The Return of Sherlock Holmes

THE ADVENTURE OF THE EMPTY HOUSE

It was in the spring of the year 1894 that all London was

interested, and the fashionable world dismayed, by the murder of

the Honourable Ronald Adair under most unusual and inexplicable

circumstances. The public has already learned those particulars

of the crime which came out in the police investigation, but a

good deal was suppressed upon that occasion, since the case for

the prosecution was so overwhelmingly strong that it was not

necessary to bring forward all the facts. Only now, at the end of

nearly ten years, am I allowed to supply those missing links

which make up the whole of that remarkable chain. The crime was

of interest in itself, but that interest was as nothing to me

compared to the inconceivable sequel, which afforded me the

greatest shock and surprise of any event in my adventurous life.

Even now, after this long interval, I find myself thrilling as I

think of it, and feeling once more that sudden flood of joy,

amazement, and incredulity which utterly submerged my mind. Let

me say to that public, which has shown some interest in those

glimpses which I have occasionally given them of the thoughts and

actions of a very remarkable man, that they are not to blame me

if I have not shared my knowledge with them, for I should have

considered it my first duty to do so, had I not been barred by a

positive prohibition from his own lips, which was only withdrawn

upon the third of last month.

It can be imagined that my close intimacy with Sherlock Holmes

had interested me deeply in crime, and that after his

disappearance I never failed to read with care the various

problems which came before the public. And I even attempted, more

than once, for my own private satisfaction, to employ his methods

in their solution, though with indifferent success. There was

none, however, which appealed to me like this tragedy of Ronald

Adair. As I read the evidence at the inquest, which led up to a

verdict of willful murder against some person or persons unknown,

I realized more clearly than I had ever done the loss which the

community had sustained by the death of Sherlock Holmes. There

were points about this strange business which would, I was sure,

have specially appealed to him, and the efforts of the police

would have been supplemented, or more probably anticipated, by

the trained observation and the alert mind of the first criminal

agent in Europe. All day, as I drove upon my round, I turned over

the case in my mind and found no explanation which appeared to me

to be adequate. At the risk of telling a twice-told tale, I will

recapitulate the facts as they were known to the public at the

conclusion of the inquest.

The Honourable Ronald Adair was the second son of the Earl of

Maynooth, at that time governor of one of the Australian

colonies. Adair’s mother had returned from Australia to undergo

the operation for cataract, and she, her son Ronald, and her

daughter Hilda were living together at 427, Park Lane. The youth

moved in the best society—had, so far as was known, no enemies

and no particular vices. He had been engaged to Miss Edith

Woodley, of Carstairs, but the engagement had been broken off by

mutual consent some months before, and there was no sign that it

had left any very profound feeling behind it. For the rest, the

man’s life moved in a narrow and conventional circle, for his

habits were quiet and his nature unemotional. Yet it was upon

this easy-going young aristocrat that death came, in most strange

and unexpected form, between the hours of ten and eleven-twenty

on the night of March 30, 1894.

Ronald Adair was fond of cards—playing continually, but never for

such stakes as would hurt him. He was a member of the Baldwin,

the Cavendish, and the Bagatelle card clubs. It was shown that,

after dinner on the day of his death, he had played a rubber of

whist at the latter club. He had also played there in the

afternoon. The evidence of those who had played with him—Mr.

Murray, Sir John Hardy, and Colonel Moran—showed that the game

was whist, and that there was a fairly equal fall of the cards.

Adair might have lost five pounds, but not more. His fortune was

a considerable one, and such a loss could not in any way affect

him. He had played nearly every day at one club or other, but he

was a cautious player, and usually rose a winner. It came out in

evidence that, in partnership with Colonel Moran, he had actually

won as much as four hundred and twenty pounds in a sitting, some

weeks before, from Godfrey Milner and Lord Balmoral. So much for

his recent history as it came out at the inquest.

On the evening of the crime, he returned from the club exactly at

ten. His mother and sister were out spending the evening with a

relation. The servant deposed that she heard him enter the front

room on the second floor, generally used as his sitting-room. She

had lit a fire there, and as it smoked she had opened the window.

No sound was heard from the room until eleven-twenty, the hour of

the return of Lady Maynooth and her daughter. Desiring to say

good-night, she attempted to enter her son’s room. The door was

locked on the inside, and no answer could be got to their cries

and knocking. Help was obtained, and the door forced. The

unfortunate young man was found lying near the table. His head

had been horribly mutilated by an expanding revolver bullet, but

no weapon of any sort was to be found in the room. On the table

lay two banknotes for ten pounds each and seventeen pounds ten in

silver and gold, the money arranged in little piles of varying

amount. There were some figures also upon a sheet of paper, with

the names of some club friends opposite to them, from which it

was conjectured that before his death he was endeavouring to make

out his losses or winnings at cards.

A minute examination of the circumstances served only to make the

case more complex. In the first place, no reason could be given

why the young man should have fastened the door upon the inside.

There was the possibility that the murderer had done this, and

had afterwards escaped by the window. The drop was at least

twenty feet, however, and a bed of crocuses in full bloom lay

beneath. Neither the flowers nor the earth showed any sign of

having been disturbed, nor were there any marks upon the narrow

strip of grass which separated the house from the road.

Apparently, therefore, it was the young man himself who had

fastened the door. But how did he come by his death? No one could

have climbed up to the window without leaving traces. Suppose a

man had fired through the window, he would indeed be a remarkable

shot who could with a revolver inflict so deadly a wound. Again,

Park Lane is a frequented thoroughfare; there is a cab stand

within a hundred yards of the house. No one had heard a shot. And

yet there was the dead man and there the revolver bullet, which

had mushroomed out, as soft-nosed bullets will, and so inflicted

a wound which must have caused instantaneous death. Such were the

circumstances of the Park Lane Mystery, which were further

complicated by entire absence of motive, since, as I have said,

young Adair was not known to have any enemy, and no attempt had

been made to remove the money or valuables in the room.

All day I turned these facts over in my mind, endeavouring to hit

upon some theory which could reconcile them all, and to find that

line of least resistance which my poor friend had declared to be

the starting-point of every investigation. I confess that I made

little progress. In the evening I strolled across the Park, and

found myself about six o’clock at the Oxford Street end of Park

Lane. A group of loafers upon the pavements, all staring up at a

particular window, directed me to the house which I had come to

see. A tall, thin man with coloured glasses, whom I strongly

suspected of being a plain-clothes detective, was pointing out

some theory of his own, while the others crowded round to listen

to what he said. I got as near him as I could, but his

observations seemed to me to be absurd, so I withdrew again in

some disgust. As I did so I struck against an elderly, deformed

man, who had been behind me, and I knocked down several books

which he was carrying. I remember that as I picked them up, I

observed the title of one of them, _The Origin of Tree Worship_,

and it struck me that the fellow must be some poor bibliophile,

who, either as a trade or as a hobby, was a collector of obscure

volumes. I endeavoured to apologize for the accident, but it was

evident that these books which I had so unfortunately maltreated

were very precious objects in the eyes of their owner. With a

snarl of contempt he turned upon his heel, and I saw his curved

back and white side-whiskers disappear among the throng.

My observations of No. 427, Park Lane did little to clear up the

problem in which I was interested. The house was separated from

the street by a low wall and railing, the whole not more than

five feet high. It was perfectly easy, therefore, for anyone to

get into the garden, but the window was entirely inaccessible,

since there was no waterpipe or anything which could help the

most active man to climb it. More puzzled than ever, I retraced

my steps to Kensington. I had not been in my study five minutes

when the maid entered to say that a person desired to see me. To

my astonishment it was none other than my strange old book

collector, his sharp, wizened face peering out from a frame of

white hair, and his precious volumes, a dozen of them at least,

wedged under his right arm.

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

croaking voice.

I acknowledged that I was.

“Well, I’ve a conscience, sir, and when I chanced to see you go

into this house, as I came hobbling after you, I thought to

myself, I’ll just step in and see that kind gentleman, and tell

him that if I was a bit gruff in my manner there was not any harm

meant, and that I am much obliged to him for picking up my

books.”

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

who I was?”

“Well, sir, if it isn’t too great a liberty, I am a neighbour of

yours, for you’ll find my little bookshop at the corner of Church

Street, and very happy to see you, I am sure. Maybe you collect

yourself, sir. Here’s _British Birds_, and _Catullus_, and _The

Holy War_—a bargain, every one of them. With five volumes you

could just fill that gap on that second shelf. It looks untidy,

does it not, sir?”

I moved my head to look at the cabinet behind me. When I turned

again, Sherlock Holmes was standing smiling at me across my study

table. I rose to my feet, stared at him for some seconds in utter

amazement, and then it appears that I must have fainted for the

first and the last time in my life. Certainly a grey mist swirled

before my eyes, and when it cleared I found my collar-ends undone

and the tingling after-taste of brandy upon my lips. Holmes was

bending over my chair, his flask in his hand.

“My dear Watson,” said the well-remembered voice, “I owe you a

thousand apologies. I had no idea that you would be so affected.”

I gripped him by the arms.

“Holmes!” I cried. “Is it really you? Can it indeed be that you

are alive? Is it possible that you succeeded in climbing out of

that awful abyss?”

“Wait a moment,” said he. “Are you sure that you are really fit

to discuss things? I have given you a serious shock by my

unnecessarily dramatic reappearance.”

“I am all right, but indeed, Holmes, I can hardly believe my

eyes. Good heavens! to think that you—you of all men—should be

standing in my study.” Again I gripped him by the sleeve, and

felt the thin, sinewy arm beneath it. “Well, you’re not a spirit

anyhow,” said I. “My dear chap, I’m overjoyed to see you. Sit

down, and tell me how you came alive out of that dreadful chasm.”

He sat opposite to me, and lit a cigarette in his old, nonchalant

manner. He was dressed in the seedy frockcoat of the book

merchant, but the rest of that individual lay in a pile of white

hair and old books upon the table. Holmes looked even thinner and

keener than of old, but there was a dead-white tinge in his

aquiline face which told me that his life recently had not been a

healthy one.

“I am glad to stretch myself, Watson,” said he. “It is no joke

when a tall man has to take a foot off his stature for several

hours on end. Now, my dear fellow, in the matter of these

explanations, we have, if I may ask for your cooperation, a hard

and dangerous night’s work in front of us. Perhaps it would be

better if I gave you an account of the whole situation when that

work is finished.”

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

“You’ll come with me to-night?”

“When you like and where you like.”

“This is, indeed, like the old days. We shall have time for a

mouthful of dinner before we need go. Well, then, about that

chasm. I had no serious difficulty in getting out of it, for the

very simple reason that I never was in it.”

“You never were in it?”

“No, Watson, I never was in it. My note to you was absolutely

genuine. I had little doubt that I had come to the end of my

career when I perceived the somewhat sinister figure of the late

Professor Moriarty standing upon the narrow pathway which led to

safety. I read an inexorable purpose in his grey eyes. I

exchanged some remarks with him, therefore, and obtained his

courteous permission to write the short note which you afterwards

received. I left it with my cigarette-box and my stick, and I

walked along the pathway, Moriarty still at my heels. When I

reached the end I stood at bay. He drew no weapon, but he rushed

at me and threw his long arms around me. He knew that his own

game was up, and was only anxious to revenge himself upon me. We

tottered together upon the brink of the fall. I have some

knowledge, however, of baritsu, or the Japanese system of

wrestling, which has more than once been very useful to me. I

slipped through his grip, and he with a horrible scream kicked

madly for a few seconds, and clawed the air with both his hands.

But for all his efforts he could not get his balance, and over he

went. With my face over the brink, I saw him fall for a long way.

Then he struck a rock, bounded off, and splashed into the water.”

I listened with amazement to this explanation, which Holmes

delivered between the puffs of his cigarette.

“But the tracks!” I cried. “I saw, with my own eyes, that two

went down the path and none returned.”

“It came about in this way. The instant that the Professor had

disappeared, it struck me what a really extraordinarily lucky

chance Fate had placed in my way. I knew that Moriarty was not

the only man who had sworn my death. There were at least three

others whose desire for vengeance upon me would only be increased

by the death of their leader. They were all most dangerous men.

One or other would certainly get me. On the other hand, if all

the world was convinced that I was dead they would take

liberties, these men, they would soon lay themselves open, and

sooner or later I could destroy them. Then it would be time for

me to announce that I was still in the land of the living. So

rapidly does the brain act that I believe I had thought this all

out before Professor Moriarty had reached the bottom of the

Reichenbach Fall.

“I stood up and examined the rocky wall behind me. In your

picturesque account of the matter, which I read with great

interest some months later, you assert that the wall was sheer.

That was not literally true. A few small footholds presented

themselves, and there was some indication of a ledge. The cliff

is so high that to climb it all was an obvious impossibility, and

it was equally impossible to make my way along the wet path

without leaving some tracks. I might, it is true, have reversed

my boots, as I have done on similar occasions, but the sight of

three sets of tracks in one direction would certainly have

suggested a deception. On the whole, then, it was best that I

should risk the climb. It was not a pleasant business, Watson.

The fall roared beneath me. I am not a fanciful person, but I

give you my word that I seemed to hear Moriarty’s voice screaming

at me out of the abyss. A mistake would have been fatal. More

than once, as tufts of grass came out in my hand or my foot

slipped in the wet notches of the rock, I thought that I was

gone. But I struggled upward, and at last I reached a ledge

several feet deep and covered with soft green moss, where I could

lie unseen, in the most perfect comfort. There I was stretched,

when you, my dear Watson, and all your following were

investigating in the most sympathetic and inefficient manner the

circumstances of my death.

“At last, when you had all formed your inevitable and totally

erroneous conclusions, you departed for the hotel, and I was left

alone. I had imagined that I had reached the end of my

adventures, but a very unexpected occurrence showed me that there

were surprises still in store for me. A huge rock, falling from

above, boomed past me, struck the path, and bounded over into the

chasm. For an instant I thought that it was an accident, but a

moment later, looking up, I saw a man’s head against the

darkening sky, and another stone struck the very ledge upon which

I was stretched, within a foot of my head. Of course, the meaning

of this was obvious. Moriarty had not been alone. A

confederate—and even that one glance had told me how dangerous a

man that confederate was—had kept guard while the Professor had

attacked me. From a distance, unseen by me, he had been a witness

of his friend’s death and of my escape. He had waited, and then

making his way round to the top of the cliff, he had endeavoured

to succeed where his comrade had failed.

“I did not take long to think about it, Watson. Again I saw that

grim face look over the cliff, and I knew that it was the

precursor of another stone. I scrambled down on to the path. I

don’t think I could have done it in cold blood. It was a hundred

times more difficult than getting up. But I had no time to think

of the danger, for another stone sang past me as I hung by my

hands from the edge of the ledge. Halfway down I slipped, but, by

the blessing of God, I landed, torn and bleeding, upon the path.

I took to my heels, did ten miles over the mountains in the

darkness, and a week later I found myself in Florence, with the

certainty that no one in the world knew what had become of me.

“I had only one confidant—my brother Mycroft. I owe you many

apologies, my dear Watson, but it was all-important that it

should be thought I was dead, and it is quite certain that you

would not have written so convincing an account of my unhappy end

had you not yourself thought that it was true. Several times

during the last three years I have taken up my pen to write to

you, but always I feared lest your affectionate regard for me

should tempt you to some indiscretion which would betray my

secret. For that reason I turned away from you this evening when

you upset my books, for I was in danger at the time, and any show

of surprise and emotion upon your part might have drawn attention

to my identity and led to the most deplorable and irreparable

results. As to Mycroft, I had to confide in him in order to

obtain the money which I needed. The course of events in London

did not run so well as I had hoped, for the trial of the Moriarty

gang left two of its most dangerous members, my own most

vindictive enemies, at liberty. I travelled for two years in

Tibet, therefore, and amused myself by visiting Lhassa, and

spending some days with the head lama. You may have read of the

remarkable explorations of a Norwegian named Sigerson, but I am

sure that it never occurred to you that you were receiving news

of your friend. I then passed through Persia, looked in at Mecca,

and paid a short but interesting visit to the Khalifa at Khartoum

the results of which I have communicated to the Foreign Office.

Returning to France, I spent some months in a research into the

coal-tar derivatives, which I conducted in a laboratory at

Montpellier, in the south of France. Having concluded this to my

satisfaction and learning that only one of my enemies was now

left in London, I was about to return when my movements were

hastened by the news of this very remarkable Park Lane Mystery,

which not only appealed to me by its own merits, but which seemed

to offer some most peculiar personal opportunities. I came over

at once to London, called in my own person at Baker Street, threw

Mrs. Hudson into violent hysterics, and found that Mycroft had

preserved my rooms and my papers exactly as they had always been.

So it was, my dear Watson, that at two o’clock to-day I found

myself in my old armchair in my own old room, and only wishing

that I could have seen my old friend Watson in the other chair

which he has so often adorned.”

Such was the remarkable narrative to which I listened on that

April evening—a narrative which would have been utterly

incredible to me had it not been confirmed by the actual sight of

the tall, spare figure and the keen, eager face, which I had

never thought to see again. In some manner he had learned of my

own sad bereavement, and his sympathy was shown in his manner

rather than in his words. “Work is the best antidote to sorrow,

my dear Watson,” said he; “and I have a piece of work for us both

to-night which, if we can bring it to a successful conclusion,

will in itself justify a man’s life on this planet.” In vain I

begged him to tell me more. “You will hear and see enough before

morning,” he answered. “We have three years of the past to

discuss. Let that suffice until half-past nine, when we start

upon the notable adventure of the empty house.”

It was indeed like old times when, at that hour, I found myself

seated beside him in a hansom, my revolver in my pocket, and the

thrill of adventure in my heart. Holmes was cold and stern and

silent. As the gleam of the street-lamps flashed upon his austere

features, I saw that his brows were drawn down in thought and his

thin lips compressed. I knew not what wild beast we were about to

hunt down in the dark jungle of criminal London, but I was well

assured, from the bearing of this master huntsman, that the

adventure was a most grave one—while the sardonic smile which

occasionally broke through his ascetic gloom boded little good

for the object of our quest.

I had imagined that we were bound for Baker Street, but Holmes

stopped the cab at the corner of Cavendish Square. I observed

that as he stepped out he gave a most searching glance to right

and left, and at every subsequent street corner he took the

utmost pains to assure that he was not followed. Our route was

certainly a singular one. Holmes’s knowledge of the byways of

London was extraordinary, and on this occasion he passed rapidly

and with an assured step through a network of mews and stables,

the very existence of which I had never known. We emerged at last

into a small road, lined with old, gloomy houses, which led us

into Manchester Street, and so to Blandford Street. Here he

turned swiftly down a narrow passage, passed through a wooden

gate into a deserted yard, and then opened with a key the back

door of a house. We entered together, and he closed it behind us.

The place was pitch dark, but it was evident to me that it was an

empty house. Our feet creaked and crackled over the bare

planking, and my outstretched hand touched a wall from which the

paper was hanging in ribbons. Holmes’s cold, thin fingers closed

round my wrist and led me forward down a long hall, until I dimly

saw the murky fanlight over the door. Here Holmes turned suddenly

to the right and we found ourselves in a large, square, empty

room, heavily shadowed in the corners, but faintly lit in the

centre from the lights of the street beyond. There was no lamp

near, and the window was thick with dust, so that we could only

just discern each other’s figures within. My companion put his

hand upon my shoulder and his lips close to my ear.

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

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

dim window.

“Exactly. We are in Camden House, which stands opposite to our

own old quarters.”

“But why are we here?”

“Because it commands so excellent a view of that picturesque

pile. Might I trouble you, my dear Watson, to draw a little

nearer to the window, taking every precaution not to show

yourself, and then to look up at our old rooms—the starting-point

of so many of your little fairy-tales? We will see if my three

years of absence have entirely taken away my power to surprise

you.”

I crept forward and looked across at the familiar window. As my

eyes fell upon it, I gave a gasp and a cry of amazement. The

blind was down, and a strong light was burning in the room. The

shadow of a man who was seated in a chair within was thrown in

hard, black outline upon the luminous screen of the window. There

was no mistaking the poise of the head, the squareness of the

shoulders, the sharpness of the features. The face was turned

half-round, and the effect was that of one of those black

silhouettes which our grandparents loved to frame. It was a

perfect reproduction of Holmes. So amazed was I that I threw out

my hand to make sure that the man himself was standing beside me.

He was quivering with silent laughter.

“Well?” said he.

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

“I trust that age doth not wither nor custom stale my infinite

variety,” said he, and I recognized in his voice the joy and

pride which the artist takes in his own creation. “It really is

rather like me, is it not?”

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

“The credit of the execution is due to Monsieur Oscar Meunier, of

Grenoble, who spent some days in doing the moulding. It is a bust

in wax. The rest I arranged myself during my visit to Baker

Street this afternoon.”

“But why?”

“Because, my dear Watson, I had the strongest possible reason for

wishing certain people to think that I was there when I was

really elsewhere.”

“And you thought the rooms were watched?”

“I _knew_ that they were watched.”

“By whom?”

“By my old enemies, Watson. By the charming society whose leader

lies in the Reichenbach Fall. You must remember that they knew,

and only they knew, that I was still alive. Sooner or later they

believed that I should come back to my rooms. They watched them

continuously, and this morning they saw me arrive.”

“How do you know?”

“Because I recognized their sentinel when I glanced out of my

window. He is a harmless enough fellow, Parker by name, a

garroter by trade, and a remarkable performer upon the

jew’s-harp. I cared nothing for him. But I cared a great deal for

the much more formidable person who was behind him, the bosom

friend of Moriarty, the man who dropped the rocks over the cliff,

the most cunning and dangerous criminal in London. That is the

man who is after me to-night Watson, and that is the man who is

quite unaware that we are after _him_.”

My friend’s plans were gradually revealing themselves. From this

convenient retreat, the watchers were being watched and the

trackers tracked. That angular shadow up yonder was the bait, and

we were the hunters. In silence we stood together in the darkness

and watched the hurrying figures who passed and repassed in front

of us. Holmes was silent and motionless; but I could tell that he

was keenly alert, and that his eyes were fixed intently upon the

stream of passers-by. It was a bleak and boisterous night and the

wind whistled shrilly down the long street. Many people were

moving to and fro, most of them muffled in their coats and

cravats. Once or twice it seemed to me that I had seen the same

figure before, and I especially noticed two men who appeared to

be sheltering themselves from the wind in the doorway of a house

some distance up the street. I tried to draw my companion’s

attention to them; but he gave a little ejaculation of

impatience, and continued to stare into the street. More than

once he fidgeted with his feet and tapped rapidly with his

fingers upon the wall. It was evident to me that he was becoming

uneasy, and that his plans were not working out altogether as he

had hoped. At last, as midnight approached and the street

gradually cleared, he paced up and down the room in

uncontrollable agitation. I was about to make some remark to him,

when I raised my eyes to the lighted window, and again

experienced almost as great a surprise as before. I clutched

Holmes’s arm, and pointed upward.

“The shadow has moved!” I cried.

It was indeed no longer the profile, but the back, which was

turned towards us.

Three years had certainly not smoothed the asperities of his

temper or his impatience with a less active intelligence than his

own.

“Of course it has moved,” said he. “Am I such a farcical bungler,

Watson, that I should erect an obvious dummy, and expect that

some of the sharpest men in Europe would be deceived by it? We

have been in this room two hours, and Mrs. Hudson has made some

change in that figure eight times, or once in every quarter of an

hour. She works it from the front, so that her shadow may never

be seen. Ah!” He drew in his breath with a shrill, excited

intake. In the dim light I saw his head thrown forward, his whole

attitude rigid with attention. Outside the street was absolutely

deserted. Those two men might still be crouching in the doorway,

but I could no longer see them. All was still and dark, save only

that brilliant yellow screen in front of us with the black figure

outlined upon its centre. Again in the utter silence I heard that

thin, sibilant note which spoke of intense suppressed excitement.

An instant later he pulled me back into the blackest corner of

the room, and I felt his warning hand upon my lips. The fingers

which clutched me were quivering. Never had I known my friend

more moved, and yet the dark street still stretched lonely and

motionless before us.

But suddenly I was aware of that which his keener senses had

already distinguished. A low, stealthy sound came to my ears, not

from the direction of Baker Street, but from the back of the very

house in which we lay concealed. A door opened and shut. An

instant later steps crept down the passage—steps which were meant

to be silent, but which reverberated harshly through the empty

house. Holmes crouched back against the wall, and I did the same,

my hand closing upon the handle of my revolver. Peering through

the gloom, I saw the vague outline of a man, a shade blacker than

the blackness of the open door. He stood for an instant, and then

he crept forward, crouching, menacing, into the room. He was

within three yards of us, this sinister figure, and I had braced

myself to meet his spring, before I realized that he had no idea

of our presence. He passed close beside us, stole over to the

window, and very softly and noiselessly raised it for half a

foot. As he sank to the level of this opening, the light of the

street, no longer dimmed by the dusty glass, fell full upon his

face. The man seemed to be beside himself with excitement. His

two eyes shone like stars, and his features were working

convulsively. He was an elderly man, with a thin, projecting

nose, a high, bald forehead, and a huge grizzled moustache. An

opera hat was pushed to the back of his head, and an evening

dress shirt-front gleamed out through his open overcoat. His face

was gaunt and swarthy, scored with deep, savage lines. In his

hand he carried what appeared to be a stick, but as he laid it

down upon the floor it gave a metallic clang. Then from the

pocket of his overcoat he drew a bulky object, and he busied

himself in some task which ended with a loud, sharp click, as if

a spring or bolt had fallen into its place. Still kneeling upon

the floor he bent forward and threw all his weight and strength

upon some lever, with the result that there came a long,

whirling, grinding noise, ending once more in a powerful click.

He straightened himself then, and I saw that what he held in his

hand was a sort of gun, with a curiously misshapen butt. He

opened it at the breech, put something in, and snapped the

breech-lock. Then, crouching down, he rested the end of the

barrel upon the ledge of the open window, and I saw his long

moustache droop over the stock and his eye gleam as it peered

along the sights. I heard a little sigh of satisfaction as he

cuddled the butt into his shoulder; and saw that amazing target,

the black man on the yellow ground, standing clear at the end of

his foresight. For an instant he was rigid and motionless. Then

his finger tightened on the trigger. There was a strange, loud

whiz and a long, silvery tinkle of broken glass. At that instant

Holmes sprang like a tiger on to the marksman’s back, and hurled

him flat upon his face. He was up again in a moment, and with

convulsive strength he seized Holmes by the throat, but I struck

him on the head with the butt of my revolver, and he dropped

again upon the floor. I fell upon him, and as I held him my

comrade blew a shrill call upon a whistle. There was the clatter

of running feet upon the pavement, and two policemen in uniform,

with one plain-clothes detective, rushed through the front

entrance and into the room.

“That you, Lestrade?” said Holmes.

“Yes, Mr. Holmes. I took the job myself. It’s good to see you

back in London, sir.”

“I think you want a little unofficial help. Three undetected

murders in one year won’t do, Lestrade. But you handled the

Molesey Mystery with less than your usual—that’s to say, you

handled it fairly well.”

We had all risen to our feet, our prisoner breathing hard, with a

stalwart constable on each side of him. Already a few loiterers

had begun to collect in the street. Holmes stepped up to the

window, closed it, and dropped the blinds. Lestrade had produced

two candles, and the policemen had uncovered their lanterns. I

was able at last to have a good look at our prisoner.

It was a tremendously virile and yet sinister face which was

turned towards us. With the brow of a philosopher above and the

jaw of a sensualist below, the man must have started with great

capacities for good or for evil. But one could not look upon his

cruel blue eyes, with their drooping, cynical lids, or upon the

fierce, aggressive nose and the threatening, deep-lined brow,

without reading Nature’s plainest danger-signals. He took no heed

of any of us, but his eyes were fixed upon Holmes’s face with an

expression in which hatred and amazement were equally blended.

“You fiend!” he kept on muttering. “You clever, clever fiend!”

“Ah, Colonel!” said Holmes, arranging his rumpled collar.

“‘Journeys end in lovers’ meetings,’ as the old play says. I

don’t think I have had the pleasure of seeing you since you

favoured me with those attentions as I lay on the ledge above the

Reichenbach Fall.”

The colonel still stared at my friend like a man in a trance.

“You cunning, cunning fiend!” was all that he could say.

“I have not introduced you yet,” said Holmes. “This, gentlemen,

is Colonel Sebastian Moran, once of Her Majesty’s Indian Army,

and the best heavy-game shot that our Eastern Empire has ever

produced. I believe I am correct Colonel, in saying that your bag

of tigers still remains unrivalled?”

The fierce old man said nothing, but still glared at my

companion. With his savage eyes and bristling moustache he was

wonderfully like a tiger himself.

“I wonder that my very simple stratagem could deceive so old a

_shikari_,” said Holmes. “It must be very familiar to you. Have

you not tethered a young kid under a tree, lain above it with

your rifle, and waited for the bait to bring up your tiger? This

empty house is my tree, and you are my tiger. You have possibly

had other guns in reserve in case there should be several tigers,

or in the unlikely supposition of your own aim failing you.

These,” he pointed around, “are my other guns. The parallel is

exact.”

Colonel Moran sprang forward with a snarl of rage, but the

constables dragged him back. The fury upon his face was terrible

to look at.

“I confess that you had one small surprise for me,” said Holmes.

“I did not anticipate that you would yourself make use of this

empty house and this convenient front window. I had imagined you

as operating from the street, where my friend, Lestrade and his

merry men were awaiting you. With that exception, all has gone as

I expected.”

Colonel Moran turned to the official detective.

“You may or may not have just cause for arresting me,” said he,

“but at least there can be no reason why I should submit to the

gibes of this person. If I am in the hands of the law, let things

be done in a legal way.”

“Well, that’s reasonable enough,” said Lestrade. “Nothing further

you have to say, Mr. Holmes, before we go?”

Holmes had picked up the powerful air-gun from the floor, and was

examining its mechanism.

“An admirable and unique weapon,” said he, “noiseless and of

tremendous power: I knew Von Herder, the blind German mechanic,

who constructed it to the order of the late Professor Moriarty.

For years I have been aware of its existence though I have never

before had the opportunity of handling it. I commend it very

specially to your attention, Lestrade and also the bullets which

fit it.”

“You can trust us to look after that, Mr. Holmes,” said Lestrade,

as the whole party moved towards the door. “Anything further to

say?”

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

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

Sherlock Holmes.”

“Not so, Lestrade. I do not propose to appear in the matter at

all. To you, and to you only, belongs the credit of the

remarkable arrest which you have effected. Yes, Lestrade, I

congratulate you! With your usual happy mixture of cunning and

audacity, you have got him.”

“Got him! Got whom, Mr. Holmes?”

“The man that the whole force has been seeking in vain—Colonel

Sebastian Moran, who shot the Honourable Ronald Adair with an

expanding bullet from an air-gun through the open window of the

second-floor front of No. 427, Park Lane, upon the thirtieth of

last month. That’s the charge, Lestrade. And now, Watson, if you

can endure the draught from a broken window, I think that half an

hour in my study over a cigar may afford you some profitable

amusement.”

Our old chambers had been left unchanged through the supervision

of Mycroft Holmes and the immediate care of Mrs. Hudson. As I

entered I saw, it is true, an unwonted tidiness, but the old

landmarks were all in their place. There were the chemical corner

and the acid-stained, deal-topped table. There upon a shelf was

the row of formidable scrap-books and books of reference which

many of our fellow-citizens would have been so glad to burn. The

diagrams, the violin-case, and the pipe-rack—even the Persian

slipper which contained the tobacco—all met my eyes as I glanced

round me. There were two occupants of the room—one, Mrs. Hudson,

who beamed upon us both as we entered—the other, the strange

dummy which had played so important a part in the evening’s

adventures. It was a wax-coloured model of my friend, so

admirably done that it was a perfect facsimile. It stood on a

small pedestal table with an old dressing-gown of Holmes’s so

draped round it that the illusion from the street was absolutely

perfect.

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

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

“Excellent. You carried the thing out very well. Did you observe

where the bullet went?”

“Yes, sir. I’m afraid it has spoilt your beautiful bust, for it

passed right through the head and flattened itself on the wall. I

picked it up from the carpet. Here it is!”

Holmes held it out to me. “A soft revolver bullet, as you

perceive, Watson. There’s genius in that, for who would expect to

find such a thing fired from an airgun? All right, Mrs. Hudson. I

am much obliged for your assistance. And now, Watson, let me see

you in your old seat once more, for there are several points

which I should like to discuss with you.”

He had thrown off the seedy frockcoat, and now he was the Holmes

of old in the mouse-coloured dressing-gown which he took from his

effigy.

“The old _shikari’s_ nerves have not lost their steadiness, nor

his eyes their keenness,” said he, with a laugh, as he inspected

the shattered forehead of his bust.

“Plumb in the middle of the back of the head and smack through

the brain. He was the best shot in India, and I expect that there

are few better in London. Have you heard the name?”

“No, I have not.”

“Well, well, such is fame! But, then, if I remember right, you

had not heard the name of Professor James Moriarty, who had one

of the great brains of the century. Just give me down my index of

biographies from the shelf.”

He turned over the pages lazily, leaning back in his chair and

blowing great clouds from his cigar.

“My collection of M’s is a fine one,” said he. “Moriarty himself

is enough to make any letter illustrious, and here is Morgan the

poisoner, and Merridew of abominable memory, and Mathews, who

knocked out my left canine in the waiting-room at Charing Cross,

and, finally, here is our friend of to-night.”

He handed over the book, and I read:

_Moran_, _Sebastian_, _Colonel_. Unemployed. Formerly 1st

Bangalore Pioneers. Born London, 1840. Son of Sir Augustus Moran,

C.B., once British Minister to Persia. Educated Eton and Oxford.

Served in Jowaki Campaign, Afghan Campaign, Charasiab

(despatches), Sherpur, and Cabul. Author of _Heavy Game of the

Western Himalayas_ (1881); _Three Months in the Jungle_ (1884).

Address: Conduit Street. Clubs: The Anglo-Indian, the

Tankerville, the Bagatelle Card Club.

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

The second most dangerous man in London.

“This is astonishing,” said I, as I handed back the volume. “The

man’s career is that of an honourable soldier.”

“It is true,” Holmes answered. “Up to a certain point he did

well. He was always a man of iron nerve, and the story is still

told in India how he crawled down a drain after a wounded

man-eating tiger. There are some trees, Watson, which grow to a

certain height, and then suddenly develop some unsightly

eccentricity. You will see it often in humans. I have a theory

that the individual represents in his development the whole

procession of his ancestors, and that such a sudden turn to good

or evil stands for some strong influence which came into the line

of his pedigree. The person becomes, as it were, the epitome of

the history of his own family.”

“It is surely rather fanciful.”

“Well, I don’t insist upon it. Whatever the cause, Colonel Moran

began to go wrong. Without any open scandal, he still made India

too hot to hold him. He retired, came to London, and again

acquired an evil name. It was at this time that he was sought out

by Professor Moriarty, to whom for a time he was chief of the

staff. Moriarty supplied him liberally with money, and used him

only in one or two very high-class jobs, which no ordinary

criminal could have undertaken. You may have some recollection of

the death of Mrs. Stewart, of Lauder, in 1887. Not? Well, I am

sure Moran was at the bottom of it, but nothing could be proved.

So cleverly was the colonel concealed that, even when the

Moriarty gang was broken up, we could not incriminate him. You

remember at that date, when I called upon you in your rooms, how

I put up the shutters for fear of air-guns? No doubt you thought

me fanciful. I knew exactly what I was doing, for I knew of the

existence of this remarkable gun, and I knew also that one of the

best shots in the world would be behind it. When we were in

Switzerland he followed us with Moriarty, and it was undoubtedly

he who gave me that evil five minutes on the Reichenbach ledge.

“You may think that I read the papers with some attention during

my sojourn in France, on the look-out for any chance of laying

him by the heels. So long as he was free in London, my life would

really not have been worth living. Night and day the shadow would

have been over me, and sooner or later his chance must have come.

What could I do? I could not shoot him at sight, or I should

myself be in the dock. There was no use appealing to a

magistrate. They cannot interfere on the strength of what would

appear to them to be a wild suspicion. So I could do nothing. But

I watched the criminal news, knowing that sooner or later I

should get him. Then came the death of this Ronald Adair. My

chance had come at last. Knowing what I did, was it not certain

that Colonel Moran had done it? He had played cards with the lad,

he had followed him home from the club, he had shot him through

the open window. There was not a doubt of it. The bullets alone

are enough to put his head in a noose. I came over at once. I was

seen by the sentinel, who would, I knew, direct the colonel’s

attention to my presence. He could not fail to connect my sudden

return with his crime, and to be terribly alarmed. I was sure

that he would make an attempt to get me out of the way _at once_,

and would bring round his murderous weapon for that purpose. I

left him an excellent mark in the window, and, having warned the

police that they might be needed—by the way, Watson, you spotted

their presence in that doorway with unerring accuracy—I took up

what seemed to me to be a judicious post for observation, never

dreaming that he would choose the same spot for his attack. Now,

my dear Watson, does anything remain for me to explain?”

“Yes,” said I. “You have not made it clear what was Colonel

Moran’s motive in murdering the Honourable Ronald Adair?”

“Ah! my dear Watson, there we come into those realms of

conjecture, where the most logical mind may be at fault. Each may

form his own hypothesis upon the present evidence, and yours is

as likely to be correct as mine.”

“You have formed one, then?”

“I think that it is not difficult to explain the facts. It came

out in evidence that Colonel Moran and young Adair had, between

them, won a considerable amount of money. Now, Moran undoubtedly

played foul—of that I have long been aware. I believe that on the

day of the murder Adair had discovered that Moran was cheating.

Very likely he had spoken to him privately, and had threatened to

expose him unless he voluntarily resigned his membership of the

club, and promised not to play cards again. It is unlikely that a

youngster like Adair would at once make a hideous scandal by

exposing a well-known man so much older than himself. Probably he

acted as I suggest. The exclusion from his clubs would mean ruin

to Moran, who lived by his ill-gotten card-gains. He therefore

murdered Adair, who at the time was endeavouring to work out how

much money he should himself return, since he could not profit by

his partner’s foul play. He locked the door lest the ladies

should surprise him and insist upon knowing what he was doing

with these names and coins. Will it pass?”

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

“It will be verified or disproved at the trial. Meanwhile, come

what may, Colonel Moran will trouble us no more. The famous

air-gun of Von Herder will embellish the Scotland Yard Museum,

and once again Mr. Sherlock Holmes is free to devote his life to

examining those interesting little problems which the complex

life of London so plentifully presents.”

THE ADVENTURE OF THE NORWOOD BUILDER

“From the point of view of the criminal expert,” said Mr.

Sherlock Holmes, “London has become a singularly uninteresting

city since the death of the late lamented Professor Moriarty.”

“I can hardly think that you would find many decent citizens to

agree with you,” I answered.

“Well, well, I must not be selfish,” said he, with a smile, as he

pushed back his chair from the breakfast-table. “The community is

certainly the gainer, and no one the loser, save the poor

out-of-work specialist, whose occupation has gone. With that man

in the field, one’s morning paper presented infinite

possibilities. Often it was only the smallest trace, Watson, the

faintest indication, and yet it was enough to tell me that the

great malignant brain was there, as the gentlest tremors of the

edges of the web remind one of the foul spider which lurks in the

centre. Petty thefts, wanton assaults, purposeless outrage—to the

man who held the clue all could be worked into one connected

whole. To the scientific student of the higher criminal world, no

capital in Europe offered the advantages which London then

possessed. But now——” He shrugged his shoulders in humorous

deprecation of the state of things which he had himself done so

much to produce.

At the time of which I speak, Holmes had been back for some

months, and I at his request had sold my practice and returned to

share the old quarters in Baker Street. A young doctor, named

Verner, had purchased my small Kensington practice, and given

with astonishingly little demur the highest price that I ventured

to ask—an incident which only explained itself some years later,

when I found that Verner was a distant relation of Holmes, and

that it was my friend who had really found the money.

Our months of partnership had not been so uneventful as he had

stated, for I find, on looking over my notes, that this period

includes the case of the papers of ex-President Murillo, and also

the shocking affair of the Dutch steamship _Friesland_, which so

nearly cost us both our lives. His cold and proud nature was

always averse, however, from anything in the shape of public

applause, and he bound me in the most stringent terms to say no

further word of himself, his methods, or his successes—a

prohibition which, as I have explained, has only now been

removed.

Mr. Sherlock Holmes was leaning back in his chair after his

whimsical protest, and was unfolding his morning paper in a

leisurely fashion, when our attention was arrested by a

tremendous ring at the bell, followed immediately by a hollow

drumming sound, as if someone were beating on the outer door with

his fist. As it opened there came a tumultuous rush into the

hall, rapid feet clattered up the stair, and an instant later a

wild-eyed and frantic young man, pale, disheveled, and

palpitating, burst into the room. He looked from one to the other

of us, and under our gaze of inquiry he became conscious that

some apology was needed for this unceremonious entry.

“I’m sorry, Mr. Holmes,” he cried. “You mustn’t blame me. I am

nearly mad. Mr. Holmes, I am the unhappy John Hector McFarlane.”

He made the announcement as if the name alone would explain both

his visit and its manner, but I could see, by my companion’s

unresponsive face, that it meant no more to him than to me.

“Have a cigarette, Mr. McFarlane,” said he, pushing his case

across. “I am sure that, with your symptoms, my friend Dr. Watson

here would prescribe a sedative. The weather has been so very

warm these last few days. Now, if you feel a little more

composed, I should be glad if you would sit down in that chair,

and tell us very slowly and quietly who you are, and what it is

that you want. You mentioned your name, as if I should recognize

it, but I assure you that, beyond the obvious facts that you are

a bachelor, a solicitor, a Freemason, and an asthmatic, I know

nothing whatever about you.”

Familiar as I was with my friend’s methods, it was not difficult

for me to follow his deductions, and to observe the untidiness of

attire, the sheaf of legal papers, the watch-charm, and the

breathing which had prompted them. Our client, however, stared in

amazement.

“Yes, I am all that, Mr. Holmes; and, in addition, I am the most

unfortunate man at this moment in London. For heaven’s sake,

don’t abandon me, Mr. Holmes! If they come to arrest me before I

have finished my story, make them give me time, so that I may

tell you the whole truth. I could go to jail happy if I knew that

you were working for me outside.”

“Arrest you!” said Holmes. “This is really most grati—most

interesting. On what charge do you expect to be arrested?”

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

Norwood.”

My companion’s expressive face showed a sympathy which was not, I

am afraid, entirely unmixed with satisfaction.

“Dear me,” said he, “it was only this moment at breakfast that I

was saying to my friend, Dr. Watson, that sensational cases had

disappeared out of our papers.”

Our visitor stretched forward a quivering hand and picked up the

_Daily Telegraph_, which still lay upon Holmes’s knee.

“If you had looked at it, sir, you would have seen at a glance

what the errand is on which I have come to you this morning. I

feel as if my name and my misfortune must be in every man’s

mouth.” He turned it over to expose the central page. “Here it

is, and with your permission I will read it to you. Listen to

this, Mr. Holmes. The headlines are: ‘Mysterious Affair at Lower

Norwood. Disappearance of a Well-known Builder. Suspicion of

Murder and Arson. A Clue to the Criminal.’ That is the clue which

they are already following, Mr. Holmes, and I know that it leads

infallibly to me. I have been followed from London Bridge

Station, and I am sure that they are only waiting for the warrant

to arrest me. It will break my mother’s heart—it will break her

heart!” He wrung his hands in an agony of apprehension, and

swayed backward and forward in his chair.

I looked with interest upon this man, who was accused of being

the perpetrator of a crime of violence. He was flaxen-haired and

handsome, in a washed-out negative fashion, with frightened blue

eyes, and a clean-shaven face, with a weak, sensitive mouth. His

age may have been about twenty-seven, his dress and bearing that

of a gentleman. From the pocket of his light summer overcoat

protruded the bundle of indorsed papers which proclaimed his

profession.

“We must use what time we have,” said Holmes. “Watson, would you

have the kindness to take the paper and to read the paragraph in

question?”

Underneath the vigorous headlines which our client had quoted, I

read the following suggestive narrative:

“Late last night, or early this morning, an incident occurred at

Lower Norwood which points, it is feared, to a serious crime. Mr.

Jonas Oldacre is a well-known resident of that suburb, where he

has carried on his business as a builder for many years. Mr.

Oldacre is a bachelor, fifty-two years of age, and lives in Deep

Dene House, at the Sydenham end of the road of that name. He has

had the reputation of being a man of eccentric habits, secretive

and retiring. For some years he has practically withdrawn from

the business, in which he is said to have massed considerable

wealth. A small timber-yard still exists, however, at the back of

the house, and last night, about twelve o’clock, an alarm was

given that one of the stacks was on fire. The engines were soon

upon the spot, but the dry wood burned with great fury, and it

was impossible to arrest the conflagration until the stack had

been entirely consumed. Up to this point the incident bore the

appearance of an ordinary accident, but fresh indications seem to

point to serious crime. Surprise was expressed at the absence of

the master of the establishment from the scene of the fire, and

an inquiry followed, which showed that he had disappeared from

the house. An examination of his room revealed that the bed had

not been slept in, that a safe which stood in it was open, that a

number of important papers were scattered about the room, and

finally, that there were signs of a murderous struggle, slight

traces of blood being found within the room, and an oaken

walking-stick, which also showed stains of blood upon the handle.

It is known that Mr. Jonas Oldacre had received a late visitor in

his bedroom upon that night, and the stick found has been

identified as the property of this person, who is a young London

solicitor named John Hector McFarlane, junior partner of Graham

and McFarlane, of 426, Gresham Buildings, E.C. The police believe

that they have evidence in their possession which supplies a very

convincing motive for the crime, and altogether it cannot be

doubted that sensational developments will follow.

“LATER.—It is rumoured as we go to press that Mr. John Hector

McFarlane has actually been arrested on the charge of the

murder of Mr. Jonas Oldacre. It is at least certain that a

warrant has been issued. There have been further and sinister

developments in the investigation at Norwood. Besides the

signs of a struggle in the room of the unfortunate builder it

is now known that the French windows of his bedroom (which is

on the ground floor) were found to be open, that there were

marks as if some bulky object had been dragged across to the

wood-pile, and, finally, it is asserted that charred remains

have been found among the charcoal ashes of the fire. The

police theory is that a most sensational crime has been

committed, that the victim was clubbed to death in his own

bedroom, his papers rifled, and his dead body dragged across

to the wood-stack, which was then ignited so as to hide all

traces of the crime. The conduct of the criminal

investigation has been left in the experienced hands of

Inspector Lestrade, of Scotland Yard, who is following up the

clues with his accustomed energy and sagacity.”

Sherlock Holmes listened with closed eyes and fingertips together

to this remarkable account.

“The case has certainly some points of interest,” said he, in his

languid fashion. “May I ask, in the first place, Mr. McFarlane,

how it is that you are still at liberty, since there appears to

be enough evidence to justify your arrest?”

“I live at Torrington Lodge, Blackheath, with my parents, Mr.

Holmes, but last night, having to do business very late with Mr.

Jonas Oldacre, I stayed at an hotel in Norwood, and came to my

business from there. I knew nothing of this affair until I was in

the train, when I read what you have just heard. I at once saw

the horrible danger of my position, and I hurried to put the case

into your hands. I have no doubt that I should have been arrested

either at my city office or at my home. A man followed me from

London Bridge Station, and I have no doubt—Great heaven! what is

that?”

It was a clang of the bell, followed instantly by heavy steps

upon the stair. A moment later, our old friend Lestrade appeared

in the doorway. Over his shoulder I caught a glimpse of one or

two uniformed policemen outside.

“Mr. John Hector McFarlane?” said Lestrade.

Our unfortunate client rose with a ghastly face.

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

Lower Norwood.”

McFarlane turned to us with a gesture of despair, and sank into

his chair once more like one who is crushed.

“One moment, Lestrade,” said Holmes. “Half an hour more or less

can make no difference to you, and the gentleman was about to

give us an account of this very interesting affair, which might

aid us in clearing it up.”

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

Lestrade, grimly.

“None the less, with your permission, I should be much interested

to hear his account.”

“Well, Mr. Holmes, it is difficult for me to refuse you anything,

for you have been of use to the force once or twice in the past,

and we owe you a good turn at Scotland Yard,” said Lestrade. “At

the same time I must remain with my prisoner, and I am bound to

warn him that anything he may say will appear in evidence against

him.”

“I wish nothing better,” said our client. “All I ask is that you

should hear and recognize the absolute truth.”

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

he.

“I must explain first,” said McFarlane, “that I knew nothing of

Mr. Jonas Oldacre. His name was familiar to me, for many years

ago my parents were acquainted with him, but they drifted apart.

I was very much surprised therefore, when yesterday, about three

o’clock in the afternoon, he walked into my office in the city.

But I was still more astonished when he told me the object of his

visit. He had in his hand several sheets of a notebook, covered

with scribbled writing—here they are—and he laid them on my

table.

“‘Here is my will,’ said he. ‘I want you, Mr. McFarlane, to cast

it into proper legal shape. I will sit here while you do so.’

“I set myself to copy it, and you can imagine my astonishment

when I found that, with some reservations, he had left all his

property to me. He was a strange little ferret-like man, with

white eyelashes, and when I looked up at him I found his keen

grey eyes fixed upon me with an amused expression. I could hardly

believe my own as I read the terms of the will; but he explained

that he was a bachelor with hardly any living relation, that he

had known my parents in his youth, and that he had always heard

of me as a very deserving young man, and was assured that his

money would be in worthy hands. Of course, I could only stammer

out my thanks. The will was duly finished, signed, and witnessed

by my clerk. This is it on the blue paper, and these slips, as I

have explained, are the rough draft. Mr. Jonas Oldacre then

informed me that there were a number of documents—building

leases, title-deeds, mortgages, scrip, and so forth—which it was

necessary that I should see and understand. He said that his mind

would not be easy until the whole thing was settled, and he

begged me to come out to his house at Norwood that night,

bringing the will with me, and to arrange matters. ‘Remember, my

boy, not one word to your parents about the affair until

everything is settled. We will keep it as a little surprise for

them.’ He was very insistent upon this point, and made me promise

it faithfully.

“You can imagine, Mr. Holmes, that I was not in a humour to

refuse him anything that he might ask. He was my benefactor, and

all my desire was to carry out his wishes in every particular. I

sent a telegram home, therefore, to say that I had important

business on hand, and that it was impossible for me to say how

late I might be. Mr. Oldacre had told me that he would like me to

have supper with him at nine, as he might not be home before that

hour. I had some difficulty in finding his house, however, and it

was nearly half-past before I reached it. I found him——”

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

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

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

“Exactly,” said McFarlane.

“Pray proceed.”

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

“I was shown by this woman into a sitting-room, where a frugal

supper was laid out. Afterwards, Mr. Jonas Oldacre led me into

his bedroom, in which there stood a heavy safe. This he opened

and took out a mass of documents, which we went over together. It

was between eleven and twelve when we finished. He remarked that

we must not disturb the housekeeper. He showed me out through his

own French window, which had been open all this time.”

“Was the blind down?” asked Holmes.

“I will not be sure, but I believe that it was only half down.

Yes, I remember how he pulled it up in order to swing open the

window. I could not find my stick, and he said, ‘Never mind, my

boy, I shall see a good deal of you now, I hope, and I will keep

your stick until you come back to claim it.’ I left him there,

the safe open, and the papers made up in packets upon the table.

It was so late that I could not get back to Blackheath, so I

spent the night at the Anerley Arms, and I knew nothing more

until I read of this horrible affair in the morning.”

“Anything more that you would like to ask, Mr. Holmes?” said

Lestrade, whose eyebrows had gone up once or twice during this

remarkable explanation.

“Not until I have been to Blackheath.”

“You mean to Norwood,” said Lestrade.

“Oh, yes, no doubt that is what I must have meant,” said Holmes,

with his enigmatical smile. Lestrade had learned by more

experiences than he would care to acknowledge that that brain

could cut through that which was impenetrable to him. I saw him

look curiously at my companion.

“I think I should like to have a word with you presently, Mr.

Sherlock Holmes,” said he. “Now, Mr. McFarlane, two of my

constables are at the door, and there is a four-wheeler waiting.”

The wretched young man arose, and with a last beseeching glance

at us walked from the room. The officers conducted him to the

cab, but Lestrade remained.

Holmes had picked up the pages which formed the rough draft of

the will, and was looking at them with the keenest interest upon

his face.

“There are some points about that document, Lestrade, are there

not?” said he, pushing them over.

The official looked at them with a puzzled expression.

“I can read the first few lines and these in the middle of the

second page, and one or two at the end. Those are as clear as

print,” said he, “but the writing in between is very bad, and

there are three places where I cannot read it at all.”

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

“Well, what do _you_ make of it?”

“That it was written in a train. The good writing represents

stations, the bad writing movement, and the very bad writing

passing over points. A scientific expert would pronounce at once

that this was drawn up on a suburban line, since nowhere save in

the immediate vicinity of a great city could there be so quick a

succession of points. Granting that his whole journey was

occupied in drawing up the will, then the train was an express,

only stopping once between Norwood and London Bridge.”

Lestrade began to laugh.

“You are too many for me when you begin to get on your theories,

Mr. Holmes,” said he. “How does this bear on the case?”

“Well, it corroborates the young man’s story to the extent that

the will was drawn up by Jonas Oldacre in his journey yesterday.

It is curious—is it not?—that a man should draw up so important a

document in so haphazard a fashion. It suggests that he did not

think it was going to be of much practical importance. If a man

drew up a will which he did not intend ever to be effective, he

might do it so.”

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

Lestrade.

“Oh, you think so?”

“Don’t you?”

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

yet.”

“Not clear? Well, if that isn’t clear, what _could_ be clearer?

Here is a young man who learns suddenly that, if a certain older

man dies, he will succeed to a fortune. What does he do? He says

nothing to anyone, but he arranges that he shall go out on some

pretext to see his client that night. He waits until the only

other person in the house is in bed, and then in the solitude of

a man’s room he murders him, burns his body in the wood-pile, and

departs to a neighbouring hotel. The blood-stains in the room and

also on the stick are very slight. It is probable that he

imagined his crime to be a bloodless one, and hoped that if the

body were consumed it would hide all traces of the method of his

death—traces which, for some reason, must have pointed to him. Is

not all this obvious?”

“It strikes me, my good Lestrade, as being just a trifle too

obvious,” said Holmes. “You do not add imagination to your other

great qualities, but if you could for one moment put yourself in

the place of this young man, would you choose the very night

after the will had been made to commit your crime? Would it not

seem dangerous to you to make so very close a relation between

the two incidents? Again, would you choose an occasion when you

are known to be in the house, when a servant has let you in? And,

finally, would you take the great pains to conceal the body, and

yet leave your own stick as a sign that you were the criminal?

Confess, Lestrade, that all this is very unlikely.”

“As to the stick, Mr. Holmes, you know as well as I do that a

criminal is often flurried, and does such things, which a cool

man would avoid. He was very likely afraid to go back to the

room. Give me another theory that would fit the facts.”

“I could very easily give you half a dozen,” said Holmes. “Here

for example, is a very possible and even probable one. I make you

a free present of it. The older man is showing documents which

are of evident value. A passing tramp sees them through the

window, the blind of which is only half down. Exit the solicitor.

Enter the tramp! He seizes a stick, which he observes there,

kills Oldacre, and departs after burning the body.”

“Why should the tramp burn the body?”

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

“To hide some evidence.”

“Possibly the tramp wanted to hide that any murder at all had

been committed.”

“And why did the tramp take nothing?”

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

Lestrade shook his head, though it seemed to me that his manner

was less absolutely assured than before.

“Well, Mr. Sherlock Holmes, you may look for your tramp, and

while you are finding him we will hold on to our man. The future

will show which is right. Just notice this point, Mr. Holmes:

that so far as we know, none of the papers were removed, and that

the prisoner is the one man in the world who had no reason for

removing them, since he was heir-at-law, and would come into them

in any case.”

My friend seemed struck by this remark.

“I don’t mean to deny that the evidence is in some ways very

strongly in favour of your theory,” said he. “I only wish to

point out that there are other theories possible. As you say, the

future will decide. Good-morning! I dare say that in the course

of the day I shall drop in at Norwood and see how you are getting

on.”

When the detective departed, my friend rose and made his

preparations for the day’s work with the alert air of a man who

has a congenial task before him.

“My first movement Watson,” said he, as he bustled into his

frockcoat, “must, as I said, be in the direction of Blackheath.”

“And why not Norwood?”

“Because we have in this case one singular incident coming close

to the heels of another singular incident. The police are making

the mistake of concentrating their attention upon the second,

because it happens to be the one which is actually criminal. But

it is evident to me that the logical way to approach the case is

to begin by trying to throw some light upon the first

incident—the curious will, so suddenly made, and to so unexpected

an heir. It may do something to simplify what followed. No, my

dear fellow, I don’t think you can help me. There is no prospect

of danger, or I should not dream of stirring out without you. I

trust that when I see you in the evening, I will be able to

report that I have been able to do something for this unfortunate

youngster, who has thrown himself upon my protection.”

It was late when my friend returned, and I could see, by a glance

at his haggard and anxious face, that the high hopes with which

he had started had not been fulfilled. For an hour he droned away

upon his violin, endeavouring to soothe his own ruffled spirits.

At last he flung down the instrument, and plunged into a detailed

account of his misadventures.

“It’s all going wrong, Watson—all as wrong as it can go. I kept a

bold face before Lestrade, but, upon my soul, I believe that for

once the fellow is on the right track and we are on the wrong.

All my instincts are one way, and all the facts are the other,

and I much fear that British juries have not yet attained that

pitch of intelligence when they will give the preference to my

theories over Lestrade’s facts.”

“Did you go to Blackheath?”

“Yes, Watson, I went there, and I found very quickly that the

late lamented Oldacre was a pretty considerable blackguard. The

father was away in search of his son. The mother was at home—a

little, fluffy, blue-eyed person, in a tremor of fear and

indignation. Of course, she would not admit even the possibility

of his guilt. But she would not express either surprise or regret

over the fate of Oldacre. On the contrary, she spoke of him with

such bitterness that she was unconsciously considerably

strengthening the case of the police for, of course, if her son

had heard her speak of the man in this fashion, it would

predispose him towards hatred and violence. ‘He was more like a

malignant and cunning ape than a human being,’ said she, ‘and he

always was, ever since he was a young man.’

“‘You knew him at that time?’ said I.

“‘Yes, I knew him well, in fact, he was an old suitor of mine.

Thank heaven that I had the sense to turn away from him and to

marry a better, if poorer, man. I was engaged to him, Mr. Holmes,

when I heard a shocking story of how he had turned a cat loose in

an aviary, and I was so horrified at his brutal cruelty that I

would have nothing more to do with him.’ She rummaged in a

bureau, and presently she produced a photograph of a woman,

shamefully defaced and mutilated with a knife. ‘That is my own

photograph,’ she said. ‘He sent it to me in that state, with his

curse, upon my wedding morning.’

“‘Well,’ said I, ‘at least he has forgiven you now, since he has

left all his property to your son.’

“‘Neither my son nor I want anything from Jonas Oldacre, dead or

alive!’ she cried, with a proper spirit. ‘There is a God in

heaven, Mr. Holmes, and that same God who has punished that

wicked man will show, in His own good time, that my son’s hands

are guiltless of his blood.’

“Well, I tried one or two leads, but could get at nothing which

would help our hypothesis, and several points which would make

against it. I gave it up at last and off I went to Norwood.

“This place, Deep Dene House, is a big modern villa of staring

brick, standing back in its own grounds, with a laurel-clumped

lawn in front of it. To the right and some distance back from the

road was the timber-yard which had been the scene of the fire.

Here’s a rough plan on a leaf of my notebook. This window on the

left is the one which opens into Oldacre’s room. You can look

into it from the road, you see. That is about the only bit of

consolation I have had to-day. Lestrade was not there, but his

head constable did the honours. They had just found a great

treasure-trove. They had spent the morning raking among the ashes

of the burned wood-pile, and besides the charred organic remains

they had secured several discoloured metal discs. I examined them

with care, and there was no doubt that they were trouser buttons.

I even distinguished that one of them was marked with the name of

‘Hyams,’ who was Oldacre's tailor. I then worked the lawn very

carefully for signs and traces, but this drought has made

everything as hard as iron. Nothing was to be seen save that some

body or bundle had been dragged through a low privet hedge which

is in a line with the wood-pile. All that, of course, fits in

with the official theory. I crawled about the lawn with an August

sun on my back, but I got up at the end of an hour no wiser than

before.

“Well, after this fiasco I went into the bedroom and examined

that also. The blood-stains were very slight, mere smears and

discolourations, but undoubtedly fresh. The stick had been

removed, but there also the marks were slight. There is no doubt

about the stick belonging to our client. He admits it. Footmarks

of both men could be made out on the carpet, but none of any

third person, which again is a trick for the other side. They

were piling up their score all the time and we were at a

standstill.

“Only one little gleam of hope did I get—and yet it amounted to

nothing. I examined the contents of the safe, most of which had

been taken out and left on the table. The papers had been made up

into sealed envelopes, one or two of which had been opened by the

police. They were not, so far as I could judge, of any great

value, nor did the bank-book show that Mr. Oldacre was in such

very affluent circumstances. But it seemed to me that all the

papers were not there. There were allusions to some

deeds—possibly the more valuable—which I could not find. This, of

course, if we could definitely prove it, would turn Lestrade’s

argument against himself, for who would steal a thing if he knew

that he would shortly inherit it?

“Finally, having drawn every other cover and picked up no scent,

I tried my luck with the housekeeper. Mrs. Lexington is her

name—a little, dark, silent person, with suspicious and sidelong

eyes. She could tell us something if she would—I am convinced of

it. But she was as close as wax. Yes, she had let Mr. McFarlane

in at half-past nine. She wished her hand had withered before she

had done so. She had gone to bed at half-past ten. Her room was

at the other end of the house, and she could hear nothing of what

had passed. Mr. McFarlane had left his hat, and to the best of

her belief his stick, in the hall. She had been awakened by the

alarm of fire. Her poor, dear master had certainly been murdered.

Had he any enemies? Well, every man had enemies, but Mr. Oldacre

kept himself very much to himself, and only met people in the way

of business. She had seen the buttons, and was sure that they

belonged to the clothes which he had worn last night. The

wood-pile was very dry, for it had not rained for a month. It

burned like tinder, and by the time she reached the spot, nothing

could be seen but flames. She and all the firemen smelled the

burned flesh from inside it. She knew nothing of the papers, nor

of Mr. Oldacre’s private affairs.

“So, my dear Watson, there’s my report of a failure. And yet—and

yet—” he clenched his thin hands in a paroxysm of conviction—“I

_know_ it’s all wrong. I feel it in my bones. There is something

that has not come out, and that housekeeper knows it. There was a

sort of sulky defiance in her eyes, which only goes with guilty

knowledge. However, there’s no good talking any more about it,

Watson; but unless some lucky chance comes our way I fear that

the Norwood Disappearance Case will not figure in that chronicle

of our successes which I foresee that a patient public will

sooner or later have to endure.”

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

jury?”

“That is a dangerous argument my dear Watson. You remember that

terrible murderer, Bert Stevens, who wanted us to get him off in

’87? Was there ever a more mild-mannered, Sunday-school young

man?”

“It is true.”

“Unless we succeed in establishing an alternative theory, this

man is lost. You can hardly find a flaw in the case which can now

be presented against him, and all further investigation has

served to strengthen it. By the way, there is one curious little

point about those papers which may serve us as the starting-point

for an inquiry. On looking over the bank-book I found that the

low state of the balance was principally due to large checks

which have been made out during the last year to Mr. Cornelius. I

confess that I should be interested to know who this Mr.

Cornelius may be with whom a retired builder has such very large

transactions. Is it possible that he has had a hand in the

affair? Cornelius might be a broker, but we have found no scrip

to correspond with these large payments. Failing any other

indication, my researches must now take the direction of an

inquiry at the bank for the gentleman who has cashed these

checks. But I fear, my dear fellow, that our case will end

ingloriously by Lestrade hanging our client, which will certainly

be a triumph for Scotland Yard.”

I do not know how far Sherlock Holmes took any sleep that night,

but when I came down to breakfast I found him pale and harassed,

his bright eyes the brighter for the dark shadows round them. The

carpet round his chair was littered with cigarette-ends and with

the early editions of the morning papers. An open telegram lay

upon the table.

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

It was from Norwood, and ran as follows:

Important fresh evidence to hand. McFarlane’s guilt definitely

established. Advise you to abandon case.—LESTRADE.

“This sounds serious,” said I.

“It is Lestrade’s little cock-a-doodle of victory,” Holmes

answered, with a bitter smile. “And yet it may be premature to

abandon the case. After all, important fresh evidence is a

two-edged thing, and may possibly cut in a very different

direction to that which Lestrade imagines. Take your breakfast,

Watson, and we will go out together and see what we can do. I

feel as if I shall need your company and your moral support

today.”

My friend had no breakfast himself, for it was one of his

peculiarities that in his more intense moments he would permit

himself no food, and I have known him presume upon his iron

strength until he has fainted from pure inanition. “At present I

cannot spare energy and nerve force for digestion,” he would say

in answer to my medical remonstrances. I was not surprised,

therefore, when this morning he left his untouched meal behind

him, and started with me for Norwood. A crowd of morbid

sightseers were still gathered round Deep Dene House, which was

just such a suburban villa as I had pictured. Within the gates

Lestrade met us, his face flushed with victory, his manner

grossly triumphant.

“Well, Mr. Holmes, have you proved us to be wrong yet? Have you

found your tramp?” he cried.

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

“But we formed ours yesterday, and now it proves to be correct,

so you must acknowledge that we have been a little in front of

you this time, Mr. Holmes.”

“You certainly have the air of something unusual having

occurred,” said Holmes.

Lestrade laughed loudly.

“You don’t like being beaten any more than the rest of us do,”

said he. “A man can’t expect always to have it his own way, can

he, Dr. Watson? Step this way, if you please, gentlemen, and I

think I can convince you once for all that it was John McFarlane

who did this crime.”

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

“This is where young McFarlane must have come out to get his hat

after the crime was done,” said he. “Now look at this.” With

dramatic suddenness he struck a match, and by its light exposed a

stain of blood upon the whitewashed wall. As he held the match

nearer, I saw that it was more than a stain. It was the

well-marked print of a thumb.

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

“Yes, I am doing so.”

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

“I have heard something of the kind.”

“Well, then, will you please compare that print with this wax

impression of young McFarlane’s right thumb, taken by my orders

this morning?”

As he held the waxen print close to the blood-stain, it did not

take a magnifying glass to see that the two were undoubtedly from

the same thumb. It was evident to me that our unfortunate client

was lost.

“That is final,” said Lestrade.

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

“It is final,” said Holmes.

Something in his tone caught my ear, and I turned to look at him.

An extraordinary change had come over his face. It was writhing

with inward merriment. His two eyes were shining like stars. It

seemed to me that he was making desperate efforts to restrain a

convulsive attack of laughter.

“Dear me! Dear me!” he said at last. “Well, now, who would have

thought it? And how deceptive appearances may be, to be sure!

Such a nice young man to look at! It is a lesson to us not to

trust our own judgment, is it not, Lestrade?”

“Yes, some of us are a little too much inclined to be cock-sure,

Mr. Holmes,” said Lestrade. The man’s insolence was maddening,

but we could not resent it.

“What a providential thing that this young man should press his

right thumb against the wall in taking his hat from the peg! Such

a very natural action, too, if you come to think of it.” Holmes

was outwardly calm, but his whole body gave a wriggle of

suppressed excitement as he spoke.

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

“It was the housekeeper, Mrs. Lexington, who drew the night

constable’s attention to it.”

“Where was the night constable?”

“He remained on guard in the bedroom where the crime was

committed, so as to see that nothing was touched.”

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

“Well, we had no particular reason to make a careful examination

of the hall. Besides, it’s not in a very prominent place, as you

see.”

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

was there yesterday?”

Lestrade looked at Holmes as if he thought he was going out of

his mind. I confess that I was myself surprised both at his

hilarious manner and at his rather wild observation.

“I don’t know whether you think that McFarlane came out of jail

in the dead of the night in order to strengthen the evidence

against himself,” said Lestrade. “I leave it to any expert in the

world whether that is not the mark of his thumb.”

“It is unquestionably the mark of his thumb.”

“There, that’s enough,” said Lestrade. “I am a practical man, Mr.

Holmes, and when I have got my evidence I come to my conclusions.

If you have anything to say, you will find me writing my report

in the sitting-room.”

Holmes had recovered his equanimity, though I still seemed to

detect gleams of amusement in his expression.

“Dear me, this is a very sad development, Watson, is it not?”

said he. “And yet there are singular points about it which hold

out some hopes for our client.”

“I am delighted to hear it,” said I, heartily. “I was afraid it

was all up with him.”

“I would hardly go so far as to say that, my dear Watson. The

fact is that there is one really serious flaw in this evidence to

which our friend attaches so much importance.”

“Indeed, Holmes! What is it?”

“Only this: that I _know_ that that mark was not there when I

examined the hall yesterday. And now, Watson, let us have a

little stroll round in the sunshine.”

With a confused brain, but with a heart into which some warmth of

hope was returning, I accompanied my friend in a walk round the

garden. Holmes took each face of the house in turn, and examined

it with great interest. He then led the way inside, and went over

the whole building from basement to attic. Most of the rooms were

unfurnished, but none the less Holmes inspected them all

minutely. Finally, on the top corridor, which ran outside three

untenanted bedrooms, he again was seized with a spasm of

merriment.

“There are really some very unique features about this case,

Watson,” said he. “I think it is time now that we took our friend

Lestrade into our confidence. He has had his little smile at our

expense, and perhaps we may do as much by him, if my reading of

this problem proves to be correct. Yes, yes, I think I see how we

should approach it.”

The Scotland Yard inspector was still writing in the parlour when

Holmes interrupted him.

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

he.

“So I am.”

“Don’t you think it may be a little premature? I can’t help

thinking that your evidence is not complete.”

Lestrade knew my friend too well to disregard his words. He laid

down his pen and looked curiously at him.

“What do you mean, Mr. Holmes?”

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

“Can you produce him?”

“I think I can.”

“Then do so.”

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

“There are three within call.”

“Excellent!” said Holmes. “May I ask if they are all large,

able-bodied men with powerful voices?”

“I have no doubt they are, though I fail to see what their voices

have to do with it.”

“Perhaps I can help you to see that and one or two other things

as well,” said Holmes. “Kindly summon your men, and I will try.”

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

“In the outhouse you will find a considerable quantity of straw,”

said Holmes. “I will ask you to carry in two bundles of it. I

think it will be of the greatest assistance in producing the

witness whom I require. Thank you very much. I believe you have

some matches in your pocket Watson. Now, Mr. Lestrade, I will ask

you all to accompany me to the top landing.”

As I have said, there was a broad corridor there, which ran

outside three empty bedrooms. At one end of the corridor we were

all marshalled by Sherlock Holmes, the constables grinning and

Lestrade staring at my friend with amazement, expectation, and

derision chasing each other across his features. Holmes stood

before us with the air of a conjurer who is performing a trick.

“Would you kindly send one of your constables for two buckets of

water? Put the straw on the floor here, free from the wall on

either side. Now I think that we are all ready.”

Lestrade’s face had begun to grow red and angry. “I don’t know

whether you are playing a game with us, Mr. Sherlock Holmes,”

said he. “If you know anything, you can surely say it without all

this tomfoolery.”

“I assure you, my good Lestrade, that I have an excellent reason

for everything that I do. You may possibly remember that you

chaffed me a little, some hours ago, when the sun seemed on your

side of the hedge, so you must not grudge me a little pomp and

ceremony now. Might I ask you, Watson, to open that window, and

then to put a match to the edge of the straw?”

I did so, and driven by the draught a coil of grey smoke swirled

down the corridor, while the dry straw crackled and flamed.

“Now we must see if we can find this witness for you, Lestrade.

Might I ask you all to join in the cry of ‘Fire!’? Now then; one,

two, three——”

“Fire!” we all yelled.

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

“Fire!”

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

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

It had hardly died away when an amazing thing happened. A door

suddenly flew open out of what appeared to be solid wall at the

end of the corridor, and a little, wizened man darted out of it,

like a rabbit out of its burrow.

“Capital!” said Holmes, calmly. “Watson, a bucket of water over

the straw. That will do! Lestrade, allow me to present you with

your principal missing witness, Mr. Jonas Oldacre.”

The detective stared at the newcomer with blank amazement. The

latter was blinking in the bright light of the corridor, and

peering at us and at the smouldering fire. It was an odious

face—crafty, vicious, malignant, with shifty, light-grey eyes and

white lashes.

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

doing all this time, eh?”

Oldacre gave an uneasy laugh, shrinking back from the furious red

face of the angry detective.

“I have done no harm.”

“No harm? You have done your best to get an innocent man hanged.

If it wasn’t for this gentleman here, I am not sure that you

would not have succeeded.”

The wretched creature began to whimper.

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

“Oh! a joke, was it? You won’t find the laugh on your side, I

promise you. Take him down, and keep him in the sitting-room

until I come. Mr. Holmes,” he continued, when they had gone, “I

could not speak before the constables, but I don’t mind saying,

in the presence of Dr. Watson, that this is the brightest thing

that you have done yet, though it is a mystery to me how you did

it. You have saved an innocent man’s life, and you have prevented

a very grave scandal, which would have ruined my reputation in

the Force.”

Holmes smiled, and clapped Lestrade upon the shoulder.

“Instead of being ruined, my good sir, you will find that your

reputation has been enormously enhanced. Just make a few

alterations in that report which you were writing, and they will

understand how hard it is to throw dust in the eyes of Inspector

Lestrade.”

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

“Not at all. The work is its own reward. Perhaps I shall get the

credit also at some distant day, when I permit my zealous

historian to lay out his foolscap once more—eh, Watson? Well,

now, let us see where this rat has been lurking.”

A lath-and-plaster partition had been run across the passage six

feet from the end, with a door cunningly concealed in it. It was

lit within by slits under the eaves. A few articles of furniture

and a supply of food and water were within, together with a

number of books and papers.

“There’s the advantage of being a builder,” said Holmes, as we

came out. “He was able to fix up his own little hiding-place

without any confederate—save, of course, that precious

housekeeper of his, whom I should lose no time in adding to your

bag, Lestrade.”

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

Holmes?”

“I made up my mind that the fellow was in hiding in the house.

When I paced one corridor and found it six feet shorter than the

corresponding one below, it was pretty clear where he was. I

thought he had not the nerve to lie quiet before an alarm of

fire. We could, of course, have gone in and taken him, but it

amused me to make him reveal himself. Besides, I owed you a

little mystification, Lestrade, for your chaff in the morning.”

“Well, sir, you certainly got equal with me on that. But how in

the world did you know that he was in the house at all?”

“The thumb-mark, Lestrade. You said it was final; and so it was,

in a very different sense. I knew it had not been there the day

before. I pay a good deal of attention to matters of detail, as

you may have observed, and I had examined the hall, and was sure

that the wall was clear. Therefore, it had been put on during the

night.”

“But how?”

“Very simply. When those packets were sealed up, Jonas Oldacre

got McFarlane to secure one of the seals by putting his thumb

upon the soft wax. It would be done so quickly and so naturally,

that I daresay the young man himself has no recollection of it.

Very likely it just so happened, and Oldacre had himself no

notion of the use he would put it to. Brooding over the case in

that den of his, it suddenly struck him what absolutely damning

evidence he could make against McFarlane by using that

thumb-mark. It was the simplest thing in the world for him to

take a wax impression from the seal, to moisten it in as much

blood as he could get from a pin-prick, and to put the mark upon

the wall during the night, either with his own hand or with that

of his housekeeper. If you examine among those documents which he

took with him into his retreat, I will lay you a wager that you

find the seal with the thumb-mark upon it.”

“Wonderful!” said Lestrade. “Wonderful! It’s all as clear as

crystal, as you put it. But what is the object of this deep

deception, Mr. Holmes?”

It was amusing to me to see how the detective’s overbearing

manner had changed suddenly to that of a child asking questions

of its teacher.

“Well, I don’t think that is very hard to explain. A very deep,

malicious, vindictive person is the gentleman who is now waiting

us downstairs. You know that he was once refused by McFarlane’s

mother? You don’t! I told you that you should go to Blackheath

first and Norwood afterwards. Well, this injury, as he would

consider it, has rankled in his wicked, scheming brain, and all

his life he has longed for vengeance, but never seen his chance.

During the last year or two, things have gone against him—secret

speculation, I think—and he finds himself in a bad way. He

determines to swindle his creditors, and for this purpose he pays

large checks to a certain Mr. Cornelius, who is, I imagine,

himself under another name. I have not traced these checks yet,

but I have no doubt that they were banked under that name at some

provincial town where Oldacre from time to time led a double

existence. He intended to change his name altogether, draw this

money, and vanish, starting life again elsewhere.”

“Well, that’s likely enough.”

“It would strike him that in disappearing he might throw all

pursuit off his track, and at the same time have an ample and

crushing revenge upon his old sweetheart, if he could give the

impression that he had been murdered by her only child. It was a

masterpiece of villainy, and he carried it out like a master. The

idea of the will, which would give an obvious motive for the

crime, the secret visit unknown to his own parents, the retention

of the stick, the blood, and the animal remains and buttons in

the wood-pile, all were admirable. It was a net from which it

seemed to me, a few hours ago, that there was no possible escape.

But he had not that supreme gift of the artist, the knowledge of

when to stop. He wished to improve that which was already

perfect—to draw the rope tighter yet round the neck of his

unfortunate victim—and so he ruined all. Let us descend,

Lestrade. There are just one or two questions that I would ask

him.”

The malignant creature was seated in his own parlour, with a

policeman upon each side of him.

“It was a joke, my good sir—a practical joke, nothing more,” he

whined incessantly. “I assure you, sir, that I simply concealed

myself in order to see the effect of my disappearance, and I am

sure that you would not be so unjust as to imagine that I would

have allowed any harm to befall poor young Mr. McFarlane.”

“That’s for a jury to decide,” said Lestrade. “Anyhow, we shall

have you on a charge of conspiracy, if not for attempted murder.”

“And you’ll probably find that your creditors will impound the

banking account of Mr. Cornelius,” said Holmes.

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

friend.

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

my debt some day.”

Holmes smiled indulgently.

“I fancy that, for some few years, you will find your time very

fully occupied,” said he. “By the way, what was it you put into

the wood-pile besides your old trousers? A dead dog, or rabbits,

or what? You won’t tell? Dear me, how very unkind of you! Well,

well, I daresay that a couple of rabbits would account both for

the blood and for the charred ashes. If ever you write an

account, Watson, you can make rabbits serve your turn.”

THE ADVENTURE OF THE DANCING MEN

Holmes had been seated for some hours in silence with his long,

thin back curved over a chemical vessel in which he was brewing a

particularly malodorous product. His head was sunk upon his

breast, and he looked from my point of view like a strange, lank

bird, with dull grey plumage and a black top-knot.

“So, Watson,” said he, suddenly, “you do not propose to invest in

South African securities?”

I gave a start of astonishment. Accustomed as I was to Holmes’s

curious faculties, this sudden intrusion into my most intimate

thoughts was utterly inexplicable.

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

He wheeled round upon his stool, with a steaming test-tube in his

hand, and a gleam of amusement in his deep-set eyes.

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

“I am.”

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

“Why?”

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

simple.”

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

“You see, my dear Watson,”—he propped his test-tube in the rack,

and began to lecture with the air of a professor addressing his

class—“it is not really difficult to construct a series of

inferences, each dependent upon its predecessor and each simple

in itself. If, after doing so, one simply knocks out all the

central inferences and presents one’s audience with the

starting-point and the conclusion, one may produce a startling,

though possibly a meretricious, effect. Now, it was not really

difficult, by an inspection of the groove between your left

forefinger and thumb, to feel sure that you did _not_ propose to

invest your small capital in the gold fields.”

“I see no connection.”

“Very likely not; but I can quickly show you a close connection.

Here are the missing links of the very simple chain: 1. You had

chalk between your left finger and thumb when you returned from

the club last night. 2. You put chalk there when you play

billiards, to steady the cue. 3. You never play billiards except

with Thurston. 4. You told me, four weeks ago, that Thurston had

an option on some South African property which would expire in a

month, and which he desired you to share with him. 5. Your check

book is locked in my drawer, and you have not asked for the key.

6. You do not propose to invest your money in this manner.”

“How absurdly simple!” I cried.

“Quite so!” said he, a little nettled. “Every problem becomes

very childish when once it is explained to you. Here is an

unexplained one. See what you can make of that, friend Watson.”

He tossed a sheet of paper upon the table, and turned once more

to his chemical analysis.

I looked with amazement at the absurd hieroglyphics upon the

paper.

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

“Oh, that’s your idea!”

“What else should it be?”

“That is what Mr. Hilton Cubitt, of Riding Thorpe Manor, Norfolk,

is very anxious to know. This little conundrum came by the first

post, and he was to follow by the next train. There’s a ring at

the bell, Watson. I should not be very much surprised if this

were he.”

A heavy step was heard upon the stairs, and an instant later

there entered a tall, ruddy, clean-shaven gentleman, whose clear

eyes and florid cheeks told of a life led far from the fogs of

Baker Street. He seemed to bring a whiff of his strong, fresh,

bracing, east-coast air with him as he entered. Having shaken

hands with each of us, he was about to sit down, when his eye

rested upon the paper with the curious markings, which I had just

examined and left upon the table.

“Well, Mr. Holmes, what do you make of these?” he cried. “They

told me that you were fond of queer mysteries, and I don’t think

you can find a queerer one than that. I sent the paper on ahead,

so that you might have time to study it before I came.”

“It is certainly rather a curious production,” said Holmes. “At

first sight it would appear to be some childish prank. It

consists of a number of absurd little figures dancing across the

paper upon which they are drawn. Why should you attribute any

importance to so grotesque an object?”

“I never should, Mr. Holmes. But my wife does. It is frightening

her to death. She says nothing, but I can see terror in her eyes.

That’s why I want to sift the matter to the bottom.”

Holmes held up the paper so that the sunlight shone full upon it.

It was a page torn from a notebook. The markings were done in

pencil, and ran in this way:

AM-HERE-ABE-SLANEY

Holmes examined it for some time, and then, folding it carefully

up, he placed it in his pocketbook.

“This promises to be a most interesting and unusual case,” said

he. “You gave me a few particulars in your letter, Mr. Hilton

Cubitt, but I should be very much obliged if you would kindly go

over it all again for the benefit of my friend, Dr. Watson.”

“I’m not much of a story-teller,” said our visitor, nervously

clasping and unclasping his great, strong hands. “You’ll just ask

me anything that I don’t make clear. I’ll begin at the time of my

marriage last year, but I want to say first of all that, though

I’m not a rich man, my people have been at Riding Thorpe for a

matter of five centuries, and there is no better known family in

the County of Norfolk. Last year I came up to London for the

Jubilee, and I stopped at a boarding-house in Russell Square,

because Parker, the vicar of our parish, was staying in it. There

was an American young lady there—Patrick was the name—Elsie

Patrick. In some way we became friends, until before my month was

up I was as much in love as a man could be. We were quietly

married at a registry office, and we returned to Norfolk a wedded

couple. You’ll think it very mad, Mr. Holmes, that a man of a

good old family should marry a wife in this fashion, knowing

nothing of her past or of her people, but if you saw her and knew

her, it would help you to understand.

“She was very straight about it, was Elsie. I can’t say that she

did not give me every chance of getting out of it if I wished to

do so. ‘I have had some very disagreeable associations in my

life,’ said she, ‘I wish to forget all about them. I would rather

never allude to the past, for it is very painful to me. If you

take me, Hilton, you will take a woman who has nothing that she

need be personally ashamed of, but you will have to be content

with my word for it, and to allow me to be silent as to all that

passed up to the time when I became yours. If these conditions

are too hard, then go back to Norfolk, and leave me to the lonely

life in which you found me.’ It was only the day before our

wedding that she said those very words to me. I told her that I

was content to take her on her own terms, and I have been as good

as my word.

“Well we have been married now for a year, and very happy we have

been. But about a month ago, at the end of June, I saw for the

first time signs of trouble. One day my wife received a letter

from America. I saw the American stamp. She turned deadly white,

read the letter, and threw it into the fire. She made no allusion

to it afterwards, and I made none, for a promise is a promise,

but she has never known an easy hour from that moment. There is

always a look of fear upon her face—a look as if she were waiting

and expecting. She would do better to trust me. She would find

that I was her best friend. But until she speaks, I can say

nothing. Mind you, she is a truthful woman, Mr. Holmes, and

whatever trouble there may have been in her past life it has been

no fault of hers. I am only a simple Norfolk squire, but there is

not a man in England who ranks his family honour more highly than

I do. She knows it well, and she knew it well before she married

me. She would never bring any stain upon it—of that I am sure.

“Well, now I come to the queer part of my story. About a week

ago—it was the Tuesday of last week—I found on one of the

window-sills a number of absurd little dancing figures like these

upon the paper. They were scrawled with chalk. I thought that it

was the stable-boy who had drawn them, but the lad swore he knew

nothing about it. Anyhow, they had come there during the night. I

had them washed out, and I only mentioned the matter to my wife

afterwards. To my surprise, she took it very seriously, and

begged me if any more came to let her see them. None did come for

a week, and then yesterday morning I found this paper lying on

the sundial in the garden. I showed it to Elsie, and down she

dropped in a dead faint. Since then she has looked like a woman

in a dream, half dazed, and with terror always lurking in her

eyes. It was then that I wrote and sent the paper to you, Mr.

Holmes. It was not a thing that I could take to the police, for

they would have laughed at me, but you will tell me what to do. I

am not a rich man, but if there is any danger threatening my

little woman, I would spend my last copper to shield her.”

He was a fine creature, this man of the old English soil—simple,

straight, and gentle, with his great, earnest blue eyes and

broad, comely face. His love for his wife and his trust in her

shone in his features. Holmes had listened to his story with the

utmost attention, and now he sat for some time in silent thought.

“Don’t you think, Mr. Cubitt,” said he, at last, “that your best

plan would be to make a direct appeal to your wife, and to ask

her to share her secret with you?”

Hilton Cubitt shook his massive head.

“A promise is a promise, Mr. Holmes. If Elsie wished to tell me

she would. If not, it is not for me to force her confidence. But

I am justified in taking my own line—and I will.”

“Then I will help you with all my heart. In the first place, have

you heard of any strangers being seen in your neighbourhood?”

“No.”

“I presume that it is a very quiet place. Any fresh face would

cause comment?”

“In the immediate neighbourhood, yes. But we have several small

watering-places not very far away. And the farmers take in

lodgers.”

“These hieroglyphics have evidently a meaning. If it is a purely

arbitrary one, it may be impossible for us to solve it. If, on

the other hand, it is systematic, I have no doubt that we shall

get to the bottom of it. But this particular sample is so short

that I can do nothing, and the facts which you have brought me

are so indefinite that we have no basis for an investigation. I

would suggest that you return to Norfolk, that you keep a keen

lookout, and that you take an exact copy of any fresh dancing men

which may appear. It is a thousand pities that we have not a

reproduction of those which were done in chalk upon the

window-sill. Make a discreet inquiry also as to any strangers in

the neighbourhood. When you have collected some fresh evidence,

come to me again. That is the best advice which I can give you,

Mr. Hilton Cubitt. If there are any pressing fresh developments,

I shall be always ready to run down and see you in your Norfolk

home.”

The interview left Sherlock Holmes very thoughtful, and several

times in the next few days I saw him take his slip of paper from

his notebook and look long and earnestly at the curious figures

inscribed upon it. He made no allusion to the affair, however,

until one afternoon a fortnight or so later. I was going out when

he called me back.

“You had better stay here, Watson.”

“Why?”

“Because I had a wire from Hilton Cubitt this morning. You

remember Hilton Cubitt, of the dancing men? He was to reach

Liverpool Street at one-twenty. He may be here at any moment. I

gather from his wire that there have been some new incidents of

importance.”

We had not long to wait, for our Norfolk squire came straight

from the station as fast as a hansom could bring him. He was

looking worried and depressed, with tired eyes and a lined

forehead.

“It’s getting on my nerves, this business, Mr. Holmes,” said he,

as he sank, like a wearied man, into an armchair. “It’s bad

enough to feel that you are surrounded by unseen, unknown folk,

who have some kind of design upon you, but when, in addition to

that, you know that it is just killing your wife by inches, then

it becomes as much as flesh and blood can endure. She’s wearing

away under it—just wearing away before my eyes.”

“Has she said anything yet?”

“No, Mr. Holmes, she has not. And yet there have been times when

the poor girl has wanted to speak, and yet could not quite bring

herself to take the plunge. I have tried to help her, but I

daresay I did it clumsily, and scared her from it. She has spoken

about my old family, and our reputation in the county, and our

pride in our unsullied honour, and I always felt it was leading

to the point, but somehow it turned off before we got there.”

“But you have found out something for yourself?”

“A good deal, Mr. Holmes. I have several fresh dancing-men

pictures for you to examine, and, what is more important, I have

seen the fellow.”

“What, the man who draws them?”

“Yes, I saw him at his work. But I will tell you everything in

order. When I got back after my visit to you, the very first

thing I saw next morning was a fresh crop of dancing men. They

had been drawn in chalk upon the black wooden door of the

tool-house, which stands beside the lawn in full view of the

front windows. I took an exact copy, and here it is.” He unfolded

a paper and laid it upon the table. Here is a copy of the

hieroglyphics:

AT-ELRIGES

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

“When I had taken the copy, I rubbed out the marks, but, two

mornings later, a fresh inscription had appeared. I have a copy

of it here:”

COME-ELSIE

Holmes rubbed his hands and chuckled with delight.

“Our material is rapidly accumulating,” said he.

“Three days later a message was left scrawled upon paper, and

placed under a pebble upon the sundial. Here it is. The

characters are, as you see, exactly the same as the last one.

After that I determined to lie in wait, so I got out my revolver

and I sat up in my study, which overlooks the lawn and garden.

About two in the morning I was seated by the window, all being

dark save for the moonlight outside, when I heard steps behind

me, and there was my wife in her dressing-gown. She implored me

to come to bed. I told her frankly that I wished to see who it

was who played such absurd tricks upon us. She answered that it

was some senseless practical joke, and that I should not take any

notice of it.

“‘If it really annoys you, Hilton, we might go and travel, you

and I, and so avoid this nuisance.’

“‘What, be driven out of our own house by a practical joker?’

said I. ‘Why, we should have the whole county laughing at us.’

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

morning.’

“Suddenly, as she spoke, I saw her white face grow whiter yet in

the moonlight, and her hand tightened upon my shoulder. Something

was moving in the shadow of the tool-house. I saw a dark,

creeping figure which crawled round the corner and squatted in

front of the door. Seizing my pistol, I was rushing out, when my

wife threw her arms round me and held me with convulsive

strength. I tried to throw her off, but she clung to me most

desperately. At last I got clear, but by the time I had opened

the door and reached the house the creature was gone. He had left

a trace of his presence, however, for there on the door was the

very same arrangement of dancing men which had already twice

appeared, and which I have copied on that paper. There was no

other sign of the fellow anywhere, though I ran all over the

grounds. And yet the amazing thing is that he must have been

there all the time, for when I examined the door again in the

morning, he had scrawled some more of his pictures under the line

which I had already seen.”

“Have you that fresh drawing?”

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

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

NEVER

“Tell me,” said Holmes—and I could see by his eyes that he was

much excited—“was this a mere addition to the first or did it

appear to be entirely separate?”

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

“Excellent! This is far the most important of all for our

purpose. It fills me with hopes. Now, Mr. Hilton Cubitt, please

continue your most interesting statement.”

“I have nothing more to say, Mr. Holmes, except that I was angry

with my wife that night for having held me back when I might have

caught the skulking rascal. She said that she feared that I might

come to harm. For an instant it had crossed my mind that perhaps

what she really feared was that _he_ might come to harm, for I

could not doubt that she knew who this man was, and what he meant

by these strange signals. But there is a tone in my wife’s voice,

Mr. Holmes, and a look in her eyes which forbid doubt, and I am

sure that it was indeed my own safety that was in her mind.

There’s the whole case, and now I want your advice as to what I

ought to do. My own inclination is to put half a dozen of my farm

lads in the shrubbery, and when this fellow comes again to give

him such a hiding that he will leave us in peace for the future.”

“I fear it is too deep a case for such simple remedies,” said

Holmes. “How long can you stay in London?”

“I must go back to-day. I would not leave my wife alone all night

for anything. She is very nervous, and begged me to come back.”

“I daresay you are right. But if you could have stopped, I might

possibly have been able to return with you in a day or two.

Meanwhile you will leave me these papers, and I think that it is

very likely that I shall be able to pay you a visit shortly and

to throw some light upon your case.”

Sherlock Holmes preserved his calm professional manner until our

visitor had left us, although it was easy for me, who knew him so

well, to see that he was profoundly excited. The moment that

Hilton Cubitt’s broad back had disappeared through the door my

comrade rushed to the table, laid out all the slips of paper

containing dancing men in front of him, and threw himself into an

intricate and elaborate calculation. For two hours I watched him

as he covered sheet after sheet of paper with figures and

letters, so completely absorbed in his task that he had evidently

forgotten my presence. Sometimes he was making progress and

whistled and sang at his work; sometimes he was puzzled, and

would sit for long spells with a furrowed brow and a vacant eye.

Finally he sprang from his chair with a cry of satisfaction, and

walked up and down the room rubbing his hands together. Then he

wrote a long telegram upon a cable form. “If my answer to this is

as I hope, you will have a very pretty case to add to your

collection, Watson,” said he. “I expect that we shall be able to

go down to Norfolk tomorrow, and to take our friend some very

definite news as to the secret of his annoyance.”

I confess that I was filled with curiosity, but I was aware that

Holmes liked to make his disclosures at his own time and in his

own way, so I waited until it should suit him to take me into his

confidence.

But there was a delay in that answering telegram, and two days of

impatience followed, during which Holmes pricked up his ears at

every ring of the bell. On the evening of the second there came a

letter from Hilton Cubitt. All was quiet with him, save that a

long inscription had appeared that morning upon the pedestal of

the sundial. He inclosed a copy of it, which is here reproduced:

ELSIE-PREPARE-TO-MEET-THY-GOD

Holmes bent over this grotesque frieze for some minutes, and then

suddenly sprang to his feet with an exclamation of surprise and

dismay. His face was haggard with anxiety.

“We have let this affair go far enough,” said he. “Is there a

train to North Walsham to-night?”

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

“Then we shall breakfast early and take the very first in the

morning,” said Holmes. “Our presence is most urgently needed. Ah!

here is our expected cablegram. One moment, Mrs. Hudson, there

may be an answer. No, that is quite as I expected. This message

makes it even more essential that we should not lose an hour in

letting Hilton Cubitt know how matters stand, for it is a

singular and a dangerous web in which our simple Norfolk squire

is entangled.”

So, indeed, it proved, and as I come to the dark conclusion of a

story which had seemed to me to be only childish and bizarre, I

experience once again the dismay and horror with which I was

filled. Would that I had some brighter ending to communicate to

my readers, but these are the chronicles of fact, and I must

follow to their dark crisis the strange chain of events which for

some days made Riding Thorpe Manor a household word through the

length and breadth of England.

We had hardly alighted at North Walsham, and mentioned the name

of our destination, when the station-master hurried towards us.

“I suppose that you are the detectives from London?” said he.

A look of annoyance passed over Holmes’s face.

“What makes you think such a thing?”

“Because Inspector Martin from Norwich has just passed through.

But maybe you are the surgeons. She’s not dead—or wasn’t by last

accounts. You may be in time to save her yet—though it be for the

gallows.”

Holmes’s brow was dark with anxiety.

“We are going to Riding Thorpe Manor,” said he, “but we have

heard nothing of what has passed there.”

“It’s a terrible business,” said the station-master. “They are

shot, both Mr. Hilton Cubitt and his wife. She shot him and then

herself—so the servants say. He’s dead and her life is despaired

of. Dear, dear, one of the oldest families in the county of

Norfolk, and one of the most honoured.”

Without a word Holmes hurried to a carriage, and during the long

seven miles’ drive he never opened his mouth. Seldom have I seen

him so utterly despondent. He had been uneasy during all our

journey from town, and I had observed that he had turned over the

morning papers with anxious attention, but now this sudden

realization of his worst fears left him in a blank melancholy. He

leaned back in his seat, lost in gloomy speculation. Yet there

was much around to interest us, for we were passing through as

singular a countryside as any in England, where a few scattered

cottages represented the population of to-day, while on every

hand enormous square-towered churches bristled up from the flat

green landscape and told of the glory and prosperity of old East

Anglia. At last the violet rim of the German Ocean appeared over

the green edge of the Norfolk coast, and the driver pointed with

his whip to two old brick and timber gables which projected from

a grove of trees. “That’s Riding Thorpe Manor,” said he.

As we drove up to the porticoed front door, I observed in front

of it, beside the tennis lawn, the black tool-house and the

pedestalled sundial with which we had such strange associations.

A dapper little man, with a quick, alert manner and a waxed

moustache, had just descended from a high dog-cart. He introduced

himself as Inspector Martin, of the Norfolk Constabulary, and he

was considerably astonished when he heard the name of my

companion.

“Why, Mr. Holmes, the crime was only committed at three this

morning. How could you hear of it in London and get to the spot

as soon as I?”

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

“Then you must have important evidence, of which we are ignorant,

for they were said to be a most united couple.”

“I have only the evidence of the dancing men,” said Holmes. “I

will explain the matter to you later. Meanwhile, since it is too

late to prevent this tragedy, I am very anxious that I should use

the knowledge which I possess in order to insure that justice be

done. Will you associate me in your investigation, or will you

prefer that I should act independently?”

“I should be proud to feel that we were acting together, Mr.

Holmes,” said the inspector, earnestly.

“In that case I should be glad to hear the evidence and to

examine the premises without an instant of unnecessary delay.”

Inspector Martin had the good sense to allow my friend to do

things in his own fashion, and contented himself with carefully

noting the results. The local surgeon, an old, white-haired man,

had just come down from Mrs. Hilton Cubitt’s room, and he

reported that her injuries were serious, but not necessarily

fatal. The bullet had passed through the front of her brain, and

it would probably be some time before she could regain

consciousness. On the question of whether she had been shot or

had shot herself, he would not venture to express any decided

opinion. Certainly the bullet had been discharged at very close

quarters. There was only the one pistol found in the room, two

barrels of which had been emptied. Mr. Hilton Cubitt had been

shot through the heart. It was equally conceivable that he had

shot her and then himself, or that she had been the criminal, for

the revolver lay upon the floor midway between them.

“Has he been moved?” asked Holmes.

“We have moved nothing except the lady. We could not leave her

lying wounded upon the floor.”

“How long have you been here, Doctor?”

“Since four o’clock.”

“Anyone else?”

“Yes, the constable here.”

“And you have touched nothing?”

“Nothing.”

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

“The housemaid, Saunders.”

“Was it she who gave the alarm?”

“She and Mrs. King, the cook.”

“Where are they now?”

“In the kitchen, I believe.”

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

The old hall, oak-panelled and high-windowed, had been turned

into a court of investigation. Holmes sat in a great,

old-fashioned chair, his inexorable eyes gleaming out of his

haggard face. I could read in them a set purpose to devote his

life to this quest until the client whom he had failed to save

should at last be avenged. The trim Inspector Martin, the old,

grey-headed country doctor, myself, and a stolid village

policeman made up the rest of that strange company.

The two women told their story clearly enough. They had been

aroused from their sleep by the sound of an explosion, which had

been followed a minute later by a second one. They slept in

adjoining rooms, and Mrs. King had rushed in to Saunders.

Together they had descended the stairs. The door of the study was

open, and a candle was burning upon the table. Their master lay

upon his face in the centre of the room. He was quite dead. Near

the window his wife was crouching, her head leaning against the

wall. She was horribly wounded, and the side of her face was red

with blood. She breathed heavily, but was incapable of saying

anything. The passage, as well as the room, was full of smoke and

the smell of powder. The window was certainly shut and fastened

upon the inside. Both women were positive upon the point. They

had at once sent for the doctor and for the constable. Then, with

the aid of the groom and the stable-boy, they had conveyed their

injured mistress to her room. Both she and her husband had

occupied the bed. She was clad in her dress—he in his

dressing-gown, over his night-clothes. Nothing had been moved in

the study. So far as they knew, there had never been any quarrel

between husband and wife. They had always looked upon them as a

very united couple.

These were the main points of the servants’ evidence. In answer

to Inspector Martin, they were clear that every door was fastened

upon the inside, and that no one could have escaped from the

house. In answer to Holmes, they both remembered that they were

conscious of the smell of powder from the moment that they ran

out of their rooms upon the top floor. “I commend that fact very

carefully to your attention,” said Holmes to his professional

colleague. “And now I think that we are in a position to

undertake a thorough examination of the room.”

The study proved to be a small chamber, lined on three sides with

books, and with a writing-table facing an ordinary window, which

looked out upon the garden. Our first attention was given to the

body of the unfortunate squire, whose huge frame lay stretched

across the room. His disordered dress showed that he had been

hastily aroused from sleep. The bullet had been fired at him from

the front, and had remained in his body, after penetrating the

heart. His death had certainly been instantaneous and painless.

There was no powder-marking either upon his dressing-gown or on

his hands. According to the country surgeon, the lady had stains

upon her face, but none upon her hand.

“The absence of the latter means nothing, though its presence may

mean everything,” said Holmes. “Unless the powder from a badly

fitting cartridge happens to spurt backward, one may fire many

shots without leaving a sign. I would suggest that Mr. Cubitt’s

body may now be removed. I suppose, Doctor, you have not

recovered the bullet which wounded the lady?”

“A serious operation will be necessary before that can be done.

But there are still four cartridges in the revolver. Two have

been fired and two wounds inflicted, so that each bullet can be

accounted for.”

“So it would seem,” said Holmes. “Perhaps you can account also

for the bullet which has so obviously struck the edge of the

window?”

He had turned suddenly, and his long, thin finger was pointing to

a hole which had been drilled right through the lower

window-sash, about an inch above the bottom.

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

“Because I looked for it.”

“Wonderful!” said the country doctor. “You are certainly right,

sir. Then a third shot has been fired, and therefore a third

person must have been present. But who could that have been, and

how could he have got away?”

“That is the problem which we are now about to solve,” said

Sherlock Holmes. “You remember, Inspector Martin, when the

servants said that on leaving their room they were at once

conscious of a smell of powder, I remarked that the point was an

extremely important one?”

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

“It suggested that at the time of the firing, the window as well

as the door of the room had been open. Otherwise the fumes of

powder could not have been blown so rapidly through the house. A

draught in the room was necessary for that. Both door and window

were only open for a very short time, however.”

“How do you prove that?”

“Because the candle was not guttered.”

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

“Feeling sure that the window had been open at the time of the

tragedy, I conceived that there might have been a third person in

the affair, who stood outside this opening and fired through it.

Any shot directed at this person might hit the sash. I looked,

and there, sure enough, was the bullet mark!”

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

“The woman’s first instinct would be to shut and fasten the

window. But, halloa! What is this?”

It was a lady’s hand-bag which stood upon the study table—a trim

little hand-bag of crocodile-skin and silver. Holmes opened it and

turned the contents out. There were twenty fifty-pound notes of

the Bank of England, held together by an india-rubber

band—nothing else.

“This must be preserved, for it will figure in the trial,” said

Holmes, as he handed the bag with its contents to the inspector.

“It is now necessary that we should try to throw some light upon

this third bullet, which has clearly, from the splintering of the

wood, been fired from inside the room. I should like to see Mrs.

King, the cook, again. You said, Mrs. King, that you were

awakened by a _loud_ explosion. When you said that, did you mean

that it seemed to you to be louder than the second one?”

“Well, sir, it wakened me from my sleep, so it is hard to judge.

But it did seem very loud.”

“You don’t think that it might have been two shots fired almost

at the same instant?”

“I am sure I couldn’t say, sir.”

“I believe that it was undoubtedly so. I rather think, Inspector

Martin, that we have now exhausted all that this room can teach

us. If you will kindly step round with me, we shall see what

fresh evidence the garden has to offer.”

A flower-bed extended up to the study window, and we all broke

into an exclamation as we approached it. The flowers were

trampled down, and the soft soil was imprinted all over with

footmarks. Large, masculine feet they were, with peculiarly long,

sharp toes. Holmes hunted about among the grass and leaves like a

retriever after a wounded bird. Then, with a cry of satisfaction,

he bent forward and picked up a little brazen cylinder.

“I thought so,” said he, “the revolver had an ejector, and here

is the third cartridge. I really think, Inspector Martin, that

our case is almost complete.”

The country inspector’s face had shown his intense amazement at

the rapid and masterful progress of Holmes’s investigation. At

first he had shown some disposition to assert his own position,

but now he was overcome with admiration, and ready to follow

without question wherever Holmes led.

“Whom do you suspect?” he asked.

“I’ll go into that later. There are several points in this

problem which I have not been able to explain to you yet. Now

that I have got so far, I had best proceed on my own lines, and

then clear the whole matter up once and for all.”

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

“I have no desire to make mysteries, but it is impossible at the

moment of action to enter into long and complex explanations. I

have the threads of this affair all in my hand. Even if this lady

should never recover consciousness, we can still reconstruct the

events of last night and insure that justice be done. First of

all, I wish to know whether there is any inn in this

neighbourhood known as ‘Elrige’s’?”

The servants were cross-questioned, but none of them had heard of

such a place. The stable-boy threw a light upon the matter by

remembering that a farmer of that name lived some miles off, in

the direction of East Ruston.

“Is it a lonely farm?”

“Very lonely, sir.”

“Perhaps they have not heard yet of all that happened here during

the night?”

“Maybe not, sir.”

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

his face.

“Saddle a horse, my lad,” said he. “I shall wish you to take a

note to Elrige’s Farm.”

He took from his pocket the various slips of the dancing men.

With these in front of him, he worked for some time at the

study-table. Finally he handed a note to the boy, with directions

to put it into the hands of the person to whom it was addressed,

and especially to answer no questions of any sort which might be

put to him. I saw the outside of the note, addressed in

straggling, irregular characters, very unlike Holmes’s usual

precise hand. It was consigned to Mr. Abe Slaney, Elriges Farm,

East Ruston, Norfolk.

“I think, Inspector,” Holmes remarked, “that you would do well to

telegraph for an escort, as, if my calculations prove to be

correct, you may have a particularly dangerous prisoner to convey

to the county jail. The boy who takes this note could no doubt

forward your telegram. If there is an afternoon train to town,

Watson, I think we should do well to take it, as I have a

chemical analysis of some interest to finish, and this

investigation draws rapidly to a close.”

When the youth had been dispatched with the note, Sherlock Holmes

gave his instructions to the servants. If any visitor were to

call asking for Mrs. Hilton Cubitt, no information should be

given as to her condition, but he was to be shown at once into

the drawing-room. He impressed these points upon them with the

utmost earnestness. Finally he led the way into the drawing-room,

with the remark that the business was now out of our hands, and

that we must while away the time as best we might until we could

see what was in store for us. The doctor had departed to his

patients, and only the inspector and myself remained.

“I think that I can help you to pass an hour in an interesting

and profitable manner,” said Holmes, drawing his chair up to the

table, and spreading out in front of him the various papers upon

which were recorded the antics of the dancing men. “As to you,

friend Watson, I owe you every atonement for having allowed your

natural curiosity to remain so long unsatisfied. To you,

Inspector, the whole incident may appeal as a remarkable

professional study. I must tell you, first of all, the

interesting circumstances connected with the previous

consultations which Mr. Hilton Cubitt has had with me in Baker

Street.” He then shortly recapitulated the facts which have

already been recorded. “I have here in front of me these singular

productions, at which one might smile, had they not proved

themselves to be the forerunners of so terrible a tragedy. I am

fairly familiar with all forms of secret writings, and am myself

the author of a trifling monograph upon the subject, in which I

analyze one hundred and sixty separate ciphers, but I confess

that this is entirely new to me. The object of those who invented

the system has apparently been to conceal that these characters

convey a message, and to give the idea that they are the mere

random sketches of children.

“Having once recognized, however, that the symbols stood for

letters, and having applied the rules which guide us in all forms

of secret writings, the solution was easy enough. The first

message submitted to me was so short that it was impossible for

me to do more than to say, with some confidence, that the symbol

XXX stood for E. As you are aware, E is the most common letter in

the English alphabet, and it predominates to so marked an extent

that even in a short sentence one would expect to find it most

often. Out of fifteen symbols in the first message, four were the

same, so it was reasonable to set this down as E. It is true that

in some cases the figure was bearing a flag, and in some cases

not, but it was probable, from the way in which the flags were

distributed, that they were used to break the sentence up into

words. I accepted this as a hypothesis, and noted that E was

represented by

E

“But now came the real difficulty of the inquiry. The order of

the English letters after E is by no means well marked, and any

preponderance which may be shown in an average of a printed sheet

may be reversed in a single short sentence. Speaking roughly, T,

A, O, I, N, S, H, R, D, and L are the numerical order in which

letters occur, but T, A, O, and I are very nearly abreast of each

other, and it would be an endless task to try each combination

until a meaning was arrived at. I therefore waited for fresh

material. In my second interview with Mr. Hilton Cubitt he was

able to give me two other short sentences and one message, which

appeared—since there was no flag—to be a single word. Here are

the symbols. Now, in the single word I have already got the two

E’s coming second and fourth in a word of five letters. It might

be ‘sever,’ or ‘lever,’ or ‘never.’ There can be no question that

the latter as a reply to an appeal is far the most probable, and

the circumstances pointed to its being a reply written by the

lady. Accepting it as correct, we are now able to say that the

symbols stand respectively for N, V, and R.

N-V-R

“Even now I was in considerable difficulty, but a happy thought

put me in possession of several other letters. It occurred to me

that if these appeals came, as I expected, from someone who had

been intimate with the lady in her early life, a combination

which contained two E’s with three letters between might very

well stand for the name ‘ELSIE.’ On examination I found that such

a combination formed the termination of the message which was

three times repeated. It was certainly some appeal to ‘Elsie.’ In

this way I had got my L, S, and I. But what appeal could it be?

There were only four letters in the word which preceded ‘Elsie,’

and it ended in E. Surely the word must be ‘COME.’ I tried all

other four letters ending in E, but could find none to fit the

case. So now I was in possession of C, O, and M, and I was in a

position to attack the first message once more, dividing it into

words and putting dots for each symbol which was still unknown.

So treated, it worked out in this fashion:

.M .ERE ..E SL.NE.

“Now the first letter _can_ only be A, which is a most useful

discovery, since it occurs no fewer than three times in this

short sentence, and the H is also apparent in the second word.

Now it becomes:

AM HERE A.E SLANE.

Or, filling in the obvious vacancies in the name:

AM HERE ABE SLANEY.

I had so many letters now that I could proceed with considerable

confidence to the second message, which worked out in this

fashion:

A. ELRI. ES.

Here I could only make sense by putting T and G for the missing

letters, and supposing that the name was that of some house or

inn at which the writer was staying.”

Inspector Martin and I had listened with the utmost interest to

the full and clear account of how my friend had produced results

which had led to so complete a command over our difficulties.

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

“I had every reason to suppose that this Abe Slaney was an

American, since Abe is an American contraction, and since a

letter from America had been the starting-point of all the

trouble. I had also every cause to think that there was some

criminal secret in the matter. The lady’s allusions to her past,

and her refusal to take her husband into her confidence, both

pointed in that direction. I therefore cabled to my friend,

Wilson Hargreave, of the New York Police Bureau, who has more

than once made use of my knowledge of London crime. I asked him

whether the name of Abe Slaney was known to him. Here is his

reply: ‘The most dangerous crook in Chicago.’ On the very evening

upon which I had his answer, Hilton Cubitt sent me the last

message from Slaney. Working with known letters, it took this

form:

ELSIE .RE.ARE TO MEET THY GO.

The addition of a P and a D completed a message which showed me

that the rascal was proceeding from persuasion to threats, and my

knowledge of the crooks of Chicago prepared me to find that he

might very rapidly put his words into action. I at once came to

Norfolk with my friend and colleague, Dr. Watson, but, unhappily,

only in time to find that the worst had already occurred.”

“It is a privilege to be associated with you in the handling of a

case,” said the inspector, warmly. “You will excuse me, however,

if I speak frankly to you. You are only answerable to yourself,

but I have to answer to my superiors. If this Abe Slaney, living

at Elrige’s, is indeed the murderer, and if he has made his

escape while I am seated here, I should certainly get into

serious trouble.”

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

“How do you know?”

“To fly would be a confession of guilt.”

“Then let us go arrest him.”

“I expect him here every instant.”

“But why should he come?”

“Because I have written and asked him.”

“But this is incredible, Mr. Holmes! Why should he come because

you have asked him? Would not such a request rather rouse his

suspicions and cause him to fly?”

“I think I have known how to frame the letter,” said Sherlock

Holmes. “In fact, if I am not very much mistaken, here is the

gentleman himself coming up the drive.”

A man was striding up the path which led to the door. He was a

tall, handsome, swarthy fellow, clad in a suit of grey flannel,

with a Panama hat, a bristling black beard, and a great,

aggressive hooked nose, and flourishing a cane as he walked. He

swaggered up the path as if the place belonged to him, and we

heard his loud, confident peal at the bell.

“I think, gentlemen,” said Holmes, quietly, “that we had best

take up our position behind the door. Every precaution is

necessary when dealing with such a fellow. You will need your

handcuffs, Inspector. You can leave the talking to me.”

We waited in silence for a minute—one of those minutes which one

can never forget. Then the door opened and the man stepped in. In

an instant Holmes clapped a pistol to his head, and Martin

slipped the handcuffs over his wrists. It was all done so swiftly

and deftly that the fellow was helpless before he knew that he

was attacked. He glared from one to the other of us with a pair

of blazing black eyes. Then he burst into a bitter laugh.

“Well, gentlemen, you have the drop on me this time. I seem to

have knocked up against something hard. But I came here in answer

to a letter from Mrs. Hilton Cubitt. Don’t tell me that she is in

this? Don’t tell me that she helped to set a trap for me?”

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

door.”

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

“You’re crazy!” he cried, fiercely. “It was he that was hurt, not

she. Who would have hurt little Elsie? I may have threatened

her—God forgive me!—but I would not have touched a hair of her

pretty head. Take it back—you! Say that she is not hurt!”

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

He sank with a deep groan on the settee and buried his face in

his manacled hands. For five minutes he was silent. Then he

raised his face once more, and spoke with the cold composure of

despair.

“I have nothing to hide from you, gentlemen,” said he. “If I shot

the man he had his shot at me, and there’s no murder in that. But

if you think I could have hurt that woman, then you don’t know

either me or her. I tell you, there was never a man in this world

loved a woman more than I loved her. I had a right to her. She

was pledged to me years ago. Who was this Englishman that he

should come between us? I tell you that I had the first right to

her, and that I was only claiming my own.”

“She broke away from your influence when she found the man that

you are,” said Holmes, sternly. “She fled from America to avoid

you, and she married an honourable gentleman in England. You

dogged her and followed her and made her life a misery to her, in

order to induce her to abandon the husband whom she loved and

respected in order to fly with you, whom she feared and hated.

You have ended by bringing about the death of a noble man and

driving his wife to suicide. That is your record in this

business, Mr. Abe Slaney, and you will answer for it to the law.”

“If Elsie dies, I care nothing what becomes of me,” said the

American. He opened one of his hands, and looked at a note

crumpled up in his palm. “See here, mister,” he cried, with a

gleam of suspicion in his eyes, “you’re not trying to scare me

over this, are you? If the lady is hurt as bad as you say, who

was it that wrote this note?” He tossed it forward on to the

table.

“I wrote it, to bring you here.”

“You wrote it? There was no one on earth outside the Joint who

knew the secret of the dancing men. How came you to write it?”

“What one man can invent another can discover,” said Holmes.

“There is a cab coming to convey you to Norwich, Mr. Slaney. But

meanwhile, you have time to make some small reparation for the

injury you have wrought. Are you aware that Mrs. Hilton Cubitt

has herself lain under grave suspicion of the murder of her

husband, and that it was only my presence here, and the knowledge

which I happened to possess, which has saved her from the

accusation? The least that you owe her is to make it clear to the

whole world that she was in no way, directly or indirectly,

responsible for his tragic end.”

“I ask nothing better,” said the American. “I guess the very best

case I can make for myself is the absolute naked truth.”

“It is my duty to warn you that it will be used against you,”

cried the inspector, with the magnificent fair play of the

British criminal law.

Slaney shrugged his shoulders.

“I’ll chance that,” said he. “First of all, I want you gentlemen

to understand that I have known this lady since she was a child.

There were seven of us in a gang in Chicago, and Elsie’s father

was the boss of the Joint. He was a clever man, was old Patrick.

It was he who invented that writing, which would pass as a

child’s scrawl unless you just happened to have the key to it.

Well, Elsie learned some of our ways, but she couldn’t stand the

business, and she had a bit of honest money of her own, so she

gave us all the slip and got away to London. She had been engaged

to me, and she would have married me, I believe, if I had taken

over another profession, but she would have nothing to do with

anything on the cross. It was only after her marriage to this

Englishman that I was able to find out where she was. I wrote to

her, but got no answer. After that I came over, and, as letters

were no use, I put my messages where she could read them.

“Well, I have been here a month now. I lived in that farm, where

I had a room down below, and could get in and out every night,

and no one the wiser. I tried all I could to coax Elsie away. I

knew that she read the messages, for once she wrote an answer

under one of them. Then my temper got the better of me, and I

began to threaten her. She sent me a letter then, imploring me to

go away, and saying that it would break her heart if any scandal

should come upon her husband. She said that she would come down

when her husband was asleep at three in the morning, and speak

with me through the end window, if I would go away afterwards and

leave her in peace. She came down and brought money with her,

trying to bribe me to go. This made me mad, and I caught her arm

and tried to pull her through the window. At that moment in

rushed the husband with his revolver in his hand. Elsie had sunk

down upon the floor, and we were face to face. I was heeled also,

and I held up my gun to scare him off and let me get away. He

fired and missed me. I pulled off almost at the same instant, and

down he dropped. I made away across the garden, and as I went I

heard the window shut behind me. That’s God’s truth, gentlemen,

every word of it, and I heard no more about it until that lad

came riding up with a note which made me walk in here, like a

jay, and give myself into your hands.”

A cab had driven up whilst the American had been talking. Two

uniformed policemen sat inside. Inspector Martin rose and touched

his prisoner on the shoulder.

“It is time for us to go.”

“Can I see her first?”

“No, she is not conscious. Mr. Sherlock Holmes, I only hope that

if ever again I have an important case, I shall have the good

fortune to have you by my side.”

We stood at the window and watched the cab drive away. As I

turned back, my eye caught the pellet of paper which the prisoner

had tossed upon the table. It was the note with which Holmes had

decoyed him.

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

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

COME-HERE-AT-ONCE

“If you use the code which I have explained,” said Holmes, “you

will find that it simply means ‘Come here at once.’ I was

convinced that it was an invitation which he would not refuse,

since he could never imagine that it could come from anyone but

the lady. And so, my dear Watson, we have ended by turning the

dancing men to good when they have so often been the agents of

evil, and I think that I have fulfilled my promise of giving you

something unusual for your notebook. Three-forty is our train,

and I fancy we should be back in Baker Street for dinner.”

Only one word of epilogue. The American, Abe Slaney, was

condemned to death at the winter assizes at Norwich, but his

penalty was changed to penal servitude in consideration of

mitigating circumstances, and the certainty that Hilton Cubitt

had fired the first shot. Of Mrs. Hilton Cubitt I only know that

I have heard she recovered entirely, and that she still remains a

widow, devoting her whole life to the care of the poor and to the

administration of her husband’s estate.

THE ADVENTURE OF THE SOLITARY CYCLIST

From the years 1894 to 1901 inclusive, Mr. Sherlock Holmes was a

very busy man. It is safe to say that there was no public case of

any difficulty in which he was not consulted during those eight

years, and there were hundreds of private cases, some of them of

the most intricate and extraordinary character, in which he

played a prominent part. Many startling successes and a few

unavoidable failures were the outcome of this long period of

continuous work. As I have preserved very full notes of all these

cases, and was myself personally engaged in many of them, it may

be imagined that it is no easy task to know which I should select

to lay before the public. I shall, however, preserve my former

rule, and give the preference to those cases which derive their

interest not so much from the brutality of the crime as from the

ingenuity and dramatic quality of the solution. For this reason I

will now lay before the reader the facts connected with Miss

Violet Smith, the solitary cyclist of Charlington, and the

curious sequel of our investigation, which culminated in

unexpected tragedy. It is true that the circumstance did not

admit of any striking illustration of those powers for which my

friend was famous, but there were some points about the case

which made it stand out in those long records of crime from which

I gather the material for these little narratives.

On referring to my notebook for the year 1895, I find that it was

upon Saturday, the 23rd of April, that we first heard of Miss

Violet Smith. Her visit was, I remember, extremely unwelcome to

Holmes, for he was immersed at the moment in a very abstruse and

complicated problem concerning the peculiar persecution to which

John Vincent Harden, the well-known tobacco millionaire, had been

subjected. My friend, who loved above all things precision and

concentration of thought, resented anything which distracted his

attention from the matter in hand. And yet, without a harshness

which was foreign to his nature, it was impossible to refuse to

listen to the story of the young and beautiful woman, tall,

graceful, and queenly, who presented herself at Baker Street late

in the evening, and implored his assistance and advice. It was

vain to urge that his time was already fully occupied, for the

young lady had come with the determination to tell her story, and

it was evident that nothing short of force could get her out of

the room until she had done so. With a resigned air and a

somewhat weary smile, Holmes begged the beautiful intruder to

take a seat, and to inform us what it was that was troubling her.

“At least it cannot be your health,” said he, as his keen eyes

darted over her, “so ardent a bicyclist must be full of energy.”

She glanced down in surprise at her own feet, and I observed the

slight roughening of the side of the sole caused by the friction

of the edge of the pedal.

“Yes, I bicycle a good deal, Mr. Holmes, and that has something

to do with my visit to you to-day.”

My friend took the lady’s ungloved hand, and examined it with as

close an attention and as little sentiment as a scientist would

show to a specimen.

“You will excuse me, I am sure. It is my business,” said he, as

he dropped it. “I nearly fell into the error of supposing that

you were typewriting. Of course, it is obvious that it is music.

You observe the spatulate finger-ends, Watson, which is common to

both professions? There is a spirituality about the face,

however”—she gently turned it towards the light—“which the

typewriter does not generate. This lady is a musician.”

“Yes, Mr. Holmes, I teach music.”

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

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

“A beautiful neighbourhood, and full of the most interesting

associations. You remember, Watson, that it was near there that

we took Archie Stamford, the forger. Now, Miss Violet, what has

happened to you, near Farnham, on the borders of Surrey?”

The young lady, with great clearness and composure, made the

following curious statement:

“My father is dead, Mr. Holmes. He was James Smith, who conducted

the orchestra at the old Imperial Theatre. My mother and I were

left without a relation in the world except one uncle, Ralph

Smith, who went to Africa twenty-five years ago, and we have

never had a word from him since. When father died, we were left

very poor, but one day we were told that there was an

advertisement in _The Times_, inquiring for our whereabouts. You

can imagine how excited we were, for we thought that someone had

left us a fortune. We went at once to the lawyer whose name was

given in the paper. There we met two gentlemen, Mr. Carruthers

and Mr. Woodley, who were home on a visit from South Africa. They

said that my uncle was a friend of theirs, that he had died some

months before in great poverty in Johannesburg, and that he had

asked them with his last breath to hunt up his relations, and see

that they were in no want. It seemed strange to us that Uncle

Ralph, who took no notice of us when he was alive, should be so

careful to look after us when he was dead, but Mr. Carruthers

explained that the reason was that my uncle had just heard of the

death of his brother, and so felt responsible for our fate.”

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

“Last December—four months ago.”

“Pray proceed.”

“Mr. Woodley seemed to me to be a most odious person. He was for

ever making eyes at me—a coarse, puffy-faced, red-moustached

young man, with his hair plastered down on each side of his

forehead. I thought that he was perfectly hateful—and I was sure

that Cyril would not wish me to know such a person.”

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

The young lady blushed and laughed.

“Yes, Mr. Holmes, Cyril Morton, an electrical engineer, and we

hope to be married at the end of the summer. Dear me, how _did_ I

get talking about him? What I wished to say was that Mr. Woodley

was perfectly odious, but that Mr. Carruthers, who was a much

older man, was more agreeable. He was a dark, sallow,

clean-shaven, silent person, but he had polite manners and a

pleasant smile. He inquired how we were left, and on finding that

we were very poor, he suggested that I should come and teach

music to his only daughter, aged ten. I said that I did not like

to leave my mother, on which he suggested that I should go home

to her every week-end, and he offered me a hundred a year, which

was certainly splendid pay. So it ended by my accepting, and I

went down to Chiltern Grange, about six miles from Farnham. Mr.

Carruthers was a widower, but he had engaged a lady housekeeper,

a very respectable, elderly person, called Mrs. Dixon, to look

after his establishment. The child was a dear, and everything

promised well. Mr. Carruthers was very kind and very musical, and

we had most pleasant evenings together. Every week-end I went

home to my mother in town.

“The first flaw in my happiness was the arrival of the

red-moustached Mr. Woodley. He came for a visit of a week, and

oh! it seemed three months to me. He was a dreadful person—a

bully to everyone else, but to me something infinitely worse. He

made odious love to me, boasted of his wealth, said that if I

married him I could have the finest diamonds in London, and

finally, when I would have nothing to do with him, he seized me

in his arms one day after dinner—he was hideously strong—and

swore that he would not let me go until I had kissed him. Mr.

Carruthers came in and tore him from me, on which he turned upon

his own host, knocking him down and cutting his face open. That

was the end of his visit, as you can imagine. Mr. Carruthers

apologized to me next day, and assured me that I should never be

exposed to such an insult again. I have not seen Mr. Woodley

since.

“And now, Mr. Holmes, I come at last to the special thing which

has caused me to ask your advice to-day. You must know that every

Saturday forenoon I ride on my bicycle to Farnham Station, in

order to get the 12:22 to town. The road from Chiltern Grange is

a lonely one, and at one spot it is particularly so, for it lies

for over a mile between Charlington Heath upon one side and the

woods which lie round Charlington Hall upon the other. You could

not find a more lonely tract of road anywhere, and it is quite

rare to meet so much as a cart, or a peasant, until you reach the

high road near Crooksbury Hill. Two weeks ago I was passing this

place, when I chanced to look back over my shoulder, and about

two hundred yards behind me I saw a man, also on a bicycle. He

seemed to be a middle-aged man, with a short, dark beard. I

looked back before I reached Farnham, but the man was gone, so I

thought no more about it. But you can imagine how surprised I

was, Mr. Holmes, when, on my return on the Monday, I saw the same

man on the same stretch of road. My astonishment was increased

when the incident occurred again, exactly as before, on the

following Saturday and Monday. He always kept his distance and

did not molest me in any way, but still it certainly was very

odd. I mentioned it to Mr. Carruthers, who seemed interested in

what I said, and told me that he had ordered a horse and trap, so

that in future I should not pass over these lonely roads without

some companion.

“The horse and trap were to have come this week, but for some

reason they were not delivered, and again I had to cycle to the

station. That was this morning. You can think that I looked out

when I came to Charlington Heath, and there, sure enough, was the

man, exactly as he had been the two weeks before. He always kept

so far from me that I could not clearly see his face, but it was

certainly someone whom I did not know. He was dressed in a dark

suit with a cloth cap. The only thing about his face that I could

clearly see was his dark beard. To-day I was not alarmed, but I

was filled with curiosity, and I determined to find out who he

was and what he wanted. I slowed down my machine, but he slowed

down his. Then I stopped altogether, but he stopped also. Then I

laid a trap for him. There is a sharp turning of the road, and I

pedalled very quickly round this, and then I stopped and waited.

I expected him to shoot round and pass me before he could stop.

But he never appeared. Then I went back and looked round the

corner. I could see a mile of road, but he was not on it. To make

it the more extraordinary, there was no side road at this point

down which he could have gone.”

Holmes chuckled and rubbed his hands. “This case certainly

presents some features of its own,” said he. “How much time

elapsed between your turning the corner and your discovery that

the road was clear?”

“Two or three minutes.”

“Then he could not have retreated down the road, and you say that

there are no side roads?”

“None.”

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

“It could not have been on the side of the heath, or I should

have seen him.”

“So, by the process of exclusion, we arrive at the fact that he

made his way toward Charlington Hall, which, as I understand, is

situated in its own grounds on one side of the road. Anything

else?”

“Nothing, Mr. Holmes, save that I was so perplexed that I felt I

should not be happy until I had seen you and had your advice.”

Holmes sat in silence for some little time.

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

last.

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

“He would not pay you a surprise visit?”

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

“Have you had any other admirers?”

“Several before I knew Cyril.”

“And since?”

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

admirer.”

“No one else?”

Our fair client seemed a little confused.

“Who was he?” asked Holmes.

“Oh, it may be a mere fancy of mine; but it had seemed to me

sometimes that my employer, Mr. Carruthers, takes a great deal of

interest in me. We are thrown rather together. I play his

accompaniments in the evening. He has never said anything. He is

a perfect gentleman. But a girl always knows.”

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

“He is a rich man.”

“No carriages or horses?”

“Well, at least he is fairly well-to-do. But he goes into the

city two or three times a week. He is deeply interested in South

African gold shares.”

“You will let me know any fresh development, Miss Smith. I am

very busy just now, but I will find time to make some inquiries

into your case. In the meantime, take no step without letting me

know. Good-bye, and I trust that we shall have nothing but good

news from you.”

“It is part of the settled order of Nature that such a girl

should have followers,” said Holmes, as he pulled at his

meditative pipe, “but for choice not on bicycles in lonely

country roads. Some secretive lover, beyond all doubt. But there

are curious and suggestive details about the case, Watson.”

“That he should appear only at that point?”

“Exactly. Our first effort must be to find who are the tenants of

Charlington Hall. Then, again, how about the connection between

Carruthers and Woodley, since they appear to be men of such a

different type? How came they _both_ to be so keen upon looking

up Ralph Smith’s relations? One more point. What sort of a

_ménage_ is it which pays double the market price for a governess

but does not keep a horse, although six miles from the station?

Odd, Watson—very odd!”

“You will go down?”

“No, my dear fellow, _you_ will go down. This may be some

trifling intrigue, and I cannot break my other important research

for the sake of it. On Monday you will arrive early at Farnham;

you will conceal yourself near Charlington Heath; you will

observe these facts for yourself, and act as your own judgment

advises. Then, having inquired as to the occupants of the Hall,

you will come back to me and report. And now, Watson, not another

word of the matter until we have a few solid stepping-stones on

which we may hope to get across to our solution.”

We had ascertained from the lady that she went down upon the

Monday by the train which leaves Waterloo at 9:50, so I started

early and caught the 9:13. At Farnham Station I had no difficulty

in being directed to Charlington Heath. It was impossible to

mistake the scene of the young lady’s adventure, for the road

runs between the open heath on one side and an old yew hedge upon

the other, surrounding a park which is studded with magnificent

trees. There was a main gateway of lichen-studded stone, each

side pillar surmounted by mouldering heraldic emblems, but

besides this central carriage drive I observed several points

where there were gaps in the hedge and paths leading through

them. The house was invisible from the road, but the surroundings

all spoke of gloom and decay.

The heath was covered with golden patches of flowering gorse,

gleaming magnificently in the light of the bright spring

sunshine. Behind one of these clumps I took up my position, so as

to command both the gateway of the Hall and a long stretch of the

road upon either side. It had been deserted when I left it, but

now I saw a cyclist riding down it from the opposite direction to

that in which I had come. He was clad in a dark suit, and I saw

that he had a black beard. On reaching the end of the Charlington

grounds, he sprang from his machine and led it through a gap in

the hedge, disappearing from my view.

A quarter of an hour passed, and then a second cyclist appeared.

This time it was the young lady coming from the station. I saw

her look about her as she came to the Charlington hedge. An

instant later the man emerged from his hiding-place, sprang upon

his cycle, and followed her. In all the broad landscape those

were the only moving figures, the graceful girl sitting very

straight upon her machine, and the man behind her bending low

over his handle-bar with a curiously furtive suggestion in every

movement. She looked back at him and slowed her pace. He slowed

also. She stopped. He at once stopped, too, keeping two hundred

yards behind her. Her next movement was as unexpected as it was

spirited. She suddenly whisked her wheels round and dashed

straight at him. He was as quick as she, however, and darted off

in desperate flight. Presently she came back up the road again,

her head haughtily in the air, not deigning to take any further

notice of her silent attendant. He had turned also, and still

kept his distance until the curve of the road hid them from my

sight.

I remained in my hiding-place, and it was well that I did so, for

presently the man reappeared, cycling slowly back. He turned in

at the Hall gates, and dismounted from his machine. For some

minutes I could see him standing among the trees. His hands were

raised, and he seemed to be settling his necktie. Then he mounted

his cycle, and rode away from me down the drive towards the Hall.

I ran across the heath and peered through the trees. Far away I

could catch glimpses of the old grey building with its bristling

Tudor chimneys, but the drive ran through a dense shrubbery, and

I saw no more of my man.

However, it seemed to me that I had done a fairly good morning’s

work, and I walked back in high spirits to Farnham. The local

house agent could tell me nothing about Charlington Hall, and

referred me to a well-known firm in Pall Mall. There I halted on

my way home, and met with courtesy from the representative. No, I

could not have Charlington Hall for the summer. I was just too

late. It had been let about a month ago. Mr. Williamson was the

name of the tenant. He was a respectable, elderly gentleman. The

polite agent was afraid he could say no more, as the affairs of

his clients were not matters which he could discuss.

Mr. Sherlock Holmes listened with attention to the long report

which I was able to present to him that evening, but it did not

elicit that word of curt praise which I had hoped for and should

have valued. On the contrary, his austere face was even more

severe than usual as he commented upon the things that I had done

and the things that I had not.

“Your hiding-place, my dear Watson, was very faulty. You should

have been behind the hedge, then you would have had a close view

of this interesting person. As it is, you were some hundreds of

yards away and can tell me even less than Miss Smith. She thinks

she does not know the man; I am convinced she does. Why,

otherwise, should he be so desperately anxious that she should

not get so near him as to see his features? You describe him as

bending over the handle-bar. Concealment again, you see. You

really have done remarkably badly. He returns to the house, and

you want to find out who he is. You come to a London house

agent!”

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

“Gone to the nearest public-house. That is the centre of country

gossip. They would have told you every name, from the master to

the scullery-maid. Williamson? It conveys nothing to my mind. If

he is an elderly man he is not this active cyclist who sprints

away from that young lady’s athletic pursuit. What have we gained

by your expedition? The knowledge that the girl’s story is true.

I never doubted it. That there is a connection between the

cyclist and the Hall. I never doubted that either. That the Hall

is tenanted by Williamson. Who’s the better for that? Well, well,

my dear sir, don’t look so depressed. We can do little more until

next Saturday, and in the meantime I may make one or two

inquiries myself.”

Next morning, we had a note from Miss Smith, recounting shortly

and accurately the very incidents which I had seen, but the pith

of the letter lay in the postscript:

“I am sure that you will respect my confidence, Mr. Holmes, when

I tell you that my place here has become difficult, owing to the

fact that my employer has proposed marriage to me. I am convinced

that his feelings are most deep and most honourable. At the same

time, my promise is of course given. He took my refusal very

seriously, but also very gently. You can understand, however,

that the situation is a little strained.”

“Our young friend seems to be getting into deep waters,” said

Holmes, thoughtfully, as he finished the letter. “The case

certainly presents more features of interest and more possibility

of development than I had originally thought. I should be none

the worse for a quiet, peaceful day in the country, and I am

inclined to run down this afternoon and test one or two theories

which I have formed.”

Holmes’s quiet day in the country had a singular termination, for

he arrived at Baker Street late in the evening, with a cut lip

and a discoloured lump upon his forehead, besides a general air

of dissipation which would have made his own person the fitting

object of a Scotland Yard investigation. He was immensely tickled

by his own adventures and laughed heartily as he recounted them.

“I get so little active exercise that it is always a treat,” said

he. “You are aware that I have some proficiency in the good old

British sport of boxing. Occasionally, it is of service; to-day,

for example, I should have come to very ignominious grief without

it.”

I begged him to tell me what had occurred.

“I found that country pub which I had already recommended to your

notice, and there I made my discreet inquiries. I was in the bar,

and a garrulous landlord was giving me all that I wanted.

Williamson is a white-bearded man, and he lives alone with a

small staff of servants at the Hall. There is some rumour that he

is or has been a clergyman, but one or two incidents of his short

residence at the Hall struck me as peculiarly unecclesiastical. I

have already made some inquiries at a clerical agency, and they

tell me that there _was_ a man of that name in orders, whose

career has been a singularly dark one. The landlord further

informed me that there are usually week-end visitors—‘a warm lot,

sir’—at the Hall, and especially one gentleman with a red

moustache, Mr. Woodley by name, who was always there. We had got

as far as this, when who should walk in but the gentleman

himself, who had been drinking his beer in the tap-room and had

heard the whole conversation. Who was I? What did I want? What

did I mean by asking questions? He had a fine flow of language,

and his adjectives were very vigorous. He ended a string of abuse

by a vicious backhander, which I failed to entirely avoid. The

next few minutes were delicious. It was a straight left against a

slogging ruffian. I emerged as you see me. Mr. Woodley went home

in a cart. So ended my country trip, and it must be confessed

that, however enjoyable, my day on the Surrey border has not been

much more profitable than your own.”

The Thursday brought us another letter from our client.

You will not be surprised, Mr. Holmes (said she), to hear

that I am leaving Mr. Carruthers’s employment. Even the high

pay cannot reconcile me to the discomforts of my situation.

On Saturday I come up to town, and I do not intend to return.

Mr. Carruthers has got a trap, and so the dangers of the

lonely road, if there ever were any dangers, are now over.

As to the special cause of my leaving, it is not merely the

strained situation with Mr. Carruthers, but it is the

reappearance of that odious man, Mr. Woodley. He was always

hideous, but he looks more awful than ever now, for he appears to

have had an accident and he is much disfigured. I saw him out of

the window, but I am glad to say I did not meet him. He had a

long talk with Mr. Carruthers, who seemed much excited

afterwards. Woodley must be staying in the neighbourhood, for he

did not sleep here, and yet I caught a glimpse of him again this

morning, slinking about in the shrubbery. I would sooner have a

savage wild animal loose about the place. I loathe and fear him

more than I can say. How _can_ Mr. Carruthers endure such a

creature for a moment? However, all my troubles will be over on

Saturday.

“So I trust, Watson, so I trust,” said Holmes, gravely. “There is

some deep intrigue going on round that little woman, and it is

our duty to see that no one molests her upon that last journey. I

think, Watson, that we must spare time to run down together on

Saturday morning and make sure that this curious and inclusive

investigation has no untoward ending.”

I confess that I had not up to now taken a very serious view of

the case, which had seemed to me rather grotesque and bizarre

than dangerous. That a man should lie in wait for and follow a

very handsome woman is no unheard-of thing, and if he has so

little audacity that he not only dared not address her, but even

fled from her approach, he was not a very formidable assailant.

The ruffian Woodley was a very different person, but, except on

one occasion, he had not molested our client, and now he visited

the house of Carruthers without intruding upon her presence. The

man on the bicycle was doubtless a member of those week-end

parties at the Hall of which the publican had spoken, but who he

was, or what he wanted, was as obscure as ever. It was the

severity of Holmes’s manner and the fact that he slipped a

revolver into his pocket before leaving our rooms which impressed

me with the feeling that tragedy might prove to lurk behind this

curious train of events.

A rainy night had been followed by a glorious morning, and the

heath-covered countryside, with the glowing clumps of flowering

gorse, seemed all the more beautiful to eyes which were weary of

the duns and drabs and slate greys of London. Holmes and I walked

along the broad, sandy road inhaling the fresh morning air and

rejoicing in the music of the birds and the fresh breath of the

spring. From a rise of the road on the shoulder of Crooksbury

Hill, we could see the grim Hall bristling out from amidst the

ancient oaks, which, old as they were, were still younger than

the building which they surrounded. Holmes pointed down the long

tract of road which wound, a reddish yellow band, between the

brown of the heath and the budding green of the woods. Far away,

a black dot, we could see a vehicle moving in our direction.

Holmes gave an exclamation of impatience.

“I have given a margin of half an hour,” said he. “If that is her

trap, she must be making for the earlier train. I fear, Watson,

that she will be past Charlington before we can possibly meet

her.”

From the instant that we passed the rise, we could no longer see

the vehicle, but we hastened onward at such a pace that my

sedentary life began to tell upon me, and I was compelled to fall

behind. Holmes, however, was always in training, for he had

inexhaustible stores of nervous energy upon which to draw. His

springy step never slowed until suddenly, when he was a hundred

yards in front of me, he halted, and I saw him throw up his hand

with a gesture of grief and despair. At the same instant an empty

dog-cart, the horse cantering, the reins trailing, appeared round

the curve of the road and rattled swiftly towards us.

“Too late, Watson, too late!” cried Holmes, as I ran panting to

his side. “Fool that I was not to allow for that earlier train!

It’s abduction, Watson—abduction! Murder! Heaven knows what!

Block the road! Stop the horse! That’s right. Now, jump in, and

let us see if I can repair the consequences of my own blunder.”

We had sprung into the dog-cart, and Holmes, after turning the

horse, gave it a sharp cut with the whip, and we flew back along

the road. As we turned the curve, the whole stretch of road

between the Hall and the heath was opened up. I grasped Holmes’s

arm.

“That’s the man!” I gasped.

A solitary cyclist was coming towards us. His head was down and

his shoulders rounded, as he put every ounce of energy that he

possessed on to the pedals. He was flying like a racer. Suddenly

he raised his bearded face, saw us close to him, and pulled up,

springing from his machine. That coal-black beard was in singular

contrast to the pallor of his face, and his eyes were as bright

as if he had a fever. He stared at us and at the dog-cart. Then a

look of amazement came over his face.

“Halloa! Stop there!” he shouted, holding his bicycle to block

our road. “Where did you get that dog-cart? Pull up, man!” he

yelled, drawing a pistol from his side pocket. “Pull up, I say,

or, by George, I’ll put a bullet into your horse.”

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

“You’re the man we want to see. Where is Miss Violet Smith?” he

said, in his quick, clear way.

“That’s what I’m asking you. You’re in her dog-cart. You ought to

know where she is.”

“We met the dog-cart on the road. There was no one in it. We

drove back to help the young lady.”

“Good Lord! Good Lord! What shall I do?” cried the stranger, in

an ecstasy of despair. “They’ve got her, that hell-hound Woodley

and the blackguard parson. Come, man, come, if you really are her

friend. Stand by me and we’ll save her, if I have to leave my

carcass in Charlington Wood.”

He ran distractedly, his pistol in his hand, towards a gap in the

hedge. Holmes followed him, and I, leaving the horse grazing

beside the road, followed Holmes.

“This is where they came through,” said he, pointing to the marks

of several feet upon the muddy path. “Halloa! Stop a minute!

Who’s this in the bush?”

It was a young fellow about seventeen, dressed like an ostler,

with leather cords and gaiters. He lay upon his back, his knees

drawn up, a terrible cut upon his head. He was insensible, but

alive. A glance at his wound told me that it had not penetrated

the bone.

“That’s Peter, the groom,” cried the stranger. “He drove her. The

beasts have pulled him off and clubbed him. Let him lie; we can’t

do him any good, but we may save her from the worst fate that can

befall a woman.”

We ran frantically down the path, which wound among the trees. We

had reached the shrubbery which surrounded the house when Holmes

pulled up.

“They didn’t go to the house. Here are their marks on the

left—here, beside the laurel bushes. Ah! I said so.”

As he spoke, a woman’s shrill scream—a scream which vibrated with

a frenzy of horror—burst from the thick, green clump of bushes in

front of us. It ended suddenly on its highest note with a choke

and a gurgle.

“This way! This way! They are in the bowling-alley,” cried the

stranger, darting through the bushes. “Ah, the cowardly dogs!

Follow me, gentlemen! Too late! too late! by the living Jingo!”

We had broken suddenly into a lovely glade of greensward

surrounded by ancient trees. On the farther side of it, under the

shadow of a mighty oak, there stood a singular group of three

people. One was a woman, our client, drooping and faint, a

handkerchief round her mouth. Opposite her stood a brutal,

heavy-faced, red-moustached young man, his gaitered legs parted

wide, one arm akimbo, the other waving a riding crop, his whole

attitude suggestive of triumphant bravado. Between them an

elderly, grey-bearded man, wearing a short surplice over a light

tweed suit, had evidently just completed the wedding service, for

he pocketed his prayer-book as we appeared, and slapped the

sinister bridegroom upon the back in jovial congratulation.

“They’re married!” I gasped.

“Come on!” cried our guide, “come on!” He rushed across the

glade, Holmes and I at his heels. As we approached, the lady

staggered against the trunk of the tree for support. Williamson,

the ex-clergyman, bowed to us with mock politeness, and the

bully, Woodley, advanced with a shout of brutal and exultant

laughter.

“You can take your beard off, Bob,” said he. “I know you, right

enough. Well, you and your pals have just come in time for me to

be able to introduce you to Mrs. Woodley.”

Our guide’s answer was a singular one. He snatched off the dark

beard which had disguised him and threw it on the ground,

disclosing a long, sallow, clean-shaven face below it. Then he

raised his revolver and covered the young ruffian, who was

advancing upon him with his dangerous riding-crop swinging in his

hand.

“Yes,” said our ally, “I _am_ Bob Carruthers, and I’ll see this

woman righted, if I have to swing for it. I told you what I’d do

if you molested her, and, by the Lord! I’ll be as good as my

word.”

“You’re too late. She’s my wife.”

“No, she’s your widow.”

His revolver cracked, and I saw the blood spurt from the front of

Woodley’s waistcoat. He spun round with a scream and fell upon

his back, his hideous red face turning suddenly to a dreadful

mottled pallor. The old man, still clad in his surplice, burst

into such a string of foul oaths as I have never heard, and

pulled out a revolver of his own, but, before he could raise it,

he was looking down the barrel of Holmes’s weapon.

“Enough of this,” said my friend, coldly. “Drop that pistol!

Watson, pick it up! Hold it to his head. Thank you. You,

Carruthers, give me that revolver. We’ll have no more violence.

Come, hand it over!”

“Who are you, then?”

“My name is Sherlock Holmes.”

“Good Lord!”

“You have heard of me, I see. I will represent the official

police until their arrival. Here, you!” he shouted to a

frightened groom, who had appeared at the edge of the glade.

“Come here. Take this note as hard as you can ride to Farnham.”

He scribbled a few words upon a leaf from his notebook. “Give it

to the superintendent at the police-station. Until he comes, I

must detain you all under my personal custody.”

The strong, masterful personality of Holmes dominated the tragic

scene, and all were equally puppets in his hands. Williamson and

Carruthers found themselves carrying the wounded Woodley into the

house, and I gave my arm to the frightened girl. The injured man

was laid on his bed, and at Holmes’s request I examined him. I

carried my report to where he sat in the old tapestry-hung

dining-room with his two prisoners before him.

“He will live,” said I.

“What!” cried Carruthers, springing out of his chair. “I’ll go

upstairs and finish him first. Do you tell me that that angel, is

to be tied to Roaring Jack Woodley for life?”

“You need not concern yourself about that,” said Holmes. “There

are two very good reasons why she should, under no circumstances,

be his wife. In the first place, we are very safe in questioning

Mr. Williamson’s right to solemnize a marriage.”

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

“And also unfrocked.”

“Once a clergyman, always a clergyman.”

“I think not. How about the license?”

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

“Then you got it by trick. But, in any case a forced marriage is

no marriage, but it is a very serious felony, as you will

discover before you have finished. You’ll have time to think the

point out during the next ten years or so, unless I am mistaken.

As to you, Carruthers, you would have done better to keep your

pistol in your pocket.”

“I begin to think so, Mr. Holmes, but when I thought of all the

precaution I had taken to shield this girl—for I loved her, Mr.

Holmes, and it is the only time that ever I knew what love was—it

fairly drove me mad to think that she was in the power of the

greatest brute and bully in South Africa—a man whose name is a

holy terror from Kimberley to Johannesburg. Why, Mr. Holmes,

you’ll hardly believe it, but ever since that girl has been in my

employment I never once let her go past this house, where I knew

the rascals were lurking, without following her on my bicycle,

just to see that she came to no harm. I kept my distance from

her, and I wore a beard, so that she should not recognize me, for

she is a good and high-spirited girl, and she wouldn’t have

stayed in my employment long if she had thought that I was

following her about the country roads.”

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

“Because then, again, she would have left me, and I couldn’t bear

to face that. Even if she couldn’t love me, it was a great deal

to me just to see her dainty form about the house, and to hear

the sound of her voice.”

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

call it selfishness.”

“Maybe the two things go together. Anyhow, I couldn’t let her go.

Besides, with this crowd about, it was well that she should have

someone near to look after her. Then, when the cable came, I knew

they were bound to make a move.”

“What cable?”

Carruthers took a telegram from his pocket.

“That’s it,” said he.

It was short and concise:

The old man is dead.

“Hum!” said Holmes. “I think I see how things worked, and I can

understand how this message would, as you say, bring them to a

head. But while you wait, you might tell me what you can.”

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

language.

“By heaven!” said he, “if you squeal on us, Bob Carruthers, I’ll

serve you as you served Jack Woodley. You can bleat about the

girl to your heart’s content, for that’s your own affair, but if

you round on your pals to this plain-clothes copper, it will be

the worst day’s work that ever you did.”

“Your reverence need not be excited,” said Holmes, lighting a

cigarette. “The case is clear enough against you, and all I ask

is a few details for my private curiosity. However, if there’s

any difficulty in your telling me, I’ll do the talking, and then

you will see how far you have a chance of holding back your

secrets. In the first place, three of you came from South Africa

on this game—you Williamson, you Carruthers, and Woodley.”

“Lie number one,” said the old man; “I never saw either of them

until two months ago, and I have never been in Africa in my life,

so you can put that in your pipe and smoke it, Mr. Busybody

Holmes!”

“What he says is true,” said Carruthers.

“Well, well, two of you came over. His reverence is our own

homemade article. You had known Ralph Smith in South Africa. You

had reason to believe he would not live long. You found out that

his niece would inherit his fortune. How’s that—eh?”

Carruthers nodded and Williamson swore.

“She was next of kin, no doubt, and you were aware that the old

fellow would make no will.”

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

“So you came over, the two of you, and hunted up the girl. The

idea was that one of you was to marry her, and the other have a

share of the plunder. For some reason, Woodley was chosen as the

husband. Why was that?”

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

“I see. You got the young lady into your service, and there

Woodley was to do the courting. She recognized the drunken brute

that he was, and would have nothing to do with him. Meanwhile,

your arrangement was rather upset by the fact that you had

yourself fallen in love with the lady. You could no longer bear

the idea of this ruffian owning her?”

“No, by George, I couldn’t!”

“There was a quarrel between you. He left you in a rage, and

began to make his own plans independently of you.”

“It strikes me, Williamson, there isn’t very much that we can

tell this gentleman,” cried Carruthers, with a bitter laugh.

“Yes, we quarreled, and he knocked me down. I am level with him

on that, anyhow. Then I lost sight of him. That was when he

picked up with this outcast padre here. I found that they had set

up housekeeping together at this place on the line that she had

to pass for the station. I kept my eye on her after that, for I

knew there was some devilry in the wind. I saw them from time to

time, for I was anxious to know what they were after. Two days

ago Woodley came up to my house with this cable, which showed

that Ralph Smith was dead. He asked me if I would stand by the

bargain. I said I would not. He asked me if I would marry the

girl myself and give him a share. I said I would willingly do so,

but that she would not have me. He said, ‘Let us get her married

first and after a week or two she may see things a bit

different.’ I said I would have nothing to do with violence. So

he went off cursing, like the foul-mouthed blackguard that he

was, and swearing that he would have her yet. She was leaving me

this week-end, and I had got a trap to take her to the station,

but I was so uneasy in my mind that I followed her on my bicycle.

She had got a start, however, and before I could catch her, the

mischief was done. The first thing I knew about it was when I saw

you two gentlemen driving back in her dog-cart.”

Holmes rose and tossed the end of his cigarette into the grate.

“I have been very obtuse, Watson,” said he. “When in your report

you said that you had seen the cyclist as you thought arrange his

necktie in the shrubbery, that alone should have told me all.

However, we may congratulate ourselves upon a curious and, in

some respects, a unique case. I perceive three of the county

constabulary in the drive, and I am glad to see that the little

ostler is able to keep pace with them, so it is likely that

neither he nor the interesting bridegroom will be permanently

damaged by their morning’s adventures. I think, Watson, that in

your medical capacity, you might wait upon Miss Smith and tell

her that if she is sufficiently recovered, we shall be happy to

escort her to her mother’s home. If she is not quite convalescent

you will find that a hint that we were about to telegraph to a

young electrician in the Midlands would probably complete the

cure. As to you, Mr. Carruthers, I think that you have done what

you could to make amends for your share in an evil plot. There is

my card, sir, and if my evidence can be of help in your trial, it

shall be at your disposal.”

In the whirl of our incessant activity, it has often been

difficult for me, as the reader has probably observed, to round

off my narratives, and to give those final details which the

curious might expect. Each case has been the prelude to another,

and the crisis once over, the actors have passed for ever out of

our busy lives. I find, however, a short note at the end of my

manuscript dealing with this case, in which I have put it upon

record that Miss Violet Smith did indeed inherit a large fortune,

and that she is now the wife of Cyril Morton, the senior partner

of Morton & Kennedy, the famous Westminster electricians.

Williamson and Woodley were both tried for abduction and assault,

the former getting seven years and the latter ten. Of the fate of

Carruthers, I have no record, but I am sure that his assault was

not viewed very gravely by the court, since Woodley had the

reputation of being a most dangerous ruffian, and I think that a

few months were sufficient to satisfy the demands of justice.

THE ADVENTURE OF THE PRIORY SCHOOL

We have had some dramatic entrances and exits upon our small

stage at Baker Street, but I cannot recollect anything more

sudden and startling than the first appearance of Thorneycroft

Huxtable, M.A., Ph.D., etc. His card, which seemed too small to

carry the weight of his academic distinctions, preceded him by a

few seconds, and then he entered himself—so large, so pompous,

and so dignified that he was the very embodiment of

self-possession and solidity. And yet his first action, when the

door had closed behind him, was to stagger against the table,

whence he slipped down upon the floor, and there was that

majestic figure prostrate and insensible upon our bearskin

hearth-rug.

We had sprung to our feet, and for a few moments we stared in

silent amazement at this ponderous piece of wreckage, which told

of some sudden and fatal storm far out on the ocean of life. Then

Holmes hurried with a cushion for his head, and I with brandy for

his lips. The heavy, white face was seamed with lines of trouble,

the hanging pouches under the closed eyes were leaden in colour,

the loose mouth drooped dolorously at the corners, the rolling

chins were unshaven. Collar and shirt bore the grime of a long

journey, and the hair bristled unkempt from the well-shaped head.

It was a sorely stricken man who lay before us.

“What is it, Watson?” asked Holmes.

“Absolute exhaustion—possibly mere hunger and fatigue,” said I,

with my finger on the thready pulse, where the stream of life

trickled thin and small.

“Return ticket from Mackleton, in the north of England,” said

Holmes, drawing it from the watch-pocket. “It is not twelve

o’clock yet. He has certainly been an early starter.”

The puckered eyelids had begun to quiver, and now a pair of

vacant grey eyes looked up at us. An instant later the man had

scrambled on to his feet, his face crimson with shame.

“Forgive this weakness, Mr. Holmes, I have been a little

overwrought. Thank you, if I might have a glass of milk and a

biscuit, I have no doubt that I should be better. I came

personally, Mr. Holmes, in order to insure that you would return

with me. I feared that no telegram would convince you of the

absolute urgency of the case.”

“When you are quite restored——”

“I am quite well again. I cannot imagine how I came to be so

weak. I wish you, Mr. Holmes, to come to Mackleton with me by the

next train.”

My friend shook his head.

“My colleague, Dr. Watson, could tell you that we are very busy

at present. I am retained in this case of the Ferrers Documents,

and the Abergavenny murder is coming up for trial. Only a very

important issue could call me from London at present.”

“Important!” Our visitor threw up his hands. “Have you heard

nothing of the abduction of the only son of the Duke of

Holdernesse?”

“What! the late Cabinet Minister?”

“Exactly. We had tried to keep it out of the papers, but there

was some rumour in the _Globe_ last night. I thought it might

have reached your ears.”

Holmes shot out his long, thin arm and picked out Volume “H” in

his encyclopædia of reference.

“‘Holdernesse, 6th Duke, K.G., P.C.’—half the alphabet! ‘Baron

Beverley, Earl of Carston’—dear me, what a list! ‘Lord Lieutenant

of Hallamshire since 1900. Married Edith, daughter of Sir Charles

Appledore, 1888. Heir and only child, Lord Saltire. Owns about

two hundred and fifty thousand acres. Minerals in Lancashire and

Wales. Address: Carlton House Terrace; Holdernesse Hall,

Hallamshire; Carston Castle, Bangor, Wales. Lord of the

Admiralty, 1872; Chief Secretary of State for——’ Well, well, this

man is certainly one of the greatest subjects of the Crown!”

“The greatest and perhaps the wealthiest. I am aware, Mr. Holmes,

that you take a very high line in professional matters, and that

you are prepared to work for the work’s sake. I may tell you,

however, that his Grace has already intimated that a check for

five thousand pounds will be handed over to the person who can

tell him where his son is, and another thousand to him who can

name the man or men who have taken him.”

“It is a princely offer,” said Holmes. “Watson, I think that we

shall accompany Dr. Huxtable back to the north of England. And

now, Dr. Huxtable, when you have consumed that milk, you will

kindly tell me what has happened, when it happened, how it

happened, and, finally, what Dr. Thorneycroft Huxtable, of the

Priory School, near Mackleton, has to do with the matter, and why

he comes three days after an event—the state of your chin gives

the date—to ask for my humble services.”

Our visitor had consumed his milk and biscuits. The light had

come back to his eyes and the colour to his cheeks, as he set

himself with great vigour and lucidity to explain the situation.

“I must inform you, gentlemen, that the Priory is a preparatory

school, of which I am the founder and principal. _Huxtable’s

Sidelights on Horace_ may possibly recall my name to your

memories. The Priory is, without exception, the best and most

select preparatory school in England. Lord Leverstoke, the Earl

of Blackwater, Sir Cathcart Soames—they all have intrusted their

sons to me. But I felt that my school had reached its zenith

when, weeks ago, the Duke of Holdernesse sent Mr. James Wilder,

his secretary, with intimation that young Lord Saltire, ten years

old, his only son and heir, was about to be committed to my

charge. Little did I think that this would be the prelude to the

most crushing misfortune of my life.

“On May 1st the boy arrived, that being the beginning of the

summer term. He was a charming youth, and he soon fell into our

ways. I may tell you—I trust that I am not indiscreet, but

half-confidences are absurd in such a case—that he was not

entirely happy at home. It is an open secret that the Duke’s

married life had not been a peaceful one, and the matter had

ended in a separation by mutual consent, the Duchess taking up

her residence in the south of France. This had occurred very

shortly before, and the boy’s sympathies are known to have been

strongly with his mother. He moped after her departure from

Holdernesse Hall, and it was for this reason that the Duke

desired to send him to my establishment. In a fortnight the boy

was quite at home with us and was apparently absolutely happy.

“He was last seen on the night of May 13th—that is, the night of

last Monday. His room was on the second floor and was approached

through another larger room, in which two boys were sleeping.

These boys saw and heard nothing, so that it is certain that

young Saltire did not pass out that way. His window was open, and

there is a stout ivy plant leading to the ground. We could trace

no footmarks below, but it is sure that this is the only possible

exit.

“His absence was discovered at seven o’clock on Tuesday morning.

His bed had been slept in. He had dressed himself fully, before

going off, in his usual school suit of black Eton jacket and dark

grey trousers. There were no signs that anyone had entered the

room, and it is quite certain that anything in the nature of

cries or a struggle would have been heard, since Caunter, the

elder boy in the inner room, is a very light sleeper.

“When Lord Saltire’s disappearance was discovered, I at once

called a roll of the whole establishment—boys, masters, and

servants. It was then that we ascertained that Lord Saltire had

not been alone in his flight. Heidegger, the German master, was

missing. His room was on the second floor, at the farther end of

the building, facing the same way as Lord Saltire’s. His bed had

also been slept in, but he had apparently gone away partly

dressed, since his shirt and socks were lying on the floor. He

had undoubtedly let himself down by the ivy, for we could see the

marks of his feet where he had landed on the lawn. His bicycle

was kept in a small shed beside this lawn, and it also was gone.

“He had been with me for two years, and came with the best

references, but he was a silent, morose man, not very popular

either with masters or boys. No trace could be found of the

fugitives, and now, on Thursday morning, we are as ignorant as we

were on Tuesday. Inquiry was, of course, made at once at

Holdernesse Hall. It is only a few miles away, and we imagined

that, in some sudden attack of homesickness, he had gone back to

his father, but nothing had been heard of him. The Duke is

greatly agitated, and, as to me, you have seen yourselves the

state of nervous prostration to which the suspense and the

responsibility have reduced me. Mr. Holmes, if ever you put

forward your full powers, I implore you to do so now, for never

in your life could you have a case which is more worthy of them.”

Sherlock Holmes had listened with the utmost intentness to the

statement of the unhappy schoolmaster. His drawn brows and the

deep furrow between them showed that he needed no exhortation to

concentrate all his attention upon a problem which, apart from

the tremendous interests involved must appeal so directly to his

love of the complex and the unusual. He now drew out his notebook

and jotted down one or two memoranda.

“You have been very remiss in not coming to me sooner,” said he,

severely. “You start me on my investigation with a very serious

handicap. It is inconceivable, for example, that this ivy and

this lawn would have yielded nothing to an expert observer.”

“I am not to blame, Mr. Holmes. His Grace was extremely desirous

to avoid all public scandal. He was afraid of his family

unhappiness being dragged before the world. He has a deep horror

of anything of the kind.”

“But there has been some official investigation?”

“Yes, sir, and it has proved most disappointing. An apparent clue

was at once obtained, since a boy and a young man were reported

to have been seen leaving a neighbouring station by an early

train. Only last night we had news that the couple had been

hunted down in Liverpool, and they prove to have no connection

whatever with the matter in hand. Then it was that in my despair

and disappointment, after a sleepless night, I came straight to

you by the early train.”

“I suppose the local investigation was relaxed while this false

clue was being followed up?”

“It was entirely dropped.”

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

deplorably handled.”

“I feel it and admit it.”

“And yet the problem should be capable of ultimate solution. I

shall be very happy to look into it. Have you been able to trace

any connection between the missing boy and this German master?”

“None at all.”

“Was he in the master’s class?”

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

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

“No.”

“Was any other bicycle missing?”

“No.”

“Is that certain?”

“Quite.”

“Well, now, you do not mean to seriously suggest that this German

rode off upon a bicycle in the dead of the night, bearing the boy

in his arms?”

“Certainly not.”

“Then what is the theory in your mind?”

“The bicycle may have been a blind. It may have been hidden

somewhere, and the pair gone off on foot.”

“Quite so, but it seems rather an absurd blind, does it not? Were

there other bicycles in this shed?”

“Several.”

“Would he not have hidden _a couple_, had he desired to give the

idea that they had gone off upon them?”

“I suppose he would.”

“Of course he would. The blind theory won’t do. But the incident

is an admirable starting-point for an investigation. After all, a

bicycle is not an easy thing to conceal or to destroy. One other

question. Did anyone call to see the boy on the day before he

disappeared?”

“No.”

“Did he get any letters?”

“Yes, one letter.”

“From whom?”

“From his father.”

“Do you open the boys’ letters?”

“No.”

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

“The coat of arms was on the envelope, and it was addressed in

the Duke’s peculiar stiff hand. Besides, the Duke remembers

having written.”

“When had he a letter before that?”

“Not for several days.”

“Had he ever one from France?”

“No, never.”

“You see the point of my questions, of course. Either the boy was

carried off by force or he went of his own free will. In the

latter case, you would expect that some prompting from outside

would be needed to make so young a lad do such a thing. If he has

had no visitors, that prompting must have come in letters; hence

I try to find out who were his correspondents.”

“I fear I cannot help you much. His only correspondent, so far as

I know, was his own father.”

“Who wrote to him on the very day of his disappearance. Were the

relations between father and son very friendly?”

“His Grace is never very friendly with anyone. He is completely

immersed in large public questions, and is rather inaccessible to

all ordinary emotions. But he was always kind to the boy in his

own way.”

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

“Yes.”

“Did he say so?”

“No.”

“The Duke, then?”

“Good Heavens, no!”

“Then how could you know?”

“I have had some confidential talks with Mr. James Wilder, his

Grace’s secretary. It was he who gave me the information about

Lord Saltire’s feelings.”

“I see. By the way, that last letter of the Duke’s—was it found

in the boy’s room after he was gone?”

“No, he had taken it with him. I think, Mr. Holmes, it is time

that we were leaving for Euston.”

“I will order a four-wheeler. In a quarter of an hour, we shall

be at your service. If you are telegraphing home, Mr. Huxtable,

it would be well to allow the people in your neighbourhood to

imagine that the inquiry is still going on in Liverpool, or

wherever else that red herring led your pack. In the meantime I

will do a little quiet work at your own doors, and perhaps the

scent is not so cold but that two old hounds like Watson and

myself may get a sniff of it.”

That evening found us in the cold, bracing atmosphere of the Peak

country, in which Dr. Huxtable’s famous school is situated. It

was already dark when we reached it. A card was lying on the hall

table, and the butler whispered something to his master, who

turned to us with agitation in every heavy feature.

“The Duke is here,” said he. “The Duke and Mr. Wilder are in the

study. Come, gentlemen, and I will introduce you.”

I was, of course, familiar with the pictures of the famous

statesman, but the man himself was very different from his

representation. He was a tall and stately person, scrupulously

dressed, with a drawn, thin face, and a nose which was

grotesquely curved and long. His complexion was of a dead pallor,

which was more startling by contrast with a long, dwindling beard

of vivid red, which flowed down over his white waistcoat with his

watch-chain gleaming through its fringe. Such was the stately

presence who looked stonily at us from the centre of Dr.

Huxtable’s hearthrug. Beside him stood a very young man, whom I

understood to be Wilder, the private secretary. He was small,

nervous, alert with intelligent light-blue eyes and mobile

features. It was he who at once, in an incisive and positive

tone, opened the conversation.

“I called this morning, Dr. Huxtable, too late to prevent you

from starting for London. I learned that your object was to

invite Mr. Sherlock Holmes to undertake the conduct of this case.

His Grace is surprised, Dr. Huxtable, that you should have taken

such a step without consulting him.”

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

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

“But surely, Mr. Wilder——”

“You are well aware, Dr. Huxtable, that his Grace is particularly

anxious to avoid all public scandal. He prefers to take as few

people as possible into his confidence.”

“The matter can be easily remedied,” said the brow-beaten doctor;

“Mr. Sherlock Holmes can return to London by the morning train.”

“Hardly that, Doctor, hardly that,” said Holmes, in his blandest

voice. “This northern air is invigorating and pleasant, so I

propose to spend a few days upon your moors, and to occupy my

mind as best I may. Whether I have the shelter of your roof or of

the village inn is, of course, for you to decide.”

I could see that the unfortunate doctor was in the last stage of

indecision, from which he was rescued by the deep, sonorous voice

of the red-bearded Duke, which boomed out like a dinner-gong.

“I agree with Mr. Wilder, Dr. Huxtable, that you would have done

wisely to consult me. But since Mr. Holmes has already been taken

into your confidence, it would indeed be absurd that we should

not avail ourselves of his services. Far from going to the inn,

Mr. Holmes, I should be pleased if you would come and stay with

me at Holdernesse Hall.”

“I thank your Grace. For the purposes of my investigation, I

think that it would be wiser for me to remain at the scene of the

mystery.”

“Just as you like, Mr. Holmes. Any information which Mr. Wilder

or I can give you is, of course, at your disposal.”

“It will probably be necessary for me to see you at the Hall,”

said Holmes. “I would only ask you now, sir, whether you have

formed any explanation in your own mind as to the mysterious

disappearance of your son?”

“No, sir, I have not.”

“Excuse me if I allude to that which is painful to you, but I

have no alternative. Do you think that the Duchess had anything

to do with the matter?”

The great minister showed perceptible hesitation.

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

“The other most obvious explanation is that the child has been

kidnapped for the purpose of levying ransom. You have not had any

demand of the sort?”

“No, sir.”

“One more question, your Grace. I understand that you wrote to

your son upon the day when this incident occurred.”

“No, I wrote upon the day before.”

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

“Yes.”

“Was there anything in your letter which might have unbalanced

him or induced him to take such a step?”

“No, sir, certainly not.”

“Did you post that letter yourself?”

The nobleman’s reply was interrupted by his secretary, who broke

in with some heat.

“His Grace is not in the habit of posting letters himself,” said

he. “This letter was laid with others upon the study table, and I

myself put them in the post-bag.”

“You are sure this one was among them?”

“Yes, I observed it.”

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

“Twenty or thirty. I have a large correspondence. But surely this

is somewhat irrelevant?”

“Not entirely,” said Holmes.

“For my own part,” the Duke continued, “I have advised the police

to turn their attention to the south of France. I have already

said that I do not believe that the Duchess would encourage so

monstrous an action, but the lad had the most wrong-headed

opinions, and it is possible that he may have fled to her, aided

and abetted by this German. I think, Dr. Huxtable, that we will

now return to the Hall.”

I could see that there were other questions which Holmes would

have wished to put, but the nobleman’s abrupt manner showed that

the interview was at an end. It was evident that to his intensely

aristocratic nature this discussion of his intimate family

affairs with a stranger was most abhorrent, and that he feared

lest every fresh question would throw a fiercer light into the

discreetly shadowed corners of his ducal history.

When the nobleman and his secretary had left, my friend flung

himself at once with characteristic eagerness into the

investigation.

The boy’s chamber was carefully examined, and yielded nothing

save the absolute conviction that it was only through the window

that he could have escaped. The German master’s room and effects

gave no further clue. In his case a trailer of ivy had given way

under his weight, and we saw by the light of a lantern the mark

on the lawn where his heels had come down. That one dint in the

short, green grass was the only material witness left of this

inexplicable nocturnal flight.

Sherlock Holmes left the house alone, and only returned after

eleven. He had obtained a large ordnance map of the

neighbourhood, and this he brought into my room, where he laid it

out on the bed, and, having balanced the lamp in the middle of

it, he began to smoke over it, and occasionally to point out

objects of interest with the reeking amber of his pipe.

“This case grows upon me, Watson,” said he. “There are decidedly

some points of interest in connection with it. In this early

stage, I want you to realize those geographical features which

may have a good deal to do with our investigation.

Holmes'-map

HOLMES’ MAP OF THE NEIGHBOURHOOD OF THE SCHOOL.

“Look at this map. This dark square is the Priory School. I’ll

put a pin in it. Now, this line is the main road. You see that it

runs east and west past the school, and you see also that there

is no side road for a mile either way. If these two folk passed

away by road, it was _this_ road.”

“Exactly.”

“By a singular and happy chance, we are able to some extent to

check what passed along this road during the night in question.

At this point, where my pipe is now resting, a county constable

was on duty from twelve to six. It is, as you perceive, the first

cross-road on the east side. This man declares that he was not

absent from his post for an instant, and he is positive that

neither boy nor man could have gone that way unseen. I have

spoken with this policeman to-night and he appears to me to be a

perfectly reliable person. That blocks this end. We have now to

deal with the other. There is an inn here, the Red Bull, the

landlady of which was ill. She had sent to Mackleton for a

doctor, but he did not arrive until morning, being absent at

another case. The people at the inn were alert all night,

awaiting his coming, and one or other of them seems to have

continually had an eye upon the road. They declare that no one

passed. If their evidence is good, then we are fortunate enough

to be able to block the west, and also to be able to say that the

fugitives did _not_ use the road at all.”

“But the bicycle?” I objected.

“Quite so. We will come to the bicycle presently. To continue our

reasoning: if these people did not go by the road, they must have

traversed the country to the north of the house or to the south

of the house. That is certain. Let us weigh the one against the

other. On the south of the house is, as you perceive, a large

district of arable land, cut up into small fields, with stone

walls between them. There, I admit that a bicycle is impossible.

We can dismiss the idea. We turn to the country on the north.

Here there lies a grove of trees, marked as the ‘Ragged Shaw,’

and on the farther side stretches a great rolling moor, Lower

Gill Moor, extending for ten miles and sloping gradually upward.

Here, at one side of this wilderness, is Holdernesse Hall, ten

miles by road, but only six across the moor. It is a peculiarly

desolate plain. A few moor farmers have small holdings, where

they rear sheep and cattle. Except these, the plover and the

curlew are the only inhabitants until you come to the

Chesterfield high road. There is a church there, you see, a few

cottages, and an inn. Beyond that the hills become precipitous.

Surely it is here to the north that our quest must lie.”

“But the bicycle?” I persisted.

“Well, well!” said Holmes, impatiently. “A good cyclist does not

need a high road. The moor is intersected with paths, and the

moon was at the full. Halloa! what is this?”

There was an agitated knock at the door, and an instant

afterwards Dr. Huxtable was in the room. In his hand he held a

blue cricket-cap with a white chevron on the peak.

“At last we have a clue!” he cried. “Thank heaven! at last we are

on the dear boy’s track! It is his cap.”

“Where was it found?”

“In the van of the gipsies who camped on the moor. They left on

Tuesday. To-day the police traced them down and examined their

caravan. This was found.”

“How do they account for it?”

“They shuffled and lied—said that they found it on the moor on

Tuesday morning. They know where he is, the rascals! Thank

goodness, they are all safe under lock and key. Either the fear

of the law or the Duke’s purse will certainly get out of them all

that they know.”

“So far, so good,” said Holmes, when the doctor had at last left

the room. “It at least bears out the theory that it is on the

side of the Lower Gill Moor that we must hope for results. The

police have really done nothing locally, save the arrest of these

gipsies. Look here, Watson! There is a watercourse across the

moor. You see it marked here in the map. In some parts it widens

into a morass. This is particularly so in the region between

Holdernesse Hall and the school. It is vain to look elsewhere for

tracks in this dry weather, but at _that_ point there is

certainly a chance of some record being left. I will call you

early to-morrow morning, and you and I will try if we can throw

some little light upon the mystery.”

The day was just breaking when I woke to find the long, thin form

of Holmes by my bedside. He was fully dressed, and had apparently

already been out.

“I have done the lawn and the bicycle shed,” said he. “I have

also had a rumble through the Ragged Shaw. Now, Watson, there is

cocoa ready in the next room. I must beg you to hurry, for we

have a great day before us.”

His eyes shone, and his cheek was flushed with the exhilaration

of the master workman who sees his work lie ready before him. A

very different Holmes, this active, alert man, from the

introspective and pallid dreamer of Baker Street. I felt, as I

looked upon that supple figure, alive with nervous energy, that

it was indeed a strenuous day that awaited us.

And yet it opened in the blackest disappointment. With high hopes

we struck across the peaty, russet moor, intersected with a

thousand sheep paths, until we came to the broad, light-green

belt which marked the morass between us and Holdernesse.

Certainly, if the lad had gone homeward, he must have passed

this, and he could not pass it without leaving his traces. But no

sign of him or the German could be seen. With a darkening face my

friend strode along the margin, eagerly observant of every muddy

stain upon the mossy surface. Sheep-marks there were in

profusion, and at one place, some miles down, cows had left their

tracks. Nothing more.

“Check number one,” said Holmes, looking gloomily over the

rolling expanse of the moor. “There is another morass down

yonder, and a narrow neck between. Halloa! halloa! halloa! what

have we here?”

We had come on a small black ribbon of pathway. In the middle of

it, clearly marked on the sodden soil, was the track of a

bicycle.

“Hurrah!” I cried. “We have it.”

But Holmes was shaking his head, and his face was puzzled and

expectant rather than joyous.

“A bicycle, certainly, but not _the_ bicycle,” said he. “I am

familiar with forty-two different impressions left by tires.

This, as you perceive, is a Dunlop, with a patch upon the outer

cover. Heidegger’s tires were Palmer’s, leaving longitudinal

stripes. Aveling, the mathematical master, was sure upon the

point. Therefore, it is not Heidegger’s track.”

“The boy’s, then?”

“Possibly, if we could prove a bicycle to have been in his

possession. But this we have utterly failed to do. This track, as

you perceive, was made by a rider who was going from the

direction of the school.”

“Or towards it?”

“No, no, my dear Watson. The more deeply sunk impression is, of

course, the hind wheel, upon which the weight rests. You perceive

several places where it has passed across and obliterated the

more shallow mark of the front one. It was undoubtedly heading

away from the school. It may or may not be connected with our

inquiry, but we will follow it backwards before we go any

farther.”

We did so, and at the end of a few hundred yards lost the tracks

as we emerged from the boggy portion of the moor. Following the

path backwards, we picked out another spot, where a spring

trickled across it. Here, once again, was the mark of the

bicycle, though nearly obliterated by the hoofs of cows. After

that there was no sign, but the path ran right on into Ragged

Shaw, the wood which backed on to the school. From this wood the

cycle must have emerged. Holmes sat down on a boulder and rested

his chin in his hands. I had smoked two cigarettes before he

moved.

“Well, well,” said he, at last. “It is, of course, possible that

a cunning man might change the tires of his bicycle in order to

leave unfamiliar tracks. A criminal who was capable of such a

thought is a man whom I should be proud to do business with. We

will leave this question undecided and hark back to our morass

again, for we have left a good deal unexplored.”

We continued our systematic survey of the edge of the sodden

portion of the moor, and soon our perseverance was gloriously

rewarded. Right across the lower part of the bog lay a miry path.

Holmes gave a cry of delight as he approached it. An impression

like a fine bundle of telegraph wires ran down the centre of it.

It was the Palmer tires.

“Here is Herr Heidegger, sure enough!” cried Holmes, exultantly.

“My reasoning seems to have been pretty sound, Watson.”

“I congratulate you.”

“But we have a long way still to go. Kindly walk clear of the

path. Now let us follow the trail. I fear that it will not lead

very far.”

We found, however, as we advanced that this portion of the moor

is intersected with soft patches, and, though we frequently lost

sight of the track, we always succeeded in picking it up once

more.

“Do you observe,” said Holmes, “that the rider is now undoubtedly

forcing the pace? There can be no doubt of it. Look at this

impression, where you get both tires clear. The one is as deep as

the other. That can only mean that the rider is throwing his

weight on to the handle-bar, as a man does when he is sprinting.

By Jove! he has had a fall.”

There was a broad, irregular smudge covering some yards of the

track. Then there were a few footmarks, and the tire reappeared

once more.

“A side-slip,” I suggested.

Holmes held up a crumpled branch of flowering gorse. To my horror

I perceived that the yellow blossoms were all dabbled with

crimson. On the path, too, and among the heather were dark stains

of clotted blood.

“Bad!” said Holmes. “Bad! Stand clear, Watson! Not an unnecessary

footstep! What do I read here? He fell wounded—he stood up—he

remounted—he proceeded. But there is no other track. Cattle on

this side path. He was surely not gored by a bull? Impossible!

But I see no traces of anyone else. We must push on, Watson.

Surely, with stains as well as the track to guide us, he cannot

escape us now.”

Our search was not a very long one. The tracks of the tire began

to curve fantastically upon the wet and shining path. Suddenly,

as I looked ahead, the gleam of metal caught my eye from amid the

thick gorse-bushes. Out of them we dragged a bicycle,

Palmer-tired, one pedal bent, and the whole front of it horribly

smeared and slobbered with blood. On the other side of the bushes

a shoe was projecting. We ran round, and there lay the

unfortunate rider. He was a tall man, full-bearded, with

spectacles, one glass of which had been knocked out. The cause of

his death was a frightful blow upon the head, which had crushed

in part of his skull. That he could have gone on after receiving

such an injury said much for the vitality and courage of the man.

He wore shoes, but no socks, and his open coat disclosed a

nightshirt beneath it. It was undoubtedly the German master.

Holmes turned the body over reverently, and examined it with

great attention. He then sat in deep thought for a time, and I

could see by his ruffled brow that this grim discovery had not,

in his opinion, advanced us much in our inquiry.

“It is a little difficult to know what to do, Watson,” said he,

at last. “My own inclinations are to push this inquiry on, for we

have already lost so much time that we cannot afford to waste

another hour. On the other hand, we are bound to inform the

police of the discovery, and to see that this poor fellow’s body

is looked after.”

“I could take a note back.”

“But I need your company and assistance. Wait a bit! There is a

fellow cutting peat up yonder. Bring him over here, and he will

guide the police.”

I brought the peasant across, and Holmes dispatched the

frightened man with a note to Dr. Huxtable.

“Now, Watson,” said he, “we have picked up two clues this

morning. One is the bicycle with the Palmer tire, and we see what

that has led to. The other is the bicycle with the patched

Dunlop. Before we start to investigate that, let us try to

realize what we _do_ know, so as to make the most of it, and to

separate the essential from the accidental.”

“First of all, I wish to impress upon you that the boy certainly

left of his own free-will. He got down from his window and he

went off, either alone or with someone. That is sure.”

I assented.

“Well, now, let us turn to this unfortunate German master. The

boy was fully dressed when he fled. Therefore, he foresaw what he

would do. But the German went without his socks. He certainly

acted on very short notice.”

“Undoubtedly.”

“Why did he go? Because, from his bedroom window, he saw the

flight of the boy, because he wished to overtake him and bring

him back. He seized his bicycle, pursued the lad, and in pursuing

him met his death.”

“So it would seem.”

“Now I come to the critical part of my argument. The natural

action of a man in pursuing a little boy would be to run after

him. He would know that he could overtake him. But the German

does not do so. He turns to his bicycle. I am told that he was an

excellent cyclist. He would not do this, if he did not see that

the boy had some swift means of escape.”

“The other bicycle.”

“Let us continue our reconstruction. He meets his death five

miles from the school—not by a bullet, mark you, which even a lad

might conceivably discharge, but by a savage blow dealt by a

vigorous arm. The lad, then, _had_ a companion in his flight. And

the flight was a swift one, since it took five miles before an

expert cyclist could overtake them. Yet we survey the ground

round the scene of the tragedy. What do we find? A few

cattle-tracks, nothing more. I took a wide sweep round, and there

is no path within fifty yards. Another cyclist could have had

nothing to do with the actual murder, nor were there any human

foot-marks.”

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

“Admirable!” he said. “A most illuminating remark. It _is_

impossible as I state it, and therefore I must in some respect

have stated it wrong. Yet you saw for yourself. Can you suggest

any fallacy?”

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

“In a morass, Watson?”

“I am at my wits’ end.”

“Tut, tut, we have solved some worse problems. At least we have

plenty of material, if we can only use it. Come, then, and,

having exhausted the Palmer, let us see what the Dunlop with the

patched cover has to offer us.”

We picked up the track and followed it onward for some distance,

but soon the moor rose into a long, heather-tufted curve, and we

left the watercourse behind us. No further help from tracks could

be hoped for. At the spot where we saw the last of the Dunlop

tire it might equally have led to Holdernesse Hall, the stately

towers of which rose some miles to our left, or to a low, grey

village which lay in front of us and marked the position of the

Chesterfield high road.

As we approached the forbidding and squalid inn, with the sign of

a game-cock above the door, Holmes gave a sudden groan, and

clutched me by the shoulder to save himself from falling. He had

had one of those violent strains of the ankle which leave a man

helpless. With difficulty he limped up to the door, where a

squat, dark, elderly man was smoking a black clay pipe.

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

“Who are you, and how do you get my name so pat?” the countryman

answered, with a suspicious flash of a pair of cunning eyes.

“Well, it’s printed on the board above your head. It’s easy to

see a man who is master of his own house. I suppose you haven’t

such a thing as a carriage in your stables?”

“No, I have not.”

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

“Don’t put it to the ground.”

“But I can’t walk.”

“Well, then hop.”

Mr. Reuben Hayes’s manner was far from gracious, but Holmes took

it with admirable good-humour.

“Look here, my man,” said he. “This is really rather an awkward

fix for me. I don’t mind how I get on.”

“Neither do I,” said the morose landlord.

“The matter is very important. I would offer you a sovereign for

the use of a bicycle.”

The landlord pricked up his ears.

“Where do you want to go?”

“To Holdernesse Hall.”

“Pals of the Dook, I suppose?” said the landlord, surveying our

mud-stained garments with ironical eyes.

Holmes laughed good-naturedly.

“He’ll be glad to see us, anyhow.”

“Why?”

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

The landlord gave a very visible start.

“What, you’re on his track?”

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

hour.”

Again a swift change passed over the heavy, unshaven face. His

manner was suddenly genial.

“I’ve less reason to wish the Dook well than most men,” said he,

“for I was head coachman once, and cruel bad he treated me. It

was him that sacked me without a character on the word of a lying

corn-chandler. But I’m glad to hear that the young lord was heard

of in Liverpool, and I’ll help you to take the news to the Hall.”

“Thank you,” said Holmes. “We’ll have some food first. Then you

can bring round the bicycle.”

“I haven’t got a bicycle.”

Holmes held up a sovereign.

“I tell you, man, that I haven’t got one. I’ll let you have two

horses as far as the Hall.”

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

something to eat.”

When we were left alone in the stone-flagged kitchen, it was

astonishing how rapidly that sprained ankle recovered. It was

nearly nightfall, and we had eaten nothing since early morning,

so that we spent some time over our meal. Holmes was lost in

thought, and once or twice he walked over to the window and

stared earnestly out. It opened on to a squalid courtyard. In the

far corner was a smithy, where a grimy lad was at work. On the

other side were the stables. Holmes had sat down again after one

of these excursions, when he suddenly sprang out of his chair

with a loud exclamation.

“By heaven, Watson, I believe that I’ve got it!” he cried. “Yes,

yes, it must be so. Watson, do you remember seeing any cow-tracks

to-day?”

“Yes, several.”

“Where?”

“Well, everywhere. They were at the morass, and again on the

path, and again near where poor Heidegger met his death.”

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

moor?”

“I don’t remember seeing any.”

“Strange, Watson, that we should see tracks all along our line,

but never a cow on the whole moor. Very strange, Watson, eh?”

“Yes, it is strange.”

“Now, Watson, make an effort, throw your mind back. Can you see

those tracks upon the path?”

“Yes, I can.”

“Can you recall that the tracks were sometimes like that,

Watson,”—he arranged a number of breadcrumbs in this fashion—: :

: : :—“and sometimes like this”—: . : . : . : .—“and occasionally

like this”—.・.・.・. “Can you remember that?”

“No, I cannot.”

“But I can. I could swear to it. However, we will go back at our

leisure and verify it. What a blind beetle I have been, not to

draw my conclusion.”

“And what is your conclusion?”

“Only that it is a remarkable cow which walks, canters, and

gallops. By George! Watson, it was no brain of a country publican

that thought out such a blind as that. The coast seems to be

clear, save for that lad in the smithy. Let us slip out and see

what we can see.”

There were two rough-haired, unkempt horses in the tumble-down

stable. Holmes raised the hind leg of one of them and laughed

aloud.

“Old shoes, but newly shod—old shoes, but new nails. This case

deserves to be a classic. Let us go across to the smithy.”

The lad continued his work without regarding us. I saw Holmes’s

eye darting to right and left among the litter of iron and wood

which was scattered about the floor. Suddenly, however, we heard

a step behind us, and there was the landlord, his heavy eyebrows

drawn over his savage eyes, his swarthy features convulsed with

passion. He held a short, metal-headed stick in his hand, and he

advanced in so menacing a fashion that I was right glad to feel

the revolver in my pocket.

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

“Why, Mr. Reuben Hayes,” said Holmes, coolly, “one might think

that you were afraid of our finding something out.”

The man mastered himself with a violent effort, and his grim

mouth loosened into a false laugh, which was more menacing than

his frown.

“You’re welcome to all you can find out in my smithy,” said he.

“But look here, mister, I don’t care for folk poking about my

place without my leave, so the sooner you pay your score and get

out of this the better I shall be pleased.”

“All right, Mr. Hayes, no harm meant,” said Holmes. “We have been

having a look at your horses, but I think I’ll walk, after all.

It’s not far, I believe.”

“Not more than two miles to the Hall gates. That’s the road to

the left.” He watched us with sullen eyes until we had left his

premises.

We did not go very far along the road, for Holmes stopped the

instant that the curve hid us from the landlord’s view.

“We were warm, as the children say, at that inn,” said he. “I

seem to grow colder every step that I take away from it. No, no,

I can’t possibly leave it.”

“I am convinced,” said I, “that this Reuben Hayes knows all about

it. A more self-evident villain I never saw.”

“Oh! he impressed you in that way, did he? There are the horses,

there is the smithy. Yes, it is an interesting place, this

Fighting Cock. I think we shall have another look at it in an

unobtrusive way.”

A long, sloping hillside, dotted with grey limestone boulders,

stretched behind us. We had turned off the road, and were making

our way up the hill, when, looking in the direction of

Holdernesse Hall, I saw a cyclist coming swiftly along.

“Get down, Watson!” cried Holmes, with a heavy hand upon my

shoulder. We had hardly sunk from view when the man flew past us

on the road. Amid a rolling cloud of dust, I caught a glimpse of

a pale, agitated face—a face with horror in every lineament, the

mouth open, the eyes staring wildly in front. It was like some

strange caricature of the dapper James Wilder whom we had seen

the night before.

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

what he does.”

We scrambled from rock to rock, until in a few moments we had

made our way to a point from which we could see the front door of

the inn. Wilder’s bicycle was leaning against the wall beside it.

No one was moving about the house, nor could we catch a glimpse

of any faces at the windows. Slowly the twilight crept down as

the sun sank behind the high towers of Holdernesse Hall. Then, in

the gloom, we saw the two side-lamps of a trap light up in the

stable-yard of the inn, and shortly afterwards heard the rattle

of hoofs, as it wheeled out into the road and tore off at a

furious pace in the direction of Chesterfield.

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

“It looks like a flight.”

“A single man in a dog-cart, so far as I could see. Well, it

certainly was not Mr. James Wilder, for there he is at the door.”

A red square of light had sprung out of the darkness. In the

middle of it was the black figure of the secretary, his head

advanced, peering out into the night. It was evident that he was

expecting someone. Then at last there were steps in the road, a

second figure was visible for an instant against the light, the

door shut, and all was black once more. Five minutes later a lamp

was lit in a room upon the first floor.

“It seems to be a curious class of custom that is done by the

Fighting Cock,” said Holmes.

“The bar is on the other side.”

“Quite so. These are what one may call the private guests. Now,

what in the world is Mr. James Wilder doing in that den at this

hour of night, and who is the companion who comes to meet him

there? Come, Watson, we must really take a risk and try to

investigate this a little more closely.”

Together we stole down to the road and crept across to the door

of the inn. The bicycle still leaned against the wall. Holmes

struck a match and held it to the back wheel, and I heard him

chuckle as the light fell upon a patched Dunlop tire. Up above us

was the lighted window.

“I must have a peep through that, Watson. If you bend your back

and support yourself upon the wall, I think that I can manage.”

An instant later, his feet were on my shoulders, but he was

hardly up before he was down again.

“Come, my friend,” said he, “our day’s work has been quite long

enough. I think that we have gathered all that we can. It’s a

long walk to the school, and the sooner we get started the

better.”

He hardly opened his lips during that weary trudge across the

moor, nor would he enter the school when he reached it, but went

on to Mackleton Station, whence he could send some telegrams.

Late at night I heard him consoling Dr. Huxtable, prostrated by

the tragedy of his master’s death, and later still he entered my

room as alert and vigorous as he had been when he started in the

morning. “All goes well, my friend,” said he. “I promise that

before to-morrow evening we shall have reached the solution of

the mystery.”

At eleven o’clock next morning my friend and I were walking up

the famous yew avenue of Holdernesse Hall. We were ushered

through the magnificent Elizabethan doorway and into his Grace’s

study. There we found Mr. James Wilder, demure and courtly, but

with some trace of that wild terror of the night before still

lurking in his furtive eyes and in his twitching features.

“You have come to see his Grace? I am sorry, but the fact is that

the Duke is far from well. He has been very much upset by the

tragic news. We received a telegram from Dr. Huxtable yesterday

afternoon, which told us of your discovery.”

“I must see the Duke, Mr. Wilder.”

“But he is in his room.”

“Then I must go to his room.”

“I believe he is in his bed.”

“I will see him there.”

Holmes’s cold and inexorable manner showed the secretary that it

was useless to argue with him.

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

After an hour’s delay, the great nobleman appeared. His face was

more cadaverous than ever, his shoulders had rounded, and he

seemed to me to be an altogether older man than he had been the

morning before. He greeted us with a stately courtesy and seated

himself at his desk, his red beard streaming down on the table.

“Well, Mr. Holmes?” said he.

But my friend’s eyes were fixed upon the secretary, who stood by

his master’s chair.

“I think, your Grace, that I could speak more freely in Mr.

Wilder’s absence.”

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

Holmes.

“If your Grace wishes——”

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

say?”

My friend waited until the door had closed behind the retreating

secretary.

“The fact is, your Grace,” said he, “that my colleague, Dr.

Watson, and myself had an assurance from Dr. Huxtable that a

reward had been offered in this case. I should like to have this

confirmed from your own lips.”

“Certainly, Mr. Holmes.”

“It amounted, if I am correctly informed, to five thousand pounds

to anyone who will tell you where your son is?”

“Exactly.”

“And another thousand to the man who will name the person or

persons who keep him in custody?”

“Exactly.”

“Under the latter heading is included, no doubt, not only those

who may have taken him away, but also those who conspire to keep

him in his present position?”

“Yes, yes,” cried the Duke, impatiently. “If you do your work

well, Mr. Sherlock Holmes, you will have no reason to complain of

niggardly treatment.”

My friend rubbed his thin hands together with an appearance of

avidity which was a surprise to me, who knew his frugal tastes.

“I fancy that I see your Grace’s check-book upon the table,” said

he. “I should be glad if you would make me out a check for six

thousand pounds. It would be as well, perhaps, for you to cross

it. The Capital and Counties Bank, Oxford Street branch are my

agents.”

His Grace sat very stern and upright in his chair and looked

stonily at my friend.

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

pleasantry.”

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

“What do you mean, then?”

“I mean that I have earned the reward. I know where your son is,

and I know some, at least, of those who are holding him.”

The Duke’s beard had turned more aggressively red than ever

against his ghastly white face.

“Where is he?” he gasped.

“He is, or was last night, at the Fighting Cock Inn, about two

miles from your park gate.”

The Duke fell back in his chair.

“And whom do you accuse?”

Sherlock Holmes’s answer was an astounding one. He stepped

swiftly forward and touched the Duke upon the shoulder.

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

for that check.”

Never shall I forget the Duke’s appearance as he sprang up and

clawed with his hands, like one who is sinking into an abyss.

Then, with an extraordinary effort of aristocratic self-command,

he sat down and sank his face in his hands. It was some minutes

before he spoke.

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

head.

“I saw you together last night.”

“Does anyone else beside your friend know?”

“I have spoken to no one.”

The Duke took a pen in his quivering fingers and opened his

check-book.

“I shall be as good as my word, Mr. Holmes. I am about to write

your check, however unwelcome the information which you have

gained may be to me. When the offer was first made, I little

thought the turn which events might take. But you and your friend

are men of discretion, Mr. Holmes?”

“I hardly understand your Grace.”

“I must put it plainly, Mr. Holmes. If only you two know of this

incident, there is no reason why it should go any farther. I

think twelve thousand pounds is the sum that I owe you, is it

not?”

But Holmes smiled and shook his head.

“I fear, your Grace, that matters can hardly be arranged so

easily. There is the death of this schoolmaster to be accounted

for.”

“But James knew nothing of that. You cannot hold him responsible

for that. It was the work of this brutal ruffian whom he had the

misfortune to employ.”

“I must take the view, your Grace, that when a man embarks upon a

crime, he is morally guilty of any other crime which may spring

from it.”

“Morally, Mr. Holmes. No doubt you are right. But surely not in

the eyes of the law. A man cannot be condemned for a murder at

which he was not present, and which he loathes and abhors as much

as you do. The instant that he heard of it he made a complete

confession to me, so filled was he with horror and remorse. He

lost not an hour in breaking entirely with the murderer. Oh, Mr.

Holmes, you must save him—you must save him! I tell you that you

must save him!” The Duke had dropped the last attempt at

self-command, and was pacing the room with a convulsed face and

with his clenched hands raving in the air. At last he mastered

himself and sat down once more at his desk. “I appreciate your

conduct in coming here before you spoke to anyone else,” said he.

“At least, we may take counsel how far we can minimize this

hideous scandal.”

“Exactly,” said Holmes. “I think, your Grace, that this can only

be done by absolute frankness between us. I am disposed to help

your Grace to the best of my ability, but, in order to do so, I

must understand to the last detail how the matter stands. I

realize that your words applied to Mr. James Wilder, and that he

is not the murderer.”

“No, the murderer has escaped.”

Sherlock Holmes smiled demurely.

“Your Grace can hardly have heard of any small reputation which I

possess, or you would not imagine that it is so easy to escape

me. Mr. Reuben Hayes was arrested at Chesterfield, on my

information, at eleven o’clock last night. I had a telegram from

the head of the local police before I left the school this

morning.”

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

friend.

“You seem to have powers that are hardly human,” said he. “So

Reuben Hayes is taken? I am right glad to hear it, if it will not

react upon the fate of James.”

“Your secretary?”

“No, sir, my son.”

It was Holmes’s turn to look astonished.

“I confess that this is entirely new to me, your Grace. I must

beg you to be more explicit.”

“I will conceal nothing from you. I agree with you that complete

frankness, however painful it may be to me, is the best policy in

this desperate situation to which James’s folly and jealousy have

reduced us. When I was a very young man, Mr. Holmes, I loved with

such a love as comes only once in a lifetime. I offered the lady

marriage, but she refused it on the grounds that such a match

might mar my career. Had she lived, I would certainly never have

married anyone else. She died, and left this one child, whom for

her sake I have cherished and cared for. I could not acknowledge

the paternity to the world, but I gave him the best of

educations, and since he came to manhood I have kept him near my

person. He surmised my secret, and has presumed ever since upon

the claim which he has upon me, and upon his power of provoking a

scandal which would be abhorrent to me. His presence had

something to do with the unhappy issue of my marriage. Above all,

he hated my young legitimate heir from the first with a

persistent hatred. You may well ask me why, under these

circumstances, I still kept James under my roof. I answer that it

was because I could see his mother’s face in his, and that for

her dear sake there was no end to my long-suffering. All her

pretty ways too—there was not one of them which he could not

suggest and bring back to my memory. I _could_ not send him away.

But I feared so much lest he should do Arthur—that is, Lord

Saltire—a mischief, that I dispatched him for safety to Dr.

Huxtable’s school.

“James came into contact with this fellow Hayes, because the man

was a tenant of mine, and James acted as agent. The fellow was a

rascal from the beginning, but, in some extraordinary way, James

became intimate with him. He had always a taste for low company.

When James determined to kidnap Lord Saltire, it was of this

man’s service that he availed himself. You remember that I wrote

to Arthur upon that last day. Well, James opened the letter and

inserted a note asking Arthur to meet him in a little wood called

the Ragged Shaw, which is near to the school. He used the

Duchess’s name, and in that way got the boy to come. That evening

James bicycled over—I am telling you what he has himself

confessed to me—and he told Arthur, whom he met in the wood, that

his mother longed to see him, that she was awaiting him on the

moor, and that if he would come back into the wood at midnight he

would find a man with a horse, who would take him to her. Poor

Arthur fell into the trap. He came to the appointment, and found

this fellow Hayes with a led pony. Arthur mounted, and they set

off together. It appears—though this James only heard

yesterday—that they were pursued, that Hayes struck the pursuer

with his stick, and that the man died of his injuries. Hayes

brought Arthur to his public-house, the Fighting Cock, where he

was confined in an upper room, under the care of Mrs. Hayes, who

is a kindly woman, but entirely under the control of her brutal

husband.

“Well, Mr. Holmes, that was the state of affairs when I first saw

you two days ago. I had no more idea of the truth than you. You

will ask me what was James’s motive in doing such a deed. I

answer that there was a great deal which was unreasoning and

fanatical in the hatred which he bore my heir. In his view he

should himself have been heir of all my estates, and he deeply

resented those social laws which made it impossible. At the same

time, he had a definite motive also. He was eager that I should

break the entail, and he was of opinion that it lay in my power

to do so. He intended to make a bargain with me—to restore Arthur

if I would break the entail, and so make it possible for the

estate to be left to him by will. He knew well that I should

never willingly invoke the aid of the police against him. I say

that he would have proposed such a bargain to me, but he did not

actually do so, for events moved too quickly for him, and he had

not time to put his plans into practice.

“What brought all his wicked scheme to wreck was your discovery

of this man Heidegger’s dead body. James was seized with horror

at the news. It came to us yesterday, as we sat together in this

study. Dr. Huxtable had sent a telegram. James was so overwhelmed

with grief and agitation that my suspicions, which had never been

entirely absent, rose instantly to a certainty, and I taxed him

with the deed. He made a complete voluntary confession. Then he

implored me to keep his secret for three days longer, so as to

give his wretched accomplice a chance of saving his guilty life.

I yielded—as I have always yielded—to his prayers, and instantly

James hurried off to the Fighting Cock to warn Hayes and give him

the means of flight. I could not go there by daylight without

provoking comment, but as soon as night fell I hurried off to see

my dear Arthur. I found him safe and well, but horrified beyond

expression by the dreadful deed he had witnessed. In deference to

my promise, and much against my will, I consented to leave him

there for three days, under the charge of Mrs. Hayes, since it

was evident that it was impossible to inform the police where he

was without telling them also who was the murderer, and I could

not see how that murderer could be punished without ruin to my

unfortunate James. You asked for frankness, Mr. Holmes, and I

have taken you at your word, for I have now told you everything

without an attempt at circumlocution or concealment. Do you in

turn be as frank with me.”

“I will,” said Holmes. “In the first place, your Grace, I am

bound to tell you that you have placed yourself in a most serious

position in the eyes of the law. You have condoned a felony, and

you have aided the escape of a murderer, for I cannot doubt that

any money which was taken by James Wilder to aid his accomplice

in his flight came from your Grace’s purse.”

The Duke bowed his assent.

“This is, indeed, a most serious matter. Even more culpable in my

opinion, your Grace, is your attitude towards your younger son.

You leave him in this den for three days.”

“Under solemn promises——”

“What are promises to such people as these? You have no guarantee

that he will not be spirited away again. To humour your guilty

elder son, you have exposed your innocent younger son to imminent

and unnecessary danger. It was a most unjustifiable action.”

The proud lord of Holdernesse was not accustomed to be so rated

in his own ducal hall. The blood flushed into his high forehead,

but his conscience held him dumb.

“I will help you, but on one condition only. It is that you ring

for the footman and let me give such orders as I like.”

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

entered.

“You will be glad to hear,” said Holmes, “that your young master

is found. It is the Duke’s desire that the carriage shall go at

once to the Fighting Cock Inn to bring Lord Saltire home.

“Now,” said Holmes, when the rejoicing lackey had disappeared,

“having secured the future, we can afford to be more lenient with

the past. I am not in an official position, and there is no

reason, so long as the ends of justice are served, why I should

disclose all that I know. As to Hayes, I say nothing. The gallows

awaits him, and I would do nothing to save him from it. What he

will divulge I cannot tell, but I have no doubt that your Grace

could make him understand that it is to his interest to be

silent. From the police point of view he will have kidnapped the

boy for the purpose of ransom. If they do not themselves find it

out, I see no reason why I should prompt them to take a broader

point of view. I would warn your Grace, however, that the

continued presence of Mr. James Wilder in your household can only

lead to misfortune.”

“I understand that, Mr. Holmes, and it is already settled that he

shall leave me forever, and go to seek his fortune in Australia.”

“In that case, your Grace, since you have yourself stated that

any unhappiness in your married life was caused by his presence, I

would suggest that you make such amends as you can to the

Duchess, and that you try to resume those relations which have

been so unhappily interrupted.”

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

this morning.”

“In that case,” said Holmes, rising, “I think that my friend and

I can congratulate ourselves upon several most happy results from

our little visit to the North. There is one other small point

upon which I desire some light. This fellow Hayes had shod his

horses with shoes which counterfeited the tracks of cows. Was it

from Mr. Wilder that he learned so extraordinary a device?”

The Duke stood in thought for a moment, with a look of intense

surprise on his face. Then he opened a door and showed us into a

large room furnished as a museum. He led the way to a glass case

in a corner, and pointed to the inscription.

“These shoes,” it ran, “were dug up in the moat of Holdernesse

Hall. They are for the use of horses, but they are shaped below

with a cloven foot of iron, so as to throw pursuers off the

track. They are supposed to have belonged to some of the

marauding Barons of Holdernesse in the Middle Ages.”

Holmes opened the case, and moistening his finger he passed it

along the shoe. A thin film of recent mud was left upon his skin.

“Thank you,” said he, as he replaced the glass. “It is the second

most interesting object that I have seen in the North.”

“And the first?”

Holmes folded up his check and placed it carefully in his

notebook. “I am a poor man,” said he, as he patted it

affectionately, and thrust it into the depths of his inner

pocket.

THE ADVENTURE OF BLACK PETER

I have never known my friend to be in better form, both mental

and physical, than in the year ’95. His increasing fame had

brought with it an immense practice, and I should be guilty of an

indiscretion if I were even to hint at the identity of some of

the illustrious clients who crossed our humble threshold in Baker

Street. Holmes, however, like all great artists, lived for his

art’s sake, and, save in the case of the Duke of Holdernesse, I

have seldom known him claim any large reward for his inestimable

services. So unworldly was he—or so capricious—that he frequently

refused his help to the powerful and wealthy where the problem

made no appeal to his sympathies, while he would devote weeks of

most intense application to the affairs of some humble client

whose case presented those strange and dramatic qualities which

appealed to his imagination and challenged his ingenuity.

In this memorable year ’95, a curious and incongruous succession

of cases had engaged his attention, ranging from his famous

investigation of the sudden death of Cardinal Tosca—an inquiry

which was carried out by him at the express desire of His

Holiness the Pope—down to his arrest of Wilson, the notorious

canary-trainer, which removed a plague-spot from the East End of

London. Close on the heels of these two famous cases came the

tragedy of Woodman’s Lee, and the very obscure circumstances

which surrounded the death of Captain Peter Carey. No record of

the doings of Mr. Sherlock Holmes would be complete which did not

include some account of this very unusual affair.

During the first week of July, my friend had been absent so often

and so long from our lodgings that I knew he had something on

hand. The fact that several rough-looking men called during that

time and inquired for Captain Basil made me understand that

Holmes was working somewhere under one of the numerous disguises

and names with which he concealed his own formidable identity. He

had at least five small refuges in different parts of London, in

which he was able to change his personality. He said nothing of

his business to me, and it was not my habit to force a

confidence. The first positive sign which he gave me of the

direction which his investigation was taking was an extraordinary

one. He had gone out before breakfast, and I had sat down to mine

when he strode into the room, his hat upon his head and a huge

barbed-headed spear tucked like an umbrella under his arm.

“Good gracious, Holmes!” I cried. “You don’t mean to say that you

have been walking about London with that thing?”

“I drove to the butcher’s and back.”

“The butcher’s?”

“And I return with an excellent appetite. There can be no

question, my dear Watson, of the value of exercise before

breakfast. But I am prepared to bet that you will not guess the

form that my exercise has taken.”

“I will not attempt it.”

He chuckled as he poured out the coffee.

“If you could have looked into Allardyce’s back shop, you would

have seen a dead pig swung from a hook in the ceiling, and a

gentleman in his shirt sleeves furiously stabbing at it with this

weapon. I was that energetic person, and I have satisfied myself

that by no exertion of my strength can I transfix the pig with a

single blow. Perhaps you would care to try?”

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

“Because it seemed to me to have an indirect bearing upon the

mystery of Woodman’s Lee. Ah, Hopkins, I got your wire last

night, and I have been expecting you. Come and join us.”

Our visitor was an exceedingly alert man, thirty years of age,

dressed in a quiet tweed suit, but retaining the erect bearing of

one who was accustomed to official uniform. I recognized him at

once as Stanley Hopkins, a young police inspector, for whose

future Holmes had high hopes, while he in turn professed the

admiration and respect of a pupil for the scientific methods of

the famous amateur. Hopkins’s brow was clouded, and he sat down

with an air of deep dejection.

“No, thank you, sir. I breakfasted before I came round. I spent

the night in town, for I came up yesterday to report.”

“And what had you to report?”

“Failure, sir, absolute failure.”

“You have made no progress?”

“None.”

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

“I wish to heavens that you would, Mr. Holmes. It’s my first big

chance, and I am at my wits’ end. For goodness’ sake, come down

and lend me a hand.”

“Well, well, it just happens that I have already read all the

available evidence, including the report of the inquest, with

some care. By the way, what do you make of that tobacco pouch,

found on the scene of the crime? Is there no clue there?”

Hopkins looked surprised.

“It was the man’s own pouch, sir. His initials were inside it.

And it was of sealskin,—and he was an old sealer.”

“But he had no pipe.”

“No, sir, we could find no pipe. Indeed, he smoked very little,

and yet he might have kept some tobacco for his friends.”

“No doubt. I only mention it because, if I had been handling the

case, I should have been inclined to make that the starting-point

of my investigation. However, my friend, Dr. Watson, knows

nothing of this matter, and I should be none the worse for

hearing the sequence of events once more. Just give us some short

sketches of the essentials.”

Stanley Hopkins drew a slip of paper from his pocket.

“I have a few dates here which will give you the career of the

dead man, Captain Peter Carey. He was born in ’45—fifty years of

age. He was a most daring and successful seal and whale fisher.

In 1883 he commanded the steam sealer _Sea Unicorn_, of Dundee.

He had then had several successful voyages in succession, and in

the following year, 1884, he retired. After that he travelled for

some years, and finally he bought a small place called Woodman’s

Lee, near Forest Row, in Sussex. There he has lived for six

years, and there he died just a week ago to-day.

“There were some most singular points about the man. In ordinary

life, he was a strict Puritan—a silent, gloomy fellow. His

household consisted of his wife, his daughter, aged twenty, and

two female servants. These last were continually changing, for it

was never a very cheery situation, and sometimes it became past

all bearing. The man was an intermittent drunkard, and when he

had the fit on him he was a perfect fiend. He has been known to

drive his wife and daughter out of doors in the middle of the

night and flog them through the park until the whole village

outside the gates was aroused by their screams.

“He was summoned once for a savage assault upon the old vicar,

who had called upon him to remonstrate with him upon his conduct.

In short, Mr. Holmes, you would go far before you found a more

dangerous man than Peter Carey, and I have heard that he bore the

same character when he commanded his ship. He was known in the

trade as Black Peter, and the name was given him, not only on

account of his swarthy features and the colour of his huge beard,

but for the humours which were the terror of all around him. I

need not say that he was loathed and avoided by every one of his

neighbours, and that I have not heard one single word of sorrow

about his terrible end.

“You must have read in the account of the inquest about the man’s

cabin, Mr. Holmes, but perhaps your friend here has not heard of

it. He had built himself a wooden outhouse—he always called it

the ‘cabin’—a few hundred yards from his house, and it was here

that he slept every night. It was a little, single-roomed hut,

sixteen feet by ten. He kept the key in his pocket, made his own

bed, cleaned it himself, and allowed no other foot to cross the

threshold. There are small windows on each side, which were

covered by curtains and never opened. One of these windows was

turned towards the high road, and when the light burned in it at

night the folk used to point it out to each other and wonder what

Black Peter was doing in there. That’s the window, Mr. Holmes,

which gave us one of the few bits of positive evidence that came

out at the inquest.

“You remember that a stonemason, named Slater, walking from

Forest Row about one o’clock in the morning—two days before the

murder—stopped as he passed the grounds and looked at the square

of light still shining among the trees. He swears that the shadow

of a man’s head turned sideways was clearly visible on the blind,

and that this shadow was certainly not that of Peter Carey, whom

he knew well. It was that of a bearded man, but the beard was

short and bristled forward in a way very different from that of

the captain. So he says, but he had been two hours in the

public-house, and it is some distance from the road to the

window. Besides, this refers to the Monday, and the crime was

done upon the Wednesday.

“On the Tuesday, Peter Carey was in one of his blackest moods,

flushed with drink and as savage as a dangerous wild beast. He

roamed about the house, and the women ran for it when they heard

him coming. Late in the evening, he went down to his own hut.

About two o’clock the following morning, his daughter, who slept

with her window open, heard a most fearful yell from that

direction, but it was no unusual thing for him to bawl and shout

when he was in drink, so no notice was taken. On rising at seven,

one of the maids noticed that the door of the hut was open, but

so great was the terror which the man caused that it was midday

before anyone would venture down to see what had become of him.

Peeping into the open door, they saw a sight which sent them

flying, with white faces, into the village. Within an hour, I was

on the spot and had taken over the case.

“Well, I have fairly steady nerves, as you know, Mr. Holmes, but

I give you my word, that I got a shake when I put my head into

that little house. It was droning like a harmonium with the flies

and bluebottles, and the floor and walls were like a

slaughter-house. He had called it a cabin, and a cabin it was,

sure enough, for you would have thought that you were in a ship.

There was a bunk at one end, a sea-chest, maps and charts, a

picture of the _Sea Unicorn_, a line of logbooks on a shelf, all

exactly as one would expect to find it in a captain’s room. And

there, in the middle of it, was the man himself—his face twisted

like a lost soul in torment, and his great brindled beard stuck

upward in his agony. Right through his broad breast a steel

harpoon had been driven, and it had sunk deep into the wood of

the wall behind him. He was pinned like a beetle on a card. Of

course, he was quite dead, and had been so from the instant that

he had uttered that last yell of agony.

“I know your methods, sir, and I applied them. Before I permitted

anything to be moved, I examined most carefully the ground

outside, and also the floor of the room. There were no

footmarks.”

“Meaning that you saw none?”

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

“My good Hopkins, I have investigated many crimes, but I have

never yet seen one which was committed by a flying creature. As

long as the criminal remains upon two legs so long must there be

some indentation, some abrasion, some trifling displacement which

can be detected by the scientific searcher. It is incredible that

this blood-bespattered room contained no trace which could have

aided us. I understand, however, from the inquest that there were

some objects which you failed to overlook?”

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

“I was a fool not to call you in at the time Mr. Holmes. However,

that’s past praying for now. Yes, there were several objects in

the room which called for special attention. One was the harpoon

with which the deed was committed. It had been snatched down from

a rack on the wall. Two others remained there, and there was a

vacant place for the third. On the stock was engraved ‘SS. _Sea

Unicorn_, Dundee.’ This seemed to establish that the crime had

been done in a moment of fury, and that the murderer had seized

the first weapon which came in his way. The fact that the crime

was committed at two in the morning, and yet Peter Carey was

fully dressed, suggested that he had an appointment with the

murderer, which is borne out by the fact that a bottle of rum and

two dirty glasses stood upon the table.”

“Yes,” said Holmes; “I think that both inferences are

permissible. Was there any other spirit but rum in the room?”

“Yes, there was a tantalus containing brandy and whisky on the

sea-chest. It is of no importance to us, however, since the

decanters were full, and it had therefore not been used.”

“For all that, its presence has some significance,” said Holmes.

“However, let us hear some more about the objects which do seem

to you to bear upon the case.”

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

“What part of the table?”

“It lay in the middle. It was of coarse sealskin—the

straight-haired skin, with a leather thong to bind it. Inside was

‘P.C.’ on the flap. There was half an ounce of strong ship’s

tobacco in it.”

“Excellent! What more?”

Stanley Hopkins drew from his pocket a drab-covered notebook. The

outside was rough and worn, the leaves discoloured. On the first

page were written the initials “J.H.N.” and the date “1883.”

Holmes laid it on the table and examined it in his minute way,

while Hopkins and I gazed over each shoulder. On the second page

were the printed letters “C.P.R.,” and then came several sheets

of numbers. Another heading was “Argentine,” another “Costa

Rica,” and another “San Paulo,” each with pages of signs and

figures after it.

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

“They appear to be lists of Stock Exchange securities. I thought

that ‘J.H.N.’ were the initials of a broker, and that ‘C.P.R.’

may have been his client.”

“Try Canadian Pacific Railway,” said Holmes.

Stanley Hopkins swore between his teeth, and struck his thigh

with his clenched hand.

“What a fool I have been!” he cried. “Of course, it is as you

say. Then ‘J.H.N.’ are the only initials we have to solve. I have

already examined the old Stock Exchange lists, and I can find no

one in 1883, either in the house or among the outside brokers,

whose initials correspond with these. Yet I feel that the clue is

the most important one that I hold. You will admit, Mr. Holmes,

that there is a possibility that these initials are those of the

second person who was present—in other words, of the murderer. I

would also urge that the introduction into the case of a document

relating to large masses of valuable securities gives us for the

first time some indication of a motive for the crime.”

Sherlock Holmes’s face showed that he was thoroughly taken aback

by this new development.

“I must admit both your points,” said he. “I confess that this

notebook, which did not appear at the inquest, modifies any views

which I may have formed. I had come to a theory of the crime in

which I can find no place for this. Have you endeavoured to trace

any of the securities here mentioned?”

“Inquiries are now being made at the offices, but I fear that the

complete register of the stockholders of these South American

concerns is in South America, and that some weeks must elapse

before we can trace the shares.”

Holmes had been examining the cover of the notebook with his

magnifying lens.

“Surely there is some discolouration here,” said he.

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

off the floor.”

“Was the blood-stain above or below?”

“On the side next the boards.”

“Which proves, of course, that the book was dropped after the

crime was committed.”

“Exactly, Mr. Holmes. I appreciated that point, and I conjectured

that it was dropped by the murderer in his hurried flight. It lay

near the door.”

“I suppose that none of these securities have been found among

the property of the dead man?”

“No, sir.”

“Have you any reason to suspect robbery?”

“No, sir. Nothing seemed to have been touched.”

“Dear me, it is certainly a very interesting case. Then there was

a knife, was there not?”

“A sheath-knife, still in its sheath. It lay at the feet of the

dead man. Mrs. Carey has identified it as being her husband’s

property.”

Holmes was lost in thought for some time.

“Well,” said he, at last, “I suppose I shall have to come out and

have a look at it.”

Stanley Hopkins gave a cry of joy.

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

Holmes shook his finger at the inspector.

“It would have been an easier task a week ago,” said he. “But

even now my visit may not be entirely fruitless. Watson, if you

can spare the time, I should be very glad of your company. If you

will call a four-wheeler, Hopkins, we shall be ready to start for

Forest Row in a quarter of an hour.”

Alighting at the small wayside station, we drove for some miles

through the remains of widespread woods, which were once part of

that great forest which for so long held the Saxon invaders at

bay—the impenetrable “weald,” for sixty years the bulwark of

Britain. Vast sections of it have been cleared, for this is the

seat of the first iron-works of the country, and the trees have

been felled to smelt the ore. Now the richer fields of the North

have absorbed the trade, and nothing save these ravaged groves

and great scars in the earth show the work of the past. Here, in

a clearing upon the green slope of a hill, stood a long, low,

stone house, approached by a curving drive running through the

fields. Nearer the road, and surrounded on three sides by bushes,

was a small outhouse, one window and the door facing in our

direction. It was the scene of the murder.

Stanley Hopkins led us first to the house, where he introduced us

to a haggard, grey-haired woman, the widow of the murdered man,

whose gaunt and deep-lined face, with the furtive look of terror

in the depths of her red-rimmed eyes, told of the years of

hardship and ill-usage which she had endured. With her was her

daughter, a pale, fair-haired girl, whose eyes blazed defiantly

at us as she told us that she was glad that her father was dead,

and that she blessed the hand which had struck him down. It was a

terrible household that Black Peter Carey had made for himself,

and it was with a sense of relief that we found ourselves in the

sunlight again and making our way along a path which had been

worn across the fields by the feet of the dead man.

The outhouse was the simplest of dwellings, wooden-walled,

shingle-roofed, one window beside the door and one on the farther

side. Stanley Hopkins drew the key from his pocket and had

stooped to the lock, when he paused with a look of attention and

surprise upon his face.

“Someone has been tampering with it,” he said.

There could be no doubt of the fact. The woodwork was cut, and

the scratches showed white through the paint, as if they had been

that instant done. Holmes had been examining the window.

“Someone has tried to force this also. Whoever it was has failed

to make his way in. He must have been a very poor burglar.”

“This is a most extraordinary thing,” said the inspector, “I

could swear that these marks were not here yesterday evening.”

“Some curious person from the village, perhaps,” I suggested.

“Very unlikely. Few of them would dare to set foot in the

grounds, far less try to force their way into the cabin. What do

you think of it, Mr. Holmes?”

“I think that fortune is very kind to us.”

“You mean that the person will come again?”

“It is very probable. He came expecting to find the door open. He

tried to get in with the blade of a very small penknife. He could

not manage it. What would he do?”

“Come again next night with a more useful tool.”

“So I should say. It will be our fault if we are not there to

receive him. Meanwhile, let me see the inside of the cabin.”

The traces of the tragedy had been removed, but the furniture

within the little room still stood as it had been on the night of

the crime. For two hours, with most intense concentration, Holmes

examined every object in turn, but his face showed that his quest

was not a successful one. Once only he paused in his patient

investigation.

“Have you taken anything off this shelf, Hopkins?”

“No, I have moved nothing.”

“Something has been taken. There is less dust in this corner of

the shelf than elsewhere. It may have been a book lying on its

side. It may have been a box. Well, well, I can do nothing more.

Let us walk in these beautiful woods, Watson, and give a few

hours to the birds and the flowers. We shall meet you here later,

Hopkins, and see if we can come to closer quarters with the

gentleman who has paid this visit in the night.”

It was past eleven o’clock when we formed our little ambuscade.

Hopkins was for leaving the door of the hut open, but Holmes was

of the opinion that this would rouse the suspicions of the

stranger. The lock was a perfectly simple one, and only a strong

blade was needed to push it back. Holmes also suggested that we

should wait, not inside the hut, but outside it, among the bushes

which grew round the farther window. In this way we should be

able to watch our man if he struck a light, and see what his

object was in this stealthy nocturnal visit.

It was a long and melancholy vigil, and yet brought with it

something of the thrill which the hunter feels when he lies

beside the water-pool, and waits for the coming of the thirsty

beast of prey. What savage creature was it which might steal upon

us out of the darkness? Was it a fierce tiger of crime, which

could only be taken fighting hard with flashing fang and claw, or

would it prove to be some skulking jackal, dangerous only to the

weak and unguarded?

In absolute silence we crouched amongst the bushes, waiting for

whatever might come. At first the steps of a few belated

villagers, or the sound of voices from the village, lightened our

vigil, but one by one these interruptions died away, and an

absolute stillness fell upon us, save for the chimes of the

distant church, which told us of the progress of the night, and

for the rustle and whisper of a fine rain falling amid the

foliage which roofed us in.

Half-past two had chimed, and it was the darkest hour which

precedes the dawn, when we all started as a low but sharp click

came from the direction of the gate. Someone had entered the

drive. Again there was a long silence, and I had begun to fear

that it was a false alarm, when a stealthy step was heard upon

the other side of the hut, and a moment later a metallic scraping

and clinking. The man was trying to force the lock. This time his

skill was greater or his tool was better, for there was a sudden

snap and the creak of the hinges. Then a match was struck, and

next instant the steady light from a candle filled the interior

of the hut. Through the gauze curtain our eyes were all riveted

upon the scene within.

The nocturnal visitor was a young man, frail and thin, with a

black moustache, which intensified the deadly pallor of his face.

He could not have been much above twenty years of age. I have

never seen any human being who appeared to be in such a pitiable

fright, for his teeth were visibly chattering, and he was shaking

in every limb. He was dressed like a gentleman, in Norfolk jacket

and knickerbockers, with a cloth cap upon his head. We watched

him staring round with frightened eyes. Then he laid the

candle-end upon the table and disappeared from our view into one

of the corners. He returned with a large book, one of the

logbooks which formed a line upon the shelves. Leaning on the

table, he rapidly turned over the leaves of this volume until he

came to the entry which he sought. Then, with an angry gesture of

his clenched hand, he closed the book, replaced it in the corner,

and put out the light. He had hardly turned to leave the hut when

Hopkins’s hand was on the fellow’s collar, and I heard his loud

gasp of terror as he understood that he was taken. The candle was

relit, and there was our wretched captive, shivering and cowering

in the grasp of the detective. He sank down upon the sea-chest,

and looked helplessly from one of us to the other.

“Now, my fine fellow,” said Stanley Hopkins, “who are you, and

what do you want here?”

The man pulled himself together, and faced us with an effort at

self-composure.

“You are detectives, I suppose?” said he. “You imagine I am

connected with the death of Captain Peter Carey. I assure you

that I am innocent.”

“We’ll see about that,” said Hopkins. “First of all, what is your

name?”

“It is John Hopley Neligan.”

I saw Holmes and Hopkins exchange a quick glance.

“What are you doing here?”

“Can I speak confidentially?”

“No, certainly not.”

“Why should I tell you?”

“If you have no answer, it may go badly with you at the trial.”

The young man winced.

“Well, I will tell you,” he said. “Why should I not? And yet I

hate to think of this old scandal gaining a new lease of life.

Did you ever hear of Dawson and Neligan?”

I could see, from Hopkins’s face, that he never had, but Holmes

was keenly interested.

“You mean the West Country bankers,” said he. “They failed for a

million, ruined half the county families of Cornwall, and Neligan

disappeared.”

“Exactly. Neligan was my father.”

At last we were getting something positive, and yet it seemed a

long gap between an absconding banker and Captain Peter Carey

pinned against the wall with one of his own harpoons. We all

listened intently to the young man’s words.

“It was my father who was really concerned. Dawson had retired. I

was only ten years of age at the time, but I was old enough to

feel the shame and horror of it all. It has always been said that

my father stole all the securities and fled. It is not true. It

was his belief that if he were given time in which to realize

them, all would be well and every creditor paid in full. He

started in his little yacht for Norway just before the warrant

was issued for his arrest. I can remember that last night when he

bade farewell to my mother. He left us a list of the securities

he was taking, and he swore that he would come back with his

honour cleared, and that none who had trusted him would suffer.

Well, no word was ever heard from him again. Both the yacht and

he vanished utterly. We believed, my mother and I, that he and

it, with the securities that he had taken with him, were at the

bottom of the sea. We had a faithful friend, however, who is a

business man, and it was he who discovered some time ago that

some of the securities which my father had with him had

reappeared on the London market. You can imagine our amazement. I

spent months in trying to trace them, and at last, after many

doubtings and difficulties, I discovered that the original seller

had been Captain Peter Carey, the owner of this hut.

“Naturally, I made some inquiries about the man. I found that he

had been in command of a whaler which was due to return from the

Arctic seas at the very time when my father was crossing to

Norway. The autumn of that year was a stormy one, and there was a

long succession of southerly gales. My father’s yacht may well

have been blown to the north, and there met by Captain Peter

Carey’s ship. If that were so, what had become of my father? In

any case, if I could prove from Peter Carey’s evidence how these

securities came on the market it would be a proof that my father

had not sold them, and that he had no view to personal profit

when he took them.

“I came down to Sussex with the intention of seeing the captain,

but it was at this moment that his terrible death occurred. I

read at the inquest a description of his cabin, in which it

stated that the old logbooks of his vessel were preserved in it.

It struck me that if I could see what occurred in the month of

August, 1883, on board the _Sea Unicorn_, I might settle the

mystery of my father’s fate. I tried last night to get at these

logbooks, but was unable to open the door. To-night I tried again

and succeeded, but I find that the pages which deal with that

month have been torn from the book. It was at that moment I found

myself a prisoner in your hands.”

“Is that all?” asked Hopkins.

“Yes, that is all.” His eyes shifted as he said it.

“You have nothing else to tell us?”

He hesitated.

“No, there is nothing.”

“You have not been here before last night?”

“No.”

“Then how do you account for _that_?” cried Hopkins, as he held

up the damning notebook, with the initials of our prisoner on the

first leaf and the blood-stain on the cover.

The wretched man collapsed. He sank his face in his hands, and

trembled all over.

“Where did you get it?” he groaned. “I did not know. I thought I

had lost it at the hotel.”

“That is enough,” said Hopkins, sternly. “Whatever else you have

to say, you must say in court. You will walk down with me now to

the police-station. Well, Mr. Holmes, I am very much obliged to

you and to your friend for coming down to help me. As it turns

out your presence was unnecessary, and I would have brought the

case to this successful issue without you, but, none the less, I

am grateful. Rooms have been reserved for you at the Brambletye

Hotel, so we can all walk down to the village together.”

“Well, Watson, what do you think of it?” asked Holmes, as we

travelled back next morning.

“I can see that you are not satisfied.”

“Oh, yes, my dear Watson, I am perfectly satisfied. At the same

time, Stanley Hopkins’s methods do not commend themselves to me.

I am disappointed in Stanley Hopkins. I had hoped for better

things from him. One should always look for a possible

alternative, and provide against it. It is the first rule of

criminal investigation.”

“What, then, is the alternative?”

“The line of investigation which I have myself been pursuing. It

may give us nothing. I cannot tell. But at least I shall follow

it to the end.”

Several letters were waiting for Holmes at Baker Street. He

snatched one of them up, opened it, and burst out into a

triumphant chuckle of laughter.

“Excellent, Watson! The alternative develops. Have you telegraph

forms? Just write a couple of messages for me: ‘Sumner, Shipping

Agent, Ratcliff Highway. Send three men on, to arrive ten

to-morrow morning.—Basil.’ That’s my name in those parts. The

other is: ‘Inspector Stanley Hopkins, 46 Lord Street, Brixton.

Come breakfast to-morrow at nine-thirty. Important. Wire if

unable to come.—Sherlock Holmes.’ There, Watson, this infernal

case has haunted me for ten days. I hereby banish it completely

from my presence. To-morrow, I trust that we shall hear the last

of it forever.”

Sharp at the hour named Inspector Stanley Hopkins appeared, and

we sat down together to the excellent breakfast which Mrs. Hudson

had prepared. The young detective was in high spirits at his

success.

“You really think that your solution must be correct?” asked

Holmes.

“I could not imagine a more complete case.”

“It did not seem to me conclusive.”

“You astonish me, Mr. Holmes. What more could one ask for?”

“Does your explanation cover every point?”

“Undoubtedly. I find that young Neligan arrived at the Brambletye

Hotel on the very day of the crime. He came on the pretence of

playing golf. His room was on the ground-floor, and he could get

out when he liked. That very night he went down to Woodman’s Lee,

saw Peter Carey at the hut, quarrelled with him, and killed him

with the harpoon. Then, horrified by what he had done, he fled

out of the hut, dropping the notebook which he had brought with

him in order to question Peter Carey about these different

securities. You may have observed that some of them were marked

with ticks, and the others—the great majority—were not. Those

which are ticked have been traced on the London market, but the

others, presumably, were still in the possession of Carey, and

young Neligan, according to his own account, was anxious to

recover them in order to do the right thing by his father’s

creditors. After his flight he did not dare to approach the hut

again for some time, but at last he forced himself to do so in

order to obtain the information which he needed. Surely that is

all simple and obvious?”

Holmes smiled and shook his head.

“It seems to me to have only one drawback, Hopkins, and that is

that it is intrinsically impossible. Have you tried to drive a

harpoon through a body? No? Tut, tut my dear sir, you must really

pay attention to these details. My friend Watson could tell you

that I spent a whole morning in that exercise. It is no easy

matter, and requires a strong and practised arm. But this blow

was delivered with such violence that the head of the weapon sank

deep into the wall. Do you imagine that this anæmic youth was

capable of so frightful an assault? Is he the man who hobnobbed

in rum and water with Black Peter in the dead of the night? Was

it his profile that was seen on the blind two nights before? No,

no, Hopkins, it is another and more formidable person for whom we

must seek.”

The detective’s face had grown longer and longer during Holmes’s

speech. His hopes and his ambitions were all crumbling about him.

But he would not abandon his position without a struggle.

“You can’t deny that Neligan was present that night, Mr. Holmes.

The book will prove that. I fancy that I have evidence enough to

satisfy a jury, even if you are able to pick a hole in it.

Besides, Mr. Holmes, I have laid my hand upon _my_ man. As to

this terrible person of yours, where is he?”

“I rather fancy that he is on the stair,” said Holmes, serenely.

“I think, Watson, that you would do well to put that revolver

where you can reach it.” He rose and laid a written paper upon a

side-table. “Now we are ready,” said he.

There had been some talking in gruff voices outside, and now Mrs.

Hudson opened the door to say that there were three men inquiring

for Captain Basil.

“Show them in one by one,” said Holmes.

“The first who entered was a little Ribston pippin of a man, with

ruddy cheeks and fluffy white side-whiskers. Holmes had drawn a

letter from his pocket.

“What name?” he asked.

“James Lancaster.”

“I am sorry, Lancaster, but the berth is full. Here is half a

sovereign for your trouble. Just step into this room and wait

there for a few minutes.”

The second man was a long, dried-up creature, with lank hair and

sallow cheeks. His name was Hugh Pattins. He also received his

dismissal, his half-sovereign, and the order to wait.

The third applicant was a man of remarkable appearance. A fierce

bull-dog face was framed in a tangle of hair and beard, and two

bold, dark eyes gleamed behind the cover of thick, tufted,

overhung eyebrows. He saluted and stood sailor-fashion, turning

his cap round in his hands.

“Your name?” asked Holmes.

“Patrick Cairns.”

“Harpooner?”

“Yes, sir. Twenty-six voyages.”

“Dundee, I suppose?”

“Yes, sir.”

“And ready to start with an exploring ship?”

“Yes, sir.”

“What wages?”

“Eight pounds a month.”

“Could you start at once?”

“As soon as I get my kit.”

“Have you your papers?”

“Yes, sir.” He took a sheaf of worn and greasy forms from his

pocket. Holmes glanced over them and returned them.

“You are just the man I want,” said he. “Here’s the agreement on

the side-table. If you sign it the whole matter will be settled.”

The seaman lurched across the room and took up the pen.

“Shall I sign here?” he asked, stooping over the table.

Holmes leaned over his shoulder and passed both hands over his

neck.

“This will do,” said he.

I heard a click of steel and a bellow like an enraged bull. The

next instant Holmes and the seaman were rolling on the ground

together. He was a man of such gigantic strength that, even with

the handcuffs which Holmes had so deftly fastened upon his

wrists, he would have very quickly overpowered my friend had

Hopkins and I not rushed to his rescue. Only when I pressed the

cold muzzle of the revolver to his temple did he at last

understand that resistance was vain. We lashed his ankles with

cord, and rose breathless from the struggle.

“I must really apologize, Hopkins,” said Sherlock Holmes. “I fear

that the scrambled eggs are cold. However, you will enjoy the

rest of your breakfast all the better, will you not, for the

thought that you have brought your case to a triumphant

conclusion.”

Stanley Hopkins was speechless with amazement.

“I don’t know what to say, Mr. Holmes,” he blurted out at last,

with a very red face. “It seems to me that I have been making a

fool of myself from the beginning. I understand now, what I

should never have forgotten, that I am the pupil and you are the

master. Even now I see what you have done, but I don’t know how

you did it or what it signifies.”

“Well, well,” said Holmes, good-humouredly. “We all learn by

experience, and your lesson this time is that you should never

lose sight of the alternative. You were so absorbed in young

Neligan that you could not spare a thought to Patrick Cairns, the

true murderer of Peter Carey.”

The hoarse voice of the seaman broke in on our conversation.

“See here, mister,” said he, “I make no complaint of being

man-handled in this fashion, but I would have you call things by

their right names. You say I murdered Peter Carey, I say I

_killed_ Peter Carey, and there’s all the difference. Maybe you

don’t believe what I say. Maybe you think I am just slinging you

a yarn.”

“Not at all,” said Holmes. “Let us hear what you have to say.”

“It’s soon told, and, by the Lord, every word of it is truth. I

knew Black Peter, and when he pulled out his knife I whipped a

harpoon through him sharp, for I knew that it was him or me.

That’s how he died. You can call it murder. Anyhow, I’d as soon

die with a rope round my neck as with Black Peter’s knife in my

heart.”

“How came you there?” asked Holmes.

“I’ll tell it you from the beginning. Just sit me up a little, so

as I can speak easy. It was in ’83 that it happened—August of

that year. Peter Carey was master of the _Sea Unicorn_, and I was

spare harpooner. We were coming out of the ice-pack on our way

home, with head winds and a week’s southerly gale, when we picked

up a little craft that had been blown north. There was one man on

her—a landsman. The crew had thought she would founder and had

made for the Norwegian coast in the dinghy. I guess they were all

drowned. Well, we took him on board, this man, and he and the

skipper had some long talks in the cabin. All the baggage we took

off with him was one tin box. So far as I know, the man’s name

was never mentioned, and on the second night he disappeared as if

he had never been. It was given out that he had either thrown

himself overboard or fallen overboard in the heavy weather that

we were having. Only one man knew what had happened to him, and

that was me, for, with my own eyes, I saw the skipper tip up his

heels and put him over the rail in the middle watch of a dark

night, two days before we sighted the Shetland Lights. Well, I

kept my knowledge to myself, and waited to see what would come of

it. When we got back to Scotland it was easily hushed up, and

nobody asked any questions. A stranger died by accident and it

was nobody’s business to inquire. Shortly after Peter Carey gave

up the sea, and it was long years before I could find where he

was. I guessed that he had done the deed for the sake of what was

in that tin box, and that he could afford now to pay me well for

keeping my mouth shut. I found out where he was through a sailor

man that had met him in London, and down I went to squeeze him.

The first night he was reasonable enough, and was ready to give

me what would make me free of the sea for life. We were to fix it

all two nights later. When I came, I found him three parts drunk

and in a vile temper. We sat down and we drank and we yarned

about old times, but the more he drank the less I liked the look

on his face. I spotted that harpoon upon the wall, and I thought

I might need it before I was through. Then at last he broke out

at me, spitting and cursing, with murder in his eyes and a great

clasp-knife in his hand. He had not time to get it from the

sheath before I had the harpoon through him. Heavens! what a yell

he gave! and his face gets between me and my sleep. I stood

there, with his blood splashing round me, and I waited for a bit,

but all was quiet, so I took heart once more. I looked round, and

there was the tin box on the shelf. I had as much right to it as

Peter Carey, anyhow, so I took it with me and left the hut. Like

a fool I left my baccy-pouch upon the table.

“Now I’ll tell you the queerest part of the whole story. I had

hardly got outside the hut when I heard someone coming, and I hid

among the bushes. A man came slinking along, went into the hut,

gave a cry as if he had seen a ghost, and legged it as hard as he

could run until he was out of sight. Who he was or what he wanted

is more than I can tell. For my part I walked ten miles, got a

train at Tunbridge Wells, and so reached London, and no one the

wiser.

“Well, when I came to examine the box I found there was no money

in it, and nothing but papers that I would not dare to sell. I

had lost my hold on Black Peter and was stranded in London

without a shilling. There was only my trade left. I saw these

advertisements about harpooners, and high wages, so I went to the

shipping agents, and they sent me here. That’s all I know, and I

say again that if I killed Black Peter, the law should give me

thanks, for I saved them the price of a hempen rope.”

“A very clear statement,” said Holmes, “rising and lighting his

pipe. “I think, Hopkins, that you should lose no time in

conveying your prisoner to a place of safety. This room is not

well adapted for a cell, and Mr. Patrick Cairns occupies too

large a proportion of our carpet.”

“Mr. Holmes,” said Hopkins, “I do not know how to express my

gratitude. Even now I do not understand how you attained this

result.”

“Simply by having the good fortune to get the right clue from the

beginning. It is very possible if I had known about this notebook

it might have led away my thoughts, as it did yours. But all I

heard pointed in the one direction. The amazing strength, the

skill in the use of the harpoon, the rum and water, the sealskin

tobacco-pouch with the coarse tobacco—all these pointed to a

seaman, and one who had been a whaler. I was convinced that the

initials ‘P.C.’ upon the pouch were a coincidence, and not those

of Peter Carey, since he seldom smoked, and no pipe was found in

his cabin. You remember that I asked whether whisky and brandy

were in the cabin. You said they were. How many landsmen are

there who would drink rum when they could get these other

spirits? Yes, I was certain it was a seaman.”

“And how did you find him?”

“My dear sir, the problem had become a very simple one. If it

were a seaman, it could only be a seaman who had been with him on

the _Sea Unicorn_. So far as I could learn he had sailed in no

other ship. I spent three days in wiring to Dundee, and at the

end of that time I had ascertained the names of the crew of the

_Sea Unicorn_ in 1883. When I found Patrick Cairns among the

harpooners, my research was nearing its end. I argued that the

man was probably in London, and that he would desire to leave the

country for a time. I therefore spent some days in the East End,

devised an Arctic expedition, put forth tempting terms for

harpooners who would serve under Captain Basil—and behold the

result!”

“Wonderful!” cried Hopkins. “Wonderful!”

“You must obtain the release of young Neligan as soon as

possible,” said Holmes. “I confess that I think you owe him some

apology. The tin box must be returned to him, but, of course, the

securities which Peter Carey has sold are lost forever. There’s

the cab, Hopkins, and you can remove your man. If you want me for

the trial, my address and that of Watson will be somewhere in

Norway—I’ll send particulars later.”

THE ADVENTURE OF CHARLES AUGUSTUS MILVERTON

It is years since the incidents of which I speak took place, and

yet it is with diffidence that I allude to them. For a long time,

even with the utmost discretion and reticence, it would have been

impossible to make the facts public, but now the principal person

concerned is beyond the reach of human law, and with due

suppression the story may be told in such fashion as to injure no

one. It records an absolutely unique experience in the career

both of Mr. Sherlock Holmes and of myself. The reader will excuse

me if I conceal the date or any other fact by which he might

trace the actual occurrence.

We had been out for one of our evening rambles, Holmes and I, and

had returned about six o’clock on a cold, frosty winter’s

evening. As Holmes turned up the lamp the light fell upon a card

on the table. He glanced at it, and then, with an ejaculation of

disgust, threw it on the floor. I picked it up and read:

CHARLES AUGUSTUS MILVERTON,

Appledore Towers,

Hampstead.

_Agent_.

“Who is he?” I asked.

“The worst man in London,” Holmes answered, as he sat down and

stretched his legs before the fire. “Is anything on the back of

the card?”

I turned it over.

“Will call at 6:30—C.A.M.,” I read.

“Hum! He’s about due. Do you feel a creeping, shrinking

sensation, Watson, when you stand before the serpents in the Zoo,

and see the slithery, gliding, venomous creatures, with their

deadly eyes and wicked, flattened faces? Well, that’s how

Milverton impresses me. I’ve had to do with fifty murderers in my

career, but the worst of them never gave me the repulsion which I

have for this fellow. And yet I can’t get out of doing business

with him—indeed, he is here at my invitation.”

“But who is he?”

“I’ll tell you, Watson. He is the king of all the blackmailers.

Heaven help the man, and still more the woman, whose secret and

reputation come into the power of Milverton! With a smiling face

and a heart of marble, he will squeeze and squeeze until he has

drained them dry. The fellow is a genius in his way, and would

have made his mark in some more savoury trade. His method is as

follows: He allows it to be known that he is prepared to pay very

high sums for letters which compromise people of wealth and

position. He receives these wares not only from treacherous

valets or maids, but frequently from genteel ruffians, who have

gained the confidence and affection of trusting women. He deals

with no niggard hand. I happen to know that he paid seven hundred

pounds to a footman for a note two lines in length, and that the

ruin of a noble family was the result. Everything which is in the

market goes to Milverton, and there are hundreds in this great

city who turn white at his name. No one knows where his grip may

fall, for he is far too rich and far too cunning to work from

hand to mouth. He will hold a card back for years in order to

play it at the moment when the stake is best worth winning. I

have said that he is the worst man in London, and I would ask you

how could one compare the ruffian, who in hot blood bludgeons his

mate, with this man, who methodically and at his leisure tortures

the soul and wrings the nerves in order to add to his already

swollen money-bags?”

I had seldom heard my friend speak with such intensity of

feeling.

“But surely,” said I, “the fellow must be within the grasp of the

law?”

“Technically, no doubt, but practically not. What would it profit

a woman, for example, to get him a few months’ imprisonment if

her own ruin must immediately follow? His victims dare not hit

back. If ever he blackmailed an innocent person, then indeed we

should have him, but he is as cunning as the Evil One. No, no, we

must find other ways to fight him.”

“And why is he here?”

“Because an illustrious client has placed her piteous case in my

hands. It is the Lady Eva Blackwell, the most beautiful

_débutante_ of last season. She is to be married in a fortnight

to the Earl of Dovercourt. This fiend has several imprudent

letters—imprudent, Watson, nothing worse—which were written to an

impecunious young squire in the country. They would suffice to

break off the match. Milverton will send the letters to the Earl

unless a large sum of money is paid him. I have been commissioned

to meet him, and—to make the best terms I can.”

At that instant there was a clatter and a rattle in the street

below. Looking down I saw a stately carriage and pair, the

brilliant lamps gleaming on the glossy haunches of the noble

chestnuts. A footman opened the door, and a small, stout man in a

shaggy astrakhan overcoat descended. A minute later he was in the

room.

Charles Augustus Milverton was a man of fifty, with a large,

intellectual head, a round, plump, hairless face, a perpetual

frozen smile, and two keen grey eyes, which gleamed brightly from

behind broad, gold-rimmed glasses. There was something of Mr.

Pickwick’s benevolence in his appearance, marred only by the

insincerity of the fixed smile and by the hard glitter of those

restless and penetrating eyes. His voice was as smooth and suave

as his countenance, as he advanced with a plump little hand

extended, murmuring his regret for having missed us at his first

visit. Holmes disregarded the outstretched hand and looked at him

with a face of granite. Milverton’s smile broadened, he shrugged

his shoulders removed his overcoat, folded it with great

deliberation over the back of a chair, and then took a seat.

“This gentleman?” said he, with a wave in my direction. “Is it

discreet? Is it right?”

“Dr. Watson is my friend and partner.”

“Very good, Mr. Holmes. It is only in your client’s interests

that I protested. The matter is so very delicate——”

“Dr. Watson has already heard of it.”

“Then we can proceed to business. You say that you are acting for

Lady Eva. Has she empowered you to accept my terms?”

“What are your terms?”

“Seven thousand pounds.”

“And the alternative?”

“My dear sir, it is painful for me to discuss it, but if the

money is not paid on the 14th, there certainly will be no

marriage on the 18th.” His insufferable smile was more complacent

than ever.

Holmes thought for a little.

“You appear to me,” he said, at last, “to be taking matters too

much for granted. I am, of course, familiar with the contents of

these letters. My client will certainly do what I may advise. I

shall counsel her to tell her future husband the whole story and

to trust to his generosity.”

Milverton chuckled.

“You evidently do not know the Earl,” said he.

From the baffled look upon Holmes’s face, I could see clearly

that he did.

“What harm is there in the letters?” he asked.

“They are sprightly—very sprightly,” Milverton answered. “The

lady was a charming correspondent. But I can assure you that the

Earl of Dovercourt would fail to appreciate them. However, since

you think otherwise, we will let it rest at that. It is purely a

matter of business. If you think that it is in the best interests

of your client that these letters should be placed in the hands

of the Earl, then you would indeed be foolish to pay so large a

sum of money to regain them.” He rose and seized his astrakhan

coat.

Holmes was grey with anger and mortification.

“Wait a little,” he said. “You go too fast. We should certainly

make every effort to avoid scandal in so delicate a matter.”

Milverton relapsed into his chair.

“I was sure that you would see it in that light,” he purred.

“At the same time,” Holmes continued, “Lady Eva is not a wealthy

woman. I assure you that two thousand pounds would be a drain

upon her resources, and that the sum you name is utterly beyond

her power. I beg, therefore, that you will moderate your demands,

and that you will return the letters at the price I indicate,

which is, I assure you, the highest that you can get.”

Milverton’s smile broadened and his eyes twinkled humorously.

“I am aware that what you say is true about the lady’s

resources,” said he. “At the same time you must admit that the

occasion of a lady’s marriage is a very suitable time for her

friends and relatives to make some little effort upon her behalf.

They may hesitate as to an acceptable wedding present. Let me

assure them that this little bundle of letters would give more

joy than all the candelabra and butter-dishes in London.”

“It is impossible,” said Holmes.

“Dear me, dear me, how unfortunate!” cried Milverton, taking out

a bulky pocketbook. “I cannot help thinking that ladies are

ill-advised in not making an effort. Look at this!” He held up a

little note with a coat-of-arms upon the envelope. “That belongs

to—well, perhaps it is hardly fair to tell the name until

to-morrow morning. But at that time it will be in the hands of

the lady’s husband. And all because she will not find a beggarly

sum which she could get by turning her diamonds into paste. It

_is_ such a pity! Now, you remember the sudden end of the

engagement between the Honourable Miss Miles and Colonel Dorking?

Only two days before the wedding, there was a paragraph in the

_Morning Post_ to say that it was all off. And why? It is almost

incredible, but the absurd sum of twelve hundred pounds would

have settled the whole question. Is it not pitiful? And here I

find you, a man of sense, boggling about terms, when your

client’s future and honour are at stake. You surprise me, Mr.

Holmes.”

“What I say is true,” Holmes answered. “The money cannot be

found. Surely it is better for you to take the substantial sum

which I offer than to ruin this woman’s career, which can profit

you in no way?”

“There you make a mistake, Mr. Holmes. An exposure would profit

me indirectly to a considerable extent. I have eight or ten

similar cases maturing. If it was circulated among them that I

had made a severe example of the Lady Eva, I should find all of

them much more open to reason. You see my point?”

Holmes sprang from his chair.

“Get behind him, Watson! Don’t let him out! Now, sir, let us see

the contents of that notebook.”

Milverton had glided as quick as a rat to the side of the room

and stood with his back against the wall.

“Mr. Holmes, Mr. Holmes,” he said, turning the front of his coat

and exhibiting the butt of a large revolver, which projected from

the inside pocket. “I have been expecting you to do something

original. This has been done so often, and what good has ever

come from it? I assure you that I am armed to the teeth, and I am

perfectly prepared to use my weapons, knowing that the law will

support me. Besides, your supposition that I would bring the

letters here in a notebook is entirely mistaken. I would do

nothing so foolish. And now, gentlemen, I have one or two little

interviews this evening, and it is a long drive to Hampstead.” He

stepped forward, took up his coat, laid his hand on his revolver,

and turned to the door. I picked up a chair, but Holmes shook his

head, and I laid it down again. With a bow, a smile, and a

twinkle, Milverton was out of the room, and a few moments after

we heard the slam of the carriage door and the rattle of the

wheels as he drove away.

Holmes sat motionless by the fire, his hands buried deep in his

trouser pockets, his chin sunk upon his breast, his eyes fixed

upon the glowing embers. For half an hour he was silent and

still. Then, with the gesture of a man who has taken his

decision, he sprang to his feet and passed into his bedroom. A

little later a rakish young workman, with a goatee beard and a

swagger, lit his clay pipe at the lamp before descending into the

street. “I’ll be back some time, Watson,” said he, and vanished

into the night. I understood that he had opened his campaign

against Charles Augustus Milverton, but I little dreamed the

strange shape which that campaign was destined to take.

For some days Holmes came and went at all hours in this attire,

but beyond a remark that his time was spent at Hampstead, and

that it was not wasted, I knew nothing of what he was doing. At

last, however, on a wild, tempestuous evening, when the wind

screamed and rattled against the windows, he returned from his

last expedition, and having removed his disguise he sat before

the fire and laughed heartily in his silent inward fashion.

“You would not call me a marrying man, Watson?”

“No, indeed!”

“You’ll be interested to hear that I’m engaged.”

“My dear fellow! I congrat——”

“To Milverton’s housemaid.”

“Good heavens, Holmes!”

“I wanted information, Watson.”

“Surely you have gone too far?”

“It was a most necessary step. I am a plumber with a rising

business, Escott, by name. I have walked out with her each

evening, and I have talked with her. Good heavens, those talks!

However, I have got all I wanted. I know Milverton’s house as I

know the palm of my hand.”

“But the girl, Holmes?”

He shrugged his shoulders.

“You can’t help it, my dear Watson. You must play your cards as

best you can when such a stake is on the table. However, I

rejoice to say that I have a hated rival, who will certainly cut

me out the instant that my back is turned. What a splendid night

it is!”

“You like this weather?”

“It suits my purpose. Watson, I mean to burgle Milverton’s house

to-night.”

I had a catching of the breath, and my skin went cold at the

words, which were slowly uttered in a tone of concentrated

resolution. As a flash of lightning in the night shows up in an

instant every detail of a wild landscape, so at one glance I

seemed to see every possible result of such an action—the

detection, the capture, the honoured career ending in irreparable

failure and disgrace, my friend himself lying at the mercy of the

odious Milverton.

“For heaven’s sake, Holmes, think what you are doing,” I cried.

“My dear fellow, I have given it every consideration. I am never

precipitate in my actions, nor would I adopt so energetic and,

indeed, so dangerous a course, if any other were possible. Let us

look at the matter clearly and fairly. I suppose that you will

admit that the action is morally justifiable, though technically

criminal. To burgle his house is no more than to forcibly take

his pocketbook—an action in which you were prepared to aid me.”

I turned it over in my mind.

“Yes,” I said, “it is morally justifiable so long as our object

is to take no articles save those which are used for an illegal

purpose.”

“Exactly. Since it is morally justifiable, I have only to

consider the question of personal risk. Surely a gentleman should

not lay much stress upon this, when a lady is in most desperate

need of his help?”

“You will be in such a false position.”

“Well, that is part of the risk. There is no other possible way

of regaining these letters. The unfortunate lady has not the

money, and there are none of her people in whom she could

confide. To-morrow is the last day of grace, and unless we can

get the letters to-night, this villain will be as good as his

word and will bring about her ruin. I must, therefore, abandon my

client to her fate or I must play this last card. Between

ourselves, Watson, it’s a sporting duel between this fellow

Milverton and me. He had, as you saw, the best of the first

exchanges, but my self-respect and my reputation are concerned to

fight it to a finish.”

“Well, I don’t like it, but I suppose it must be,” said I. “When

do we start?”

“You are not coming.”

“Then you are not going,” said I. “I give you my word of

honour—and I never broke it in my life—that I will take a cab

straight to the police-station and give you away, unless you let

me share this adventure with you.”

“You can’t help me.”

“How do you know that? You can’t tell what may happen. Anyway, my

resolution is taken. Other people besides you have self-respect,

and even reputations.”

Holmes had looked annoyed, but his brow cleared, and he clapped

me on the shoulder.

“Well, well, my dear fellow, be it so. We have shared this same

room for some years, and it would be amusing if we ended by

sharing the same cell. You know, Watson, I don’t mind confessing

to you that I have always had an idea that I would have made a

highly efficient criminal. This is the chance of my lifetime in

that direction. See here!” He took a neat little leather case out

of a drawer, and opening it he exhibited a number of shining

instruments. “This is a first-class, up-to-date burgling kit,

with nickel-plated jemmy, diamond-tipped glass-cutter, adaptable

keys, and every modern improvement which the march of

civilization demands. Here, too, is my dark lantern. Everything

is in order. Have you a pair of silent shoes?”

“I have rubber-soled tennis shoes.”

“Excellent! And a mask?”

“I can make a couple out of black silk.”

“I can see that you have a strong, natural turn for this sort of

thing. Very good, do you make the masks. We shall have some cold

supper before we start. It is now nine-thirty. At eleven we shall

drive as far as Church Row. It is a quarter of an hour’s walk

from there to Appledore Towers. We shall be at work before

midnight. Milverton is a heavy sleeper, and retires punctually at

ten-thirty. With any luck we should be back here by two, with the

Lady Eva’s letters in my pocket.”

Holmes and I put on our dress-clothes, so that we might appear to

be two theatre-goers homeward bound. In Oxford Street we picked

up a hansom and drove to an address in Hampstead. Here we paid

off our cab, and with our great coats buttoned up, for it was

bitterly cold, and the wind seemed to blow through us, we walked

along the edge of the heath.

“It’s a business that needs delicate treatment,” said Holmes.

“These documents are contained in a safe in the fellow’s study,

and the study is the ante-room of his bed-chamber. On the other

hand, like all these stout, little men who do themselves well, he

is a plethoric sleeper. Agatha—that’s my _fiancée_—says it is a

joke in the servants’ hall that it’s impossible to wake the

master. He has a secretary who is devoted to his interests, and

never budges from the study all day. That’s why we are going at

night. Then he has a beast of a dog which roams the garden. I met

Agatha late the last two evenings, and she locks the brute up so

as to give me a clear run. This is the house, this big one in its

own grounds. Through the gate—now to the right among the laurels.

We might put on our masks here, I think. You see, there is not a

glimmer of light in any of the windows, and everything is working

splendidly.”

With our black silk face-coverings, which turned us into two of

the most truculent figures in London, we stole up to the silent,

gloomy house. A sort of tiled veranda extended along one side of

it, lined by several windows and two doors.

“That’s his bedroom,” Holmes whispered. “This door opens straight

into the study. It would suit us best, but it is bolted as well

as locked, and we should make too much noise getting in. Come

round here. There’s a greenhouse which opens into the

drawing-room.”

The place was locked, but Holmes removed a circle of glass and

turned the key from the inside. An instant afterwards he had

closed the door behind us, and we had become felons in the eyes

of the law. The thick, warm air of the conservatory and the rich,

choking fragrance of exotic plants took us by the throat. He

seized my hand in the darkness and led me swiftly past banks of

shrubs which brushed against our faces. Holmes had remarkable

powers, carefully cultivated, of seeing in the dark. Still

holding my hand in one of his, he opened a door, and I was

vaguely conscious that we had entered a large room in which a

cigar had been smoked not long before. He felt his way among the

furniture, opened another door, and closed it behind us. Putting

out my hand I felt several coats hanging from the wall, and I

understood that I was in a passage. We passed along it and Holmes

very gently opened a door upon the right-hand side. Something

rushed out at us and my heart sprang into my mouth, but I could

have laughed when I realized that it was the cat. A fire was

burning in this new room, and again the air was heavy with

tobacco smoke. Holmes entered on tiptoe, waited for me to follow,

and then very gently closed the door. We were in Milverton’s

study, and a _portière_ at the farther side showed the entrance

to his bedroom.

It was a good fire, and the room was illuminated by it. Near the

door I saw the gleam of an electric switch, but it was

unnecessary, even if it had been safe, to turn it on. At one side

of the fireplace was a heavy curtain which covered the bay window

we had seen from outside. On the other side was the door which

communicated with the veranda. A desk stood in the centre, with a

turning-chair of shining red leather. Opposite was a large

bookcase, with a marble bust of Athene on the top. In the corner,

between the bookcase and the wall, there stood a tall, green

safe, the firelight flashing back from the polished brass knobs

upon its face. Holmes stole across and looked at it. Then he

crept to the door of the bedroom, and stood with slanting head

listening intently. No sound came from within. Meanwhile it had

struck me that it would be wise to secure our retreat through the

outer door, so I examined it. To my amazement, it was neither

locked nor bolted. I touched Holmes on the arm, and he turned his

masked face in that direction. I saw him start, and he was

evidently as surprised as I.

“I don’t like it,” he whispered, putting his lips to my very ear.

“I can’t quite make it out. Anyhow, we have no time to lose.”

“Can I do anything?”

“Yes, stand by the door. If you hear anyone come, bolt it on the

inside, and we can get away as we came. If they come the other

way, we can get through the door if our job is done, or hide

behind these window curtains if it is not. Do you understand?”

I nodded, and stood by the door. My first feeling of fear had

passed away, and I thrilled now with a keener zest than I had

ever enjoyed when we were the defenders of the law instead of its

defiers. The high object of our mission, the consciousness that

it was unselfish and chivalrous, the villainous character of our

opponent, all added to the sporting interest of the adventure.

Far from feeling guilty, I rejoiced and exulted in our dangers.

With a glow of admiration I watched Holmes unrolling his case of

instruments and choosing his tool with the calm, scientific

accuracy of a surgeon who performs a delicate operation. I knew

that the opening of safes was a particular hobby with him, and I

understood the joy which it gave him to be confronted with this

green and gold monster, the dragon which held in its maw the

reputations of many fair ladies. Turning up the cuffs of his

dress-coat—he had placed his overcoat on a chair—Holmes laid out

two drills, a jemmy, and several skeleton keys. I stood at the

centre door with my eyes glancing at each of the others, ready

for any emergency, though, indeed, my plans were somewhat vague

as to what I should do if we were interrupted. For half an hour,

Holmes worked with concentrated energy, laying down one tool,

picking up another, handling each with the strength and delicacy

of the trained mechanic. Finally I heard a click, the broad green

door swung open, and inside I had a glimpse of a number of paper

packets, each tied, sealed, and inscribed. Holmes picked one out,

but it was as hard to read by the flickering fire, and he drew

out his little dark lantern, for it was too dangerous, with

Milverton in the next room, to switch on the electric light.

Suddenly I saw him halt, listen intently, and then in an instant

he had swung the door of the safe to, picked up his coat, stuffed

his tools into the pockets, and darted behind the window curtain,

motioning me to do the same.

It was only when I had joined him there that I heard what had

alarmed his quicker senses. There was a noise somewhere within

the house. A door slammed in the distance. Then a confused, dull

murmur broke itself into the measured thud of heavy footsteps

rapidly approaching. They were in the passage outside the room.

They paused at the door. The door opened. There was a sharp snick

as the electric light was turned on. The door closed once more,

and the pungent reek of a strong cigar was borne to our nostrils.

Then the footsteps continued backward and forward, backward and

forward, within a few yards of us. Finally there was a creak from

a chair, and the footsteps ceased. Then a key clicked in a lock,

and I heard the rustle of papers.

So far I had not dared to look out, but now I gently parted the

division of the curtains in front of me and peeped through. From

the pressure of Holmes’s shoulder against mine, I knew that he

was sharing my observations. Right in front of us, and almost

within our reach, was the broad, rounded back of Milverton. It

was evident that we had entirely miscalculated his movements,

that he had never been to his bedroom, but that he had been

sitting up in some smoking or billiard room in the farther wing

of the house, the windows of which we had not seen. His broad,

grizzled head, with its shining patch of baldness, was in the

immediate foreground of our vision. He was leaning far back in

the red leather chair, his legs outstretched, a long, black cigar

projecting at an angle from his mouth. He wore a semi-military

smoking jacket, claret-coloured, with a black velvet collar. In

his hand he held a long, legal document which he was reading in

an indolent fashion, blowing rings of tobacco smoke from his lips

as he did so. There was no promise of a speedy departure in his

composed bearing and his comfortable attitude.

I felt Holmes’s hand steal into mine and give me a reassuring

shake, as if to say that the situation was within his powers, and

that he was easy in his mind. I was not sure whether he had seen

what was only too obvious from my position, that the door of the

safe was imperfectly closed, and that Milverton might at any

moment observe it. In my own mind I had determined that if I were

sure, from the rigidity of his gaze, that it had caught his eye,

I would at once spring out, throw my great coat over his head,

pinion him, and leave the rest to Holmes. But Milverton never

looked up. He was languidly interested by the papers in his hand,

and page after page was turned as he followed the argument of the

lawyer. At least, I thought, when he has finished the document

and the cigar he will go to his room, but before he had reached

the end of either, there came a remarkable development, which

turned our thoughts into quite another channel.

Several times I had observed that Milverton looked at his watch,

and once he had risen and sat down again, with a gesture of

impatience. The idea, however, that he might have an appointment

at so strange an hour never occurred to me until a faint sound

reached my ears from the veranda outside. Milverton dropped his

papers and sat rigid in his chair. The sound was repeated, and

then there came a gentle tap at the door. Milverton rose and

opened it.

“Well,” said he, curtly, “you are nearly half an hour late.”

So this was the explanation of the unlocked door and of the

nocturnal vigil of Milverton. There was the gentle rustle of a

woman’s dress. I had closed the slit between the curtains as

Milverton’s face had turned in our direction, but now I ventured

very carefully to open it once more. He had resumed his seat, the

cigar still projecting at an insolent angle from the corner of

his mouth. In front of him, in the full glare of the electric

light, there stood a tall, slim, dark woman, a veil over her

face, a mantle drawn round her chin. Her breath came quick and

fast, and every inch of the lithe figure was quivering with

strong emotion.

“Well,” said Milverton, “you made me lose a good night’s rest, my

dear. I hope you’ll prove worth it. You couldn’t come any other

time—eh?”

The woman shook her head.

“Well, if you couldn’t you couldn’t. If the Countess is a hard

mistress, you have your chance to get level with her now. Bless

the girl, what are you shivering about? That’s right. Pull

yourself together. Now, let us get down to business.” He took a

notebook from the drawer of his desk. “You say that you have five

letters which compromise the Countess d’Albert. You want to sell

them. I want to buy them. So far so good. It only remains to fix

a price. I should want to inspect the letters, of course. If they

are really good specimens—Great heavens, is it you?”

The woman, without a word, had raised her veil and dropped the

mantle from her chin. It was a dark, handsome, clear-cut face

which confronted Milverton—a face with a curved nose, strong,

dark eyebrows shading hard, glittering eyes, and a straight,

thin-lipped mouth set in a dangerous smile.

“It is I,” she said, “the woman whose life you have ruined.”

Milverton laughed, but fear vibrated in his voice. “You were so

very obstinate,” said he. “Why did you drive me to such

extremities? I assure you I wouldn’t hurt a fly of my own accord,

but every man has his business, and what was I to do? I put the

price well within your means. You would not pay.”

“So you sent the letters to my husband, and he—the noblest

gentleman that ever lived, a man whose boots I was never worthy

to lace—he broke his gallant heart and died. You remember that

last night, when I came through that door, I begged and prayed

you for mercy, and you laughed in my face as you are trying to

laugh now, only your coward heart cannot keep your lips from

twitching. Yes, you never thought to see me here again, but it

was that night which taught me how I could meet you face to face,

and alone. Well, Charles Milverton, what have you to say?”

“Don’t imagine that you can bully me,” said he, rising to his

feet. “I have only to raise my voice and I could call my servants

and have you arrested. But I will make allowance for your natural

anger. Leave the room at once as you came, and I will say no

more.”

The woman stood with her hand buried in her bosom, and the same

deadly smile on her thin lips.

“You will ruin no more lives as you have ruined mine. You will

wring no more hearts as you wrung mine. I will free the world of

a poisonous thing. Take that, you hound—and that!—and that!—and

that!”

She had drawn a little gleaming revolver, and emptied barrel

after barrel into Milverton’s body, the muzzle within two feet of

his shirt front. He shrank away and then fell forward upon the

table, coughing furiously and clawing among the papers. Then he

staggered to his feet, received another shot, and rolled upon the

floor. “You’ve done me,” he cried, and lay still. The woman

looked at him intently, and ground her heel into his upturned

face. She looked again, but there was no sound or movement. I

heard a sharp rustle, the night air blew into the heated room,

and the avenger was gone.

No interference upon our part could have saved the man from his

fate, but, as the woman poured bullet after bullet into

Milverton’s shrinking body I was about to spring out, when I felt

Holmes’s cold, strong grasp upon my wrist. I understood the whole

argument of that firm, restraining grip—that it was no affair of

ours, that justice had overtaken a villain, that we had our own

duties and our own objects, which were not to be lost sight of.

But hardly had the woman rushed from the room when Holmes, with

swift, silent steps, was over at the other door. He turned the

key in the lock. At the same instant we heard voices in the house

and the sound of hurrying feet. The revolver shots had roused the

household. With perfect coolness Holmes slipped across to the

safe, filled his two arms with bundles of letters, and poured

them all into the fire. Again and again he did it, until the safe

was empty. Someone turned the handle and beat upon the outside of

the door. Holmes looked swiftly round. The letter which had been

the messenger of death for Milverton lay, all mottled with his

blood, upon the table. Holmes tossed it in among the blazing

papers. Then he drew the key from the outer door, passed through

after me, and locked it on the outside. “This way, Watson,” said

he, “we can scale the garden wall in this direction.”

I could not have believed that an alarm could have spread so

swiftly. Looking back, the huge house was one blaze of light. The

front door was open, and figures were rushing down the drive. The

whole garden was alive with people, and one fellow raised a

view-halloa as we emerged from the veranda and followed hard at

our heels. Holmes seemed to know the grounds perfectly, and he

threaded his way swiftly among a plantation of small trees, I

close at his heels, and our foremost pursuer panting behind us.

It was a six-foot wall which barred our path, but he sprang to

the top and over. As I did the same I felt the hand of the man

behind me grab at my ankle, but I kicked myself free and

scrambled over a grass-strewn coping. I fell upon my face among

some bushes, but Holmes had me on my feet in an instant, and

together we dashed away across the huge expanse of Hampstead

Heath. We had run two miles, I suppose, before Holmes at last

halted and listened intently. All was absolute silence behind us.

We had shaken off our pursuers and were safe.

We had breakfasted and were smoking our morning pipe on the day

after the remarkable experience which I have recorded, when Mr.

Lestrade, of Scotland Yard, very solemn and impressive, was

ushered into our modest sitting-room.

“Good-morning, Mr. Holmes,” said he; “good-morning. May I ask if

you are very busy just now?”

“Not too busy to listen to you.”

“I thought that, perhaps, if you had nothing particular on hand,

you might care to assist us in a most remarkable case, which

occurred only last night at Hampstead.”

“Dear me!” said Holmes. “What was that?”

“A murder—a most dramatic and remarkable murder. I know how keen

you are upon these things, and I would take it as a great favour

if you would step down to Appledore Towers, and give us the

benefit of your advice. It is no ordinary crime. We have had our

eyes upon this Mr. Milverton for some time, and, between

ourselves, he was a bit of a villain. He is known to have held

papers which he used for blackmailing purposes. These papers have

all been burned by the murderers. No article of value was taken,

as it is probable that the criminals were men of good position,

whose sole object was to prevent social exposure.”

“Criminals?” said Holmes. “Plural?”

“Yes, there were two of them. They were as nearly as possible

captured red-handed. We have their footmarks, we have their

description, it’s ten to one that we trace them. The first fellow

was a bit too active, but the second was caught by the

under-gardener, and only got away after a struggle. He was a

middle-sized, strongly built man—square jaw, thick neck,

moustache, a mask over his eyes.”

“That’s rather vague,” said Sherlock Holmes. “My, it might be a

description of Watson!”

“It’s true,” said the inspector, with amusement. “It might be a

description of Watson.”

“Well, I’m afraid I can’t help you, Lestrade,” said Holmes. “The

fact is that I knew this fellow Milverton, that I considered him

one of the most dangerous men in London, and that I think there

are certain crimes which the law cannot touch, and which

therefore, to some extent, justify private revenge. No, it’s no

use arguing. I have made up my mind. My sympathies are with the

criminals rather than with the victim, and I will not handle this

case.”

Holmes had not said one word to me about the tragedy which we had

witnessed, but I observed all the morning that he was in his most

thoughtful mood, and he gave me the impression, from his vacant

eyes and his abstracted manner, of a man who is striving to

recall something to his memory. We were in the middle of our

lunch, when he suddenly sprang to his feet. “By Jove, Watson,

I’ve got it!” he cried. “Take your hat! Come with me!” He hurried

at his top speed down Baker Street and along Oxford Street, until

we had almost reached Regent Circus. Here, on the left hand,

there stands a shop window filled with photographs of the

celebrities and beauties of the day. Holmes’s eyes fixed

themselves upon one of them, and following his gaze I saw the

picture of a regal and stately lady in Court dress, with a high

diamond tiara upon her noble head. I looked at that delicately

curved nose, at the marked eyebrows, at the straight mouth, and

the strong little chin beneath it. Then I caught my breath as I

read the time-honoured title of the great nobleman and statesman

whose wife she had been. My eyes met those of Holmes, and he put

his finger to his lips as we turned away from the window.

THE ADVENTURE OF THE SIX NAPOLEONS

It was no very unusual thing for Mr. Lestrade, of Scotland Yard,

to look in upon us of an evening, and his visits were welcome to

Sherlock Holmes, for they enabled him to keep in touch with all

that was going on at the police headquarters. In return for the

news which Lestrade would bring, Holmes was always ready to

listen with attention to the details of any case upon which the

detective was engaged, and was able occasionally, without any

active interference, to give some hint or suggestion drawn from

his own vast knowledge and experience.

On this particular evening, Lestrade had spoken of the weather

and the newspapers. Then he had fallen silent, puffing

thoughtfully at his cigar. Holmes looked keenly at him.

“Anything remarkable on hand?” he asked.

“Oh, no, Mr. Holmes—nothing very particular.”

“Then tell me about it.”

Lestrade laughed.

“Well, Mr. Holmes, there is no use denying that there _is_

something on my mind. And yet it is such an absurd business, that

I hesitated to bother you about it. On the other hand, although

it is trivial, it is undoubtedly queer, and I know that you have

a taste for all that is out of the common. But, in my opinion, it

comes more in Dr. Watson’s line than ours.”

“Disease?” said I.

“Madness, anyhow. And a queer madness, too. You wouldn’t think

there was anyone living at this time of day who had such a hatred

of Napoleon the First that he would break any image of him that

he could see.”

Holmes sank back in his chair.

“That’s no business of mine,” said he.

“Exactly. That’s what I said. But then, when the man commits

burglary in order to break images which are not his own, that

brings it away from the doctor and on to the policeman.”

Holmes sat up again.

“Burglary! This is more interesting. Let me hear the details.”

Lestrade took out his official notebook and refreshed his memory

from its pages.

“The first case reported was four days ago,” said he. “It was at

the shop of Morse Hudson, who has a place for the sale of

pictures and statues in the Kennington Road. The assistant had

left the front shop for an instant, when he heard a crash, and

hurrying in he found a plaster bust of Napoleon, which stood with

several other works of art upon the counter, lying shivered into

fragments. He rushed out into the road, but, although several

passers-by declared that they had noticed a man run out of the

shop, he could neither see anyone nor could he find any means of

identifying the rascal. It seemed to be one of those senseless

acts of hooliganism which occur from time to time, and it was

reported to the constable on the beat as such. The plaster cast

was not worth more than a few shillings, and the whole affair

appeared to be too childish for any particular investigation.

“The second case, however, was more serious, and also more

singular. It occurred only last night.

“In Kennington Road, and within a few hundred yards of Morse

Hudson’s shop, there lives a well-known medical practitioner,

named Dr. Barnicot, who has one of the largest practices upon the

south side of the Thames. His residence and principal

consulting-room is at Kennington Road, but he has a branch

surgery and dispensary at Lower Brixton Road, two miles away.

This Dr. Barnicot is an enthusiastic admirer of Napoleon, and his

house is full of books, pictures, and relics of the French

Emperor. Some little time ago he purchased from Morse Hudson two

duplicate plaster casts of the famous head of Napoleon by the

French sculptor, Devine. One of these he placed in his hall in

the house at Kennington Road, and the other on the mantelpiece of

the surgery at Lower Brixton. Well, when Dr. Barnicot came down

this morning he was astonished to find that his house had been

burgled during the night, but that nothing had been taken save

the plaster head from the hall. It had been carried out and had

been dashed savagely against the garden wall, under which its

splintered fragments were discovered.”

Holmes rubbed his hands.

“This is certainly very novel,” said he.

“I thought it would please you. But I have not got to the end

yet. Dr. Barnicot was due at his surgery at twelve o’clock, and

you can imagine his amazement when, on arriving there, he found

that the window had been opened in the night and that the broken

pieces of his second bust were strewn all over the room. It had

been smashed to atoms where it stood. In neither case were there

any signs which could give us a clue as to the criminal or

lunatic who had done the mischief. Now, Mr. Holmes, you have got

the facts.”

“They are singular, not to say grotesque,” said Holmes. “May I

ask whether the two busts smashed in Dr. Barnicot’s rooms were

the exact duplicates of the one which was destroyed in Morse

Hudson’s shop?”

“They were taken from the same mould.”

“Such a fact must tell against the theory that the man who breaks

them is influenced by any general hatred of Napoleon. Considering

how many hundreds of statues of the great Emperor must exist in

London, it is too much to suppose such a coincidence as that a

promiscuous iconoclast should chance to begin upon three

specimens of the same bust.”

“Well, I thought as you do,” said Lestrade. “On the other hand,

this Morse Hudson is the purveyor of busts in that part of

London, and these three were the only ones which had been in his

shop for years. So, although, as you say, there are many hundreds

of statues in London, it is very probable that these three were

the only ones in that district. Therefore, a local fanatic would

begin with them. What do you think, Dr. Watson?”

“There are no limits to the possibilities of monomania,” I

answered. “There is the condition which the modern French

psychologists have called the _idée fixe_, which may be trifling

in character, and accompanied by complete sanity in every other

way. A man who had read deeply about Napoleon, or who had

possibly received some hereditary family injury through the great

war, might conceivably form such an _idée fixe_ and under its

influence be capable of any fantastic outrage.”

“That won’t do, my dear Watson,” said Holmes, shaking his head,

“for no amount of _idée fixe_ would enable your interesting

monomaniac to find out where these busts were situated.”

“Well, how do _you_ explain it?”

“I don’t attempt to do so. I would only observe that there is a

certain method in the gentleman’s eccentric proceedings. For

example, in Dr. Barnicot’s hall, where a sound might arouse the

family, the bust was taken outside before being broken, whereas

in the surgery, where there was less danger of an alarm, it was

smashed where it stood. The affair seems absurdly trifling, and

yet I dare call nothing trivial when I reflect that some of my

most classic cases have had the least promising commencement. You

will remember, Watson, how the dreadful business of the Abernetty

family was first brought to my notice by the depth which the

parsley had sunk into the butter upon a hot day. I can’t afford,

therefore, to smile at your three broken busts, Lestrade, and I

shall be very much obliged to you if you will let me hear of any

fresh development of so singular a chain of events.”

The development for which my friend had asked came in a quicker

and an infinitely more tragic form than he could have imagined. I

was still dressing in my bedroom next morning, when there was a

tap at the door and Holmes entered, a telegram in his hand. He

read it aloud:

“Come instantly, 131, Pitt Street, Kensington.—LESTRADE.”

“What is it, then?” I asked.

“Don’t know—may be anything. But I suspect it is the sequel of

the story of the statues. In that case our friend the

image-breaker has begun operations in another quarter of London.

There’s coffee on the table, Watson, and I have a cab at the

door.”

In half an hour we had reached Pitt Street, a quiet little

backwater just beside one of the briskest currents of London

life. No. 131 was one of a row, all flat-chested, respectable,

and most unromantic dwellings. As we drove up, we found the

railings in front of the house lined by a curious crowd. Holmes

whistled.

“By George! It’s attempted murder at the least. Nothing less will

hold the London message-boy. There’s a deed of violence indicated

in that fellow’s round shoulders and outstretched neck. What’s

this, Watson? The top steps swilled down and the other ones dry.

Footsteps enough, anyhow! Well, well, there’s Lestrade at the

front window, and we shall soon know all about it.”

The official received us with a very grave face and showed us

into a sitting-room, where an exceedingly unkempt and agitated

elderly man, clad in a flannel dressing-gown, was pacing up and

down. He was introduced to us as the owner of the house—Mr.

Horace Harker, of the Central Press Syndicate.

“It’s the Napoleon bust business again,” said Lestrade. “You

seemed interested last night, Mr. Holmes, so I thought perhaps

you would be glad to be present now that the affair has taken a

very much graver turn.”

“What has it turned to, then?”

“To murder. Mr. Harker, will you tell these gentlemen exactly

what has occurred?”

The man in the dressing-gown turned upon us with a most

melancholy face.

“It’s an extraordinary thing,” said he, “that all my life I have

been collecting other people’s news, and now that a real piece of

news has come my own way I am so confused and bothered that I

can’t put two words together. If I had come in here as a

journalist, I should have interviewed myself and had two columns

in every evening paper. As it is, I am giving away valuable copy

by telling my story over and over to a string of different

people, and I can make no use of it myself. However, I’ve heard

your name, Mr. Sherlock Holmes, and if you’ll only explain this

queer business, I shall be paid for my trouble in telling you the

story.”

Holmes sat down and listened.

“It all seems to centre round that bust of Napoleon which I

bought for this very room about four months ago. I picked it up

cheap from Harding Brothers, two doors from the High Street

Station. A great deal of my journalistic work is done at night,

and I often write until the early morning. So it was to-day. I

was sitting in my den, which is at the back of the top of the

house, about three o’clock, when I was convinced that I heard

some sounds downstairs. I listened, but they were not repeated,

and I concluded that they came from outside. Then suddenly, about

five minutes later, there came a most horrible yell—the most

dreadful sound, Mr. Holmes, that ever I heard. It will ring in my

ears as long as I live. I sat frozen with horror for a minute or

two. Then I seized the poker and went downstairs. When I entered

this room I found the window wide open, and I at once observed

that the bust was gone from the mantelpiece. Why any burglar

should take such a thing passes my understanding, for it was only

a plaster cast and of no real value whatever.

“You can see for yourself that anyone going out through that open

window could reach the front doorstep by taking a long stride.

This was clearly what the burglar had done, so I went round and

opened the door. Stepping out into the dark, I nearly fell over a

dead man, who was lying there. I ran back for a light and there

was the poor fellow, a great gash in his throat and the whole

place swimming in blood. He lay on his back, his knees drawn up,

and his mouth horribly open. I shall see him in my dreams. I had

just time to blow on my police-whistle, and then I must have

fainted, for I knew nothing more until I found the policeman

standing over me in the hall.”

“Well, who was the murdered man?” asked Holmes.

“There’s nothing to show who he was,” said Lestrade. “You shall

see the body at the mortuary, but we have made nothing of it up

to now. He is a tall man, sunburned, very powerful, not more than

thirty. He is poorly dressed, and yet does not appear to be a

labourer. A horn-handled clasp knife was lying in a pool of blood

beside him. Whether it was the weapon which did the deed, or

whether it belonged to the dead man, I do not know. There was no

name on his clothing, and nothing in his pockets save an apple,

some string, a shilling map of London, and a photograph. Here it

is.”

It was evidently taken by a snapshot from a small camera. It

represented an alert, sharp-featured simian man, with thick

eyebrows and a very peculiar projection of the lower part of the

face, like the muzzle of a baboon.

“And what became of the bust?” asked Holmes, after a careful

study of this picture.

“We had news of it just before you came. It has been found in the

front garden of an empty house in Campden House Road. It was

broken into fragments. I am going round now to see it. Will you

come?”

“Certainly. I must just take one look round.” He examined the

carpet and the window. “The fellow had either very long legs or

was a most active man,” said he. “With an area beneath, it was no

mean feat to reach that window ledge and open that window.

Getting back was comparatively simple. Are you coming with us to

see the remains of your bust, Mr. Harker?”

The disconsolate journalist had seated himself at a

writing-table.

“I must try and make something of it,” said he, “though I have no

doubt that the first editions of the evening papers are out

already with full details. It’s like my luck! You remember when

the stand fell at Doncaster? Well, I was the only journalist in

the stand, and my journal the only one that had no account of it,

for I was too shaken to write it. And now I’ll be too late with a

murder done on my own doorstep.”

As we left the room, we heard his pen travelling shrilly over the

foolscap.

The spot where the fragments of the bust had been found was only

a few hundred yards away. For the first time our eyes rested upon

this presentment of the great emperor, which seemed to raise such

frantic and destructive hatred in the mind of the unknown. It lay

scattered, in splintered shards, upon the grass. Holmes picked up

several of them and examined them carefully. I was convinced,

from his intent face and his purposeful manner, that at last he

was upon a clue.

“Well?” asked Lestrade.

Holmes shrugged his shoulders.

“We have a long way to go yet,” said he. “And yet—and yet—well,

we have some suggestive facts to act upon. The possession of this

trifling bust was worth more, in the eyes of this strange

criminal, than a human life. That is one point. Then there is the

singular fact that he did not break it in the house, or

immediately outside the house, if to break it was his sole

object.”

“He was rattled and bustled by meeting this other fellow. He

hardly knew what he was doing.”

“Well, that’s likely enough. But I wish to call your attention

very particularly to the position of this house, in the garden of

which the bust was destroyed.”

Lestrade looked about him.

“It was an empty house, and so he knew that he would not be

disturbed in the garden.”

“Yes, but there is another empty house farther up the street

which he must have passed before he came to this one. Why did he

not break it there, since it is evident that every yard that he

carried it increased the risk of someone meeting him?”

“I give it up,” said Lestrade.

Holmes pointed to the street lamp above our heads.

“He could see what he was doing here, and he could not there.

That was his reason.”

“By Jove! that’s true,” said the detective. “Now that I come to

think of it, Dr. Barnicot’s bust was broken not far from his red

lamp. Well, Mr. Holmes, what are we to do with that fact?”

“To remember it—to docket it. We may come on something later

which will bear upon it. What steps do you propose to take now,

Lestrade?”

“The most practical way of getting at it, in my opinion, is to

identify the dead man. There should be no difficulty about that.

When we have found who he is and who his associates are, we

should have a good start in learning what he was doing in Pitt

Street last night, and who it was who met him and killed him on

the doorstep of Mr. Horace Harker. Don’t you think so?”

“No doubt; and yet it is not quite the way in which I should

approach the case.”

“What would you do then?”

“Oh, you must not let me influence you in any way. I suggest that

you go on your line and I on mine. We can compare notes

afterwards, and each will supplement the other.”

“Very good,” said Lestrade.

“If you are going back to Pitt Street, you might see Mr. Horace

Harker. Tell him for me that I have quite made up my mind, and

that it is certain that a dangerous homicidal lunatic, with

Napoleonic delusions, was in his house last night. It will be

useful for his article.”

Lestrade stared.

“You don’t seriously believe that?”

Holmes smiled.

“Don’t I? Well, perhaps I don’t. But I am sure that it will

interest Mr. Horace Harker and the subscribers of the Central

Press Syndicate. Now, Watson, I think that we shall find that we

have a long and rather complex day’s work before us. I should be

glad, Lestrade, if you could make it convenient to meet us at

Baker Street at six o’clock this evening. Until then I should

like to keep this photograph, found in the dead man’s pocket. It

is possible that I may have to ask your company and assistance

upon a small expedition which will have to be undertaken to-night,

if my chain of reasoning should prove to be correct. Until then

good-bye and good luck!”

Sherlock Holmes and I walked together to the High Street, where

we stopped at the shop of Harding Brothers, whence the bust had

been purchased. A young assistant informed us that Mr. Harding

would be absent until afternoon, and that he was himself a

newcomer, who could give us no information. Holmes’s face showed

his disappointment and annoyance.

“Well, well, we can’t expect to have it all our own way, Watson,”

he said, at last. “We must come back in the afternoon, if Mr.

Harding will not be here until then. I am, as you have no doubt

surmised, endeavouring to trace these busts to their source, in

order to find if there is not something peculiar which may

account for their remarkable fate. Let us make for Mr. Morse

Hudson, of the Kennington Road, and see if he can throw any light

upon the problem.”

A drive of an hour brought us to the picture-dealer’s

establishment. He was a small, stout man with a red face and a

peppery manner.

“Yes, sir. On my very counter, sir,” said he. “What we pay rates

and taxes for I don’t know, when any ruffian can come in and

break one’s goods. Yes, sir, it was I who sold Dr. Barnicot his

two statues. Disgraceful, sir! A Nihilist plot—that’s what I make

it. No one but an anarchist would go about breaking statues. Red

republicans—that’s what I call ’em. Who did I get the statues

from? I don’t see what that has to do with it. Well, if you

really want to know, I got them from Gelder & Co., in Church

Street, Stepney. They are a well-known house in the trade, and

have been this twenty years. How many had I? Three—two and one

are three—two of Dr. Barnicot’s, and one smashed in broad

daylight on my own counter. Do I know that photograph? No, I

don’t. Yes, I do, though. Why, it’s Beppo. He was a kind of

Italian piece-work man, who made himself useful in the shop. He

could carve a bit, and gild and frame, and do odd jobs. The

fellow left me last week, and I’ve heard nothing of him since.

No, I don’t know where he came from nor where he went to. I had

nothing against him while he was here. He was gone two days

before the bust was smashed.”

“Well, that’s all we could reasonably expect from Morse Hudson,”

said Holmes, as we emerged from the shop. “We have this Beppo as

a common factor, both in Kennington and in Kensington, so that is

worth a ten-mile drive. Now, Watson, let us make for Gelder &

Co., of Stepney, the source and origin of the busts. I shall be

surprised if we don’t get some help down there.”

In rapid succession we passed through the fringe of fashionable

London, hotel London, theatrical London, literary London,

commercial London, and, finally, maritime London, till we came to

a riverside city of a hundred thousand souls, where the tenement

houses swelter and reek with the outcasts of Europe. Here, in a

broad thoroughfare, once the abode of wealthy City merchants, we

found the sculpture works for which we searched. Outside was a

considerable yard full of monumental masonry. Inside was a large

room in which fifty workers were carving or moulding. The

manager, a big blond German, received us civilly and gave a clear

answer to all Holmes’s questions. A reference to his books showed

that hundreds of casts had been taken from a marble copy of

Devine’s head of Napoleon, but that the three which had been sent

to Morse Hudson a year or so before had been half of a batch of

six, the other three being sent to Harding Brothers, of

Kensington. There was no reason why those six should be different

from any of the other casts. He could suggest no possible cause

why anyone should wish to destroy them—in fact, he laughed at the

idea. Their wholesale price was six shillings, but the retailer

would get twelve or more. The cast was taken in two moulds from

each side of the face, and then these two profiles of plaster of

Paris were joined together to make the complete bust. The work

was usually done by Italians, in the room we were in. When

finished, the busts were put on a table in the passage to dry,

and afterwards stored. That was all he could tell us.

But the production of the photograph had a remarkable effect upon

the manager. His face flushed with anger, and his brows knotted

over his blue Teutonic eyes.

“Ah, the rascal!” he cried. “Yes, indeed, I know him very well.

This has always been a respectable establishment, and the only

time that we have ever had the police in it was over this very

fellow. It was more than a year ago now. He knifed another

Italian in the street, and then he came to the works with the

police on his heels, and he was taken here. Beppo was his

name—his second name I never knew. Serve me right for engaging a

man with such a face. But he was a good workman—one of the best.”

“What did he get?”

“The man lived and he got off with a year. I have no doubt he is

out now, but he has not dared to show his nose here. We have a

cousin of his here, and I daresay he could tell you where he is.”

“No, no,” cried Holmes, “not a word to the cousin—not a word, I

beg of you. The matter is very important, and the farther I go

with it, the more important it seems to grow. When you referred

in your ledger to the sale of those casts I observed that the

date was June 3rd of last year. Could you give me the date when

Beppo was arrested?”

“I could tell you roughly by the pay-list,” the manager answered.

“Yes,” he continued, after some turning over of pages, “he was

paid last on May 20th.”

“Thank you,” said Holmes. “I don’t think that I need intrude upon

your time and patience any more.” With a last word of caution

that he should say nothing as to our researches, we turned our

faces westward once more.

The afternoon was far advanced before we were able to snatch a

hasty luncheon at a restaurant. A news-bill at the entrance

announced “Kensington Outrage. Murder by a Madman,” and the

contents of the paper showed that Mr. Horace Harker had got his

account into print after all. Two columns were occupied with a

highly sensational and flowery rendering of the whole incident.

Holmes propped it against the cruet-stand and read it while he

ate. Once or twice he chuckled.

“This is all right, Watson,” said he. “Listen to this:

“It is satisfactory to know that there can be no difference of

opinion upon this case, since Mr. Lestrade, one of the most

experienced members of the official force, and Mr. Sherlock

Holmes, the well-known consulting expert, have each come to the

conclusion that the grotesque series of incidents, which have

ended in so tragic a fashion, arise from lunacy rather than from

deliberate crime. No explanation save mental aberration can cover

the facts.

“The Press, Watson, is a most valuable institution, if you only

know how to use it. And now, if you have quite finished, we will

hark back to Kensington and see what the manager of Harding

Brothers has to say on the matter.”

The founder of that great emporium proved to be a brisk, crisp

little person, very dapper and quick, with a clear head and a

ready tongue.

“Yes, sir, I have already read the account in the evening papers.

Mr. Horace Harker is a customer of ours. We supplied him with the

bust some months ago. We ordered three busts of that sort from

Gelder & Co., of Stepney. They are all sold now. To whom? Oh, I

daresay by consulting our sales book we could very easily tell

you. Yes, we have the entries here. One to Mr. Harker you see,

and one to Mr. Josiah Brown, of Laburnum Lodge, Laburnum Vale,

Chiswick, and one to Mr. Sandeford, of Lower Grove Road, Reading.

No, I have never seen this face which you show me in the

photograph. You would hardly forget it, would you, sir, for I’ve

seldom seen an uglier. Have we any Italians on the staff? Yes,

sir, we have several among our workpeople and cleaners. I daresay

they might get a peep at that sales book if they wanted to. There

is no particular reason for keeping a watch upon that book. Well,

well, it’s a very strange business, and I hope that you will let

me know if anything comes of your inquiries.”

Holmes had taken several notes during Mr. Harding’s evidence, and

I could see that he was thoroughly satisfied by the turn which

affairs were taking. He made no remark, however, save that,

unless we hurried, we should be late for our appointment with

Lestrade. Sure enough, when we reached Baker Street the detective

was already there, and we found him pacing up and down in a fever

of impatience. His look of importance showed that his day’s work

had not been in vain.

“Well?” he asked. “What luck, Mr. Holmes?”

“We have had a very busy day, and not entirely a wasted one,” my

friend explained. “We have seen both the retailers and also the

wholesale manufacturers. I can trace each of the busts now from

the beginning.”

“The busts,” cried Lestrade. “Well, well, you have your own

methods, Mr. Sherlock Holmes, and it is not for me to say a word

against them, but I think I have done a better day’s work than

you. I have identified the dead man.”

“You don’t say so?”

“And found a cause for the crime.”

“Splendid!”

“We have an inspector who makes a specialty of Saffron Hill and

the Italian Quarter. Well, this dead man had some Catholic emblem

round his neck, and that, along with his colour, made me think he

was from the South. Inspector Hill knew him the moment he caught

sight of him. His name is Pietro Venucci, from Naples, and he is

one of the greatest cut-throats in London. He is connected with

the Mafia, which, as you know, is a secret political society,

enforcing its decrees by murder. Now, you see how the affair

begins to clear up. The other fellow is probably an Italian also,

and a member of the Mafia. He has broken the rules in some

fashion. Pietro is set upon his track. Probably the photograph we

found in his pocket is the man himself, so that he may not knife

the wrong person. He dogs the fellow, he sees him enter a house,

he waits outside for him, and in the scuffle he receives his own

death-wound. How is that, Mr. Sherlock Holmes?”

Holmes clapped his hands approvingly.

“Excellent, Lestrade, excellent!” he cried. “But I didn’t quite

follow your explanation of the destruction of the busts.”

“The busts! You never can get those busts out of your head. After

all, that is nothing; petty larceny, six months at the most. It

is the murder that we are really investigating, and I tell you

that I am gathering all the threads into my hands.”

“And the next stage?”

“Is a very simple one. I shall go down with Hill to the Italian

Quarter, find the man whose photograph we have got, and arrest

him on the charge of murder. Will you come with us?”

“I think not. I fancy we can attain our end in a simpler way. I

can’t say for certain, because it all depends—well, it all

depends upon a factor which is completely outside our control.

But I have great hopes—in fact, the betting is exactly two to

one—that if you will come with us to-night I shall be able to

help you to lay him by the heels.”

“In the Italian Quarter?”

“No, I fancy Chiswick is an address which is more likely to find

him. If you will come with me to Chiswick to-night, Lestrade,

I’ll promise to go to the Italian Quarter with you to-morrow, and

no harm will be done by the delay. And now I think that a few

hours’ sleep would do us all good, for I do not propose to leave

before eleven o’clock, and it is unlikely that we shall be back

before morning. You’ll dine with us, Lestrade, and then you are

welcome to the sofa until it is time for us to start. In the

meantime, Watson, I should be glad if you would ring for an

express messenger, for I have a letter to send and it is

important that it should go at once.”

Holmes spent the evening in rummaging among the files of the old

daily papers with which one of our lumber-rooms was packed. When

at last he descended, it was with triumph in his eyes, but he

said nothing to either of us as to the result of his researches.

For my own part, I had followed step by step the methods by which

he had traced the various windings of this complex case, and,

though I could not yet perceive the goal which we would reach, I

understood clearly that Holmes expected this grotesque criminal

to make an attempt upon the two remaining busts, one of which, I

remembered, was at Chiswick. No doubt the object of our journey

was to catch him in the very act, and I could not but admire the

cunning with which my friend had inserted a wrong clue in the

evening paper, so as to give the fellow the idea that he could

continue his scheme with impunity. I was not surprised when

Holmes suggested that I should take my revolver with me. He had

himself picked up the loaded hunting-crop, which was his

favourite weapon.

A four-wheeler was at the door at eleven, and in it we drove to a

spot at the other side of Hammersmith Bridge. Here the cabman was

directed to wait. A short walk brought us to a secluded road

fringed with pleasant houses, each standing in its own grounds.

In the light of a street lamp we read “Laburnum Villa” upon the

gate-post of one of them. The occupants had evidently retired to

rest, for all was dark save for a fanlight over the hall door,

which shed a single blurred circle on to the garden path. The