "If I can be of use."

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

     "The Cedars?"

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

     "Where is it, then?"

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

     "But I am all in the dark."

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

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

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

     "You forget that I know nothing about it."

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

     "Proceed, then."

     "Some years ago--to be definite, in May, 1884--there came to Lee a
     gentleman, Neville St. Clair by name, who appeared to have plenty of
     money. He took a large villa, laid out the grounds very nicely, and
     lived generally in good style. By degrees he made friends in the
     neighbourhood, and in 1887 he married the daughter of a local brewer,
     by whom he now has two children. He had no occupation, but was
     interested in several companies and went into town as a rule in the
     morning, returning by the 5.14 from Cannon Street every night. Mr.
     St. Clair is now thirty-seven years of age, is a man of temperate
     habits, a good husband, a very affectionate father, and a man who is
     popular with all who know him. I may add that his whole debts at the
     present moment, as far as we have been able to ascertain, amount to
     £88 10s., while he has £220 standing to his credit in the Capital and
     Counties Bank. There is no reason, therefore, to think that money
     troubles have been weighing upon his mind.

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

     "It is very clear."

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

     "Convinced that something was amiss with him, she rushed down the
     steps--for the house was none other than the opium den in which you
     found me to-night--and running through the front room she attempted
     to ascend the stairs which led to the first floor. At the foot of the
     stairs, however, she met this Lascar scoundrel of whom I have spoken,
     who thrust her back and, aided by a Dane, who acts as assistant
     there, pushed her out into the street. Filled with the most maddening
     doubts and fears, she rushed down the lane and, by rare good-fortune,
     met in Fresno Street a number of constables with an inspector, all on
     their way to their beat. The inspector and two men accompanied her
     back, and in spite of the continued resistance of the proprietor,
     they made their way to the room in which Mr. St. Clair had last been
     seen. There was no sign of him there. In fact, in the whole of that
     floor there was no one to be found save a crippled wretch of hideous
     aspect, who, it seems, made his home there. Both he and the Lascar
     stoutly swore that no one else had been in the front room during the
     afternoon. So determined was their denial that the inspector was
     staggered, and had almost come to believe that Mrs. St. Clair had
     been deluded when, with a cry, she sprang at a small deal box which
     lay upon the table and tore the lid from it. Out there fell a cascade
     of children's bricks. It was the toy which he had promised to bring
     home.

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

     "And now as to the villains who seemed to be immediately implicated
     in the matter. The Lascar was known to be a man of the vilest
     antecedents, but as, by Mrs. St. Clair's story, he was known to have
     been at the foot of the stair within a very few seconds of her
     husband's appearance at the window, he could hardly have been more
     than an accessory to the crime. His defence was one of absolute
     ignorance, and he protested that he had no knowledge as to the doings
     of Hugh Boone, his lodger, and that he could not account in any way
     for the presence of the missing gentleman's clothes.

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

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

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

     "Pray continue your narrative."

     "Mrs. St. Clair had fainted at the sight of the blood upon the
     window, and she was escorted home in a cab by the police, as her
     presence could be of no help to them in their investigations.
     Inspector Barton, who had charge of the case, made a very careful
     examination of the premises, but without finding anything which threw
     any light upon the matter. One mistake had been made in not arresting
     Boone instantly, as he was allowed some few minutes during which he
     might have communicated with his friend the Lascar, but this fault
     was soon remedied, and he was seized and searched, without anything
     being found which could incriminate him. There were, it is true, some
     blood-stains upon his right shirt-sleeve, but he pointed to his
     ring-finger, which had been cut near the nail, and explained that the
     bleeding came from there, adding that he had been to the window not
     long before, and that the stains which had been observed there came
     doubtless from the same source. He denied strenuously having ever
     seen Mr. Neville St. Clair and swore that the presence of the clothes
     in his room was as much a mystery to him as to the police. As to Mrs.
     St. Clair's assertion that she had actually seen her husband at the
     window, he declared that she must have been either mad or dreaming.
     He was removed, loudly protesting, to the police-station, while the
     inspector remained upon the premises in the hope that the ebbing tide
     might afford some fresh clue.

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

     "I cannot imagine."

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

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

     "No, sir, but the facts might be met speciously enough. Suppose that
     this man Boone had thrust Neville St. Clair through the window, there
     is no human eye which could have seen the deed. What would he do
     then? It would of course instantly strike him that he must get rid of
     the tell-tale garments. He would seize the coat, then, and be in the
     act of throwing it out, when it would occur to him that it would swim
     and not sink. He has little time, for he has heard the scuffle
     downstairs when the wife tried to force her way up, and perhaps he
     has already heard from his Lascar confederate that the police are
     hurrying up the street. There is not an instant to be lost. He rushes
     to some secret hoard, where he has accumulated the fruits of his
     beggary, and he stuffs all the coins upon which he can lay his hands
     into the pockets to make sure of the coat's sinking. He throws it
     out, and would have done the same with the other garments had not he
     heard the rush of steps below, and only just had time to close the
     window when the police appeared."

     "It certainly sounds feasible."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

     "No good news?"

     "None."

     "No bad?"

     "No."

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

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

     "I am delighted to see you," said she, pressing my hand warmly. "You
     will, I am sure, forgive anything that may be wanting in our
     arrangements, when you consider the blow which has come so suddenly
     upon us."

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

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

     "Certainly, madam."

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

     "Upon what point?"

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

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

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

     "You think that he is dead?"

     "I do."

     "Murdered?"

     "I don't say that. Perhaps."

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

     "On Monday."

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

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

     "What!" he roared.

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

     "May I see it?"

     "Certainly."

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

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

     "No, but the enclosure is."

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

     "How can you tell that?"

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

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

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

     "One of his hands."

     "One?"

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

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

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

     "None. Neville wrote those words."

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

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

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

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

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

     "That is possible."

     "If so, much may have happened between."

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

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

     "I cannot imagine. It is unthinkable."

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

     "No."

     "And you were surprised to see him in Swandam Lane?"

     "Very much so."

     "Was the window open?"

     "Yes."

     "Then he might have called to you?"

     "He might."

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

     "Yes."

     "A call for help, you thought?"

     "Yes. He waved his hands."

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

     "It is possible."

     "And you thought he was pulled back?"

     "He disappeared so suddenly."

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

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

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

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

     "Had he ever spoken of Swandam Lane?"

     "Never."

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

     "Never."

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

     A large and comfortable double-bedded room had been placed at our
     disposal, and I was quickly between the sheets, for I was weary after
     my night of adventure. Sherlock Holmes was a man, however, who, when
     he had an unsolved problem upon his mind, would go for days, and even
     for a week, without rest, turning it over, rearranging his facts,
     looking at it from every point of view until he had either fathomed
     it or convinced himself that his data were insufficient. It was soon
     evident to me that he was now preparing for an all-night sitting. He
     took off his coat and waistcoat, put on a large blue dressing-gown,
     and then wandered about the room collecting pillows from his bed and
     cushions from the sofa and armchairs. With these he constructed a
     sort of Eastern divan, upon which he perched himself cross-legged,
     with an ounce of shag tobacco and a box of matches laid out in front
     of him. In the dim light of the lamp I saw him sitting there, an old
     briar pipe between his lips, his eyes fixed vacantly upon the corner
     of the ceiling, the blue smoke curling up from him, silent,
     motionless, with the light shining upon his strong-set aquiline
     features. So he sat as I dropped off to sleep, and so he sat when a
     sudden ejaculation caused me to wake up, and I found the summer sun
     shining into the apartment. The pipe was still between his lips, the
     smoke still curled upward, and the room was full of a dense tobacco
     haze, but nothing remained of the heap of shag which I had seen upon
     the previous night.

     "Awake, Watson?" he asked.

     "Yes."

     "Game for a morning drive?"

     "Certainly."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

     In town the earliest risers were just beginning to look sleepily from
     their windows as we drove through the streets of the Surrey side.
     Passing down the Waterloo Bridge Road we crossed over the river, and
     dashing up Wellington Street wheeled sharply to the right and found
     ourselves in Bow Street. Sherlock Holmes was well known to the force,
     and the two constables at the door saluted him. One of them held the
     horse's head while the other led us in.

     "Who is on duty?" asked Holmes.

     "Inspector Bradstreet, sir."

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

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

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

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

     "So I heard. You have him here?"

     "In the cells."

     "Is he quiet?"

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

     "Dirty?"

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

     "I should like to see him very much."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

     "Great heavens!" cried the inspector, "it is, indeed, the missing
     man. I know him from the photograph."

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

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

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

     "No crime, but a very great error has been committed," said Holmes.
     "You would have done better to have trusted your wife."

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

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

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

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

     "You are the first who have ever heard my story. My father was a
     schoolmaster in Chesterfield, where I received an excellent
     education. I travelled in my youth, took to the stage, and finally
     became a reporter on an evening paper in London. One day my editor
     wished to have a series of articles upon begging in the metropolis,
     and I volunteered to supply them. There was the point from which all
     my adventures started. It was only by trying begging as an amateur
     that I could get the facts upon which to base my articles. When an
     actor I had, of course, learned all the secrets of making up, and had
     been famous in the green-room for my skill. I took advantage now of
     my attainments. I painted my face, and to make myself as pitiable as
     possible I made a good scar and fixed one side of my lip in a twist
     by the aid of a small slip of flesh-coloured plaster. Then with a red
     head of hair, and an appropriate dress, I took my station in the
     business part of the city, ostensibly as a match-seller but really as
     a beggar. For seven hours I plied my trade, and when I returned home
     in the evening I found to my surprise that I had received no less
     than 26s. 4d.

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

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

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

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

     "Last Monday I had finished for the day and was dressing in my room
     above the opium den when I looked out of my window and saw, to my
     horror and astonishment, that my wife was standing in the street,
     with her eyes fixed full upon me. I gave a cry of surprise, threw up
     my arms to cover my face, and, rushing to my confidant, the Lascar,
     entreated him to prevent anyone from coming up to me. I heard her
     voice downstairs, but I knew that she could not ascend. Swiftly I
     threw off my clothes, pulled on those of a beggar, and put on my
     pigments and wig. Even a wife's eyes could not pierce so complete a
     disguise. But then it occurred to me that there might be a search in
     the room, and that the clothes might betray me. I threw open the
     window, reopening by my violence a small cut which I had inflicted
     upon myself in the bedroom that morning. Then I seized my coat, which
     was weighted by the coppers which I had just transferred to it from
     the leather bag in which I carried my takings. I hurled it out of the
     window, and it disappeared into the Thames. The other clothes would
     have followed, but at that moment there was a rush of constables up
     the stair, and a few minutes after I found, rather, I confess, to my
     relief, that instead of being identified as Mr. Neville St. Clair, I
     was arrested as his murderer.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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






                       THE ADVENTURE OF THE BLUE CARBUNCLE

     I had called upon my friend Sherlock Holmes upon the second morning
     after Christmas, with the intention of wishing him the compliments of
     the season. He was lounging upon the sofa in a purple dressing-gown,
     a pipe-rack within his reach upon the right, and a pile of crumpled
     morning papers, evidently newly studied, near at hand. Beside the
     couch was a wooden chair, and on the angle of the back hung a very
     seedy and disreputable hard-felt hat, much the worse for wear, and
     cracked in several places. A lens and a forceps lying upon the seat
     of the chair suggested that the hat had been suspended in this manner
     for the purpose of examination.

     "You are engaged," said I; "perhaps I interrupt you."

     "Not at all. I am glad to have a friend with whom I can discuss my
     results. The matter is a perfectly trivial one"--he jerked his thumb
     in the direction of the old hat--"but there are points in connection
     with it which are not entirely devoid of interest and even of
     instruction."

     I seated myself in his armchair and warmed my hands before his
     crackling fire, for a sharp frost had set in, and the windows were
     thick with the ice crystals. "I suppose," I remarked, "that, homely
     as it looks, this thing has some deadly story linked on to it--that
     it is the clue which will guide you in the solution of some mystery
     and the punishment of some crime."

     "No, no. No crime," said Sherlock Holmes, laughing. "Only one of
     those whimsical little incidents which will happen when you have four
     million human beings all jostling each other within the space of a
     few square miles. Amid the action and reaction of so dense a swarm of
     humanity, every possible combination of events may be expected to
     take place, and many a little problem will be presented which may be
     striking and bizarre without being criminal. We have already had
     experience of such."

     "So much so," I remarked, "that of the last six cases which I have
     added to my notes, three have been entirely free of any legal crime."

     "Precisely. You allude to my attempt to recover the Irene Adler
     papers, to the singular case of Miss Mary Sutherland, and to the
     adventure of the man with the twisted lip. Well, I have no doubt that
     this small matter will fall into the same innocent category. You know
     Peterson, the commissionaire?" 

     "Yes."

     "It is to him that this trophy belongs."

     "It is his hat."

     "No, no, he found it. Its owner is unknown. I beg that you will look
     upon it not as a battered billycock but as an intellectual problem.
     And, first, as to how it came here. It arrived upon Christmas
     morning, in company with a good fat goose, which is, I have no doubt,
     roasting at this moment in front of Peterson's fire. The facts are
     these: about four o'clock on Christmas morning, Peterson, who, as you
     know, is a very honest fellow, was returning from some small
     jollification and was making his way homeward down Tottenham Court
     Road. In front of him he saw, in the gaslight, a tallish man, walking
     with a slight stagger, and carrying a white goose slung over his
     shoulder. As he reached the corner of Goodge Street, a row broke out
     between this stranger and a little knot of roughs. One of the latter
     knocked off the man's hat, on which he raised his stick to defend
     himself and, swinging it over his head, smashed the shop window
     behind him. Peterson had rushed forward to protect the stranger from
     his assailants; but the man, shocked at having broken the window, and
     seeing an official-looking person in uniform rushing towards him,
     dropped his goose, took to his heels, and vanished amid the labyrinth
     of small streets which lie at the back of Tottenham Court Road. The
     roughs had also fled at the appearance of Peterson, so that he was
     left in possession of the field of battle, and also of the spoils of
     victory in the shape of this battered hat and a most unimpeachable
     Christmas goose."

     "Which surely he restored to their owner?"

     "My dear fellow, there lies the problem. It is true that 'For Mrs.
     Henry Baker' was printed upon a small card which was tied to the
     bird's left leg, and it is also true that the initials 'H. B.' are
     legible upon the lining of this hat, but as there are some thousands
     of Bakers, and some hundreds of Henry Bakers in this city of ours, it
     is not easy to restore lost property to any one of them."

     "What, then, did Peterson do?"

     "He brought round both hat and goose to me on Christmas morning,
     knowing that even the smallest problems are of interest to me. The
     goose we retained until this morning, when there were signs that, in
     spite of the slight frost, it would be well that it should be eaten
     without unnecessary delay. Its finder has carried it off, therefore,
     to fulfil the ultimate destiny of a goose, while I continue to retain
     the hat of the unknown gentleman who lost his Christmas dinner."

     "Did he not advertise?"

     "No."

     "Then, what clue could you have as to his identity?"

     "Only as much as we can deduce."

     "From his hat?"

     "Precisely."

     "But you are joking. What can you gather from this old battered
     felt?"

     "Here is my lens. You know my methods. What can you gather yourself
     as to the individuality of the man who has worn this article?"

     I took the tattered object in my hands and turned it over rather
     ruefully. It was a very ordinary black hat of the usual round shape,
     hard and much the worse for wear. The lining had been of red silk,
     but was a good deal discoloured. There was no maker's name; but, as
     Holmes had remarked, the initials "H. B." were scrawled upon one
     side. It was pierced in the brim for a hat-securer, but the elastic
     was missing. For the rest, it was cracked, exceedingly dusty, and
     spotted in several places, although there seemed to have been some
     attempt to hide the discoloured patches by smearing them with ink.

     "I can see nothing," said I, handing it back to my friend.

     "On the contrary, Watson, you can see everything. You fail, however,
     to reason from what you see. You are too timid in drawing your
     inferences."

     "Then, pray tell me what it is that you can infer from this hat?"

     He picked it up and gazed at it in the peculiar introspective fashion
     which was characteristic of him. "It is perhaps less suggestive than
     it might have been," he remarked, "and yet there are a few inferences
     which are very distinct, and a few others which represent at least a
     strong balance of probability. That the man was highly intellectual
     is of course obvious upon the face of it, and also that he was fairly
     well-to-do within the last three years, although he has now fallen
     upon evil days. He had foresight, but has less now than formerly,
     pointing to a moral retrogression, which, when taken with the decline
     of his fortunes, seems to indicate some evil influence, probably
     drink, at work upon him. This may account also for the obvious fact
     that his wife has ceased to love him."

     "My dear Holmes!"

     "He has, however, retained some degree of self-respect," he
     continued, disregarding my remonstrance. "He is a man who leads a
     sedentary life, goes out little, is out of training entirely, is
     middle-aged, has grizzled hair which he has had cut within the last
     few days, and which he anoints with lime-cream. These are the more
     patent facts which are to be deduced from his hat. Also, by the way,
     that it is extremely improbable that he has gas laid on in his
     house."

     "You are certainly joking, Holmes."

     "Not in the least. Is it possible that even now, when I give you
     these results, you are unable to see how they are attained?"

     "I have no doubt that I am very stupid, but I must confess that I am
     unable to follow you. For example, how did you deduce that this man
     was intellectual?"

     For answer Holmes clapped the hat upon his head. It came right over
     the forehead and settled upon the bridge of his nose. "It is a
     question of cubic capacity," said he; "a man with so large a brain
     must have something in it."

     "The decline of his fortunes, then?"

     "This hat is three years old. These flat brims curled at the edge
     came in then. It is a hat of the very best quality. Look at the band
     of ribbed silk and the excellent lining. If this man could afford to
     buy so expensive a hat three years ago, and has had no hat since,
     then he has assuredly gone down in the world."

     "Well, that is clear enough, certainly. But how about the foresight
     and the moral retrogression?"

     Sherlock Holmes laughed. "Here is the foresight," said he putting his
     finger upon the little disc and loop of the hat-securer.  "They are
     never sold upon hats. If this man ordered one, it is a sign of a
     certain amount of foresight, since he went out of his way to take
     this precaution against the wind. But since we see that he has broken
     the elastic and has not troubled to replace it, it is obvious that he
     has less foresight now than formerly, which is a distinct proof of a
     weakening nature. On the other hand, he has endeavoured to conceal
     some of these stains upon the felt by daubing them with ink, which is
     a sign that he has not entirely lost his self-respect."

     "Your reasoning is certainly plausible."

     "The further points, that he is middle-aged, that his hair is
     grizzled, that it has been recently cut, and that he uses lime-cream,
     are all to be gathered from a close examination of the lower part of
     the lining. The lens discloses a large number of hair-ends, clean cut
     by the scissors of the barber. They all appear to be adhesive, and
     there is a distinct odour of lime-cream. This dust, you will observe,
     is not the gritty, grey dust of the street but the fluffy brown dust
     of the house, showing that it has been hung up indoors most of the
     time, while the marks of moisture upon the inside are proof positive
     that the wearer perspired very freely, and could therefore, hardly be
     in the best of training."

     "But his wife--you said that she had ceased to love him."

     "This hat has not been brushed for weeks. When I see you, my dear
     Watson, with a week's accumulation of dust upon your hat, and when
     your wife allows you to go out in such a state, I shall fear that you
     also have been unfortunate enough to lose your wife's affection."

     "But he might be a bachelor."

     "Nay, he was bringing home the goose as a peace-offering to his wife.
     Remember the card upon the bird's leg."

     "You have an answer to everything. But how on earth do you deduce
     that the gas is not laid on in his house?"

     "One tallow stain, or even two, might come by chance; but when I see
     no less than five, I think that there can be little doubt that the
     individual must be brought into frequent contact with burning
     tallow--walks upstairs at night probably with his hat in one hand and
     a guttering candle in the other. Anyhow, he never got tallow-stains
     from a gas-jet. Are you satisfied?"

     "Well, it is very ingenious," said I, laughing; "but since, as you
     said just now, there has been no crime committed, and no harm done
     save the loss of a goose, all this seems to be rather a waste of
     energy."

     Sherlock Holmes had opened his mouth to reply, when the door flew
     open, and Peterson, the commissionaire, rushed into the apartment
     with flushed cheeks and the face of a man who is dazed with
     astonishment.

     "The goose, Mr. Holmes! The goose, sir!" he gasped.

     "Eh? What of it, then? Has it returned to life and flapped off
     through the kitchen window?" Holmes twisted himself round upon the
     sofa to get a fairer view of the man's excited face.

     "See here, sir! See what my wife found in its crop!" He held out his
     hand and displayed upon the centre of the palm a brilliantly
     scintillating blue stone, rather smaller than a bean in size, but of
     such purity and radiance that it twinkled like an electric point in
     the dark hollow of his hand.

     Sherlock Holmes sat up with a whistle. "By Jove, Peterson!" said he,
     "this is treasure trove indeed. I suppose you know what you have
     got?"

     "A diamond, sir? A precious stone. It cuts into glass as though it
     were putty."

     "It's more than a precious stone. It is the precious stone."

     "Not the Countess of Morcar's blue carbuncle!" I ejaculated.

     "Precisely so. I ought to know its size and shape, seeing that I have
     read the advertisement about it in The Times every day lately. It is
     absolutely unique, and its value can only be conjectured, but the
     reward offered of £1000 is certainly not within a twentieth part of
     the market price."

     "A thousand pounds! Great Lord of mercy!" The commissionaire plumped
     down into a chair and stared from one to the other of us.

     "That is the reward, and I have reason to know that there are
     sentimental considerations in the background which would induce the
     Countess to part with half her fortune if she could but recover the
     gem."

     "It was lost, if I remember aright, at the Hotel Cosmopolitan," I
     remarked.

     "Precisely so, on December 22nd, just five days ago. John Horner, a
     plumber, was accused of having abstracted it from the lady's
     jewel-case. The evidence against him was so strong that the case has
     been referred to the Assizes. I have some account of the matter here,
     I believe." He rummaged amid his newspapers, glancing over the dates,
     until at last he smoothed one out, doubled it over, and read the
     following paragraph:

     "Hotel Cosmopolitan Jewel Robbery. John Horner, 26, plumber, was
     brought up upon the charge of having upon the 22nd inst., abstracted
     from the jewel-case of the Countess of Morcar the valuable gem known
     as the blue carbuncle. James Ryder, upper-attendant at the hotel,
     gave his evidence to the effect that he had shown Horner up to the
     dressing-room of the Countess of Morcar upon the day of the robbery
     in order that he might solder the second bar of the grate, which was
     loose. He had remained with Horner some little time, but had finally
     been called away. On returning, he found that Horner had disappeared,
     that the bureau had been forced open, and that the small morocco
     casket in which, as it afterwards transpired, the Countess was
     accustomed to keep her jewel, was lying empty upon the
     dressing-table. Ryder instantly gave the alarm, and Horner was
     arrested the same evening; but the stone could not be found either
     upon his person or in his rooms. Catherine Cusack, maid to the
     Countess, deposed to having heard Ryder's cry of dismay on
     discovering the robbery, and to having rushed into the room, where
     she found matters as described by the last witness. Inspector
     Bradstreet, B division, gave evidence as to the arrest of Horner, who
     struggled frantically, and protested his innocence in the strongest
     terms. Evidence of a previous conviction for robbery having been
     given against the prisoner, the magistrate refused to deal summarily
     with the offence, but referred it to the Assizes. Horner, who had
     shown signs of intense emotion during the proceedings, fainted away
     at the conclusion and was carried out of court."

     "Hum! So much for the police-court," said Holmes thoughtfully,
     tossing aside the paper. "The question for us now to solve is the
     sequence of events leading from a rifled jewel-case at one end to the
     crop of a goose in Tottenham Court Road at the other. You see,
     Watson, our little deductions have suddenly assumed a much more
     important and less innocent aspect. Here is the stone; the stone came
     from the goose, and the goose came from Mr. Henry Baker, the
     gentleman with the bad hat and all the other characteristics with
     which I have bored you. So now we must set ourselves very seriously
     to finding this gentleman and ascertaining what part he has played in
     this little mystery. To do this, we must try the simplest means
     first, and these lie undoubtedly in an advertisement in all the
     evening papers. If this fail, I shall have recourse to other
     methods."

     "What will you say?"

     "Give me a pencil and that slip of paper. Now, then: 'Found at the
     corner of Goodge Street, a goose and a black felt hat. Mr. Henry
     Baker can have the same by applying at 6.30 this evening at 221b,
     Baker Street.' That is clear and concise."

     "Very. But will he see it?"

     "Well, he is sure to keep an eye on the papers, since, to a poor man,
     the loss was a heavy one. He was clearly so scared by his mischance
     in breaking the window and by the approach of Peterson that he
     thought of nothing but flight, but since then he must have bitterly
     regretted the impulse which caused him to drop his bird. Then, again,
     the introduction of his name will cause him to see it, for everyone
     who knows him will direct his attention to it. Here you are,
     Peterson, run down to the advertising agency and have this put in the
     evening papers."

     "In which, sir?"

     "Oh, in the Globe, Star, Pall Mall, St. James's, Evening News,
     Standard, Echo, and any others that occur to you."

     "Very well, sir. And this stone?"

     "Ah, yes, I shall keep the stone. Thank you. And, I say, Peterson,
     just buy a goose on your way back and leave it here with me, for we
     must have one to give to this gentleman in place of the one which
     your family is now devouring."

     When the commissionaire had gone, Holmes took up the stone and held
     it against the light. "It's a bonny thing," said he. "Just see how it
     glints and sparkles. Of course it is a nucleus and focus of crime.
     Every good stone is. They are the devil's pet baits. In the larger
     and older jewels every facet may stand for a bloody deed. This stone
     is not yet twenty years old. It was found in the banks of the Amoy
     River in southern China and is remarkable in having every
     characteristic of the carbuncle, save that it is blue in shade
     instead of ruby red. In spite of its youth, it has already a sinister
     history. There have been two murders, a vitriol-throwing, a suicide,
     and several robberies brought about for the sake of this forty-grain
     weight of crystallised charcoal. Who would think that so pretty a toy
     would be a purveyor to the gallows and the prison? I'll lock it up in
     my strong box now and drop a line to the Countess to say that we have
     it."

     "Do you think that this man Horner is innocent?"

     "I cannot tell."

     "Well, then, do you imagine that this other one, Henry Baker, had
     anything to do with the matter?"

     "It is, I think, much more likely that Henry Baker is an absolutely
     innocent man, who had no idea that the bird which he was carrying was
     of considerably more value than if it were made of solid gold. That,
     however, I shall determine by a very simple test if we have an answer
     to our advertisement."

     "And you can do nothing until then?"

     "Nothing."

     "In that case I shall continue my professional round. But I shall
     come back in the evening at the hour you have mentioned, for I should
     like to see the solution of so tangled a business."

     "Very glad to see you. I dine at seven. There is a woodcock, I
     believe. By the way, in view of recent occurrences, perhaps I ought
     to ask Mrs. Hudson to examine its crop."

     I had been delayed at a case, and it was a little after half-past six
     when I found myself in Baker Street once more. As I approached the
     house I saw a tall man in a Scotch bonnet with a coat which was
     buttoned up to his chin waiting outside in the bright semicircle
     which was thrown from the fanlight. Just as I arrived the door was
     opened, and we were shown up together to Holmes' room.

     "Mr. Henry Baker, I believe," said he, rising from his armchair and
     greeting his visitor with the easy air of geniality which he could so
     readily assume. "Pray take this chair by the fire, Mr. Baker. It is a
     cold night, and I observe that your circulation is more adapted for
     summer than for winter. Ah, Watson, you have just come at the right
     time. Is that your hat, Mr. Baker?"

     "Yes, sir, that is undoubtedly my hat."

     He was a large man with rounded shoulders, a massive head, and a
     broad, intelligent face, sloping down to a pointed beard of grizzled
     brown. A touch of red in nose and cheeks, with a slight tremor of his
     extended hand, recalled Holmes' surmise as to his habits. His rusty
     black frock-coat was buttoned right up in front, with the collar
     turned up, and his lank wrists protruded from his sleeves without a
     sign of cuff or shirt. He spoke in a slow staccato fashion, choosing
     his words with care, and gave the impression generally of a man of
     learning and letters who had had ill-usage at the hands of fortune.

     "We have retained these things for some days," said Holmes, "because
     we expected to see an advertisement from you giving your address. I
     am at a loss to know now why you did not advertise."

     Our visitor gave a rather shamefaced laugh. "Shillings have not been
     so plentiful with me as they once were," he remarked. "I had no doubt
     that the gang of roughs who assaulted me had carried off both my hat
     and the bird. I did not care to spend more money in a hopeless
     attempt at recovering them."

     "Very naturally. By the way, about the bird, we were compelled to eat
     it."

     "To eat it!" Our visitor half rose from his chair in his excitement.

     "Yes, it would have been of no use to anyone had we not done so. But
     I presume that this other goose upon the sideboard, which is about
     the same weight and perfectly fresh, will answer your purpose equally
     well?"

     "Oh, certainly, certainly," answered Mr. Baker with a sigh of relief.

     "Of course, we still have the feathers, legs, crop, and so on of your
     own bird, so if you wish--"

     The man burst into a hearty laugh. "They might be useful to me as
     relics of my adventure," said he, "but beyond that I can hardly see
     what use the disjecta membra of my late acquaintance are going to be
     to me. No, sir, I think that, with your permission, I will confine my
     attentions to the excellent bird which I perceive upon the
     sideboard."

     Sherlock Holmes glanced sharply across at me with a slight shrug of
     his shoulders.

     "There is your hat, then, and there your bird," said he. "By the way,
     would it bore you to tell me where you got the other one from? I am
     somewhat of a fowl fancier, and I have seldom seen a better grown
     goose."

     "Certainly, sir," said Baker, who had risen and tucked his newly
     gained property under his arm. "There are a few of us who frequent
     the Alpha Inn, near the Museum--we are to be found in the Museum
     itself during the day, you understand. This year our good host,
     Windigate by name, instituted a goose club, by which, on
     consideration of some few pence every week, we were each to receive a
     bird at Christmas. My pence were duly paid, and the rest is familiar
     to you. I am much indebted to you, sir, for a Scotch bonnet is fitted
     neither to my years nor my gravity." With a comical pomposity of
     manner he bowed solemnly to both of us and strode off upon his way.

     "So much for Mr. Henry Baker," said Holmes when he had closed the
     door behind him. "It is quite certain that he knows nothing whatever
     about the matter. Are you hungry, Watson?"

     "Not particularly."

     "Then I suggest that we turn our dinner into a supper and follow up
     this clue while it is still hot."

     "By all means."

     It was a bitter night, so we drew on our ulsters and wrapped cravats
     about our throats. Outside, the stars were shining coldly in a
     cloudless sky, and the breath of the passers-by blew out into smoke
     like so many pistol shots. Our footfalls rang out crisply and loudly
     as we swung through the doctors' quarter, Wimpole Street, Harley
     Street, and so through Wigmore Street into Oxford Street. In a
     quarter of an hour we were in Bloomsbury at the Alpha Inn, which is a
     small public-house at the corner of one of the streets which runs
     down into Holborn. Holmes pushed open the door of the private bar and
     ordered two glasses of beer from the ruddy-faced, white-aproned
     landlord.

     "Your beer should be excellent if it is as good as your geese," said
     he.

     "My geese!" The man seemed surprised.

     "Yes. I was speaking only half an hour ago to Mr. Henry Baker, who
     was a member of your goose club."

     "Ah! yes, I see. But you see, sir, them's not our geese."

     "Indeed! Whose, then?"

     "Well, I got the two dozen from a salesman in Covent Garden."

     "Indeed? I know some of them. Which was it?"

     "Breckinridge is his name."

     "Ah! I don't know him. Well, here's your good health landlord, and
     prosperity to your house. Good-night."

     "Now for Mr. Breckinridge," he continued, buttoning up his coat as we
     came out into the frosty air. "Remember, Watson that though we have
     so homely a thing as a goose at one end of this chain, we have at the
     other a man who will certainly get seven years' penal servitude
     unless we can establish his innocence. It is possible that our
     inquiry may but confirm his guilt; but, in any case, we have a line
     of investigation which has been missed by the police, and which a
     singular chance has placed in our hands. Let us follow it out to the
     bitter end. Faces to the south, then, and quick march!"

     We passed across Holborn, down Endell Street, and so through a zigzag
     of slums to Covent Garden Market. One of the largest stalls bore the
     name of Breckinridge upon it, and the proprietor a horsey-looking
     man, with a sharp face and trim side-whiskers was helping a boy to
     put up the shutters.

     "Good-evening. It's a cold night," said Holmes.

     The salesman nodded and shot a questioning glance at my companion.

     "Sold out of geese, I see," continued Holmes, pointing at the bare
     slabs of marble.

     "Let you have five hundred to-morrow morning."

     "That's no good."

     "Well, there are some on the stall with the gas-flare."

     "Ah, but I was recommended to you."

     "Who by?"

     "The landlord of the Alpha."

     "Oh, yes; I sent him a couple of dozen."

     "Fine birds they were, too. Now where did you get them from?"

     To my surprise the question provoked a burst of anger from the
     salesman.

     "Now, then, mister," said he, with his head cocked and his arms
     akimbo, "what are you driving at? Let's have it straight, now."

     "It is straight enough. I should like to know who sold you the geese
     which you supplied to the Alpha."

     "Well then, I shan't tell you. So now!"

     "Oh, it is a matter of no importance; but I don't know why you should
     be so warm over such a trifle."

     "Warm! You'd be as warm, maybe, if you were as pestered as I am. When
     I pay good money for a good article there should be an end of the
     business; but it's 'Where are the geese?' and 'Who did you sell the
     geese to?' and 'What will you take for the geese?' One would think
     they were the only geese in the world, to hear the fuss that is made
     over them."

     "Well, I have no connection with any other people who have been
     making inquiries," said Holmes carelessly. "If you won't tell us the
     bet is off, that is all. But I'm always ready to back my opinion on a
     matter of fowls, and I have a fiver on it that the bird I ate is
     country bred."

     "Well, then, you've lost your fiver, for it's town bred," snapped the
     salesman.

     "It's nothing of the kind."

     "I say it is."

     "I don't believe it."

     "D'you think you know more about fowls than I, who have handled them
     ever since I was a nipper? I tell you, all those birds that went to
     the Alpha were town bred."

     "You'll never persuade me to believe that."

     "Will you bet, then?"

     "It's merely taking your money, for I know that I am right. But I'll
     have a sovereign on with you, just to teach you not to be obstinate."

     The salesman chuckled grimly. "Bring me the books, Bill," said he.

     The small boy brought round a small thin volume and a great
     greasy-backed one, laying them out together beneath the hanging lamp.

     "Now then, Mr. Cocksure," said the salesman, "I thought that I was
     out of geese, but before I finish you'll find that there is still one
     left in my shop. You see this little book?"

     "Well?"

     "That's the list of the folk from whom I buy. D'you see? Well, then,
     here on this page are the country folk, and the numbers after their
     names are where their accounts are in the big ledger. Now, then! You
     see this other page in red ink? Well, that is a list of my town
     suppliers. Now, look at that third name. Just read it out to me."

     "Mrs. Oakshott, 117, Brixton Road--249," read Holmes.

     "Quite so. Now turn that up in the ledger."

     Holmes turned to the page indicated. "Here you are, 'Mrs. Oakshott,
     117, Brixton Road, egg and poultry supplier.'"

     "Now, then, what's the last entry?"

     "'December 22nd. Twenty-four geese at 7s. 6d.'"

     "Quite so. There you are. And underneath?"

     "'Sold to Mr. Windigate of the Alpha, at 12s.'"

     "What have you to say now?"

     Sherlock Holmes looked deeply chagrined. He drew a sovereign from his
     pocket and threw it down upon the slab, turning away with the air of
     a man whose disgust is too deep for words. A few yards off he stopped
     under a lamp-post and laughed in the hearty, noiseless fashion which
     was peculiar to him.

     "When you see a man with whiskers of that cut and the 'Pink 'un'
     protruding out of his pocket, you can always draw him by a bet," said
     he. "I daresay that if I had put £100 down in front of him, that man
     would not have given me such complete information as was drawn from
     him by the idea that he was doing me on a wager. Well, Watson, we
     are, I fancy, nearing the end of our quest, and the only point which
     remains to be determined is whether we should go on to this Mrs.
     Oakshott to-night, or whether we should reserve it for to-morrow. It
     is clear from what that surly fellow said that there are others
     besides ourselves who are anxious about the matter, and I should--"

     His remarks were suddenly cut short by a loud hubbub which broke out
     from the stall which we had just left. Turning round we saw a little
     rat-faced fellow standing in the centre of the circle of yellow light
     which was thrown by the swinging lamp, while Breckinridge, the
     salesman, framed in the door of his stall, was shaking his fists
     fiercely at the cringing figure.

     "I've had enough of you and your geese," he shouted. "I wish you were
     all at the devil together. If you come pestering me any more with
     your silly talk I'll set the dog at you. You bring Mrs. Oakshott here
     and I'll answer her, but what have you to do with it? Did I buy the
     geese off you?"

     "No; but one of them was mine all the same," whined the little man.

     "Well, then, ask Mrs. Oakshott for it."

     "She told me to ask you."

     "Well, you can ask the King of Proosia, for all I care. I've had
     enough of it. Get out of this!" He rushed fiercely forward, and the
     inquirer flitted away into the darkness.

     "Ha! this may save us a visit to Brixton Road," whispered Holmes.
     "Come with me, and we will see what is to be made of this fellow."
     Striding through the scattered knots of people who lounged round the
     flaring stalls, my companion speedily overtook the little man and
     touched him upon the shoulder. He sprang round, and I could see in
     the gas-light that every vestige of colour had been driven from his
     face.

     "Who are you, then? What do you want?" he asked in a quavering voice.

     "You will excuse me," said Holmes blandly, "but I could not help
     overhearing the questions which you put to the salesman just now. I
     think that I could be of assistance to you."

     "You? Who are you? How could you know anything of the matter?"

     "My name is Sherlock Holmes. It is my business to know what other
     people don't know."

     "But you can know nothing of this?"

     "Excuse me, I know everything of it. You are endeavouring to trace
     some geese which were sold by Mrs. Oakshott, of Brixton Road, to a
     salesman named Breckinridge, by him in turn to Mr. Windigate, of the
     Alpha, and by him to his club, of which Mr. Henry Baker is a member."

     "Oh, sir, you are the very man whom I have longed to meet," cried the
     little fellow with outstretched hands and quivering fingers. "I can
     hardly explain to you how interested I am in this matter."

     Sherlock Holmes hailed a four-wheeler which was passing. "In that
     case we had better discuss it in a cosy room rather than in this
     wind-swept market-place," said he. "But pray tell me, before we go
     farther, who it is that I have the pleasure of assisting."

     The man hesitated for an instant. "My name is John Robinson," he
     answered with a sidelong glance.

     "No, no; the real name," said Holmes sweetly. "It is always awkward
     doing business with an alias."

     A flush sprang to the white cheeks of the stranger. "Well then," said
     he, "my real name is James Ryder."

     "Precisely so. Head attendant at the Hotel Cosmopolitan. Pray step
     into the cab, and I shall soon be able to tell you everything which
     you would wish to know."

     The little man stood glancing from one to the other of us with
     half-frightened, half-hopeful eyes, as one who is not sure whether he
     is on the verge of a windfall or of a catastrophe. Then he stepped
     into the cab, and in half an hour we were back in the sitting-room at
     Baker Street. Nothing had been said during our drive, but the high,
     thin breathing of our new companion, and the claspings and
     unclaspings of his hands, spoke of the nervous tension within him.

     "Here we are!" said Holmes cheerily as we filed into the room. "The
     fire looks very seasonable in this weather. You look cold, Mr. Ryder.
     Pray take the basket-chair. I will just put on my slippers before we
     settle this little matter of yours. Now, then! You want to know what
     became of those geese?"

     "Yes, sir."

     "Or rather, I fancy, of that goose. It was one bird, I imagine in
     which you were interested--white, with a black bar across the tail."

     Ryder quivered with emotion. "Oh, sir," he cried, "can you tell me
     where it went to?"

     "It came here."

     "Here?"

     "Yes, and a most remarkable bird it proved. I don't wonder that you
     should take an interest in it. It laid an egg after it was dead--the
     bonniest, brightest little blue egg that ever was seen. I have it
     here in my museum."

     Our visitor staggered to his feet and clutched the mantelpiece with
     his right hand. Holmes unlocked his strong-box and held up the blue
     carbuncle, which shone out like a star, with a cold, brilliant,
     many-pointed radiance. Ryder stood glaring with a drawn face,
     uncertain whether to claim or to disown it.

     "The game's up, Ryder," said Holmes quietly. "Hold up, man, or you'll
     be into the fire! Give him an arm back into his chair, Watson. He's
     not got blood enough to go in for felony with impunity. Give him a
     dash of brandy. So! Now he looks a little more human. What a shrimp
     it is, to be sure!"

     For a moment he had staggered and nearly fallen, but the brandy
     brought a tinge of colour into his cheeks, and he sat staring with
     frightened eyes at his accuser.

     "I have almost every link in my hands, and all the proofs which I
     could possibly need, so there is little which you need tell me.
     Still, that little may as well be cleared up to make the case
     complete. You had heard, Ryder, of this blue stone of the Countess of
     Morcar's?"

     "It was Catherine Cusack who told me of it," said he in a crackling
     voice.

     "I see--her ladyship's waiting-maid. Well, the temptation of sudden
     wealth so easily acquired was too much for you, as it has been for
     better men before you; but you were not very scrupulous in the means
     you used. It seems to me, Ryder, that there is the making of a very
     pretty villain in you. You knew that this man Horner, the plumber,
     had been concerned in some such matter before, and that suspicion
     would rest the more readily upon him. What did you do, then? You made
     some small job in my lady's room--you and your confederate
     Cusack--and you managed that he should be the man sent for. Then,
     when he had left, you rifled the jewel-case, raised the alarm, and
     had this unfortunate man arrested. You then--"

     Ryder threw himself down suddenly upon the rug and clutched at my
     companion's knees. "For God's sake, have mercy!" he shrieked. "Think
     of my father! Of my mother! It would break their hearts. I never went
     wrong before! I never will again. I swear it. I'll swear it on a
     Bible. Oh, don't bring it into court! For Christ's sake, don't!"

     "Get back into your chair!" said Holmes sternly. "It is very well to
     cringe and crawl now, but you thought little enough of this poor
     Horner in the dock for a crime of which he knew nothing."

     "I will fly, Mr. Holmes. I will leave the country, sir. Then the
     charge against him will break down."

     "Hum! We will talk about that. And now let us hear a true account of
     the next act. How came the stone into the goose, and how came the
     goose into the open market? Tell us the truth, for there lies your
     only hope of safety."

     Ryder passed his tongue over his parched lips. "I will tell you it
     just as it happened, sir," said he. "When Horner had been arrested,
     it seemed to me that it would be best for me to get away with the
     stone at once, for I did not know at what moment the police might not
     take it into their heads to search me and my room. There was no place
     about the hotel where it would be safe. I went out, as if on some
     commission, and I made for my sister's house. She had married a man
     named Oakshott, and lived in Brixton Road, where she fattened fowls
     for the market. All the way there every man I met seemed to me to be
     a policeman or a detective; and, for all that it was a cold night,
     the sweat was pouring down my face before I came to the Brixton Road.
     My sister asked me what was the matter, and why I was so pale; but I
     told her that I had been upset by the jewel robbery at the hotel.
     Then I went into the back yard and smoked a pipe and wondered what it
     would be best to do.

     "I had a friend once called Maudsley, who went to the bad, and has
     just been serving his time in Pentonville. One day he had met me, and
     fell into talk about the ways of thieves, and how they could get rid
     of what they stole. I knew that he would be true to me, for I knew
     one or two things about him; so I made up my mind to go right on to
     Kilburn, where he lived, and take him into my confidence. He would
     show me how to turn the stone into money. But how to get to him in
     safety? I thought of the agonies I had gone through in coming from
     the hotel. I might at any moment be seized and searched, and there
     would be the stone in my waistcoat pocket. I was leaning against the
     wall at the time and looking at the geese which were waddling about
     round my feet, and suddenly an idea came into my head which showed me
     how I could beat the best detective that ever lived.

     "My sister had told me some weeks before that I might have the pick
     of her geese for a Christmas present, and I knew that she was always
     as good as her word. I would take my goose now, and in it I would
     carry my stone to Kilburn. There was a little shed in the yard, and
     behind this I drove one of the birds--a fine big one, white, with a
     barred tail. I caught it, and prying its bill open, I thrust the
     stone down its throat as far as my finger could reach. The bird gave
     a gulp, and I felt the stone pass along its gullet and down into its
     crop. But the creature flapped and struggled, and out came my sister
     to know what was the matter. As I turned to speak to her the brute
     broke loose and fluttered off among the others.

     "'Whatever were you doing with that bird, Jem?' says she.

     "'Well,' said I, 'you said you'd give me one for Christmas, and I was
     feeling which was the fattest.'

     "'Oh,' says she, 'we've set yours aside for you--Jem's bird, we call
     it. It's the big white one over yonder. There's twenty-six of them,
     which makes one for you, and one for us, and two dozen for the
     market.'

     "'Thank you, Maggie,' says I; 'but if it is all the same to you, I'd
     rather have that one I was handling just now.'

     "'The other is a good three pound heavier,' said she, 'and we
     fattened it expressly for you.'

     "'Never mind. I'll have the other, and I'll take it now,' said I.

     "'Oh, just as you like,' said she, a little huffed. 'Which is it you
     want, then?'

     "'That white one with the barred tail, right in the middle of the
     flock.'

     "'Oh, very well. Kill it and take it with you.'

     "Well, I did what she said, Mr. Holmes, and I carried the bird all
     the way to Kilburn. I told my pal what I had done, for he was a man
     that it was easy to tell a thing like that to. He laughed until he
     choked, and we got a knife and opened the goose. My heart turned to
     water, for there was no sign of the stone, and I knew that some
     terrible mistake had occurred. I left the bird, rushed back to my
     sister's, and hurried into the back yard. There was not a bird to be
     seen there.

     "'Where are they all, Maggie?' I cried.

     "'Gone to the dealer's, Jem.'

     "'Which dealer's?'

     "'Breckinridge, of Covent Garden.'

     "'But was there another with a barred tail?' I asked, 'the same as
     the one I chose?'

     "'Yes, Jem; there were two barred-tailed ones, and I could never tell
     them apart.'

     "Well, then, of course I saw it all, and I ran off as hard as my feet
     would carry me to this man Breckinridge; but he had sold the lot at
     once, and not one word would he tell me as to where they had gone.
     You heard him yourselves to-night. Well, he has always answered me
     like that. My sister thinks that I am going mad. Sometimes I think
     that I am myself. And now--and now I am myself a branded thief,
     without ever having touched the wealth for which I sold my character.
     God help me! God help me!" He burst into convulsive sobbing, with his
     face buried in his hands.

     There was a long silence, broken only by his heavy breathing and by
     the measured tapping of Sherlock Holmes' finger-tips upon the edge of
     the table. Then my friend rose and threw open the door.

     "Get out!" said he.

     "What, sir! Oh, Heaven bless you!"

     "No more words. Get out!"

     And no more words were needed. There was a rush, a clatter upon the
     stairs, the bang of a door, and the crisp rattle of running footfalls
     from the street.

     "After all, Watson," said Holmes, reaching up his hand for his clay
     pipe, "I am not retained by the police to supply their deficiencies.
     If Horner were in danger it would be another thing; but this fellow
     will not appear against him, and the case must collapse. I suppose
     that I am commuting a felony, but it is just possible that I am
     saving a soul. This fellow will not go wrong again; he is too
     terribly frightened. Send him to jail now, and you make him a
     jail-bird for life. Besides, it is the season of forgiveness. Chance
     has put in our way a most singular and whimsical problem, and its
     solution is its own reward. If you will have the goodness to touch
     the bell, Doctor, we will begin another investigation, in which, also
     a bird will be the chief feature."






                       THE ADVENTURE OF THE SPECKLED BAND

     On glancing over my notes of the seventy odd cases in which I have
     during the last eight years studied the methods of my friend Sherlock
     Holmes, I find many tragic, some comic, a large number merely
     strange, but none commonplace; for, working as he did rather for the
     love of his art than for the acquirement of wealth, he refused to
     associate himself with any investigation which did not tend towards
     the unusual, and even the fantastic. Of all these varied cases,
     however, I cannot recall any which presented more singular features
     than that which was associated with the well-known Surrey family of
     the Roylotts of Stoke Moran. The events in question occurred in the
     early days of my association with Holmes, when we were sharing rooms
     as bachelors in Baker Street. It is possible that I might have placed
     them upon record before, but a promise of secrecy was made at the
     time, from which I have only been freed during the last month by the
     untimely death of the lady to whom the pledge was given. It is
     perhaps as well that the facts should now come to light, for I have
     reasons to know that there are widespread rumours as to the death of
     Dr. Grimesby Roylott which tend to make the matter even more terrible
     than the truth.

     It was early in April in the year '83 that I woke one morning to find
     Sherlock Holmes standing, fully dressed, by the side of my bed. He
     was a late riser, as a rule, and as the clock on the mantelpiece
     showed me that it was only a quarter-past seven, I blinked up at him
     in some surprise, and perhaps just a little resentment, for I was
     myself regular in my habits.

     "Very sorry to knock you up, Watson," said he, "but it's the common
     lot this morning. Mrs. Hudson has been knocked up, she retorted upon
     me, and I on you."

     "What is it, then--a fire?"

     "No; a client. It seems that a young lady has arrived in a
     considerable state of excitement, who insists upon seeing me. She is
     waiting now in the sitting-room. Now, when young ladies wander about
     the metropolis at this hour of the morning, and knock sleepy people
     up out of their beds, I presume that it is something very pressing
     which they have to communicate. Should it prove to be an interesting
     case, you would, I am sure, wish to follow it from the outset. I
     thought, at any rate, that I should call you and give you the
     chance."

     "My dear fellow, I would not miss it for anything."

     I had no keener pleasure than in following Holmes in his professional
     investigations, and in admiring the rapid deductions, as swift as
     intuitions, and yet always founded on a logical basis with which he
     unravelled the problems which were submitted to him. I rapidly threw
     on my clothes and was ready in a few minutes to accompany my friend
     down to the sitting-room. A lady dressed in black and heavily veiled,
     who had been sitting in the window, rose as we entered.

     "Good-morning, madam," said Holmes cheerily. "My name is Sherlock
     Holmes. This is my intimate friend and associate, Dr. Watson, before
     whom you can speak as freely as before myself. Ha! I am glad to see
     that Mrs. Hudson has had the good sense to light the fire. Pray draw
     up to it, and I shall order you a cup of hot coffee, for I observe
     that you are shivering."

     "It is not cold which makes me shiver," said the woman in a low
     voice, changing her seat as requested.

     "What, then?"

     "It is fear, Mr. Holmes. It is terror." She raised her veil as she
     spoke, and we could see that she was indeed in a pitiable state of
     agitation, her face all drawn and grey, with restless frightened
     eyes, like those of some hunted animal. Her features and figure were
     those of a woman of thirty, but her hair was shot with premature
     grey, and her expression was weary and haggard. Sherlock Holmes ran
     her over with one of his quick, all-comprehensive glances.

     "You must not fear," said he soothingly, bending forward and patting
     her forearm. "We shall soon set matters right, I have no doubt. You
     have come in by train this morning, I see."

     "You know me, then?"

     "No, but I observe the second half of a return ticket in the palm of
     your left glove. You must have started early, and yet you had a good
     drive in a dog-cart, along heavy roads, before you reached the
     station."

     The lady gave a violent start and stared in bewilderment at my
     companion.

     "There is no mystery, my dear madam," said he, smiling. "The left arm
     of your jacket is spattered with mud in no less than seven places.
     The marks are perfectly fresh. There is no vehicle save a dog-cart
     which throws up mud in that way, and then only when you sit on the
     left-hand side of the driver."

     "Whatever your reasons may be, you are perfectly correct," said she.
     "I started from home before six, reached Leatherhead at twenty past,
     and came in by the first train to Waterloo. Sir, I can stand this
     strain no longer; I shall go mad if it continues. I have no one to
     turn to--none, save only one, who cares for me, and he, poor fellow,
     can be of little aid. I have heard of you, Mr. Holmes; I have heard
     of you from Mrs. Farintosh, whom you helped in the hour of her sore
     need. It was from her that I had your address. Oh, sir, do you not
     think that you could help me, too, and at least throw a little light
     through the dense darkness which surrounds me? At present it is out
     of my power to reward you for your services, but in a month or six
     weeks I shall be married, with the control of my own income, and then
     at least you shall not find me ungrateful."

     Holmes turned to his desk and, unlocking it, drew out a small
     case-book, which he consulted.

     "Farintosh," said he. "Ah yes, I recall the case; it was concerned
     with an opal tiara. I think it was before your time, Watson. I can
     only say, madam, that I shall be happy to devote the same care to
     your case as I did to that of your friend. As to reward, my
     profession is its own reward; but you are at liberty to defray
     whatever expenses I may be put to, at the time which suits you best.
     And now I beg that you will lay before us everything that may help us
     in forming an opinion upon the matter."

     "Alas!" replied our visitor, "the very horror of my situation lies in
     the fact that my fears are so vague, and my suspicions depend so
     entirely upon small points, which might seem trivial to another, that
     even he to whom of all others I have a right to look for help and
     advice looks upon all that I tell him about it as the fancies of a
     nervous woman. He does not say so, but I can read it from his
     soothing answers and averted eyes. But I have heard, Mr. Holmes, that
     you can see deeply into the manifold wickedness of the human heart.
     You may advise me how to walk amid the dangers which encompass me."

     "I am all attention, madam."

     "My name is Helen Stoner, and I am living with my stepfather, who is
     the last survivor of one of the oldest Saxon families in England, the
     Roylotts of Stoke Moran, on the western border of Surrey."

     Holmes nodded his head. "The name is familiar to me," said he.

     "The family was at one time among the richest in England, and the
     estates extended over the borders into Berkshire in the north, and
     Hampshire in the west. In the last century, however, four successive
     heirs were of a dissolute and wasteful disposition, and the family
     ruin was eventually completed by a gambler in the days of the
     Regency. Nothing was left save a few acres of ground, and the
     two-hundred-year-old house, which is itself crushed under a heavy
     mortgage. The last squire dragged out his existence there, living the
     horrible life of an aristocratic pauper; but his only son, my
     stepfather, seeing that he must adapt himself to the new conditions,
     obtained an advance from a relative, which enabled him to take a
     medical degree and went out to Calcutta, where, by his professional
     skill and his force of character, he established a large practice. In
     a fit of anger, however, caused by some robberies which had been
     perpetrated in the house, he beat his native butler to death and
     narrowly escaped a capital sentence. As it was, he suffered a long
     term of imprisonment and afterwards returned to England a morose and
     disappointed man.

     "When Dr. Roylott was in India he married my mother, Mrs. Stoner, the
     young widow of Major-General Stoner, of the Bengal Artillery. My
     sister Julia and I were twins, and we were only two years old at the
     time of my mother's re-marriage. She had a considerable sum of
     money--not less than £1000 a year--and this she bequeathed to Dr.
     Roylott entirely while we resided with him, with a provision that a
     certain annual sum should be allowed to each of us in the event of
     our marriage. Shortly after our return to England my mother died--she
     was killed eight years ago in a railway accident near Crewe. Dr.
     Roylott then abandoned his attempts to establish himself in practice
     in London and took us to live with him in the old ancestral house at
     Stoke Moran. The money which my mother had left was enough for all
     our wants, and there seemed to be no obstacle to our happiness.

     "But a terrible change came over our stepfather about this time.
     Instead of making friends and exchanging visits with our neighbours,
     who had at first been overjoyed to see a Roylott of Stoke Moran back
     in the old family seat, he shut himself up in his house and seldom
     came out save to indulge in ferocious quarrels with whoever might
     cross his path. Violence of temper approaching to mania has been
     hereditary in the men of the family, and in my stepfather's case it
     had, I believe, been intensified by his long residence in the
     tropics. A series of disgraceful brawls took place, two of which
     ended in the police-court, until at last he became the terror of the
     village, and the folks would fly at his approach, for he is a man of
     immense strength, and absolutely uncontrollable in his anger.

     "Last week he hurled the local blacksmith over a parapet into a
     stream, and it was only by paying over all the money which I could
     gather together that I was able to avert another public exposure. He
     had no friends at all save the wandering gypsies, and he would give
     these vagabonds leave to encamp upon the few acres of bramble-covered
     land which represent the family estate, and would accept in return
     the hospitality of their tents, wandering away with them sometimes
     for weeks on end. He has a passion also for Indian animals, which are
     sent over to him by a correspondent, and he has at this moment a
     cheetah and a baboon, which wander freely over his grounds and are
     feared by the villagers almost as much as their master.

     "You can imagine from what I say that my poor sister Julia and I had
     no great pleasure in our lives. No servant would stay with us, and
     for a long time we did all the work of the house. She was but thirty
     at the time of her death, and yet her hair had already begun to
     whiten, even as mine has."

     "Your sister is dead, then?"

     "She died just two years ago, and it is of her death that I wish to
     speak to you. You can understand that, living the life which I have
     described, we were little likely to see anyone of our own age and
     position. We had, however, an aunt, my mother's maiden sister, Miss
     Honoria Westphail, who lives near Harrow, and we were occasionally
     allowed to pay short visits at this lady's house. Julia went there at
     Christmas two years ago, and met there a half-pay major of marines,
     to whom she became engaged. My stepfather learned of the engagement
     when my sister returned and offered no objection to the marriage; but
     within a fortnight of the day which had been fixed for the wedding,
     the terrible event occurred which has deprived me of my only
     companion."

     Sherlock Holmes had been leaning back in his chair with his eyes
     closed and his head sunk in a cushion, but he half opened his lids
     now and glanced across at his visitor.

     "Pray be precise as to details," said he.

     "It is easy for me to be so, for every event of that dreadful time is
     seared into my memory. The manor-house is, as I have already said,
     very old, and only one wing is now inhabited. The bedrooms in this
     wing are on the ground floor, the sitting-rooms being in the central
     block of the buildings. Of these bedrooms the first is Dr. Roylott's,
     the second my sister's, and the third my own. There is no
     communication between them, but they all open out into the same
     corridor. Do I make myself plain?"

     "Perfectly so."

     "The windows of the three rooms open out upon the lawn. That fatal
     night Dr. Roylott had gone to his room early, though we knew that he
     had not retired to rest, for my sister was troubled by the smell of
     the strong Indian cigars which it was his custom to smoke. She left
     her room, therefore, and came into mine, where she sat for some time,
     chatting about her approaching wedding. At eleven o'clock she rose to
     leave me, but she paused at the door and looked back.

     "'Tell me, Helen,' said she, 'have you ever heard anyone whistle in
     the dead of the night?'

     "'Never,' said I.

     "'I suppose that you could not possibly whistle, yourself, in your
     sleep?'

     "'Certainly not. But why?'

     "'Because during the last few nights I have always, about three in
     the morning, heard a low, clear whistle. I am a light sleeper, and it
     has awakened me. I cannot tell where it came from--perhaps from the
     next room, perhaps from the lawn. I thought that I would just ask you
     whether you had heard it.'

     "'No, I have not. It must be those wretched gipsies in the
     plantation.'

     "'Very likely. And yet if it were on the lawn, I wonder that you did
     not hear it also.'

     "'Ah, but I sleep more heavily than you.'

     "'Well, it is of no great consequence, at any rate.' She smiled back
     at me, closed my door, and a few moments later I heard her key turn
     in the lock."

     "Indeed," said Holmes. "Was it your custom always to lock yourselves
     in at night?"

     "Always."

     "And why?"

     "I think that I mentioned to you that the doctor kept a cheetah and a
     baboon. We had no feeling of security unless our doors were locked."

     "Quite so. Pray proceed with your statement."

     "I could not sleep that night. A vague feeling of impending
     misfortune impressed me. My sister and I, you will recollect, were
     twins, and you know how subtle are the links which bind two souls
     which are so closely allied. It was a wild night. The wind was
     howling outside, and the rain was beating and splashing against the
     windows. Suddenly, amid all the hubbub of the gale, there burst forth
     the wild scream of a terrified woman. I knew that it was my sister's
     voice. I sprang from my bed, wrapped a shawl round me, and rushed
     into the corridor. As I opened my door I seemed to hear a low
     whistle, such as my sister described, and a few moments later a
     clanging sound, as if a mass of metal had fallen. As I ran down the
     passage, my sister's door was unlocked, and revolved slowly upon its
     hinges. I stared at it horror-stricken, not knowing what was about to
     issue from it. By the light of the corridor-lamp I saw my sister
     appear at the opening, her face blanched with terror, her hands
     groping for help, her whole figure swaying to and fro like that of a
     drunkard. I ran to her and threw my arms round her, but at that
     moment her knees seemed to give way and she fell to the ground.  She
     writhed as one who is in terrible pain, and her limbs were dreadfully
     convulsed. At first I thought that she had not recognised me, but as
     I bent over her she suddenly shrieked out in a voice which I shall
     never forget, 'Oh, my God! Helen! It was the band! The speckled
     band!' There was something else which she would fain have said, and
     she stabbed with her finger into the air in the direction of the
     doctor's room, but a fresh convulsion seized her and choked her
     words. I rushed out, calling loudly for my stepfather, and I met him
     hastening from his room in his dressing-gown. When he reached my
     sister's side she was unconscious, and though he poured brandy down
     her throat and sent for medical aid from the village, all efforts
     were in vain, for she slowly sank and died without having recovered
     her consciousness. Such was the dreadful end of my beloved sister."

     "One moment," said Holmes, "are you sure about this whistle and
     metallic sound? Could you swear to it?"

     "That was what the county coroner asked me at the inquiry. It is my
     strong impression that I heard it, and yet, among the crash of the
     gale and the creaking of an old house, I may possibly have been
     deceived."

     "Was your sister dressed?"

     "No, she was in her night-dress. In her right hand was found the
     charred stump of a match, and in her left a match-box."

     "Showing that she had struck a light and looked about her when the
     alarm took place. That is important. And what conclusions did the
     coroner come to?"

     "He investigated the case with great care, for Dr. Roylott's conduct
     had long been notorious in the county, but he was unable to find any
     satisfactory cause of death. My evidence showed that the door had
     been fastened upon the inner side, and the windows were blocked by
     old-fashioned shutters with broad iron bars, which were secured every
     night. The walls were carefully sounded, and were shown to be quite
     solid all round, and the flooring was also thoroughly examined, with
     the same result. The chimney is wide, but is barred up by four large
     staples. It is certain, therefore, that my sister was quite alone
     when she met her end. Besides, there were no marks of any violence
     upon her."

     "How about poison?"

     "The doctors examined her for it, but without success."

     "What do you think that this unfortunate lady died of, then?"

     "It is my belief that she died of pure fear and nervous shock, though
     what it was that frightened her I cannot imagine."

     "Were there gipsies in the plantation at the time?"

     "Yes, there are nearly always some there."

     "Ah, and what did you gather from this allusion to a band--a speckled
     band?"

     "Sometimes I have thought that it was merely the wild talk of
     delirium, sometimes that it may have referred to some band of people,
     perhaps to these very gipsies in the plantation. I do not know
     whether the spotted handkerchiefs which so many of them wear over
     their heads might have suggested the strange adjective which she
     used."

     Holmes shook his head like a man who is far from being satisfied.

     "These are very deep waters," said he; "pray go on with your
     narrative."

     "Two years have passed since then, and my life has been until lately
     lonelier than ever. A month ago, however, a dear friend, whom I have
     known for many years, has done me the honour to ask my hand in
     marriage. His name is Armitage--Percy Armitage--the second son of Mr.
     Armitage, of Crane Water, near Reading. My stepfather has offered no
     opposition to the match, and we are to be married in the course of
     the spring. Two days ago some repairs were started in the west wing
     of the building, and my bedroom wall has been pierced, so that I have
     had to move into the chamber in which my sister died, and to sleep in
     the very bed in which she slept. Imagine, then, my thrill of terror
     when last night, as I lay awake, thinking over her terrible fate, I
     suddenly heard in the silence of the night the low whistle which had
     been the herald of her own death. I sprang up and lit the lamp, but
     nothing was to be seen in the room. I was too shaken to go to bed
     again, however, so I dressed, and as soon as it was daylight I
     slipped down, got a dog-cart at the Crown Inn, which is opposite, and
     drove to Leatherhead, from whence I have come on this morning with
     the one object of seeing you and asking your advice."

     "You have done wisely," said my friend. "But have you told me all?"

     "Yes, all."

     "Miss Roylott, you have not. You are screening your stepfather."

     "Why, what do you mean?"

     For answer Holmes pushed back the frill of black lace which fringed
     the hand that lay upon our visitor's knee. Five little livid spots,
     the marks of four fingers and a thumb, were printed upon the white
     wrist.

     "You have been cruelly used," said Holmes.

     The lady coloured deeply and covered over her injured wrist. "He is a
     hard man," she said, "and perhaps he hardly knows his own strength."

     There was a long silence, during which Holmes leaned his chin upon
     his hands and stared into the crackling fire.

     "This is a very deep business," he said at last. "There are a
     thousand details which I should desire to know before I decide upon
     our course of action. Yet we have not a moment to lose. If we were to
     come to Stoke Moran to-day, would it be possible for us to see over
     these rooms without the knowledge of your stepfather?"

     "As it happens, he spoke of coming into town to-day upon some most
     important business. It is probable that he will be away all day, and
     that there would be nothing to disturb you. We have a housekeeper
     now, but she is old and foolish, and I could easily get her out of
     the way."

     "Excellent. You are not averse to this trip, Watson?"

     "By no means."

     "Then we shall both come. What are you going to do yourself?"

     "I have one or two things which I would wish to do now that I am in
     town. But I shall return by the twelve o'clock train, so as to be
     there in time for your coming."

     "And you may expect us early in the afternoon. I have myself some
     small business matters to attend to. Will you not wait and
     breakfast?"

     "No, I must go. My heart is lightened already since I have confided
     my trouble to you. I shall look forward to seeing you again this
     afternoon." She dropped her thick black veil over her face and glided
     from the room.

     "And what do you think of it all, Watson?" asked Sherlock Holmes,
     leaning back in his chair.

     "It seems to me to be a most dark and sinister business."

     "Dark enough and sinister enough."

     "Yet if the lady is correct in saying that the flooring and walls are
     sound, and that the door, window, and chimney are impassable, then
     her sister must have been undoubtedly alone when she met her
     mysterious end."

     "What becomes, then, of these nocturnal whistles, and what of the
     very peculiar words of the dying woman?"

     "I cannot think."

     "When you combine the ideas of whistles at night, the presence of a
     band of gipsies who are on intimate terms with this old doctor, the
     fact that we have every reason to believe that the doctor has an
     interest in preventing his stepdaughter's marriage, the dying
     allusion to a band, and, finally, the fact that Miss Helen Stoner
     heard a metallic clang, which might have been caused by one of those
     metal bars that secured the shutters falling back into its place, I
     think that there is good ground to think that the mystery may be
     cleared along those lines."

     "But what, then, did the gipsies do?"

     "I cannot imagine."

     "I see many objections to any such theory."

     "And so do I. It is precisely for that reason that we are going to
     Stoke Moran this day. I want to see whether the objections are fatal,
     or if they may be explained away. But what in the name of the devil!"

     The ejaculation had been drawn from my companion by the fact that our
     door had been suddenly dashed open, and that a huge man had framed
     himself in the aperture. His costume was a peculiar mixture of the
     professional and of the agricultural, having a black top-hat, a long
     frock-coat, and a pair of high gaiters, with a hunting-crop swinging
     in his hand. So tall was he that his hat actually brushed the cross
     bar of the doorway, and his breadth seemed to span it across from
     side to side. A large face, seared with a thousand wrinkles, burned
     yellow with the sun, and marked with every evil passion, was turned
     from one to the other of us, while his deep-set, bile-shot eyes, and
     his high, thin, fleshless nose, gave him somewhat the resemblance to
     a fierce old bird of prey.

     "Which of you is Holmes?" asked this apparition.

     "My name, sir; but you have the advantage of me," said my companion
     quietly.

     "I am Dr. Grimesby Roylott, of Stoke Moran."

     "Indeed, Doctor," said Holmes blandly. "Pray take a seat."

     "I will do nothing of the kind. My stepdaughter has been here. I have
     traced her. What has she been saying to you?"

     "It is a little cold for the time of the year," said Holmes.

     "What has she been saying to you?" screamed the old man furiously.

     "But I have heard that the crocuses promise well," continued my
     companion imperturbably.

     "Ha! You put me off, do you?" said our new visitor, taking a step
     forward and shaking his hunting-crop. "I know you, you scoundrel!  I
     have heard of you before. You are Holmes, the meddler."

     My friend smiled.

     "Holmes, the busybody!"

     His smile broadened.

     "Holmes, the Scotland Yard Jack-in-office!"

     Holmes chuckled heartily. "Your conversation is most entertaining,"
     said he. "When you go out close the door, for there is a decided
     draught."

     "I will go when I have said my say. Don't you dare to meddle with my
     affairs. I know that Miss Stoner has been here. I traced her! I am a
     dangerous man to fall foul of! See here." He stepped swiftly forward,
     seized the poker, and bent it into a curve with his huge brown hands.

     "See that you keep yourself out of my grip," he snarled, and hurling
     the twisted poker into the fireplace he strode out of the room.

     "He seems a very amiable person," said Holmes, laughing. "I am not
     quite so bulky, but if he had remained I might have shown him that my
     grip was not much more feeble than his own." As he spoke he picked up
     the steel poker and, with a sudden effort, straightened it out again.

     "Fancy his having the insolence to confound me with the official
     detective force! This incident gives zest to our investigation,
     however, and I only trust that our little friend will not suffer from
     her imprudence in allowing this brute to trace her. And now, Watson,
     we shall order breakfast, and afterwards I shall walk down to
     Doctors' Commons, where I hope to get some data which may help us in
     this matter."

     It was nearly one o'clock when Sherlock Holmes returned from his
     excursion. He held in his hand a sheet of blue paper, scrawled over
     with notes and figures.

     "I have seen the will of the deceased wife," said he. "To determine
     its exact meaning I have been obliged to work out the present prices
     of the investments with which it is concerned. The total income,
     which at the time of the wife's death was little short of £1100, is
     now, through the fall in agricultural prices, not more than £750.
     Each daughter can claim an income of £250, in case of marriage. It is
     evident, therefore, that if both girls had married, this beauty would
     have had a mere pittance, while even one of them would cripple him to
     a very serious extent. My morning's work has not been wasted, since
     it has proved that he has the very strongest motives for standing in
     the way of anything of the sort. And now, Watson, this is too serious
     for dawdling, especially as the old man is aware that we are
     interesting ourselves in his affairs; so if you are ready, we shall
     call a cab and drive to Waterloo. I should be very much obliged if
     you would slip your revolver into your pocket. An Eley's No. 2 is an
     excellent argument with gentlemen who can twist steel pokers into
     knots. That and a tooth-brush are, I think, all that we need."

     At Waterloo we were fortunate in catching a train for Leatherhead,
     where we hired a trap at the station inn and drove for four or five
     miles through the lovely Surrey lanes. It was a perfect day, with a
     bright sun and a few fleecy clouds in the heavens. The trees and
     wayside hedges were just throwing out their first green shoots, and
     the air was full of the pleasant smell of the moist earth. To me at
     least there was a strange contrast between the sweet promise of the
     spring and this sinister quest upon which we were engaged. My
     companion sat in the front of the trap, his arms folded, his hat
     pulled down over his eyes, and his chin sunk upon his breast, buried
     in the deepest thought. Suddenly, however, he started, tapped me on
     the shoulder, and pointed over the meadows.

     "Look there!" said he.

     A heavily timbered park stretched up in a gentle slope, thickening
     into a grove at the highest point. From amid the branches there
     jutted out the grey gables and high roof-tree of a very old mansion.

     "Stoke Moran?" said he.

     "Yes, sir, that be the house of Dr. Grimesby Roylott," remarked the
     driver.

     "There is some building going on there," said Holmes; "that is where
     we are going."

     "There's the village," said the driver, pointing to a cluster of
     roofs some distance to the left; "but if you want to get to the
     house, you'll find it shorter to get over this stile, and so by the
     foot-path over the fields. There it is, where the lady is walking."

     "And the lady, I fancy, is Miss Stoner," observed Holmes, shading his
     eyes. "Yes, I think we had better do as you suggest."

     We got off, paid our fare, and the trap rattled back on its way to
     Leatherhead.

     "I thought it as well," said Holmes as we climbed the stile, "that
     this fellow should think we had come here as architects, or on some
     definite business. It may stop his gossip. Good-afternoon, Miss
     Stoner. You see that we have been as good as our word."

     Our client of the morning had hurried forward to meet us with a face
     which spoke her joy. "I have been waiting so eagerly for you," she
     cried, shaking hands with us warmly. "All has turned out splendidly.
     Dr. Roylott has gone to town, and it is unlikely that he will be back
     before evening."

     "We have had the pleasure of making the doctor's acquaintance," said
     Holmes, and in a few words he sketched out what had occurred. Miss
     Stoner turned white to the lips as she listened.

     "Good heavens!" she cried, "he has followed me, then."

     "So it appears."

     "He is so cunning that I never know when I am safe from him. What
     will he say when he returns?"

     "He must guard himself, for he may find that there is someone more
     cunning than himself upon his track. You must lock yourself up from
     him to-night. If he is violent, we shall take you away to your aunt's
     at Harrow. Now, we must make the best use of our time, so kindly take
     us at once to the rooms which we are to examine."

     The building was of grey, lichen-blotched stone, with a high central
     portion and two curving wings, like the claws of a crab, thrown out
     on each side. In one of these wings the windows were broken and
     blocked with wooden boards, while the roof was partly caved in, a
     picture of ruin. The central portion was in little better repair, but
     the right-hand block was comparatively modern, and the blinds in the
     windows, with the blue smoke curling up from the chimneys, showed
     that this was where the family resided. Some scaffolding had been
     erected against the end wall, and the stone-work had been broken
     into, but there were no signs of any workmen at the moment of our
     visit. Holmes walked slowly up and down the ill-trimmed lawn and
     examined with deep attention the outsides of the windows.

     "This, I take it, belongs to the room in which you used to sleep, the
     centre one to your sister's, and the one next to the main building to
     Dr. Roylott's chamber?"

     "Exactly so. But I am now sleeping in the middle one."

     "Pending the alterations, as I understand. By the way, there does not
     seem to be any very pressing need for repairs at that end wall."

     "There were none. I believe that it was an excuse to move me from my
     room."

     "Ah! that is suggestive. Now, on the other side of this narrow wing
     runs the corridor from which these three rooms open. There are
     windows in it, of course?"

     "Yes, but very small ones. Too narrow for anyone to pass through."

     "As you both locked your doors at night, your rooms were
     unapproachable from that side. Now, would you have the kindness to go
     into your room and bar your shutters?"

     Miss Stoner did so, and Holmes, after a careful examination through
     the open window, endeavoured in every way to force the shutter open,
     but without success. There was no slit through which a knife could be
     passed to raise the bar. Then with his lens he tested the hinges, but
     they were of solid iron, built firmly into the massive masonry.
     "Hum!" said he, scratching his chin in some perplexity, "my theory
     certainly presents some difficulties. No one could pass these
     shutters if they were bolted. Well, we shall see if the inside throws
     any light upon the matter."

     A small side door led into the whitewashed corridor from which the
     three bedrooms opened. Holmes refused to examine the third chamber,
     so we passed at once to the second, that in which Miss Stoner was now
     sleeping, and in which her sister had met with her fate. It was a
     homely little room, with a low ceiling and a gaping fireplace, after
     the fashion of old country-houses. A brown chest of drawers stood in
     one corner, a narrow white-counterpaned bed in another, and a
     dressing-table on the left-hand side of the window. These articles,
     with two small wicker-work chairs, made up all the furniture in the
     room save for a square of Wilton carpet in the centre. The boards
     round and the panelling of the walls were of brown, worm-eaten oak,
     so old and discoloured that it may have dated from the original
     building of the house. Holmes drew one of the chairs into a corner
     and sat silent, while his eyes travelled round and round and up and
     down, taking in every detail of the apartment.

     "Where does that bell communicate with?" he asked at last pointing to
     a thick bell-rope which hung down beside the bed, the tassel actually
     lying upon the pillow.

     "It goes to the housekeeper's room."

     "It looks newer than the other things?"

     "Yes, it was only put there a couple of years ago."

     "Your sister asked for it, I suppose?"

     "No, I never heard of her using it. We used always to get what we
     wanted for ourselves."

     "Indeed, it seemed unnecessary to put so nice a bell-pull there. You
     will excuse me for a few minutes while I satisfy myself as to this
     floor." He threw himself down upon his face with his lens in his hand
     and crawled swiftly backward and forward, examining minutely the
     cracks between the boards. Then he did the same with the wood-work
     with which the chamber was panelled. Finally he walked over to the
     bed and spent some time in staring at it and in running his eye up
     and down the wall. Finally he took the bell-rope in his hand and gave
     it a brisk tug.

     "Why, it's a dummy," said he.

     "Won't it ring?"

     "No, it is not even attached to a wire. This is very interesting. You
     can see now that it is fastened to a hook just above where the little
     opening for the ventilator is."

     "How very absurd! I never noticed that before."

     "Very strange!" muttered Holmes, pulling at the rope. "There are one
     or two very singular points about this room. For example, what a fool
     a builder must be to open a ventilator into another room, when, with
     the same trouble, he might have communicated with the outside air!"

     "That is also quite modern," said the lady.

     "Done about the same time as the bell-rope?" remarked Holmes.

     "Yes, there were several little changes carried out about that time."

     "They seem to have been of a most interesting character--dummy
     bell-ropes, and ventilators which do not ventilate. With your
     permission, Miss Stoner, we shall now carry our researches into the
     inner apartment."

     Dr. Grimesby Roylott's chamber was larger than that of his
     step-daughter, but was as plainly furnished. A camp-bed, a small
     wooden shelf full of books, mostly of a technical character, an
     armchair beside the bed, a plain wooden chair against the wall, a
     round table, and a large iron safe were the principal things which
     met the eye. Holmes walked slowly round and examined each and all of
     them with the keenest interest.

     "What's in here?" he asked, tapping the safe.

     "My stepfather's business papers."

     "Oh! you have seen inside, then?"

     "Only once, some years ago. I remember that it was full of papers."

     "There isn't a cat in it, for example?"

     "No. What a strange idea!"

     "Well, look at this!" He took up a small saucer of milk which stood
     on the top of it.

     "No; we don't keep a cat. But there is a cheetah and a baboon."

     "Ah, yes, of course! Well, a cheetah is just a big cat, and yet a
     saucer of milk does not go very far in satisfying its wants, I
     daresay. There is one point which I should wish to determine." He
     squatted down in front of the wooden chair and examined the seat of
     it with the greatest attention.

     "Thank you. That is quite settled," said he, rising and putting his
     lens in his pocket. "Hullo! Here is something interesting!"

     The object which had caught his eye was a small dog lash hung on one
     corner of the bed. The lash, however, was curled upon itself and tied
     so as to make a loop of whipcord.

     "What do you make of that, Watson?"

     "It's a common enough lash. But I don't know why it should be tied."

     "That is not quite so common, is it? Ah, me! it's a wicked world, and
     when a clever man turns his brains to crime it is the worst of all. I
     think that I have seen enough now, Miss Stoner, and with your
     permission we shall walk out upon the lawn."

     I had never seen my friend's face so grim or his brow so dark as it
     was when we turned from the scene of this investigation. We had
     walked several times up and down the lawn, neither Miss Stoner nor
     myself liking to break in upon his thoughts before he roused himself
     from his reverie.

     "It is very essential, Miss Stoner," said he, "that you should
     absolutely follow my advice in every respect."

     "I shall most certainly do so."

     "The matter is too serious for any hesitation. Your life may depend
     upon your compliance."

     "I assure you that I am in your hands."

     "In the first place, both my friend and I must spend the night in
     your room."

     Both Miss Stoner and I gazed at him in astonishment.

     "Yes, it must be so. Let me explain. I believe that that is the
     village inn over there?"

     "Yes, that is the Crown."

     "Very good. Your windows would be visible from there?"

     "Certainly."

     "You must confine yourself to your room, on pretence of a headache,
     when your stepfather comes back. Then when you hear him retire for
     the night, you must open the shutters of your window, undo the hasp,
     put your lamp there as a signal to us, and then withdraw quietly with
     everything which you are likely to want into the room which you used
     to occupy. I have no doubt that, in spite of the repairs, you could
     manage there for one night."

     "Oh, yes, easily."

     "The rest you will leave in our hands."

     "But what will you do?"

     "We shall spend the night in your room, and we shall investigate the
     cause of this noise which has disturbed you."

     "I believe, Mr. Holmes, that you have already made up your mind,"
     said Miss Stoner, laying her hand upon my companion's sleeve.

     "Perhaps I have."

     "Then, for pity's sake, tell me what was the cause of my sister's
     death."

     "I should prefer to have clearer proofs before I speak."

     "You can at least tell me whether my own thought is correct, and if
     she died from some sudden fright."

     "No, I do not think so. I think that there was probably some more
     tangible cause. And now, Miss Stoner, we must leave you for if Dr.
     Roylott returned and saw us our journey would be in vain.  Good-bye,
     and be brave, for if you will do what I have told you, you may rest
     assured that we shall soon drive away the dangers that threaten you."

     Sherlock Holmes and I had no difficulty in engaging a bedroom and
     sitting-room at the Crown Inn. They were on the upper floor, and from
     our window we could command a view of the avenue gate, and of the
     inhabited wing of Stoke Moran Manor House. At dusk we saw Dr.
     Grimesby Roylott drive past, his huge form looming up beside the
     little figure of the lad who drove him. The boy had some slight
     difficulty in undoing the heavy iron gates, and we heard the hoarse
     roar of the doctor's voice and saw the fury with which he shook his
     clinched fists at him. The trap drove on, and a few minutes later we
     saw a sudden light spring up among the trees as the lamp was lit in
     one of the sitting-rooms.

     "Do you know, Watson," said Holmes as we sat together in the
     gathering darkness, "I have really some scruples as to taking you
     to-night. There is a distinct element of danger."

     "Can I be of assistance?"

     "Your presence might be invaluable."

     "Then I shall certainly come."

     "It is very kind of you."

     "You speak of danger. You have evidently seen more in these rooms
     than was visible to me."

     "No, but I fancy that I may have deduced a little more. I imagine
     that you saw all that I did."

     "I saw nothing remarkable save the bell-rope, and what purpose that
     could answer I confess is more than I can imagine."

     "You saw the ventilator, too?"

     "Yes, but I do not think that it is such a very unusual thing to have
     a small opening between two rooms. It was so small that a rat could
     hardly pass through."

     "I knew that we should find a ventilator before ever we came to Stoke
     Moran."

     "My dear Holmes!"

     "Oh, yes, I did. You remember in her statement she said that her
     sister could smell Dr. Roylott's cigar. Now, of course that suggested
     at once that there must be a communication between the two rooms. It
     could only be a small one, or it would have been remarked upon at the
     coroner's inquiry. I deduced a ventilator."

     "But what harm can there be in that?"

     "Well, there is at least a curious coincidence of dates. A ventilator
     is made, a cord is hung, and a lady who sleeps in the bed dies. Does
     not that strike you?"

     "I cannot as yet see any connection."

     "Did you observe anything very peculiar about that bed?"

     "No."

     "It was clamped to the floor. Did you ever see a bed fastened like
     that before?"

     "I cannot say that I have."

     "The lady could not move her bed. It must always be in the same
     relative position to the ventilator and to the rope--or so we may
     call it, since it was clearly never meant for a bell-pull."

     "Holmes," I cried, "I seem to see dimly what you are hinting at. We
     are only just in time to prevent some subtle and horrible crime."

     "Subtle enough and horrible enough. When a doctor does go wrong he is
     the first of criminals. He has nerve and he has knowledge. Palmer and
     Pritchard were among the heads of their profession. This man strikes
     even deeper, but I think, Watson, that we shall be able to strike
     deeper still. But we shall have horrors enough before the night is
     over; for goodness' sake let us have a quiet pipe and turn our minds
     for a few hours to something more cheerful."

     About nine o'clock the light among the trees was extinguished, and
     all was dark in the direction of the Manor House. Two hours passed
     slowly away, and then, suddenly, just at the stroke of eleven, a
     single bright light shone out right in front of us.

     "That is our signal," said Holmes, springing to his feet; "it comes
     from the middle window."

     As we passed out he exchanged a few words with the landlord,
     explaining that we were going on a late visit to an acquaintance, and
     that it was possible that we might spend the night there. A moment
     later we were out on the dark road, a chill wind blowing in our
     faces, and one yellow light twinkling in front of us through the
     gloom to guide us on our sombre errand.

     There was little difficulty in entering the grounds, for unrepaired
     breaches gaped in the old park wall. Making our way among the trees,
     we reached the lawn, crossed it, and were about to enter through the
     window when out from a clump of laurel bushes there darted what
     seemed to be a hideous and distorted child, who threw itself upon the
     grass with writhing limbs and then ran swiftly across the lawn into
     the darkness.

     "My God!" I whispered; "did you see it?"

     Holmes was for the moment as startled as I. His hand closed like a
     vice upon my wrist in his agitation. Then he broke into a low laugh
     and put his lips to my ear.

     "It is a nice household," he murmured. "That is the baboon."

     I had forgotten the strange pets which the doctor affected. There was
     a cheetah, too; perhaps we might find it upon our shoulders at any
     moment. I confess that I felt easier in my mind when, after following
     Holmes' example and slipping off my shoes, I found myself inside the
     bedroom. My companion noiselessly closed the shutters, moved the lamp
     onto the table, and cast his eyes round the room. All was as we had
     seen it in the daytime. Then creeping up to me and making a trumpet
     of his hand, he whispered into my ear again so gently that it was all
     that I could do to distinguish the words:

     "The least sound would be fatal to our plans."

     I nodded to show that I had heard.

     "We must sit without light. He would see it through the ventilator."

     I nodded again.

     "Do not go asleep; your very life may depend upon it. Have your
     pistol ready in case we should need it. I will sit on the side of the
     bed, and you in that chair."

     I took out my revolver and laid it on the corner of the table.

     Holmes had brought up a long thin cane, and this he placed upon the
     bed beside him. By it he laid the box of matches and the stump of a
     candle. Then he turned down the lamp, and we were left in darkness.

     How shall I ever forget that dreadful vigil? I could not hear a
     sound, not even the drawing of a breath, and yet I knew that my
     companion sat open-eyed, within a few feet of me, in the same state
     of nervous tension in which I was myself. The shutters cut off the
     least ray of light, and we waited in absolute darkness.

     From outside came the occasional cry of a night-bird, and once at our
     very window a long drawn catlike whine, which told us that the
     cheetah was indeed at liberty. Far away we could hear the deep tones
     of the parish clock, which boomed out every quarter of an hour. How
     long they seemed, those quarters! Twelve struck, and one and two and
     three, and still we sat waiting silently for whatever might befall.

     Suddenly there was the momentary gleam of a light up in the direction
     of the ventilator, which vanished immediately, but was succeeded by a
     strong smell of burning oil and heated metal. Someone in the next
     room had lit a dark-lantern. I heard a gentle sound of movement, and
     then all was silent once more, though the smell grew stronger. For
     half an hour I sat with straining ears. Then suddenly another sound
     became audible--a very gentle, soothing sound, like that of a small
     jet of steam escaping continually from a kettle. The instant that we
     heard it, Holmes sprang from the bed, struck a match, and lashed
     furiously with his cane at the bell-pull.

     "You see it, Watson?" he yelled. "You see it?"

     But I saw nothing. At the moment when Holmes struck the light I heard
     a low, clear whistle, but the sudden glare flashing into my weary
     eyes made it impossible for me to tell what it was at which my friend
     lashed so savagely. I could, however, see that his face was deadly
     pale and filled with horror and loathing. He had ceased to strike and
     was gazing up at the ventilator when suddenly there broke from the
     silence of the night the most horrible cry to which I have ever
     listened. It swelled up louder and louder, a hoarse yell of pain and
     fear and anger all mingled in the one dreadful shriek. They say that
     away down in the village, and even in the distant parsonage, that cry
     raised the sleepers from their beds. It struck cold to our hearts,
     and I stood gazing at Holmes, and he at me, until the last echoes of
     it had died away into the silence from which it rose.

     "What can it mean?" I gasped.

     "It means that it is all over," Holmes answered. "And perhaps, after
     all, it is for the best. Take your pistol, and we will enter Dr.
     Roylott's room."

     With a grave face he lit the lamp and led the way down the corridor.
     Twice he struck at the chamber door without any reply from within.
     Then he turned the handle and entered, I at his heels, with the
     cocked pistol in my hand.

     It was a singular sight which met our eyes. On the table stood a
     dark-lantern with the shutter half open, throwing a brilliant beam of
     light upon the iron safe, the door of which was ajar. Beside this
     table, on the wooden chair, sat Dr. Grimesby Roylott clad in a long
     grey dressing-gown, his bare ankles protruding beneath, and his feet
     thrust into red heelless Turkish slippers. Across his lap lay the
     short stock with the long lash which we had noticed during the day.
     His chin was cocked upward and his eyes were fixed in a dreadful,
     rigid stare at the corner of the ceiling. Round his brow he had a
     peculiar yellow band, with brownish speckles, which seemed to be
     bound tightly round his head. As we entered he made neither sound nor
     motion.

     "The band! the speckled band!" whispered Holmes.

     I took a step forward. In an instant his strange headgear began to
     move, and there reared itself from among his hair the squat
     diamond-shaped head and puffed neck of a loathsome serpent.

     "It is a swamp adder!" cried Holmes; "the deadliest snake in India.
     He has died within ten seconds of being bitten. Violence does, in
     truth, recoil upon the violent, and the schemer falls into the pit
     which he digs for another. Let us thrust this creature back into its
     den, and we can then remove Miss Stoner to some place of shelter and
     let the county police know what has happened."

     As he spoke he drew the dog-whip swiftly from the dead man's lap, and
     throwing the noose round the reptile's neck he drew it from its
     horrid perch and, carrying it at arm's length, threw it into the iron
     safe, which he closed upon it.

     Such are the true facts of the death of Dr. Grimesby Roylott, of
     Stoke Moran. It is not necessary that I should prolong a narrative
     which has already run to too great a length by telling how we broke
     the sad news to the terrified girl, how we conveyed her by the
     morning train to the care of her good aunt at Harrow, of how the slow
     process of official inquiry came to the conclusion that the doctor
     met his fate while indiscreetly playing with a dangerous pet. The
     little which I had yet to learn of the case was told me by Sherlock
     Holmes as we travelled back next day.

     "I had," said he, "come to an entirely erroneous conclusion which
     shows, my dear Watson, how dangerous it always is to reason from
     insufficient data. The presence of the gipsies, and the use of the
     word 'band,' which was used by the poor girl, no doubt, to explain
     the appearance which she had caught a hurried glimpse of by the light
     of her match, were sufficient to put me upon an entirely wrong scent.
     I can only claim the merit that I instantly reconsidered my position
     when, however, it became clear to me that whatever danger threatened
     an occupant of the room could not come either from the window or the
     door. My attention was speedily drawn, as I have already remarked to
     you, to this ventilator, and to the bell-rope which hung down to the
     bed. The discovery that this was a dummy, and that the bed was
     clamped to the floor, instantly gave rise to the suspicion that the
     rope was there as a bridge for something passing through the hole and
     coming to the bed. The idea of a snake instantly occurred to me, and
     when I coupled it with my knowledge that the doctor was furnished
     with a supply of creatures from India, I felt that I was probably on
     the right track. The idea of using a form of poison which could not
     possibly be discovered by any chemical test was just such a one as
     would occur to a clever and ruthless man who had had an Eastern
     training. The rapidity with which such a poison would take effect
     would also, from his point of view, be an advantage. It would be a
     sharp-eyed coroner, indeed, who could distinguish the two little dark
     punctures which would show where the poison fangs had done their
     work. Then I thought of the whistle. Of course he must recall the
     snake before the morning light revealed it to the victim. He had
     trained it, probably by the use of the milk which we saw, to return
     to him when summoned. He would put it through this ventilator at the
     hour that he thought best, with the certainty that it would crawl
     down the rope and land on the bed. It might or might not bite the
     occupant, perhaps she might escape every night for a week, but sooner
     or later she must fall a victim.

     "I had come to these conclusions before ever I had entered his room.
     An inspection of his chair showed me that he had been in the habit of
     standing on it, which of course would be necessary in order that he
     should reach the ventilator. The sight of the safe, the saucer of
     milk, and the loop of whipcord were enough to finally dispel any
     doubts which may have remained. The metallic clang heard by Miss
     Stoner was obviously caused by her stepfather hastily closing the
     door of his safe upon its terrible occupant. Having once made up my
     mind, you know the steps which I took in order to put the matter to
     the proof. I heard the creature hiss as I have no doubt that you did
     also, and I instantly lit the light and attacked it."

     "With the result of driving it through the ventilator."

     "And also with the result of causing it to turn upon its master at
     the other side. Some of the blows of my cane came home and roused its
     snakish temper, so that it flew upon the first person it saw. In this
     way I am no doubt indirectly responsible for Dr. Grimesby Roylott's
     death, and I cannot say that it is likely to weigh very heavily upon
     my conscience."






                      THE ADVENTURE OF THE ENGINEER'S THUMB

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

     "Excellent! You should have been a surgeon."

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

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

     "A thing like a cleaver," said he.

     "An accident, I presume?"

     "By no means."

     "What! a murderous attack?"

     "Very murderous indeed."

     "You horrify me."

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

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

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

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

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

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

     "Oh, I have heard of that fellow," answered my visitor, "and I should
     be very glad if he would take the matter up, though of course I must
     use the official police as well. Would you give me an introduction to
     him?"

     "I'll do better. I'll take you round to him myself."

     "I should be immensely obliged to you."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

     "You must know," said he, "that I am an orphan and a bachelor,
     residing alone in lodgings in London. By profession I am a hydraulic
     engineer, and I have had considerable experience of my work during
     the seven years that I was apprenticed to Venner & Matheson, the
     well-known firm, of Greenwich. Two years ago, having served my time,
     and having also come into a fair sum of money through my poor
     father's death, I determined to start in business for myself and took
     professional chambers in Victoria Street.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

     "'Yes, I promise.'

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

     "'I have already given you my word.'

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

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

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

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

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

     "'Most admirably.'

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

     "'The work appears to be light and the pay munificent.'

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

     "'Where to?'

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

     "'Very good.'

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

     "'There is a drive, then?'

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

     "'Then we can hardly get there before midnight. I suppose there would
     be no chance of a train back. I should be compelled to stop the
     night.'

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

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

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

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

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

     "'Entirely.'

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

     "'I have heard so.'

     "'Some little time ago I bought a small place--a very small
     place--within ten miles of Reading. I was fortunate enough to
     discover that there was a deposit of fuller's-earth in one of my
     fields. On examining it, however, I found that this deposit was a
     comparatively small one, and that it formed a link between two very
     much larger ones upon the right and left--both of them, however, in
     the grounds of my neighbours. These good people were absolutely
     ignorant that their land contained that which was quite as valuable
     as a gold-mine. Naturally, it was to my interest to buy their land
     before they discovered its true value, but unfortunately I had no
     capital by which I could do this. I took a few of my friends into the
     secret, however, and they suggested that we should quietly and
     secretly work our own little deposit and that in this way we should
     earn the money which would enable us to buy the neighbouring fields.
     This we have now been doing for some time, and in order to help us in
     our operations we erected a hydraulic press. This press, as I have
     already explained, has got out of order, and we wish your advice upon
     the subject. We guard our secret very jealously, however, and if it
     once became known that we had hydraulic engineers coming to our
     little house, it would soon rouse inquiry, and then, if the facts
     came out, it would be good-bye to any chance of getting these fields
     and carrying out our plans. That is why I have made you promise me
     that you will not tell a human being that you are going to Eyford
     to-night. I hope that I make it all plain?'

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

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

     "'I shall certainly be there.'

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

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

     "At Reading I had to change not only my carriage but my station.
     However, I was in time for the last train to Eyford, and I reached
     the little dim-lit station after eleven o'clock. I was the only
     passenger who got out there, and there was no one upon the platform
     save a single sleepy porter with a lantern. As I passed out through
     the wicket gate, however, I found my acquaintance of the morning
     waiting in the shadow upon the other side. Without a word he grasped
     my arm and hurried me into a carriage, the door of which was standing
     open. He drew up the windows on either side, tapped on the wood-work,
     and away we went as fast as the horse could go."

     "One horse?" interjected Holmes.

     "Yes, only one."

     "Did you observe the colour?"

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

     "Tired-looking or fresh?"

     "Oh, fresh and glossy."

     "Thank you. I am sorry to have interrupted you. Pray continue your
     most interesting statement."

     "Away we went then, and we drove for at least an hour. Colonel
     Lysander Stark had said that it was only seven miles, but I should
     think, from the rate that we seemed to go, and from the time that we
     took, that it must have been nearer twelve. He sat at my side in
     silence all the time, and I was aware, more than once when I glanced
     in his direction, that he was looking at me with great intensity. The
     country roads seem to be not very good in that part of the world, for
     we lurched and jolted terribly. I tried to look out of the windows to
     see something of where we were, but they were made of frosted glass,
     and I could make out nothing save the occasional bright blur of a
     passing light. Now and then I hazarded some remark to break the
     monotony of the journey, but the colonel answered only in
     monosyllables, and the conversation soon flagged. At last, however,
     the bumping of the road was exchanged for the crisp smoothness of a
     gravel-drive, and the carriage came to a stand. Colonel Lysander
     Stark sprang out, and, as I followed after him, pulled me swiftly
     into a porch which gaped in front of us. We stepped, as it were,
     right out of the carriage and into the hall, so that I failed to
     catch the most fleeting glance of the front of the house. The instant
     that I had crossed the threshold the door slammed heavily behind us,
     and I heard faintly the rattle of the wheels as the carriage drove
     away.

     "It was pitch dark inside the house, and the colonel fumbled about
     looking for matches and muttering under his breath. Suddenly a door
     opened at the other end of the passage, and a long, golden bar of
     light shot out in our direction. It grew broader, and a woman
     appeared with a lamp in her hand, which she held above her head,
     pushing her face forward and peering at us. I could see that she was
     pretty, and from the gloss with which the light shone upon her dark
     dress I knew that it was a rich material. She spoke a few words in a
     foreign tongue in a tone as though asking a question, and when my
     companion answered in a gruff monosyllable she gave such a start that
     the lamp nearly fell from her hand. Colonel Stark went up to her,
     whispered something in her ear, and then, pushing her back into the
     room from whence she had come, he walked towards me again with the
     lamp in his hand.

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

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

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

     "'I would go,' said she, trying hard, as it seemed to me, to speak
     calmly; 'I would go. I should not stay here. There is no good for you
     to do.'

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

     "I took the lamp from him, and I examined the machine very
     thoroughly. It was indeed a gigantic one, and capable of exercising
     enormous pressure. When I passed outside, however, and pressed down
     the levers which controlled it, I knew at once by the whishing sound
     that there was a slight leakage, which allowed a regurgitation of
     water through one of the side cylinders. An examination showed that
     one of the india-rubber bands which was round the head of a
     driving-rod had shrunk so as not quite to fill the socket along which
     it worked. This was clearly the cause of the loss of power, and I
     pointed it out to my companions, who followed my remarks very
     carefully and asked several practical questions as to how they should
     proceed to set it right. When I had made it clear to them, I returned
     to the main chamber of the machine and took a good look at it to
     satisfy my own curiosity. It was obvious at a glance that the story
     of the fuller's-earth was the merest fabrication, for it would be
     absurd to suppose that so powerful an engine could be designed for so
     inadequate a purpose. The walls were of wood, but the floor consisted
     of a large iron trough, and when I came to examine it I could see a
     crust of metallic deposit all over it. I had stooped and was scraping
     at this to see exactly what it was when I heard a muttered
     exclamation in German and saw the cadaverous face of the colonel
     looking down at me.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

     "'Lost, on the 9th inst., Mr. Jeremiah Hayling, aged twenty-six, a
     hydraulic engineer. Left his lodgings at ten o'clock at night, and
     has not been heard of since. Was dressed in--'

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

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

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

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

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

     "It was an hour's good drive."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

     "And I say east," said my patient.

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

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

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

     "You are all wrong."

     "But we can't all be."

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

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

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

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

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

     "We have known for some time that a clever gang was at work," said
     the inspector. "They have been turning out half-crowns by the
     thousand. We even traced them as far as Reading, but could get no
     farther, for they had covered their traces in a way that showed that
     they were very old hands. But now, thanks to this lucky chance, I
     think that we have got them right enough."

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

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

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

     "When did it break out?"

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

     "Whose house is it?"

     "Dr. Becher's."

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

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

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

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

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

     And Holmes' fears came to be realised, for from that day to this no
     word has ever been heard either of the beautiful woman, the sinister
     German, or the morose Englishman. Early that morning a peasant had
     met a cart containing several people and some very bulky boxes
     driving rapidly in the direction of Reading, but there all traces of
     the fugitives disappeared, and even Holmes' ingenuity failed ever to
     discover the least clue as to their whereabouts.

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

     How our hydraulic engineer had been conveyed from the garden to the
     spot where he recovered his senses might have remained forever a
     mystery were it not for the soft mould, which told us a very plain
     tale. He had evidently been carried down by two persons, one of whom
     had remarkably small feet and the other unusually large ones. On the
     whole, it was most probable that the silent Englishman, being less
     bold or less murderous than his companion, had assisted the woman to
     bear the unconscious man out of the way of danger.

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

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






                       THE ADVENTURE OF THE NOBLE BACHELOR

     The Lord St. Simon marriage, and its curious termination, have long
     ceased to be a subject of interest in those exalted circles in which
     the unfortunate bridegroom moves. Fresh scandals have eclipsed it,
     and their more piquant details have drawn the gossips away from this
     four-year-old drama. As I have reason to believe, however, that the
     full facts have never been revealed to the general public, and as my
     friend Sherlock Holmes had a considerable share in clearing the
     matter up, I feel that no memoir of him would be complete without
     some little sketch of this remarkable episode.

     It was a few weeks before my own marriage, during the days when I was
     still sharing rooms with Holmes in Baker Street, that he came home
     from an afternoon stroll to find a letter on the table waiting for
     him. I had remained indoors all day, for the weather had taken a
     sudden turn to rain, with high autumnal winds, and the Jezail bullet
     which I had brought back in one of my limbs as a relic of my Afghan
     campaign throbbed with dull persistence. With my body in one
     easy-chair and my legs upon another, I had surrounded myself with a
     cloud of newspapers until at last, saturated with the news of the
     day, I tossed them all aside and lay listless, watching the huge
     crest and monogram upon the envelope upon the table and wondering
     lazily who my friend's noble correspondent could be.

     "Here is a very fashionable epistle," I remarked as he entered. "Your
     morning letters, if I remember right, were from a fish-monger and a
     tide-waiter."

     "Yes, my correspondence has certainly the charm of variety," he
     answered, smiling, "and the humbler are usually the more interesting.
     This looks like one of those unwelcome social summonses which call
     upon a man either to be bored or to lie."

     He broke the seal and glanced over the contents.

     "Oh, come, it may prove to be something of interest, after all."

     "Not social, then?"

     "No, distinctly professional."

     "And from a noble client?"

     "One of the highest in England."

     "My dear fellow, I congratulate you."

     "I assure you, Watson, without affectation, that the status of my
     client is a matter of less moment to me than the interest of his
     case. It is just possible, however, that that also may not be wanting
     in this new investigation. You have been reading the papers
     diligently of late, have you not?"

     "It looks like it," said I ruefully, pointing to a huge bundle in the
     corner. "I have had nothing else to do."

     "It is fortunate, for you will perhaps be able to post me up. I read
     nothing except the criminal news and the agony column. The latter is
     always instructive. But if you have followed recent events so closely
     you must have read about Lord St. Simon and his wedding?"

     "Oh, yes, with the deepest interest."

     "That is well. The letter which I hold in my hand is from Lord St.
     Simon. I will read it to you, and in return you must turn over these
     papers and let me have whatever bears upon the matter. This is what
     he says:

     "'My dear Mr. Sherlock Holmes:
     "'Lord Backwater tells me that I may place implicit reliance upon
     your judgment and discretion. I have determined, therefore, to call
     upon you and to consult you in reference to the very painful event
     which has occurred in connection with my wedding. Mr. Lestrade, of
     Scotland Yard, is acting already in the matter, but he assures me
     that he sees no objection to your co-operation, and that he even
     thinks that it might be of some assistance. I will call at four
     o'clock in the afternoon, and, should you have any other engagement
     at that time, I hope that you will postpone it, as this matter is of
     paramount importance.
     "'Yours faithfully,
     "'St. Simon.'

     "It is dated from Grosvenor Mansions, written with a quill pen, and
     the noble lord has had the misfortune to get a smear of ink upon the
     outer side of his right little finger," remarked Holmes as he folded
     up the epistle.

     "He says four o'clock. It is three now. He will be here in an hour."

     "Then I have just time, with your assistance, to get clear upon the
     subject. Turn over those papers and arrange the extracts in their
     order of time, while I take a glance as to who our client is." He
     picked a red-covered volume from a line of books of reference beside
     the mantelpiece. "Here he is," said he, sitting down and flattening
     it out upon his knee. "'Lord Robert Walsingham de Vere St. Simon,
     second son of the Duke of Balmoral.' Hum! 'Arms: Azure, three
     caltrops in chief over a fess sable. Born in 1846.' He's forty-one
     years of age, which is mature for marriage. Was Under-Secretary for
     the colonies in a late administration. The Duke, his father, was at
     one time Secretary for Foreign Affairs. They inherit Plantagenet
     blood by direct descent, and Tudor on the distaff side. Ha! Well,
     there is nothing very instructive in all this. I think that I must
     turn to you Watson, for something more solid."

     "I have very little difficulty in finding what I want," said I, "for
     the facts are quite recent, and the matter struck me as remarkable. I
     feared to refer them to you, however, as I knew that you had an
     inquiry on hand and that you disliked the intrusion of other
     matters."

     "Oh, you mean the little problem of the Grosvenor Square furniture
     van. That is quite cleared up now--though, indeed, it was obvious
     from the first. Pray give me the results of your newspaper
     selections."

     "Here is the first notice which I can find. It is in the personal
     column of the Morning Post, and dates, as you see, some weeks back:

     "'A marriage has been arranged [it says] and will, if rumour is
     correct, very shortly take place, between Lord Robert St. Simon,
     second son of the Duke of Balmoral, and Miss Hatty Doran, the only
     daughter of Aloysius Doran. Esq., of San Francisco, Cal., U.S.A.'

     That is all."

     "Terse and to the point," remarked Holmes, stretching his long, thin
     legs towards the fire.

     "There was a paragraph amplifying this in one of the society papers
     of the same week. Ah, here it is:

     "'There will soon be a call for protection in the marriage market,
     for the present free-trade principle appears to tell heavily against
     our home product. One by one the management of the noble houses of
     Great Britain is passing into the hands of our fair cousins from
     across the Atlantic. An important addition has been made during the
     last week to the list of the prizes which have been borne away by
     these charming invaders. Lord St. Simon, who has shown himself for
     over twenty years proof against the little god's arrows, has now
     definitely announced his approaching marriage with Miss Hatty Doran,
     the fascinating daughter of a California millionaire. Miss Doran,
     whose graceful figure and striking face attracted much attention at
     the Westbury House festivities, is an only child, and it is currently
     reported that her dowry will run to considerably over the six
     figures, with expectancies for the future. As it is an open secret
     that the Duke of Balmoral has been compelled to sell his pictures
     within the last few years, and as Lord St. Simon has no property of
     his own save the small estate of Birchmoor, it is obvious that the
     Californian heiress is not the only gainer by an alliance which will
     enable her to make the easy and common transition from a Republican
     lady to a British peeress.'"

     "Anything else?" asked Holmes, yawning.

     "Oh, yes; plenty. Then there is another note in the Morning Post to
     say that the marriage would be an absolutely quiet one, that it would
     be at St. George's, Hanover Square, that only half a dozen intimate
     friends would be invited, and that the party would return to the
     furnished house at Lancaster Gate which has been taken by Mr.
     Aloysius Doran. Two days later--that is, on Wednesday last--there is
     a curt announcement that the wedding had taken place, and that the
     honeymoon would be passed at Lord Backwater's place, near
     Petersfield. Those are all the notices which appeared before the
     disappearance of the bride."

     "Before the what?" asked Holmes with a start.

     "The vanishing of the lady."

     "When did she vanish, then?"

     "At the wedding breakfast."

     "Indeed. This is more interesting than it promised to be; quite
     dramatic, in fact."

     "Yes; it struck me as being a little out of the common."

     "They often vanish before the ceremony, and occasionally during the
     honeymoon; but I cannot call to mind anything quite so prompt as
     this. Pray let me have the details."

     "I warn you that they are very incomplete."

     "Perhaps we may make them less so."

     "Such as they are, they are set forth in a single article of a
     morning paper of yesterday, which I will read to you. It is headed,
     'Singular Occurrence at a Fashionable Wedding':

     "'The family of Lord Robert St. Simon has been thrown into the
     greatest consternation by the strange and painful episodes which have
     taken place in connection with his wedding. The ceremony, as shortly
     announced in the papers of yesterday, occurred on the previous
     morning; but it is only now that it has been possible to confirm the
     strange rumours which have been so persistently floating about. In
     spite of the attempts of the friends to hush the matter up, so much
     public attention has now been drawn to it that no good purpose can be
     served by affecting to disregard what is a common subject for
     conversation.
     "'The ceremony, which was performed at St. George's, Hanover Square,
     was a very quiet one, no one being present save the father of the
     bride, Mr. Aloysius Doran, the Duchess of Balmoral, Lord Backwater,
     Lord Eustace and Lady Clara St. Simon (the younger brother and sister
     of the bridegroom), and Lady Alicia Whittington. The whole party
     proceeded afterwards to the house of Mr. Aloysius Doran, at Lancaster
     Gate, where breakfast had been prepared. It appears that some little
     trouble was caused by a woman, whose name has not been ascertained,
     who endeavoured to force her way into the house after the bridal
     party, alleging that she had some claim upon Lord St. Simon. It was
     only after a painful and prolonged scene that she was ejected by the
     butler and the footman. The bride, who had fortunately entered the
     house before this unpleasant interruption, had sat down to breakfast
     with the rest, when she complained of a sudden indisposition and
     retired to her room. Her prolonged absence having caused some
     comment, her father followed her, but learned from her maid that she
     had only come up to her chamber for an instant, caught up an ulster
     and bonnet, and hurried down to the passage. One of the footmen
     declared that he had seen a lady leave the house thus apparelled, but
     had refused to credit that it was his mistress, believing her to be
     with the company. On ascertaining that his daughter had disappeared,
     Mr. Aloysius Doran, in conjunction with the bridegroom, instantly put
     themselves in communication with the police, and very energetic
     inquiries are being made, which will probably result in a speedy
     clearing up of this very singular business. Up to a late hour last
     night, however, nothing had transpired as to the whereabouts of the
     missing lady. There are rumours of foul play in the matter, and it is
     said that the police have caused the arrest of the woman who had
     caused the original disturbance, in the belief that, from jealousy or
     some other motive, she may have been concerned in the strange
     disappearance of the bride.'"

     "And is that all?"

     "Only one little item in another of the morning papers, but it is a
     suggestive one."

     "And it is--"

     "That Miss Flora Millar, the lady who had caused the disturbance, has
     actually been arrested. It appears that she was formerly a danseuse
     at the Allegro, and that she has known the bridegroom for some years.
     There are no further particulars, and the whole case is in your hands
     now--so far as it has been set forth in the public press."

     "And an exceedingly interesting case it appears to be. I would not
     have missed it for worlds. But there is a ring at the bell, Watson,
     and as the clock makes it a few minutes after four, I have no doubt
     that this will prove to be our noble client. Do not dream of going,
     Watson, for I very much prefer having a witness, if only as a check
     to my own memory."

     "Lord Robert St. Simon," announced our page-boy, throwing open the
     door. A gentleman entered, with a pleasant, cultured face, high-nosed
     and pale, with something perhaps of petulance about the mouth, and
     with the steady, well-opened eye of a man whose pleasant lot it had
     ever been to command and to be obeyed. His manner was brisk, and yet
     his general appearance gave an undue impression of age, for he had a
     slight forward stoop and a little bend of the knees as he walked. His
     hair, too, as he swept off his very curly-brimmed hat, was grizzled
     round the edges and thin upon the top. As to his dress, it was
     careful to the verge of foppishness, with high collar, black
     frock-coat, white waistcoat, yellow gloves, patent-leather shoes, and
     light-coloured gaiters. He advanced slowly into the room, turning his
     head from left to right, and swinging in his right hand the cord
     which held his golden eyeglasses.

     "Good-day, Lord St. Simon," said Holmes, rising and bowing. "Pray
     take the basket-chair. This is my friend and colleague, Dr. Watson.
     Draw up a little to the fire, and we will talk this matter over."

     "A most painful matter to me, as you can most readily imagine, Mr.
     Holmes. I have been cut to the quick. I understand that you have
     already managed several delicate cases of this sort, sir, though I
     presume that they were hardly from the same class of society."

     "No, I am descending."

     "I beg pardon."

     "My last client of the sort was a king."

     "Oh, really! I had no idea. And which king?"

     "The King of Scandinavia."

     "What! Had he lost his wife?"

     "You can understand," said Holmes suavely, "that I extend to the
     affairs of my other clients the same secrecy which I promise to you
     in yours."

     "Of course! Very right! very right! I'm sure I beg pardon. As to my
     own case, I am ready to give you any information which may assist you
     in forming an opinion."

     "Thank you. I have already learned all that is in the public prints,
     nothing more. I presume that I may take it as correct--this article,
     for example, as to the disappearance of the bride."

     Lord St. Simon glanced over it. "Yes, it is correct, as far as it
     goes."

     "But it needs a great deal of supplementing before anyone could offer
     an opinion. I think that I may arrive at my facts most directly by
     questioning you."

     "Pray do so."

     "When did you first meet Miss Hatty Doran?"

     "In San Francisco, a year ago."

     "You were travelling in the States?"

     "Yes."

     "Did you become engaged then?"

     "No."

     "But you were on a friendly footing?"

     "I was amused by her society, and she could see that I was amused."

     "Her father is very rich?"

     "He is said to be the richest man on the Pacific slope."

     "And how did he make his money?"

     "In mining. He had nothing a few years ago. Then he struck gold,
     invested it, and came up by leaps and bounds."

     "Now, what is your own impression as to the young lady's--your wife's
     character?"

     The nobleman swung his glasses a little faster and stared down into
     the fire. "You see, Mr. Holmes," said he, "my wife was twenty before
     her father became a rich man. During that time she ran free in a
     mining camp and wandered through woods or mountains, so that her
     education has come from Nature rather than from the schoolmaster. She
     is what we call in England a tomboy, with a strong nature, wild and
     free, unfettered by any sort of traditions. She is
     impetuous--volcanic, I was about to say. She is swift in making up
     her mind and fearless in carrying out her resolutions. On the other
     hand, I would not have given her the name which I have the honour to
     bear"--he gave a little stately cough--"had not I thought her to be
     at bottom a noble woman. I believe that she is capable of heroic
     self-sacrifice and that anything dishonourable would be repugnant to
     her."

     "Have you her photograph?"

     "I brought this with me." He opened a locket and showed us the full
     face of a very lovely woman. It was not a photograph but an ivory
     miniature, and the artist had brought out the full effect of the
     lustrous black hair, the large dark eyes, and the exquisite mouth.
     Holmes gazed long and earnestly at it. Then he closed the locket and
     handed it back to Lord St. Simon.

     "The young lady came to London, then, and you renewed your
     acquaintance?"

     "Yes, her father brought her over for this last London season. I met
     her several times, became engaged to her, and have now married her."

     "She brought, I understand, a considerable dowry?"

     "A fair dowry. Not more than is usual in my family."

     "And this, of course, remains to you, since the marriage is a fait
     accompli?"

     "I really have made no inquiries on the subject."

     "Very naturally not. Did you see Miss Doran on the day before the
     wedding?"

     "Yes."

     "Was she in good spirits?"

     "Never better. She kept talking of what we should do in our future
     lives."

     "Indeed! That is very interesting. And on the morning of the
     wedding?"

     "She was as bright as possible--at least until after the ceremony."

     "And did you observe any change in her then?"

     "Well, to tell the truth, I saw then the first signs that I had ever
     seen that her temper was just a little sharp. The incident however,
     was too trivial to relate and can have no possible bearing upon the
     case."

     "Pray let us have it, for all that."

     "Oh, it is childish. She dropped her bouquet as we went towards the
     vestry. She was passing the front pew at the time, and it fell over
     into the pew. There was a moment's delay, but the gentleman in the
     pew handed it up to her again, and it did not appear to be the worse
     for the fall. Yet when I spoke to her of the matter, she answered me
     abruptly; and in the carriage, on our way home, she seemed absurdly
     agitated over this trifling cause."

     "Indeed! You say that there was a gentleman in the pew. Some of the
     general public were present, then?"

     "Oh, yes. It is impossible to exclude them when the church is open."

     "This gentleman was not one of your wife's friends?"

     "No, no; I call him a gentleman by courtesy, but he was quite a
     common-looking person. I hardly noticed his appearance. But really I
     think that we are wandering rather far from the point."

     "Lady St. Simon, then, returned from the wedding in a less cheerful
     frame of mind than she had gone to it. What did she do on re-entering
     her father's house?"

     "I saw her in conversation with her maid."

     "And who is her maid?"

     "Alice is her name. She is an American and came from California with
     her."

     "A confidential servant?"

     "A little too much so. It seemed to me that her mistress allowed her
     to take great liberties. Still, of course, in America they look upon
     these things in a different way."

     "How long did she speak to this Alice?"

     "Oh, a few minutes. I had something else to think of."

     "You did not overhear what they said?"

     "Lady St. Simon said something about 'jumping a claim.' She was
     accustomed to use slang of the kind. I have no idea what she meant."

     "American slang is very expressive sometimes. And what did your wife
     do when she finished speaking to her maid?"

     "She walked into the breakfast-room."

     "On your arm?"

     "No, alone. She was very independent in little matters like that.
     Then, after we had sat down for ten minutes or so, she rose
     hurriedly, muttered some words of apology, and left the room. She
     never came back."

     "But this maid, Alice, as I understand, deposes that she went to her
     room, covered her bride's dress with a long ulster, put on a bonnet,
     and went out."

     "Quite so. And she was afterwards seen walking into Hyde Park in
     company with Flora Millar, a woman who is now in custody, and who had
     already made a disturbance at Mr. Doran's house that morning."

     "Ah, yes. I should like a few particulars as to this young lady, and
     your relations to her."

     Lord St. Simon shrugged his shoulders and raised his eyebrows. "We
     have been on a friendly footing for some years--I may say on a very
     friendly footing. She used to be at the Allegro. I have not treated
     her ungenerously, and she had no just cause of complaint against me,
     but you know what women are, Mr. Holmes. Flora was a dear little
     thing, but exceedingly hot-headed and devotedly attached to me. She
     wrote me dreadful letters when she heard that I was about to be
     married, and, to tell the truth, the reason why I had the marriage
     celebrated so quietly was that I feared lest there might be a scandal
     in the church. She came to Mr. Doran's door just after we returned,
     and she endeavoured to push her way in, uttering very abusive
     expressions towards my wife, and even threatening her, but I had
     foreseen the possibility of something of the sort, and I had two
     police fellows there in private clothes, who soon pushed her out
     again. She was quiet when she saw that there was no good in making a
     row."

     "Did your wife hear all this?"

     "No, thank goodness, she did not."

     "And she was seen walking with this very woman afterwards?"

     "Yes. That is what Mr. Lestrade, of Scotland Yard, looks upon as so
     serious. It is thought that Flora decoyed my wife out and laid some
     terrible trap for her."

     "Well, it is a possible supposition."

     "You think so, too?"

     "I did not say a probable one. But you do not yourself look upon this
     as likely?"

     "I do not think Flora would hurt a fly."

     "Still, jealousy is a strange transformer of characters. Pray what is
     your own theory as to what took place?"

     "Well, really, I came to seek a theory, not to propound one. I have
     given you all the facts. Since you ask me, however, I may say that it
     has occurred to me as possible that the excitement of this affair,
     the consciousness that she had made so immense a social stride, had
     the effect of causing some little nervous disturbance in my wife."

     "In short, that she had become suddenly deranged?"

     "Well, really, when I consider that she has turned her back--I will
     not say upon me, but upon so much that many have aspired to without
     success--I can hardly explain it in any other fashion."

     "Well, certainly that is also a conceivable hypothesis," said Holmes,
     smiling. "And now, Lord St. Simon, I think that I have nearly all my
     data. May I ask whether you were seated at the breakfast-table so
     that you could see out of the window?"

     "We could see the other side of the road and the Park."

     "Quite so. Then I do not think that I need to detain you longer. I
     shall communicate with you."

     "Should you be fortunate enough to solve this problem," said our
     client, rising.

     "I have solved it."

     "Eh? What was that?"

     "I say that I have solved it."

     "Where, then, is my wife?"

     "That is a detail which I shall speedily supply."

     Lord St. Simon shook his head. "I am afraid that it will take wiser
     heads than yours or mine," he remarked, and bowing in a stately,
     old-fashioned manner he departed.

     "It is very good of Lord St. Simon to honour my head by putting it on
     a level with his own," said Sherlock Holmes, laughing. "I think that
     I shall have a whisky and soda and a cigar after all this
     cross-questioning. I had formed my conclusions as to the case before
     our client came into the room."

     "My dear Holmes!"

     "I have notes of several similar cases, though none, as I remarked
     before, which were quite as prompt. My whole examination served to
     turn my conjecture into a certainty. Circumstantial evidence is
     occasionally very convincing, as when you find a trout in the milk,
     to quote Thoreau's example."

     "But I have heard all that you have heard."

     "Without, however, the knowledge of pre-existing cases which serves
     me so well. There was a parallel instance in Aberdeen some years
     back, and something on very much the same lines at Munich the year
     after the Franco-Prussian War. It is one of these cases--but, hullo,
     here is Lestrade! Good-afternoon, Lestrade! You will find an extra
     tumbler upon the sideboard, and there are cigars in the box."

     The official detective was attired in a pea-jacket and cravat, which
     gave him a decidedly nautical appearance, and he carried a black
     canvas bag in his hand. With a short greeting he seated himself and
     lit the cigar which had been offered to him.

     "What's up, then?" asked Holmes with a twinkle in his eye. "You look
     dissatisfied."

     "And I feel dissatisfied. It is this infernal St. Simon marriage
     case. I can make neither head nor tail of the business."

     "Really! You surprise me."

     "Who ever heard of such a mixed affair? Every clue seems to slip
     through my fingers. I have been at work upon it all day."

     "And very wet it seems to have made you," said Holmes laying his hand
     upon the arm of the pea-jacket.

     "Yes, I have been dragging the Serpentine."

     "In heaven's name, what for?"

     "In search of the body of Lady St. Simon."

     Sherlock Holmes leaned back in his chair and laughed heartily.

     "Have you dragged the basin of Trafalgar Square fountain?" he asked.

     "Why? What do you mean?"

     "Because you have just as good a chance of finding this lady in the
     one as in the other."

     Lestrade shot an angry glance at my companion. "I suppose you know
     all about it," he snarled.

     "Well, I have only just heard the facts, but my mind is made up."

     "Oh, indeed! Then you think that the Serpentine plays no part in the
     matter?"

     "I think it very unlikely."

     "Then perhaps you will kindly explain how it is that we found this in
     it?" He opened his bag as he spoke, and tumbled onto the floor a
     wedding-dress of watered silk, a pair of white satin shoes and a
     bride's wreath and veil, all discoloured and soaked in water.
     "There," said he, putting a new wedding-ring upon the top of the
     pile. "There is a little nut for you to crack, Master Holmes."

     "Oh, indeed!" said my friend, blowing blue rings into the air.  "You
     dragged them from the Serpentine?"

     "No. They were found floating near the margin by a park-keeper. They
     have been identified as her clothes, and it seemed to me that if the
     clothes were there the body would not be far off."

     "By the same brilliant reasoning, every man's body is to be found in
     the neighbourhood of his wardrobe. And pray what did you hope to
     arrive at through this?"

     "At some evidence implicating Flora Millar in the disappearance."

     "I am afraid that you will find it difficult."

     "Are you, indeed, now?" cried Lestrade with some bitterness. "I am
     afraid, Holmes, that you are not very practical with your deductions
     and your inferences. You have made two blunders in as many minutes.
     This dress does implicate Miss Flora Millar."

     "And how?"

     "In the dress is a pocket. In the pocket is a card-case. In the
     card-case is a note. And here is the very note." He slapped it down
     upon the table in front of him. "Listen to this:

     "'You will see me when all is ready. Come at once.
     "'F.H.M.'

     Now my theory all along has been that Lady St. Simon was decoyed away
     by Flora Millar, and that she, with confederates, no doubt, was
     responsible for her disappearance. Here, signed with her initials, is
     the very note which was no doubt quietly slipped into her hand at the
     door and which lured her within their reach."

     "Very good, Lestrade," said Holmes, laughing. "You really are very
     fine indeed. Let me see it." He took up the paper in a listless way,
     but his attention instantly became riveted, and he gave a little cry
     of satisfaction. "This is indeed important," said he.

     "Ha! you find it so?"

     "Extremely so. I congratulate you warmly."

     Lestrade rose in his triumph and bent his head to look. "Why," he
     shrieked, "you're looking at the wrong side!"

     "On the contrary, this is the right side."

     "The right side? You're mad! Here is the note written in pencil over
     here."

     "And over here is what appears to be the fragment of a hotel bill,
     which interests me deeply."

     "There's nothing in it. I looked at it before," said Lestrade.

     "'Oct. 4th, rooms 8s., breakfast 2s. 6d., cocktail 1s., lunch 2s.
     6d., glass sherry, 8d.' I see nothing in that."

     "Very likely not. It is most important, all the same. As to the note,
     it is important also, or at least the initials are, so I congratulate
     you again."

     "I've wasted time enough," said Lestrade, rising. "I believe in hard
     work and not in sitting by the fire spinning fine theories. Good-day,
     Mr. Holmes, and we shall see which gets to the bottom of the matter
     first." He gathered up the garments, thrust them into the bag, and
     made for the door.

     "Just one hint to you, Lestrade," drawled Holmes before his rival
     vanished; "I will tell you the true solution of the matter. Lady St.
     Simon is a myth. There is not, and there never has been, any such
     person."

     Lestrade looked sadly at my companion. Then he turned to me, tapped
     his forehead three times, shook his head solemnly, and hurried away.

     He had hardly shut the door behind him when Holmes rose to put on his
     overcoat. "There is something in what the fellow says about outdoor
     work," he remarked, "so I think, Watson, that I must leave you to
     your papers for a little."

     It was after five o'clock when Sherlock Holmes left me, but I had no
     time to be lonely, for within an hour there arrived a confectioner's
     man with a very large flat box. This he unpacked with the help of a
     youth whom he had brought with him, and presently, to my very great
     astonishment, a quite epicurean little cold supper began to be laid
     out upon our humble lodging-house mahogany. There were a couple of
     brace of cold woodcock, a pheasant, a pâté de foie gras pie with a
     group of ancient and cobwebby bottles. Having laid out all these
     luxuries, my two visitors vanished away, like the genii of the
     Arabian Nights, with no explanation save that the things had been
     paid for and were ordered to this address.

     Just before nine o'clock Sherlock Holmes stepped briskly into the
     room. His features were gravely set, but there was a light in his eye
     which made me think that he had not been disappointed in his
     conclusions.

     "They have laid the supper, then," he said, rubbing his hands.

     "You seem to expect company. They have laid for five."

     "Yes, I fancy we may have some company dropping in," said he. "I am
     surprised that Lord St. Simon has not already arrived. Ha! I fancy
     that I hear his step now upon the stairs."

     It was indeed our visitor of the afternoon who came bustling in,
     dangling his glasses more vigorously than ever, and with a very
     perturbed expression upon his aristocratic features.

     "My messenger reached you, then?" asked Holmes.

     "Yes, and I confess that the contents startled me beyond measure.
     Have you good authority for what you say?" 

     "The best possible."

     Lord St. Simon sank into a chair and passed his hand over his
     forehead.

     "What will the Duke say," he murmured, "when he hears that one of the
     family has been subjected to such humiliation?"

     "It is the purest accident. I cannot allow that there is any
     humiliation."

     "Ah, you look on these things from another standpoint."

     "I fail to see that anyone is to blame. I can hardly see how the lady
     could have acted otherwise, though her abrupt method of doing it was
     undoubtedly to be regretted. Having no mother, she had no one to
     advise her at such a crisis."

     "It was a slight, sir, a public slight," said Lord St. Simon, tapping
     his fingers upon the table.

     "You must make allowance for this poor girl, placed in so
     unprecedented a position."

     "I will make no allowance. I am very angry indeed, and I have been
     shamefully used."

     "I think that I heard a ring," said Holmes. "Yes, there are steps on
     the landing. If I cannot persuade you to take a lenient view of the
     matter, Lord St. Simon, I have brought an advocate here who may be
     more successful." He opened the door and ushered in a lady and
     gentleman. "Lord St. Simon," said he "allow me to introduce you to
     Mr. and Mrs. Francis Hay Moulton. The lady, I think, you have already
     met."

     At the sight of these newcomers our client had sprung from his seat
     and stood very erect, with his eyes cast down and his hand thrust
     into the breast of his frock-coat, a picture of offended dignity. The
     lady had taken a quick step forward and had held out her hand to him,
     but he still refused to raise his eyes. It was as well for his
     resolution, perhaps, for her pleading face was one which it was hard
     to resist.

     "You're angry, Robert," said she. "Well, I guess you have every cause
     to be."

     "Pray make no apology to me," said Lord St. Simon bitterly.

     "Oh, yes, I know that I have treated you real bad and that I should
     have spoken to you before I went; but I was kind of rattled, and from
     the time when I saw Frank here again I just didn't know what I was
     doing or saying. I only wonder I didn't fall down and do a faint
     right there before the altar."

     "Perhaps, Mrs. Moulton, you would like my friend and me to leave the
     room while you explain this matter?"

     "If I may give an opinion," remarked the strange gentleman, "we've
     had just a little too much secrecy over this business already. For my
     part, I should like all Europe and America to hear the rights of it."
     He was a small, wiry, sunburnt man, clean-shaven, with a sharp face
     and alert manner.

     "Then I'll tell our story right away," said the lady. "Frank here and
     I met in '84, in McQuire's camp, near the Rockies, where pa was
     working a claim. We were engaged to each other, Frank and I; but then
     one day father struck a rich pocket and made a pile, while poor Frank
     here had a claim that petered out and came to nothing. The richer pa
     grew the poorer was Frank; so at last pa wouldn't hear of our
     engagement lasting any longer, and he took me away to 'Frisco. Frank
     wouldn't throw up his hand, though; so he followed me there, and he
     saw me without pa knowing anything about it. It would only have made
     him mad to know, so we just fixed it all up for ourselves. Frank said
     that he would go and make his pile, too, and never come back to claim
     me until he had as much as pa. So then I promised to wait for him to
     the end of time and pledged myself not to marry anyone else while he
     lived. 'Why shouldn't we be married right away, then,' said he, 'and
     then I will feel sure of you; and I won't claim to be your husband
     until I come back?' Well, we talked it over, and he had fixed it all
     up so nicely, with a clergyman all ready in waiting, that we just did
     it right there; and then Frank went off to seek his fortune, and I
     went back to pa.

     "The next I heard of Frank was that he was in Montana, and then he
     went prospecting in Arizona, and then I heard of him from New Mexico.
     After that came a long newspaper story about how a miners' camp had
     been attacked by Apache Indians, and there was my Frank's name among
     the killed. I fainted dead away, and I was very sick for months
     after. Pa thought I had a decline and took me to half the doctors in
     'Frisco. Not a word of news came for a year and more, so that I never
     doubted that Frank was really dead. Then Lord St. Simon came to
     'Frisco, and we came to London, and a marriage was arranged, and pa
     was very pleased, but I felt all the time that no man on this earth
     would ever take the place in my heart that had been given to my poor
     Frank.

     "Still, if I had married Lord St. Simon, of course I'd have done my
     duty by him. We can't command our love, but we can our actions. I
     went to the altar with him with the intention to make him just as
     good a wife as it was in me to be. But you may imagine what I felt
     when, just as I came to the altar rails, I glanced back and saw Frank
     standing and looking at me out of the first pew. I thought it was his
     ghost at first; but when I looked again there he was still, with a
     kind of question in his eyes, as if to ask me whether I were glad or
     sorry to see him. I wonder I didn't drop. I know that everything was
     turning round, and the words of the clergyman were just like the buzz
     of a bee in my ear. I didn't know what to do. Should I stop the
     service and make a scene in the church? I glanced at him again, and
     he seemed to know what I was thinking, for he raised his finger to
     his lips to tell me to be still. Then I saw him scribble on a piece
     of paper, and I knew that he was writing me a note. As I passed his
     pew on the way out I dropped my bouquet over to him, and he slipped
     the note into my hand when he returned me the flowers. It was only a
     line asking me to join him when he made the sign to me to do so. Of
     course I never doubted for a moment that my first duty was now to
     him, and I determined to do just whatever he might direct.

     "When I got back I told my maid, who had known him in California, and
     had always been his friend. I ordered her to say nothing, but to get
     a few things packed and my ulster ready. I know I ought to have
     spoken to Lord St. Simon, but it was dreadful hard before his mother
     and all those great people. I just made up my mind to run away and
     explain afterwards. I hadn't been at the table ten minutes before I
     saw Frank out of the window at the other side of the road. He
     beckoned to me and then began walking into the Park. I slipped out,
     put on my things, and followed him. Some woman came talking something
     or other about Lord St. Simon to me--seemed to me from the little I
     heard as if he had a little secret of his own before marriage
     also--but I managed to get away from her and soon overtook Frank. We
     got into a cab together, and away we drove to some lodgings he had
     taken in Gordon Square, and that was my true wedding after all those
     years of waiting. Frank had been a prisoner among the Apaches, had
     escaped, came on to 'Frisco, found that I had given him up for dead
     and had gone to England, followed me there, and had come upon me at
     last on the very morning of my second wedding."

     "I saw it in a paper," explained the American. "It gave the name and
     the church but not where the lady lived."

     "Then we had a talk as to what we should do, and Frank was all for
     openness, but I was so ashamed of it all that I felt as if I should
     like to vanish away and never see any of them again--just sending a
     line to pa, perhaps, to show him that I was alive. It was awful to me
     to think of all those lords and ladies sitting round that
     breakfast-table and waiting for me to come back. So Frank took my
     wedding-clothes and things and made a bundle of them, so that I
     should not be traced, and dropped them away somewhere where no one
     could find them. It is likely that we should have gone on to Paris
     to-morrow, only that this good gentleman, Mr. Holmes, came round to
     us this evening, though how he found us is more than I can think, and
     he showed us very clearly and kindly that I was wrong and that Frank
     was right, and that we should be putting ourselves in the wrong if we
     were so secret. Then he offered to give us a chance of talking to
     Lord St. Simon alone, and so we came right away round to his rooms at
     once. Now, Robert, you have heard it all, and I am very sorry if I
     have given you pain, and I hope that you do not think very meanly of
     me."

     Lord St. Simon had by no means relaxed his rigid attitude, but had
     listened with a frowning brow and a compressed lip to this long
     narrative.

     "Excuse me," he said, "but it is not my custom to discuss my most
     intimate personal affairs in this public manner."

     "Then you won't forgive me? You won't shake hands before I go?"

     "Oh, certainly, if it would give you any pleasure." He put out his
     hand and coldly grasped that which she extended to him.

     "I had hoped," suggested Holmes, "that you would have joined us in a
     friendly supper."

     "I think that there you ask a little too much," responded his
     Lordship. "I may be forced to acquiesce in these recent developments,
     but I can hardly be expected to make merry over them. I think that
     with your permission I will now wish you all a very good-night." He
     included us all in a sweeping bow and stalked out of the room.

     "Then I trust that you at least will honour me with your company,"
     said Sherlock Holmes. "It is always a joy to meet an American, Mr.
     Moulton, for I am one of those who believe that the folly of a
     monarch and the blundering of a minister in far-gone years will not
     prevent our children from being some day citizens of the same
     world-wide country under a flag which shall be a quartering of the
     Union Jack with the Stars and Stripes."

     "The case has been an interesting one," remarked Holmes when our
     visitors had left us, "because it serves to show very clearly how
     simple the explanation may be of an affair which at first sight seems
     to be almost inexplicable. Nothing could be more natural than the
     sequence of events as narrated by this lady, and nothing stranger
     than the result when viewed, for instance, by Mr. Lestrade of
     Scotland Yard."

     "You were not yourself at fault at all, then?"

     "From the first, two facts were very obvious to me, the one that the
     lady had been quite willing to undergo the wedding ceremony, the
     other that she had repented of it within a few minutes of returning
     home. Obviously something had occurred during the morning, then, to
     cause her to change her mind. What could that something be? She could
     not have spoken to anyone when she was out, for she had been in the
     company of the bridegroom. Had she seen someone, then? If she had, it
     must be someone from America because she had spent so short a time in
     this country that she could hardly have allowed anyone to acquire so
     deep an influence over her that the mere sight of him would induce
     her to change her plans so completely. You see we have already
     arrived, by a process of exclusion, at the idea that she might have
     seen an American. Then who could this American be, and why should he
     possess so much influence over her? It might be a lover; it might be
     a husband. Her young womanhood had, I knew, been spent in rough
     scenes and under strange conditions. So far I had got before I ever
     heard Lord St. Simon's narrative. When he told us of a man in a pew,
     of the change in the bride's manner, of so transparent a device for
     obtaining a note as the dropping of a bouquet, of her resort to her
     confidential maid, and of her very significant allusion to
     claim-jumping--which in miners' parlance means taking possession of
     that which another person has a prior claim to--the whole situation
     became absolutely clear. She had gone off with a man, and the man was
     either a lover or was a previous husband--the chances being in favour
     of the latter."

     "And how in the world did you find them?"

     "It might have been difficult, but friend Lestrade held information
     in his hands the value of which he did not himself know. The initials
     were, of course, of the highest importance, but more valuable still
     was it to know that within a week he had settled his bill at one of
     the most select London hotels."

     "How did you deduce the select?"

     "By the select prices. Eight shillings for a bed and eightpence for a
     glass of sherry pointed to one of the most expensive hotels. There
     are not many in London which charge at that rate. In the second one
     which I visited in Northumberland Avenue, I learned by an inspection
     of the book that Francis H. Moulton, an American gentleman, had left
     only the day before, and on looking over the entries against him, I
     came upon the very items which I had seen in the duplicate bill. His
     letters were to be forwarded to 226 Gordon Square; so thither I
     travelled, and being fortunate enough to find the loving couple at
     home, I ventured to give them some paternal advice and to point out
     to them that it would be better in every way that they should make
     their position a little clearer both to the general public and to
     Lord St. Simon in particular. I invited them to meet him here, and,
     as you see, I made him keep the appointment."

     "But with no very good result," I remarked. "His conduct was
     certainly not very gracious."

     "Ah, Watson," said Holmes, smiling, "perhaps you would not be very
     gracious either, if, after all the trouble of wooing and wedding, you
     found yourself deprived in an instant of wife and of fortune. I think
     that we may judge Lord St. Simon very mercifully and thank our stars
     that we are never likely to find ourselves in the same position. Draw
     your chair up and hand me my violin, for the only problem we have
     still to solve is how to while away these bleak autumnal evenings."






                       THE ADVENTURE OF THE BERYL CORONET

     "Holmes," said I as I stood one morning in our bow-window looking
     down the street, "here is a madman coming along. It seems rather sad
     that his relatives should allow him to come out alone."

     My friend rose lazily from his armchair and stood with his hands in
     the pockets of his dressing-gown, looking over my shoulder. It was a
     bright, crisp February morning, and the snow of the day before still
     lay deep upon the ground, shimmering brightly in the wintry sun. Down
     the centre of Baker Street it had been ploughed into a brown crumbly
     band by the traffic, but at either side and on the heaped-up edges of
     the foot-paths it still lay as white as when it fell. The grey
     pavement had been cleaned and scraped, but was still dangerously
     slippery, so that there were fewer passengers than usual. Indeed,
     from the direction of the Metropolitan Station no one was coming save
     the single gentleman whose eccentric conduct had drawn my attention.

     He was a man of about fifty, tall, portly, and imposing, with a
     massive, strongly marked face and a commanding figure. He was dressed
     in a sombre yet rich style, in black frock-coat, shining hat, neat
     brown gaiters, and well-cut pearl-grey trousers. Yet his actions were
     in absurd contrast to the dignity of his dress and features, for he
     was running hard, with occasional little springs, such as a weary man
     gives who is little accustomed to set any tax upon his legs. As he
     ran he jerked his hands up and down, waggled his head, and writhed
     his face into the most extraordinary contortions.

     "What on earth can be the matter with him?" I asked. "He is looking
     up at the numbers of the houses."

     "I believe that he is coming here," said Holmes, rubbing his hands.

     "Here?"

     "Yes; I rather think he is coming to consult me professionally. I
     think that I recognise the symptoms. Ha! did I not tell you?" As he
     spoke, the man, puffing and blowing, rushed at our door and pulled at
     our bell until the whole house resounded with the clanging.

     A few moments later he was in our room, still puffing, still
     gesticulating, but with so fixed a look of grief and despair in his
     eyes that our smiles were turned in an instant to horror and pity.
     For a while he could not get his words out, but swayed his body and
     plucked at his hair like one who has been driven to the extreme
     limits of his reason. Then, suddenly springing to his feet, he beat
     his head against the wall with such force that we both rushed upon
     him and tore him away to the centre of the room. Sherlock Holmes
     pushed him down into the easy-chair and, sitting beside him, patted
     his hand and chatted with him in the easy, soothing tones which he
     knew so well how to employ.

     "You have come to me to tell your story, have you not?" said he. "You
     are fatigued with your haste. Pray wait until you have recovered
     yourself, and then I shall be most happy to look into any little
     problem which you may submit to me."

     The man sat for a minute or more with a heaving chest, fighting
     against his emotion. Then he passed his handkerchief over his brow,
     set his lips tight, and turned his face towards us.

     "No doubt you think me mad?" said he.

     "I see that you have had some great trouble," responded Holmes.

     "God knows I have!--a trouble which is enough to unseat my reason, so
     sudden and so terrible is it. Public disgrace I might have faced,
     although I am a man whose character has never yet borne a stain.
     Private affliction also is the lot of every man; but the two coming
     together, and in so frightful a form, have been enough to shake my
     very soul. Besides, it is not I alone. The very noblest in the land
     may suffer unless some way be found out of this horrible affair."

     "Pray compose yourself, sir," said Holmes, "and let me have a clear
     account of who you are and what it is that has befallen you."

     "My name," answered our visitor, "is probably familiar to your ears.
     I am Alexander Holder, of the banking firm of Holder & Stevenson, of
     Threadneedle Street."

     The name was indeed well known to us as belonging to the senior
     partner in the second largest private banking concern in the City of
     London. What could have happened, then, to bring one of the foremost
     citizens of London to this most pitiable pass? We waited, all
     curiosity, until with another effort he braced himself to tell his
     story.

     "I feel that time is of value," said he; "that is why I hastened here
     when the police inspector suggested that I should secure your
     co-operation. I came to Baker Street by the Underground and hurried
     from there on foot, for the cabs go slowly through this snow. That is
     why I was so out of breath, for I am a man who takes very little
     exercise. I feel better now, and I will put the facts before you as
     shortly and yet as clearly as I can.

     "It is, of course, well known to you that in a successful banking
     business as much depends upon our being able to find remunerative
     investments for our funds as upon our increasing our connection and
     the number of our depositors. One of our most lucrative means of
     laying out money is in the shape of loans, where the security is
     unimpeachable. We have done a good deal in this direction during the
     last few years, and there are many noble families to whom we have
     advanced large sums upon the security of their pictures, libraries,
     or plate.

     "Yesterday morning I was seated in my office at the bank when a card
     was brought in to me by one of the clerks. I started when I saw the
     name, for it was that of none other than--well, perhaps even to you I
     had better say no more than that it was a name which is a household
     word all over the earth--one of the highest, noblest, most exalted
     names in England. I was overwhelmed by the honour and attempted, when
     he entered, to say so, but he plunged at once into business with the
     air of a man who wishes to hurry quickly through a disagreeable task.

     "'Mr. Holder,' said he, 'I have been informed that you are in the
     habit of advancing money.'

     "'The firm does so when the security is good.' I answered.

     "'It is absolutely essential to me,' said he, 'that I should have
     £50,000 at once. I could, of course, borrow so trifling a sum ten
     times over from my friends, but I much prefer to make it a matter of
     business and to carry out that business myself. In my position you
     can readily understand that it is unwise to place one's self under
     obligations.'

     "'For how long, may I ask, do you want this sum?' I asked.

     "'Next Monday I have a large sum due to me, and I shall then most
     certainly repay what you advance, with whatever interest you think it
     right to charge. But it is very essential to me that the money should
     be paid at once.'

     "'I should be happy to advance it without further parley from my own
     private purse,' said I, 'were it not that the strain would be rather
     more than it could bear. If, on the other hand, I am to do it in the
     name of the firm, then in justice to my partner I must insist that,
     even in your case, every businesslike precaution should be taken.'

     "'I should much prefer to have it so,' said he, raising up a square,
     black morocco case which he had laid beside his chair.  'You have
     doubtless heard of the Beryl Coronet?'

     "'One of the most precious public possessions of the empire,' said I.

     "'Precisely.' He opened the case, and there, imbedded in soft,
     flesh-coloured velvet, lay the magnificent piece of jewellery which
     he had named. 'There are thirty-nine enormous beryls,' said he, 'and
     the price of the gold chasing is incalculable. The lowest estimate
     would put the worth of the coronet at double the sum which I have
     asked. I am prepared to leave it with you as my security.'

     "I took the precious case into my hands and looked in some perplexity
     from it to my illustrious client.

     "'You doubt its value?' he asked.

     "'Not at all. I only doubt--'

     "'The propriety of my leaving it. You may set your mind at rest about
     that. I should not dream of doing so were it not absolutely certain
     that I should be able in four days to reclaim it. It is a pure matter
     of form. Is the security sufficient?'

     "'Ample.'

     "'You understand, Mr. Holder, that I am giving you a strong proof of
     the confidence which I have in you, founded upon all that I have
     heard of you. I rely upon you not only to be discreet and to refrain
     from all gossip upon the matter but, above all, to preserve this
     coronet with every possible precaution because I need not say that a
     great public scandal would be caused if any harm were to befall it.
     Any injury to it would be almost as serious as its complete loss, for
     there are no beryls in the world to match these, and it would be
     impossible to replace them. I leave it with you, however, with every
     confidence, and I shall call for it in person on Monday morning.'

     "Seeing that my client was anxious to leave, I said no more but,
     calling for my cashier, I ordered him to pay over fifty £1000 notes.
     When I was alone once more, however, with the precious case lying
     upon the table in front of me, I could not but think with some
     misgivings of the immense responsibility which it entailed upon me.
     There could be no doubt that, as it was a national possession, a
     horrible scandal would ensue if any misfortune should occur to it. I
     already regretted having ever consented to take charge of it.
     However, it was too late to alter the matter now, so I locked it up
     in my private safe and turned once more to my work.

     "When evening came I felt that it would be an imprudence to leave so
     precious a thing in the office behind me. Bankers' safes had been
     forced before now, and why should not mine be? If so, how terrible
     would be the position in which I should find myself! I determined,
     therefore, that for the next few days I would always carry the case
     backward and forward with me, so that it might never be really out of
     my reach. With this intention, I called a cab and drove out to my
     house at Streatham, carrying the jewel with me. I did not breathe
     freely until I had taken it upstairs and locked it in the bureau of
     my dressing-room.

     "And now a word as to my household, Mr. Holmes, for I wish you to
     thoroughly understand the situation. My groom and my page sleep out
     of the house, and may be set aside altogether. I have three
     maid-servants who have been with me a number of years and whose
     absolute reliability is quite above suspicion. Another, Lucy Parr,
     the second waiting-maid, has only been in my service a few months.
     She came with an excellent character, however, and has always given
     me satisfaction. She is a very pretty girl and has attracted admirers
     who have occasionally hung about the place. That is the only drawback
     which we have found to her, but we believe her to be a thoroughly
     good girl in every way.

     "So much for the servants. My family itself is so small that it will
     not take me long to describe it. I am a widower and have an only son,
     Arthur. He has been a disappointment to me, Mr. Holmes--a grievous
     disappointment. I have no doubt that I am myself to blame. People
     tell me that I have spoiled him. Very likely I have. When my dear
     wife died I felt that he was all I had to love. I could not bear to
     see the smile fade even for a moment from his face. I have never
     denied him a wish. Perhaps it would have been better for both of us
     had I been sterner, but I meant it for the best.

     "It was naturally my intention that he should succeed me in my
     business, but he was not of a business turn. He was wild, wayward,
     and, to speak the truth, I could not trust him in the handling of
     large sums of money. When he was young he became a member of an
     aristocratic club, and there, having charming manners, he was soon
     the intimate of a number of men with long purses and expensive
     habits. He learned to play heavily at cards and to squander money on
     the turf, until he had again and again to come to me and implore me
     to give him an advance upon his allowance, that he might settle his
     debts of honour. He tried more than once to break away from the
     dangerous company which he was keeping, but each time the influence
     of his friend, Sir George Burnwell, was enough to draw him back
     again.

     "And, indeed, I could not wonder that such a man as Sir George
     Burnwell should gain an influence over him, for he has frequently
     brought him to my house, and I have found myself that I could hardly
     resist the fascination of his manner. He is older than Arthur, a man
     of the world to his finger-tips, one who had been everywhere, seen
     everything, a brilliant talker, and a man of great personal beauty.
     Yet when I think of him in cold blood, far away from the glamour of
     his presence, I am convinced from his cynical speech and the look
     which I have caught in his eyes that he is one who should be deeply
     distrusted. So I think, and so, too, thinks my little Mary, who has a
     woman's quick insight into character.

     "And now there is only she to be described. She is my niece; but when
     my brother died five years ago and left her alone in the world I
     adopted her, and have looked upon her ever since as my daughter. She
     is a sunbeam in my house--sweet, loving, beautiful, a wonderful
     manager and housekeeper, yet as tender and quiet and gentle as a
     woman could be. She is my right hand. I do not know what I could do
     without her. In only one matter has she ever gone against my wishes.
     Twice my boy has asked her to marry him, for he loves her devotedly,
     but each time she has refused him. I think that if anyone could have
     drawn him into the right path it would have been she, and that his
     marriage might have changed his whole life; but now, alas! it is too
     late--forever too late!

     "Now, Mr. Holmes, you know the people who live under my roof, and I
     shall continue with my miserable story.

     "When we were taking coffee in the drawing-room that night after
     dinner, I told Arthur and Mary my experience, and of the precious
     treasure which we had under our roof, suppressing only the name of my
     client. Lucy Parr, who had brought in the coffee, had, I am sure,
     left the room; but I cannot swear that the door was closed. Mary and
     Arthur were much interested and wished to see the famous coronet, but
     I thought it better not to disturb it.

     "'Where have you put it?' asked Arthur.

     "'In my own bureau.'

     "'Well, I hope to goodness the house won't be burgled during the
     night.' said he.

     "'It is locked up,' I answered.

     "'Oh, any old key will fit that bureau. When I was a youngster I have
     opened it myself with the key of the box-room cupboard.'

     "He often had a wild way of talking, so that I thought little of what
     he said. He followed me to my room, however, that night with a very
     grave face.

     "'Look here, dad,' said he with his eyes cast down, 'can you let me
     have £200?'

     "'No, I cannot!' I answered sharply. 'I have been far too generous
     with you in money matters.'

     "'You have been very kind,' said he, 'but I must have this money, or
     else I can never show my face inside the club again.'

     "'And a very good thing, too!' I cried.

     "'Yes, but you would not have me leave it a dishonoured man,' said
     he. 'I could not bear the disgrace. I must raise the money in some
     way, and if you will not let me have it, then I must try other
     means.'

     "I was very angry, for this was the third demand during the month.
     'You shall not have a farthing from me,' I cried, on which he bowed
     and left the room without another word.

     "When he was gone I unlocked my bureau, made sure that my treasure
     was safe, and locked it again. Then I started to go round the house
     to see that all was secure--a duty which I usually leave to Mary but
     which I thought it well to perform myself that night. As I came down
     the stairs I saw Mary herself at the side window of the hall, which
     she closed and fastened as I approached.

     "'Tell me, dad,' said she, looking, I thought, a little disturbed,
     'did you give Lucy, the maid, leave to go out to-night?'

     "'Certainly not.'

     "'She came in just now by the back door. I have no doubt that she has
     only been to the side gate to see someone, but I think that it is
     hardly safe and should be stopped.'

     "'You must speak to her in the morning, or I will if you prefer it.
     Are you sure that everything is fastened?'

     "'Quite sure, dad.'

     "'Then, good-night.' I kissed her and went up to my bedroom again,
     where I was soon asleep.

     "I am endeavouring to tell you everything, Mr. Holmes, which may have
     any bearing upon the case, but I beg that you will question me upon
     any point which I do not make clear."

     "On the contrary, your statement is singularly lucid."

     "I come to a part of my story now in which I should wish to be
     particularly so. I am not a very heavy sleeper, and the anxiety in my
     mind tended, no doubt, to make me even less so than usual. About two
     in the morning, then, I was awakened by some sound in the house. It
     had ceased ere I was wide awake, but it had left an impression behind
     it as though a window had gently closed somewhere. I lay listening
     with all my ears. Suddenly, to my horror, there was a distinct sound
     of footsteps moving softly in the next room. I slipped out of bed,
     all palpitating with fear, and peeped round the corner of my
     dressing-room door.

     "'Arthur!' I screamed, 'you villain! you thief! How dare you touch
     that coronet?'

     "The gas was half up, as I had left it, and my unhappy boy, dressed
     only in his shirt and trousers, was standing beside the light,
     holding the coronet in his hands. He appeared to be wrenching at it,
     or bending it with all his strength. At my cry he dropped it from his
     grasp and turned as pale as death. I snatched it up and examined it.
     One of the gold corners, with three of the beryls in it, was missing.

     "'You blackguard!' I shouted, beside myself with rage. 'You have
     destroyed it! You have dishonoured me forever! Where are the jewels
     which you have stolen?'

     "'Stolen!' he cried.

     "'Yes, thief!' I roared, shaking him by the shoulder.

     "'There are none missing. There cannot be any missing,' said he.

     "'There are three missing. And you know where they are. Must I call
     you a liar as well as a thief? Did I not see you trying to tear off
     another piece?'

     "'You have called me names enough,' said he, 'I will not stand it any
     longer. I shall not say another word about this business, since you
     have chosen to insult me. I will leave your house in the morning and
     make my own way in the world.'

     "'You shall leave it in the hands of the police!' I cried half-mad
     with grief and rage. 'I shall have this matter probed to the bottom.'

     "'You shall learn nothing from me,' said he with a passion such as I
     should not have thought was in his nature. 'If you choose to call the
     police, let the police find what they can.'

     "By this time the whole house was astir, for I had raised my voice in
     my anger. Mary was the first to rush into my room, and, at the sight
     of the coronet and of Arthur's face, she read the whole story and,
     with a scream, fell down senseless on the ground. I sent the
     house-maid for the police and put the investigation into their hands
     at once. When the inspector and a constable entered the house,
     Arthur, who had stood sullenly with his arms folded, asked me whether
     it was my intention to charge him with theft. I answered that it had
     ceased to be a private matter, but had become a public one, since the
     ruined coronet was national property. I was determined that the law
     should have its way in everything.

     "'At least,' said he, 'you will not have me arrested at once. It
     would be to your advantage as well as mine if I might leave the house
     for five minutes.'

     "'That you may get away, or perhaps that you may conceal what you
     have stolen,' said I. And then, realising the dreadful position in
     which I was placed, I implored him to remember that not only my
     honour but that of one who was far greater than I was at stake; and
     that he threatened to raise a scandal which would convulse the
     nation. He might avert it all if he would but tell me what he had
     done with the three missing stones.

     "'You may as well face the matter,' said I; 'you have been caught in
     the act, and no confession could make your guilt more heinous. If you
     but make such reparation as is in your power, by telling us where the
     beryls are, all shall be forgiven and forgotten.'

     "'Keep your forgiveness for those who ask for it,' he answered,
     turning away from me with a sneer. I saw that he was too hardened for
     any words of mine to influence him. There was but one way for it. I
     called in the inspector and gave him into custody. A search was made
     at once not only of his person but of his room and of every portion
     of the house where he could possibly have concealed the gems; but no
     trace of them could be found, nor would the wretched boy open his
     mouth for all our persuasions and our threats. This morning he was
     removed to a cell, and I, after going through all the police
     formalities, have hurried round to you to implore you to use your
     skill in unravelling the matter. The police have openly confessed
     that they can at present make nothing of it. You may go to any
     expense which you think necessary. I have already offered a reward of
     £1000. My God, what shall I do! I have lost my honour, my gems, and
     my son in one night. Oh, what shall I do!"

     He put a hand on either side of his head and rocked himself to and
     fro, droning to himself like a child whose grief has got beyond
     words.

     Sherlock Holmes sat silent for some few minutes, with his brows
     knitted and his eyes fixed upon the fire.

     "Do you receive much company?" he asked.

     "None save my partner with his family and an occasional friend of
     Arthur's. Sir George Burnwell has been several times lately. No one
     else, I think."

     "Do you go out much in society?"

     "Arthur does. Mary and I stay at home. We neither of us care for it."

     "That is unusual in a young girl."

     "She is of a quiet nature. Besides, she is not so very young. She is
     four-and-twenty."

     "This matter, from what you say, seems to have been a shock to her
     also."

     "Terrible! She is even more affected than I."

     "You have neither of you any doubt as to your son's guilt?"

     "How can we have when I saw him with my own eyes with the coronet in
     his hands."

     "I hardly consider that a conclusive proof. Was the remainder of the
     coronet at all injured?"

     "Yes, it was twisted."

     "Do you not think, then, that he might have been trying to straighten
     it?"

     "God bless you! You are doing what you can for him and for me. But it
     is too heavy a task. What was he doing there at all? If his purpose
     were innocent, why did he not say so?"

     "Precisely. And if it were guilty, why did he not invent a lie? His
     silence appears to me to cut both ways. There are several singular
     points about the case. What did the police think of the noise which
     awoke you from your sleep?"

     "They considered that it might be caused by Arthur's closing his
     bedroom door."

     "A likely story! As if a man bent on felony would slam his door so as
     to wake a household. What did they say, then, of the disappearance of
     these gems?"

     "They are still sounding the planking and probing the furniture in
     the hope of finding them."

     "Have they thought of looking outside the house?"

     "Yes, they have shown extraordinary energy. The whole garden has
     already been minutely examined."

     "Now, my dear sir," said Holmes. "is it not obvious to you now that
     this matter really strikes very much deeper than either you or the
     police were at first inclined to think? It appeared to you to be a
     simple case; to me it seems exceedingly complex. Consider what is
     involved by your theory. You suppose that your son came down from his
     bed, went, at great risk, to your dressing-room, opened your bureau,
     took out your coronet, broke off by main force a small portion of it,
     went off to some other place, concealed three gems out of the
     thirty-nine, with such skill that nobody can find them, and then
     returned with the other thirty-six into the room in which he exposed
     himself to the greatest danger of being discovered. I ask you now, is
     such a theory tenable?"

     "But what other is there?" cried the banker with a gesture of
     despair. "If his motives were innocent, why does he not explain
     them?"

     "It is our task to find that out," replied Holmes; "so now, if you
     please, Mr. Holder, we will set off for Streatham together, and
     devote an hour to glancing a little more closely into details."

     My friend insisted upon my accompanying them in their expedition,
     which I was eager enough to do, for my curiosity and sympathy were
     deeply stirred by the story to which we had listened. I confess that
     the guilt of the banker's son appeared to me to be as obvious as it
     did to his unhappy father, but still I had such faith in Holmes'
     judgment that I felt that there must be some grounds for hope as long
     as he was dissatisfied with the accepted explanation. He hardly spoke
     a word the whole way out to the southern suburb, but sat with his
     chin upon his breast and his hat drawn over his eyes, sunk in the
     deepest thought. Our client appeared to have taken fresh heart at the
     little glimpse of hope which had been presented to him, and he even
     broke into a desultory chat with me over his business affairs. A
     short railway journey and a shorter walk brought us to Fairbank, the
     modest residence of the great financier.

     Fairbank was a good-sized square house of white stone, standing back
     a little from the road. A double carriage-sweep, with a snow-clad
     lawn, stretched down in front to two large iron gates which closed
     the entrance. On the right side was a small wooden thicket, which led
     into a narrow path between two neat hedges stretching from the road
     to the kitchen door, and forming the tradesmen's entrance. On the
     left ran a lane which led to the stables, and was not itself within
     the grounds at all, being a public, though little used, thoroughfare.
     Holmes left us standing at the door and walked slowly all round the
     house, across the front, down the tradesmen's path, and so round by
     the garden behind into the stable lane. So long was he that Mr.
     Holder and I went into the dining-room and waited by the fire until
     he should return. We were sitting there in silence when the door
     opened and a young lady came in. She was rather above the middle
     height, slim, with dark hair and eyes, which seemed the darker
     against the absolute pallor of her skin. I do not think that I have
     ever seen such deadly paleness in a woman's face. Her lips, too, were
     bloodless, but her eyes were flushed with crying. As she swept
     silently into the room she impressed me with a greater sense of grief
     than the banker had done in the morning, and it was the more striking
     in her as she was evidently a woman of strong character, with immense
     capacity for self-restraint. Disregarding my presence, she went
     straight to her uncle and passed her hand over his head with a sweet
     womanly caress.

     "You have given orders that Arthur should be liberated, have you not,
     dad?" she asked.

     "No, no, my girl, the matter must be probed to the bottom."

     "But I am so sure that he is innocent. You know what woman's
     instincts are. I know that he has done no harm and that you will be
     sorry for having acted so harshly."

     "Why is he silent, then, if he is innocent?"

     "Who knows? Perhaps because he was so angry that you should suspect
     him."

     "How could I help suspecting him, when I actually saw him with the
     coronet in his hand?"

     "Oh, but he had only picked it up to look at it. Oh, do, do take my
     word for it that he is innocent. Let the matter drop and say no more.
     It is so dreadful to think of our dear Arthur in a prison!"

     "I shall never let it drop until the gems are found--never, Mary!
     Your affection for Arthur blinds you as to the awful consequences to
     me. Far from hushing the thing up, I have brought a gentleman down
     from London to inquire more deeply into it."

     "This gentleman?" she asked, facing round to me.

     "No, his friend. He wished us to leave him alone. He is round in the
     stable lane now."

     "The stable lane?" She raised her dark eyebrows. "What can he hope to
     find there? Ah! this, I suppose, is he. I trust, sir, that you will
     succeed in proving, what I feel sure is the truth, that my cousin
     Arthur is innocent of this crime."

     "I fully share your opinion, and I trust, with you, that we may prove
     it," returned Holmes, going back to the mat to knock the snow from
     his shoes. "I believe I have the honour of addressing Miss Mary
     Holder. Might I ask you a question or two?"

     "Pray do, sir, if it may help to clear this horrible affair up."

     "You heard nothing yourself last night?"

     "Nothing, until my uncle here began to speak loudly. I heard that,
     and I came down."

     "You shut up the windows and doors the night before. Did you fasten
     all the windows?"

     "Yes."

     "Were they all fastened this morning?"

     "Yes."

     "You have a maid who has a sweetheart? I think that you remarked to
     your uncle last night that she had been out to see him?"

     "Yes, and she was the girl who waited in the drawing-room, and who
     may have heard uncle's remarks about the coronet."

     "I see. You infer that she may have gone out to tell her sweetheart,
     and that the two may have planned the robbery."

     "But what is the good of all these vague theories," cried the banker
     impatiently, "when I have told you that I saw Arthur with the coronet
     in his hands?"

     "Wait a little, Mr. Holder. We must come back to that. About this
     girl, Miss Holder. You saw her return by the kitchen door, I
     presume?"

     "Yes; when I went to see if the door was fastened for the night I met
     her slipping in. I saw the man, too, in the gloom."

     "Do you know him?"

     "Oh, yes! he is the green-grocer who brings our vegetables round. 
     His name is Francis Prosper."

     "He stood," said Holmes, "to the left of the door--that is to say,
     farther up the path than is necessary to reach the door?"

     "Yes, he did."

     "And he is a man with a wooden leg?"

     Something like fear sprang up in the young lady's expressive black
     eyes. "Why, you are like a magician," said she. "How do you know
     that?" She smiled, but there was no answering smile in Holmes' thin,
     eager face.

     "I should be very glad now to go upstairs," said he. "I shall
     probably wish to go over the outside of the house again. Perhaps I
     had better take a look at the lower windows before I go up."

     He walked swiftly round from one to the other, pausing only at the
     large one which looked from the hall onto the stable lane. This he
     opened and made a very careful examination of the sill with his
     powerful magnifying lens. "Now we shall go upstairs," said he at
     last.

     The banker's dressing-room was a plainly furnished little chamber,
     with a grey carpet, a large bureau, and a long mirror. Holmes went to
     the bureau first and looked hard at the lock.

     "Which key was used to open it?" he asked.

     "That which my son himself indicated--that of the cupboard of the
     lumber-room."

     "Have you it here?"

     "That is it on the dressing-table."

     Sherlock Holmes took it up and opened the bureau.

     "It is a noiseless lock," said he. "It is no wonder that it did not
     wake you. This case, I presume, contains the coronet. We must have a
     look at it." He opened the case, and taking out the diadem he laid it
     upon the table. It was a magnificent specimen of the jeweller's art,
     and the thirty-six stones were the finest that I have ever seen. At
     one side of the coronet was a cracked edge, where a corner holding
     three gems had been torn away.

     "Now, Mr. Holder," said Holmes, "here is the corner which corresponds
     to that which has been so unfortunately lost. Might I beg that you
     will break it off."

     The banker recoiled in horror. "I should not dream of trying," said
     he.

     "Then I will." Holmes suddenly bent his strength upon it, but without
     result. "I feel it give a little," said he; "but, though I am
     exceptionally strong in the fingers, it would take me all my time to
     break it. An ordinary man could not do it. Now, what do you think
     would happen if I did break it, Mr. Holder? There would be a noise
     like a pistol shot. Do you tell me that all this happened within a
     few yards of your bed and that you heard nothing of it?"

     "I do not know what to think. It is all dark to me."

     "But perhaps it may grow lighter as we go. What do you think, Miss
     Holder?"

     "I confess that I still share my uncle's perplexity."

     "Your son had no shoes or slippers on when you saw him?"

     "He had nothing on save only his trousers and shirt."

     "Thank you. We have certainly been favoured with extraordinary luck
     during this inquiry, and it will be entirely our own fault if we do
     not succeed in clearing the matter up. With your permission, Mr.
     Holder, I shall now continue my investigations outside."

     He went alone, at his own request, for he explained that any
     unnecessary footmarks might make his task more difficult. For an hour
     or more he was at work, returning at last with his feet heavy with
     snow and his features as inscrutable as ever.

     "I think that I have seen now all that there is to see, Mr. Holder,"
     said he; "I can serve you best by returning to my rooms."

     "But the gems, Mr. Holmes. Where are they?"

     "I cannot tell."

     The banker wrung his hands. "I shall never see them again!" he cried.
     "And my son? You give me hopes?"

     "My opinion is in no way altered."

     "Then, for God's sake, what was this dark business which was acted in
     my house last night?"

     "If you can call upon me at my Baker Street rooms to-morrow morning
     between nine and ten I shall be happy to do what I can to make it
     clearer. I understand that you give me carte blanche to act for you,
     provided only that I get back the gems, and that you place no limit
     on the sum I may draw."

     "I would give my fortune to have them back."

     "Very good. I shall look into the matter between this and then. 
     Good-bye; it is just possible that I may have to come over here again
     before evening."

     It was obvious to me that my companion's mind was now made up about
     the case, although what his conclusions were was more than I could
     even dimly imagine. Several times during our homeward journey I
     endeavoured to sound him upon the point, but he always glided away to
     some other topic, until at last I gave it over in despair. It was not
     yet three when we found ourselves in our rooms once more. He hurried
     to his chamber and was down again in a few minutes dressed as a
     common loafer. With his collar turned up, his shiny, seedy coat, his
     red cravat, and his worn boots, he was a perfect sample of the class.

     "I think that this should do," said he, glancing into the glass above
     the fireplace. "I only wish that you could come with me, Watson, but
     I fear that it won't do. I may be on the trail in this matter, or I
     may be following a will-o'-the-wisp, but I shall soon know which it
     is. I hope that I may be back in a few hours." He cut a slice of beef
     from the joint upon the sideboard, sandwiched it between two rounds
     of bread, and thrusting this rude meal into his pocket he started off
     upon his expedition.

     I had just finished my tea when he returned, evidently in excellent
     spirits, swinging an old elastic-sided boot in his hand. He chucked
     it down into a corner and helped himself to a cup of tea.

     "I only looked in as I passed," said he. "I am going right on."

     "Where to?"

     "Oh, to the other side of the West End. It may be some time before I
     get back. Don't wait up for me in case I should be late."

     "How are you getting on?"

     "Oh, so so. Nothing to complain of. I have been out to Streatham
     since I saw you last, but I did not call at the house. It is a very
     sweet little problem, and I would not have missed it for a good deal.
     However, I must not sit gossiping here, but must get these
     disreputable clothes off and return to my highly respectable self."

     I could see by his manner that he had stronger reasons for
     satisfaction than his words alone would imply. His eyes twinkled, and
     there was even a touch of colour upon his sallow cheeks. He hastened
     upstairs, and a few minutes later I heard the slam of the hall door,
     which told me that he was off once more upon his congenial hunt.

     I waited until midnight, but there was no sign of his return, so I
     retired to my room. It was no uncommon thing for him to be away for
     days and nights on end when he was hot upon a scent, so that his
     lateness caused me no surprise. I do not know at what hour he came
     in, but when I came down to breakfast in the morning there he was
     with a cup of coffee in one hand and the paper in the other, as fresh
     and trim as possible.

     "You will excuse my beginning without you, Watson," said he, "but you
     remember that our client has rather an early appointment this
     morning."

     "Why, it is after nine now," I answered. "I should not be surprised
     if that were he. I thought I heard a ring."

     It was, indeed, our friend the financier. I was shocked by the change
     which had come over him, for his face which was naturally of a broad
     and massive mould, was now pinched and fallen in, while his hair
     seemed to me at least a shade whiter. He entered with a weariness and
     lethargy which was even more painful than his violence of the morning
     before, and he dropped heavily into the armchair which I pushed
     forward for him.

     "I do not know what I have done to be so severely tried," said he.
     "Only two days ago I was a happy and prosperous man, without a care
     in the world. Now I am left to a lonely and dishonoured age. One
     sorrow comes close upon the heels of another. My niece, Mary, has
     deserted me."

     "Deserted you?"

     "Yes. Her bed this morning had not been slept in, her room was empty,
     and a note for me lay upon the hall table. I had said to her last
     night, in sorrow and not in anger, that if she had married my boy all
     might have been well with him. Perhaps it was thoughtless of me to
     say so. It is to that remark that she refers in this note:

     "'My dearest Uncle:
     "'I feel that I have brought trouble upon you, and that if I had
     acted differently this terrible misfortune might never have occurred.
     I cannot, with this thought in my mind, ever again be happy under
     your roof, and I feel that I must leave you forever. Do not worry
     about my future, for that is provided for; and, above all, do not
     search for me, for it will be fruitless labour and an ill-service to
     me. In life or in death, I am ever
     "'Your loving
     "'Mary.'

     "What could she mean by that note, Mr. Holmes? Do you think it points
     to suicide?"

     "No, no, nothing of the kind. It is perhaps the best possible
     solution. I trust, Mr. Holder, that you are nearing the end of your
     troubles."

     "Ha! You say so! You have heard something, Mr. Holmes; you have
     learned something! Where are the gems?"

     "You would not think £1000 pounds apiece an excessive sum for them?"

     "I would pay ten."

     "That would be unnecessary. Three thousand will cover the matter. And
     there is a little reward, I fancy. Have you your check-book?  Here is
     a pen. Better make it out for £4000."

     With a dazed face the banker made out the required check. Holmes
     walked over to his desk, took out a little triangular piece of gold
     with three gems in it, and threw it down upon the table.

     With a shriek of joy our client clutched it up.

     "You have it!" he gasped. "I am saved! I am saved!"

     The reaction of joy was as passionate as his grief had been, and he
     hugged his recovered gems to his bosom.

     "There is one other thing you owe, Mr. Holder," said Sherlock Holmes
     rather sternly.

     "Owe!" He caught up a pen. "Name the sum, and I will pay it."

     "No, the debt is not to me. You owe a very humble apology to that
     noble lad, your son, who has carried himself in this matter as I
     should be proud to see my own son do, should I ever chance to have
     one."

     "Then it was not Arthur who took them?"

     "I told you yesterday, and I repeat to-day, that it was not."

     "You are sure of it! Then let us hurry to him at once to let him know
     that the truth is known."

     "He knows it already. When I had cleared it all up I had an interview
     with him, and finding that he would not tell me the story, I told it
     to him, on which he had to confess that I was right and to add the
     very few details which were not yet quite clear to me. Your news of
     this morning, however, may open his lips."

     "For heaven's sake, tell me, then, what is this extraordinary
     mystery!"

     "I will do so, and I will show you the steps by which I reached it.
     And let me say to you, first, that which it is hardest for me to say
     and for you to hear: there has been an understanding between Sir
     George Burnwell and your niece Mary. They have now fled together."

     "My Mary? Impossible!"

     "It is unfortunately more than possible; it is certain. Neither you
     nor your son knew the true character of this man when you admitted
     him into your family circle. He is one of the most dangerous men in
     England--a ruined gambler, an absolutely desperate villain, a man
     without heart or conscience. Your niece knew nothing of such men.
     When he breathed his vows to her, as he had done to a hundred before
     her, she flattered herself that she alone had touched his heart. The
     devil knows best what he said, but at least she became his tool and
     was in the habit of seeing him nearly every evening."

     "I cannot, and I will not, believe it!" cried the banker with an
     ashen face.

     "I will tell you, then, what occurred in your house last night. Your
     niece, when you had, as she thought, gone to your room, slipped down
     and talked to her lover through the window which leads into the
     stable lane. His footmarks had pressed right through the snow, so
     long had he stood there. She told him of the coronet. His wicked lust
     for gold kindled at the news, and he bent her to his will. I have no
     doubt that she loved you, but there are women in whom the love of a
     lover extinguishes all other loves, and I think that she must have
     been one. She had hardly listened to his instructions when she saw
     you coming downstairs, on which she closed the window rapidly and
     told you about one of the servants' escapade with her wooden-legged
     lover, which was all perfectly true.

     "Your boy, Arthur, went to bed after his interview with you but he
     slept badly on account of his uneasiness about his club debts. In the
     middle of the night he heard a soft tread pass his door, so he rose
     and, looking out, was surprised to see his cousin walking very
     stealthily along the passage until she disappeared into your
     dressing-room. Petrified with astonishment, the lad slipped on some
     clothes and waited there in the dark to see what would come of this
     strange affair. Presently she emerged from the room again, and in the
     light of the passage-lamp your son saw that she carried the precious
     coronet in her hands. She passed down the stairs, and he, thrilling
     with horror, ran along and slipped behind the curtain near your door,
     whence he could see what passed in the hall beneath. He saw her
     stealthily open the window, hand out the coronet to someone in the
     gloom, and then closing it once more hurry back to her room, passing
     quite close to where he stood hid behind the curtain.

     "As long as she was on the scene he could not take any action without
     a horrible exposure of the woman whom he loved. But the instant that
     she was gone he realised how crushing a misfortune this would be for
     you, and how all-important it was to set it right. He rushed down,
     just as he was, in his bare feet, opened the window, sprang out into
     the snow, and ran down the lane, where he could see a dark figure in
     the moonlight. Sir George Burnwell tried to get away, but Arthur
     caught him, and there was a struggle between them, your lad tugging
     at one side of the coronet, and his opponent at the other. In the
     scuffle, your son struck Sir George and cut him over the eye. Then
     something suddenly snapped, and your son, finding that he had the
     coronet in his hands, rushed back, closed the window, ascended to
     your room, and had just observed that the coronet had been twisted in
     the struggle and was endeavouring to straighten it when you appeared
     upon the scene."

     "Is it possible?" gasped the banker.

     "You then roused his anger by calling him names at a moment when he
     felt that he had deserved your warmest thanks. He could not explain
     the true state of affairs without betraying one who certainly
     deserved little enough consideration at his hands. He took the more
     chivalrous view, however, and preserved her secret."

     "And that was why she shrieked and fainted when she saw the coronet,"
     cried Mr. Holder. "Oh, my God! what a blind fool I have been! And his
     asking to be allowed to go out for five minutes! The dear fellow
     wanted to see if the missing piece were at the scene of the struggle.
     How cruelly I have misjudged him!"

     "When I arrived at the house," continued Holmes, "I at once went very
     carefully round it to observe if there were any traces in the snow
     which might help me. I knew that none had fallen since the evening
     before, and also that there had been a strong frost to preserve
     impressions. I passed along the tradesmen's path, but found it all
     trampled down and indistinguishable. Just beyond it, however, at the
     far side of the kitchen door, a woman had stood and talked with a
     man, whose round impressions on one side showed that he had a wooden
     leg. I could even tell that they had been disturbed, for the woman
     had run back swiftly to the door, as was shown by the deep toe and
     light heel marks, while Wooden-leg had waited a little, and then had
     gone away. I thought at the time that this might be the maid and her
     sweetheart, of whom you had already spoken to me, and inquiry showed
     it was so. I passed round the garden without seeing anything more
     than random tracks, which I took to be the police; but when I got
     into the stable lane a very long and complex story was written in the
     snow in front of me.

     "There was a double line of tracks of a booted man, and a second
     double line which I saw with delight belonged to a man with naked
     feet. I was at once convinced from what you had told me that the
     latter was your son. The first had walked both ways, but the other
     had run swiftly, and as his tread was marked in places over the
     depression of the boot, it was obvious that he had passed after the
     other. I followed them up and found they led to the hall window,
     where Boots had worn all the snow away while waiting. Then I walked
     to the other end, which was a hundred yards or more down the lane. I
     saw where Boots had faced round, where the snow was cut up as though
     there had been a struggle, and, finally, where a few drops of blood
     had fallen, to show me that I was not mistaken. Boots had then run
     down the lane, and another little smudge of blood showed that it was
     he who had been hurt. When he came to the highroad at the other end,
     I found that the pavement had been cleared, so there was an end to
     that clue.

     "On entering the house, however, I examined, as you remember, the
     sill and framework of the hall window with my lens, and I could at
     once see that someone had passed out. I could distinguish the outline
     of an instep where the wet foot had been placed in coming in. I was
     then beginning to be able to form an opinion as to what had occurred.
     A man had waited outside the window; someone had brought the gems;
     the deed had been overseen by your son; he had pursued the thief; had
     struggled with him; they had each tugged at the coronet, their united
     strength causing injuries which neither alone could have effected. He
     had returned with the prize, but had left a fragment in the grasp of
     his opponent. So far I was clear. The question now was, who was the
     man and who was it brought him the coronet?

     "It is an old maxim of mine that when you have excluded the
     impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth.
     Now, I knew that it was not you who had brought it down, so there
     only remained your niece and the maids. But if it were the maids, why
     should your son allow himself to be accused in their place? There
     could be no possible reason. As he loved his cousin, however, there
     was an excellent explanation why he should retain her secret--the
     more so as the secret was a disgraceful one. When I remembered that
     you had seen her at that window, and how she had fainted on seeing
     the coronet again, my conjecture became a certainty.

     "And who could it be who was her confederate? A lover evidently, for
     who else could outweigh the love and gratitude which she must feel to
     you? I knew that you went out little, and that your circle of friends
     was a very limited one. But among them was Sir George Burnwell. I had
     heard of him before as being a man of evil reputation among women. It
     must have been he who wore those boots and retained the missing gems.
     Even though he knew that Arthur had discovered him, he might still
     flatter himself that he was safe, for the lad could not say a word
     without compromising his own family.

     "Well, your own good sense will suggest what measures I took next. I
     went in the shape of a loafer to Sir George's house, managed to pick
     up an acquaintance with his valet, learned that his master had cut
     his head the night before, and, finally, at the expense of six
     shillings, made all sure by buying a pair of his cast-off shoes. With
     these I journeyed down to Streatham and saw that they exactly fitted
     the tracks."

     "I saw an ill-dressed vagabond in the lane yesterday evening," said
     Mr. Holder.

     "Precisely. It was I. I found that I had my man, so I came home and
     changed my clothes. It was a delicate part which I had to play then,
     for I saw that a prosecution must be avoided to avert scandal, and I
     knew that so astute a villain would see that our hands were tied in
     the matter. I went and saw him. At first, of course, he denied
     everything. But when I gave him every particular that had occurred,
     he tried to bluster and took down a life-preserver from the wall. I
     knew my man, however, and I clapped a pistol to his head before he
     could strike. Then he became a little more reasonable. I told him
     that we would give him a price for the stones he held--£1000 apiece.
     That brought out the first signs of grief that he had shown. 'Why,
     dash it all!' said he, 'I've let them go at six hundred for the
     three!' I soon managed to get the address of the receiver who had
     them, on promising him that there would be no prosecution. Off I set
     to him, and after much chaffering I got our stones at 1000 pounds
     apiece. Then I looked in upon your son, told him that all was right,
     and eventually got to my bed about two o'clock, after what I may call
     a really hard day's work."

     "A day which has saved England from a great public scandal," said the
     banker, rising. "Sir, I cannot find words to thank you, but you shall
     not find me ungrateful for what you have done. Your skill has indeed
     exceeded all that I have heard of it. And now I must fly to my dear
     boy to apologise to him for the wrong which I have done him. As to
     what you tell me of poor Mary, it goes to my very heart. Not even
     your skill can inform me where she is now."

     "I think that we may safely say," returned Holmes, "that she is
     wherever Sir George Burnwell is. It is equally certain, too, that
     whatever her sins are, they will soon receive a more than sufficient
     punishment."






                       THE ADVENTURE OF THE COPPER BEECHES

     "To the man who loves art for its own sake," remarked Sherlock
     Holmes, tossing aside the advertisement sheet of the Daily Telegraph,
     "it is frequently in its least important and lowliest manifestations
     that the keenest pleasure is to be derived. It is pleasant to me to
     observe, Watson, that you have so far grasped this truth that in
     these little records of our cases which you have been good enough to
     draw up, and, I am bound to say, occasionally to embellish, you have
     given prominence not so much to the many causes célèbres and
     sensational trials in which I have figured but rather to those
     incidents which may have been trivial in themselves, but which have
     given room for those faculties of deduction and of logical synthesis
     which I have made my special province."

     "And yet," said I, smiling, "I cannot quite hold myself absolved from
     the charge of sensationalism which has been urged against my
     records."

     "You have erred, perhaps," he observed, taking up a glowing cinder
     with the tongs and lighting with it the long cherry-wood pipe which
     was wont to replace his clay when he was in a disputatious rather
     than a meditative mood--"you have erred perhaps in attempting to put
     colour and life into each of your statements instead of confining
     yourself to the task of placing upon record that severe reasoning
     from cause to effect which is really the only notable feature about
     the thing."

     "It seems to me that I have done you full justice in the matter," I
     remarked with some coldness, for I was repelled by the egotism which
     I had more than once observed to be a strong factor in my friend's
     singular character.

     "No, it is not selfishness or conceit," said he, answering, as was
     his wont, my thoughts rather than my words. "If I claim full justice
     for my art, it is because it is an impersonal thing--a thing beyond
     myself. Crime is common. Logic is rare. Therefore it is upon the
     logic rather than upon the crime that you should dwell. You have
     degraded what should have been a course of lectures into a series of
     tales."

     It was a cold morning of the early spring, and we sat after breakfast
     on either side of a cheery fire in the old room at Baker Street. A
     thick fog rolled down between the lines of dun-coloured houses, and
     the opposing windows loomed like dark, shapeless blurs through the
     heavy yellow wreaths. Our gas was lit and shone on the white cloth
     and glimmer of china and metal, for the table had not been cleared
     yet. Sherlock Holmes had been silent all the morning, dipping
     continuously into the advertisement columns of a succession of papers
     until at last, having apparently given up his search, he had emerged
     in no very sweet temper to lecture me upon my literary shortcomings.

     "At the same time," he remarked after a pause, during which he had
     sat puffing at his long pipe and gazing down into the fire, "you can
     hardly be open to a charge of sensationalism, for out of these cases
     which you have been so kind as to interest yourself in, a fair
     proportion do not treat of crime, in its legal sense, at all. The
     small matter in which I endeavoured to help the King of Bohemia, the
     singular experience of Miss Mary Sutherland, the problem connected
     with the man with the twisted lip, and the incident of the noble
     bachelor, were all matters which are outside the pale of the law. But
     in avoiding the sensational, I fear that you may have bordered on the
     trivial."

     "The end may have been so," I answered, "but the methods I hold to
     have been novel and of interest."

     "Pshaw, my dear fellow, what do the public, the great unobservant
     public, who could hardly tell a weaver by his tooth or a compositor
     by his left thumb, care about the finer shades of analysis and
     deduction! But, indeed, if you are trivial. I cannot blame you, for
     the days of the great cases are past. Man, or at least criminal man,
     has lost all enterprise and originality. As to my own little
     practice, it seems to be degenerating into an agency for recovering
     lost lead pencils and giving advice to young ladies from
     boarding-schools. I think that I have touched bottom at last,
     however. This note I had this morning marks my zero-point, I fancy.
     Read it!" He tossed a crumpled letter across to me.

     It was dated from Montague Place upon the preceding evening, and ran
     thus:

     Dear Mr. Holmes:
     I am very anxious to consult you as to whether I should or should not
     accept a situation which has been offered to me as governess. I shall
     call at half-past ten to-morrow if I do not inconvenience you.
     Yours faithfully,
     Violet Hunter.

     "Do you know the young lady?" I asked.

     "Not I."

     "It is half-past ten now."

     "Yes, and I have no doubt that is her ring."

     "It may turn out to be of more interest than you think. You remember
     that the affair of the blue carbuncle, which appeared to be a mere
     whim at first, developed into a serious investigation. It may be so
     in this case, also."

     "Well, let us hope so. But our doubts will very soon be solved, for
     here, unless I am much mistaken, is the person in question."

     As he spoke the door opened and a young lady entered the room. She
     was plainly but neatly dressed, with a bright, quick face, freckled
     like a plover's egg, and with the brisk manner of a woman who has had
     her own way to make in the world.

     "You will excuse my troubling you, I am sure," said she, as my
     companion rose to greet her, "but I have had a very strange
     experience, and as I have no parents or relations of any sort from
     whom I could ask advice, I thought that perhaps you would be kind
     enough to tell me what I should do."

     "Pray take a seat, Miss Hunter. I shall be happy to do anything that
     I can to serve you."

     I could see that Holmes was favourably impressed by the manner and
     speech of his new client. He looked her over in his searching
     fashion, and then composed himself, with his lids drooping and his
     finger-tips together, to listen to her story.

     "I have been a governess for five years," said she, "in the family of
     Colonel Spence Munro, but two months ago the colonel received an
     appointment at Halifax, in Nova Scotia, and took his children over to
     America with him, so that I found myself without a situation. I
     advertised, and I answered advertisements, but without success. At
     last the little money which I had saved began to run short, and I was
     at my wit's end as to what I should do.

     "There is a well-known agency for governesses in the West End called
     Westaway's, and there I used to call about once a week in order to
     see whether anything had turned up which might suit me. Westaway was
     the name of the founder of the business, but it is really managed by
     Miss Stoper. She sits in her own little office, and the ladies who
     are seeking employment wait in an anteroom, and are then shown in one
     by one, when she consults her ledgers and sees whether she has
     anything which would suit them.

     "Well, when I called last week I was shown into the little office as
     usual, but I found that Miss Stoper was not alone. A prodigiously
     stout man with a very smiling face and a great heavy chin which
     rolled down in fold upon fold over his throat sat at her elbow with a
     pair of glasses on his nose, looking very earnestly at the ladies who
     entered. As I came in he gave quite a jump in his chair and turned
     quickly to Miss Stoper.

     "'That will do,' said he; 'I could not ask for anything better.
     Capital! capital!' He seemed quite enthusiastic and rubbed his hands
     together in the most genial fashion. He was such a
     comfortable-looking man that it was quite a pleasure to look at him.

     "'You are looking for a situation, miss?' he asked.

     "'Yes, sir.'

     "'As governess?'

     "'Yes, sir.'

     "'And what salary do you ask?'

     "'I had £4 a month in my last place with Colonel Spence Munro.'

     "'Oh, tut, tut! sweating--rank sweating!' he cried, throwing his fat
     hands out into the air like a man who is in a boiling passion. 'How
     could anyone offer so pitiful a sum to a lady with such attractions
     and accomplishments?'

     "'My accomplishments, sir, may be less than you imagine,' said I. 'A
     little French, a little German, music, and drawing--'

     "'Tut, tut!' he cried. 'This is all quite beside the question. The
     point is, have you or have you not the bearing and deportment of a
     lady? There it is in a nutshell. If you have not, you are not fitted
     for the rearing of a child who may some day play a considerable part
     in the history of the country. But if you have why, then, how could
     any gentleman ask you to condescend to accept anything under the
     three figures? Your salary with me, madam, would commence at £100 a
     year.'

     "You may imagine, Mr. Holmes, that to me, destitute as I was, such an
     offer seemed almost too good to be true. The gentleman, however,
     seeing perhaps the look of incredulity upon my face, opened a
     pocket-book and took out a note.

     "'It is also my custom,' said he, smiling in the most pleasant
     fashion until his eyes were just two little shining slits amid the
     white creases of his face, 'to advance to my young ladies half their
     salary beforehand, so that they may meet any little expenses of their
     journey and their wardrobe.'

     "It seemed to me that I had never met so fascinating and so
     thoughtful a man. As I was already in debt to my tradesmen, the
     advance was a great convenience, and yet there was something
     unnatural about the whole transaction which made me wish to know a
     little more before I quite committed myself.

     "'May I ask where you live, sir?' said I.

     "'Hampshire. Charming rural place. The Copper Beeches, five miles on
     the far side of Winchester. It is the most lovely country, my dear
     young lady, and the dearest old country-house.'

     "'And my duties, sir? I should be glad to know what they would be.'

     "'One child--one dear little romper just six years old. Oh, if you
     could see him killing cockroaches with a slipper! Smack! smack!
     smack! Three gone before you could wink!' He leaned back in his chair
     and laughed his eyes into his head again.

     "I was a little startled at the nature of the child's amusement, but
     the father's laughter made me think that perhaps he was joking.

     "'My sole duties, then,' I asked, 'are to take charge of a single
     child?'

     "'No, no, not the sole, not the sole, my dear young lady,' he cried.
     'Your duty would be, as I am sure your good sense would suggest, to
     obey any little commands my wife might give, provided always that
     they were such commands as a lady might with propriety obey. You see
     no difficulty, heh?'

     "'I should be happy to make myself useful.'

     "'Quite so. In dress now, for example. We are faddy people, you
     know--faddy but kind-hearted. If you were asked to wear any dress
     which we might give you, you would not object to our little whim.
     Heh?'

     "'No,' said I, considerably astonished at his words.

     "'Or to sit here, or sit there, that would not be offensive to you?'

     "'Oh, no.'

     "'Or to cut your hair quite short before you come to us?'

     "I could hardly believe my ears. As you may observe, Mr. Holmes, my
     hair is somewhat luxuriant, and of a rather peculiar tint of
     chestnut. It has been considered artistic. I could not dream of
     sacrificing it in this offhand fashion.

     "'I am afraid that that is quite impossible,' said I. He had been
     watching me eagerly out of his small eyes, and I could see a shadow
     pass over his face as I spoke.

     "'I am afraid that it is quite essential,' said he. 'It is a little
     fancy of my wife's, and ladies' fancies, you know, madam, ladies'
     fancies must be consulted. And so you won't cut your hair?'

     "'No, sir, I really could not,' I answered firmly.

     "'Ah, very well; then that quite settles the matter. It is a pity,
     because in other respects you would really have done very nicely. In
     that case, Miss Stoper, I had best inspect a few more of your young
     ladies.'

     "The manageress had sat all this while busy with her papers without a
     word to either of us, but she glanced at me now with so much
     annoyance upon her face that I could not help suspecting that she had
     lost a handsome commission through my refusal.

     "'Do you desire your name to be kept upon the books?' she asked.

     "'If you please, Miss Stoper.'

     "'Well, really, it seems rather useless, since you refuse the most
     excellent offers in this fashion,' said she sharply. 'You can hardly
     expect us to exert ourselves to find another such opening for you.
     Good-day to you, Miss Hunter.' She struck a gong upon the table, and
     I was shown out by the page.

     "Well, Mr. Holmes, when I got back to my lodgings and found little
     enough in the cupboard, and two or three bills upon the table. I
     began to ask myself whether I had not done a very foolish thing.
     After all, if these people had strange fads and expected obedience on
     the most extraordinary matters, they were at least ready to pay for
     their eccentricity. Very few governesses in England are getting £100
     a year. Besides, what use was my hair to me? Many people are improved
     by wearing it short and perhaps I should be among the number. Next
     day I was inclined to think that I had made a mistake, and by the day
     after I was sure of it. I had almost overcome my pride so far as to
     go back to the agency and inquire whether the place was still open
     when I received this letter from the gentleman himself. I have it
     here and I will read it to you:

     "'The Copper Beeches, near Winchester.
     "'Dear Miss Hunter:
     "'Miss Stoper has very kindly given me your address, and I write from
     here to ask you whether you have reconsidered your decision. My wife
     is very anxious that you should come, for she has been much attracted
     by my description of you. We are willing to give £30 a quarter, or
     £120 a year, so as to recompense you for any little inconvenience
     which our fads may cause you. They are not very exacting, after all.
     My wife is fond of a particular shade of electric blue and would like
     you to wear such a dress indoors in the morning. You need not,
     however, go to the expense of purchasing one, as we have one
     belonging to my dear daughter Alice (now in Philadelphia), which
     would, I should think, fit you very well. Then, as to sitting here or
     there, or amusing yourself in any manner indicated, that need cause
     you no inconvenience. As regards your hair, it is no doubt a pity,
     especially as I could not help remarking its beauty during our short
     interview, but I am afraid that I must remain firm upon this point,
     and I only hope that the increased salary may recompense you for the
     loss. Your duties, as far as the child is concerned, are very light.
     Now do try to come, and I shall meet you with the dog-cart at
     Winchester. Let me know your train.
     "'Yours faithfully,
     "'Jephro Rucastle.'

     "That is the letter which I have just received, Mr. Holmes, and my
     mind is made up that I will accept it. I thought, however, that
     before taking the final step I should like to submit the whole matter
     to your consideration."

     "Well, Miss Hunter, if your mind is made up, that settles the
     question," said Holmes, smiling.

     "But you would not advise me to refuse?"

     "I confess that it is not the situation which I should like to see a
     sister of mine apply for."

     "What is the meaning of it all, Mr. Holmes?"

     "Ah, I have no data. I cannot tell. Perhaps you have yourself formed
     some opinion?"

     "Well, there seems to me to be only one possible solution. Mr.
     Rucastle seemed to be a very kind, good-natured man. Is it not
     possible that his wife is a lunatic, that he desires to keep the
     matter quiet for fear she should be taken to an asylum, and that he
     humours her fancies in every way in order to prevent an outbreak?"

     "That is a possible solution--in fact, as matters stand, it is the
     most probable one. But in any case it does not seem to be a nice
     household for a young lady."

     "But the money, Mr. Holmes, the money!"

     "Well, yes, of course the pay is good--too good. That is what makes
     me uneasy. Why should they give you £120 a year, when they could have
     their pick for £40? There must be some strong reason behind."

     "I thought that if I told you the circumstances you would understand
     afterwards if I wanted your help. I should feel so much stronger if I
     felt that you were at the back of me."

     "Oh, you may carry that feeling away with you. I assure you that your
     little problem promises to be the most interesting which has come my
     way for some months. There is something distinctly novel about some
     of the features. If you should find yourself in doubt or in danger--"

     "Danger! What danger do you foresee?"

     Holmes shook his head gravely. "It would cease to be a danger if we
     could define it," said he. "But at any time, day or night, a telegram
     would bring me down to your help."

     "That is enough." She rose briskly from her chair with the anxiety
     all swept from her face. "I shall go down to Hampshire quite easy in
     my mind now. I shall write to Mr. Rucastle at once, sacrifice my poor
     hair to-night, and start for Winchester to-morrow." With a few
     grateful words to Holmes she bade us both good-night and bustled off
     upon her way.

     "At least," said I as we heard her quick, firm steps descending the
     stairs, "she seems to be a young lady who is very well able to take
     care of herself."

     "And she would need to be," said Holmes gravely. "I am much mistaken
     if we do not hear from her before many days are past."

     It was not very long before my friend's prediction was fulfilled. A
     fortnight went by, during which I frequently found my thoughts
     turning in her direction and wondering what strange side-alley of
     human experience this lonely woman had strayed into. The unusual
     salary, the curious conditions, the light duties, all pointed to
     something abnormal, though whether a fad or a plot, or whether the
     man were a philanthropist or a villain, it was quite beyond my powers
     to determine. As to Holmes, I observed that he sat frequently for
     half an hour on end, with knitted brows and an abstracted air, but he
     swept the matter away with a wave of his hand when I mentioned it.
     "Data! data! data!" he cried impatiently. "I can't make bricks
     without clay." And yet he would always wind up by muttering that no
     sister of his should ever have accepted such a situation.

     The telegram which we eventually received came late one night just as
     I was thinking of turning in and Holmes was settling down to one of
     those all-night chemical researches which he frequently indulged in,
     when I would leave him stooping over a retort and a test-tube at
     night and find him in the same position when I came down to breakfast
     in the morning. He opened the yellow envelope, and then, glancing at
     the message, threw it across to me.

     "Just look up the trains in Bradshaw," said he, and turned back to
     his chemical studies.

     The summons was a brief and urgent one.

     Please be at the Black Swan Hotel at Winchester at midday to-morrow
     [it said]. Do come! I am at my wit's end.
     Hunter.

     "Will you come with me?" asked Holmes, glancing up.

     "I should wish to."

     "Just look it up, then."

     "There is a train at half-past nine," said I, glancing over my
     Bradshaw. "It is due at Winchester at 11.30."

     "That will do very nicely. Then perhaps I had better postpone my
     analysis of the acetones, as we may need to be at our best in the
     morning."

     By eleven o'clock the next day we were well upon our way to the old
     English capital. Holmes had been buried in the morning papers all the
     way down, but after we had passed the Hampshire border he threw them
     down and began to admire the scenery. It was an ideal spring day, a
     light blue sky, flecked with little fleecy white clouds drifting
     across from west to east. The sun was shining very brightly, and yet
     there was an exhilarating nip in the air, which set an edge to a
     man's energy. All over the countryside, away to the rolling hills
     around Aldershot, the little red and grey roofs of the farm-steadings
     peeped out from amid the light green of the new foliage.

     "Are they not fresh and beautiful?" I cried with all the enthusiasm
     of a man fresh from the fogs of Baker Street.

     But Holmes shook his head gravely.

     "Do you know, Watson," said he, "that it is one of the curses of a
     mind with a turn like mine that I must look at everything with
     reference to my own special subject. You look at these scattered
     houses, and you are impressed by their beauty. I look at them, and
     the only thought which comes to me is a feeling of their isolation
     and of the impunity with which crime may be committed there."

     "Good heavens!" I cried. "Who would associate crime with these dear
     old homesteads?"

     "They always fill me with a certain horror. It is my belief, Watson,
     founded upon my experience, that the lowest and vilest alleys in
     London do not present a more dreadful record of sin than does the
     smiling and beautiful countryside."

     "You horrify me!"

     "But the reason is very obvious. The pressure of public opinion can
     do in the town what the law cannot accomplish. There is no lane so
     vile that the scream of a tortured child, or the thud of a drunkard's
     blow, does not beget sympathy and indignation among the neighbours,
     and then the whole machinery of justice is ever so close that a word
     of complaint can set it going, and there is but a step between the
     crime and the dock. But look at these lonely houses, each in its own
     fields, filled for the most part with poor ignorant folk who know
     little of the law. Think of the deeds of hellish cruelty, the hidden
     wickedness which may go on, year in, year out, in such places, and
     none the wiser. Had this lady who appeals to us for help gone to live
     in Winchester, I should never have had a fear for her. It is the five
     miles of country which makes the danger. Still, it is clear that she
     is not personally threatened."

     "No. If she can come to Winchester to meet us she can get away."

     "Quite so. She has her freedom."

     "What can be the matter, then? Can you suggest no explanation?"

     "I have devised seven separate explanations, each of which would
     cover the facts as far as we know them. But which of these is correct
     can only be determined by the fresh information which we shall no
     doubt find waiting for us. Well, there is the tower of the cathedral,
     and we shall soon learn all that Miss Hunter has to tell."

     The Black Swan is an inn of repute in the High Street, at no distance
     from the station, and there we found the young lady waiting for us.
     She had engaged a sitting-room, and our lunch awaited us upon the
     table.

     "I am so delighted that you have come," she said earnestly. "It is so
     very kind of you both; but indeed I do not know what I should do.
     Your advice will be altogether invaluable to me."

     "Pray tell us what has happened to you."

     "I will do so, and I must be quick, for I have promised Mr. Rucastle
     to be back before three. I got his leave to come into town this
     morning, though he little knew for what purpose."

     "Let us have everything in its due order." Holmes thrust his long
     thin legs out towards the fire and composed himself to listen.

     "In the first place, I may say that I have met, on the whole, with no
     actual ill-treatment from Mr. and Mrs. Rucastle. It is only fair to
     them to say that. But I cannot understand them, and I am not easy in
     my mind about them."

     "What can you not understand?"

     "Their reasons for their conduct. But you shall have it all just as
     it occurred. When I came down, Mr. Rucastle met me here and drove me
     in his dog-cart to the Copper Beeches. It is, as he said, beautifully
     situated, but it is not beautiful in itself, for it is a large square
     block of a house, whitewashed, but all stained and streaked with damp
     and bad weather. There are grounds round it, woods on three sides,
     and on the fourth a field which slopes down to the Southampton
     highroad, which curves past about a hundred yards from the front
     door. This ground in front belongs to the house, but the woods all
     round are part of Lord Southerton's preserves. A clump of copper
     beeches immediately in front of the hall door has given its name to
     the place.

     "I was driven over by my employer, who was as amiable as ever, and
     was introduced by him that evening to his wife and the child. There
     was no truth, Mr. Holmes, in the conjecture which seemed to us to be
     probable in your rooms at Baker Street. Mrs. Rucastle is not mad. I
     found her to be a silent, pale-faced woman, much younger than her
     husband, not more than thirty, I should think, while he can hardly be
     less than forty-five. From their conversation I have gathered that
     they have been married about seven years, that he was a widower, and
     that his only child by the first wife was the daughter who has gone
     to Philadelphia. Mr. Rucastle told me in private that the reason why
     she had left them was that she had an unreasoning aversion to her
     stepmother. As the daughter could not have been less than twenty, I
     can quite imagine that her position must have been uncomfortable with
     her father's young wife.

     "Mrs. Rucastle seemed to me to be colourless in mind as well as in
     feature. She impressed me neither favourably nor the reverse. She was
     a nonentity. It was easy to see that she was passionately devoted
     both to her husband and to her little son. Her light grey eyes
     wandered continually from one to the other, noting every little want
     and forestalling it if possible. He was kind to her also in his
     bluff, boisterous fashion, and on the whole they seemed to be a happy
     couple. And yet she had some secret sorrow, this woman. She would
     often be lost in deep thought, with the saddest look upon her face.
     More than once I have surprised her in tears. I have thought
     sometimes that it was the disposition of her child which weighed upon
     her mind, for I have never met so utterly spoiled and so ill-natured
     a little creature. He is small for his age, with a head which is
     quite disproportionately large. His whole life appears to be spent in
     an alternation between savage fits of passion and gloomy intervals of
     sulking. Giving pain to any creature weaker than himself seems to be
     his one idea of amusement, and he shows quite remarkable talent in
     planning the capture of mice, little birds, and insects. But I would
     rather not talk about the creature, Mr. Holmes, and, indeed, he has
     little to do with my story."

     "I am glad of all details," remarked my friend, "whether they seem to
     you to be relevant or not."

     "I shall try not to miss anything of importance. The one unpleasant
     thing about the house, which struck me at once, was the appearance
     and conduct of the servants. There are only two, a man and his wife.
     Toller, for that is his name, is a rough, uncouth man, with grizzled
     hair and whiskers, and a perpetual smell of drink. Twice since I have
     been with them he has been quite drunk, and yet Mr. Rucastle seemed
     to take no notice of it. His wife is a very tall and strong woman
     with a sour face, as silent as Mrs. Rucastle and much less amiable.
     They are a most unpleasant couple, but fortunately I spend most of my
     time in the nursery and my own room, which are next to each other in
     one corner of the building.

     "For two days after my arrival at the Copper Beeches my life was very
     quiet; on the third, Mrs. Rucastle came down just after breakfast and
     whispered something to her husband.

     "'Oh, yes,' said he, turning to me, 'we are very much obliged to you,
     Miss Hunter, for falling in with our whims so far as to cut your
     hair. I assure you that it has not detracted in the tiniest iota from
     your appearance. We shall now see how the electric-blue dress will
     become you. You will find it laid out upon the bed in your room, and
     if you would be so good as to put it on we should both be extremely
     obliged.'

     "The dress which I found waiting for me was of a peculiar shade of
     blue. It was of excellent material, a sort of beige, but it bore
     unmistakable signs of having been worn before. It could not have been
     a better fit if I had been measured for it. Both Mr. and Mrs.
     Rucastle expressed a delight at the look of it, which seemed quite
     exaggerated in its vehemence. They were waiting for me in the
     drawing-room, which is a very large room, stretching along the entire
     front of the house, with three long windows reaching down to the
     floor. A chair had been placed close to the central window, with its
     back turned towards it. In this I was asked to sit, and then Mr.
     Rucastle, walking up and down on the other side of the room, began to
     tell me a series of the funniest stories that I have ever listened
     to. You cannot imagine how comical he was, and I laughed until I was
     quite weary. Mrs. Rucastle, however, who has evidently no sense of
     humour, never so much as smiled, but sat with her hands in her lap,
     and a sad, anxious look upon her face. After an hour or so, Mr.
     Rucastle suddenly remarked that it was time to commence the duties of
     the day, and that I might change my dress and go to little Edward in
     the nursery.

     "Two days later this same performance was gone through under exactly
     similar circumstances. Again I changed my dress, again I sat in the
     window, and again I laughed very heartily at the funny stories of
     which my employer had an immense répertoire, and which he told
     inimitably. Then he handed me a yellow-backed novel, and moving my
     chair a little sideways, that my own shadow might not fall upon the
     page, he begged me to read aloud to him. I read for about ten
     minutes, beginning in the heart of a chapter, and then suddenly, in
     the middle of a sentence, he ordered me to cease and to change my
     dress.

     "You can easily imagine, Mr. Holmes, how curious I became as to what
     the meaning of this extraordinary performance could possibly be. They
     were always very careful, I observed, to turn my face away from the
     window, so that I became consumed with the desire to see what was
     going on behind my back. At first it seemed to be impossible, but I
     soon devised a means. My hand-mirror had been broken, so a happy
     thought seized me, and I concealed a piece of the glass in my
     handkerchief. On the next occasion, in the midst of my laughter, I
     put my handkerchief up to my eyes, and was able with a little
     management to see all that there was behind me. I confess that I was
     disappointed. There was nothing. At least that was my first
     impression. At the second glance, however, I perceived that there was
     a man standing in the Southampton Road, a small bearded man in a grey
     suit, who seemed to be looking in my direction. The road is an
     important highway, and there are usually people there. This man,
     however, was leaning against the railings which bordered our field
     and was looking earnestly up. I lowered my handkerchief and glanced
     at Mrs. Rucastle to find her eyes fixed upon me with a most searching
     gaze. She said nothing, but I am convinced that she had divined that
     I had a mirror in my hand and had seen what was behind me. She rose
     at once.

     "'Jephro,' said she, 'there is an impertinent fellow upon the road
     there who stares up at Miss Hunter.'

     "'No friend of yours, Miss Hunter?' he asked.

     "'No, I know no one in these parts.'

     "'Dear me! How very impertinent! Kindly turn round and motion to him
     to go away.'

     "'Surely it would be better to take no notice.'

     "'No, no, we should have him loitering here always. Kindly turn round
     and wave him away like that.'

     "I did as I was told, and at the same instant Mrs. Rucastle drew down
     the blind. That was a week ago, and from that time I have not sat
     again in the window, nor have I worn the blue dress, nor seen the man
     in the road."

     "Pray continue," said Holmes. "Your narrative promises to be a most
     interesting one."

     "You will find it rather disconnected, I fear, and there may prove to
     be little relation between the different incidents of which I speak.
     On the very first day that I was at the Copper Beeches, Mr. Rucastle
     took me to a small outhouse which stands near the kitchen door. As we
     approached it I heard the sharp rattling of a chain, and the sound as
     of a large animal moving about.

     "'Look in here!' said Mr. Rucastle, showing me a slit between two
     planks. 'Is he not a beauty?'

     "I looked through and was conscious of two glowing eyes, and of a
     vague figure huddled up in the darkness.

     "'Don't be frightened,' said my employer, laughing at the start which
     I had given. 'It's only Carlo, my mastiff. I call him mine, but
     really old Toller, my groom, is the only man who can do anything with
     him. We feed him once a day, and not too much then, so that he is
     always as keen as mustard. Toller lets him loose every night, and God
     help the trespasser whom he lays his fangs upon. For goodness' sake
     don't you ever on any pretext set your foot over the threshold at
     night, for it's as much as your life is worth.'

     "The warning was no idle one, for two nights later I happened to look
     out of my bedroom window about two o'clock in the morning. It was a
     beautiful moonlight night, and the lawn in front of the house was
     silvered over and almost as bright as day. I was standing, rapt in
     the peaceful beauty of the scene, when I was aware that something was
     moving under the shadow of the copper beeches. As it emerged into the
     moonshine I saw what it was. It was a giant dog, as large as a calf,
     tawny tinted, with hanging jowl, black muzzle, and huge projecting
     bones. It walked slowly across the lawn and vanished into the shadow
     upon the other side. That dreadful sentinel sent a chill to my heart
     which I do not think that any burglar could have done.

     "And now I have a very strange experience to tell you. I had, as you
     know, cut off my hair in London, and I had placed it in a great coil
     at the bottom of my trunk. One evening, after the child was in bed, I
     began to amuse myself by examining the furniture of my room and by
     rearranging my own little things. There was an old chest of drawers
     in the room, the two upper ones empty and open, the lower one locked.
     I had filled the first two with my linen, and as I had still much to
     pack away I was naturally annoyed at not having the use of the third
     drawer. It struck me that it might have been fastened by a mere
     oversight, so I took out my bunch of keys and tried to open it. The
     very first key fitted to perfection, and I drew the drawer open.
     There was only one thing in it, but I am sure that you would never
     guess what it was. It was my coil of hair.

     "I took it up and examined it. It was of the same peculiar tint, and
     the same thickness. But then the impossibility of the thing obtruded
     itself upon me. How could my hair have been locked in the drawer?
     With trembling hands I undid my trunk, turned out the contents, and
     drew from the bottom my own hair. I laid the two tresses together,
     and I assure you that they were identical. Was it not extraordinary?
     Puzzle as I would, I could make nothing at all of what it meant. I
     returned the strange hair to the drawer, and I said nothing of the
     matter to the Rucastles as I felt that I had put myself in the wrong
     by opening a drawer which they had locked.

     "I am naturally observant, as you may have remarked, Mr. Holmes, and
     I soon had a pretty good plan of the whole house in my head. There
     was one wing, however, which appeared not to be inhabited at all. A
     door which faced that which led into the quarters of the Tollers
     opened into this suite, but it was invariably locked. One day,
     however, as I ascended the stair, I met Mr. Rucastle coming out
     through this door, his keys in his hand, and a look on his face which
     made him a very different person to the round, jovial man to whom I
     was accustomed. His cheeks were red, his brow was all crinkled with
     anger, and the veins stood out at his temples with passion. He locked
     the door and hurried past me without a word or a look.

     "This aroused my curiosity, so when I went out for a walk in the
     grounds with my charge, I strolled round to the side from which I
     could see the windows of this part of the house. There were four of
     them in a row, three of which were simply dirty, while the fourth was
     shuttered up. They were evidently all deserted. As I strolled up and
     down, glancing at them occasionally, Mr. Rucastle came out to me,
     looking as merry and jovial as ever.

     "'Ah!' said he, 'you must not think me rude if I passed you without a
     word, my dear young lady. I was preoccupied with business matters.'

     "I assured him that I was not offended. 'By the way,' said I, 'you
     seem to have quite a suite of spare rooms up there, and one of them
     has the shutters up.'

     "He looked surprised and, as it seemed to me, a little startled at my
     remark.

     "'Photography is one of my hobbies,' said he. 'I have made my dark
     room up there. But, dear me! what an observant young lady we have
     come upon. Who would have believed it? Who would have ever believed
     it?' He spoke in a jesting tone, but there was no jest in his eyes as
     he looked at me. I read suspicion there and annoyance, but no jest.

     "Well, Mr. Holmes, from the moment that I understood that there was
     something about that suite of rooms which I was not to know, I was
     all on fire to go over them. It was not mere curiosity, though I have
     my share of that. It was more a feeling of duty--a feeling that some
     good might come from my penetrating to this place. They talk of
     woman's instinct; perhaps it was woman's instinct which gave me that
     feeling. At any rate, it was there, and I was keenly on the lookout
     for any chance to pass the forbidden door.

     "It was only yesterday that the chance came. I may tell you that,
     besides Mr. Rucastle, both Toller and his wife find something to do
     in these deserted rooms, and I once saw him carrying a large black
     linen bag with him through the door. Recently he has been drinking
     hard, and yesterday evening he was very drunk; and when I came
     upstairs there was the key in the door. I have no doubt at all that
     he had left it there. Mr. and Mrs. Rucastle were both downstairs, and
     the child was with them, so that I had an admirable opportunity. I
     turned the key gently in the lock, opened the door, and slipped
     through.

     "There was a little passage in front of me, unpapered and uncarpeted,
     which turned at a right angle at the farther end. Round this corner
     were three doors in a line, the first and third of which were open.
     They each led into an empty room, dusty and cheerless, with two
     windows in the one and one in the other, so thick with dirt that the
     evening light glimmered dimly through them. The centre door was
     closed, and across the outside of it had been fastened one of the
     broad bars of an iron bed, padlocked at one end to a ring in the
     wall, and fastened at the other with stout cord. The door itself was
     locked as well, and the key was not there. This barricaded door
     corresponded clearly with the shuttered window outside, and yet I
     could see by the glimmer from beneath it that the room was not in
     darkness. Evidently there was a skylight which let in light from
     above. As I stood in the passage gazing at the sinister door and
     wondering what secret it might veil, I suddenly heard the sound of
     steps within the room and saw a shadow pass backward and forward
     against the little slit of dim light which shone out from under the
     door. A mad, unreasoning terror rose up in me at the sight, Mr.
     Holmes. My overstrung nerves failed me suddenly, and I turned and
     ran--ran as though some dreadful hand were behind me clutching at the
     skirt of my dress. I rushed down the passage, through the door, and
     straight into the arms of Mr. Rucastle, who was waiting outside.

     "'So,' said he, smiling, 'it was you, then. I thought that it must be
     when I saw the door open.'

     "'Oh, I am so frightened!' I panted.

     "'My dear young lady! my dear young lady!'--you cannot think how
     caressing and soothing his manner was--'and what has frightened you,
     my dear young lady?'

     "But his voice was just a little too coaxing. He overdid it. I was
     keenly on my guard against him.

     "'I was foolish enough to go into the empty wing,' I answered. 'But
     it is so lonely and eerie in this dim light that I was frightened and
     ran out again. Oh, it is so dreadfully still in there!'

     "'Only that?' said he, looking at me keenly.

     "'Why, what did you think?' I asked.

     "'Why do you think that I lock this door?'

     "'I am sure that I do not know.'

     "'It is to keep people out who have no business there. Do you see?'
     He was still smiling in the most amiable manner.

     "'I am sure if I had known--'

     "'Well, then, you know now. And if you ever put your foot over that
     threshold again'--here in an instant the smile hardened into a grin
     of rage, and he glared down at me with the face of a demon--'I'll
     throw you to the mastiff.'

     "I was so terrified that I do not know what I did. I suppose that I
     must have rushed past him into my room. I remember nothing until I
     found myself lying on my bed trembling all over. Then I thought of
     you, Mr. Holmes. I could not live there longer without some advice. I
     was frightened of the house, of the man, of the woman, of the
     servants, even of the child. They were all horrible to me. If I could
     only bring you down all would be well. Of course I might have fled
     from the house, but my curiosity was almost as strong as my fears. My
     mind was soon made up. I would send you a wire. I put on my hat and
     cloak, went down to the office, which is about half a mile from the
     house, and then returned, feeling very much easier. A horrible doubt
     came into my mind as I approached the door lest the dog might be
     loose, but I remembered that Toller had drunk himself into a state of
     insensibility that evening, and I knew that he was the only one in
     the household who had any influence with the savage creature, or who
     would venture to set him free. I slipped in in safety and lay awake
     half the night in my joy at the thought of seeing you. I had no
     difficulty in getting leave to come into Winchester this morning, but
     I must be back before three o'clock, for Mr. and Mrs. Rucastle are
     going on a visit, and will be away all the evening, so that I must
     look after the child. Now I have told you all my adventures, Mr.
     Holmes, and I should be very glad if you could tell me what it all
     means, and, above all, what I should do."

     Holmes and I had listened spellbound to this extraordinary story. My
     friend rose now and paced up and down the room, his hands in his
     pockets, and an expression of the most profound gravity upon his
     face.

     "Is Toller still drunk?" he asked.

     "Yes. I heard his wife tell Mrs. Rucastle that she could do nothing
     with him."

     "That is well. And the Rucastles go out to-night?"

     "Yes."

     "Is there a cellar with a good strong lock?"

     "Yes, the wine-cellar."

     "You seem to me to have acted all through this matter like a very
     brave and sensible girl, Miss Hunter. Do you think that you could
     perform one more feat? I should not ask it of you if I did not think
     you a quite exceptional woman."

     "I will try. What is it?"

     "We shall be at the Copper Beeches by seven o'clock, my friend and I.
     The Rucastles will be gone by that time, and Toller will, we hope, be
     incapable. There only remains Mrs. Toller, who might give the alarm.
     If you could send her into the cellar on some errand, and then turn
     the key upon her, you would facilitate matters immensely."

     "I will do it."

     "Excellent! We shall then look thoroughly into the affair. Of course
     there is only one feasible explanation. You have been brought there
     to personate someone, and the real person is imprisoned in this
     chamber. That is obvious. As to who this prisoner is, I have no doubt
     that it is the daughter, Miss Alice Rucastle, if I remember right,
     who was said to have gone to America. You were chosen, doubtless, as
     resembling her in height, figure, and the colour of your hair. Hers
     had been cut off, very possibly in some illness through which she has
     passed, and so, of course, yours had to be sacrificed also. By a
     curious chance you came upon her tresses. The man in the road was
     undoubtedly some friend of hers--possibly her fiancé--and no doubt,
     as you wore the girl's dress and were so like her, he was convinced
     from your laughter, whenever he saw you, and afterwards from your
     gesture, that Miss Rucastle was perfectly happy, and that she no
     longer desired his attentions. The dog is let loose at night to
     prevent him from endeavouring to communicate with her. So much is
     fairly clear. The most serious point in the case is the disposition
     of the child."

     "What on earth has that to do with it?" I ejaculated.

     "My dear Watson, you as a medical man are continually gaining light
     as to the tendencies of a child by the study of the parents. Don't
     you see that the converse is equally valid. I have frequently gained
     my first real insight into the character of parents by studying their
     children. This child's disposition is abnormally cruel, merely for
     cruelty's sake, and whether he derives this from his smiling father,
     as I should suspect, or from his mother, it bodes evil for the poor
     girl who is in their power."

     "I am sure that you are right, Mr. Holmes," cried our client. "A
     thousand things come back to me which make me certain that you have
     hit it. Oh, let us lose not an instant in bringing help to this poor
     creature."

     "We must be circumspect, for we are dealing with a very cunning man.
     We can do nothing until seven o'clock. At that hour we shall be with
     you, and it will not be long before we solve the mystery."

     We were as good as our word, for it was just seven when we reached
     the Copper Beeches, having put up our trap at a wayside public-house.
     The group of trees, with their dark leaves shining like burnished
     metal in the light of the setting sun, were sufficient to mark the
     house even had Miss Hunter not been standing smiling on the
     door-step.

     "Have you managed it?" asked Holmes.

     A loud thudding noise came from somewhere downstairs. "That is Mrs.
     Toller in the cellar," said she. "Her husband lies snoring on the
     kitchen rug. Here are his keys, which are the duplicates of Mr.
     Rucastle's."

     "You have done well indeed!" cried Holmes with enthusiasm. "Now lead
     the way, and we shall soon see the end of this black business."

     We passed up the stair, unlocked the door, followed on down a
     passage, and found ourselves in front of the barricade which Miss
     Hunter had described. Holmes cut the cord and removed the transverse
     bar. Then he tried the various keys in the lock, but without success.
     No sound came from within, and at the silence Holmes' face clouded
     over.

     "I trust that we are not too late," said he. "I think, Miss Hunter,
     that we had better go in without you. Now, Watson, put your shoulder
     to it, and we shall see whether we cannot make our way in."

     It was an old rickety door and gave at once before our united
     strength. Together we rushed into the room. It was empty. There was
     no furniture save a little pallet bed, a small table, and a basketful
     of linen. The skylight above was open, and the prisoner gone.

     "There has been some villainy here," said Holmes; "this beauty has
     guessed Miss Hunter's intentions and has carried his victim off."

     "But how?"

     "Through the skylight. We shall soon see how he managed it." He swung
     himself up onto the roof. "Ah, yes," he cried, "here's the end of a
     long light ladder against the eaves. That is how he did it."

     "But it is impossible," said Miss Hunter; "the ladder was not there
     when the Rucastles went away."

     "He has come back and done it. I tell you that he is a clever and
     dangerous man. I should not be very much surprised if this were he
     whose step I hear now upon the stair. I think, Watson, that it would
     be as well for you to have your pistol ready."

     The words were hardly out of his mouth before a man appeared at the
     door of the room, a very fat and burly man, with a heavy stick in his
     hand. Miss Hunter screamed and shrunk against the wall at the sight
     of him, but Sherlock Holmes sprang forward and confronted him.

     "You villain!" said he, "where's your daughter?"

     The fat man cast his eyes round, and then up at the open skylight.

     "It is for me to ask you that," he shrieked, "you thieves! Spies and
     thieves! I have caught you, have I? You are in my power. I'll serve
     you!" He turned and clattered down the stairs as hard as he could go.

     "He's gone for the dog!" cried Miss Hunter.

     "I have my revolver," said I.

     "Better close the front door," cried Holmes, and we all rushed down
     the stairs together. We had hardly reached the hall when we heard the
     baying of a hound, and then a scream of agony, with a horrible
     worrying sound which it was dreadful to listen to. An elderly man
     with a red face and shaking limbs came staggering out at a side door.

     "My God!" he cried. "Someone has loosed the dog. It's not been fed
     for two days. Quick, quick, or it'll be too late!"

     Holmes and I rushed out and round the angle of the house, with Toller
     hurrying behind us. There was the huge famished brute, its black
     muzzle buried in Rucastle's throat, while he writhed and screamed
     upon the ground. Running up, I blew its brains out, and it fell over
     with its keen white teeth still meeting in the great creases of his
     neck. With much labour we separated them and carried him, living but
     horribly mangled, into the house. We laid him upon the drawing-room
     sofa, and having dispatched the sobered Toller to bear the news to
     his wife, I did what I could to relieve his pain. We were all
     assembled round him when the door opened, and a tall, gaunt woman
     entered the room.

     "Mrs. Toller!" cried Miss Hunter.

     "Yes, miss. Mr. Rucastle let me out when he came back before he went
     up to you. Ah, miss, it is a pity you didn't let me know what you
     were planning, for I would have told you that your pains were
     wasted."

     "Ha!" said Holmes, looking keenly at her. "It is clear that Mrs.
     Toller knows more about this matter than anyone else."

     "Yes, sir, I do, and I am ready enough to tell what I know."

     "Then, pray, sit down, and let us hear it for there are several
     points on which I must confess that I am still in the dark."

     "I will soon make it clear to you," said she; "and I'd have done so
     before now if I could ha' got out from the cellar. If there's
     police-court business over this, you'll remember that I was the one
     that stood your friend, and that I was Miss Alice's friend too.

     "She was never happy at home, Miss Alice wasn't, from the time that
     her father married again. She was slighted like and had no say in
     anything, but it never really became bad for her until after she met
     Mr. Fowler at a friend's house. As well as I could learn, Miss Alice
     had rights of her own by will, but she was so quiet and patient, she
     was, that she never said a word about them but just left everything
     in Mr. Rucastle's hands. He knew he was safe with her; but when there
     was a chance of a husband coming forward, who would ask for all that
     the law would give him, then her father thought it time to put a stop
     on it. He wanted her to sign a paper, so that whether she married or
     not, he could use her money. When she wouldn't do it, he kept on
     worrying her until she got brain-fever, and for six weeks was at
     death's door. Then she got better at last, all worn to a shadow, and
     with her beautiful hair cut off; but that didn't make no change in
     her young man, and he stuck to her as true as man could be."

     "Ah," said Holmes, "I think that what you have been good enough to
     tell us makes the matter fairly clear, and that I can deduce all that
     remains. Mr. Rucastle then, I presume, took to this system of
     imprisonment?"

     "Yes, sir."

     "And brought Miss Hunter down from London in order to get rid of the
     disagreeable persistence of Mr. Fowler."

     "That was it, sir."

     "But Mr. Fowler being a persevering man, as a good seaman should be,
     blockaded the house, and having met you succeeded by certain
     arguments, metallic or otherwise, in convincing you that your
     interests were the same as his."

     "Mr. Fowler was a very kind-spoken, free-handed gentleman," said Mrs.
     Toller serenely.

     "And in this way he managed that your good man should have no want of
     drink, and that a ladder should be ready at the moment when your
     master had gone out."

     "You have it, sir, just as it happened."

     "I am sure we owe you an apology, Mrs. Toller," said Holmes, "for you
     have certainly cleared up everything which puzzled us. And here comes
     the country surgeon and Mrs. Rucastle, so I think, Watson, that we
     had best escort Miss Hunter back to Winchester, as it seems to me
     that our locus standi now is rather a questionable one."

     And thus was solved the mystery of the sinister house with the copper
     beeches in front of the door. Mr. Rucastle survived, but was always a
     broken man, kept alive solely through the care of his devoted wife.
     They still live with their old servants, who probably know so much of
     Rucastle's past life that he finds it difficult to part from them.
     Mr. Fowler and Miss Rucastle were married, by special license, in
     Southampton the day after their flight, and he is now the holder of a
     government appointment in the island of Mauritius. As to Miss Violet
     Hunter, my friend Holmes, rather to my disappointment, manifested no
     further interest in her when once she had ceased to be the centre of
     one of his problems, and she is now the head of a private school at
     Walsall, where I believe that she has met with considerable success.









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